#Mental Health Problems

[kiindr]

friendly reminders:

you don't have to be productive every day

you are worthy even if all you did today was get out of bed

there are people out there who care about you

your existence makes a difference

if something bothers you, then it bothers you. no one has the right to tell you otherwise

you are allowed to take up space

there is no 'right way' to grieve

you cannot put a time limit on emotions

your likes and interests are valid and they matter

it's okay to take your time in doing things. not everyone can do everything at the same pace

[rippersz]

ᴀ ꜰᴏᴏʟ'ꜱ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ

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(Brienne of Tarth x Named Reader; Angsty; Hurt/Slight Comfort) (TW: Suic*de attempt; Suic*dal ideations/thoughts; Slight Romanticization of mental illness)

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“An autumn whisper between the maples kept urging: Die with me.” ~ Anna Akhmatova

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A Fool’s Death.

That’s what they call it.

A Fool’s Death. You’re a coward if you do it. You’re a lazy bastard if you live with thoughts of it. You’re a selfish prick of a soul either way.

There’s no winning and there’s no losing. There’s no talk of it. Not even a mention. Not even a whisper. And if there is, you are spoken of. Judged. Scrutinized until The Fool’s Death becomes your death. Until the village and its people and everyone in your family are forced to spit upon your narcissistic bones and claim you disowned even though there is nothing left to claim and nothing left to disown. Just a corpse that is cold and dull and useless.

Cold and dull and useless.

You think that’s how you’ll do it.

Winter has already carried her snow and chill and winds into the region, laying it all upon the land like a warm blanket around a small child’s body. Painting everything white and leaving it to glisten to sludge beneath the eventual heat of the spring sun. A perfect time for rebirth. A perfect time for death.

—

Your hands shake as you slowly pull open the door to your quarters, wincing while it creaks and groans, forcing you to stop every time a noise rings out into the empty hall. Your heart, pounding away in your ears, ruins your sense of hearing while you stand like a statue within your own doorway. Anxiety slips through your bones. Fear pulls at you. The last desire you have is to wake everyone in the castle and call attention to yourself. No, having eyes and ears on you while you lay in the snow and wait for the freeze to set in is less than ideal. A Fool’s Death, after all, is never A Fool’s Death if done with company.

So once you decide that the corridors are empty and you can slip out through the back entrance into the kitchens, you do exactly that. A singular torch is lit, burning away within its stone perch, nearly beckoning you closer with its dancing flame. You trail toward it and stop there, watching it for a moment, reveling in the last bit of warmth that your skin will ever feel. You know that some hours later, when the moon is long gone and the clouds block the sun and the stars keep themselves veiled, you will no longer be able to feel fire. You will no longer be able to feel ice. You will no longer be able to feel the breath in your lungs leave you in short pants. It will all bleed into the same numb feeling. And you will freeze until Mother Nature tells you to thaw. And once your body has been revealed to the changing air of the seasons, once the earth’s creatures start to take advantage of your indirect kindness, you also know that your frozen flesh will not be mourned. Because no one will cry for you. And no one will beg the gods, both old and new, to bring you back. And no one will waste another precious breath worrying about who you were.

You, who were just another soldier out of an army of hundreds. A faceless woman. A person easily replaced. Inconsequential in every sense of the word. Your family was dead, your acquaintances were no more than good mornings and good nights, your position would be filled as soon as you broke rank. And no one would notice your absence. The Lord Commander wouldn’t even blink. The royal family wouldn’t even spare a thought. Though then again, it wasn’t like you deserved their thoughts, their sympathies, their prayers anyway. You weren’t a war hero and you weren’t important and you didn’t do anything beyond follow orders and live your life. Well- that last bit would change, of course. As soon as you pull yourself away from the torch and get going.

The chill of night is a harsh contrast from the few minutes of firelight, but you find that your body, already shivering and slow beneath the thin white nightgown, doesn’t take true notice of the cold. You’re only propelled forward by a distant urge. A previously agreed upon understanding with no one but yourself: This was necessary. This is what it was going to come to anyway, whether you died a fool sooner or later. This was the way of the world and you were just another pawn amongst the masses. Going to war, front of the line, hoping to die in glory.

But there was no glory there. There was no glory in your measured footsteps and there was no glory in your sagging shoulders and tired expression. And there was no glory in your desire. How could there be? How could the good gods ever wish to touch you after your blasphemy? How could you hang your soul out to dry and still expect to find your place in Nirvana? They will call you a coward. They will call you a fool. They will call you a rotten whore and they will say that they wish you’d done it sooner. They will walk past your nonexistent grave without a wandering thought as to what your name was. You could’ve saved everyone the trouble, they will say. Could’ve saved them the breaths. Spared them of your quiet awkward presence. Making everyone uncomfortable. Leaving the men to tease and toss aside the idea of censoring themselves just because you were a woman. Not the only woman, but a woman nonetheless. Of course they held their tongues when The Lord Commander walked past, or sat at the table, or existed and breathed in their general vicinity, but that didn’t matter. Brienne of Tarth was not always around to control them nor comfort you - not that she did the latter anyway. You weren’t important enough for that.

And the universe seemed to agree. The path was laid out before you, lit by the silver moon, traced by the glow of the white ground. You’d decided on your resting place only a few days ago. During a morning patrol with some of the newer trainees, you came across a spot of smooth Earth. Two logs, parallel to each other, framed a large empty patch of snow. From where you stood, it looked like a beautiful painting that had yet to be finished. There was no subject- no goal- no lesson to be learned- no deeper meaning and no unintentional intentional wicked talent. But before that could be rectified, before it could be completed, it would have to be ruined. Once you’re long dead, you’ll find the time to apologize to Mother Nature, but as you trek over the last hill, you’re more focused on becoming one with the frozen ground.

