#how to write a panic attack

[unboundprompts]

If you’re still doing request, is it OK if you either

Describe writing a panic attack?

Or

Describe someone who has gray eyes?

-> a link for gray eye descriptions: x

How to Write a Panic Attack

Physical Symptoms of a Panic Attack:

pounding or racing heart

sweating

chills

trembling

difficulty breathing

weakness or dizziness

tingly or numb hands

chest pain

stomach pain or nausea

feeling lightheaded

tense muscles

dry mouth

constriction in the chest

feeling like they're being choked

Other Symptoms:

heightened vigilance for danger and physical symptoms

anxious and irrational thinking

a strong feeling of dread, danger or foreboding

fear of going mad, losing control, or dying

feelings of unreality and detachment from the environment

Triggers for a Panic Attack:

something unexpected (ex: a phone call)

a reminder (objects, smells, locations, specific phrases, etc. that can be tied back to a traumatic experience)

stress (from work, a relationship, family, etc. that has been building up)

silence (ex: being alone in a quiet room. The silence can amplify a sense of isolation)

flashbacks (a trigger that causes the person to flash back to a traumatic memory)

out of nowhere (sometimes panic attacks just get triggered by seemingly nothing)

Writing Prompts:

-> feel free to edit and adjust pronouns as you see fit.

He couldn't breathe. Oh God, he couldn't breathe and he was going to die.

She knew the panic was building up, but it crashed over her like a tsunami that swept her off her feet. The pull threatened to pull her out to sea and it was all-consuming.

They felt the panic begin to wrap its arms around them like a shadow.

"Is it okay if I hold your hand?"

"Don't touch me-- don't touch me!"

Her mind was running at a million miles a second but she couldn't pinpoint a single thought.

"It's okay. You're safe."

An icy hand had reached through their ribcage and was squeezing their heart. They couldn't breathe and they didn't know what to do to regain their breath.

"My chest hurts. It hurts."

"I can't!"

They were a crumpled heap, stowed away in the corner as tears streamed down their face.

She felt like she was on a boat out at sea, the room swaying and adding to the nausea that was washing over her.

He felt like he was having a heart attack.

They gasped for air but each breath felt shallower than the last.

She could hear her heart pounding in her ears, beating like a panicked drum to the rhythm of her fear.

He felt like he was standing on the edge of a building.

They couldn't move. It was like someone was holding down their limbs, the panic rendering them utterly frozen.

If you like what I do and want to support me, please consider donating! I also offer editing services and other writing advice on my Ko-fi!

[ianitegal56]

I saw Godzilla Minus One and he is quite literally one of god's silliest showa scientists

[riickgrimes]

"The key thing was of course, the fact that Rick has PTSD and that's very much what's driving a lot of his behavior and being in a place of that level of vulnerability, back with the love of his life in that way.

It's also the thing he fears, the loss of her. It manifests itself in a way that is visceral and leads to the lovemaking not just being about love, but the revealing of pain and trauma and fear. That informs Michonne, that she can't just blast him into making sense. There's something deeper going on here that he can't verbalize. She has to help him get through in a different way. So she gets to see him, as well, as he reveals what's really in there, the wound. That's going to happen most likely in that most vulnerable space." — Danai Gurira

"Yeah, I think it is about pain. As Danai just said, it's about him wanting her and then fearing what he's about to unlock again. He gets to sort of articulate it in the scene further in the episode, when he gets to say that, 'I can't do this again. I haven't got the capacity to do this again. I've worked out how to die and live again.' So it is an absolutely necessary scene that allows Michonne to realize that there's something really broken here, more broken than she's ever anticipated. [...]

So the scene was about a real intimacy, a sort of frightening intimacy. This is a part of his personality he has shut down. It's almost like he's trying to stop himself from feeling this love again. She sees that and she just says, 'Just trust. We're back. We're the same...' I find it very moving. I think it's a very, very moving scene, because it's about them connecting in a way that he's had to deny for seven years. He's denied that connection for the sake of living on in this half life for the CRM" — Andrew Lincoln

Andrew Lincoln and Danai Gurira Discuss Episode 4 of The Walking Dead: The Ones Who Live

[luvfy0dor]

incest and pedophilia isn't sexy

[myokk]

🥺

[cowboydeers]

neve is the definition of “they make me laugh, like genuinely laugh” when she has a crush on rook and then her screaming, crying, throwing up over it

[23z567]

forgot to mention i crossposted this on twt too just look up angst333

[dukeofthomas]

I need people to realize how horrible 'stalking/constant surveillance/breaking into each other's homes is how the Batfamily show love' is. Like i really need someone to just acknowledge how horrific saying this bullshit is.

