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theloraxformula

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i have a farm. and blue eyes. and a nice nose. and red hair.
wonderings, pictures, tidbits
bubble and squeak.
my name is ash.
slytherpuff, female, manic depressive, bellydancer, insomniac, feminist, bubbly drunk, hedge,hearth, and green witch, welcome to my world.
there are massive amounts of
the following: harry potter, batman, and various hippie dippy things. good day to you.

I am the literal worst.

I cant even be stable for one fucking day who needs it.  Every time I open up I realize how goddamn selfish I am.  I keep having flashbacks to moments of abuse I’ve had and am not even sure are real. I’m so scared about all of this. How can I get help if everything I am dealing with isn’t real? How do you get help for delusions if what you are delusional about isn’t real or vice versa? I’m trying. And it’s the fucking hardest. Because people want to be around you for so long.  They want to help you, until you don’t get better fast enough. And that time limit is terrifying. 

— 5 months ago with 1 note
#scitzophrenia  #depressive  #personal 

I am terrifyingly depressed. Though I am in a new, wonderful house there hasn’t been a day when i haven’t wanted to kill myself. Each day i wake up feeling like each breath I take is wrong or hurting something in some way. I am worn out and the only time I feel a little less dead is when my nose is full of my amphetamine salts…which I’ve now run out of.

 I have a new job at starbucks— I start thursday, and I should be excited. Or nervous. Or something, but i don’t feel ANYTHING. This kid I like more than I’ve liked anyone in a very long time hates everything about me, which is cool, because I hate everything about me as well. He never says anything and often tells me how great I am, but I know he’s lying because every time I look in the mirror I despise every inch of what I see.

And I want to stop eating again because that’s one of the few things that makes me feel anywhere close to normal.

Speaking makes me want to die a little more. And I know everyone is tiered of listening to me. An expiration date should be printed on my fucking forehead.

— 6 months ago with 4 notes
#depression  #personal  #manic depression 
Caffeine, mania, and bathtubs.

The past few days have just fucking suuucked. And 2013 was a miserable shit storm. Da wurst of tymz, one could say. 2014 started very much on track with the last days of 2013; with one of the worst lows I have experienced. I call these lows being on fire because it feels like my brain is on fire and everything is just crackling. That said, I spent most of 2014 in a bathtub, sulking and considering drowning myself in the foot of cold water I  sat in. Instead of wallowing in my misery I decided that I cannot live through another year of this— hitting manic upswings and crashing on lows. And so, I finally called someone and told them: hey. I might kill myself. I feel terrible. I haven’t been invested in reality in months. Nothing feels real. Listen to me. I tried to kill myself the other day. It was terrifying. Because I woke up from it. This needs to change.

And, today, I took my friends words to heart. “You do terrible things, allow terrible people in your life, and make yourself to be a monster because it’s easy. Because you are used to being ignored in your own house and by everyone around you. That makes it easy to construct a reality of your own, and in this reality you are a monster that doesn’t deserve love. Because it’s easier to be an unloved monster than an unloved human being.” This has stuck with me all day and has held to me when the tickling of night-low began to kick in. 

I normally despise everything about resolutions— I feel like they only set people up for disappointment and self ridicule— but this year there are a few premises I would like to stick to: 

  1. I deserve love. I deserve someone who takes me as is. Who doesn’t fall in love with the idea of what I am. 
  2. Starving myself is not a responsible reaction to the actions of those around me. 
  3. Extraversion is an outlet for me, but forced extraversion is much like binge drinking. 
  4. Toxic relationships result in more bath time sulking. 
  5. I need something to find love and worship in— and that can’t be beautiful, broken, boys.
  6. Celebrating my body is a good thing. It’s a good one— it’s forgiven me for a ton of shit. 
  7. Playing the roll of a monster to chase the few who do love me away is not beneficial to resolution #1. 
  8. Reading is lovely. So is tea. And good company. I need those things. 
  9. Not everything is my fault. Most things aren’t my fault. Because I’m not an asshole. I don’t fuck people over. 

these are things. good things. and they may be caffeine induced, but are still true. 

