#teenage angst diary

[teanicolae]

written at 18 years old. when i read the last line, the chorus of the song 'the archer' rings in my head, most specifically the ache in "can you see right through me? they see right through me. i see right through me." what i would tell my 18-year-old self now is, you can't see through you yet. what you think you see is an antagonised & subdued version of yourself. few people can see through others, and those who can, have met themselves so deeply that they will meet you in corners you don't know you have yet. <3

you can read the poems i wrote in my teenage years in my collection songs of youth.

{amazon u.k.: https://amzn.eu/d/0duef5g}

[a-very-sparkly-nerd]

Rayllum Month 2024! (6/13)

i'm sorry that i couldn't always be your teenage dream

July 11th - Dream/Nightmare

~

Callum was dreaming again, and it wasn’t even a good one. It wasn’t even original. It was the same old shit he thought he’d worked through, but apparently “shoving into an itty-bitty box in the corner of his mind” didn’t count as “working through.”

Not being fast enough to catch Rayla as she fell, mangled body caught in a thorny bramble or never to surface again from the watery depths. Holding her as the life left her body because of something Aaravos had used him to do. Ezran’s blood blending into his shirt and Callum not having a clue he was dead until he found what should have been his pulse point and smelled the metallic scent of blood, Soren and Corvus’s necks slit as they died defending him. All because of him, because of the things he’d done for Rayla, because he just couldn’t live without her, that had led to a continent-wide bloodbath.

At least he’d finally stopped dreaming about what had happened back on the Sea Legs. But emotional pain was arguably a million times worse than physical. But, hey; options to pick from, Soren would’ve said in an attempt to cheer him up but ending up doing nothing of the sort. How had his life come to this, pain in every aspect of the word?

Callum wasn’t sure at what point he woke up, when the horrors his brain so loved to produce stopped being from his subconscious and started to come from how he tortured himself. 

Gradually, the world fading into focus but doing nothing to calm his racing heart, things became visible: His very first drawing of Rayla pinned up on his bulletin board across the room, a maroon tapestry patterned with swirling gold, teal covers over his too-hot body. Feeling and hearing came back next, and he dimly registered a hand stroking his hair, another loosely settled on his middle. Familiar callouses, familiar temperature, familiar body shape– Rayla without a doubt.

Callum clung onto that, onto that certainty that she was here, holding him and murmuring things into his hair that he couldn’t make out but at least sounded vaguely soothing.

“Ray-” His tongue felt heavy, like he didn’t deserve to say her name. Callum didn’t let himself finish her name or even start to say it again, simply desperately grasped the hand around his waist.

“I’m here. You’re okay,” the elf soothed, squeezing his hand tight. “Everything’s okay. You’re safe, I’m safe, Ez is safe. You have nothing to immediately worry about, I promise.”

Callum nodded, trying to let– make himself believe it with those two blasted Dark Mages out there, that damn elf in the mirror. The prison so close it would be nothing for Aaravos to just- take hold of him again and set himself free. Gods, he might be sick.

He gripped her tightly, trying to calm his racing heart by focusing on the feeling of Rayla’s hands on him, her sweet voice humming some old calming tune.

“Not that I’m complaining,” he said eventually, mouth dry, “but why are you in my bed?”

He could hear the almost unnoticeable catch in her voice, loud as thunder to his trained ears, practically see her eyes drop down as she replied so softly, “I heard you crying out and stuff. I didn’t want to wake you up, just… thought you could maybe use a hug.”

He pulled her hand around his waist, nestling further back into her, and felt her smile into his hair. "You thought right."

Read more on AO3!

[ang1cout0ure]

Hung out with some losers 2day

(All picx taken by me)

🍂

[idontknowhsh]

my roma pencil 😭

[starsunny]

