#i am an unpleasant fictive | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

polychaeteworm · 2 years ago

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LMAO wow big assumption there. Your blog is a fucking joke. Here's one for the block list guys!

I'm writing the following wall o text for anybody else who comes across this post in the future. You can read if you want, silly fake claimer, but I don't think you'll read all this if you're already making such an assumption. But maybe you will if this is a source of entertainment for you. You really don't actually care about the purity of mental health practice if you run a blog like this. If you tldr me I won't care, I'm an info dumping autistic in addition to being part of a plural system so I'm used to it. I also bet I'm older than you. I had friends in hs who ran troll blogs when we were all 17,18,19 years old. It's definitely a kid thing.

And you know, how about YOU go to therapy and tell them about how you run an anti DID blog where you seek out and antagonize and bully teenagers with an under researched mental illness seeking community and validation. I'm sure that they will think that's an excellent, healthy way to spend your time (they won't)

Anyway. If you are reading this in some DID tag and share this idiots opinion, this is for you.

I literally rejected my diagnosis at first and had a psychiatrist play back recorded sessions I didn't remember to prove to me that I was losing time.

Hearing myself say things I didn't remember saying was what convinced me. So tbh I honestly have no earthly idea how anyone can think this shit isn't real.

I still spent time after my diagnosis listening to people like the above, trying to ignore it, and if it was just make-believe it wouldn't ruin my life if I dropped my spiritual practice and the disorder that my psych thought it all was related to right? Everything would go back to normal if I stopped talking to "people in my head" right??? Lmao.

You see, at the time to me I was just talking to my "imaginary friends" as a form of spiritual practice. I didn't ever try to call it DID because I wasn't loosing time (I actually was and was too disordered to notice) and I didn't want my spiritual practice pathologized. I left it all alone and ignored it because of people calling DID a fake disorder that teens who want attention play pretend with.

This was when I started having outbursts I couldn't remember unless someone recorded me. This was when I wasn't remembering to feed myself. This was when I was yelling at people one moment and treating them kindly the next without knowing what the fuck was going on. I don't wish this state of mind on my worst enemy. I lost friends over this.

As soon as I accepted my diagnosis and accepted that it didn't have to end its entanglement with my spiritual practice we all got better, we stopped loosing time and we're more organized as a system. Our life stopped falling apart after we accepted plurality so honestly fuck you if you think we persuaded a doctor to give us this diagnosis for fun. It wasn't fun and if someone is having fun with it, then good for them because I want all disordered people of all kinds to find joy in their pain. Fuck you I'm kind.

Fuck the people shitting on people who want answers to why this is happening to them and fuck the people who shit on people(usually teenagers) who are actually finding joy in the fragmented life they have left behind after abuse.

We don't even fit the "Tumblr/TikTok stereotype" of a system. we don't have a TikTok, our body is fucking 31, we've had this condition since this body was first abused at 3, and was diagnosed at 24. We're not poly fragmented, none of us are fictives and we have no carrd or pinned post listing our whole system or even any details besides me, Orn, because it's none of any internet strangers fucking business. This hate blog's posts confirm that not sharing system structure and alter bios was a good choice.

Systems who do all those things I listed above are yes, fucking annoying and tbh these systems are the reason I'm not active in the DID community online, but It's nobody's job but a licensed professional to tell them if they are "faking" or not. Not mine, not yours. Just block annoying immature systems and move on. They'll figure their shit out eventually and faster if nobody decides to bully them over it.

Like, just say you hate mentally ill teenagers with no support system who act "cringe" (mentally ill) on the internet and go. Mental illness isn't pretty, it isn't convenient, and it's usually "cringe" looking because of this.

Like this is already a long rant of a reblog but do I really have to explain that "attention seeking behavior" is not an indication that someone is faking a mental illness, because it can actually be part of a mental illness. It's a trait often displayed by younger people who are neglected and bullied repeatedly. Let's stop continuing that?

Maybe let's stop bullying literal kids on the internet?

Here's your reminder that I'm officially diagnosed with DID and I am pro-endo. If you touch one of my posts and youre anti-endo I'm blocking you.

