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kiefbowl · 4 years ago

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ew why tf are you dating a scrote

okay this is clearly a troll, but I’ll answer anyway since this seems to be a topic of interest to people lately. I wrote a lot and talked about sexual assault, so go ahead and skip it if that’s not your jam. disclaimer: I don’t have a problem or think there’s anything wrong with people who don’t want to follow me bc of the bf. that’s legitimate! please do what suits you. I think some of my responses have been perceived as snarky in the past but I only try to be snarky when I suspect a troll, I really don’t have a problem with people unfollowing me b/c of the bf or even telling me about it.

I worked with Malcolm for about a year and a half before we go together, but we got together for the first time 5 months after I had a brief but intense love affair with a meth addict that ended in big traumatic ways after he started using heavily again, which eventually cultivated in him raping me (not that it was the only sexual violence I experienced with him but that time was particularly horrific because I was heartbroken and he was high on meth). he was also a man, and the reason I started dating him isn’t so clear to me except that I was looking for a way to live recklessly and self harm. There’s a longer story there but the details can’t be told concisely and it’s no one’s business. In any case, everything that happened with him is not worth recounting, but it was long and complicated and continued even after the rape. To give some context about how bad it was, I also had worked with the meth addict (I’m not using his name on purpose), and part way through our relationship he got a new job. a couple weeks after the rape, he lost that job and got his old job back. yeah, imagine being dumped by a meth addict and the being raped by him and then he starts working with you when you know he is using now. not fun, pretty sad to think about.

I was in a very traumatized state for months. It’s hard to describe what it’s like, except you don’t feel like you’re living. You can feel very foreign to your own life. I felt like something inside of me was constantly pressing against me to get out, and if it did it would be me screaming. Like, my skin had become a suit to mask the babbling lunatic underneath. I would have random outbursts where I would wince in pain and people would ask what was up and it was just that the emotional pain was felt so sharply it became physical, but I felt like I couldn’t be honest with people. I did go to therapy, it felt like life and death. right around the time before Malcolm and I together, so a few months into therapy, my therapist gave me permission to feel okay seeking out love, sex, and relationships, because I was feeling very guilty that I might be using someone if I did. In any case, Malcolm showed up to my bday party, and was one of the last to leave, and I just was ready for the next thing after the meth addict bf. Every day I didn’t have sex, the last person I had sex with was him. I wanted to be normal again. I was feeling a little better, less freakish, but still so sad. So I said, okay Malcolm, come home with me and he did. It didn’t seem so bad to take Malcolm home with me because I wasn’t very interested in him long term, so it seemed like low stakes to end up hurting him. Low investment. Yadda yadda.

Malcolm was also convenient, he lived walking distance. he was nice, friendly, easy to hang out with. our emotional intimacy was very low, it was low low low low maintenance dating. Malcolm felt very safe, he was the polar opposite of the other bf. we had a casual, boring, unintimidating fling for a few months that sputtered out. if the other bf was like riding a roller coaster that was condemned, Malcolm was like taking a nap on the bus back home after a long exhausting day at the amusement park. I know, it’s not very sexy. But it was nice to feel like a human again, have proof I could be normal, proof I could do unsexy things like watch tv and go to brunch and it didn’t feel like I was a freak for trying after months of feeling like I had a neon sign over my head that said “idiot adult woman dated meth addict like it wasn’t going to end up fucking her over HA HA.” I was ready to go out with my new sense of normalcy and have fun with people I might be, er, to be blunt, more interested in.

BUT the most amazing thing was we stayed friends after the break up, which I had never had before. and even though the first few months of dating helped me feel normal again in a way, it turns out being raped by your meth addict ex leaves deep, painful welts. who could guess. Seeking out other relationships from scratch ended up being exhausting. When do I bring up that I’m not even a year from a meth addict raping me? Date two? I tried with other people, and it wasn’t working. I dropped dating, and focused on friends and work instead. But I missed him some days, and as things around me were starting to feel like they were crumbling again, he was there and around. He came over, smoked weed, taught me MTG, let me make him dinner, took me out to bars, listened to me cry, had gentle sex. Soon we were seeing and talking to each other every day. We spent enough time together that it became clear we were dating again, and this time around it was more enjoyable and more intimate. It felt easier to invest in our relationship the second time around because he already knew the baggage. We started dating and eventually, out of the sake of convenience, moved in together.

But if it makes you feel any better, anon who is probably not reading this, the state of my relationship is not great atm. It feels like we’re very good friends that share a bed. I always had doubts about this relationship from the beginning, I was never really crazy about Malcolm and was tentative about being exclusive. I rationalized the relationship with thoughts like “you don’t know until you try” and “maybe this love is different love, and it doesn’t feel like previous love because I still need to learn more about love.” I don’t think that’s quite it anymore. But, we live together in an unpredicted pandemic, so I sort of made my bed. Plus, it’s hard to decide to break up with someone who isn’t bad just maybe not good enough. Maybe it’s my fault? some days I wake up and think, “oh well am I really giving him 100%? if I tried harder maybe it would be better.” Maybe it’ll get better? What’s life post pandemic and when is it coming, I can’t know. I’ve been depressed, will I get better? Will it change things? I also adore his parents, they’ve been amazing to me, they inspire me. they’ve opened their hearts to me. losing them weighs heavy. I love Malcom very much, he’s been a good friend and we’ve built a nice little life together that has a lot of parts working. How do you decide what day to hurt someone you love? Idk...I guess I entered this relationship to learn.

The Meth Addict has loomed large in our relationship and casts a long shadow. I’ve talked about it with Malcolm but I’m not sure he fully understands it. almost 3 years since my birthday we hooked up. That’s a long time. It’s as long as the relationship I had with my first love. I can’t predict the full story Malcolm and I will have, but I can see a potential break up looming closer. I struggle with it every day. Some nights, like tonight, it’s seems pretty clear cut. If I think this way now it pretty much proves I want to break up, right? But tomorrow morning he’ll make me tea and we’ll talk about our weekend plans and I’ll think “oh this is so nice, what was I even thinking about last night? I’m getting in my own head.” So I don’t know! I think about women a lot. I think about how I talk frankly about my bisexuality on tumblr and yet my experiences with men outnumber that with women. I feel like I’m cheating sometimes, like I’ve lead you guys to believe something that’s not real even though I’m not lying. I think about how I never want to cheat on Malcolm but I get crushes and I want to sleep with women and I wonder if I should be a mom and I think about his parents and it gets confusing. I feel guilty about thinking about our convenience because that’s cheating him and cheating me, but sometimes I wake up happy and much happier than I’ve been in 10 years.

So I guess the reason I’m dating a scrote is because I’m complicated and have a bit of a messy life, and I live day to day, and we make micro choices that lead to macro choices and then we make macro choices that lead to micro choices, and I haven’t pulled the trigger on breaking up with him yet. He was part of the healing journey because, well, he was here. In my real life. It turns out the women we follow on tumblr are very very human with lives far more complex that can be summed up in a few posts on tumblr. Maybe ask me in 50 years why I dated Malcolm, I’ll probably have a better idea why.

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comfyswitcherblanketfort · 4 years ago

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Hi, I saw your answer to the ask I made to bouncey. So I've actually tried like 7 or 8 different medications and the one I'm on at the moment only works after a certain dose so I'm on that until we can increase all the way. I just got the feeling from my GP that she thinks I'm being too complacent. My big fear with therapy is that I'm going to have yet another person pointing out everything I'm doing wrong with my life and my behavior but that it won't help fix it.

Me again, I should probably add that the people I know who have gone to therapy and liked it all described it as a place to vent and cry or that the therapist whould say things like "well do YOU think that's probablematic" and that they would have this epiphany but I feel like I already know the problematic things in my life I just can't fix them or even if I try it's like my brain isn't letting me do that.

okay, I want to preface this with the fact that I am just a psych major who has yet to complete her bachelors so I don’t have the legit qualifications to speak on this, I can only go from the limited classes I have had and my personal experience with depression, anxiety, and disordered eating/thinking about food. I also can’t speak in more than general terms about medication because that’s all I currently know.

I’m putting it under the cut tho for the sake of dash-space and bc I know some people don't want to talk about this

I can't speak on the medications or the attitude of your GP because I don't know the situation but if you feel you need it, ask for a second opinion. If I went through that many medications I would ask for a second look at my diagnosis because sometimes depression can be a symptom of another disorder, not the disorder itself. That and there’s a lot of overlap for mood disorders as far as symptoms go.

There're 5 things that jump out at me here:

1) it’s useless to compare your experience in therapy to others because you are completely different people. Don’t use anyone as a yardstick to measure progress, they aren’t you.

2) Unsticking brains is what a lot of therapists do. Painting in broad strokes, the therapist’s goal is to give you the tools to change your behavior/thinking to better benefit you. Some do this through introspection (psychoanalysis), some through analyzing and retraining your thinking (cognitive), and some go for a more ‘conditioning’ type approach (behavioral). You simply may want to find a therapist that is more cognitive learning-based than psychoanalytical or the other way around. But you’re never going to know if you don’t try.

3) I get why you’re scared. It’s hard to change and it’s hard to be told/know you’re the problem and responsible for doing the work. But in my experience, nothing worth having comes without hard work. Taking care of yourself isn’t just being nice to yourself. It’s setting yourself up for success, whether that means taking a break or buckling down and doing some work so you are better prepared for later or training yourself to redirect when your thinking starts spiraling out.

4) You can sign a client information release form so both your GP and therapist can share information and work together to get you to a place where you feel like you’re managing. This circles back to the point from the original post about medication and psychotherapy together being a more effective route. Getting your brain unstuck may be physiological and medication may help you be able to address other things. This could also help with an accurate diagnosis since you usually spend more face to face time with your therapist than your GP. To be clear I’m not saying you’ve been wrongly diagnosed it's just something that popped out at me as a possibility when I read this.

5) If your GP thinks you’re being complacent that’s their opinion and you don't need to take it into account if you don't want to. However, I find that I often overthink other’s behavior and assign it meaning that it really doesn't have. So just think about whether YOU think you’re being complacent. That’s all that really matters anyway.

If you want to talk more plz DM me, I try to keep my blog pretty escapist, but I felt like this was somewhere I could actually pass along helpful information rather than just have an opinion. Also keep in mind, I don’t have all the answers or all the context and I’m not a professional, just trying to get there.

#tw depression #tw anxiety #depression #anxiety #disordered eating #ED #ED tw

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my-artblog-is-ssjumi · 4 years ago

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Isono/Seto, Isono/Aileen, Hannibal/the other guy in that show aaand whatever Evangelion ship u most wanna talk about

disclaimer for folks with different taste than mine: you do you ofc but this ask game is not about your opinions

Isono/Seto

11/10 in every way (as long as not shipped as uwu) and the age gap is a big part of what really makes this ship in the first place

Love me all of this misplaced father/son dynamic stuff going on, since Isono doesn’t have time for the family life he would be pretty good at if he didn’t have the rich kids to take care of and Seto. Seto is just. His entire deal is that he is a bag made out of daddy issues filled with lots and lots of boxes that are also filled with daddy issues and a bunch of issues he got from his birth family.

Imo there’s a lot of unplatonic tension and a dynamic with an endless amount of potential right there and aside from a couple Japanese doujinshi artists and maybe 2 or 3 friends I don’t trust anyone in this fandom to do it justice so I’m not even mad that it’s not one of the more popular ships bc I don’t wanna see the healthy uwu.

Isono/Aileen

UGH, Sam, you’re SPOILING ME, asking for my MarySue child! X3

Ofc it’s a top tier ship, too, bc I came up with it and my taste is simply flawless.

I mean, if I was married to Seto Kaiba for some reason and ruined my social life outside the relationship with him in the process so I felt I didn’t have anyone aside from him anymore and we drifted apart because of his issues and my issues and then there’s the whole thing with the public eye, too, and I was this gorgeous (probably day-drinking) rich lady whose job it was to run the KC’s PR department - a job that only got shittier and shittier over the years the weirder Seto’s stunts got, building a school right next to an active volcano being just one of the cherries on top...........

I mean, who would I turn to in my loneliness?

