Alexthymia: the inability to express your feelings
Ambedo: a kind of melancholic trance in which you become completely absorbed in vivid sensory details- raindrops skittering down a window, clouds of cream in your coffee, which leads to a dawning awareness of the haunting fragility of life
Athazagoraphobia: the fear of forgetting, being forgotten or ignored, or being replaced
Atchiphobia: fear of failure
Atelophobia: the fear of imperfection or not being good enough
Atrabilious: gloomy, morose, melancholy
Cimmerian: very dark/gloomy
Clinomania: excessive desire to stay in bed
Drapetomania: am overwhelming urge to run away
Dysania: the state of finding it hard to get out of bed in the morning
Eccedentesiast: Someone who hides pain behind a smile
Elvira: mistress of the dark
Exulansis: the tendency to give up trying to talk about an experience because people are unable to relate to it
Fantods: state of extreme anxiety or distress
Fastoche: dead easy
Ferly: something unusual, strange, or causing wonder or terror
Flumadiddle: utter nonsense
Frisson: a shiver of pleasure
Hebetude: lethargy
Hiraeth: a homesickness for home you can’t return to, or never was
Imbroglio: a confused, embarrassing situation
Ineffable: too great or extreme to be described in words
Isolophilia: Strong affection for solitude or being alone
Jousts: a hypothetical conversation that you compulsively play out in your head
Kibitzer: a giver of uninvited or unwanted advice
Kuebiko: a state of exhaustion inspired by acts of senseless violence
Lacuna: a blank space, missing part
Liberosis: the desire to care less about things
Logy: lacking physical or mental energy
Lien: lost, ruined, or undone
Lyphophrenia: a vague feeling of sadness seemingly without any cause
Mauerbauertraurigkeit: the inexplicable urge to push people away, even close friends who you really like
Monachopsis: the subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place
Nefarious: wicked, despicable
Noceur: one who stays up late
Nodous tollens: the realization that the plot of your life doesn’t make sense to you anymore
Nyctophile: a person who loves night, darkness
Peripatetic: a person who spends its own time wandering
Quietus: an end. Death.
Rubatosis: the unsettling awareness of your own heartbeat
Sciamachy: a battle against imaginary enemies
Shlimazl: someone who is always unlucky
Sonder: the realization that everyone is living their own vivid life
Subfuscous: slightly dark, dusky or somber
Tempestuous: turbulent or stormy
Tenebrific: producing darkness
Toska: a dull ache of the soul
Waldeknsamkeit: the feeling of being alone in the woods
((Reblog or Halloween won’t be celebrated. If you reblog this in 50 seconds, you’ll have the best Halloween and be blessed by the spoopy skeleton gods.))
((This skeleton will also break all chain mail or reblog or die posts and you’ll live a happy life.))
the only thing i knew about sex at the age of nine was that
1) it was for mommies and daddies who were married;
2) it made me, my five year old sister, and my baby brother.
i learned everything i knew about sex from the internet while secretly browsing grownup sites on my 4th generation ipod touch i earned for doing so well at a piano recital. because of the nature of, you know, men and their internet porn, i learned that my sexual role as a woman was to be slapped and pissed on and tied up. i didn’t know what healthy sex was. i didn’t know it should be mutually consensual, or that it was okay to want sex with girls. i didn’t know that sex should be good for both people. i learned that sex would hurt, and that sex was about men and men only, and that i would be forced into sex whether i liked it or not, and that it was normal to have sex with big, burly, grown men as a teenager. i learned it was normal to cry during sex. i was scared of sex for so many years because of that, and the way i was exposed to sex at a young age led to the inappropriate and traumatic sexual encounters i had (occasionally with older people) later on in my teen years.
the day i got my first period, i was ten-and-a-half. i was swimming in the river with my best friend, and when i got out to go to the bathroom, i noticed brown blood on the inside of my mint-green tankini bottom. i knew what a period was, but i hid it from my mother in shame. she found out, eventually, of course. she told me, you have a woman’s body now, and if you have sex, you could have a baby. all i heard was, you have a woman’s body.
i started shaving my vulva when i was eleven, because i saw memes on memegenerator about how disgusting “hairy pussy” was. i wanted to be sexy. i was eleven years old, and all i wanted was to be sexy. it hurt, and it itched, and it made me uncomfortable, and i’d sometimes nick my labia with the razor, but i did it anyway, because i didn’t want to have a nasty, “hairy pussy.”
eleven was the age i first started getting pinched on the EL. i was an early bloomer: i had B-cup breasts already, and my menstrual cycle was regular enough that i could keep a calendar. i started wearing a full face of makeup to school and buying shorts that rode all the way up my skinny twelve-year-old thighs. i remember the day i stopped jumping off the swings the summer after fifth grade. skinned knees weren’t sexy. smooth, flawless legs were sexy, and i was a sexy girl. i was probably the sexiest little girl in the whole world. my parents hated it. they told me i was too young, but i knew the truth. my body was older, maybe 17 or 18, so my brain must be, too.
when i was twelve, i had a secret kik account that my parents didn’t know about. i used it to message strangers. i made all sorts of friends. i wasn’t stupid. i used a fake name. never showed my face. one of my friends asked me for a bra picture. i was a cool girl, right, i was sexy, so i sent him a picture of me in front of my bedroom mirror in my little white training bra with the blue butterflies.
sexy, he said.
that was all i wanted.
i’m not typing out all this bullshit because i think it’s something special. i’m typing it out because it’s not. i’m typing it out because i see the same thing happening to my little sister. i’m typing it out because i see the same thing happening to that little millie bobbie brown, sexiest actress at thirteen. i’m typing it out because i’m sixteen years old now, a girl in the eyes of the law and a woman in the eyes of men.
mothers, talk to your daughters. tell them to jump off the swingset and skin their knees. tell them to get dirt on their dresses. tell them that they’re a woman on their 18th birthday, not at ten-and-a-half on the first day of their menstrual cycle. the world is confused. the world is sick. if your daughters don’t hear about how to treat their bodies from you, they’ll hear it from the sick, sick world, and they’ll do the things i did.
pain-lies-inside 