My parents think I am lazy, but what they don’t know is that depression drains my energy, it crushes my hopes and dreams, takes away my motivation and makes me want to die.
Depression is such a cruel punishment. There are no fevers, no rashes, no blood test to send people scurrying in concern, just the slow erosion of one’s self, as insidious as cancer. And, like cancer, it is essentially a solitary experience; a room in hell with only your name on the door.
It doesn’t always mean beautiful girls shattering at the wrists, a glorified, heroic battle for your sanity, or mothers that never got the chance to say goodbye.
Sometimes, depression means not getting out of bed for three days because your feet refuse to believe that they will not shatter upon impact with the floor.
Sometimes depression means that summoning the willpower to go downstairs and do the laundry is the most impressive thing that you will accomplish that week.
Sometimes depression means lying on the floor staring at the ceiling for hours, because you cannot convince your body that it’s capable of movement.
Sometimes depression means not being able to write for weeks because the only words you have to offer the world, are trapped and drowning and I swear to God I’m trying.
Sometimes depression means that every single bone in your body aches, but you have to keep going through the motions because you’re not allowed to call into work depressed.
And sometimes, depression means ignoring every phone call for an entire month because yes, they have the right number,
But you’re not the person they’re looking for, not anymore.
My thoughts have destroyed me more than blades ever could."
He is taking a course on Marxist ideology.
He says, “The only real solution is to smash the system and start again.”
His thumb is caressing the most bourgeois copy of the communist manifesto that I have ever seen,
He bought it at Barnes and Noble for twenty-nine U.S. American dollars and ninety-nine cents,
Its hard cover shows a dark man with a scarved face
Waving a gigantic red flag against a fictional smoky background.
The matte finish is fucking gorgeous.
He wants to be congratulated for paying Harvard sixty thousand dollars
To teach him that the system is unfair.
He pulls his iPhone from his imported Marino wool jacket, and leaves.
What people can’t possibly tell from the footage on TV
Is that the water cannon feels like getting whipped with a burning switch.
Where I come from, they fill it with sewer water and hope that they get you in the face with your mouth open
So that the hepatitis will keep you in bed for the next protest.
What you can’t tell from Harvard square,
Is that when the tear gas bursts from nowhere to everywhere all at once,
It scrapes your insides like barbed wire, sawing at your lungs.
Tear gas is such a benign term for it,
If you have never breathed it in you would think it was a nostalgic experience.
What you can’t learn at Barnes and Noble,
Is that when they rush you, survival is to run,
I am never as fast as when the police are chasing me.
I know what happens to women in the holding cells down there and yet…
We still do it.
I inherited my communist manifesto,
It has no cover—
Because my mother ripped it off when she hid it in the dust jacket of “Don Quixote”
The day before the soldiers destroyed her apartment,
Looking for subversive propaganda.
She burned the cover, could not bring herself to burn the pages,
Hoped to God the soldiers couldn’t read,
They never found it.
So she was not killed for it, but her body bore the scars of the torture chamber,
For wanting her children to have a better life than she did,
Don’t talk to me about revolution.
I know what the price of smashing the system really is, my people already tried that.
The price of uprise is paid in blood,
And not Harvard blood.
The blood that ran through the streets of Santiago,
The blood thrown alive from Argentine helicopters into the Atlantic.
It is easy to say “revolution” from the comfort of a New England library.
It is easy to offer flesh to the cause,
When it is not yours to give.
Catalina Ferro, “Manifesto” (via dialecticsof)
I feel like people do need to remember that there is a very real, very painful, very human element to the word “revolution”.
Source on that quote is Melissa McEwan, since no one bothered to credit her for it.
Just want to add that I mistrust most people for this exact reason. Some of the worst calculated, ongoing misogynist bullying in my life happened in ~women only~ spaces. Men just are the only group who truly benefit from all this crap so it’s like five times as baffling but there ya go. When “women only” is treated like a sanctuary from misogyny I laugh and go hang out alone by myself. With men I just know it’s coming no matter what.(via toomanyfeelings)
White privilege is your history being taught as a core class and mine being taught as an elective.
please let them know.
white privilege is your history being taught as a core class, and mine being banned because it would promote "the overthrow of the U.S. government, foster racial resentment, and advocate ethnic solidarity."
"The brain can get sick too."
Re-make of this post.
End mental health stigma.