#aiyana soothes

[girlslikestarlight]

getting out of your own head ✧˚ · .

i've had a topsy-turvy mental health journey in my time and i know that i am really good at self-victimising, self-blaming, and falling into thought spirals where i agonise over events and perceptions that are so tiny in real life.

it is important for me to identify when i am engaging in unhelpful behaviour, so i can find a way to shift. it feels like the hardest thing in the world but healing is a journey unique to everyone.

the info below comes from a single source and i hope to expand on mental health info in the future, but it might be helpful if you have an anxious mind or you're an overthinker.

<image from pinterest, below info source: becoming the one by sheleana aiyana>

BEHAVIOUR THAT KEEPS YOU STUCK IN YOUR HEAD

Responding to feelings by pulling them apart and looking for meaning

Denying how you feel because it doesn't make logical sense

Trying to talk yourself out of feeling sad, anxious, etc

Coming up with a reason for feelings

Overexplaining feelings

Feeling "numb"

Feeling embarassed or exposed by your feelings

Focusing on the "facts" as if emotions have no value or purpose

BEHAVIOUR TO BRING YOU INTO YOUR BODY

Noticing an emotion as it arises and naming it: "I'm feeling sad, angry, joyful, nervous, etc."

Locating and identifying bodily sensations: "I feel tightness in my belly, my chest is feeling constricted, there is tension in my jaw."

Using "I think" when you have a thought and "I feel" when you have an emotion, and knowing the difference

Allowing your feelings and sensations to be there without needing to make sense of them

Creating opportunities to move energy through the body (dance, screaming into a pillow, deep breathing)

 SKILLS FOR THE EMOTIONALLY CONNECTED

Able to differentiate between thoughts, sensations, and feelings

Knowing when to take time and space to process intense emotions before making a decision or initiating a conversation

Trusting the body and exploring the messages it delivers without self-judgment

Being meditative and noticing when the mind is making up a story or being self-critical

Bringing presence into the body when overthinking or spiraling into fear and worry

Having a few favourite self-soothing methods, or reaching out for support when overwhelmed

Valuing both emotion and logic at different times

Making space for a spiritual practice and radical acceptance in your life

[aiyanasoothes-archive]

Orang and Green Springs Stim

[hecatemoon87]

Blood Moon : The Curse of the Loup-garou (A Forrest Bondurant Story)

Chapter Four - A Dark Alliance

**Don’t miss out on my James Delaney Vampire Tale!** Click Below!

Heart of Darkness - A James Delaney Vampire Tale

Forrest slowly opened his eyes and found himself in his bedroom. He sat up on his elbows, wincing slightly. It took a moment for him to begin to remember what had happened. Just then, the door to his room opened and Aiyana stepped inside. Her eyes lit up when she saw that he was awake and hurried over to him.

“You’re awake, oh, I’m so relieved! And you’ve already healed too,” she said, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

She trailed her hand through his hair to ensure that he had indeed recovered. He enjoyed the touch of her warm hand against his scalp. He noticed that his shirt had been removed and when he looked over in the corner of the room, his shirt, now bloodied, hung over a wooden chair.

“Shit, where are those people?” Forrest said, urgently. “Did they hurt you?”

He tried getting out of bed, but Aiyana placed her hands on his chest, lowering him back down.

“It’s fine, Forrest. The people who attacked you are gone. But you need to come down stairs and meet with the people that helped us. Give yourself a moment,” she said, stroking his cheek.

Relieved that Aiyana had not been hurt, he took the moment she had suggested and decided to bask in the rays of her attention. Suddenly a look of great concern washed over her face and she leaned over him to kiss him. She landed three soft kisses on his lips and wrapped her arms around his neck.

“I was so worried, I know you heal fast, but there was so much blood. Oh, I’m so happy you’re okay,” she sighed into his neck.

Forrest's eyes were wide and he hesitantly wrapped his arms around her waist. The kisses had surprised him and he felt an electrical shock of desire rip through him.

“Um, It’s alright, Aiyana. You know it takes more than that to bring down a Bondurant,” he said, trying to sooth her.

Her nose and lips were nuzzled into his neck and Forrest wanted so badly to kiss her properly. He wanted to taste her tongue and feel her naked supple body against his own…damn that upcoming full moon, he was acting a fool instead of a gentleman.

“That’s enough, come on now, let me up,” he decided to say.

She nodded and stood up from the bed allowing Forrest to rise up. His trousers were still on so he patted over to his closet and pulled out another shirt. He slipped it on as he left the room to head down stairs to meet the people who had saved his and Aiyana’s lives.