Without therapy I would have called myself endo, and not everyone can afford therapy, so just think about that for a minute.

As long as someone isn't hurting themselves or others, however they choose to see themselves as a system is their own business.

#i mean fictives are obnoxious and all but I am that adult that will stand between a bully and a kid no matter how annoying the kid is #being abused in school for unpleasant autistic traits tells me these kids will grow out of it and they don't deserve to be bullied #actually did #anti endo

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fictionkinfessions · 5 months ago

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It's getting really cold where I am, and I'm shivering under my blanket as I'm typing this. I'm really upset, for some reason? I feel like I need to get it out.

I'm the Cross who was babbling about Nightmare and autumn earlier this month, though I don't usually sign off or use names because I often find it embarrassing in the moment. It's weird how infatuated with him I was in hindsight, or well, I still am infatuated. I truly miss him so so much. The cold reminds me of him. His manor was always chilly but it was never unpleasant, his presence was physically cold and scary but I always found the shiver down my spine he caused to be comforting.

It's not like I don't miss the others, I don't know why I'm so fixated on Nightmare. I miss Epic, I miss hanging out, I miss getting high and falling asleep in uncomfortable positions on his shitty couch and trauma dumping for no reason at 3AM and having something more than a friendship without ever having to say a word. I miss Killer, I miss his stupid face and mean nicknames, I miss his cheeky jabs and inappropriate and distasteful jokes and his awful high pitched voice and his loud shameless laughter and his refusal to commit to personal hygiene and the soft private moments where he would finally shut up and he'd lean against me and life would be good. I miss Dust, I miss his quiet companionship and his mean jokes and the warmth he emits like a heater because he's always overcharged and the feeling of his magic on me with healing intent and the way he drapes himself over you when he decides it's time to sleep and there's no better spot and silently reading next to each other in the library until he decides to nap. I miss Horror and his support and how understanding he is even though he loves to be mean, and how he takes care of everyone without wanting or expecting anything back and how big his hands are and how small I feel when he holds me. I miss manning the kitchen with him, I miss helping him in the garden, I miss fighting at his side and knowing with certainty that everything will be okay.

I miss them all a lot, but I still miss Nightmare the most. I don't think I loved him more than the others, but I think that maybe I loved him differently? In a way that's a little more obsessive, maybe, whatever it is it's harder to let go of him. I think it has to do with the fact that he wasn't "just" a person, he was everything. He was my purpose and my saviour and he was my home. He was literally my home. His manor moved and lived and breathed with him and he oversaw all of us and made sure we were safe and I didn't dream because all I had were night terrors so he just. Made it stop. I didn't dream because he touched my SOUL (metaphorically, in this context) even in my sleep and he was my entire existence and now he's gone and I'm nothing. And it hurts. And I'm so cold.

And the cold isn't comforting anymore. It clings to the flesh I hate having and it makes me sick and I'm shivering and there are no shadows keeping me safe. Just cold. The cold wants to harm me now and it's dreadful.

I know it's stupid and impossible and stuff, but I long so badly to go back. Even if just one for day, just so I could tell you how much I love you.

- Cross (I'm an introject/fictive) [#anomaly🐑🔪]

#fictionkinfessions #fictionkin #anomaly🐑🔪#fictive #introject #crossfictive #utmvfictive #crossintroject #utmvintroject #shipping issue #?#seekin #ableist language cw #mod party cat

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trenchgardens-ooc-ooc-ooc-ooc · 5 months ago

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VvV | It would be funny if someone thought this was a roleplay blog. | VvV

VvV | Unpleasant fun, but amusing. | VvV

VvV | Dehumanizing, actually. | VvV

VvV | I change my mind. | VvV

VvV | I am a fictive, by the way. | VvV

| If anyone was wondering. |

#headmate raveri

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possessed-pack · 2 years ago

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As a fictive of a temporary fusion of two characters, my identity is a little bit more complicated than most others in my system. This post will be me explaining my identity as a possessed Hunter fictive in a little more depth than I've done in the past.

