I'm like a butterfly caught in a hurricane

Carolina. Lover of Music and Books. Perfectionist. Indecisive. Slightly lost, if not completely.



how to fall in love when you have BPD

writingsforwinter:

In Livermore, California, a solitary light bulb has burned every day since 1901, the longest-burning bulb in human history, and, needless to say, in animal history too. While built with planned obsolescence, it never became obsolete.

In each new love, a mourning period exists before the relationship even begins. You take up the shovel like a mortician, dig your own grave with the ease of a suicide. You will not be the first to leave. You will be the last, which is to say you will be the person to leave after there is nothing left to remove yourself from. You bury yourself deep like an iris. And some men become gone in the sense that going and coming can often be synonymous when it comes to sex- they come and then they go, and eventually you learn to accept that this is a one night stand, or, more accurately, a one night lying down in bed. Or they stay until the convenience runs its course and you worry that, to them, you have been a vampire: draining of everything inside them, only visible as who you truly are in the daylight, when the romantic darkness of the finished wine and the cast aside clothes has snuck away into the drunken evenings.

And others, you imagine leaving down the trash chute, opening a window like an eye and landing in the undergrowth, or disappearing from your shower along with the steam. In 1985, the National Child Safety Council began its first coordinated milk carton program for missing children after the vanishing of Etan Patz. You hate to minimize the severity of the pain inherent within the program, but everyone who leaves you becomes another face on another carton. They run like film reels after each new hookup, after each unanswered text. You worry you’re becoming too much, and in doing so, you are. You forget the ones who stay in favor of remembering the ones who go.

With each new milk carton, you peel back the tab. You make sure the arrow faces you. In kindergarten, in elementary school, an arrow on a carton facing the person across from you meant a secret harbored crush, or a dare to kiss. You reverse the ritual in hopes that if no one is there to face the arrow, then no one is there to face the great overwhelmingness of all that you believe you are. And still, despite this. The great gaping obsolescence of an unmade bed.

You think no one could ever handle you, or no one would ever want to. Each new loss an octave building up an already trembling symphony. The ones who leave become the half notes that never keep you whole. The ones who stay merely seem like pauses until the next song begins and the needle resets. And you think surely the impulsiveness couldn’t help, the dark demanding need to be in pain, to take yourself close to the edge, or over the edge, to do whatever seems most risky at the most risky of times. You think surely no one could understand this: the drive for what will blackout everything else you feel, like a blood clot blocking an artery. You think surely no one could understand this, could understand you, could stand you, could be under you.

But, there is this: in Livermore, California, tourists come to visit the Centennial Light in flocks every year. To last so many decades beyond a planned decay- to exist long after every other familiar thing faded away - through the Great Depression, through the major wars, through the stock market boom, through each new president. It lasts. And it lasts. And it lasts. And there are always visitors, and many of the visitors return again the next year, to see if it still glows. And somehow, it does. It never stops. And people want to see it, and instead of each new visit being a disappointment, or being too costly, too time-consuming, too difficult, too much, too hard to handle, it’s just right. And so they stay. And if they ever have to go, they come back again soon.


I think part of the reason why we hold so tight is because we fear something so great won’t happen twice
— unknown (via hatin)



