#cw: implied cptsd

[badaziraphaletakes]

Making jokes and laughing about a frightening experience does NOT mean someone does not appreciate the gravity of a situation. Quite the contrary, in fact - it is a very, very common way of processing trauma.

In fact, I can't offhand think of any traumatized people I know who haven't make a joke about their traumatic experience/s. It's a deeply normal, human thing to do.

(And please don't try to tell me Aziraphale seeing Crowley be kidnapped and then being hit over the head with a crowbar (?), violently kidnapped himself, and dragged to hell, and then seeing the awful people and place Crowley had been stuck with for the past 100k+ years, witnessing the usher being murdered in cold blood before his eyes, and wondering if the same thing might happen to him, and/or if he hell was going to discover his and Crowley's secret, not to mention seeing for probably the first time what exactly the thermos of holy water would have done to Crowley if he'd used it, wasn't traumatic. First of all, that just is. Second of all, look at his irises. He was probably having a bit of fun - not surprising considering how relieved he was that the holy water didn't work on him and hell appeared not to have caught onto the deception; of course you'd be a bit giddy - but he was also terrified and scarred and angry and disgusted and I don't even know what else.)

There's a reason the rates of depression found among comedians are off-the-charts. And it's not because humor causes depression (we know it actually alleviates it). It's because traumatized people and people with mental illness (I mean, the Venn diagram between those groups is basically a circle, but y'know) gravitate to humor. It is one of the most powerful weapons we have to ward off despair. Humor can save us when nothing else can.

It can also stop you from wanting to punch someone when you're really, really angry. I propose that we can see smoldering contempt and fury and outrage and disgust on Aziraphale's face at the end of the scene, hidden just under that cheeky grin. It's some masterful acting work by Tennant, so many emotions going on at the same time.

Also - may I point out that Crowley loved Aziraphale's jokes about the whole thing. Aziraphale knows how to cheer Crowley up. A big part of the reason he was so sarcastic in hell was for Crowley, to score some points against the people who have been oppressing him for millennia without him ever being able to answer back. (And also he was acting that way because he figured it was how Crowley would act and he had to be convincing. If he'd gone in there and hadn't been 100% confidence and swagger, hell would have noticed something was off. They're paranoid, and Beelzebub, at least, is smart. No flies on that one. Heh, heh. Did Aziraphale overplay it a bit? Maybe. But the deception worked, so clearly his approach was correct overall.)

And finally: Don't tell me Crowley wasn't having a little fun with all this, too. His laugh on the bench was sincere:

He could arguably also be accused of overplaying it a bit with the neck cracking (which I don't blame him for; I would have done the same - but I don't see anyone getting mad at him for having a little fun the way they did with Azi):

And he LOVED getting to breathe fire at Gabriel & Co.

Which is exactly as it should be. :)

[npdbenrey]

toy.

a poem, by me.

my body is not mine.

i am merely a toy.

to be used.

since i am a toy.

or played with.

like a toy.

or thrown out.

as i am a toy.

i am not a person.

i am a toy.

i have no free will.

for i am a toy.

i deserved it.

because i am a toy.

i need no autonomy.

i am just a toy.

[alighted-willow]

I forgot that today was a holiday and realized pretty late that I have thoughts.

Content warning for blood.

Image description:

Image 1: A green a purple heart made of some sort of slime lies on the ground. Cut primary feathers are scattered around or stuck to it. The illustration reads “At some point… Love stopped being appealing.”

Image 2: The heart is held up by greyish blue talons, prodding curiously. Inside of the slime heart is a more realistic heart colored dark blue, magenta, and aqua marine. The illustration reads “It's painful, punishing, and paid for. Twenty (20) years and this holds true. I din't want it to be true.”

Image 3: The image has pulled out to show a grey and tan creature, somewhat similar to a furred dragon. Her head is raised and she's taking in her surroundings with moderate comfort. Her body is curled close and a little defensive. Clenched in her maw is a sewing needle stained aqua marine. On her chest, twisted from her raised head, is a series of sutures colored like the more realistic heart. The colors of the slime heart are absent. Her primary feathers are partially regrown and in the pokey phase of healing. The illustration reads “I want to believe that the world holds kindness. I know its people can be. Some day, I'll believe it.”

