#he makes me so insane in ways i can’t disclose publicly

[wildsaltair]

some screencaps I shared with @streets-in-paradise that I felt were important to share with everyone else too

[pernatius]

Lost in Space Part 8: Ch 3

Previous 

Summary: Syco’s insanity is explored and the mind of the unnamed Space Explorer is as well.

Lost in Space on Tumblr

Lost in Space on ao3

From head to toe, they’re green. That’s because their outfits are made out of leaves. Their cloaks, pointy hats, bandages that covered from wrist to elbow and ankle to knee are torn pieces of what was once an enormous leaf. They bowed before the four of us. Syco and Saamuki followed, leaving Shiitakee and me to look at each other and wonder if we’re supposed to bow as well. By the time we decided to join they came back up, having the two of us shrug at each other. The one with the sharpest hat, who is in line with Syco and manages to have an even pointer face than him, raises their arms. Their cloak is raised with this action and with it I can see red symbols all over their chest. It’s a sight I’ve seen before.

“Syco, it is a pleasure to have you return after all this time. We have heard so many great things about you since your departure. What brings you here again with new faces, I must add?”

“I want to do the trial again, but this time with her,” he nudges in my direction. 

“Ah, with the human. What a fascinating choice, Syco.”

Syco didn’t say much when we reunited. He didn’t comment about how I was avoiding eye contact with him. He only said two things. The first thing he said was to remain human. No disguises. The second thing was a question and it was directed towards Shiitakee and his black eye. 

“I’d rather not discuss it, but this wouldn’t have happened if you just listened to me by dropping me off on the next planet over.”

This planet is just like Earth only things are comically massive. Even Syco is an ant compared to it all. A pebble on Earth is a boulder on this planet. The grass ahead is like skyscrapers and the trees around us are like mountains. This meant the walk to the treehouses, their village, was long and tiresome. I should’ve used the time to ask Syco what the trial is, but I didn’t. That dream had become my focus. I played it over and over again and each time I drifted further and further away from Syco’s side. 

I was the last one to leave the thick greenery and step foot on the makeshift elevator, which is a basket that was meticulously created by intertwining—nearly rubbery—tree bark with a long rope triple knotted around its handle. After Pointy Face latched the door behind me, they clapped once and the basket began to lift. I could hear the string’s tension as the ten of us were being pulled up. The wind began to brew the further we went up, causing the basket to sway. We must’ve been fifty feet in the air when what looked like a butterfly flew past us. If I had to guess its wingspan it was double Cala’s, which meant as it flapped its wings all too close to us the basket’s swinging quickened a frightening amount. It got reactions from Saamuki and Shiitakee, a few grunts and groans. Pointy Face called for the two to calm down. They said that anything breaking is near zero percent. Not quite zero and not quite the comfort they needed. I was quiet while this happened because I just needed my hands to show off my emotions. They hooked onto the railing. There’s no way I could die from this, but the thought of the rope snapping and me turning into a pile of mush once I hit the ground made me uneasy. The pain would be unimaginable. Still, that doesn’t mean I’m scared. Surprisingly, I’m not. Syco must’ve read me wrong because he placed his hand onto my shoulder, hoping to comfort me. I flinched and he retracted his hand. I turned to him with my now seasick face. He looked back at me. I could see the hurt and a hint of something else in his eyes before he looked away.  

Our feet stepped foot onto the ground. The Speaker’s voice comes out of Saamuki for a moment. From the looks of everyone’s faces, no one noticed but me. Shiitakee muttered a prayer. I take another look at Syco, but his back is facing me. He places his arms behind his back as Pointy Face, who’s now our tour guide, leads us away from the tallest of his people. That broad-shouldered cluster of muscle was the one pulling us up. The scowl on his face makes our reactions justified. He notices my stare and I scamper away before I can cause our concerns to become the future. 

The tour guide, the architect behind this entire village and has repeated so about a dozen times in the past five minutes, points out way too many unnecessary details. They point out everything about the bystanders in eyesight from their occupation to their hobbies and the patterns carved into every inch of the village, which was in itself another, but obviously, much larger carving. The trees around us have been carved into to make homes, a library, our tour guide’s office, and the building we’re heading towards. It’s on the other side of this bridge, meaning we get another chance to gamble with our lives. At least now there aren’t any freakishly large butterflies, but the creaking with every step we took across the bridge is worrisome. This all has been quite something to be prideful about. Still, the three of us aren’t as animated as last time. Shiitakee is calm, but I imagine hundreds of prayers going through his head. The Speaker once again comes back, but their voice dies soon after. I, on the other hand, am focused on Syco’s calm demeanor as I walk in his shadow. He can be so composed publicly, but behind closed doors be so broken. Is that why I had that dream? No, there was more to the dream besides him and there is more to him than I first thought. That hidden expression in his eyes frustrates me because I can’t determine what it was. 