When he came down the landing he heard talking and as he entered the front room he saw his brothers sitting at a table with a man and a woman. This couple were not the ones who had attacked him. The woman was very beautiful with cream colored skin, full red lips and black wavy hair. Within her beautiful face, a pair of bright intelligent gray eyes peered out.

She was dressed particularly, however, unlike what Forrest usually saw women wear. She was dressed in trousers, knee high black leather boots and was armed to the teeth.

Meanwhile, the man gave him a strange vibe, something he wasn’t able to place. All Forrest could think was that this man wasn't human. The man was wearing a black Fedora and a black suit. He was handsome, with a beard just around his mouth and had very intense blue eyes.

“Hey Forrest,” Jack said, standing up from the table.

Howard stayed seated, a look of disbelief on his face. Forrest lumbered up to them and motioned his hand at the strangers.

“Now, who are you folks,” he asked.

“My name is Catherine Beaumont and this is…”

“James Delaney,” the man said.

“Alright…is that supposed to mean something to me?” Forrest asked.

“He’s a fucking Vampire,” Howard said randomly, turning to face Forrest.

Forrest paused for a moment to digest what Howard just said. Well, he and his brothers were werewolves, so he supposed vampires could be real too.

“No, I suppose my name wouldn’t mean anything to you now. But to your family, a long time ago, we were allies.” Catherine said.

“Allies? Against what?” Forrest said.

“Against evil and malicious supernatural entities. Have you not been taught your history? Or has the New World washed all that away?” she asked.

There was a creak on the landing and then Aiyana emerged from the back room. She walked over and stood beside Forrest. He looked over at her to make sure she was alright.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. We know that our family comes from France. That we were some kind of warriors of God, or whatever. And that we’re werewolves.” Forrest said.

“You were Hounds of God. And you aren’t werewolves, you’re Loup-garou.”

“Loop-ga what?” Jack asked.

Catherine stared at the brothers in disbelief.

“I told you, the Americans lack culture,” James said.

Catherine sighed. “You are Loup-garou. It means werewolf, in French. But French werewolves aren’t cursed like traditional werewolves. They were given a gift by a benevolent elemental, in which your family thought was God, considering the time period.”

“What’s the difference between a cursed werewolf and a loop-a…looper…French werewolf?” Howard asked.

“Loup-garou can change at will, the cursed werewolf can only change around the time of the full moon. Your kind can mostly control your instincts, but not the cursed wolf. But…that started to change some time near the end of the 1600s. Your family started to have issues with controlling the primal instincts. That's when…well that’s when your family went to the Order of Azazel,” Catherine said.

“Order of Azazel?” Forrest interjected.

“A witch cult,” James answered.

“Why would my family go see a bunch of witches?” Forrest asked.

“Because they needed powerful magic to help with their…issue. Your family head, Louis Bondurant, promised to provide the cult with family members to become protectors. But he never fulfilled his promise and instead after a decade or so, the Bondurants fled to the New World.”

“Fuck me,” Howard said, rubbing his face.

“You’re fucked, alright,” James said.

“And who the fuck are you, by the way?” Forrest snapped, he was finding this James Delaney to be very irritating.

“Pardon my language,” he said, looking at both women apologetically.

“I am just a pawn on this chess board called life. Over one hundred and seventeen years ago I was turned into a Vampire in Africa. I’d watch how you speak to me, wolf.”

“You mother…” Jack growled, but he too looked at the women and stopped his words.

Forrest gritted his teeth, but chose not to react to Delaney’s taunt.

“Who is he to you?” Jack asked Catherine.

Catherine looked at James. “He is the reason why I’m asking you for an alliance instead of killing you. Although the Beaumonts would have sided with the Loup-garou during the middle ages, recently my family has hunted your kind. My father was murdered by a Loup-garou in Gévaudan, France.”

That made all three Bondurants straighten up a little. A huntress seeking their hides did not seem like a pleasant experience. Forrest supposed he had to be at least grateful to the Vampire for changing her mind, although he wondered how Delaney achieved that.

“Alright…an alliance it is.” Forrest nodded his head in agreement.

requested tag : @torntaltos :)

[tenmillionwhumperflies]

#5 of OC Whump

#5 - Rescue

So you’ll meet the gang at least in this ready for Whumptober. Not sure if it’s great but nvm ^^’

Weeks of torture and torment took their toll and Omen was relentless in dishing out punishment after punishment. Glenn was left with his hands shackled above him by a single chain, given the option to kneel or stand, but he was far too weak to even look up now, let alone get up. He was drained of all his energy, his fight, and any hope he could have possibly clung to.