[explodingsaturn]

sometimes i think my intense mental illness is something that only developed once i hit later teenage years but i just found my diary from 11-12 and that was. clearly not true (should've expected this tbh i was traumatised)

[shutupsven]

The Kids Arent Ok

(cw for blood, needles, weirdcore, derealization, implied trauma/ab#se, implied human exp3r1ment4tion, etc.)

kayla. | matthew. | caleb.

reid. | mabel. | abby.

made with this picrew.

kayla was a guinea pig, matthew was a toy. caleb was abused and bruised, reid was a broken boy. mabel never had a life, living with the boys, abby had hers taken at the playground, at night.

~a story of six kids who didn’t have a childhood.

a story of six kids who found no comfort.

a story of six kids thrown together at random.

a story of six kids who are definitely, extremely, not ok.

[finding-the-honey]

Stain

It's always something, isn't it? Body starts acting right and my head thinks that's a good time to spiral.

But let this be my reminder. Just because I'm having the opposite of a flare (need a word for that) doesn't mean I'm cured. I still have a lot of work ahead of me.

I'll be honest right here, I truly don't know which is worse, the body trauma or the brain.

Sometimes I think I'm ok, for the most part. I've accepted that this awful trauma started when I was just a year or two out of diapers. I've accepted what it means, what it doesn't. That it's the likely cause of all the auto-immune fuckery. I've even started accepting how this all played out with mom. What she knew and didn't. That I'll never know for sure, and can only guess.

And then a memory comes back and gets lodged in. Or I simply remember mom is dead and I have no reason to pretend I'm not crazy and damaged. The asshole husband left me and she died, so there is no one in my life to tell me to stop thinking about it. Pretend it didn't happen so they don't have to deal with my pain. With the ugly thoughts of it.

I can be as crazy and traumatized as I need, for the first time in my fucking life, and after 54 years of pretending I'm not, of hiding my anger and shame ... well. It's not going to go away easily, isn't it? There are days I absolutely feel as insane as I did when I was13 or 15 (or 17, sitting in a college classroom and feeling like I was going to throw up after reading the line Daddy, daddy you bastard I'm through). I am that insane, sometimes. That broken and damaged and traumatized - and since it wasn't taken care of then, I have to take care of it now.

And it won't be quick. It's not gone just because I want it to be.

The only way out is through, and I've really not even started yet.

[ficbrish]

Chapter 3 - Shar's Little Helper

Rating: Explicit 18+ only!

[Ao3 link] | [Previous chapter] | [From the beginning]

[[TW/CW: Alcohol, drugs/opiates, drug use, implied drug habit, domestic violence references, cptsd, suicide ideation, masturbation]]

Summary: Vistri wasn't expecting Mr. Ancunín to be her dear friend's cousin, but life is always full of bitter surprises.

Mr. Ancunín kicked off his boots and laughed heartily at the irony of his life. Having finally retired to his chambers late in the wee hours of the next day, he threw himself backwards onto his bed with exhausted abandon.

Astarion had no idea that his encounter in the woods had been with the baroness, his only remaining family’s dearest friend—Not that his lineage had all died out, leaving just himself and the Shadowhearts as the only leaves of a withered tree; pretty much everyone was still alive! They just refused to lend him lodgings. Or answer his letters. Some refused to even meet his eye… He quite literally could not afford to fall from Jenevelle’s grace.

At least, not a second time.

Maybe he could make things better, marry the widow and run off with some—not all (he wasn’t that cruel)—of her large fortune. Thinking that was a rather good idea, Astarion made a mental note to remember to ask Jenny for further details of her friend’s estate.

Her estate… Gods! Is that why they’d met in those woods?

Through his mind’s eye, he saw the baroness on all fours. Her skirts lifted up to her waist, bent over in last season’s pile of fallen foliage. An echo of that incredible feeling shivered through him, as real as if he were burying himself in her now.

He laughed some more. Gods! He must have drunk more than he thought! Astarion had quite forgotten his cousin’s penchant for sneakily strong punch. He closed his eyes, resigning himself to the fate of a massive headache come morning.

And there she was again behind them.

Blast it! he thought, his hands dipping into the fine breeches he was too tired to remove. Might as well enjoy the memory if it won’t go away.

On the other side of those woods, Vistri was just arriving at her estate; steeling herself to face her housekeeper’s nagging displeasure. But to her surprise, all she had to say as they greeted one another in the main hall was, “Are you headed to bed?”

Dragging herself exhaustedly up the grand stairs, Vistri sardonically answered, “To kill myself.”

Jaheira was so used to her mistress’s dark, hyperbolic wit that, over time, it grew beloved. Her mirthy cackle spread through the marbled hall, sounding like the war cry of a villainess in a children’s play. Its hearty vitality spoke of rising with the sun after a full night’s sleep. In contrast, her mistress struggled not to set.

