my white flag

There’s nothing worse than the anxiety of not wanting to go home. It’s supposed to be a sanctuary… the place you long for… the place you go when you need comfort and security. But sometimes it’s not like that… sometimes home is just the place you live with someone you don’t know very well anymore.
We used to be so close… how did we get here? How did we fall so far….? I can remember days when I would rush to get home… I was so excited to see you because I’d missed you all day. But now I find myself doing just about anything to stay at work just a little longer… Even on days when it’s stressful and I’m in a constant state of anxiety – it’s nothing compared to feeling of the drive home because I know home is going to be so much worse… It’s not supposed to be like this. Home is supposed to be the place you feel safe… the place you long for. It’s not supposed to be warzone.
So I guess this is me waving my white flag because I want things to be how they were… I want feel safe in your arms again and know that everything is okay….
I want to come home.
2

“I was challenged to write a love poem to my body.
My body and I, we rarely get along.
You were the first person to call me beautiful.
The word tastes sour when I speak it to the mirror
But your mouth made it sound like trumpets
Like a declaration. Like fact, like definition.
I wear my skin like an apology.
I have many scars, like reminders of past wars worn on my arms.
but those freckles on my shoulders are a brilliant galaxy.
And You used to find constellations in my stars.
My eyes are like sawed off tree stumps- red oak with rings marking my age.
You can count my years in my eyes. I have life lines.
My nails are anxiety, my knuckles are stress.
I am a pin cushion, I am a doormat.
In the fifth grade a boy in my class started comparing all of the young girls breast sizes.
‘Becca she’s mountains, Ashley she’s hills, and you… Well you’re speedbumps.’
that was an insult back then but now I see the truth in it
These mounds on my chest merely hold me back most days
Keep me from going full speed
I never liked this body much after all
It’s a poorly constructed carcass moving about this world
Half heartedly assimilating into society the way I was taught
The way you’re raised to smile and say thank you even when your grandmother gifts you a sweater dress when you’re 20 years old
And you’ve worn nothing but men’s clothes for years but you can’t refuse her Christmas gift
Until she hands you a bag containing leggings and you give your mother a pleading look of ‘help me’
That’s how I feel walking around in this body
Like I’m politely nodding along and someone will one day look into my eyes and think
There’s someone trapped In there
Someone trapped behind hunched shoulders and awkward body language
Someone wanting to be heard
You were the first person to help me accept myself
And you left when I finally found the courage to stand up straight and stop hiding my face
Like you’d created a monster that you couldn’t stand to look at anymore
But that was a moment of realization I couldn’t have had any other way so I owe you some thanks.
I guess This isn’t much of a love poem
Maybe me and my body aren’t quite in love yet- so that letter will have to come at a later date
But for now I will write to my body and say I’m sorry for the wrongdoings of the past
I’m sorry other people made you feel like you weren’t enough
And I’m sorry I allowed those people to determine your worth.
Above all else I’m sorry that I made you feel like you needed to make yourself small and unnoticeable to the world around you.
Im sorry for everything I forced upon you.
Dear self, apologies will never be enough, but I hope that we can be friends soon
You’ve gotten me this far, and all I’ve done is fight you all the way.
This is a white flag, waving to my body.
I’m calling a truce.”

White flag by c.r.

I guess licence plates weren’t enough to make sure everyone knew you were racist, you gotta paint your truck too.

Side note; This is in Nova Scotia, Canada, so the bs “history” excuse doesn’t even work. It’s not our history, and we aren’t in the south.

anonymous asked:

How have you not adopted Rob Benedict and Richard speight Junior yet?

they have quite a few kids already, i don’t wanna clog up the family reunions or anything

but if not adoption i think they could also consider hiring me as a live-in maid

Anonymous said:

Hey Scout! Um…. please don’t answer this if it makes you uncomfortable, but do you often make back your table cost at conventions? Are you doing okay?

it totally depends on the con. sometimes i just break even! this is closest to barren i think i’ve ever been financially, but it’s also been the best i’ve been mentally.

with my last job i was making a lot more money regularly, and while i hid it from literally the entire internet, i can’t even begin to tell you guys how deeply, deeply depressed i was. it got pretty bad. 

so while with money i am scraping a bit, mentally i’m doing much better. i also have other options! i’m just trying to stick with art to see if i can do it for just a biiiiiit longer before i’m beaten down again. I WILL KEEP PURSUING YOU, ART CAREER 

Anonymous said:

Hey Scout, have you ever thought about getting a 23andme kit? My sister just got one and I’m waiting for her to tell me her results :p

my mother actually did one! turns out i’m mostly british, with traces back to the iberian peninsula. this was all news, as my family’s never been much for genetic heritage. but i have super thick dark hair, bright green eyes, and paper-pale skin so it really wasn’t much of a surprise lol