Prisperview
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yao-i:

Ring around the rosie

A pocket full of posies

Ashes, ashes

1/3 of the European population gets obliterated by the Black Death

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tsukiyuri0:

qvw:

grovyle:

braginskey:

why do people have like 74973 different names for these

image

popsicles

no they’re freezer pops

but aren’t they otter pops?

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koblala:

jayrockin:

Snowflakes are actually the perfect metaphor for people. Each one IS unique, but we all have the same structure and are pretty similar in spite of our differences. And really, with as many around as there is, aint no one gonna notice your differences unless they care enough to look closely.

People are also similar to snowflakes in that it is difficult to drive when there are too many of them piled up on the road.

Well that took a turn I didn’t expect

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(Source: exodelisi)

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follovved:

call me super glue cause holy shit do i get attached

(Source: straighthater)

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(Source: inkdlarry)

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Anonymous asked: I am strongly contemplating suicide. I'll just stay home tomorrow and do it. I've tied up the noose and everything already.
stardroid said:

Anon. I’m going to share something personal with you today. And with all of tumblr, too.

Do you see this photo?

image

This is one of the few photos I have left of my mother and I. And the only one that’s digital, too.

I was about four years old in that photo. Shortly after that photo was taken, I was placed into foster care because of my mother’s mental conditions and her inability to care for me. Which was fine, it was the right thing to do.

She was taken overseas to a very good mental health clinic in Paris, which is where we came from. 

My mother had a lot of problems. Among them were her multiple personality disorder and her bipolar. She stayed in hospital for most of my life, and battled depression and her suicidal tendencies. She went through a lot, including electro-shock therapy. Nothing seemed to help. She was a very lost and very hurt woman.

And one day, on Mother’s Day of 2008, my foster parents received a phone call at about 1am from the mental hospital my mother was staying in.

My mother had hung herself in the shower of her bathroom. Her mental illnesses, her lack of access to me and the things she’d suffered through her life had snapped her. And she was gone.

I was thirteen years old. Nobody told me until the sun had risen. I left my room, ready for school. And then I was sat down, and I was told.

And I was numb.

I felt nothing, for months. Months, and months, and months.

I was a very good student at school. I got distinctions, and straight A’s. And all of that kind of just… stopped. 

The full extent of my loss didn’t hit me until years later, when I was sixteen.

And it hasn’t stopped hurting since.

I miss my mother every day. I barely got to know her, but I knew she loved me. And I ache every time I see someone walk by with their parents, or a little girl with her mother. It’s even cost me several relationships. It hurts. I can’t take it. Can’t do it.

You know the kind of woman my mother was? Kind. Smart. Thoughtful. She was a painter, and a lover of music. We lived in Australia when I was growing up, but she always loved France. In fact, it was her name. I recall my foster mother’s comment when she met her for the first time when she came back to Australia to visit me. She said how talking to my mother was like talking to your best friend. One you hadn’t seen in years. The joy in her voice, her smile.

I can’t even remember what she sounds like anymore.

Suicide? I’ve wanted to do it. Several times. It’s been tempting. Pressure builds inside your chest, and you can’t cry anymore. You feel nothing and it’s clearly just logical to end it because there’s no point living in a void anymore.

You feel like there’s no one else out there for you. You’re alone, and nobody understands.

Anon, let me tell you.

I understand. I’ve seen both sides of this coin. Nobody wins.

I know what it’s like to want to not exist. I spend half my days pretending to be mechanical because being human and alive is just too much of  a burden sometimes. But I also know what it feels like to be left behind.

It’s searing.

After the loss of my mother, I lost three more people to suicide. One was my uncle, and two others were good friends. One of them was one of my best friend.

I don’t know who you are, Anon. But I’d like to.

I’d like to know who you are so I can stop you from feeling this way. You’re not alone. And if you are? I’ll be the first to open my arms to you.

Death is not an answer, nor by any means a door to something greater.

Death is for those who have finished in this life. We are not meant to go before our time, and especially not alone.

I’m nineteen now. If my mother were still alive, she’d be thirty-eight.

It’s too young.

You’re too young.

To you, anon, and to everyone else out there who’s ever felt this way.

Stop. Breathe. Think.

Come to me, if you have to.

Go to someone. Anyone. Please.

You’re so much more than a statistic.

You’re worth so much more than tears.

You mean so much more than every person who has ever stamped you into the ground. Called you names. Failed to accept you because you don’t fit into their criteria of human. Spurned you, or ignored you. 

I know this pain. And I know what happens when that pain consumes you.

Please. Don’t go.

I don’t know you. But your life means something. 

I promise it means something.

officialnightfury:

ninjakato:

I am legitimately crying… 

Please, Anon. LISTEN TO THIS. 
SERIOUSLY. 

Listen. 

Everyone who’s contemplating suicide listen to this.

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monobeartheater:

dimpleforyourthoughts:

i just want a boy who touches me distractedly

like sitting watching a movie and he just kinds of drags his fingers over your skin while watching and he doesn’t have a motive he’s not trying to tickle you or be sexual with you he’s just touching your skin and feeling the shape of your bones under that skin like it’s physically comforting for him to know that you’re there right under his fingertips

oh fuck i didnt know girls liked when i did this

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alittleworldofimagination:

jokerkat:

quincy360:

you know that unexplainable sickish feeling where youre not really sick and you dont really have a headache but you just feel wrong and you cant get comfortable or find something that youre really into but you kinda feel too ill to sleep or eat its like your body saying “i dont know what i want you to do but this isnt it”

That’s called anxiety.

That explains at least half of my life then

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dreamofskins:

follow for more skins

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macrops:

oh god its going around again

(Source: frogbum)