#have never expressed similar experiences and also all have anxiety and are on meds when i do look at something i do and go hey im fine so

[probably-autistic-moss]

Moss relates + Is it an autistic trait?

Woah, our first crossover, lmao.

ANXIETY AND AUTISM

-

⚠️⚠️⚠️ TRIGGER WARNING: SH AND SUICIDAL THOUGHTS ⚠️⚠️⚠️

-

From 2016 to 2018, I went to therapy.

I was severely depressed, I had panic attacks almost everyday, I often thought about ending it all, and I had issues with handling social situations. I also used to SH, as a way to punish myself for a lot of things I was made fun for - things I now recognize as autistic traits.

My therapist, Dani, first helped me to stop physically hurting myself, and before I quitted therapy for economic reasons, she was starting to tackle my emotional SH.

I loved Dani, because she loves Marilyn Manson - pls do not talk about the allegations against him, I already have a blog where I sometimes do that, and this post isn't about him - as much as I do. When tackling my issues with emotions - confusion about them, difficulty with expressing them and/or myself - she started asking me which one of his songs was relatable to what I was feeling. It worked extremely well, so much so that I confessed to her how much I quoted music in general and movies to express myself, because I was scared of expressing myself in the wrong way and being misunderstood. She took it as another symptom of my anxiety.

We talked about many other things, and I was diagnosed with an anxiety disorder and with a major depressive disorder.

When, around 2 years ago, I started to suspect I'm autistic, I never really thought about my other 2 diagnosis... until now.

As whoever actually follows me knows, I stopped doing active researches on autism in fear of just being influenced by what I was reading, so now I just research what I randomly find out on socials.

I saw this TikTok, talking about autism and anxiety, and it's incredibly similar to my experience. I wasn't medically treated for anxiety and depression just because I didn't have the money to do the visits that would have allowed me to be prescribed with antidepressants and other meds, and now I'm asking myself if those meds could have worked or not.

I'm pretty sure I really did/do have a major depressive disorder, especially because of all the physical and the emotional SH, and the emotional SH I still do. I also had a pretty traumatic childhood that could be the main cause of my depression.

But what about autism?

Could autism be another reason for my depression, and the main reason of my anxiety? Is my anxiety an autistic trait, since it's exactly like that TikTok describes?

I keep asking myself these things, and I wish I could have an answer.

[yukippe]

Also u ever go hm. Was it normal that I was having fucked up thoughts when I was a kid and low-key in high school like everyone was thinking about that right. Like that was a Normal way to view myself and if anything I was just copying what I saw in television

Ever since my dad told me when I was 14 that my shaking from stress was me faking it I've been like.hm. are my arms acts shaking and seizing up or can I just stop this whenever

[fairycosmos]

anxiety and intrusive thoughts piss me off so much sometimes like just when i'm done being terrified of one thing something else triggers me and the cycle repeats again like i guess that's the reality of how anxiety works but it's still so frustrating u know?

omg yeahhh i totally hear you god i can't express how much i GET what you mean. i think the cycles of mental illness are what really wears your mind down, above all the other shit that comes with being sick. it's really hard to live with, it's exhausting. it's tedious, even. you know what your brain is doing and yet you still can't stop it, and it's like you go mad trying to fight it. even on meds and with therapy and time and healing, you can get caught in the same old loops. it's a lot. when i was like 12, and my hypochondria was in one of its really bad phases, i was crying in my doctors office and he said the same thing. he was like: even if i tell you you're physically healthy, you're going to find something else to worry about and end up right back here again because that's the nature of mental illness, anxiety especially. now, it's the same with my intrusive thoughts, same patterns, same neurotic-ness. what he said really stuck with me because i kinda realized in that moment that i am never going to rid myself of this feeling entirely. that i will always be scared, searching for problems, hyper alert, out of control in my own head. and the goal is to manage and function, not to cure it at this point. that's just for me, though, and obviously experiences vary.

anyway, i'm sorry you're going through something similar and i'm sorry you know what it's like. i seriously would not wish it on anyone, and i understand that it often leaves you feeling completely disheartened and hopeless. takes up so much of your life, too. i think it's totally normal to feel that way when you've been put through the ringer so many times w the same old shit and the same old illness and all it ever does is permeate, it's the fucking worst. i do think having this level of self awareness about your repetitive thinking cycles and habits is a good sign and a tool you could learn to use to lessen the anxiety in its most heightened moments, BUT i also get that that is way easier said than done. i hear you and ur not alone in dealing with this at all. <3 i really hope you are able to find both the professional and personal support you need/deserve, and consistent moments of peace, with time. even if that's a whole process in and of itself. take care of yourself and try to approach it with a one-day-at-a-time mindset. you're doing a lot better than you realize just by coping and being self aware enough to send something like this. sending a huge hug over ur way rn x

[ask-the-good-creeps]

You can open up if you'd like

TW: SUICIDE ATTEMPT MENTIONS. DEPRESSION MENTIONS. MENTAL HEALTH MENTIONS. DO NOT READ IF THESE THINGS COULD NEGATIVELY AFFECT YOU.

 Okiedokes, mi amigos. The following story happened years ago, but it still comes up in my mind a lot; and I feel like sharing the experience may benefit someone going through a rough patch and/or yield a bit of insight to y’all about why I think the way I do. If you decide to read further, please read it to the end.

 So, this story begins with my first year of university. I was nineteen years old, fresh out of the Arizona foster care system, and had a history of mental health issues (official diagnoses from the psychologists I saw was PTSD, Anxiety, Depression, and Bipolar Disorder Type II – all of which triggered and fed into each other) that I was medicated for at that point in my life.

 Things were going well for the first year…I made friends, I joined clubs and events, had an on-campus work study job, and was pulling decent grades in my classes. Then, the year ended and summer rolled around. I volunteered to spend my summer on-campus as a Resident Advisor for the university’s honors outreach program (where we brought 7th-9th graders to the campus for 2-week programs to give them a taste of college life and encourage them to come to us after high school, pretty much).

 To anyone on the outside looking in, things looked like they were going great for me. In my eyes, everything was going great. Except for one thing…my grade hadn’t posted in one of my classes for the semester, and I didn’t do to well on the final (in my opinion). I was slightly worried that I was going to fail the class – looking back now, that was a ridiculous worry because I was doing great in the class and the professor was a really cool dude that usually didn’t fail students unless they put in literally zero effort throughout the semester.

 But, I worried nonetheless.

 Even then, it didn’t feel like a big deal to me…what I didn’t realize is that subconsciously it was the straw that broke the camel’s back for my mental health.

 You see, being in foster care as a teen is Hell. Especially in Arizona. One of the things they drill into the heads of teens in “the system” is that we’re absolute failures who will drop off the map and end up leading miserable lives after we age out of foster care (probably because they don’t teach us the necessary life skills to survive outside of their care, but I digress…that’s another story for another day).

 In the group homes, I was the kid that stayed out of trouble and got straight-A’s in school. I was the kid who never smoked, drank alcohol, or tried drugs not even once in my life. I was the one that kept climbing and got accepted into university on full scholarship after high school. So, I was the one that all those adults of the foster care system used as an example…the one who had extremely high expectations on their shoulders as a result.

 So, when the grade for that class finally posted online and was not an A like my other classes (it was a C), it was the end of the world to my mind. I didn’t realize it when it happened, but seeing that grade made a thread of stability quietly snap behind the scenes where I couldn’t see it.

 As a result, I had a rogue thought.

 Now, when it comes to my thinking patterns, there is always a clear…well, pattern. If I’m thinking about my Great Aunt Vickie’s cat, for example, I can recognize that I started thinking about her because I thought of a funny cat story that was something similar to what Vickie’s cat did; and I can recognize that I thought of that funny cat story because I saw a cat meme on the internet yesterday; and so on, and so on, until I find the real-life stimulus that triggered the whole line of thinking.

 Rogue thoughts are a whole different matter entirely. Unlike my usual thinking patterns, these rogue thoughts just show up without any noticeable stimulus or previous thinking…and that makes them dangerous for someone like me, who has learned to control my depression through CBT and recognizing when my thought patterns are starting to get too negative for me.

 I returned to my apartment in between summer outreach programs (we had a few days to recoup between each 2-week session) and that’s when the rogue thought in question appeared.

 “Kill yourself.”

 That was the thought. It was not linked to any depressive thinking patterns, it was just there. It didn’t feel like a big thing, just another item on my to-do list for the short break I had. Had I been more used to rogue thoughts and encountered a similar one to this in the past, I would have thought more about it.

 I would have recognized that this thought may have popped into my conscious line of thought out of nowhere, but seen that it had deep roots in my subconscious thinking.

 But, I hadn’t had a rogue thought like this in the past.

 All of my previous suicidal ideations had patterns to trace back to in my conscious mind that allowed me to work through most of them without incident.

 So, I sat at my desk and started writing out a suicide note. It was very casual in tone, like a friendly farewell to my friends and family as opposed to being a depressing final record. I planned to jump off my apartment balcony the next day. After careful consideration, I decided that I would prefer my body to stay in one piece (my apartment was on the eighth floor, after all) and I opted to overdose on my medication instead.

 I had a little garden at my window, and I set the note there. I sent a quick text to my father that simply read, “My plants know the reason why.” I was prepared to take the pills…then my father called me.

 He was concerned, but I lied and said that I was just spouting random nonsense with the intent to confuse people (easily believable, as my catchphrase at the time seemed to be, ‘the pancakes fly at midnight and the waffles swim at dawn’ for some reason). He asked multiple times if I was alright, to which I always answered affirmatively. Then, the call ended.

 I went to my room and laid in bed. I put in my headphones and turned on my music. Then, I swallowed ten of my prescription pills (which I was only supposed to take one of every 24 hours, for reference). After that, I swallowed a literal handful of melatonin tablets I picked up OTC, because I didn’t want to be awake for the damage the prescription meds would do to my system.

 I laid back in bed with the music going, and passed out fairly quickly. However, the melatonin wasn’t enough to keep me unconscious as my body started trying to purge the pills in an act of self-preservation. I couldn’t open my eyes because every time I did, the room spun. I was throwing up a lot, and at one point when I leaned over the bedside to get it on the floor instead I lost my balance and faceplanted onto the ground (which I found out later had led to a broken nose). I didn’t even feel it, just the pain my insides were going through as I faded in and out of consciousness.

 Here’s where it gets interesting, reader. It was night by now, and the lights in my room were off. The livingroom light was on and it shined in through the crack under my closed (and locked) bedroom door. Even if I could open my eyes, it wasn’t enough light to see by.

 Yet, it wasn’t my eyes that detected anything. I felt a presence in my room with me, there in the dark. It felt like I knew this person, as if they were a close friend, despite the fact that I had no idea who they were. I remember asking this person,

 “Do I still have enough of the poison left in my system to kill me?”

 To which I received their reply:

 “No. You’ve coughed enough of it up. You’re going to be alright.”

 I cracked my eyes open ever so slightly and saw a flashing blue light shining up at the ceiling every so often. It was a notification light on my phone, which I had left plugged in to charge on the dresser next to my bed.

 My goal here was to die, not to suffer. Since this person there with me insisted I wasn’t going to die, I reached out with my eyes still closed a couple times. I managed to grab my charge cord and pull my phone off the dresser and to the floor next to me.

 It took a couple tries to dial emergency services (911) because I couldn’t keep my eyes open very well, but eventually I got an operator on the line and managed to briefly explain why I called in between bouts of vomiting.

 The paramedics came in. They asked me what I had overdosed on, how many pills I’d taken, and when I took them. I answered with the name of my med, that I had taken ten times my normal dose, and that I didn’t check the time but it was still light out.

The paramedics didn’t believe me at first. One of them told me it was almost light out again now, and that taking that amount of that med meant I should not be alive still, let alone able to express semi-coherent thoughts. They didn’t believe me until they picked up my pill bottle and saw how many were gone.

 I was taken to the hospital and spent a few days recovering there. I had my eyes closed and was in and out of consciousness the whole time, so I’m still not sure exactly what they had to do to keep me alive (though I don’t remember getting my stomach pumped, and I think I heard someone say something about charcoal).

 On my third day there, I started to think on what happened and realized something. I still didn’t know who had been in that room with me. The paramedics had to get a key from the front desk when they arrived and go through two locked doors (my front door and my bedroom) to get to me. My apartment was on the eighth floor, so someone coming in through the (also locked) window was out of the question.

 I didn’t recognize the person’s voice, so I chalked it up to my brain treating me to reverse psychology through an auditory hallucination to keep me alive. Though, that is just a theory.

 So, dear reader, you’re probably wondering why I decided to share this story. Well, it’s not really the story that I wanted to share, but what I learned from the experience.

 I learned that suicide is not a proper course of action, no matter the circumstances. 

I learned that we cannot die before it is our time – the universe will intervene. 

I learned that I have plenty of people who care (though very few of them know why I was in the hospital in 2015). 

I learned that stress is not to be taken lightly (subconsciously I had been super stressed about my C-grade and the implications that I was a failure because of it, and also because of everything loaded on my plate) and it must be handled in a healthy way. 

I learned how to say ‘no’ to avoid putting too much on my plate.

 Most importantly, I learned about freeing myself from the expectations of others. You see, my friend, you will meet many people throughout your life that are important to you that have expectations of you. Family, friends, teachers, mentors, and so on…and you may be worried about disappointing them, as I once was. But please understand that only your own expectations for yourself truly matter, and if you try to please everyone else you’ll end up in a really tight spot. Learn to let go of what they want and pursue your own passions and dreams (preferably before you end up going to university for a major you aren’t even fond of, like I did).

 Lastly, If you feel or think in any capacity that suicide is something you should do, I encourage you to think twice, and reach out openly and honestly with what you’re experiencing to someone you trust in your life or to a Mental Health/Suicide Prevention hotline. If you feel like you have nowhere else to turn, I’m here.

 As someone who almost became a statistic, believe me…I understand.

[aroworlds]

The Vampire Conundrum, Part Two

When Rowan Ross is pressured into placing an aromantic pride mug on his desk, he doesn't know how to react when his co-workers don't notice it. Don't they realise he spent a weekend rehearsing answers for questions unasked? Then again, if nobody knows what aromanticism is, can't he display a growing collection of pride merch without a repeat of his coming out as trans? Be visible with impunity through their ignorance?

