#but also I do not have a psychotic disorder so it’s not exactly my place

[queer-whatchamacallit]

Currently in need of:

Characters who have ADHD and are also smart and educationally-focused (anything can be special interest guys! I mean, bugs, aquatic animals, science, and pieces of media are all well and good, but give me someone who’s SI is just learning things and who would start stimming from the mere thought of going on jeopardy)

Autistic characters who aren’t savants and are still considered important members of the teams they’re on

Semi or nonverbal autistic characters who are smart, and their partial or full lack of speech isn’t something that needs to be fixed

Characters who have autism or ADHD as well as mostly unrelated mental illnesses (trauma not targeted at their neurodiversity, disordered eating not caused by sensory issues)

Varied and accurate OCD rep

[schizosupport]

hi glitch! no pressure about answering, but I don't have any other schizospec people I can talk to, and I need some support

recently I got diagnosed with Other Specified Schizophrenia Spectrum Disorder/Psychotic Disorder, and I'm starting weekly therapy to get a specific diagnosis and treatment, and I have an evaluation with a psychiatrist to look at meds next week.

the thing is, I'm having a hard time wrapping my mind around this. I've gone through my whole life up to this point trusting my sense of reality, and only had a brief period of time when I self diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder (never confirmed).

AND I've started to look into medication, and the one i'll probably be prescribed is Ablify, which seems to have a ton of scary side effects. I'm still in school, and while I'm almost certain I can get accommodations, I can't be sure, and adolescents can be cruel.

truth be told, I'm just scared. I see posts about the opportunities taken away from schizospec people, and I haven't been living under a rock, I know all the stigma that surrounds what I know now to be my community.

like I said, no pressure to answer, I just want some advice and support from a more experienced member of the community.

Hello there!

It's been a while since you sent this message. I hope you are feeling at least a bit more settled in the situation?

It's always wild to get a diagnosis that you didn't necessarily expect. For me, my initial "psychosis not otherwise specified" diagnosis also completely blindsided me, and so did the later schizophrenia diagnosis.

It's true that there's a lot of stigma and bullshit surrounding the schizo spec disorders, but I also want to highlight that schizo spec people are awesome, and we're strong and we got each other's backs. In my experience the psychotics and schizos are the underdogs of not only the psychiatric community but also the mental health community. But that also means that you get a unique opportunity to learn who's a true ally, and to practice your own understanding and acceptance of other marginalized experiences on the edges of life. In my experience our community is one of the most compassionate and accepting communities around, probably bc we know intimately what it's like to have weird experiences and be judged for it. Try to navigate towards a place in your head where you align yourself with other marginalized people and don't get caught up in bitterness about a uniquely fucked situation, but instead take it as a sign to be kind above all else and to think about who else in society might be in a similar position, to find your allies and take comfort in unity.

In terms of the stigma, I think something to keep in mind as a newly diagnosed person, is that to the extent that it's possible, you are the owner of the information about your mental health. And you don't owe anyone disclosure. I'm not saying to necessarily always try to be vague, there ARE safe places and safe people and there ARE situations where you might genuinely broaden someone's horizons by introducing them to the notion that "we are here. We're one of you". But there are also plenty of situations where you don't wanna share that information. You can let them assume, you can omit, you can even lie.

People frequently assume that I'm autistic, and I don't correct them. Maybe I'll respond with "something like that" if they ask. Especially in professional settings. Unless you want someone to know, it's none of their business what exactly is your deal.

In terms of medication, the important thing to keep in mind is that it helps some people, but it is also not (shouldn't be) mandatory to take meds because you're schizo spec. You can give it a try, but if it isn't doing anything helpful for you, you are not obligated to take it. The psych might act like you have to and like it would be completely irresponsible not to. Try to take it with a grain of salt. Think about your life so far, the symptoms that have led to this diagnosis. Can you live with that? Do the meds help with that? Are there side effects and are thet worth it?

I take a low dose of antipsychotics myself and I've tried without and with higher doses too. For me at this point in life, a low dose of antipsychotics are helpful to me.

I'm happy to hear that you've been offered therapy!! I hope that it's any good, and that it's been helpful. I definitely think that therapy (with a good therapist) can be instrumental in dealing with psychotic symptoms.

In the end I just wanna say.. it's gonna be ok. I know it's a big scary new thing, but it is also actually "just" a word that's descriptive of symptoms that you already had. This doesn't mean that you are bound to get worse. Try not to panic about looking for new symptoms or symptoms you might've missed. This can make you worse, as you start questioning all of your experiences and whether they are psychotic. It can be little things like questioning every little sensory input. Try to remember that hallucinations aren't inherently harmful and sometimes you don't have to know if it's real or not bc it literally doesn't matter.

It can often be tumultuous when you've just gotten this diagnosis, before you get used to the thought and reestablish your sense of identity and reality with this in mind. But there is a point of peace coming up. It does normally get easier, as you settle into this new understanding. And you can help yourself along by reminding yourself that the only thing that changed is that you were given a word to describe your existing experience.

I hope any of this is helpful. Best of luck, anon,, and welcome to (knowingly being a member of) the community!

[creekfiend]

Howdy, so Ive got a questions.

I was one of the lucky few mentally ill kids who didn't have a horrific experience with institutionalization, and there's definitely a lot more going on under the hood of my mind than is on any kind of record that i haven't brought to any sort of doctor for fear that i will be denied any sort of recourse in my own life (Autism, CPTSD and suspected BPD). I say this to let you know I'm being genuine in my questioning despite being behind anon.

I saw a post in which it's stated that mental illness as an industry and field of study is meant to pathologize "normal" reactions to capitalism and systemic tragedies, but like. Capitalism didn't make me autistic, or traumatize me, or neglect me into developing a disorder. I agree wholeheartedly that mental illnesses can be developed in response to circumstances outside of someone's control, but i can't in good conscience sit here, remembering a time when i was sat up in bed at 2 am having a psychotic break, convinced that i was still dreaming and that there was something after me as i sob and convulsed in terror and say in good conscience that people who have to experience that sort of terror every day don't need some sort of means to help them maintain some semblance of a life.

I say this because the posts ive been taking issue with are classing the very concept of psychology as a field of study and medicine as an inherent moral evil on the basis of stigma and ableism being prominent in the field. And while i again, wholeheartedly agree that stigma and ableism colors much of psychology, i can't help but see exactly how much good it COULD do should stigma and ableism be removed completely from the equation. Replace biases and preconceived notions with a basis of compassion and understanding, if you will.

Is this a movement that denounces the entire study of mental health and the treatment of it as degrading and immoral by nature? If so, what does the antipsych movement have in mind as a means of helping those in mental distress without a means to examine and classify different types of mental distress? Am i misunderstanding the gist of these concepts? Is there some sort of contingency to deal with those of us with uglier manifestations of mental health to put it lightly? For those whose mental health would absolutely benefit from being placed somewhere safe with other like-minded people for a time, is there any room for such a thing as a treatment, so long as it's voluntary, like an actual hospital treating an illness instead of a prison housing criminals?

I just. Want to understand, because the understanding I'm currently getting is distressing to me, as i initially thought antipsych as a "treat nuerodivergent people like normal actual people and also abolish the use of mental institutions in their current, oppressive form", as opposed to those who seem to be saying (and please, genuinely, correct me if I'm misinterpreting this) to abolish the study of psychology altogether.

if you read the contents of my tag and you still think that this is a relevant question I don't know what to tell you

like

...

I simply don't im sorry

[tomisautistic]

i've been having a few months of an increase in psychotic symptoms, and here's what i wish people would understand about my experience:

i wish people would understand that psychosis feels like a complete loss of your own values and ability to control and question your beliefs. no matter how much i try to question said beliefs and i try to understand that x belief is irrational, it feels stronger than me to believe it. which means, when i understand it, that i will act in very out of character and contradictory ways. it's not me being hypocritical, it's me struggling to have power over things that my mind and body seems to believe no matter my best efforts.

that doesn't mean i will always understand that something is irrational, though.

when i hallucinate, i can sometimes suspect i do, but i won't know right away unless i'm used to recognizing this as a hallucination or if i decide to investigate and nothing makes sense anymore, so i conclude it's a hallucination. if the hallucination is realistic enough, i won't question the hallucination. i will question you. this is because hallucinations and delusions can also tie together.

my brain feels fried when my psychotic symptoms increase. my sentences may not always make sense, i may switch the "i" and "you" pronouns, i may miss crucial words, i may add unnecessary words, and my recalling will be blurry and saturated with small details that matter less than i think they do. it shows even in writing, it's not on purpose. please be patient.

my mood will be all over the place. i don't exactly understand what's happening, and i may switch to very happy to very sad or fearful or angry. i may get overstimulated easily, overwhelmed easily, and i most likely be lethargic. my sleep won't be of good quality, and my sleep schedule will be disrupted.

i will be dysfunctional no matter how hard i try. i will freeze in place, struggle to talk, struggle to react. i will neglect myself out of both overstimulation and exhaustion, and it can get very bad. i may end up with infected fingers, for example. it's insanely difficult to put myself through the sensory pain that any radical change will put me through.

i'm trying to get better, genuinely. i will probably have other psychotic symptoms coming back in the future. i may even not understand why i need my medication in the first place because "i am better, and i feel better off it" initially. it never lasts, and the medication is necessary. i struggle learning from my mistakes in the midst of it. hindsight is 20/20. it may be frustrating, but being trustworthy and not taking advantage of my vulnerability in those moments is the best thing you can do.

people who struggle with psychosis are more likely to be abused, due to not understanding situations fully. do not immediately dismiss our claims of being abused on the sole basis of our diagnosis. people do take advantage of us, and may even lean into our delusions and hallucinations to try to manipulate us.

as always, this is my own experience and i'm not diagnosed with a full-blown psychotic disorder. take it for what it is, every individual with psychosis is different and experience it differently. they may not fully or relate at all to my own experiences.

[mirror-imaged]

i don't know if i've ever told this story on here but i feel like i should because it's insane and goddamn hilarious in a sort of What. way. but.

i had the somewhat good fortune of finally getting a referral for autism testing, which i hadn't actively been seeking due to not wanting to have the legal complications that come with an autism diagnosis on your record (it's complicated...) but the clinic with the best results kept refusing to get back to my psychiatrist over a period of four months. which sucked but he referred me to another guy for the sake of actually getting results, so i could deal.

i went downtown for this appointment and we ended up in the wrong building, because. the appointment listing was... at the wrong building. it was a four story old house converted into an office space for therapy and it was cool but it was not the right place, so i ended up driving down to the right place after a while and was a bit late.

i was already super anxious due to the lateness, and when we got there the guy was late letting us in too. this guy obviously usually works with younger children and because i was a minor at the time, we had to go there. so we sit down, he asks me some questions about my medical background for context, he asks my dad about my development schedule (which he either was wrong about or obviously didn't remember well) and then he asks my dad to leave the room. he starts talking to me personally and i was not on testosterone at the time, so i got usually clocked as Girl tm.

he asks about my other mental health problems. i kind of go over the list hesitantly, not really wanting to give details for more stigmatized stuff, and when i mention bpd he just. stops me. he asks for more like detail and i give it to him, and i do actually HAVE a bpd diagnosis. my psychiatrist was very supportive of me and my access to help. this assessment guy though, just starts interrupting me and like. telling me i don't actually have bpd because i'm not 18. which, that's not how it works. you don't just develop it the second you're an adult. it's a disorder rooted in childhood trauma. i get kind of emotional pushing back against the claims he's making about my situation and he goes on to say some dumb stuff about how i'm just like experiencing teenage stuff, which i already had experience with from my therapist so i was pretty resistant to it at least but christ.

