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F*** YOU

Thank you, Anna. While I may not be all about posting my life, it’s rare I even post pics anymore, this really hits me close. There are too many judgmental people in this world, too many people who want to see you fall so they have something to talk about. In the same right there are the people you stand by thinking it’s the right thing to do, only to turn around and get zero recognition, to get pissed on when it was you who was there - not these other people. Same with self harm, no it is not for attention, she’s right. It feels good because it is something else to draw your pain to, it takes away from everything else you’re feeling, it’s a release. Every single day is a battle, and in the end all you can do is rely on yourself, and if you’re lucky enough, rely on the people that do love you. It’s pretty rare something like this hits me the way this did, but I’m glad it did, and it came at a perfect moment.

This is the rape joke:
My best friend was four years old the first time his father came into his room at midnight and tore out his throat. He still has days when I cannot hold him because the memory of a bleeding trachea haunts his doorway. He has not been home for the holidays in many years, but – even now – hands are seen as weapons.

This is the rape joke:
I have been told by more than twenty people that they have been raped. To all of them, I asked where the rapist was. From none of them, I heard ‘jail.’

This is the rape joke:
Once my brother told me that I was so ugly, I would be a virgin forever. Unless someone raped me. But even they wouldn’t come back for seconds.

This is the rape joke:
I believed him.

This is the rape joke:
I now look at every woman on the street and wonder if the space between her legs is a crime scene, surrounded by ripped caution tape. The statistics tell me that this is so common that I will never be in a room that does not contain a survivor. Not even if I am in that room alone.

This is the rape joke:
I was thirteen years old, and he was supposed to be just a friend.

This is the rape joke:
When his older brother came home, the boy pulled away. He wiped the tears from my face and said ‘we should do this again some time.’

This is the rape joke:
When I finally told my parents, they asked what I had been wearing.

This is the rape joke:
I had been wearing my innocence. My trust. I had worn the love I held for humanity and expected to be treated well. I had never been taught that I would be that girl, the one who keeps a mine of secrets between her legs – that girl was the slut. I wasn’t supposed to be breakable.
What had I been wearing? I wore the rape joke, then I became it.


This is the Rape Joke | d.a.s

After Lora Mathis’s poem “the Rape Joke

(via jewist)

I don’t post nearly as much as I should

Too much has gone on lately in my head to think about this. I had a good drive today and a song came on I hadn’t heard in years, immediately I was in your car, you drumming on the steering wheel driving up Rock City hill, and it made me miss you. I miss NY, I miss old friends, I miss when life was simple. I keep trying to push those feelings down under everything else I’ve been feeling but everytime they come back up they’re even more intense. There are days I have to fight to get up, to go to work, to function at work, to hold back tears. Swallow it down and smile has become my mantra, crying when I’m alone so I don’t have to deal with the questions. My anxiety has been in full swing, ready and waiting to attack me at the worst moments. It seems the only thing that has helped is exploring, finding new places to photograph, but even at that I feel too tired to do. I just wish I could have a week of “one more nights” - one final night with you, one with each different group of friends I’ve had over the last 12 years, one last night to spend saying goodbye to a good friend gone too soon. Maybe then I could start to find peace within myself.

Reblogged from lickgold  716 notes


I thought about suicide the other day,
how I’d do it, who’d miss me,
then I realized what I’d miss. Nature and art truly gets me by. It brings me peace, it shows me why I’m here.
I smile a lot to mask my feelings
sometimes I feel useless and unwanted.
and then I look at my artwork
and this beautiful life god has given me.
I’m sure it would be amazing to
paint with the angels. Draw still life’s
of the fruits and berries amongst the
clouds. but it’s not my time yet.
Art literally keeps me alive.