#but it’s an illness that people think ‘doesn’t exist anymore’ or ‘isn’t that bad’

[thewitchoftheweed]

Saw a TikTok where someone asked Hank Green what people did for UTIs before antibiotics because “they couldn’t have just died.”

They did, in fact, just die. We are so used to antibiotics and medicine that we take them for granted. For most of human history, a cavity could easily take you out.

If you got a bacterial infection of any kind, you tried to keep your fever down and you prayed. Those were your options. Didn’t matter if it was a small cut or a sinus infection. You just had to hope your immune system had you covered.

I think this mindset is what contributes to anti-vax thinking, tbh. We’ve come so far and eliminated so many threats to our health that most people don’t consider them threats anymore. Most folks haven’t seen anyone die of tetanus or an abscessed tooth, so they don’t think it can happen.

It can. And if our antibiotics fail us? Back to square 1.

[gor3sigil]

I’m Trans and Insane and I’m doing fine.

[TW Psychosis, transphobia, psychophobia, medication, psych ward]

“Are you sure ?” she asked.

I remember looking back at her in disbelief, because that was certainly a question I never asked her when she came out.

“Why do you ask ?” I say.

“Dude, I’ve seen you go into depersonalization so hard you even thought you were a human soul in a robot vessel and now, you want me to trust you when you say that you, too, are trans ?”

That’s the memory that comes back to me as I fold and put in my bag my psychiatrist’s note attesting that I suffer from gender dysphoria, NOT LINKED to any psychotic symptoms. Here it goes in my folder with my prescription note, an increase - again - of my anti depressants and Xan, and my endocrinologist’s HRT prescription, increased too - finally.

I go to two separate pharmacies to pick up each prescription for two reasons:

There is only one in this godforsaken town that always had testosterone in stock.

I can’t explain to you with words the look you can get when you give back to back, to someone who, despite not being a doctor, works in healthcare, a note for trans HRT and then a note for psychiatric meds.

And I’m lucky, because I’m not taking antipsychotics anymore. Contrarily to what you could think, it doesn’t magically makes the voices and the shadowy people disappear, but it can make a mess of your head pretty bad and my doctor and I both agreed that I didn’t need more damage up here than what I already had. And no, it doesn’t make your delusions vanish magically too: in fact, I was still pretty certain that I was talking to my soul family out here in Argentine telepathically about my mission on Earth, the meds just made it more difficult to understand their voices, but the belief was still solid.

Anyways, I’m back home with the Hoy Grail I fought tooth and nails to get: a letter from the Sacred Council of Mental Sanity also known as Psychiatry that I was, indeed, a bit delulu, but also trans, and that both things didn’t play into each other. My transness wasn’t a delusion, my delusions didn’t have anything to do with being trans.

Or did it ?

Chicken or egg, you know the drill. Did I have my selves fractured before and one of the piece that shattered my brain happened to make me trans or was I just trans with a shitload of traumas in the back that made me insane ?

But don’t worry, at least, trans people when we’re together, we have each other’s back ! Right ?

“Transidentity ISN’T a mental illness !! We don’t DESERVE to be FORCIBLY LOCKED UP and MEDICATED and MADE TO CONFORM FOR OTHER’S SENSE OF SECURITY !!”

Neither do I, RIGHT ?

Oh

Or do I ?

Remember what she said, my girlfriend, right at the beginning ?

How I can’t be trusted about myself when sometimes I don’t even have a sense of self anymore or I have too much selves who fight against each other ?

And what do we say to that ?

Get treatment. Get in-patient. Take medication. And for the love of God, shut the fuck up about it, you’re giving us a bad name.

Because being trans and crazy can’t exist. It’s absurd. You have to fix one of these two things. Choose which jacket I’ll wear, and they call it a straitjacket for a reason it seems, so am I queer or am I insane ?

All I know today is there isn’t a universe in which I’m a trans without any mental illnesses, or mentally ill without being trans. And yet, I can’t tell you how many time I got asked “do you think you’d be trans if you never got through [x trauma] ?”. I. Don’t. Know. I’ll never know. And I deserve just as much agency as you get despite being mentally ill. If you don’t believe in that, don’t come yapping about “liberation for all of us”, but “if one of us is crazy they’ll all think I am too and that can’t happen”.

No LGBTQIAA+ person deserves to be told they need to be put away, to be cured, to be allowed out in the open only if they’re deemed “acceptable” by society’s standards. And no mentally ill people deserve to either.

No trans person should be going through years of counseling to have the access to HRT.

And I shouldn’t have had to threaten my own mother’s life to avoid being locked in an adult psych ward at 14.

If you ever think, for one second, that these two things have nothing to do with one another, you are far removed from history.

To hear queer people say “yeah but some mentally ill people are dangerous !” feels like you don’t even know where you come from.

And if I want to say, that me being trans is linked to me being mentally ill, or at least, that both are connected in a way, all hell breaks fucking loose.

So I’ll explain very carefully.

See, when I was young, my mind got shattered into a thousand of pieces I had to try to glue back on. All these pieces of myself broke further more down the line because I couldn’t catch a fucking break. And now, it happens that the final puzzle does not have the same face it had before. It happens that its shape changed over time, for reasons over the control of all of us who tried to build ourselves back. Now there’s a bigger picture, less pieces, a few other shadows, and me. Built from the shatters. With my own needs and afflictions.

And whoever you are, whatever your agenda might be, I will not let anyone take any agency away from me under the false pretext that I can’t know anything for myself. They say that about children, they say that about minorities, about physically disabled people, about the people they want OUT. And my trans siblings, you know that.

I came out for the first time 7 years ago, to my then girlfriend, who was the one asking the question that is the first sentence of this text. I came out a second time 3 years ago. Been on HRT, had top surgery, had psychotic breaks, got my meds changed, switch therapist.

Because I am trans and crazy. And yet, all these choices I made, I made myself. It didn’t have to be that hard to get the basic care I needed. It didn’t need to be. But it WAS. And I’m part of the lucky crowd of people who had access to out-patient treatment, who never have been locked up in ward, who managed to stay alive through meds withdrawals without medical assistance when I had no therapist.

Be very careful of when you start to put conditions on the rights you think you deserve. Be very, very careful about your definition of sanity and of how it warps the way you see people. When you start to say “I have access to that, but there’s people like X or Y who shouldn’t BECAUSE”, pause and ask yourself what led you to think this way. More often than not, you’ll find yourself playing the same mind games as the ones you swore to fight against, and when it gives them the upper hand, they won’t hesitate to come for you after that.

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for deadnaming my ex-friend as a coping mechanism?

I’m trans (ftm 18) before people immediately vote YTA. That doesn’t make me automatically correct, but hopefully it convinces people to actually read the story. (Or you can skip to the TDLR)

Not going into detail because it’s not super relevant. When I was younger, I had this really shitty manipulative friend. All the typical stuff, told me they would hurt themselves if I left them or did something they didn’t like, said my other friends were faking their mental illnesses, that I wasn’t actually trans / was faking, lied about having cancer etc etc whatever. Sounds really obvious they were bad news looking back but you know how it is.

Me and “Mila” were both friends with them, and both managed to finally cut them off with each others support, about 2 years ago. Needless to say, this relationship really fucked both of us up.

Last year, Mila moved a few states away. We still keep in touch over text, and occasionally the topic of Ex-Friend comes up, especially if she’s going through a breakdown. About the same time she moved away, Ex-Friend came out as non binary and goes by a new name.

I still have to go to a smallish school with Ex-Friend. It’s difficult being in the same room as them so you can imagine why this is the problem.

However, since coming out, they look pretty different and have a different name….it’s kind of easier to pretend like I don’t even know them.

I also know they were probably really going through it when we used to be friends, and in a lot of ways it feels better to attribute all those bad actions to their Deadname, someone who doesn’t exist anymore, and I never have to see. Separating “Shitty Ex-Friend” from “Person I have to see most days at school” really helps me like…go to school and exist in the same place as them without totally breaking down.

So if me and Mila ever talk about them, I refer to them by their deadname (still correct pronouns, if that makes any difference). Mila does know they came out as NB (I mentioned it to her), but doesn’t know that they changed their name so she isn’t complicit in this or anything it’s 100% on me. I don’t deadname them to anyone else if I ever need to talk about them, just Mila.

I know this is a stupid coping mechanism but does it make me an asshole?

On one hand, I don’t think people need to be “good people” to be correctly gendered — intentionally deadnaming someone because you don’t like them is shitty. On the other hand, that’s not why I’m doing this, and my actions aren’t realistically impacting them or any other trans person, because I’m only using their deadname with one person who lives very far away, won’t ever run into them, and won’t talk about them with anyone else.

TDLR; I still call my manipulator by their deadname while talking to one specific person about them, because it helps me pretend that they’re a different person when I have to be in the same small school as them.

[sepublic]

Minor detail but I love how when asking Willow and Gus for advice in For the Future, Camila makes sure to protect Luz’s privacy by not clarifying that she plans to stay in the human realm; Instead, she keeps it vague as “make a bad decision for herself” and I really appreciate it.

Camila can tell Luz needs someone she can confide in and trust, she needs her mom to listen to and respect her decisions after Camila insisted on the Reality Check camp, which might’ve felt not that bad to Luz at first, until she realized how it subtly messed her up afterwards (Big mood). So Camila’s trying to make up for things because she knows that betrayal created a gap, and she’s already just gotten Luz to ask for advice in the previous episode. Luz told her mom about her decision, so Camila isn’t going to expose Luz for her own good or anything like that.

Likewise, Willow and Gus don’t press any further; They do care and that’s why they give advice, but they respect those boundaries too, esp since it’s clearly Luz’s, and might not want to give away that Camila asked them to begin with; That may still understandably bother Luz, which is another factor as to why Camila waited until now, and even then she’s still vague about it. And as kids (with Willow having also had frustrations with her dads before), Willow and Gus can appreciate what Camila is doing.

Similarly, they want to help Camila show that she herself can be supportive to Luz to reassure both Nocedas, and not just do that work for Camila; Doylistically, I imagine this is why Amity didn’t know Luz’s decision, so we could focus on Camila talking to Luz about it. Plus Willow and Gus have Hunter to deal with… And also Willow herself! And Camila keeping it vague does somewhat downplay the potential severity to make it not seem as urgent to the kids, who encourage Camila that she can handle it; Neither party can be blamed for this, not for not fully understanding, nor for wanting to avoid violating Luz’s privacy or putting more burden on other kids (Something Camila even notices in Willow and tries to help her with).

And I love it, I love that trust and respect and the way Camila isn’t getting desperate again, she’s still looking for help but she’s learned. Only when Luz is comfortable with revealing that, will Camila bring it up openly to others for advice. And I think that’s something that resonates with a LOT of kids, especially ones struggling with mental illness and suicidal ideation and shame, while also needing help, as Luz does. Indeed, the wording of “bad decision” reminds me of parents fearing their kid is considering suicide, which furthers the metaphor in a way that gets past the censors.

Man there’s just a melancholy air and uncertainty behind Luz almost casually reassuring her mom she doesn’t have to worry about making Luz happy anymore, that she’s made up her mind and is ready to tell everyone when the time is right, all while clearly cherishing the last moments she has with everyone. It’s really helpless and it just adds to that feeling of inefficacy in this episode, that Camila can’t be the perfect, compatible mother her daughter needs her to be; That every accidental yelp towards the isles is just pushing Luz to the deep end.

And Camila wants to get it in the right words that she doesn’t have to embrace it to still understand and be supportive and co-exist, while Luz is grappling with xenophobic gaslighting that’s insisting otherwise to her; All humans hate it and Luz is the deviant, her mother is normal. If Camila can’t like it, she won’t support Luz, so what difference does it make if Luz can have it for herself but not her mother??? It’s scary in a realistic way; Not some big monster or fright, but more quiet and gradually happening as someone slips through your fingers, something mundane that a lot of people deal with. It’s the dilemma of being a parent; I wonder how much this resonates with people who have loved ones struggling with suicide like that.

Remember how Camila tried to bargain with Luz about being better after realizing she ran away, that she pushed her daughter away; Like parents in the bargaining stage of grief, reasoning they could’ve and should’ve been better. While Luz is lifted into the air, golden and incorporeal like an angel or ghost, by rope tied around her? And that whole scene just contributed to Luz’s self-destructive desire to repent and keep herself from causing any more damage, at any cost. Isolating herself is the first step…

All of this culminates into Camila asking kids for advice, when normally she needs to be their guidance, because they know Luz in ways she doesn’t and vice-versa and again she’s desperate; But never crossing a boundary again and it just shows her growth after the first episode, where Camila does recognize what went wrong and isn’t committing a similar mistake again in the hopes of a solution. And it works out, Camila finally reaches her own resolution when she gets through to her daughter and saves the both of them by repairing their love and relationship!

Makes it all the more agonizing then that just when Camila finally gets it, just when Luz wants to live, Luz is murdered by the man/system that made her feel worthless and split the Nocedas apart, with Luz’s decision over her life, originally for good, taken out of her hands anyway… Luz floating in purgatory, implicitly regretting that she didn’t appreciate her life enough. But then she gets brought back because of the isles that wanted her to stay as well, that Camila wanted her daughter to stay in. Because the Titan asked Luz to choose herself, and Camila had set Luz up to do that earlier so she did and that’s how Luz got her second chance at life, and the full life she deserved.

They went through hell and back for this, literally, with the literal Hell actually being the solution, and the figurative one coming from the one trying to ‘prevent’ it. This woman has gone through so much pain and such a turbulent life but damn if Camila didn’t earn her and Luz’s happy ending, together!!!

[cocogrrrl]

daffodil

you had grown up liking kyle from a comfortable distance, never thinking about making possible wounds. you, however, only just figured that out right now. unfortunately, you're overcome with the hanahaki disease likely because of it

kyle x stan's twin + gn!reader (hanahaki disease au) cw: major character death (kind of?), not necessarily an ed but mentions of struggles with eating, hospitalization, implied floater friend behavior if it makes anyone uncomfortable wc: 5121

an: this is part of an sp au where different versions of the reader has hanahaki and is in love with the main three! read the other two parts here!

Hanahaki is a disease something that affects many daily. From a small seed in your lungs, you’ll experience petals and flowers coming out from your mouth. It could take days, weeks, months, or even years to develop. Many hypothesize that it happens because of a love not returned, a love waiting on a bench. 

Fortunately, it isn’t something that everyone will experience in their lifetime, although it is common. For those who catch the illness, you only have a few choices to pick from.

First, the sickness doesn’t last because the affection is returned. Many of those who survive this still need to receive medical attention for the healing process, depending on how severe the sickness had become. Many of these people who experience this are bound to live a happy life, though.

Second, you undergo a safe medical procedure that, while cures you, makes you devoid of any sense of love anymore. These operations usually do not pose many health risks, and the survival rate is high.

Lastly, you could just bear the pain, although you will suffocate to death.

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Growing up in the Marsh household was no easy task. Existing there was tiring because of the constant chaos that was your father, sometimes even mother to an extent. You grew up spending time in other people’s houses because of this, finding more comfort in others’ families than that in your own.

Luckily, you did still have a member of your family you knew you could always trust. That person was your twin brother, Stan Marsh. You two had always been connected to the hip. Sure, you two always bickered and picked on each other, but you were siblings. It was a regular occurrence.

You found yourself hopping from friend group to friend group growing up, unlike Stan, who had always stayed strong with just one—although you did catch him hanging out with the goth kids a few times. It felt a little bit lonely, being known by nearly everyone but not really being that liked to have a steady friendship with someone. You were on good terms with everyone, but at what cost?