The site of your death is far enough away from civilization, near the edge of a tall cliff, so any wandering strangers won’t bother to come too close. Well that’s what you tell yourself, living in hope as per usual; but in reality nothing is stopping another living creature from stumbling across your frozen corpse. The snow is thick, yes, but not thick enough to hide all of you. And the sun is only some hours away from rising. Oh well. It won’t matter anyway. You’ll be passed out by then, icicles hanging from your eyelashes and blue coating the lining of your lips. Your heart will be quiet, weak, in your frozen chest. Your hands will be limp. And the rest of you will be blanketed by the sweet tasty frost of death, creating a home for its festering teeth. Teeth that will bite and gnash and taste and tear - but their attacks will be in vain. You will be numb. So wonderfully, perfectly, fatefully, numb.

And your fingertips, for what it’s worth, are already tingling with the beginnings of it.

The beginnings of it.

‘It’ being your end, of course.

‘It’ being the thing you want. Desperately.

‘It’ being the Fool’s Death you were born to have.

Oh so poetic it was…

Oh so… lovely.

…

…

You blink suddenly, forcing the chilled tears out of your eyes. Damn wind… so cold… so refreshing… Your knees bend to crouch into the snow, slow and exhausted like the sluggish looking of your eyes. ‘Hello’ the snow grins- beams- smiles so cheerfully up at you, ‘come to see me again, have you? It’s only been a few days. But I have missed you so much. We all have missed you so much.’ And you glance up to take in the ‘we’; the looming trees and the deep blue sky and the twinkling stars and the sweet bright moon, and you nod to yourself. Yes. This is how it is. This is the perfect atmosphere.

This is the glory of a Fool’s Death.

This is the peace of a Fool’s Death.

This is salvation.

No loud men and no flickering fires and no furs and no royals and no company and no messy thoughts and no sleepless nights and no terrifying dreams and no days of forced starvation and no sadness, no sadness, no sadness, no sadness, no sadness, no sadness, no sadness, no sadness, no sadness, no sadness, no hope, no love, no happiness, no reason, no reason, no reason no reason no reason to live live live live live live live- live!

The thin white slip on your body shields you from nothing. Your palms sink into the soft fluff of the ground. Instantly, upon laying down, you’re soaked to the bone. Water finds itself languishing along your body, playing games and laughing while it gathers in your scalp and dances on your fingertips. And the snow, whispering near your ear and beckoning you to salvation, stretches its hands and says ‘Come, dear friend. Come rest here. I am soft. I will give you everything you want.’ So you rest. And you give in. And your body relaxes; your muscles unclench and the tension slides from your shoulders as a sigh bubbles past your lips.

Is it one of relief? One of stress? One of defeat? You’re not sure. You don’t know. Your heart is shuddering- pulsing- with excitement, but it’s a mystery as to why. Death is not supposed to feel good. Death is not supposed to feel powerful. Death is not supposed to feel like you’re finally grabbing life by the balls and saying HAH! THIS IS IT! THIS IS MY MOMENT! THIS IS MY DEATH! MY END! AND YOU CAN NEVER TAKE THAT AWAY FROM ME.

… So why does it feel that way?

Why does it feel so good?

…

…The night is quiet. It does not have answers for you. The moon looks on with unblinking eyes. You feel yourself grow heavy.

But the deed is not over yet. There is still one thing left to do. Slowly, the snow falls away as your limbs stir. They move on autopilot, not drawn by the thoughts in your head but again pushed by that faint desire.

Heels digging, nails running blue, curling into the snow, pushing it away - only to drag it back five minutes later; hastily working to complete the masterpiece. Desperate to become one with the Earth and fall into oblivion. A deep, bone-cold, quieting oblivion that will leave you shivering before it leaves you dead. Even beneath the blanket of snow that caresses your skin, that lays over your bare legs, that nuzzles the sensitive parts of your body, you begin to shake. And you begin to think.

The thoughts, interestingly enough, don’t freeze like the rest of you does. Instead, they grow. Swirl like a winter’s storm. Obsessive and rough, they pull you under like they always did.

This is great, isn’t it?

No, you think in response to yourself. It hurts, actually.

Oh stop whining. It will be worth it.

Why? How?

For years, it has been worth it.

That doesn’t answer anything. How has it been worth it? Is that why I’ve been hurting so much? For the sake of worthiness? Or something else?

Well you never felt worthy of anything else.

But I feel worthy of this?

Death? Yes. Everyone is worthy of death. Even The Lord Commander.

…What does she have to do with this?

You know what.

Your hands grasp at the snow, mindless and desperate. Pulling and pulling and pulling - clawing at the crisp white so it can cover you until no part of you is left to the air. Shielding you from the hatred of the universe. From the angry eyes of the gods. From the venom of the men. From the disinterest of the women. From the world… and its lack of care for you. And its lack of positivity. And its rude- disgusting- vile- way of treating you. And its overwhelming desire to kill you before you could kill yourself.

Too late now. We’re at least one foot deep in the ground! This is it. Keep digging. Keep digging. Keep digging! No stopping here! No energy left. Nothing left, actually. Not a goddamn thing. Nothing. Nothing at all.

Nothing at all….

Nothing.

At all.

Your eyelids flutter shut.

—

It’s two hours later when Ser Brienne of Tarth starts to wrap up her last duty of the evening.

A quick patrol of the furthest border is something not necessarily reserved for The Lord Commander, but is more of a safety measure she enforces upon herself before retiring for bed. Exhaustion pulls at her before she sets out, yes, but sometimes the nightmares… the white walkers… they leave her paranoid. Expectant of an attack that will never come. Worried about an enemy that no longer exists. Thus, she does it alone - and with only the royals’ knowledge.

It’s always a quiet affair, drawn along quickly by her and her steed Valour. They work with sharp eyes and a torch through the dark, stopping every few paces to listen for threats. There aren’t any, of course, but that doesn’t stop her from clip-clopping along the terrain with tense shoulders and keen senses, looking through the din of the torch’s fire in her hand. She has to be careful not to set her furs alight, but it’s not a hard task. Keeping it level, shunting it toward the ground and out toward the trees, proves to be more difficult. There’s no use in a flame if it can’t illuminate a damn th-

HUFF.