Vistri couldn’t remember going to sleep that day, or any of her dreams. She woke up to more darkness.

Realizing she’d passed an entire day in sleep’s grasp, Vistri flopped over and groaned frustratedly into her pillow. Her body ached for activity, but there was no point in leaving bed if the day was already ruined. Lost time disoriented her senses.

Despite the rumbling in her belly, he was her first thought before food. That stranger in the woods. And then she recalled with creeping dread that she’d met him again at the ball.

The wrong person died! Vistri was still the same old baroness from before the encounter in the woods, and her anonymous lover, only alive in the secret of her heart, was no more. He was Mr. Ancunín now. Lady Hallowleaf’s bloody cousin!

Turning onto her back again, she grabbed another pillow and screamed into it.

At least now she had something to grieve, the black she draped herself in every day wouldn’t feel as false.

Despite herself, Vistri relived the arrogance in Mr. Ancunín’s expression; all she could see were those crimson eyes of his, teasing her with the weight of their secret. Seeing them so clearly led to feeling the weight of his hand on her back, from when they twirled across the floor. Her skin still burned, and she hated it.

But oh, how it burned! A slight parting of her thighs was all it took for Vistri to discover the wetness sticking between them. The loss of his anonymity slipped away into a baser excitement. One that turned her breath heavy; the fact that her stranger was no longer lost, but just the estate over. A relation to Lady Hallowleaf. Someone she would likely see again.

And for that moment, it didn’t matter that it was impossible for them to repeat their tryst. The very prospect of his acquaintance enthralled her with the idea that it could happen again. That his body was so close in proximity when it could have been anywhere else in the world.

If only he could take her one last time, maybe it would be enough to stop the poison in her soul. The salve of her own fingers was not enough to soothe such an ache. Even when she tried to mimic his touch, tracing his strokes, it wasn’t enough. Unsatisfied and spent; she worked at herself tirelessly until her skin and sheets were uncomfortably damp, and it was undeniable that only his hands could undo her so sweetly.

Having restlessly slept a whole day and night through, she rose early the next morning. Still without a proper lady’s maid, the old one of whom she’d fired at her late husband’s funeral, Vistri got dressed in her riding clothes with the help of a housemaid.

“Out of hibernation, I take it?”

Vistri’s mouth lifted at the corners. When she was a small child, Jaheira often referred to her as “Cub”. So anytime she slept too much, Vistri was always rewarded with some variation of, Are you done hibernating?

“Ready to seize the damned day,” she murmured before turning to the sound of her housekeeper’s voice.

Jahiera was standing in the doorway, all crossed-arms and smug.

“I warned you to stay out of Lady Hallowleaf’s punch bowl. The village doctor keeps some of it around for disinfectant.”

“Rest assured, then. My insides must be positively sparkling. Which… If you think about it, was probably necessary considering the late baron used to inhabit them.”

Jaheira cleared her throat, masking her evident shame. Fine ladies were not supposed to talk about such things! At least not outside of the confines of tea rooms in cheeky allusions. But her discomfort dove past Vistri’s breach of conduct and good sense, because her commentary was in regard to the baron. There was so much anger under the loyal housekeeper’s shame; crimson rage that flowed like hot blood at all she’d witnessed and that her lady had endured. 

“If you’re looking for a rise out of me, ma’am, I assure you, you will not get it,” she affectionately argued, “Look to the sun if that is what you seek! Seeing as you’re already moving about at the servant’s hour.”

Vistri smiled, knowing everything that lived beneath her companion’s complaints. It was the closest she’d ever gotten to experiencing a doting mother.

“But why would I do that when your own darling visage is blushing like the sky?”

“Do not think you can charm me,” Jaheira warned, obviously charmed, “I am the one who taught you all of your tricks!”

“Then they’re all perfectly tailored to your taste,” she smirked.

“All the pity to you.”

Suddenly, through an instant, silent truce, laughter was no longer a sign of concession between them, and they allowed themselves to share a bit of it.

“Baroness Harper of Reithwin,” the butler announced later that afternoon in the Shadowheart’s drawing room.

Lady Hallowleaf and her cousin sat lazily inside, like a pair of lounging housecats. Vistri stepped in awkwardly next to the butler.

“Darling!” Lady Hallowleaf cried out, “How good it is to see you again.”

