Confessions of a good girl gone BAD

Archive/RSS/Ask/Theme

Image and video hosting by TinyPic
The blog of a young lady with a corrupted mind. My words are like a virus, going into your ears gliding through and infecting your whole body, I am the dreaded disease.
I like cars and guns. I like books. I like tattoos.
I like getting drunk.

Twitter | Pinterest | My Bucket List

I like the way you say my name when I stare off into space. I like the way you reach your hand over the car console and grab my hand. I like the way you kiss the back of my neck when I am cooking. I like the way you say, “Look at this!” and then bring the computer over to me so I can see. I like the way you want to go on adventures with me, and only me. I like the way you hold me at night, but how you let go when we get too hot, when it it is time for real sleep. I like the way you laugh, the way you pour our beers, the way you push a shopping cart. I like how you like me, how you love me without saying it. I am not very important to anyone, except you, and I don’t care. That’s the best compliment I can give anyone, you know.

Loving you feels like building a time capsule, but I guess all good things are bound, in the end, to feel like that.

Kristen Fiore // Notes - June 28 

#reblogging old feelings

(via girlvswhale)

(via girlvswhale)

howcomeicantsleepatnight:

“You roll your mouth off him, his taste still smothering your tongue when he says, “There is someone else.”
You laugh. The last time you saw him was a year before when he forced you out of his car somewhere in Queens because you hit him in the arm. He came back ten minutes later, drove you to your dorm at NYU, and you didn’t talk for almost a year when he sent you an email saying he missed you. You thought you loved him, so you invited him to your mom’s house in the Hamptons. He said yes, so you thought that maybe he loved you, too.
You look at the clock next to your bed. It is midnight - officially your birthday.
“Her name is Jackie,” he continues.
You laugh again. Your bed creaks; through the wall, you can hear your mother snoring.
“I really like her,” he says. “I mean I like you, but it’s, it’s just different.”
This is when you ask the question you shouldn’t. “What do you mean different?”
“You know that pumpkin cheesecake we had tonight?”
You nod. Every October, every birthday, your mother’s boyfriend makes you one. It is your favourite.
“You are like pumpkin cheesecake,” Matt says. He leans on his elbow and you try not to look into his eyes. “And Jackie is carrots. You’re great, but not all the time. Jackie is good for me all the time. You know?”
This is the thing you learn about yourself in the first few minutes of being nineteen: you are much more of an adult than last year, because when Matt says this, you don’t reach your hand out to punch him in the face. Instead, you say, “I understand.” Then you roll away from him and close your eyes until you hear his tiny snores rolling through your ribs.
You are mature because you wait. You tip toe to the bathroom and lay your face against the cold tiles and that is where you cry.
You realize that you do not know what love means. However, it is here on your nineteenth birthday you realize what it isn’t. It isn’t having your heart broken on your own bed after giving someone a blowjob on your birthday. It isn’t any of this.
You wonder though why love feels like laying down and letting someone roll over you - why love feels like agreeing to lay down and die.”

— Kristen Fiore, “Wrong Ways To Say I Am Not In Love With You” Chapter Three (girlvswhale.com)

My happiness is all a lie, it’s like I live in this fantasy world, not realizing that I’m pretending to be happy.

I have pretended for so long that I actually believe I truly am happy, until I breakdown every night. If I’m so happy, how could I get so sad?

Then, the cycle starts all over the next day. I’m happy, or at least think I’m happy, then I get sad all over again.

It’s a daily routine, a never ending cycle.

I don’t think I can pretend much longer, it’s tiring masking and burying my true feelings.

He’ll grab your waist and whisper in your ear but six months later you’ll find yourself drunk texting him that you miss him and he won’t respond.

(via shannonjayemarie)

#BellLetsTalk

I think the #BellLetsTalk program is great, promoting mental health awareness as well as end mental health stigma. Coming from someone that used to be ashamed of having mental health issues, I’ve learned that reaching out for help shows strength. I’ve had anxiety and on and off depression since the start of high school. I constantly worry about things I shouldn’t be worried about. Sometimes, I can’t stop worrying and it pisses me off and makes me hate myself. My constant worrying led to depression and made me feel down all the time. I didn’t have motivation to do anything and didn’t want to talk to anyone. I felt like people would be happy if I was dead and then I wouldn’t have to suffer anymore. I’ve been through things that made me who I am today and I’m glad that I got the help before it was too late. I know what it is like when you feel like life is caving in on you. I know what is it like to want to not exist and just disappear. I used to think suicide would fix everything, you think it’ll end the pain and you’ll never have to hurt again. That is not true.

Suicide is a permanent solution for a temporary problem. You might think that no one cares about, but people do care. I care, even if I don’t know you. No matter if you are black, white, tall, short, overweight, or anorexic, but you are beautiful. And you are never ever alone.

People that commit suicide don’t want to end their lives, they just want to end their pain. There are plenty of ways to get help and get better, but if you choose suicide, remember that that doesn’t end the chances of your life getting worse, it eliminates the possibility of ever getting better. Keep your head high and heart strong.

National Suicide Crisis Numbers:

U.S.A. 1-800-273-8255
Canada 1-800-448-1833
France 0145394000
Australia 1300131114

(via picsandquotes)

(via michaelfaudet)

(via officialbrians)

Scared to stay because you might hurt me again.

(via harder-thenbefore)

flowing-tears-pouring-rain:

depression blog