Valour’s hooves press into the snow, leaving them to stop - suddenly, quickly, with a jerk - as hot breath puffs from her nostrils and curls into the air. She’s tense, Brienne realizes. Tense and alert, with white ears twisting to take in sound. They stand in silence. Blue eyes watch as the animal’s head turns - first to the left and then to the right. But aside from the night and the usual rustle of the world, there is nothing. Nothing to hear, nothing to notice, nothing to fight or defend. Nothing to… find?

With one last sweep of the flame, she catches something quick. It’s nearly unnoticeable. Buried beneath the snow, but not one with the ground. It’s foreign. Out of place. A mere lump with no distinct beginning and end. Brienne chances a glance down at the horse, interest and apprehension dancing through her veins once she sees Valour’s eyes have caught the same thing. The same… intruder. The same issue.

When she slides off of the horse, half expecting to see the thing rise from the ground, one hand shoots to her sword. It waits. Curls around the hilt. Stretches beneath her glove. Twitches with adrenaline.

But there’s nothing. Not even a tremble beneath the dirt.

“Stay,” she whispers to Valour, moving the hand from her blade to gesture, palm facing the ground, for the horse to stand in wait.

And as cautiously, as quietly, as she can, Brienne approaches the mystery. She rounds one of the logs, taking notice of the odd placement, and tries not to wince each time her boots make a small crunch in the silence. Footprints will no doubt be left behind, but that doesn’t seem to bother her much as she catches sight of another pair in the distance. They’re small, the knight notices. With no distinct shape if not for a slight curve. The snow is kicked up, forced from its smooth blanket. Hurried in their demeanor. But slow in the amount of distance between each print.

Human, she thinks.

Human indeed, the snow hums; bearing all to see as it glistens beneath the firelight of her torch and brings Brienne to her unsightly treasure.

Frosted skin. A soaked nightgown. Arms and legs bitten by the chill.

Dead, she thinks.

No. Alive. The snow breathes.

—

Someone is taking off your clothes. They’re cold, sticking to you, and little grunts follow as bits of your nightgown rip with the effort. Your body is shocked, shivering so hard that the stranger can’t keep you still and isn’t quite sure what to do. Eventually, a mind is made up and you’re stripped completely - then covered with woolen hose. At least two pairs- both of which are too big for you and hang by the feet and are quite loose around the waist, but the dresser doesn’t seem to care. Trousers are next. How many pairs? You don’t know. Then shirts. And furs. And even a pair of leather gloves that droop at the fingertips and gape at the wrists - but they’re warm and lined with wool and you can’t feel your body but that’s okay. You didn’t want to anyway. More grunting and growling and small whispered curses follow until you’re very much tucked into a bed far bigger than your own. It’s warm. Good. You’re numb and half-dead, but it’s good. Lovely, really. And the outside world doesn’t call your name as you close your eyes.

Waking up was not on your agenda.

It wasn’t even in the cards.

And you don’t really want to - but the universe never cared for your opinion. And it did what it wanted whenever it wanted anyway. So you have no choice.

Thus, your eyes flutter open and your lungs expand with breath and suddenly the world comes flooding back in one confusing twist of fate. Nausea wastes no time in tearing you down; instantly going to churn in the pit of your stomach and curl in the back of your throat and pound against the skin of your temples. A deep groan slips from between your chapped lips. The lining of your skull feels as though it’s been replaced with cotton.

The snow really took its chance, didn’t it? Brutal. Ruthless. At least the Earth doesn’t lie to you. At least the Earth doesn’t save you.

But someone did. Someone has.

They’re actually shuffling over; measured footsteps sounding like big loud stomps in your head. You close your eyes. Everything is too bright. Everything is too much.

“Morning.”

Hm. The voice sounds familiar. A bit wonky, like it’s far away, but familiar. You don’t have the energy to respond so you just let out a grunt and allow it to taper off into a weird rumbly hum.

“Hey,” there’s a sudden clicking noise near your ear, making you jolt and snort when your eyes flick open. There are fingers - long pale fingers snapping beside your head, falling silent when you glare up at the offender, only to find-

“Lah Commandah?!” Your tongue and throat are stiff and achy, keeping your speech limited and your voice strangled. You grimace at the sound and instantly try to growl the discomfort away, but she cuts you off.

“Don’t do that- you’ll just make it worse.” It comes out in a huff and silences you with ease.

She doesn’t look or seem very happy, which in turn makes you frown. It was a shot straight through the heart when the Lord Commander was in a bad mood - which surprisingly wasn’t always. In fact, she’d grown a little softer over the years. The tales talk of her unwilling attitude and stubborn pride, but sometimes she’s full of wit and humor. And on the best of days, she’ll give the most successful troops a small smile and a bow of her head. The only sign of ‘You did well’ that anyone would ever get from her. You’d never gotten a reaction like that before.

I wonder why she didn’t leave us out in the snow.

“Can you sit up?” Glacier blue eyes run over your face.

You’re not sure what you look like but you suppose it doesn’t matter. She’s seen worse.

“Dun-no, Lah Commandah,” you breathe, trying to do exactly that.

After the fifth try of shifting your arms and legs and quickly running out of strength, she seems to get the hint and suddenly large strong hands are sliding under your arms and tugging you up, then pushing you back. It’s done in one swift movement, leaving you dizzy while you rest your head against the wooden headboard of-… of a bed that certainly isn’t yours.

