My book told me a lot of people never fully grieve their losses bc they either only cry about them or they’re only angry about them.

You have to experience both to let something go.

I’ve already cried all of my tears so now I’m going to be angry, and then I’m going to let you go 🙌🏻.

I don’t have a healthy relationship with anger. I always push it down before examining it bc to me anger at the people I love feels like a waste of time.

It feels like a waste of time bc WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE AND RETURN TO DUST.

So why would I waste my time being angry when I could spend it loving the person??

But I guess sometimes you have to.

Fuck you and your empty promises. I hate you i hate you i hate you so fucking much.

pay close attention to what people say to you out of anger, they’ve been dying to tell you that.

rage mix

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/66IB6QtNmBa9vqf8SnL3nj?si=Qz1sZEvHS4WHVNKrSPilkA

Originally posted by darkhawk1126

Originally posted by trash-fuckyou

a man in a room full of women. It’s their dream. a woman in a room full of men. It’s their nightmare. we walk in the night, our heart beat thudding in our ears. our hands tightly gripped around keys, and pens. our footsteps are quick and short, there is no smile on our face. the hungry wolves howling at you, your body. you hear things like, “come give us a little fun,” or “damn she’s a hoe,” or “let me see what’s in between your thighs sweetie,” or  “what else can your hands squeeze?” or “I would love to hear what sounds you make in bed,” yet we as women are taught that it is fucking our faults. “what did you wear, that night?” they ask, “sit with your legs crossed,” they say, “maybe if you stopped showing so much skin, that wouldnt have happened to you,” as if being born a woman we are instantly locked inside a cage of shame and fear. what we wear is our choice, for it is our body. what we say, we will say loud and we will be fucking proud. Our voices will not be locked away. when is enough, enough and if you are offended by my words you are doing something wrong. if you feel attacked and angry, you are doing something wrong. when will you understand ? we are fucking powerful stripped tigers, who sit upon the throne alone. not a pack of hungry, starving wolves who salivate at the thought of flesh. 

- Mia Koehl 

I’m so fucking tired of always being the strongest. Source: Pinterest.

Bullying Will Diminish the Target’s Ability to Trust Him/Herself

Bullying Will Diminish the Target’s Ability to Trust Him/Herself

Why? Because the target’s judgement, decisions, and feelings are constantly attacked, negated, and condemned by others. When a target is bullied, they’re taught that, although the abuse they suffer is painful, they either shouldn’t feel, or they have no right to feel that pain because they’re to blame for the abuse they suffer.
Targets are conditioned by bullies, bystanders, even people in…

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Source: Pinterest.

And then he shuts up and says nothing. His anger is in words swallowed and I know I cause his heart grief. I can’t take it, I think. I’d prefer he snapped at me but instead he becomes all silent and I know that I’ve drowned his voice and trust and that I don’t deserve him. I wasn’t made for anyone, I think. I feel too much, it’s like marrying an ocean, you will drown no matter how well you swim and how familiar you are with the waters. He feels rejected when I snap at him, staring at my apology like I was a blank wall. He might forgive me at some point, but I feel it in my bones until then, the rejection, the hurt, and it feels not like I snapped at him but as though I’ve murdered a part of him. I am drowning in myself, I think. I want so much for others, I want him to feel loved. It just feels so impossible to make him happy.

Learning Wednesday: Anger Harms Your Health Brain And Body Part 1

Learning Wednesday: Anger Harms Your Health Brain And Body Part 1

Take care of your body: Remember that the best medicine is education and prevention—DrMACN

Anger can be well directed and handled in a way that is productive not destructive. Anger can be a challenging emotion to work through. Sometimes our anger can be frightening. Or, maybe we consider it inappropriate to even feel this way at all.

When anger is misdirected, it often leads to poor choices,…

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ɪ ᴀᴍ ꜱᴏ ꜰʀᴜꜱᴛʀᴀᴛᴇᴅ!