so after he spends 40 minutes trying to thoroughly debunk my bpd diagnosis and telling me i'd never had psychosis because it wasn't exactly the same as the types outlined in the dsm-v (which, i think he also just had a copy of the dsm-iv in his room. lol) like completely forgetting the human experience is more than a set of rules on a piece of paper. uh. he asks about other psychotic symptoms i'd had, so i start going on about some of the other life experiences i'd had and eventually started opening up about some personal experiences with dissociation that i hadn't been able to talk about with anybody before. he did actually validate those though and somehow had never heard of structural dissociation which is laughable but after this moment where he did something actually helpful for me, he started trying to use that to explain any "gender identity disturbance" i had. which.? was something. like he didn't outwardly say i wasn't really trans, but he did imply it was slightly caused by my dissociative disorder. i don't even know what to say at this point LMFAO

and after that shit went down, in a 3 hour appointment might i add, he finally starts talking to me about the autism stuff. and goes through a checklist on a piece of paper for about 30 minutes total. he calls my dad back in and recaps the entire appointment to him and then after everything, hands me a packet of notes he'd taken and everything we discussed and tells me he's "really unsure about the autism at the current moment and it requires more observation time". MY GUY. THAT'S WHAT YOUR JOB WAS. THAT'S WHAT I WENT THERE FOR. NOT TO GET FAKECLAIMED ON MY BPD AND HALF DIAGNOSED WITH A DISORDER I WAS BARELY THINKING ABOUT AT THE TIME EVEN IF IT WAS CORRECT.

i was pretty fucking pissed by this and went to my psychiatrist a few weeks later with the packet he gave me, kind of like. enraged. and my psychiatrist told me he wanted to take a look at the notes between appointments after we'd discussed what happened, and the next time i saw him after that he told me (knowing me much better than the other guy) that it was some of the weirdest medical reporting and garbage practice he'd ever seen in his entire career. like zero professionalism involved. which was so validating lmfao but holy shit

anyway this is another reason why i hate the medical industry basically but at least it's so batshit i can use it as a fun story. thank you for absolutely nothing

[aropride]

ive been reading a lot about ptsd for like. academic reasons as well as for the normal reasons (for fun/to try and speedrun fixing my brain (it isnt working)) and something a lot of places emphasize is others’ reactions being a super important part of how someone copes with trauma and if they develop ptsd. and thats something i definitely kind of knew already from experience and it just makes sense but like. idk. i just think about how the first person i told (aside from my therapist who doesnt count and my best friend whos just an extension of my own brain and therefore also doesnt count) abt one trauma just flat out ignored it and kept being friends with the person who hurt me and eventually stopped talking to me entirely in favor of them. and how all i could really do was completely isolate myself from everyone bc i was scared and i couldnt even imagine like. talking to anyone else about it. especially when a professional i talked to was really dismissive and.. not rude exactly but i got the sense that she really didnt like me. but those experiences like back to back ended with me like. shutting down completely and hiding in my room all the time and not talking to anyone and also being actively psychotic and realizing i had a dissociative disorder and its like. 😭 i mean it kinda spiraled wildly out of control. but if that first friend i told hadnt completely brushed it off and ignored it i think things wouldve ended up a lot different. i dont think it had to be that fucking awful. bc now with This situation all my friends have been supportive and accommodating and loving, and my school has been helpful and for the most part making reporting as smooth as possible (still sucks though!), and even though it has definitely been very traumatic like. im also seeing how it Should have been. none of that should have happened. when i told my friend what happened he shouldnt have just REACTED WITH A HEART EMOJI AND THEN NEVER BROUGHT IT UP AGAIN.. he shouldnt have texted that person in front of me every time we hung out. i shouldnt have felt nauseated going to the cafeteria bc id see them together and it felt like being beat to death. i shouldnt have been spiraling into psychosis in my room alone bc i should have had a friend who would be there for me. i shouldnt have gone days without talking to anyone because my friend should have been there for me and wanted to spend time with me. i got through it alone but i shouldnt have had to. and now i dont have to and its just. so fucking wild to. be able to see how important a support system is in my own life and how wildly different its been this year. idk

[sophieinwonderland]

Okay, let's go over the rest of that post!

I mean, I am one, so... yeah!

I would love Film Theory to cover this! 😁

Also, when I first read "disapper" in Red's screenshot, I read it correctly. Then I scrolled down to the comments and saw this.

Afterwords, I CTRL+F'd my page to see if I had made that typo somewhere.

Needless to say, I'm so glad the typo was Red's this time and not mine. 😜

Do they, or do they just appear to because Bea is seeing them through visual hallucinations, as kids typically experience imaginary friends. And how some with DID see alters.

🤣

I don't have anything to add here. I just love the doodle! It's pretty accurate to this one, since IF took me in so many different directions with all the different interpretations of plurality to explore!

No.

There are many recorded instances of possessing entities across different cultures, and headmate is a catch-all term originating from non-disordered/non-traumagenic plurals that encompasses any entities sharing a body, whether spiritual or psychological.

Wrong again, Red!

Even a cringizen was on this.

Thanks u/Celestial_Ari! Glad to have you on my side! 😁

I could cite plenty of case studies of adolescents with DID if you'd like, but they're so easy to find that it doesn't even feel worth my time.

Nope!

You're misunderstanding what is meant by "better explained."

Essentially, a psychologist has to rule out the possibility that the child is just experiencing normal and healthy imaginary friends that are common in children of this age.

Bea's memory loss and blackouts though aren't explained through "fantasy play" alone. And she's definitely not pretending to forget.

Bea blacks out outside and wakes up somewhere else with the implication that the IFs physically moved her.

Later in the movie, she enters a locked amusement park she should have no way of getting into after Cal claims to be going around to get the key, and she believes she was in the amusement park the whole time. She visits this place a couple times despite the fact that she had no way to physically get in there. The same goes with Cal's apartment. We don't really know what's happening with Bea's body whenever she "visits" these place she can't physically get to.

Bea forgets Cal completely even when he's right there in front of her, and this is an IF who she drew pictures of and was closely attached to when she was little. Sure, memories can fade, but the extent to which she forgot Cal is too much of a reach to just be a natural part of development.

Moreover, if we assume a psychological explanation for the IFs, then Cal has to have memories that Bea doesn't for this plot to work. Meaning, in other words, that Cal and Bea have dissociative barriers between them.

Related to this, another cringizen asked this...

And the answer is no. 🤷‍♀️

Because nothing is ever JUST an imaginary friend. Depending on your beliefs, an imaginary friend can be a spiritual thoughtform brought to life by imagination, it can be a completely autonomous self-conscious psychological construct like a tulpa (ME!!!!) or it can have no sentience and is just an imaginary puppet that does whatever its creator dictates. Sometimes an imaginary friend in media isn't even created by the child, and is an actual external spirit that's bonded with them somehow.

In pathological cases, an imaginary friend can be an alter or a psychotic hallucination.

In the end, all an imaginary friend really is, is some type of entity a child can see and nobody else can. But the label itself says nothing about the imaginary friend or how it functions or what it really is.

It isn't all about Hazbin Hotel either Grace, but didn't stop you from deciding literally every religious alter came into existence because of that show.

And no, I will not ever let you live that down. 🤪

This was funny!

No further comment! 🤪

I'm just full of surprises, aren't I?

I wouldn't say Inside Out is ableist exactly, to be fair. Just that it pushes a narrative that is rooted in ableism.

Just like I wouldn't say every piece of media that happens to portray robots with autistic or otherwise neurodivergent traits to showcase their inhumanity is ableist. These are more biproducts of an ableist culture.

Society decided a list of traits robots had, they sunk into pop culture, and now everyone just goes with it without even thinking about why those specific traits are what defines a machine, and why others are what defines a human.

Likewise, "adults can't have imaginary friends" comes from this ideology that sees people who hear voices or experience other sorts of hallucinations or pseudo-hallucinations as dangerous or otherwise strange for their experiences.

Even helpful voices are seen as bad and something that needs to be fixed.

Isn't it?

Inside Out was a movie all about psychological symbolism.

You don't think that the writers, when arranging a situation where the only way for Riley's Joy to survive was for her imaginary friend to die, were saying anything with that?

I just don't get this interpretation.

To me, the messaging seems pretty clear. If Bing Bong hadn't sacrificed himself, Riley never would have grown and matured. Bing Bong had to die to save Joy. He had to die so that Riley could survive. Whatever Bing Bong once helped Riley with, his purpose is fulfilled and his death is the only way Riley can move on.

I can't see another way to interpret that symbolism.

The Plurality of... IF

Major spoilers for IF and Inside Out ahead. You have been warned.

Enter a world of IFs

IF is a movie about a young girl named Bea who lost her mom, and whose dad is going in for a life-threatening surgery. At the start of the movie, Bea has outgrown imaginary friends, and perhaps imagination in general.

Which makes it really inconvenient when she starts seeing other people's imaginary friends, which call themselves IFs, and finds a whole community of abandoned IFs whose children have outgrown them.

These IFs are desperate for attention and have been looking for new kids to connect with. Bea agrees to help them, and tries introducing them to a kid she knows.

When this doesn't work though, they realize that connecting the IFs to new kids may just be impossible. They instead decide they need to connect the IFs to their original children, even if said children are grown now.

A cool and unexpected theme to the movie is that you never fully outgrow your need for imaginary friends.

The rest of the movie is Bea trying to rekindle the connections of the IFs to their now-grown children by jogging their memories of the past.

The Plurality of IFs

Plurality: A state of multiple self-conscious agents, or "headmates," sharing a single body.

One thing about the movie is that a whole lot about how plural it is depends on you interpret the IFs. Are they separate entities entirely who were created by their children? Or are they connected directly to the minds and bodies of the their hosts? Are they even other children's imaginary friends as they claim, or are they just in Bea's head?

For what on the surface feels simple, the movie leaves a lot, pardon the pun, to the imagination.

What we know for certain is that each IF is self-conscious. And they are, according to the poster on the right of the billboard below, real.

They also at least appear connected to the host's body.

We know that, with the exception of Bea and other IFs, only their creators can see or interact with them.

It's also likely that when their host dies, they do too. Which yes, makes the poster on the left saying "you never really disappear" a bit misleading. But in the movie, we never see IFs of people who have passed. It's all just IFs whose children have outgrown them.

For example, while Bea finds the IFs of her grandma and her dad, she never meets her mom's IF.

With this in mind, I think regardless of the interpretation, there's undoubtedly some sort of plurality going on here.

To explore these different scenarios, we need to start asking the central question of the movie.

What if?

What if… the IFs are actually physical?

In the movie, we see multiple times that IFs interact with the physical world. They open doors. They pick things up. They move things around.

There's one scene in the movie where Blue, the big purple IF, hid in the clothes in a laundry cart in the hospital.

As Bea tries to pull him out, the cart physically rolls around the room.

There's also another scene where Bea faints after seeing an IF, and it's implied the IFs physically moved her inside.

If we're to interpret the IFs as being physical and everything we see in the movie as being completely real and to be taken at face value, this has some pretty huge implications for this universe. And Bea's story in a world of invisible creatures created by children who can physically interact with reality might be the least interesting story in this universe.

After all, if the IFs can do things like this, surely other people have noticed. One can imagine the CIA training children in a secret bunker somewhere to use their IFs in combat. Secret weapons that are invisible, can spy on anyone, can move objects around in the physical world, and can only be killed by finding and eliminating the host child.

It's a pretty awesome if terrifying thought.

IFs would be the ultimate spies and assassins.

But this also creates another issue. If the IFs are actually physical and can pick things up, why not just pick up a pen and let their host children know that they're still there. Why not type on a keyboard?

And it's for this reason that... I just don't think the movie wants us to believe the way the IFs are physically interacting with the world is actually happening.

Okay, but if they're not physical...

What if… the IFs are spiritual headmates?

This seems more reasonable. And while not the one I think is the most likely, this IS the explanation that I like the best. It's the most thematically satisfying.

In this, the IFs are spiritual thoughtforms created by the children. Because they're spiritual, it makes sense that somebody who has a special gift, as Bea does, can see them. And that they can see each other as well.

