#PROBABLY TODAY WITH MY MOM

[fiendishartist2]

//And I can't recall that special way, she told me each and every day, her name. I can't recall the fact that I always said I loved her back, the same way, every time the same//

[jiraisupportgroup]

Fuck I’m late but

MERRY CHRISTMAS JIRAIBLR!!!!! ₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊ ₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊ ₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊

[sojourner-between-worlds]

Today is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day. I had planned to post on Facebook today but, in the end, I couldn't bring myself to do it. I did write something though, and I don't want it to go to waste sitting in my google docs, so I guess ya'll on tumblr dot com get it instead.

To anyone reading this who has lost a baby: I see you. You're not as alone as you feel.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

July 24th was one of the best days of my life.

August 27th was one of the worst.

God had finally blessed us with a baby -- and then He took them home just the same.

Early miscarriage is a funny thing. Not many people know yet so, unless you tell them, they’ll never know anything has changed. It’s just you, your empty arms, and your grief. Nothing to see here; just move along.

And it’s not fair. There’s a crib in the basement we never put together, waiting to be used, and clothes from my sisters that my mother stored for years, waiting to be worn, and there they wait still.

We don't talk about it because it hurts and, at the very least, then they can't pity us.

And it’s not right. Every life -- no matter how short -- was a life hand-crafted by God, their brief days ordained by the same One who holds the entire universe in place. And we hide that precious soul away like it’s a dark secret we shouldn’t talk about.

The reality is this: I am a mama, and [husband] is a dad, and we have a baby we love dearly that we won’t get to meet this side of Heaven.

The days we had with our baby were few, but that time wasn't for nothing. That life wasn’t for nothing. Our love for them wasn’t for nothing.

They still matter -- to us, and to God.

So to the baby who never made it into our arms: we loved you then, and we love you still.

And we always will.

[themetalvirus]

i started feeling down on myself so i drew a silver the hedgehog because i know he believes in me and that i can do it ^_^ im nervous about my future but my boy silver's got my back (coping)

[koka-mi]

Oh my gosh whyyyy am I so obsessed with numbers I don't like it at all this is driving me INSANEEEE😭😭IT'S GETTING WORSE AND WORSE AS THE DAYS GO BY AAAA

[spockoholic]

IT’S SEPTEMBER ITS TIME DONT TALK TO ME

rb with ur fav soup

[lets-try-to-be-normal-otakus]

Oh, what a to-do to die today ... Pt 1?

Hii, thinking about continuing for myself, but if this gets enough love, I may post other parts. So much love to my fellow gremlins.

Trigger warnings for death and all the related shit to it (pun intended), child and domestic abuse, and alcoholism. No beta, we die like Ste- I mean Barb

Steve Harrington first died when he was 6.

He remembers running down the hall and wanting to ask his daddy about a new word he found in his book. His father had a heavy hand when it came to showing love. Long story short, he took a ‘tumble’ down the stairs. He remembers the smack, the weightless feeling before hearing the thud of his body repeatedly against the stairs. Everything felt like static, like fuzzy, cold, and light gray pressure simply bending his body in different directions. He was dead before he hit the floor.

He doesn’t remember much after that; he was aware that time passed, but it was just a black void to him.

There was a weightlessness to it.

Like he could just close his eyes and drift, so drift he did. The edges were fuzzy, and it felt like he was on the shore of a beach. He could feel the gentle morning sun on his skin and a cold breeze in the air. Distantly, he was aware of waves washing over eachother and the sound of foam popping quietly. It was a nice. Refreshing.

But it wasn’t entirely real, no. It was like there was a transparent element to it. He could feel it, like it was in his soul, but he couldn’t see it. Just imagine. Like when he went to the beach with his parents.

Parents.

He vaguely remembers his mom walking with him down a beach on the west coast and picking seashells in the early morning light. His dad would usually be in a business meeting.

Dad.

His dad... Dad? He was with his dad… previously… but the memory slipped through his gentle grasp like smoke.

He was alone. But he didn’t feel lonely. It was actually very peaceful.

Dad.

Dad.

Dad.

As his brain latched onto the memory of his father, he began to feel a tug in his tummy. It started small, like the gentle waves folding over each other close to him. The pull started to speed up, taking him by surprise. He didn’t want to leave, but the memory of his dad’s backhand was coming into focus too much. He was pulled, slipping away like the sand against the draw and recession of the waves. He felt like he was being pulled through a funnel - a siphon of sorts as feelings came rushing back. He struggled against it, but deep down knew there was no way of stopping it. He still tried.

Emotions and adrenaline spiked and started to saturate everything. The air was like ice daggers, spiking into his body as he felt like a cork pulled from one of mom’s wine bottles. His ears popped as he opened his eyes and fought to breathe. It was too much. It was not enough.

A loud sound banged around him, but everything felt muffled. He couldn’t breathe. His eyes shot up and found a ceiling above him, blurred with tears. There was a face in his view, but it was too blurry to make out. It seemed feminine, with brown hair and lightly tanned skin. Distantly, it felt like his mom.

With each breath, it pulled needles screaming and deep across his body, and he immediately became aware of his arms. They felt like white, painful static, and he wished it would stop. The beach he had been slowly drifting away, and he fought to go back, back to where it didn’t hurt. Back to where he felt safe. Back where he was at peace.

He felt blood rushing through him like a tidal wave as he was turned on his side and started heaving. None of it was enough. He couldn’t breathe in he couldn’t breathe out; it was all not enough and too much at the same time.

It was a short eternity before his breathing stopped hurting so much and his eyes began to clear. A hand was stroking his hair; it was too hot, but it soothed something inside him.