He can endure their thinking him a fan of archery, comic-book superheroes and glittery vampire movies. It's not like anyone in the office is an archer. (Are they?) But when a patch on his bag results in a massive misconception, correcting it means doing the one thing he most fears: making a scene.

After all, his name isn't Aro.

Contains: One trans, bisexual frayromantic alongside an office of well-meaning cis co-workers who think they're being supportive and inclusive.

Content Advisory: This story hinges on the way most cishet alloromantic people know nothing about aromanticism and the ways many trans-accepting cis people fail to best communicate their acceptance. In other words, expect a series of queer, trans and aro microaggressions. There are no depictions or mentions of sexual attraction beyond the words "allosexual" and "bisexual", but there are non-detailed references to Rowan's previous experiences with romance.

Length: 3, 737 words (part two of two).

Note: Posted for @aggressivelyarospec‘s AggressivelyArospectacular 2019.

Romance, too, feels like one of the mechanisms by which a dangerous trans body can be rendered more acceptable to cis folks.

“His name’s Aro,” Melanie says after lunch, showing a new volunteer around the office. She pats Rowan on the shoulder as she walks behind his chair, startling him enough that the clipping path he’s making around a photo of Damien’s head goes veering off to the side. “He does our website, our flyers and the information guides we send out. Aro like from the Twilight movies!”

Introductions once only encompassed Melanie’s habit of overly-stressing pronouns when referencing him—a dysphoria-triggering reminder that she doesn’t think him masculine enough for people to assume it. Isn’t that bad enough without her also getting his name wrong?

He sighs, frustrated. Complaining about this, when trans people are in desperate want of a working environment free of outright antagonism and discrimination, feels unreasonable. Hell, Rowan knows aromantics who’ll revel in being named “Aro”, so isn’t his hurt just pettiness? Isn’t this why he’s no longer welcome at home, a man too intolerant of his family’s mistakes? How many times did they tell him that his harping on about little things demonstrates a concerning lack of gratitude for their acceptance?

His co-workers do seem to believe in Rowan’s masculinity; he shouldn’t take that for granted.

Instead, he feels like he’s failing at being both transgender and aromantic.

After a fair amount of editing, he places Damien’s image in the brochure mock-up and exports to PDF. The office will make suggestions, some useful, some ignorant and some so absurd that Rowan will laugh with his friends later on, but that’s fine. He can’t expect otherwise in a workplace where everyone considers him possessed of unknowable ability with computers. They’re good people, in the main, and they care about their work.

It’s just complicated, and Rowan hates the feeling that complicated is the best cis people will let him get to a normalised acceptance.

“Aro? An Arrow fan called Aro? Really? Do you like comics or are you one of those people only into DC TV?”

Rowan looks up from attaching his PDF to an email to find the volunteer sitting on a creaking office chair and crab-walking it over to Rowan’s desk. “Comics?”

“Oh, good.” The volunteer sighs as if in relief. “I mean, the TV show? It isn’t terrible—better than most of DC’s movies, at least—but I’m so tired of people who call themselves fans but have never touched a comic book.”

Rowan glances at his journal cover, ponders its possible similarity to the show’s motif and nearly bursts out laughing. He’s never read a comic and doesn’t plan on doing so. He prefers indie podcasts and audiobooks on account of increased representation and greater ability to sew and cook while listening. “I’m not an Arrow fan. Sorry.”

Another show about cis people possessed of everyone-should-pair-up amatonormativity?

Hard pass.

“You’re not?” The volunteer gapes, waving his hand towards Rowan’s cluster of pride mugs. Three, now. Only one contains coffee, which feels like a terrible oversight. “Is this a joke, then? Are they getting you arrow stuff because of your name? Like some office thing?”

Aro.

His name is not Aro.

Rowan once thought the concept of snapping a mere storytelling device, something as ludicrous or impossible as “glittering eyes” or “romantic interest that lasts after getting to know someone”. At best an experience had by people without a brain that doesn’t devote most of its time to screaming alerts at the prospect of anything dangerous. Absurd, irrational, void of any real-life relevance.

Not even with his family has he felt this chilling, all-encompassing moment of enough.

He looks back at his computer, attaches a second PDF file to his email and, before he considers pesky things like consequences, clicks send. Then Rowan climbs up on his office chair, steps up onto the desk and whistles like a country boy who owned a border collie prone to sneaking off the property and rounding up the neighbour’s sheep.

Everyone in the office gapes up at him with a motley assortment of parted lips, unblinking eyes and, in Melanie’s case, the pointing of a long, vermillion-polished fingernail.

Up high, the room reeks of nesting rodents and the popcorn ceiling desperately wants refinishing.

Now Rowan’s brain tells his limbs to shake and his chest to heave; of course, he thinks as he shoves his hands behind his back, anxiety kicks in after he’s neck-deep in it! “My … my name is Rowan. I chose it.” He looks at the vent on the opposite wall, fighting to sound collected. Is that black mould? “Dad told me if I rejected my deadname, I was rejecting them. That I was being cruel and selfish. I earnt my name!” He stops, gasping for breath like a hooked fish—which, given his terror, feels far too appropriate a simile. “My identity is aro, short for aromantic, like being queer—one way of my being queer. So ... there’s a PDF booklet in your inbox about aromanticism. Read it! I’m proud of being aro, but you need to call me by the name I chose! It’s Rowan!”

He jumps down off the desk. The creaking laminate and the thud of his dress shoes, a little too large for Rowan’s feet, sound abominably loud in the sepulchrally-quiet room. Heading past giddy into faint, but pushed on by a heedlessness of the “this can’t possibly get worse because I’m going to be fired” variety, Rowan snatches up his satchel and reaches into the side pocket to pull out his handful of print leaflets. He drops one in the lap of the gaping volunteer, tosses the rest on an empty desk for luddites who prefer paper, and returns to his chair.

Seven sets of speechless eyes bore holes through his skull, shoulders and spine.

Rowan jams on his headphones, opens his no-romance metal playlist and turns his music up to a volume just short of deafening before queuing new posts to the project’s website.

When he invented the God of Trans Men as flippant rhetoric to cope with Melanie’s questions, is it right to pray to him?

***

Two hours later, doing his best to radiate an aura of do not disturb on pain of your bloody death, Rowan fights to pay attention to the last event write-up. Leaving early means asking permission and walking down the row of desks, risking stares and comments; he instead corrects Melanie’s idiosyncratic punctuation. Didn’t Melanie go to school at a time when they taught more than English comprehension? How doesn’t she know when not to use an apostrophe?

There’ll be consequences. Warnings? A formal discussion in the private office the supervisors only use for interviews? A request that he undergo counselling? A strong recommendation for psychiatric assessment? Firing? It isn’t like they can’t throw a rock and hit thousands of people under the age of forty with general computer skills and design ability who aren’t prone to standing on desks to make unwanted announcements.

No. Focus on the damn comma splices.

Should he ask his psychiatrist for the soonest possible appointment? New meds?

A tap on the shoulder makes Rowan’s head threaten to brush the probably-asbestos-riddled ceiling; he gasps and yanks off his headphones, trembling.

Melanie stands beside his chair, holding out her phone in its glossy pink case. “Those words that are underlined? Can I click on them to find out what they mean, like on a website? Like ... al-lo-sexual?”

“Hyperlinks in an interactive PDF—the file on your phone—work the same way as on a website,” Rowan says without thinking: in the last three months, he’s been asked this ten times. “If you click on those links, they’ll take you to a glossary at the end of the document with definitions.”

Damien sits facing his usual computer, his head tilted as if watching out the corner of his eye.

Melanie smiles the expression of a woman in an alternate dimension where Rowan doesn’t engage in embarrassing outbursts. “You’re so good at all this stuff, Rowan.” She stresses his name just enough that he can pretend she didn’t. “Where did you learn it all?”

He once tried to explain his philosophy of clicking on things only to realise that while the concept of generational divides requires excessive generalisation, a difference exists in terms of his willingness to fearless experimentation with electronic devices and programs. “School. Uni.”

“You’re so lucky. School was nothing like that when I was a girl. You have so many more opportunities now. And identities.” Melanie sighs and pushes a wisp of grey hair back from her eyebrows. “It’s good, it really is.”

Rowan blinks, startled into silence by a rare glimpse of validation stripped of performance and demonstration.

He hadn’t thought anyone here capable of it.

“It says that some people feel repulsed by romance? Are you like that? Should we do something? Do we need to not talk about romance in the office? Like, if I describe my daughter dating her boyfriend, not that I want to, is that bad? Do we need to hold a meeting? Damien—Damien—”

Damien turns, wearing the blinded look of a rabbit frozen in a spotlight. “Yes...?”

For how long has Damien worked with Melanie? For how long has the office rolled with Melanie’s interruptions and proclamations, her meetings called about the slightest of issues? For how long has the office accepted Shelby’s incessant reminding and Damien’s inability to surrender event photography to someone who knows how to modify their flash settings? Isn’t there a chance that they’ll tolerate Rowan’s occasional moments of desk-blathering?

A trans aro should be able to sew a patch on his bag reading “aro” without provoking cis weirdness. Since when does someone read a new word on his bag and assume that’s now his name? Isn’t that another over-the-top demonstration made by awkward cis people trying to prove their acceptance, something that’s never made Rowan feel safe?

Even when he’s aromantic, he never gets to avoid cissexism.

He slides his hands between the seat and his legs, aware of Melanie’s once again drawing the office’s unbroken attention. “I, personally, don’t care if people talk about their romances,” he says, certain that Damien needn’t answer Melanie about meetings, “but I do care when people assume I must want one. I do care when Sh … some of you just keep asking if I’m dating anyone.”

Rowan long set aside the need to bother with romance. He isn’t aromantic in the way most people first think of the word, as he does fall in love, but it describes his frayromanticism nonetheless. Why put himself through the inevitable messy, angry break-up when his partners don’t understand why what started as romance ends up to him as a friendship? When dating isn’t without trans-related challenges, why force himself into a type of relationship that he knows won’t last?

Romance, too, feels like one of the mechanisms by which a dangerous trans body can be rendered more acceptable to cis folks, in the same way it sanitises his equally-threatening bisexuality. If queers are holding hands and exchanging rings, just like cis and heterosexual couples, they’re safe.

He wants to be normal, but not that normal.

Melanie surprises him again by nodding. Opaque red only colours the corners of her lips; the worn centres reveal the brownish-pink beneath. “Like how we now don’t assume everyone’s—what’s the fancy word you use for not being you?”

“Cis. Yeah.”

“At my first job, I never dared yeah my elders. Can I ask what’s this a-sexual thing? Not-sexual? That’s a thing that can go with your a-ro-manti-cism? Am I saying it right? Is that something people can be?” Melanie grabs the volunteer’s vacated chair and wheels herself up to Rowan’s desk. “Tell me about this. Please.”

Damien gives a theatrically deep sigh, winks at Rowan and turns back to his keyboard.

Rowan’s tangle of feelings bewilders him too much to be simple relief, but he doesn’t appear to be at immediate risk of losing his job.

***

“We need to have a meeting!” Melanie announces ten days later, striding up to where Damien peers over Rowan’s shoulder to approve the touch-ups on a series of scanned photos. Rowan grasps the want to have a section on the website showcasing past events, but surely Damien’s film-camera predecessors weren’t all unable to take decent pictures? “Today. Perhaps before lunch?”

“Do we?” Damien doesn’t bother to turn his head. “What’s the number on the urgency scale, remembering that whiteboard markers aren’t a five?”

“I’m aro-ace.” Melanie stresses the words, beaming with the confidence of a child presenting a new finger-painted masterpiece. “I didn’t know, but I definitely am. I’m aromantic and asexual.”

“I’m glad for you.” Now Damien faces her, scratching his shock of unruly brown hair. “I don’t know why this needs a meeting? Do you want something addressed?”

Rowan leans back in his chair, too startled to do anything but watch. Melanie’s interrogation of him about all things a-spec over the last few days left him certain that she was questioning, but he didn’t expect this announcement—or Damien’s reaction to it.

“I’ve been reading, and I sent around a list of links everyone else should read, too. We must do something about our website. And, of course, everyone should know I’m aro-ace, and then let people ask any questions. Then we should consider changes to our submission forms, and then...”

Already, Melanie has done more to integrate her identity into the office and its projects than Rowan ever dared risk. Why, then, does he feel as though he’s being pressed inside a metal suit three sizes too small? Shouldn’t the end result be worth enduring a staff meeting in which she announces she’s aro-ace? Melanie being Melanie, she’ll gladly answer questions about aromanticism. Doesn’t that give Rowan everything he wanted—ability to be out as aromantic but someone else’s dealing with allo nonsense?

Matt’s right.

Rowan’s just a coward.

Damien nods at Rowan. “What do you think about that?”

“Uh...” Rowan draws a delaying breath, fighting against a brain too bewildered to be useful in forming comprehensible speech. “Uh … you’d have to run form changes past someone higher up, wouldn’t you? We have to ask about everything else? But...”

He doesn’t name Melanie a friend, but fellow aromantics aren’t common enough that Rowan will reject a companion—even if they’re cis and have subjected him to half a year’s discomfort, anxiety and alienation. He slides his restless hands under his legs, biting his lip against the sickening realisation. Melanie’s enthusiastic fearlessness may make this office and program better for him as an aro, but how can it answer all the attitudes that made Rowan fear coming out in the first place?

If he’s a coward, doesn’t he have reason?

“We do need a meeting,” he says slowly, his heart pounding in his chest like blast beats in death metal. “On better integrating marginalised people into our office. Because the way you emphasise my pronouns, Melanie, or the way Shelby reassures me five times that I can correct her … that doesn’t make me feel safe. It makes me feel reminded. Different. Too visible. And that’s why...”

“You ended up standing on a desk?” Damien asks with the gruffness of a middle-aged cis man trying to sound gentle.

“Yeah,” Rowan mutters. “That.”

Melanie clasps her fingers to her lips. “Oh! I didn’t mean anything by it! I just wanted people to get it right!”

How many times has he suffered through well-meaning people explaining that in response to his saying that they made him uncomfortable? How many times has he heard people justify their actions as though good intent always mitigates bad impact?