At the end of the movie, we get to see all these adults connecting with and being able to see their IFs again, and it's a really cool and satisfying way to end the film, seeing their work pay off and giving a happy ending to the story of all the characters we got to know over the course of the film.

I love that ending. I love seeing the heartwarming reunions of the IFs and their hosts after all of those years.

I just don't believe it... I want to believe... but I don't...

Which leads me to my final interpretation... That all of this is happening entirely in Bea's head.

What if… Bea has DID?

Wait, I know what you're thinking, why DID specifically? You don't need DID to be plural, after all.

I'm personally a tulpa, an imaginary friend of sorts given life. And I would naturally love a purely endogenic explanation. But as with the spiritual explanation, simply wanting something to be true doesn't make it so.

First, let's talk for a moment about DID's criteria in the most recent edition of the DSM, the DSM-5-TR

These are the boxes a clinician would need to check for a diagnosis. (Note: Simply checking the boxes isn't enough to diagnose. There are additional features that need considered. These are just a minimum. Basically, if you don't check the boxes, you can't have DID under the DSM.)

The big ones are criterion A and criterion B. The other three criteria are all exceptions, saying what DID isn't rather than what it is.

Criterion A

Later in the DSM, it's explained that the criterion A phenomena often presents as "independently acting imaginary companions."

To be clear, not all independent imaginary companions are indicative of dissociative identity disorder. That's the point of criterion C.

And studies have shown that as many as 29% of imaginary friends demonstrate consistent behavior indicative of acting outside of the host child's control, while another 35% appear mostly compliant but don't always do what the host child wants.

The participants were 89 preschool children who described their imaginary companions (46 invisible friends and 43 personified objects). The descriptions were coded for disobedient or otherwise difficult behaviour attributed to the imaginary companions. Thirty-six per cent of the children described their imaginary companions as consistently compliant and agreeable, 35 per cent gave some indication that the imaginary companions did not always do or say what the children wanted, although they were mostly friendly and compliant, and 29 per cent described their imaginary companions as noncompliant in ways that suggested the children experienced the companion to some extent as being out of their conscious control.

About two thirds of imaginary friends then demonstrate some level of independence from the host child. That doesn't mean DID on its own.

However...

Criterion B

Remember what I mentioned earlier about how Bea sees an IF and passes out, and it's implied that the IFs physically move her body to a new location?

This is something that stuck with me since the first viewing. I already went over why I don't believe the IFs are physical. But then, how does Bea pass out in one place and then wake up in another completely different place?

The easy solution to the conundrum is if they switched. That Bea experienced a complete blackout switch while someone else controlled her body. She doesn't know how she got there because of dissociative amnesia.

This dissociative amnesia fulfills the second criterion.

But it's even more than that.

HUGE MEGA SPOILER

Bea is accompanied through her journey by Cal. While Cal is originally presented as a human neighbor, he's later revealed to be Bea's former imaginary friend, who she forgot about. The entire time they interact, she has no memory of who Cal is or her adventures with him, despite Cal remembering and the other IFs being aware of Cal's connection to Bea.

The Other Criteria

Criterion C is a bit of a doozy. What constitutes "clinically significant" is up to the individual clinicians. But generally, experiencing random blackouts is probably going to be impairing.

(Ritual possession states also cause dissociative amnesia, but it's generally more controlled unlike Bea's episodes of memory loss.)

For criterion D, I would say the amnesia above couldn't be explained simply by imaginary playmates alone, even if her headmates are presenting as imaginary friends.

And for Criterion E, there is no substance abuse nor other medical conditions that we know of.

Trauma history

Trauma is not part of the diagnostic criteria, but chronic trauma does occur in upwards of 90% of DID cases.

In the opening, we see Bea's mother going in and out of the hospital.

Now, typically, the type of trauma that is associated with DID is some sort of neglect or abuse. And we don't see that in the flashbacks. But maybe we're just seeing the positive memories in what's meant to be a kid's movie. Maybe we're not seeing the times Bea is worried sick over her mother. The times her parents aren't there for her because there's more focus on her mom's condition. The times her dad couldn't be emotionally present because he was mourning the loss of his wife.

Could this be enough to cause DID? I genuinely have no idea. But since people process trauma in different ways, I think it could be traumatic enough for Bea.

And if this was tied to trauma from her mom, this explains too why this starts up only after Bea's father is in the hospital, bringing back that trauma she had from losing her mom.

In this scenario, all the imaginary friends are just Bea's own headmates, and the ending with them connecting with their hosts is just happening in their imagination/inner world.

All in all, I really love that the movie, despite its simplicity on the surface, opens itself up to so many interpretations.

But maybe this is all a distraction and we shouldn't actually focus too much on what's literally going on in the film.

What if… we focus instead on the message that you're never too old for imaginary friends?

As fun as these hypothetical are, I wonder if getting lost in them might be missing the point.

The core takeaway message of this movie is that you're never too old to have imaginary friends. And maybe more generally, to have fun and enjoy life. But let's focus on the imaginary friends thing because this blog is about plurality.

What's interesting is how this puts it in stark opposition to another plural-coded movie about a young girl with a forgotten imaginary friend: Inside Out.

In Inside Out, Bing Bong dies, giving his life to save Joy. And by extension, to save Riley. Symbolically, Bing Bong's death represented a popular view of imaginary friends needing to die so the host child can prosper.

And that view, despite permeating pop culture, isn't really based on anything but ableism and sanism. A centuries-old myth that imaginary friends are unhealthy without an ounce of data to actually back it up.

Studies actually tend to show children with imaginary friends to be pretty healthy. And the same goes for studies of adult tulpa systems who report mental health improvements due to their tulpas.

Bing Bong shouldn't have had to die, and I would argue that his death leaves Riley worse off than if he had survived or was brought back.

IF serves as a repudiation of Inside Out's stigmatization of imaginary friends, and it's portrayal of their death being necessary to growing up.

It did this by asking a simple question… what if?

What if how we've all been taught to think of imaginary friends is wrong?

What if more people wanted to reconnect with their old imaginary friends?

What would the world look like?

Like I said, my favorite interpretation is the spiritual one. Because then the movie ends by showing all these IFs get to reconnect with their hosts, and it's such a beautiful thing to see.

Even if I think the ending is a lie, I don't think the message is.

And it's a message that makes me, as a former imaginary friend myself, ask that same central question.

What if this movie could help lead to people re-valuating their own beliefs of imaginary friends and wanting to connect with their own from the past? How cool would that be?

If anyone out there is thinking back on their childhood imaginary friends and want to try to reconnect, my advice is to just do it. Because as the poster on the billboard says, I don't think imaginary friends ever truly disappear. They're somewhere inside as long as their memory remains.

For anyone out there who has imaginary friends right now that they think might be sentient like the ones in IF, you can check out my guide on how to know if your imaginary friend is sentient below:

And for anyone who never had a sentient IF of their own but wants one now, here is a huge collection of tulpamancy guides to get you started.

And as always, thank you all for reading! 💖

For more discussions about plurality in media, check out the Plurality of... Avatar The Last Airbender.

[fromthewondersystem]

Hi there, I've suspected for a while now that I might suffer from osdd/did and I'm researching a bit before I talk to my psychiatrist, what are some signs that it's not osdd/did if you have any that come to mind? And if we're here are there any signs that in retrospect for u are obviously symptoms? Ty for answering questions it helps a lot <3

Ok, for this, the main thing that helped me with figuring out if i had did/osdd-1 or not was research, research, research.

Do the symptoms and situations in research fit what i experience (not necessarily exactly, but are they familiar)? What else could cause the symptoms i experience (psychotic disorders, other dissociative disorders, even potentially personality disorders)? Do any of of these fit what i experience better?

Though some of these can easily be comorbid with DID, so also consider that as a possibility. You can still try to differentiate symptoms in some ways, for example, auditory hallucinations attributed to my psychosis i can hear outside of my brain, alters’ voices are just in my head.

Talk to people who have DID and, if you think it might be something else, talk to people who have that too. Compare the experiences you hear to your own. I know in determining whether my gender change was due to genderfluidity or alters, i talked to people with DID and genderfluid friends, and what i experienced fit DID much better.

I can’t say much for signs it’s not DID/OSDD. But i have occasionally heard of confusing MADD or kinning for alters. It might also help to talk to people who were once questioning systems, but have realized they’re singlets. They can provide a lot of valuable insight into this question.

As for past symptoms in childhood, i’ll list a few i’ve had. One time i “slept” (read: blackout) for 25 hours and no one noticed, happened at school once too where i remember fainting but nothing after that and wasn’t at the nurse or anything. Over the years i switch between needing and not needing glasses. My ptsd symptoms didn’t really seem all that similar to what i had researched about PTSD. Instead, they fit a lot more with what i had researched about CPTSD and Developmental Trauma Disorder (not an official diagnosis but one considered for the DSM at one point). Most of my memories and dreams are in third person. In high school, I remember getting stuck in a british accent and when trying to go back to american, just sounding like a british person doing an american accent (i thought it would be a cool party trick but i couldn’t turn it on or off). Once i was crying hysterically after being locked out of the house for hours then suddenly stopped and picked the lock, which i was not able to do again since. My gender changed entirely, like a switch flipped, at 17 after a major life event. Same with other things like my passions. Not everything of course, but some of the stuff i’ve looked back at and been like “ohhhhhh”.

sorry if this answer is all over the place, i’m starting to get tired so hope it’s at least somewhat coherent. anyways, i wish u good luck in trying to figure this out.

[gothicprep]

Meditations on True Crime: A Very Long Post

In around February of this year, I was researching a potential video related to how true crime media portrays websleuths, contrasted against their efficacy in each specific case. The introduction was a brief primer on the genre’s evolution, beginning with its general association with low-budget LifeTime films, to a hobby with more dignity than that. I remember finding an article talking about Serial, and there was some commentary in there from another large true crime podcast host.

I didn’t think it was particularly useful for my purposes, but it said something to the effect of “true crime as a hobby can help women reconcile the trauma related to being in a world that is so hostile to us.” I rolled my eyes at it. It seemed dishonestly saccharine, like it was giving a sort of post-hoc legitimacy to just enjoying whodunnits. I didn’t think about it again for around seven months after I’d read it.

One of the subjects that I intended to talk about was Elisa Lam’s death and the online reaction to it. The story was adapted into a Netflix series a few months prior, and I was freshly reminded of how poorly it all sat with me. If you aren’t familiar with her name, she disappeared in Los Angeles’s Cecil Hotel in 2013, and her disappearance went viral after the respective police department release footage of her behaving strangely in an elevator. The case attained quick viral status and extensive discussion, due to the nature of the video and the hotel’s morbid history. When her naked body was discovered in a rooftop water tank a few weeks later, speculation exploded. But an autopsy isn’t an immediate followup, and the online sleuths would lose themselves to their imaginations in the time between. Many people wanted the murder solved, but many let their speculation fly off the rails. Shady hotel coverups. Metal musician murderers. Fear of the homeless. Ghosts. Demons. Government tuberculosis research. The gang was all there.

If you weren’t active online back then, it’s difficult to properly convey how huge this all was. Everyone was expecting Elisa to have been murdered. Iron-clad. Beyond the shadow of a doubt. She wasn’t. Her death was ruled an accident. She had a severe case of bipolar disorder and she wasn’t taking her medication. The severity of her illness was also not previously disclosed to the public. The working theory is that she experienced a manic episode with psychotic features, climbed in the tank in this state, to eventually strip out of her clothes in late stage hypothermia and drown there. It’s a horrific and painful way to die. All that’s left of you is water contamination – insult to fatal injury.

People weren’t happy with this, but not out of any sympathy for Elisa. There was palpable rage from many who had been following the case. No, she was definitely murdered. No, her killer needs to be brought to justice. No, this isn’t the real story. I don’t like it. I’m not satisfied. There needs to be an ending better than this.

Tragedy isn’t exactly in the habit of being kind to us.

