#different alters cope with different ways

[imjustaf444keriguess]

responding to the last bit first because… sometimes carrds ARE the most trustworthy sources, assuming the information is about a term that the carrd-owner made (that is to say, assuming the carrds tat are linked are created by you or people who identify with the term and who can try their best to correctly explain what it feels like and what the term means).

"active" still implies some sort of "i am in the front seat and the 'others' are in the backseat". i think using the term "mindset" instead of just "mind" might make this better, as in "my active mindset is the mindset of a 'daughter', i am in a 'daughter' mindset right now".

i don't think mindsets or "minds" can get "stuck" in the same way alters and headmates can do, unless they are at least somewhat sentient or have some form of self-autonomy, so having "active-stuck" is a bit silly. perhaps just "stuck", as in "stuck in a mind(set)" might work better for a singlet-experience, but i am part of a system, not a singlet.

i don't think personality modes / "mindsets" can tear/merge/splinter off, although they can develop and change and adapt. like how getting a new job might get you a "work mindset" or gaining a child through adoption or birth might give you a "parent mindset". it's not really merging or tearing, it's developing and growing. you don't lose parts of yourself, you can only gain them (unless you have a condition that causes you amnesia or identity issues, which might influence any identities like polymindedness or plurality/systemhood/multiplicity)

having "minds" that are based off of something else can get very messy, especially with fictive/fictional introject identities and fictionkin identities. is it like a "kinnie" thing? where you just have a strong connection to a character? what would you describe the experience of "fictling" to be like? (or, if you don't experience it, what have you heard from your fellow polyminds to be the experience? do they connect it to any fictionkin kintype or "kinnie" related identity?

i didn't mention "blanket" but i think a term like that would be good, although i'd describe it more like "the collective identity / "self" which all minds are connected by" or something of the sort. i don't quite get the difference between blanket and central, though?

i think the most strange comparison between plural identities and polymindedness is the "shattermethods". that implies there was an event or series of events of some kind that "shattered" you into subpersonalities, which is how many DID systems describe their experience of being a system.

the term traumashatter and surviveshatter even use the words "long term trauma" in the carrd, which is the same language that a lot of traumagenic systems often use to explain their experiences of becoming a system (long term trauma as a child). if a polymind is truly just subpersonalities, we wouldn't be seeing a "breaking apart" or "shattering" of the self, because you are still one whole person, you are not a system, you just percieve your subpersonalities as separate.

i think describing it similar to "the event that caused the polyminded person to view their minds as more separated than the average" while still making it clear you are one "whole" self and not separate "selves" might help make it sound less like a synonym to -genic labels.

this is all going off the idea that you or someone you're closely connected to wrote and edited the carrd, and i do think that this kind of closer to median-singlet experience is important to have words for that aren't inherently "we're distinct 'selves' treat us that way" kind of thing, but it really depends on what the actual experience you are trying to describe is.

sorry if any of this is written weird, tumblr was lagging on my computer and i had to type this in a notepad so things might be less organized or whatever. i need to sleep though. syscourse boygirl out-

Polymind is a bit fascinating because it ends up unintentionally showing why system terminology ends up not being exclusive to any one specific group.

Like when you try to describe plural experiences in a way that tries not to use an existing plural definitions, it shows a lot more blatantly that at its core we do all have the same experience of being more than one. Any term you make has a high chance of applying to the other group.

Then when you get into the terminology needed to actually describe those experiences, you find you kind of need most of the shared terminology otherwise you need to recreate the whole damn lexicon.

Like the reason terms get shared is more like "We have DID need a fast and easy way to describe fictional alters. Oh, soulbonders have a lot of terminology for this already that fits what we need, we'll start using fictive and source."

Or "We're a non-disordered system and need a way to describe one headmate taking over. Oh, medically there's switching and front, that's a fast and simple way to describe it."

And like a lot of subcultures online are like that and when you try to fight it you end up with complicated and not very practical terms. Especially when there's terms that have been used for over 30 goddamn years that are simpler and easier to use.

Hell even trying not to use any existing plural terminology, Polymind ended taking a lot of them unintentionally (i.e. part, ageling, little, protector).

It also highlights an issue where unless you do deeper introspection, which is not always practical for... obvious reasons, you probably won't know exactly what you fall under. Expecting people to look in depth trauma history to figure out what terminology they're allowed to use is despicable.

Also that the problem is at its core that people don't think we should exist at all and that the terminology stink ends up being more of a way to make harassment and fakeclaiming seem "justified" and also a method of erasing history and separating systems from resources/making them harder to find but eh

[howlsofbloodhounds]

some Headcannons about Killer relationship with Frisk and the Player.

I like imagining Frisk and Killer as rivals the battle of the partners. Killer being both Asriel and Frisk replacement their better version. Killer does refer to Frisk as a different person then the player and Killer seems to have some hate for them wether that Killer own feeling or left overs from Sans I'm unsure.

I like imagining that the player can control Killer their new vessel and replacement of Frisk. Do you think their are just many different players or just one it sounds like their is more than one but I just kinda wanted your opinion on things.

~Musical Anon

There’s not much information on the Something New player (or hacker, more accurately) unfortunately. Just that:

1. The Player really, really wanted Sans to say yes to the deal.

2. The Playee altered Sans’ code to lead to this outcome in some shape or form.

I know a lot of people seem to think that altering Sans’ code was similar to like, taking over his body and forcing him to say yes, but i personally like to think that altering his code made him more inclined to accept the deal because he struggled to discern and separate his wants from the Player’s (via suddenly thinking thoughts and having feelings that don’t feel like his, something like thought insertion in the context of OSDD-2), and is why he remembers what happens during Resets (as opposed to previously being aware that they exist) —and his code didn’t solidify into k1ll_sans until after his soul was changed, and Killer was officially ‘born.’

So in this way I like to think Sans still had bodily free will and agency in accepting the Deal even despite his altered codes—it’s just that remembering all the Resets clearly now and outside influences in the form of the human’s coercion and manipulation—as well as thoughts that don’t feel like his, feel like they’re coming from an outside source but must be what he wants, made him more inclined to listening to those thoughts that he thinks isn’t his as he starts to dissociate to cope with these alien thoughts and urges.

(Prime is example is thoughts of hurt, anger, and rage at Papyrus—likely growing thoughts about wanting to kill Papyrus—about how he “deserves” it—that, at the time, sent Sans recoiling from his own thoughts in disgust, shame, fear, confusion.)

3. The Player is the reason that Killer!Sans exists. Sans is like that because of us.

4. When referring to the Player, rahafwabas and killer only ever use the words “you” and “you’re”—speaking directly to the readers of the comics.

“You want Sans to agree, you want sans to kill them.”

“You are the reason Killer!Sans exists.”

“You are the reason I am like this.”

“What do you mean, tired? You wanted this. You all wanted this.” Suggests that the Something New Hacker could be anyone, and potentially multiple.

5. The Chara in Killer’s head uses “we” to refer to themself. “We only want to help you, sans. You don’t want another Bad Ending, do you?” Suggest to me that this is the language the ‘actual’ Chara used to back when they and killer weee still partners, enough so that it carries over into killers head.

I don’t believe it’s ever said after that if the Something New Player like, still actually around. Do they directly take control of Killer, or do they have him act on their will via stuff in his programming, even when they’re not there?

Did Killer break free by turning on the human, taking control of the Reset, and winning their game, he just thinks he isn’t in timelines where Nightmare kidnaps him—still doing what he thinks We want, even if the Player isn’t actually around anymore? Or was he never actually free at all. Is the Player actually still there, controlling him or trying to control him, or is it all in his head.

[starrynightteam]

OSDD system when they start to open up:

[sciderman]

I swear I have read your big post regarding Peter Parker's neurodivergence and why it is best to avoid labelling him, but he definitely has a weird brain

Can't find it and feel kinda sad about it cuz I deeply related to it

i know exactly which post you're talking about and i can't find it either! i've raked through my archive, and it's just - nowhere to be seen. i think tumblr eated it (it happens.)

really, tumblr's search functionality is so so useless, i don't know what to tell you. there are plenty of keywords i can search to find it that post, but the search functionality actually just does not work!

undiagnosed audhd-addled peter parker, my darling, my light, my life, my everything.

i think peter parker's such an interesting creature to write, because a lot of people will point to a certain behaviour about him and say "this is an autistic thing, right?" but a lot of those behaviours are actually, in my head, tied to certain traumas in peter's life too.

people say "oh, the food thing, peter's a picky eater because he's autistic" and yes, absolutely. but also it's tied to his trauma with his parents.

peter gets overstimulated, and yes, it's an autism thing, but also he was bitten by a radioactive spider and his senses are dialled to 11.

it's a similar case i've found for myself, too – where a lot of friends i have kind of diagnose me because i have autistic traits, but actually - i'm hesitant to claim the label or pursue diagnosis because, actually, i know where these certain behaviours come from, and they come from certain traumas. there are events i can pinpoint in my life and say "yep. that's where this behaviour comes from."

so - i think there's a lot of overlap between trauma and autistic traits. the brain is very complex! i think the reason for that overlap is maybe as simple as the fact that people with autism and people with trauma are both doing the same thing - developing behaviours to protect themselves or soothe themselves. so - i think it's nice to be able to see a character like peter parker, who may or may not be autistic, but recognise behaviours in him and see yourself in him.

people who go undiagnosed for whatever reason - people who are really good at masking - so good, in fact, that they have no idea they might be on the spectrum - everyone and anyone at all can look at peter parker and recognise themselves. because i think we discredit the thought that every single brain does the same thing! develops certain behaviours in order to survive. every brain has that same software - we've just all been faced with different hardships that we need to overcome, and that's were all the differences come in.

autism is a spectrum, i guess - everyone falls into it to some degree. and i think events in your life probably push you along on it. but i don't know, i didn't study brain science. probably what i'm saying is very stupid and uninformed. of course there's brain chemistry involved. but i know people in my life living with autism and certain events in their life have exacerbated certain behaviours or made coping with it a lot more difficult. so maybe trauma is a catalyst.

