#Emotional shutdown

[itsgivingautism]

Bro sometimes I really wish I could like feel my emotions so I can actually process them but nooooo we shutting down 🤪🫣😵‍💫🫠 (crying on the inside tho at the same time but also like a numb void but also like eh we chilling ??? also like eh what the fuckkkkk ????)

[itspixthecrazybitch]

I say that comforting people helps calm me down, but I think it really just gives me an excuse to go back into emotional shutdown mode and let it all build up until I lose it days later for “no reason”

[unwelcome-ozian]

[autobot2001]

What if This is What She's Been Dealing With?

Author: Autobot2001 Genre: Fanfiction Fandom: Transformers Rating: T Warning: Poor mental health Pairing: Drift X Jamie (OC) Description: Drift questions if Jamie's behavior is emotional shutdown. Continued from day 27.

@marchofpain day 31; shutdown

Jamie ate dinner in the cafeteria with her friends. Others in the cafeteria are aware of the situation as they see her sadness. They don’t know the details but still worry. Crosshairs and Drift already don’t like telling Lightning and the twins when Jamie is struggling, now at least ten other Autobots and soldiers know something is up. They all know not to ask Crosshairs and Drift. Knowing how much the two struggle as they watch Jamie struggle.

Crosshairs yet again ignored his pain. He missed taking his pain relief by an hour. He sits on his bed, but before he gets his water bottle and pain relief, he notices Drift sitting on the other bed, looking at his phone. “Drift?” He is concerned about Drift ignoring him. Ignoring his pain, he moves to sit next to Drift. He thought Drift was looking through photos, but he was reading something. “Drift?” He repeats, nudging the mech. Drift sighs, “I…” Drift being unable to say anything worries Crosshairs. He takes Drift’s phone from his hand, seeing what Drift is reading; an article about emotional shutdown. As Crosshairs reads the article, he understands why Drift is speechless. What can he say? Crosshairs has ignored his pain long enough. Now, getting to his bed five feet away is difficult. “Crosshairs?” Drift hurries to help him to his bed and take his pain relief, “how long have you been ignoring your pain?” “Not even five minutes. You had me worried. What prompted you to look up emotional shutdown?” “I didn’t right away. That’s what a search led me to and… it’s accurate, but I don’t know if that means He’s been emotionally shut down for years.�� “Rung would know, maybe even Ratchet, but I don’t want to ask them. They already hate how much Jamie struggles with her mental health. I don’t think this is a complete emotional shutdown. Unfortunately, I think what we’ve been seeing the past few days is just emotional shutdown, but prior has been the effects of humans not caring about her and how her family treats her.” “It’s hard knowing how humans treat her. That no human would love her romantically, and if they did, they’d abandon her.” Tears roll down Drift’s face. Crosshairs pulls him onto the bed. Drift weeps to avoid waking Jamie. As always, Crosshairs hates not knowing what to say. Now he watches Drift cry himself to sleep.

Crosshairs wakes up feeling the weight on his abdomen. He realizes Drift fell asleep on him. Bed space is limited for the mech. He also sees Jamie sleeping on him. He smiles, seeing his friends think he’s a comfortable pillow. Soon Drift wakes up. “Sorry,” he apologizes. Knowing the pain relief wore off, Drift gets more pills and Crosshairs’ water bottle. “Don’t be sorry,” Crosshairs says after taking pain relief, “she can stay. Are you ok?” “No.” Crosshairs is worried about Drift’s immediate sadness soon waking up. Questioning if it’s evidence of sad dreams but not nightmares. The sole suggestion from Crosshairs is a shower. Knowing Drift cannot meditate like he used to. He looks at Jamie, worried about how she’ll be today.

[best-therapies]

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[damaged-gay]

Feeling so disconnected from everyone and everything..

[doctor-mccoys-sanity]

autism and strong emotion just be like… SHAKE! SHAKE SO HARD! BUT FEEL TRAPPED BY THE PRISON OF YOUR BONES *screams*

[starry-bi-sky]

Blood Blossom Au: before the nightingale sings

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for my batdad blood blossom au, the one where Vlad poisoned Danny with blood blossom extract and Danny ran away from him and ended up tumbling into the care of one Pre-Robin Battinson Batman :). A quick oneshot telling the tale of the tragic deaths of the Fentons

TW: Major Character Death Warning

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Not all deaths are created equal.

That is a valuable lesson in life to learn. One that Danny learns when he is eleven years old, standing in the pit of his parents’ creation; the culmination of their life’s work. The portal to the other side, the realm of the dead. To the infinite. 

