Brad Pitt in 1994

I lose my shit every time I see this photoset.

this is not ok



I just died a little inside

Stranger Danger

The wind blew through my wet hair like never before. It wasn’t the sensation of going fast in my grandfathers convertible, singing along to the radio. It wasn’t the kind of wind that engulfed my screams on the roller coasters at the pier, either. It was like my strands of blonde, straight hair were being pulled back by some unseen, cold, strong force that was inhibiting my ability to run faster. The trees flickered past me like scenes from an old movie, threatening to jump out in front of me at any time. I had to dodge and duck this way and that to avoid their long branches that obstructed my path to safety. The only purpose that they served was to be a barrier between him and I, a barrier that gave me more time. The underbrush whipped my legs with a thousand lashes every time I moved one foot in front of the other, but the pain was non-existent. My mind blocked out everything that did not have to do with fear and my desperate flight for safety. The warm cabin had weakened my energy, my ability to fight back. But now the cold air had brought it back up to a high, and made sure that it wouldn’t dwindle or run out - not yet at least. I didn’t know how far I would have to go, or what other obstacles I would face along the way, as long as I stayed far enough in front of his maimed face and body that was trying to torture me I would be okay. Determination had replaced my tears, giving me temporary relief from the hopelessness that engulfed me only hours ago. There was a rising light on the horizon in front of me, it showed me I was going the right way - East towards safety, people, warmth. Towards life.

-me, 12th grade

“We had a lot of trouble with western mental health workers who came here immediately after the genocide and we had to ask some of them to leave.

They came and their practice did not involve being outside in the sun where you begin to feel better. There was no music or drumming to get your blood flowing again. There was no sense that everyone had taken the day off so that the entire community could come together to try to lift you up and bring you back to joy. There was no acknowledgement of the depression as something invasive and external that could actually be cast out again.

Instead they would take people one at a time into these dingy little rooms and have them sit around for an hour or so and talk about bad things that had happened to them. We had to ask them to leave.

A Rwandan talking to a western writer, Andrew Solomon, about his experience with western mental health and depression. (via sayyestotreats)


kitten meeting the sun for the first time


Almost a thousand people in West Africa die from ebola and nobody bats an eyelash, yet 2 white people in the US contract it and miraculously a cure is released and given to them because they’re an “extreme circumstance.” Satire is dead and real life is a dystopian hellscape