“You’re … you’re still making this about you! The only answer I want or need from you is thanks for telling me, Rowan, I won’t do it again! That’s all! Not your reasoning, not this effort to justify! I want to know that you hear me, that you’ll acknowledge that your intent however good still made me come home crying from dysphoria, and that you’ll stop because I don’t want to put up with it anymore! That’s all!”

For the second time in less than a fortnight, a chilling silence envelops the office.

“We need a meeting,” Rowan says breathlessly, reminding himself that at least this time he isn’t standing on his desk, “discussing how to include marginalised people in our office. Discussing all the microaggressions. Maybe you need to find … educators, trainers who come in and do this. I don’t know. I’m just so tired of never feeling safe or normal, never feeling like I can say anything because this isn’t hate and at least you’re not my parents! Like I don’t ever get to have anything better!”

He stands up, unsure what to do past fetching himself a distracting cup of coffee.

Maybe, then, he’ll be able to survive the way Melanie looks at him—as though he just ran over her puppy.

She just came out, and he did run right over it.

“I’m sorry.” Rowan sags onto his chair, leaning forwards to grab his satchel despite the unpleasant giddiness. “I’m sorry. It’s wonderful, Melanie, that you now know who you are and that you can come out. And it’s amazing that you’re doing things already, when I needed like six months just to get used to my knowing I’m aro. I just...” He reaches inside the satchel and pulls out a rough oblong shape wrapped in white tissue paper. “Here. I’m sorry.”

He, an allo-aro man, screwed up an aro-ace woman’s coming out. Shouldn’t he know better? He wants to laugh, wants to cry, wants to curl up in a ball and hide under his desk. Even now, when he’s trying to get what he needs as a trans man, he’s being the worst kind of aromantic!

Her lips pinched, Melanie takes the present in her hands, worrying at the top piece of tape with her long, pink nails.

“We’ll have a meeting.” Damien runs his hand through his hair as though he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. “I’ll talk to the heads about … sensitivity training, I suppose this also is. Would you be willing to write me an email outlining some of these behaviours and any ways we can make this office safer for you? Is that an appropriate thing to ask of you?”

“I don’t mind,” Rowan says. As long as he doesn’t go ignored, he’ll send a few emails—and he already has a few blog posts on which to draw. “Thank you.”

“Do you … want anything, now? To talk privately to me or anyone else? Or to a senior supervisor? Or someone with the government body? Can I do or arrange anything else?”

“Coffee. Please. And … and then to go back to fixing photos as though absolutely nothing happened because I don’t … do this sort of thing.” Rowan heaves a shaking sigh, pushing aside the thought that nobody can have failed to observe this. “Thank—thank you. I’m sorry. Thank you.”

He notices Damien gesturing at Melanie, notices that Rowan’s aro flag mug leaves with both and returns a few minutes later—now distracting from the office’s musty odour with its rich bitterness. He takes a few sips, but only by throwing himself into his work can he survive the gibbering, chattering thoughts building into a crushing tsunami of what the hell. Why did he do that? Why—no. Photos.

The soft clunk of crockery hitting laminate makes him look up.

Melanie leans against the edge of Rowan’s desk, her hand resting atop her new orange, yellow, white and blue aro-ace flag mug. “I’m sorry. Thanks for telling me.” She draws a deep breath, tapping her nails against the rim. “I didn’t know I could … that there’s an explanation, until I read your booklet. It described me. Things I didn’t realise about me! Things I’d been feeling! But … I’ve been learning about things like micro-aggressions. I didn’t know I’d been doing them myself. I’m sorry. I’ll keep learning. And thank you for my cup.”

“I know,” Rowan says softly, thinking back to the day when he realised the words “aromantic” and “frayromantic” describe him. A belated voicing of confusion and alienation; the naming of a constant sense of difference from the world. Revelation, understanding, explanation. “I know. I’m sorry, too. I don’t like … scenes. Or asking people things. I’m an anxious coward. So it just...”

He waves his hands, trying to mime an explosion.

Melanie, wide-eyed, jerks her head. “I couldn’t have said anything if you hadn’t done it first—and I wouldn’t have known to say anything if you hadn’t! And you’re asking us to do things knowing that we don’t understand, which must be frightening at least. You’re brave. And you shouldn’t be sorry.”

Rowan stares at her, unsure what to say in response. Never has anyone in his life freely offered such a sentiment. Never has anyone offered him something so generous without subsequent critique of Rowan’s intolerance for and impatience with their struggles to deal with him, praise softening the following reproval.

Brave.

His throat tightens and his eyes blur.

“Would you work with me on a proposal to put together for the submission forms? Damien insisted that I work with you, if you want to.”

“Uh … yeah?”

Melanie grabs a stack of papers from her desk and a chair. “I’ve gone through the old forms and highlighted passages. Do you want to read through and see if there’s anything I’ve missed or anything that should be left?”

He nods and takes the papers. Is this an alternate universe, the world flung upside down? Or, if people possess a minimum of decency, can he make needed change by addressing his problems instead of letting everyone talk over him? Can he build a world where he doesn’t endure cis or allo microaggressions by believing that their inconveniences aren’t worth more than his discomfort?

If his co-workers doesn’t object to correction, if they’re willing to make changes and investigate training, is the problem one of Rowan’s overreaction?

Does that mean he can talk to Matt the way he spoke to Melanie and Damien?

“Is something wrong?” Melanie asks, frowning.

Rowan shakes his head and plucks a pen from his frayro mug. “No.”

For the first time in a long time, that’s mostly true.

[ace-attorney-headcanons]

Mental Health Headcanon

Ahhh this is so self-indulgent and I'm kinda projecting but I feel like this is important. Before I write this headcanon, I want to clarify first that this is not intended to romanticize mental illness. Rather, I hope to emphasize the seriousness and importance of taking care of one's health and seeking help. You're not alone in this battle and I guarantee there are people in this world that are here to support you. As someone who is a little neurodivergent themselves, I see lot of signs of Phoenix's mental health changing over time and I relate to it. Quite honestly, I can see him having a similar experience as some of the nonsense a lot of us go through, haha. I understand, however, that this is a sensitive topic to discuss and therefore I will show discretion and mindfulness when writing it.

So I have a headcanon about Phoenix, particularly Papa Phoenix (AJ), coming to terms with their mental health changing. I've always imagined him with some form of GAD (generalized anxiety), but I can imagine the stress and trauma of the incidents in AJ had definitely affected his way of life. I can see him playing his health off as a joke at first, saying something like "seratonin machine broke." But with time, he starts to realize that his mental health is getting out of hand and interfering with raising Trucy and his habits. (Note that he has to stay alert and on edge for 7 years because of the danger that Kristoph poses to him and his daughter).

Phoenix has been through the coping process before, but he's never thought he would need medication. It's not just a scary step, but it's a big step. Phoenix knows he's not alone though, even if it's his decision to make. So, he talks to Edgeworth about it (I'd like to imagine he visits him in person in Europe occasionally when this happens, but I also see them making phonecalls often). He's the first person he turns to. And while it takes him time to work up the courage to bring up the topic, Phoenix finds out that Edgeworth has already been taking medication for his PTSD for quite some time.

It's eye-opening to him. Edgeworth is patient and takes the time to explain the highs and lows of it. That it's a commitment, but it's never permanent. It may not always work at first and that dosages may need to be modified with time. But it makes a huge difference. Even then it takes time to make a decision but he knows it's never a rush.

It's his inherent courage and bravery that helps him make the decision to see a psychiatrist and discuss his health. Like Edgeworth said, it takes time, but in the end it is worth it.

He eventually finds his mind clearer and he has less anxiety attacks and can stay focused. It helps him continue living and watching Trucy, even with the continued weight of Kristoph and the forgery scandal on his shoulders.

With time, he grows completely used to the medication and it becomes a normal part of his life. Apollo and Athena have both come to know if it and understand it, Athena even acting as a psychologist for him at times (with her mood matrix) and reminding him to take his meds (Apollo, Trucy, and Edgeworth too!). In fact, I can see all of them messaging each other reminders to "drink more water," "uncrease your forehead and relax your jaw," "sit up straight," "take a break," "eat something," etc. And it helps! It helps them all so much, more than they could ever express. They all care about each other's well being and the environment of the office is livelier because of it!

I really love the idea of everyone taking care of one another and supporting each other through difficult and big decisions. I feel like it's really important they know they're not alone. 😊💖

[mistress-imagines]

Do you think we could get something with The Plague x Doctor! Reader, cleaning her wounds properly perhaps leading onto something more ;) shsbsjsj I’ve never requested before this is awkward

This took a long time and didn’t really take a Spicy turn but is more something sweet. It also came out longer than I anticipated. I hope you enjoy it

She never knew how to take you, when you came to her. Your briefcourting had been odd, to say the least, but in this world, in thisNightmare, everything was odd. So, you both seemed to embracethe language barrier between you and enjoy the attempts to communewithout words.

The Plague as she was known had clearly been a woman of power beforegetting stuck in here, and you had come to understand from her domainand garb that she was a Priestess who worshiped some ancient god orgods you could hardly fathom. You would find her praying many times,and sometimes you would even kneel beside her, head bowed silently.You could feel her eyes glance over you briefly with a glint ofsatisfaction in them.

This quickly became your normal ritual when you started to visit her;a session of prayer, though you didn’t know what you were prayingto, or who you would even want to pray to. Despite the devotion ofthe plague ridden priestess, you couldn’t fathom a god who caredabout you was listening.

Today, you had brought a special item. Typically, you hoarded thesemed kits, the case sporting a purple hue and a big white plus sign onit. In trials, this kind of item offered the best chance at healingyourself – or others – with minimal detriment. It came the mostwell equipped of the first-aid kits one could find in this realm offog and shadow and you, as a someone who had once been a doctorbefore the Fog consumed you, could use it to its fullest ability.

As you crossed into the fog laden forest, feeling the droplets of theomnipresent rain of this realm dampen your hair, you wondered whatyou hoped to accomplish. If the Entity pulled her in like this,rotting and sick, did you really think you could heal her? No,clearly that was a foolish hope. But… But part of you urgedyourself to try. The least that could come of this would be an easeto her clear suffering. The most? Well, you weren’t quite thathopeful.

As expected, you walked in without interruption or attack, makingyour way to the massive stone tower that seemed to stretch into theoblivion sky. You found her within, not praying as you expected, butwalking around the raised edge of the circular room checking theflames of the candles. They never expired, not as long as you hadseen them, but she seemed to pay special attention to each flickeringflame. Her incense wafted around her in a phantom like cloud, thesmell hitting you as soon as you entered the inner sanctum. It wassweet and savory smelling, heavy and only just masquerading the smellof rotting flesh and infected pustules.

As you entered she turned to you, her pale eye wide as her crownedhead whipped to face you. She visibly calmed seeing it was just you,though the line of her lips didn’t dare curve into a smile. Youknew from experience a smile was rare. Much akin to a cat, you had todeduce from her body language how she was feeling. Her eyes, hershoulders, how stiffly she held herself up. Right now, you noticedthe calm in her eye as her brow settled into a line, her shouldersdropping from her normally uptight appearance, as she made her waytowards you.

She glanced down at the med kit you had brought with you, browknitting in confusion. You smiled, wishing you had the words to tellher.

This close, you could smell the ferment of her skin more powerfully,as well as the acrid hint of bile. You were accustomed to that, too,the desire to be close to her overpowering the revulsion that suchsmells and sights would inspire. And you were a doctor, of course.You had dealt with far worse.

You raised the med kit and pointed to her. She had seen the survivorsuse them before, mending the gashes from her incense burner and fromthe hooks. Her head tilted slightly, the chains of her headdresstinkling as she raised a golden clawed hand and pressed it to herchest.

‘Me?’ she seemed to ask with the action.

You merely nodded, wishing you could expand. She could easily refuse,but instead she glanced away in brief pensive thought before giving asingular nod. The flutter of anxiety in your chest left almostinstantly, the way it did when she gave you some form of approval.

She instantly sat down, her claws tapping the stone beside her. Youtook her hint and sat down next to her, popping open the purplemedkit. Her breath was warm against your head as she looked down atwhat you were doing, whistling through the exposed teeth of her face.She observed the inside of the box without interrupting, expressing atrust in your actions.

You took her hand in yours and began to remove the golden fingergauntlets. The task wasn’t easy, as rotting flesh clung to themetal. Part of you longed for your world of sanitized medicine, ofblue gloves and a face mask. But you didn’t have that at yourdisposal, not even in the med kit. The Plague didn’t flinch, noteven as half healed scabs tore and oozed as the instruments werepeeled off. You made a mental note to clean them off before she putthem back on, later. The rest came off in a similar fashion, herblackened hand oozing a yellowish liquid from the now exposed wounds.

It wasn’t until you took an alcohol wipe to the open wound that thePlague reacted. She hissed in her long dead tongue, flinching butresisting the urge to pull her hand from your own. Instead she glareddown at her hand and you, as if offended.

“I’m sorry.” you apologized with a shrug. Her lips were pursedand her shoulders tense, and she watched with scrutiny as you slowlyinched the wipe towards her flesh again. She didn’t react asviolently this time, face twitching as you cleaned each of herfingers. You could only imagine how it felt, how living, undead andinfected flesh could react to a purifying agent like alcohol. Fromthe way The Plagues nostrils flared, you could tell it was unpleasantat minimum.

You grabbed the gauze roll next, having the killer spread her fingersand wrapping each of them in clean white. She seemed entranced by themethodical wrapping of her fingers, spreading them out once all fivedigits were reliably cared for.

Then, you looked up her arm. You had picked the starting point, whichwas an easy place to start… But there was so much more to her thanrot. The pustules on her arm were yellow and ringed in angry red, herflesh black at points and peeling at others to reveal angryinfection. You pursed your lips, unable to hide the look ofdisappointment in your own overwhelming.

In the world as you knew it, this would be a case where the womanwould be told she was nearly beyond saving. The infected wounds fullof pus that oozed would be drained, the old flesh carefully removedwith plans for skin grafts to save her sensitive inner workings fromexposure. She would arguably lose all her limbs, the magic of theEntity the only thing keeping her together…

A med kit, even the best one, wasn’t going to save her now.

For a moment you sat there, The Plague picking up on your distress.She murmured something softly, raising her bandaged hand and strokingdown your cheek. She raised your head to catch her eye; it was softand mournful. She understood.

“I’m sorry.” you repeat once more. This time, she nods slowly,leaning down and placing a kiss on your forehead.