The tree’s rings slope down to its center. At its center, which a single ray of sunlight beams onto, is a shimmering bowl filled with red paint. The annoyingly, prideful founder of the village is the first to take a step towards the ominous spot in this dim room. Syco and I follow. The other two do too, but both only take one step forward before they’re halted by one of the other leaf people. “Only those that wish to run the trial shall proceed,” the one that stopped them disclosed firmly.  

I looked back at them. I was going to give them a thumbs up and an awkward smile to let them know they just have to wait for a little bit and nothing bad will happen once whatever the trial could be is over, but I didn’t want to lie and be hopeful on the outside but worried on the inside. So, I simply turn back around and continue towards the light. 

Syco and I sat right across from each other. I’m looking into the bowl rather than at him. In the reflection not only do I see him looking past me, but I also see the leaf people that’s been following Pointy Face spread out throughout the circular room. They began to sing. It’s heavenly, almost as good as the gondolier, but they don’t get the same reaction out of me. It gets me more anxious.  

“Relax,” Syco murmured to me. 

Again, I look at him, but once again he’s not meeting my eyes. It hurt me more than it should’ve. 

With the background vocals coming to a close, the officiator announces with the bowl of paint now swishing in his right hand, “It has been more than fifty years since one of our own has done the trial, but five years since an off-worlder asked to do the trial. That very off-worlder sits before us. Syco and human, I pray that by the time you complete the trial your results are what you desire.”

Several things I wanted to say about the whole desire part, but I kept my mouth shut. I hate how much I’ve gone soft for Syco. I’ve become submissive to the one I wanted to murder. 

They go on to paint the same symbols on their chest onto Syco’s upper body using their left hand. A simple red dot is pressed onto his forehead. Syco then closes his eyes. When Pointy Face turns to me, my heart drops. Thankfully, I don’t need to change out. The paint is placed on my clothes. That's definitely going to stain. When they place the same dot onto my forehead they continue, “Let the trial commence!”

Opening my eyes, I find myself on a bed that feels familiar but I can’t figure out why. It’s soft and fluffy, but I know I shouldn’t focus on unnecessary things. I call out for Syco, but instead of his response, I hear two sets of voices that make me feel as if someone is tugging my heartstrings. I touch my face to see my hand is wet. I’m crying and when the faces behind those voices come into the bedroom, I find myself sobbing in their embrace. 

“Mom? Dad?” My voice cracked. 

My memories of them had long been erased, but my body moved for me. It knew them while I didn’t. Does that make me a terrible daughter?

Apparently, I voiced the concern out loud because my dad responds with, “Of course not.”

I grab the back of their shirts and squeeze them. I didn’t want them to leave. I wanted a family again. I wanted to feel love again. 

I knew they died, but I don’t remember how. Again, my body did. 

“You’re alive. How? The fire. The accident.”

My parents looked at each other then looked at me as if I was crazy. 

In this reality, I had to have been because as my mother is caressing my cheek and wiping away the rest of my tears she tells me, “What are you going on about, sweetie? Did you have another bad dream?”

Her voice is soothing. Her touch is soft. My body told me this is a ruse. This isn’t the mother I had. She was cruel. She treated me like a dog rather than her daughter, but is it wrong to want the angel before me? Is it wrong to want the lie that I’ve desired?

I place my hand on top of hers and melt into her touch. I smiled when she placed a kiss on my forehead. This moment I’ve longed for is cut short when my dad scolds my mom, “Honey, she has to go to school in a few hours. She needs to get some rest. You don’t want her to fall asleep in the middle of her exam again now do you?”

She lets go of me. It hurts. “I know, but we don’t get to see her all that much anymore. She’s always studying.”

My dad replies, “She’ll still be here in the morning. Now come on. Let's go back to sleep.”

After a sigh, she pecks me on the cheek, and the two head out. They tell me their goodbyes right before they shut my bedroom door. 

Rolling away from the door, I shut my eyes. I try to get some sleep, but the fires and the screams make me restless. I toss and turn, but with each attempt to brush them off they get worse and worse. The next one is more gruesome than the last. 

A scream bellows out of me. Everyone in the room looks at me. Two students a row behind me whisper to each other, they mock me, causing the only adult in this room to remind everyone that we’re taking an exam. Everyone needed to be facing their test and especially do it silently, or it’s an automatic zero. His voice sounds familiar. It’s condescending. The sounds of pencils scribbling paper, bubble sheets to be exact, tell me they do without hesitation. As those around me continue doing their tests, the teacher takes a knee in front of me and hushes to me, “Is everything alright at home?”

Past him, the words on the board begin to mesh and eventually blur together. Shaking my head, they become readable once again. According to the board, we have less than an hour left. 

“Yeah. Sorry, I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“I can tell, but if you want I could write you a note for you to see Dr. Verr-”

“No, it’s fine. Really.” That name caused the hand holding up my pencil to twitch. I mark outside of the answer key.  

“Okay. I just worry you’ll slow us down.”

