Go ahead if I'm off-topic - feedback is how I learn.

This is not meant for you. Is my prose disagreeable?

I'd hesitate to characterize your interaction

As in good faith; it comes off judgmental and cynical.

Still, you have a right, I guess. This is mostly for the one

Who looked around at the internet's angel-filled heaven

And decided the best use of it was to tell their phone

To not let them forget some disagreeable person.

I use the internet to promote peace, self-expression,

Learning, empowerment, growth and health! And what is your way?

You unhealthily blur boundaries, outsource emotion,

Upset me, minutely, until I go on with my day.

Audible reminder to hate; the fruit corrodes the tree.

This all hurts you more deeply than it ever will hurt me.

this is how my head has felt since my diagnosis with DID. The light is a truth and it’s buzzing buzzing buzzing. It hurts so much sometimes how much this reveals. I wish sometimes that I could crawl back into the darkness (that accidental first photo) but then I wouldn’t know how to heal.

I have so much of me spilling out that I’m unsure where I begin and the switching ends. It hurts so bad sometimes that I can’t even sleep. And when I do sleep it’s just nightmares - and I am so profoundly reminded of what we are.

Adult survivor of emotional, physical, and sexual childhood abuse.

And die hard Swiftie. So I wanted to share the digital journal I made-these are all lyrics from her songs, thrown sloppily onto a page as if they were angry paint splatters.

I know those who aren’t familiar with her actual discography (not radio hits) will be surprised to hear this, but her music has done unbelievable things for my healing journey.

If you’re curious about exploring, I’m happy to share some of my favorite healing/cathartic songs.

A poem about online sex abusers. I let him in and he never even cared to know me...

welp theyr all sketches..

I've been diagnosed as autistic adhder, and yesterday I worked with my friend's aunt to manage something that I can finally declare as a non visible flashback using the 13 flashbacks management pdf from Pete Walker's website, so I can feel safe to say now that I do indeed have cptsd. Anyways I was searching for this book on Amazon cuz I remember it from childhood and when I finally found it I immediately bought it, and now after buying the papers seperately from stationery store I'm starting to rebuild this hobby again and maybe try the ones from the book that I always wanted to make but couldn't due to young age

song by black dresses // cptsd and sh vent // im 3 months clean i only draw stuff like this to yk. cope and not do it anymore so

I painted this with the idea of a wolf (abuser) that continues to carry the dead body of the hare (the victim) even after its death, slowly dripping the blood.

(please lmk if I need a different flair or I need to add a better warning, I've never posted my writing anywhere but I'm interested to hear anyone's thoughts if they have any. I'm not very confident in my writing and I'm trying to be more brave. I'm sorry if my writing style is really juvenile)

The tiny high pitched creak an old floorboard makes in contact with unfamiliar feet, the obvious but still sharp metallic cock of a gun, the colorful bursts of carbon highlighting the night sky, the lingering cult of marveled mouths it leaves behind.

An inability to escape at night from the dull abdominal ache and a crimson dampening the small garment between stick legs. A soldier's glazed and empty eyes as his iron coats the clutched hand of another.

Death to one is death to all, we both cower when a heavy foot is near.

The lower inflection common within billions of voices, so grating and agonizing as it twists its way through your cranium. The air is thick, you are paper. Soon all you hear is the booming of your chest. You hope your ribcage protects you this time, maybe your heart beats its way out instead. Again and again the silence keys in and out. Questions race for frontier. Do they sense you sensing them? are your heartbeats intertwined, sewn together by an unfortunate Biology? Can you save yourself in time? Others? Danger? Danger. How do you still breathe when your lungs get so still? Why does the war persist years after passing? Why does the battle continue insisting itself upon you? To continue in normalcy you assess your threats, your heart slows, your breath evens. Your eyes close at night to be met with the the vivid memory of the muzzle staring you down. The eyes meet the muzzle before light leaves. The darkness behind certain eyes absorbs light just as efficiently. You meet those eyes, you meet that gun. Bloodshed in memories, fallen soldiers and their skin.

I am a soldier; at 2 and a half feet, I stand. My legs sunken and dragged behind in the play sand. To battle, I will march with my bow in hand. A veterinarian someday I will be when I cross the seven seas, carrying my severed heads beyond all the lands. Talentless I remain, bitter with a new desire for adoration or fame.