Ofc I’d turn to the only other person who can relate to how exhausting it is to clean up Seto’s mess again and again and again but still sticks with him anyway.

(Some ppl might argue “What about Mokuba?” and I want these ppl to know that Mokuba deserves better and in this storyline he knows that and studied abroad and traveled the world and now knows what life outside the Kaiba bubble looks like... Also he probably fucks Jounouchi)

The soap opera aesthetic. Everything is bling in this golden cage.

And it’s impossible to tell if this relationship between Ai and Isono would even work outside of this bubble. I don’t think they want the same things from life. I mean, in case they even still know what they want from life in the first place.

Amazing. Show-stopping. Someone start production on this telenovela right now and I want a soft shimmery blur and star filters that makes the jewelry blind the audience on each and every close-up of Aileen!

Hannibal/Will

Oh boy!

Ok, so I actually watched that show a couple years ago but only got through the first two seasons and then was too lazy to figure out where to watch the rest (especially since it wasn’t clear at the time if it was cancelled or would be cancelled or not) and then kinda... forgot about it? Also I think I remember I was pretty annoyed by Will’s angst after a while.

I mean, it’s valid ofc.

His therapist/friend/whatever they were by that point was a manipulating cannibal and he had these blood-smeared antler nightmares and shit so I’m gonna cut him some slack here.

So, uh, my honest opinion............. I... guess it’s a ship that exists?

I mean, if I had the hots for one or both of them I might be able to get rly into it, but the sexiest thing on the show was the food (ignoring what it’s made of ofc. i guess.) and the rly fancy ties Hannibal always wore.

But the ship itself..........

¯\_ (ツ)_/¯

an NGE ship of my choice

Oh my.... hmmmm.... ok, this is brutal honesty hour so I’m just gonna be brutally honest and say that I don’t care much about the ships of this show.

I’m okay with most of them like. They have their place in the narrative, I guess? So iirc I’m not squicked by any of them?

They’re very tropey, especially the ones among the teenagers, but that trope density with these kinda archetypes n stuff wasn’t that run-of-the-mill common and fucking everywhere to that degree back when the show came out so while I would probably at least be bored if not hella annoyed to get all of that shoved in my face nowadays... it’s fine with me in the context of NGE.

Hmmm what could I say about a specific ship....

Yo, what about Kaoru/Shinji.

Everyone loves Kaoru/Shinji after all.

I think it’s. Okay, I guess.

I mean, it’s cool that it exists, but I don’t really FEEL much about it tbh?

It does get a bit more substance and becomes more interesting i you throw yourself down the rabbit hole of fandom’s timeline speculations and their related essays on that tho, in which all the NGE canons are somewhat linked in a particular order bc Shinji reset everything a couple times in previous Third Impacts XD

In this theory, Kaoru is the only one who remembers all these timelines, which explains why he starts out as a kinda emotionally incompetent bratty douchebag in the manga and only learns a human emotion or two and something resembling compassion through Shinji, which explains why he’s in instant flirty mode when he sees him “again” in the anime(s) and seems to know exactly what Shinji is going through and needs to hear (and how to hurt him by giving/saying it to him before making him kill him XD’) there.

Like, in the context of that connected timelines theory, this pairing is pretty cool and I can really get behind it and could see myself getting emotionally invested if I spent more time on it and/or maybe were a little younger.

But outside of that context, judging it by just one of the canons at a time...

It’s just.

It’s fine. It’s there. It has its place. It makes for pretty fanart sometimes. Eh.

#samcybercat #honest ship opinions #ask game #long post

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thestrangerpoet · 4 years ago

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Sorry if this is too personal of a question. You don't have to answer this if you don't want to. What's it like being Autistic?

This isn’t too personal at all! I love being asked questions:) (this might be a long one...)

So Autism is portrayed in many different ways through tv and stereotypes and society. Autism has a spectrum, so like it has different levels of it basically. High functioning Autism, in my personal opinion, is what confuses people the most because they don’t understand that you can be autistic and still be able to live your life and function on a daily basis. I was only recently officially diagnosed, but i was diagnosed with ADHD years ago (they are often confused with each other because they have similar spectrums/the same spectrum).

I’ve had it my entire life, it’s not a new thing just a new diagnoses. I didn’t start talking till I was about 5, I was in and out of many different therapists, I couldn’t really keep or make any friends. Nobody knew what was wrong with me, they just assumed it was results of past abuse and emotional scarring.

It is hard at times, I often wish that I could function normally. I have to wear my airpods everywhere I go because of sensory issues, if I forget them I get severe anxiety and I’ll just freeze and tense and stop talking entirely (idk how to really explain it, but basically without them I can hear everything like chewing, swallowing, clothes moving, fabric rubbing together, dead silence, etc.)

My family gets very annoyed with me, or at least they use to when they didn’t really understand it, because I struggle with making eye contact and I have to have everything a certain way (I have to know the schedules and plans and my room has to be a certain way or I legit want to crawl inside my skin). I also pick at my lips and bite my nails, also known as one of my ‘quirks’ or ‘stress habits’. I often don’t understand social cues or emotions, and I don’t feel empathy. I constantly ask ‘why’ questions because I genuinely don’t understand but I want to make sure I don’t keep offending people so Iask questions to avoid it happening again. I also haven’t ever really had friends because it’s very difficult maintaining them or keeping them, either because of other personal reasons or because it’s hard relating to normies. (another quirk is I will correct people’s grammar at any given chance, but I’m learning to stop doing it so much because sometimes people get annoyed).

Thing is, I don’t tell people that I’m autistic because they don’t want to deal with it. To them it changes everything once they know you’re autistic (just from my experience).

Smell (and texture, texture is a really big thing) is also a big thing, like one time my mom changed detergent and I took all my clothes to my grandmas to wash because I didn’t like the smell and I couldn’t wear them. If I go to someone’s house I have to shower right away and wash the clothes because I’ll smell like them or their house. Same thing if someone comes to my house, I have to spray everything in that room down and wait for it all to air out so it smells like ‘me’ again.

School is a challenge, I have to do night classes at my campus because the lights are dimmer and there are less people/less noise. I tried taking day classes but the lights were too loud and bright, people were too close to me, we weren’t allowed to wear earbuds, etc. I can’t take online classes either because when I’m home I’m not in ‘school’ mode so I get distracted very easily and can’t focus. I have a one track mind, so my mind will get stuck on something and play it on repeat till it gets bored or finds something else. Multitasking is almost impossible because I hyper focus.

Speaking of hyperfixation, I will become obsessed over something and then drop it out of nowhere. You could call it a phase on steroids because it gets intense. A while ago it was Harry Potter and I had to memorize every single spell or I legit felt like a fake fan. I also made butterbeer frappes at work. It was all I would watch for months. After that, it was European culture. I would cook traditional Irish/Scottish/and some British meals every night. I would only listen to Irish music (celtic traditional and mordern).

However...there are many perks to it, just like there is to anything. I notice very small details that other people might not notice, like recently my coworker got a trim and I was the first to say anything about it bc I noticed it was slightly shorter. I hear and smell things that others might not due to hightened sensitivities (that doesn’t sound like a plus but it is depending on the context). Hyperfixation can be a plus too because i have lots of random knowledge (I have also memorized almost every vine) and facts that no one asked for. Telling people that I’m autistic is definitely the best part because they get confused and say something like “Oh, you don’t look/act autistic.” (like I said, people don’t think ‘high functioning’ is a real thing).

If you have any other questions about it, please don’t hesitate to dm me:)

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fmdtaeyongarchive · 4 years ago

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↬ my reality is a cruel fall without you.

date: august 2020.

location: ash’s living room / ash’s therapist’s office / ash’s apartment studio.

word count: 1,822 words, excluding lyrics.

summary: -

triggers: n/a.

notes: creative claims verification.

ash has been through this exact writing process three times prior and he’s picked up some tricks. defining the seasons in the context of love had become easier for him as he finished their respective songs one by one.

winter had been the cold of the world driving two people together.

spring had been the honeymoon phase.

summer had been the oppressive weight of a long-term relationship taking its toll.

now, it’s time for him to write fall.

ii.

it’s been a year.

ash can’t remember anything in his life ever feeling quite as heavy as that promise ring had the night he’d slipped it off the chain around his neck and passed it out of his grasp for the last time, a mere six months after he’d put it on his finger and thought he’d had everything figured out.

“i love you so much, but we both know this isn’t working.”

(i love you, but not in the way i thought i’d been looking for my whole life any more.)

if he’d looked at himself from the outside, he would have felt silly for feeling his entire core splitting in half as the silver ring clattered onto the table, his resolve too weak to thrust it directly into the other man’s hand, but there’d always been the unspoken understanding that the ring was more than a silly promise.

a public declaration of forever in a relationship as an active idol is, by most accounts, socially impossible. making that forever official in the form of government documents as a same-sex couple in south korea is, by all accounts, legally impossible.

forever had been a big thought to a barely twenty-three year-old, and it’d only grown more massive the longer it hung over ash’s head blissfully unacknowledged for the sake of his own happiness, for the sake of the idea of finally getting his own happy ending. he’d get there one day. then, it wouldn’t feel so all-encompassing, so terrifying, but months had passed and he’d felt like he was only getting farther away from that one day.

it hadn’t gone unnoticed to ash that, without fail, he’d been the one to deflect from the topic of forever when talk between them became too real. with time, it started to weigh him down. one day, he looked up and found he wasn’t on that cloud high above everything anymore.

he was in a different world and he couldn’t see a way he’d ever be able to climb back up to be on even ground.

so, it had ended at ash’s hand.

ash had once heard a person needs half the time they were in a relationship to get over it, so looking at the calendar and seeing august come around once again, that hill should officially be behind him now.

so why does he still think about it with sorrow at times like these?

how are you? how are you doing without me?

he has no intentions of writing a song about him for his fall single at first. he only wants to distract himself on the anniversary of the last ending he’d faced. the last one he’d ever face if he’d learned anything worthwhile.

but when does he ever learn?

his piano is an old friend at times like these. if the wood had any consciousness within it beyond what he projects into it in his most desperate times of need, it would surely judge him for how he goes back to it like clockwork in his times of emotional distress, but the rest of the world will judge him less for it than it will for turning to the bottles in his kitchen or the exes in his phone.

there’s a pattern to it now. sit down, straighten his back (the weight of the world on his shoulders is no excuse for poor playing posture), rest his phone on the bench next to him with an application recording every note he plays, and lay a blank notebook of music staves next to it in case he decides to be formal about anything workable that comes out of his idling.

nothing noteworthy comes to him at first, but the more he plays, the more fresh ideas begin swirling in a twister in his mind against his initial intentions of merely distracting himself. he messes around with chords, keys, arpeggios. he’s been forcing it a lot lately, and it hasn’t turned out in his favor. letting it slowly seep its way out of his pores might be the better course of action now instead.

his mind is frantic but the music is slow and inspiration piles up inside of him until he decides to sit and think through a chord progression, then a top line melody, then he fleshes it out. the first step in the process is never perfect, but he isn’t stumped with where to go with it yet, and that’s a good sign. more and more, he’s felt defeated with his songwriting after idea after idea gets rejected by the only people whose opinions really matter if he ever wants his songs to make it out in the world. he could think a song is the best piece he’s ever crafted, but if it doesn’t appease the bc entertainment gods, it will never see the light of day.

he tries not to think about that while he works on this song. that’s the roadblock he’s run into too many times before trying to pluck out something he can be proud of on the strings of a guitar or on the black and white keys of a piano.

the end product is something jazzy but moody, laden with his unspoken emotions but in a way that lends itself to simplicity, but he ponders for days the right way to put words to it.

he can feel what he wants the lyrics to say. it’s when he attempts to put them into words with a rhyme scheme and an appropriate meter that he struggles. ash has become a master at packaging his emotions into a pretty song with structure and a story, but this time, it’s evading him. the feeling is emptiness, but it’s also missing something he doesn’t really want back. it’s wanting something he can’t have now and wanting to tear himself apart for wanting it. it’s looking down the dark path to his future and seeing only less and less light as it stretches out in front of him. it’s fear of the inevitable pitch black darkness at the very end of the path and how quickly it’s approaching.