The Now

I used to do ballet when I was like six. Until my instructor pulled my hair after a mistake and my mom threatened to beat her ass at my recital. I miss simpler times. But my family has never been the simple type, and by no means have we ever been anything more than working class. Still, it was more stable than this. Now, I work a minimum-wage customer-facing job to help my mom make ends meet. Now, we're being priced out of the city to which my great-abuela immigrated to escape Fidel Castro. Now, I am writing this in a makeshift office I've created in a hotel bathroom so I can scream all of these thoughts into the void. Despite it all, I still believe in kindness. The other day, after my shift, I was eating lunch at the tables outside my job, and a homeless man approached me. I know some people start thinking of some classist shit when they hear that. But yes, he was obviously homeless and not a scammer. He only asked me for food. And it's interesting to me because he and I are both homeless, but only one of us knew that. He probably saw me and thought I was someone on the wealthier side because I had just walked out of a high-end grocery chain with a meal and a reusable bag with a few things. What he didn't know is that I was an employee who could only get 5 things which still totaled to $30 with my discount and the cookies I gave him were something I got with a coupon. Or he didn't care about any of that and just needed something to eat. I'm not trying to complain about my life (well, maybe a little). These last eleven months have been both difficult and enlightening. I learned that I have high self-esteem without people around me constantly trying to tear me down. I look back at everything we've been through and I'm impressed with how strong and brave I've been. Most of all, I love my little family. Though the world doesn't want us and we only have each other, I still hold out hope that things will get better. But we still have a long way to go.

[misoginitas]

capítulo 1

pra começar, eu to tentando desenvolver o hábito de escrever mais sobre as coisas que eu sinto, porque me expressar é muito trágico pra mim. pra alguém que sempre se conteve em tudo, é meio foda falar sobre esse tipo de coisa profunda com todos me encarando assim ,,, mas meu psicólogo de verdade me pediu pra que eu desenvolvesse mais hobbies e coisas do tipo, pra ocupar a cabeça. aí eu pensei que criar uma espécie de diário virtual fosse me ajudar com isso. eu meio que tenho um diário físico, mas eu penso mais rápido que escrevo e digitar é mais rápido, e tipooo o tumblr tá na palma da minha mão …. enfim. motivos o suficiente. terapia de exposição.

aliás, shout out to minha amiga @ballerinarina; pensei no tumblr justamente por causa dela.

mas é, dependência emocional. certa vez, eu disse que eu queria mesmo saber como era gostar de alguém sem ficar completamente obcecado ou cego. de todas as vezes, acho que nunca me aconteceu. algumas eu estava consciente, outras nem tanto. mas nunca gostei de alguém simplesmente gostando da pessoa. isso sequer é possível?

já tentei também entender como eu poderia fazer isso de se curar, e tudo mais. talvez seja só com o tempo, mesmo que ele sozinho não vá resolver. já pesquisei demais sobre, e tudo que eu li era sobre perdão ou aceitação.

mas é muito difícil me aceitar, honestamente. não que seja impossível; é só muito difícil. é difícil perceber que eu queria ser qualquer um que estivesse vivo, menos eu. enquanto eu crescia com essa perspectiva, nunca tinha parado pra pensar sobre igual to fazendo agora.

não houve momento que eu não acreditasse que eu era menos tudo do que as outras pessoas, e a partir do momento que alguém me enxergasse, esse alguém certamente estava louco. não louco, mas o que faz essa pessoa olhar tão pra baixo assim?

e eu honestamente não entendo em 100% de onde vem todo esse sentimento de irrelevância e desvalor; as palavras positivas dos outros deveriam bastar, mas nunca foram o suficiente. talvez eu seja hipersensível pra todas as coisas que meus pais falam do tipo "você é tonto" ou "você não pensa". afinal, eles sempre disseram que me amavam. eles e as outras pessoas na escola, na faculdade, na vida. todo mundo sempre diz que eu sou tão legal e tão bonzinho, e tão inteligente. por que eu continuo sentindo que nada disso é suficiente, e que qualquer um que respirar ao meu lado é mais?

mais difícil do que aceitar, somente o ato de perdoar. potencializando: eu tenho que perdoar não só a mim, mas a todos ao meu redor. difícil, muito difícil.

é que tudo me machuca, desde que eu sou pequeno. e tudo que me falam ou fazem fica guardado no fundo da minha cabeça, esperando o momento oportuno pra ser relembrado e sofrido; é como chicotear as próprias costas com um gancho, repetidas vezes. e como disse meu amigo vitor:

"perdoar é deixar as coisas todas para trás".

todas as vezes que eu não me senti amado, todas as vezes que eu não me amei. todas as vezes que eu me senti abandonado, ridicularizado, humilhado ou até mesmo só esquecido. todas as vezes que eu me coloquei nessa posição e todas as vezes que eu fiz menos questão de mim. lembrar de tudo isso dói, e acreditar que eu tenho que deixar tudo dessa forma dói mais ainda.

deixar tudo ir, no fim das contas, é entender que eu não posso me vingar ou pelo menos ter de volta esses pedaços do meu coração. já foram todos pros outros, e sempre vão ser desses outros; talvez eu tenha entregue todos esses pedaços pra essas pessoas. e aí eu tenho que me sentar no chão frio da consciência, sozinho, pensando que não sobrou nada pra mim.