When news of Gabby Petito’s disappearance was spreading, I noticed a lot of similarities between hers and Elisa’s. A woman in her early 20s vanishes while traveling, under very unusual circumstances. Footage was released during both investigations, which portrayed these women in mentally vulnerable states. The story was viral online. People rifled through Gabby’s instagram in the same way they did with Elisa’s tumblr. Social media detectives established an inappropriate amount of investment. Everyone is sure of a specific outcome. The family deserves answers.

Let’s talk about answers for a second. I’d like you to spitball a comprehensive explanation for this one: how could something like this happen? I’m not looking for a “how” in terms of events or circumstances. In this case, this isn’t a question. It’s a protest of the unfairness of it all. My daughter. My sister. My friend. Someone who meant so much to me. It’s a prayer to a vacant sky. It’s not a question, it’s agony. Nothing shy of resurrection can feel like justice. Even if the case leads to a criminal trial and conviction, it does nothing to fill the void loss burns within us. There is no good answer, because there aren’t answers at all.

Let’s talk about ourselves for a second. I noticed many people draw parallels between what they’d seen on the bodycam footage and their own experience with abusive partners. “This could have been me.” Do you really think this is appropriate? Could have been, would have been – these are statements with hypothetical validity. It has nothing to do with you. To emotionally identify with someone does not evidence anything. You’re here. She’s gone. This isn’t about you. She isn’t in the position where she can co-sign anything you say. If she can’t speak for herself, don’t invoke her.

Let’s talk about true crime for a second. It’s funny how true crime marketed to men has a distinctly different texture than true crime marketed to women. The former seems to involve knocking the perpetrator down a peg. It portrays them as something worth our disgust and ridicule. The latter tends to foster emotional identification with the victim. Podcasts and other media in this category tend to be by women, for women, and generally discuss women. This story is presented as catharsis for women who see themselves as similar to them. This woman is no longer a person, but an idea. And it makes me think of that stupid article quote that I resent myself for not having bookmarked. This is reconciliation. These women, in their passing, can be a motivating factor for us to break up with that one dumbass guy. I’m so happy this was a wakeup call. I’m so happy that this made me think about my own experiences. I’m so happy that this did so much for me. Sure, someone actually died, but what is that when compared to my own self-actualization?

I made a comment on Twitter about how disgusted I was with how people spoke of Gabby in such an evasively self-interested way, and someone who likely was of no relation to her interjected with how the family deserved the truth. Truth? What truth? What peace will grisly details give them? Is there any meaningful difference between knowing your loved one died of murder or collapsed from exposure? Or are you just a nosey person who’s projected an inappropriate emotional dog in this fight? Do you want answers for her family, or for your own curiosity?

I really don’t trust shit like that, nor am I willing to give leniency to people who say such things. I think we’ve been conditioned to relate to dead women in a way that’s completely separate from who they actually were. Alive, they’re deep, multifaceted individuals, with an array of likes, dislikes, quirks, and endless little details. Dead, they’re a concept to serve a purpose. The purpose is generally a form of narrative catharsis. The creep gets thrown in prison. A woman’s abusive partner gets the comeuppance he deserves. The story needs a good ending. The story needs an ending that satisfies me. People aren’t stories. Life is not a novel.

The real trauma of others will never belong to you. This not your therapy tool or plaything. This is real pain that will never be theoretical for plenty of people. Know your place. Keep your distance. Don’t objectify the dead.

[giorno-plays-piano]

Rx Queen

Pairing: criminal!Bucky Barnes x Reader 

Warnings: obsession, stalking, non-con, breeding, minor depiction of violence.

Words: 2567. 

Summary: James Buchanan Barnes was the most difficult patient you had ever treated as a criminal psychiatrist. His release from prison doesn’t make things easier for you. 

_____________________________________ 

You turned off the phone and threw it on a chair, clenching your teeth. Whatever Dr. Strange wanted you to do, you wouldn’t stay another day in this goddamn place, waiting to be abducted or even murdered. It was too much. Today you found the new bottle of your favourite perfume on your nightstand. It wasn’t there before you went to bed last night. In fact, you could hardly remember the last time you bought yourself a perfume.

It all started two months ago when James Buchanan Barnes, the patient you had been working with during those seven long years, was finally released from State prison after serving 15 years of life sentence. The Soldier, as prisoners called him, once gone mad and murdered his commander. Bucky – that’s how he asked you to call him during your first seance – had PTSD, antisocial personality disorder, and severe depression. You could say he became better after all those years of treatment, including insane doses of antidepressants and mood stabilizers, but it was not enough to set him free. He was dangerous, psychotic even, yet devilishly clever: he knew how to portray a man who had reconsidered his life choices and deeply regretted taking someone’s life. 

You knew he had never truly cared. Patients like him did not have capacity for remorse.

You started treating him once you became a criminal psychiatrist; Bucky was among your very first patients. Now when you thought of it, you could hardly believe Dr. Strange just transferred a patient like him to you, a young girl with too little experience to handle an unpredictable psychopath hiding behind a façade of a victim. Of course, you made many mistakes, starting from telling Bucky about your own past and some mental issues. That time you believed you can gain trust of your patients by being more open about yourself. You were a complete idiot.

Now there was not much to do once his time in prison was up. You didn’t have true evidence to make him stay. A part of you wasn’t even sure you wanted it – when a riot had started in the prison three years ago, it was Bucky who shielded you with his own body from Brock Rumlow, a serial killer and your second most dangerous patient. Bucky was the only reason you were still alive.

But he was also the reason why you were leaving in haste, packing only necessities. 

It all started quite innocently with him sending you flowers and thanking for everything you had done for him. It didn’t alert you that he knew what your favourite flowers were. You thought it was just a coincidence since bouquets like these were sold in any flower shop in the city.

Then you stumbled upon him in a café where you often had your breakfast on weekends. It could alert you, but Bucky was sitting with a charming red-haired woman, her manicured hand resting on his thigh. She didn’t quite strike you as his sister, especially since you knew he had no relatives left after his violent father died in a car accident. Seeing such a beautiful woman with him just two weeks after Bucky was released from a prison was surprising, but you knew how seductively charming Barnes could be. Besides, he looked really good in his biker jacket, his tight black jeans showing his strong muscular legs.

In the end, you just talked to both of them a little and gave your advice on which dishes to choose. You walked away, praying you were wrong about Bucky and hoping he could settle peacefully like some of your former patients. Actually, even though many of them were imprisoned again, others were able to return to normal life. Some even had families now – from time to time you received thank-you notes with nice photos and many heartwarming words. It was probably one of the few things that made you keep your job.

It was over now. You were not going to stay in a place Bucky break into multiple times. Maybe you were not sure before, but the bottle of perfume was an obvious sign. It also meant that when a week ago you woke up and smell a man’s scent on your sheets you were not delirious. Bucky was there. He was laying beside you on your fucking bed.

How did it happen? Why didn’t you see his obsession growing with each day? You were his psychiatrist; you knew him better than anyone. How could he hide his infatuation with you for so long? Of course, you knew he had some feelings for you, but it was never that bad. You thought he would forget about you once he would be released. In the end, now you were not the only woman he saw around.

You kept stumbling upon his beefy figure more and more often. You realized Bucky was stalking you when after a month of his release you saw him watching your house from the forest. He was hiding behind the trees and bushes. It was a miracle you managed to see him at all – after 15 years he was still the Soldier, his skills remaining keen.

You tried talking to Dr. Strange. It wasn’t your first time being followed by your former patient, and police had always assisted you. But Barnes wasn’t like any of those stupid psychos who left tons of evidence behind them. Police had nothing to work with.

Well, you weren’t going to sit there and wait for Barnes to come and get you. You had no idea what was going on in his unstable mind, and you weren’t ready to take risks. You had already booked a flight to Austria tonight.

It was scary, thinking about wandering around a city you had never been, in a foreign country where you had neither relatives nor friends. But Barnes would have a hard time following you there, and that’s what mattered.

You threw a pack of salted cashew in the bag and returned to the bedroom to grab your phone from the chair. It wasn’t there. Although you dropped it just five minutes ago, your phone simply wasn’t there.

You were so fucked.

Next minute you were in the kitchen grabbing a knife, but a strong muscular arm knocked it out of your hand, and you felt Bucky’s musky scent. He stood behind your back, caging you with his bulky arms. You froze and held your breath. You knew you better obeyed the man instead of provoking him to become violent.

“And where were you going, honey?” His husky voice was enough to make you tremble. “It’s not nice to leave without saying goodbye, is it?”

“Please, Bucky.” You did your best to hide how frightened you were. “Stop.”

“No, honey.”

He leaned closer to you and buried his nose in your hair, inhaling its smell. His rough hands were already caressing your body through the clothes.

“You’re free to start a new life. You can find a good woman, have a family if you’d like.” Panic was rising in your chest. 

“That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

“No, Bucky, it’s not.” You said in a calm voice. “It will only get you back behind the bars. Don’t throw away your life, please.”

“What life?” He growled, turning you around harshly, and you almost fell on his chest, his arms holding you still. “I have no life. I should have never left my cell, you know this better than anyone else. I’m rotten. Damaged goods. I will never have the life I’ve always wanted. Do you know I have nightmares every fucking night again?”

“It’s because you don’t take your pills.” You carefully put your hands against Bucky’s chest. He tried manipulating you, you knew that. “When was the last time you had thioridazine?”

“Stay with me, and I’ll take whatever pills you want me to.” He grinned suddenly, cupping your face. 

Bucky’s strong athletic body emanated heat, and you were already sweating from both his closeness to you and an extreme agitation. Why did it take you so long to leave? You should have done it the first thing in the morning, just grab your documents and money and run to the car. Maybe then you had a chance. Unless Bucky had already been hiding inside your house…

“Why do you want to make a wrong choice again?” You felt his heart beating loudly with your palm against his chest. “You are given a chance to start over. If you want me to consult you still, I can figure something out. I can continue helping you, but you need to find your way. Don’t you think it’s good to meet new people, have friends, find a job, date a girl?”

“Who wants to deal with a psychopath like me?” He let out a chuckle, his expression darkening. “No one can handle me, doc. No one but you. Do you know I wanted to commit suicide before you showed up seven years ago? If not you, they’d already buried me.”

Before you opened your mouth to protest, he turned you around again and gently nudged you towards your bedroom. You broke out in cold sweat. If Bucky was able to outpower Rumlow, that beast of a man, he would have no problems forcing you to do whatever he pleased. It took three strong prison guards to bring someone like Bucky down. You were helpless.

“No one out there is good enough.” His breath was tickling your ear. “You’re the only one, can’t you see? Maybe I’m rotten to the core, but you still helped me. You made me better.”

You stopped in front of your bed, the white cotton sheets and blue blanket crumpled. You stormed off early in the morning once you saw a bottle of perfume on the nightstand and didn’t care to make your bed.

You needed to keep calm. As far as you could see, Bucky didn’t plan to murder you, not when you would accept him, that is. He obviously had a nice plan how to make you stay with him without police knowing, but as long as he kept you alive you still had a chance. You needed to play along.

“On the bed.” He let out a low growl, and you felt the bulge in his pants pressing against your ass.

Shivering, you took off your slippers and sat on the bed facing him. His erection was obvious; Bucky was breathing heavily, his pupils dilated. The next second he was pulling his black t-shirt over his head, and you saw his shredded body littered with scars. You saw one particularly long one on the side close to his waistline: this was the one Rumlow gave him when Bucky was protecting you during the riot. The man let out a quiet laugh when he saw your eyes focused on a nasty pink line.

“Why are you frightened, honey? I know you want a family too. You good-for-nothing ex wasn’t able to give it to you, but I can.” His hands landed on your bared shoulders, and you flinched a little. “Let’s get married, and I swear I’ll do whatever you tell me to.”

“Bucky, relationships don’t work like this.” You whispered, withholding a cry when his hand pushed you down on the bed. 