The overzealous warmth of her friend’s greeting turned Vistri’s smile into a grimace. The consistency of such greetings was a little unnerving. Exuberant affection was worn well on other people, but it clashed with Jenevelle’s temperament. Whereas others melted with comfort, a happy Jenny was a bitter Jenny. A true mark of contentment in the viscount’s daughter was a biting wit shining under a gloomy expression.

It was why Vistri loved her so.

Her friend’s change could then be accounted for in one of two ways: Vistri, in her unusual state of “grief”, was being patronized, or there was something deeply wrong with Lady Hallowleaf.

She stood up from the sofa to greet her once more unexpected guest, but her cousin didn’t do the same. He didn’t even look up from his book.

Just after their dance, Mr. Ancunín had begun to shun her like the rest of them. The song ended; he’d bowed, she’d curtsied, and when she looked up, he was already lost in the crowd. Then later on in the evening, he appeared to purposefully avoid her company whenever she happened upon him. It seemed now that whatever she’d done, however she’d offended him, he would continue to ignore her.

For some reason, that line of thought made the muscles in her face heavy.

Lady Hallowleaf cleared her throat.

His eyes languidly dragged from the page to look upwards. Rather than looking questioningly at his cousin, they stared ahead and captured hers. Red like a heart. Vistri had been determined not to meet them. She hadn’t really been expecting Mr. Ancunín, but seeing him there now formed her resolve. One all too easily broken.

“Oh, hello!” he said as though he hadn’t been giving offense, “What can we do for you?”

Indelicately, Lady Hallowleaf ripped his book out of his hands and smacked him with it.

“Ow! What in the hells was that for?”

“You are being very rude to our guest!”

Seeing anyone fuss over her comfort made Vistri so deeply uncomfortable, that even though it was from Jenevelle, she stepped in to Mr. Ancunín’s defense just to stop it.

“It’s all right, darling! Consider it retribution for my attitude the other night. What do you say, Mr. Ancunín? Shall we wave the white flag of peace? Or would you prefer we fall into an endless cycle of vengeance?”

He smirked in pleasant surprise and rose to his feet.

Bowing his head with a bit of a flair, he said, “Let us call a truce. For if my dear cousin is ready to assault me with a book for the minor infraction of not greeting you fast enough, I cannot imagine what your next retribution would be for having slighted you.”

“Then it is nice to see you again, Mr. Ancunín,” she greeted.

“And I can say the same to you.”

Lady Hallowleaf looked a little annoyed, but sighed to mask it, “Well, now that we have that settled, shall we not take our seats?”

Whereas before Lady Hallowleaf had been lounging on the sofa with her cousin, she now joined Vistri on the settee.

But before she spoke, she addressed the servants in the room, “If you would please clear out, I would like to speak privately with the baroness.”

Vistri felt the color leave her face; from a blue-ish periwinkle to a silvery lavender, most like. She found Lady Hallowleaf’s words had a similar effect on Mr. Ancunín. His usual pale skin turned a blanched white. What reason could Jenevelle possibly have for speaking to them without servants in the room?

A curious look flashed through her expression like lighting as she looked from her friend to her cousin, clear in one second and gone with the next.

Once the three of them were alone, she addressed Vistri directly. Mr. Ancunín didn’t even need to be there apparently. It seemed Jenevelle only wanted to avoid the inconvenience of another argument. Like it would be too much of a bother to ask him to do anything and then have him whine about it.

“Why did you come to our ball the other night?”

Probably because she’d been bracing herself for accusatory words, Vistri was completely shocked by her actual question.

“Excuse me?”

“Might I remind you that you have just recently begun—” and with that, Lady Hallowleaf noticed Vistri’s dress.

It was not black.

It was somewhere between burnt orange and maroon, had no discernable style to it, and looked quite hastily made. More than simply drab and against all propriety, it was rather rancid.

“Good gods, woman! What on Toril are you wearing?”

Vistri sat proudly with her chin held high, her light tone was amused, “Curtains from the baron’s study.”

Mr. Ancunín choked on his sip of tea.

“Curtains?!” Lady Hallowleaf laughed, drowning out the sound of her cousin’s coughing struggle, “Curtains from the baron’s study?!”

“I had Jaheira throw it together just this morning. At first, I’d dressed myself up in riding clothes, but they’ve all been dyed black too!—How dreary! If I’m not allowed a bit of color now and then, I might as well be buried too.”

“That is awful!” her friend continued chuckling.

Basking in her frivolity, Vistri accidently locked eyes with her unmasked stranger. The expression in them made her think she might never breathe again. They glistened with a reminder of their nakedness, like he was ready to take a bite and eat her up entirely.

