— Roland Barthes, A Lover's Discourse; Fragments [translated By Richard Howard]

i feel like i died a very long time ago and now nothing thats happening is real

Simone de Beauvoir, from a diary entry featured in Diary of a Philosophy Student

I’m kind of miserable and it feels permanent but its whatever

bro shutup im making up scenarios in my head that will never happen

me after opening up to someone: wow, i feel so much better!!! :) that was a good idea. 

me lying in bed that night, realising what I’ve done:

I hate myself.

I hate my face.

I hate my eyes.

I hate my ears.

I hate my nose.

I hate my mouth.

I hate my lips.

I hate my hair.

I hate my neck.

I hate my shoulders.

I hate my chest.

I hate my back.

I hate my belly.

I hate my hips.

I hate my arms.

I hate my hands.

I hate my fingers.

I hate my skin.

I hate my crotch.

I hate my thighs.

I hate my knees.

I hate my legs.

I hate my feet.

I hate my ankles.

I hate my toes.

I hate my smile.

I hate my laugh.

I hate my scars.

I hate my stretch marks.

I hate my bones.

I hate my body hair.

I hate my voice.

I hate my mind.

I hate my thoughts.

I hate my dysphoria.

I hate my depression.

I hate my anxiety.

I hate my eating disorders.

I hate my trauma.

I hate my nightmares.

I hate my past.

I hate my memories.

I hate my childhood.

I hate my adolescence.

I hate my adulthood.

I hate my existence.

I hate my life.

I just hate every single thing about myself so fucking much...

there's not a single nonchalant bone in my body. I care so much I could literally vomit.