[sol1loqu1st]

i'm going to be seeing a new therapist later this month & i want to bring up possibly/probably having osdd, but i know that since more people have been kinda learning about what DID and osdd actually *are* there's been an influx of ppl claiming to have it (ftr it is NOT my place to tell people they're faking lmao, i don't care if someone claims to have a disorder and then later it turns out they don't & i don't think most ppl are "faking." it's between them & their therapist if they have it or not and it harms no one to self dx, people taking it less seriously isn't the fault of self dxed people either)

but anyway i'm worried that if i go into a therapist's office and immediately tell them i think i have Today's Trendy Disorder i won't be taken seriously. but at the same time there is really obviously *something* going on with me that isn't just normal depression & anxiety and treatment methods for bpd (like dbt, mood stabilizers, etc) haven't helped even a little bit over the several years i've been seeking treatment for it so i'm starting to suspect there's something else going on i haven't been seeing & honestly after talking with my last therapist abt stuff (who i was seeing for bpd/trauma stuff but looking back they were pretty obviously trying to get me to figure out i had a dissociative disorder, whether or not i do they certainly thought so) i'm realizing that some of the things i experience are a lot less normal than i thought and may be consistent w/ an osdd diagnosis (probably not DID because i don't really experience significant memory stuff though lol. i do a little but it's less "can't remember at all" and a little more like waking up from a dream where i can recall the gist of stuff but it feels far away)

i don't even know what id do with a diagnosis though. honestly i just want answers and a place to start in regards to treatment more than anything else

(advice welcome but not expected)

[thethingything]

so over the course of the day we ended up making some realisations about how our brain handles death and grief that made a bunch of stuff click into place, and that's been... a lot. turns out there are things that help us significantly with being able to process this stuff, and being aware of those things mostly just means we're aware of how few times we've actually been able to grieve in a way that works for us

[astronomalyy]

Thinking about the lifespans of Dungeon Meshi elves... The fact that they're completely unnatural alters my brain chemistry, because you can tell just how haphazardly the demon implemented their wish. They live five times the length of tall-men, so they age at a fifth of their rate. It's simple maths and the implications are terrifying. No wonder their birth rate and population are declining - their early development is so slow that at the age of two, they're still unable to stand.

They don't reach adulthood until their eighties. What does the infant mortality look like? How many elves succumb to illness or injury before they're fully mature? It only takes one accident to lose the child you've been raising for decades - and could you bring yourself to care for another? Add to that the implication elf culture has no idea how to process grief... just look at the way the Canaries treat Rin after the death of her parents. They're callous and insensitive and detached - part of that's racism, but there's also an element of pure cold ignorance. They don't even recognise the emotion on her face.

And that's just scratching the surface... does elven memory accommodate their extended lifespan? Once you reach two hundred or so, do the years start blurring together? Kabru mentions that their temporal awareness is remarkably poor.

Two years feel like a few months. Their lives are longer but not fuller. They're older but not wiser than the short-lived races, and most refuse to understand this. Those that do grasp it are interesting - namely Otta, who's ostracised for pursuing half-foot women.

A 30-year old elf is a young child; a 30-year old half-foot has entered middle age. Otta is in the equivalent of her late twenties. She knows that her elven lifespan makes her no more mature than a half-foot - but she also acknowledges that it creates a rift between herself and her partners, and not just in the eyes of society. 'She dumps them as soon as they pass 30', but probably not for the reasons Lycion assumes. For this to be a pattern, decades must have passed - it's possible Otta doesn't want to watch them die as she herself barely ages. No doubt some of her previous lovers have already passed away. In the end, all living 400 years accomplishes is leaving them out of sync with the rest of humanity.

Marcille's perhaps the best example. As a half-elf, she's got 95% of her life ahead and the thought terrifies her. She's going to lose everyone she loves, over and over and over again, and this cycle has barely even started. She runs at a different pace. This context adds so much to her dynamic with Falin in earlier chapters.

Marcille loves her! She's scared for her! Maybe even of her! She's grown attached to a short-lived girl who she met as a kid when Marcille was a teaching assistant! Biologically and developmentally, they're the same age, but chronologically she's twice as old as Falin! Considering what happened to her mother, is history repeating itself? Her feelings towards Falin are tangled and messy and fascinating. They're also more than a little homoerotic, which makes Marcille's infantilization of her friend all the more interesting. It feels like her way of resolving their power imbalance, of remaining a responsible (former!) authority figure... but it's also a coping mechanism. She's frightened by the ways Falin is maturing and changing - aging - and keeping her mental image of her friend as young as possible is her way of denying the march of time that's destined to sever their bond.

Marcille's dream of lifespan extension would remove the need for this obfuscation, render them equal... only, they already are! This desire is imposed onto Falin, but it's primarily for Marcille's benefit. Watching her fight for a world nobody wants, for reasons both selfish and altruistic... it's as tragic as it is understandable. I love this manga.

[collectivewarmth]

one of the most important things about dissociative identity disorder and generally being a system that i wish people would understand is that it truly isn’t as cut and dry as it may seem for member count.

you’ll see people who say they have “six alters” and then immediately assume it’s six fully fleshed out equal individuals with no confusion or fuzziness regarding identity. that’s simply not true in a majority of cases, as i have seen.

most systems still VERY much deal with confusion regarding potential splits, go through dissociative episodes where they’re unsure of who they are, sometimes feel no attachment towards any identities, feel like they might have split and then suddenly that person is gone, unsure if alters they haven’t heard from often have gone dormant, not sure how to react when alters do come out of dormancy, etc.

it’s not a fun feeling and it’s genuinely unfair in certain situations to force systems to list every single alter to you with full certainty, as if it will never change. because it will. for so many different reasons, systems will grow, they will shrink, they will fuse, they will develop. you can’t expect the person with the dissociative disorder and lack of core identity to be able to keep up a perfected list of forever, it’s simply impossible. you may have alters who stick with you, but that doesn’t mean changes won’t happen.

and systems who may be reading this — please don’t feel bad. you are not a hassle, you are not a headache, and you are not an inconvenience for simply coping with something like this. it’s out of your control and the only thing you can do is continue to cope to find ways to help yourself retrain from these reactions. please don’t allow yourself to be harmed by others who don’t understand what you are going through. there are people who will accept and love you for who you are, all of you.

past, present, and future.

[trans-axolotl]

also in regards to that last article about varied ways of thinking about psychosis/altered states that don't just align with medical model or carceral psychiatry---I always love sharing about Bethel House and their practices of peer support for schizophrenia that are founded on something called tojisha kenkyu, but I don't see it mentioned as often as things like HVN and Soteria House.

ID: [A colorful digital drawing of a group of people having a meeting inside a house while it snows outside.]

"What really set the stage for tōjisha-kenkyū were two social movements started by those with disabilities. In the 1950s, a new disability movement was burgeoning in Japan, but it wasn’t until the 1970s that those with physical disabilities, such as cerebral palsy, began to advocate for themselves more actively as tōjisha. For those in this movement, their disability is visible. They know where their discomfort comes from, why they are discriminated against, and in what ways they need society to change. Their movement had a clear sense of purpose: make society accommodate the needs of people with disabilities. Around the same time, during the 1970s, a second movement was started by those with mental health issues, such as addiction (particularly alcohol misuse) and schizophrenia. Their disabilities are not always visible. People in this second movement may not have always known they had a disability and, even after they identify their problems, they may remain uncertain about the nature of their disability. Unlike those with physical and visible disabilities, this second group of tōjisha were not always sure how to advocate for themselves as members of society. They didn’t know what they wanted and needed from society. This knowing required new kinds of self-knowledge.

As the story goes, tōjisha-kenkyū emerged in the Japanese fishing town of Urakawa in southern Hokkaido in the early 2000s. It began in the 1980s when locals who had been diagnosed with psychiatric disorders created a peer-support group in a run-down church, which was renamed ‘Bethel House’. The establishment of Bethel House (or just Bethel) was also aided by the maverick psychiatrist Toshiaki Kawamura and an innovative social worker named Ikuyoshi Mukaiyachi. From the start, Bethel embodied the experimental spirit that followed the ‘antipsychiatry’ movement in Japan, which proposed ideas for how psychiatry might be done differently, without relying only on diagnostic manuals and experts. But finding new methods was incredibly difficult and, in the early days of Bethel, both staff and members often struggled with a recurring problem: how is it possible to get beyond traditional psychiatric treatments when someone is still being tormented by their disabling symptoms? Tōjisha-kenkyū was born directly out of a desperate search for answers.

In the early 2000s, one of Bethel’s members with schizophrenia was struggling to understand who he was and why he acted the way he did. This struggle had become urgent after he had set his own home on fire in a fit of anger. In the aftermath, he was overwhelmed and desperate. At his wits’ end about how to help, Mukaiyachi asked him if perhaps he wanted to kenkyū (to ‘study’ or ‘research’) himself so he could understand his problems and find a better way to cope with his illness. Apparently, the term ‘kenkyū’ had an immediate appeal, and others at Bethel began to adopt it, too – especially those with serious mental health problems who were constantly urged to think about (and apologise) for who they were and how they behaved. Instead of being passive ‘patients’ who felt they needed to keep their heads down and be ashamed for acting differently, they could now become active ‘researchers’ of their own ailments. Tōjisha-kenkyū allowed these people to deny labels such as ‘victim’, ‘patient’ or ‘minority’, and to reclaim their agency.