— 8 months ago with 5 notes
#personal  #new year  #2014  #self love  #self acceptance 
Cancer, MS, and other skithcyspoopy things.

I don’t know if I am going insane and all of this is some dream-state, but I brought the possibility of a tumor or MS to my parents and the following occurred:

my father ignored me completely and forced me to help him look for a ring he misplaced.

my mother got upset that I didn’t tell her before my dad and tried to discredit any of my symptoms since she didn’t remember me talking about them.

so. these are things.
i have southern comfort.
and american spirits.
and a nice new coat.
so things aren’t so bad.

— 9 months ago with 1 note
#personal  #ignore  #will delete later 
Do you ever just like

have to go to bed. not because you’ve been super active or anything, but because you’ve sort of lost track of time and the fact that the day has even happened and your skull feels raw because you’ve just thought of trivial things that just make you want to puke and things. not that the that the things you’ve thought of are bad…but just…I don’t know. i’ve actually had a really good day so…i really don’t know why my brain is being weird.

— 1 year ago with 2 notes
#personal 
scorpios

swishers aren’t so sweet when
our teeth are banging together
tongues fighting for dominance
gin burning our lips
hungrily seeking
an escape from ourselves
selfishly burring our stingers into the back of the other
orgasms are aptly named
La petite mort
because i want to die and be reborn
& i was foolish
for ever thinking that you could be
different

— 1 year ago
#poetry  #personal 
Farming, Cooking, and All That Shit

   I’ve been a part of the agricultural community since conception (no, really— I’m pretty sure I was conceived in a field). When my mother was pregnant, my grandfather made her walk through his garden, made her plant watermelons for luck; something about whatever was growing insider her would be good for the field. That year, my grandfather had 200 pound watermelons sprouting. At the age of one, I planted a peach pit in the dirt/cigarette pile where my grandmother dumped her ashtray beside the porch. It still bears peaches. Even though it’s been abused one or two…or three times by my cousin in that 12-year-old machete phase.

    I worked in my grandfather’s produce stand more summers than I can count, and rolled out of bed at six a.m. every Saturday morning of those summers for Farmer’s Markets where I blearily bagged tomatoes bigger than my hands and cucumbers still wet from late night rains. I’ve watched heat lightening from my Grandma’s porch while she sat, yelling at me from the couch to get ‘the hell away from that concrete’ because it would ‘shoot that lightening right into me’. I have sat on that porch, watching the vegetables growing across the road when the summer heat blares too harshly to even swim. I have watched and worked. And I have learned that what you can’t say, write, and what you can’t write, cook. I’ve learned that if you’re sad while making cakes, they probably wont rise properly, chow-chow made while arguing will burn your tongue, and if you’re bitter while making sweet tea, no amount of sugar can cover your bitterness up.

   And today, when a committee of jealous men voted my grandfather off the farmer’s market, all the heat that once baked those fields in the summer, all the heavy rain that pounded angry and ripping at plants, the hail that bruised the melons, the lightening that struck the mountain near by, filled my stomach and throat. This heat fell out in southern-sweet words. My grandfather jerked a door off it’s hinges, I spat words so polite the men looking down on me like a child stared, eyes confused. But this summer, I will have my own farm.

And for this Adventure, something inside me is ready. Something in me is ready for the summer heat again.

— 1 year ago with 3 notes
#farming  #agriculture  #summer  #sustainability  #environment  #writing  #personal  #southern culture  #the south  #south  #north carolina 
what men will never understand

