Polluted liquid.

Arriving home, alone again. A hole in the middle of my chest.

Can’t hold it in, not a minute longer.

Liquid polluted with anger and sadness escapes my body through my eyes.

I feel it fall down my cheeks until it stops and dries on my face.

Kneeling down on the floor, my arms try to separate my face from this surface.

A moment of relief after shaking and hyperventilating…

I’m able to stand up.

Then the same feeling overflows me and tries escaping with no success.

On the floor, next to me, I can see drops of this polluted liquid shine.

It mocks me… as it did not help me get rid of these feelings.

The act starts now.

Festivities, oh joy.

But this, the end of the year… when everyone is thanking whomever or whatever for making it another year… this fucking sucks.

What I wanted to do: Drink, hang out… be under the influence of various substances… forget.

What I will be doing: Holding back my tears while I pretend there is no such thing as depression as I eat (and hopefully drink ?) with family.

The thoughts my mind will make me go through while next to my grandmother or stepfather… or nephew.Racing thoughts of self destruction while I wear my poker face.

It’s physically exhausting.

At least the side of my mom’s family knows not to ask what I am doing with my life.I’ll be going because my mom asked me to. Because she thinks it will do me good. Because she wants to be with me… but the me she wants to be with is not crying or angry. The me she wants to be with is the one that acts like nothing is wrong. The me that stares at walls during conversations… just trying to push those thoughts away.

Seeing as I can’t seem to do anything to make my family feel less like shit about my existence… I will go and I will pretend.

I hope someday I get payed for each fake smile.

Or… that these fake smiles become real.

Congrats on this new year.

My nails look ok.

But I don’t.

It’s been almost a week that I constantly cry.

Sometimes it just gets so out of control that I don’t know what to do.

The Depakote isn’t working like it was a month ago… so they upped my Seroquel.

I don’t like waking up.

Here I am… awake, with nothing to do.

A lot to do, actually.

I started cleaning my room.

Most of it was trowing away useless shit I grew attached to and old clothes.

Didn’t finish cleaning, my room is even messier.

I get like one day of energy per month.

That’s my fucking quota.

I almost don’t even go outside… my windows are rarely open.

Seems I’ll be ending the year as unstable as I started it.

Oh, and of course, my psychiatrist asked me if I wanted to get hospitalized.

Yay.

Nothing like knowing even my doctors don’t know what the fuck else to drug me with.

But my nails are colored dark blue, and I like them…

.

The 50 Scariest Books of All Time

OongaChaka:

Oooh… I’ll be needing this list.

Originally posted on Flavorwire:

The air is getting crisper, the nights are getting longer, and All Hallow’s Eve draws near. You know what that means: it’s time to curl up with a book guaranteed to give you the shivers — or at least make you check the locks twice. Here, for your horrifying pleasure, are 50 of the scariest books ever written in the English language, whether horror, nonfiction, or speculative futures you never want to see. One caveat: the list is limited to one book per author, so Stephen King fans will have to expand their horizons a little bit. Check out 50 books that will keep you up all night after the jump, and add any other scary favorites to the list in the comments.

View original 2,238 more words