That’s what makes you grateful to be so close to Stan, though. He often invited you to hang out with his friends whenever he noticed you were alone. He knew you preferred to be surrounded by people than be alone, so even if his friends could be pieces of shit sometimes, he welcomed you to his group.

It didn’t happen all the time, but whenever it did, you found yourself often wanting to be close to Kyle. You didn’t know why you were so drawn to him. I mean, he seemed like a pretty respectful guy, being the voice of reason in his respective group, but that wasn’t the sole basis of your feelings.

Maybe it’s because he was thoughtful and kind? You remember that there was this one time he, Stan, and you were out playing. Stan and Kyle were on their bikes, and you were on a skateboard. For shits and giggles, you thought it’d be fun to hang on to the back of Kyle’s bike, so you held on to the pillion of his bike. You lost balance, though, falling off your board and scraping your knee really bad.

While Stan was telling you off for being irresponsible and reckless, being the protective brother he is, Kyle laughed it off and pulled out his handkerchief to wrap it around your wound. You viscerally remember Stan proceeding to joke about how Kyle blew his nose into that handkerchief earlier.

To add onto his thoughtfulness, for the following few days after the incident, whenever Kyle was at your place—which was most of the time—he’d always check up on how your wound was. Perhaps he felt bad, freely letting you hang onto the back of his bike like that. It was the consequence of your own stupidity, though.

That was back in middle school, though. You had only ever realized your feelings for Kyle during your junior year of high school.

As cute as it sounded, it really wasn’t. Recently, after your shocking revelation, you began to take notice of flowers bubbling up in your chest. Quite literally. From time to time, you’ll find a few petals, sometimes even a flower, being coughed out of your mouth. How unlucky you were to be the selected few to experience this.

You should’ve expected it, though. Ever since you were a kid, you would start coughing up small petals whenever you were a kid. Although those instances were rare, that didn’t mean they didn’t happen.

You were cooped up in your own room, facing your own mortality. You knew Kyle probably didn’t like you. No way. He’s had a few girlfriends over the years, you being none of them, obviously. Wouldn’t he have already asked you out if he liked you? Besides, you often spotted him at school seemingly interested in other girls.

So now, there were only two solutions to your problem, it was either to face death itself or to get surgery. On the one hand, you could embrace a life of love and immaturity but ultimately meet your demise earlier than it should. On the other hand, you could live longer and have a shot of being successful but sacrificing all the wonderful colors of your life. Luckily, you weren’t knee-deep in the stages of your condition yet, giving you plenty of time to think. 

Your train of thought was put to a halt as you heard a knock on the door.  “YN, sweetie, dinner’s ready.” Your mom said, opening the door just enough for her to send her message clearly. 

“Alright, Mom. I’ll just fix my things.” You said in reply. As she sweetly nodded and closed the door, you checked the petals that littered your bed—white, daffodil petals and flowers. You cleaned your mess up, holding in a deep breath as you made your way downstairs.

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Luckily, dinner was pretty uneventful. It was pretty uncomfortable with your food, though. You could intensely feel the flowers rustling in your chest as your food passed through your throat. How fun.

Once more, you heard a knocking on your door.

“Come in,” you called. The door opened wide, your brother leaning on the door frame.

“Hey, uh,” he paused, retracing his words and thinking of what to say. “Me and the guys are gonna hang out tomorrow. If you aren’t busy and want to come along, no one’s gonna stop you.”

Whenever Stan asked you to hang out with him, it made you smile. It was a thoughtful action for him to invite you to come with his friends since he knew you desperately needed some sense of a stable friendship in your life. You still struggled with the same things you’ve always had trouble with as a child, and he was always there to help you out whenever you needed it.

With a smile, you nodded. “Sure, I’ll come. Where will you guys be?”

“Kyle’s place around noon. You can come with me if you wake up early enough.” He said, critiquing your fabulous sleep schedule before he closed the door and left you on your own.

You were definitely going tomorrow.

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As you and Stan stood in front of the door, he rang the doorbell. Sheila opened the door and happily welcomed you two. You found your spot in the room by the left side of the couch, Stan sitting beside you and Kyle sitting on the very right. Soon enough, Cartman and Kenny had come over as well.

Whenever you spent time with Stan and his friends, you kind of just basked in the atmosphere, even if it is often just a bunch of sweaty guys screaming over some video game.

It’s not a bad thing, though—you actually find it comfortable to be standing by the sidelines. You saw the energy between the guys, and you were just happy to experience sharing a moment with them, even if it felt like you were in another room listening to their conversation.

“Hey, I’m gonna go get some water. Do you guys need anything?” You asked, getting up and looking at them. Cartman ordered you to get a bag of Cheesy Poofs and a glass of Coca-Cola, while Stan, Kenny, and Kyle just asked for water.

You headed into the kitchen, grabbing five glass cups. You filled four of them with water. Now, just Cartman’s Cheesy Poofs and Coke. 

Cartman asking for such was nothing new that's why you knew he needed a straw to go with his coke. You check the refrigerator for any Coke. In your favor, there was. You poured some of the soft drink into the glass, filling it just right. Seeing how there were some straws in a tall container, you got one and placed it in the drink.

Lastly was the bag of Cheesy Poofs. You look inside the cupboards, hoping there was some. Sheila was strict with what children ate, so there was a chance that there wasn’t any. You were looking around the kitchen, but no Cheesy Poofs to be found. You were about to take the drinks back when you were interrupted.

“Here’s his Cheesy Poofs.” A voice said behind you. It was Kyle’s. “Mom recently found out that they may not be kosher after all, so she completely banned Ike and me from eating them.”

“So why do you still have some lying around then?” You raised a brow, confused.

“I keep an extra just for Cartman.”

“I thought you hated him.”

“I do, for sure, but I have to be a good host to my guests as well.”

You chuckled. He seemed to have sacrificed his money and good hiding spots just to let Cartman have it his way. ‘He’s a really thoughtful guy,’ you thought.

“What are you doing here, though? I thought you were trying to be a good host—playing with them and all.” You said a little mindlessly, not really thinking before you spoke first.

“I could be an even better host by helping you out and giving Cartman his Cheesy Poofs that he might’ve never gotten.”

“Oh, well, thank you. What a nice host you are.” You smiled.

He shared a grin back, and you shared a moment of silence. For a second, you wanted to lean in. That was until you were attacked with a violent coughing fit. Kyle quickly rushed to your side as you were hunched over, patting your back.

“Are you okay?” He said worriedly.

“Yeah, don’t sweat it.” You said, catching the petals that fell out of your mouth as you stuffed them in your pocket. 

“Is everything alright?” You heard Stan call out from the other room.

“Yeah, don’t worry!” You yelled back, straightening your back to look back at Kyle. His eyes were on you, flickering to your lips. However, as his eyes landed there, he suddenly looked more concerned than he was just a moment ago.

“You have some blood on your lips. Are you sure you’re okay?” He asked, pointing to where the blood was.

“Oh, shit. Yeah, I think I should get it checked soon.” You were lying. You knew what was the problem. You felt guilty because, even if he wasn’t doing anything, he was contributing to probable demise. “Just… don’t tell Stan.”

You were worried. If Stan found out you had Hanahaki, he would find out that you had a huge crush on his best friend. There was a chance that he would push you to confess to him, and it would be absolutely crushing to hear him tell you that he didn’t like you back.

“Why not?”

“Whenever he tries to protect me, he always just ends up getting on my nerves.” You felt guilty for lying again. Although what you said was true, that was definitely not the reason why you didn’t want him to find out. “I know he means well, but it’s exhausting sometimes.”

“Oh, well,” you pleaded in your head for him not to tell. “Your secret’s safe with me. Just make sure to get checked soon, okay?” He said worriedly, putting a hand on your shoulder.

“Alright.” You nodded. 

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Right now, you were in history. It wasn’t something you were necessarily good at, but it wasn’t something you struggled most with either. You were given free time to finish remaining projects, do homework for other subjects, and study for upcoming tests currently.

For now, you were catching up on a project worth 45% of your grade. As you typed on your laptop to plan out the structure of your project, you felt someone slide right beside you. You take a look to see who it was—Kyle.

“Hey, YN.” He greeted.

“Hello, Kyle.” You returned, your tone a little confused.

“About the thing the other day,” he said. Right now, it was two days after the coughing fit of your life, so you were sure that Kyle was going to ask you about it. “Have you gotten it checked yet?”

Honestly, no. You didn’t care enough to have it checked. It’s not like there was an antibiotic to have it go away. “Ah, yeah. The doctor said it was a chest infection.”

“Why are you here then? Shouldn’t you be at home? What if the infection worsens?”

“Oh, my doctor said it wasn’t that serious, so he just prescribed me some antibiotics.”

“Alright,” he smiled at you. “You really scared me, YN. You seemed so pale that I thought you were about to pass out.” He sighed, distraught.

“I’m so sorry.” The guilt chipped through the cracks of your brain. You felt bad for making him worry so much. 

“It’s not your fault. I just get worried easily whenever someone’s sick.” 

“Ahh, thank you,” you said, staring everywhere else than at Kyle. You couldn’t look at his face. Not at least when you’re lying to him like this.

“Hey,” his voice caused your head to snap back at him. “Uh, I know it’s usually Stan’s place to ask you this, but he and I are gonna head to the arcade later afternoon. Do you wanna come?”

“Cartman and Kenny aren’t coming?”

“Kenny is currently chaperoning his little sister somewhere,” he explained. “Cartman’s… doing Cartman stuff.” You two shared a laugh amongst yourselves, knowing the type of insane things your schoolmate can get himself into—even up to now.

“So what do you say? You wanna come?” He asked. “You know, for old times’ sake, I guess.”

Your mind clicked back to your middle school days when it was often just the three of you. You became closest to him during those days, but high school slowly drew you apart. You were sure why either.

“Let’s see—I’ll think about it.” You returned a polite grin.

“Alright.” He nodded. “See you later, or not.” He got up and made his way across the classroom.

Your eyes were glued to him as he chatted with Bebe. She immediately put his arms around him as she leaned into a kiss. Apparently, he seemed to be embarrassed by PDA, seeing how he gently pushed her back—looking around his surroundings to see if anyone saw them.

Huh. I guess you really didn’t have a chance with him. Should you go to the arcade? You would love to, but perhaps it’s best not to come if you feel like you were going to just sulk all day.

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Days turned into two weeks, and it seemed like you weren’t getting better anytime soon.

Eating became the most rigorous activity ever. Breathing was difficult because of the flowers clogging up your chest. You wore masks to lessen the likeliness of the petals falling out of your mouth. The lie about your chest infection had spread all around town. Everyone believed you, even your parents too.

No one knew a single thing about this—until today.

“YN, can I talk to you?” Stan asked, peering through your door.

You had your mask on still, saying you didn’t want to infect anyone as much as possible. You even ate your food in the comfort of your own room. You only ever went outside your room when you needed to use the restroom, go to school, or buy something you needed.

“Sure,” you replied nonchalantly, slipping on your mask and shoveling the flowers into a trash can.

Your twin brother slowly closed the door before sitting beside you on your bed, a look more worried than you’ve ever seen. “Dude, I’m just gonna get straight to the point—what the fuck is going on with you?” He was extremely upset. You could hear it in his voice.

At this point, you had already made your mind up. You knew what route you wanted to take, and you were going to tell Stan today. Fortunately enough, he was the first one to approach you.

“I,” you paused, thinking of any other way of breaking the news. Taking a deep breath, you continued, “I think I may have Hanahaki Disease.”

“Huh? That shit’s real?” He asked. He didn’t seem like he was judging you. He seemed more so confused.

“Yeah,” you said, pulling your mask down. Your speech was distorted because of the amount of flowers in your mouth. You could hardly move your mouth. You pulled some petals out of your mouth to make yourself more intelligible, tossing them to the side.

All Stan could do was watch in shock. “For how long now?”

“I guess ever since I was a little kid, but—”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?! Or even better, why didn’t you tell Mom?”

“You know how stupid the adults are here! Besides, it wasn’t that serious until recently.”

“YN, coughing up flowers is not not fucking serious. Are you joking yourse—”

“Stan,” you called his name as calmly as you could, although you were starting to get pissed off. “Let me explain… Please.”

He sat there, rolling his arms as he was ready to listen.

“I only got worse when,” you hesitated, saying his name. “When I realized I liked Kyle, which was about a few weeks ago.”

“Wait, wait, wait. You like Kyle? Like, Kyle Broflovski? My best friend Kyle? You like like him?”

“Ever since we were kids, I guess.” You were embarrassed. “When we were younger, I started coughing up petals already. I never thought it was a big deal because a bunch of weird shit happens here anyway. I thought it would just pass.

“That was when, as I said, I realized I liked Kyle. Ever since then, I’ve just gotten worse and worse.”

There was a long pause between you two. You could feel his eyes tearing you apart. You knew he was upset and angry with you. Who wouldn’t feel the same way? A somber  “What will you do now?” was all he said, though.

“I want to get surgery.”

One beat.

“Haven’t you even thought of confessing?”

“Stan, you and I just know for a fact that Kyle doesn’t like me.”

“Don’t put yourself down like that-”

“Has he ever mentioned me whenever you two are together?” Stan shook his head. “You’ve noticed him and Bebe recently as well, right?” He seemed a little confused.

“Your logic is so stupid.”

“Wouldn’t you do the exam the same thing if you were in my position?”

“No. if I were you, I would ask Kyle if he liked me first.”

“I just think I should go with the surgery.” You sighed. “I know I’ll become a completely different person, but I can at least still be able to continue with life, you know? Be able to do something worthwhile in my life.”

“You know what happens when you get surgery, though, right?”

“I’ll become devoid of any emotion whatsoever.” You rolled your eyes, exasperated. ”Yes, Stan, you think I haven’t thought this through?”

“You’re my twin! I don’t want you to become a hollow piece of shit!” 

“Would you rather have a dead man of a sibling or someone you can still talk to?”

“I’d be talking to a literal robot, YN. Both of the choices fucking suck. I’ll still mourn you either way.”

“Those are the only decisions I have. Who are you to decide for me anyway? This is my life, Stan. I’ve already made my decision.”

“Well then, I hate your decision,” Stan pouted as he pulled you into a tight hug.

You felt warm tears fall on your shoulder. You didn’t know what came over you, but you started to cry with him as well. In the back of your mind, you knew that this would be the last few special moments you’ll have with him.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

It took your parents some convincing, but now you were seated in a worn-out, faded hospital room. You quickly grew weak in the span of a week, unfortunately. You found it difficult to hold your body weight up. Eating became so difficult and uncomfortable that you simply just survived on heavy liquids.

Many people were bidding you their goodbyes, all of them of which you cried. It was like you were about truly die.

Even if you’ll still hold the memories of your past, everyone will just see you as a living reminder of what could’ve been. You will become nothing more than a living statue, something that symbolized something.

Despite all this, there was one goodbye, though, that was more painful than most.

Kyle entered the room, holding a bouquet of flowers for you. “Hey, YN. I hope you like these.” He said, handing you the flowers as he took a seat.

The second he stepped inside your room, your heart broke. He seemed exhausted. You didn’t bring it up, though. It’s no good to make people more upset than they already are.

“They’re beautiful, Kyle. Thank you very much.” You said, cuddling the bouquet instead of setting it aside with all the other flowers you had gotten—funnily enough.

There was a haunting silence that fell over you two. He was the one person you regretted lying to most since you specifically told him that you’d go to the doctor and try to get better. You knew it was a lie you’d never be able to get yourself out of, so why did you say it anyway?