if the curves of my stomach offend
you
i suggest you get the
fuck off
   of
me
but when this rage comes you speak
so
sof
      t
ly
and wonder why i look at you
like you burned
me but
you don’t understand how predecessors of your gender have treated me.
kind words have never been spoken to me
soberly or
without weight behind them
like bartering in a dark corner bed while everyone else sleeps
where i stop being a woman, an entity, and become an unfeeling orifice whose name has suddenly become
                                          baby
because a few kinds words were mumbled against the shell
of my ear
you don’t understand
how hands have grabbed me in the dark
and how my own hands have grabbed
only out of desperation
to feel something
you don’t understand how hard it is for you to touch me and
for me not to feel lightening hot repulsion
as i lay drunk, ready to sleep.
you don’t understand how when people touch my hair
all i can feel are hands curling against my scalp
and the way cold-shaking hands curled around my dress
and the way fear has been etched into the lines of my brain like a map of the city i know so well
like that alley i can’t walk down alone at night
or that part of lexington where men shout at me hungrily
or the way stranger’s hands sometimes ‘slip’
you will never understand the weight of my insecurity because no amount of sweetness you can pour onto me can replace the venom fed to me by the men before you
no matter how ‘enough’ i may be with you
you will never understand how ‘enough’ isn’t tangible
how beautiful doesn’t really feel like a compliment
and how much
i doubt you actually love me

— 1 year ago with 2 notes
#feminsim  #sexual assault  #personal  #poetry  #weight  #love 

i drink whiskey because
after so many
shots
something like a dragon wakes up in my stomach
and crawls out my throat with the exhalation of cigarette smoke
i drink whiskey because the dark brown
mingles with the fire in my veins
and the wild south of my soul is reawakened
a part of my soul that lingers in the bricks of marie laveu’s and between alleyways in the french quarter
stirs up like a ghostly collection of downy feathers
and the fear that is carved into my ribcage seeps out
i drink whiskey because the salt of my fingers plays
with the back of my throat
coaxing all this fear out, chased with mason jars of water
i drink whiskey because it makes me feel ugly and fierce
i drink whiskey because it makes it easier for me to burn bridges and sever ties
i drink whiskey because it makes being used by men with pretty faces and holes in their dead chests easier to swallow the next day
i drink whiskey because it makes me rowdy and alive
i drink whiskey because snarling rage needs to be let out sometimes
i drink whiskey because it sobers up my head
i drink it because it helps me forget that i didn’t say no
i drink it because it makes me angry about what you did
i drink it because i remember the way your hand pushed mine down and the way your hand curled into a fist in my hair and yanked at the top of my dress
i drink it because i didn’t tell you no

— 1 year ago with 4 notes
#personal  #tw: sexual assault  #poetry  #whiskey 
My dad has gone insane.

He was sitting on the couch, reading a seed catalog, being perfectly normal, then he starts shouting about ‘don’t you people know how to do fucking laundry’, grabbing clean laundry, slinging it, etc.

He then started throwing all the dishes in the sink and washing them, and now he is scrubbing the kitchen floor on his hands and knees, muttering about how nasty the house is.

what the actual fuck.

he’s lost fuck tons of weight lately and, honestly, I think he’s flipped. bad mojo in the house, guys.

— 1 year ago
#personal  #i am really confused 
If ever i

If ever I thought I was worthless, useless, an empty vessel to hold the blame of the world, I was ignorant.

In the shadow of others I did not realize I was outgrowing the limited social garden bed of my ‘friends’ and companions. Friends would be an overstatement and a title many of them have never and will never earn. As a Scorpio my trust is not easily gained, and one lost, it is gone forever. Something in me, though, always forgave, but kept the trespasses against my trust cataloged, loaded, waiting to fire across my synapses is self destruction.

If ever I took your interest as a sign of friendship, I was a fool. If ever I opened my heart to you, if ever I extended an almost maternal hand to you I was an idiot.

My body has been run ragged with its attempts at pleasing all and apologizing for its darker nature. My narcissism has become a survival mechanism that I once thought needed you.
My soul is weary of your needy hands, your open-bird mouth that I keep feeding more and more of my soul. Compassion has an end with me. In this game of survival, I will always be the fittest and you’ve stopped entertaining the animal within me.

I am worth so much more than being drained of my entirety. I am manifest energy as you are, as the earth is. Like the Earth my resources have been tapped and I can give no longer. Like the Earth I shall strike with ground shattering vengeance.

If ever I thought friendship was giving you everything for nothing in return, I was blind, for I am a Goddess as you are. I am a Goddess as you are a God, and your meager offerings of passing interest and constant need are insufficient. My inner patriarch has fed of your male-centric patterns of thought, and the women of my past lives are too loud in protest for this to continue.