Like even fics where they're shown as happy and healthy and with good ties, you've always got this thing where none of them have privacy or any boundaries with each other. Which is directly antithetical to actually having good relationships. And this invasion via hacking and stalking and breaking into homes is portrayed as a positive, good thing; it's just how they show love and care to each other, after all. But for some reason I just personally don't find stalking, lack of privacy or boundaries, and emotional manipulation funny, endearing, or healthy, and just end up disgusted at the attempt to sweep it all under the rug.

[peargreen-jellybean]

this is so stupid but i wanted something soft and angsty and more in Wade’s pov and i’m such a fucking sappy loser

so instead of being productive i wrote 4k words of Wade taking care Logan. christ

Rated E for Everyone Buckle Up It’s Wade’s Train of Thought (he is horny and swears and he gets stabbed)

[lets-try-to-be-normal-otakus]

Steddie fic where steve gets possessed (upside down, demons, etc.) who try and wreck his life and relationships? But it has none of his memories cause either 1) Steve ain't letting it happen 2) x entity doesn't have that power. All it has to go off of is emotions? Cue possessed!Steve meeting Eddie and breaking up with him to harvest more chaos, only

Steve and Eddie aren't together

P!Steve: "It's you, not me. I just don't love you anymore" <feeding off emotions

Eddie: ...

Steve: aw shit

P!Steve: *contains malicious chuckle*

Eddie: ... what?

P!Steve: Ik Ik, I still want to ravish you, but I can't! We're over, I'm breaking up with you. I hope you never get over me and think about my face on every pretty boy you fuck

Eddie: *//_//*

The demon/UD gets found out pretty quick.

[k1ttygam3r]

They literally just gave my girl GC a panic attack and expected me to carry on like nothing happened like what the fuck man what’d you do that for

[blonde-and-cat-suc]

Catra being anxious and having panic attacks over the bad things she did is actually counter productive to any hypothetical scenario where she is self reflecting and/or receiving constructive criticism.

Her potentially having crippling anxiety over being an asshole in the past PREVENTS and/or DELAYS any changes she might potentially make.

Making this character spiral over moral dilemmas does not inherently mean she’s actively working to change her ways. Her being afraid of facing her badness does not make her good; it simply means she has anxieties toward constructive criticism/dialogue.

[mossfeathers]

Writing and art for day 16 of lifetober: Deal

Fic takes place in an AU by my friend Rose in which the rage crystal Scar gives Tango has a few strings attached. If you guys like this, I have more written I can polish up + post!! Word count: 1.3k TW/CW: Possession, panic attack (implied), swearing, villain Scar (not really a cw just a heads up)

“Tango, Tango, Tango, I’m sure you’re wondering why I called you here,” Scar said, voice low, not quite a growl but still menacing enough and grinning with the sort of happiness that wouldn’t end well for anyone else. His pale grey hair was long and a few of the more wild strands draped over his face, breaking apart the cutting gaze of his bright yellow eyes staring right through Tango.

‘Well not really, mister crystal-butt-man. Me and my crew back there were just coming by for a bit of enchanting-magic-funtimes and you were all ‘Ooh only Tango can come in’ and shooed my guys away. Jerkface.” Tango leaned back in the ornate wooden chair Scar had pulled up for him in front of the amethyst pedestal the enchanter usually sat upon, twirling the emerald-green crystal he had bought from Scar just a few days prior boredly in his ash-tinted fingertips. “But I’ll bite. Whaddya want, Scar?” Scar’s such a pain sometimes, honestly, Tango thought to himself. Always asking for this or that and another and never giving anyone the time of day, favoring selling you a clock over sympathy. Tango really wished he wasn’t stuck with him in the wizard hut, but it’d be rude to leave and he’d rather not tick off the one guy who had a knack for tracking down the enchanter.

“I’m so glad you ask! It’s all got to do with that little crystal you got there. It’s been working, right?” Scar said, leaning forward in his chair with a sick smile, crossing his hands under his chin. 

“Yeah?” He stopped fidgeting with the crystal and now let it dangle limply from a thin brown string looped on his fingers

Scar’s grin widened. “Excellent! Oh, I’m so glad to hear it! The custom rage crystal, if I remember correctly. Well, not to go full ‘Villain-Scar’ mode here, but I may have… let’s say neglected to mention a bit of fine print on that fine piece of merchandise. I’ll be honest with you, I don’t feel like explaining it so I’m just going to show you. Besides, I think you’d get the point more if you just saw it in action,” Scar said as he stood up from his own chair, grabbing the wooden cane leaning on it, bejeweled with an intricate laying of crystals and engravings of cats. Tango grimaced and laughed awkwardly, not quite sure what else to do.

