I’ve been avoiding this post.

No. I’ve been waiting to feel depressed to write it.

It’s common knowledge on this blog that my birthday is in the month of August. Whether you know or not that it’s on the 15th is not important but at least now it’s said.

Once my birthday is passed I make myself write about what it was like to be a certain age. Writing about how it was to be 18 through the eyes of a twisted heart seems boring now but it’s tradition. So I HAVE to do it.

Shit.. I just dropped a whole bunch of hot candle wax on my desk. I don’t even know where I’m going with this post. I always write extemporaneously here. Gosh, I’m so petulant. In between every sentence that I write I bury my face in my face because what’s the fucking point.

I will admit that this year has been a breaking point, an upheaval in me. I got to genuinely be happy and yet I also got to be intensely sad.

So I finally cut myself. Mutilation was this year’s accomplishment. I was proud that I had finally done it. Foolish of me right?

Shit… More posters are falling from the walls. This night is working against me.

I don’t associate being 18 with the year that you learn more about being independent and yourself and how to become someone whole and new without the parents’ censorship. That’s what being 18 was for me but it had nothing to do with that, it had to do with me going to study alone in a country I had never lived in. Some at 18 still have their mothers do their dishes because apparently, they can’t do it themselves. 18 is being more free, that I agree with. We are considered adults by the state but are we really in our head and heart?

I can tell you the consequences and the marks that being happy has left this year just from looking around in my room.
Half of my closet is black and the other half is pink. Pink is my happy color I suppose. It’s something new that I wear. Something that gets to shine.
I have songs I can dance to on my phone. Once upon a time, I used to only have songs that were appropriate to play during funerals.
Finally, I have more friends and more contacts on my phone, in fact, they multiplied by three this year.

There has always been one thing in common in all of these post-birthdays posts and it’s that I always say “I’ll miss being 16” or “I’ll never forget what it was to be 17” but screw being 18 for the better and for the worse. I won’t miss it but I didn’t hate it BUT I’m not gonna be all nostalgically sentimental about it.

Year 19 is gonna be my salvation I swear. I feel it.




someone said it, finally

“can we just take a moment to recognise mentally ill people who are high functioning?

the ones that constantly question the validity of their illness(es) because they managed to get out of bed this morning/are keeping up with their classes/can still socially interact? because they can do the things that most neurotypicals can do, even if they find it very difficult?

the ones that are questioned by their loved ones on the existence of their disorders? that face constant ableist remarks of “but you can’t be depressed/ill/manic/psychotic/etc!” “you don’t look mentally ill!” “it’s just hormones!” “Oh, have you tried yoga?” “You’re just on a journey of finding yourself.” “You’re too happy/too smart to be mentally ill!”

the ones who aren’t taken seriously by their therapists/doctors/psychiatrists because of how self-aware they are and how well they can articulate their feelings and thoughts?

the ones that, on their bad days, are told that “others have it worse” just because they don’t outwardly show their symptoms all of the time?

the ones that have their pain and their struggles constantly diminished until they don’t know what is real and what isn’t because of this?

the ones that don’t receive the treatments or correct diagnosis in a short matter of time (or at all) because “they’re not bad enough?”

the ones that end up suicidal or manic or psychotic in hospital with no warning because their illnesses aren’t taken seriously until its too late?

as a high functioning neurodivergent young person suffering from a myriad of different mental health issues, I see you and I hear you and I support you.”

– Unknown

Thank you so much for this. I love you for it. I’ve never related so much.


that guy.

I’m the guy who stops to smell and touch the flowers,
I’m the guy who cheers the bees working on saving the world,
I’m the guy who’ll treat a cactus the same way a mother would treat a child,
I’m the guy who’ll point and gasp at a full moon,
I’m the guy whose fantasy is to make flowers dance with his singing,
and then is frustrated when it doesn’t happen.

the guy whose music is always gloomy and dark,
the guy who speaks depressing words with a happy tone,
the guy who plays a crooked piano and calls it his heart,
the guy who counts more on relationships than he should,
the guy who daydreams about a love he believes he’ll never get,
and then writes a poem about it worthy of being engraved on a tombstone.

who hopes that death will come at the perfect time; when still a bit young,
who runs away from his problems, from difficult demons always there,
whose heart is shaped like a rose but made only of thorns,
whose heart embraces everything too tightly until it breaks itself with whatever it had latched on to,
who puts other people’s feelings first even though theirs aren’t as great as his,
and then explodes alone in his bedroom.

‘s swimming only to drown,
‘s running only to fall,
‘s flying only to fail,
‘s feeling only to hurt,
‘s fighting only to bleed,
and then still lives at the end.



Lately sucks

dy34WMW Lately, I’ve been asking people ” Was there a moment in your life that has made you feel weak? 

I ask this, not only because I’m genuinely interested in hearing the answer but because secretly, I wish they’d ask it back, just wanting to make people aware of my cry for help I suppose. They never do. So I’ll just answer it here, to whoever might be reading this.

Yes. There have been moments that have made me feel weak. In fact, the last one was this morning, when I looked in the mirror. I felt weak then and I do right now talking about it. I acknowledged myself and it made me feel weak, I acknowledged who I was, looking back into my eyes, inside and out. And it sucks. Because all that I have to offer is this, is me. And it sucks. Because it is utterly weak. And it sucks.


I am all that I will always have.

Not the Most Exciting Day

Today wasn’t the most exciting day, quite frankly it was boring.

But right now, I feel like that character in a television series, at the end of an episode, after having confronted and defeated numerous obstacles and problems, sitting in front of his computer, smiling and then closing it late at night. Going up to his bed, dropping on his back and looking up at the ceiling with a content smile, grateful that life has given him a break for that night, while happy indie music plays in the back.

Today was not the most exciting day but I go to bed happy.

Goodnight everyone, I’ll see you all in the world of dreams.


You bet your ass after posting this, it is exactly what I am doing.

Dance with me.

I am a sad song on a happy tune.

I’ll cut myself and flowers will bleed out.
I’ll cry so much and rainbows will spring out.
I’ll deteriorate and colours will fly out.

I am a sad song on a happy tune.

You see that the lights are out but you’ll knock on my door.
I’ll answer “yes, someone’s home” dropped on the floor.

You’ll ask me to smile and I will do so, I’ll show you my grin.
You’ll see its sun, its shining light but not how it burns my skin.

I am a sad song on a happy tune.

I am the gorgeous yellow of a dying land.

I am the darkness in a lit up night sky.

I am a joyful bird without wings.

I am the sad song you will dance to.