#Trauma CW

[aspecpplarebeautiful]

It's OK if you don't know if your asexuality is related to or caused by past trauma or not. It's OK to keep identifying as asexual anyways.

[dittomoon]

So, I drew this back in October 2021 but only shared it on the BoJack Horseman Reddit - I liked the idea of lining up the diamonds in Bojacks family tree, ending up with Hollyhock breaking away from their family trauma. I only realised after the sketch that Honey doesn’t have a diamond but I still wanted her to be at the top.

[petty-tears]

gut wrenching

[ickyd0ll]

I LOVE YOU AS A FIST LOVES THE BROKEN RIB, AS THE LUNGS LOVE THE CHASE, AS THE FINGER AND THE NAIL LOVE THE GOUGE AND TEAR. I LOVE YOU AS THE TEETH LOVE THE TENDON, AND THE TENDON THE BRUISE, I LOVE YOU AS ADRENALINE LOVES THE POUNDING IN YOUR EARS.

[a-r1]

Just a thing about my exe, CHILDHOOD HAS PASSED, here is the complete design of him and his "faker" form, also if you want to know more about him and his history you can ask me without problem

[cabeswaterdrowned]

I understand that for Adam Ronan’s approach of not tiptoeing around him and instead giving a bit of tough love is preferable to the alternative / makes him feel like he’s being treated as more of an equal and less of a project, someone with autonomy etc. But as a reader who is not Adam I think I’m allowed to be slightly ticked off about how dismissive he was about Adam’s ptsd episode. Both things can be true.

[krakenartificer]

Notes on therapist selection

(From someone who is getting a good grade in Having a Therapist, something that is both normal to want and possible to achieve)

Some friends were discussing their work to find a therapist today, and I noticed some unspoken assumptions that can sometimes get in the way of finding someone who's a good fit for your recovery needs, especially around deciding what specializations to look for when no one covers the full range of your crazy. So a list of things to think about that -- as always -- may or may not be useful to anyone except me.

1) On overlapping specializations Anyone who specializes in ADHD or Autism will also have experience dealing with trauma, because every school system I've ever encountered has been traumatizing for NDs. They may or may not call it trauma in their own minds, but they know how to handle "a bad thing happened in my past and it's fucking up my present" problems.

Likewise, everyone who specializes in trauma has experience with anxiety. PTSD was, until 2013, classified as an anxiety disorder. DSM-V puts it in its own category for presumably good reasons, but everyone with PTSD has anxiety (or close enough that you can't specialize in trauma without knowing how to deal with anxiety).

That said ... 2) On picking your therapist based on vibes

Vibes are really more important than specialization. Specialization is important if, like, you have one (1) specific problem and you are looking for a solution for that problem. Like, if your life is fine except that you have ADHD and the executive dysfunction is causing you to be unable to write English essays, then you definitely want an ADHD specialist. But if your opening session is going to be

Therapist: So what brings you in? Me: Well! -straightens lapels- -pulls out easel- -pulls out prepared presentation notes- I have a list

Or

Therapist: So what brings you in? What changes are you looking to make? Me: This -gestures- Therapist: You just pointed to all of you Me: Yes.

then any generic psychologist is as good as any other. You got shit in your head and you gotta detangle it and it's all snarled together anyway, so it's a lot more important that you find someone who you're willing to be working with for years.

3) On finding "the one"

Odds are really really good that you're gonna have more than one therapist in your recovery arc. I did 2 years with one who specialized in psychological impacts on physical health, and it did so. much. for me, and I don't regret it for a moment, but also ... I reached a point where that wasn't the specialization I needed anymore, and also the shit in my head I needed to deal with was the kind of shit that (for trauma reasons) I couldn't talk about to someone in that therapist's demographic. So I left that practice, and found my current therapist.

My current therapist is great, and I'm really glad I'm working with him, but it's entirely possible that he's not going to be able to sort out this entire mess. We may reach a point where his specialties of relationships and adhd are not my bottlenecks any more, and he doesn't really have the tools he needs to handle what my next bottleneck is, and I'll go find someone else who can meet my needs at that time. This is normal and expected, and it's entirely fine to plan on it by (for example) deciding that you want a specialist in this thing right now, and you'll go find a specialist in this other thing later.