iii.

it’s after his second therapy session with his new therapist that something occurs to ash that stays with him beyond the time he’d paid for.

it’s not something he brings up during the session itself, or says out loud to anyone. ash doesn’t talk about his romantic life in detail with any therapist he’s ever had, even though he’s well-aware refusing to bring it up is ignoring a festering wound that needs attention if it’s ever going to heal. he’s heard too many horror stories about professionals that were supposed to know better discovering the money for the gossip being better than adherence to the oath of confidentiality they’d made for him to find comfort in disclosing the intricacies of his private life.

there’s a part of him he’s still holding back, but he only finds comfort in not opening up completely even to the person he’s paying to allow him to do just that without too much outward judgment.

opening himself fully or not, the lyrics to the song come easier to him after that. putting what he’s feeling into words is no easy task, but he’s made progress on it already. possibilities don’t come flooding out like a broken dam, but they do trickle down through his brain steadily enough for him not to lose hope. the slow drops only come when he pries them out, but they come nonetheless.

iv.

the mood of the song evolves in a way ash hadn’t anticipated at first. it becomes sadder in tone, more wistful. that had been a given from the moment the lyrics began to flesh out, but playing around in cubase ends with him deciding the song works its best as a simple piano composition, stripped bare like his emotions.

the piano remains prominent even as he adds more percussion and the main instrumental piano track gets jazzed up more than the initial draft recording had been. in a world where his music reflects solely his gut instinct, the song would be even more bare bones than it becomes. he imagines he would have taken a direction similar to “the unknown guest” on his last album, purposefully under-produced and made to sound like something that isn’t radio friendly, but it’s still simple enough to sound stripped-down to an untrained ear. the more he works on the song, the more he understands he does want it to be played on the radio. then, maybe, he’ll be able to tell himself the right person had heard it and convince himself of the closure he needs.

there’s a feeling in his chest as he listens to the final draft version, with layers of his vocals put down and a thoroughness that only comes with a song that has found its final form, that feels a little like he’s at the top of a mountain. he can’t put a name to it other than thinness of air. it’s not disappointment or regret, and as much as he decides he does really like how it turned out, it isn’t pride either.

the song is different than he would have thought it would be when he began it — after all, at some point visions of his ex-boyfriend had begun to mix with visions of the current flame he held — but different in a way that he hopes does service to the song instead of taking away from it.

at first, it’d been about his past relationship, a love that had been suffocated by his own choice.

now?

in a way, the song is about that relationship, but, in ways, it’s about the one that had come before that. and the one before that. and then, at the end, it becomes about the next one. the one he’s not supposed to have, but the one he’s confessed to yearning for in secret in the lyrics.

i want to fall in love.

unlike so many other songs he’s written, he’s not really begging for love to return to him or cursing himself for wanting such a thing. it’s about something else.

then it hits him: it’s not any of his relationships, long passed or current or future, that he’s holding on to. it’s a lament pried out of him by the lover he’s taken up in the time since, one entirely separate, but also entirely connected that creeps in the corner of every room he enters: loneliness.

#fmdverification #&& when you're screaming but they only hear you whisper | self para #&& queued

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firelord-frowny · 5 years ago

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so like. here’s something i’m Upset about that resulted from an ABSOLUTELY NIGHTMARISH experience with a so-called “therapist” who left me legitimately emotionally traumatized (which you can read about here, if you want more context).

This “therapists” was asking me questions about my social life, my peer groups, etc. I explained that I’m not really the sort who gets much enjoyment out of having large peer groups, and that I find it exhausting to be very close to more than just a handful of people, but that I do have a few very dear pals, particularly my bestest friend, who’s been basically my sister since we were 12.

So, she asked me to tell her about my friend. I did so happily! I told her about growing up together in middle school, then we went to separate high schools and had VERY different experiences but we stayed close the whole time and we’re still best friends to this day.

Upon being prompted, I talked about my friend’s personality and what I love about her. Basically, “She’s always up to something new and interesting. Every time we talk, she’s on the way somewhere to go do something cool, she loves to dance, she loves to party, she’s such a social butterfly. I love how fearless and creative she is. She’s always cutting or dying her hair some kinda wacky colors, and she’s just so bold! She’s the total opposite of me in a lot of ways.”

And then this fuckass therapist literally sits there and says, like it’s the most fucking confusing thing she’s ever heard,

“Gosh, why is she even friends with you?”

and i honestly have NEVER felt more like absolute trash than i felt in that moment - not coincidentally, this was the same moment that i concluded unquestioningly that this “therapist” was a disgusting hack and that i should feel free to completely ignore anything she ever said, ever.

but lmao the damage was done!

i hung out with my bestestfriend immediately after this happened and i told her what that ~therapist~ said, and she was APPALLED and offended that that woman would say something so stupid - not only stupid, but just outright RUDE and fucking mean spirited.

honestly like. up until that moment, i had never ever ever once questioned or felt uncertain about how solid and meaningful and profound and loving my relationship with my bestfrand is. but ever since then, i’m just so hyperaware of how “boring” i am compared to her and it makes me feel like i shouldn’t bother ~dragging her down~ by calling her or hanging out with her and that i should just leave her alone so she can go and be exciting withoutt me, because SURELY a person like her couldn’t POSSIBLY find any value in being friends with a person like me.

And i’m just. So fucking angry at this ~therapist~ for putting doubt in me about a friendship that has been the literal most steady, most healthy, most consistent non-familial relationship i have ever had with anyone.

it’s caused me to withdraw so much from reaching out to talk and spend time with my frand as much as i ordinarily would. and i haven’t wanted to bring it up with her again bc i don’t want to be Lame, but

i think im gonna finally call her tomorrow and talk to her about it and just. explain why i’ve been so withdrawn lately.

#i'm really fucking upset bc i genuinely feel like i need therapy to recover from that shitty therapist!

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thecasinowolf · 6 years ago

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Undertronic Except The Boys Are Fine

((I tried to write today bc my therapist’s goal for me is to write 5 hours a week but I failed so I’m trying this enjoy- Oh for context Shara confirmed stuff that was wrong with the boys so this is what would happen if: Cider could read, Chronos could process emotions, and Seth wasn’t corrupted. Plus some bonus stuffs nyehehehehehehehehe)) “Is this what you need?” A voice called, metal scraps clattering on to the table leaving a loud sound from it not being able to settle quite easily. Chronos jumped at the sound, yelping. Sheepishly, he help some pieces down. “I’m...not sure, Cider. I’d have to check to see if anything here is useful,” Chronos responds, his attention drawn to a metal box of sorts. Not useful, but could be used as storage for small items. “Well if you need anything else, Chronos, let me know. I don’t mind keeping an eye out for whatever you might need.” Cider begins to leave and quickly adds under his breath, “Though it wouldn’t kill you to help out.” Chronos nodded in reply, resuming his task. Cider shut the door behind him, and knew he would have to go out again soon. It wasn’t often he found what they needed for the ship but he would bring whatever he could anyways to see if Chronos could do something with it. Cider sighed softly and crossed his arms, looking at the abandoned city spanned out in front of him through the window. It was curious how somewhere so vast could just lose all life, something very serious must have happened to it. Soon, Chronos opened the door to confront Cider, breaking him from his thoughts. “Unfortunately, nothing you brought was useful. It looks like we’ll have to go out and find more.” Cider curiously raised an eyebrow, leaning on the table in front of him. “I’m sorry, we?” “I’m gonna come with you this time. So we have a better chance of finding parts.” “Any particular reason why? You’ve never showed any interest in coming with me before.” “Don’t get the wrong idea! I don’t think you’ve been passing up what I’ve been looking for on accident! ...I mean...uh, I just, you know, might have a better understanding of what we’re looking for...uh! That’s not what-Nevermind. I’m coming with you, alright?” Chronos sighs, defeated. Cider only half way believed him, but he wasn’t going to argue this time. “Okay, I guess you can come. But what about Seth? We can’t leave him here by himself, can we?” Chronos opened his mouth to answer but was interrupted by the sound of footsteps coming downstairs. “He’ll be fine. He always talks up how mature he is, after all. And we haven’t seen anyone in this city in weeks, so who’s going to hurt him?” Chronos groans. “Besides, I��m not going to let him ruin anything,” he adds under his breath. “Cider’s go-go-going out again? He m-m-must be blind. Have you considered lend-lend-lending him your glasses again, Chronos?” Seth teases. Cider rolls his eyes and Chronos growls. They both had vastly different opinions on Seth. Cider felt sympathy because he was rather buggy, it seemed like he could break at any time, and Chronos felt annoyed at his attitude. “Ha ha ha,” Cider responds sarcastically. “Yes, I am, and Chronos is coming with me. So sadly, you have to stay here. Knowing you, you wouldn’t be the most helpful.” “B-B-B-Bullshit! I’ve helped you plent-plent-plent-plenty of times before!” “Like when?” Chronos prods. “You ask too-... many questions!” Seth defends. “Think of it this way, you’ll be holding down the fort. Guarding all our things, how cool are you? I bet you’ll be the best guard ever,” Cider says, trying to convince him to stay. “I suppose we do have some important stuff in here...” Chronos mutters. “Oh, ple...ase. There’s no o-o-o-one else here, who’s-who’s-who’s gonna steal anything? The rats? Watch out, you-you-you-you guys, the fu-fu-fucking rats are here to steal our devices,” Seth huffs, kicking a step and glitching down to the other two. “Just stay here, we’ll only be gone a few hours. Use the sun’s location in the sky to tell what time-” “Use your phone to check the time,” Chronos interrupts. “Yeah, yeah, alright, killjoy. And don’t forget to call us if you need anything,” Cider grins, giving Seth a soft pat. Seth scoffs and glitches off in to the kitchen. Cider made sure Seth had enough to keep him enteratined and prevent him from leaving, they both grabbed their jackets and headed out.

#undertronic #sharax #fanfic #au #headcanon #fanfiction

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naeshitsherlock · 5 years ago

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I would put this under a read more under the cut or whatever but I’m on mobile and I don’t think I can so basically I just need to dump this here to put it in my diary tag for future reference and posterity etc

So I’ve been back to watching crazy ex gf on Netflix after a long break (watching too much at once makes my own personality go a little crazy so I gotta be careful) and it helped me realise the context of my brain a little better. Unfortunately I can’t find the exact scene on YouTube so I gotta send the script quote instead which has less impact

...so I can’t even find the quote so maybe I paraphrased it in my dream idk. But anyway, not the point. So Rebecca has an emotional collapse and just... gives up. Like wholly and completely. Overdosed on antianxiety pills and gets sent to hospital for a psych evaluation bc clearly she’s not right

And this new doctor comes along and tells her he’s talked to her therapist and checked out her symptoms and thinks he’s maybe got a real accurate diagnosis for her

And it suddenly fills her with so much hope, and she sings this incredible song that might stay in my heart forever

https://youtu.be/nK2DlLmVc20

“Fake it til you make it” is my absolute motto I live by bc I always felt like I don’t feel like other people do. If I get caught up in the moment of something then I can have fun, sure, but generally? Day to day? I mostly just exist inside my own violet thoughts

Everything is just a hazy dark purple

So she sings this song about finally, _*finally*_ having hope that somebody can tell her why she feels how she feels and that there’s a way to cure it

And she’s looking at people who have mental illnesses and says ‘perfect they’re not but at least they know who they are’ (I’ll come back to this part later for another reason)

And that hit me like a ton of bricks

So I’ve been on antidepressants now for three years, but over those years I’ve tested a whole bunch and different concentrations (wait, doses? Science brain takes over sometimes) and even though the one I’m on now makes me feel... I guess stable, I still don’t feel... good

And every time I see my doctor she asks if it could be better

And it’s so hard to remember what I was like _before_ I started taking meds, but then I saw this episode and it just smacked me up the head

Like if you go from having long hair to bald, it’s an easy comparison, yeah? But what if you just chop centimetres at a time until there’s nothing left

It’s so hard to compare between what it was and what it now is

Just sort of realising that knowing what your problem is is a huge weight off your shoulders and I realised how different I am now from me back then

