But I'm Not Crazy
I'm just a little unwell
I know right now
You can't tell
But stay a while and Maybe then you'll see
A different side of me


Fandom, fandom, fandom. And that's about all there is to it. I post and reblog bits of anything I think worth posting or reblogging. Supernatural | Teen Wolf | Doctor Who | Sherlock | Lord of the Rings | Harry Potter | Avengers | Homestuck | Others here and there.

21 years old, cis-woman, pansexual. Mental health issues, equal rights activist, active-duty military (Navy), interested in finding the good things in life.
Reblogged from bookoisseur  517 notes

Not Poor Enough, Not Depressed Enough, Not Abused Enough

ibelieveyouitsnotyourfault:

By Clementine Bastow

image

Dear Young Person:

You are eight years old. Your aunt has given you a biscuit tin full of antique costume jewelry: there are Venetian glass beads and gold filigree things and tiny little snuff boxes set with enamel flowers. Even the tin itself is beautiful, covered with roses and pictures of ladies in old-fashioned gowns. Your family is poor—not dirt poor, but not “hamper full of Barbie dolls” rich, either—and you haven’t had much to show off to your classmates lately, at least not since My Little Ponies are no longer de rigueur and everyone else has moved on to cooler toys. So on this day, you proudly take the tin to school, excited to show off your present. Somewhere between the start of lunch and ten minutes later, the other, richer kids have taken all but one of your beautiful pieces of treasure. You return home that afternoon with the empty tin.

You’ll say, “It’s okay, I wanted to give them all away.”

* * *

Dear Young Person:

Now you are nine! The kids at your new school are, almost without exception, from richer families than yours. They tease you about your clothes, and your interest in musical theatre, and the mole above your lip, and your nose, and the gym teacher writes that you have “inappropriate arm swing” when you walk, just for good measure. By your final year there, you have been so comprehensively frozen out that you spend your lunch-times hanging out with the Prep kids from the Grade 6/Prep “buddy” program that ended months ago. You’re eleven by then, and the Prep kids are five. Years later, when you begin therapy for the first time, your mother will tell you that when you were at that primary school, you were so depressed you begged not to have to go to school each day.

You’ll say, “Wow, I don’t remember that at all!”

* * *

Dear Young Person:

I don’t need to tell you that 1994 is a tough time to be 12 years old. You have a photo of Jonathan Brandis stuck to the front of your school diary. You don’t really know who Kurt Cobain is, only that people are writing poems about him, and that he committed suicide. When your over-worked father disappears one night, you sit in front of the filing cabinet where he keeps your drawings and lay them out on the floor while your mother paces by the phone at the other end of the house. A day later, some family acquaintances find him in the family car and he’s taken to hospital. Things slowly get back to normal. Navigating the never-ending, low-level grief of a loved one’s suicide attempt seems difficult, but it can’t be more difficult than a successful suicide, can it? Still, you wonder why your dad forgot your birthday that one time. You wonder if suicidal ideation is hereditary. For decades after that night you will tell people that, yes, nervous breakdowns can cause brain injuries. So too, it turns out, does carbon monoxide, but it could be worse, right? Think positive! Jonathan Brandis kills himself in 2003.

You’ll later say, “Nah, I worked all that out in analysis.”

* * *

Dear Young Person:

You’re 20 this year. You think you are absolutely cool enough to date a 36-year-old. So cool that when he refuses to use condoms you play along with it; you hate condoms, too, imagine that! So cool that his odd, exhibitionist approach to sex seems like just another glamorous thing. So cool that when he tells you he’s been cheating on you with many women the whole time, then forces you to take Valium because you’re “too upset,” you figure that this is just what adult relationships are like. A few months later, you go to the hospital with a case of an STI so acute that the doctor struggles to insert the speculum into your vagina; “Jeez, you must be pretty stressed,” she says as she wrestles with the metal device.

You’ll say “Yeah, he was I guess”, and laugh along when people talk about how cool that guy was.