“Careful cousin,” Mr. Ancunín warned, “It seems the baroness is trying to distract you from seeking an answer to your previous question with a bit of humor.”

Ungracious cad!

“I was meaning to answer it just now,” Vistri insisted. She wasn’t.

“Then pardon my poor judgement,” he said with casual violence, “Please do go ahead.”

Just like she’d told him in the woods, when he was but a stranger, the truth was too long, too complicated, and too deeply private to really explain. So, instead of descending into a puddle of wracking sobs while regaling a viciously haunting tale, Vistri simply answered, “I was desperate to get out of the house.”

Which was true. Just not the whole story. So of course, it landed on the other’s ears as something not quite true. But they were all too blue in the blood to press matters further, and thus had to accept it.

“And now you are here in a dress that isn’t black,” was as far as Lady Hallowleaf went to challenge her answer.

“And here I am in a dress that isn’t black,” she nodded.

Lady Hallowleaf took a sip of tea, processing that information.

To fill the silence, Vistri turned to make an innocuous comment at Mr. Ancunín, only to find him back in his book. Although, judging by the look in his eyes, he did not appear to be reading.

Turning to her friend in frustration, Vistri suddenly blurted out, “There is nothing to mourn! Why should I be confined to a state of mourning when there is nothing to mourn?”

“Well, don’t go barking at us about it,” Mr. Ancunín commented insensitively, “We’re surely not the ones forcing you into it.”

He flashed her a mischievous look, just like the one he’d given her at the ball. Was that yet another reference to their tryst in the woods? Vistri felt a flutter in her stomach before it sunk.

“And yet the two of you are confronting me over breaching it—in private like you are my father setting me right!”

“I’m just worried about you is all!” Lady Hallowleaf shouted.

Mr. Ancunín shifted uncomfortably. Not only were both women undeniably in some sort of rage; it was the kind that could only occur between people who knew and loved one another immensely. The intimacy of it was too much for him to bear, like he was intruding on a private moment between a devoted husband and wife.

“Why is everyone so worried about me of late? It’s not as if you were all worried before!”

There was a vein pulsing in Jenevelle’s brow, “Because lately you have started acting rather rashly!”

A blush appeared on Mr. Ancunín’s cheeks. Perhaps a show of guilt, but Vistri was too jaded to believe such a man was capable of the feeling. Even if it was, Lady Hallowleaf seemed to not catch it. Whatever he was truly feeling, he himself paid no mind to. The only internal state Mr. Ancunín was acutely aware of having at the moment was a sudden need to leave the room.

Vistri tried to speak, but couldn’t. Every time she tried to form a word, her lips would start to quiver, and then she had to still them before she acted in some intolerable manner. Perhaps if it were just her and Jenny in the room, she could have unleashed the storm inside, but Vistri would have preferred to stop breathing over letting Mr. Ancunín witness such a thing.

Lady Hallowleaf was too set in her mission to save her friend from whatever ruin was obviously brewing within her to take pity. Like a hound, she was unable to stop closing in on her blooded prey. So, it was left to Mr. Ancunín to try and change the subject.

“Oh, poor dear. You must be positively thirsty! Jenevelle, should we not let the servants back in to fetch the baroness some tea? It is not a very good show of hospitality to sit here and imbibe while our guest remains too parched to speak.”

His eyes glinted unusually with the kindness of his gesture. If Vistri wasn’t already dazed, she might have been quite thrown by it. He didn’t just rescue her, he’d given her time to pause. A polite reason not to speak until she’d had a bit of tea.

But why would he do such a thing? It forced to her recall the affection she’d had for her stranger and put together for the first time, truly, that he and the man who sat across from her were one and the same.

She had no idea her hands were shaking until after they’d been served and she lifted the tea to her lips. The cup clinked against its saucer, sounding out a high, nervous music from her lap.

“Are you quite all right?” Jenevelle asked, softer than before.

Vistri took time to empty her cup before nodding, and admitting, “I promise, there’s no need to worry. Although… Now you mention it, I am feeling a bit queasy for some reason.”

Mr. Ancunín and Lady Hallowleaf exchanged a look.

Then Vistri gave a weak joke, “Perhaps it is the late baron calling me back to Harper House.”

With a pitying look, Jenevelle placed a hand delicately on Vistri’s knee, “Why don’t I fetch you a tincture, petal? It should make you right again.”