[borderline-vent]

So I know this is a vent blog but honestly like

I'm really grateful to my fp for helping me learn how to handle not only my bpd, but my other personality disorders, too. Whether it's avpd or avpd traits is a little up in the air w my therapist right now- at this point the list is kind of long and we're focusing on managing symptoms rather than what precise label goes where - but npd is a definite. When I met my fp I was mostly just questioning npd traits; I realized as I learned more about it and talked more to my therapist that I have, like, The Whole Thing. You know how it goes.

I'm determined not to be my mother who I suspect has bpd and npd traits -probably not the whole disorder, but some of our thought patterns and perceptions have been pretty similar in that regard -and kind of ruins everyone's life she touches, including mine. She's badly fucked her own self over, her husband I really don't think she abuses but he also seems uninvolved in some pretty significant ways; he just kind of let her do whatever she wanted to us, believed her over us, and she hides some of her worst abuse from him- like hitting me with a hanger, and choking my sibling and throwing them to the floor to scream at them and not letting us tell him what happened. She's also just manipulative and controlling and blames everyone else for her negative feelings and anything that goes wrong, even (especially) when it's her fault (sort of how her throwing me into a wall as a teenager was my fault somehow... lol). So that's oart of my motivation to work hard with therapy and learn to manage all this stuff, but really put some focus into managing my narcissism. It's not going to benefit me, or anybody else, if I'm unselfaware and I just treat people like shit all the time -which I don't, but I don't ever want to, and there are always places I can improce as a person.

It's hard to be honest and fucking excruciating to be vulnerable. I have a huge ego and a massive rift in self-esteem, I can't confront shame (so I use other mechanisms to motivate me to adjust problematic behavior) and I'm incapable of self-compassion, which apparently is essential for healing your inner child or something. I guess my inner child is just going to have to stay broken, but I can work on other things.

Fp has aspd and npd, which I think I've mentioned here before; and he's conscientious enough and makes me feel comfortable enough to talk to him about new things in my life, even things that make me feel vulnerable. We don't have all the same symptoms of course, but we share several, and he's got a lot of experience learning how to manage comorbid personality disorders, and when I'm really struggling he's extremely helpful in clearing my perception- and often he's the only person I feel comfortable enough to talk to about it, given that childhood abuse gave me such trouble with trust. I've known him for nearly 2 years now, and he's only ever demonstrated more commitment to treating me well, and so I trust him. I mean, I don't /really/ trust anybody. But I trust him more than anyone else, and he's made me feel more comfortable being secure and he's never been malicious or gaslit me or been cruel to me or put me down or any of the shit some other people have done.

I've also learned a lot about how dysfunctional my family is- for instance, defensiveness to the point of making an ass of yourself instead of correcting your mistakes, seems to be a family trait. Stuff like that is pretty frustating, given I'm (still) too sick to work and I have to live with them (but with therapy and a purse full of medicine I'm getting there). I isolate here a lot, because communication breaks down so easily, and then I get frustrated, and I don't want to snap at people and I want to try to identify what I could do to smooth interactions; and some things I'm oversensitive to because they remind me of my abusive mother (but apparently I'm not allowed to say "hey please don't do this because I have a history with it happening to me in greater degree and it's bad" because then I get accused of comparing people to my mother... anyway I spend a lot of time by myself.

Recently I've been deep in a ptsd swing because an alter got a (shiny!new!) flashback to our csa and so we had a bad couple of weeks tbh but it seems like that's smoothing out now. I haven't had a flashback or a panic attack in a couple of days and the nightmares are better too.

And I've realized that a lot of what I was so worried about before -a lot of what I yelled about on this blog actually- was just... not all an inaccurate perception on my part, but that I noticed changes in communication with fp and reacted to them in a characteristically borderline way. I correctly registered that he seemed more withdrawn, was less warm, etc. And when we talked about it, he told me he still liked me just as much as ever, but he was depressed, like we'd been talking about, and he had less energy and he just hadn't been expressing it the way he had when he'd felt better. And that's something I'm familiar with, because it's super common with depression and I've withdrawn like that, too.

He told me this friendship, and his being my fp, is important to him and he wants to maintain it, and he was glad I shared my feelings with him, because he wants to know if there's a issue. I told him that while I didn't want to make him feel taxed while he's depressed (or at all), more expression would ameliorate my anxiety and make me feel more secure. He didn't blame me for feeling the way I did, didn't try to make it my fault (it wasn't anyone's fault; I have my symptoms and he has his and we communicate out limitations and work on issues together) just told me he appreciated me, my friendship, and my communicating with him, and he'd adjust his behavior to help remind me I was liked and valued. And he has, and his depression has gotten better with meds, and I feel better (and the fact he was so receptive and so willing to put in the effort also made me feel better) and he's helped me as I've been stressed over family drama (my mother having some drama with other family members- I need to figure out somehow who's telling the truth but it's gonna be uhhh stressful) and over the new piece of trauma we remembered (not good) and the worsening of ptsd symptoms.

I feel stable in our friendship, and have done for several weeks now, and that's been the defining trend of our friendship over two years. It's fucking hard for me to feel stable or secure in friendships, especially with fps and especially when I have strong romantic feelings for them, but he puts in a lot of effort to help me feel that way, /and to help me improve my baseline ability to feel that way./

Our friendship is predicated in many ways on what's most useful; for instance, it's beneficial to him to put in that effort because I feel better, and so there's less maintenance work he needs to do. That's not a drawback; we genuinely like each other and enjoy one another's company, and help each other a lot, and while it's not an empathetic friendship from his side, it's a kind ans supportive one, a safe one, a sheltering one, a comfortable and profoundly important one. It's the strongest and healthiest relationship I've ever had, and it's done as much or maybe even more than therapy has to get me through struggling times and improve the way I feel about myself and other people.

This is a long fucking post right now but like. I'm really grateful for this man. I always have been. I have strong emotional reactions to real or percieved abandonment, and I see it everywhere, but he never tries to make me feel bad for it, just helps me feel better. I yell a lot on this blog but there's a reason I haven't really posted here in a while (and other things go wrong elsewhere but I usually post about that on my other blog. That's where my ptsd and family vents went.) I have an as-soon-as-possible goal to get myself well enough to work, and save enough money to move so that I can live where he lives. I'll finally be away from toxic family (telecontact, I'm sure, but still a meaningful distance) and regularly able to see the most important person in my life, and I think that has a lot of potential to help with my mental health.

[boldlyfadinglove]

Mental health

I have struggled with myself all my life. I never felt like I was enough for my parents. With the sweet age of 15 I developed bulimia and depression. At that time I was in Turkey participating in an exchange year. Everyone was so pretty ans skinny. I was skinny to but I never saw myself that way. I always felt like the ugly friend of the friend group who had a couple pounds to much. WHICH WAS NOT TRUE.

I could have saw the outcome of my thoughts coming. I lost 20 pounds in 2 months and at that time I already weight 100 pounds. (I know my bulimia wasnt as severe as the ones from other people but im only sharing MY experience).

on top of that I stressed myself out with my grades and with validation from my (fake-) friends, family and teachers. I slowly killed my mind and developed a depression. it wasn't to severe but It was still there.

How did I got better? My sister who is one of my closest friends noticed me breaking down one night and kinda forced me to tell my parents about my bulimia and depression. I went to a doctor who tried to help me but wasn't very successful. I am really bad at sharing my bad traits (it is not a bad trait but at that time I felt like it was). At the end who was able to "cure" me was my sister and my best friend. I was so happy around them and felt wanted and loved. I moved back to my home country and started my sophomore year at highschool. I kinda had my glow up and boys were starting to notice and like me.

At that time I also notice that I was pansexual and I went on dates with girls. Sophomore year was my year. I finally felt happy. at least in school and outside my home. my parents made me feel like I wasn't enough which kinda led to my current state.

Covid happened when I was a junior in HS. I still struggled strongly with myself but it wasn't that severe cause I could do it in my room ll by myself.

I graduated HS in 2021. After that I direct started college in September. And then I happened really fast. In November I got officially diagnosed with a panic disorder, an anxiety disorder and severe depression. it got to a point where I wasn't able to read or properly talk because my brain simply wasn't able to process what was happening around me or my thoughts. I got sent over to a therapist and a psychiatrist. I got multiple meds to take and took a semester off of college. I felt useless and felt like im not worth anything. And I know that's something my depression tried to tell me but it still made everything worse.

The worst part tho was the disappointment is saw on my parents face every time I had a panic attack infront of them or when I couldn't express myself. It made me feel so guilty and like its all my fault. I already struggled with the way I saw myself and the fear that people don't like me simply for me.

My situation made me fear that people would think my current state was the way I am.

I'm still in therapy and I'm still taking my meds and I can say I feel better. I'm seeing change and Im on the right path to live myself fully. I surrounded myself with people who care and who would never judge me for my mental health.

Mental health is the most important thing and IT SHOULD NOT BE FORGOTTEN. and for everyone who strugglers with a similar situation or maybe the same I can only say this: it will get better. And I know its easier said than done but you will get there. I promise. If you need someone to talk to im here for you and I would love to help you even if its just you ranting,

You and your mind is the moist valuable thing about you so pls keep it safe.

[signsofptsd]

PTSD Treatment In San Diego

Our PTSD Treatment in San Diego

The event may have happened yesterday. It may have happened a decade ago. Whenever it was, that trauma changed things for you or someone you love. It left behind anxiety, nightmares, and fear of ordinary, everyday events: post-traumatic stress disorder.

Though the experiences may feel monumental, there is help and hope available at the Mental Health Center of San Diego. Participating in treatment at MHCSD can help bring your life back to normal again.

What Is Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) and What Causes It?

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder is a condition that occurs after living through trauma resulting in exaggerated fear in normal life, flashbacks, and feelings of danger. Post-traumatic stress disorder causes changes both physiologically and mentally. Treating it means tackling both. It can also mean confronting the causes in psychotherapy.

The Impact of Trauma on the Brain

When scientists take images of the brains of people who experience PTSD, they can see physical changes.  One is a hypersensitive amygdala. Your amygdala is supposed to tell you when there is danger -– it’s meant to save your life. But when you have PTSD, your amygdala lies to you and says there is danger in safe situations.

Another place where changes occur is the prefrontal cortex. This should help you manage your emotional responses, but in PTSD, your prefrontal cortex essentially takes the day off without leaving anyone to modulate emotions. Both of these brain changes result from exposure to severe trauma or repeated traumatic experiences. Trauma-targeted therapies can help reverse these changes.

Sexual Assault

After a sexual assault, it is common for survivors to feel some level of trauma. When this passes into a state where doing normal things that once felt safe to them –– such as walking around their neighborhood at night or going to a party with friends –– no longer feels safe, they may be experiencing PTSD.

Violence and Combat

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder gained its notoriety when first applied to soldiers who had returned from the Vietnam War. For those who lived through violence and combat, the possibility of developing PTSD is significant.

They may be innocent bystanders in war zones, victims of gang violence, or soldiers in combat. All become equally vulnerable to unknown threats, repeated trauma, and extended periods of uncertainty, potentially resulting in PTSD.

Traumatic Accidents

Many people are surprised to find themselves experiencing feelings of anxiety or vivid, unwanted memories after surviving an accident. After all, they walked away, didn’t they?

What they must come to realize is that survival can be traumatic. Whether you suffered minor injuries in a car accident or experienced a sudden fall while horseback riding, you may be vulnerable to symptoms of PTSD. While they had a positive outcome, these traumas can still affect your brain and emotions the same as other traumas.

What Are Signs and Symptoms of PTSD?

Some of the earliest signs and symptoms of PTSD may be intrusive vivid memories when faced with a situation similar to how trauma occurred. People with PTSD may experience fight or flight symptoms, hypervigilance that expresses itself in a desire to keep their back to a wall versus an open doorway, or nightmares.

Treatment Options and Process at MHCSD

At MHCSD, we rely on evidence-based therapy. These are therapies that have been rigorously examined in studies and shown to work. Using evidence-based therapies gives you the best shot at success and utilizing your time well.

There are several different types of therapies that can be used for PTSD, each targeting a different expression of the condition. We will work to match you with a technique (or blend of techniques) that holds the most promise for you. Learn more about what we offer:

Talk Therapy

Sometimes just talking it out can help you process trauma. Talk therapy and cognitive therapy uses techniques to tackle difficult memories and intrusive thoughts.

Exposure Therapy

Getting exposed to the thing that is causing you stress and anxiety might sound counterintuitive. However, when used as a therapy in a controlled way to gradually reduce your anxious response to the traumatic trigger, it can help reduce symptoms overall.

Using Medications

Medications are an essential part of treatment for PTSD. Your provider can advise you on which kinds may work for your unique situations. Anti-anxiety meds and anti-depressants may help your brain along while you work on treatment exercises in therapy.

The Benefits of Working with MHCSD

Even if your trauma happened years ago, there are still many reasons to seek treatment. In fact, if you’ve been suffering for years, that may be all the more reason! We can help you regain some of what you’ve lost to Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder through tailored trauma-focused psychotherapy.

All our professionals are highly qualified, licensed, experienced, and passionate about being there to get you back on your feet. We stay engaged even after your therapy comes to an end to ensure you have the support you need to continue progressing in life.

Affording Treatment

You should never be turned away from treatment because of your inability to pay. That’s why the Mental Health Center of San Diego partners with many insurances, including Cigna, Aetna, Anthem BlueCross, Anthem BlueCross BlueShield, and UnitedHealthcare.

Check with your insurance before making an appointment to understand the extent of your coverage and if you will be responsible for any portion. If we are not in-network, verify that you can submit your receipts to your insurance after paying upfront.

Speak with our admissions staff for any payment details. We accept a variety of payment options to ensure you get the help you need as soon as possible.  There is a way to get help – affordably.

Get Help with the Mental Health Center of San Diego

Don’t suffer in silence. You can’t undo the trauma you experience, but you can take steps forward to begin living life again. The Mental Health Center of San Diego PTSD trauma-focused psychotherapy can help you or someone you love begins to deal with vivid memories, revisit traumatic situations, and reduce your anxiety.

Call (858) 258-9883 today to set up your intake.