Tōjisha-kenkyū is based on a simple idea. Humans have long shared their troubles so that others can empathise and offer wisdom about how to solve problems. Yet the experience of mental illness is often accompanied by an absence of collective sharing and problem-solving. Mental health issues are treated like shameful secrets that must be hidden, remain unspoken, and dealt with in private. This creates confused and lonely people, who can only be ‘saved’ by the top-down knowledge of expert psychiatrists. Tōjisha-kenkyū simply encourages people to ‘study’ their own problems, and to investigate patterns and solutions in the writing and testimonies of fellow tōjisha.

Self-reflection is at the heart of this practice. Tōjisha-kenkyū incorporates various forms of reflection developed in clinical methods, such as social skills training and cognitive behavioural therapy, but the reflections of a tōjisha don’t begin and end at the individual. Instead, self-reflection is always shared, becoming a form of knowledge that can be communally reflected upon and improved. At Bethel House, members found it liberating that they could define themselves as ‘producers’ of a new form of knowledge, just like the doctors and scientists who diagnosed and studied them in hospital wards. The experiential knowledge of Bethel members now forms the basis of an open and shared public domain of collective knowledge about mental health, one distributed through books, newspaper articles, documentaries and social media.

Tōjisha-kenkyū quickly caught on, making Bethel House a site of pilgrimage for those seeking alternatives to traditional psychiatry. Eventually, a café was opened, public lectures and events were held, and even merchandise (including T-shirts depicting members’ hallucinations) was sold to help support the project. Bethel won further fame when their ‘Hallucination and Delusion Grand Prix’ was aired on national television in Japan. At these events, people in Urakawa are invited to listen and laugh alongside Bethel members who share stories of their hallucinations and delusions. Afterwards, the audience votes to decide who should win first prize for the most hilarious or moving account. One previous winner told a story about a failed journey into the mountains to ride a UFO and ‘save the world’ (it failed because other Bethel members convinced him he needed a licence to ride a UFO, which he didn’t have). Another winner told a story about living in a public restroom at a train station for four days to respect the orders of an auditory hallucination. Tōjisha-kenkyū received further interest, in and outside Japan, when the American anthropologist Karen Nakamura wrote A Disability of the Soul: An Ethnography of Schizophrenia and Mental Illness in Contemporary Japan (2013), a detailed and moving account of life at Bethel House. "

-Japan's Radical Alternative to Psychiatric Diagnosis by Satsuki Ayaya and Junko Kitanaka

[hayatheauthor]

Creating Fear in Your Characters: A Writers Guide

Creating authentic emotions is vital for immersive storytelling, which is why I decided to make this series on how to write different emotions. After exploring rage, and sadness it's now time to delve into fear!

Fear is a powerful emotion that can manifest in various ways, from subtle apprehension to paralyzing terror. Here's a guide on how to write fear effectively, covering different aspects of your characters' behavior and reactions.

Facial Expressions

Fear often manifests first in facial expressions, conveying the initial shock or unease. Describe these expressions to immerse readers in your character's emotional state:

Widened Eyes and Dilated Pupils: Show the eyes widening in response to a sudden threat, with dilated pupils indicating heightened alertness.

Tense Jaw and Clenched Teeth: Mention the clenching of jaw muscles or teeth, signaling internalized stress or anxiety.

Furrowed Brow and Raised Eyebrows: Describe the furrowing of the forehead and raised eyebrows, revealing worry or confusion.

Quivering Lips or Lip Biting: Note subtle lip movements like quivering or biting, reflecting nervousness or fear.

Frozen or Stiff Facial Muscles: Highlight moments of fear-induced immobility, where facial muscles become tense and rigid.

Body Language and Gestures

Fear can also be expressed through body language and gestures, showcasing your character's instinctual responses to danger or threat:

Backing Away or Recoiling: Describe your character instinctively moving backward or recoiling from the source of fear, signaling a desire to retreat.

Raised Shoulders and Tensed Posture: Show how fear causes the shoulders to rise and the body to tense up, indicating readiness for fight or flight.

Trembling Hands or Shaking Limbs: Mention the trembling of hands or shaking of limbs, reflecting nervousness or anxiety.

Covering Vulnerable Areas: Describe your character instinctively covering vulnerable areas like their neck or torso, symbolizing a protective gesture.

Fidgeting or Restlessness: Note any fidgeting or restlessness, such as tapping feet or wringing hands, as signs of inner turmoil and fear.

Vocal Cues and Dialogue

Fear can alter vocal cues and dialogue, affecting how your character speaks and communicates their emotions:

Quavering Voice or Shaky Speech: Describe the voice quivering or becoming shaky, indicating nervousness or fear.

Rapid Breathing and Gasping: Mention rapid breathing or gasping for air, showcasing the physical impact of fear on the respiratory system.

Stammering or Hesitant Speech: Note any stammering or hesitant speech patterns, reflecting the character's struggle to articulate their thoughts coherently.

Sudden Silence or Lack of Verbal Response: Show moments of sudden silence or the inability to respond verbally, highlighting the overwhelming nature of fear.

Repetitive Phrases or Vocalizations: Describe repetitive phrases or vocalizations, such as muttering prayers or chanting reassurances, as coping mechanisms in fearful situations.

Reactions and Physical Responses

Fear triggers various physical responses in your characters, showcasing the body's instinctual reactions to perceived threats:

Increased Heart Rate and Sweating: Mention the character's heart rate increasing and sweating profusely, reflecting heightened physiological arousal.

Dilated Pupils and Heightened Senses: Describe dilated pupils and heightened sensory perception, as the character's senses become more attuned to potential dangers.

Muscle Tension and Rigidity: Note muscle tension and rigidity, as the body prepares for action or defense in response to fear.

Nausea or Stomach Churning: Show how fear can lead to feelings of nausea or stomach churning, as the body's stress response impacts digestive functions.

Fight, Flight, or Freeze Response: Highlight the character's instinctual response to fear, whether it's a readiness to fight, a desire to flee, or a state of frozen immobility.

Types of Fear and Emotional Depth

Different types of fear can evoke varying emotional responses in your characters, adding depth to their portrayal and the narrative:

Startle Fear: Describe the sudden, reflexive fear triggered by unexpected events or loud noises, leading to a quick, intense reaction.

Apprehensive Fear: Show the lingering sense of unease or dread that accompanies anticipated threats or impending danger, heightening tension over time.

Terror: Depict the overwhelming, paralyzing fear that arises from extreme danger or horrifying experiences, impacting the character's ability to think or act rationally.

Phobias: Explore specific phobias that trigger irrational and intense fear responses, shaping how your character navigates their environment and interactions.

Trauma-Induced Fear: Address fear resulting from past traumas or experiences, influencing the character's behavior and emotional resilience in present situations.

Verbs and Adjectives for Writing Fear

Here's a list of verbs and adjectives to help you convey fear effectively in your writing:

Verbs: tremble, cower, gasp, quiver, shrink, freeze, recoil, sweat, pant, gulp, shudder

Adjectives: terrified, anxious, alarmed, horrified, shaken, jittery, panicked, petrified

[elicathebunny]

FINALLY CLOSING THE GAP BETWEEN YOU AND YOUR HIGHEST SELF IN 2024.

You are going to STOP scrolling endlessly for self-help and advice content and you are going to STOP and apply the knowledge you have endlessly gained. Obtaining help and advice knowledge is useless if it goes through one ear and comes straight out the other. STOP becoming addicted to the idea of scrolling and scrolling for your problems yet you already have the resources to fix them. A fool is a person who cannot decide to take action despite having access to the information needed to do so.

BREAKING FREE FROM THE SCROLLING CYCLE

Learning and Applying is one thing, but Learning and Staying Stationary is literally brain rot. You're addicted to the idea of change and the end result, but you never take the steps towards discipline with a personal structure to get that result. You keep looking for quick fixes and easy hacks, but life is not a quick fix and no hack can elevate your life from 0% to 100% without visiting the rest of the numbers first.

TAKE A BREAK FROM SCROLLING

Take time away from your usual scrolling and learn to be on your own. Learn your own ways of self-care, learn what works for you and understand what you need, because nobody is the same. Following a millionaire's morning routine will not make you a millionaire. This routine has worked for someone to feel and be productive in the morning and was probably curated over the years to suit their current lifestyle. So, seeing other people's successes and comparing their working ways to your life is unrealistic if you are not in a position to implement them. Going straight from 0% (Being unproductive and procrastinating) to 100% (Being incredibly Productive and in tune with self) will not be sustainable for someone who has not built the discipline and the inner foundations required for it. STOP seeing information online and taking it without ALTERING anything to your personal situation.

STOP ASKING HOW TO AND JUST DO

"How to lose weight, How to become more social, How to do this and that"

Most of these things you ALREADY know the answer to. Everybody knows that to lose weight, you need to burn more than you consume. There is literally no other way, no magic and no secret hack, just that simple fact. I guarantee you know that to become more social you just have to be social. Learn to be comfortable in social situations which will require inner work, but it's not a difficult concept. Most of us know what we need to do, yet we still try to find quick fixes or another way that same message is presented to us differently. We act as if we are improving and developing on our "improvement" journey yet we are just finding coping ways to feel like we are moving, yet we are still in the exact same place as before. I know you know what to do, I know you have researched what you should do and ways you can do it. So why are you not doing it? Why are you still not where you want to be? If you are not where you want to be, then what you're currently doing needs to change. You cannot do the exact same thing you've been doing for years and expect a different outcome. You need to curate a routine suited to your needs that is realistic and achievable to adopt.