4) On Shopping

It's entirely reasonable to have more than one therapist this week. You are in no way expected or required to pick a single therapist based off of some profile pictures, a bio on the website, and a phone call, and then you're stuck with them forever. It is normal and understood that you will set up appointments with half a dozen therapists, and then pick two (or three) to do another session with, before settling into a single choice. Or don't! If you like two therapists for different reasons, and you'd rather work with them simultaneously instead of serially, then feel free to schedule with twice as many therapists, half as often. This ain't a wedding; you don't have to restrict yourself to only one.

Narrow down your choices as quickly as you want to based on your anxiety about not having a decision, based on your executive dysfunction and inability to track multiple things, based on how you feel about each one ... but don't narrow them down to one just because you think that's "the rules", somehow.

5) On Being Abrasive

If you know, upfront, what some of your dealbreakers are, just straight-up say that as you're scheduling the appointment or in the first session. My last therapist became a problem for me because she expressed empathy in a way that was too similar to the way my abuser used weaponized politeness to deny me boundaries; I couldn't talk to her about my violations because her demeanor was too similar to the person who violated me. So when I first talked to my current therapist, I told him, "I need someone who, if they think I'm full of shit, will say 'I think you're full of shit.'" He replied "One of my other clients calls me 'Deadpool'." I said, "Perfect. Let's give it a shot."

So if you really care that someone will let you schedule appointments online, or will never touch your wrist, or will treat your "disorder" as a neurodivergence to be accommodated rather than a problem to be solved, then say so. The sooner you both know that, the better: if you have particular needs, they need to know that now; and if they're not willing to meet your needs, YOU need to know that now.

(You will not, of course, always know your dealbreakers upfront. When I picked my first therapist, my primary problem was hip pain, and I didn't know it was PTSD. It was through her help that I realized that (a) I had trauma and (b) she was way too like my abuser for me to treat PTSD with her. This was not a failure. This was a massive success, because learning that was what allowed me to find someone who could help me (see point #3). It's fine if you don't know, right now, what you need -- that's part of why vibes are so important (see point #2). But whatever information you can give them, it is helpful to do so, and (despite what people in your past have implied) it is not rude, it is beneficial and desired.

6 - not advice, just a reminder

You are beautiful and brave and strong and I am so proud of you for fighting through all the shit -- both internal and external -- to get yourself help. No one ever talks about how hard it is to get to the point where you schedule that first meeting with that first therapist, and I want you to know that it is painful, it is challenging, and you're not lazy or stupid or whatever other lie your brain is telling you.

[briar--rising]

Rosh Hashanah is next week. It's always been my favorite holiday, and every year I prepare for it and look forward to it. But this year I've been dreading it, and until this past week I couldn't figure out why.

I haven't been to synagogue much in the past year. I've gone a handful of times, but much less than any other year since graduating college. And I thought of going, my therapist tried to encourage me to go because she knows it often makes me feel better, but there was just this inner resistance that I couldn't figure out and wasn't ready to look at closely enough to decipher anyway. And then as the High Holy Days got closer and closer I started to notice that I was really dreading them, which is not how I usually feel. And so I brought it up in therapy on Tuesday, and came to some really important realizations.

I've been doing a lot of very serious grief work and trauma work this fall. My most serious trauma anniversaries are almost all in the fall, and it's a season of great grief and usually highly elevated symptoms for me. My first serious psychotic break was in the fall, four of my five hospitalizations have been in the fall, etc. Until this year I spent every autumn of the past decade pretty severely psychotic. I could not face the trauma and grief that this time of year brings up for me, I could not process those feelings and memories without losing my mind in defense so that I wouldn't have to truly experience them. I've always known this, and for a few years have tried very hard to truly experience my grief and not retreat into psychosis, but I never managed it until this year.

This autumn has been different. I've still struggled with psychosis much more than in the summer, I still have to fight it most days. But I'm winning most of those fights. And I'm grieving. I'm mourning, I'm crying, I'm sitting with my feelings for as long as I can bear and then distracting myself from them when they get too much instead of retreating into symptoms most of the time. I'm genuinely experiencing the thoughts and feelings I need to be experiencing. I'm reading about death, about grief, about loss, I'm talking about these things in therapy. It's often incredibly painful, though sometimes it is simply a peaceful kind of sorrow. I'm getting in touch with a lot of the feelings I've found so difficult to face from some of the hardest times of my life, and I'm experiencing some of them again.