No, you’re definitely not in your own room. The layout is completely different. It’s more… it’s not pretty but it’s better looking than your own. Complete with greys and blacks and silvers and even a hint of red here and there. The fire that’s been crackling steadily in the background is clean and well-kept, where your room doesn’t even have space for one at all. And the curtains are drawn over the windows covering the right wall, leaving the place shrouded in a darkness that would have existed there anyway even if the curtains were open - it’s nighttime, pitch black outside, and suddenly you’re very much aware of the fact that you’ve kept your Lord Commander- The Brienne of Tarth- out of her own bed for more than a day.

By the time you blink yourself out of your dizzy distracted haze and try to find her form again, she’s already busy doing something else. Wringing out cloths over a bowl… and then returning to your side. Your lips, chapped and still tinged blue, open in an effort to say something- anything- but then a soft hot cloth is draped over your forehead, covering your temples, and suddenly you don’t have a damned thought left in your mind. The feeling is so nice. So blissful. You could stay like that forever.

If only the universe showed you mercy.

“It’s been two days since I found you,” the Lord Commander says, placing the bowl down gently on the side table beside the bed. Her eyes glance over your coverings, making sure the furs and gloves and shirts are all still in order. They are. She was very thorough before. She would not have made a mistake. There was no room for error.

But there’s room now for judgment. Judgment and disdain, and you’re terrified of those things and you really don’t want to have to hear her tell you that you’re a stupid wench and that the rest of the troops will forever make fun of you for your idiocy, so you swallow and wince and your hands twist together in your lap. The leather of the gloves is soft, well-worn, and the wool is only the tiniest bit matted - and you can’t help but admire the craftsmanship as you bring them up to your abdomen. They’re obviously not your gloves, just as everything else is not yours either, but you don’t know what to do first: apologize or thank her.

Honestly, you don’t really want to thank her - because she ruined your plan - but at the same time, she saved your life. Whether you wanted to end it or not doesn’t matter… because she would’ve helped you no matter what. And perhaps you’re selfish for being a little bit angry about it, maybe you’re being self-centered and dumb, but you can’t help the feeling of bitterness creep into your heart. You wanted to die… and she took that from you. She wanted you to live.

It was a duty. She doesn’t want anything. Anyone would have done it.

But that’s not true.

The men would have left you. Or hurt you. Or anything else.

But there she is, having gone through the trouble of saving you… and she’s looking down at you with a frown on her handsome face and a furrow to her light brows that seems like it never leaves and you wish so terribly that you could just tell her-

“I-m sorr-ey.” It’s a pathetic rasp of an apology, but it’s out of your mouth before you can catch it.

She blinks. You don’t know why her expression changes, why it softens into something less stern and concerned, but when it does you feel your breath catch in your throat. How anyone could see her as anything less than glorious is something you’ll never understand.

“Why were you out there.”

It’s a demand.

You look away, baring your eyes to the fire.

“…I sl-leep-wa-lk someti-”

“Bullshit.” She spits, one hand reaching down to curl into the bit of blanket that drapes over the side of the bed. Her expression has twisted back into one of anger. “Don’t you dare lie to me.”

But what other choice do you have?

How could you be honest?

Why did she, of all people, have to find you? And why like that? Why couldn’t she have walked into the bathhouse during the few times you’ve wept your eyes out in the steamy silence? Why couldn’t she have caught you staring at your horse, dread in your eyes as you fantasized about running away and never looking back? Why couldn’t she have stumbled upon your vulnerability when you were still willing to live?

Why did it take a Fool’s Death to finally grasp her attention?

You want to tell the truth… but you can’t.

You can’t.

So you lie again.

“Was out- on a s-strollll. Got- um- lost.” You try not to cringe at the sound of your own bad grammar. Turns out not having full feeling back in your mouth does indeed prohibit being able to speak properly.

The Lord Commander doesn’t seem to care much. In fact, she doesn’t seem to be focusing on that at all. Instead, her face has grown slack - and she’s looking at you hard. Leaning both of her hands on the side of the bed, broad shoulders going up near her neck, eyes peering through light lashes - like she’s using her stare alone to dig holes into your soul and she doesn’t need to say anything in order for you to understand that she simply doesn’t believe you. And why should she? Your lies are so obviously half-baked; only muddying up the truth; ruining what little of it can be said.

Still. She doesn’t let up. Her gaze starts to burn. Shame tugs at your cotton-lined skull. Guilt claws its way to the surface.

Pink lips, scarred on the top right, part slowly. There’s a soft inhale. You brace yourself, clutching your warm hands into fists.

“You were buried,” the Lord Commander says, barely even blinking as she looks at you. “Covered with snow.” She shakes her head and allows it to fall to her chest, letting out a scoff so quiet you had to strain to hear it. “One of the smartest soldiers I have… and you expect me to believe that you got lost on an evening stroll?” Her head comes up, eyes pinning you in place with such dull ferocity that you can’t look away. “You can’t be serious.”

It’s at that exact moment when you realize that you’re sweating. It is the amount of warm things covering your body? The clothing and the furs and the gloves? Or is it your Lord Commander’s attention? And the fact that it’s never been placed on you like that before? With such… such focus. Such- dare you even think it- care?

You swallow against the nervous lump in your throat.

‘One of the smartest soldiers I have…’

Well if you were as smart as she thinks you are, you’d be fucking honest, wouldn’t you? Yeah. You’d tell her the truth. You’d admit that you’re a coward.

But you can’t.

You can’t.

She spends all of that time training you, keeping an eye on you, making sure you’re fed and well-rested and looked after in her own roundabout Lord Commander type of way… and you repay her with…with what?

With suicide?

So disgraceful.

So horrible.

So shitty of you.

How terrible can a person be?

How-

“Are you crying?” Your Lord Commander gapes, certainly caught off guard by your sudden emotion.

“N-no?!” You stutter, just as shocked to find yourself reaching up and smearing salty tears along your cheeks.

Oh how embarrassing-!

You stupid girl!

This is why you wanted to do it in the first place!

Because all you do is just fucking embarrass yourself-!

