I am so sorry to all the people I hurt while I was hurting.
I might be about to move into the cutest apartment I’ve ever lived in and that is really saying something.
Until I started taking my antidepressants, though, I didn’t actually know that I was depressed. I thought the dark staticky corners were part of who I was. It was the same way I felt before I put on my first pair of glasses at age 14 and suddenly realized that trees weren’t green blobs but intricate filigrees of thousands of individual leaves; I hadn’t known, before, that I couldn’t see the leaves, because I didn’t realize that seeing leaves was a possibility at all. And it wasn’t until I started using tools to counterbalance my depression that I even realized there was depression there to need counterbalancing. I had no idea that not everyone felt the gravitational pull of nothingness, the ongoing, slow-as-molasses feeling of melting down into a lump of clay. I had no way of knowing that what I thought were just my ingrained bad habits — not being able to deposit checks on time, not replying to totally pleasant emails for long enough that friendships were ruined, having silent meltdowns over getting dressed in the morning, even not going to the bathroom despite really, really, really having to pee — weren’t actually my habits at all. They were the habits of depression, which whoa, holy shit, it turns out I had a raging case of.
Even the moon won’t meet your eyes.
For the first time in a while, I am reminded of Jacob.
Also, Megan, I am having a roommate pasta party with my new temporary roommate Arturo.
The thing that sucks about mental illness is that if you aren’t depressed enough, suicidal enough, bad enough, nobody cares. Nobody cares until you reach their standard, and that standard is when your problem is bad enough to effect them
The amount of people who can relate to this makes me equally incredibly sad and immensely angry
This is a real problem. Also that being depressed is often seen as something you are allowing yourself to do. Or that it somehow taints you and makes you broken. If you’re surviving, good for you. Seriously.
that time of year is approaching
scary lawn decorations
terrifying tv programs
people in costumes going door to door
Anonymous said: Please write a piece about the vagina, I'm sure that would be amazing
Thank you, but I think enough white women have made vagina-related art. I don’t feel the need to contribute. Plus, I don’t trust myself not to somehow link vaginas with womanhood in a poem, and I don’t want to do that
interestingly enough, Clementine von Radics, vaginas ARE linked to womanhood.
Let me clarify: I did not want to write a poem in which vaginas are intrinsically linked to womanhood. Your relationship with your body and how it relates to your gender is totally valid, but vaginas and womanhood are not necessarily linked.
That being said, a lot of the responses to this post are transphobic and rude, and y’all need to cut that shit out
I am surprised to see the number of people I follow that also follow Clementine von Radics, and while for the most part that pleases me, sometimes I see people I know saying some dumbass shit and I think, Morgan, get a fucking hold of yourself.
It makes perfect sense why someone wouldn’t want to write a piece about vaginas. Your vagina is not who you are as a woman, Your vagina doesn’t make you strong. Your vagina is part of your body. A great part, sure. Can we stop thinking of women and men as dicks and vaginas? If you love yours, awesome, hey me too, cause my vagina is flawless. But it does not define me.
Why people ask me shit like “how was work?” or “how is school?” like work is work, school is school, I would rather be on a yacht right now while gettin some dick but here I am