#depression *jazz hands*

[astriiformes]

Some of this is because of choices we made in our playthrough (made the Abbot very mad at us because we cared more about protecting Brother Piero and the peasants) but we finished Act I of Pentiment yesterday and I'm obsessed with how at the start of Act II, Abbot Gernot is like "Fuck you Andreas, I told you to never come back here. However I also remember you are a huge nerd, would you like to buy some books"

[silverandebony]

oh hey trauma surrounding watching other people eat while you, if you're very lucky, get something approximately equivalent, but more realistically either get something significantly worse or have to provide your own unappetizing food. what's up, i didn't miss you

[whatupcherry]

james willson on speed is my new favorite thing

[emily-nightray]

I've been binge rewatching House and I keep imagining Break and Reim in the "I'm not on anti-depressants, I'm on SPEED!" scene. I don't think Break and Reim would be a perfect House and Wilson but I can definitely see it in that scene.

[felikatze]

in case anybody was wondering why eir is gonna be in his forging bonds, i have to step up as the sole noah fan

This Cav Has Depression (jazz hands)

bonus: noah & fir momence

[thoughtsofthegirlwiththecurl]

Walgreens shat the bed so thoroughly I rage quit them and transferred my prescriptions to Cub Pharmacy. However at that point I was totally out of pills, so since Saturday I've been once again raw-dogging life without antidepressants while I wait for them to get shipped to Cub (because of course none of the "usual" antidepressants pharmacies keep on hand work on me), so if you need me, I'll be rewatching GBBO yet again and pretending to work.

[wercobubblvs]

When you have so so so much ideas and plans but you have neither the skill nor energy to put em to work

[denialcity]

Animatics i wanna make; hsrm + bo burnham's all time low

[chuckdangerr]

Goodbye regular depression. It's been swell. Hello ✨seasonal depression. ✨

[ctrl-alt-deleting-yr-face]

mm yes

my three emotions

sadness

deranged, obsessive sadness

“yeah i feel numb but damn i love this one thing”

[cappurrccino]

daydreaming once again about having a life I will never actually have (being able to afford a nice big apartment on my own)

[astriiformes]

Oh short essay close-reading Dürer’s "Melencolia I" that I am largely by coincidence writing during one of the worst weeks I've had in a long time, we're really in it now

[cassandralexxx]

talking about death

-this doesn’t have any structure and is more stream of thought but talking about irl death so like tw or whatever Yknow when I was first talking with my mom about it I was way more composed/neutral about the person that was dying yesterday. (Context I am a member of a volunteer organization that gives company to people during their final 72 hours). Like I was like oh this one is not effecting me as much bc they didn’t pass while I was there. But now that I’m thinking about it the emotional toll is a bit delayed. I wrote about the last time I had a shift and how the person passed before I even entered the room as I was standing outside the door. And that had me messed like I walked home in a state of shock akin only to my freshman year of hs. But yesterday I left the room and they were still alive and partially verbal. I stayed 15 minutes past end of my shift so that my replacement would come and they wouldn’t be alone for any moment. And now realizing that they have most likely passed makes me sad. For most of my shift I let them rest in silence bc they were tired and in pain but we made some small talk, and I held their hand. My hand over theirs, listening to jazz together.

idk it makes me extra sad bc the person was someone from a unit I usually volunteer in for a different hospital org so like I’ve seen them multiple times yknow. I dont think I ever actually spoke with them in previous week but still. even though it was hard for them to talk (so like I’d only ask like questions that have one syllable answers yknow) they were still a bit clever and idk alive. Cracking a joke a little playful. death makes people uncomfortable and it can be difficult to confront the reality that someone that was alive no longer is. To hold someone’s hand and know that they probably won’t have made it till the next morning.

idk yesterday I wasn’t sad yet. I was that layer of shock that doesn’t feel like anything has happened. Today I feel it.

I’ll remember you.

[ganymedesbussy]

WIP: depression *jazz hands*

One of the smaller, but more insidiously terrible things about being a demon was the way that it make you think you deserved it, where ‘it’ meant each and every other terrible thing in your life.

As far as Crowley could tell, it started during the fall — when the ground dropped out beneath you, and the part of your being so central to your identity and sense of self that you didn’t even conceive of it as a part, the knowledge that you were Loved and that you deserved to be Loved, were worthy of it, was ripped out of you with a suddenness more abrupt and than anything you had experienced in your life. That was the central wound around which all demonic traits festered, really: that vast and empty space, the revelation of love and acceptance as things that could be conditional, and the knowledge that whatever those criteria were, you no longer measured up (if you ever had).