“Hey buddy, you feelin’ ok?” Tango barely managed to get the words out before Scar had closed the distance between them, looming over him with unnerving authority.

“Ok Tango, I’m going to need you to stay very calm, alright? Ok?” Tango nodded along slowly, a pit of concern growing in his stomach. “Great! Now, I need you to go get me a diamond from Joel’s cave. I trust you know where that is, right? Bye!” Scar spoke quickly and excitedly, words bouncing with anticipation and playful malice.

Tango’s face dropped. He tucked the crystal into his pocket and made his way down the ladder and out of the wizard’s hut without a sound. This, in theory, was against his will, but his mind was just blank, like someone had smudged out all his thoughts as one cleans off a whiteboard after using it in school. There wasn’t a will left to defy, the only thing in his mind the faint ringing of an order, carried out dutifully by his body. His hair flickered weakly, fire somehow managing to glow less than it should. To someone who knew Tango, they wouldn’t have thought him to be himself, lacking a certain swing in his step so signature to himself. Once he reached the edge of the mountain, his dull eyes hardly glanced down as he walked off, stumbling off jagged edges and drops, scraping knees and elbows until he reached the front of Joel’s cave. By some miracle, he wasn’t home, and Tango dragged himself through the entrance and started to rummage around through a few chests, getting nicked by a spare sword left unsheathed in the wreckage, until he pulled out a diamond, sharp edges seeming to glow in the miserable afternoon’s light that flooded the cavern. His eyes sparked with something akin to recognition, and hardly a second later he was heaving himself up the cliff-face.

He stumbled through the door, breathless with a straight face, to Scar’s awaiting smile leaning against the wall next to the ladder going up to the enchanter, idly twirling his hair between his fingers. Scar extended his hand, Tango dropped the diamond in, and promptly collapsed; a puppet with its strings cut. His hair exploded upwards, flames licking the roof of the shop floor and body small as he took in heaving, gasping breaths. He was shaking, but more importantly he was back. His thoughts flooded back in, horrified and scared and screaming, desperate cries to get back into his own head swirling with relieved terror at release back into his mind, the flood of sudden information and emotion making him sick to his stomach. After a long, anguished moment, he looked up at Scar with furrowed brows, rage boiling over alongside tears out of bright red eyes.

“What the fuck have you done,” he growled, furious and terrified and helpless all at once as he stared with the most intense hatred he’d ever felt at Scar, stronger than Bdubs, stronger than the games themselves. His gold eyes just smirked down at him, glinting with the sort of mischievous malice he’d now learned to fear. Tango made a move towards the dagger he kept hidden in his back pocket, wanting nothing more than to bring him down to his knees, make him feel even a fraction of the anguish he felt rushing through his body, make him hurt.

“Oh, can you stop that?” Scar laughed, and Tango felt his hand freeze in place, that same complicit nothing washing over him in a wave of pure white nothing. “Would you mind getting up too? I don’t want the floor getting damaged, that stuff’s not cheap!” He stood up.

Tango was still shaking. Badly, in fact; he could hardly stand. But Scar had said he needed to stand, so he would. Scar hadn’t stopped smiling the whole time, as if this was just a joke, just a prank. Just a prank. The fact Scar hardly cared, didn’t think what he was doing, whatever he was doing, was a terrible thing made Tango want to tear him apart with his bare hands, limb from bloody limb. It filled him with such violent, earth-shattering rage Tango forgot about the crystal sitting in his pocket. It filled him with so much rage while he couldn’t do anything but listen when Scar started to speak again.

“So! Whaddya think? I’m proud of myself for that one, I mean who else would have come up with putting a control spell on a crystal? Genius, right? It’s really quite easy, to quote Mumbo. You’ve got questions, I’m sure, but I’m not quite qualified to answer them. I’m just your local wizard, after all. I cast the magic, not a clue how it works.” Scar sighed, a slight shrug in his shoulders. “I can try though.”

“Just tell me what the hell you’ve done to me.” Tango’s eyes were bright with fury, and he could hardly spit out the words through his throat thick with anger, voice cracking as he did so. “Now.”

“Were you even listening? Gosh, it’s a control spell, Tango. Simple, too. I just… say what I need you to do, and you listen! All tied to that little crystal you got in your pocket there. Rather convenient for me, you’re like my little helper! I really am sorry for not mentioning it beforehand, I just needed you to take the deal. Think of this as a good thing! We’re very lonely here in the wizard hut after all, and I do believe this is the start of a beautiful friendship.” Tango didn’t do anything but bore into Scar’s soul with his burning eyes. “I apologize for any discomfort, can’t do anything about that I’m afraid. Oh, and don’t mention this to your little crew, okay?”