honestamente, tudo isso vira extrema e pura culpa, e eu sinto que é um dos pilares da minha falta de amor.

mas como sempre ouvi, talvez realmente não tem como eu amar o outro se eu não me amar. enquanto eu não tenho respeito por mim, eu jamais poderei respeitar o outro; porque eu só consigo entregar aquilo que eu conheço. e o que eu conheço agora, infelizmente, é o ódio.

esconder o ódio, no entanto, não é uma tarefa tranquila. tudo que está acontecendo me faz pensar sobre todas as vezes que me alertaram sobre não esconder as coisas. mas não esconder é me encarar no espelho, e sofrer por não me enxergar tão bem quanto eu consigo enxergar o outro. o outro brilha tanto, que é mais fácil se apagar pra não atrapalhar o coitado.

e eu continuo não atrapalhando o outro, como de costume. aí eu me atrapalho sozinho. como de costume. poxa theo, como você é atrapalhado. tentando me virar sem pedir ajuda, eu me machuco, como de costume. caralho, Theodoro, olha o que você fez! agora o theo está sangrando, e não sabe como resolver as coisas. senta para chorar, como de costume.

talvez o problema é sempre fazer o que eu estou acostumado? eu tenho que parar de me acomodar com tudo ao meu redor. momento legal pra citar a maxine minx:

eu não vou. aceitar. uma vida. que eu não. mereço.

como todas as coisas que eu faço e sou, esse conjunto de palavras é insuficiente pra expressar tudo que está guardado no coração. mas me ajudou a pensar melhor nessas coisas todas. me esforcei pra tentar arrumar uma conclusão, mas acho que não tem por enquanto. eu ainda to aceitando tudo, digerindo tudo. e tá bem difícil mas eeiiii, eu vou sobreviver. eu espero.

eu também espero conseguir amar, algum dia. segundo Ele (meu psicólogo),

eu não amo ninguém.

mas é um passo de cada vez.

[stabbyindie]

Entry #1 Burning Bridges October 3rd 2024

You entered my life nearly seven years ago, and you’ve never left since. Your heart cradled mine, a twisted beat we drummed together. I didn’t realize how into you I was. I did years too late, when we both promised fleeting love to each other, only to turn them into torturous and prolonged goodbyes. When we finally bid farewell, you came back like a carefully lit inferno a year and four months later, burning down any semblance of normalcy I built for myself, paper walls of denial, a man, a boyfriend, shallow relationships. You left after scorching my tongue and heart again, your hands leaving trails of want on my skin, my flesh, my bones. You ingrained hope into my consciousness again, ignited that flicker of love I still held for you, sheltered and burrowed under layers of viscera, raging so bright my chest hurt with heartburn for days on end.

Did you ever realize the impact you had and still have on me? A word from you and I come crawling like a dog, a touch from you and I burrow into it like an unloved puppy, the sight of you leaving me craving for your attention like a neglected child. You go days, weeks, even months acting like i don't exist and i can’t go a single song without imagining a life with you, Sunday mornings filled with soft touches, hard kisses and sultry words, weekends filled with nicotine rushes with every shared breath, lifetimes filled with just us, us, us, us. It’s a chore, a schedule, a self imposed ritual, to check for any word from you, only to find none time and time again, to realize unprompted words from you are too much to ask when I can’t even afford to get replies from unfinished conversations, closure.

You promise so much, you lower my shackles only to pull them up so fast I’m left disjointed and pained. You tell me you’ll answer my numerous calls, whenever and however, only to never answer a single one and leave shallow explanations with no follow ups. Reminds me why we never worked out, why we can’t work out, but yet i wait for you to come back and ruin me again, ruin my next attempt at a put together life and relationship, only to leave me aching with that god awful want again and again and again until i can’t feel anymore, until the only attachment i have left is the one that connects my soul to my body. You’re ashamed of me, of my neediness, of my mistakes, you hide me from your friends, and fair enough. But you hide me from yourself too, you don't like that you can’t get enough of me either, so you run away and you drag me with you, covering me with road burns and friction rashes. You run me ragged to get better for yourself, and you have no idea you do that.