“I hate to ask, but,” he said remorsefully. “The thing at my house, where we were joking about me being a good host and all, then you got into a coughing fit—did you already know back then?”

A few beats passed before you spoke. “Yeah.” Guilt nipped at your brain. “I’m so sorry, Kyle. I thought everything would’ve been resolved already by then.”

“Don’t blame yourself. It’s not your fault as to why that person didn’t like you back or anything.” He sighed, giving you a hopeful little smile. How ironic.

You returned the gesture for what would most likely be the last time. “Hey, Kyle?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m just curious, and I know is it’s kinda out of nowhere, but are you and Bebe together?” You wanted to ask just to solidify your assumptions. You were at your end anyway—why not be blunt for once?

“Huh? No.” He seemed confused. “Where’d you get that?” He lightheartedly chuckled. It in no way eased your entire situation, but it did make you a little happier. How selfish of you.

“Oh, I thought I saw Bebe kiss you once.”

His face turned red as he facepalmed himself. “The one a few weeks ago? Yeah, no. She liked me. I’m not into her at all, so I pushed her back, rejecting her.”

Now this time you felt embarrassed, covering your face in your hands. “Sorry…” You quietly muttered.

“It’s fine.” He patted your head.

Silence fell between you two, but you decided to break it. “Thanks, Kyle. I’ll miss you a lot. Even if we never became super close or anything, I’d still consider you to be one of my best friends.”

You suddenly felt a force push behind you. Next thing you know, your face was right against his chest. You could feel your hair get wet, feeling teardrops like rain fall upon you. You were holding tears before this, and feeling him sob on top of you just broke you as well.

You two stood there, crying until your heads burst from pain. You had many discoveries as people bid you their goodbyes—this was no different as well.

You were at your end, that’s for sure. The moment you step out of that surgery room, it will be over for you. The surgery was a dream-crushing procedure, literally. You still had morals in the end, but you wouldn’t really have a personal driving force within you.

You hated that. You wouldn’t experience heartbreak and anxiety anymore, sure, but you’ll never experience happiness and love as well.

You’ll miss how your brother invited you to hang out with his friend. You’ll miss how your mom took care of you whenever you caught a bad cold. You’ll miss sneaking out at night to do a bunch of things you’ll regret the morning after. You’ll miss squealing over a mundane text that Kyle sent. You’ll miss it all.

You didn’t want to kill the person you are right now to escape your pain. You would keep the person you are currently if you could. However, that wasn’t a choice. Will it be worth it? Who’s to say? At least you still have a chance to pay your parents the money you owe them. At least it was the more logical thing to do as well, you figured.

One of you pulled back—you weren’t sure who it was since your head was all dizzy. You couldn’t look at him in the face and believed he thought the same thing as well since you saw in the peripherals that he couldn’t look down at you.

“Before you go,” you muttered, reaching behind you and pulling out a letter, handing it to him. “This is yours.”

The letter was all of the things you wish you could’ve told him. You couldn’t leave him at such an abrupt ending. You cared about him too much for that. So you told him everything you needed to in this letter. You even included your biggest mistake in the letter: liking him.

“Oh.” he was taken aback as he read the back of the envelope. It read, ‘Open me after surgery, thanks!’ He smiled at the thought of receiving a letter, hoping it would lighten the mood. “Thank you, YN.”

Moments later, he wiped his eyes and made his way to the door. “I’ll see you soon, alright?” You nodded, not being able to trust your own voice much more.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

“Kyle. Sharon just called me,” Sheila said to Kyle, opening his door. “She said that YN’s doing better now. She told me that they should be out of the hospital in a few days from now. You should visit them.”

“I will, Mom. Thanks.” He smiled. Sheila then left, closing the door right after.

YN’s note sat by his desk. He hadn’t checked it yet. He wasn’t exactly sure why. Seeing how they had gotten out of surgery, though, he should probably check it right now. He felt a sense of dread the closer he inched to his desk, to YN’s letter. He picked it up, letting out a breath he didn’t know he was even holding.

The envelope was decorated neatly. There were cute stickers plastered pretty much everywhere, except for the dead center, where the words ‘Open me after surgery, thanks!’ were written.

Hi, Kyle.

Hopefully, you’re reading this after my surgery. If not, come back later! It’s not fun to watch a movie knowing the big twist. Although, that does sound fucked up in this context, lol. 

Now, you should be back right now. After my surgery, yeah? I don’t know where I should start.

Actually, maybe I do. To start off, you’re the only one I gave a letter to. Now don’t feel bad—I did tell everyone what I wanted to tell them before I got my surgery. It’s just you who didn’t get their full message. Sorry.

I think meeting you was my greatest mistake. If I didn’t take up Stan’s many invitations to hang out with you guys, I wouldn’t be in this predicament. Of course, he was just being a good person, but I guess you could also blame him for all this mess as well. Kidding.

I really like you, though, Kyle. I know that you don’t like me back. There’s no need to say it. Even if you are reading this post-surgery, there’s no way to tell me that. It’s such a shame, though. I have to throw all my hopes and dreams like this just because I find you cute, witty, and charming.

It’s not your fault, though. I’m sure you know that. You’re a pretty smart and sensible guy. If you blame yourself for this, I think I’m gonna fall out of love with you.

I know I’ve been joking around in this letter, and while everything I have said is true for the most part, I’ll be genuine for a second.

It’s quite pathetic this disease is. Imagine dying because this person you like doesn’t like you back. It’s really fucking stupid. I wish I never liked you just so I could be with you right now. That seems a tad bit too paradoxical to be true, no?

I have and never will love anyone like I loved you. I thought it was a small crush. It was something more, after all. This is probably what I’m meant to be.

Sometimes, I wonder if you became embarrassed of me, seeing how you started to grow more distant from me when became a little older. I don’t know. I hope I’m just reading between the lines a bit too much.

It feels so embarrassing to admit this all to you. I hope you won’t treat me differently after I get the surgery. 

I hope that there is another universe that is straight out of the dreams I made of you and me. Where we’d live happily together and cook pies or something. I’m sure, that if we were living together, you would make even the most mundane and tedious things worthwhile.

I’m gonna bury the person I am right now into a daydream with you that’ll last forever.

Yours in every way possible,

YN

He stood in the dark of his room. Mind blank. He didn’t know how to react. 

There was only thought in his mind, though: he could’ve saved you if he simply told you how he felt as well.

[fishing-lesbian-catgirl]

I understand…

that my failures to incorporate things that would contribute to improving my health, like exercising, is not a moral failing. I understand that to a certain degree, my inability to do much of anything with my time not spent at my full time job don’t necessarily make me a worse person. I understand that my mental illness contribute significantly to my constant fatigue and that comparing myself to other people is fruitless because we have different conditions of living. I understand that my behaviors, never leaving my apartment, never exercising, staying up too late trying to make up for how much time is lost to having a full time job, and spending all my time looking at screens, regardless of whether they are “coping mechanisms” or simply how i do things, are somewhat responsible for me being frequently depressed and exhausted. I understand that most of said behaviors are things I do as a result of other problems I have, and that they can typically be traced back to previously mentioned mental illnesses. I understand that progress is gradual, and that even though I feel like I’m going nowhere and getting worse, if I simply look back on where I was and compare it to where I am now I can see that I’ve made a ton of progress. I understand that even if I was truly stagnating, failing to improve in any meaningful way or even if I was getting worse, that wouldn’t mean I’m a bad person. I understand that, all things considered, just getting through each day is a success I should be happy with. I understand that there are other people who have it worse or who have spiraled further down into misery, and I understand that that isn’t a moral failing either. I understand that life is unfair. I understand that the conditions of living in our society the way it currently is are massively contributing factors to misery and depression. I understand that if I want to feel less miserable I need to make small steps, and that one day maybe I won’t be constantly fatigued, maybe I won’t be afraid and ashamed of existing, maybe I’ll be healthier, maybe I’ll have the energy to cook more, maybe I’ll be less lonely. I understand that even if it takes years to get there, I am taking it step by step. I understand that one of the large reasons why I am feeling so terrible at the current moment to make this post is that I’ve gone half a week without my proper prescription doses of my extremely mood affecting hormones medications. I understand that reason I am currently and frequently go days without proper prescription doses is because I forget or put off the appointments and phone calls and other steps I need to do to prevent the problems until it’s too late. I understand that my reason for trying so hard to put off said problems until I can’t ignore it anymore is because whenever I think about the future and the things I have to do I get so overwhelmed by anxieties and fears that it sends me into its own depression spiral. I understand that all of this doesn’t make me a worse person. I understand that my original intent to make this post end with “what I don’t understand is what I’m supposed to do to try to fix all this” is self defeating and negative and would completely undercut all the sentences I literally just typed to tell myself that I’m making progress. I understand that I have a lot of problems. I understand that I’m doing my best to do what I can, and that being hard on myself for not doing more only makes it harder with no benefit.

So. I guess I understand.

[ceruleanwhore]

So now I'm psychoanalyzing Jin, I guess

WARNINGS: Spoilers and also TW for mentions of violence, murder, and suicide.

Ever since I started thinking about how maybe Jin isn’t actually the worst, maybe he’s just badly written, I’ve ended up kind of diving into psychoanalyzing him and now I think I can honestly say that I feel bad enough for him that I don’t dislike him anymore — he’s firmly in ‘poor little meow meow’ territory and I like pathetic men. But I just wanted to share some of that psychoanalysis here because I think y’all might appreciate it.

So I started with kinda inventorying his trauma and thinking through from what’s in the text what he would have lurking in his brain and, of course, there’s quite a lot. Growing up in abject poverty is traumatizing in and of itself, but he also had to watch his mom get sick and had to provide for them as best he could at a very young age since he couldn’t and, in the end, it wasn’t enough and she died. Then there’s the matter of learning the truth of who he is and who his father is and returning to the palace where he’d then stay and live among the same people who so violently hated his mother that they basically killed her, and then there’s Bloodstained Rose Day.

The thing with his parents, though, is that it isn’t just how he had to sit there and watch his parents fall apart and eventually die because of their doomed relationship, it’s also that day in and day out he gets to hear about how his parents never should have been together in the first place. It’s a sentiment that he internalizes so much that he makes Clause 99, and yet by saying that they never should have fallen in love, everyone is also saying that Jin never should’ve been born. Clause 99 is actually fucking depressing because it’s basically Jin saying that, if he could go back in time and prevent his parents from ever falling in love, he would, even though that would mean he wouldn’t exist. We also see this suicidal streak in Luke’s route with how his answer to that whole conflict is to just stand there and tell his brother to kill him.

I think this is largely fueled by guit, both in the case of the stuff with his parents and, more obviously, in the case of Layla’s death. I imagine that Jin might have felt responsible for his mother’s death since they were so poor and just by existing he required resources and could’ve felt like that contributed to her illness and death. There’s also the part where the king wouldn’t have spiraled the way he did if he never learned of her death from Jin and, especially since his mother did tell him to never go to the palace and he was disobeying her final request of him or whatever when he told the king the bad news, he probably blames himself for the late king’s decline. 

So what I’m seeing in terms of mental health is a bunch of PTSD and depression with passive suicidal ideation, but he doesn’t have the support system or tools to actually heal so he relies on unhealthy coping mechanisms, mainly alcohol and sex. I think that some of his biggest motivation is proving his value to himself and the people around him, like everything he does is more or less in an effort to somehow prove that his existence is worth it. It would probably be a massive internal conflict of guilt and self hatred vs. the desire to feel like, in spite of how things went for his parents, it was worth it for him to be born. We see in the story how hard he works and how valuable that work is as well as how he’s built relationships with his brothers and also takes the time and puts in the effort to get the people of Rhodolite to like him as well, and even goes so far as to try and help people from Obsidian too. 

I think the biggest example, though, is what he does in his route right after Emma arrives in the palace of forcefully inserting himself into her daily schedule by insisting on being her tutor. This annoyed me when I read it because it felt contradictory for Jin to do that after going to such lengths to avoid catching feelings and specifically trying to prevent any future Belles from falling in love with any future princes, and forced proximity is definitely bad for trying not to catch feelings for someone. However, if we think of it in this framework and consider it as a way he seeks to gain validation of his existence and worth, it makes sense because the very first thing he does is create a situation where she needs him to do exactly what he does. She passes Sariel’s test because all the questions were about what she saw when he was dragging her around town and shit but, more importantly, she then goes back to Jin and thanks him for his help and I think she even apologizes for resisting his intrusions, which is exactly the sort of validation I’m talking about.

I also think this seeking of validation is one of multiple contributing factors to his casual relationships with women. I believe it’s a combination of this desire for validation, a fear of commitment, self-soothing for all the trauma, and trying to ignore the part of him that does want the deeper intimacy of a real relationship by engaging in more casual physical intimacy. I also think that the narrative of Jin’s story takes all of those things and puts some combination of them in every interaction he has with Emma. He flirts with her when she first arrives because he wants to literally conquer his biggest fear and just fuck and dump her before he can catch feelings, he seeks validation by helping her, he goes to absurd lengths to create situations to allow himself to be around her while also trying to maintain distance to prevent feelings from developing. It all culminates in him admitting that he does want that deeper intimacy, overcoming that fear of commitment, and letting her in because he knows she’s a safe person who can give him that validation and help heal his trauma.

Now, I want to talk about Luke, Layla, and Bloodstained Rose Day. I think they tried to set up a parallel between Layla and Jin but never fully got there and the most we really get with that is how Luke is with interpersonal relationships and the part where these two are the only people he’s ever been close to. However, I do think it goes deeper than that because I think, if it were written better, Layla would be like a physical manifestation of Jin’s inner child. Just like how Layla was mortally wounded from the building collapsing and begged him to kill her in order to stop her pain, Jin’s inner child is still bleeding out somewhere inside him, begging for death just like her. I think that, when he pulled her out of that rubble and she was then bleeding out and asking him to kill her, he saw himself in her and slit her throat without hesitation, doing for her exactly what his inner child wishes he would do for himself. In the moment, I think it was more suicide than murder but then, after he did it, he then would’ve had this moment of realization that he just killed a child and that would begin the years of inner conflict about it and would contribute to stuff like his decision to make those graves.

So yeah, going through all of that psychoanalysis really helped me reach this conclusion that Jin doesn’t suck, he just isn’t written well and now I don’t hate him anymore, which is great. I just wish that the Ikemen games were better at handling their own characters because it fucking sucks that all of this and more is hidden in the text and they do nothing with it so he ends up coming across as an unlikeable dick. Especially since he is the first prince, I think it’s a real shame they did him so dirty when they had all the makings for a deep, complex, empathetic character.

[acknowledgetheabsurd]

I only found your letter when I came home yesterday after dinner - and it made me sad for you and for your father. I just think that the hardest thing is to clear his system for the serum. It's going to take some time. But as soon as it is done, all hope will be given. Courage, my darling. I'm sure, for some reason, that everything will change for the better. The day was very tiring. Lunch at Gide's where I made an effort to speak. At eighty we only talk to people out of politeness, it's obvious. The eye is turned inwards - not to others. So that makes a kind and pure conversation that quickly becomes exhausting. 

After lunch I was given a room for my ritual rest. But I had neither my books nor my papers and you know I don't sleep. So I brooded. This illness sometimes discourages me. But I'll tell you another day how. At half past three I couldn't take it anymore and went for a walk. The weather was wonderful. I walked along the sea. It was the soft and blue sea of the summer days, the curve of the gulf was exact, and in all the sky the honey of the end of the afternoon was beginning to spread out. During all this time at least my heart calmed down. I was more sad than revolted. There is only nature and a certain nature especially that can save me from everything. I had found sweetness again. 