[sarahreeese]

The diversity issue One Chicago isn’t fixing any time soon

6 years on TV 15 seasons of all the One Chicago shows combined. 94 regular and recurring characters 2 specifically stated LGBTQ+ characters that were on for more than an episode. One who died due to man pain, and the other a manipulative awful girlfriend of said dead woman.

That’s about 2% of the characters on all of the shows.  

Their only significant gay character died in 2014. That’s nearly 4 years without any kind of representation. When One Chicago was criticized for having a lack of racial diversity on their shows, they made Med, whose cast is nearly half people of color. (Though they don’t all get equal air time or story quality but that’s another post.)  Justice took it one step further and had more people of color than white people.  So they can take criticism and change tactics, they’ve shown that. So why not change this? They’ve had time, characters, and 2 shows to correct this glaring problem. Why haven’t they?

It wasn’t planned from the beginning/The characters haven’t shown any signs of being gay. Sexuality isn’t something that needs to be revealed right away, there are so many storylines especially in the field that these characters work in that would make for great drama AND great representation. Give me a fire fighter or a cop who is gay, and hides it from the team because they don’t want to be seen differently by their team. Or a new character who had a horrible experience with their old team or house or whatever, and decides to come out only after they trust people. Or we could just have a great storyline where someone is out and proud and everyone deals with it respectfully. As for trans characters, all of the above apply, but they could also have a doctor transitioning, and we see the medical storyline play out as well as the emotional one with the doctors. People discover these things about them later on in life, there is no reason any character couldn’t be made to have these thoughts and feelings. These storylines write themselves and are incredibly easy to weave into the shows naturally. You’re just being lazy One Chicago.

It doesn’t have network appeal/wouldn’t play well with the demo. There are currently about 36 regulars/recurring characters active in the One Chicago Universe. No one is being threatened by putting any LGBTQ+ characters into the storyline. Also if people aren’t exposed to this in television, how will they be introduced to these ideas if they don’t know anyone personally. Also queer people exist and watch this show. We want representation too. And 18-49 is definitely going to have some of us in it.

They’d have to bring in new characters in order to have LGBTQ+ ones. No, they wouldn’t. See the first mock question. But also in the past 2 seasons they have introduced about 7 recurring or main characters. All of them straight.

You don’t know if they’re straight, you’re assuming. Yeah, because that’s the intention that the shows are going for. In order for representation to exist there needs to be some sort of explicit statement or act to show it. Otherwise it doesn’t count.

It’s not realistic to the type of jobs. Really... There are no gay cops or firefighters, or doctors?

These shows are about the jobs not the personal lives. Sexuality and gender expression ARE NOT PERSONAL LIFE THINGS. It’s who someone is, and that’s One Chicago’s specialty. The characters stop them from being just like every other procedural on every other network. And if you have time to show us scenes of every other heterosexual couple you have time to show us queer ones.

Stop watching the show if you don’t like it. No. I love these characters and that’s why I want these shows to do better, and be better. I’d also love consistent writing, which I’m not going to get either, but I can still ask for it.

Now here’s a list of characters who could easily be either read as queer or could discover they were queer. (Also PS, I’ll be using gay in the colloquial manner as in Make this Character Gay, which also means like make them queer or any kind of LGBTQ)

Starting with the newest regular characters.

Ava Bekker: Definitely brought in to be the new lady Connor fucks, but hey you could make her Bi or Pan. She made a comment about liking dangerous men, does that mean she doesn’t like dangerous women? Make her gay 2K18. Wouldn’t it be interesting to see her not wooed by Connor’s charms and become Zanetti 2.0? She could use a great girlfriend, or non binary friend. Maybe a sweet smart bundle of anxiety who is a second year psychiatry resident? You could show possible anxiety she might have about coming out when she’s in line for a competitive position.

Hailey Upton: Possibly had an affair with that dude. Alright. Make her bi then. Or if she didn’t have that affair, make her gay. There’d probably be very positive feedback, and her character might be better received if it didn’t look like she was taking Erin’s place completely. She’s cool, and calm, and doesn’t do a million illegal things an episode like some other characters. Gay Icon 2K18. Make it happen PD.

Stella Kidd: She’s got a thing going with Severide. That’s great, you can be Bi and in a relationship with a dude. That’s what bi means. Have her talk about an ex who is not a dude. Or if you’re going to make Kelly find himself for the umpteenth time instead of getting them together, have Kidd find a nice not cis-guy to date. 

Isidore Latham: Sure he had that mean sex worker trick him at the conference he went to with Connor, but we don’t know any indications of who he is interested in. Why not make him queer?

Looking at characters who have been around for a few seasons.

Sarah Reese: She comes from the east coast with a very wealthy mother and absent father. Her mother was never home, and we are shown her numerous confidence issues. If she was bi or pan, she would probably not express it because she wants to stay in the shadows. We can see that in the pastel neutral colors that she dresses in, and her over all demeanor. Show me a Sarah who falls for someone who she thinks she shouldn’t, and have her wrestle with those feelings and come out ahead of them. Then we can see her date a super intelligent and confident heart surgeon from South Africa. Sarah is also young and has super liberal leanings, making her the most obvious choice in Med.

Maggie Lockwood: We know next to nothing about Maggie. She’s an open book and has no restrictions put on her by previous statements. She’d be an excellent lesbian who is proud of her sexuality and is one of the most respected people in the ED.

Noah Sexton: Give me something that would make me stand Noah as a character. Show him dealing with his identity as a latino man from a religious background. It would be interesting and much better than his sexual harassment storyline we’re going with in this season.

April Sexton: Very similar to Noah with regards to being latina with a religious household, but she also has very strong desires to please her parents, and falling in love with someone who isn’t a man would be a challenge for her to over come. 

Kelly Severide: I mean who says he hasn’t slept with someone who wasn’t a woman before. Again, he can be with Kidd or whoever else they want to put him with, and mention an ex-boyfriend. Or maybe he doesn’t mention it and it comes out and we see a respected queer lieutenant. And who wouldn’t want to see Taylor Kinney maybe make out with a dude?

Connor Rhodes:  Bad boy who bucks familial conventions by being bi. It’s one of the reasons he ran off when he graduated school. Now he’s back in Chicago and is juggling his identity with the expectations of his family, name and this fellowship. Ava finds out he’s bi too, and they become ONLY friends. But good friends. 

Kevin Atwater: You’ve given him 0 romantic options in the show in 5 seasons, while Ruzek has had 2 engagements...(different post...) Maybe it’s because he’s gay. He and Peter Stone had excellent chemistry on the Justice crossover, delve into that. Show this badass strong and sensitive guy with a great boyfriend.

Sylvie Brett: Maybe she ran away from her wedding for more than just cold feet about missing out on the world. Maybe she never acknowledged those feelings inside her and she wants to date someone other than a guy? I don’t know. Possibilities are open.

This is just a small amount of options. You could write a scenario for nearly every character in this universe. So why don’t they? 

PS: I’m horrible at coming up with Trans and Ace/Aro head canons so if you have any please reblog and put them. I want to read them very badly. ALSO if you have any head canons about this reblog and put them. Let’s get diversity in fanon if we’ll never have it in canon.

Special shoutout to  @lesbianhaileyupton, and @xelmanrique318 for bringing this up in the tags and causing me to get pissed enough about it to write this whole thing out. I reblogged their posts, and they’re 100% worth a read.

[naturecpw]

Can a Cat Have an Existential Crisis?

Treating my cat for depression caused me to question the state of anxiety in animals and us. Nautilus - Britt Peterson

When I first adopted Lucas nine years ago from a cat rescue organization in Washington, D.C., his name was Puck. “Because he’s mischievous,” his foster mother said. Although we changed the name, her analysis proved correct. Unlike his brother Tip, whom I also adopted, a gray cat with white paws and an Eeyore-ish dour doofy sweetness, Lucas was from the start a fierce black fireball, a menace to stray toes or blanket fringes or loose items on tabletops. He was my alarm clock in the morning with his habit of knocking my hairbrush, deodorant, and earrings box off my bureau until I got up to feed him.            

Then, almost four years ago, my husband and I had a child. Lucas, no longer the most important small creature in the apartment, retreated to the top shelf of his cat tree, where he would lie all day, staring morosely over the edge. When he did want attention, his solicitations became aggressive. Instead of waiting until 7 a.m. to start knocking things off of the bureau, he started hopping up there at 4 a.m. We closed the bedroom door and were still woken up at 4 every day by Lucas rattling the doorknob or hurling the weight of his 13-pound body against it. At mealtimes he would gobble down his food and then shove Tip out of the way to eat Tip’s food. He started marking the carpets in our living room and my son’s room, and his play with Tip turned more violent too.            

Cat’s Meow: Lucas did well on antidepressants. But he started avoiding his food that contained them. His aggression, though, declined with play and human attention. Photo courtesy of the author.

I made an appointment, first, with a pet behavior specialist and, five months later, when her initially helpful suggestions didn’t change Lucas’s behavior, with a vet. The vet described Lucas’s condition as “anxiety” and prescribed fluoxetine, a generic for Prozac that’s often prescribed for animals. While I had felt a mixture of frustration and pity toward Lucas, in that moment I experienced a surprising stir of recognition. Over a decade ago, during six months in college, I had panic attacks every other day. I was given a similar diagnosis—panic disorder being a major anxiety disorder—and was prescribed a similar medication. 

More than 50 years ago, behaviorist B.F. Skinner wrote, “The ‘emotions’ are excellent examples of the fictional causes to which we commonly attribute behavior.” For animals, who can’t describe their own emotions in words, this sentiment has proved more enduring than it has for humans. My panic attacks were an anxiety ouroboros: Am I having an attack now, on the subway? How about now, in front of my English class? Oh shit! It’s hard to imagine a rat or a mouse—or even my brilliant cat—ruminating on that obsessive meta-level. As Kierkegaard wrote in The Concept of Anxiety, “anxiety is not found in the beast, precisely because by nature the beast is not qualified as spirit.”  

  In fact, the concept of animal anxiety is something science has been wrestling with for a long time. And while our definition of anxiety, when it comes to animals, may still be fuzzy, it is growing ever sharper with time. That process has taught us much about our own emotions, and continues to teach us more about animal cognition. In the end, it also taught me a lot about my relationship with Lucas.            

***

With all or almost all animals, even with birds, Terror causes the body to tremble,” Darwin wrote in his 1872 book, The Expression of the Emotions in Animals and Man. Today, with a greater understanding of the subcortical basis of fear, we know how closely brain systems resemble each other across mammals.

When a threat occurs, the flight-or-flight response is triggered by the amygdala, then moves to the hypothalamus, which in turn sends a signal to the glands, releasing adrenaline. The same happens in most mammal brains: Mice have tiny hypothalami and amygdalae that react to stress just as ours do. And as any dog- or cat-owner knows, the manifestations of fight or flight in animals are plentiful, complex, sometimes patterned (a dog that always sucks its paws and yowls during thunderstorms), sometimes based on temperament or genetics, sometimes coming out of the blue—very much like human anxiety. 

Giving human drugs to animals isn’t just species narcissism. We know these drugs work for animals because they were originally tested on animals.              

Veterinary behaviorists don’t worry much about whether anxiety is a valid term for what animals experience, or how to diagnosis it. “It’s not terribly difficult,” says Katherine A. Houpt, an emeritus professor of behavioral medicine at Cornell University. Vets look at external display: Does an animal startle quickly, snap, suffer from sleeplessness? Is a cat in a fearful posture like something New Jersey behaviorist Emily Levine called “the meatloaf position” (all four legs under and hunched)? By these observable measures, anxiety exists in great quantities in the animal kingdom, both among pets and far beyond.            

In her book, Animal Madness, science historian Laurel Braitman cites a study by the pharmaceutical giant, Eli Lilly and Company, that states that 17 percent of American dogs suffer from separation anxiety. Braitman also describes anxious zoo gorillas and a bonobo who wouldn’t eat a meal until he went through a series of obsessive compulsive disorder-like rituals, anxious chickens given Prozac to calm down so their flesh will be more delicious, and the “stereotypic” (repeated self-harming) and aggressive behavior of walruses and sea lions at amusement parks like SeaWorld.            

Separation Anxiety: Sea mammals penned into aquariums suffer stress in biologically similar ways as humans. As a result they are given the same kind of antidepressants as us. Photo by Keren Su/Getty Images.

To ease their symptoms, we’ve been giving animals our meds for decades. Starting in the 1970s, captive animals were increasingly medicated, ranging from Gus the bipolar polar bear to penguins bummed out by British weather to the sea mammals at SeaWorld, caught in a scandal in 2014 after court documents obtained by Buzzfeed showed that doctors were dosing aggressive orcas with benzodiazepines, the family of anti-anxiety medication that includes Xanax and Valium. Some of the mine-sniffing dogs in Afghanistan diagnosed with PTSD were given Xanax, as well as other treatments, like desensitization. So many dogs, cats, and other pets are on antidepressants and antianxiety medication today that the industry has swelled to a multibillion-dollar business.            

Giving human drugs to animals isn’t just species narcissism. We know these drugs work for animals because they were originally tested on animals. The underlying similarity between mammalian brains and patterns of anxious and depressive behavior has allowed monkeys, dogs, cats, rats, and mice to stand in for humans in psychoactive drug testing starting with the early barbiturates in the 1900s and continuing through tranquilizers in the ’60s to today’s SSRIs (selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors), drugs that, it’s believed, improve the symptoms of depression and anxiety by increasing levels of a neurotransmitter called serotonin.            

  Methods of provoking or measuring stress in laboratory animals to study these drugs are endless, creative, and should come with a trigger warning, if you’re at all an anxious person yourself. In the “forced swim test” (my summer-camp nightmare) mice are forced to swim in cylindrical pools to test their resilience in the face of certain defeat. Some “animal models of anxiety” try to create situations that are especially stressful for animals, like open spaces (the “elevated plus maze”) or being out in the open on a balance-beam like structure (the “Suok ‘ropewalking’ test”).            

Methods of provoking stress in laboratory animals should come with a trigger warning, if you’re at all an anxious person yourself.                    

 In one chronic stress experiment, mice were restrained, shaken, isolated, held under a hot hairdryer, kept under bright lights overnight, or had their cages tilted at a 45 degree angle. In the end—and just like humans who live under chronic stress—the mice became severely anxious and lost any appetite for “exploratory behavior,” like depressed teenagers hiding out in bed.    