And then I was watching this and Rebecca was like ‘it’s too much effort to do things or see people or go outside or even just exist’ in the most heartbreaking voice, like completely not a deadpan joke, just absolutely broken down and reduced to basal nothingness, and I got like a sudden timetravel moment back to those feelings

When I was in high school I couldn’t hang out with my friends bc of anxiety. My mum forced me into the car to drop me off once and she had to drive me home after I couldn’t stop sobbing in front of my friends for 10 minutes telling them that I really wanted to hang out with them but I felt physically atrocious and was about to throw up my entire gastroinstestinal system

Realistically, one of my biggest issues is that I haven’t even been diagnosed with depression. I’m taking antidepressants but my doctor has never outright stated that I have depression

And even though I’m rational and I know the symptoms add up, there’s still this really quiet voice in the smallest corner of my brain rejecting it

Even back last year when I was in a flat by myself and not working bc I couldn’t find a job, I had... at least two absolutely gut wrenching breakdowns

I was crying so hard I couldn’t breathe, like a goddamn baby who can’t use their words to convey their feelings

And it sucked even more bc I CAN use words and I SHOULD be able to convey my feelings, and I just can’t

I cried for almost two hours

It was an awful wail/shriek and once I stopped hyperventillating it would start again

I’ve had anxiety literally as long as I can remember. I was never able to hang out with friends or go to a bathroom without my mum in a restaurant or even just go to a shop and buy something at the checkout until I started uni, and even then it was such a struggle getting through that

I still have that anxiety but now I’m able to boss it around better, but even then I shit myself when I have to go to a shop alone or just... have a professional opinion? Because I feel like an absolute fake

My entire being is just consumed by ennui (the most accurate definition being ‘a crippling listlessness’)

Even going to the doctor, I know it helps, but every month I get anxiety over making the appt, getting the train, seeing the receptionist, talking to the doctor, filling the prescription, making a future appt for the next month, getting the train back, and getting back to my flat

And the whole thing takes ~2h a month but it absolutely destroys me bc it’s not... I guess it’s not enough

I’ve never been seriously suicidal and I hope I never will be, but at the same time one of the reasons is... you have to have an actual desire to kill yourself

I don’t know the last desire I ever had

When I was in high school and my sister almost died in hospital from anorexia I had a complete break, bc my parents just went distant and I probably saw my mother... less than an hour a day. While I was 16. Once I woke her up to tell her I was going to school and instead of saying morning she said ‘I think your sister is going to die’

8am that happened at

I had to then deal with the anxiety of ‘how do I deal with going from being the older sister to the only sister’

If I could pinpoint a moment where I broke? That would be it

...getting back to your original point about how nice it would be to _live_?

I’ve never lived

Not once in my life

That’s why i was trying so hard with online dating even though I hate it so much, because I just want to figure out who the fuck I am and maybe that’ll help me live

It’s similar to the depression - I’ve never had the label so I don’t feel comfortable knowing what’s wrong

I can’t say ‘oh I have the flu, that’s why I feel shitty so it’s ok’

I’m never ok with feeling shitty just _because_, there’s almost always a reason

‘Perfect they’re not but at least they know who they are’ is the one thing keeping me going, that maybe if I work out who/what I am then I’ll start enjoying my existence

I have no major problems, nothing financial or emotional or physical, I’m privileged and surrounded by a support system I guess but I’ve still always felt an extreme detatchmebt

Recently I’ve found myself being super bitter and jealous towards things like the LGBT community bc it’s people celebrating their identity, and I feel like I don’t have one

And yeah ok I can tell myself things like ‘it’s fine to not have a plan’, ‘it’s ok to not know who you are you just need to find yourself’, ‘it’s alright not to get married and be in a committed relationship’, but there’s always part of me that can’t accept those things

youtube

#text #im v much not expecting anybody to read this but if you do pls dont judge me #i just needed to be honest with myself for once and get things off my chest #the most accurate words i use to describe me general basal feelings and emotions are very blue #melancholy ennui and just plain ol morose

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orgy-of-nerdiness · 6 years ago

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Posting this at 2:30 am bc maybe it's less likely to start controversy

I really don't want to get into The Discourse. This post is personal meant for my personal blog about a personal experience, not meant to address every aspect of nuance of every other person's lived experience

So, with that out of the way, I finally had a convo with my therapist about being aro/QPs and it went much better than expected.

Well I'd kinda tried to explain it when I first started seeing him over a year ago. But he kept trying to sort it into a category. It was frustrating. I was trying to disagree with his hypothesis that I won't let myself be loved and/or vulnerable in like an intimate relationship. I didn't return to the subject.

Friday we talked about touch (because I brought it up because I have Issues) and he asked about my history with romantic relationships. He asked me if I'd ever been in love. I made a face. He asked why and I told him I was bracing myself for the usual idea that romantic love/partnerships are somehow inherently superior to or deeper and more meaningful than other kinds.

I said that I couldn't rule out the possibility that I would someday experience it, but that I thought it unlikely, and I was okay with that, that I didn't feel like I was missing out. He said something about how I couldn't know that without experiencing it. I told him I'd never been scuba diving so therefore couldn't know what I was missing out on, did he think my life couldn't be complete without it? While I do get a little frustrated and defensive during such convos, this wasn't really confrontational, it was more of a thought exercise and challenging his beliefs and assumptions, not a debate with two opposing sides.

I told him that I'd had partnerships. That we hadn't given it a name at the time, but that they were more than friendships. That they weren't romantic or sexual. This was in the context of discussing intimacy and allowing myself to receive it without seeing it as disgusting, pathetic, shameful, to see it as normal and be comfortable with it. And so I told him about the way that these were partnerships, I told him about the falling out the last time I had a real one years ago. I told him that I'd like to someday have one that lasted for the rest of my life, that I wouldn't feel like I was missing out on romantic stuff if I had a partner, but there being the difficulty and fear as more and more people pair off in romantic relationships. That this kind of partnership isn't really compatible with either person having a serious romantic partnership with someone else at the same time. That I don't know if I'll ever have that again.

(i tried to convince myself that I could feel that way about someone else who also wanted a QP a bit over a year ago, but on some level I knew my heart wasn't in it and that it wouldn't work, that I was trying to convince myself that I had feelings that I didn't because I really really wanted to have that again. The two "real" ones that I see as such were both something that developed slowly and naturally with time, not a decision. And they were relationships I always felt secure in, that I felt sure of and never doubted that I wanted)

I told him about how there wasn't shame involved in wanting and giving and receiving those things, that it felt heathy. Because it felt like an equal adult relationship. Because those were emotional wants and needs I didn't have until later in life. It was the emotional wants and needs that I had as a child that I had to tell myself were bad and forbidden and shameful. A child's longing for maternal affection mostly. And so I feel disgust when I think about wanting that. That's different than a partnership. I didn't want an emotionally intimate partnership with an equal/peer when I was a child, that's strictly an adult want.

When explaining what these relationships were I used both the terms emotional intimacy and physical intimacy. Initially he said something in reference to it about having people I felt comfortable huffing and I was like lolno, it was much more intimate than just hugging. When I later clarified that to me these relationships are not just separate from sexual feelings, they are actually mutually exclusive and do not mix for me, he expressed confusion about my previous use of the term physical intimacy. I said "there's more to physical intimacy than getting naked and getting each other off." I described more specifics of what I meant. There was probably some tenderness and sadness in my voice because, fuck, I miss that.

He seemed to get it after that. When I said something that I can't remember other than that it was a bit defensive of the significance of these relationships he reassured me that I didn't need to do that, that he understood that now. When I was talking about how the last one had ended he was empathetic and validating about how painful it must have been, and it didn't feel patronizing or like he saw it as a falling out with a friend. Not that a falling out with a friend isn't incredibly painful in its own way. It's a different kind of hurt though, and it was like he understood what kind of loss it was.

He said he was glad that I'd had those relationships, that I let myself give and receive those things. He sounded genuine. Idk how to explain how I could tell that he really understood, what exactly it was that had changed in his tone and demeanor.

I'd avoided and kind of accepted just not talking to him about this kind of stuff. Every once in a while he'd bring it up and I'd kind of shut it down. I think he thought I just wasn't ready to talk about it, wasn't ready to acknowledge that I wanted that or something. He'd bring up it being natural or normal to want to be cared about by a partner or whatever and I'd sigh and tell him once again that that wasn't what I meant.

I think I'm probably not going to have to deal with that from him anymore. That he no longer thinks that I'm denying myself stuff, and instead understands what I'd had and what it meant to me. And that matters to me. I didn't really realize that it did. But it feels like a question of respecting and honoring the feelings and their significance, not minimizing or dismissing what I'd shared with these people.

And, last thoughts regarding The Discourse: this is a lived experience, not a stance on any issue. If you have questions about my stance on specific issues you can ask (though the answer will likely include "it depends" and could very well be that I can see both sides and I don't really have an answer). Not to be ~A Centrist~, but I feel that this is one of the instances in which any nuance is lost on this site.

#personal #don't reblog ////***/

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3s-diary · 3 years ago

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so so many things happen and I never talk about them. but well after getting my academic paper and math exam done,I at least have some time. so, warning in advance,( in case anyone else ever reads this) this post will be about self 4arm and 3ating disord3rs. I have this friend(?), we will call her lisa since I think that's her blackpink bias. we met in 7th grade and immediately started getting along super well, we became best friends. a lot of other things happened, including me struggling with eating habits and toxic friends as well as the both of us being tone deaf a lot of times, but I won't elaborate on that now. in order to put the situation in context, i need to talk about what happened between the two of us and the self harm topic. when we were in..... let's say 7th to 8th grade, mostly 8th so I was 12, both of us didn't go through the most cheery time. we knew that, and sometimes talked about it roughly, but mostly we kept to ourselves. when i started self 4arming, I would use whatever sharp objects I'd find, sometimes I'd just scratch myself all over or literally whatever. it sort of served me as an outlet and although it wasn't regular or anything severe back then, I don't remember but if I'd have to guess I'd say i had a period of 3 to 6 days every month where I would break down at night and self harm. and trust me, the thing I wanted less than anything else was someone noticing. I could harm the injuries quite well, since they weren't severe and i'd have singular ones in different spaces(this sounds stupid but like 1 cut on my leg and 2 on my arm, if someone asked, saying it's an injury is not too unrealistic). so, that was my self 4qrm pattern when I was like 12, and in my class at that time, I wasn't the only one struggling. at that point, as I said both me ans my best friend were going through difficult times, one day i saw a cut on her arm and asked whether that was sself inflicted, she said no, that was my cat, and I know, standard excuse, but she has two cats and they scratched her before. although I wasn't completely cconvinced, I dropped the matter. then, one night, I sh'ed the most I ever did until then and it was summer. I panicked about someone in school noticing, but eventually went in shorts and a sweatjacket(sweating my ass off,plus the outfit was awfully mismatched). I assume my bsf noticed or at least suspected i had c.ut, when she sat next to me in chemestry, she was like what shorts are you wearing and lifted my jacket to see, and my shorts didn't completely cover my cuts, so she immediately saw. that was in my head back then,the worst possible scenario, since I felt like nobody should ever know, but when she saw we started talking about it and i think, telling her about it in the first place and being able to tell someone that I was scared of p.e. and someone seeing helped. she told me about when shs c.ut herself shs immediately regret it and nevee wanted to again, not gaining satisfaction from it (which I'm glad she didn't, bc that's how people like me develope it as a habit). I had someone to potentially talk to. I don't think i did tho. during that period I went going and talked to nobody, I'm almost certain my coach at one point saw and katelyn and keanu did too, katelyn c.utting publicly and talking to us about it while being at least 2 years older negatively influenced me too, but that's for another day. I think i was even trying therapy at that point but shut the hell up about it while hoping my therapist wouldn't stare too hard. however after that,I quite a long clean period, barely leaving scars behind,the ones that were faded, and i was glad.

