I hate anorexia. I hate that I’ve damaged my heart. I hate that I don’t know if I can ever have kids. I hate that I’ve damaged my body in ways that might be irreversible. I hate that I’ve lost feeling in some parts of my body. I hate that I lie to my family. I hate that I don’t have a single friend because of this. I hate being scared that tonight is the night my heart gives out, like the doctors keep warning me. I hate all of this.
Relapse is scary… I talk about it more on my other blog xdietcokex It may be triggering to those dealing with eating disorders.
don’t surround yourself with anyone who downs a decision you’ve made with all of your heart, or with someone who doesn’t inspire you to be the weirdest, rawest version of yourself that you can be.
(via the-13th-floor)
I’m glad that Bilbo Baggins exists
Because in the book, the dude was pretty firmly middle aged when his crazy-ass adventure started
He was settled down in the house that belonged to his parents and had done precisely jack shit with his life
It gives me hope that maybe some nutcase wizard will eventually show up and be like yo
you’re a burglar now
don’t even care that you didn’t roll rogue homie we got dragons to slay and kingdoms to save
(via this-state-of-grace)
"If the first step to getting there is telling you that I love you, I will carve it in braille on your pillow, so it is the first thing you feel in the morning."
- Sierra DeMulder (via venomina)
"What they don’t understand about birthdays and what they never tell
you is that when you’re eleven, you’re also ten, and nine, and eight, and
seven, and six, and five, and four, and three, and two, and one. And when you
wake up on your eleventh birthday you expect to feel eleven, but you don’t.
You open your eyes and everything’s just like yesterday, only it’s today. And
you don’t feel eleven at all. You feel like you’re still ten. And you are —
underneath the year that makes you eleven.
Like some days you might say something stupid, and that’s the part of
you that’s still ten. Or maybe some days you might need to sit on your
mama’s lap because you’re scared, and that’s the part of you that’s five.
And maybe one day when you’re all grown up maybe you will need to cry like
if you’re three, and that’s okay. That’s what I tell Mama when she’s sad and
needs to cry. Maybe she’s feeling three.
Because the way you grow old is kind of like an onion or like the rings
inside a tree trunk or like my little wooden dolls that fit one inside the
other, each year inside the next one. That’s how being eleven years old is."
- Sandra Cisneros (via commanderspock)
(Source: arpeggia, via tyleroakley)