At 5 o'clock, tea with Gide who was still asleep and who repeated every two minutes: "voilà, voilà". Then we went to Dolo's, to whom we had promised to have a drink. Bloch-Michel was there. Dolo amused me for a while with her loquaciousness. Speaking of me in the house of Cabris, she said: "With your air of a Spanish nobleman reigning over a house, you would discourage Christ himself" or of my plays (she was an actress): "you lose weight playing them"; and again "Tenderness! Yes, there is tenderness, but at the last minute, at the moment of separation". Like that for an hour. Finally, she made us a fish soup, offered me an American pen, vitamins and a comb that cuts your hair while combing! And we went home. 

I sighed when I arrived in Cabris. The air was finally pure, light, delicious like fresh water. The sky was so full of stars that it looked grey. Here again, a sweetness. I promised myself not to go down again. I can't stand society anymore and there are still too many people in Cabris for me. You, the work, the beauty, that would be enough to fill my life. I went to bed - but I don't know why after reading your letter I couldn't fall asleep. That lost day was weighing on me. I tossed and turned until 4 o'clock in the morning. Everything that hurts me has gone there. I saw again (I can speak to you with an open heart, isn't that so my only love!) F[rancine's] unhappy face for a few days. It is a bad suffering from the one who can neither speak nor shout. And I suffer badly from this of which I am the author, in spite of myself. 

At certain hours when we are, most amiably indifferent, in appearance, I am torn with pity. I would like to soothe her, to speak to her gently, to tell her that it is an imaginary evil. I would especially like her to ask me anything difficult and exhausting, I don't know, work in a mine, climb the Himalayas, cure lepers. But she doesn't ask me anything, except to love her, and she doesn't even ask me - because everything is clear to her, the lie covered everything and she could live, if not happily, at least calmly, in the illusion maintained by the little we shared. Now I feel humiliated and defeated, and my helplessness is increasing. 

Forgive me for talking to you about this, but it exists, we know it well, and the certainty that I now share with you makes me more free to say here all that I feel. And then this insomnia has made me tired and more sensitive. How I love you, from the depths of my being, for helping me by the quality of your heart alone, to be truly myself. I kiss your hands with the love and respect that fill me, with the tears of joy and sorrow. 

I come back to this letter, unable to sleep. I have not spoken to F[rancine], she only knows that I love you. And I am unhappy, no doubt, to hit her like that and to diminish her, but it is also true that I could bear to be a thousand times more unhappy and guilty, on the condition that I possess and love you. Yes, I am also able to lose my own esteem to keep you. At least, I believe so - what is certain is that in the midst of these awful fogs of suffering and folly, I have only one light: you. I am telling you all this to take away your worries. I am here, I am waiting for you, I'm watching over you. Completely without illusion this time I repeat to you that I will understand if you don't write. What worries me are the silences without reason. But I know that you must be close to your father, help him, heal him at last. And nothing, neither silence or cries, change anything in my heart or the love with which I finally wait for you.

Albert Camus to Maria Casarès, Correspondance, February 16, 1950 [#196]

[toinfinitywinning]

What you see & hear- or even if you can. Just a cover.

Open it? There’s no tellin’ the worm. But you bought the ticket. It’s your Day 1.

They’re gonna try to break you.

Yk every Day I wake up. And I’m scared of it. Don’t want to. And not b/c im warm in my bed snuggling w/ my feather duvet and rain, with the weight of a horse on my legs play pretending he’s a 3 lb Show shhnowzaa but b/c I’ve already, already lived it. And having been in a constant State of fight or flight, normal or abnormal, sometimes u can’t tell —I still feel bad. W/e differentiation you had to separate the two both ended up at the North Pole but you’ve at least got Santa.

So this means I’m confused all Day but I still want some of Michael’s Secret Stuff Gatorade (haterade) from “welcome to the space jam—alright.” 🎵. To get me through. A safe energy drink. And your body doesn’t ☊ anymore so the more you talk to yourself the saner. It’s just I’ve never had to fake I’m physically okay to be present so much. Physical sickness affects ur mind Health and if you already struggle w/ that my condolences b/c your leg hurts too.

It’s a nightmare never 1-upping to a dream of being without. Then some days it’s will hear a song or remember a Good time or just Start crying-faucet not included. No acute-reason onset. (We gotta find another word for trigger no joke). I only subconsciously wonder will today be better…Will I get better? And I don’t know why I continue to continue being somewhere inbtw positive and negative. All the sudden my mind is taxed and so are your paychecks and I’ve been up for 15 minutes not even thinking I was thinking b/c Truth is, when something becomes your reality for such a Long time, everything just runs together. You’re afraid to feel anything yet know if you don’t it’s not just your body ready to atrophy. Not Good. And it’s a sneaky lil’ mf.

I can’t Imagine the omnipresent (best word for constant I got) Pain people feel having been with Illness their whole lives. How differently their world is shaped. Pain, prolonged cynicism, Illness prolonged, disability prolonged, w/e u used to think about things is gone unless you’re born one of these ways. Now to be clear I was born this Way but not THIS Way don’t get it twisted. Some days I wonder what it would be like to swap around. W/e it is—This presence does not belong to God— but maybe its mere existence really does b/c we won’t have anyone to thank if things get better? And there’s no joy in the things we’ve hoped for and overcome? And everything always has an End result of some kind…Right? If that’s my endgame I can only look at some things very matter of fact-ly. But. Here we are. Pending. Loading. Accept All Cookies. Your Health for potential healing is At the mercy of literally a button click away from quality or lifesaving or changing Medicine or therapy. CAN YOU AFFORD TO STAY ALIVE? Be fired? Bankrupt-ed? Evicted? No college, no trade School, but you work ur butt off to provide but you’re still paid $7.25/hr as I was as head intramural supervisor at Georgetown College. 15 years ago. Not just that, exist, like eating, clothes to wear, some sort of roof. So you’re choosing between crappy and crappier. Literally no difference. How in the is someone even going to try to stay healthy?!

Thankfully I don’t have to worry as much about the material, which, its Stress alone induces more trauma and Anxiety, but I’d bet how we feel physically isn’t too different. All the sudden again in the subconscious where I am all the time I’m figuring and not truly present you really think existentially like how in not God’s name clearly did I get here? I fixed everything. But Life isn’t played by a claw that has never won anybody a teddy bear. I wouldn’t pin karma to me in itself but it sure makes you think.

None of this is about to make sense but it’s where my mind took me.

Think about what was happening in your Life before things changed. Before literally waking up one Morning and knowing that very second things had to change or I was headed toward death a lot faster than I thought until that God moment. I don’t have many of them that are that dramatic but nothing was clearer to me in that moment. And then that Damn bat and conspiracy crap of government population control. If anthrax was sprinkled in Amazon boxes we’d be extinct. But Pretty sure we know how to get rid of people without breaking a beaker or test tube and then turning on a fan just gifting particles. And Unraveling ALL of the many ways of healing I’d finally lived into. I was so close. To every Fk up id invited. And so asking why anymore seems vacant. Echoing. And my ears hurt. ATP I’m More so saying well, I’m not sure that strategy is going to work anymore. Where’s the ღ in Health. It’s lost it. How much are you worth? No, like write down a monetary number on a piece of paper, fold it and slide it across the desk. Insurance companies be like: I see your offer and I’ll raise your offer: have you tried dying yet? B/c you could save a lot of money that way. The money it will take to bury you might even be more deadly.

So The most defeating part is beginning the Day as it ends. When I think about that it’s just like how did I get here? I’m still stubborn about it but maybe regardless of w/e someone accomplishes there’s the reality you’re still living in an imperfect world where you can only control so many things. Even if u gain that control back all those traps R still available. So you can Imagine my surprise when there’s not enough OCD to Go around to control THIS. regardless of what we can have control over, do that, b/c the smaller victories become magnified and walking to the kitchen to take your Meds that may or may not be helping is like an 8-ball w/ only 8 options. Eenie meenie miney. Mo.

I don’t set out to cry or tear up in the videos I share. I’ve always been a cryer. I’ve been told I feel things more intensely so it hits different, does different. The direct quote will remain anonymous but the sentimental pack rat in me wrote it down ASAP. Like, a handwritten letter. You took TIME for me. The quote—It was several years ago and I almost can’t stand it b/c it’s me in whatever kind of Shell is available at the time.

[“people perceive me as an individual who has the kindest of all hearts, but who struggles with the realities of life given that kindness…Like how the tenderhearted feel the pains of the earth more intensely.”]

It’s so true. But if I can’t be real what Good’s that gonna do? For me it further affirms what I already am living. In Edgar’s scary A** pit or with the company of not one canary in the coal mine.

C���ya in the AM. 🫡

[sarcastic-salem]

If you’re into the whole natural aging that’s fine. I agree that no one should have to spend their whole life constantly preening and covering themselves up in 10lbs of makeup. If they don’t want to. You’re allowed to grow your hair heart long and snarled and gray, you’re allowed to free the titties — seriously, I do that a lot. No bras or binders if I’m at home.

You could even go live in a dirt hut in the middle of the Smokey Mountains and have a mud bath.

If you want to.

But here’s the thing some people enjoy makeup. That doesn’t mean they wear it every day or reconstruct their face like a mask with contouring. As far as I’m concerned, those people are extremists. With probably very bad self-esteem issues.

So maybe you oughta work on building people up a bit instead of dictating their appearance, yeah?

Some people enjoy being sexualized and that includes men, women, and enbies.

And ffs do not turn this into a conversation about how problematic the character Harley Quinn is. Because she isn’t. Saying otherwise only goes to show that

You missed the entire point of Birds Of Prey and her origin story. BoP has a stronger feminist message than Captain Marvel. That message is that women should build each other up in order to take down the patriarchy. Which is why it has a reputation as “misandrist trash” among the incels.

You haven’t picked up a comic book or tuned into a Batman animated film in about 10 years. Harley is an ANTIHERO with her own set of ethically grey morals. She has been problematic in the past but she has also —

-Owned an animal shelter

-Worked as a psychiatrist while working to overcome her own mental illness

-Placed her daughter, Lucy, in her sister’s care so that the Joker would have no access to her

-Stopped the Joker from blowing up a fucking orphanage

She’s even an honorary member of the Batfam because she has helped them solve crimes. And annoyed the shit outta them in the process.

Why, because Bruce Wayne — a man who has gotten two of his children killed and doesn’t believe in therapy — has a better sense of empathy, and a better understanding of the psychological ramifications of domestic abuse, manipulation tactics, and cult brainwashing headgames than anyone

Who guilt trips people for wearing the clothing & makeup that they want to wear

And I am not intentionally sexualizing mental illness in anyone. My point is only that

The character Harley Quinn enjoys being sexualized.

Yeah, I know Margot Robbie did not enjoy it as much and that is why she was an executive producer on Birds Of Prey, and if you watch the movie you will see that Harley is a lot more covered up in BoP than in Suicide Squad 2016. In fact, one of the complaints mostly commonly mentioned in the hateful reviews for the film is that “Harley wasn’t hot enough anymore.” My own step-father said that when we walked out of the cinema, and I had to stop myself from smacking him.

Sadly, dressing in uncomfortable outfits often comes hand-in-hand with acting gigs and I think that all actors should have more say over their character wardrobes. Hollywood, however, tends disagree.

And if anyone has any objections to Pinhead’s presence, I seriously suggest you pick up a copy of Clive Barker’s Hellbound Heart.

Seriously, though, why do you think poledancing classes exist?

Do you think there are no strippers or models anywhere on this earth that don’t enjoy their work? Seriously?

Like I said, you can be into the natural aging thing.

But the second you start shaming people who aren’t into it, you become an asshole👌🏻

Sorry about the monster long essay about Harley Quinn — absolutely not the point of this post. But the second I list her as a feminist role model, my inbox gets fucking flooded with TERFy radfem bullshit.

[iwishiwasawhiteguyin1985]

I absolutely think this would be a thing.

And Dick would absolutely starting with Tim try and redirect Bruces moods towards himself bc hes the oldest hes gotta take care of kid siblings.

Bc Dick has always been Bruces emotional regulation.

And yes, it wouldnt really start until Tim bc Dick was so pissed with Bruce when jaybin was a thing he wouldnt have been around often unless Bruce was REALLY bad to the point even over in Blüd criminals were talking about how off the little bird had been and how batman didnt seem to care and was business as usual

But after Jays death??? He wouldn’t let another kid go through that. Like yeah he initially tells Tim to basically go knock himself out have fun being Robin but a few days later he wraps up whatever case he’d been working in and everything Tim had said to him hits him and hes like noPE WAIT GOTTA GO CHECK ON THE KIDDO

He already failed one kid he wasn’t gonna fail another.

And like its only been a fee days and Tim is already used to being ignored by adults bc FUCK the Drakes.

Dick checks on him and yells at bruce and then, the cycle well and truly begins. Bc you Jason would tell Dick if bruce had been really bad, but it took a lot for Jason to say an adult was angry enough it bothered him. He was from crime alley he grew up on the streets he knew what angry adults were like.

But Tim??? He was neglected but never had he been in the care of such an emotionally volatile person. It took much less for Tim to say ‘hey B seems really upset today is this normal????’ And like he just wanted to know how to fix it how to please him how to be Robin for him and dick is just like….. whelp ill be there on my day off Timbo don’t worry abt it leave him be.

And thats just…. How things roll. Then eventually Dick winds up back in Gotham bc Blüd is pretty much completely gone after that explosion and it isn’t safe for people to be there anymore so he’s back at the manor and and just slips back into his Robin days of being Bruces emotional support orphan and keeping B occupied and training Tim.

Then Jay back and Damian is brought to them and oh, Dick sees so much of himself in that angry hurt confused little boy.

Bruce and Jason constantly fight and Dick constantly shoves his way between them, forcing them apart and mediating. Eventually convinces Jay to please leave dealing with Bruce to him because ‘Little wing let me help you now in sorry i didn’t enough before’ and Jay genuinely doesn’t know what to do with a Dick Grayson who looks so broken and defeated. So Dick texts him when family dinner is gonna be on dinner days Bruce either isn’t there or is in a good mood. And things get a bit better on the Jayson side of things.

But Bruce ignores Damian. Barely ever acknowledges his existence. Dick watches as Damian struggles. Damian isn’t good at communicating his needs and rarely speaks at all but when he does it is stiff and so formal and that distinctly brit-ish english accent most english as a second language speakers from literally anywhere but Canada or the US speaks and its so formal and grammatically correct- as if out of a textbook.. Dick realizes all this one night as he hears Damian muttering to himself, crying in his room, Arabic and mandarin rolling off his tongue smoothly and- Dick only catches a few of the Arabic words here and there but by god.

The amount of *emotion* in that boys voice. Dick knows a little bit of Arabic. He picked it up when Talia and Bruce had dated all those years ago. He slowly approaches Damian and pulls him close, and just says *’I’ve got you, habibi, you are safe now. You are okay. I will protect you’* in stilted Arabic and its awkward on his lips after so many years of disuse and that basically sums up all of his skill with the language he has anymore but Damian *breaks*. And he realizes,

It’s not that Damian doesn’t have things he wants to say. He isn’t just being stubborn and giving the silent treatment. He just quite literally *does not know the words behind his feelings about everything happening right now in his life*.

