Safe is a place far away

I tried to connect with you

In the most authentic way

But you blew all that up

Cause you’re a controlling freak

Never truly showed love

Never spoke up for me when I needed you the most

When I was going through shit

Sided with my bullies

Now I can’t even get them homies

I am on my own sipping my whisky

Just like when you would yell and hold me

Breath smelled icky and stinky

Burned cigarettes and alcohol

You left me to the side

But man don’t you know I was dying inside

You’re nothing but a coward

All you use is money and power

Now I am gonna scream it out louder

I am orphan until the day I die

You are dead to me, is what I am trying to imply

I thought this lighting study would work well with how I feel having cptsd.

Over the years I've felt distorted, lack of pleasure, a sense of dread.

I look in the mirror and have a difficult time fully taking myself in.

I'm not sure how to portray myself.

I endured extreme abuse.

no AI

Translation of some remembered, milder quotes for the curious (Dutch to English):

- “Antisocial” (“antisociaal”)

- “Child of the Devil” (“kind van de Duivel”)

- “Parasite” (“parasiet”)

- “Ungrateful” (“ondankbaar”)

- “Kutkind” (tough to translate, imagine the second-worst way to call a kid a “worthless fucking piece of shit”. Though “kanker-“ was also often used, the main worst version.)

- “Not my daughter” (“niet m’n dochter”)

- “Go ahead then, call CPS/Safe Home” (“ga toch lekker VT bellen dan”, often said in a demeaning jokey way.)

- “Kankergezin” (also tough to translate. Most hurtful way to chew out someone in Dutch, as “kanker-“ means “cancer”. Perhaps closest is “disgusting, blood-sucking household/family”)

- “How can anyone still go outside when others’ll see this/looking like this?” (“hoe kan iemand ooit nog naar buiten gaan als ze dit zien?” Comments regarding clothes and appearance; got called whore a lot when I adopted crop tops.)

- “Lazy bitch” (“lui mormel”)

- “sociopath” (“sociopath”)

- “Kankerfamilie” (see “kankergezin”)

- “Liar” (“leugenaar”, a favourite with variants)

Turned my dear mamma into a minor antagonist for some original storywriting and fanfic’ing.

May however need to revisit the design; it’s not as anatomically “accurate” as I’d like it to be.

I Wish To Simply Be Here

Let me meet the world
before I name its dangers,
feel the wonder
before I ask what it means.

Let me see
without borrowed eyes,
hear without old echoes,
breathe without rehearsing
what might go wrong.

I have spent so long
watching life from behind an imagined veil.

Now, for a moment,
I wish to simply be here—

not thinking about how to live,
but feeling alive.

idk why my post was removed. let's try again..

here's my new song called "jellythoughts" https://soundcloud.com/bby_miki/jelemisly

caption on a drawing: "save clean water!"

i took a photo of this drawing (which is a core layer of cover) at children drawings exhibition. went there with my close friend. theme was ecology and "save the planet" type beat. i found this fish so sad in emo-esque way, couldn't walk past.

i miss clarity....

Before We Are Born

Nothing to prove,
nothing to gain,
nothing to fear,
nothing to mourn.

No past to repair,
no future to strive for,
no worth to establish,
no debts to collect.

returning to mystery.

we are briefly here packed with thoughts and emotions.

Hi everyone, I’m trying to design visuals (for a personal project) in a way that best serves the C-PTSD community. I love how cathartic all the art in this community is, and how it goes beyond just ‘not being triggering’. Are there any orgs or people I should talk to?

Would sincerely appreciate leads of any kind:)

The Inner World Has No Clock

A childhood wound
can happen again today.

An old sorrow
can fill the present.

A moment of love
can return us to warmth.

Music, a face,
the scent of rain—

the past, the present,
all rise together, like in dreams.

The inner world
doesn't count the hours.

It remembers
what moved us.

I haven't written in a while but it used to be my coping method. I recently went through a bad relationship and finally felt the urge to write again, beware I haven't written in a year and it's not my best work, but I hope it resonates with some people because you guys deserve to be seen.