He learns that when he’s eleven years old, in a hazmat suit that sags on him, and boots that clunk when he walks because the only ones that fit are his mom’s, and even those are too big. In gloves that he has to clench his fists in because otherwise they fall off. In goggles that slide down his nose even when he’s tightened them the farthest they can go. 

He learns that when he’s eleven years old, choking on giggles that harmonize with the laughter of his friends’ who stand at the mouth of the tunnel. Sam’s holding a polaroid in her hand. They’re just being kids. 

They’re not laughing when Danny’s hand hits the safety lock — the one with faulty wiring, the only one in the tunnel. The only one he could possibly hit. They’re not laughing when the portal buzzes to life, and the lights inside switch on row by row as the generator begins to rumble and hum. 

They’re not laughing when Danny dies. They’re screaming. They’re not screaming when he comes back.

Not all deaths are created equal.  

Some are poetic, beautiful. The satisfying close of a book as it comes to an end, of the hardback thumping soft against the pages like the sound of a door closing. A train run its course.

Some are violent; unsatisfying; unfair. The unexpected shattering of an egg as it rolls off the countertop when nobody is looking, the unmistakable crack as it falls to the floor. It is abrupt and messy. 

But most are just… unremarkable. Unintentional. Clumsy. 

Danny’s family dies one night in late January. He is thirteen years old, barely a month away from fourteen. It is unforeseen. It is preventable. It happens. 

It happens like this: 

Their water heater breaks one Monday in January. It’s old, sitting in the garage, and has dealt with nearly sixteen years of Fenton-grade chaos and shenanigans. Of parents tossing scraps and junk into the garage as brief storage to come back to later. Of illegal tune-ups on their vehicles that result in something exploding. Of little children running around and knocking things over, playing with poles and sticks they find on the ground, on the shelves. Of being lived and used.  

Something had to give. 

Jack Fenton notices it immediately when he comes upstairs that very afternoon — his children at school, his wife downstairs — to grab something from the garage. The very same scrap and used material they store like squirrels to use later. 

He stops what he’s doing to fix it.  

It wasn’t supposed to be permanent. 

Despite what many believe, Jack Fenton is not the idiot people make him out to be. He knows what he’s good at, he knows what he’s not. He knows he can be passionate and obsessive and single-minded about things. He knows that he is a scientist, an inventor; an engineer. 

He knows that he is not a plumber. That fixing water heaters is not something he knows how to do, not safely. And he loves his family. What he does is only meant to be temporary — a fix meant to only last a few days until they can call someone in who can fix it for them. 

So Jack Fenton futzes with the water heater, gives it a temporary stitch to last a short while, and reminds himself to call a plumber later that day to come in and fix it. He turns and leaves the garage with the part he came for —  a sheet of metal for his wife to melt down — and disappears back downstairs. 

He does not make that call; it slips from his mind. 

It is not his fault. 

One day passes, then two, then suddenly it is Thursday. The water heater has still not been fixed, the water heater has been forgotten. It is nobody’s fault.  

Danny asks his parents at breakfast if he can stay over at Tucker’s house for the night. Just one night. They’re going to study for their math test and then play video games until midnight, but he only tells his parents that first half. 

He’s been doing well in school. Really well — better than he has in a while. There’s been a delightful lull in ghost appearances for the last few weeks. The living don’t know why, but Danny does. The Winter Truce always calms the dead down for a while, something about how the Zone cleanses itself twice a mortal year and that fresh wave of ecto clears out the old and brings in the new. 

This year Danny got to participate. He’s feeling the effects of it too, and he’s been sleeping consistently well for the first time since the accident. 

It’ll never happen again. 

His parents agree under the condition that he doesn’t stay up late, and Danny harmlessly lies through his teeth and agrees. He goes and throws overnight clothes into his school backpack, and when he leaves for school with Jazz his parents are already departed into the lab. 

The last conversation he has with his sister is in her car on the drive to school. Inane, mindless conversation to fill the air and pass the time. Jazz comments on how relaxed he’s been lately; Danny tells her about the Winter Truce. She listens in rapt attention. 

She tells him that she’s glad to see him so well-rested. She thinks her little brother’s been growing up too fast these days. She thinks he’s been too tense. Too caught up with the spinning of the world around him that he forgets about himself sometimes. 

When they reach school, before Danny can get out of the car, Jazz looks to her little brother and says; “I love you.” 

Her little brother’s cheeks turn an embarrassed shade of red. He makes a scrunched up, grossed-out face, but can’t hide the smile pulling across it. “Don’t be a sap, Jazz. I’ll see you later.” He tells her, yanking his hood up over his head. She hears the bashful, ‘love you too’ before he walks away. 

