live u


#bffs #staying up all night talking about winn’s dad #probably #movie nights, obviously #winn begging mon to watch star wars with him #r u trying to tell me mon-el doesn’t live at winns #when he’s not at karas #lol winn’s like ‘thats a v culinary answer for someone that doesn’t cook’ #'cos u never cook when we’re at home, rude’


➜ ғᴏʀ ᴀɴᴏɴʏᴍᴏᴜs

yo if i livestreamed my talent show on may 4th would anybody watch?? my biffle victoria would do it and get my two dances glass eyes and abduction live and get some Behind The Scenes action of me like freaking out before in between and after my dances i just feel like that’d be fun(ny)

My depression is not usually red painted lips stretched taut over pointed teeth. Neither is it the sickly-sweet smell of rotting fruit. Nor a too-large shadow, lifted off the floor and on to my shoulders as a heavy cloak.

Most of the time, my depression is a quiet rain outside my window. A soft and comforting shield from the noise of the outside world. A constant alternative soundtrack that I am more familiar with than the sound of my own voice. It is a crack of thunder at 3:38am, half-waking me, and it says to me in a soft voice, “you don’t need them”.

It does not say “you need me,” and it does not say “you need rest”, and it does not say “you need help”, although sometimes I think that all three of those may be true. And because it does not say any of those things that I feel may be true, I do not respond.

It quiets after that and lets me go back to sleep, a thousand muted raindrops outside of my house, and I am dry and inside and warm.

At 9am, I will open the doors and bring an umbrella, but umbrellas are not a house, and my depression will say “you don’t want this,” as it wets my sleeves. It is right, I think, but that doesn’t change that I am going to do it anyway. The rain does not make the world stop. My depression does not make me stop.

Of course, some days there are thunderstorms. Some days I am snowed in, trapped in my bed for fear of turning to ice if I leave. Today, as most days, it is spring showers without May flowers.

At 1pm it is no longer the rain. Perhaps it tires of waiting outside; perhaps I tire of silence. The outside world’s noise is a harsh necessity that I tolerate more than anything, but it is also a welcome change. My depression asks me “why?” It is an innocently voiced question, a child who has been denied. It is old enough to listen to rejection but it is not old enough to guess at why, and even if I allow time to pass me by while I indulge its questions, it will not age and understand. At 1pm, I question why myself, and again I do not answer it.

At 5pm we are both tired. I am tired of being difficult and it is tired of not being listened to. At 5pm it is no longer the rain, nor a child, but an ugly and black thing in my veins. A twisting mass of dark scribbles that wriggle and scrabble inside of me like a live colony that I am host to. A pressure blooms inside my chest, an increasingly desperate desire for escape from every decision I have ever made. My depression pushes at my skin and squeezes my heart and steals my focus for its own, trying to leave me behind, and gods would I let it if I could. It has not yet managed to escape, but at 5pm I worry that it might. I flee desperately and lock myself away somewhere safe. I am a werewolf and my depression is a full moon.

There is no relief for either of us then, a hour lost to screaming matches between the two of us. We are jilted lovers. We are warriors. I wield a sword of responsibilities but depression is in me, and nobody can win this battle. It is settled when I am too tired to fight or listen, a fog on the field that forces both sides to retreat.

At 7pm, warmed in the dying rays of the sun, my depression is almost me. It settles warm and heavy against my skin and brushes gentle fingers over my eyelids and breathes softly, silently. It does not complain, and I do not chastise it. We are both chasing something the other wants to push away, and we have both lost today.

At 11pm, in the deafening silence of my room and my failures, my depression is a dog who knows it has done wrong. “I’m sorry,” it whines as it curls close to me, “this was supposed to be better.” I do not forgive it but I have nothing and nobody else at 11pm, and I am so very very lonely in the silence of my room with the sound of self-isolation pattering outside my window. “Okay,” I say, “it’s okay. Tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow neither of us will be upset.”

man i hate reading slash and being like “well this is the straightest bullshit i’ve ever read”

especially when its angst


Namjin moments in You Never Walk Alone preview show aka Namjoon is so whipped

feat Namjin’s club president