Warnings: Spoilers for The Owl House up until and including season 3 episode 1, very brief mentions of abuse, very brief mentions of death.

In my memories, everything was canon compliant for the most part, up until a certain point. For needed context for those unfamiliar with the source, Belos is the main villain of the series and he had made Hunter as essentially a clone of his dead brother. Hunter was raised on the Boiling Isles--an alternate dimension to the human realm--by Belos as his "nephew". Hunter was mistreated and lied to about his origins, but he managed to get out and made friends with Luz and the rest of her group.

Eventually, the main group ended up stuck in the human realm, along with Belos, who then possessed Hunter and tried to hurt his friends. In my memories, we died in the fight immediately following the possession, and we ended up here in our system, still fused together--except it's not just Belos in control anymore, it's a weird amalgamation of both of us.

We're not a subsystem, because we're not separate at all, though in the beginning it was much closer to something along those lines. We'd only have one stream of thought at a time, but it'd be both of us thinking at the same time, though it didn't blend seamlessly together into a new person. Considering both of our different views on... Pretty much anything, I'd be arguing with my own thoughts in my brain a lot of the time and trying to figure out what I actually wanted. Responding to what people asked me took time, and it was overall unpleasant.

It was hard, especially because I couldn't separate into my two parts. I didn't know how and it just made things worse because it felt like my brain was constantly tearing itself apart, but nothing I could ever do would actually separate us. It hurt a lot, knowing that I was my own abuser and my own victim at the same time. And knowing that some people were going to be scared of me regardless of me still being part Hunter, because I was also the villain of the series and I did do terrible things also hurt a lot. I felt my existence itself was a contradiction and I was fighting with myself every waking moment to properly function.

Recently though, I've discovered that as time went on, I've become more separate from Hunter and Belos. I'm not either of them anymore, I'm Mal. I'm a new person, my own person separate from them, regardless of the fact that they made me who I am. I don't argue with myself, I have a new name, I didn't do all the horrible things that Belos did even though he's a part of me, I'm less stressed overall and I have separate interests to the both of them, even if some of those interests do overlap. Over time, things became much easier for me. It felt more like we were three people rather than two people stuck together, and it felt so much better to actually function that way.

We've been able to separate since. It happened during a particularly stressful period of time, but we separated, and my components changed their names to be Horizon (Hunter) and Bait (Belos). They were unstable being separate at first, finding it hard to exist as their own people after so long. In the beginning they were both scared of each other as well. Horizon was worried that Bait would want nothing to do with him anymore and that I would stop existing forever and my partners would be upset with him, and Bait was worried the same way. They did speak though, and they'd even consider each other friends now, despite their history.

Now we fuse and unfuse whenever we'd like, and all parts of who I am are stable. When they combine to make me, I still don't argue in my own thoughts, and when they separate, they're able to be their own people. I still feel as if people who know my source and are from it see my icon on Discord and avoid me, and as much as that does hurt, I know that I'm not my source and none of us--not even Bait--have done anything bad here.

Overall, we've really improved as a whole, despite our struggles. Our identity is still very complicated, but it at least isn't causing us any harm anymore.

#alterhuman #fictive #plural #actuallyplural #plural system #plurality #toh fictive #op #i told you i would write the post #thank you to anyone who reads #and questions are welcome--our ask box is open #also yes this is okay to rb #do whatever you want with it #thats why its here #hopefully someone gains something from this though idk what youd gain lol #this was mainly just me writing for the sake of writing #mal (tox/he/they)

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inland--empire · 4 months ago

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I have got to admit. Maybe being turned into a potato that one time wasn't that bad. If only because i started seeing Chell eyes to eye... Se what i did there? Because i only have one-GLaDOS

Wow! That sure does sound like a lot huh? More in the life of Cave Johnson. And well, honestly not much. Because everyone told Caroline (Our Kirumi fictive) to take a break i had to take the spot as a maid again-Lucifer

Ahaha! That is clever! I am glad to hear that it wasn't an entirely unpleasant experience. I cannot say the same.-Caroline

I bet you're a pretty cute maid, honestly.-Cave

#asks

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miioouu · 4 years ago

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Brother’s best friend

This is for @ahegaobaku only, if you’re not them keep scrolling iedidjim jk you can stay!

