I asked for help. I bared my soul, my experiences, but that’s not enough for you.
I don’t fit in that box, I wasn’t given a box.
A box, a foundation, support without being beaten by your protectors, ridiculed for being who you are.
Anxiety. Everyone feels it, don’t stress, work harder
EMILNATE STRESS FROM YOUR LIFE. HA
So much fucking privilege.
Privilege to assume you know a life-built from a herd of abrasions.
Pigment is meaningless to those with little of it, just like Privilege
The barriers to success that have been systematically put up to condemn this poor lazy negro.
Why, should I want? Light skinned negress.
I’m so fucking done.
Ignorant people offering insults branded as advice,
To give advice you have to understand a person’s situation.
Unwanted Words of Wisdom.
Cut back, don’t spend so much.
Get another job, the job you have isn’t enough, do more.
Do more, by yourself, without help, without a “handout.”
What does being poor mean to you?
I haven’t had the luxury of trimming fat from my emaciated being.
Why dream, why take risks? Why live
Blame the broken for their injuries, for their stupidity, for not doing enough.
It’s America, the American Dream was never for me.
Black, crafted in poverty, reprimanded by darker skin telling me that I’m not enough. I’m not black enough, I’m not white? Too white. Fuck off.
PRIVILEGE, when you judge the progress of a life whose ruler do you use?
Metrics made from and for the privileged. The assumption of resources, the illegitimacy of mental illness. You can’t use your mood disorders to complain away the failure.
The barriers I’m facing, a self-constructed crisis.
You don’t know because you haven’t tried. Why learn about other’s sob stories of disability, poverty, just without help. I’m stamped insignificant by the ignorant.
What do you know of my struggles?
No, you’d rather ridicule the few luxuries I’ve gained in life. Bought in times of stability, but now nothing is stable. The image of a moment of relief.
To judge from a place of privileged ignorance is fucking unbelievable. Anger and frustration… being measured by a privileged metric.
A metric that’s biased towards the privileged.
How can you assume to measure the worth of someone’s life, someone who had you taken for granted fucking privilege?
Don’t measure me against your metric, a metric that assumes that I don’t include the struggles of minorities, of those who have to make a place for themselves.
“I’m so poor, I need to cut back.” Cut back on food, cut back on everything…
So hazardous, it’s hazardous to assume you know someone, all of them, their pain their struggles.
Where am I coming from?
PTSD, but you’ve never been to war? So…
Still hopes, what hope?
An insignificant voice barred, my voice isn’t my own.
If I could go mute, the uncomfortable pain of adversity leaves your presences. How selfish of me too, to work towards more.
I’ve never put blame, my parents beat me to within an inch of hope, an inch of my drive.
I was a child, who I fought to be allowed to live in a space without crying myself to sleep.
I’m just being overdramatic… My lust for self-harm, for cutting, for suicide.
I’m a failure, my wrists red with irritation, not blood.
What a failure.
This ability to stay in the hidden darkness, it desensitizes.
Share my story, why bring up the past?
To ask for help? No, don’t ask for help, blind faith.
Blind to other intentions.