She nodded, and Lady Hallowleaf reached into her pockets for said tincture. After pouring her another round of tea, she pinched a few droplets into the cup and stirred them with her own spoon.

“There. Now drink it up.”

Vistri’s questioning look met Lady Hallowleaf’s confident one. So she followed orders, and swallowed the remedy, pressing the rioting of her heart down with tea.

The bitter taste of it was made up for in a moment by an astounding sense of peace washing over her. Likely the tincture’s effect. Probably some type of laudanum. She forgot to ask.

Watching the way Vistri went from wearing her shoulders as earrings to melting into the settee, Mr. Ancunín insisted on trying a bit of it himself. Whatever those drops were, they were obviously not the typical household remedy, and precious enough to keep tucked privately away.

Lady Hallowleaf refused, “You are not feeling unwell!”

“But I could feel better, and that seems like a good bit of fun,” he whined, pleading.

Their voices blended into a buzz, and Vistri found herself empty. For once, not caring about anything. So light. Free.

“It’s hard to come by!” Lady Hallowleaf bitingly explained, “So it must be used sparingly.”

The remainder of their visit passed without incident. The cousins got over their fuss once Jenevelle relinquished the information of where she’d procured her enticing elixir. Shar’s House of Healing, somewhere in town. Mr. Ancunín was new to the area, so the name was unfamiliar to his ears, but Vistri’s perked up. It was a place she was aware of solely through the dark whispers of servants.

That kind of information was something Vistri would usually call out.

But she was rather tired that day. Too tired to pay it any mind, let alone care.

She could hear the birds outside, muted through the glass of the windows. Vistri leaned back and shut her eyes, blocking out all else to better focus on their song. She was breathing deeper, slower than she had in years.

And then, much to the shock of her companions, and even more so to the servants in the room, the baroness drifted off to sleep. Teacup still balanced in her hands.

Instinctively, Mr. Ancunín grabbed the delicate porcelain out of her slacked grip, sparing it the eventual ravages of gravity.

Upon turning back to his cousin, she gave him a rather far away look.

“Right. I forgot it does that.”

He watched her absently take another sip of tea.

[Next Chapter]

[tsaomengde]

CW: discussion of the concept of trauma

On a whim I started to rewatch DS9. I just finished the first two-parter, "Emissary."

Preface - I am not any kind of psychiatric professional. I've read a book on CPTSD, I have loved ones (including two adopted kids) with it, I've done a lot of therapy about my own trauma. I consider myself well-informed, but far from an Authority on this subject.

This episode was very interesting to me because the last time I watched it was before I had kids, before I was even married I think (though I did watch the show with my wife, I just think we weren't officially married yet). Examining the events of this episode through the lens of trauma analysis reveals a shockingly erudite examination of trauma as concept, particularly for something written in the nineties.

I wonder how much Michael Piller and Rick Berman understood trauma when they wrote this. Okay, being real, Rick Berman is a homophobic and misogynistic trash pile, so probably this was more Piller, but hell, Orson Scott Card wrote Ender's Game, sometimes terrible people write good shit. I digress.

Our main character is Benjamin Sisko. We see him on his starship in a battle where the ship is all but destroyed. While evacuating he goes to his quarters to find his wife and son. His son is unconscious but alive. His wife is dead. His fellow officer has to physically drag him out of there as the ship comes apart around them to keep him from staying and dying with her.

Three years later he's considering leaving Starfleet. He's given a dead-end assignment on a shit-ass space station in a system with a provisional government that's probably about to collapse into civil war. He loves his son but you can tell he's hurting.

During the course of the episode, he and his friend Jadzia travel through a wormhole (a kind of tunnel through space). This wormhole is the home for the Prophets, an alien species that exists outside of linear time. They take Sisko out of his spaceship and spend days of our subjective time trying to make sense of him, though for him it's implied it doesn't actually take all that long.

When they talk to him, they assume the forms of people from his life, in settings from his past, because this is the only way they can communicate with him. They ask him to explain linear time to them, how living beings can exist at only one point in time at once and can not only survive with but actively treasure the fact that they don't know what's going to happen next. While they ask him these questions the settings keep changing, and they always come back to his starship. His quarters, the ship burning down around them. His wife lying there dead while an alien being wearing her facsimile asks him to explain death.

Sisko begs the Prophets to stop bringing him back to this particular place, because it's the hardest place to be in for him. They tell him that they aren't doing any of this; it's all him. He chooses to bring them here. When he asks them for the power to take them somewhere else, they tell him they can't give him a power he denies for himself. They tell him they keep coming back here with him because he exists *here.*

He breaks down and admits that it's true. He has never figured out how to move on, how to live without his wife. He says, "it's not linear."