“Don’t they?” The man smiled and cocked his head to the side, removing his black leather belt. “You do something for me, I do something for you. That’s what I learnt in prison.”

You dragged yourself back as quickly as you could, but your back was pressed into the wall once Bucky put his knee on your bed. There was nowhere to run.

“Don’t be scared, honey.” His sweet voice broke the silence, and he crawled to you, slowly caging you with his bodyweight. “Let’s make a deal. You marry me, you bear my child, and I will return to prison. I don’t care if they’ll give me twice more pills or make me a lethal injection as far as you take care of my kid. You’ll love my kid, won’t you? You’ll take care of them. You’ll make them a better person than I am.”

The more he spoke, the more feverishly he touched you, his left hand pinning your palms above your head. He traced his arm along your breast, ripping your shirt with so much force that its green buttons ended on the floor. You realized your cheeks were wet with tears when Bucky kissed you on the forehead and wiped your face with his other hand.

He wanted to have kids with you. Why? Why you? Why did he consider you a perfect mother? Why did he consider returning to prison? Why was he ready to trade his goddamn life for a chance of having a child? Why couldn’t he have a child with someone else and just keep living?

Oh, of course he couldn’t. Bucky loathed himself. It wasn’t uncommon for the patients with Cluster B personality disorders, and it was probably true he wanted to end his life since you saw his self-destructing behavior. In the end, even his effort to save your life back than in the prison might be some kind of a suicide attempt. 

And the reason he wanted you and no one else… Well, you were the one who had been taking care of him all these years. The only one to navigate him through his nightmares when everyone else gave up on him. He saw good in you. He wanted it for himself. He wanted to make sure his child would never be treated the way he was.

You cried out when Bucky suddenly forced his cock into you. It felt like he was ripping you apart – he was huge. Your eyes flooded with tears again, and he cooed at you softly, pressing his chapped lips to your burning face. You couldn’t even remember when was the last time you had sex since you broke up with your ex a year ago. Thankfully, Bucky gave you time to adjust. He kept whispering filth into your ears and stroking your naked thighs. When did he take off your jeans?..

He kissed the top of your head, playing with your hair, and moved his hips slightly. You hissed in pain, but then realized it was a bit better – the pleasure started building up slowly, and you squeezed your eyes shut. No, no, you were not disgusting, your body tried to cope the best way it could, nothing else, it was a perfectly normal reaction, you knew that. Then you felt Bucky licking up the shell of your ear and whined desperately.

“It’ll be ok.” He whispered and kissed your temple. “I’ll take you to a nice place, and we’ll be there all alone. Once I make sure you’re pregnant I’ll return to prison, I give you my word.”

You bit down on your lip to muffle the noise coming out of your mouth.

“If they keep me alive, I might become your patient again.” He sounded almost ecstatic, rutting deep into you. “I’ll do whatever you say. I’ll stuff my mouth with your pills. Please, just stay with me.”

Staring at the white ceiling, you bit your tongue so hard your mouth filled with blood. You’d survive this. You’d get him behind the bars again. 

You wouldn’t stay.

[sadselfhelp]

Who I Am, And Why I Created This Blog.

TRIGGER WARNINGS - Mental Illness, Self-Harm, Child Abuse, Domestic Abuse, Violence, Drug Overdose, Suicide, Psychotic Breaks. 

Take a walk with me, let me show you around the mind of The Sad Hatter.

There's a lot going on in my head right now, and I feel like I'm on the precipice of something. I'm standing on a cliff's edge and I'm either going to plummet or I'm going to fly. It's been building inside me for a long time, and I can't contain it anymore. So here it is, here's me laid bare, because I need to say this, I need to put it into words. I need to purge it all. To try and make sense of all of this shit in my brain, I think it's time I organize it. I don't know where to begin, but I guess I start at the beginning and make use of the ability to edit.

Before you read this, please be aware of the trigger warnings. And please understand that this is the most honest and open I have been, I really am stripped bare in this piece of writing. It’s not at all pretty, and am I not guiltless in parts. This may well alter whatever opinion you have of me. 

I guess the beginning is birth, right? But I don't want to rehash all that trauma, so let me speed through it. Twenty-Eight years ago I was born, violently. I'm serious, I ripped my way out of the womb, and tore that thing apart. I guess I can sort of understand why my mother couldn't love me after that was my first act, collapsing her womb. So let me speedrun this part of the story. Mum didn't want me, gave me to my dad who raised me as a single parent with the help of his parents, until he met my stepmother. Shockingly, she didn't want me either, but because she couldn't get rid of me she decided to physical and psychological torture was the next best thing. 

When I was eleven years old I snapped and didn't want to put up with it anymore, so I wrote a goodbye note and then snuck into the medicine cabinet and took a bunch of pills. Spoiler alert, I didn't die. I did however end up in a children's home, cue more abuse, little bit of bullying and sexual assault etc.... I snapped again, but instead of turning my anger inwards, I became an absolute bastard. Ok, I still turned it inwards a bit, I had a lot of anger, and now I have a few hundred scars to prove it. But, it turns out that violence can beget violence, and I acted out in every possible way. Racked up a horrifying rap sheet, assault, vandalism, arson, and finally... GBH. I was supposed to get put in a secure unit (child prison – Scottish Edition) but I was always able to talk myself out of trouble. 

See, I was this tiny little white girl with big sad eyes and a hell of a sob story, even at the bottom of the food chain I still had privilege. So instead of getting locked up, I just got sent to a different home. And here's the really messed up part, this home was better. The staff were nicer, and nobody hurt me. My behavior literally changed overnight. I went from being charged by the police on a weekly basis, to never getting so much as a pocket money sanction. I will never excuse my actions, nor condone them, but after years of guilt I finally realized that the bad things I did were in retaliation to a bad situation, and though I wasn’t acting like a good person, I’m not a bad person, just a messed up one. 

I still refused to go to school though, because though I didn't yet know it at the time, I had severe social anxiety. I was smart, a little too smart to be honest, and I found myself thriving with a private tutor. When the time came to sit my exams, someone fucked up, and despite having record breaking test scores on the pre-exams, I never actually got to sit my standard grades (think SAT's – Scottish Edition). I'm still bitter about that. So by this point in the story, I'm 16, and legally an adult, too old for a children's home. I got turfed to a hostel, and the next few parts of the story are pretty fuzzy to me. 

This is where my mental health really started to deteriorate. I bounced between homeless hostels and B&B's for a year or so, until I got a my first flat/apartment. By that point, I was utterly fucked in the head. I was blacking out frequently, for anywhere between a couple of minutes to three days. I would come back to myself in sometimes compromising positions, and once there was blood. A lot of blood, splashed all over the walls. Then there was the time I suddenly found myself standing in the kitchen, about to plunge a knife into my own chest.

Nobody ever did tell me what the hell that was about. Or maybe they did and I just... forgot? But because I was extremely suicidal, a doctor finally decided to do something, and the police and the paramedics came to my door to take me to the psychiatric hospital. I spent ten months there while I cycled through various anti-psychotics and anti-depressants, and was 'rehabilitated into society'. The second I was out, I made the worst decision I have ever made in my life. If I can give you one piece of advice, one lesson to take from my shitshow of a life, it's this: Don't move hundreds of miles away to be with the guy you met online while you were having a psychotic break.

I've never really thought of myself as a victim, but I guess I'm the only one who saw it that way. Ben, that was his name, Ben was a monster, and I didn't know it until it was too late. He never hit me, never lifted a hand to me, he never had to. He could put a knife in my hand and make me hurt myself for his entertainment. I had told him everything, so he knew exactly how to break me down, how to make me want to bleed. He locked me in a house and used me up. And when I had enough, and tried to break free of him, he would just tell the police I was mentally ill and they would smile sympathetically and give me back to him.

But then my dad had a breakdown. My dad, who when he found out what my stepmother was doing to me, buried his head in the sand and packed my little suitcase for me. I hadn't spoken to him in a while until he reached out from the same psychiatric ward I had not long vacated. He had cracked under the realization that I had never lied about her, and the guilt broke him apart. I could have hated him, if it had happened a few years earlier then I would have. But I had experienced enough of the world to learn a few things, like how easily it is to fuck up, and that no matter how strong you are, you aren't immune to monsters. The truth was he was as much a victim of her evil as I was. She had manipulated him, played with his head, used his insecurities against him. So I helped him through his issues, the way I wished someone had helped me. That doesn't really make me a good person, it just makes me human.

But my dad got better, and found his footing. And when he did, he realized something wasn't right with me, and I told him the truth about Ben. My dad had left me to suffer at the hands of an abuser once before, and he wasn't going to allow it to happen again. He came and got me, and he took me home. He moved me in with him, gave me his bed and slept on the couch. After a couple of months, he helped me get my own place.

And that's the happy ending, right? All the trauma was over, I was safe, that's where the story should end. Right? I bet you're not naive enough to believe that, but I sure as hell was. I thought I would recover and that everything would be ok. I thought that with safety, there would come the chance to heal. I thought my wounds would scab over, and I would have my scars but at least I would be able to move without bleeding out. But that's not how trauma works. I had two decades worth of trauma, abuse, and hell.

I just... faded. I didn't crack, I didn't crumble, I didn't break, I just stopped. For five years I sat in one room of my home, drowning inside myself. Last year I got handed a lifeline, and now I live somewhere better. I'm not really allowed to live independently so I actually live in kind of retirement village of all places. I have my own house, but it's got intercoms and emergency cords everywhere, I get checked on daily by on on-site worker. And I'm trying to get better, I really am. It's just not that easy.

There's more to the whole story that I maybe should have put in, like the fact that my mother was a drug addict when she was pregnant with me, and that may have been the reason some of my organs didn't properly form and/or formed wrong. My lung split in half when I was a baby, and parts of my stomach are missing. Or that my mother is full on batshit insane. I could have had a perfect childhood and I still would have been mentally ill. Hell, I was seeing psychologists at five years old. Take my sketchy genetics, add twenty years of severe traumas, and well... I'm a little fucked up. Because a lot of medical conditions use acronyms, my full list of diagnosis looks like I'm collecting the fucking alphabet.

I have Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD), Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD), and Agoraphobia. I also have a Pulmonary Sequestration, Congenital Diaphragmatic Hernia, the stomach and lung issues. Immune Hemolytic Anemia, I'm basically allergic to my own blood. Plus, ya know, my liver recently decided to just fucking nope out, the pissy lil bitch is failing. I also may or may not have cancer, I don't know because I pussied out of the tests. At this point I am a walking, decaying corpse that is held together by glitter glue and bitterness.

So... why exactly am I writing this? And why am I even considering posting this? I mean, my problems aren't as bad as some other people's. We've all got shit to deal with, especially in 2020. The whole world is falling apart, so what right do I have to sit here pouting and pouring my problems out? Well, for a start, I guess this is my blog, I can post whatever, and it's up to everyone else if they read it.

So here it is, you have the backstory, so here's what it's all been leading up to.

I'm struggling. Like, really struggling. I'm stuck on this cliff, and I want off, any way I can. Whether I fall or fly, I just want free. I can't live like this anymore, because I can't breathe.

The fucking agonizing duality of being socially anxious and too easily overstimulated, and yet feeling fucking empty inside if you're not surrounded by action and noise. The world is too noisy for my brain, but my brain is too noisy for the world. I get antsy if I'm not doing at least a thousand different tasks, but I get overwhelmed if I try to do anything at all. It leads to short bursts of mania, followed by weeks of depression. But underneath all of that, under all the dramatic showboating, and the dark humor, under all the bravado... I'm really just sad.

Years ago, when I first came up with the moniker "The Sad Hatter", I said it was because I may be mad, but my madness was born of sadness. I'm just sad. I carry it with me where my heart should be. So I named myself Sad, and I put on the hat, and I wore my sadness like armor, turned it into an act, and made a spectacle of it. "I'm The Sad Hatter, and I'm mentally ill but that's alright, I'm going to be just fine!" I told you all I had my issues, and I'll come close to opening up about how bad those issues are, I'll give little chunks of information at intermittent intervals, and then two hours later I'll act like it never happened. I'll admit I was close to killing myself, and then two days later I'll post dog photo's and act like I'm all better.

