“1. Let them amble without interruption. This can include anything from obsessively hunting videos on YouTube to reorganizing their sock drawer. It’s soothing to them. It doesn’t matter whether or not you understand why.
2. Know that even though all the kitchen cabinets are always left open, your house is not haunted.
3. When a conversation switches between 20 seemingly unrelated topics within 5 minutes, just go with it.
4. Make peace with the fact that piles of clothes will move around the house, but never get put away.
5. When they say they’ll be ready in an hour, give them two. Then add 15 minutes…”—20 Tips For Loving Someone With ADD
“The years between eighteen and twenty-eight are the hardest, psychologically. It’s then you realize this is make or break, you no longer have the excuse of youth, and it is time to become an adult – but you are not ready.”—Helen Mirren. (via neuers)
not sure why every.single.day. has to be such.a.fucking.fight. i’m no longer able to work. i’m not painting or shooting anymore. i sleep all the time and bathe only once a week because it’s just too hard. i rageragerage at everyone i see. this is not what i want to be. this is not what i worked for.
my brain is a giant, spilling pile of fuck-up-edness. even that line is projected the way it is, it a measure of what’s going on right now. i can’t hold my hands steady enough to write, so someone has to fill things in for me. and i can’t do are, both because my hands are not steady enough but using my blades is a huge risk to me and the art itself (everything is locked up so that i can’t get to most things). there is so much fucking rage, too much to be expressed and so much more than he will ever. ever know. this is why i get pissed off when people, especially him throw me a constant fucking stream of “are you okay,”“how are you feeling?” because that shit is a fucking joke. what they want to hear is that i’m better, that they helped me to survive, when all i want is to bash their skulls in. you KNOW i’m not okay, why are you asking me these questions.
all i ever care about now is surviving till the next day. that’s a dreary, lonely, fucked up way to live.
(TW: SUICIDE, MENTAL ILLNESS) … . . Even if your particular depression does include sadness, it’ll only be one of many other symptoms. The others might be much more painful and salient for you than the sadness is. Some people can’t sleep, others gain weight, some think constantly about death, others can’t concentrate or remember anything. Many lose interest in sex, or food, or both. Almost everyone, it seems, experiences a crushing fatigue in which your limbs feel like stone and no amount of sleep ever helps. Then there are headaches, stomachaches, and so on.
So, depression doesn’t necessarily mean sadness to us. (And a gentle reminder to non-depressed folks: being sad doesn’t mean you’re “depressed,” either.)
Depression is not sadness; it’s an illness that often, though not always, involves sadness. No amount of happy things will make a depressed person spontaneously recover, and, usually, no amount of sad things will make a well-adjusted person with good mental health suddenly develop depression. (Grief, of course, is another matter.) And sadness, on its own, does not cause suicide.
[…]People don’t kill themselves because they’re sad. They kill themselves because they have an illness that, among other things, makes them feel sad. It also makes them feel like their life is worthless, like they’re a burden to others, like death would be easier, and all the other beliefs that lead people down the path to suicide.
There is a tendency, I think, to assume that people are depressed because they are sad. A better way to look at it is that people are sad because they are depressed. That’s why, even if we could “turn that frown upside down!” and “just look on the sunny side!” for your benefit, it would do absolutely no good. The depression would still be there, but in a different form.
for the past week for so i’ve been reaching out (digitally mostly) expressing my thoughts, which have been more than dark and very much of suicide.
not ONE person in my life has responded. wait, one person has. you know who you are. my husband hasn’t even been especially interested, because i wasn’t cutting to the extremes that i usually am when in a suicidal state. but no one has asked if i have a pdoc appointment. no one has asked if i need the hospital. no one has even asked for far into the ideation i am.
so what am i?
goddamn fucking worthless. not worth worrying about. just…nothing