When we are triggered, we are literally taken back in our minds to a previous place of trauma. Even though we are safe now, we are not actually experiencing the trauma that marked us, our brains think we are, and react accordingly, with panic, fear, anger, etc.

Seeing this visually represented by Sisko unconsciously taking himself back to the scene of his greatest trauma over and over, and then seeing him admit his hurt and experience catharsis, was very moving for me. It resonated very strongly with my understanding of trauma. It was shockingly prescient for how we understand trauma and CPTSD today.

Obviously trauma in real life is not treated by having one big "oh I have been hurting and I don't want to be anymore" moment. Magic wormhole aliens are a hell of a drug, I guess. But that's TV for you. And the fact that it affected me so much speaks to its enduring power.

[playttimes]

Sttoner, and Severely menttally ill in the pan. i do ttheattre preformanceS att tthe main church in SoutthweStt altternia. tten SweepS. he/him.

CW: Sollux has a lot of intense religious trauma that will be brought up a LOT, he also suffers from intense CPTSD, psychosis, intrusive thoughts and Dissociative Identity Disorder. This blog will have a LOT of religious themes. He is not a perfect victim and can lash out out of fear, though that won't be super frequent. Everything will be tagged accordingly, but I can't tag things like religious trauma or implied parental abuse (this does not apply for more explicit things, those will be tagged)

I follow from @websitestar

This is an IC blog for Sollux Makara, a reboot of an old blog i ran back in 2018. He currently lives with his pseudo girlfriend, Aradia Serket, who I also rp @lucky7wice (i suggest following her, theyre a duo)

[fanoftheimagines]

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Last Updated: 2/24/24

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If you need me to add a content warning, just let me know. I will never reblog fics including the following: sexual assault, pregnancy/childbirth/etc., children, adultery, inappropriate age gaps, extreme/explicit bigotry. I will add to this list as necessary. Please be aware that I do not always catch everything and I do not tag everything. Always check available content warnings as needed. You are responsible for your own reading experience.

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Sickfic

[sickly-honeylamb]

today i'm crying because people around me expect me to be independent, but i know that i'll never be able to do that because of the trauma i've been through and the way it left me. i'll never be fully independent, i won't ever be able to take care of myself alone, i'm ruined and hurt and tiny and i've never grown past 12 and i can't explain because even if i try to, they'll brush me off and keep going like i said nothing

if someone could come and take me away, save me and help me out and treat me well and understand me, i wouldn't even fight

fuck

[explodingsaturn]

ahahaha so funny when abusers get to walk around no consequences in my vicinity and i get to dissociate 24/7 and want to be dead <3

[brxken-and-jagged-edges]

Just found out a couple lana del rey songs trigger my csa trauma so I got that going for me ✌️

[trifoliate-undergrowth]

My mother 99% of the time: 

My mother when I try to set one (1) boundary which she perceives as mildly inconveniencing her: 

[justseveralowls]

I’ve spent over 16 hours in two different ERs and I’d like to vent

CW: Doctors hospitals, chronic illness, incompetence, female hysteria, humiliation, mental health stigma,

What follows is my original post made on Thursday, there is a update as of today at the end and the news is not all bad. This is made to spread awareness talk about an issue I feel is way too often ignored and most importantly let other people feeling this they aren’t alone.

So. I have ehler danlos syndrome, celiac, endometriosis, fibromyalgia, and an (so far) otherwise specified seizure disorder. So basically I am a medical dumpster fire. Getting a or in my case several diagnosis has been a long terrifying and grueling for both me and my partner. We have enountered many doctors and nurses who were kind attentive willing to listen and knowledgeable about my Miriad of admiditally uncommon diagnosis. But today I am so incredibly hurt, frustrated, angry and scared and I want to put this out there because this is part of the many problems that chronically ill and disabled people face everytime they walk into a doctors office, emergency room or even out in public.

So I look sick, it’s obvious and it’s been obvious for a long time. I sit at around a six to seven on a pain scale most of my life, which sucks. I have chronic nausea and weight loss that makes me weak and thin in a sick way, which also sucks. But by far the hardest thing is hoe many people refuse to take my seriously. So today after three months on a waiting list I saw a gastroenterologist. I was scared, underweight, sick and tired. I wanted answers like always and let my partner drag me into a beige fluorescent room to try and make some sense. Overall the doctor was nice, but put heavy emphasis on my past of CPTSD from repeated abuse, and implied that my weight loss and severe gastrointestinal problems could be “just a side effect of my anxiety”. That was dehumanizing to say the least. Because I know I’m traumatized, I’ve sat in therapists offices and cried, I’ve pulled myself together, fought addiction and anorexia and I know that I’m healing. I know it’s his job to look between the lines but I also want to just have a chance to be understood, and not dismissed as a psych case.

