There’s a German satellite following the earth.
She says, “What if it hits me?” Welcome to anxiety group. The kingdom of the sweaty palm and the jiggling leg. Where the women wrap themselves up tight, where the men bite nails till blood. We are the magnifiers of mole hills. We are the princes of panic. The ambassador’s of anguish. There is no pride here. We lack the discipline of the eating disorder group, lack the self righteousness of bereavement group and we’re not as fun as procrastinators anonymous. Nobody wants to be here. Me? I don’t sleep. Can’t sleep. I make insomnia look professional, make your tossing and turning look like afternoon hiccups. The longest I’ve gone is nine days, went literally insane. Sleep deprivation is a form of torture you know and I do this to myself. Melatonin makes me sad. Benadryl is for amateurs. Hypnotics turn off the lights too quickly and weed makes me crazy. Diazepam, lorazepam, bromazepam, alprazolam. Conopin is the only thing that works and they’re weening me off of it so like a baby forced to remove breast from mouth take bottle instead, I got sent to anxiety group. And apparently we’re all going to die. Because while the girl to my left worries that the satellite will hit her, the woman to my right worries that it will hit a nuclear power plant and then we’re all fucked. My father says, “Only rich people go to therapy, poor people got shit to do.” And yet here I am. In this lifeboat, surrounded by 8 of the most beautiful crazy ass mother fuckers the world has ever seen. What if it’s not just a mole, what if its a flesh eating virus? What if I fail at life? But what if it really is the rapture this time? What if they hit us again? What if I wake one morning to see planes scraping skies again? What if it’s me this time? And I think, “Wow! It must be exhausting to want to live this much. Fuck the depressives. Fuck the body image meditation group. Fuck sex addicts anonymous. Give me your tired, your poor, your anxious, your huddled masses, your learning to breath deeply and count to ten. Give me this collection of blurted confessions of psychosomatic itch, of twitch and tick and stutter and sweat. Give me these weak knee jumpy ass too much saliva break out in hives awkward stomach hair falling out chewing lips restless legs pounding heart bastards any day of the week. These people who fight through everyday like fucking gladiators. Who fight demons worse than you and I could dream of just because they want so badly to live. To hold on, to love. Because you can’t be this afraid of losing everything if you don’t love everything first because you have to have a soul crushing hope that things will get better. To be this afraid… of missing it.
I hope you all find someone who gives you cute names and tells you it’s adorable when you do embarrassing things and hugs you when it’s early in the morning and makes you feel like you have a whole disneyland fireworks show going off inside your body and never ever lets you go
If you think a girl is cute and awesome and really cool and genuinely like her but won’t date her because she’s chubby or fat and you don’t want people to judge you for it then please remember you’re a piece of shit okay, promise
“The worst thing about being bipolar or mentally ill in any way is that any time you’re legitimately sad- any time you’re truly angry, and with good and clear reason, you will be told that you are only feeling as you are because of your illness. Every time your boyfriend is being an ass, and you call him on it, this is what you will hear, so get used to it: “Have you been taking your medication?” A life of non-credibility, even amongst those you love. This is what you face. Especially amongst those you love, for they think they know you. It is the eternal equivalent of being asked if it’s your “Time of the Month” every time you get upset. If this doesn’t make you want to kill yourself, I don’t know what will…”—Emilie Autumn, The Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls (via born-of-stardust)