He was cold, battered, bloodied, burnt, and dying. He’d long since forgotten his list of wounds. He hadn't eaten, barely slept, and was tormented by fever. Omen was in his head, in his dreams. He was sure he was starting to see things and pain did not even begin to describe how he felt, a corpse felt more fitting. The slightest movement took all his energy. He was just waiting for the end, hoping Omen would give him the end.

The door creaked open and Omen came inside. Glenn didn’t look up, he didn’t want to see that cold flash of a grin, or see what weapon he planned to use that day. He wanted to sleep and never wake up. He could only hang there limply by his wrists, like a puppet.

“These tattoos, were they meant to help you cope? They’re the only thing keeping you tough, huh? Reminding you of home?” Omen asked, taking Glenn by the jaw and lifting up his head, squeezing the already abused bone.

Glenn couldn’t find the strength to answer. Those tattoos were all he had left. They were a cold memory, but they did not give him any strength. Not anymore...

“No? I’m going to colour all of this in black, get rid of any precious hope this gives you. Maybe when it heals I’ll go over it in white, give you some new messages?”

“Please… d.don’t...”

He was powerless as Omen set everything up. Chained as he was, there was nothing he could do but weep as Omen set to work on tattooing his wrist, slowly covering it. The simple cat-scratch like pain usually wasn’t a problem, if it hadn’t been for the red swelling that went a good inch down his wrist past the shackle. He didn’t have the strength to scream, but his body always found a way of managing. He was going to lose it all, he was going to lose his tattoos and there was nothing he could do but slouch there and take it.

The door opened again, hitting off the wall. The buzzing and burning pain stopped.

“Aiyana! What-”

“Master, please. I must speak with you, I must!”

Omen sneered and tugged hard at Glenn’s hair, forcing him to look at his progress before he walked out and slammed the door shut. He’d already covered a band of his wrist like a secondary shackle.

Glenn vomited bile, and his body fell forward. Weak as he was, he couldn’t sit back, left in an awful position with his back arching. It hurt after mere seconds. He mewled. Aiyana returned with a panicked look about her. Glenn was too tired to think about it, even as he saw her pick up a needle and filled it with some clear liquid. He had no idea what it was. He didn’t care.

His eyes slipped closed and the door slammed open again, louder than Glenn thought possible. He shuddered and heard an animalistic growl. Hell, it almost sounded like Erin when she turned into a beast. He really was seeing and hearing things. But Aiyana screamed, and that confused him for a moment. With his eyes still closed, he could only guess Omen was back, he’d hurt her, back to hurt him too.

Only when he opened his eyes, he was taken aback to see Erin really was there, looking ike a giant beast, that weird mix between wolf and bison, pinning Aiyana down on the ground with sharp teeth shining so close to Aiyana’s grey face.

“Don’t,” he murmured, with his thoughts still clouded. This was some serious hallucination, his fever must have been running wild.

Erin’s ear pricked up in Glenn’s direction and she did actually close her mouth, but she didn’t move from pinning the girl down.

“Glenn?!” another voice shouted. Farron, although he couldn’t remember his voice sounding so shrill. This apparition looked just like him, save for the clear loss of weight. Glenn smirked, he was so hungry even his hallucinations were starving.

He flinched when Farron came closer and put a hand on his cheek, pushing him back into a more comfortable position and it felt so real. He shuddered. “G.go… away, s...stupid fak.ke.”

“Glenn? Glenn, buddy, it’s me. We’re here. We’ve got you.”

Glenn found the strength to shake his head and get the hand off of his throbbing jaw. “Dead...” he whispered. “Y.you’re dead...”

Farron’s attention turned to Aiyana in a cold glare. “What’s he talking about? What did you do? Speak up!”

Aiyana flinched badly. “M.Master. H.He showed him a newspaper. He told him you were all dead.”

“Erin, kill her before I do,” Farron snarled. Aiyana whimpered.

Erin let out an odd-sounding grumble and gestured toward Glenn.

“D.don’t kill her...” Glenn managed. Hallucination or not, he didn’t want to see it. She reminded him too much of how he used to be. Trapped in a hell hole but knowing no different. He’d been given the choice of another life, she hadn’t. If this was real, if, then she deserved the chance too.

Farron looked back at Glenn. “Glenn, I need you to focus, buddy. We’re not dead, Omen lied to you. I’m so sorry we took so long, but we’re here. Please, try to focus. Clyde, have you found those keys yet?”

“Got ‘em,” Glenn heard that same gruff voice report. “Hold onto him and I’ll get him down.”