That is the last conversation she ever has with her brother. 

Thursday is unremarkable, passing by in its normality as it always does. There’s one, maybe two ghost sightings; shades lurking around in curious infancy that are easily spooked away by the presence of a greater being. Danny doesn’t even have to go ghost. 

Thursday evening is even less so. Danny goes to Tucker’s house — Sam has a prior arrangement with her slam poetry club — and the two of them study for an hour before they toss their textbooks aside and reach for the game console. 

Danny sleeps in Tucker’s room with one of the extra blankets on his bed, curled across the room in one of the bean bag chairs. It shouldn’t be comfortable, but to Danny it is. He sleeps throughout the night, the portal shut down by his parents before they’d gone to bed. 

Early Friday morning, before the sun has even risen yet, before it’s even so much as a concept to grace the horizon, the water heater breaks again. It was supposed to be fixed. 

Carbon monoxide is a silent killer. Odorless and scentless, it kills within minutes. It fills the house like a shadow casting over the ground, creeping into the rooms. 

Danny’s family die in their sleep; painless and unaware. 

It’s not Jack Fenton’s fault. He didn’t mean to.  

Nobody wakes up with their alarms. 

Danny wakes up to Tucker Foley’s alarm on Friday morning, and he turns his head intangible and shoves it into the beanbag chair like an ostrich hiding its head in the sand. Tucker gets up before him, and throws a pillow at him as he reaches for the alarm. 

There’s laughter, messing around. The both of them get dressed, and Danny has breakfast with the Foleys that morning. He takes the bus to school with Tucker, and they meet Sam by their lockers. 

To him, everything is as normal as it should be. There are no ghosts for him to fight right now, school is as school does, and he’s on top of all his schoolwork. 

He does not see Jazz at all that morning, he doesn’t notice. Their schedules are so different, their routes on different paths, that it’s not uncommon for Danny to not see Jazz until he gets home some days. That’s if there’s no ghost attacks. 

At lunch, he gets approached by her friends. Worried creases between their brows, they ask him if he’s seen Jazz. She hasn’t shown up to any of her classes. She’s not answering their texts. It’s unprecedented of her; unheard of. 

Danny doesn’t admit to the concern that swells in his gut when they tell him this. He shrugs at them, and says he hasn’t seen her either. But it was probably nothing to worry about; she might just be sick and sleeping it off. 

He offers to text her and let them know if he gets a response, and that seems to ease her friends enough that they shuffle away in uncertainty. He keeps his word, and does exactly that. He pulls out his phone and opens her contact, and shoots her a message.

‘Where are you?’ 

He doesn’t get a response back, Danny is left on sent. He puts his phone in his pocket, and with a sense of unease creeping in the back of his mind, goes on with his day. He gets no response by the time the final bell rings; and he tries not to be worried. 

The house is quiet when he opens the door. Unusually quiet. He drops his backpack to the floor, it lands with a hearty thunk, and begins to take off his jacket. “Mom! Dad!” He yells. He hangs it up, and slips his shoes from his feet. “Jazz skipped school today!”

A laughable untruth that would get his sister all riled up normally; she should be able to hear him from the front door if she was in her room. The house just stays dead silent. 

He can’t even hear the usual banging and crashing from the lab. His unease returns. He reaches for the intercom that leads directly down to the basement, and presses the button to turn it on. A burst of static, and then he speaks;

“Mom? Dad?” 

Danny lets go, and waits for a response. He gets none back. That never happens, not when the house is this quiet. Not when he knows they should’ve heard him. 

Something sickly and fearful borns in the pit of his stomach, and begins to snake upward. He heads for the lab. The cool metal of the door is familiar in the grooves of his hand, and he doesn’t even need to think about the code as he punches it in;  he simply lets muscle memory guide him. It’s been the same since he was little. 

The door hisses as the pressure is released, and he swings the door open. He takes the stairs down two at a time. Something is wrong. His parents aren’t answering him. His feet pound against the metal. 

“Mom? Dad?” He calls again, more worried, more frantic. More scared. His voice echoes down the stairwell, and he reaches the bottom before it’s fully faded. The lab is empty. The portal is still shut down. 

It was four in the afternoon, they should still be down here. 

Danny races back upstairs, fear-raised nausea coiling in his throat. “This isn’t funny you guys!” He yells when he reaches the top, shoving open the door with more force than necessary. His head swims, his voice cracked. 

He checks the garage, the car is still there. 

“Mom!? Dad!” His voice bellows out throughout the first floor, loud enough that it bounces back at him and rings against his ears. He’s never raised his voice this much — mom would scold him if she heard him. But she doesn’t show up. “Jazmine!” 