And some of those feelings that I was really quite blindsided by and that I've been largely repressing for 15 years are incredibly complicated feelings about G-d. When I was 11 years old I was just like any other religious and traumatized kid: I prayed to G-d to fix it. I did that thing kids do, I tried to make bargains with Him. "Dear G-d, if I clean my room will You save my mommy? If I'm perfect, will You fix my family?" You know. Things like that.

I was desperate for anything, anyone to save me. I talk sometimes about the particular traumas of that year, about my brother's birth, about my mother's hospitalizations, about her suicide attempt. But I have no words to express the year as a whole, except to say that terrible thing after terrible thing after terrible thing happened, and throughout all of it I was neglected and left at sea. My mom was sick, my dad was trying to keep his head above water, no one was there for me. So I tried to turn to G-d. And when He wasn't there for me either, I felt incredibly abandoned and betrayed, both by Him but also because I was taking my feelings about my family neglecting me during severe trauma and putting them onto Him. It's hard for me to express the levels of hurt and rage I felt at G-d during that time period.

And then my memory cuts out. I remember approximately nothing from shortly after my twelfth birthday (in June) until November over a year later. I have a handful of memories of specific events that took place at school or at camp, but absolutely zero memories of my internal feelings or anything that ever took place at home during seventh grade. It's just. Gone. Always has been, probably always will be.

The next significant things I remember in terms of my relationship to G-d and my religion are all about Hebrew High School, which I loved (I got to start it early bc I was being bullied in normal Hebrew School), and preparing for my Bat Mitzvah, which I also loved. My memory goes from intense feelings of betrayal and abandonment and agony to instantaneously a relatively low conflict, positive relationship with G-d and Judaism (with Jewish-appropriate amounts of questioning of course and moments of anger, but no true rage and despair like I once felt). And I stayed in that space of Judaism-as-comfort-with-minimal-internal-conflict for the next 10+ years. I have no idea how that transition happened, but it certainly didn't occur because I slowly and naturally dealt with all of my complicated feelings and embraced religion after processing.

And then this year, well. I guess the processing came due. I'd like to be very very clear that being Jewish always has been and always will be incredibly important to me, and nothing about any of this changes that. I am struggling, though. I'm re-experiencing a lot of those childhood feelings of betrayal and abandonment and confusion and rage. And not being ready to face those feelings is why I've been subconsciously avoiding synagogue for the past year, and is why I've been dreading the holidays. At least now I'm aware of what's happening, so that's a step in the right direction. And in the long term this is a good and important step not only in my trauma recovery but in my relationship with Judaism and with G-d; I can't have as deep of a relationship as I want without this kind of struggle. To quote my therapist, "your relationship with Judaism is too important to you to be easy." Thankfully in Judaism struggling like this is not only allowed but expected. But it is a struggle, right now. A painful one.

I leave you all with a song I've been listening to on repeat that is helping me confront and think about a lot of these feelings:

[sicknessbysalem]

meet new blorbos from my offsite writing that i decided needed to Have A Moment(tm) {i would give him many} 

tw emeto, fever, panic attack, religious trauma, mentions of conversion therapy

if you have any requests, comments, concerns, etc., send me an ask!!

The sun blazed mercilessly over the dirt track, transforming the once solid ground into a shimmering, heat-soaked track. It rained that morning, the track was still able to be raced on. But fuck, Maverick was sure the air was trying to kill him.

The air was thick and heavy, muggy and disgusting and hot, making every breath a struggle as the oppressive heat pressed down on everything. Maverick Sterling in particular.

Maverick sat on his motocross bike, his helmet resting precariously on the handlebars. His normally vibrant complexion was now pallid, a sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead.

He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, leaning forward that he was practically laying his head on the handlebars, trying to control the nausea that churned in his stomach.

Walker crouched beside him, his eyes filled with concern.

“This heat’s not your friend is it…” Walker said softly.

Maverick shook his head. Heat always did this. Heat made him feel like shit. Heat made him have flare ups. And he just so happened to take part in one of the only outdoor sports that took place outdoors in the heat of summer.

The roar of engines and the buzz of the crowd seemed distant. Walker placed a steady hand on Maverick's back. Maverick was just trying to keep his lunch in his stomach a little bit longer.

“You hanging in there?” Walker asked. Sure, his sister was the nurse. But, he could help Maverick. At least for now.

Maverick nodded weakly, swallowing hard. "Yeah, just... the heat. It's really getting to me." He closed his eyes for a moment, focusing on the feeling of Walker's hand, grounding him.