then, when I was 14 in march, I relapsed, and really started c.utting with blades,which was mostly due to me being depressed and not being able to get myself up to anything while still having pressure on me and getting into trouble I couldn't deal with. around june i wrote a text message to my now bsf, saying i was struggling to keep myself alive because I was starting to become unable to cope and didn't want to become suicidal. she was super sweet and all and i got better during summer. going back to school in august, I had scars, but you had to look closely to see them. the only one who ever saw them at that point was pou, not saying a lot about it however. in november 2021 i relapsed again after almost half a year of being clean, not knowing how to deal with numbness and feeling like i was in a hole of nothing ever lasting, nothing ever working out or getting better. after i broke up with my bf at that time (different story) and the world around me worsening my mental situation, i started planning my su1c1de, until I eventually talked to my ma, who sent me to a therapist again and had me promise to never c.ut again.from that day on, I'm clean, but I have multiple scars, which i dislike, unsuprisingly. the one on my knee is the grossest, but the accumilation on my thighs and arm are the ones that catch ppls attention. shecrush asked me whether I was alright after seeing my arm a while ago, I didn't even get it at first. however back to lisa, when we sat next to each other in religion, she said "hey so i wanted to ask you this for a while but i didn't know how and i don't wanna invade your privacy or something but...your arm...like are you alright" and I was like "what ohhh yeah dw those are old. i appreciate you asking tho and .... yk you can always talk to me if you're not okay, no matter whether in school or outside." and that might sound like yeah whatever but. i did appreciate her worrying abt me because I don't feel like she likes me a lot anymore. after a few conflicts in our relationship she stopped talking to me when i was 14. we never met up again and only talked in school since then. so yeah and now we only talk in the periods we have together,she's still very quiet. however, there's this other reason i told her she can always talk to me. when we were younger she was chubby,which to me appeared quite natural and yk, but she had big issues accepting her body, whivh was unfortunately around the time i was st.arving myself, whether we negatively affected each other during that time is a different question, i sure as hell never spoke to her about it. during 2020 she lost hella weight through exercise when she was stuck at home, but now it sort of escalated from what I'm seeing. it's quite clear she has an ed, she can't eat in front of others, can't feel comfy eating in front of her family even, since her sister keeps commenting on her eating habits(that fuels me with rage btw, i didn't remember her sister being like this). she refuses to eat 3 meals sometimes and does that overly healthy and over exercising thing, unfortunately, and I have no idea how to help her. she's completely isolated, she talks to anita but i don't think they even speak outside of school, apart from that she doesn't have any friends or contacts , that has worried me ever since she more or less cut me off. my bsf dipsy heard her voice her problems and asked th what to do, th said nothing,we can't do anything, and while I should know a way to help, i was in the same situation, i don't. back when I was struggeling, i wanted nobody to even notice and now I don't feel like i can tell her anything. i keep saying pls go see a doctor since you're not getting ur period anymore, since she told me about that, but in the end of the day, we're nothing more than lunchbox friends and i'm not close to her anymore, idk how to help her, and whether I should even speak to her saying ... well saying what even

#lisa1school1 #katelyn1by1 #sh1issue1 #ed1issue1 #sui1issue1

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susventingdolphins · 3 years ago

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My sister no longer feels like a friend (No TL;DR, but if you want to get to the last breaking incident and skip the past context / events go to the bottom)

I (23) have these two friends I'll call them L (21) and X (23), L has been like a sister to me for 3 years. I still love her as one but so much has happened that I don't love her as a friend anymore. L and X I've helped with their mental health since I met them, L for 3 years I've been her on call pseudo friend-therapist trying to help her so she could eventually get professional help for herself. Its been non stop taking care of her and having friends around us favor her and abuse me and neglect me to force me to be the perfect "caretaker" for her by "toughening me up" L knew about this but shrugged it all off. L Rarely reciprocated with listening to me, when i did try to go to her she'd be judgemental and threaten me to force me into things I didn't want to do. So eventually I rarely went to her unless it was dumb friend sh*t and nothing big in my life. And even then it was only when I wanted to end my own life did I go to her. But she always blew me off and it was my husband who had to pull me back each time.

The major issues though? It started off last year First incident with L Blew off my past abuse out of no where, using her religion to push me into forgiving the man who sexually, physically and verbally abused me, gave my whole family ptsd, gave my mother physical scars, screwed up and ruined my one brothers knee, hurt me so badly that I live with constant physical pain as a result from too much force / physical trauma to my body. But L told me I had to forgive him that abuse is a cycle and only god can judge. When I told her to stop and told her she should know better as shes been through verbal abuse and emotional manipulation from both of her parents. She insisted I was being ridiculous by still hating him and having ptsd from him. Got angry and offended and told me again only god can judge and that im not allowed to or I'll go to hell. Second Incident with L She compared me to her abusive mother out of the blue when I was trying to help prevent L from ending her own life scared for her, all because she had insecurities and anxiety and outright admitted to me she let her imagination run wild and painted a completely different version of me in her own head, yet she still judged me for the actions of that imagined version things I never even did or said and she held them against me. Third incident with L She knows I have a fear of men bc of my PTSD, Men are terrifying even online for me, the older they are the worse it is. It causes me major panic attacks so I prefer to outnumber men with females and nonbinary friends when Im with new men so I don't feel overwhelmed. I like to take things slow with men. L however thought it was a good idea to throw me in a group chat with 5 men and just the two of us and to make it worse pressured and forced us into a voice call, acting depressed and hurt if I didn't join. She told me she was trying exposure therapy to help me get over it. I never asked her to do such a thing and I had a major panic attack. I got angry at her for this and she got defensive and angry and when I didn't let it go she then wanted to take her own life again. When I apologised to her for being mad and forced myself to let it go suddenly she was all rainbows and sunshine again. Fourth Incident with L I had a dangerous ex friend, who I couldn't leave bc they were threatening me and had found out my IP address. L knew this I spoke to her about this. I legally could do nothing bc it was JUST online they hadn't made a move yet so I couldn't get legal help. L forced me to leave that ex friend threatening to leave me as a friend if I didn't and assured me I'd be fine if I broke it off, told me I don't really trust her or love her if I didn't. Even though I told L of the risks and the fact I couldn't legally protect myself because even if the ex did do something cyber crimes are often brushed off in my town and laughed off unless she DOES leak the IP or my address (and often times thats still ignored until someone physically tries to harm me or stalk me). It doesn't stop her from leaking everything else about me. The ex friend then leaked all my emails, my social medias, my face, to people online, including to hate groups of asexuals, knowing I was ace, one of the biggest things I wanted to avoid. the IP didn't get leaked but the ex friend did threaten to leak it if I went against her again, I then had a lot of threats flooding my email address after. Now as for long standing issues over the past 3 years 1. She would always bring up how much she hated her skinny body when I felt insecure of being fat 2. She would always get mad at me for wanting to lose weight because she felt I was hating on myself by wanting to lose even one pound, told me god made me this way and I was being disrespectful if I change it, even when it was for medical reasons. 3. She insinuated a lot that I wasn't good enough for my husband that because I have depression he deserved better 4. She threatened me all the time to tell my brother who has depression, that I was suicidal and pile all of my own problems on him knowing it'd

hurt him if I ever ended my friendship with her, she'd do this whenever I got mad at her for anything. 5. She never accepted that she hurt me a lot, instead she'd either suddenly want to die every single time until I let it go or she'd try to gaslight me into making it all my fault she hurt me. I never could communicate with her. 6. she constantly criticised me for not having as easy of a time learning as other people and for being unable to grasp anything in math (except the basics) and science. She also constantly corrected and mocked and made fun of me for my punctuation and grammar and discouraged me from following my dreams to become an author. 7. Constantly got jealous about all my new friends and trash talked them 8. Flirted with my IRL big brother trying to lead him on and use him to cheat, when she was in relationships with other men and knew my brother was off limits. 9. Trash talked my mother no matter how many times I got angry at her for it. 10. Forced me to voice chat and do so often without breaks, even when I didn't want to though she knew I had major anxiety involving using my actual voice to speak (its linked to my social anxiety, its weird and I don't get it myself. But speaking physically genuinely mentally pains me to do) 11. Sent me monetary gifts even when I told her not to, and always joked about me owing her, and went on about how much money they cost her and how much of her money she had left. 12. All the gifts she did send me was things she liked that she knew I disliked and she got angry if I didn't fall in love with these things. 13. Would disrespect my s*x repulsion (part of my own asexuality. Its my side of the spectrum) and force me into uncomfortable topics talking all about her having s*x with her boyfriends. For those wondering why X is also a problem: through all these each time I asked him what to do when talking to L didn't work, X excused her behaviour and blamed and pinned everything on me for "not trying hard enough to be a good friend, not being understanding enough, not being patient enough. You know how L is, its just her nature! You should be putting more legwork in to make up for it, you know she loves you. would she put up with you if she didn't? She only wants what is best for you, give her a break. Shes doing this all for you. You have to take care of her! you owe her, she deserves it." ‼️LAST INCIDENT FOR THOSE WHO DON'T WANT TO READ ALL OF THIS‼️ then the most recent incident with her some context first: I take mental health breaks, I am bluntly honest about what im going through if asked if I trust someone. If you're not part of the problem I always let you know why im leaving even if I don't go into detail. This is something I've said and made clear numerous times over the years and even warn people about the day we become friends so they have time to back out if they can't handle a friendship that isn't constant messaging. L and X for the past 6 months have ghosted me and been cold towards me, responding maybe 1 / 20 times and always short and curt unless they needed help for something. The whole time I waited for them, I helped them even when I was having bad day after bad day, my own mental health was dipping which i informed them of incase I seemed cold after awhile and couldn't keep up being bubbly. But I kept trying to make their day sending cute little supportive messages constantly and checking up on them bi-daily when I knew it was particularly a hard week for them. I waited and waited thinking "They will talk to me when they need me or when they feel ready. It'll be okay, Whatever it is we can tackle it together" and this is also something I expressed to them, that I noticed something is wrong but I'm here if they need me whenever they are ready. That the option is always open and I loved them. Then they got colder and colder, they started making snide jabs at me all the time which I brushed off as them having a bad day every single time. They made jabs about every part of my personality being annoying, my appearance being annoying and treated my

looks with disgust, they hated every single thing I got into and liked and got angry if I didn't like every single thing they did, they found any reason to criticise me those 6 months every single day. And on my 3 year friendship anniversary with them they treated me even colder and picked a bunch of small fights with me throughout the whole day from what games i was playing, to my choice of clothes, to what I ate to how much and how little I spoke, everything was wrong wrong wrong. Then fast forward to 2 weeks ago. 2 weeks ago L started a huge fight with me L told me my depressive break downs were pity parties minimized and scoffed and laughed at them. She told me My husband only puts up with me and I don't deserve him and im abusive and toxic for having depression that because I don't get better it hurts everyone else that I can't be happy all the time and im toxic because I "choose to have depression" She told me Im abusive for taking mental health breaks that by taking them and walking away from all social media for a few days at a time, im "practically telling us we're not good enough and we're unloveable." and that I am toxic for taking breaks. Her words. Im toxic for being friends with people I've fought with in the past and "stupid, naive, retarded, foolish, cowardly" that I love the pain and bathe in it and thats why I never get better. That im a "sh*tty friend for being depressed" told me to just willpower away my depression and anxiety. She told me I deserved to be depressed and have anxiety, told me I brought it on myself, told me my past didn't matter that my PTSD is my own fault, told me I never had to be perfect (I did in the past as a kid have to be to avoid being given to an abusive criminal bc he had this town wrapped around his finger into believing he was innocent as can be, this is something that lasted with me from I assume PTSD, I strive to be perfect to fix all my flaws I possibly am able to, and hide most of my negative emotions. This has never ever effected how I treated others, only how I treat myself. It also is something I've tried for years to snap out of but never been able to manage to.) and that im no ones saviour (never said, acted or claimed I was) and to stop helping other people, told me im nothing and no one and no one cares about me. Told me I don't matter and no one would care if I did die that im insignificant. She told me she was hurt I don't talk to them how I feel about them and keep it to myself instead when she knows they are hurting me. She then compared herself to my ex friend who abused me for 6 years straight and numerous times had tried to drive me to suicide. She then told me It was my fault she has insecurities. When I told X all that happened X blamed me for it telling me I deserved it and everyone else was too cowardly and everyone was thinking it and wanted to do it to me. He then told me he loved me and wanted me to talk to him how I felt about him, so I was honest decided "Okay I must be in the wrong if they both are upset" I apologised to them both for everything they accused me of because I genuinely felt bad. L and I kept talking because I was trying to fix things, L told me that I X and Her "Know we aren't your only friends but it'd be nice if we were, I'd like that it'd make me so much happier" She told me that she feels like she has to change to a warmer person and im a bad person for her feeling that way because she feels like she has to match up to my energy because I get depressed when they ignore and ghost me for weeks on end that its just "how we are, its our nature. We're cold people" Then turned around in the fight to tell me I have to change and become colder, that they hate who I am as a person, they hate that im affectionate and get attached to people. L told me X and her have been talking behind my back, sent me logs of it of the two of them insulting and mocking me and told me they did it out of love and frustration and in those logs X had told L many of my secrets I trusted X with, he didn't keep a single one. I went back to

