I feel unspeakably lonely. And I feel - drained. It is a blank state of mind and soul I cannot describe to you as I think it would not make any difference. Also it is a very private feeling I have - that of melting into a perpetual nervous breakdown. I am often questioning myself what I further want to do, who I further wish to be; which parts of me, exactly, are still functioning properly. No answers, darling. At all. Anne Sexton, A Self-Portrait In Letters (via rlyrlyugly)

(Source: violentwavesofemotion, via hales-storms)

27,399 notes
I don’t think suicidal people get enough credit for not acting on their suicidal thoughts.

believeinrecovery:

aha-itsme:

This post is for all of you who have survived the urge to end your life, either coming out the other side or still fighting to stay alive. 

I noticed how when someone has a physical illness such as cancer, and they come out the other side or even remission, they are able to celebrate surviving. I think all of the survivors of being suicidal should too.

Congratulations, and keep on fighting.

PERFECTION

(via caramel-words)

161,270 notes
Maybe I’m scared to love, because when I love, it is never returned. Maybe I’m scared to trust, because I’ve never been put first. I’m always the one being left behind; the one who’s forced to feel it all during the night. B. Desvarieux © (via thedesvarieuxjournals)

(via anotherlermaniac)

5,913 notes
You don’t miss me.
I should remember that.
I should fucking remember that. a.s., baby, what did i do (via verschluesselt)

(Source: mossyribs, via caramel-words)

65,354 notes
Even my best wasn’t good enough. (via boys-and-suicide)

(via caramel-words)

14,813 notes
And it hurts so much to want something you can’t have.

Johnny Depp  (via perfect)

this this this this this this

(via proveable)

(Source: ditadomeu, via caramel-words)

692,882 notes
The thought of someone else kissing you makes me sick.

(via message-ofthe-day)

All I needed to hear

(via chasingbadluck)

(via dinosaur-nipple)

22,885 notes

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the sound I heard when I was 9 and my father slammed the front door so hard behind him I swear to god it shook the whole house. For the next 3 years I watched my mother break her teeth on vodka bottles. I think she stopped breathing when he left. I think part of her died. I think he took her heart with him when he walked out. Her chest is empty, just a shattered mess or cracked ribs and depression pills.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s all the blood in the sink. It’s the night that I spent 12 hours in the emergency room waiting to see if my sister was going to be okay, after the boy she loved, told her he didn’t love her anymore. It’s the crying, and the fluorescent lights, and white sneakers and pale faces and shaky breaths and blood. So much blood.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the time that I had to stay up for two days straight with my best friend while she cried and shrieked and threw up on my bedroom floor because her boyfriend fucked his ex. I swear to god she still has tear streaks stained onto her cheeks. I think when you love someone, it never really goes away.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the six weeks we had a substitute in English because our teacher was getting divorced and couldn’t handle getting out of bed. When she came back she was smiling. But her hands shook so hard when she held her coffee, you could see that something was broken inside. And sometimes when things break, you can’t fix them. Nothing ever goes back to how it was. I got an A in English that year. I think her head was always spinning too hard to read any essays.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s that I do.

It’s not that I don’t love you.  (via extrasad)

(via welcometoreality-mydear)

250,247 notes
I should have loved you less.
I should have loved myself more. (166/365) by (DS)

(via sswerveeee)

80,675 notes