Walker glanced around, ensuring no one else was paying too much attention. "Remember what Willow told you to do? Deep breaths. Focus on something else, even if it's just for a minute… do you have your medicine?”

“No… no I don’t,” Maverick said. Walker didn’t miss the way Maverick seemingly gagged trying to talk.

“Alright, alright” Walker said, rubbing Maverick’s back through his jersey. “Just breathe.”

Maverick took a shaky breath, the air hot and thick. "I know, I know. It's just... hard right now."

Walker tightened his grip slightly, "You're tougher than this heat, Maverick. But if you really need to, I can pull you out. Nobody’s going to get mad about it.”

“No, I’m good,” Maverick mumbled, taking deep breaths and closing his eyes. Anything to stop feeling so shitty.

“Farthest thing from it, dude,” Walker chuckled, “But I’ve got you.”

Maverick forced a smile, though it came out as more of a grimace. "Thanks, man. I don't know what I'd do without you."

Walker chuckled softly. "Probably puke all over your bike."

Despite the queasiness, Maverick let out a short laugh, the sound almost foreign in the midst of his discomfort. "Yeah, probably."

Walker straightened up, giving Maverick's back one last reassuring pat. "We'll get through this. And when you cross that finish line, it'll be worth every second of this hell."

Maverick nodded, his resolve hardening. He wiped the sweat from his brow, taking another deep breath. "Alright. Let's do this."

Walker stepped back, giving him space. "Remember, I'm right here. Just focus on the race, and let me worry about the rest. Gate time."

Maverick gripped the handlebars, feeling the familiar weight of the bike beneath him. The nausea still lingered, but the last thing Maverick wanted was to drop out. He looked up, put on his helmet and goggles, and went to the gate. He got first pick of spot, so he positioned himself dead center of the lineup. It felt safer there.

As the starting signal loomed closer, Maverick squared his shoulders, clenched his jaw, and forced himself to think of literally anything else that wasn’t throwing up on the spot.

The roar of the engines filled the air as the starting gate dropped. Maverick surged forward, the powerful machine beneath him responding to his every command. He was used to racing like this, and currently he tried using it to his advantage.

The track, a maze of jumps, turns, and rough terrain, stretched out before him. Despite the oppressive heat, Maverick's focus was razor-sharp. Racing was everything to him, he refused to let it go.

Each lap felt like an eternity. The vibrations of the bike reverberated through his body, amplifying the nausea that gnawed at his insides.

Sweat dripped into his eyes, stinging and blurring his vision. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stay present, to keep his mind on the race and not the relentless churning of his stomach.

Halfway through, the heat became unbearable. His skin felt like it was on fire under his gear, the air he breathed scorching his lungs.

The nausea came in waves, each wave more intense than the last. He could feel his strength waning, his muscles aching with the effort of maintaining control. Motocross was brutal, sure. But motocross while feeling like one wrong breath would send your lunch, breakfast, and possibly dinner out of your body before you could react was a new level of exhaustion.

As the race neared its end, Maverick's vision started to tunnel. He could barely see the riders ahead of him, focusing solely on the track, the jumps, the turns. His stomach clenched violently, threatening to empty its contents right there on the bike.

He had to finish this. He had to. He punched the gas, shifted gears, and did everything he could to get across that finish line as soon as possible.

When the checkered flag finally waved, Maverick crossed it with a final burst of speed.

His heart pounded in his chest, he could feel a sort of throbbing in his gut, knowing it was only a matter of time.

He rolled to a stop, the world spinning around him, already trying to undo his helmet and take it off. Walker was already there, guiding him off the bike with a steady hand.

"Maverick, you did it!" Walker's voice was filled with pride and relief. But Maverick could barely hear him over the pounding in his head. He fumbled with his helmet, desperate to get it off.

As soon as it was free, he staggered to the side, something hot and acidic alrwady starting to pour out of his mouth, forcing him to collapse onto the grass.

His stomach convulsed violently, and he vomited, the contents of his stomach splattering onto the ground. The retching was harsh and unrelenting, leaving him gasping for breath between bouts.

Maverick felt his stomach pull in, felt the chunky substance force itself up and out into the grass, every round leaving him coughing after, which just sent up more sludge into the grass. As he heaved up a sickeningly sweet round of pure liquid, Maverick wondered if maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t the smartest idea in the world to substitute two and a half energy drinks for breakfast.

