explaining anxiety is the fucking worst because you feel like an idiot for being bothered by the things that bother you but it’s such an intense fear right at your core so you have to go through all of these other levels of yourself to try and get someone else to understand it
“My mistrust [of men] is not, as one might expect, primarily a result of the violent acts done on my body, nor the vicious humiliations done to my dignity. It is, instead, born of the multitude of mundane betrayals that mark my every relationship with a man—the casual rape joke, the use of a female slur, the careless demonization of the feminine in everyday conversation, the accusations of overreaction, the eye rolling and exasperated sighs in response to polite requests to please not use misogynist epithets in my presence.”—
We’re all seeking that special person who is right for us. But if you’ve been through enough relationships, you begin to suspect there’s no right person, just different flavors of wrong. Why is this? Because you yourself are wrong in some way, and you seek out partners who are wrong in some complementary way. But it takes a lot of living to grow fully into your own wrongness. And it isn’t until you finally run up against your deepest demons, your unsolvable problems—the ones that make you truly who you are—that we’re ready to find a lifelong mate. Only then do you finally know what you’re looking for. You’re looking for the wrong person. But not just any wrong person: the right wrong person—someone you lovingly gaze upon and think, “This is the problem I want to have.”
I will find that special person who is wrong for me in just the right way.
“Chloe hated puberty.
Ever since her body started changing,
everyone looks at her like a meal to be devoured.
She is not allowed to play football anymore.
Her clothes fit differently now. Her body demands to be seen.
Her hips are an ever expanding universe. Her chest
a mountain range men wanted to claim as their own.
Two weeks ago she looked down and saw blood
slowly booming and ruining her white skirt.
And her heart, her heart
wild like untamed horses stampeding
through her veins.
Chloe hated this new body.
How it changed without her permission,
bled, softened, rid her
of her own innocence.
And just when it couldn’t get any worse… The Zombie Apocolypse happened.
Suddenly there was chaos! Riots in the street!
People were looting. Evacuations were ordered in every major city. The President ate the first lady’s face on national television! And ever since that dude attacked her
in a Blockbuster video, Chloe doesn’t feel shit.
Her body doesn’t change for anyone.
Sure, she may lose an eye, or an arm,
but it’s all in her relentless quest for brains.
Now, instead of chasing down Jason Prestin
To accidentally “Bump into him” on the way to his locker,
Chloe eats brains.
Instead of shrinking her body away from the grown men
Who look at her like a cherry they can’t wait to eat up
Chloe eats brains.
Her body is green and ambered over and her heart
Is resting in the stomach of whoever tore it from her chest
Between the science fiction aisle and the comedy aisle.
“Sometimes I remind myself that I almost skipped the party, that I almost went to a different college, that the whim of a minute could have changed everything and everyone. Our lives, so settled, so specific, are built on happenstance.”—Anna Quindlen, Every Last One (via awelltraveledwoman)
“I like cancelled plans. And empty bookstores. I like rainy days and thunderstorms. And quiet coffee shops. I like messy beds and over-worn pajamas. Most of all, I like the small joys that a simple life brings.”—Note to self (via scintillatingstarlight)