I'm writing this because I'm sad. And tomorrow, I'll act like I'm not. But when I waver again, I'll come back here and I'll open up again. And along the way, maybe you're reading this and realizing you aren't alone in feeling overwhelmed. Maybe you're realizing you're not the only one who isn't healing neatly and in a timely manner. Maybe you're reading this and gaining some insight into the struggles someone you care about is facing. Maybe my opening up is can help somebody else, I really hope so, but I know it's helping one person. It's helping me.

This blog, it's about living with myself. It's about living with The Sad Hatter.

[scripttorture]

I have a few questions. First, What longterm effects would having ones shoulders dislocated for an extended time (hours, days, etc) have? Second, my MC has really vague, choppy memory of their time in captivity. Blurry, foggy images with little context flash in their mind, usually in dreams or when exposed to certain stimuli, ie, they get vague recollections of metal bars when it's too hot or feel claustrophobic if water is in their face. Is this type of sporadic memory realistic?

I’m not 100% sure what you mean, so I’m going to start by describing how I’m interpreting the memory problems you’re describing.

 What I’m getting is an idea that this character doesn’t actually have any real, conscious memories of captivity. Instead they have little fever-dream type snatches of images, feelings or possible sensations that might be related to their captivity but they can’t even be sure of that.

 It’s a pattern that I’ve seen a few times in fiction and generally it doesn’t line up with how memory problems in survivors work. Typical memory problems are less obvious and more insidious. They also tend to have greater lasting effects on the survivor’s life.

 That said, I think it might be possible in very particular circumstances. Something else would need to be going on that effected the survivor’s mental state at the time.

 Sleep deprivation can result in a lot of memory problems. But it’s more common for survivors to have gaps in their memories or small inaccuracies unless they’re sleep deprived to the point where they’re basically psychotic.

 I mean that in the sense of hallucinating, paranoid and disconnected from reality, not the colloquial sense.

 Even then sleep deprivation doesn’t usually mean no memory without stimulation. It means things like… ‘Oh yeah I remember I was held in this cell with metal bars and then the bars started bending and bugs stepped out of the shadows.’ Memories that are wrapped up in paranoid hallucinations that the survivor knows aren’t real.

 Fever can result in the sort of choppy memories I think you’re describing.

 Some drugs can also produce this sort of effect. I can’t really tell you much about that though because in the industry we see it as an unwanted side effect to eliminate rather then something to wilfully induce. Which means that if someone starts getting those side effects they get put on a different drug quick.

 Some of the so-called ‘truth drugs’ do have something close to this effect on memory, though they don’t make it more likely that people will tell the truth.

 And more often what survivors (or patients) who’ve been given these drugs describe is straight up gaps in their memory for the period they were under the influence of the drug.

 I won’t say that you ‘can’t’ or ‘shouldn’t’ use this sort of memory problem in your story. But if you’re dead set on it I’d strongly encourage you to come up with a reason why.

 Stress, captivity and torture would not produce this sort of effect unless there’s something else going on. But if your character was drugged throughout, or unlucky enough to be kidnapped while coming down with a nasty fever, then it might be possible.

 An unmedicated mental health problem could also produce this (ie character has a pre-existing disorder, is kidnapped and has no access to medication), but I’d suggest looking that up elsewhere because I’m not an expert on psychotic disorders. And as I understand it psychosis doesn’t produce memory problems; it distorts someone’s view of reality not their ability to remember those distortions.

 I will say that I think it’s usually better to stick with more typical memory problems. It’s more representative of the typical survivor experience and frankly there are a lot of poorly done amnesia/memory loss stories in the world already.

 You can read more about what the typical memory problems look like over here.

 Unless there’s something else going on survivors don’t commonly forget that they were abused or the broad strokes of what happened. It’s much more common for survivors to experience intense intrusive memories of a traumatic event then it is for them to forget a traumatic event*.

 Traumatic memories can be inaccurate but these inaccuracies don’t tend to be things like whether the abuse happened or not and survivors do tend to get broad details correct. It can interfere with a survivor’s ability to identify an attacker they didn’t know previously. It can also effect things like their perception of timing, details of where the attack took place and the events leading up to and after the attack.

 Survivors can also forget a lot of things that happened shortly before and shortly after an attack. They might lose memories of what they did the day before instance, or only have a blurry recollection of the week after.

 They can also have general problems forming new memories that persist at a constant level for life. This can make it difficult to keep appointments, study for an exam and continue with household chores.

 If you want to switch to more… Usually I say ‘realistic’ but in this case I think it’s ‘more common’, memory problems then here’s what I’d suggest to get something close to the disorientation you’ve got in the original idea.

 I’d use memory loss to an extent where the character has only very vague recollections of what happened the week before and after they were snatched. I’d then combine that with intrusive memories and inaccurate memories.

 I would set up the scenario in such a way that the character is aware some of their memories are inaccurate. For instance I might have them write down some thoughts and memories soon after they were rescued/escaped. Then go back to that in two weeks and find that it is really different to what they now remember.

 I’ve also established inaccurate memories by using multiple points of view or having multiple character present at particular points. Having contrasting points of view can show that the memories are inaccurate.

 You can also straight up describe what happens in the story, from the point of view of the character it happens to. Then later have them think or talk about it and show something different. Hell you can show the memory changing every time they think about it, without the character necessarily being aware it’s changing. That does happen.

 Intrusive memories are not necessarily accurate either. And they can be triggered in ways that are hard to interpret or understand.

 That mix of memory problems; loss of memories, inaccurate memories (both that the character is aware of and ones they’re not) with intrusive memories that seem to be set off by disconnected things- it can really make someone doubt themselves and doubt what’s real.

 Which isn’t quite the same as giving them these blurry, fever-dream memories but it can have the same narrative effect. They’re not sure what really happened. They doubt themselves.

 And there can be real fear and anger bound up in those things. Fear because not knowing and sitting with those doubts is scary. Anger because knowing you’re an unreliable witness makes any kind of justice or change next to impossible is… a lot to deal with.

 Those are the best things I can think of to get close to what you want from the story.

 I’d also encourage you to think about what this kind of ‘sporadic’ memory is adding to the story. I’ve written enough that I have no doubts it’s adding a lot, it’s an interesting idea to be working with. But it might help you to break it down and define exactly what it’s bringing to the plot and characters before you decide what to do. Having that list in front of you can make it easier to see other options and ways to include all the elements you want.

 As for dislocated shoulders- I’m no medic.

 Scriptmedic, the original Script blog, has a post on dislocations here. There’s also a handy NHS guide to dislocated shoulders over here.

 Most modern torture doesn’t involve deliberately dislocating the shoulders. Because that’s an obvious injury and obvious injuries are evidence of a crime.

 A lot of historical torture did involve deliberately dislocating the shoulders. But historical medical practice was not… shall we say ‘good’. The record keeping historically was also less then stellar and the result is that I don’t necessarily have access to the best sources here.

 My instinct is the effects would be pain and increased damage to the soft tissue around the shoulder joint. This can cause long term mobility issues, though generally not to an extent where people can’t get through their day to day life (they might adjust to do things differently putting less stress on the shoulders).

 I am pretty sure there’d be a higher chance of chronic pain afterwards.

 And that’s really the extent of my medical knowledge there but I hope you can find useful info on the NHS website and Aunty Scripty’s archives.

 I hope that helps. :)

Available on Wordpress.

Disclaimer

*Once again I don’t know much about childhood development and I don’t read much about child abuse. Anecdotally I have noticed a pattern where more survivors of abuse in early childhood report that they forgot about it. This may be because there’s extensive restructuring of the brain and neural ‘pruning’ that happens naturally as children grow. They still experienced lasting trauma symptoms.

[sintreaties]

Idk, studying and analyzing characters with obscurities is extremely fun and important even. Many classic novels explore the minds of characters. And I believe it's important for the mangaka to not give a prognosis to continue this analysis and it allows for spontaneity in the characters. And there are some correlations to real life diagnosis. (although I don't think she really cares about psychology or sociology cuz then she wouldn't be a mangaka) However, symptoms aren't a diagnosis and that just makes it even more fascinating.

However there are already negative troupes being portrayed in the manga. Ie midairi's behavior may be labeled as psychotic, it certainly isn't "normal". Anime is made up and anyone can be anything. I would hope that no one is actually taking information on personality disorders from a manga. However, I do believe I read a thread where a psych major (not an actual Dr obviously) pretty much agreed that there was some disorder going on. I mean truthfully you don't need any formal training to analyze a character. And characters can't be diagnosed since they aren't real. And besides that ruins the fun. I think it's important to dive in and make correlations. Especially with mind oriented animes like death note and the such.

“Characters can’t be diagnosed since they aren’t real.”

Exactly. Then why are you using real terms that indicate real illnesses on them?

“It’s extremely fun.” Honestly, this is so disgusting to hear. Why would you let someone else’s REAL mental illness offer entertainment to you through fictional media?

Of all the things one can do as a creator to stimulate analisys of the characters and such, I can assure you this is not what you want to do and I say this as someone who also wants to be a creator and who has learnt through others’ mistakes, mistakes that have been repeated for ages.

(CW for gross misrapresentation of DID and psychopathy in media, brief mention of suicidal tendencies and psychiatric clinics)

For an instance; of those who didn’t read it and thus ignored the presence of the “potion” in the plot, many believed and still believe that the protagonist of “Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr.Hyde” is affected by what was once called Multiple Personality Disorder. There are two personality in one person, why would anyone call it something different?

Because that’s not how that disorder, now called Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID), works! DID stems from continuous and repetitive abuse between the age of 7 and 9 years, when the personality of the individual is supposed to form. Instead, because of that truama, the personality develops a “system” of alters, each with the very precise function of protecting the individual from further external abuse. Consequently, it’s a gross mistake to believe one alter (that is, a part of the system different from the host) able to be a killer or anyways someone who would hurt others “just because”, as it would put the host in great danger.

(I chose DID as an example because I only recently learnt about it. I’m not an expert nor do I have DID myself, but to know more, check out this or this channel)

That book was written in 1886. “Psycho” came out in 1960. “Split” came out in 2016 and guess what? They all make the same mistake, which perpetrates the stigma and the idea that people with DID are dangerous only because it’s “”fun”” and “”entertaining””.

Maybe it is for some (ignorant) neurotypical people, but I’m fairly sure that’s not the same for those actually affected by this disorder. If you have to rapresent it, and you want to inform and entertain others, why not talk about that australian girl who became a lawyer and thanks to her 2500 alters managed to send her abuser in prison for 30 years?

If you have to rapresent someone with psycopathy, why use a Ted Bundy documentary or show a young woman incapable of accepting one’s love without forcing her lover to jump off the fifth floor of a tower? Do all people affected by psychopathy usually do shit like masturbating in a public restroom after they tried to blow their head off? Of course not, but when talking about it, do you think people will think about that grandiouse gesture or about the poor guy with a therapist who as much as he tried to, didn’t manage to keep his girlfriend because although innocuous his disorder was putting a strain on their relationship?

Actual people, real people with disorders are people too, and they deserve something better than to be connected to such negative examples. It’s the same reason why the abandoned psychiatric hospital in horrors is an awful thrope. Clinics like that are supposed to be a refuge for the mentally ill. Why should a person with suicidal tendencies be afraid of going to one, only because the main rapresentation society got is that it’s a place for dangerous and heavily mentally deranged monsters?

I said it before and I’ll say it again: it’s disgusting to hear that someone is entertained by such things.

You want to make theories about your faves? Sure, but leave out mental illnesses. Lore exists. Canon facts exist and if one needs to rely on mental disorders to explain certain things, if they feel like that is even an option in the first place, maybe they should either change their mentality or choose a different piece of media.