Walker knelt beside him, shielding him from the prying eyes and cameras that had started to gather.

"Give him some space!" Walker barked at the encroaching crowd, his tone leaving no room for argument.

He kept a firm hand on Maverick's back. Maverick braced himself forward with his hand, spitting, trying not to throw up again now that he knew people were watching.

“It's okay, Mav. Just let it out." Walker said.

Maverick heaved again, his body shuddering with the effort. The heat, the exertion, the sickness, the caffeine—it all came crashing down on him, overwhelming his senses. He wondered how much more he was going to throw up, he felt like it had been forever that it just kept coming.

After what felt like an eternity, the vomiting subsided. Maverick’s body trembling with exhaustio. Walker helped him sit back, handing a bottle of water, which he sipped gratefully, rinsing his mouth and taking small sip, trying to catch his breath while the cool liquid soothing his parched throat.

“How shitty did I do this time?” Maverick asked softly. “I kind of… lost it at the end. Couldn’t see anyone, nothing.”

"Shitty? No… Mav, you did amazing," Walker said quietly, "One of your fastest races yet. You held second and third for a while but then you did something at the end, took off and you won, Maverick."

Despite the lingering sickness, a weak smile tugged at Maverick's lips. He had done it. It took four years in all, but Maverick wondered if maybe, just maybe, he’s start climbing the ranks again like he did years ago.

“So I just have to get super sick at every race then, ritually,” Maverick chuckled.

“I would prefer if you didn’t,” Walker said, “My sister is a nurse, not me.”

-

The sun had long set by the time Walker and Maverick arrived at their shared house, the oppressive heat of the day giving way to a cooler evening.

The race was over, the crowds dispersed, but the remnants of the day's ordeal clung to Maverick like a stubborn shadow.

After a cold shower and changing out of his gear, Maverick still felt nauseous and generally unwell.

The cool water had done little to alleviate the turmoil in his stomach, and the soreness from racing was beginning to set in, a dull ache in his muscles.

He had sat in the living room for a little bit, watching tv with Walker, dozing off every once in a while. Each time he apologized.

“You need to rest,” Walker chuckled, “Besides, what else are we doing tonight? Racing is exhausting.”

“I never asked…” Maverick asked, “How did your race go?”

“Good, third place. Gotta hold down that low spot on the podium.” Walker chuckled.

They settled on the couch, the soft cushions a welcome relief to Maverick’s aching body. Walker turned on the TV, the low murmur of a documentary filling the room.

Maverick tried to focus on the screen, but his eyes grew heavy, the exhaustion pulling him under. He dozed off, the rhythmic sound of Walker’s breathing a comforting backdrop.

When he woke, the scent of dinner wafted through the air, rich and savory. His stomach clenched in protest, the nausea returning with a vengeance. He swallowed hard, trying to keep the bile down, but it was no use.

He got up, planning to just go lay down in his room to take this feeling away.

“Hey, you’re up,” Walker said, “I made extra in case you-“

“No… no…” Maverick swallowed thickly, the saliva pooling in his mouth threatening to betray him. He forced it down, his voice strained. “I… I’m going to lay down.”

Walker watched him with a furrowed brow, concern etched into his features. "You still aren’t feeling so hot?”

Maverick shook his head, the motion making his dizziness worse. “Medicine… not kicking in…”

The room seemed to tilt slightly, his vision blurring at the edges. His stomach churned violently, and he knew he had to get to the bathroom before he could lay down. He took a few unsteady steps, his body protesting with each movement. The nausea surged, an unstoppable wave crashing over him.

He barely made it to the bathroom, stumbling to his knees in front of the toilet. His body heaved, expelling the remnants of his stomach's contents with brutal force. The retching was harsh and unrelenting, each spasm leaving him more drained than the last.

All he had at the moment was water, and maybe some left over from earlier. Whatever was in his stomach was determined to come out, and Maverick’s body was too happy to oblige.

Walker appeared in the doorway. He moved to Maverick's side, crouching down but giving him space. "Just breathe, Mav. You’re okay. I’m right here."

Maverick's breaths came in ragged gasps, his body trembling with the effort. He closed his eyes, trying to focus on Walker's calm presence, grounding himself in the here and now. The nausea eventually subsided, leaving him weak and exhausted.