And well, doesn’t that just strike Dick as so hauntingly familiar because his own english was similarly shaky and tenuous at best when taken in by bruce at a similar age because he grew up speaking a mix of Yiddish and Russian and Spanish and Romani and oh, his newest brothers anger is because he cant communicate. he is lashing out because he is frustrated and doesn’t know how to express what he really feels in a tangible way anyone at the manor really understands. Like a baby who cannot yet speak he is acting out and confused because he does not understand. All he gets is keywords and the cold callous emotions of Batman’s face, and disdain on Bruces. He starts learning more Arabic again both on his own and with Damians help and in return Dick helps Damian learn more english and helps him where Bruce leaves him to flounder. Bruce who is damn well nearly fluent in Arabic doesn’t think to maybe speak his son’s first language with him bc why would he? Damian spoke english to him when they first met so clearly he must speak it plenty fine.

Tims parents die and bruce gives him a pat on the shoulder and doesn’t say another word. Dick is there when Tim gets angry and screams and punches and yells. Bruce tries to start yelling at Tim when he walks in on him just punching nightwing and screaming at him one time, and Dick immediately whips around and yells at bruce that ‘my brother is angry and grieving isnt it better he feels safe letting it out with me instead of taking it to the streets like you did with me?!’ And bruce just grunts and walks away.

Even after watching his mother die Bruce still ignores Damian and Dick is there to hold him and comfort him because ‘oh, habibi it is okay i know how this feels it will get better i promise i love you you are safe.’ He knows how it feels to watch helplessly as his mother falls to her death after all.

He keeps Damian close and yells at Bruce a few weeks later when he gets angry at Damian because while on patrol he stumbled and missed nearly fell when dick had taken a second too long for Damian’s comfort to shoot off his grappling hook and ‘Robin you cant let yourself be emotional like that on patrol!’ And Dick just absolutely lays into bruce.

Dick keeps himself firmly lodged between Bruces moods and his boys. He calls them his brothers. But those are *his* boys. And then Bruce is gone in the time stream and everyone’s hurting from it and Tim hunts him down, when he finds evidence that hes alive, because being Batman is killing Dick.

Never mind that Dick had pushed him away he knew it wasn’t really personal and yeah it bothered him that Damian got to be Robin to Dicks batman but its *fine* he is used to going it alone thank-you. Even though it coming from Dick of all people really hurt. But after he calms from the anger he understands it, Damian is just a kid. And Tim spent most of his time with the Titans anyways. But he hates seeing Dick destroy himself this way so he gets Bruce back.

After all of that, and when the dust finally settles Bruce starts actually trying. And dick is bitter and jaded but takes it all with a smile as Bruce takes his boys. He doesn’t totally leave, he stays close enough. But it isn’t the same.

And oh, his boys were desperate for their father to love them so Dick allows it. Tentatively, and with a watchful eye, but he lets it happen.

Because thats what Bruce needs too and as long as the boys are no longer being hurt by him? Once it seems that Bruce is genuinely changing? Well. Dick will always sacrifice his emotional needs for the rest of them. Because he will always do whatever it takes to regulate Bruce, and protect his boys. Even if it breaks him.

you know that thing that’s like. your mom controls the mood in whole house, so like when she’s mad, it’s a bad day for everyone?

do you think the batkids have that with bruce?

i’m usually the biggest champion of “let bruce be a good and thereby emotionally heathy dad” but speaking semi-realistically:

do you think that bruce, out of the cowl, is so emotionally volatile that he creates the vibe for the whole house?

do you think tim would text jason and be like “not a good day don’t come by” just to spare himself and everyone else from bruce blowing up on someone

do you think damian breathes a sigh of relief whenever he wakes up and bruce is in a good mood because it means he can relax

and that bruce still doesn’t notice that on his worst days, everyone either avoids him or does whatever he asks, no questions, just because they don’t want to tempt his wrath

i just wonder if bruce sets the tone for the day, no matter what. and i wonder if, like me, they all grew up knowing that a bad day for bruce was a bad day for them too?

[roadkillthefox]

It’s been a week now, and I’m still startled by how little I care. I don’t even think about him all that much. Mostly just when a song reminds me of him. It’s strange. The two people I had before him each took a long time to get over. Maybe it’s because this time I saw it coming. This time I was the one who walked away. Maybe that’s why it doesn’t hurt.

I fantasize often about having a partner who understands me. Someone who knows how much it hurts just to exist. I know it’ll never happen. That’s why the perfect partner only exists in my mind. Because perfection is a lie. I shouldn’t realized that before I fell for him, I guess. But I was lonely, as I usually am, and I wanted to have someone. Like an idiot, I saw the red flags and made the conscious decision to ignore them anyway.

I’ll probably die alone, still young, as my illness gets worse and I lose my will to fight it. As the world around me collapses. Likely it’ll end by my own hands. I’ve come to accept this reality. I just wish I could know when. How many days do I have? My sickness, my pain. It isn’t getting any better. Looking back, it was always bad, maybe at a 3 or a 4 most days. But these days, it’s usually 5 or 6. I doubt that I’ll go back down again. In fact, I suspect that it’ll only get worse. I just want to know how long I have before the pain gets too bad for me to handle. So I can plan accordingly. I want to live before I die. I’m not scared of death, only of not living first. I don’t want to die in a hospital bed. I want it to be somewhere I feel safe. Somewhere I belong. After living first. But as the days go by and my pain gets worse, I worry more.

I’ve begun to count the days, tracking my pain each day. I have a doctor appointment in five weeks. I know I’ll be ignored. That’s okay. I know there’s something wrong with me.

There’s just so much I wish I could do. My wrists hurt constantly, but I want so badly to play guitar again, to actually learn it. But I can barely move my hand. My eyes have started to get even more sensitive to light, which is probably a symptom of something as well.

I don’t know what I’m talking about anymore. I guess I’m just rambling because I don’t have anyone in the real world to talk to about this stuff. I know that no one will see this, and that’s fine. It isn’t really for anyone. It’s just for me to know that I said something. Because I need to say these things.

[howaboutcastiel]

That One Angsty Fic (Moon Boys)

Summary: It doesn’t always make sense, but some days are just bad ones. Sometimes you’re your own worst enemy, and it takes losing a battle with yourself to see that. Marc, Steven, and Jake are able to see it, even if you can’t at first. 

Author’s Note: This fic was originally supposed to end differently. Writing it was therapeutic for me, and the ending was also supposed to be, but revelations in therapy and changes in medications have made things different. Just… it exists. 

Content Warning: ⚠️ Mental illness, sensory overload, anxiety and panic attacks, self harm ideation, self harm (cutting), suicidal language/suggestiveness, kinda graphic depiction. Other stuff I don’t know how to tag, just generally take caution. Hopeful ending. 

Word Count 7.3k

Sometimes rabbit holes are hard to climb out of.

Sitting at your desk alone, waiting for your boys to come home, it was easy to dig yourself deeper. The cars on the street below you were too loud. The overhead lights were too bright and the draft from the windows was far too strong. The inclination to sink into your own thoughts was hard to resist, especially since you didn’t realize you were doing it.

Today really fucking sucks. I feel like I can’t do anything. I can’t eat right, I can’t sleep right, and I certainly can’t do my schoolwork correctly. I’m overdue on returning a library book and I haven’t scheduled that very important meeting with my advising professor. Everything is working out and my life is going dandy right now, but holy fucking shit do I feel like a massive failure.

They always say to reach out for help. The professionals say “you have people who love you, they want you to come to them.” God if that isn’t further from the truth. Sure, my mom told me she was proud of me yesterday, even after I told her I can’t graduate with honors like I planned to do. Sure, my friends tell me all the time that I’m funny and smart, but they’re just being nice to me. They don’t like making fun of people. Maybe my grandma cried the other day over the phone because I’m the only grandchild who calls to ask how she’s doing, but I’m just doing what I’m supposed to do.

I’m the bare minimum. I feel like I'm at the bottom of the barrel. I’ll never live up to my potential or to the expectations of the people that I love.

I don’t even think that I’m enough for Steven anymore.

If I’m not enough for him, then I really have nothing at all, don’t I? There’s no question either, if I’m too much of a fuck up for him, I’m certainly not good enough for Marc or even Jake. Hell, the way I’m performing right now, Jake Lockley probably wouldn’t even give me the time of day.

Rabbit holes are hard to climb out of, especially when you’re alone.

There wasn’t anything in particular that made today worse than any of the others. By some metrics, in fact, it was a very good day. You had gotten an A on your midterm exam. You’d found a twenty-dollar bill inside of your coat pocket. Hell, someone had even left your favorite dessert in the break room, and you’d gotten to eat a serving of it between class and work. It should have been a good day, but it just wasn’t.

That’s the thing that people don’t understand about being ill. It’s just that: an illness. It doesn’t matter how much you eat healthy, or how much you exercise. It doesn’t matter how much meditation you do or how much you write in your diary or how much you pray to God—sometimes a day is just going to suck. It’s not rational, or even understandable, but that’s the truth of the matter. Sometimes sick people just… feel sick.

Steven understood that. So did Marc, and so did Jake. If there was anything in this world that they did understand, it’s that sometimes a person can be their own worst enemy. They understood that it wasn’t your fault, and they understood that some days were harder than others. The compassion that you couldn’t have for yourself? Well, they somehow always managed to have it.

You were convinced, though, that they wouldn’t have it today.

This has to be the final straw for them, doesn’t it? They’re going to come home and the dishes won’t be done, the laundry will still be dirty, and there won’t even be dinner on the table for them to eat. I’m going to have to tell them I don’t have a reason for it. I didn’t get it done only because I’m lazy and the lights were too bright. They’re going to laugh at me. They’re going to hate me.

Steven Grant is going to hate me.

I think maybe that’s what I deserve. He's so much more than me, isn’t he? They all are. They’ve been through so much, and yet they’re so strong and so wise. Steven is so kind. But look at me. I’m not… any of those things, am I? I’m all the wrong things. Too big, too awkward, too stupid. I’m not enough for him. I’m not enough for any of them, and I think maybe today they’re going to realize that. I don’t know if I can handle that.

It was half-past seven now. Steven would be coming home from his shift any moment. Or someone would. Whoever was fronting tonight didn’t really matter. It was all going to end the same way, you were convinced. You moved from the desk, tired of the weight on your back, and curled yourself up on the floor of the study. It wasn’t exactly a screaming and crying kind of panic, but it was still panic.

Why can’t I just do more? Why can’t I get up and get all of these chores done, right here and right now? Nothing’s stopping me. I know exactly what to do, I’ve done all of this a million times or more. It’s the easiest thing in the world to do. Why can’t I just get up and do it?

It wasn’t just that, though. How much easier it would have been if it was, but it wasn’t.

Why can’t I do anything right? I can’t even be sad right. Why can’t I cry? Maybe they would understand if I was crying. God, what if they yell at me? I don’t know what to do if they yell at me. Please don’t yell at me. Just get up and do the damn chores. Just do something. Do something.

They’re going to yell at me.

This is all so pathetic. I’m being dramatic, but I don’t know what else to do. I feel like I’m coming out of my skin. I feel like I’m ready to explode or implode or just wither away. I feel like I shouldn’t be feeling like this. I can’t stop it, though, and it makes me feel like I’m insane. I feel like I’m out of control. I want to feel in control. I want to be in control.

I want to be in control. How do I take back control?

You heard the familiar footsteps coming down the hall, instinctively curling in on yourself a little bit more. You had memorized the sound and usually it brought you a warm and welcoming feeling. Today, though, it only made your pounding heart sink deeper into your chest. You braced yourself resignedly for the yelling and anger, or at the very least for the disappointment. Honestly, you didn’t know which one of them was worse.

It was Marc Spector who walked through the front door of the apartment. Admittedly, you couldn’t tell that he was at the front just by his body language, but luckily the boys were used to announcing themselves as they came through the door. It made things easier, and they knew that it comforted you.

“Hey, baby,” he started, the keys clinking in his hands as the door latched shut behind him. He was the only one who called you that. “I didn’t mean to be so late, but we got distracted on the walk home. Why’re you sitting in the dark? Are you here?”

You didn’t have the energy to answer him. Well, you had the energy, but you didn’t have the confidence. That, and you couldn’t really find your voice under all of the panic. Your tongue was too heavy in your mouth, and you were nauseous. You feared if you opened your mouth, it wouldn’t be words that came spilling out. Marc ventured further inside and finally spotted you, hugging your knees in the space between the desk and the wardrobe. He tilted his head and widened his eyes in concern, and you could feel the heat on your face.

“You okay?” He furrowed his brows when you didn’t answer him. You could only look up at him, breathing slowly around the lump in your throat, and you wanted to bury your head right back into your knees when you saw the look on his face. Of course he was going to be concerned, and you were going to have to tell him he had no reason to be. It didn’t make sense for it to be so difficult, though. Why couldn’t you just make yourself speak up? It was the simplest thing.

“Did something happen?” His voice was low and little, and you managed to shake your head at his question. Some other feeling was fighting the paralysis now that he was here, but it wasn’t a good feeling. You could feel the tears welling in your eyes. “No? Well, are you hurt?”

Again, you shook your head. It was technically true, right? You weren’t hurt. You couldn’t really even pinpoint what was wrong with you. He pressed his lips into a thin line, surveying your body for any signs of damage. He found none, so Marc brought his hand up to touch your arm and you instinctively cowered away. You felt guilty as soon as you did it, but you couldn’t bear the thought of the pressure on your skin.

“I don’t know how to help, baby.”

That was what made the tears start to slowly stream. You didn’t feel the need to sob or choke, just to press your nose between your knees and hide your face from him as it contorted into a crying mess. For him to understand, you knew that you had to say something. It was just so hard to get anything out.

“I didn’t do the dishes,” you mumbled. Your admittance confused him and he moved to sit down across from you. You fought back a sob that tried to erupt from your throat. Hearing it out loud, you could understand how your words didn’t quite clear things up for him. “I didn’t do the laundry, either, and I haven’t made dinner.”

“Okay?” He almost laughed, but he could see anguish that you were in, so he stifled it. Marc waited for you to explain yourself further. It became clear you were having trouble with that, so he began to think meticulously through his answer.

“I’m sorry.” A sob broke around your words, but they were still unmistakable. His face twisted again into confusion and something that looked like offense. You hoped it wasn’t that.

“Why are you sorry?” he asked. That was a hard question for you to answer.

“I should have done it by now. I should have finished it all. You should be able to come home to a clean apartment and a warm meal, and I said that I would do it. I should have done it.”

The self-inflicted misogyny aside, he was shocked by your statement. Marc understood the mindset of having to please your housemates. When he was a child, skipping his chores meant more than just a few words of disappointment from his mom. But this wasn’t that. Marc had never, never yelled at you before, and he certainly didn’t expect you to do all of his housework for him. You were partners. You shared the responsibility.

“Honey, they’re just chores,” he tried to explain. He couldn’t imagine exactly where you were coming from, but he’d talked you down from enough panic attacks to at least know where he should start. “It’s okay. It’s not a big deal, and we can order take-out for dinner.”

You felt stupid. He wasn’t even mad, and you’d made such a big deal out of all of it. Of course he wasn’t going to yell at you. Marc would never yell at you. None of them would. You should feel relieved now, right? But you didn’t feel relieved. You just felt stupid.

“You with me?” He peered into your eyes with nothing but genuine softness. You couldn’t resist that look, not even in the state you were in. So, you pretended for him.

You nodded.

“Good. Come on, let’s get you somewhere more comfortable.”