All this is to explain why I refuse to talk of fictional characters in such a manner and why I will not accept such talks in my social medias spaces. I won’t come for anyone’s throat if they do the contrary, but I certainly won’t support them.

I apologise about the long reply; but I hope I proved my point and that I was able to educate those who are actually interested in this issue.

[oh-mother-of-darkness]

hello this isnt abt batfam or batman but i saw your age and was wondering how do i survive till 23? i am 18 now and 5 more years is very hard to survive please help

Interesting question. I turn 24 in ten days, and sometimes even I’m not sure. I guess I’ll talk about how I personally stayed alive this long before I try to give advice.

The very first thing I would say is that I am religious, and that worldview makes a difference. I don’t mean that in a “everything happens for a reason” kind of way, and as a matter of fact, I very much dislike that line of thinking. It does a lot of damage, and I’m aware that it rightly puts a lot of people off from religion in general. 

I hold two beliefs that I think are helpful in terms of survival. First, I believe that humans are by nature bad. Counterintuitive in this conversation? Stick with me. Every day, but especially at my lowest moments, I hate the things that I am. In a metaphorical sense, my mind whispers to me that I am selfish, that I am cowardly, that I think bad things and I am capable of worse. I’m hateful, I’m terrifying, and I am absolutely broken. At my core, there is something fundamentally wrong, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t fix it. 

I am disgusting. I’m several thousand evil things in a trench-coat pretending to be anything but myself, and I’m not fooling anyone. 

Well, yeah. Yeah, I’m all those things and more: manipulative, lying, self-obsessed, angry, unforgiving, and judgmental. I could, of course, go on.

Here’s the thing-- everybody is. I am no better and no worse than any other person in the universe, and though I am ever abhorrent thing, I am. I have the same dignity, the same worth, and the same life as any human anywhere. The dark things are part and parcel of my humanity, but although I am not good, I do good. 

I will never be perfect because that just isn’t possible, but I can be kind. I can be loving, I can be strong, and I can be wise. 

Shit, doesn’t that set me free?

There’s a lot more to this conversation, and the rest goes, in brief, like this: at the bottom of the darkness that is every soul, we have one great fear-- if I am truly evil, no one will ever love me. Good news on that front, there is a God who does. If that’s something you want to talk about, hey hit me up. I’ll evangelize on my own time. 

Back to it. My second belief is a kind of understanding about the passage of time, and it’s sort of hard to boil down into a few sentences, but I’ll try my best. I believe in a grand struggle between good and evil. I know the beginning of that struggle. I know the end of that struggle: that good will win. I am a part of the middle. 

I see my role in the universe as extraordinary small but absolutely necessary. I have a two-fold purpose-- love God, love humans. I interpret both as a call to help others in any way I can, and I think in the way my life has worked out so far, that’s really the most important thing keeping me alive. 

I see all of this through the frame of my religion, but I would argue that everything I’ve said so far is applicable outside of that frame, because a lot of folks get to the same place from a fully secular point of view. I cannot be perfect. I should care about and fight for other people. That’s really all we’re working from here. 

A few years back, when people asked me this question-- how do you stay alive?-- I used to answer “spite,” and that’s not untrue. I am a very angry person, and the grand majority of that anger is directed at what I perceive as unjust acts. I have a deep-seated hatred of establishments (including the established church), and you’d be shocked at how much of a motivator that can be. 

I grew up in an environment that was very intentional in teaching me to identify injustice. Though I have radically departed from many of the teachings of my childhood, the part about fighting for others was something I learned at day one, and that bit has stuck around. For the most part, I grew up in an environment where everyone was on the same page about it. 

And theeeeeeen I went to undergrad. Hello, Texas A&M. I hit campus as an 18 year old fully incapacitated by anxiety. I was the kind of person who didn’t-- in fact couldn’t-- speak in front of others. I had always lived my life in a way that minimized myself, because if I never spoke, if I never disagreed, if I never drew attention, I would never make anyone angry. I knew from experience that angry people hurt me, and I was afraid of pain. 

Then I experienced the absolute shenaniganry of conservative Texans. The culture shock sent me to space and back, and on the return trip I decided that I couldn’t be quiet anymore. 

I learned to speak my freshman year so that I could scream FUCK YOU. It was incredibly painful, and I can’t tell you exactly how I managed it other than I was angry, and I didn’t want to lose. 

I fought a similar battle on my homefront against parents that didn’t know how to deal with a daughter that disagreed, or even worse, a daughter that wasn’t okay. I wasn’t a perfect child anymore. I knew I had anxiety, I knew I was depressed, and we all knew who I blamed for that. They hadn’t been the perfect parents they thought they were. 

I found myself growing, little by little, into a person that could write and argue and hold her ground. That’s personal growth for sure, but it didn’t necessarily help my mental health. As a matter of fact, my health declined all through undergrad, and in my third and final year, I cracked.

I was desperate. I was isolated. I was flooded by fear and despair, and I was falling apart. I don’t remember huge chunks of undergrad because I was so depressed that the memories didn’t stick, but I do remember my tipping point.

It was something small. The ceiling fan in my bedroom was broken. The lighting chain worked fine, but if anyone pulled the fan chain, the whole thing would stop working. I mixed up which chain was which, pulled the wrong cord, and broke it for the fourth time. 

For some reason, that was it. I lay down on my floor and cried for an hour, and while I did, my mind went to, as the kids say, a dark place. Finally, I called my mom and begged for psychiatric medication, something I had always been afraid to ask for. At the time, my parents believed that antidepressants were overprescribed, and they mocked parents that let their children take them. 

At around the same time, I was deciding what to do with my life. I was about to graduate, and I had always wanted to be a kindergarten teacher. Instead, everyone in my life pushed me towards law school. I didn’t know what to do, but I began fantasizing, not about going to law school exactly, but about being the kind of person that could go to law school. 

I knew that law school would be entail public speaking and constant conflict and the kind of work that would be hard for a person who sometimes couldn’t leave her bed. I wanted to be someone who could do all of that, but I didn’t believe I was.

Enter Donald Trump. Post-November 2016, I struggled to understand how something like that could happen, and I watched everyone else deal with it too. I began confused, moved to distraught, then returned to what I always am: angry.

January 2017 was the inauguration and shortly afterwards, the “Muslim ban.” I read the news on my bedroom floor, and there was one specific part that stuck out to me. There were pictures of lawyers flooding the airports. There was a court case headed for SCOTUS.

I suddenly realized that one group-- one very select group-- was doing what I was powerless to accomplish. I hated establishments, and there was one group that could challenge and change them. Some people could fight in the way I wanted to, and those people were lawyers.

I have a very distinct memory of looking into the bathroom mirror of my third-year apartment and thinking, “I will be miserable for the rest of my life, no matter what I do or what career I pick. I might as well be a miserable lawyer.”

So I took my antidepressants and I went to law school. I’m not going to rehash everything that happened there in this particular post, because in this topic, I don’t think it matters. The relevant part is that I went, and I had my reason why.

Sure as hell can tell you that law school wasn’t good for my health. The last three years have been, in terms of sheer stress and despair, the worst of my life. I picked up a self-harm habit, endured consistent humiliation, cycled through six different antidepressants, had horrible relationships, and developed a psychotic disorder. Don’t get me wrong, there were good things too. I met people that are important me, and beyond that, I grew. 

I know that 18 year old me would be absolutely flabbergasted by the woman I am now, cracks and flaws included. I wouldn’t say I’m healthy or okay, but I am more healthy and more okay. I’m coming out of this mess with the institutional power I wanted, and now I get to decide what to do with it. 

I was wrong three years ago when I looked in that bathroom mirror. I know now that I won’t be miserable for the rest of my life. I’m going to be happy someday, and to the parts of me that say otherwise: fuck you. I’ve learned to say it now. 

I graduated law school this week, and this month, I’ve felt better than I ever have before. I’m singing again, I dropped two medications, and suddenly, everything is so, so funny. I’ve been laughing so hard my face hurts the day after. 

This is a huge turning point in my life, so I’ve been meditating on my past. I’ve come to the conclusion that in most of the ways that matter, I won. My family has been forced to accept what I am. I became the person I wanted to be, even though I thought I wasn’t capable of that. 

I know for sure that there will be times in my life where I hit rock bottom again, and that’s not gonna be fun. It’s likely that with my mental health issues, I will always have to work harder than my peers to get the same results. That’s unfair. 

I also know that high points exist, and I will have them. I am having them, and I will again. 

I guess in recap, I know that I have deep flaws and ugly parts, but I am at peace with that. I know that I must help others, and in pursuit of that goal, I became a person I like more than the girl I used to be. 

You have exactly the same potential. I want you to know that whatever you are now, that’s not your forever. Circumstances change, and you will change too. We’re human, you and I, and that’s an exciting thing to be. 

Your worth comes from your humanity itself, both evil and good, not the things you do or the fights you win. You never have to compare yourself to others because you are exactly the same as everybody else-- no better, but certainly no worse. You’re a person. That’s enough. 

I’m telling you all those things, and as advice, I’ll say this: get angry and fight. Fight for others. You can help them, and you should. Fight for yourself. You are worthy of respect, and everyone else should give it to you. Fight yourself. Any part of you that preaches despair is wrong. 

Find the thing that makes you angry and use it. Things are fucked up! There’s a lot to be angry about. I put it this way to my classmates, now my attorney peers: you get one hill to die on. What’s your hill? Go and defend it. 

Here’s an interesting thing, anon. Your hill can be yourself. There’s nothing wrong with that. You’re right. Five years is a lot, and all the years beyond that are more. Take your antidepressants and go.

[transephiroth]

an important post: abuse from friends, friend abuse. please read and reblog.

TW: abuse ment, bpd ment, ed ment, suicide ment, ptsd, trauma, death ment. gaslighting ment.

i don’t know what exactly what has compelled me to make this post at nearly 1:00 am on a school night just like every other, but i think the importance of advocacy of preventing, spotting, and stopping abusive friendships is to talk about them with the same respect as any other form of abuse.

i’ll give you a small overview of my personal experience with abusive friendships: when i was 16, my father committed suicide. i was not aware he was my biological father at they time and actually found out he was not my half brother, but my biological father. my father, who’s name i will not mention. i won’t even use fake names they’re hard to keep track of. i found out my mother, an abusive drug addict, slept with her husband, my apparent grandfather’s, adult son from a previous marriage consensually. one way or another, my father was forbidden to be involved in my life, and my grandfather raised me as his own. (in case you’re going to ask about inc*st, my father and mother have no relation, she is not his mother.)

the shock of learning this and grieving his death from the few negative interactions he and his mental health had on my family when i was a baby, was intense. i had no friends at school and felt incredibly lost and vulnerable. when i was in this place i met my best friend. we bonded over a shared hatred of my ex boyfriend, who was an abuser, who was dating her ex best friend.

this should have been a red flag, but i ignored it.

i took the first friend i could find after my ex took away all my friends in an effort to isolate me after my assault. this was probably the worst part of my life, and one of my first real suicide attempts was only days before my father died. the first friend i found, the first soul i recognized i clung to.

when me and my friend, who we will call P, were inseparable. but there was a very clear and distinct difference between us. P was a star in the band at school, she had great grades, tons of friends and was quite conventionally attractive. she was involved in a lot of extracurriculars and overall had a very nice demeanor.

this should have been a red flag. as harsh as it might sound, idealizing anyone is unhealthy. if someone appears to you as perfect, it’s not paranoid of you to wonder if it’s hiding something. it’s hard to tell when someone is being genuine, especially for myself with autism. nice words and a smile can pretty much fool anyone.

i, on the other hand of P, dropped out of band and just about every other activity after my assault, and was in and out of intense therapy and psych visits throughout all of high school. i never could go a school year without a visit. to this day i have gone a whole year however :)

I was an autistic shut in who quite honestly, cried a lot, smelled bad, was clearly poor, spoke funny and came to school drunk. we were not the same.

i don’t want to go over every painstaking detail, so i’ll try to summarize as best i can the first two years of our three year relationship.