“N-no? No- s-sorr-y La-Lor-d C-Com-”

“Enough with the Lord Commander,” she admonishes, cutting off your bumbling apology with a swift tsk. “In private, it’s Brienne.” Then she hesitates before letting out a sigh and taking a seat next to you on the side of her bed. “…I’m not your superior here.”

All you can do is blink.

I’m not your superior here.

So what are you?

That’s all you want to ask.

What are you to me then? What is this now?

But even if you did find the courage, you’re not sure what she’d say.

“Okay,” you sniff, trying your damnedest to stop the tears.

But they’re a direct result of your aching heart. And aching hearts have veins that scream in agony, wishing for nothing but silence. Utterly tranquility. The very absence of tension-filled life. And you can’t get rid of aching hearts and screaming veins without getting rid of yourself…. And your only chance to do that was destroyed. Trampled upon. Interrupted.

I just wanted to die. It rests on the very tip of your tongue but never spills out into the air.

Brienne is so clearly unsure of what to do; she’s sitting rigid in her spot and staring at a mark on the floor. You want to tell her it’s okay. You want to tell her that she doesn’t have to comfort you. You want to tell her to just let you go back into the woods again… let you find yourself back in the snow. And she can go on with her life and forget it ever happened.

But you can’t.

That’s not how it works.

That’ll never be how it works.

Foolish girl.

“…Why were you out there, Anya?” Brienne’s voice is softer than fresh lilies.

You know why.

You know why.

“…I c-can’t- I-”

Her head turns. Midnight blue eyes trace a line from your neck to your face, taking in the exhausted circles beneath your eyes and the blue-ish tinge to your skin and the utterly defeated look that blooms behind your expression. A war happens in you, taking place in the span of a moment, and you can do nothing but blink through lingering tears and stare at her.

“I can’t.” It’s a whisper. A confession all on its own.

I can’t… because you’ll think I’m a coward. And you’ll hate me. And I already hate myself enough for the both of us.

Brienne’s lips form a hard line, but she doesn’t say anything. She just peers back down at the floor and allows silence to creep into the room and lay between you both like a tired direwolf on its last legs.

The fire burns in the background. The sweat on your body cools. The dizziness in your head subsides.

It’s going to be okay, some part of you speaks. It’s going to be okay.

But you’ve told yourself that before, haven’t you?

And look where that got you.

It has to be at least 30 minutes later when Brienne finally speaks.

“There was a girl I knew once, in my early youth,” you watch her mouth move, enchanted and confused. Where was this going to lead? “She was older than me by two years. A pretty girl- like you.” Your heart trips over itself, but you don’t have time to dwell as she continues. “My father saw that, out of the very rare few, she was good to me - and so we were allowed to play often. For her it was ‘horsies’ and ‘hide and seek’, for me it was ‘swords’ and ‘knights’.” There’s a soft smile on her face, half hidden by the natural shadow of her body facing away from the hearth and half lit by the fire that lived there. Her lips twitch and she begins again. “We did everything together. She was a village girl but that didn’t matter… until it did. Time eventually caught up to us and we were forced to live our lives on our own. No more days of play and no more sharing stories.”

A soul-deep sadness settled into her eyes. She had yet to look at you. Maybe because it would make her too vulnerable… maybe because she didn’t want you to cry again. Either way, you felt yourself frown. Why was she telling you this? What happened?

And as if she could read your thoughts, she continues.

“By the time I was old enough to decide that I wanted to leave, she was already married. Kind husband, even though I only met him once. It was when I stopped in to say goodbye. I wanted to tell her that I’d write, whenever I found the time and place to do so.” Her hands, you notice, are fidgeting - running over and pulling each other quietly within her lap. The natural lines in her face grow darker as she falls back into her memories. “…I didn’t know she was struggling. I was so busy with my own life. My father’s wishes, my training, my fights with the men who challenged me… our communication grew slim. So I didn’t- I-… well.” Brienne swallows. “Her husband answered the door and when I asked after her, he burst into hysterics.”

Your heart stops.

She- no… She didn’t….

Brienne’s head goes up, her eyes turning to look at the ceiling - keeping her tears in her eyes, resistant in letting them fall. Resistant in being weak. You want to hold her and let her cry, but you know it’s not the time. She sniffs and her chest heaves with a sigh and it takes everything in you not to start sobbing. Tears build, they fall slowly, but your throat aches with held back sounds of distress.

“…She ended her life two days before I arrived.” A pause. Then- “A butter knife…,” she scoffs out a laugh and shakes her head, still pointing her face skyward - as if the gods have all the answers to her grief. “… I didn’t know what to do with myself. I didn’t know what to do with her husband. So I gave him my condolences and I left. Cried in the woods for as long as I could and kept going. And since then, I haven’t stopped.”

Despite her efforts, tears still creep over her eyelids and race down her cheeks. They mirror the ones on your own face - warm and sad and annoying in the stiff little trails left behind.

And you sit like that for a while, silently crying. Her gaze stuck to the heavens, thinking about the friend she lost; and your gaze stuck on her, thinking about the possible metaphor behind her actions. Behind the full circle-ness of it all. She couldn’t save her friend but she saved you. What did that mean in the grand scheme of your lives? What did any of it mean? How would you continue to train everyday after seeing your Lord Commander cry? After witnessing her care?

She saved us. She saved us. She saved us.

“Thank you,” comes your hoarse whisper- the first in-tact thing you’ve said since waking up.

The sound of your voice tugs Brienne out of her stupor and draws her eyes to your sad face. You don’t have the energy to give her a sympathetic smile, so you settle on a soft look. If it says all you need it to say, she doesn’t show it - but she does look away quickly and reaches up to brush the tears away.

“What for?” It’s rough - hard - a sliver of the tough Commander she’s used to being.

No no no - don’t go back to that. Your heart is safe here. I won’t judge you for your tears.

“…Saving me.” It’s more courtesy than anything as you say that, but it’s fine. You’re not magically going to wish for life again after Brienne shares a sad story with you… though it already has your heart struggling against its achy confines.