Farron propped him up, pressing his body flush against Glenn’s so when the shackles came away, he didn’t fall. It put painful pressure on his ribs, drawing a whimper, but felt a lot nicer to be eased down to the floor than be dropped face-first.

Things really weren’t making sense. Why did this feel so real? They were dead, he’d grieved for a month now, they were surely dead. He had nothing but Omen now, surely? This couldn’t be real, but all the same, he was terrified of blinking, so afraid of it all disappearing and seeing Omen’s face in front of him.

He needed to know. Settled on the floor, Glenn dared to close his eyes again and open them. They didn’t disappear. He slowly moved his hand, reaching to touch Farron’s arm. If he touched it, surely it would go away…

It didn’t and the breath caught in his barely-moving lungs. Were they real? Did he really want to raise his hopes and risk them all crumbling down?

Farron held onto his hand and bowed right down, catching Glenn’s full attention as he lay on the ground wheezing.

“We’re here, Glenn. I’ve got you, see?” Farron stroked his hair gently, the first real comfort he’d had in so long. He groaned in relief.

He tried to get up, his arms shaking with numbing exertion. He fell down, but warm hands caught him, supported him, and slowly pulled him into a protective grip, cuddling him as much as he’d dare. “Shh, take it easy, Glenn. You’re safe now. Hold still.”

His senses sharpened a little. The gentle shushing, the voice he thought he’d never hear again. Farron brought his dirty clumps of hair away from his face and wiped the blood from his lips with his thumb. He made no attempt to get up again. Everything felt like lead. He couldn't move if he’d tried. He managed a raspy groan past dry lips and felt a cool hand press against his forehead.

They were real.

A wave of internal pain hit him and he sobbed. “I’m so sorry,” he murmured. Farron pulled him a little closer. Hot pain weighed him down, yet he felt like ice. Farron cupped his cheek in his hand, but Glenn whimpered, moving his head to get his hand off his broken jaw. Farron moved his hand in fear, using it to support his head instead.

“You're… here… I. I'm sorry, I… thought…”

Farron whispered “Shh, I know, I know. Breathe, and try not to worry. You’ve got nothing to be sorry for, buddy. I really need you to lie still.”

“Don’t… kill her,” he said again. “T.Take her… she’s… she’s… just.”

“Alright, alright. Glenn, you have to save your strength. You’re in a really bad way.”

Farron turned his attention back to his almost seven-foot-tall friend. “Clyde, tie up that girl. We’re taking her back with us. I want answers,” Farron said.

Aiyana screamed and struggled under Erin’s weight, but she was going nowhere, especially when Erin bared her teeth again. “No! No, please! You can’t take me from my Master! You can’t!”

Farron shielded Glenn as Aiyana was tied up and dragged out kicking and screaming. Glenn understood her fear, but he wasn’t going to leave her here. That was a clear enough thought in his mind. She was just how he had once been. Farron could help her, just like he had helped him. Glenn leaned into Farron’s chest, listening to his heartbeat. He was real, this, this was all real. He’d have burst into tears if he wasn’t so weak, so numb.

“I’m going to pick you up, okay? I’m gonna get you home,” Farron said gently

Glenn cried out as soon as Farron adjusted his grip. It caught off the carved wound on his back, reigniting the burning feeling. He felt blood ooze out of it.

“Deep breaths, bud. Lemme see,” Farron soothed as he sat him up too inspect the damage hidden by most of his hair.

Farron swept it aside and gasped. Erin plodded closer to see what was wrong and growled. “‘m sorry,” Glenn murmured. “C.couldn’t… stop him.”

Sure enough, written on his back in capital letters was the word OMEN, covered in sticky blood, crude scabs, and a roaring infection. He didn’t have enough blood in his body to speed up the healing process, Omen made sure of that.

“I. I“’s okay, it’s okay. This isn’t your fault. I just wasn’t expecting to see that, that’s all. It’s okay.”

"I tried… I really did, but... the papers.. you were dead. And he was burning me and… I'm sorry. I.I've let you down…. I gave up."

"Never. You could never let us down, Glenn. Please, go to sleep. When you wake up, everything will feel better."

“Don't… go…”

“We will be here when you wake up,” he promised, knowing why he was struggling against it. Slowly, he got him to surrender to sleep in his arms, cradling him like Glenn had dreamt about for months.

[96thdayofrage]

I’m going to say this and I mean — down to my subatomic particles — what I say. And I actually don’t care what anyone might think about it:

I don’t give a FUCK about Justine Damond and what happened to her.

I don’t give a fuck because most white people didn’t give a fuck when police murdered seven-year-old Aiyana Stanley-Jones as she lay on a couch, sleeping. What most white people — and some black people — did was blame Aiyana’s family.

