If I am lost for a day, try to find me
But if I don’t come back then I won’t look behind me
All of things that I thought were so easy, just got harder and harder each day


الفنان ” Bryan Lewis Saunders “

ينقل تجربته  برسمه لمجموعة من الرسوم التي تمثّله بعد تعاطيه انواع مختلفة من المخدرات .

Bryan Lewis Saunders is an artist from Johnson City, Tennessee who’s  doing a series of self portraits under the influence of various drugs.

(via littlemissmollycat)



my mom taught me the therapeutic power of cleaning. open all the windows. throw out the old. wipe down the entire house. burn some incense. roast some coffee. then rest. that way the tears from last night don’t feel as heavy. 




(via keepfighting11)



Namaste means “my soul recognizes yours” not “I tripped really hard at a festival once and now I’m filled with the wisdom of the Earth”


(via coffeestainedanchors)




The Turkish company Pugedon has created a vending machine that’s dispensing help for both the environment and our furry friends.

Watch the machine in action here.

this makes me so happy

(via littlemissmollycat)


this is lovely


this is lovely

(via littlemissmollycat)

Do all the good you can, to as many people as you can, as often as you can.

(via schudeu)

One year my colleagues David and Carole were preparing a skit on abuse for a conference, and they decided to perform a rehearsal for their abuser group. Afterward, the group members rapid-fired their suggestions for improving the skit, directing them mostly at David: “No, no, you don’t make excuses for why you’re home late, that puts you on the defensive, you’ve got to turn it around on her, tell her you know she’s cheating on you….. You’re staying too far away from her, David. Take a couple of steps toward her, so she’ll know that you mean business…. You’re letting her say too much. You’ve got to cut her off and stick to your points.” The counselors were struck by how aware the clients were of the kinds of tactics they use, and why they use them: In the excitement of giving feedback on the skit, the men let down their facade as “out-of-control abuser who doesn’t realize what he’s doing.

“Why Does He Do That” by Lundy Bancroft (via bajo-el-mar)

I really need to read this, Jesus.

(via selfcareafterrape)

(via girlargueswithtree)

Me: There are so many books I own that I want to read
Me: There are so many books that I don't own that I want to read
Me: -cries a little-

1. Your skin may never be perfect, and that’s okay.

2. Life is too short not to have the underwear, the coffee, and the haircut you want.

3. Everyone (including your family, your coworkers, and your best friend) will talk about you behind your back, and you’ll talk about them too. It doesn’t mean you don’t love each other.

4. It’s okay to spend money on things that make you happy.

5. Sometimes without fault or reason, relationships deteriorate. It will happen when you’re six, it will happen when you’re sixty. That’s life.

Five things I am trying very hard to accept  (via peachringslushie)

(via awriterwithoutwords)


The brain on PTSD.


The brain on PTSD.

(via beautyinthebellejar)

All too often, I pretend it no longer bothers me
because I know how much it bothers others that it bothers me
and it bothers me that I bother them so I extradite his bones, I conceal this makeshift fort with camouflage with bitten lips sealed like styrofoam packaging bound at the seams like courier parcels
if only I could send myself away
I banish myself within myself,
I am one more withered raisin of a waitress hiding scars beneath her sleeves breaking glass for sport for safekeeping as if shrapnel was a twelfth rib that belonged wedged beneath the freckled firmament of this olive flesh
I pretend it no longer ails me; it is a bit of history discarded when every other it girl and I convene beside garbage cans in strip malls smoking the dry tinders of ashy cigarettes beside the grizzled rainbow of their dreadlocks so twisted
how I came to be a suffocator of thoughts as if my own cerebral cortex were an inflatable plastic bag bound tightly around the mouth of its own infancy I grant myself no clemency,
no reprieve,
I do not want to let them see me struggle,
I am a drowner, not the drowned,
I am the iceberg, not the Titanic
and God only knows how many prayers I have swallowed with cloying cough medicine defamed in dramatic dramamine highs of nights when my systoles rose like perfect storms over the diastoles of dissociation,
I banish myself within myself,
I have terminated the complaint department within the autonomic government of my skeleton, dethroned myself from the marrow I do not want to hear of it any longer,
I am as sick of him as they are but I cannot let them know that I still mouth the syllables of his name at night like a cut throat sparrow begging for air drinking in coralline gasps like an iridescent goldfish skimming the surface no fins can be grown to quell the ritualist recitation of this macabre Shakespearean play
I have memorized his sadistic soliloquies perfectly,
I bleed in asides,
yet I pretend it no longer bothers me because I know how much it bothers others that it bothers me and it bothers me that I bother them so I extradite his bones
to steel wool confessionals I drag myself from my own womb prematurely like an automatic amateur abortion,
I am one more waitress hiding scars
beneath her sleeves.

How does one run away from someone they’ve internalized? How can one exorcise that which refuses to leave?