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Life is pain « Cristian Mihai

“All this pain, all this suffering…even though it almost broke me, almost turned me into the worst version I could be capable of being, in the end, all it did was make me want to save the world, made me want to spend the rest of my days improving myself and helping others too.

That’s why I write. Why I blog. I try to make sense of my suffering, and hopefully help others understand their own struggles.

. . .

The real struggle is in the choice. The real pain. In walking on the street without wishing for someone to hold your hand, in spending time by yourself without feeling bored as hell, in working your ass off every day, trying to better yourself. The pain of choosing to love yourself even though you hate what you see in the mirror. To help the broken even though some of them will try to break you as well.”

Source: Life is pain « Cristian Mihai

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Overwhelmed

“Writers seem to me to be people who need to retire from social life and do a lot of thinking about what’s happened–almost to calm themselves.”

–Helen Garner

tick tock

I feel tired and old. The years are pressing on me. All l thirty-three of them are weighing heavily on me, all the twists and turns of a life spent merely existing, hiding. I have regrets. Fear drowns hope with exaggerated faults. Could have, would have… should have… didn’t. I know I’m still young, but I can’t deny I am also old. My prime child-bearing years have passed; that damn clock mimics my heartbeat, and with every passing month, mocks me when I bleed. The wheel turns once more, and I am still here, distracting myself from that clock as best I can.

Panic Rant ‘n’ Roll

This! This right here! I finally leave mum’s house, meet a wonderful man and move in together to start our new life, and I settle into my new life and happiness

and

then

PANIC SETS IN because one of my sisters can’t get her shit together and yells at me about it on the phone. Because my mother will always see me as her baby girl and not the woman I’ve grown up to be MORE THAN 12 YEARS AGO. Because three moves, falling in love, and starting my own family wasn’t stressful enough. Because of so much family shit packed into 30 LOOOONG years I am a fucking nervous wreck.

No more.

I am not your therapist, nor am I your journal/diary. Do not call to complain about things I cannot control because all it fucking does is make me PANIC. You (plural “you’) ALL know I suffer from panic attacks and fucking ptsd so you best remember this: If you want to continue to be in my life in any meaningful way, then you will restrain yourself (plural again) and be civil in every last one of our fucking communications or, I swear to you, there will be no further communication between you and I. I will answer your calls again, but if/once they turn for the worse, then the call is over.

I don’t know if this is a form of Tough Love, and I don’t really care. All I know is this is now affecting my health very seriously. And if my family, my literal flesh and blood, can’t bring themselves to care, then so be it. I will always love you, even though you never believe it. But I will not die for you. I will not lose my sanity for you.

I am shaking so bad right now. I’m ready to cry again. Fuck. Fuck this shit. I need chocolate.

Hey Fiver and Not Writing, or Writing Update « Bonnie Sparks Writes

That would have been my first write-in, had I attended. I’m prone to panic attacks, have social phobia, high anxiety, and haven’t been coping with social isolation lately, so had two panic attacks in the morning. Needless to say, I didn’t get in the building! I did make it, at least to out front. After being exhausted and losing the ability to make decisions (it happens when I’m hit with anxiety and have a panic attack)

via Hey Fiver and Not Writing, or Writing Update « Bonnie Sparks Writes.

 

 

Me too. Except I didn’t even make out my front door. The library hosting write-in I wanted to attend isn’t that far away, but it’s also at night and I’m not doing well being out by myself at night these days. Just thinking about trying a nighttime walk makes me tremble. Plus I should have roughly upwards of 6,000+ words by now — I’ve got zero. Ugh. I can’t seem to focus on weaving my plot threads together into a coherent story, let alone start writing it out.  The more I try to get into the storytelling frame of mind, the more distracted I get.

46/365  - [ughh..overload!]

I NEVER THOUGHT ABOUT MY DAD BEING.. OLD.

He’s always been 16 years older than me. The scrawny teenage boy that took responsibility for a baby girl with nobody to help him at all. I’ve had a young father my entire life. Even now in his mid forties, he’s still young. But tonight when we were talking about adult things, and by adult things I mean he went into the random discussion of, “if i pass away i want this as my funeral” topic. We always joked that when he went senile and rolling around in a wheel chair i’d be right behind him. Because after all, we’re not that far apart in age. He had a serious face this time though. This conversation was serious, the topic was serious, he was being serious. We were discussing wills, splitting of assets, everything. I asked him if he had some death defying adventures scheduled, but I knew once he got diagnosed with diabetes two years ago his health has declined some. He wanted me prepared. Prepared to the aspect that eventually, he will die, despite all the birthday cards he owns assuring him that he’s an invincible superhero.

Read post: I never thought about my dad being.. old

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