But what exactly do I do about that? I crave too much of you to act as if you never exist, especially not after you’ve ruined the one attempt I made at doing just that, proving that it's impossible. That I’m a fool stuck in the eternal loop of unrequited love, or love that just cannot be, because that’s what we have, love. Calling this a crush, something so frivolous, makes me nauseous, makes me feel so disgustingly wrong, infatuation even worse. Obsession maybe, but love moreso. My friends think I’m ridiculous, they think what’s here is unimportant, not that deep. But I can’t convey how much I rely on this terrible relationship to function as myself, that without it I cannot work, that if this gear were to stop moving, my entire autonomy would fall apart. That if I do ever burn this bridge, I will never be able to build another one ever again.

Sometimes I hope something horrible happens to you, so that at least I’d finally have a reason to grieve you, so that I’d finally be able to enter the torturous sequence of moving on, so that I won’t be burdened or left with my own disgusting thoughts all the time anymore, so that I give everyone I know a reason for my psychosis, for my desperation to angst over you. Is this really what puppy love is supposed to feel like? Is this simply the start of a lifetime of love and heartbreak? I feel like I’ve had enough of both with just this one for the entirety of my god awful lifetime. Maybe my brain grew up too fast because of this sack of horseshit we called a romance for years, maybe that’s why everything else seems like it can’t compare, because nothing was nearly as fucked as this was, as this is. Look at what you’ve done to me, a labeled cheater, an indecisive bitch. Is this what you wanted from me when you came hurdling back in again, were you seeking a fucked up form of consolation, were you trying to see how much of me you still had wrapped around your fingertips, to see how far I’d go for you so that you could go back home and use the hours of sleep I’ve lost over this for yourself, earning yourself well deserved rest? Is this how we were supposed to play out? A losing side and a winning side? 

I’ve lost, undoubtedly and lawfully lost. This is rock bottom, it cannot possibly get worse than this, I physically cannot take worse than this.

[lilbeaniebro]

my head hurts, im going to sleep

[sadgirldiary17]

An introduction is in order 🫀

My name is Liza. I am a fellow resident tortured poet and an avid reader. I read a lot, love getting lost in a good book, whether it be poetry, fantasy, a classic, romance or a memoir. In fact majority of my time is spent with my nose stuck in a book or in a good television show or movie.

Every 16th July, on my birthday, my melancholy and feelings of abandonment heavily overwhelm me. Not sure whether that has to do with me being the eldest daughter and having to be the third parent for all my three siblings or it’s me finally being “taken care of” that sends me down an unhealthy spiral.

I never wanted to be too mature for my age. I have never chosen that, I was forced into a mold that was made for me even before I was born. When you have siblings it’s as if you are unimportant and now you become the secondary caregiver. They expect you to be responsible, yet not too bossy. They expect you to act a certain way and make no mistakes, if you do tend to make a mistake by accident, they tend to name call you as selfish, ungrateful and overlook all the good that you have ever done.

It is exhausting carrying the weight of the whole family in your shoulders and still fill like a chronic loser. Whenever they loose the keys you are responsible. If they throw away a receipt they needed you are responsible. There is no winning. Everyday you fight your demons and no one notices the struggle. (Cue “this is me trying” by Taylor Swift or “Block me out” by Gracie Abrams) You never had a childhood because, you were being physically abused during the periods of your life that were supposed to shape you and be the most “fun” and “carefree”. You were so hurt that till this day you are scared of your own father. You were mentally abused by your friends as well. Hence, you deserted to their level and acted out horribly, treating them the way you were treated and pretending to like the things they did to fit in. Even if being their friend meant being the punching bag of the group, you would laugh when you wanted to cry. You felt and still feel misunderstood, when you try defending your honor it only ends up backfiring. Sometimes you wish you could wash your mouth with soap or just shut up.

A constant urge to scream fills your lungs daily.

“You can win a battle, but you’ll never win the war” - Olivia Rodrigo, pretty isn’t pretty,

Your whole childhood you have cried yourself to sleep, while having daily meltdowns in the locked bathroom. Due to your feelings being invalidated constantly. As if they know how I feel. English wasn’t your first language and so it felt lonely being in a school with all the children that did. No one wanted to play with you or be your friend, so a Science teacher had to sit and eat lunch with me daily, God bless her heart ♥️ . You were left to fend for yourself. At the age of 12 you realized: “if I don’t take care of myself no one will” . You were made independent because of all your scars, that you try so hard to hide. You were forced to be independent. You heard every complaint your mother or father have ever said about each other. You were always making peace, and when things went too far you were the one who distracted your sister and brothers. Comforting them when you needed to be comforted. Relying on no one but yourself.