Brienne shakes her head, the gold of her hair catching the fire’s light so beautifully that you have to take your eyes off of her in order to catch your breath. If we were her friend in her youth, we would have surely fallen in love with her.

“You shouldn’t have gotten to that point,” her voice is watery- muffled with the lingerings of sadness. “No one should.”

You nod. What else is there to say? What else is there to admit? Clearly she knows. Clearly she understands. And yet… you’re still curious…

“…Why do-n’t you hate me f-or it?” Your words come out in a squeaky whisper, but you don’t care. You just need to know. You just need to make sure that you’re not reading things wrong- that there’s a chance she may actually care- and that perhaps there is a reason to stay…

Brienne doesn’t respond immediately. It’s clear that she takes a few moments to bring herself back to the present. To clear her throat and wipe her eyes again and sniffle a few times and then turn back to you. She’s tried so hard in clearing herself up, but the eyes have never lied. And you see the sadness breeding there. Festering. Sadness is wicked. You don’t know if you’re the cause of it.

“You’re strong, Anya." A pause. "Training wouldn’t be the same without you.”

But you know she means to say Nothing would be the same without you.

---

Something I've been working on for a bit. It's not as good as I hoped it would be, but I'm tired and my back hurts so whatever. I hope you're all doing well.

And if you're not and you need some help, here's the National Suicide Hotline: 988 - And the link https://988lifeline.org/

It's gonna be okay, my friend. One second at a time. - Yours, Rip x

---

[ceruleanwhore]

I just had a friendship breakup and there’s some stuff with that that lines up with a particular sub-population of the internet that I think some of y’all really need to hear. Basically, it doesn’t matter if you’re neurodivergent or mentally ill or whatever, you cannot just deny reality, make shit up, and insist that your fantasies are real. For example, if you do something shitty to someone, you cannot just decide that them being mad at you is not a natural consequence of your actions and that they aren’t allowed to be upset because it makes you uncomfortable.

I bring this up on here because it’s super common for people with mental health struggles to go through a phase where they feel like everyone else should just cater to them while they do literally nothing to treat their issues. I know it comes from recognizing the unfairness of how everyone else can just do whatever while you have to dedicate years of your life to changing yourself but that change is necessary and you’ll get over it. This is for the traumatized girlies who try and insist that literally any and all expressions of anger are abuse and anything else like that because anger makes them uncomfortable so they make it everyone else’s problem. Touch grass and get a therapist, you’re not valid and you aren’t going to be able to form and maintain relationships as long as you have that level of entitlement and detachment from reality.

Also, I get that a lot of you didn’t get the special extra education that those of us who grew up autistic did, where you’re manually taught social pragmatics and emotions and shit, but I’ve also got another something special that y’all missed. If you did a shitty thing to someone you have a relationship with, it is neither normal nor valid for your very first response to them expressing their anger to be playing the victim and saying they can’t be mad at you. Same also goes for if your very first response to them is to nitpick the wording of what they just said before you say literally anything else. If you’re the asshole in the situation and now you need to make amends and shit, do the apology stuff first and then bring up any issues like that after.

Oh and last thing - I know it’s been said before but if anyone claims or acts like they’re always the victim, no the fuck they aren’t. If someone has a pattern of not having relationships with people last and then claiming every single time that they did nothing wrong and it was all the other person, they are lying. Also, don’t be that person either.

[mizusjawline]

I was thinking about that one post that goes "One day you'll be 21 and you'll be screaming along in your car to all the songs you used to listen to when you were sad in middle school and everything is different but everything is good"

And I brought myself to tears thinking "Maybe one day I'll be 31 and I'll be screaming along to all the songs I used to listen to when I was lost and sad and confused in my 20s and maybe everything will be different and everything will be good"

And maybe being alive will never get any easier or any less frightening and confusing, no matter how old you are. But maybe, just maybe, things will turn out ok nonetheless.

[rhp6]

A story of a hard coming out, bipolar disorder ,trust issues, tragical ups-and-downs but then true love and understanding even in hard times...🥰🤧

Skam France

I really recommend this show to everybody who's struggling 'cause it shows that there's never a time for giving up even if it seems like there is🥹🥹

There always will be someone who'll pull you out from the darkness or if there won't then there's you!! YOU ARE STRONG ENOUGH TO PULL YOUR OWN SELF UP!!! Believe me🥺🥺❤️❤️

Please take care!❤️❤️ Love you all so much!!!❤️❤️

[fayeandknight]

I've seen a number of people talk about how one condition can affect another. And I think those are important conversations to have. But something I've not seen is something I honestly really struggle with.

CPTSD and poor eyesight.

My eyesight is garbage so I wear contacts. And I'm bad about taking them out at night because I am loathe to be so vulnerable. Glasses can be broken or stolen or hidden or otherwise be made unavailable to me. And even just a few minutes of being so vision impaired feels terrifying.

I do know it's not good to wear my contacts as constantly as I do. And when I'm mentally able to do so I do take breaks to wear my glasses. But my glasses feel disorienting and I do not feel safe leaving my home with them.

But my biggest issue is crying.

A little tearing up can be countered by contact solution. But full on crying? The kind of crying that happens during an episode?

That shit wrecks my contacts. Ruins them to the point of having to toss the current pair. Now I can't see. And my eyes are generally too sore after that much crying to put in a new pair. Which means glasses. Which means housebound. Which means if I'm having a more difficult day I'll often stay home rather than risk having a crying episode in public where I may become stranded.

Fortunately for me my service dog is really good at early warning indications and I can use coping skills to self soothe. This can sometimes prevent such an episode or at least give me more time so I can get home to fall apart in private.

But it's always something I have to consider and weigh the pros and cons of before committing to go places. It fucking sucks. And because my eyesight is still degrading year after year, I'm not a good candidate for laser eye surgery so I can't opt for a better solution.