Later today I had an episode of vomiting and loss of consciousness, over all not great stuff. So my partner in their amazing sense of love and compassion took me to th ER. Because that’s where you’re supposed to go when you’re scared, sick, hurt, in danger and don’t know what to do.

My experience there was by far the worst I’ve ever had. My vitals were highly abnormal (high pulse at rest, low BP, and low pulse ox). I was having neurological symptoms related to my seizure disorder and instead was given a barrage of tests that had nothing to do with why I was there, the condition I repeatedly told them I had, or the worrying vitals. So after two hours a head CT and useless blood work the ER doctor looked at me and my partner (who was forced to wait in the car in 94 degree weather) and told me I was fine and dehydrated.

I’m a nursing student, I’m new, I’m a novice at the most, and I have a lot to learn. But never could I imagine having a chronically patient, with abnormal labs and vitals with numerological involvement be given saline and discharged. My partner and I were terrified because we didn’t know what else to do. I needed help. I needed answers. I needed them to hear me. After me panicking my partner told me that we should try again. Because doctors are here to help us, and if your scared and there’s something wrong they took an oath to help.

So I called the nurse who was awesome, he went and got the doctor and I was ready to make my case. My partner at this point as well as me were terrified frustrated and close to tears. And this ER doctor after hearing our concerns, my history (with chronic illness and anorexia) proceeded to throw up her hand and as’ my partner “what they her to do”. This was shocking but sadly it doesn’t end here. The doctor proceeded to insist that I was fine and the situation was both non emergent and out of her hands. I responded in a passive way because at that point I was scared triggered and exausted. And I asked what she thought I should do”. And the words that came of her mouth hurt me and made more angry than any four syllables ever has.

“Psych referral”

Now let me something straight. I am a survivor, I am working in me healing, I am growing and changing for the better. I take my meds go to therapy and work everyday to get a little better. But this woman who obviously hadn’t read my chart which denotes not only my diagnosis, psychological history, and notEs from speacialists on the severity of my physical condition has just implied that I’m crazy. This was horrible but 8 could see how it would seem that I am overreacting but, due years of gaslighting, medication being forced on me to cover abuse and trauma, I hate being called that. It’s not a real term, nor does it help anyone, nor does it doing anything but make me remember the nights I spent wondering if that word was me.

In one visit, one person managed to dehumanize, humiliate dismiss me and maybe risk my life based on the fact that 8 wasn’t worth the time it took to read my chart.

It so incredibly weird to have to say this but I as a queer, gay, chronically ill, Latin person am in fact still a human being WHOS painand concerns deserve as much respect as anyone else. We all deserve to be helped and heard and people like this are one of the many reasons that I and so many others are scared to ge5 help, scared to tell the full story, or scared to speak up. This kills people. This is killing people. And this is why I in all my chronically glory and working so hard to advocate and move forward in medicine as a whole. Because nobody deserves that. Because I didn’t deserve to sit in an ER terrified and be told I was crazy. Because my partner doesn’t deserve to be dismissed and mocked for being scared. Because I nor anyone else have to prove I am sick enough or disabled enough to be worth someone’s time.

I hope anyone who reads this and understands even a little. Who’s been through it, whose family and partners have been through it know that this is not okay, that this not your fault, and that you are by no means crazy. That the people who make feel like burden or an annoyance are the problem. Because you deserve to be heard. I m hoping everybody’s doing okay, I’m hoping your journeys are treating you well. Because as always no matter who are, where you are and what you’re feeling you are not alone, you are worthy and I believe you.

***Update**

I later went to a larger hospital not in my home town, and through a long stay in the ER got a formal epilepsy diagnosis, given a anti convulsants drug, and overall treated like a human being. I now have contact with their epilepsy unit and have the tool and education I need to start this part of my chronic illness journey. I’m exhausted and getting used to knew meds but am highly grateful for the good doctors out there, the nurses who listen and the partner who was angelic enough to be with me through it all.

[sickly-honeylamb]

I got cute mini box cutters and put stickers on them

now i wanna test them, if you get me