Four decades of feminism later I am reading the comedian Angela Barnes’ blog. “I am ugly, and I am proud,” she writes. She goes on to say: “The fact is I don’t see people in magazines who look like me. I don’t see people like me playing the romantic lead or having a romantic life.”
At the top of the blog is a picture of Barnes. And the thing is, she isn’t ugly. Neither is she beautiful. She’s normal looking. She’s somewhere in the middle of the spectrum, just like lots of women you see every day in real life.
It made me think of this year’s Wimbledon ladies’ final between Sabine Lisicki and Marion Bartoli. When Bartoli won, the BBC commentator John Inverdale infamously said, “Do you think Bartoli’s dad told her when she was little, ‘You’re never going to be a looker, you’re never going to be a Sharapova, so you have to be scrappy and fight’?”
The first thing I thought was: this woman has just won a tennis tournament! And she’s being judged on her looks! And then I thought: but Bartoli is attractive. Sure, she’s not at the very highest point on the scale – she doesn’t look like a top model. But she’s pretty. And, in any case, why should it matter? She’s a top athlete. Surely that’s what counts.
A sports commentator refers to a pretty woman as “not a looker”. A normal-looking woman thinks she’s ugly. Why?
Because, even though the world is full of normal and pretty women, the world we see – the world of television, films, magazines and websites – is full of women who are top-of-the-scale beauties.
And right now, in the second decade of the 21st century, the situation is more extreme than ever. If you’re a woman, a huge proportion of your role models are beautiful. So if you’re normal looking, you feel ugly. And if you’re merely pretty, men feel free to comment on how un-beautiful you are.
As a normal-looking man, I find myself in a completely different position. Being normal makes me feel, well, normal. Absolutely fine. As if the way I look is not an issue. That’s because it’s not an issue.
As a normal-looking man, I’m in good company. Sure, some male actors and celebrities are very good looking. Brad Pitt. George Clooney. Russell Brand.
But many of Hollywood’s leading men, like me, look like the sort of blokes you see every day, in real life. Russell Crowe, Kevin Spacey, Bruce Willis, Jack Black, Seth Rogen, Martin Freeman, Tom Hanks, Steve Carell, Jim Carrey, Will Ferrell, Vince Vaughn, Brendan Fraser… In fact, you might almost say that most leading men are normal-looking blokes.
It’s true of television, too. Bryan Cranston, who plays the lead in Breaking Bad – he’s a normal. James Gandolfini – he was a normal. And chubby too. Kevin Whately – normal. Ben Miller – normal. TV cops all look normal. Ray Winstone looks normal. Tim Roth looks normal. They portray people who are interesting for what they do, not what they look like.
Oh, and think of sitcoms. The Big Bang Theory features four normal-looking blokes and a stunningly beautiful woman. New Girl is about two normal blokes, a guy who’s quite good looking, and two women who are… yes, strikingly beautiful.
When I watch the news, on whatever channel, it’s presented by the classic partnership of an ordinary-looking guy and a gorgeous woman. After the news, I watch the weather. Male weather presenters look like standard males. Female weather presenters look like models.
Footballers look normal. Footballers’ wives and girlfriends look stunning. Daytime television presenters: men look like Phillip Schofield; women look like Holly Willoughby.
A typical Saturday-night judges’ panel consists of two types of people – middle-aged blokes and young, stunning women. Sometimes a normal-looking or ageing woman slips through the net – but then, like Arlene Phillips, her days are soon numbered.
Countdown had an attractive woman and an ageing bloke; when the attractive woman began to show signs of ageing, she was axed – replaced by a woman who was, of course, strikingly beautiful.
Who presents historical documentaries? Guys like David Starkey. Normals. And what happened when a normal-looking woman, Mary Beard, presented a series about the ancient world? She was mocked for not being attractive enough.
In a recent interview Dustin Hoffman, another normal, made a revealing comment. Remember when he dressed up as a woman in Tootsie? “I went home and started crying,” he said. Why?
“Because I think I am an interesting woman when I look at myself on screen. And I know that if I met myself at a party, I would never talk to that character. Because she doesn’t fulfil physically the demands that we’re brought up to think women have to have in order to ask them out… I have been brainwashed.”

The ugly, unfair truth about looking beautiful
(via fucknosexistcostumes)

This is why I get infuriated whenever men talk about how they’re held to unrealistic beauty standards too, because it really doesn’t even compare. Men who aren’t attractive simply aren’t attractive and maybe that’s rough for them, but women who aren’t attractive are barely even people

(via escapingtoxicjustice)



bewbin:

bewbin:

i just used voice to text in google docs to write an entire essay and i feel like i am in the future. i can see the matrix code i am one within the stars that span across the cyberspace

Even now I am typing without lifting a finger. Simply looking up to the sky and allowing poetry to grace my lips and hit th hey bobin rmeneber to clean your room before MOM GET OUT OF MY ROOM


marauders4evr:

officialek:

marauders4evr:

Clinton lost Florida by 3%.

The third party was at 4%.

But hey…at least you all took a stand right?

Yeah because I voted for who I wanted, not for who everyone else wanted

Yeah?

And how’d that work out for you?



how the signs feel right now

solar-leo:

Aries: Stressed

Taurus: sTrEsSeD

Gemini: s-t-r-e-s-s-e-d

Cancer: S.T.R.E.S.S.E.D

Leo: STRESSED

Virgo: S T R E S S E D

Libra: ….stressed???

Scorpio: sssssstressed

Sagittarius: sTRESSEd

Capricorn: stressed!!!

Aquarius: ?s?t?r?e?s?s?e?d?

Pisces: *stressed*





Theme by Little Town