Depression is stupid and not a thing that makes me a better writer. One time I went a whole year without writing and I stayed in bed and drank. Fuck your Bukowskisms. I want sunlight and love and running down some street I’ve never been on where it’s warm and cool at the same time and I’m smiling. I want nothing to ever be bad again- and I don’t mean that I want a life free of conflict, I mean that I want a life free of meaningless conflict. Not being able to will oneself to take a shower or leave the house is meaningless. There is nothing to be gained, no lesson to be learned from that kind of life. My heart is stale, my prose is stale. Give me fire if you want to hurt me. Give me something I can taste. There’s nothing romantic or mysterious about where I am. There’s nothing here worth holding onto.
By Joshua Espinoza (via doubtsbestally)
The false self develops to protect the dehumanized person whose heart and soul have been annihilated through trauma. To do this the false self grows up too fast and becomes precociously adapted to the outer world (Winnicott, 1960) in order to resist any unguarded spontaneous expressions of authentic self in the world. The chameleon-like nature of the false self enables the survivor to be whatever the abuser wants it to be. Most commonly this is manifest in fierce independence, self-sufficiency, invulnerability, and pseudomaturity. This false self often presents as a solid exterior which appears calm, contained, secure, and functional but is actually a veneer for the fragile, labile, insecure, helpless and developmentally immature true self.
Christiane Sanderson, Introduction to Counselling Survivors of Interpersonal Trauma (via disabledbyculture)