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i need you you don't need me

Hi my name is Mikaela and I am 16 years old. I cut. I starve. I am suicidal. I will always be here for anyone.

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"I love you" doesn’t mean a fucking thing if you spit it down the throat of every girl who makes you feel less dead

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Send your Confession to my Ask Box


Send your Confession to my Ask Box

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I’d try to explain that it’s not really negativity or sadness anymore, it’s more just this detached, meaningless fog where you can’t feel anything about anything — even the things you love, even fun things — and you’re horribly bored and lonely.

Allie Brosh  (via strangefatality)

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i found myself in a cycle: i would drop hints that my teeth had become tombstones, i would dance around the subject of why i never smiled full-out, i would make a fool of myself trying to distract others from how sick and twisted it felt to still be living. when the pressure of needing to tell someone finally rose to a height, it would all slosh over in messy messages that sang of bloodshed and desperation, thick leather-tasting sonnets about how close to death i was walking.

sometimes the person i vented to was understanding, sometimes they mishandled it completely. it didn’t matter in either case. the ones who were kind to me made a guilty selfhatred creep up through my throat and within minutes i’d be changing the subject off of my darkness and switching it so we would talk about their problems. those who responded poorly just furthered this internal idea that i was a psychopathic maniac. somehow i’d always end up with this sense of almost anticlimax, as if i’d had wanted some magical response that would have cured me - but no matter how clever or cute or caring their words were, i never felt completely satisfied. you can’t feel satisfied when you’re in a place like that.

eventually when the call was over or the last text was sent or however our conversation came to an end - eventually i’d find myself alone again and in those moments i would stare into space thinking how embarrassed i was of my own piteous behavior and by the time i fell asleep i would bite my tongue and swear that i would never speak of my problems to a living soul ever again, that it was bad enough that just by existing i was a terrible burden.

and then would come the dark days, when the inky slickness in my throat did not recede and i understood loneliness in acute form. there were so many people i loved and not a single of them would understand how to pry me open and let me breathe again. i was stuck inhaling desperately around a blockage so thick that it made me consider jumping into traffic. i would be sitting in class or at work or at the movies, quietly suffocating under this sticky-sweet idea that if i just swallowed a few pills, i could go somewhere quieter. i’d go home, find a razor or skip a meal or do both, i’d go to sleep, i’d wake up and i still would not be happy.

i used to stay in the tub after my showers were done, just watching the water as it danced down the drain. it was soothing to me in a familiar way. i felt the same, dirtied and lifeless and tumbling into darkness, standing in the shadows of the people i used to know, feeling nothing but intrinsically, terribly


over and over /// r.i.d (via inkskinned)

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