LEARNING TO MOVE ON YOUR OWN, STOP DEPENDING ON OTHERS TO FUEL YOUR SUCCESS JOURNEY LISTEN TO: NOBODY IS COMING TO SAVE YOU BY JULIENHIMSELF Make yourself your safe space, your foundation. When you see yourself in the mirror you should be able to tell yourself "I love you", you should be so sure in what you do that nobody else can contradict what you believe in yourself, this is the end goal of self-improvement. Many of us have put aside our goals because we "are not ready", "people may judge us" or "I need to be/achieve ___ to.." Now don't get me wrong, I'm on this journey with you. I write on this blog to teach my brain how to think in the higher mindset that I'm creating for myself. I too have thoughts like this which is why in 2024 we are going to break out of our old selves to make room for our new selves together. We have to lose ourselves to find ourselves. If you're mood and self-worth are controlled by other people's opinions, then you will never advance further with yourself and will remain stationary. You have to stop allowing other people to determine whether you are allowed to pursue your desires or if you shouldn't because of fear of rejection. Don't take life too seriously, we are only here for so much time. So what if people make fun of you? In a few years will you look back and be proud and fulfilled of your past or feel regret and disappointment? LISTEN TO: WHY YOU CARE SO MUCH BY JULIANHIMSELF + LISTEN TO: HOW TO DETACH BY VICKITA TRIVEDI

The only way to get to 0%-100% is by doing.

Embody your potential

[cavillscurls]

hold me, heal me | aemond targaryen x f!reader

summary: he comes to you in the dark of night, seeking solace, when mistakes are made and lives are lost.

warnings/tags: MDNI. post S1E10, pre S2E1. dual pov. minor age gap; reader is 5 years older. angst. mentions of death, murder, and war. depictions of grief and panic. mentions of past sexual assault. misogyny and period-specific gender roles. hurt/comfort. mommy issues galore. sub!aemond, soft dom!reader. reader works in a brothel; the term “whore” is used in reference to her profession. intimacy. pet names. MD/LB undertones. cockwarming. unprotected p in v. a smidgen of dacryphilia. cream pie. pregnancy risk due to unsafe sex mentioned briefly. PLEASE NOTE: I wrote the majority of this before any S2 brothel scenes came out and did not change some of my own lore. The past trauma of this character has not been taken lightly nor do I negate it in this fic. He does, however, engage in different ways of coping than we see canonically. You are responsible for what you choose to read.

word count: 2.4k

masterlist

a/n: i’m aware the canon is leaning towards Aemond being a little off his hinges…but he’s fully remorseful in this because i said so. it’s my first time writing him so be nice or i’ll cry. you know who i’m thanking (@kiwisbell) per ush. an additional thank you to @joelsdagger for listening to me babble and sharing in my excitement. enjoy!

The knock he bestows on your door is always succinct, quiet. Tonight, it is dampened by the fall of rain and roaring thunder, which he combats with firmer, urgent strikes. 

The establishment is empty, apart from yourself. A quaint corner in the wall, no more than three or four lucky girls in service, all under your watch, your care. The owner, a man you have only ever met with a mask covering his countenance, prefers to keep a low profile amid such political turmoil. He’s eager, perhaps even reckless in granting you authority in his affairs. But you handle them, have always handled them, carefully. A woman of your position, your station, no fool to pass up a trace of power. 

You are roused from the chaise in the corner of the room at the abrupt sound, naked, dozing off under the low candlelight with a book in your lap. When the sound comes again, then thrice, you pull the silken robe off the back of the cushions and wrap it around yourself, bare feet a soft patter across the room. 

You open the door, slowly, carefully, no stranger to what lurks in the dark at these hours. Though the thing you find through the crack worries more than it frightens you. 

He’s not quite sure how he found himself here. How he willed his limbs, sore from dragon-back and pellets of rain, to land on your doorstep. The hood of his cloak is pulled over his forehead, blocking the rain from his eyes which cannot find the strength to look at you. He’s been here, this very spot, many times before. Always in a similar fashion to now, when the whole of King’s Landing is deep in slumber—but, despite his fatigue, sleep continues to evade him. He is, always has been, unlike his kin in the ways of sex. A whorehouse the last place he cared to find himself, averse to their nature, still slave to the experiences no child as young as he should have endured. 

But that all changed when he met you. A woman five years his senior, with warm eyes and a sparkling smile, whose first encounter with the Prince came in a tavern. And while the rest of the men drank and fucked and drank some more, keen to end the night with their cocks stuffed in the women of their choosing, Aemond Targaryen found himself in the back rooms with his head in your lap, your nimble fingers gracing his locks of hair, humming and nodding along as he relayed in great detail the misfortunes of his life. 

And whilst the experience of seeking your solace is a familiar one, tonight feels ineffably different. Something looms, substantial and altering, an invisible hourglass signifying impending consequences. 

“My Prince.” You had not been expecting him this evening, and it translates through the airiness of your tone. 

There’s a terror in his eyes—eye, though you’ve come to ardently understand just the way of his brows—and you are quick to usher him inside, leaving no room for onlookers to watch a man unravel. This man in particular, royalty, with silver hair too recognizable, too imperiled to risk being seen. 

But he is seen by you. In some ways, only you. 

He stands there, just before the closed doorway, looking like nothing more than a lost little boy. His breath is audible, a staggering inhale through his nose followed by the shaky release of his lips that begin to tremble. 

“I’ve done something,” he finally rasps, in that sort of far-off voice, the one that’s given you unease time and time again. “Something unforgivable.” 

And the truth is, you know him. You know the whole of him, in his various roles, and in the shape of Prince Aemond Targaryen, an unforgivable deed, a cruel one even, is foreseeable. Perhaps that makes you an accomplice, an enabler in all his unsavory behaviors for the sole reason of never admonishing them. 

But in your own life, your own truth, you are reminded that it is simply not your place to critique. Your place, your role, is to serve. To provide a paying customer with their needs most neglected. And if you are to be entirely forthright, the needs of the Prince—a mere man, just another man when in your company—are unlike that of the others. So much so that your place, your role, somehow becomes innately you. 

You had gotten good at playing pretend, as the needs of most men often required. Leaning into the subservient nature, allowing them to take, and take, and take. Your arrangement with the Prince couldn’t be any more different. Here, with him, you give. You cultivate, you lead, and he is eager to receive. It’s the very truth that maintains your affections, making it far too easy, despite his wrongdoings and whatever they may be, for you to reach out and cradle his face within your palms. Press your chest up against his, and with it, a chaste kiss to the apple of his cheek, just below where the silken patch covers marred flesh. 

“Oh, my darling boy,” you coo, running a tender hand down his cheek. “Come.” 

He heeds your gentle command, as he always does, taking you by the extended hand and following you to the chaise. This part of the visit is routine, and you cannot help but display a bit of showmanship in the sultry way you undo the knot of your robe, letting it ripple over your shoulders and down to the floor like steady waves. His gaze follows over your bare figure, nothing but admiration. You step back until your calves hit the upholstery, never tearing your eyes off of him when you splay yourself across the cushions, propping your elbow up on the armrest. 

He stands in place, admiring, lips slightly parted and hands flexing in and out of fists at his sides, for some time. This too is a part of the routine: what pieces of himself he chooses to reveal to you when you’re together. You, always bare, free to his needs. He, given the choice, to be as concealed or as vulnerable as he wishes. Tonight is an extreme of the latter, as he eventually breaks from his silent trance, moving to strip himself of his damp cloak, his tunic, his trousers. You hold your breath when his fingers linger at the hem of his breaches, sighing a wistful sort of sound when they join the rest of his clothing. 

You await him, limbs spread and inviting, and the Prince shudders at the sight before him. A cacophony of thoughts, emotions, some he’s chosen are better off never to scrutinize. Because he does, in his own twisted way, feel safe with you.

Safer than he feels in his own home. Much safer than he’s ever felt alone. 

He crawls himself up between your legs, letting them engulf his torso, resting his cheek upon your bare chest—as is practice. He can hear your heartbeat beneath the flesh, drowning out the sound of thunder and screaming in his eardrums with its steady thump, thump, thump. He wraps his wingspan around your rib cage, cradling himself against your pillowy breasts that act as a comfort in his time of distress. It’s perhaps the very reason the Prince maintains you in his company—you quickly understood the type of nurturing he required, and you were, and remain, eager to provide. 

Wetness falls from his cheeks and coats your breasts, silent tears. He nuzzles into your skin and squeezes his eyes shut; despite his body's betrayal of him, trembling in your hold, he refuses to make a sound. He wishes to maintain a semblance of dignity, of manhood. Even if it is you who has seen him in all his shame, when he feels most worthless in the position he was born into. 

“I forgive you.” An eventual whisper after moments of wordlessly tucking silver locks behind his ear with your fingertips, swirling gentle shapes along his temple. “Whatever you’ve done, I forgive you.” 

And he aches at your sentiments; inside and out, his heart heavy in his chest and his cock straining between his legs, coming to life under the prospect of your enveloping heat. A vice well utilized in aiding him to forget, to let go. You wouldn’t forgive him, he thinks, if you knew the truth of his blunder. You’d despise him, a traitor to his kin. You’d refuse to service him, perhaps even refuse to see him again. It’s for that very reason that on this visit, selfishly, he does not indulge you in his strife. 

Instead, he takes. He takes what you have always freely given him, and for a while, he doesn’t feel a thing. He cries, and squeezes you, and mouths at the exposed skin of your breasts, but his brain is blank, his body numb. It is only when he goes scarily silent and still for a long while that you begin to worry. 

“Tell me what I must do to help,” you whisper against his earlobe, breaking the silent seal and watching his body tremble at the tickle of your breath. 

He’s quiet for another moment, and then: 

“Make me forget.”  

It isn’t often he asks for this, to take the extra step. You’re never bothered, quite liking the change of pace in his company. Gradual and serene, limited expectations placed on either party, and the opportunity to be something other than a body. But you cannot deny the flutter of excitement the proposition elicits in your belly now, a deep-seated ache searching for a remedy, eager to comply with his wishes. 