* * *

Dear Young Person:

You are 25. Your writing career is going well. So well that a group of people online tell you—again and again—that you are talentless and so ugly you should put a plastic bag over your head and suffocate. You stop eating and start exercising more. Within a month or so you will be gripped by a nervous breakdown, lying on the floor wailing incoherencies about how lonely Heath Ledger and Britney Spears must be. Your boyfriend breaks up with you and goes to a warehouse party. You want to put your hand through a window pane just so that you can go to hospital and have someone treat you with kindness and patience. The pain—emotional, existential, mental—is so acute that one day you fall down in the street, crying, and a man steps over you as if you were a traffic obstacle. But then again, you don’t really have a “reason” to feel this way, do you? People have been through worse. It’s time to pick yourself up and dust yourself off.

You’ll still use air quotes around the phrase “nervous breakdown” years later.

* * *

Dear Young Person:

Happy 27th birthday! You are now just a few months away from your escape from the relationship you’ve been drowning in for the past year. Right now, though, your partner is yelling at you, at your 27th birthday party, in front of your friends, about how you are ungrateful because you didn’t let him choose the music. He yells at you a lot: mostly about doing the washing up, or the bills, or about not talking back, but occasionally just about how you’re one of the worst people he’s ever known. Once you have removed yourself from this situation, you will find that he has turned many of your friends against you. You start to think, well, if he didn’t hit you, it wasn’t that bad. Maybe all those people are right. Other women have suffered far worse abuses. It’s time to get over it, isn’t it? But before all that, over lunch in the immediate aftermath of the relationship’s demise, you will tell one friend the full rundown of the year’s abuses and she’ll think for a moment, then reply, “Well, he’s always been nice to me, so I’m going to stay friends with him.”

You’ll say, “Okay.”

* * *

Dear Young Person:

Now you are 31, officially no longer young in the eyes of the Australian government, or, for that matter, the world, but then “young” is a relative term, isn’t it? You’ll always be Young Person to me. Anyway, you are 31 when you finally, after months of dating, get that guy to stay over at your house. Well, “get,” “provide an open door and eventually a bed by the time he has become so belligerently drunk he can no longer stay awake,” comme ci, comme ça. You’ve spent so long telling everyone how great he is, in spite of his escalating rejection of you, that when you wake up the next morning and he starts roughly fucking you, then eventually expends himself and sniffs (on the topic of his chosen position), “I didn’t want to deal with your morning breath,” you are already thinking of ways to tell your friends about your “hilarious” sex life. You never get around to telling them. You think about High Fidelity and Penny Hardwick yelling, “It wasn’t rape, because I said ‘OK,’ but it wasn’t far off!” You think about how Penny Hardwick’s #1 recording artist was Elton John, and you listen to Honky Chateau a lot while trying to stay upbeat. When you meet a wonderful guy some months later and you eventually stay the night, you won’t let him kiss you when you wake up, because you’ll assume he, too, “doesn’t want to deal with your morning breath,” and all that entails.

You don’t say anything.

* * *

You don’t tell your boyfriend, or your parents, or your friends, or your kind therapist that you’re thinking about all these things, because you figure it’s not worth being upset about after all these years, even though you are. You see people go through far worse things and continue the “It could have been much worse!” charade, even though some days you feel so sad you want to lie down on the carpet for a week. Why can’t you just get over it? Why can’t you Think Positive About It All? Why would anyone write you a letter about such small things that it’s not worth being upset about, Dear Young Person?

Young Person, you think a lot about all of these things. There are so many others: you laugh off your Bipolar 2 diagnosis as “the straight-to-video sequel to a real mental illness”; your plummeting weight during a two-year spell overseas is just “Los Angeles, lol!”; the nights you eat Vitamin C tablets for dinner are fine because “Other people are poorer”; the guy who makes you wear a horse-bit to bed is “great comedy material!”; the death of your dear dog at just five years of his young life “isn’t as bad as it would have been if he’d been around for 15 years, I guess.” It never seems to be quite enough to be upset about, not really, truly upset, like some people have the right to be. Not poor enough, not depressed enough, not beset by grief enough, not abused enough.