I deserve much more than “friends” like you.

— 1 year ago with 2 notes
#personal  #self confidence  #self harm  #goddess  #god  #pagan 
the bones of my enemies

rage has a way of awakening
the sacred fiery feminine within me
i suppose i should be accepting of flippant
dismissals and easily broken
plans

after all, it is what is expected of my gender—

to be silently accepting
to be smiling and forever forgiving
to be blind to your bullshit.

but I’m not that kind of bitch.

the waters of many rivers flow in my veins
over the rocks and thorns that are growing inward in my inner darkness
wise and warrior women of my past lives swim in these brackish tides and they
are having none of your shit today

there is a predator that hunts in the base of my skull
that loves to feed on

boys {I would say 'friends' but none of you are deserving of that title}
like
you

through heavy breaths and gasps between too hot sobs this creature is released
and it reminds me
with the worst of pain
that i am stronger than you
that i am stronger than anything within your petty soul

we’re all made of energy and mine is too bright to be diminished by the likes of you

while i feel worthless and want to destroy myself
{because the easiest way not to feel is to bring blood, to bring forth ribs and cheek bones, and burns—— for the longest while I thought the fault lied within myself, that I was worthless and disposable, but now I see that I’ve only been attracted to the weaker breed of human because you are easy to manipulate. You were stupid enough to consider my compassion a license to abuse my over giving heart}
this animal keeps me in line, holding my hands within its claw riddled appendages

tight enough to bring blood, holding me still until my cries turn into war songs
my frantic heart beats into the sound of war drums.

my tears become paint streaking my face, readying me for another battle.

the scorpion ever present in me rises, barb dripping with the poison
my tongue would love to lay into your psyche

but you aren’t worth my words.

my words are my livelihood and nothing i could say could
every arouse any interest nor care from such a small minded individual as yourself
whose ambitions are the small fractions of pebels beneath my scarred feet.

in this holy and reverent cold I thought I needed the warmth of companions, but I realized I was skinning myself raw to cover others who would only snuff out the flame keeping me alive.
my heart thrives in this harsh season and the skeleton of the scorpion comes alive in solitude.

the warrior woman within me is reborn this night.

she has watched my neglect and has pulled me into her mulch-armed embrace

and tells me through stoney and unforgiving eyes

that you were never worthy of my radiance anyways.

— 1 year ago with 5 notes
#personal  #writing  #self harm  #goddess 
The problem with dorm rooms

is that there are hundreds of
people
se     p        ar        at   ed
by paper-thin
                     walls
never interacting
only existing simultaneously
(which, is a cosmic interaction if you think about it.)

sometimes I lay in my bed
face against a cold paper wall
and I
think: what are these other people doing?

in this awkward layout of beds and desks
in the earlylate hours of the nightday
are some

sleeping                                    frantically working

drunk in their beds                   laying frustratingly awake

awkwardly masturbating          awkwardly ignoring the awkward masturbation

having cramped sex        sleeping in the lounge to avoid said sex being had

crying and homesick                  consoling a homesick friend

too high to sleep                       to exhausted to be awake

or are some just as awake as I, wondering sleepily, what I am doing on the other side of the wall?

— 1 year ago with 6 notes
#poems  #dorms  #personal  #thinkythoughts 
is it absolute lunacy {lady bit things}

that I enjoy menstruating?

I really do. While I hate the general negatives (cramps etc.) I embrace them.

My body is renewing itself and there is power in that. A dark sort of power, but power all the same. Not dark in the negative sense, but dark in the other side of the moon, the last phase of the goddess, the night, sort of dark. There is power in one’s blood. I feel very connected to the cyclic nature of the world. After all, “we are all born out of darkness and water, brought into this world through blood and through pain” an I am certainly feeling all of these elements at the moment.

Plus, heyhey, I’m not puuuurgnant. Go uterus!

{Way of topic, but are there any thoughts in the ways of herbal birth control?}

— 1 year ago with 12 notes
#feminism  #personal  #body  #pagan  #herbalism  #herbs  #wiccan  #lady bits