X deciding to be honest since they want honesty, and told him about what L showed me and that I didn't trust the two of them anymore after this and the things said were harsh and hurted a lot and a lot of it did feel inaccurate while some things were on the nose, and he told me he didn't want to be my brother anymore, told me I was a bad friend and I again deserved what panda did, then he ghosted me. After this all happened, I snapped and something clicked and changed inside and I felt cold towards them. Affectionate to those who actually showed me love, and happier again because I trusted L the most and she broke my heart. It felt like I hit an epiphany. I became a new person, I changed my name online, I cut off toxic friends, I patched things up with old friends, I communicated more about my feelings so there'd be no misunderstandings anymore with good friends because of my own anxiety and insecurities with them. I was happier I had really good friends by my side who love me. I was a new me, I found myself again and it felt like there was light again in a tunnel that has been long and dark since I was 12. Fast forward to 3 days ago and she messaged me again after us not talking since that incident. She apologised and I felt relieved, but thats not the end. Her apology took a very unexpected turn. She told me she was only sorry she never said anything earlier, but she did not regret a single thing she said or did to me over the years since we met and especially not what she said and did that day. She told me again I was a horrible human being for being depressed and toxic for hating my own appearance and trying to lose weight. She then said "I know better, I knew better and let my own insecurities get to me. But its YOUR fault. You never told me otherwise. I didn't go to you either but you never told me what I needed to hear, you're supposed to be good at reading people, its your fault not mine" Told me that she is hurt by me for me taking mental health breaks, said I was doing it to be malicious to her and X, that there was no way I wasn't, even though she "knows better her insecurities say its that way so it has to be and its my fault for making her feel insecure." She then told me she wants to stop being friends but also wants to hold onto me. Told me I'd have to do a lot of work, when I spoke to her about all she ever did that hurt me, how I felt she turned around and made it all about herself. She then told me it'd be me that would have to change who I am as a person. "Become colder, Stop caring about others, Be warmer to us, don't leave us behind, stop taking mental health breaks" Then she told me "Its my fault you changed, I did well but I don't like how you changed. I pushed you onto that new path leaving myself stuck behind. I dislike this new you, I didn't expect for that to change your whole life and who you were. I don't like it, maybe we can change it back and be friends again" She then told me "the misunderstanding caused me to distrust you, you'll have to repair that if you want us to be friends still. I'll TRY but you have to fix everything or this wont work out" If we do stay friends shes going to be a casual video games only kind of friend only bc I still do love her. But honestly if we stop being friends Im fine with that too. Either way shes lost all right to be a big part of my life again and shes lost trust she'll never get back from me.

#Toxic friends #Toxic friendship #Trigger Warning #tw suicide #tw depression #sorry for the rant #rant #3 year anniversary

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not-tryin-2-have-a-debate · 8 years ago

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i want to keep my original long draft for an essay abotu my Psych Ward Expirience somewhere so i’m post it here under readmore bc its super long

When most people hear the phrase “Psych Ward,” they think of settings in horror movies. They picture 1800’s sanatoriums, dark and crumbling asylums full of dangerous murderers. I don’t know if hollywood or a general societal ignorance towards mental disorders should be blamed more for that, but living with a serious mental illness is one of those things that “outsiders” never really seem to understand. That misunderstanding extends to treatment as well.

Therapy comes in many shapes and sizes, different types and intensities. There are different amounts of work expected from the patient, different ways the therapist can try to work through their issues, but the biggest range of differences is probably in the environments these sessions can take place in. One-on-One appointments with a therapist, Group therapy that meets once or twice a week, specific support groups, and anger management classes are all things that we in the business would call “outpatient” treatment. Some programs are dubbed as “intensive outpatient” or “semi-inpatient” programs, for when they want to hospitalize someone but aren’t allowed to for whatever reason (usually because they can’t pay for it, or the family in charge of their affairs won’t allow it, or they're actually a good and understanding doctor that sees the problem with taking a mother away from her job and kids from three days to three months depending on the program.)

Group homes, halfway houses, and stays in mental hospitals would all be on the “inpatient” or residential side of things. Some places are specifically “Crisis Hospitals,” a place where suicidal patients go for one or two days until they aren’t considered an active threat to themselves anymore. Depending on the hospital and how much they actually care, the patient may run out the clock of their stay and can sent to a different center or dropped back into society while still in the middle of their crisis. Every psychiatric hospital has protocol for patients on suicide watch and many have specific rooms for it, open cubbies in a big long hall with no doors or front walls, so the staff can be watching you at all times.

When someone’s in treatment for any mental issues extending beyond mild depression or anxiety, being hospitalized is a kind of vague threat always looming on the horizon. If they say something a little too dark, or they fly off the handle a little too often, the question comes up asking if they’re in need of more ‘intense’ care.

Most patients that have been around a while know how to quickly deflect a nervous doctor. We get told our own horror stories; tales of prisons with heavily medicated inmates, friends recounting abuse from their nurses, being locked up in a place that claimed to help them but in actuality just held their lives/times for ransom until they stopped complaining.

I’m asked about my safety every time I see my psychiatrist. I sit in Brian’s office once every three or four weeks and discuss how much of a failure I am at pretending to be a human being. Every time, near the end, he looks me in the eye with an uncomfortable grimace and asks me how safe I feel. We both know it's a strange and impossible question. I could say no for so many different reasons. Realistically I will probably hurt myself before our next appointment. There will definitely be at least a few times I think of dying, go over the details in my head. I could point to my paranoia, or my childhood, and tell him I haven’t felt safe in a long, long time. But he knows all of that, and he knows my honest answer, and we both know that him asking how safe I currently feel is just secret code for whether or not I want to be sent to a hospital. So I shrug and tell him I’ll be just fine.

I guess I was having a pretty rough time at fourteen. I say “I guess” because I can’t remember most of it, but what I do remember wasn’t particularly any worse than two years before or the year after. It was mainly just that when I was fourteen, people were noticing more, and feeling more guilty, and I was saying some wrong things at the wrong times.

I’d already been in regular therapy for years; I’d been through one group until my therapist got transferred and an “intensive outpatient therapy plan” after that. Every two weeks or so one of my parents would dig me out of bed and drive me to the one small therapy office in my town. I would wait for at least forty minutes past my appointment and then be called back to see the nurse, Mellisa. (Her name was spelled with two L’s and one S; I know about that because she would get very upset with the other staff for spelling it wrong.) Every time I went to that office, Mellisa would have me take a pregnancy test, no matter how many things about me made its results obvious, because when you’re a kid medical professionals will never trust a single word out of your mouth: especially if you’re crazy. My mother and I would go and sit in an uncomfortably warm room waiting for my psychiatrist go come online. I would study the boring, mass-produced ocean painting on the wall, finding anything to look towards but my mother. My psychiatrist at the time was an attractive nigerian man that I was only ever introduced to as Dr.O; one time I asked Mellisa what his full name was, because I felt disrespectful not knowing it, but she’d brushed it off as too hard to even try pronouncing. Dr.O lived somewhere else in the state and would see me for our appointments through a computer monitor, setup on a cheap wooden coffee table across from some chairs. My parents always complained about having to drive all the way to the office just to have a skype call; I always just wondered why they bothered setting up the fancy room, since you could hear what everyone was saying through the walls anyway. Dr.O mainly saw older patients and I could tell that he usually thought I was being overdramatic. I would keep my head down, trying my best to speak up so he could hear me through the microphone on the table (and often being chided by him and my mother to move closer to it when he still couldn’t hear me.) I would stay silent as my mother talked the whole time, giving half of the story with none of the context. I would stiffly and awkwardly be made to stand up and show a man on a screen the words carved into my arms, motion to where the cuts went on my legs. I would look at noe one and try not to think of the mostly-screamed “lecture” that was waiting for me once we were done there, where both of my parents sat me on my bed and stood there with crossed arms, telling me they weren’t angry, they were just frustrated, telling me they just didn’t understand why I did these things to myself. They didn’t understand why I couldn’t just come talk to them.

Dr.O decided once, while my mom was in the middle of telling him her version of what I was going through, that I needed to be hospitalized. I snapped back to attention, stopped picking at the scabs on my arm, asked what I did. I barely remember what the real reasoning was: something about how I was already suicidal and they were going to take me off my anti-depressants which were making me more depressed on top of causing me to gain weight, and I would probably feel even more suicidal when I was in the withdrawal from those so I needed to be monitored, or something. That’s a series of events that I’ve gone through about five or six times with five or six different drugs, and that one (paxil, for anyone wondering) wasn’t the first. I’m still not sure why that time it was any different...maybe those reasons were an excuse for some kind of psychic doctor vibe he was getting from me. My mother was, of course, completely furious for all the wrong reasons. I was calmly sent out of the room to wait with Mellisa while she screamed, asking if he was really about to lock up a fourteen year old girl with a bunch of “violent drug addicts” because I was having “some issues adjusting.” When I was younger my mother would often refer to my ‘adjustment issues’--i was never sure what it was I was trying to adjust to.

My mother called my father and I thought to myself that this was a really bad way to make me not want to die. He entered the building crying and confused, probably having only been told a vague three word explanation by my mother, leaning down at me chair, caressing my face like I was dying or like we would never see each other again. For all I knew, we wouldn’t; for all the information I’d been given, I was about to be shipped off somewhere for life. We spent probably another hour in that office, me sitting in my chair, watching everyone else argue and talk and come and go and give me weird looks for split seconds and then continue on talking about me like they’d already sent me to the terrifying gate of hell that a mental hospital apparently was. Mellisa tried to comfort me and pointed out that I was crying. She put a hand on my shoulder and I accidentally, involuntarily, blurted out for her not to touch me. My mouth says a lot of things I don’t want it to. That’s one of the times I’ve most regretted it. I was eventually told I would go home, pack my things, and drive to the hospital that night. That had set my mother off again right when she’d started to calm down-- “Tonight!?” she’d barked at Mellisa. “We can’t even wait til tomorrow?!” Imagine what a dinner that would’ve been. I assume I did as I was told. I remember packing the stuffed animal my internet boyfriend had hot-glued together for me, and a (paperback) Robert Louis Stevenson novel that I was trying to read and pretending I understood more than half of. You aren’t allowed to take a whole list of things with you to the hospital; anything that could possibly be considered dangerous to you or to anyone else is prohibited. No shoes with laces or pants with drawstrings. No mirror, hair brushes, toothbrushes, or soaps either, because the hospital would supply those. At one point I bitterly argued with a nurse that I could shove a sock in my mouth a choke on it if I really wanted to, and she threatened to take all my socks away. I decided to stay quiet on the realization I had that if I got really desperate I could just try to bite off my own tongue. The drive was two hours long and completely silent. My mother spent the first twenty minutes determined to squeeze as much as she could out of the time we had left til arrival, but I was in a confused haze and she was tired from screaming at doctors...or tired from dealing with her defective daughter. She tried to comfort me, assuring me that this would be good for me, that maybe this hospital would straighten some things out and set me on the road to true recovery after all this time spent struggling. I looked at the moonless sky outside and chose not to tell her that she had finally admitted something was wrong with me. It was almost midnight when we actually reached the hospital; we passed it once on accident since we could barely make out the sign. My body was working on its own again at this point. I took mechnical steps, looking straight ahead, hand held in my mother’s because she needed the comfort.