ɪ ꜰᴇᴇʟ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ᴀʟᴏɴᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜɪꜱ ʜᴏᴜꜱᴇ. ɴᴏ ᴍᴀᴛᴛᴇʀ ʜᴏᴡ ʜᴀʀᴅ ɪ ᴛʀʏ ᴛᴏ ᴀᴄᴛ, ᴡʜᴇᴛʜᴇʀ ɪᴛ’ꜱ ɴɪᴄᴇ ᴏʀ ꜱᴛʀᴀɪɢʜᴛ ᴜᴘ ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴛ.

ꜰᴏʀ ᴏɴᴄᴇ ɪɴ ᴍʏ ʟɪꜰᴇ, ɪ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ᴍʏ ᴘᴀʀᴇɴᴛꜱ ꜰɪɴᴀʟʟʏ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀꜱᴛᴏᴏᴅ ᴍᴇ.

ʙᴜᴛ ɴᴏ! ᴛʜᴇʏ ʜᴀᴠᴇɴ’ᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴡɪʟʟ!

ɪ ᴡᴀɴᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ꜰɪx ᴍʏ ᴄᴏᴍᴘᴜᴛᴇʀ ᴄʜᴀʀɢᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏꜰ ɴᴏᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴍʏ ɢʀᴀɴᴅᴍᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴛᴜʀɴᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʟɪɢʜᴛꜱ ᴏꜰꜰ! (ᴡᴇ ꜱʜᴀʀᴇ ᴀ ʙᴇᴅʀᴏᴏᴍ). ꜱʜᴇ ᴋɴᴇᴡ ɪ ᴡᴀꜱ ʀᴇᴍᴏᴠɪɴɢ ᴍʏ ᴛᴀɴɢʟᴇᴅ ᴄʜᴀʀɢᴇʀ ᴀᴡᴀʏ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴍʏ ᴄʜᴀɪʀ.

ꜱᴏ ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʟɪɢʜᴛꜱ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴏꜰꜰ ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴘᴜʟʟɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏʀᴅ. ᴍʏ ᴄᴏᴍᴘᴜᴛᴇʀ ꜱᴍᴀꜱʜᴇᴅ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ᴀɢᴀɪɴꜱᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴀʀᴘᴇᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀ ʟᴏᴜᴅ “ᴛʜᴜᴅ”.

ɪ’ᴠᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ɪᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʀʏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ “ᴜɴᴅᴇʀꜱᴛᴀɴᴅ” ᴍʏ ɢʀᴀɴᴅᴍᴏᴛʜᴇʀ. ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴄᴏɴꜰʀᴏɴᴛᴇᴅ ᴍʏ ᴘᴀʀᴇɴᴛꜱ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ɪꜱꜱᴜᴇ.

ʙᴇɪɴɢ ʜᴏɴᴇꜱᴛ, ɪ’ᴍ ɴᴏᴛ ᴛʀʏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ʙʀᴀᴛᴛʏ ᴏʀ ᴀ ʙɪᴛᴄʜ. ʙᴜᴛ ɪᴍᴀɢɪɴᴇ ꜱʟᴇᴇᴘɪɴɢ ᴘᴇᴀᴄᴇꜰᴜʟʟʏ ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ 3 ᴀᴍ ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴇᴀʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛ.ᴠ ᴀᴛ ʙʟᴀꜱᴛ 50 ᴠᴏʟᴜᴍᴇ. (ꜰᴏʀ ᴡᴇᴇᴋꜱ! ɴᴏ! ʏᴇᴀʀꜱ!).

ᴡʜᴇɴ ɪ ᴛᴏʟᴅ ᴍʏ ᴘᴀʀᴇɴᴛꜱ ɪ’ᴠᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ɪᴛ. ᴛʜᴇʏ ʙʀᴜꜱʜᴇᴅ ᴍᴇ ᴏꜰꜰ.

“ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ʙᴜʏ ᴀ ɴᴇᴡ ᴄᴏᴍᴘᴜᴛᴇʀ ᴄᴏʀᴅ”, ᴛʜᴇʏ ꜱᴀɪᴅ. ᴀꜱ ɪꜰ ɪᴛ’ꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴇᴀꜱʏ, ɪᴛ’ꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ ᴅᴀᴍɴ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴛʜɪꜱ ʜᴀᴘᴘᴇɴᴇᴅ!

ɪ ꜱᴡᴇᴀʀ, ɪ’ᴍ ɴᴏᴛ ᴀɴ ᴇʟᴅᴇʀʟʏ ʜᴀᴛᴇʀ. ɪ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇʟᴅᴇʀʟʏ, ʙᴜᴛ ɪ ᴄᴀɴɴᴏᴛ ꜱᴛᴀɴᴅ ᴍʏ ɢʀᴀɴᴅᴍᴏᴛʜᴇʀ. ᴀꜱ ᴀ 17 ʏᴇᴀʀ-ᴏʟᴅ ɢɪʀʟ, ɪ ᴅᴏɴ’ᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴘʀɪᴠᴀᴄʏ, ɪ ᴅᴏɴ’ᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴇɴᴏᴜɢʜ ꜱʟᴇᴇᴘ, ɪ ᴅᴏɴ’ᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴇɴᴏᴜɢʜ ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ʟᴀꜱᴛʟʏ! ɪ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ᴄʜᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴀᴄᴛᴜᴀʟʟʏ ʙᴇ ꜰʀᴇᴇ.

 A young girl walks into her mother’s room in the middle of the night terrified of her nightmares of monsters and bad guys taking her away from her home, her family, most importantly her mom. Stumbling in the dark afraid to wake her mom, she looks her mother sleeping as she opens her eyes. The mother looks at her daughter and says “nightmare?” and the daughter climbs into her arms and feels at ease. 

A few years pass by and the girl nightmares have stopped coming around. Older but she doesn’t feel wiser, things became complicated and difficult.

One night she walks into her moms room, she stares at her as she sleeps, watching her chest rise and fall, watching as she smiles in her sleep, watching her mother in total peace. She almost hesitates, but she moves forward to watch over her. 

She looks at her mothers face and feels a pain in her heart and she can’t help but let a tear roll down her face. Thoughts start to circle her mind. 

“Please be okay.” Thoughts of fear, anger, and guilt enter mind. “How could you be so selfish and bring me into this world?” She thinks “why is it me, that has to suffer like this?” She starts to hold her breath in fear of waking her mother, and her heart shatters. 

“I wish I could die knowing that I wouldn’t break your heart.” 

the anxiety sets in and her mind racing with the reason she can’t stand to look her mother in the eye anymore, pleading to the universe to give her an answer. 

“I just want you to be okay. I just want to be free from the nightmare.”

She takes a deep breath, tears rolling her face almost unable to catch her breath ever again.  

The mood is not yet to stabilize

The Thin Man, and his grief over being left behind.

Plath was hesitant to equate poetry with therapy, yet she admitted in her journal, “Fury jams the gullet & spreads poison, but, as soon as I start to write, dissipates, flows out into the figure of the letters.”

— Heather Clark, Red Comet: The Short Life and Blazing Art of Sylvia Plath (Knopf; October 27, 2020) 

I HATE GROUP ASSIGNMENTS SOOO MUCHHFJFJFJ

I don’t like anger,

don’t like being angry,

seeing others angry.

I’ll turn to tears instead,

Snap out of pain perhaps,

Just to try avoiding pure anger.

It’s too well known to me,

The anger of the abuser,

Faced for so many months,

I think even years,

Barely ever appearing as such,

But anger none the less.

The anger of the hurt,

An old acquaintence I made,

That boiled my blood,

And left me scared of my limits

And the emotions that break them,

The anger of the caring.

That ones always the worst,

Because it’s barely even anger,

A few moments to breathe

Then it’s calmed once more.

But in the instant terrifying.

Not because of how it acts,

But because there’s no predicting,

and those moments of anger

Take years to fully forget

Or move past the change of view.

I fear what true rage would do.