When he finished heaving, he noticed it was his mom’s voice and gentle hand stroking through his hair. He became acutely aware then that he had made a big, well, potty mess and felt stress and unease flood his system, beginning to choke him. Lingering in the air and separate from his accident was a sharp yet sickly sweet smell he couldn’t place.

The kind and gentle hand on his head was tugged away. Before he could properly mourn the loss, larger hands were running up and down his side. It was his doctor. Why was he here? Why was his mother crying? Was she worried?

“There, see! I told you all he needed was rest and a couple of comforters. Let the body do the healing.”

Everything was still a shock, and he couldn’t willingly move. His doctor waited outside with his father as his mother cleaned him up in the restroom. The two men were smiling to themselves, but his mother’s tears didn’t stop.

The doctor said he took a tumble down the stairs and must’ve hit his head on the wall. He said that if it happens again, Steve just needs rest and as much heat as he could have to warm him up again since he was so cold.

In actuality, his neck snapped on the third tumble down the stairs.

He had been dead for 5 hours before he woke up.

For the next week, his mother hardly let him out of her sight. When he asked her what happened, she says that he must’ve tipped down the stairs and hit his head. But there was something she wasn’t telling him. He could see it in her eyes. There was such a withdrawn mix of fear and worry, he ended up asking his mom if she was okay a lot of the time.

She started drinking more.

Richard blamed it on her “seeing things” or not being in the “right state of mind,” but Steve saw her, and her stare pierced everything. His father was wrong, but Steve didn’t know what to do.

His mother was looser with wine but slurred her words. Maybe she would tell him then?

“Mama, what had you so worried that night?” He asked, a year or so later.

“Hmm?” She hummed, and he watched as her head bobbed before leaning back on the couch.

“That night when I- when I fell down the stairs…”

She froze, and the hand on her wine glass became starch-white. She eventually rolled her head over to him despite the rigid movements. “You died.” She answered, plainly.

He felt like he was struck by lightning.

Her eyes were piercing; there was no doubt about her lucidity.

“What- what do you mean? I’m alive?” Why did it sound like a question?

“I mean that you died.” She said simply, like it wasn’t the most confusing answer. She continued on. “What I mean is that I saw Richard push you down the stairs. I don’t remember why, but the cuck did.” Another gulp of wine.

Her head moved until she was staring at the ceiling again. “You went down, down, down... You know, I still hear that sound when I close my eyes. My little baby just,” she made a vague, repetitive gesture, "and I knew that something was wrong.” Tears dotted her eyes as she looked back at him. “I was just hoping you’d be able to,” another gesture, “get back up.”

Her hand moved to her mouth. “You know, I touched your face, and, and some part of me just… knew.”

“Knew what?”

She looked back over at him, and with a broken voice, “That you had died. I don’t know how, I just knew. I checked your pulse and told myself I was hysterical, but… darling there was nothing there.” The tears in her eyes began to overbear and chose to fall.

“I tried telling Rich that we needed to go to the hospital, that something wasn’t right, but he-” she choked a little “- we had a pretty big fight about it. You know how it ended…” A gesture to her face.

Richard’s hand.

“I couldn’t let you go.” She drops her voice to a whisper and meets his teary eyes, “I just, I couldn’t let you be alone for one second. Because it was already too real.”

The back of his nose began to sting.

“I held you and cried, but your father wouldn’t listen.” A gasping breath. “And, and eventually – I laid down on the bed with you, and- and-” she pauses and shakes her head slightly in disbelief.

"And then you breathed.”

[swinging-stars-from-satellites]

when I want to write something self indulgent to give me all the angsty and cuddly hurt/comfort feels but I can't because I end up feeling guilty because I'm seeking after feels that I feel in an inappropriate place because my mom told me one time when I was 15 that I shouldn't search that out or it's probably sexual sin but it confuses me because ALL the feels happen that way for me even if it's entirely platonic and nonsexual and so I don't know if it's okay to want to write to that because apparently all pleasure of any sort, even over platonic stories, is sexual or comes with a possibly probably sexual feeling and I also am having a hard time figuring out what's genuine conviction from God and what's just my anxiety/OCD/perfectionism/fear of failure

[brutefury]

we’re going to have to put my cat down today

[milkweedman]

Needed something to do last night bc I couldn't sleep, and spinning takes about a million times less brain power than knitting or crochet, so now I'm working on this.

Its from a 2.8 ounce batt that I had labeled southdown Romney blend, and I'm 99% sure that what I was told it was when I bought it (I remember thinking how much I love a good southdown blend), but when I finally unrolled the batt last night it had a label that said Suffolk hampshire blend. I think that's what this is--it feels 100% down breed rather than a down and strong wool blend. Honestly I probably still would have bought it as a hampshire blend, so I don't mind that much.

No clue what to do with it. It's not soft but the prep wouldn't do for socks, which is my usual idea for coarse down wool. It's also got a much darker section that I've been trying to decide how to feature (if it's worth doing at all).

[ibetittering]

Never thought I'd edit Sarge to Mitski but here we are

[szaryherbatnik]

All of you freaks with your money to buy kremy plushies..... I BET YOUR KREMY PLUSHIE CANT TURN INTI SARNAX!!!! AH HA !!!

[duchessbian]

ughhhh i hate that this is what got me back on tumblr. to vent. tw homophobia

[tamagotchikgs]

got called out for being a (word 4 word) Cookie Snatcher i will b killing myself

[gammaraydeath]

dogs are smart enough to know that suitcase = me going away but are they also smart enough to know that i'll be coming back :(

[opens-up-4-nobody]

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