There’s plenty of debate over whether the stress tests and other “animal models of anxiety” match up closely enough to human anxiety to make all the animal research on psychoactive medications credible. Even the more subtle tests seem closer to repeatedly punching a human in the face until that human collapses into a shivering puddle, rather than replicating the complex patchwork of genetic and environmental factors that end up producing a human anxiety disorder.            

Researchers rarely use the word anxiety to describe what the animals experience. Studies usually describe “anxiety-like symptoms,” focusing on the behavioral rather than the emotional, the expression of the feeling rather than the feeling itself. The fact that anti-anxiety medication soothes these symptoms in animals suggests they have something in common with the symptoms we call anxiety in humans. But are they a conditioned fear or something else entirely? And can we humans ever really know?            

***

Joseph LeDoux, a professor of neural science and psychology at New York University, and author of The Emotional Brain, has performed some of the most important research on anxiety disorders. “Do animals have mental states? We don’t know, and we can never know for sure,” he said in an interview with BrainWorld magazine in 2012. For LeDoux, observations of behavior aren’t enough to give it a label like “anxiety” when we can’t enter into the animal’s subjective experience. It might be emotion, it might also just be an automatic response to danger, and without any way of entering into the animal’s brain—the way language allows us to, at least to a certain mediated degree, with other humans—we can’t assess that.            

But Jaak Panksepp, a neuroscientist at the College of Veterinary Medicine at Washington State University, disagrees. Most famous for his studies demonstrating that tickled rats “laugh” in high-pitched chirps inaudible to the human ear, Panksepp researches underlying, unconditioned emotional systems. When it comes to fear, this means instinctual, native fears, not fears created in the laboratory by repeated foot-shocks. Using deep-brain stimulation on an animal’s amygdala, hypothalamus, and midbrain periaqueductal gray—the center of the fear system in humans—Panksepp is able to trigger these instinctive fears, and then watch how the animals react. He’s discovered that activating the fear response causes animals not only to go into typical fight or flight mode, but also to try to stop the experience—to turn off the terror in their brain. Humans exposed to deep-brain stimulation in these regions experience existential fear, describing their emotions (according to studies quoted in Panksepp’s 2012 book The Archeology of Mind) in terms like “I’m scared to death” and “an abrupt feeling of uncertainty just like entering into a long, dark tunnel.” Rats and mice, says Panksepp, likely experience something just as unpleasant. 

Of course, fear is not the same thing as anxiety. While fear is a primary-process emotion, anxiety is more complex. “It’s something you’re reflecting upon, your confrontations in the world, who’s treating you poorly,” Panksepp says. “We cannot look at the thoughts of an animal—no one has a methodology for that.” However, Panksepp says, he suspects animals experience their own kind of “thoughtful worries.” “I personally believe they do because they’ve got plenty of upper-brain material in areas that we know control human thinking and worry about basic survival ideas.”            

Some might argue that I am anthropomorphizing, but the result has been positive for everyone.

Other scientists agree, both with the difficulty of defining animal anxiety and with the possibility that it could exist. Lori Marino was a neuroscientist at Emory University and is now the executive director of the Kimmela Center for Animal Advocacy. Anxiety among animals “is more debatable because it has a component that fear doesn’t have and the component is time,” she says. A sense of one’s self existing in time is fundamental to anxiety. You worry about your future self—where will I be tomorrow, in three weeks, in a month? You mull over past regrets.

For a long time, most scientists have believed humans are unique in having a concept of ongoing time. But recent studies of Western scrub-jays and Eurasian jays (two corvid, or crow, species) have shown the birds anticipate later feeding needs even when those needs are different from what they want in the present. A 2013 study suggested that chimpanzees and orangutans in zoos may have human-like autobiographical memories—that a single cue can activate a series of remembered events, just the way it does for humans.

It’s still a leap to assume that a more complex relationship with time implies a set of emotions around those remembered or planned for events—although one recent study found that pigs engage in “avoidance behavior,” balking and oinking, when anticipating a negative task in the future. But it does raise some intriguing possibilities.  

  “I think you can say that many animals have some sense of time,” Marino says. “It may not be exactly as sophisticated as that in humans, but I think they are able to anticipate something, they know that something is going to happen in the future, even if it is just a few minutes or a few hours or a few days. It’s just not possible to survive with just being fearful, without also feeling some anxiety about what might happen or anticipate it, even in the simplest sense.”    

For me, labeling Lucas as anxious changed everything in how I thought of his behavior. I had seen him as an adversary: robbing my sleep, peeing on my kid’s rug, bullying me and my family and my other cat. Now he was a fellow sufferer. Some might argue that I am anthropomorphizing, but the result has been positive for everyone. As I became more sensitive to Lucas’s neuroses, I began to notice my role in them. 

Animal anxiety, to say the least, is frequently caused by humans—from our destruction of their habitats to our hunger for their flesh to our imprisonment of them in zoos. But we often cause anxiety in the animals that have evolved to live beside us, that we love most intensely and view as our companions, by imposing our needs on them and ignoring theirs. Dogs and cats alike need lots of stimulation and exercise; we like to live in cities and work all day. Cats like to be stroked on the cheeks and chin; we hug and cuddle them like stuffed animals, even when they are obviously upset by it.

When I thought about Lucas as anxious, I also began to think about his needs more than I had before. I played with him more often and gave him more, smaller meals. He responded as well to the meals and play as he had to the antidepressants, which he had not been taking as much because he rejected the food I put them in. He stopped waking us up in the middle of the night and marking in my son’s room. Science may be only partway to understanding whether Lucas is anxious, in the Kierkegaardian sense, or just acting like he is. In the end, it became more useful to be generous about the definition of anxiety—to recognize a connection, and also my own responsibility, in whatever anxious might mean for Lucas.

Britt Peterson is a contributing editor at Washingtonian magazine and a writer on ideas and culture for Smithsonian, the Boston Globe, Slate, and Elle.com.

https://getpocket.com/explore/item/can-a-cat-have-an-existential-crisis

[innie-s]

of mental health visibility

As I’m sitting here in a nice apartment, fresh out of a shower with my hair clean and a face mask on, hot coffee in hands feeling content in my life, it almost seems impossible that only six months ago I was a crying ball of sadness lying on the floor and thinking of ending this misery… It almost seems like a dream I had, that it never happened. But it isn’t and it did. That’s how depression works.

I never though I’d be sharing this online (in this manner), you see, so please excuse a bit of awkwardness. I’ve always been rather open about my mental health state, never really tried to hide it, and yet not many people know or realise. I’d blame that on them not being educated enough but that’s not the problem either, I think. The cause of that lies in a much deeper issue – and that is the invisibility.

You see, there’s one thing to say “I’m ill.” while coughing your lungs up or having a broken leg, and quite another to say “I’m ill.” while smiling and generally showing no symptoms of any discomfort. The invisibility of mental illness isn’t always a bad thing, sure, but it is a bit inconvenient when you need special treatment and people simply don’t believe you. You would never question a physically disabled person needing help up the stairs, but when a person who seems completely okay tells you they cannot do a task because they feel terrible, you’d think them lazy or looking for excuses. Oh, how many times have I heard “Just start – that’s the most difficult thing, from there it’ll flow.” Oh yes. If I could only start. For you, as a neurotypical, having difficulties starting might mean that you have to give yourself a little push or simply sit down and do the thing. For me, it means overcoming five different weights holding me down while constantly hating myself for being like this because look at them, they can do it, why can’t I? It’s sitting down in front of my computer with my thesis open and watching it with dread while shaking and crying because I would love to write the thing that’s been sitting in my head for days now but not being able to. There’s a chain on my hands and they just won’t move, no matter how much I tell them to. My head is spinning a little and the words don’t make sense. It’s finally giving up and starting a new episode of that TV show I was watching or scrolling tumblr until I get to my own posts from the day before. I call that procrastination but it’s so much more, really. It isn’t just putting work off until the last moment, it’s also hating yourself for it more and more every day while being physically unable to do it.

We all understand and accept that the society has a bit of a problem accepting mental illness. We all know that it’s still a bit of a taboo, and although it is spread quite wide we still seem to think that it either doesn’t exist or that it only exists in the most escalated forms of “crazy people who belong to a mad house”. This has been changin lately, for which I am gratefull, but the outcome has been confusing to say the least. Neurotypical adults call their children lazy while completely overlooking symptoms of depression or labeling them as a typical pubescent behaviour (When did it become normal for every other 13-year-old to have cuts up their arms and down their legs? When did it become typical for primary school children to starve themselves because of forced body images? When did it become common to oversleep and romantic to be sad all the time?), we have been called adicted to the internet by people who don’t feel that the only way to express themselves and feel accepted and loved is via internet friendships with people who go through similar things every day. We have been told “It’s going to be alright.” by people who refuse to listen to us and help.

I don’t think our parents understand that when you condition us into thinking there’s something wrong with us, it will stick. I don’t think our teachers understand that calling us lazy or stupid will only ever make us believe we really are. I don’t think adults realise that when they dismiss our symptoms we will grow up thinking we really aren’t ill. There’s nothing wrong with us. We are not lazy and we are not stupid. We are ill. And in many cases we battle that illness without any help, support or guidance and sometimes we lose. Sometimes it’s just too much to deal with and we don’t have the strength to do it. And afterwards adults will say “Such a shame!”, “What a brilliand mind that was.”, “Such potential in that young person.”, and “Didn’t they know they were loved?”.

Now I myself am an adult and rather educated one as well. I can’t say I’ve never dismissed mental illness. I can’t say I came to my knowledge because I cared about others so much I started learning. I wasn’t born educated on the matter and I had to go through some pretty bad experiences myself to even start considering mental illness as a real threat.  I’ve only come to terms with my own issues 4 years ago when they became big enough for me to actually consider therapy. At that time I knew nothing and it took me a bit to overcome the way I was thinking of mental health issues and accept that I might be one of “those people” as I used to think about them (us). It took me quite some time to battle my own prejudice towards the idea of being mentally ill and I still haven’t made my peace with it completely. And still as I face a task I simply cannot do, I question myself. Am I being lazy right now? Do I actually need help with this or am I just calling for attention? Am I being stupid right now? Isn’t it just that I’m incapable/not clever enough/not strong enough to do this thing? I don’t think I’ll ever overcome this need to be “normal” and to prove that I don’t have this limitation.

Many people have suggested therapy to me. And I have suggested therapy for many people myself. I believe therapy can be a very helpful thing. Yet I never went myself and I’ve been called a hypocrite for it. My deal with therapy is simple – will it help a person who is open about their problems, doesn’t bottle them inside, is honest to themselves even if the truth is sometimes uncomfortable and has trust issues the size of the sun? What can therapy of a self-conscious person do – will it help me if I dont need to talk about it (I vent to friends/the internet therefore I dont need any other person listening to me) and dont need advice (I know what to do with myself and I’ve been helping myself for years now)? Would therapy give me something more, can they help more? I don’t pretend I can do this alone but I also don’t feel the need to pay a professional just to tell me what I already know. There’s also the fact that I will not talk, I will not open up about this, I will not show weakness. I will not trust a person who does this as a job, I will never believe they care about me personally, why would I go there to sit and stare at the wall? The day I will go to a professional is the day I will feel so low I’ll accept that I need medication.

There’s a bit of an issue with medication. Meds are for the crazy ones, yes? The moment you get pills you’re automaticaly labeled as a basket case. The moment you have a note saying anxiety/depressive disorder, OCD, psychosis of any kind, personality disorder, etc, that’s that. You’ve been labeled. It all became real. And people will treat you differently, not because they want to be rude but because they pity you and don’t know what else to do. There’s a popular opinion that you have to get better to stop using the pills, yes? As if your brain has a better chance at healing than, let’s say, your respiratory system (will you tell an asthmatic to try and stop using their inhaler?), your pancreas (will you tell a diabetic to try and stop injecting insulin?) or your eyesight (will you tell me to try and stop wearing my glasses?) Can you imagine coming up to a disabled person and telling them to just stand up and walk, see, I can do it, why couldn’t you? No? Then why do you tell me to just start thinking of nice things and find something to do and soon I’ll be feeling better?

And you know what the worst part of this is? That the people who need the medication live with the same prejudice. And so they don’t go to a doctor or they refuse to take the pills or they stop taking them the moment they feel better because they think the deal is to stop needing them. It is not. You are allowed to need them and there’s nothing wrong with accepting help, be it from a person or a little bit of hormonal boost. God knows sometimes I feel like asking for them (and I just might this year before exams and writing my thesis, actually).

But then I get better, as I am now, and I start questioning whether I’m actually ill or if I’m just pretending. And that’s how I know I haven’t escaped any of the prejudice I just desribed and I will have to try a little bit harder to get rid of the idea that I’m really just a poser. Doesn’t help that my own mental health is fine compared to some of the people I know. I’ve never tried to kill myself. I’ve never thought of hurting myself. I already said I’ve been helping myself for years now – and it’s true. I recognize when I’m low and an episode is about to start and I get help (seeing as I’ve found the source of my episodes I also know how to get rid of them). And sometimes they’re bad enough to last days but usually it’s merely minutes and then I’m okay. And everytime I come out of them stronger and stronger and I havent had one in such a long time I don’t even remember what they feel like.

(February. I had the last one in February when I failed an exam and I realised I wouldn’t be able to finish my bachelor’s this year. That one almost broke me, I’ve always had this idea that uni will be the first thing I won’t fail and then I went and failed it. There was a possibility for me to make it – it would’ve been hard, it would’ve cost me a lot – mostly my mental health. And so I didn’t. I didn’t fight, I gave myself a month to heal a bit and to realise this isn’t the end of the world and I didn’t dissappoint anybody except myself – and then to forgive myself. And I came to the conclusion that it might not be ideal but it’s what it is and it’s okay. Maybe I would’ve been able to fight through it. But I felt like I wasn’t and I gave myself a free pass on that one. And I don’t regret my choice for I feel healthy, calm and comfortable now.)

I still get mild ones, mostly before exams. I’ll never get rid of that, I’ll always have a bit of a struggle with procrastinating and then hating myself for it. I used to hate myself for quite a lot, and then I worked that out. I stopped blaming myself for my problems and I came to peace with the reasons of them. I had issues with many things and I’m happy school is the only one left. I have hope that I’ll get over that one as well, sometime, maybe. It’s fitting, really, as school was the first one I recognized and the rest only appeared once I started digging into it.