P was diagnosed with BPD about a month into our friendship. she told me i was her FP/favorite person, and showed me videos to learn about BPD. i remember watching hours and hours of information about BPD to accommodate her the best i could. what i didn’t realize however, was that she was lying. she didn’t have BPD, or at least couldn’t be diagnosed because we were 16.

red flag. i knew this was a lie because i had been in therapy for years. it took me a long time to peace it together but i accepted it and beget told her, until this moment, that i knew.

i fucking knew.

months of friendship included constant easy to see through lies, fabrications, pathological rants, and pretty much changing her “back story” every day. it was draining not to mention it, but the few times i did, she got physical. i have scars on my right forearm from her nails, which were long and broke skin. she would tell me she would pay me back for things and never show. she would make fun of things i told her in secret to our friends, my trauma. my dad.

“dark humor”

over time, she convinced me to drop every single friend i had except for her. she had gotten me literally completely vulnerable and isolated.

when covid hit, my mom, of course, kicked me out. i moved in with P and her family. my time there over quarantine was very monotonous, but i’ll never forget that for basically 8-9 months, she never let me out of her sight. i felt like i had to just do whatever she wanted because her mother let me live there for free.

p knew i wanted to move away from my mother and the chaos of my home life for years.

right before quarantine, P got her first boyfriend. she had never had a boyfriend and had been to scared to get one. i was really happy for her, i encouraged her to ask him out while she was at a weekend school event.

P then began to manipulate not only me, but him. to this day i don’t know what’s become of either of them, but i really couldn’t care less anymore. when trauma heals, you get a sense of apathy.

P would frequently belittle me, mock me, kick, trip and slap me, force me to pay for things for her and her boyfriend on the spot, and steal from my purse.

eventually living with p, third wheeling with her less than charming boyfriend, who i honestly just didn’t mind. we weren’t friends, but i was respectful to him and treated him the same way i would treat a friend from school or something.

p has a family i won’t bring up because it involves minors, but her mother has a psychotic disorder and refuses to be medicated, so the house is full of ripped door hinges, holes in walls, smashed items and more. it’s really unsafe there, and during my time there i found i really began to internalize as a person. i developed an eating disorder and my ptsd and autism felt much more out of control.

i had been diagnosed with autism for nearly two years at that point, and living in that household made me realize just how damaging meltdown after meltdown without anyone understanding can damage your psyche long term.

i wanted to leave. i had saved my money from my jobs and got an apartment. p insisted on coming, saying she didn’t want to live with her mom anymore. i didn’t want her to come, but i agreed. she got a co-sign. i knew it was a bad idea because i heard what they said about best friends living together. i just can’t believe it really happened.

we talked about growing old together, raising our kids together. i was going to name my first daughter after her. we were going to be neighbors. her husband and my wife would be best friends just like us, but that’s not what happened.

we lived together from August 2020-November 2020

to give a quick summary of the inevitable end of this relationship, P and I had two kittens together. i asked her if she could put them away for inspection so they didn’t run out the door while i drove our third roommate, a whole other mountain of a story, to work.

she didn’t do it, instead slacked off to go to her boyfriends house. so i came back and had to put the cats away at record speed and our other roommate was late to work.

even if this was somewhat small, it was the breaking point for me. i grabbed my phone and texted her, DEMANDING she explain why she couldn’t do this one thing for me. i have never been that angry in my life. we had a phone call where i just lost it and unleashed all my anger and all my hurt about everything she had done. i was sobbing and barely making sense but i couldn’t just keep letting my life carry on this way.

i wish i remembered how the phone call ended, but all i remember was telling her “if the cats run and we can’t find them, then we are done being roommates.”

the next morning i woke up and she had blocked me on everything. i drove to the apartment and saw that overnight, according to block times at like, 3am, she had taken all our shared furniture, all my birthday gifts from not two weeks prior, all the gifts i bought her, most of my clothes, one of the apartment keys, my high school diploma, the paperwork for the cats, and not just our two shared kittens, but my third roommates cat as well.

cue search party with my partner and his friends and my other roommate for P and the cats. i found her at her house with her mom and boyfriend. i walked out and she was on the phone with my grandfather, telling him i was threatening suicide. i ask her where the cats are, she says they are at a friends house.

if we flashback in the story, we literally only had each other, so i knew it was a lie.

i managed to argue through to negotiate at least my other roommates cat, but only after P’s mom blocked us in the driveway and called the police saying we threatened her daughter

(reminder people in this group were black and asian ☺️ so she just calls the cops fall 2020)

luckily the cops saw the proof she blocked me so i couldn’t have threatened her, and let us leave.

that’s the end of the friendship. i could bore anyone who has read this far further by explaining the nightmare realm that is the legal troubles with the apartment, but the internet doesn’t need to know everything does it?

as the winter has gone on i’ve had months to basically remake myself as a person. i had to firstly face the damage P had done.

but before i get into that, anyone who is still reading first, ily, but also, if you’ve had ANY relationship that sounds similar to this, THAT IS ABUSE.

Plain and simple. It is abusive. Physically, emotionally, mentally, verbally. nobody deserves that. not P. not you. not me.

friendships can be all someone has. not everyone is born into good families with loving siblings and great parents and tons of cousins who live .3 milliseconds away. families are divided. families, like mine, are divorced. families are broken and families sometimes aren’t even families. humans need relationships, and an idealistic person who we think maybe could save us and fix the world, won’t.

you can be taken advantage of by the person you trust the most just as easily as a stranger.

it’s not wrong to face the abuse they put you through, know it was wrong, and feel valid that it is was wrong.

what i went through with P was horrible. the detachment of my only friend hurt. but i bounced back. i’m still undoing some of the damage, but i have great friends and a wonderful partner. i have two rescue cats who mean the world to me.

life gets better after abuse, but the bad days and the pain aren’t invalid because of this. i have trauma from what P put me through. abandonment like that is traumatic. but it’s not the end. feel what you need to feel to feel better.

if anyone read this far and wants to vent their own experiences, or share more advice on preventing these relationships feel free. it’s almost 1:30 now, i should go to bed.

it feels good to get that off my chest.

[silverypurple-rosedlions]

Three things! One, I fully support you all and give every single one of you love! <3 Two, if it's not too much to ask, I'm curious for everyone, but let's just start out with one today. ^^; Could we get a comparison picture of what Jeonghan looked like before the start of The Purple Rose to what he looks like now? Third, goes to everyone (it's up to everyone if they want to answer) what was Jeonghan like to you? Before The Purple Rose, or at least the first time you met him?

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Joshua: Jeonghan... He was very much different from now, obviously. But he was truly different. He didn't like being popular, and he didn't like gaining compliments. He was always polite and soft-spoken. He was...really sweet, and very selfless. He was also lazy, falling asleep in classes, yet he always got perfect grades. But the Jeonghan I knew struggled a lot. He didn't like sharing what was wrong with him, and you know that saying of how people put on a mask?... He did just that. Every single day he did, and he pretended to be the very person people needed him to be. But he always took it off in front of me and what I saw was... someone I loved, deeply broken. I was the only person he showed his vulnerability towards, and I always did my best to be there for him... Unlike now, he was sensitive, more sensitive than now. He didn't want to hurt anyone at the time, and it hurt him if he caused any complications with anyone... That was Yoon Jeonghan, but long before he became who he is now. Now, he wants to put that way back in the past and never touch it again.

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Jun: I met Jeonghan hyung in senior year of Highschool, I think. It was when I moved from China to South Korea. We didn't really talk too much since he was so popular, and it was hard for me to talk to him. Especially with Schizophrenia, and he didn't have it at the time. But we bumped into each other now and then, and he was a really great person. He was laid back, calm, and he had that presence that if you just stood next to him, you felt safe. You couldn't even tell something was wrong at the time because he played everything off with little trouble. But when I really got to know him... I wish I could have done more for him. It was even harder for me because of language barrier. I was learning Korean, so I talked to him in broken Korean, mixed with Chinese... Poor guy. Ha. But he managed, and he made me feel accepted, able to feel as if I fitted in before the Purple Rose. And he still does now... Even though he's terrifying.

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Wonwoo: I met him when The Purple Rose was starting. I didn't know what he was like before then. But when I first met him, he was... persuasive. He knew just the right thing to say, a sly person, and still is, who could be smiling so charmingly at you. Then before you knew it, he has you pinned with a gun at the center of your forehead. He talked to me occasionally. He would find me in places only I thought I knew, and from there, he slowly gained my trust, especially during my most vulnerable stages in life. But he didn't manipulate me, but he did coax me, but not to commit crime for the hell of it. But for survival, and to gain justice for us being wronged. It was twisted, and at the start, I denied. However, during that time, he was the only person who'd listen and give advice... but not the "normal" advice you'd expect. When things were unbearable at home, he gave me a place to reside in to escape the corrupted environment I was in... He's the reason I didn't die sooner.

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Jihoon: I came at a slightly later time. I knew him from Highschool, being that he was popular. Never said a single word to him, just shared glances and nods, and that was it. My first impression was that he was naive, and easy to manipulate. At first, I absolutely hated his guts because he was that typical stereotype in school, that's what I thought. It sickened me... But he reached out to me one day. Don't know what exactly happened, but all I remember was that I had him by the neck on the ground. I was upset that day, but even when I could've choked him to death, obviously seeing fear in his eyes, he held me by the wrists gently, and talked to me. That's when things changed, and I was able to turn to him when my struggles were unbearable for me, or I needed someone to ground me. I tried to do the same for him, but having him explain his own pain and struggles is sometimes... useless, because he never shares his burden willingly, even if it all collapsed on him.

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Mingyu: I met him in Highschool. I was among the popular students, so I interacted a lot with him in the past. But at the time, I admired him. He was hard-working, funny and outgoing, and laid back. Anyone could talk to him comfortably. He treated everything so calmly, and when he got worked up, everyone just loved to see him show passion in whatever it was. Whenever I got the chance to talk to him, he always made sure I was comfortable, helped me whenever I struggled, and he was playful. Really playful that he pulled of pranks... Joshua knows this, but I used to really...really like him. It was absolutely hard not to at the time with how loveable he was. Of course I moved on. That was ages ago. But at the time, as embarrassing as it is to admit it, I was basically a lovesick puppy, willing to do anything he told me to. Completely different from how he is now, right?

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Minghao: Never knew him before The Purple Rose. I never even encountered any of the members because of Jun. With Jun, he requested that I was left untouched, and they did his request with ease. But when I met Jeonghan, it was during a Schizophrenic episode of mine. It was after some things and figuring out I had Shared Psychotic Disorder. Jun brought me to him, needing help since we were close by. Jeonghan did his part, and he talked to me. He eased me and helped me get through my very first episode... Terrifying. I'll tell you that. But when I met him, he was... deranged. He was unique, but made me uneasy at the time. He seemed untouchable. He was intimidating and hard for me to approach even though I joined. He... I couldn't read him. I couldn't get one small clue to use to figure out something, anything about him. All I knew at the time was that he was completely a madman. He was too far gone for any real help, and I was fearful that if I didn't do my best, he'd kill me... Despite this, being cold and distant, he helped me a lot. He was, and is, complicated.

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Seokmin: Knew him since Middle School! He was really different back then, even when he struggled. Though, the way he struggles now isn't too different from how he coped with struggles in the past. But the Jeonghan I knew before The Purple Rose was truly different. He loved playing pranks and teasing. He was always there for me, and in return, I always did my best to make him laugh and smile. We went out a lot together, explored everything, and attended various events. Those were the highlights of our past together, and even Joshua could agree as it continued into Highschool, but things got serious... To summarize the Jeonghan I knew is that he was amazing, but was hurting as time went on. He suffered a lot, but never told anyone but Joshua hyung. I did what I could... But it was enough or what he needed at the time.

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