Marc took your hands into his and helped you to your feet. Your limbs were stiff from sitting like that, and your chest was heavy from all of the worry. He gently led you over to the couch, coaxing you to sit down and pulling a throw blanket from the shelf under the coffee table. You shuddered as he opened it and tossed it over you. He noticed that you were shaking.

“I’m gonna order dinner, okay? You need to eat something.” Marc moved to pull his phone out of his coat pocket. You didn’t really feel hungry, more nausea than anything filling your gut right now. “I think that you’ll feel better after that.”

You put on a brave, numb face for the rest of the evening. Well, for the next little while, at least. Marc ordered one of your favorite meals for dinner, making sure to buy so much that you would have leftovers. He wasn’t too great of a cook himself, so he was used to ordering out after a long or busy day. When the food finally came, you nibbled at it just enough to prove to him that you were trying. It tasted pretty good, but you couldn’t be sure you would keep it down, and the thought of swallowing just made you shudder some more.

After a while, Marc had decided that you looked calm enough. He let Steven take control of the body once he finished his meal, the tiring day having weighed on him, too. He made sure to warn his alter to keep tabs on you, noting how you seemed to be having a particularly rough day. Steven had no problem with that, as he was more than happy to give you his attention no matter the circumstances.

He didn’t exactly know what he was getting himself into.

When dinner was done and you’d convinced Steven that you really couldn’t eat any more, he packaged the rest of your food in heat-safe boxes. He also did the dishes, which he meant as a gesture of affection. Steven didn’t realize that his simple act of service would send you farther down the spiral.

Now you felt guilty. Not only had you failed to do the housework you’d promised you would, but now he was picking up your slack. To you, that was just unacceptable. I’m so much more trouble than I’m worth, you thought. Maybe they were just dishes, but they felt like so much more than that to you. They were a symbol of your failure, a symbol of all of the good things that he was and the bad things that you were, and why you could never be deserving of him.

The familiar urge started to bubble in your chest. You knew you should have said something the minute you felt it, but you just couldn’t bring yourself to, not in the middle of the spiral that you’d already begun. It always started as a spike of energy, an ironically paralyzing energy, and a buzzing in your skin. From there, it would grow and evolve and mutate into something else. It was an urge to self-destruct, to punish yourself and gain control. It didn’t make any sense, not in the slightest, and it surely didn’t make sense now, but such was the nature of being ill.

It didn’t have to make sense. It just had to be.

You felt the heat draining from your body as you watched him pass the plates from the sink to the drying rack. The shivering was only beginning, and you knew already that nothing would help you get warm. Not a blanket, not a hug, not a piping hot cup of tea. This was the kind of chill that ran further than skin-deep. The sensation grew outward from your chest. It made you want to press your palms into your eyes and scratch at your skin until it was raw. A lump was starting to thicken in your throat, your saliva becoming too thick to swallow.

I can’t believe I’m letting them baby me like this. I should be taking care of him, not the other way around. They must be so tired of coddling me like this. I wonder if they think I’m too sensitive. They must think that. I am too sensitive. It’s a matter of time before they get enough of it and kick me to the curb. It must be. I just wish I could stop. I have to stop.

Steven was turned away from you, intently focused on the task at hand. He didn’t notice how you had gone pale. He had a chore to complete. He wasn’t one to leave a dish half-washed, so he had to meticulously scrub each plate until he was sure it was clean.

He’s even better than me at this. What else do I have to offer him?

You pulled yourself up from your seat at the table, making sure to drag the legs of the chair against the wood just enough to alert him to the movement. You shuffled over to the couch as he finished up at the sink. When you clicked the power button on the TV remote, it flashed on to reveal some old sitcom you weren’t interested in seeing. It would look normal, though, when Steven dried his hands and emerged from the kitchen to join you. He would think that you were okay, and that was a good thing. You didn’t want him to think that you weren’t okay.

“Can I join?” Steven meekly asked as you scuffled to one side of the couch to make room for him. He was wearing a soft expression that made you feel like he saw you as fragile. He looked away from you as he sat down. “I think I might stay up a bit tonight. I want to read this new book I got about Neferefre.”

“What is that?” You prompted him, knowing you were opening the conversation to a classic Steven Grant infodump. If you looked interested and you got him to start talking, he wouldn’t even notice how much of a mess you’d been today—and how much of a mess you were now.

Steven began his little spiel. The man he spoke of was apparently one of the pharaohs of Egypt, a prince who ascended to the throne and died young. You watched his face light up as he told you about the man. It wasn’t uncommon of him to lose himself entirely in his little stories about ancient Egyptian history. He would speak for hours if you let him, which was a relief, because you certainly didn’t know how to fill any gaps of silence. Steven’s eyes widened and glistened as he went on, touting knowledge to you that would impress even the most prestigious academics of the subject. 

His smile was such a pure and innocent thing. Steven was proud of himself, as he very well should have been, and he was happy that someone was here for him to share his knowledge with. It put into perspective for you just how much you didn’t compare. He was a living, breathing encyclopedia. A life-long researcher who would pour his heart and soul into the subjects he loved. In contrast, you were just going through the motions. You had reached your last semester of your undergrad, but you had no passion at all for your major anymore. Maybe you would get some fancy latin honor at your graduation, but you were by no means a good student, and you sure as hell weren’t an expert on the subject. 

Why can’t I just stop myself from spiraling? Why can’t I just be someone that he deserves?

It was getting to the point where you were afraid that the feeling in your chest was going to start boiling over. Your skin was on fire and you were covered in a thin layer of icy sweat that did nothing to calm you. You wanted to curl into a ball and rip out your hair. You wanted to rock yourself back and forth with your head between your knees, and you wanted most of all to take yourself apart piece by delicate piece. 

The urge was almost overwhelming. You had managed to hide this part of yourself from them for your entire relationship up to this point. Marc had his suspicions about your behavior in the past and Steven had noticed your sensitivity and lapses in communication, but neither of them had ever been there with you when you had an episode of self harm. You’d been in recovery when you first started dating them, and you’d only broken your clean streaks on occasions where they weren’t around. They didn’t really know what to look for and they didn’t know how close to the edge you really were. 

You were very, very close to it. 

Steven blinked at you confusedly. He’d asked you a question, apparently, and you’d failed to hear it over the pounding thud of your heartbeat inside of your ears. There was no denying that you’d spaced out while talking to him, no pretending your mind wasn’t clearly somewhere far away from here. He raised his eyebrows at you as you widen your gaze and pressed your lips together, pulling yourself back to him. 

“Sorry, I just have had a long day, love,” you tried to deflect his unyielding inclination to peer into you. Steven Grant was a caregiver, an innate protector of those who were mentally vulnerable, and you certainly fit that category right now, but you would be damned if you let him baby you. Or, god forbid, worry about you. “I wanted to hear about your Pharoah guy, but I think I’m too tired to take it all in.”

You hoped he would ignore the fact that, despite your words, you seemed to be vibrating with nervous energy. The last thing you’d ever want to do was make Steven worry. You hoped to God that he couldn’t see the panic rising within you, stirring up the familiar frenzy in your limbs and enticing you to have a rendezvous with your razor in the bathroom. 

He scooped you into his arms, pressing around you with a calming strength that almost touched the chill underneath your skin. Your body was half-limp as Steven encased you in a sturdy hug. He nuzzled his face into your neck and he breathed you in with an exhausted sigh. 

“It’s alright. I’ll talk about him later.” Steven hummed into your skin, no doubt just as tired as Marc had been. “I’m sorry about your long day. It’s okay now, though. You can just relax with me.”

Guilty. Stupid. 

“Okay. Thank you, baby.” You swallowed hard and dipped your head into his chest. Steven’s grip around you was strong, but casual. To him, as far as you could tell, you appeared to be doing just fine. A little tired, a little shaky, but overall just fine. That was a good thing, right? You were glad to not be worrying him. But some primal part of you was screaming to tell him you needed his help. You suppressed that part—it was bound to make things worse for you both. 

There was silence for a little while. The television droned on, drawing small, breathy laughs from Steven and smiles from you in response to his laughs. The beating of his heart against your ear served to chip slowly away at your unease, dampening the pounding in your head. The pressure in your chest released bit by bit. The unspeakable urge fizzled out from your hands just a little. You finally were starting to feel like you could breathe normally, when a stray thought drew Steven away from the telly. 

“When you did laundry today,” the words shot hot iron spikes through your ribcage. You froze in place, “did you happen to see my green button-up? The one with the stripes. I was going to wear it tomorrow to the museum holiday party, but I couldn’t find it when I looked this morning.”

How could you respond to him? You’d have to tell him it wouldn’t be clean in time for the party. You hadn’t washed it. You had not even touched the laundry today, in fact. You’d come home from work a few hours ago and plopped right down at your desk, wasting the evening away instead of doing the chores that you’d promised. 

“I’m sorry,” you began. His lips turned downward into a puzzled grimace. “The laundry isn’t done. I don’t know if your shirt is in there, but if it is, it’s not clean. You won’t be able to wear it tomorrow.”

“Oh.” His face remained as puzzled as it was, now tinged with disappointment as well. You couldn’t live with his disapproval, no matter how much your body and mind seemed incapable of performing correctly. 

“But I can go wash it right now! It will be ready by morning if I start a load—”

“No, no. Don’t worry about it, darling. It’s late, and it’s just a shirt. I can wear something else to the party. God knows Donna won’t appreciate the effort I put into my outfit anyway.” He bore an uneven smile and grazed the back of your neck with his hand, pushing your head back down to rest on his chest. 

The coil around your heart re-tightened. 

You laid in his arms as long as you could manage to sit still. Soon enough, the shaking of your bones and the pounding in your chest was so strong that it would be noticeable if you continued to sit in his grasp. So, with a shy cough and a fake, lopsided smile, you excused yourself to the bathroom. 

Stupid. 

Stupid. Stupid! Stupid! You couldn’t believe the way you were behaving. Why couldn’t you just be normal for one single day? Why did you have to worry your boys, why did you have to be so miserable, and why did your heart still threaten to beat right out of your chest even though Steven had held you in his arms and told you everything was okay? Stupid. So fucking stupid and pathetic and whiny and stupid. 

You could feel the ice trickling down your spine, sinking into the curves of your ribs and clenching your muscles tense. The heat of your anger—at yourself and at the world, but mostly at yourself—did nothing to warm the deep chill in your bones. 

Be fucking useful for once. 

The sound of the electricity was too loud, the light coming under the door too bright. You banged your open palms against your head, curling them into fists and pounding harder when the noise only grew more irritating. Your breathing was rapid and empty, silent tears streamed down your face. Your knuckles drummed against your skull forcefully, over and over and over again, until the action was automatic and numb. 

Stop being a burden. Stop being stupid. Steven has been through more shit than you ever will have gone through. You’re a useless fucking partner to him. Stop wasting space. 

The dull knocking against your head wasn’t nearly enough. The seething inside your bones demanded something more. Something urgent and strong. You grew tired of the motion and lowered your hands, leaning into the dizzying soreness at the sides of your scalp. Your heart began to calm, unbeknownst to the agony in the rest of your body. 

Stop wasting space. 

You clutched the vanity. Your now-raw knuckles were white and the room was spinning. Maybe if you’d eaten more, you’d feel the need to throw up. 

Stop taking up space. 

The way that your hand rose to the medicine cabinet made you feel like an observer inside your own skin. For a passing, ever-so tiny moment, you wondered if this was what Jake felt. What Marc felt. Was this what Steven Grant felt when he wasn’t in control?

No, surely not. This was you taking control. 

You weren’t one to show yourself mercy. Even in something like this, where mercy was a severely relative term. The thoughtful thing to have done would have been to grab your razor from the shelf, or taken one of Steven’s replacement razors from the pack beside the mouthwash. A sharp, unyielding weapon for a clean, quick punishment. You didn’t want to cut yourself open, though. That would be too generous, too easy. 

You didn’t want something smooth, something to leave  pretty and even stripes in delicate skin, like guiding lines on an empty notebook sheet. No, you didn’t want to cut yourself deep. This was visceral, personal. You wanted to rip yourself apart. 

From the top shelf, you grabbed the old and rusty scissors that you had left in the bathroom for your spur-of-the-moment haircuts and for cutting tags off of new clothes. They were dull and awkward and hardly able to cut warm butter at this point, which is exactly what you were going for. 

Stop. Being. Stupid. 

You didn’t know if it made you feel better or made you feel worse, but it made you feel. Digging the blade into your skin, jabbing the open edge into your thigh after pulling parallel strokes on your forearms, it made you feel more in-control than you had all day. It was intoxicating. It was all-consuming. Before you knew it, you had fallen into a trance of sorts and the repetition was only halted by the realization that you had to breathe eventually. 

A sharp breath in. Pain. A slow, shaky exhale. Stupid. A stifled cough, a desperate sucking in of air. Useless. A wheezing huff, like a deflating balloon. 

Tired. 

The blade slipped away from your hand and clattered unenthusiastically onto the floor. There wasn’t nearly as much blood as there could have been. Your teeth chattered, and now, despite having barely grazed dinner, you feared that you might up-chuck. A low groan tumbled out of your lungs as you crouched over the toilet bowl, thick red streams trickling down to the creases of your skin. You heaved once, then twice, then the vague remnants of your dinner were out of your stomach and the pressure against your chest forced a cry from your lips. 

You sighed, flushed, and slumped into a weak puddle on the tile. There was a knock at the door. 

“Darling?”

No. No. No no no nononono. What did I do? Your mind was racing and your heart had re-started its blunt assault on the inside of your ribs, but your limbs were like jello. Your tongue was like sand. He can’t see me like this! 

“You sound like you’re sick. Was it the dinner, love? Let me hold your hair back, at least.”

He can’t see me like this. I can’t do that to him. But you couldn’t move, either. You could barely keep your eyes open. You tried to yell at him to go away, but your lungs were too heavy to muster more than a hoarse whisper. That was if you could even get your lips to part. 

Guilty. 

You could hear Steven’s breath rattle on the other side of the door. “You’re worrying me. I’m going to open the door now, yeah? Don’t mean to pry, of course, but sure as I don’t, you’ll have hit your head on the sink or something and be out cold—”

He’d turned the knob on the bathroom door—the stupid old thing never did lock correctly, you’d been meaning to get that fixed—and pushed his way inside, only to stop dead in his tracks the moment he saw you. 

Your pale and shaking hands clenched your knees, blood lazily tricking into your elbow’s crease and tapping the floor in a steady drip. It wasn’t nearly an amount of blood loss to be worried about, but that didn’t matter to him. There was blood dripping onto the floor, and it was coming from you. Steven’s color drained from his face as he watched the forming puddle for a moment. He didn’t move, his eyes wide and his mouth agape, and his hand still lingering on the doorknob. After a few seconds, he gathered a shaky breath and broke his gaze away. 

“What happened?” 

His voice was whining, panicky. You could see sweat beading on his forehead as he knelt across from you. He trailed his hand up your arm, looking for the incisions that were causing the flow. His fingers were careful not to touch the long, parallel slits that ran up toward your wrists. You heard a breathless whimper leave his lips as he pulled your arms up, revealing the jagged, shallow puncture wounds in your thighs that looked just as bad. 

“Darling, what happened?” He was more urgent now, his voice louder and demanding. “Are you hearing me?”

He grabbed the nearest towel from the shelf under the sink, wrapping it around the wrist closest to him and pressing the other one underneath. Steven’s breathing was shallow and his eyes danced rapidly between your forearms, your thighs, and your face. Try as you might, you couldn’t keep your eyes focused on him. It was all that you could do to keep them open at all. He continued pleading with you, but his voice was distant in your head. 