“Do you want me to call Willow and see if she can get you something stronger?” Walker asked, “Or can you try and take another dose of your-“

“No, to both,” Maverick panted, heaving and spitting one more time, “Too late… I’ll just vomit it back up.”

Walker handed him a damp washcloth, which Maverick used to wipe his face, the coolness soothing against his flushed skin.

“You need anything?" Walker asked softly, his hand resting lightly on Maverick's shoulder.

Maverick shook his head, his voice barely a whisper. "Just… need to lie down."

Walker helped him up, supporting his weight as they made their way back to Maverick's room. The journey felt endless, every step a struggle against his body's weakness. Finally, they reached the bed, and Maverick collapsed onto it, his body sinking into the mattress with a weary sigh.

The hours ticked by slowly. Walker busied himself with small tasks around the house, his mind never straying far from his friend.

As the night grew later, he decided to check on Maverick again before he went to bed. He knocked softly on the door before entering, finding Maverick still lying in bed, his face drawn with discomfort.

"Hey," Walker said quietly, moving to sit beside him. "How're you feeling?"

Maverick turned his head slightly, his eyes heavy with exhaustion. "Still pretty nauseous," he admitted. "And just... gross."

Walker sighed, reaching out to ruffle Maverick's hair gently. "You still running warm?" he asked as his hand felt warmth beneath it.

Maverick nodded slightly, his anxiety evident in his eyes. "Yeah. Can’t shake the heat."

Walker knew all too well how much fevers heightened Maverick's anxiety. He shifted closer, his presence a silent reassurance. "It's okay," he said softly. "I'm here."

The room was quiet, the only sounds the faint hum of the air conditioner and their steady breaths. Walker continued to mess with Maverick's hair, the repetitive motion calming for both of them. He could feel the heat radiating off Maverick's skin.

Maverick didn't say much, but he didn't need to. The silent understanding between them spoke volumes. Walker's presence, his quiet support, was all Maverick needed in that moment. They didn't need to talk about the race, the sickness, or anything else. If this was a fever and not retained overheating, Walker knew what might happen. They both did. They both knew what Maverick had gone through, what might resurface given the stress of it all, and that was enough.

Walker stayed with him, sitting on the edge of the bed, his hand a constant, soothing presence in Maverick's hair. It effectively knocked Maverick out pretty quickly, the twenty four year old finally falling properly asleep.

The minutes stretched into hours, the night deepening around them. Maverick's breathing gradually evened out, the tension slowly leaving his body.

Walker stayed with him, watching over his friend as he slept. He wanted to stay, he should stay. So, he would. Willow would probably slap him if she found out he didn’t. Or get Vanessa to break him in half. Or both.

The house was still and quiet as the night deepened, the only sound the gentle hum of the air conditioner. Walker remained at Maverick's bedside, his own eyes growing heavy with fatigue. He glanced at his friend, noticing how Maverick's seemed uncomfortable, even when he was sleeping. Walker knew what that probably meant.

Maverick's feverish state brought on restless dreams, his subconscious mind dredging up memories he had long tried to bury.

He was back in the cold, sterile rooms of the conversion therapy center, the harsh fluorescent lights blinding him as he was subjected to endless sessions meant to break him down, to reshape him into something he wasn't. To convince him that he was an abomination. To convince him he was some horrible human being just for being in love with his best friend.

The dream became more vivid, the voices of the counselors echoing in his mind, their cruel words blending with the nausea that still churned in his stomach.

Maverick's heart raced, his breathing quickening as the dream tightened its grip. The feeling of suffocation, the relentless pressure to conform, overwhelmed him. He tossed and turned, his body drenched in sweat.

Suddenly, Maverick jolted awake, his eyes wide with panic. His breathing was ragged, his chest heaving as he struggled to free himself from the lingering grip of the nightmare. The room felt too small, too hot, too stifling. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing the terror that had seized him.

Walker was instantly alert, his hand moving to Maverick's shoulder. Walker knew this, he did. This happened more than either of them wanted it to.

“Mav, hey, it's okay. You're safe. You're here with me," he said, his voice calm and steady.

Maverick's eyes darted around the room, struggling to focus. The remnants of the nightmare clung to him, feeding his anxiety. He tried to take a deep breath, but the nausea surged again, forcing him to double over. Walker was quick to react, grabbing a nearby wastebasket and holding it for Maverick.