I'd be interested in having conversations with anyone who deals with a similar situation. I'm not necessarily looking for answers but more for people to be able to talk about it.

[finally-got-a-diagnosis]

I wonder how well my mental health would improve if my house were cleaned. But for my house to get cleaned my mental (and physical) health needs to improve. Yet when I say, "yeah I don't usually get around to cleaning certain parts of my house because of lack of motivation," suddenly you're the most disgusting person that they know.

In all honesty I don't have the energy to feed myself half the time Sally* why do you think I have the energy to clean my house? Why don't you offer me something that's actually helpful? Or at the very least pay for my therapy.

*Sorry to the Sallys reading this I don't mean you.

[sculptorofcrimson]

Ten Thousand Others

“A warlord once marched an army over the plains. In his conquest, child died and He carved litanies of loyalty upon its bones.”

He watches His hands work the scalpels. He was there when the oldest of the Ten Thousand were born. He was not technically the first, not truly, not when the Emperor had His own failures and His unfinished experiments. But he was the first of the Ten Thousand, the first He perfected, his fate bleached of all wonder, all possibility. 

He was Constantin Valdor, and he will dream of nothing but his lord.

He is nothing but stone and endings. He was already half-betrayed.

The Emperor drains him of his last delusions of being human. He does not apologize when He twists the knife in unresisting flesh, He does not regret when He stitches him up, the First Custodian’s heart hollow, dreams plucked from his chest and left to wither. When there is nothing left, not even the illusion of joy, of love, of wonder, of humanity, how could he march on when there is so little left of him? For those who have lost their minds, their hearts and their dreams in the name of their lord, only eternity remains. For those who have nothing, there are only ashen plains and an immortality devoid of life. 

When the Emperor cuts away the last bones of humanity left in an inhumane mind, he feels his master’s caressing touch upon his brow when the last ghosts of joy snuff themselves out like hollow candles without a flame. There is so little left of him now, only ink and stone and finished endings, without even the will to care. How does he endure, when even the last dignity to hate, to fear, to love, awe and revere, has been lost to him? And how could he end, when even the will to live for any other than his master has been forgotten by his bones?

He was the first He created, the First He stripped away. He was half-gone already. 

Weep, limp, kneel, rise and fall, dream the last phantom of long-dead dreams crushed beneath a tomb of genesculpted flesh and bones, drowned within oceans of hallowed ichor, forever wandering blindly in a void they had been cast out. Discarded like refuse when they could not kneel to His commands. Shattered upon the anvil of His forge. Dreams scraped away and left to die. Poor thing. Poor, poor things, all of them. The Golden did not know they were always dead, the living stone, simply ancient automatons marching in auramite corpses. Doomed to serve, to kneel instead of rule, to see the dreams of one who dreamt for humanity yet never dream themselves. Doomed to forget what it felt like to dream, forevermore. They are only sculptures now, left to dream with eternity.

He was Constantin Valdor, and he would never dream again.

[fallloverfic]

@nnayomaise mentioned you on a post “i don't think enough people understand that, as a...”:

@fallloverfic i think he had to be suicidal before his dungeon, (not as much as he is in the current story ofc) but purely because he chose to become a dungeon lord knowing that it would eat all of his desires and he would wither away and die- and for him having a place to go, he could very easily have left his dungeon and gone back to the canaries (yes they would've killed him but they likely would've just revived him) which would be the right thing to do, he knows this

​(continued): "he knows the process of how they remove dungeon lords, he knows this is how canaries literally save the world from the dungeons, he probably thought a lot about backing out and essentially returning to reality but the goat manipulated him into staying then ate his desire to return"

I don't personally think anything about his decision to go with and stay with the mirror/goat indicates he was suicidal at that point, and you kind of disprove this yourself by indicating the goat - an outside force - was manipulating him into his decision(s). To each their own headcanon, obviously, and I like crunchy background for Mithrun, but here's at least why I don't think we have canon evidence for Mithrun being suicidal before he was abandoned by the demon.

In Bonus: Miscellaneous Monster Tales -6-, we learn just how dangerous magic mirrors are:

The manga notes this is specifically a moment of weakness, to an object specifically designed to steal his heart. Sometimes we all get caught on bad days. This was one of Mithrun's (he made the mistake of not ignoring the mirror). He was strong back then, but he wasn't invincible.

As the Adventurer's Bible notes about the Central Watchtower (his dungeon), "Since it hadn't had a lord for a long time, it was believed to be nearly collapsed. Mithrun was dispatched to investigate a nearby rash of disappearances and got taken in." (133). This was relatively routine/not a big deal, but it got him in a chance moment. The goat struck while the iron was hot. As the Adventurer's Bible explains, "Once, while under the impression that his older brother had stolen his beloved, Mithrun wished for a life where he hadn't joined the canaries. As a result, he fell under the spell of a demon" (74). This is framed largely as an accident/bad luck: we can't all be vigilant forever, after all. He even comments about these things to Kabru earlier, "You wished for those things... . . . You wished, so the dungeon provided. . . . Don't wish often." (p.157, Chapter 61: Roasted Walking Mushroom, Volume 9). Even casual wishes can have major consequences, and that desire attracts the demon (e.g., when Marcille is trying to get control, the demon acts on her subconscious desires for protection, and the only solution they have is to trap it in a book):

A moment of weakness against resolve to continue can perhaps imply he had depression he wasn't addressing, and was likely desperate and missing things he'd sacrificed, and was vulnerable to manipulation, but none of that really indicates specifically that he was suicidal. Knowing a bad thing could happen to you - even perhaps a form of death - when performing your job doesn't necessarily make you suicidal, though it might make you a bit reckless and/or foolhardy. Firefighters are not, by definition, suicidal. And there's really no evidence that Mithrun was in his right mind when he made his wish/went with the demon. As we see with Thistle, Marcille, and Laios, the demon is a master manipulator who knows how to overwhelm its targets, where even casual things you don't actively think about can lead to your undoing.

