The closer you go, the more you’ll hurt
24 years old. Queer. New York. BA in Gender Studies. Counseling student. Germanophile, writer, reader (see my books here), feminist, runner, writer, lover, Nerdfighter. More about me :) In recovery from an eating disorder & PTSD, living with depression. Trigger warnings always apply, please take gentle care. What's up, babycakes?
“I DON’T CARE!” Harry yelled at them, snatching up a lunascope and throwing it into the fireplace. “I’VE HAD ENOUGH, I’VE SEEN ENOUGH, I WANT OUT, I WANT IT TO END, I DON’T CARE ANYMORE!”
"You do care," said Dumbledore. He had not flinched or made a single move to stop Harry demolishing his office. His expression was calm, almost detached. "You care so much you feel as though you will bleed to death with the pain of it.” (x)
Watching HPPoA and. Wow. There are so many reasons I love this series and connect with the characters. One of the big ones is how much I feel connected to Harry. It was just the scene when Harry and Lupin are walking in the woods discussing dementors and Harry asks why they affect him so much more than the others. And Lupin replies that Harry is not weak, but rather there are true horrors in his past that his peers can scarcely imagine.
It makes me feel less alone to hear that because I think in a sense it is true of me as well.
stop handing me hearts —
I cannot handle them.
my grip is too strong,
and in other moments I let go.
I need my hands for myself.
I can’t manage other troubles.
if no one loved me,
I would have nothing to worry about.
stop handing me hearts.
I’m not ready or worthy
of so much responsibility.
your love is more than I deserve.
stop handing me hearts.
I don’t have it figured out.
I’m lost, and I’m too young.
stop handing me hearts.
leaving Pip, how my mom will be without me, traveling, my work meeting Friday for which I am not really prepared, packing my things, I just
I hate traveling, I hate transitions. I really need to stop coming home for long stretches like this (three weeks), it’s so emotionally painful and difficult to leave again and I just
can’t stop crying and I wish we were in Indiana already
Is so unbelievably painful. I know you’re rolling your eyes at this stupid spoiled white suburban brat whining about missing Christmas, and that’s fine. Scroll on, or whatever. I know I’m lucky in so many ways.
But I think about: what I wish I had with my mom. I think about: how I wish Daddy were still alive. I think about: how fucking hard some of the holiday was due to family tensions and such. I think about: how someday, likely next year, I’ll have to spend Christmas away from my mother and how that scares me because she is a widow and needs therapy and my brother is a dolt and how will they get through it? How will I manage the guilt of not being there? I think about how happy these little things, the ornaments, make me. I think about how each one has a memory with it, of curling up with my brother to watch Star Wars or camping on the North Rim of the Grand Canyon with my whole family (back when we were a Whole family), of seven-year-old curling up at a family friend’s house for Christmas and then she gives me this box and I open it and it’s two little girl ornaments, and just as I think the pink-dress-one looks like me, we all realize that she’s shattered on the bottom and I start to cry.
There’s just a lot wrapped up in Christmas and so much that I love and all of which is so emotional and painful, either because it’s painfully sweet and going away, or because it is truly painful. And do I write a letter to my mother? She’s so good at shrugging or laughing off my feelings and making me feel ridiculous or stupid and I don’t know what I’d even say, I love you, I wish I could share more of my feelings with you? And no matter how I tried to explain why I can’t or how it hurts, she’d be defensive because that’s her way.
I can’t stop crying and I feel ridiculous. And I just need to take these ornaments off this cheap dead tree and wrestle it to the curb.
And finally I give up
and curl up beside Finnick,
trying to block out the excruciating sounds of
Prim, Gale, my mother,
Madge, Rory, Vick, even Posy,
helpless little Possy...More sparks at mockingjohn.tumblr.com
This book series and movie is about PTSD and I love it and it is so so hard to watch because it looks like the worst moments of my life and those of my bestie’s life.
Authoritative information about A Place at the Table, with lyrics, MIDI files, printable scores, and products for worship planners.
One of my good friends, Will, from church at home, posted a link to this hymn (which we sing very often at church) on his Facebook along with these words: “In light of the verdict of the George Zimmerman trial and all of its implications, I found myself in tears as we sang this song in worship this morning. It was the last two verses that really got to me.”
daddy did you know that i am going to graduate school?
and that I am moving to Indiana. moving in with my boyfriend. do you even know who he is? david. he’s great.
daddy i wish you were here please let me know that you know i just.
i can’t bear the thought of you not knowing my life anymore
oh come back