For the fallen angels that pulled themselves out of the lakes of boiling sulphur[1], the lessening of external pain only let the internal pain come to the forefront, and as pain as a concept was a relatively new thing, nobody had what you might call healthy coping mechanisms. Some of them lashed out, trying to turn their pain outward, as if by inflicting it onto others they could get rid of it. Some were angry, some were haughty, some curled in on themselves like a boneless ocean creature. Many wept and screamed and pled or demanded to know Why, Mother? Why? and were answered only with celestial silence. Some, more than Heaven would have guessed or that Hell would later admit, tried to help those around them, perhaps hoping that by so doing they could become worthy again, or because of a genuine dislike of suffering, or possibly just out of habit. Crowley had been one of the ones wrapped up in a ball in his own wings, before another demon whose name he never learned came and shook him out of it, healing what injuries they could with dregs of Grace that sparked and sputtered like a hair dryer about to catch fire. He had thanked them, had touched their hands and face in agonized gratitude, and had seen them destroyed at the hands (and teeth, and claws, and blades) of a pack of raging demons they had approached to help.

That had been enough of a lesson for Crowley; he ran, as he had during the actual War, wanting neither to hurt nor to be hurt. If he stayed to the edges of the crowd, he could avoid the more violent of the fallen, but not draw attention by standing alone and vulnerable. And if he found that, when he did eventually run afoul of the captains and lieutenants of the Rebellion and experienced his share of their Wrath, he could hear a voice in his head telling him he was stupid, and foolish, and useless; that he’d gotten too close or too far from where he needed to be, said or done the wrong thing, that the pain he felt now was his own fault, was what he deserved, well. It wasn’t like he could do anything about it, was there?

Over time, the demons settled. The hierarchy of Hell was established, the pain from the boiling sulphur eased, and the odds of being outright murdered significantly lessened. Interactions between demons became less volatile, but after every one the voice told Crowley what he had done wrong, and it was always more than he thought.

Sometimes he used the voice, listened to its advice. If he just said the right things at the right time, was standing in the right place, approached every interaction with the wary distrust of a dog that’s been kicked too many times but hid it so no one knew he was scared — if he listened to the voice telling him not to trust, not to hope, to tell his fellows (and, later, superiors) what he thought they would be willing to hear, he could get along in Hell well enough to survive with only minimal bouts of getting the shit kicked out of him.

[TIME PASSES, CROWLEY FAKES BEING SMART AND CONFIDENT AND ALL THE THINGS HIS VOICE TELLS HIM HE’S NOT]

[IT MEANS HE DOESN’T THINK AZIRAPHALE CAN LOVE HIM THO]

[HE IS A NATURAL OPTIMIST THO BUT SOMETIMES THE VOICE IS LOUD AND WHEN HIS HOPES ARE CRUSHED HE BEATS HIMSELF UP FOR IT A LOT]

[THAT SHOULD HAPPEN NEAR AZIRAPHALE?]

[something about Aziraphale offering comfort as if it doesn’t matter, as if it’s not dangerous]

[something about accepting that because even the veneer of care is so much at that point]

[1] And not all did, never forget. Crowley had often wondered if they were still down there, ever-boiling, or if they’d managed some form of oblivion. More than once he’d gone to stand by the shores of the sulphur lakes, imagining what it would be like to just walk back into them, and found others already there, staring out into blue-white flames. He never spoke to them, and they never spoke to him, but sometimes he wouldn’t see that demon around again, and he’d wonder.

[liesonthefloordramatically]

Bummerland, here I am Better nix my summer plans Bummerland, give a cheer 'Cause you're only going up from here

[voxiiferous]

🎶 (if you’re up for it, of course! <: hope you’re liking the new blog!)

@a-hazbin-spider

@a-hazbin-spider

Send "🎶" and I'll put my playlist on shuffle and write a starter based on the song.

Forest Fires - Lauren Aquilina

I don't have much to say There's nothing in this name Sorry to disappoint again Nobody pines for the listener A thrill I fail to deliver

And whilst I watch in silence You're starting forest fires You start them just to feel the heat

--

It's one of those things that Vox knows: in order to stay relevant, you have to adapt. Alastor might be content to remain tucked up with his radio, spurning modernity, but Vox refuses to surrender any of the power he's managed to collect over the decades.

But even he can feel it starting to take a toll. The boredom creeps in-- another game show, another commercial, another knock-off V themed version of something from the living world. What's another cereal that he can't eat? Another app? It's all the same nowadays. His performances are growing increasingly cardboard, and his sales, and his ratings, are going down with it.

He's borrowed Angel from Valentino to shoot the commercial. Sex sells, whether it's porn or Voot Floops, special edition, and Angel is the best in the game. Everyone will want to buy them because Angel's endorsing them.

Vox looks away from the scene for a moment to look at the camera, laughing slightly at the advertisement. There's not a lot of ways to make cereal sexy, but he has to admire the tenacity of the attempt.

"Cut!" He calls, pushing himself to stand, rather than lean against the walls as he makes his way across the set to Angel. "Well sweetheart, I think you're entering a new era of your career, really I do. Who wants porn nowadays, " he says, picking up the closest box of them and giving it a shake. "Clearly you're meant to be the face of all the brands in Hell."