Finally, he goes upstairs, and he can’t tell if what he’s feeling is anger or terror. Something is very, very wrong. 

He swings the door of his parents’ rooms open first, and there they are, with the lights still off and the curtains still drawn. As if they hadn’t left their bed all day. Some of Danny’s fear lifts from his shoulders just by the sight of them, but he’s still trembling. Something is still wrong — the room smells… off. Not good, not bad. Just… off. 

He swallows dryly, his throat still thick, and steps into the room. “Mom, dad?” They do not stir. “Didn’t you guys hear me yelling?” 

There is only room static. Danny’s heart shrivels in his chest with a tenfold return of terror, he feels ill. He remembers, just now, that they’re not heavy sleepers, and his dad should be snoring like a freight house. 

Danny reaches their bedside in seconds, hand outstretching for the covers, “Momma? Dad?”

Not all deaths are created equal. 

But many of them are accidental. Unmeditated. Shocking.

Danny Fenton finds his family dead in his childhood home. He runs to his neighbors in hysterics, inconsolable, in tears. Nine-one-one is called, but there is nothing that can be done. They were dead for hours by the time Daniel Fenton returned home. 

He sits on the front steps of the neighbor’s house beside FentonWorks, his jeans slowly becoming wet from the snow that was unable to be scraped off, and watches the paramedics cart out his family beneath white sheets. There are police cars blocking off the street, yellow tape blocking off his house, red-blue lights lighting up the block, an ambulance on the scene. He is wrapped in a shock blanket, and he is missing his jacket and his shoes. His tears are freezing onto his face, he can’t feel the chill. 

Not all deaths are created equal

But all of them are unforgettable. 

[thefluxsystem]

something i don’t see talked about in the system community enough are the dissociative shutdowns.

when you’re in a system, you know what it feels like to not have control over your body because somebody else does. so, when you’re supposed to be controlling the body and, when life hits the fan, suddenly it won’t do anything you want it to do, it’s terrifying.

the world feels crushing yet far away at the same time. your eyes are looking around, but they’re not truly seeing. you can hear someone talking, and you can’t respond— and if you are, the words falling off your lips are foreign and feel numb on your tongue.

when you’re in that state you feel nothing. you don’t notice your own actions (if you can even muster any), you don’t register touch or pain, you don’t feel cold, you don’t feel heat.

hours pass. maybe it’s only minutes? it’s impossible to tell. you’re frozen in time and space but everything is still moving on around you.

then all the sudden it’s over. at least it seems over. something still feels… wrong. but there’s no time to address that.

as time goes on, it turns out that you never really circle back to why that happened. until it happens again. then you ignore it. the cycle continues.

[what-immortal-hand-or-eye]

feeling vindicated as FUCK in this chili's tonight

[gullivertravelstowonderland]

Y'know what? I wanna see more disability representation in g/t, but I espescially wanna see g/t disability aid services!

Tinies volunteering to do small tasks for humans with fine motor difficulties!

Minigiants acting as mobility aids!

Seeing-eye tinies and giant sign interpreters!

A human accidentally starting an assisted living service for tinies after helping a few struggling borrowers!

EMOTIONAL SUPPORT SIZESHIFTERS!

SIZESHIFTERS WITH SUPPORT HUMANS!

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!

[nekoprankster218]

I’ve had my issues with RT and the recent seasons of RWBY, but the fact we might never get a proper conclusion after coming so close too - after the team was forced to make a shitty Justice League crossover to earn their greenlight first - feels so fucking bad.

And I know WB is trying to sell RWBY now so it’s not over yet, but that first requires someone to buy it. And then who knows what happens from there. Like, we at least get the final season of RVB and one more season of Camp Camp. But not even the ending of RWBY?

[yoondepity]

tell, dear people on my phone, how catatonic I'm gonna be after finishing eps 16 and 17 of fangs of fortune?

[gurorori]

if you say shit like 'autism is not a disability' i hope you actually have really bad things happen to you and you are banned from the autism community for the foreseeable future. get another fun weird club if you so badly need one

so profoundly tired of people trying to make autism into this whimsical quirkiness when it's for most people a serious and debilitating life altering disorder

[urloveangel]

what if… you’re not lazy, broken, wrong, not good enough, unmotivated, flaky, emotionless but your brain is still recovering from chronic stress and childhood trauma and is relearning how to regulate and sustain your serotonin and dopamine levels, and process your emotions and responses… WHAT IF

[aces-observatory]

I wish to stop feeling now. Please.