You talk about all this with a group of strangers and one wise person will tell you, “Comparative suffering is the most pointless kind of suffering. If you experienced something that hurt, then that’s valid, no matter how it compares to anyone else’s suffering. If you broke one bone when your sister broke ten, would you say your broken bone isn’t broken enough to get set, to get a cast, to get care?” You think a lot about this, too.

Dear Young Person:

Now you are 32, and you are me, and I am you. And now I say, “It’s not your fault, I believe you.”

xx Clementine/Me/You

kissnecks:

knitmeapony:

My next million dollar idea: reluctant exercise videos with people who aren’t perky.

"Just five more… I know, I kind of want to die right now too, but let’s just power through it."

"Okay, new yoga pose.  It’s going to ache like a bastard until your hamstrings release, I’m not gonna lie."

"Stretch a little deeper… it’s okay to yell ‘fuck’ at this point, I won’t tell anyone."

yes
prince-of-the-palmtrees:

simplypurkey:

jazzumon:

destielkills:

auntiesnixshipper:

awkwardteenagenerves:

discard-and-discover:

evolve-within:

disregardwomen:

When my mom’s out in public, she sends me pictures of lesbians she sees.

Jesus I envy that relationship. 

this is like the time when my mum took me bra shopping and the girl measuring me up was a lesbian and my mum said to me “i’ll go take a walk around the shop so you can talk to this nice young girl” and gave me a look as if to say “chat her up”. 

My mum tries to push me towards cute possibly gay girls and then disappears. She did it in Primark once and I found her hiding behind a pile of knickers, watching me.

i love all of your moms

When I was 17 I was convinced I was in love with the check out girl at the grocery store 5 minutes away from our house, so my dad went to get milk and somehow found an appropriate point in the conversation while buying a half gallon of milk to give her my number. Three days later she called me and asked if I wanted to come over “to watch a movie” and long story short my dad got me laid thanks dad.


That last story is worth reblogging

whenever i go out in public with my mother she lets me know whenever a girl checks me out. we went to the grocery store once and when we left she just said “6”and i just looked at her and said “6 what ?” and she said “six young ladies checked you out, and 3 men but thats besides the point.” she had this proud look on her face that seemed to say “my daughter is popular with the ladies, i have raised a lesbian heartbreaker”

prince-of-the-palmtrees:

simplypurkey:

jazzumon:

destielkills:

auntiesnixshipper:

awkwardteenagenerves:

discard-and-discover:

evolve-within:

disregardwomen:

When my mom’s out in public, she sends me pictures of lesbians she sees.

Jesus I envy that relationship. 

this is like the time when my mum took me bra shopping and the girl measuring me up was a lesbian and my mum said to me “i’ll go take a walk around the shop so you can talk to this nice young girl” and gave me a look as if to say “chat her up”. 

My mum tries to push me towards cute possibly gay girls and then disappears. She did it in Primark once and I found her hiding behind a pile of knickers, watching me.

i love all of your moms

When I was 17 I was convinced I was in love with the check out girl at the grocery store 5 minutes away from our house, so my dad went to get milk and somehow found an appropriate point in the conversation while buying a half gallon of milk to give her my number. Three days later she called me and asked if I wanted to come over “to watch a movie” and long story short my dad got me laid thanks dad.

That last story is worth reblogging

whenever i go out in public with my mother she lets me know whenever a girl checks me out. we went to the grocery store once and when we left she just said “6”and i just looked at her and said “6 what ?” and she said “six young ladies checked you out, and 3 men but thats besides the point.” she had this proud look on her face that seemed to say “my daughter is popular with the ladies, i have raised a lesbian heartbreaker”

Reblogged from crumbly-caked  327,844 notes

barricadefairytales:

fidefortitude:

isenseanunquenchablethirst:

is this what responsibilities look like

can i just

so bill nighy was wearing a motion capture suit and screaming at johnny depp

and johnny depp had to scream back

without either of them laughing

just imagine that. two grown men, one in pyjamas with balls on his face, and the other in a pirate costume, screaming at the top of their lungs at each other

acting