Your limbs move in unison, choreography, unwinding from one another until he’s seated upright on the chaise and your thighs straddle his lithe hips. His hands dig solid into the plush of your hips, and thrilling is the thought of what they may leave behind come morrow. You feel his breath on your face and hear the way it hitches when you reach between your bodies, carefully wrapping your fingers around his hardening cock. The tip kisses your entrance, and you hiss at the initial stretch of it as you descend the length of him. 

He’s long and slender, a comfortable fit, nestling up, up, up to that sweet spot inside of you that makes your body sing. And it feels good, so good to seek pleasure in the one who derives it from you. You stay like this, relishing in the fullness, the scent of him so close. Withered roses and iron. 

Your hands cascade his arms, up his solid shoulders, until you’re cradling his face, porcelain, between your palms. 

“May I look at you?” It is a question, as this is a boundary you dare not test. Who are you to upset the balance where he seeks asylum? 

You run your fingers carefully along the strap of his eyepatch, over the spot it disappears behind his ear. You’d seen it before, mostly in passing glances. When he’d wash up in the powder room, or on the rare occasions he slept beside you, just before you gave way to slumber. Crystalline sapphire, nearly as striking as the blue of his given eye that beholds you now. 

There’s admiration for the sight of you, fireplace flames reflecting off your perspired skin, and a glaze over your half-lidded eyes. You really are a sight to behold, and so, he trusts you with this. 

He nods once, and your nimble fingers sink under the band of the patch and delicately remove it from his face. 

It’s only when you see him, all of him, that you begin to move. The initial rhythmic grinds of your hips—so that you may adjust and he can experience your silken walls suffocating him—eventually turn to a gradual rise and fall. Your thighs slap down against his with each descent, an angelic little whine passing through your lips every time he reaches your cervix. 

Your lips are agape and your brows are pulled in focus, but your bright eyes remain firmly planted on him. The sudden urge to cry again surges through him, but he sinks his teeth painfully into his bottom lip to avoid it. Here lies an intimacy he is already unsteady with, and yet it is the prospect of losing it altogether that tears him asunder. 

He concentrates, first on the rise and fall of his breathing, of yours, of the pulsing of his blood through his veins. Then, the pliancy of your body, the way it wraps around him like a glove, sparks a sharp twisting in his gut from how tightly your cunt milks him. Made for him, made for you. How your sultry, collected countenance starts to falter the closer you are to release, dragging him down with you. His gaze falls briefly between your bodies to see the white ring of slick left around the base of his cock when you rise, the evidence of your arousal making his abdomen grow taut. 

“I won’t last,” he warns you, a broken excuse of a voice. 

You flash him your dazed eyes. “I don’t care.” And he’s groaning. 

He knows it’s a risk, one that he likely wouldn’t be around to face the consequences of. But he doesn’t care. He can’t. Not when you begin to increase your speed, squeezing him from tip to base in tantalizing strokes. Not when your nails dig into his shoulders, and your head is thrown back in ecstasy, heavy breasts on full display for him to bury his head into again. Not when you’re coming undone around him, crying out his name, his real name, and he’s all that he is in his simplest form. 

His thighs tremble and his vision goes dark from squeezing his eye shut, a glorious crescendo oozing into release. The sticky ropes of seed paint your insides right as they start to clench feverishly around him. Oversensitivity is mistaken for pain and pleasure, but there is a calmness in the way his body goes slack once you’ve slumped against him. Drained, in all senses, he welcomes your guiding touch that cradles his face into the crook of your neck. A state of rest he will preserve for what’s left of the evening. 

Tomorrow, he will wage war. Tomorrow he will front stone cold, pledge his loyalty and conduct his duty to his family. Forget the woes of the life he once imagined he deserved and bind himself to the reality of the one he’s been given. 

But tonight, he will rest. Rest under the comforting hands that could not be dealt by his kin. And perhaps, once morning comes, never to be dealt again. 

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[regression-runaway]

Your regression is still valid even if . . .

❥ usually regress when upset or in a negative situation

❥ don’t know what age/animal you regress to exactly

❥ act mainly as a caregiver but also regress

❥ mainly a regressor but also a caregiver

❥ can’t control any/all aspects of your regression

❥ don’t regress for coping but more for fun (sfw)

❥ have done things you regret when regressed

❥ struggle understanding big feelings when regressed

❥ feel your regression is a burden

❥ scared to tell others about your regression

❥ struggles to tell the difference between you regressed and not

❥ scared to or don’t want a caregiver due to trauma

❥ doing things considered “big” or “adult” task when regressed

❥ struggle to fully regress

❥ don’t have / don’t want regression gear

❥ are an alter who’s unsure if your a regressor , age slider or sys kid

❥ your regression doesn’t look the stereotypical way

♡ Your regression is yours and as long as YOU are helped by it is all that matters, your valid. You deserve a happy , safe and comforting regression. ♡

[antimisinfo]

Endos / endogenics and why they aren't valid :

We've made posts on this before but we decided it might be good to make one big post to link to for when / if anyone asks again. We tried to cover everything we could in this post but we'll likely be making other posts similar to this later on.

So what are endos? Endos or endogenics are people who claim to have DID/OSDD without trauma or claim to have alters / be a system without having DID/OSDD.

Why is this bad? This is misinformation because as far as science knows DID/OSDD is a trauma based disorder (specifically caused by trauma in early childhood, which is speculated to be 1-9 / 1-12 years old) and your brain would not split / create alters without reason. You cannot have alters without having a disorder, this is common sense as it's not normal to have alters. To add onto this endos also take over our communities and steal our terms. (We'll make a post with further information on that in the future).

There is also a carrd that explains why endos are bad and debunks a few myths if anyone is interested in it! If not continue reading

Why can't you have DID/OSDD or alters without trauma? As far as science knows DID/OSDD is a trauma disorder and in order to have alters in the first place you require dissociation, which is also a trauma ((or stress)) response. Here are tons of medically reviewed sources that say this:

“ They suggest that DID is caused by experiencing severe trauma over a long time in childhood. By experiencing trauma in childhood, you take on different identities and behaviours to protect yourself. As you grow up these behaviours become more fully formed until it looks like you have different identities ” — rethink.org

“ Dissociative identity disorder (DID), previously known as multiple personality disorder, is a complex psychological condition caused by many things. These include severe trauma during early childhood (usually extreme, repetitive physical, sexual, or emotional abuse). It's also known as split personality disorder. ” — webMD

“ DID is usually associated with adverse experiences in someone’s past and traumatic memories. ” & “ Dissociation — a major part of DID — is a defense mechanism the body uses to reduce your awareness during overwhelming trauma ” — pysch central

“ DID is associated with long-term exposure to trauma, often chronic traumatic experiences during early childhood. ” & “ Dissociation—or disconnection from one’s sense of self or environment—can be a response to trauma. It can happen during a single-incident, traumatic event (e.g., an assault, a natural disaster, or a motor vehicle accident), or during ongoing trauma (e.g., wartime; chronic childhood abuse). ” — mcleanhospital.org

“ Dissociative disorders often develop as a way to deal with a catastrophic event or with long-term stress, abuse or trauma. This is particularly true if such events take place early in childhood. At this time of life, there are limitations to your ability to fully understand what’s happening. In addition, your coping mechanisms aren’t fully developed and getting support and resources depends on the presence of caring and knowledgeable adults. ” — my.clevelandclinic.org

“ There are many possible causes of dissociative disorders, including previous traumatic experience. ” & “ Switching off from reality is a normal defence mechanism that helps the person cope during a traumatic time. ” — nhs.uk

“ Dissociative identity disorder is the result of a natural way of coping with childhood trauma. Our page on the causes of dissociative disorders has more information. ” & “ Dissociation is a natural response to trauma while it's happening. But some of us may still experience dissociation long after the traumatic event has finished. Past experiences of dissociation during traumatic events may mean that you haven't processed these experiences fully. ” — mind.org (two links since they're two different pages)

“ Dissociative disorders usually start as a way to cope with shocking, distressing or painful events. The disorders most often form in children who go through long-term physical, sexual or emotional abuse. Less often, the disorders form in children who've lived in a home where they went through frightening times or they never knew what to expect. The stress of war or natural disasters also can bring on dissociative disorders. When you go through an event that's too much to handle emotionally, you may feel like you're stepping outside of yourself and seeing the event as if it's happening to another person. Mentally escaping in this way may help you get through a shocking, distressing or painful time. ” — mayoclinic.org

Most of these sources are pretty recent too, with the most recent one being made in September 2023 (webMD)

What about religious beliefs / tuplamacy? First people are not required to believe or participate in your religious beliefs (and religious beliefs are not exempt from criticism) and second tuplamacy is a closed Buddhist practice that has nothing to do with being a system and should not be compared to being a system nor should it be included / involved in system communities. Note that the DSM-V also says that in order to have DID; "The disturbance is not a normal part of a broadly accepted cultural or religious practice." <- this does not mean it's possible to have alters due to a religious thing, if anything it says they cannot be counted as alters / as a system.

To add on, no you cannot pray to be a system or transition into being a system. If you were to pray and one day magically become a system you are either in denial or you've convinced yourself you're something you're not. Believing you can be a system without trauma or that you can become a system by praying is like believing you can get autism from vaccines or drinking too much dairy milk, that's just not how it works.

What about mixed origin systems? Mixed origin systems are not a thing. DID/OSDD forms purely from trauma, you can't form from a mix of trauma and not trauma, that's not how it works. If you identify as mixed origin you are likely in denial and really need to come to terms with the fact that you are either traumatized or you're not a system at all.

What about other kinds of origins? Other origins like "willowgenic" and all that bullshit? Yeah no, same thing as endos, not possible. Look above for all the proof you need, DID/OSDD is only caused by trauma. Traumagenic is the only valid origin.

