Reblogged
I love talking to little brown boys because they’re absolutely adorable and won’t break your heart like the older ones.
Thinking about my childhood is really fucking with me these days. My parents sacrificed so much to be where they are now. Being the child of two geniuses put a lot pressure to do something spec-fucking-tacular with my life. To my family, I am an investment. From a young age, a lot of money was spent making sure I would succeed (whatever that means) just like the other kids in the Indian community. It’s quite ironic though because I am continuously failed. Relative to my overachieving peers, I was mediocre. While they were winning NSDA and Science Olympiad tournaments, I was crying myself to sleep wishing I was enough. Being mediocre made it hard to make friends. Who would want to be friends with someone that brought nothing to the table? I had myself, which was probably not the best company. Ruminating negative thoughts led to negative behaviors, like my Trichotillomania. The hair-pulling turned ignoring the mediocre kid into shit-talking about the freak. The toxicity made me want to die. My parents did not know how to deal with such problems. Depression, Trichotillamania, and other mental illnesses are just not talked about. They grew learning that such problems are not “real problems”; there are other problems that are “far worse”. When my mental illnesses would cause me to lash out to my parents, I was met with the worst reactions. I was not suggested, but rather threatened with therapy. Therapy was made out to be a big, scary monster. If I don’t act normal, then I will be taken to a therapist where they will perform hypnosis to learn all my thoughts and then tell my parents about them. I had some fucked up thoughts, so this scared the absolute shit out of me. Too many years later, I learned that therapy is not a monster. I would give anything to go back in time and help myself with the knowledge I know now. Maybe, it would eliminate 99% of bullshit I am dealing with right now, but that’s a rant for another day.
Reblogged justyouraveragedesi
حرقت قلبي
-Arab saying
You burned my heart.
The feeling you get when someone who you love is in pain and you can’t help or cant do enough. The feeling is like someone is literally holding you heart to a set of flames.
(via kalam-thageel)
😔
(via mvslimah)
11/22/15
There were these kids that mocked my mom’s accent a couple months ago. I would have ignored if it was a one time thing, but no, they live in my neighborhood and I see them as I walk back home from school. Every day, they find some way to bother me, whether it’s yelling profanity or mocking me mom’s accent. I feel so fucking helpless in these situations. Their parents are cops or heads of the bullshit neighborhood community. Fuck them all. They don’t know shit. They don’t know how fucking hard my parents worked to get from poverty to where they are now. That fucking bothers me so fucking much. How dare they be disrespectful to the people who create the technology to the banks that pay for your fucking hunter’s guns and hover boards. Just fuck them all. I’m going to be so successful that they will pay. Twice. And thrice. Maybe fucking a thousand times.