Tango just stared at Scar, and he only walked out when Scar said he could.

[whosthere54]

More distraction from the horrors tm

I’m gonna write more of my fable zombie apocalypse au for fun

[altschmerzes]

hate when i see a post and i just Know it’s gonna majorly prevent me from writing anything for like. a solid week.

[charleslee-valentine]

♪ Now when I'm very good, and do as I am told I'm Mama's little angel and Daddy says I'm good as gold

And when I'm naughty and answer back and sass I'm Mama's little devil, and Daddy says I've got the brass. ♪

- What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? (1962)

~~~~

Fic word count: ~1,600

Warnings: Detailed depictions of child abuse (mental, medical, and physical,) canonical mistreatment of the Sinclair twins, the highchair/restraints being used on Bo, panic attack, near asphyxia, fear of death, smoking, psychological torment, weaponized love, Trudy and Victor Sinclair being horrible parents, childhood mental illness, all hurt no comfort.

~~~~

“Don’t you love your brother, Beauregard?!”

Does he?

Vincent is sitting in his big boy chair in the corner. His hair is parted neatly down the middle, smoothed by Mama’s doting hands and a lipsticked kiss. There’s no mask on his face today. His last one melted.

The brat left in the window where the sun could get it too long.

Not that it’s his fault actually. If the Doc didn’t insist on interrupting breakfast to prod at some scar tissue in Vinny’s nose that was making a whistle sound when he breathed, it wouldn’t have happened. Pulled him away and left his mask where it lie, forgotten for hours while he inspected and snipped the problem away.

And then there was a new issue.

Mama’s mold was still shattered. One problem the Doc’s cold, rough hands couldn’t piece back together into perfection. There's a hero cast somewhere that could make a new mold, but Mama wants a newer one. To replace Vinny’s year four mask.

Every second his scars stay exposed makes him cry. He doesn’t like being stared at and dissected like a bug with its wings pinned.

Bo isn’t in his big boy chair. He’s strapped into the too small highchair. The tray squeezes his stomach and the metal hurts his knees. Not as much as the straps though.

Not as much as his feelings when he’s asked about if he loves his brother.

Of course he does. Vincent is the only one in the house that Bo still trusts. And that means he loves him. Because it isn’t his fault the mask melted. It’s Doc’s. And it’s not his fault about the mold breaking, it’s Mama’s.

And it’s not Vincent’s fault that his face got messed up. That one is Bo’s.

Being a good boy and sitting still and letting Mama get her copy of his face should be just the easiest thing. He’s doing this for his brother. His only friend in the world.

It’s never easy.

Mama makes the mixture in a big bowl, hot water and some powder that turns orange. It’s slimy and smells an awful lot like marshland before a rainstorm. The schlop always feels clammy on his skin. Unpleasantly cold and wet no matter how dry it gets.

“Don’t you move now, Bo. Your papa’ll woop you.”

Lies aren’t allowed in this house, unless it’s ‘I love you.’ So Bo knows she means that threat. He’s got to behave or face worse than this.

Doesn’t mean he just can.

The alginate makes Bo flinch, rocking back to scoot his chair away from the sickening feeling. Mama don’t let up. She scoops up handfuls of it and spreads it on his face like it’s one of her fancy creams. At first she always leaves his eyes out, and his lips, and every time he thinks maybe he got lucky and she ain’t gonna drown him in it.

He’s always wrong to trust Mama.

All it takes is another handful, pressed against his mouth while he tries to scream his protests, but she presses her palm down hard so he can’t open it. Everything’s muffled, bottled up so no one can know.

The mixture sneaks tiny drops past his lips and makes him gag, once, twice- but Mama keeps pressing her clawed hand down until it starts to dry just enough that it holds itself. Then over his eyes it goes.

Bo tries to hold them open, but Mama always knows when he’s gonna do stuff like that. She purses her lips and blows a quick puff of cigarette air, makes him flinch again so his eyes close and she can take advantage of it.

Once it’s dark is when Bo panics for real. The healing wounds on his wrists tear right open again as he thrashes harder. The blood drips slow as honey, pooling around the leather straps holding him down.

It’s moments like this, that Bo questions his trust of Vincent.

Vincent who sits patiently in the corner for Mama to finish her torture so he can get back to being the favorite. Without his mask, he’s not wanted. An ugly, warped thing that needs covering up. Like a weed in the garden. Or a corpse in the Doc’s operating room.