But I gave myself DID! / But I created my own alters! No you didn't. That isn't possible, you cannot turn yourself into a DID/OSDD system and creating alters is a coping mechanism, not something you do for fun, sources on this;

“ DID Isn't Something You Can Give Yourself on Purpose. Having DID was not a conscious decision those of us with the disorder made when we were children. Dissociative identity disorder is not a selective disorder, meaning you cannot decide that you want to develop this brilliant coping mechanism and then you have it. ” — healthyplace

“ In any case, additional alters are usually the result of extreme stress. The mind does not like to be fractured even when an individual already has DID or OSDD-1. Many individuals cannot split unless a split is strictly necessary for their protection, functioning, or ability to remain hidden as a system. That said, there are exceptions. Some individuals may become so used to using splitting as a coping mechanism that they may split easily in response to seemingly minor stressors. ” — didresearch.org

Isn't being a system like the same as being trans or being LGBTQ? No, many endos compared the two but they are completely different. Being LGBTQ is an identity, it's something you are born as. Being a system is a debilitating disorder caused by severe trauma, it is counted as a disability which is;

“ 'A person has a disability if: They have a physical or mental impairment, and the impairment has a substantial and long-term adverse effect on the person's ability to carry out normal day-to-day activities.' ” — gmc.org

The reason DID would be counted as a disability is that;

“ Having a dissociative disorder can affect your ability to keep a full-time job, especially one with work stresses, which can worsen your symptoms. ” — disabilitysecrets

And the DSM-V criteria literally says;

“ The symptoms cause clinically significant distress or impairment in social, occupational, or other important areas of functioning ” — traumadissociation

But the DSM-V says that trauma isn't required! No, the DSM-V actually says CSA isn't required, there are other forms of trauma that don't involve CSA or child abuse. To act as if it saying that the trauma isn't always CSA or child abuse means that it doesn't require trauma at all is extremely invalidating to those who are traumatized in ways that don't involve child abuse or CSA.

But this source claims endos exist / DID doesn't require trauma! Most of those sources are extremely old and / or made by endos (or pro endos) themselves. (We'll make a more in-depth post on this topic some other time, but for now this is all we have to say on it)

But we don't know everything about the human brain! You're right, we don't. The brain is mysterious, but we do know enough to know that it doesn't do these kinds of things for no reason. We know the brain reacts to trauma and we know what the difference between a normal brain and a disordered brain is. Just because we don't know everything doesn't give people an excuse to jump to conclusions and spread misinformation. It is better to stick to what science currently knows which is the theory of structural dissociation, which is the current theory about how DID/OSDD forms, and so far no one has been able to disprove it. And before someone says it, no it is not only a theory, it is a scientific theory which is;

“ A theory is a well-substantiated explanation of an aspect of the natural world that can incorporate laws, hypotheses and facts. The theory of gravitation, for instance, explains why apples fall from trees and astronauts float in space. Similarly, the theory of evolution explains why so many plants and animals—some very similar and some very different—exist on Earth now and in the past, as revealed by the fossil record. ” — amnh.org

And to add on;

“ Scientists develop theories to explain the natural world and to advance scientific knowledge. A theory is the highest level of explanation in science. Some features of scientific theories are that they: have been thoroughly tested over an extended period, provide accurate explanations and, predictions for a wide range of phenomena, are widely accepted by the scientific community, demonstrate strong experimental and observational support ” — study.com

[thestarseersystem]

It really depends on system to system, but we use "main" as to describe who does this job most often and fronts most often with their job, or is associated with things the most.

We as a polyfrag system tend to like to keep to their positions, roles and existences, but I've known other polyfrag systems that constantly change as a coping mechanism.

Like we have main host, main protector and main gatekeeper, but its more associated for being in the system the longest and being most known by front.

I think it's funny as a large Polyfragmented system to see people using the terms "Main Trauma holder" and "Main gatekeeper" and pretty much any other "main" Alter Role because we've gotten to the point we barely see a lot of people for a long time after they front.

We have people we used to consider our "main"s in a lot of things but we've gone through so much and have such a low ability to function on the assumption that at some point they will come back that we just label them as they appear and don't bother adding levels to them beyond Fragment or fully formed.

[javierpena-inatacvest]

Chapter 1- Jello at Your Front Door

Summary: 15 years ago, a football and a boy four doors down makes your move to Florida a little more bearable. Now, you're not quite sure how to feel when you find out he's shown up back at home unannounced

Word Count: 5.5K

Pairing: Frankie Morales x f!reader (no use of y/n, Frankie has a nickname for reader)

Warnings: Angst, yearning, mentions of death, sick parent, meeting Frankie for the first time, cute, awkward baby Frankie, a football throw Santi will never forgive you for

A/N: ... Hey.... How y'all doin'.... Remember when I said I was gonna start a different Frankie series months ago? I hope you humbly accept this as my official formal apology for not being able to get my shit together, as I present this offering to you instead 🙂 I started writing this 24 hours ago and I legitimately couldn't stop, so here we are??? I know this is a different style that what I normally write, but here's to trying new things (and hopefully finishing them). I hope you guys enjoy 🥺💛

All The Things We Never Said Masterlist

Next Chapter

You, Present

“Frankie’s home.” 

You weren’t really sure how to comprehend how the combination of those two words would be one of the worst sucker punches you’d taken to your gut in the better part of the last decade. 

As the sentence replayed over and over in your head, you could think of any other combination of two words that would have scared you less. 

“Hurricane’s coming.” 

“Bomb’s dropping.” 

“World‘s ending.” 

In a universe where things make sense, the response these would elicit from the average person would be reasonable, rational even. When you’ve been given a warning about the way two words have the potential to alter your reality, you can’t help but panic. 

But today, you’ve woken up in a universe where things don’t make sense. 

And what’s worse is, you didn’t even get a warning. 

The statement shouldn’t have shaken you as much as it did. When you’d seen his truck parked in the driveway four houses down, you knew it had to be him. Anyone else in the world would be caught dead driving the barley mobile piece of metal he’d been traveling in for the better part of 20 years. But Frankie Morales was not anyone else. He’d drive that damn car until the wheels fell out underneath him. 

It wouldn’t be the first time you’d gotten in a stubborn stare down with his 1989 maroon Chevrolet Silverado. You had a sneaking suspicion that today wouldn’t be your last. 

“Why is Fr- Why is he back?” 

You hadn’t intended for your tone to be so bitter, but the taste of Frankie’s name on the tip of your tongue left a taste in your mouth so sour, you wanted to recoil into yourself. 

“Why do you think?” It was clear your mother had no interest in playing into your game of cruel intentions, barely paying you any mind as she glanced out the window, unphased by the looming presence in the Morales’s driveway, “You should go say hello.” 

“No thanks, I’m not a fan of purposely ruining the rest of my day.” You don’t mean for your eyes to roll as far back into your head as they do, but you can’t help it. At this point it seems like an innate, programmed response. Simply the thought of Frankie Morales was enough to dampen your mood; an intentional confrontation was the last thing you needed. 

“You’re going to have to see him at some point, you know. Can’t hide from him the whole time he’s here.” 

Your mom hadn’t even given you the chance to rebuttal, disappearing from your bedroom to leave you to stew in your own resentment, because she knew as well as you that it was pointless to fight back. 

At some point, you’d have to face Frankie. Today, you’d stick to hiding. 

You, Summer of 1999, Age 11

26 total hours trapped in a U-Haul with your family and every item you’d ever owned was not the way you had planned to spend your last week of summer before starting middle school. You’d hoped that the nearly 3 day journey from Michigan to Florida would be long enough to help you cope with your distress. Unfortunately, you weren’t shocked that cramped quarters and unclear driving directions in the midst of uprooting your life wasn't doing much to lighten your mood. 

Your parents had promised you the move would be worth it. That starting a new life halfway across the country would be good for your family. You weren’t quite sure what positives Florida posed to you, but even at the ripe age of 11, it didn’t take a genius to realize that “starting over somewhere new” was code for “trying to keep your dad alive.” 

The doctors back home were thrilled to tell you about the new, potentially life saving treatment for his rapidly progressing colon cancer. You were thrilled too, until that new, life saving treatment meant moving 1,300 miles from home. 

Not once did you protest- keeping your dad a living, breathing part of your life was better than having to say goodbye to your best friends, but it still didn’t mean every mile you drove further and further south down I-75 was another grain of salt in your freshly open wound. 

Your parents had tried to incentivise you with all the joys that Florida would have to bring- warm, sunny weather, beaches, being a 3 hour drive away from Disney world, a bigger house, the list went on and on. And while you knew one day you’d find joy in the rewards you’d reap from your sacrifice, you had a feeling that day wouldn’t be coming any time soon. 

It took too many movers to count to finally get your new house to resemble what was supposed to be a home. There was something so unsettling about seeing your furniture reassembled into unfamiliar corners of a place you’d never been. Even the things that were supposed to feel familiar and comforting now felt distant and foreign, scrambled in the walls of your new residence like a child who had shaken up a box of their favorite toys and dumped them out on the ground, leaving behind a mess for someone else to clean up. 

The only solace you could seem to find in the wave of chaos that had washed over your life was the view outside your bedroom window. A quiet escape, perfectly positioned to watch the warm rays of sunset fade behind the rooftops, the night slowly shifting into shades of black and blue as your eyelids became heavy.

Each night as you drifted to sleep, you dreamt about the ways you could be saved from the lonely island you were trapped on. A sole survivor begging to be found. You tossed and turned in the sea of your twisted bedsheets, crying out that there would be someone, anyone who would risk their life to rescue yours. 

On the first two nights, the only response to your pleas was a deafening silence, an insult to injury that you were destined to spend the rest of your life on a godforsaken landmass no one would ever find. On the third night, your cries carried on the winds of the warm summer air, sneaking through the cracks of an open window four doors down. 

“You should go out there and play with those boys down the road! They look like they’re probably about your age!” 

