sometimes i forget how many times i’ve picked myself off the floor, how many times i’ve washed away smudgy makeup and put myself to bed. how many times i’ve said no to something unhealthy. said yes to something good. how many times i’ve treated myself with kindness and patience. i forget how many times i’ve tended to wounds and made peace with my own anger. if i was taking care of a body that was not my own, i’d believe i was doing everything i could. so here’s to remembering that i’m doing the best i can.
More you might like
it took scars, bad thoughts, pain, razors, depression, suicidal thoughts, suicide attempts, too many pills, too little food, burns, blood, hatred, purging, long sleeves to cover them, jeans to cover them, makeup to fade them, bracelets to hide them, and many written but never sent goodbye letters to get to where I am now, in this state of content with myself. it took a lot to get here. but it got better.
c.h. (via dwindledhearts)
“My solitude is sacred. I won’t let anyone take it from me anymore—”
— Margarita Karapanou, tr. by Karen Emmerich, from “Rien ne va Plus,”