Bo wishes his brother would help him. He wishes his mama would listen and take this stuff off his face. He prays that the Doc won’t come home yet and get mad and make things hurt worse. Or maybe that he won’t come home at all.

Mostly though, his brain is like static. Painful, heated, buzzing tv static burning a hole right through the back of his head. He’s in the middle of it, the dark, and sinking. There’s two little holes for him to breathe through, but he can’t get enough air.

Bo digs his nails into his own palms and draws even more blood, and underneath the sticky shell, he screams. And screams. And screams.

Nobody ever listens.

Mama tugs his messy hair in place of being able to slap his face.

“What did I tell you! Quiet while I finish!”

But there’s not enough air and he needs her to listen. Bo’s going to suffocate and all his mama cares about is making Vincent pretty.

Never learning, never getting used to the constraint, Bo tries to tear his arms upwards from the tape, to dig those blunted nails into Mama’s flesh instead of his own.

He can’t get them to budge.

She just keeps going, either not knowing about the mental threat to her safety or not caring.

The alginate starts to get tacky, so Mama wets strips of plaster gauze, the kind from Doc’s office like he used when he broke Bo’s arm putting him in his restraints a long time ago. Water splashing in a new bowl, rung out of each piece before its placed over top, just makes Bo feel even more like he’s dying. Drops landing somewhere in the abyss, his head underneath the water as he drowns.

Bo wants to die. Or he thinks he is dying anyhow. With the very last strip, Mama covers over his nose too.

Again Bo tries to scream, but barely a groan gets past his sealed lips. The full minute it takes to all harden up is far too long without breathing. What was a completely black void behind his eyes gets sparks of flashing red and white. He’s out of air.

A last effort to get his mama to listen, Bo rocks and slams his back against his highchair, desperately trying to tip it. The impact of the ground would force air back into his lungs.

He feels it start to give way, gravity suddenly weighing more heavily on him, but Mama hisses and rocks him right back upright. Her fault for putting a big kid in a little baby's chair.

Mama peels it all away then. From the outside it’s so easy, to cup the sides of his fake plaster face and ease the two layers back, only a couple scraps left sticking to his skin. She’ll help him clean up later if he’s well behaved at supper maybe.

First thing Bo does now is take a big breath in, but it’s too much at once after so long without air, he coughs, throat raw and dry, making Mama jerk back in disgust from him.

“Did you have to be so dramatic?”

Bo knows he’s crying when the image of his mama turns blurry. His face is already numb and cold and wet, but chest starts heaving with sobs, rising and falling all out of rhythm. Instead of his growling and screaming, Bo wheezes and cries and whimpers, unable to catch his breath, because of the tears this time.

The thing about alginate- it’s very sensitive.

Sure it doesn’t pull too bad once it firms up like jell-o, coming off easy from Bo’s eyelashes and eyebrows without disturbing single hair, but that’s just the thing. The rubbery, weak material ain’t meant to last long. It’ll dry out and shrink in a couple hours anyhow, the whole thing got no real structure.

Mama laid the fresh cast in a box of sawdust to pour plaster in it without spills or damage, and noticed, in the mess of Bo thrashing as it came off, a rip had formed. Right across the middle of his face from the side of his mouth to the opposite side of his nose.

Once upon a time, she’d tried to just patch it when it tore, only for the plaster face to come out warped, cheeks flattened and bumpy, nose crooked. One eye missing. She’d given it to the Doc to dispose of. Familiar story.

Mama clicks her tongue against her teeth, a noise of distaste Bo knows just as well. It sends a cold feeling down his spine, worse than the goop on his face.

“You know I’m gonna have to do that all over again now.”

His wrists won’t stop bleeding. They itch and burn as much as his tearful eyes.

Bo steals a glare over at Vincent in his precious, safe corner. His head down, he’s doodling something. Maybe drawing pretty pictures of Beauregard’s misery. All for himself. Selfish, selfish Vincent, doesn’t help and keeps the pain around as art.

Still, that’s no worse than stealing his brother’s face.

The scar on the back of Bo’s head aches.

“I love you.”

It’s for Vinny. To answer the question, he does love his brother.

Mama answers back, like she belonged between their bond,

“You love me. Well thank God you do.”

Her cigarette ash on his skin hurts worse than the burning in his lungs. The crumbling cherry touches his cheek and leaves a little singe by the corner of his mouth. His own tears soothe it.

Though smoke doesn’t make calming down any easier.

“You best love me, Beauregard. Show me. Be a good boy and sit still.”