"and for him having a place to go, he could very easily have left his dungeon and gone back to the canaries (yes they would've killed him but they likely would've just revived him) which would be the right thing to do, he knows this"

How easy would it have been for him to leave? We can see what it took to get Thistle and Marcille to leave (Thistle ultimately fell to the demon, Marcille was a special case that involved large groups of people working together to find alternate solutions), and even what the demon used to keep Laios from enacting his plan when Laios becomes lord of the dungeon (chapter 88 is really great for showing just how skilled a manipulator the demon is; and even with fail-safes, Laios + Co couldn't get around this). And it's clearly indicated from at least Kabru's perception of Mithrun's backstory that Mithrun worked hard to stop anyone from coming in to get him while he was dungeon lord. It's easy to, academically, know how to solve a problem. It's another to make it work in the field. The only reason anyone was able to drag him out was seemingly because the demon "hadn't eaten enough to build up sufficient power" and "vanished" (p.185, chapter 62: Six Days, Volume 9). Mithrun had no apparent desire to leave, and was actively working to stay, likely in part because he was under the demon's spell. He even notes in the Complete Adventurer's Guide that the demon's love is compelling to the point of mental collapse. His knowing, logically, that leaving would have saved him, did nothing for him, because a lot was working against him, including powerful magic and his own human weakness for things he could have if he stayed. And him choosing to stay, despite likely somewhere in his head knowing what would happen if he didn't leave, again doesn't make him suicidal. I doubt he was thinking of the consequences all that much: he was too focused on the fantasy the demon made for him. When you're in the middle of a high, you typically aren't thinking of the comedown.

There's also another reason he probably wasn't thinking about it, that we see with Laios (and Marcille, and even I think with Thistle): a lot of us always think we'll be the one to get one over. We think we're smart enough or strong enough to succeed where others fail. Only Laios managed to succeed in part because his plan was so ridiculous and the demon's own overconfidence got in its way. In the Adventurer's Bible, Mithrun notes that before the dungeon, he "looked down on everyone." (76). He was arrogant. I imagine that part of why he probably wouldn't have given up had he thought about his potential fate was that he thought he'd succeed in surviving. His story is very much one of hubris (e.g., his thinking for why the demon took away his eye and ear ends). In the Adventurer's Bible, we see his confidence when he approaches Milsiril to talk to her (86), and we see how he is in combat. He was confident, and self-avowedly arrogant. That's a dangerous mix.

There is some vagueness for how other dungeon lords who weren't Mithrun, Marcille, Thistle, and Laios got out of their situations: we know there are a number, because we see them in the Complete Adventurer's Bible during the group chat scene set up by Pattadol. If it's explained somewhere how they were rescued/removed, and if for some reason Mithrun knew that could be him, too, but he chose not to for specific suicidal reasons, I have no idea. cartchytuns in the notes noted that they were probably freed when Laios got rid of the demon at the end of the story, since the demon in every dungeon was all the same demon, and I think that makes a lot of sense! If this is what happened, that means even fewer dungeon lords left the dungeon of their own volition/abilities, and that decreases the likelihood that Mithrun was able to, and increases the validity that he just actively chose not to.

Mithrun was jealous, angry, arrogant, and had seemingly some form of imposter's syndrome, possibly due to being an illegitimate son when his legitimate brother was someone he viewed as inferior, but his supposed superiority didn't save him from getting sent to the Canaries, which he is bitter about. He perhaps sometimes wished at least somewhat for things he didn't and perhaps couldn't have. As he notes in the Adventurer's Bible, "And instead of [Obrin], my parents sent me to the Canaries. I couldn't forgive any of that." (76). He was also good at hiding/masking all of this and pretending to be light-hearted/have no problems and "perfect" (in Milsiril's words). He was very clearly deeply unhappy and hiding it. His already being suicidal is a neat headcanon! And good luck with it/any fics! The fun part of the story's ambiguity is how much we don't know and how fanworks can fill in those gaps! But as of this moment, I really don't see canon evidence for him being suicidal before he was abandoned by the demon.

[kiindr]

gentle reminders:

you are not too much

even if it's hard to believe, there are people who love you

you deserve to be treated respectfully

you have a lot of potential to do well

there is support out there for you

you do not need to prove anything to be loved

it's okay to feel your emotions. let them out. supressing them will only harm you in the long run.

hydrating yourself is important. take a sip right now if you can <3

take one day at a time. it all compounds. you're getting there.

[tattooedbarbie69]

:(

I fucking hate mental illness... somedays I'm like "Wow life is great! look at all I have to be grateful for!" and the next day I'm depressed af and cant get out of bed and think I have the worst life. It's annoying af, motivated champ one day depressed trash the next... HALP.

[malicious-vampire]

Aching, crumbling, staring in painful silence until any sense for good or bad feels just like bland words in my mouth. Meaningless, faded. Is this what insanity feels like?

It tastes like freedom.

[dcbutinamrev]

POV: you found a cool server to hang out with and you just got kicked out all bc you were an adult who simply wanted to join to rp and have make friends with

[andro-studiesmed]

JOURNAL ENTRY

[meenawrites]

So... hi again?

Hello....

I swear half my posts at this point are me apologizing for disappearing.

So I'm skipping that part.

Mostly.

Still sorry.

BUT! No, I'm not fully back because my mental health tanked again and I'm starting up school again (which I really need to focus on because I must graduate).

BUT I WILL BE LURKING!

[mizusjawline]

Where TF have instant noodles been all my life??????????

So, I live with an eating disorder and on days where it's rough, I find it super difficult to take the time to make a meal and eat it. Over the years I've found various meals that are quick to make and quick to eat. But why has it never occurred to me to use instant noodles????????? You fill a bowl of water, cover it for three mins and done! And tasty af!

Anyway, instant noodles are my new best friend!