I could’ve snapped my pencil right then and there, blast out my disbelief over how a teacher could say that so nonchalantly, but someone taps my shoulder. I turn and see a cute blonde girl. Knowing me, I’ve probably become as red as a tomato. This gets her to giggle and in return gets me to smile awkwardly. 

“Eyes on your test, Ashley,” our teacher snapped. 

“Ashely,” I repeated under my breath. 

[alittledizzy]

I’ve literally seen posts being like “don’t forget phil has mental illness too!!! He’s anxious” which is absolutely insane to me. I get people have this weird annoying thing where they need to be completely equal at all times but really? Mental illness? Does that really need to be made about phan and phil? Idk it’s just been bothering me like as a mentally ill person not being mentally ill is TOTALLY COOL AND FINE I wish I was lol

I feel like I’m the wrong person to field this ask because I find it much more realistic and interesting to acknowledge when people have differing mental illness and differing levels of mental illness that impacts their lives in different ways, and to see them love and support each other rather than turning it into a “one of them has a mental illness therefore the other can’t” narrative. 

(That said, if you are the type of person who believes someone is only mentally ill if they have a diagnosis and disclose that diagnosis to you/publicly then sure we don’t know if Phil has been diagnosed with anything and it’s all speculation. Personally, I think it’s pretty obvious that Phil has some anxiety issues based on Dan literally describing him as socially anxious multiple times and context of stories they tell about Phil’s anxiety - I mean, being so afraid to speak up to a personal trainer that you end up puking instead? - but functional social anxiety =/= depressive bedridden episodes so to me that’s not remotely a matter of trying to make them equal so much as just regarding them as individual people with individual issues and not erasing one person’s struggle just because it isn’t as obvious or even as grave as anothers.)

[synfulwitchcraft]

You know... I guess I'm getting "tumblr big" enough to garner random hate now. I'm not responding to these individually or even giving them their moment of sun on my blog because it's absolutely ridiculous but let me lay out a few things here... for those so concerned of my personal life and intent of which you have no real information pertaining to:

1. Yes, we got a REALLY nice new car... something we really shouldn't have been able to afford but we really lucked out. No, I'm not disclosing the how or details of cost. That's none of your business. It cost a lot. It also cost a lot less than it should have.

2. I am 28 with two kids and have never owned a new or reliable vehicle. When I see the opportunity to own a car still under warranty with less than 30k miles on it and less than 2 years old I'm going to take it. I'd be an idiot not to... and you're an idiot for making assumptions about me based on the make/model/year/cost of my car.

3. Yes I'm still posting my gofundme and tarot deals to raise money. Just because we have the car doesn't mean the need for help dissipates. We were already living on a tight budget (the reason the help for a new car was needed to begin with) and now we are seriously paycheck to paycheck with every last penny accounted for... this includes my fiancé donating plasma and other random efforts for petty cash... literally if we have any emergency that was unforeseen, if he can't donate for a week or so because he is sick, if he misses work, or if a million other insane but totally normal life things happen we are going to be under water. This is why- with my nice new shiny car- I am still asking for money.

4. Don't want to donate? Neat. I get it. Money is rightfully earned and you should spend it where you want. Stop attacking me for asking... stop degrading my tarot services as a "pathetic way to get people's money" ...my readings are damn good and I put a ton of effort into them. For the time and depth I put in my readings, most people are charging upwards of $20+ a reading. I'm literally asking for $1 per card right now. Why? Because I need money but I'm not beyond doing what I can to earn it. I've had nothing but positive feedback about my readings and I've been doing them publicly for over 3 years now... don't believe it? Think it's a scam? That's fine. Think it silently and stop being hateful. (P.S. if I was trying to scam people would I have publicly posted both on here AND my gofundme the update about getting the new car? No. I've been as transparent as possible because I want people to know the truth and to donate because they want to... sheesh)

5. Why don't I work if I need money? Well... I'm a graduate student currently in the last year of my program before licensure and obtaining my masters in counseling. I'm working as an intern now for the required hours to complete my program. This is unpaid work because I am unlicensed, but it is the same workload as a full time job. I also have two children who need someone home with them before and after school... so picking up a second paying job is not realistic. I would burn out quickly and most of the cash I made would be sunk in daycare cost so... thanks for assuming I'm just lazy and don't want to work. Try again.

There's a lot more I could say, but I'm trying to cool off and you all honestly aren't worth the time. Here's the takeaway: there are reasons for why I am doing what I'm doing, you don't know me or my situation so do not place value and character judgments on me. I will continue to post my fund raising efforts until I am in a space where I'm comfortable with our financial situation and not afraid of losing our only car, or food on the table, or our apartment, or the few luxuries we afford our kids like my daughters dance class or my sons after school club. If you don't think we deserve help, don't donate... simple as that. Your hate won't ever see the light of day on my blog... just the trash where your attitude and hateful words belong.

Now... back to regular blog programming.