I’m a lucky person. I know what to do to myself, how to help myself and sometimes even how to help others. Not everyone has that. Some have pushed the idea so deep into their mind that they simply cannot find it anymore, some think it humiliating to show weakness, some reject the reality and some don’t, they realise what’s happening to them and they don’t know how to ask for help or have conditioned themselves into thinking they don’t deserve help, that they’re not worth it. And the few who come and ask for help sometimes find that the help they’re getting isn’t enough.

What I wanted to accomplish with this text (Essay? Speech?) is not only spreading awareness of mental health issues but also to show the people who have it that they’re not alone and even a person who is presenting themselves as strong as I am can suffer from it. I wanted you to realise you’re not weak for experiencing this in whichever form and strength you do. And that there is help to get and it’s not humiliating to ask for it. And if you read this and you feel like it has nothing to do with you, please consider your friends, parents, coleagues, spouses, children. I strongly believe you have a person who’s going through it somewhere around you, and they might be needing your help.

[babblingbr00k]

Seek Me & You Shall Find Me

Rule 1: Prescribed medications such as: antidepressants, pain medicine, anti-anxiety medicine, sleep medicine were completely banned at ATWH. The only medication that we were allowed to bring in and take were over the counter medication and Prescriptions that were deemed necessary to prevent harm/or death. The theory behind this is our very first commandment. Thou shall have no other Gods before me.

I remember, as the wind blew the moon and the darkness in, being very anxious and over emotional. I cried uncontrollably. I was petrified of night, scared of being awake and alone. I was completely at the mercy of the monsters my 2nd night wanted to inflict. The only thing keeping me from bolting out the door, was the knowledge that I had nowhere to go.

It had now been over a week since I had my last dose of my Effexor, the antidepressant I had been on for 8 years since my brother died. It had also been 2 days since I had had my beta blocker. The medication that kept my heart from beating too fast.

My body was now detoxing from amphetamines, opiates, antidepressants, and a beta blocker. If I were to label my discomfort on a scale of 1-10, 10 being the worst. I was suffering at an unimaginable 67.3234.

I cannot express to you how much I wanted to die.

I stopped praying for the strength to get through this. I was now praying, begging, albeit DEMANDING for God to give me the strength to kill myself.

Like a child, I was clingy to Emma. Where ever she went I was sure to follow. If she were to sit down or stand still for longer than 2.5 seconds, I would force my way into her arms. Her petting, rocking, and cooing…...helped. But I could tell that, after several hours, she was beginning to get annoyed with the lack of personal space I was willing to give her. It wasn't long till I noticed Emma start to withdraw from me. When I would enter into a room, she would leave. She spent the rest of the evening with Kennedy.

Que private pity party of a catastrophic level. Abandoned again!!!

I was still unable to eat without it coming right back up. I was now crossing into the 48 hour mark of being unable to consume and keep anything of nutritional value in my stomach. I remember not being bothered by this. When I stood on the scale in the bathroom that morning, I was shocked when my weight read almost 270 pounds.

Our bodies start to burn excess fat after 2 days without eating. It’s also around this time that our adrenal glands start to pump endorphins into our system. It’s our bodies way of protecting itself from the pain of hunger pains. I remember looking forward to all small bit of relief that was headed my way within the next 24-48 hours.

Nine o'clock came and it was time for our circle of prayer. We all gathered in the middle of the room, formed a circle and held hands. I angrily “passed,” while the rest of the girls prayed. Immediately following prayers I went and climbed into my bed. Emma, who spent the entire day soothing me, wouldn't even look at me. I layed there wide awake, listening to the other girls drift off to sleep, wondering what kind of hell the dark corners of my mind had to offer the insommed.

I’m not sure how long I laid in my bed, twisting and turning, trying to get comfortable.

The only way I can explain how this feels is: imagine laying down, initially being able to lay still and comfortable for 20 seconds or so. But you start to feel a painful tingling sensation in your feet. It’s similar to the painful tingling your arm or your leg experiences when it’s “waking up” after having been deprived of blood flow for a little bit of time. This “tingle” slowly makes its way up your legs, into your back, then your shoulders, and finally into your arms. Movement of your extremities usually eases this feeling. But once you have done your little bedside boogie and start to get comfortable again, the tingling rallies, crawling up your legs once again for another attack against every inch of your body. It’s called Restless leg. Imagine going through this every couple of minutes for 9 hours straight.

I layed there in that little twin bed for hours, listening to the soft breathing of the other girls as they peacefully slept. I twisted and turned, changing positions every couple of minutes in an attempt to ease the Restless Legs. The sheets were that low thread count, so there were little bubbles that irritated my skin.

I found myself an interesting little rhythm.

Stomach….

Right Side….

Back…..

Left Side….

Now reverse….

Left side….

Back…..

Right side…..

Stomach….

Now do the Stanky Leg and the Dab….

I fought, for what seemed like hours. I didn’t care if anyone saw me. Desperate to try ANYTHING, I even attempted the Hands and Knees Down/Butt Up pose that we all resorted to as a child. It didn’t take long for me to abandon said pose. See, with my bowels being in the shape that they were in due to my detoxing, the only thing that this pose accomplished, was a bit of Brook’s Backdoor Homemade Airfreashner.

Abort!!!!!

Back to the ole Four Turn Tango.

Stomach….

Left Side…

Back….

Right Side….

Now reverse..

Right Side….

Back…..

Left Side….

Stomach...

….Now do the Stanky Leg and the Dab….

I HAVE TO GET OUT OF MY BODY!!!

I jumped out of bed and started running in place, jumping up and down. I was at war with my body. Using my hands, I assaulted every inch of my body. Beating my legs, my stomach, my butt, and finally my head. I thought, maybe, I could beat this feeling out of me.

Winded, I stopped to catch my breath. I realized that I had forgotten where I was. I looked around the room and remembered where I was, and that I wasn’t alone. I closely observed each girl as they laid in their own bed, checking to make sure none of them were awake to witness my self inflicted assault to my detoxing body.

I looked down at my bed and felt a wave of hate wash over me. Hate for my bed, hate for my sick body, hate for Phillip for abandoning me, hate for my parents for throwing me away, and hate for God who had forsaken me.

I never wanted to see that bed again. I grabbed my pillow and blanket made my way into the dark living room on the other side of the house.

I threw my pillow and blanket on the full sized couch and introduced myself.

“Couch...I’m Brook….I wanted to introduce myself. I felt it was the polite thing to do. Ya see….I’m about to lay down and try to get comfortable enough to get some sleep. But...the way this night is playing out….I have a feeling things are gonna be getting real freaky.”

I gave my new friend a gentle pat, laid down, and prayed that I would quickly fall into a peaceful sleep.

I started to count….1…..2…..3…..4…………………

It was around the 27 second mark that I felt the tingling in my feet.

..aaaaannnddddd here we go…..

Stomach…..

Left Side….

Back….

Right Side….

Now reverse…..

I now added the beat from Cat Nie Jo to my new nightly routine.

Right Side…..

Back…..

Insert the Nae Nae

Left Side……

I stopped mid Stanky Leg and burst out into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. I laughed so hard that I started to cry. I even wet my only pair of semi clean underwear.

I know what your thinking, but I’m not going crazy. Well, not completely anyway. See if you have the ability to laugh at yourself or have a little bit of fun in a situation that is fucked up….well...you just learned a valuable coping skill my friend. Good Job!!

I calmed down and finally caught my breath.

I was now pissed off at the couch. She could, literally, kiss my ass. I grabbed my pillow and blanket and shuffled over to the Love Seat.

Politely introduce myself to my new freaky furniture friend.

“Let’s get busy…..”

I remember wondering how long those couches had been there and how many asses they had seen through the years.

Moot…..

Well hello racing thoughts, wouldn’t be a party without you. I was wondering when your ass was gonna show up. Come on in and join this Fuck Fest Of Chaostrophic Proportions!

My thoughts bounced around from one random thought to another.

I went from thinking about the couches to thinking about my 1970’s couch that I got free when I moved into my first apartment when I was 21.

Fox Run Apartments.

What was the name of that Disney Cartoon?

Oh yea...Fox and the Hound.

You ain’t nothing but a hound dog….crying all the time…

What time is it? Where’s the damn clock?

It’s almost midnight.

It’s Tuesday. Almost Hump Day.

Why Hump Day? Who had the bright idea to name Wednesday Hump Day.

Maybe he had a standing reservation with his wife every Wednesday. His designated booty day.

Booty...God my booty hurt. 3 days of diarrhea will put serious wear and tear on the badonk-a-donk spout.

Whale spout. They have to come up for air every 15 minutes.

An alligator can hold its breath 30-60 minutes.

Humans risk brain damage after 3.

Brian Love...the little 5 year old boy that was hit by a car. My first Meritorious Service Award. I got to ride in Air Med because the Paramedic needed an extra set of hands. While he worked on little Brian, I had to squeeze the bag once every two seconds. Delivering oxygen into his little lungs.

Before I could make the transition into my next random, racing thought, I was interrupted by a very familiar high pitched squeaking. I didn’t get up immediately.

I wanted to give God a minute. I prayed that He would take him quickly.

"Please, God, spare me from THIS tonight."

I wasn't too keen on becoming a mouse serial killer. But after a minute or so of waiting for God to do his own damn job, I reluctantly got up. I cursed God, yet again, and followed the trail of audible suffering...my broom at the ready.

This time my dude was in the kitchen. I walked in and turned on the bright fluorescent lights. Curse!! Curse!! Curse!! Damn everything and everyone to hell.

Rule 2:Swearing and taking the Lord's name in vain will NOT be tolerated at All The Way House. If you refuse to abide by this rule, you will be expelled from the program and not allowed to return.

I found my next victim glued to a glue trap under the shelving of cooking supplies. Just one guy, he had only just started chewing off one of his paws.

Broom handle down, heart hardened, tears falling, taking aim, prayer for forgiveness, stab, stab, stab, die, die, die!!!

I stood there with him, watching, keeping him company, until the jerking stopped and he was gone.

“Fuck Forgiveness.” I tried to convince myself that putting the mouse out of his misery didn’t bother me.

But the tears falling down my face told me that that statement was a huge lie.

I disposed of the corpse, then stood in the kitchen and continued to cry. My happiness from new clothes long forgotten. I took stock of the collection of knives and debated on whether I should leave my own corpse for the girls to find.

It wasn’t until after I noticed the 8 foot, side by side freezer that I told myself, "I'll think about that tomorrow," (que Scarlett O'Hara.)

I dropped my killing instrument and made my way to the freezer. I stood there, before this gigantic, silvery door to Narnia, and said a quick prayer.

"Please, for the love of all things good, let there be contents within worthy of my sophisticated pallet."

The doors were heavy and I had to pull past the suction. There was no way in hell I would be denied my, "due and proper."

Once I had the doors opened, I could see stacks of fruit, plate lunches for the next day, and.....gallons of ice cream. Well you could have called me Chunk and told me to do the "Truffle shuffle," for all I cared. As far as I was concerned, God put this mountain in front of me, and by God, I would conquer it.

"Screw this," I said out loud. "If I can't stab myself to death, I'll fucking eat myself to death." I grabbed the gallon of strawberry cheesecake bliss, grabbed a ladle and happily resigned myself to eating my way to 300 lbs, diabetes, heart failure, then finally sweet death.

"How does this fit into your 1st Commandment?" I said under my breath.

I closed my eyes and pretended that I was shoveling Opana laced ice cream into my mouth and down my gullet. It was the severe brain freeze and subsequent nausea that made me stop. I threw my gifts from God to the side and ran to the bathroom, shoved my finger down my throat, and gave the porcelain God the contents of my stomach.

Once everything was up and out, I sat back onto the bathroom floor and caught my breath.

Brook? You are working yourself up. You have got to get a grip. The only thing this is doing is making it worse.

I took a deep breath and opened my eyes. On the toilet and walls was an abstract art piece that would have made Picasso proud. The white, pink, and red spew was a beautiful contrast to the faded green wallpaper. In the corner, an unknown, and suspicious brownish smudge made up a smile that went along with my strawberry eyes and nose.

I looked myself. What a waste. I had regurgitation in my hair, on my face, and down the front of my night shirt. I looked down to the floor and saw that I was sitting In a puddle that I had not noticed before. It was the smell drifting up that informed me that I had soiled myself (#1 & #2) during my peritoneal purge.

You can safely assume that I was at my most lowest point. I didn't just hit bottom. If you had had the desire to seek me out and try to find me, I was there, several 100 feet below rock bottom.

I submit

Uncle!!

I give up!

relinquishing,

86'in this shit,

have no fight left,

abdicate,

retreat,

withdraw,

yield,

abandon!!

I’m going to Davy Jones Mother Fucking Locker!!

I WANTED TO DIE!!! Why have you forsaken me God? Why have you abandoned me in my most desperate time of need?

I laid there, on the dirty, sticky bathroom floor, covered in my own piss, shit, and vomit. As much as I wanted to give up, I decided to give God one last call. This was my Hail Mary.

I distinctly remember whispering,"Help."

Then I waited.

And I listened.

………….

It would have been so easy to lay there, continuing to feel sorry for myself. It would have been easy to admit defeat and finish digging my own grave on the tiled floor. All I had to do was pull that dirt in on top of me.

Bury me here. Peace Out Bitches!!

I, soon, felt my body start to relax as I drifted off to sleep. I started to dream. In my dream I heard a voice and felt a presence that I hadn't felt in over 8 years. It was the comforting, yet insistent, voice of my brother , Coleson.

"Come on El Negro! (that’s what he called me) Not here and not like this. Get up!"

It would be amazing if I sat here and told you that it was the voice of my brother that got me off that floor and into the shower. It wasn't. I sprang up and out of my fetal position with an overwhelming need to throw up again. I dry heaved into the toilet as I #1 and #2'd all over myself for the 2nd time. When the gagging was done, I stood up and glanced over at my strawberry smiley face abstract piece.....and told him to go fuck himself.

For some reason I started speaking in first person.

"Brook is better than this."

“Brook doesn't just give up."

"Brook is a warrior and will fight."

“Brook smells like shit and needs to get her ass in the shower."

After my shower, Laying in my bed, before I drifted off into a semi-peaceful sleep, I promised myself, and whoever else was listening, that I was going to see this through. No more talk of killing myself or feeling sorry for myself. I had two feet, and dammit, I was going to stand on them.

