Hi, my name is none of your concern. Just listen and judge me for what you think i’m worth.
I'm a 15 year old female that is Canadian. I have suffered from depression since 2010 but I am in recovery. I haven't self harmed in over 3 months.
To all the self destructive people who feel they’ll never be themselves again, just know I understand that self inflicted pain is self defense. So don’t sell yourself short or label yourself as stupid because when you've hit rock bottom every movement is a self improvement.
I'm here if you ever need to vent to someone(I'm terrible at giving advice but I am a great listener).
I do not promote SH, ED's, or suicide.
If you know me please don't follow me or tell anyone about this blog. Thanks.
sonder n. the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own—populated with their own ambitions, friends, routines, worries and inherited craziness—an epic story that continues invisibly around you like an anthill sprawling deep underground, with elaborate passageways to thousands of other lives that you’ll never know existed, in which you might appear only once, as an extra sipping coffee in the background, as a blur of traffic passing on the highway, as a lighted window at dusk.
Autism is a poorly-understood neurological disorder that can impair an individual’s ability to engage in various social interactions. But little 5-year-old Iris Grace in the UK is an excellent example of the unexpected gifts that autism can also grant – her exceptional focus and attention to detail have helped her create incredibly beautiful paintings that many of her fans (and buyers) have likened to Monet’s works.
Little Iris is slowly learning to speak, whereas most children have already begun to speak at least a few words by age 2. Along with speech therapy, her parents gradually introduced her to painting, which is when they discovered her amazing talent.
“We have been encouraging Iris to paint to help with speech therapy, joint attention and turn taking,” her mother, Arabella Carter-Johnson, explains on her website. “Then we realised that she is actually really talented and has an incredible concentration span of around 2 hours each time she paints. Her autism has created a style of painting which I have never seen in a child of her age, she has an understanding of colours and how they interact with each other.”
Much better version of the same subject matter I posted earlier.
1. my record player: Every time I look at it I see you sitting on my bedroom floor smiling while the tips of your fingers lick the edges of my records. My Bright Eyes album is still pressed against the needle where you left it. I know it was your favorite. I haven’t touched it since you left.
2. The sweatshirt you left at my house: It was a little too big and you used to pull the sleeves over your hands when you were nervous. I still wear it when I miss you. I’ve slept in it every night this week.
3. coffee: you kissed me, tongue dripping in black coffee. You always had a cup or three in the morning. It left you shaky. It left me in love. The smell makes me dizzy. I’m sorry I called you last night
4. The tattered old blanket I’ve had since I was little: you used to wrap us both in it when I was sad. It’s stained with tears and the feeling of your arms around me. It feels like the way you used to kiss my forehead. I’d rather fall asleep freezing than touch it. I wish I could still touch you.
5. My camera: It’s still filled with pictures of you. I’ve missed out on so many sunsets because if I turn on my camera I’ll see you and I think if I see you I’ll die.
6. My voicemail: you left me a message 4 months ago telling me you missed me. i can hardly remember what your voice sounds like but it plays in my head all the time. My voicemail is full. My mother can’t get ahold of me but if I go through my messages I’ll listen to yours and it’ll hurt worse than anything. You still hurt worse than anything.
7. The plant in the corner of my kitchen: I could never remember to water it so you always did it for me but you haven’t been around. It’s dying. Maybe I am too.
8. The fucking stars: You used to make wishes on stars. I feel like throwing up every time I look at the sky but I can’t stop wishing for you.
9. your notebook: you left it on my desk. You used to write when you couldn’t sleep. Most of your poems were about me. I wonder if you write about her now. Sometimes I can taste my heart breaking.