Tired. 

“What have you done?” You didn’t know if his intention was for you to answer. “Why did you—what did you do to yourself? I don’t understand. I don’t… I don’t…” 

His breath was quickening. You tried to pull your head together, to ignore the pounding in your skull and force your eyes to work. Weakly, you wiggled your fingers. If they could move, perhaps the rest of you could as well. Your tongue was as heavy as lead in your mouth, but you forced it up anyway. The wheezing breath you drew caught his attention immediately. 

“I’m sorry.” The tears that had welled in his eyes began spilling over, painting his cheeks as he tried desperately to blink them out of the way. Steven wrung a towel under the sink as you drew another gasp. “You weren’t supposed to see.”

“Why?” He scoffed and you shook your head. The dull thump in your head was winning out. Words were failing you. Apparently they were failing him to, as he couldn’t muster much more than “I don’t understand.”

You had done this enough to know it would take a few minutes for the bleeding to stop. Nothing was deep enough for stitches, though the divots on your legs would threaten to scar for sure. Steven grew more distressed, though, as the seconds ticked forward and the wounds refused to wipe clean. Firm and steady pressure seemed to be too slow a solution and panic was painted plainly on his face. 

You felt the need to explain to him. You had to make him understand. 

“I had to do it.” He held his breath as you began to speak. Steven looked terrified. “I deserve this. It feels… right. I had to. I had to.”

“No, you didn’t,” he insisted. “You don’t deserve this. Why would you deserve this? Is it because of the laundry? You can’t have done this because of a load of clothes…”

“Not the laundry,” You breathed, interjecting. “It’s everything. I’m not good enough. I can’t do anything right. I’m a waste of space. I have to stop taking up space. Your space.”

“You're not.” He uttered immediately. Steven seemed to be choking on his next words. He stared at the blood soaking through your bandages. “You’re not… you’re…”

He pressed his eyes shut and your voice was loud in your head as you let your own heavy eyelids flutter closed. He’s finally getting it, isn’t he? I’m no good for him. This is the final straw. 

More trouble than I’m worth. 

Stop wasting space. 

You resigned yourself to the damage you’d done to him. The three of them were better off without you here. You’d leave them alone now. They’d kick you out and you’d move back in with your mother. At least she was used to being disappointed by you. You could handle her disdain, but not theirs. 

So fucking tired. 

“You’re not a waste of space.” His voice broke you away from the deep crevice in your mind that you’d sank into. “Mi Tesoro, how could you ever think that about yourself? You are plenty good enough.”

Jake unwrapped the wounds that Steven had dressed so haphazardly. If medical training was a contest between the three of them, Steven was certainly in line for the bronze, while Jake could perform surgery with kitchen utensils if prompted to. They had finally stopped bleeding, but the cuts needed a layer of antibiotics if they had any chance of healing right. Especially considering the rust on that gross pair of scissors.

“I scared him.” You didn’t need to elaborate. The absolute mess that you’d made of yourself had thrown Steven into a panic, sending him so far back in the headspace that Jake Lockley was forced to come out to take the reins. 

“Yes, you did. But he’ll be alright.” Jake’s voice was steady and smooth, and he was finished with your bandages before you even realized it. “You’ll be alright, too. Just try not to mess with these.”

“You’re never going to look at me the same. Any of you.”

“Maybe that’s true,” he admitted, “but that doesn’t matter. You can’t scare us away that easily.”

He lifted you by your shoulders, helping you stand against the bathroom wall. The floor was riddled with blood and towels and bandages, and your shirt and pants were far from clean. Jake was careful not to put pressure on your wounds as he supported your weight. You started toward the living room. 

“I would guess that you’ve done this before.” He guided you step by step to the couch. You say gently against the cushion, curling back into a ball as your eyelids gave up altogether on staying open. “But not since I’ve met you. Why did you start this again tonight?”

“I deserved it,” you repeated. There was no other way to explain it, or rather, no explanation you had the energy for. “I needed it.”

“We’re going to talk about this later.” He knew that you didn’t have the energy for a conversation right now. That didn’t mean that he’d save his ultimatum, though. Just because you couldn’t talk didn’t mean he couldn’t. He placed a blanket over you, leaving for a few moments to grab some water and painkillers. Plus, a package of crackers that he would force you to nibble on later. 

“You didn’t deserve it. You don’t deserve it. There’s nothing you could ever do to make you worthy of something like that. I can’t speak for the other two, but I’ve never met someone so loving, so wonderful. Eres la mejor persona que he conocido. There’s nothing you’d ever do to make you deserve that.”

Silent tears slipped down your face as he continued, and his voice wavered as he spoke. You assumed, though your eyes wouldn’t open, that we was fighting tears as well. 

“You really scared us, but we’re not angry at you. We’re not scared of you. We just can’t bear to see you hurt yourself. You know that you can’t be in pain without us hurting, too. We’re scared because we don’t know how to help. You have to tell us what’s wrong, so we can make sure you don’t hurt anymore.”

“But I need to.” I need to hurt. How else am I going to stay in control?

“No, chica, you don’t.” The cushion shifted underneath you, indicating that he’d sat down beside you. “You need help. Not this. Nothing good comes from this. We don’t want to see you like this. Not ever again.”

How else am I supposed to stay in control?

“Please promise me you’ll talk to me about this, alright? I want to hear all of it. I want to know why this is happening.”

“I don’t want to bother you.” Sleep was weighing on you by now. Thoughts drifted out of your lips without restraint, but they threatened to cease altogether as your limbs grew heavy. 

“You won’t bother me. This bothers me. Nothing that you could say would bother me. I want to hear about everything. Every thought that leads to this, you say it to me first.”

There was a pause that almost let you drift off completely. 

“That goes for the others as well. We all want you to talk to us. No matter when, no matter where. Okay?”

I can’t put this burden on them—

“Promise me!”

You pried your eyes open one last time. Jake’s gaze was pleading and tears were streaming down his face. He looked plenty burdened already. He was right. Nothing could be worse than this. You couldn’t ever hurt them more than this. And now that the urge had come and passed, the dull ache in your arms and the stinging in your thighs was a sore reminder of how little it was worth it. Not to mention the pain in your head. 

“I promise.”

Sometimes, when you say something out loud, you realize how ridiculous it sounds. It helps to keep you in check, and it keeps you from being your own worst enemy. If nothing else, it gives you perspective and keeps you from forgetting your voice. And before you ask, no. I’m not okay, but I am in therapy and on medication. Take it or leave it.

p.s. I started this fic obviously in a bad mood, and then I wrote most of it when I was no longer in a bad mood. For that reason, it may be gibberish. Don’t think of the reader as yourself. That’s probably unhealthy. Thank you to my beta readers, @moonmoonboys and @rmoonstoner

[shirecorn]

how about 17 and 24? what inspires you and how do you deal with art block?

Long post warning.

Art block...

I don't actually get art block, which is probably a combination of neurodivergence and drawing every day for the last 3 years

I wrote an entire tutorial about how to do that, but didn't feel like illustrating it. Would people want to read it even without visuals?

Maybe... I'll just start rambling.

There's a couple different types of art block, and it's really just a philosophy puzzle to get past them. I'm going to assume that the things I think of slow days, or art mud, is a milder form of art block and work through that.

Art block is a symptom, not a disease. You probably have something deep inside that you don't want to face, or don't know how. Sometimes you need to discover the cause, sometimes just power through.

Method 1: Rest

Let yourself just Exist. The act of consuming art is part of the process. Watching shows and playing games, taking a break and going gardening or focus on school. This is what you need for burnout-induced art block.

Method 2: Action

I always choose action, sometimes it means a tiny 2 min sketch per day. Ugly or super simplified. As long as I don't stop moving.

Toss everything. Start every piece thinking you will throw it away.

The act of drawing moves you forward; pinning it to the fridge does not. Don't work things until they are perfect. Work them until they are there.

Art block causes and solutions:

- No Inspiration

Not sure what to draw, nothing seems appealing. Art won't come out like it used to.

Do studies from life or photos. Sketch, paint, digital, traditional, doesn't matter. Rocks, fruit, figure drawing, landscapes, buildings, anything.

Study and copy professional's work. Old masters are best, like rubens, michalangelo (only his men tho) etc because they will teach you anatomy while you work. If you copy someone with a lot of flaws, you will repeat those flaws.

Trace to learn, not to earn. Trace photography and art from anyone you want. Don't post it unless you have the artist's permission or they are dead, whichever comes first. This is strictly work for yourself, on yourself. It's not about the finished drawing.

Find an artist with a fun style and try converting stuff into their style. Don't make that your new style though and especially don't start selling it. Your style is a chimera of everyone you love, not a clone of one person.

Take blurry photos. You don't need a fancy camera or good skills or beautiful subjects. Doing studies from your own photos can spark life into your workflow.

Make challenges for yourself. Randomly generate things to combine. Try fusing characters! Don't try to make it look good, just be fun.

Doodle patterns, swirls, lines, random stuff. Try looking up art warmups and doing some of those.

- Everything Sucks

You finally see how bad you are. Or somehow you got worse. Every piece is a fight and you spend hours trying to get something right only for it to be stiff and disgusting and STILL wrong.

Why are you trying to draw good? It's enough just to draw.

Accept that your art is bad. Every artist can see flaws in their work. Your problem is that those flaws outweigh anything remotely worthwhile and hurt to look at.

So what? You're in a period of growth, not a period of production. Keep that wonky second eye. Let them have hot dog fingers.

Show everyone! Show no one! No piece of art can ever be a reflection of the artist. Not their worth, not their skill. The only thing your art says about you is "Held and moved a pen for a bit."

Make bad art. It's ok. Most of the time, the pressure to perform and get things Right is what made them wrong in the first place. Relax.

- No Motivation

The #1 killer of artists everywhere. On some level you think you should draw, on every other level you think you should stay in bed.

You are not lazy. You wouldn't have read this far in a post about art block if you were lazy. You wouldn't CALL it art block if you were lazy. Laziness is wishing you didn't have to do anything. A block is wishing you were doing something. If you think you can namecall Yourself into productivity again, you're wrong and You need to unionize so that you don't treat You like that anymore.

Consider Mental Illness. Losing interest in something that brought you joy can be a symptom of depression. I know it seems obvious, but if you're waiting for a sign that it's "bad enough," it's bad enough. Seek care if you have the means. Forgive yourself if you already know this.

Selfcare. Examine yourself for neglect. Nutrition, exercise, enrichment, social need, and sleep are all part of the art process. Eat three meals and sleep 8 hours. That's your gaymer fuel. You deserve it, I promise. Depriving yourself of your needs will make your blocks worse, not kick you into making them better.

Identify potholes. Sketchbook falling apart? Tablet cord frayed? Half your pencils missing? Chair uncomfortable? Desk hard to reach? There's a lot of things that you tell yourself to work around and get over. Just because you CAN workaround something, doesn't mean you SHOULD. A difficult work environment can cause secret dread deep inside that you don't recognize and just think you're lazy. What you think of as "no motivation" might actually be "I don't want to deal with my tablet disconnecting every time I move it wrong and I have to wiggle it for a few seconds to make it work again." These little things are like potholes in the road. Sure you CAN still drive through them, but eventually you're going to look up and realize you haven't voluntarily left the house in weeks.

Repair potholes and roadblocks. You might feel bad about buying a new pencil, headphones, tablet, car, etc because technically the old one works if you hustle. But if you're running into so many potholes you've ground to a halt, it doesn't Actually work anymore, does it? Invest, save up, request, and require working equipment and suitable conditions. This stuff isn't just cushy privilege, it's an investment in yourself and your art. You are worth the effort it takes to clear the way. If you can't afford reliable (reliable! not perfect or luxurious) equipment, then say it. If cardboard is all you can afford, draw on cardboard. But know that you deserve canvas, and one day you might be able to make the jump. Acknowledge that sometimes, if you don't have it in you to smear burned twigs on wet cardboard, the problem isn't motivation, but opportunity.

- Haven't Drawn in So Long

A unique type of art block that self perpetuates. The thought of starting again is so stressful you can't do it. Or maybe you'll do it tomorrow. Yeah. Tomorrow for sure.

Face your fears. Are you ashamed of your lack of drawing? Are you anthropomorphizing your paper and thinking it's going to judge you, like "oh NOW you come back >:/" I internalize voices I hear and project them onto other people, concepts, locations, and inanimate objects. Your paper, computer, WIPs folder.... none of that is judging you.

Reframe your WIPs. Do you feel shame when you see "unfinished" projects? Why? Who says you MUST bring everything you start to Finish? You don't have to. A sketch is a finished art piece; it's called a sketch! If a sketch is a fully realized creation, pages that are half colored, 75% lined, or partially rendered are all fully realized creations too. Unless paid otherwise, art is done when you're done working on it.

Lower the stakes. Draw a chibi or grab some crayons. Get messy and slowly ease yourself back into the flow over the course of a couple days. It's fine.

Get a buddy! Find an art meme, do an art trade, get a study subject, or just wing it. Drawing art alongside someone can help you get past that block.

Pretend you never stopped. Don't think about the gap, how long it's been, or rustiness. As far as anyone knows, you drew the mona lisa yesterday and didn't break a sweat. Today, you drew a starfish on your hand with a gel pen. Keep up that streak, good job!

Just keep drawing. Make a goal to do one sucky drawing per day on the back of a napkin. Don't make up for missed days, just pretend they didn't happen. Who's going to judge you? The calendar? That's pieces of paper; it doesn't have an opinion. Draw a cat on it. Done. Keeping up the momentum is a great way to prevent art blocks in the future.

TLDR: Draw imperfectly and toss it. Selfcare is king. Draw often and don't judge yourself.

Art is a process, not a product.

[starryoak]

No but like genuinely Spot is clearly just some weird fucked up lunatic, but in like. Some sort of weird, teetering between harmless and totally fucking bonkers way. Like. He obviously worked for a company run by a supervillain and was close friends with one himself, and the guy did kinda go distressingly quickly to “well, time to murder a 15 year old’s father and potentially him as well!”…

…but it was also only after a year and a half of total and complete social isolation, unknown and horrifying biological changes including losing all sensory organs and normal orifices, and gaining an unknown quantity of new ones, and also another round of horrifying unknown biological and possibly fundamental metaphysical changes just in the last day of his life. But then you turn to the fact that he only ever turned to actual crime after a year and a half of total and complete social isolation, etc, yadda yadda yadda, and then you look at how that crime was stealing from an ATM machine, quite evidently IMO because he would feel guilty if he was stealing from a person, given I can’t help but feel like he wouldn’t have justified his crime that way if he hadn’t at least thought about it that way before… it’s complex! He’s not a good guy, but like… how much of a bad guy is he?

He’s had to deal with the social isolation, invisibility and criminalization of being homeless in NYC, or at least viewed as homeless, with the bonus of the social isolation of being an abomination against nature that looks like a freak in a skin suit. He is just literally physically incapable of reasonably living a normal life in polite society anymore. I feel like that’d fuck anybody up, lmao.

And, yeah, he wasn’t that cautious about throwing himself into dangerous and shitty situations from what we see! Sure, he seems to have a plan by the end, or it comes across that way, but I’m not sure he really does, and is he really in his right mind at all in the state we see him by the end of the movie? He’s literally splitting apart at the seams, and seems to be undergoing mitosis at the extremities and like. Yes, it’s just for dramatic visual effects for the audience, but like. What does that say about or do to his mental state that his body itself is such a swirling, amorphous mess? What does it mean mentally when a man’s voice has undertones of unearthly screaming echoes?

