“If someone were to die at the age of 63 after a lifelong battle with MS or Sickle Cell, we’d all say they were a “fighter” or an “inspiration.” But when someone dies after a lifelong battle with severe mental illness and drug addiction, we say it was a tragedy and tell everyone “don’t be like him, please seek help.” That’s bullshit. Robin Williams sought help his entire life. He saw a psychiatrist. He quit drinking. He went to rehab. He did this for decades. That’s HOW he made it to 63. For some people, 63 is a fucking miracle. I know several people who didn’t make it past 23 and I’d do anything to have 40 more years with them.”—
i feel like being a woman is always an adventure in being told you’re “too much” of something you’re always too loud, too heavy, too opinionated, too confident, too vain, too insecure and you take up too much fucking space
I’m thinking about how there is never the question about whether you’ll drop off the face of the earth, but when. It’s just a matter of time before you completely disappear. It’s your biggest form of power, your ability to disappear. Hide. Jump ship.
I think about when we’re done with this place who knows where you’ll be, who knows what you’ll be doing. I like to think I might be important. That we might end up in the same city. I’ll run into you and you’ll act like its no big deal, like you did with our friend this morning. Everyone is always surprised by you and you’re always calculated and composed.
There are some people that just disappear and I never thought you’d be one. But here we are, at cliff’s edge. I guess we’ve been here a while.
It’s like I’ve stumbled upon your rope, looked over the edge to see you lowering yourself away.