By the age of 13 you were being bullied by two grown adult male teachers, called fat since you defended the girl you liked, you wanted to be her friend so hard - that you’d do everything for her. Even though you were the average size of every other girl in your class and therefore normal healthy bodied. Due to that situation, your impressionable self developed an eating disorder, you either overeat and stuff yourself full or fast throughout the day. Lying to your Mom that you’re pretty full from having lunch.

It’s as if the thoughtful daughter “aesthetic” was made for you. You are a cynic, a lot of times you hate yourself for that, yet you are an empath, you cry for every little inconvenience someone had to go through. Perhaps you have developed a negative connotation towards crying since your father hit you or threatened to hit you even harder when you cried. You developed a link between being cold and emotionless as being strong. You despised your emotions trying to be rational, cold, cunning and calculating at times.

You tried to neglect yourself thinking it’s better, yet when you tried taking care of yourself they labeled you as “narcissistic”. When all you have done is got yourself books on the money you made yourself. It feels as though you’re going mad every second of the day. You listen to Taylor Swift because she calms your anxiety, as if she’s holding your hand when you cry. You listen to Lana Del Rey and daydream of being a different kind of person, living in the 80s somewhere far away from everyone. Or you may listen to Olivia Rodrigo to let yourself let out that teenage angst and anger in a safe space without seeming desperate or insane. You felt a certain shame writing your visceral emotions into a diary so you had to staple the pages, rip them out or throw away the whole diary. Now that you are coming closer to becoming 18 you sit in your room and listen to “I Hate It Here” by Taylor Swift imagining a bigger world, that only your dreams provide, to which you are destined to belong.

Whatever it is you are alone at the end of the day, and truth be told have no friends to talk to.

[dykemcqueen]

call this a 1am reach but olivia rodrigo vampire is kind of network effect murderhelion coded. i used to think i was smart but you made me look so naive... the way you sold me for parts as you sunk your teeth into me............

[uhliterate]

Jun 19, 2023 at 10:15 AM

Glassy Eyed State

Often times I wake to find my life opaque

Sometimes I sleep in a translucent state

But every breath I take seems like a mistake

How bitter dished out fate tastes

- x.y

[teanicolae]

age 16, teenage angst-ing in london. taken on an evening i wrote about in my songs of youth. 

"on one cold night in london / i sat beneath the twinkling lights / and i thought i knew who i was (..)."

then: i was in london for a summer course at goldsmiths, the university where my amore brian molko studied drama. i was in a transformative period of turmoil, which i later unpacked in a few articles published that year. yet, back then, i did not write much about the giddiness of it, which i want to highlight today: the giddiness of being a besotted schoolgirl, daydreaming between classes of the life her favourite rockstar lived in those university halls. wrapped up in mind twirls, i would wonder, did he experience the delicious mix between ache & thrill that i was experiencing? did he wander the streets at night like i did, finding solace in the graffiti splashed upon walls? did he understand the sadness in him in ways i did not understand the sadness in me? 🤍 every night, i listened to him sing: "i am weightless / i am bare / i am faithless / i am scared" & "wrapped in lust and lunacy / tiny touch of jealousy / these bonds are shackle free" and i felt a desperate want to express the workings of my mind the way he did. to live vicariously, to share vicariously. to be alive, and sad, and jolly, and love and hurt.

i will share one of the, hmm, rough accounts of the turmoil side of things. it's in romanian. you can read it here: http://www.sub25.ro/.../ce-vrem-de-la-brian-molko-in...

i will only translate the ending, as i feel distanced from it - in all the 'good' ways. it sometimes makes me uncomfortable to read past works in which i was so open, but overall i am proud of my teen self for expressing herself fully and not sugar coating her experience.

  "when the sun rose, i was leaning against the window of my dorm room, with my hair dyed green, with smudged eyeliner and one broken nail. with lady of the flowers on repeat. black sessions, 1997. brian began the set with a poem he only recited that year:

  Lady of the flowers, they’ve been dead for hours. Interflora (..)

and i felt that i could be okay." the feeling was correct. 🤍🫶

[lovableapocalypse]

sometimes all i want to do is smoke a fucking cigarette and feel my chest cave in while staring at nothing until my eyes bleed and other times i want to wear my cute skirt and cute hair bow and giggle meaninglessly

[ang1cout0ure]

Rockin the homeless look today 😈

[idontknowhsh]

long time no see

[xandersrailcrash]

dear diary, my teen angst bullshit has a body count (not in a murder way, in a just got out of a relationship and i think i like someone new but THIS TIME i'm taking time to heal so it'll be a while before i do anything about it way)