Hey, I’m Jules, I’m gender-fluid and my pronouns are they/them. I struggle with my mental health a lot, but I love supporting people. Im a teenager, and am interested in poetry, psychology, activism, and linguistics.

things I can help best with:

ocd, depression, anxiety, dissociation, trauma, SH, SA, sewerslide, high sensitivity/autism, mood swings, bpd, misophonia, eating disorders, synesthesia, dermallomania.

💖💖💖

love you all!

I’m Nobody! Who are you?

Are you – Nobody – too?

Then there’s a pair of us! 

Don't tell! they'd advertise – you know!

How dreary – to be – Somebody!

How public – like a Frog – 

To tell one’s name – the livelong June – 

To an admiring Bog!

-Emily Dickinson

I SHALL NOT CARE:

When I am dead and over me bright April 

Shakes out her rain-drenched hair, 

Tho' you should lean above me broken-hearted, 

I shall not care. 

I shall have peace, as leafy trees are peaceful 

When rain bends down the bough, 

And I shall be more silent and cold-hearted 

Than you are now. 

-Sara Teasdale

I'll kill myself. I am beyond help. No one here has time to probe, to aid me in understanding myself... so many others are worse off than I. How can I selfishly demand help, solace, guidance? No, it is my own mess, and even if now I have lost my sense of perspective, thereby my creative sense of humor, I will not let myself get sick, go mad, or retreat like a child into blubbering on someone else’s shoulder. Masks are the order of the day-and the least I can do is cultivate the illusion that I am gay, serene, not hollow and afraid. Someday, god knows when, I will stop this absurd, self-pitying, idle, futile despair.

-Sylvia Plath

Dearest,

I feel certain that I am going mad again. I feel we cant go through another of those terrible times. And I shant recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and I cant concentrate. So I am doing what seems the best thing to do. You have given me the greatest possible happiness. You have been in every way all that anyone could be. I dont think two people could have been happier till this terrible disease came. I cant fight any longer. I know that I am spoiling your life that without me you could work. And you will I know. You see I cant even write this properly. I cant read. What I want to say is I owe all the happiness of my life to you. You have been entirely patient with me incredibly good. I want to say that — everybody knows it. If anybody could have saved me it would have been you. Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness. I can't go on spoiling your life any longer. I don't think two people could have been happier than we have been. V.

-Virginia Woolf

O Sylvia, Sylvia, 

with a dead box of stones and spoons, 

with two children, two meteors 

wandering loose in a tiny playroom, 

with your mouth into the sheet, 

into the roofbeam, into the dumb prayer, 

(Sylvia, Sylvia 

where did you go 

after you wrote me 

from Devonshire 

about raising potatoes 

and keeping bees?) 

what did you stand by, 

just how did you lie down into? 

Thief — 

how did you crawl into, 

crawl down alone 

into the death I wanted so badly and for so long, 

the death we said we both outgrew, 

the one we wore on our skinny breasts, 

the one we talked of so often each time 

we downed three extra dry martinis in Boston, 

the death that talked of analysts and cures, 

the death that talked like brides with plots, 

the death we drank to, 

the motives and the quiet deed? 

(In Boston 

the dying 

ride in cabs, 

yes death again, 

that ride home 

with our boy.) 

O Sylvia, I remember the sleepy drummer 

who beat on our eyes with an old story, 

how we wanted to let him come 

like a sadist or a New York fairy 

to do his job, 

a necessity, a window in a wall or a crib, 

and since that time he waited 

under our heart, our cupboard, 

and I see now that we store him up 

year after year, old suicides 

and I know at the news of your death 

a terrible taste for it, like salt, 

(And me, 

me too. 

And now, Sylvia, 

you again 

with death again, 

that ride home 

with our boy.) 

And I say only 

with my arms stretched out into that stone place, 

what is your death 

but an old belonging, 

a mole that fell out 

of one of your poems? 

(O friend, 

while the moon's bad, 

and the king's gone, 

and the queen's at her wit's end 

the bar fly ought to sing!) 

O tiny mother, 

you too! 

O funny duchess! 

O blonde thing!

-For Sylvia Plath By Anne Sexton

WANTING TO DIE

Since you ask, most days I cannot remember.

I walk in my clothing, unmarked by that voyage.

Then the almost unnameable lust returns.

Even then I have nothing against life.

I know well the grass blades you mention,

the furniture you have placed under the sun.

But suicides have a special language.

Like carpenters they want to know which tools.

They never ask why build.

Twice I have so simply declared myself,

have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy,

have taken on his craft, his magic.

In this way, heavy and thoughtful,

warmer than oil or water,

I have rested, drooling at the mouth-hole.

I did not think of my body at needle point.

Even the cornea and the leftover urine were gone.

Suicides have already betrayed the body.

Still-born, they don't always die,

but dazzled, they can't forget a drug so sweet

that even children would look on and smile.

To thrust all that life under your tongue!--

that, all by itself, becomes a passion.

Death's a sad Bone; bruised, you'd say,

and yet she waits for me, year after year,

to so delicately undo an old wound,

to empty my breath from its bad prison.

Balanced there, suicides sometimes meet,

raging at the fruit, a pumped-up moon,

leaving the bread they mistook for a kiss,

leaving the page of the book carelessly open,

something unsaid, the phone off the hook

and the love, whatever it was, an infection.

-Anne Sexton

I was loving your laugh and your voice,

I was fighting for soul of yours.

But that soul was so alien, really,

But that soul had a rust instead filling.

Love was telling: "So, what, I'm missing,

I'll destroy rust of soul, it's easy".

There were tempests and calm and silence,

There were fires of rootless violence,

But, you know, in that violent fire

I was burning alone, I'm tired.

Rust stayed rust, there's no other filling

And that soul is still alien, really...

-Yulia Drunina