The sterile white walls and fluorescent lights in the front lobby were blinding coming in from the night. I squinted at the woman who came up to meet us, shook my dad’s hand, my mom’s, glanced at me for maybe half of a second. A man named Jesus took and searched my things while we were guided into a more traditional room for this setting, corporate representations of calming moods. Light blue or green walls, wicker and tweed furniture, mass-produced ocean paintings. I focussed on how much I hated paintings of the beach while my parents filled out forms, until the woman finally turned her attention to me. I was comforted and assured, again, that this would be good for me, and then assured that they legally weren’t allowed to use electro-shock therapy. I was told I would do regular groups and that the security wouldn’t use force unless I posed a violent threat. She explained expressive therapy to me, as if I’d never heard of art, while I signed a form saying I consented to being medically sedated if need be. I asked how they would sedate people. She asked if I was afraid of needles.

After signing my name a hundred times, with one of my parents signing after each, it was time for us to say our goodbyes. I’m sure I cried, but I can’t honestly say I remember.

Jesus reappeared without my belongings, telling me before I could ask that they were waiting on my new bed. He led me about three steps out of the conference room to a set of wooden double-doors, like the entrance to a school cafeteria. “This is the Ad Ward…’Ad’ stands for ‘Adolescent.’” he told me, shuffling out an ID card to unlock the doors. He quickly ushered me through and it the first door on the left before I could nothing anything other than a hardwood floor. Jesus handed me a paper hospital gown I never noticed him holding and instructed me to put in on, pointing at the spot on the floor on the small empty room where I should put my clothes. He said a woman would come in shortly to search them and me and then took his swift exit before I could ask any questions. I did as I was told as quickly as possible, nervously trying to make out the muffled voices right outside the door. The second I’d put my clothes in their neatly folded line the head nurse came into the room, making good on Jesus’s word. She went down the line of clothed I had made her, picking up and shaking out every part of my outfit without saying a word. When she was satisfied with them, she turned to me. For those of you that have never been strip searched, please know that it is every bit as strange and mortifying as you would expect, and that no matter how many times you’ve been through it, it’s going to stay just as weird. As my mostly-naked fourteen year old self squatted and coughed before the eyes of a stern older woman with a clipboard, I wondered again how this place was supposed to make life seem worth living. After that, and her metal detector being set off by my braces, I was regifted my clothes (but not my shoes) and handed off to my last stop for the night before bed. I finally got a good look at the Royal Oak Hospital Adolescent Ward: one long hallway with a nurses station near the exit, an elevator, and a long line of almost closed doors. A younger nurse took me into one of them, again completely different from the others I’d been in, and sat me down on an expensive medical equipment looking chair. The girl’s name was Rebecca, she told me sweetly, in the first actual human conversation I’d had in hours. She tried at mostly one-sided small talk with me and she gave me some kind of vaccination or shot. I remember being told it was just a precaution, but I can’t remember what it actually was. The second she was done with the mysterious syringe, though, Rebecca turned on me, bringing out a clipboard and a volley of emotionless questioned that seemed routine to her, but invasive and a little nerve-wracking to me. Asking if I ok with having a roommate or if they had to move my stuff to a different bed was one thing, but at the time I was tired and scared and every question after seemed to strike just the right nerve. She got about halfway down her sheet and asked, casually, what my sexuality was, before I started sobbing. She went back to the good Rebecca and sent me off to bed. We could finish the questions tomorrow. I wouldn’t get to really get a look at my new room and roommate until the morning, as all the other patients on ward were already asleep (or were pretending to be). I slid into the bed, noting the plastic covering on the mattress and the starched, motel room feel of the blanket. Jesus peaked in the doorway to tell me it needed to stay open at night and that he and another man would keep watch on the hall. He said if I couldn’t sleep I was allowed to come sit out there and talk with them; there was usually at least one kid that took advantage of that at some point in the night. I thanked him but chose to stay where I was, holding my handmade stuffed animal so tight it hurt my wrists and staring at the cracked door. I listened to Jesus and the other man talking quietly for hours until I finally passed out. I finally drifted off some time after Jesus lamented about how little time he was getting with his daughter after his divorce. Morning Routine in the hospital was as follows: wake up at 8 a.m. and line up in the hallway for Checks. Roll was taken and an always different nurse that didn’t know our names would check our blood pressure, temperature, and pulse. People who took meds in the morning were given their pills and some water in two small paper cups, and David, the nurse that later became my favorite, would ask everyone who they wanted to call on the phone that day. (Phone time was allowed during a break after lunch; we could only ask to call people on an approved list of phone numbers written during admission.) Then, and only then, were we allowed to cram into the one elevator that led from the ward to the basement, and eat breakfast in the cafeteria. After that our daily routine mainly consisted of therapy, one-on-one conversations with a psychiatrist, and school, if it was a weekday. My first morning I was greeted with a great enthusiasm by the eight other kids on the ward. Most of them were older than me by a year or two and I was quickly taken under their collective wing as a newbie. My roommate introduced herself (I’ll call her L) and wasted no time in getting to the stereotypical “what are you in for” conversation. Since my answer was pretty much a vague shrug she made up the difference, telling me a fabulous story embellished highly in her favor about how she punched her school’s superintendent in the face and was given the option of juvie or the hospital. We agreed that it was stupid of the school to give her that choice.

L loved to see how far she could cross the line before she got in trouble, but in the middle of testing people’s limits she would get angry and fly off the handle. She bragged to me that by the time I got there she had been restrained twice and medically sedated the second time. Eventually I had to change rooms when she started an altercation with Jesus and had to and was put on restrictions. There’s an immediate air of understanding and camaraderie between patients on a ward, even between people that kind of hate each other on a personal level. I think it makes perfect sense given the environment, and the fact that in a short time there everyone is going to learn a lot of deep and personal things about everyone else. I remember most of the kids I met there well: M was a small blond and the youngest on the ward at thirteen. He was extremely proud that he was old enough to belong with the teenagers. He was one of the most adamantly alive people I have ever met. He was very upfront about the fact that he had anger issues. I think I was the only one there who didn’t.

G is a girl that I think about very often, fondly and worriedly. She was such a genuine and lovely person, a heavy and pretty girl with long curly hair that was always smiling and talked with her hands. I worry about her because I was never able to contact her once i was out of the hospital; she didn’t give anyone contact information because she wasn’t sure where exactly she was going to end up after her stay there. Knowing what i did learn from her about her family...I still worry about her. But i also worry that trying to look her up now would be weird, but also only make me sad no matter what i found, even the best answers would feel bittersweet. I think that for now i prefer to just remember G fondly as a very dear friend i only got to spend a precious little amount of time with. R was nice but was also the most actively angry about being there, and none of us could blame him. From what he told us (looking back on it now I’m still not sure which side was truthful) his parents had forced him into his stay after blowing an argument completely out of proportion. R as I gravitated towards each other magically, drawn by our innate ability to Tell. from my experience there were always two or three kids on the ward or in the group who aren’t straight, and we would always find each other and group together as quickly as possible. D was the third or the two or three gay kids. I was told she made advances at me but I don’t remember noticing any of them. She really liked naruto and would tell me dramatic stories that I knew were mostly lies but listened to anyways because we were friends. J was a surprise in a lot of ways. He showed up very suddenly and had the staff scrambling. He was tall and wide and older than most of us, with gauged ears and angry eyes. I feel guilty for the amount of time I spent compulsively strategizing self-defense plans against him before we got to know each other. J had been in juvenile detention before coming to the ward as a way to ease his transition back out into the “real world.” The only person I didn’t really get along with was K, but I wasn’t the only one; she sat on the ‘normal people’ side of the social rift and didn’t particularly want anything to do with the rest of the group. Her choice. The rest I don’t remember by name anymore; the teenage mother who got transferred to a different hospital, a boy who would not talk talk about anything other than weed every time I heard him speak. A quiet boy who’s name started with a D and had a nurse communicate things for him.

The usual length of a stay at Royal Oaks was around a week, so people were usually coming and going every other day, making a rotating list of patients for David complained about because it complicated his job and phone call cataloguing. L left on day four, the weed guy the night before her. We vaguely celebrated when someone was left; we could have done more, but it would have meant celebrating almost every night, and jesus didn’t have enough change for the vending machine. We would say our goodbyes before we went to sleep, and part ways at breakfast. The new kids would be greeted with stories of who they replaced, and would be taken under our collective wing, and the cycle would continue. I never personally got to see them, but there was a ward for Adults somewhere on our floor and one for “Pre-Ads” (children under the age of thirteen) downstairs, with the classroom, cafeteria, and ET room. The full layout of the Ad Ward wasn’t much more complicated than what I had observed the night before; one mysterious room was the “Lounge,” a baby blue nightmare where we spent free time, and another was a shower--yes, the whole room, that was it. A twelve-by-twelve cube of brown tile from floor to ceiling, with a small drain in the middle of the floor and a sad faucet with the water pressure of slow falling tears on one wall. About a foot in from the door there was a haphazardly installed shower curtain, and right below the faucet was a wall-hanging soap dispenser, like same kind you find in most public bathrooms. I’d heard of 2-in-1 shampoo and conditioner before, but never All-in-1 general showering goo. Every other room in the hall was a bedroom, and most of them looked identical. Blue walls, two beds set in wooden box frames, and a strange storage-shelf-table-sink hybrid on the other wall. Each room also had a small closet with a toilet in it (two of the rooms had actual bathrooms with their own, normal shower, but most of us weren’t as lucky.) Bathroom doors weren’t allowed to be closed unless they were actively being used. We could only close the door to our room if we were changing clothes, or “with permission,” which meant we could only close the door when we were changing clothes. We were each given a plastic basket of toiletries with our name on it, given it us from a locked space in the nurse’s station after break and before we went to sleep. At some point in the afternoon we would each be called away separately to go meet with a psychiatrist for a bit; a rotating door of short indian men that usually didn’t introduce themselves. The psychiatrists were nice but impersonal, concerned but not well-informed about your situation, fitting with the general theme the hospital seemed to have going. Once one of them took me outside to have our talk, in a little fenced in area with a basketball hoop but not enough room to really try playing with it. I don’t remember anything we talked about other than how I was feeling, how I felt about the hospital, same old thing again and again.

Every night after dinner, two patients that behaved well were allowed to order 1 soda and 1 candy bar from a vending machine outside our reach in the ward. I got a twix and a coke on my first full day, and all the other kids were simultaneously very jealous and proud. The art therapy room was, like all walls in my world at that point, blue, but now with past patient’s art hung up and painted onto them all over, which was a welcome change. Art therapy only involved making art about three of the times that I went. Other times We’d have another group therapy session, or try and fail miserably to play ping pong, or be forced to watch the movie “Freedom Writers” and then talk about our feelings on it. My feelings were that it was a bad film with a nice idea.

The hospital had a Classroom right beside the cafeteria that the ad and pre-ad patients had to attend for three hours every school day. We went separately; the wards weren’t allowed to mix, especially after it turned out that a girl on our ward was the cousin of a kid on the pre-ad. Every week a new sweet older lady would be our teacher, a good samaritan volunteering her time to the hospital. Most of us were old enough that we would just work on our own homework from our school; i was lucky enough that my high school didn’t want to work with the hospital at all, and was unwilling to give me any assignments but the one’s I had brought with me. When I finished those halfway through the first day of class I was given general middle school level work packets and left to my own devices. When i finished those i started trying to help the others, usually M with his science worksheets, or I would spend as long as possible with one of the medical student interns going over a graded french test. I told G how to pronounce her name with a french accent, and she excited told every member of staff about her new name for the rest of the day.