Was that actually Coleson? Taking a minute to boss me around from the afterlife? Or was I finally entering the hallucination phase of death?

Well whatever you wanna call it, it worked. I got up, took a shower, put on clean clothes and went back to bed. It's possible that my self conscious created my brothers voice in a moment of self preservation. My brain told me what I wanted to hear, in a voice I was yearning to hear.

I knew that me giving up wasn't an option. If I wanted to live....I would have to fight.

[breathebravegirl]

Update for A

General update/recap of the last 3-4 weeks/the 1700-ish word long update I sent to A. 

Read more because long as fuck

@p-for-penguins​--here ya go! 

Alright welcome home, sending this because otherwise it’s going to take approx. 8 hours to catch you up so here is a recap of my shit-show of a life, organized by category (and hashtag because obvi) and written in point form for your convenience:

Work: 

SO MUCH work drama happening (more context to come, but I’m not typing out the whole situation that is sinking ship Dalhousie)

I want to scream and so many unknowns and so overwhelmed 

Feeling so disregarded and unimportant and so worthless and feel like I’m being punished for being hella fucked up and I kind of just want to completely disappear

I'm kind of like, let them do what they're going to do, whatever. It's like, they clearly don't care about my wellbeing or me so why should I? It's not up to me and I'm delusional if I think I have any agency in that place. 

Was filling my dad in on the work situation and literally almost burst into tears on like 4 different occasions which, I don’t know if you know me or not but that doesn’t fucking happen. But this whole work thing is fucking killing me and I’m so done. And I don’t fucking have time to be thinking/worrying about this which is making everything so much worse. 

The work thing is taking up too much time and stress and space and it very much feels like the wanting to do not good stupid things (as opposed to the good stupid things…? or maybe just the less awful stupid things?) has increased significantly with the work thing 

That’s probably not great and it’s probably less great that I’m super apathetic to that fact and just don’t really care and have so few reserves and am so burnt out and am getting super close to the end of this rope

Emailed boss last Saturday asking if we could chat that Monday and he never responded which is whatever, and then didn’t say anything about it on Tuesday (or Wednesday or Thursday), let alone acknowledge my existence and that’s fine like I don’t want to deal with me either, nor am i worth wasting time on so it’s fine

I'm done with the work thing. I mean, and all of it, but I'm done fighting for myself as if I matter and I'm done pretending that I think I do because we all know I don't so whatever. They're going to do whatever they want and I really don't care what the outcome is anymore. It doesn't matter

ED:

Purging is literally not even a semi-effective ~skill~ anymore and yet apparently brings everything down except I don't think it actually does which makes little to no sense

I am too big and too much and it needs to go down and weight needs to go down and it ! cannot ! stay ! here ! and it’s completely unacceptable for it to be here (and 😊this😊used😊to😊be😊a😊goal😊low😊weight😊and😊now😊it’s😊TOO😊HIGH😊)

Purging needs to be done. Or it needs to just fucking kill me already.

I cannot express how much I need to get the fuck out of my body

It’s getting to a point where the later in the day/night it gets, the more terrified I get of having it end in purging and it’s like, I know I just need to not do it but i don’t know what my problem is and it seems like it’s not that simple and i know that rising panic and anxiety re: going to bed doesn’t help but… 

I cannot continue to exist in this disaster of a body and NEED to get out and it needs to go down and get smaller and be not so big and awful and horrendous and i need to get out of this fucking body

#CopingWithShitty(ButHellaEffective)Skills:

(Is it possible to hate yourself so much that you give up on self-destructing in the traditional way…? Like, not doing the cutting or making it to 5km because that would be doing something that feels good/feels deserved so I'm not because it’s more torturous not to, which is probably so fucked but…)

#ActuallyCoping:

I made the not so stupid decision to come home and do food and low and behold, Maddy stops losing her shit quite as much after food happens because apparently you can’t survive on coffee and a fear of failure WHO KNEW

Also was wanting to do all of the stupid things and so did something that I never do and texted Alysia and asked if i could go over (ugh i hate myself, inviting oneself over is never okay) and went and hung out with her and talked for literally hours and didn’t do stupid things

#MaddyBeingNeedyAsFuck:

I literally am the most pathetic but all i want is a legit hug and to feel like someone gives half a fuck about me and logistically, I know that people do but knowing that rationally and feeling via actions that it is true at all are two very different things and I should know that people care and I do but… I don’t know, clearly I have inflated expectations of other people and am selfish and am undeserving of anything anyways so it’s fine)

I kind of want to just stop bothering with everyone and stop bothering everyone and stop being annoying and whiny and complaining constantly and stop reaching out/texting/emailing and that’s not uncommon for me to want but it’s normally just a passive desire but like, I actually might, and I’m just a complete disaster and would really like to disappear like, yesterday and I don't want to do the things and everything hurts too much.

Dr. K:

Didn't end up seeing Dr. K. I guess because I had said I didn't want to touch adhd meds until after exams, he was like well then maybe we should just wait till then and I asked if we could meet today and just make a plan for afterwards and he said we should just meet after which is fine but like also kind of wanted to talk about the fact that I can't and don't sleep but whatever

The other thing is like, I know that if he were to give me anything for sleep, I would PANIC because that’s what I do with new meds. So.. It’s like a fine line. I don’t know. And part of me is like, maybe I’m just not trying hard enough or not putting in enough effort to sleeping. I don’t know. Also having meds like that is scary.

The-general-awfulness-that-is-my-life:

no !! one !! fucking !! understands !! and !! so !! alone !!

Can I put discrediting myself and minimizing all my experiences on my resume because fuck I’m good at it… 

Such high distress levels and such constantly high distress levels and so exhausted (what else is new…)

I know I’m thinking myself in circles and all that but there are so many things going on that like, if I stop the spinning in one area, we jump straight to another one and there’s no calm or quiet and everything is loud 

Trying to be gentle but want nothing to do with being gentle and simultaneously am too exhausted to do anything super bad (I say now, until it's 3am and I'm still awake and purging). I don't know. I just really don't want to do this anymore and want a break and I don't know how long I'm expected to hang in not being able to breathe because it's been so long and I'm exhausted and I don't want to do it anymore. 

Everything is so loud and feels so irreparably broken

Have I mentioned that i hate my life and am so fucking exhausted?

The Thing™:

Things with The Thing were like, fine and pretty non-existent and then…

I went to the class I had skipped one week because the prof said we were done with the not okay topic but things were said and similar things were said in class that morning and i left but shouldn't have and I need to do well in this class and I already bombed the midterm and like I shouldn't have left and was literally about to burst into tears or throw up but it's like, what if I was just being dramatic and trying to get out of going to class 

I don’t know if I’ve ever had such a physiological reaction to a ~trauma trigger. (lol fuck i feel like such a fake calling it trauma when no one fucking knows if it happened). Like, eyes welled up with tears so. many. times throughout that class and immediately felt like I was going to throw up and was on the verge of panic for probably the next 6 fucking hours and I’m exhausted and scared and want to disappear 

The other day something not super cool happened except literally nothing happened but everything felt wrong and suddenly uber unsafe—in the unsafe-in-my-existence-I-am-not-safe-being-on-the-planet way, definitely not the I'm-going-do-do-something-bad way—and scared and flashbacky and unsafe and I couldn't even tell you what fucking happened or changed but something must have and super not cool

Feels:

Everything has been feeling entirely numb and we're back to everything feeling overwhelmingly heavy. Like moving is unfathomable and breathing feels like too much of a chore and is taking any existing energy.

It's like, this is brutal but so is everything else so it doesn't really matter

It’s not like this all the time but I think what scares me is the numb combined with the apathy

Good Things:

There has been minimal self-harming (maybe twice? maybe once)

There have been NO stitches 

There have been 3 and 4 day long periods without purging

9 days until undergrad is done

I found a place to live

Cats

TL;DR:

Things are either literally fine or completely Not Okay™ (black/white thinking because what even is grey)

Reserves are so so low and so burnt out

Everything is so loud 

And feels so irreparably broken

And so alone

Have I mentioned that I need to get out of this body?

It feels like I'm going to be trapped in this forever 

I’m exhausted and scared and want to disappear

[latefrequencies]

and I fully do believe enablers exist and I do believe that enabling comes in lots of different forms and it can be so subtle that only people who understand addiction extremely well can point it out, but 

literally, no one is enabling me in specific? unless I am so messed up that there is a situation where someone is in fact enabling me and doesn’t do anything about it, and I know I am making this about me but this situation could easily happen to anybody else, where they get the drugs relatively secretively with no interactions from anybody else who would be in any kind of position to do anything one way or the other?

there are, like, only three things I’ve ever experienced that I think come even the tiniest bit close to enabling, and those were

a classmate I briefly knew who took recreational benzodiazepines (which I did at the time) and to whom I actually sold benzos (I was like “hey you can have ‘em for free” but she was like “no I feel guilty” and that’s how I gave away 4 mg of klonopin and got $20 for it which was like well over the cost of the whole bottle at the time that’s still a college story I’m proud of) and a few times, we were both simultaneously high and didn’t have anyplace we needed to go to for a while so we sat on campus chilling and talking about art, trauma, bipolar disorder, movies, writing, some other shit, we did talk about drugs which you could argue was her enabling me in the form of her validating my addiction and talking about drugs in a non-negative context but arguably I was enabling her because of the times I gave her drugs (which I seriously thought about before doing it and I only did it because I knew her mental health status and I was like “shit she is legit out of seroquel well I see why she would use these as a short-term substitute for when the medical system is being fucked up and she can’t get her meds, I mean I did the same thing”. in hindsight maybe she could have been lying about being out of seroquel. I kind of don’t care bc I still understand how someone who is traumatized, bipolar, and possibly has other disorders could need benzodiazepines that aren’t theirs.)

the time I was able to get my doctor to up my dose of klonopin by saying “hey doc I think I’m getting a little bit of a tolerance to this drug [which was true] but like I still need it for my PTSD and shit [also true]” (sidenote: anytime I say I use benzos recreationally, I do use them for medical purposes too, but what I do is I hide the pills from myself and get by on solely OTCs so I miss a few days’ dosages but have enough for later when I may have to Overdo It. My relationship to klonopin is complex. It warrants its own post.) Anyway though I got her to give me 1mg pills instead of .5mgs but the new instruction was to take up to 2 1mgs a day as opposed to 3 .5mgs, so really I just got her to give me an extra half-miligram of klonopin per day and like. Yes that is a legit addictive behavior and she did allow it to happen but this was like. the only case of any of that.

I have friends, mostly online friends (which I mention solely because it must be understood that unlike some cases of addiction and enabling, nothing that could be done irl to enable someone is something my friends can do). anyway I have friends who, in many cases, are also addicts or have addictive tendencies and have similar mental health situations as mine and understand why i’m an addict and while they definitely advise harm reduction (as I do too for anyone else I know) and they recognize it’s not a GOOD thing, they’ve not ever told me You Need To Stop so if you wanna see that as enabling. idk and idc. 

but like. most enabler behaviors are just not things that anyone does for me? like I literally looked up “enabler examples” to see if any of it applied to me and none of it did. since I don’t face legal repercussions for my drug use, there’s no one who repeatedly bails me out of jail or whatever. I don’t engage in abusive behaviors that make people too scared to not provide me with drugs (I have sometimes expressed concerns that I’m abusive but that’s 1. its own subject and 2. not manifesting itself in a form that would play into addiction). no one is giving me drugs whatsoever except for my psychiatrist, and she also gives me the anti-psychotics and anti-emetics I need, so no offence but its kind of her job to give me anti-anxiety meds that I use in excess in ways that I deliberately don’t tell her the full truth about? (I recognize that that is my bad, not hers.) yeah my aunt gives me money I use to buy drugs, but I earn that money for doing jobs at her school and stuff, and I’m just as likely to spend it on notebooks or gemstones or sweaters or MLP toys* as I am Benadryl (that’s the one I actually pay for, I assert that I am addicted to it because I Cannot Function w/o it and the way I take it looks like how an addict takes something. Anyway the point is that’s what I use the money for when I’m buying drugs.) there’s nothing my friends can do because like I said they live on like the other side of the frickin country or hell even in another country entirely, and I cannot recall a SINGLE time they have advised me to take drugs (sometimes they agreed that it was a good idea if I noticed a “hey I took some Benadryl an hour ago and now I don’t care about my trauma anymore” effect but they never advised me to do it, ever). when random people walk by me at school and see me taking pills, what’s to make them think it’s not medication being taken properly or hell just OTC painkillers (as it actually very often is Because Arthritis), and even if they know it’s like Excess Drugs, literally no one I know in-person who isn’t a family member or Jared has any kind of relationship to me where it’d be Their Business to do anything about it. 

I don’t. have friends who I do drugs with because see above, no in-person friends. Except Jared. And while I am generally high while around him and I think like once I said “you can have some if you want some” kind of as a joke that he would have fully understood, we don’t Do Drugs together. That’s not why we go out into secluded wooded areas together. (we go there to look for and then joke about snails. this is a thing that happens. Jared I recognize you’re probably reading this. if so please tell me if I shouldn’t have said the thing about the snails. but I’m pretty sure you’d be cool with me publicly talking about the snails.) 

anyway point is that no one does anything for my addiction other than me, I am legit the only one doing anything that enables me, I guess you could argue that I’m my own enabler then but that’s just kinda redundant and also a bit nonsensical as a concept. literally. nobody I know does anything. that could be considered enabling my drug usage unless not immediately dragging me to rehab or w/e is considered “enabling” (and again since my drug use is relatively private irl - not online but irl - no one who is in any position to drag me to rehab is likely to drag me to rehab.) anyway that’s not how shit works and anyway not all addicts have enablers and addiction is not always a social or symbiotic experience, idk why I went on about that so much today is just Addict Rant day 

also I don’t actually expect Jared to drag me to rehab but I said that because he’s my Token Local Friend and I believe - and I am reasonably sure he believes to - that friends have certain responsibilities to each other that they wouldn’t have to strangers. but I don’t think he’s responsible for my addiction or mental health. because no this is my issue. I have utterly no expectation that anyone I know try to solve it.

.

* Yes, I buy My Little Pony toys rather frequently. I just like having them around. They’re nice.