I don’t give a fuck because a black woman (or a Native woman) in the identical situation Justine was in wouldn’t garner support or sympathy from most white people. No. What most white people would do is look for reasons that might justify why the police officer “had” to kill the black woman.

Most white people rely on this idea that black people, in situations where white people are in pain, are only ever to be soothing and understanding; only ever to be Mammy or Uncle Remus; only ever to extend condolences; only ever to embody loyalty; only ever to offer the empathy and sympathy that most white people purposely and haughtily deny when the situation is reversed — almost as if most white people still see us as their property.

When the situation is reversed, when we require empathy and sympathy, then suddenly we’re all of the opposite things that these once-needy white people previously said we were. When the shoe is on the other foot, then they assess us as immoral, violent, criminal, subhuman, unworthy.

But they are not slick.

They maneuver and manipulate every situation so that it’s always to their advantage; moving the goal posts at every turn to ensure that we are always in service to them — irrespective of whether their intentions are wicked or plain.

None of the inane and unsanitary questions they ask of dead black people do they ask of their own wounded. Not one of them has yet to castigate Justine for being belligerent toward police officers, nor have they used that as an excuse for why she had to die — as they so frequently do when the victim is black.

For me, this psychological fuckshit of a game stops TODAY.

I don’t give a fuck about Justine Damond because I know that most white people don’t think what happened to her is indicative of an inherently corrupt and unjust policing system. I know that most white people simply think that this situation means that guns should be taken out of the hands of black people, that black people shouldn’t be placed in positions of authority, and that keeping the police force white would ensure that police won’t mistakenly kill “innocent” white people; that police will, instead, return to their true purpose: Keeping white people “safe” by killing black people.

Most white people are not truly mourning Justine. Most of white people are mourning what the killing of Justine means: That Whiteness isn’t guaranteedto protect them and, in the blink of an eye, they can find themselves in the same plight as black people, which they thought the promise of Whiteness was supposed to prevent.

The question most white people will never dare answer honestly is: Does the “blue life” of the cop who murdered Justine matter more than Justine’s? If white reactions to black deaths at the hands of police are any indication, the answer should be “yes.”

But we’re not fools. We already know that what white people mean by “Blue Lives Matter” is “Black Lives Don’t.” So they can’t subscribe to the idea of the blue life mattering more in this case without diminishing Whiteness and tacitly affirming Blackness. And supporting Justine over the police officer (a black Muslim police officer at that) when they never supported black people over the police officer in identical circumstances, reveals their hypocrisy and white supremacy. Left with these options, most white people will choose silence, pretense, projection, duplicity, deception, sophistry, or amnesia — but never, ever the truth.

I will never extend my care to a peoples whose idea of reciprocation is my annihilation. They can mourn over their losses by their goddamn selves. Just like we do.

I don’t give a fuck about Justine Damond because there are too many — way too many — white-neglected black bodies I have to climb over before I could even get to thinking about hers.

When they put Aiyana Stanley-Jones’ murderer in prison where he belongs, then, and only then, might I consider caring an iota about Justine.

Until then, though: I gives fucks so less than zero that math hasn’t even invented a way to represent it.

“But how could you not care about this innocent blonde white lady?”

The same way you could not care about about innocent black women and girls, or any black person killed by cops. My empathy is not for free. It must be earned. And there are very, very few white people deserving of it.

“But not all white people! And I *did* care when cops killed black people!”

“I can’t believe what you say because I see what you do.” — James Baldwin

Most white people — and some black people who crave white adjacency — will be OUTRAGED!!!!™ by the mere idea that I could take this position. Their egos and self-centeredness, which are so huge that not even the infinite multiverse has room for them, coupled with their Christianity, which is nothing more than death-glamour in disguise, will be pierced by such a response and, in their pained confusion, they will try to flip the script to make me the morally bankrupt individual in this scenario because they are ill-equipped to contend with self-evaluation. To be fair to them though: It must come as a great shock to go on a soul search, only to discover that the entire endeavor was a wild goose chase from the start.

Rather than face that reality, the soulless resort to, first, fabricating a history and reality that makes my position unjustified. They then deceive themselves about their own words and deeds in the presence of black corpses. Finally, they deny their tendency to kneel before police officers to perform fellatio on their guns, and lie about expecting the officer to tell them when they’re about to shoot so that they could point the opening at our faces instead of theirs.

I say all of this to say:

My disinterest is white people’s fault.

And I hope it makes them angry.

And what they may do with that anger is fix the situations that made my indifference necessary…

Or they can stay mad.

The choice is theirs.