i dont care if u never listen to me ever again just let me be ur internet dad for just one second: dont start cutting yourselves please ever

ok im gonna reblog this again bc i want more ppl to see it?? ive compiled a (by no means complete) list of the things u can expect if u start:

- u cant stop. its a legitimate addiction. there is no ‘seeing what its like’. its soso hard to stop it and believe me, because that was me. i thought i would sate my curiosity but all i did was make my life miserable - everything can become a trigger. someone carved things in a table?? trigger. u get a scratch by accident?? trigger. see something sharp?? yup.  - the scars dont go away and if people see them (and no matter how hard you try, people will see them) they get this awful fucking look on their face like a mixture of disgust and horror and pity  - u have to sit through people making shitty fucking jokes and calling people like you (real, struggling people like you) edgy emos looking for attention and it makes you feel sick but you have to sit there silently - in fact, any conversation about self harm becomes thoroughly uncomfortable because they’ll talk about it like no one in the room has ever gone through it (or, if they know, they’ll glance at you out the corner of their eye when they think you cant see) - any emotion can give you the urges- not just negative. ur body associates the happy feeling with the pain so ur brain is like ‘????? u cant have one without the other??’  - it can have been years. years. you can have stopped and got better and you’ll still feel the urge to hurt yourself and it makes you feel like you haven’t improved at all and you’re still fourteen and hating yourself - (maybe this is just me) but some part of you misses it?? you stopped and you know its horrific but its so difficult to get rid of your blades or whatever you use because you feel so weirdly attached to these things that are so awful and you dont even know why 

god damn i just want yall to understand that you dont have to hurt yourself ever, okay?? just. don’t. trust me.

Season 3 Finale Coda

I don’t know about you all, but I was FASCINATED when Connor said the line “I’m having coming out flashbacks.” I couldn’t stop thinking about it, so I wrote this. TRIGGER WARNINGS: Self harm/suicide attempt, homophobia/slurs Please enjoy! I’m real proud of this one!

It’s in the quietest moments when his thoughts make the most noise.

When it’s quiet and he’s alone, when there aren’t other people around to talk or distract him, his thoughts and memories creep up on him, wrap around his entire being and choke him.

All the memories, all the thoughts and feelings, past and present, decided to hit him, like a violent gust of wind, all at once.

Connor has a knuckle white grip on the sink, staring at his wrists. He can still make out the purple bruises and rash from the cuffs digging into his skin. It all floods back to him, everything that happened. Finding Wes, smelling the gas, bolting out of the house. The way his ears rang when he heard the explosion. The helplessness as he watched the house burn to a crisp, Wes still inside, dying before his eyes in a heap of fire and smoke.  

He didn’t see the pictures of Wes until they were at Bonnie’s; the sight of Wes, full of bright smiles and shy tones, lifeless on a metal slab, flesh seared to the core, muscles torn apart, made him want to vomit in the chair right there. The sound of the explosion played over and over in his head, coupled with Laurel’s screaming, hollering that he should kill himself, end it so they wouldn’t have to deal with him anymore.

In that moment, a small part of him knew she had a point.

Connor’s breathing went ragged and strained, heart quickening as the memories burned into him.

He gazed at his wrists again, remembering every pang of his stomach another hour he went without food in the holding room, and the way his tongue dried with each minute without water. How he felt like a chained animal, remembering the last time he was restrained like that.

Connor doubled over, dry heaving into the sink, nothing coming out but his stomach felt like it was on fire. His vision grew blurry as he stumbled out of the bathroom, knocking into walls and doors towards the living room before collapsing in a heap on the floor, wheezing, sobbing. It seemed as if everything went dark, a cruel, mocking contrast to the sunny day outside.

He raised a shaking wrist to his hand, remembering the places that used to house different scars. He sobbed and wheezed some more, his heart feeling like it was going to hammer out of his chest as he curled in on himself.

Through the high-pitched ringing in his ears, he heard the door open and bags drop to the floor.

