Sometimes You Need To Read Something Twice To Get It. You Might Need To Watch A Movie Three Times To

remembering the time I called american psycho (a satirical film about toxic masculinity) a dark comedy and the overwhelming response was 'oh so u think men killing sex workers is funny? u think THAT'S funny?' like no I find a patrick batemen listening to 'i'm walking on sunshine', killing jared leto while wearing a clear raincoat and giving a dissertation on huey lewis n the news, using 'I need to return some video tapes' to get out of awkward situations, throwing a hissy fit about business cards, dropping a chainsaw down a flight of stairs, thinking an atm is telling him to feed it cats, and crying hysterically under a desk is funny. but thank u for ur wonderful insight

"masking is a privilege not afforded to people with high support needs" and "masking is a source of trauma for many autistic individuals" can and should co exist .

reblog this to give the person you reblogged it from an orgasm

You know we only ever really "learn" how to bathe in our youth as it is taught to us by our parents and from then on most people kinda just bathe the same way right. And like barring actively deciding to do it the only way most people change their bathing habits is if they bathe with a loved one and get convinced to do somethi g different in the bath bc its cleaner/faster/whatever bc of them. Ok heres the thesis statement. The lack of communal bathing in society is holding us back from discovering The Ultimate Bathing

this was posted in a fat liberationist twitter group i'm a part of and it is unironically a cornerstone of my philosophy and politics

been (slowly) working on a calamity character lineup in my free time, here’s the besties Patia and Laerynn💛

That’s pretty cool!!

Musings About Being Addicted To Sadness

TW: depression, addiction, suicide

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Addiction runs in my family. Alcohol is the big one but drugs and food are as well. I managed to dodge the alcoholism because I could never get the taste for it. Unfortunately, I find myself addicted to sadness. To misery. I crave it. I intentionally do things to make myself sad or wallow in my feelings when sad things happen. I shop for misery on the internet and I savor it in my mind until I'm nothing but a heap on my bed silently weeping into the night until I just fall asleep.

I feel a relief from sadness akin to the feeling of a painkiller finally kicking in. It's just a wash of peace. I feel at home in it. And that scares me. Part of me is screaming to do something. Dance. Sing. Talk. Run around. Do something -- Anything -- to make it stop so I don't barrel toward something dangerous. But god, I am addicted.

It pulls me in and holds onto me and feels like a warm blanket. The way it blocks me from joy and from life feels like protection. It feels like it's encouraging me to just sleep. Rest. All I ever need is rest. Even if my eyes are tired and dry from crying every few hours. Even if my belly aches from hunger from refusing food. Even if my heart burns from the lack of water. Even if I'm dying. I don't care. Why would I? Dying is the the ultimate form of peace, right? The long silence. The sleep that doesn't end. How could that not be enticing? When you're dead, there's no need for hunger. No need for water. No need for tears. You just rest. You don't have to face yourself or the morbid world ever again. Why wouldn't I want it?

Eventually I always feel better. I look back on the way I wallowed and I feel silly for it. I've felt real, true pain before but I didn't feel it just now so why did it consume me just the same? Then it rears its ugly head again, "You're so stupid for feeling sad over nothing. You have nothing to be sad about and you're throwing a pity party. You're pathetic. The only reason you should feel sad is because you're a whiny insignificant girl who constantly cries wolf on her own brain."

It tries to suck me back in. Usually it succeeds. Sometimes it doesn't. On those good days where it doesn't, I realize it's too late. I've already wasted the day away. I've already cursed myself with a nausea that food can't fix. I've exhausted myself to the point where I'll never sleep that night. I've alienated a loved one who only wanted to help. And all I can do is apologize and hope I haven't finally pushed them to the point of not caring anymore. I can't blame them for not caring. You can only care so much about someone who isn't helping themselves.

I try so hard to improve. I go to the therapist. I take the meds. I read the self help books. I do the worksheets. I meditate or exercise when I have the energy but the progress is so slow that that blanket will slide back over me to tell me to rest. It's too much energy. I'll never get better. And I either have to let it comfort me in its own twisted, life-draining way, or I have to use the last of my energy to shove it off. I wish I could burn the blanket. I wish I could rip it to shreds. I wish I could throw it in the dirt and bury it.

But I can't. I need it.

And I hate it so very much that I do.

THE BIRDCAGE (1996)