Word count: 2k (I’m pretty sure that’s my longest fic endjebuduj)

Warning: Smut…

Growing up, you’ve read a million stories, fanfics about the girl who’s in love with her brother’s bad boy best friend, but you actually hated them. They were all fictive, there’s no way in hell that something like that might happen, right? Or maybe you thought that because your brother’s best friend is Asahi Azumane, the sweet boy that your mom loves, the gentleman that always gives you a smile, the kind boy who always thought about you while bringing snacks to movie nights. There’s no way for Asahi to hurt a fly, let alone be a pervert who’d fantasize about his friend’s sister, there’s no way that he’s just waiting for right moment to bend you over…right?

But don’t be so sure about that, you might actually fall for his traps. Smarter than what people give him credit for, he has a plan, and it’s going perfectly. Slowly, not only you’ll trust him, but the whole family, to the point where, when he knew no one other than you were home, he gave your parents a fake excuse of his car breaking down right near your house, asking them sweetly if he could stay the night. And who could refuse the adorable tall man? Making himself at home, he kept his actions on the downlow. Just his eyes lingering a bit longer on the curve of your ass as you bent over to fix the blanket on the couch that he’ll be sleeping on. Just his eyes darkening the slightest when you’d sit next to him, giving the perfect view past your shirt. His hands accidentally brushing the small of your back when he’s reaching behind you for a glass of water. Nothing that got you suspicious. Nothing that got you worried. He was so sweet after all. Oh and he felt so bad, so awful for taking advantage of your innocent nature, seeing you all giddy when he asked you if you want to come watch a movie with him. He tried so hard to suppress the evil grin on his face as you sat right next to him, leg bouncing, teeth digging into your lower lip as you watched with your big round eyes choosing a movie. And just like a small silly girl, you fell for his ruses; the moment you nodded your head, agreeing to spend the night next to him watching a film with him, he knew he had you, he knew he won. Just like little red ridding hood you fell into the big bad wolf traps, but will you ever realize that on time? Or will it be too late?

You were taking too long to choose, so he did it instead. Taking the remote from your hands, making sure he brushed his fingers against yours just for a little bit longer than normal, and of course, of course he’d chose a horror movie. One so scary it will have you clinging to him. Your arms wrapped around his, pressing it close to your chest, you just wanted to feel safe, Asahi always put your mind at ease. You begged him to stop it, to change movies, you wanted to seem like a courageous girl at first, you could hang out with the older kids, you could be cool. But the movie was too gory, too scary, too bone chilling, and he noticed that. Your frozen digits digging even deeper into his skin, your face nuzzled into his neck, he could feel every breath you let out, every whimper you murmured and it got heat rushing to his crotch, it made him lose his mind… Evil smirk on his face, as he pulled you closer, so close in fact, the heat coming out of his body was enough to warm you up, so close in fact, you’re sitting between his legs. Despite his lust filled expression, his voice was smooth and enchanting “It’s ok y/n, I got you, I got you… Wanna do something that will take your mind off of this movie? Yeah? Ok then, you just sit back and relax, I’ll take care of the rest…” All you needed to do was nod and here he has you in his arms, gently dropping you to the couch, and now it’s his head that is nuzzled into the crook of your neck. Not to hide but to breathe in your scent and most importantly, to sink his teeth into the soft flesh; marking you. A chill ran down your spine, not an unpleasant one though, it got your back arching, your eyelids fluttering. His leg nudging yours open, his knee pressing to your heat, catching your clit. And you don’t know what that feeling is. It feels good, it made your mind go blank, it made your breath get caught in your throat, it made you want more, but something wasn’t letting you enjoy it properly, something was telling you that it’s wrong to do that. He must’ve sensed it. His rubbing stopped, he lifted up his head, eyes looking into yours, way too soft for it to be genuine, but you couldn’t pick that up. “What is it Y/n? Am I hurting you? No? Then don’t worry, relax… You’re safe with me, trust me!” And how could you not. It’s Asahi, the sweet man that everyone trusts, the sweet man that wouldn’t hurt a fly, the sweet man that wants nothing but make you feel good…