You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t noticed the two gangly figures racing up and down the street for the better part of the last hour, hoping they wouldn’t catch your passing glances through your living room window as you pretended to watch whatever episode of “Rocket Power” aired next on Nickelodeon. Perhaps the pair boys hadn’t noticed you watching them, but your dad had surely noticed the way you could have cared less about whatever was on the TV in front of you. 

“They’re playing football, I don’t really think they’d probably want me to play.” You huff under  your breath. 

“You’re good at football. Probably better than they are.” Your dad laughs like it’s meant to be funny, but you know he’s serious. He’ll never admit to you out loud he wished his only child would have been a boy, but you’ve never minded playing the role of the son he never had. 

And he’s not wrong. You definitely are a better throw than either of them. 

“They’re gonna think it’s weird that a girl’s asking to go play football with them.” The sigh that follows this is even more annoyed than the last, now too self aware at 11 years old to revert back to the days of approaching kids you’ve never met on the playground and asking to join in without needing to worry about the social repercussions of your actions. 

“Well, you can either pout and pretend to watch TV, or you could go try to make some friends. That’s up to you, Bud.” He smirks at the scrunch in your brow and flair in your nostrils, the same face he knows he makes when he’s been hit by the cold, hard truth he doesn’t like. 

You know he’s right. 

“Fine,” You grumble, reluctantly pushing yourself off the edge of the couch, “But if they’re dumb, I’m coming back home.” 

“Atta girl. Go easy on ‘em, Killer.” 

As you step outside, it feels like you’ve become some sort of jungle explorer, trying to approach a herd of wild animals in their element without startling them to the point of attack. You’d even brought a peace offering to ease the introductions, hoping that your own football would be an appreciated contribution to their game. 

As you make your way down the street, you’re not sure if you’re particularly good at sneaking up on the boys, they haven’t noticed your presence, or worse, they’re actively trying to ignore you in hopes that you’ll go away. 

“H-Hi.” You stammer, half attempting to wave at the back of their heads, nowhere near close to catching their attention. 

“Hello?” This time it’s a little louder, slowly taking a few steps closer, “Hi?” 

God, maybe it’s a fourth option you hadn’t considered and they’re both deaf. 

“Hey!” 

This one finally catches their attention, causing both boys to turn around cautiously, not sure whether they’re more shocked that someone’s interrupted whatever play they’re about to run, or that the person who’s interrupted them is you. 

All of three of you stand in silence for a moment, mind racing in curiosity as you take in the image of clumsy limbs and messy mats of hair stuck to sweaty foreheads. The one boy is shorter, thick, jet black curls sprouting from the top of his head and arms crossed over his chest with a scowl on his face that’s not quite mean, but most definitely not welcoming. 

The other, taller and lankier, a mop of dark brown hairs twisting at the nape of his neck, eyes soft as he glances back and forth between you and his friend. His demeanor is much different, almost nervous compared to the boy standing next to him, fits balled in the pockets of his shorts while the adam’s apple he still needs to grow into bobs in his throat. 

For as much as no one wants to draw in the silent standoff you’ve entered, you started this mess, so you might as well be the first one to fold. 

“H-hi. Sorry, I um, I didn’t wanna interrupt-” 

“I mean, you did.” The shorter boy mumbles, wincing as the nervous one slaps him in the chest with the back of his hand. “Jesus, what was that for, asswad?!” 

“Let her talk!” He grunts, sneering at his friend before turning back to you, his face much kinder now than the expression he just gave to his friend. “Sorry. You can um, you can keep talking if you want. Sorry about him.” 

You try not to laugh at the exchange, but it’s hard not to smirk at the way the two have managed to put themselves on display in the thirty seconds you’ve spent talking to them. 

“It’s okay. I um- I just moved in down the street. That green house over there.” All of your eyes shift as you point behind you, signaling where your journey had begun a few moments ago, “I was uh- I was wondering if you guys wanted another person to play with? I- I brought my own football.” 

“Normally you only need one football to play football, duh. Do you even know how football works?” 

In an instant, your heart sinks to your gut, eyes dropping to the ground to watch your feet start to drag across the pavement, back to where you came. But before you can lift the sole of your sneaker from the cement, a voice stops you. 

“She obviously does or she wouldn’t ask, numbnuts! C’mon, Santi, don’t be a dick.” 

Although it’s not directed at you, it’s enough to bring your attention back to the kinder boy, no name yet, but quite positive it’s not also Santi (or asswad). The two of you lock eyes for a moment, a strange sort of calm running through you as his slight half smile reveals his brace covered teeth, looking at you in a way that makes you feel just a little less small. 

“Yeah, you can play with us. I’m Frankie, by the way.” 

Frankie. 

There’s something about his name that fits him so perfectly. You can’t quite put your finger on it, but you know from the way it rolls off your tongue that it just feels right. 

“Hi, Frankie. I’m Mackenzie.” 

Frankie’s hands are now out of his pockets, a line of defense dismantled after hearing your name. 

“Hello? Have we forgotten about me? There are three of us here, remember?” 

“This is Santi. Well, Santiago, but we all call him Santi.” The way Frankie rolls his eyes at his friend tells you everything you need to know about their friendship, giggling at the way he dramatically pouts as he introduces him. 

“Mackenzie? Isn’t that, like, a last name?” Santi asks, still not yet warmed up to the idea of you, but intrigued enough to ease how tightly his arms are crossed. 

“And? Isn’t Santiago the capital of Chile?” You sass, your mater-of-factness and quick wit making Frankie unintentionally snort. 

“Alright, touché, Christopher Columbus.” Santi mocks, acting tough to try and hide the pink blooming in his cheeks. 

“I like Mackenzie. I think it’s cool.” 

There’s something about the way he says it that you know he means it, wondering why the way hearing your name fall from his lips churns your stomach in a sensation you’d never felt before this moment. 

“Yeah, well, just so you know, Frankie is short for Francisco.” Santi interrupts, trying to find a way to get a jab back at either you or Frankie, at this point he doesn't really care which. 

“Well, last time I checked, there wasn’t a Francisco, Chile.” 

That one sends Frankie into full blown hysterics, boyish snickers taunting his friend, whose attempt to save his namesake has left him the butt of the joke. 

“Will the two of you clowns just shut up and throw the ball? If you’re gonna let her play, Frank, can we at least make sure she can throw?” Santi whines, using every ounce of prepubescent strength he has left to play into his unbothered facade. 

“You can use your ball if you want.” Frankie suggests, shrugging at his indifference to the ball held in your hand compared to the one held in yours. 

“No! If she’s playin’, she’s usin’ our ball!” Santi’s voice trails further away with each step back he takes, settling himself in the middle of the street a few feet down from where you and Frankie stood, not willing to take any more risks when it comes to you, even if it’s something as stupid as a football. 

“Fine by me.” You shrug, happily obliging to his request, Frankie giving you a silent nod of reassurance as he passes his football off to you. 

It’s only now you notice he’s nervous again, one hand back in his pocket as he wriggles his toes in the ends of his worn sneakers while you size up your toss, knowing he’s worried that Santi will never let him live it down if the ball can’t make it more than three feet in front of you. 

Neither of you would know it then, but the silent exchange you make with Frankie as you line up your throw would be the first of many unspoken promises you’d keep to him. What seemed like a simple task,  to prove worthy of his friendship by throwing a football, would turn out to be the most important promise you'll ever make to Fransisco Morales. 

You weren’t ever going to let him down. 

“You can go further back.” You shout, almost offended by the distance Santi had chosen to stand away from you. 

“If you can make it this far, I’ll be impressed.” 

“You promise you’ll go get it after I throw it past you?” 

“I promise, Joe Montana, throw the damn ball.” 

You shrug at Frankie, like he’s supposed to know what comes next. He’s too scared to question either of you, all he can do is let his eyes dart back and forth between you and Santi, knowing there’s no world where both of you can prove your point. What scares him more is that he trusts you more than his friend. 

You line your fingers up on the laces, gripping the leather like your life depends on it. In a way, it does. With a step forward, your arm hurls the ball, two of the three of you standing dumbfounded in the street as you watch it soar further and further past its intended target, spirling through the sky until it bounces off the cement with an acrobatic roll, three times the distances of where Santi had placed himself. 

You don’t say anything. You don’t need to. You just smile and shrug- it's the best “I told you so” you could give them. 

“Fine. She can stay.” 

To this day, it’s the closest you’ll ever get to a compliment from Santi. 

“Nice work, Kenz.” 

Your stomach flips. You try to blame it on the adrenaline of it all, that there was no way a compliment so simple had you wiping your sweaty palms over the denim of your shorts, trying your best to erase any evidence that he was the reason your heart was racing out of your chest. 

Now it’s 15 years later, and as much as you hate him, you still can’t get that goofy, brace faced smile out of your mind. 

Frankie, Present 

There’s a reason he shows up at 1 A.M. Everyone’s asleep. If the world is asleep around him, he’s safe from having to deal with anyone, at least until morning. There’s a part of him that wishes he would have parked his truck down the street, tricking you into thinking that he wasn’t even there. 

It’s hard to justify when you’re the reason he’s back home in the first place. 

When he got the call from his mom, he knew he had to come. He didn't want to, but he knew he’d hate himself forever if he didn’t. 

“Hey, Mamá.” 

“Francisco, how quickly can you make it home?”  

“Mom, I told you, I’m not-” 

“It’s Doug. He’s in hospice.” 

“Fuck. How um- how much longer do they think he has?” 

“When I talked to Michelle, she said they were hoping for a few more weeks. But I’m not sure. He doesn’t look good, mi amor. If you want to say your goodbyes, now’s the time.” 

“O-okay. I can probably be home by tomorrow. Gonna be late though. Is uh- is she, um-” 

“She’s here. For about a week or so already. She keeps looking over at your empty spot in the driveway just like she did all those years you were away. Waiting for you, Francisco.” 