"It's alright, just breathe," Walker murmured, his hand rubbing soothing circles on Maverick's back.

Maverick heaved, the retching violent and painful. The panic attack and nausea fed off each other, creating a vicious cycle that left him gasping for air. Tears streamed down his face, the combined physical and emotional strain too much to bear.

Walker remained a constant, steady presence, his own heart aching for his friend. "I'm right here, Mav. Just let it out. You're not alone," he repeated, his voice a lifeline in the storm.

Minutes felt like hours as Maverick's body finally began to calm. The nausea slowly subsided, leaving him weak and shaky. He leaned back against the headboard, his eyes closing as he tried to regain his breath.

Walker placed the wastebasket aside, wiping Maverick's face with a cool cloth.

"You're okay," he said softly. "It was just a dream. You're safe now."

Maverick nodded weakly, his eyes still closed. "I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "I just... I couldn't stop it."

Walker shook his head, his expression filled with compassion. "You don't have to apologize. You've been through so much. It's no wonder your mind is trying to process it all. This always happens, Mav… it’s okay.”

Maverick opened his eyes, meeting Walker's gaze. "It just... it felt so real. Like I was back there. I can’t go back there.

Walker nodded, " Well, you aren’y there. You're here, with me. At my place. Your parents and the nuns can’t get you here. You’re rebuilding your motocross life and you’re going to be fine. You’re safe, I promise."

Maverick took a shuddering breath, the fear and nausea still lingering but less overwhelming with Walker by his side.

"Thank you," he said, his voice hoarse but sincere. “I’m sorry…”

Walker smiled gently. "Always, Mav. I'm not going anywhere. You don’t need to apologize… do you want me to call Willow and see if she can get you something stronger?”

“Maybe in the morning…” Maverick said, “I.. I think I’ll be okay.”

Walker nodded, “trust me, you will be.”

[teaboot]

Every so often someone IRL gets on my ass about a dumb shit thing I'm doing and it's fine usually except sometimes it's really condescending and holier-than-though and after I've tried a few times to say "yes I know this" and they haven't shut up I kinda wanna just

yanno

[aspecpplarebeautiful]

If you relate to asexual or aromantic identities and experiences because of trauma, you can still use those labels if they're useful for you. You can still use them even if you're not sure if past trauma plays a role in you relating to these labels or not.

[plasmicthoughts]

olivia rodrigo, lesbian, woman, she/her. ♡ now entering the apartment building is deidre flores, a twenty-one year old who is currently a true crime creator & advocator. netizens have said they seem timid but others have said they’re benevolent ! gossip aside, we’re sure they’re bound to be a fan favorite !

content warnings include abduction, trauma, & abuse.

basics

Name: Deidre Dahlia Flores

Nickname/s: Deedee

Preferred name/s: Deidre

Gender: Woman

Pronouns: She/her

Age: 21

Birthday: December 17th

Zodiac: Sagittarius

Sexuality: Lesbian

Relationship status: Single

Occupation: True crime creator & advocator

Hometown: Santa Monica, California

Accent: American (Olivia Rodrigo vc)

backstory

Deidre grew up in a dance-focused household, with her mother as a ballet teacher, which instilled in her a passion for dance from an early age.

At just seven years old, she and three other girls from her dance troupe were kidnapped by a competition head, enduring a harrowing experience before being rescued.

The trauma from the abduction kept her out of dance for several years as she struggled to cope with the aftermath.

At ten, her family moved to South Korea for her mother's job opportunity as a choreographer, hoping for a fresh start.

Deidre faced significant dehumanization as her case was publicized; even though their identities were protected, the trauma resurfaced in her teenage years when evidence of her identity leaked.

The revelation at school was devastating, leading to bullying and isolation, which deepened her desire to help others in similar situations.

This experience fueled her passion for advocacy, and she began working to support victims of crimes through awareness and education.

Eventually, she channeled her experiences into creating an ethical true crime podcast and YouTube channel, focusing on the stories of victims and their families.

With the support of her small community, Deidre found the strength to return to dance, reclaiming a part of her identity that had been lost.

Seeking connection and healing, she applied to join the web series Seoulmates to find a supportive network and explore new friendships after her trauma stunted her social interactions.

Through her podcast and dance, Deidre aims to empower others, reminding them that they are not defined by their trauma but by their resilience and courage.

personality & more

Deidre is compassionate and deeply empathetic, often putting herself in others' shoes to understand their struggles.