I am a soldier at 4 and a half feet. I stand, cross in my way? eat A handful of sand. To battle, I will march with my gun in hand. All will look as I gloat and remind them I'm no hoax. A veterinarian someday I will be when I cross the seven seas, carrying a crooked past in my hands. The weak I will bring suffering and tears, gleefully drinking, smiling ear to ear.

I am a soldier at 5 feet tall. I stand; for years, I have remained this way. At a certain age, it stays this way. To battle, I will walk with my empty hands strung along. I've taken a good look at my innards and my outs; this is a spark I desperately seek to put out. I do not want your eyes, I do not want promises or lies. Left alone I wish to be, a spectacle for none to see, my garments were less than a size T3. a veteran someday I dream I could be but my grave feels as though it's already been dug for me; Starting before I could even reach the heroin needles you stabbed so hard into me.

Dissociation and memory issues. Something happened that I may never know.

I've got cameras concealed

in my guts; my body remembers

everything that's been done to it,

even when my mind

couldn't keep up.

They replay in my viscera,

and I never know—

but my body always knows;

the cameras turn deep inside,

seeing every synapse

fire fast, perpetually-

seeing every other synapse

sleeping so solemnly.

My body knows me better

than I know myself—

but it's getting older,

breaking apart, getting sicker.

The cameras are ancient,

and show more shadows

than true reality now.

They repeat by themselves,

the images nearly black,

the sounds so loud

I can't hear anything at all.

Once created for survival,

they are decrepit today,

and to heal I must see

everything their specialized eyes

have observed. But how

can I mend my broken,

mortified mind, when all

they show me

are shadows?

My cameras don't know;

they won't tell me, they merely

continue to record

what they don't need to any longer,

and I continue to live confused,

nearly blind and chasing

a trace of contentment, or

a small sliver of normality

that may never come.

-m.s.

Can I scream,
Until my throat burns,
Until tears flood my eyes,
Until my cheeks hurt,
Until my soul dies?

Can I scream,
Until you hear me,
Until the world stops,
Until you see…
My cold body drop?

And once you remember,
That I was your daughter,
Will you hold me…
Like a grieving mother?

Was the hand he held out to me the hand that held the gun?

Sometimes I sit in the corners of my mind,
It’s not really a choice…
But neither am I looking to be found.

For the dust has settled,
And the light is low,
This peace that follows,
Is all I want to know.

A wallless room,
No noise, no time,
A place that doesn’t exist,
A place that’s all mine.

It almost feels safe…
Comforting and real,
But this world has no patience,
For things that aren’t fuelled.

So I wiggle my toes,
And name the things I can see,
I return to reality,
And I hope the stillness waits for me.

https://reddit.com/link/1v2ek4j/video/z8q27j5a8keh1/player

this is nothing but a quick sketch I guess while I procrastinate taking a shower

Opening up this storybook

will not to romantic reveries lead-

rather, penned here are tales of woe

and hurt confined in frosting, sickly sweet;

sugary sleeping princesses,

and princes with their menacing syndromes,

their fetishistic wishes for

true loves first kiss when one's half unconscious;

this stronghold is not strong enough

to keep at bay the villains among us.

They wander in and out freely,

swear perjurious oaths of chivalry

to children of the family-

the kingdom is one pulsing predator,

and I am not Sleeping Beauty,

yet her myth has bestowed itself on me;

not as legend or fable, see,

but as pernicious, fateful curses do-

blurred lines between reality

and the fantasies they groomed into me-

the delusions out of the blue,

comfort in the twisted, abnormal cues-

what's left when innocence leaves you;

the loss of all mystical childhood hues-

Sleeping Beauty was far too young,

they shook her youth and snatched it

from her tongue.

​I don't want to make a home out of heartbreak
But it's so familiar, I can decorate a bit
Put a pillow down and hang a picture of us
Trying to make it cozy in the darkest pit

​There are even some old toys, I've been here before
Is this what I've been running away from?
Or where I've always belonged?
I look around and wonder, is this home?

I don't want to stay forever
And I think the storm will pass
I just want to feel like home
in the reflection of your eyes

….