CW!! themes of trauma & identity

I am but a 16 year old girl, yet I have already lived with pain for much of my life. Fleeting moments of laughter shared with people whom I could not imagine a tomorrow without. Whispered promises of a future, fear hidden behind smiles. Nights where I could still feel the residual grime of touches upon my body.

I am but a 16 year old girl, though I feel much older sometimes. My aged joints creak and ache, groaning like a weathered machine. The undeniable understanding that something was now fundamentally wrong with me clung on like ash. A secret between me and the grave. It felt forbidden, like something I couldn’t restore. 

Smoky steam of exhaust escapes my pores, leaving behind a bitter aftertaste. The whirring of thoughts never cease. Oil drips down my chest, leaving trails of iridescent slick in its wake. I look up at my smoke-filled ceiling and wonder if I am in Hell.

I am 16. But I was once 15, following past the point of no return with childish certainty. 

I was once 14, with bright eyes and the confidence of a fox. 

I was once 13, and 12, and 11, and I want to believe I will make it long enough to say I was once 16. 

Machines are thought to be artificial but I discern there is something behind the biomimetic eyes. They are man-made the same way we come from nature—I know so from the stinging cuts marked on my arms, the feeling of steel biting into aluminum ingrained into my database. I find ways to remember my human putative because what represents a human if not grim perseverance? 

The treacherous part of me prays to cast away Gods on altars made up of my bones, for proper deities have no place for beings like me. I offer my cables, my wires, my chips and sensors, and plead to be born anew in a body of pure, untouched flesh. Their silence is an answer in itself. I resign myself to praying for eternity.

Still, I offer up my screws and bolts and plead to shed my aluminum skin for humans mistake me as a toy. I ask for a larynx instead of a voice box for maybe once I sound mortal, they will realize I am one of them and I will stop existing in the space in between.

I’ve spent a lot of my life trying to make sense of where I came from, the things I lived through, the people I lost, and the patterns I spent years trying not to repeat.
This isn’t a story about having everything figured out. It isn’t a story about forgiving everyone, pretending everything happened for a reason, or wrapping every painful memory in a pretty little bow.
It’s about growing up, family, grief, motherhood, complicated relationships, survival, and figuring out who the hell you are when you finally start looking at your life honestly.
Some parts are heavy. Some are probably going to be uncomfortable. And some parts are darkly funny, because sometimes that’s all you’ve got.
I’m sharing this one chapter at a time. These are my memories, my perspective, and my attempt to put the pieces together.
This is where the story begins.

My dissociative issues aren't doing their job properly. Is there even a name or explanation for this because the best way i can describe it is rotting or just being a living doll because I can't decide what to do during these times.

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1BTbZQW2dgw0tAW0x2fIaYwvnZ-FRP0nn/view?usp=drivesdk

8x10 glass piece by David Howard @davidhowardglass Instagram

She is broken, but beautiful. Fractured, yet fused back together again. There is pain behind those eyes, a story written in every crack and every scar.

Maybe we are all a little broken.

We’ve all been through hell and back in one way or another. We carry our scars like souvenirs of the things we’ve survived, both physical and emotional. Some scars are visible. Others are hidden beneath the surface.

People often say, “What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.” Maybe sometimes it does. Maybe sometimes it just teaches us how to keep going.

We brush ourselves off. We take another breath. We move forward and tell ourselves, tomorrow is another day.

The scars are still there. We just learn how to live with them. Sometimes we hide them. Sometimes we mask them. And sometimes, if we’re brave enough, we let them become part of our story.

Failure isn’t necessarily falling down. Failure is refusing to get back up.

We aren’t perfect. We all have cracks, flaws, mistakes, and pieces of ourselves we wish we could change. But every mistake can teach us something. Every fracture can become part of the story.

We learn. We grow. We heal. We keep moving forward.
Maybe being broken doesn’t mean we are ruined.
Maybe broken is simply another form of beautiful.