She possesses a strong sense of justice and is driven to advocate for victims' rights and awareness.

Creative and articulate, she excels in storytelling, both in dance and through her podcasting.

Deidre is resilient, demonstrating remarkable strength in overcoming her past trauma and using it to fuel her passions.

She has a strong moral compass, prioritizing ethical practices in her true crime content to honor victims' stories.

A natural leader, she inspires others in her community to speak out and support one another.

Despite her past, she maintains a playful and light-hearted side, often using humor to cope with difficult topics.

Deidre values authenticity and encourages open conversations about mental health and trauma.

She has a passion for learning, often exploring new topics related to crime, justice, and advocacy.

Her experience in dance has made her disciplined and dedicated, qualities she applies to all her pursuits.

Deidre is a lover of storytelling in all forms, enjoying books, films, and podcasts that explore human experiences.

She dreams of creating a platform that not only educates but also empowers victims and advocates for systemic change.

Deidre is timid, and feels socially stunted, but she's always trying her best to live the life she once wasn't sure she'd still have.

[pamithebunterfly2007]

(TW: Self-Harm, Pills, Syringes) My first Traumacore edit along with a vent that happen to me back in 2021.

I was a fragile little lamb at the age of 14 in 2021, why did my life suddenly become so scary and stressful for me? Why is my family yelling at me? Why are my teachers not noticing my pain? Why are my friends from school ignoring me?! I blacked out suddenly during P.E, I was “dead” in my mind, I was awake at the nurse’s office, someone give me candy just to let me choke, Tears are running down in my cheek, My mind and my self are out of sorts, I pretend to cut myself with an invisible knife, I was sent to the mental hospital thanks to my school for sending me to hell, Why does this happen to me? This memory of mine is so bad that it keeps replaying day after day and it’s so inescapable, I used to be so happy as a child but not anymore for being a teenager. Please take good care of me, don’t break me, don’t tear me apart, don’t let the wolves take my blood away, please don’t take me back to hell again, I’m so sensitive, Please don’t yell at me, Don’t leave me behind.

“I’m still a lamb who needs to be loved again”

[movedto-mastcrmarksman]

hawkeye + effects of childhood.

Clint Barton webweavings 1/??

credits under the read more;

ocean vuong, "someday i'll love" // hawkeye: blind spot // conan gray, "family line" // fraction's hawkeye // the front bottoms, "father" // fraction's hawkeye // agustín gómez-arcos, "the carnivorous lamb" // solo avengers vol 1 issue 2 // unknown // hawkeye and us agent's grudge, various runs // clementine von radics // the avengers (1963) issue 65 // unknown // thunderbolts (2022) issue 1 // satany, tumblr

@starsnheroes @mastcrmarksman tags myself so i can reblog this @mastcrmarksman

[carnivorousyandeere]

There is no escape. Nothing they can do to erase your past, to take it away from you. Nothing stops the nightmares, the flashbacks, the guilt, the pain, the trauma. They love you so much, more than anything in the world, more than they think anybody’s ever loved anyone, and it’s still not enough. They can’t protect you, can’t perfectly avoid your triggers, can’t permanently soothe that ache in your soul. The sheer feeling of helplessness when all they want to do is help you is overwhelming.

[boatcats]

All of It

"That thing you mentioned with the crab?" Lucius made a face. "Kinda fucked up, man."

"Yeah, sorry. It's a downer. Never really a good time to bring it up."

"Eh. Pete turned a little green but he'll be okay. Want a cigarette?"

"Please." Ed took it with shaky hands (talking about the past was hard, okay?). Lucius lit it for him.

"How do you...? Not that I'm going to take your advice because it probably sucks. But how do you tell Stede about this stuff? Pete... I don't want to -"

Ed's heart contracted painfully in his chest. Lucius looked worried. And Ed had never meant for him to experience the worst that piracy had to offer... but then Lucius must know that now - he wouldn't be asking Ed this question if he didn't.

"I.... have you considered bottling it up and then having a flashback in his bathtub?"

"Noooooo..." Lucius said consideringly. Then he pulled a face. "Pete doesn't have a bathtub."

"Hmm. That does create a roadblock."

Lucius sighed. "Everyone on this ship is a mess."

"Yep. Even Pete. I don't really have good advice, if you couldn't tell... but he loves you. I think that means he's here for all of it."