The food, unless you were on suicide watch or “Finger Foods.” Finger Foods was the general terms for when someone had their privileges taken away after an outburst or trying to hurt themselves. You could only use crayons to write, couldn’t handle any sharp objects, were out of the running for a night time candy bar, and obviously, good only eat food with your hands in the cafeteria. Suicide watch Included all the rules of being on Finger Foods but with an added element of direct surveillance at all times; there were some people on suicide watch who were still allowed to be rewarded or participate in activities with supervision, because the restrictions were meant more for their protection than as a punishment. For my first two days at every meal a bulimic girl on my ward would be light-heartedly threatened with a feeding tube if she didn't eat. She and the nurses all seemed to think it was funny, so i just accepted it. At one point we were promised a pizza for our good behavior. We never received that pizza. I’m bitter about that to this day.

Group therapy came in two flavors: there was actual group therapy where we would do therapy, but in a group, and then there was what group normally meant, which was “a nurse is going to come talk about some topic no one cares about for a while.” riveting topics covered in our sessions included personal hygiene and the importance of not doing drugs if you don’t already do drugs, which half of us did. Actual group required more emotional effort but at least I wasn’t going to be bored to tears by the end of the hour. The ward’s main therapist was a nice guy that happened to look exactly like sigmund freud. He also happened to not enjoy it very much when i blurted out that he looked like sigmund freud. We were told multiple times a day by various nurses that shoes were a privilege and you would earn back your shows after you showed staff you were deserving of them. I never saw a single person earn their shoes, and not for lack of trying. This was a problem because if a single person on the ward was without their shoes, we weren’t allowed to have time outside. Every time I’ve ever recounted this to someone they’ve seen the Immediate flaw in this system, but it apparently slid past all members of staff on a daily basis, despite continued incredulous whining from a dozen barefoot teenagers.On the fourth or fifth day, I was whisked off with no explanation to get an EEG (a test where they part sticker attached to wired attached to a machine on your head and listen to the electricity in your brain.) i was never told the results on that test or why i was getting it done. The lady washed my hair afterwards, which maybe up for the fact that i had to miss breakfast but didn’t make up for the strip searches before and after i left the building. At the very least it made G jealous i’d gotten to wash myself with anything other than the suspicious shower goo.

At some point i started routinely being woken up about a half-hour before everyone else to a nurse that would take my blood pressure. Then i would lay there, tired and confused, until we all had to wake up and get in taken as a group anyways. I asked about this every time they did it and was never given an answer as to why this was necessary. Honestly I think they might have just been messing with me.

We were supposed to refrain from asking for personal information about each other, and told that if we wrote down another patient's email or phone number whatever it was written on would be thrown away if found. Obviously we all worked around this; one girl secretly wrote names on her stomach an hour before she was processed for release, another kid wrote phone numbers in code. For me it was as simple as just remembering people’s last names so I could find them on facebook.

The hospital existed in a kind of twilight zone half in and half out of reality, where a crisis would occur every other hour but in the between times we were all bored to tears. Surrounded by such an intense atmosphere, staff trying to force an understanding of our lives being in our own hands, and we would just sit there, nodding our hands and coloring with our crayons. In a way the hospital was a sanctuary; no family to get into screaming matches with, no classmates to end up in a fist fight with. An environment meant to be scrubbed clean of all the stressors of day to day life. Visiting hours happened twice a week; kids with visitors would go down into the cafeteria while everyone else hung around in the lounge. Usually it was just me and M waiting down there for our families; the visits were always entirely uncomfortable. My parents wanted to be sure I was being treated right, and held my hand with a guilty sadness that I didn’t really want to acknowledge. Free time didn’t offer very many options. We would play cards and coloring mandalas printed out on copy paper. I finished coloring about six of the things before a decided it would no longer be a helpful part of my mental healing journey. Our card game of choice was called “BS,” initially because it was the only game everyone who wanted to play cards seemed to know. BS became a highlight of our day, because of M. The hospital had a lot of rules about how to conduct yourself. We weren’t supposed to yell, run around, or touch each other unnecessarily. We also weren’t supposed to curse. The name of the card game “BS” is short for “Bullshit.” the rules of the game are very simple--cards are passed out and someone decides to go first. In turns, everyone goes around, putting some cards face down on the pile and announcing what value those cards supposed were (someone put down two cards and says they had two jacks, etc.). Multiple cards have to be on the same value, if you think someone is lying, putting down more cards than they had to win faster, you point to them and call out that you think they’re lying. The challenged player turns over their cards, and depending on if they were telling the truth or not one of the players in penalized. Usually the thing you yell out when you challenge someone is “Bullshit,” but we weren’t allowed to say that and were told to call it something else. M thought that this was a personal affront to him and everything that he stood for as a person. Every single free time, two or three times a day, we got into the routine of playing this card game solely to see this scene play out. We would start out normally and do as we were told, politely pointing out lies. M wouldn’t say anything. We’d go on for as long as we could, before someone would make an obvious play, putting down three jacks after someone else put two or saying they had five aces. Then, ecstatic, M would heave air into his lungs, jumping up and pointing at the other player and yelling as loudly as he could: “BULLSHIT!!”

He stopped being scolded for it around the fifth time because most of the staff thought it was hilarious. We’d stop playing the game immediately after that, our point achieved, all of us having got what we came there for. We sat in the hall and shared stories about when each of us had lost our virginity, or the first time we’d been punched in the face. He giggled at Jared as he mimicked grasping at his bleeding nose. The nurses didn’t seem to find it as funny. There was a general, noticeable disconnect between us and them, even the nurses we all likes the most. Not really because of age, or because they were on the job. It was a feeling of disconnecting, not quite meshing with normal people, that all of us already went through life with separately-- and here, where we had community, that only intensified. For many of us this was the first time that our abnormalities had really been accepted and even admired by others. Being with the other kids in my ward was a time i felt freest, even in our restricted and controlled environment. None of them cares if i’d twitch and fidget, none of them minded my shiness or were caught off guard by the things I’d say. While the nurses would squint at me suspiciously if i repeated that they said or spiralled into babbling from our conversations, my new friends had all accepted these things by the third time they came around. I was allowed to express myself and allowed to not be able to, and it felt effortless to return the favor, because who was i to judge. Little outbursts, conversations that trailed off into blank stares, people needing to go walk around or cry or smack their seat five times before they sat on it, these things were all easy to look past. It was hard, however, not to notice the trouble staff still saw with them, and not to turn on them a bit for that. My friends accepted that i spoke weird, while the nurses would roll their eyes if i stammered. G would nod understandingly when I confided in her about the past while staff would react uncomfortably, their only help in offering to make police reports i didn’t want made. If I told the others i felt like hurting myself, they would show sympathy and talk with me about it; the one time I told a nurse i was “having urges,” like we were supposed to, I was put on finger foods. This tension culminated in one particular group session. A thin older woman replaced our usual freud impersonator, loitering outside to chat with the nurses as long as possible before having to deal with us. We whispered to each other; no one had met or before, or seen her around the building. That was probably a bad sign. She told us to call her Olivia, I think. Olivia was the worst therapist I have ever seen in action, and that should be frightening. She commanded direct eye contact between her and the patient speaking, and that no one else speak until directly spoken to (interruptions are one thing, but discussion is just about the entire point of doing therapy in a group.) She gave us all a question she assumed would be simple enough for our tiny broken minds. “What do you think is keeping you here?” I started echoing the hard way she said “What” and clamped my mouth shut as soon as possible. Usually I could keep the parrot in my head around doctors, with some effort; being open with my impulses around the others made it hard to start shutting up again. She took my weird reflex as volunteering to go first, and looked to me expectantly. Its honestly the most stupid and annoying question you will ever be asked in a therapy setting. I never heard it asked in a tone other than condescending, and it's never failed to be ignorant; ‘Why do you think you’re here?’ is therapist code for ‘why are you messing up your life, and can you convince me it isn’t on purpose?’ I had a routine for this question that seemed to be shared with the others; attempt to answer honestly, listing all the things in and out of your control, your life and environment and symptoms, the fact that you are a complex human being with feelings and a past. Then, try not to sigh at your doctor and list some rehearsed line about how you guess you’re just a disrespectful child acting out for attention. I ran through it as quickly as possible, feeling restless and trying not to avert my eyes from hers or change my position too much as she would impatiently observe every movement. Usually I’d have something in my hands to funnel my stress into, but this had to be the one time I forgot to take one of my hoarded stress toys from the pile in my room. Three more kids went after me, in the same routine, with varying degrees of sass. Then Olivia set her eyes on G. The rest of us shared a silent realization and looked to each other with worry, straightening up, thinking up ways to deflect Olivia onto something else. It was too late when G shrunk, laughing nervously and not meeting the womans eyes. G’s home situation was truly heartbreaking to hear retold. I love and respect her too much to retell the details of it here, but Olivia spent what seemed like unending years of punishment pulling this story out of the girl, giving us a demeaning hush if we objected. It was surreal and we didn’t know what to do, stuck in a room with one authority figure under threat and tranquilizers, watching the friend we all openly adored the most be forced to recount such a cruel thing in such complete detail. Obviously she was crying, most of us were too. J sat alone on a couch beside Olivia’s, hands in fists, and I focussed on my fear for him instead of my fear of him. I was sitting beside G, being shushed at every concerned whine that forced its way out, unable to think of an escape plan because I couldn’t turn off my ears. It was when she reached a specific point of the story, G cut herself off and let out a sob and my hand automatically went to her shoulder. Olivia barked out, in the coldest tone I think I have ever heard, “No Touching.” The room exploded, every one of us reacting at the same time with a vicious intensity. The others jumped to their feet, protectively leaning towards G. M pointed and yelled a few choice words hand selected for our doctor, R went for the door to get other staff, someone else just cried out at her hysterically. J lunged at the woman as G slid into my arms, looking away from what was happening and sobbing into my shirt. I put my hand on her hair half to comfort her and half to make sure she didn’t look back. A dozen staff members crowded around the doorway of the room but only three actually entered; I don’t remember how it felt watching my friend try to choke out an old woman and be pulled away by security, but the picture of it in my head is crystal clear. A nurse, Cecily, had her arms out low but wide, making a barrier between us and the gasping doctor. Everyone was yelling, us at staff and staff at us. The intern that helped me with french came to guide Olivia out of the room and M screeched that he was a traitor, throwing a stack on coloring sheets in their general direction. Olivia said something under her breath as she left-- something about how we were terrible demon children, or how ‘never in all her years in the field’ something like this had happened, I think I forgot because her words aren’t worth remembering. We locked eyes for a split second before the slid out of the room, and I muffled “Occupational Hazard” into G’s hair.

For an hour after we were forced to sit and have alcohol poisoning explained to us until Freud Jr. Appeared. We were happy to see him but still furious, all on the same side against Olivia once we were finally asked what had happened. Everyone recounted the same story, agreeing loudly with each other, stopping to comfort and apologize to G and ask if she was okay. We stayed in that room for another hour, giving our testimony and demanding J shouldn’t be punished, or more begging they didn’t send him back to juvenile. Freud nodded solemnly as he listened to us the way only he and Jesus and two of the nurses did, meaning at all. He told us he’d see what he could do. We didn’t see J for the rest of the day and come morning, Jesus was his new shadow. He was on some kind of reverse suicide watch, with all the restrictions, but the league of nameless psychiatrists and hospital directors had agreed or been swayed to agree that J’s only real crime was being physically violent with staff. After dinner that night, I asked if he could have my candy bar, and threw it in the trash when I was refused.

I was discharged after nine days on the ward, feeling no more or less suicidal, no more or less recovered, not more normal but not more different. I remember Rebecca calling me into the hallway to ask if i was afraid to go home. Of course I was, I told her! I was leaving friends I had connected to more in a week than I had with anyone in years. I was returning to a town of people like the staff, strangers that didn’t understand and only pretended to want to. I would be returning to my second month of high school, gone for the last week of September, though I’d barely showed up at all before then. I asked her what I had not to be worried about, but then dropped it, because I knew we were only having this conversation in case my answer alluded that my parents weren’t safe to go home to.

The goodbyes I was given before 8 o’clock lights out were short and sweet and always, turning our attention back and forth between them and “Oh Brother, Where Art Thou!” playing on the television. I only slept an hour through that night, feeling about everything I could think to. In the morning, I was given my shoes while the others were lined up, in the middle of Checks. I waved silently at them and heard M call out “Bring a better book next time!” Before Jesus closed the double-doors behind us.

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