Thinking more on that, it’s not morally ok or anything, but it’s very understandable, IMO, how he’s clung to this idea of being Miles’ nemesis, like. This is a world where Superheroes and Supervillains exist. This is an established route for people with deep seated mental illness to take in this world. Of course the guy’s gonna cling to supervillains as a crutch. I mean, the big villains even almost win sometimes, right? It’s gotta be better than living like this, right? On the fringes of society, either pitied or horrified looks all he’d get, scrounging for basic necessities… at least if you’re a Villain, you’ve got attention and respect, right? So of course he’s so fucking crushed by being treated as comedic even when he’s trying to be a Villain. It’s a rejection of the only lifeline and justification he has to live anymore. We see this in the deleted scenes about the supervillain bar, that this is his only identity he feels he has left to go to!

He obviously dislikes Spiderman, and I’m sure he’d say he hates him, but it’s not. Like. He doesn’t hate Miles, up until that collider seems to give him some sort of psychic connection to the kid, he barely even knows Miles. Yeah, he’s intrinsically connected, ‘they created each other’, whatever. He doesn’t even know Miles! He hates the idea of Miles. Or more accurately, he wants to feel that way.

He wants to be this nemesis, this ultimate bad guy, Spidey’s Nemesis, capitalized, he wants to be a recurrent Saturday Morning Cartoon sort of villain, he didn’t seem to want to hurt the kid. He just wants an identity that he can live with that isn’t acknowledging that there wasn’t any meaning to what happened and that it was just a freak accident nobody meant to cause that disfigured him for life.

Like I either see most reactions to him be like “haha funny pathetic meow meow holes guy” or “sexy eldritch abomination guy” and while like… yeah, true, god knows I’m not above simping for a man undergoing mitosis, but like. I can’t look at him without going “That is A Mentally Ill Homeless Man In Dire Need of Help.” Like, I get he’s a funny haha character, but like, he’s just so deeply pathetic and miserable at the start of the movie and nobody notices and it just hurts so bad, lmao! I’m just crying out for this shit, like, this exact kind of fic, of someone going “Dude, You Are Like, Seriously In Need of Mental Help.” because, like, he is!

Maybe it’s the setting, what with being NYC, and his getup in the ATM robbery, but I just can’t not think about it when he’s talking about how he’s lost everything and how his family won’t look at him, that like. That’s just a homeless person. He’s literally just your average homeless person except even more horribly disfigured than any human can be in reality. And just. The invisibility of being homeless is just one of the worst things any one person can experience; being seen by others and deliberately ignored, acknowledged with looks but treated as an unperson. And add onto that the visible deformity that makes him look like some mentally ill street performer, except he can never take it off. It just sits with me, those feelings.

And on his honesty, that’s just part of what’s so fucked up about it. He’s actively crying for help from anyone who will listen, and nobody is! Again, this visible invisibility, of being heard but not listened to, to be seen but not treated as a human, it’s just so fucked up and tragic that no one just fucking listened to him. And the sad thing is, of course Miles doesn’t recognize he’s a man lashing out at society in a desparate attempt to be seen! Not only is he 15, Spot literally leads Miles to that conclusion deliberately in an attempt to be respected, and yet he fails so utterly that Miles both fails to see him as a threat, yet can’t recognize how damn miserable the man is!

Like!!! Yeah!!! Because he’s weird and creepy and is haha funny pathetic, people just fundamentally cannot respect him, and, man, as an autistic person, it hits me right there! He’s crying out for help in the only way he feels he has left, it’s literally proven that if people cannot get positive attention, people will seek out negative attention just to fill the void, and that’s just so blatantly what’s happening with him it hurts!

And like. What hurts about it IS that part when, when is a cry for help valid? How much of a ‘Villain’ do you have to be to not get sympathy? Miles at the end of the movie talks to Uncle Aaron about how he’s just a good person forced through circumstances to become a bad one, and it’s like. It hurts that he can recognize that about Aaron and never did about Spot.

Not that, again, it doesn’t make sense, but it’s like. All of this could have been prevented if someone had just. Realized that sometimes people in desperate mental (and physical, technically) health crises lash out at others and helped the guy.

And beyond that… there’s this subtle real life subtext where supervillains are basically a superhero universe version of terrorists/mass shooters, people who feel, for various reasons, valid or otherwise, abandoned by society, and ultimately represent a failure on every level to support people in desparate situations.

Could Jonathan even go to a soup kitchen looking like that? Does he need to eat? What would it be like if he didn’t have to? And then we cycle back to like. What the fuck is it like to be turned into a mass of abstract scribbles in the shape of a human man that regularly begins to split apart and turn in two? Like, sorry to suddenly bring it up out of nowhere but like. He’s a dude in a skin suit now, biologically. That’s all there is down there. That’s an important thing to lose! Not to dance around the subject, but it’s a pretty integral body part to a person’s identity to lose, with a lot of psychological implications!

All of it fucks with me so much! Everything about poor Johnathan’s life now is just so much! And it’s all intrinsically tied to his disabilities!

The Spot and Disability

It's very interesting to me how ATSV told Spot's story. At a start he's handled as a joke in the movie. Even Miles and the audience with him laughed at the new villain in his introduction. I was personally disgusted when the bread goes across him. Also, the guy isn't good at being bad and stealing an ATM, so he can be considered as a joke.

But it's hard to admit that we as an audience, and Miles did wrong laughing at his face about his new condition. We often mock him when it comes to the bagel joke, but he clearly suffered a lot, and lost it all after the accident. He was being mocked, rejected by everyone, even by his own friends and relatives. He evidently couldn't do anything without any of his holes getting in the way (which is the thing that makes him disabled), he lost his job and was forced to do illegal stuff in order to survive. That left an irreparable emotional damage that shaped him permanently. These are actual motivations for a person to take the wrong path, and even more when you discover you have a power that could give you some advantage over the others.

All of his story is clearly similar to what many disabled people live on a daily basis. "Unfortunately for me and you, this is skin." Sounds familiar? Reminds me of people that have vitiligo, which isn't exactly an illness and it isn't contagious, but common people think it is, and they fear, avoid and reject anyone who has it. Even in these modern days, where society supposedly is for everyone and everyone matters, disabled people are still rejected and disrespected, victims of bullying, mockery and exclusion. They don't get a chance to adapt to this world, not meant for them, and they miss so many opportunities of having a job, to form a family and go places adapted to their unique conditions. This world still needs to educate its people on respecting the disabled. That doesn't mean that disabled people are doomed to become villains, no! That would expand more the prejudices towards them. But what most of Marvel villains, and more, Spider-Man villains, have in common is having an accident that left them disabled: Flint falling on a sand dispenser, Max on a pool of eels, affecting their entire lives. (Not to mention that Doctor Connors was already disabled when he recurred to a not so ethic way to recover his arm, turning him into a lizard-like humanoid)

And yeah, every Spider-Man has a similar (canon) event, they're bitten by a radioactive spider. But rather to turn them onto something horrible, they hit the jackpot instead isn't it? They get attractively buffed, they get cool super powers, they become popular and loved by most people. But the others are treated as villains, and it's true, Spider-Man has to combat crime, and in the end, he shows mercy towards them. But in the end, most of the time their condition is treated as menacing and villanious. That's why No Way Home, brings a fresh vision on helping the villains to get cured or at least treated. (Although, that's not always realistically possible for disabled people, and most of them don't need to be cured or treated like their condition is bad for them)

But the movie leaves it clear it was a mistake to not take Spot's situation seriously. The man might've taken it chill at a start, but the more he was mistreated, the more he got resentful especially with Miles, wrongly considering him the source of all his disgraces, and more when the Super-Hero laughed at him. His power grew at the same time as his anger, and by the end of the movie, Miles admits it, he's his nemesis, they're mutual enemies now, and he's dangerous. If Spot was treated better from the start, with dignity and if he was given a second opportunity, support and optimum laboral conditions, maybe Spot would be now an ally.

How wrong we were, by taking him for granted...

[unohanadaydreams]

How would the captains react to catching their partner cheating on them? I’m feeling angst tonight

Finally some good fucking food. Angst; it’s what’s for dinner and I’m chowing down with you, anon.

Features: angst. Some violence and torture with Gin and Mayuri.

How The Original Captains React To Being Cheated On:

Genryusai Yamamoto:

There’s little to no reaction. You wouldn’t be the first and won’t be the last to use him for status or money or petty bragging rights. Just another day.

Quietly, behind closed doors, he does mourn. Not for the loss of you, but for the prospect of starting again. He caresses the pretty things he’s bought you, each touch a vote for or against bothering.

If you come to him, apologetic and willing to repent, he’ll look past the transgression. Less work for him to undertake, in the end, and the power of demanding this is that in the name of forgiveness suits him.

Shunsui Kyoraku:

He can’t help but laugh. All those years chasing girls and washing his hands of the consequences come to catch him now that he’s standing still with just one hand holding his.

Business goes on as usual, but he’s sloppier around the edges—spilling sake on paper work, falling asleep against Jushiro’s grave, and forsaking the frequent partying he’s known for in lieu of furiously scribbling down the perfect love story he didn’t get.

Honestly, he’s willing to forgive if it wasn’t done out of love for the other person and there’s a willingness to work on the relationship. Shunsui has played the unfaithful lover more times than he can remember; being black out drunk more often than sober will do that to you.

Soi Fon:

She can’t speak and doesn’t bother. Throat closed with anger, she lets her body tell you where your relationship lies—thrown off the bed and kicked outside.

There’s nothing but hatred for you and humiliation for herself. Not just personally, but professionally; a leader of the 2nd division being caught unawares is irony at the cost of her reputation.

People are always leaving her behind once she trusts them. After weeks, she’ll ask you why. Because that’s always the question burning in her chest. Why can’t she be a person someone stays for.

Gin Ichimaru:

Cute, how you think you can shuffle off and away from him after getting caught. He doesn’t flinch, talking with conversational tones. Hey, sweetie, who’s your little friend? Aww, they don’t talk or some thin’?

There’s two options; submit to grueling public humiliation or die. Gin loves to have fun, after all. And, isn’t it fun having to watch the person you cheated with get toyed with like a mouse under kitty claws? Aren’t you having fun kissing the corpse? Wasn’t your silly mistake worth it?

Gin has never forgiven, forgotten, or turned down an opportunity to make someone who cares about him regret feeling so. Your life is hell and the jailor can’t decide whether to keep your head under boiling water or kill you. Fun!

Retsu Unohana:

The impulse to leave as the only one alive is temptation incarnate. She is firm, restrained, and digs into her cheeks until her teeth pop through.

She keeps waiting to calm, for the situation to become objective instead of the turmoil in her gut. Retsu is especially brusque with everyone while working, making every stitch job a painful one. Why is there always something. Why can’t all the change finally stick; why is she still glad to feel the pain so she can inflict it back?

The betrayal was the end and there’s years of coping methods that keep you from spilling your guts on a sword, but it feels like a very near thing to her. Professionally, she’s less kind, and your next set of wounds healed by the 4th get infected. Poor thing.

Sosuke Aizen:

As far as you know, he’s stricken with heartbreak and disappointment. His voice is a touch too loud when telling you off—others hear. And disapprove greatly. He asks any bystanders for their discretion towards his privacy, adding a tear or two for effect.

Your relationship being over matters little; dime a dozen are the people who’ll fall over themselves to be his. The audacity of treating him, your better, with such unfairness? Affects him like an itch under skin.

Of course, he forgives you. He makes a show of it and the number of people out for your unhappiness grows. How could you cheat on such a gracious, loving man? You are punished with little action from himself, the many shinigami who view him with starry-eyes doing their work without needing explicit instruction.

Byakuya Kuchiki:

There’s little to say or do outside of making it clear he wants you gone in a permanent way. Reaction is the thief of dignity, so he saves any emotion for when he’s alone.

Self flagellation is his favorite dessert and he is convinced the bitter taste reflects his character somehow. In a way, it speaks to his lack of care and dignity as a clan leader; what fully aware man could let this happen?

For you, there aren’t any chances let alone forgiveness. You’ve stung his pride in multiple ways and only social norms keep you from dying in a duel over it. But as a shinigami—as a captain—he has avenues to vent his vindication until he feels the crime has been payed for. Too bad for you that pride is worth it’s weight in gold for a Kuchiki.

Sajin Komamura:

He runs away from the situation as soon as possible. Of course you cheated on him; how foolish to think anyone would not. At least he knows now and can get back to his normal.

Being alone isn’t all bad. There’s more time for his pets, his company, and his training. Comforting, familiar, he can pretend this is how it always was. Just him, alone.

His lack of self-esteem outweighs his want for justice. It was unfair to subject anyone to…himself, anyway. He can’t blame you for wanting someone untouched by the curse of the beast.

Kaname Tosen:

There’s more anger than even you expect. Injustice in anything, especially something so personal, enrages him. But he has the self control and sense to only send you packing.

Still, it’s all he can think about. Better to be consumed by this than the glacial pace his better world is taking. You’re one of the people holding that goal back, he’s sure. He insists on a talk that’s really just a long, painful lecture.

People like you, who disregard what’s right, don’t deserve forgiveness and the upset within him darkens. Maybe there is a way you can make things right. They’re so close to perfecting the Arrancar and he’d like to see how you’ve contributed once his eyes open, finally able to see.

Toshiro Hitsugaya:

There aren’t any dramatics or punishments or even words to give you other than ‘goodbye’. He sees the break and he cuts it cleanly. There’s no need for anything else.

Largely he copes by doing what he always does—working, training, meditating. There are a few sips of alcohol and punches to his pillow, but you’re no longer someone he cares about. The ice has holed over the spot you took just fine.

You don’t exist to him anymore. If you try to apologize, his eyes will pass over you and he’ll remind you once before ignoring you again: He’s a captain and he’s closed the conversation and now he’s getting back to work. Goodbye.

Kenpachi Zaraki:

So you’re fucking somebody. Is that a big deal or something? Should he be hurt? Because all he can muster is annoyance.

And then he thinks about it. He lets it sink in that somebody was touching you while you’re his. Kenpachi understands the want to play, but isn’t love when someone is the best in your heart and only them? Like, strength but more fucking confusing.

He’s still undecided if there’s anything to forgive. He tells you to give it another go with him in the mix and likes the feeling better than walking in uninvited. So maybe it was just play…and maybe he’s more rough with you two than intended. But he leaves more content than he came, so he figures everything’s fine. He can always kill somebody later, once he’s figured it out for good.

Mayuri Kurotsuchi:

You’re knocked unconscious and so is the person you were in bed with. That’s the last you see of them or the world beyond one lab room.

Congratulations, you are now confined to a pill that is swallowed by gigai after gigai designed in your likeness. Isn’t he generous, letting you take part in his research still? Don’t you feel honored to still feel any part of his touch as he takes you apart somehow more painfully than the time before?

Because it is just research. He didn’t care about you enough to still feel enraged about it. This is purely out of principle, a logical response to your base actions. Don’t worry, it’s just forever.

Jushiro Ukitake:

The discovery is emotional and he struggles keep his dignity, especially when a coughing fit starts soon after. He can’t even tell you off without sickness leaking into the moment.

The spiral begins. You’re awful one moment and justified the next. He’s the victim, then the one who should’ve known. There was no good reason and then he coughs again and there’s one.

He could forgive you if you’re genuine and forthright with a reason that isn’t the weight which holds him under blankets or pushes blood past his lips. As long as the illness isn’t what poisoned the relationship, he could forgive you.