“Connor!” Oliver cried, diving to the floor beside him.

“Connor, can you hear me?” he asked placing a hand on his shoulder.

“H…h…help…help me…” he sobbed, reaching out.

Oliver grabbed his hand, squeezing it while pulling Connor in closer with his other arm.

“What can I do?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

“H—hold…hold…” Connor choked.

“Okay, okay, I’ve got you. I’ve got you,” Oliver murmured, holding him close, rubbing circles into Connor’s back.

With each word Oliver said, and with each turn his hand did on his back, Connor felt the suffocation of his memories fade away, little by little. His hands stopped shaking, and his heart slowed down, no longer feeling like it was trying to escape out of his chest. The pressure of Oliver beside him, along with the warmth of his body and the soft words of assurance Oliver whispered in his ears helped the attack ebb away. His breathing opened and his vision was clearer. After a while, he spoke.

“Thank you,” Connor croaked, voice rough.

“Of course,” murmured Oliver, pulling away slightly to wipe the remaining tears from Connor’s face.

“Can you help me up?” Connor asked.

Nodding, Oliver shifted his weight so he was on his knees, sliding an arm into the pit of Connor’s to hoist him up off the floor. His legs feeling like jelly, Connor landed on wobbly, weak feet, but he was up nonetheless.

“Couch?” Oliver asked.

It was Connor’s turn to nod as Oliver helped him plop on the couch, sighing when he finally traded cold hardwood for soft plush.

“Do you need anything else?” Oliver asked gently, still standing.

Connor shook his head, “No, just stay,” he mumbled. Oliver took the seat next to him, wrapping an arm around his shoulder on instinct, Connor coming to rest his head on Oliver’s shoulder.

“I…I didn’t get the chance to actually think about…everything that happened. It…I guess the adrenaline kept me from it getting in my head. They all hit me like a ton of bricks,” he said, voice still rough.

“I’m sorry…”

“Some brain, huh? I can’t even wash my hands without freaking out about it,” Connor huffed a bitter, humorless laugh.

Keep reading

* … I had….. some habits.

little victories.

The Morning After I Killed Myself

The morning after I killed myself, I woke up.

I made myself breakfast in bed. I added salt and pepper to my eggs and used my toast for a cheese and bacon sandwich. I squeezed a grapefruit into a juice glass. I scraped the ashes from the frying pan and rinsed the butter off the counter. I washed the dishes and folded the towels.

The morning after I killed myself, I fell in love. Not with the boy down the street or the middle school principal. Not with the everyday jogger or the grocer who always left the avocados out of the bag. I fell in love with my mother and the way she sat on the floor of my room holding each rock from my collection in her palms until they grew dark with sweat. I fell in love with my father down at the river as he placed my note into a bottle and sent it into the current. With my brother who once believed in unicorns but who now sat in his desk at school trying desperately to believe I still existed.

The morning after I killed myself, I walked the dog. I watched the way her tail twitched when a bird flew by or how her pace quickened at the sight of a cat. I saw the empty space in her eyes when she reached a stick and turned around to greet me so we could play catch but saw nothing but sky in my place. I stood by as strangers stroked her muzzle and she wilted beneath their touch like she did once for mine.

The morning after I killed myself, I went back to the neighbors’ yard where I left my footprints in concrete as a two year old and examined how they were already fading. I picked a few daylilies and pulled a few weeds and watched the elderly woman through her window as she read the paper with the news of my death. I saw her husband spit tobacco into the kitchen sink and bring her her daily medication.

The morning after I killed myself, I watched the sun come up. Each orange tree opened like a hand and the kid down the street pointed out a single red cloud to his mother.

The morning after I killed myself, I went back to that body in the morgue and tried to talk some sense into her. I told her about the avocados and the stepping stones, the river and her parents. I told her about the sunsets and the dog and the beach.

The morning after I killed myself, I tried to unkill myself, but couldn’t finish what I started.