It’s the lump in his throat and ache in his chest that gets him home an hour and fifteen minutes faster than what his GPS said it would. He’s not sure what delusional part of his mind thinks that maybe you’ll be waiting for him when he pulls into the driveway. Maybe it’s the same delusional part of his mind that pictured you sitting there, cross legged on the concrete, staring up at the sky to count stars like sheep, waiting for him to come home all those years ago. 

He’s also not sure why it hurts so bad when he shows up and you’re not there. 

Frankie feels like he’s 16 again, sneaking into his own house in the wee hours of the night, digging the spare key out from under the doormat, attentive to the practiced pattern of how to avoid squeaks in the hinges as he turns the lock behind him, careful not to wake a single sleeping soul. He tiptoes over the 4th stair to the second floor and barely taps the 7th before he finds shelter in his room, successful from his journey. 

Every time he comes home, he can’t help but laugh at the fact his mother refuses to change anything about his bedroom. Everything is in the same place it was the day he left for the Air Force, down to the pile of unfinished homework from his Senior year of high school stacked on his desk. Each time he sees it, he’s never sure if the source of his laughter is nostalgia or irony. Maybe it’s a little bit of both. 

When he looks at the picture frames scattered across his nightstand, a 17 year old Frankie stares back at him, tall and gangly, arms too big for his own body, an awful haircut he begged his mom to let him get. It was the year he discovered how much he couldn’t live without a hat, simply out of necessity for the 6 months it took for his hair to grow back out. You were the first one to tell him how cute he looked in the one hat he already owned. He bought three more in the weeks to come. 

He wonders what the 17 year old in those pictures staring back at him would think of him now. If there’s one thing he knows for certain, it’s that high school him would have beat the shit out of him for the way things turned out, scrawny limbs and all. 

It seems like the military has taught him how to sleep anywhere besides his own home, keeping company with the shadows dancing on his ceiling in the moonlight, tossing and turning in the tattered sheets of the twin sized bed his mom promised she’d upgrade when he got big enough. To this day, he and his mom both know he was never begging her for a new bed because he had outgrown it, he just always wanted to make room for one more person. 

He clocks 3 and a half hours of sleep as good enough, creeping out of his house the same way he had come in, making the 5.4 mile trip to Benson Park to watch the sun rise. Frankie’s always hated running, it’s just as much of a surprise to him as it is to everyone else that he keeps doing it. It makes his knees hurt like shit and his lungs feel like they’re being strangled by rubber bands, a cruel cycle of self punishment he can’t seem to shake his addiction for. 

He’s sat on the same side of the bench underneath the ancient Blooming Dogwood since the first time he came here. He tried one time to sit on the other side. He’s superstitious enough to believe his one time fuck up has had a lasting effect. The bench is so hidden at the back of the park, he likes to think that the two of you are the only ones to have ever found it. No one else has ever burst through the bubble of secrets shared between the two of you there, leaving the wood grain to be stained with memories and moments that have shaped the both of you, good and bad. 

It’s the first place you ever told him about your dad. It’s the first place he ever told you about his. His dad was already nothing but memories by then. It makes him sick to his stomach that soon, that’s all you’ll have left, too. 

Frankie, Fall of 1999, Age 11

“How much longer do we have, Frankie? I feel like my legs are gonna fall off!” 

“Quit being such a baby, you’re fine!” 

“Next time we have to ride our bikes this far, I’m pulling an E.T. and riding in the front basket of your bike.” 

“Perfect, you look just like him.” 

“Frankie!” 

“Kidding, kidding!” 

Frankie’s never had a friend like you before. Sure, he’s got Santi, but it’s not quite the same. 

Santi took some easing into- five years ago, when Frankie moved onto Everett Street, he became a friend by force, not choice. Santi staked his claim on him, seeing Frankie as a gift sent straight from heaven, finally having another boy his age to play with after too many years of being sentenced to dress up and tea parties from his 3 older sisters. 

Santi was everything Frankie wasn’t- loud, assertive, the kind of friend who grabs you by the hand and drags you along with them whether you liked it or not. There’s times now, after a half a decade of friendship, that Frankie still questions the way Santi’s brain is wired, but Frankie’s too good of a friend to ever make a fuss about it. 

You, on the other hand, needed no easing into. From the moment he met you, watching you toss that football so far past Santi that he was convinced it would disappear on the other end of the street, Frankie had been mesmerized by you. 

There’s something about you that makes him feel a weird thump in his chest every time you’re together. Everything about you gives him comfort in a way he can’t describe, a safety he’s felt with very few other people in his life until now. 

There’s just something about you. He still hasn’t been able to quite pinpoint what it is. 

Whatever it may be, it’s enough to invite you on a bike ride to the back of Benson Park instead of Santi. 

“Do you even know where we are? I don’t think there’s any more park left past this point, Frankie.” You huff, slowing the wheels of your bike behind him as you come to the edge of a steep rolling hill, nothing left in front of you but acres of empty land and tall grass. 

“Yeah, I do. Maybe we just passed the trail on the way in. We’ll just- We can just find it on the way back.” 

He knows you know he’s fibbing, but he wants your trust that he won’t lead you astray more than he wants to tell the truth. 

“Okay. There’s a bench underneath that tree. Can we just sit for a little bit before my legs turn to jello?” 

You’re already halfway off your bike before he can respond. Even if he had said no, there’s no way he’d leave without you. 

“Fine. What flavor jello?” 

“Whatever flavor is your least favorite so you don’t eat my legs, Francisco. That’s just weird.” 

The two of you laugh, tossing your bikes to the ground as you bottoms find the wood of the bench you’d pointed out, you on the right side, Frankie on the left. 

“My mom only ever gets the red kind. I don’t even really like it that much. Don’t worry, you’re safe, Kenz.” 

“I don’t really like it either. But we have every flavor at my house ‘cause that’s like, all my dad eats.” 

Frankie starts to laugh like you’re playing a joke on him, trying to pretend your dad’s diet exists exclusively of artificially flavored gelatin, but your sudden silence and the way your voice drops to the ground right with your eyes tells him he’d better stop snickering. 

“Your dad only eats jello?” 

“Well not only, but a lot of it, I guess.” 

His face scrunches with a mixture of confusion and concern at your sadness. He’s never heard you this quiet before. 

“Um, w-why?” 

The silence is almost deafening. He’s not sure why he should be so concerned with asking about jello, but he’s too curious to let it go. He selfishly wants to know what about it makes you so upset, because he just as selfishly hopes there’s something he can do to make you feel better. 

“My dad has cancer. He’s really sick. He can’t really eat a lot, but jello’s the one thing he can keep down most of the time without, like, throwing up or whatever.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, like you’re worried someone else will hear and spill the rest of your secrets right along with this one. You say it like he’s the only one in the world you want to hear it. 

“I’m- I’m sorry. That sucks.” 

Frankie blames it on his instincts, the way his hand finds yours, outstretched on the bench. He touches you like he’s handling a baby bird who’s fallen out of its nest, delicate and careful, calculated, hoping you won’t try to fly away in fear. Instead, your hand welcomes his, scooting closer to the weight of his palm resting on top of it. He feels you give in as you let him carry you back to safety of the tree you’ve descended from. 

“It’s okay. That’s why we moved here. The doctors in Michigan said that there were even better doctors here who could maybe help make his cancer go away.” 

“And then maybe he won’t have to eat as much jello.” He takes a gamble with the joke, but it pays off with your surprised snort, “Sorry, that was stupid. I shouldn’t be joking about it.” 

“I mean, it was, but it was funny. It’s okay, my dad jokes about it, too. He always says, one day, it’ll be funny, so might as well make that day today.” 

His heart warms as he watches a small smile return to your face. It heats the pink in his cheeks when he realizes he was the one who helped bring it back. 

“Your dad sounds nice.” 

“He is. Even though he doesn’t feel good a lot of the time, he still always tries to come to my soccer games and stuff. I know he can’t be like what he was before he was sick, but he tries to be. What about your dad?” 

Frankie prays you don’t notice the way his heart sinks like he noticed yours. He chews on the inside of his lip so hard, he thinks it may bleed. He wants to lie, but he knows that you’ll know. You always know. 

“Um, I don’t- I don’t really see my dad.” 

It’s you now who's grabbing his hand, offering him the same type of safety net he’d made for you. He’s barely known you two months. He’s known Santi for five years and all he knows is that his dad doesn’t live with him. Frankie didn’t want to tell him, he’s not sure he’d understand. There’s a strange sensation that swirls in his gut, because he wants to tell you. You’d laid the first brick in the foundation of trust between the two of you. The least he can do is help you keep building. 

“Oh. Why don’t you see him?” He sees you’re prying, but not in a way that hopes to expose him. He knows you’re prying because you want him to let you in, to get a peek at what's behind the curtain. It’s a locked door most people in his life will ever get access to, but he’ll let you have a spare set of keys. 

“I never really knew him. My mom said he left when I was a baby. She says she’s always been happy it’s just me and her. That it was easier to live with one less person than to live with someone who was mean.” 

“Your mom sounds like a wise lady.” 

He appreciates the fact humor was your first response, too, it makes the sting of ripping the stitches off a still-healing wound hurt just a little less. 

“Yeah, I guess so. Still kinda wish I had a dad, though, ya know?” 

“You can borrow my dad whenever you want. As long as you don’t mind super embarrassing, stupid jokes.” 

“Are they as bad as mine?” 

“No. They’re worse.” 

Neither of you would have minded staying just a little bit longer, but the bright reds and yellows of the setting October sky remind you both that the parents you’ve opened up about are expecting you back before night washes over the quaint suburbia of your town. The bike ride home is much quieter than the one there, but the simple silence seems to speak louder than anything he’d have to say. 

The next day, Frankie would raid the cabinets of his kitchen for every last packet of jello he could find and bring them all to your front door.

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