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Hi there. I'm Joanne.
This is a personal blog. I can't follow back. So yeah.
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13/02/2013

i hate when people tell me to eat. especially when my family reminds me to every 10 minutes. I know there’s food in the kitchen, I know someone just cooked dinner, stop. I’ll eat when I’m hungry and right now, I’m not.

i hate it even more that when I do eat, other people call me fat. Sometimes I’ll go on tc with friends and I’ll be seen eating a cracker or a sandwich of nutella and every single time, someone tells me I’m fat. I’m fat for eating a fucking cracker or a fucking sandwich. 

i hate it when it from gr.8-10, I bought lunch everyday form the caf. and my friends would tell me I’m so unhealthy and that I’m going to get diabetes from just a fucking pepsi can. They’ll make fun of me for just buying lunch. They’ll calculate how much money I’ll spend in a week, in a month, in a year from just buying lunch at the caf. Gee, thanks for making me feel like shit. This year, I just bring a sandwich for lunch and now they make me feel bad for eating a sandwich everyday. Sorry I can’t snazz up something special and different every morning because I don’t have the time for that.
January 21, 2013

You’re always mad at people for leaving you out and not talking to you. But what I realized is that you don’t talk to them. How can you be pissed at someone for ignoring you when you don’t talk to them first? You always isolate yourself from the group. You can’t expect them to always talk to you especially when you reject every invite we give you.
11/04/2012

I always hesitate and get nervous whenever I upload a picture of myself.. anywhere.

On tumblr it’s fine because probably no one who I know in person will see it.

But on instagram, facebook, twitter, etc. .. I get scared that people will look at it be like, “shes actually ugly in person.” or “she’s actually not that pretty.”

Whenever my friends scroll down their newsfeed or dash or whatever, I usually hear them say that and. I just. I feel bad. 

like.

what if people actually do that to me?

so yeah.

People always ask me why I don’t have a profile picture and this is why.
09/26/2012

I can’t be crying right now, I just can’t. I have a precal test tomorrow that I need practice on but the more I worry, the more the stress, the more the anxiety comes back, the more I feel like breaking down. I can’t afford another breakdown just to get a mark I’m not proud of. 
09/26/2012

It’s kind of sad how the person that tried to help me be happy actually almost intentionally tried to bring me down. Just because you’re dared to say 5 things you hate about me right in front of me, doesn’t mean you have to do it. I bet if I literally didn’t beg you not to do it, you would have. 

—

So my friend was crying during class today and I couldn’t do anything about it because I sit all the way on the other side of the room. And half way through class, the peer counsellor person called her in. So fast forward to lunch time.. I asked my other friend if she knew why she was upset and she said, “she’s just sensitive.” What she says just bugs me. I mean, I get why she would say that since she only knows that she gets moody and not why. Just because she appears that way doesn’t mean there isn’t an actual serious reason why.

—

It’s sad how I have to resort to venting/ranting on tumblr other than actually talking to someone about things. I just can’t go back to counselling :/ I already told them I was fine and everything was okay now even though it wasn’t. I just can’t stand the feeling that my peer counsellor was thinking that I was wasting her time while I try to find the right words to explain how I feel. They want to know what’s wrong but to be honest, I don’t even know what’s wrong. 
thecordeliascottanon: Your boyfriend walks into the house, to greet you after a long hard day at school. You had called him that morning, telling him you didn’t feel well and that you weren’t going to show up. You told him not to get the homework for you and to just stay away until you got better, because you didn’t want him to get the bug. Of course, thinking nothing of it, your boyfriend agreed and said to get better. That day, you decided to do the unthinkable; kill yourself. You decided to cut, to bleed to death. Your parents were gone, no one was home, it was the perfect time. Writing your goodbye notes, you set them on the kitchen table, hoping that once your parents would come home, they would realize after they read the letters, it was too late; you were already gone. The walk to the bathroom to get your razors was a long walk, the last walk of your life. You think about your boyfriend, how clueless he was. He had no idea what you were preparing for. He didn’t get that he’d never get to see you again. You think about your parents. You think about how much you thought you’ve disappointed them, how you didn’t think they were proud of you. You thought about your best friend at school. How much you loved her, the memories you both shared. You smiled at the thought but then remembered what you were about to do and the smile faded. You finally reach the bathroom. Taking a deep breath, you go to the cabinet and get what you need to get to get the job done. Before you slice your skin, you whisper, “I’m sorry.” and slice over the delicate part of your body. The blood pours out of your wrist, you fall to the ground, gasping in pain. Your eyes flutter, closing, as the pain becomes unbearable. Blood trickles next to the floor where you lay, getting all over your favorite outfit. You take a deep breath before slipping into a slumber. Meanwhile, your boyfriend decides it would be a good idea to come and give you some soup for lunch. He usually just walks in, so he opens the door to your house, hollering your name. When no one answers, he walks further into the corridor, looking left and right. Of course, the bathroom is to the right of the room, the door wide open. Your body lays in a pool of blood near the open door, your body laying against the cabinets. Your boyfriend’s mouth is an “O” shape, too much in shock to let out a sound. But he quickly snaps out of it, running over to where you lay. He picks up your body, shaking it gently and saying your name. When you don’t respond, he starts shaking you more violently, raising his voice. Still, no answer. Your boyfriend is now crying, tears streaming down his face. He still continues to scream your name, hoping for an answer. He gets none. He stops shaking your body, laying his head on your stomach, bawling his eyes out.  After a few minutes, he calms down, grabbing his cell phone and dialing the number everyone knows well; 911. The police rush over, your boyfriend never leaving your side. After being rushed to the hospital, a few hours later, it is announced that you didn’t make it. Your boyfriend falls into shock, not registering the fact that you aren’t on the earth anymore. Your parents weep violently in each others arms, repeating “It’s all our faults.” Your best friend? She’s fallen into the chairs of the waiting room, crying so hard, she’s about to throw up. Everyone in the waiting room is staring at your small group, feeling for them. A week or so later, there’s a funeral held for you. 500 people and more show up to honor you. The whole service is filled with tears and sadness. Not one person is smiling or even attempting to smile. Everyone knows that maybe if they were a little nicer, you might still be here. Everyone in the room blames themselves. Your boyfriend, hasn’t spoken to anyone since the night. Your best friend, hasn’t eaten in days, maybe a scrap of food every now and then, but not more than a meal. Your parents? Your mom has fallen into depression. Your dad? He’s been like your boyfriend, hasn’t spoken a word since then. Everyday, he stares at the TV with a blank expression. The whole school? There is a case in front of the school with your picture and photos of you, a tribute, you could say. No one is the same anymore. Your smile could brighten someones day. Your laugh could make someone smile, even when they didn’t want to. Your voice, when you talk, is like an angel singing. You think no one cares? Think again.
THEME  by  ITZIAR DAMBORENEA