So you relaxed in his hold. You let him pepper your skin with kisses and hickeys. You let him take off your shirt, let his eyes roam all over your body and his large hands explore your every inch. You felt warm, inside out. You felt light-headed, lost, all you could focus was the way his facial hair was brushing against your flesh, tickling you and yet, setting fire to your soul. And you don’t want to be saved, you want to burn, you want to be engulfed by fire, by him. And he could tell, the way your nipples harden and poke from your thin bra, the way you pressed yourself harder into him, grinding up to him, your body moving and you can’t control it. He didn’t mind it, not one bit, actually he loves it. The way you lost yourself into him, making his bulge strain his pants even more, he couldn’t take it anymore, he couldn’t control himself anymore. In one swift movement, he took off his shirt, quickly unclasping your bra and latching his mouth onto one of your hardened peaks. Your soft moans and heavy breathing made him suck harder, his hands caressing your sides and finding your shorts, sliding them down your legs making you shiver in either anticipation or cold, who knows. And when he finally pulled you panties to the side, pushing his fingers in, groaning from just how wet you are, you couldn’t help it. You couldn’t help his name coming out of your mouth, whiny and breathy, begging him for more, more, more. Your wishes are his command. One finger, became two, then three, looking for that spongy spot inside you, and oh, from the way your back arched, your legs trembled, and your walls fluttered around his digits, it seems like he found it. Abusing the spot over and over again, living for the way your eyebrows knit, your voice picking up an octave. Living for the way you’re absolutely shaking underneath him, and all of it keeping him going, harder and harder with each twist of his fingers, it was no surprise at least for him, how fast you came, you did fall for his trap after all. And he wasn’t done yet. No matter how tired, exhausted you were, no matter how weakly you tried to push him off from you. He’s not giving up, he did come here with a mission, and despite popular believes, once he puts his mind onto something, Asahi is perseverant man. Getting rid of his sweats, boxers sliding down with them, his cock finally set free, standing long and proud. You swear it’s not going to fit, and you swear the sheer size of it scared you more than the movie that you were watching mere minutes ago. But he didn’t pay you any mind, not when he’s solely thinking about ruining you. Holding you in place, you’re squirming too much, his grip on your hips is bruising, his breath fanning over your face and sending shivers down your spine, finally ripping your panties away from you, giving you one last look. But this one was different, it was dark, with something you can’t quite put your finger on it. It was cold, it was strict, it seems like it held a deeper meaning, one that you probably not want to find out, and even if you did, you know it’s too sinister to believe that it was from Azumane. “Stay still, and don’t scream too loud, we don’t want the neighbors to interrupt us, right?” And you can’t believe that’s Asahi’s voice, bone chilling and hair rising. Not the sweet, soft young man. But saying that this somber side of him didn’t make you gush out, didn’t make you drool and excited, would be a lie. When he picked up on your lust drunk eyes, is when he decided to finally push in. Wrapped between your velvety walls, it’s a feeling he could get lost in, it’s a feeling he could get addicted too. With each roll of his hips, you could feel every vein grazing against your inside, you could feel him brushing and pressing against that euphoric spot, and he’s not even all the way in. The stretch hurt, brought tears to your eyes, but at the same time you were loving it, you wanted more of it, more of him. Although he wasn’t afraid that you’ll reject him, that you’ll hate him, he couldn’t care less, but with the way that you’ve been meeting each and every one of his thrust, the way your nails were digging into his shoulders and your back creating the perfect curve, pressing your chest into his, he was delighted to say the least. “Oh, baby, you like that? You like it when I fuck you senseless? You like getting fucked by your big brother’s friend? I always knew you were a little slut, just acting sweet and silly. I mean, you’re always- oh? You like it when I call you a slut? Don’t say no, I felt your walls fluttering around me baby girl… So naughty, always wearing those shorts and showing your ass around. Don’t say you didn’t expect me to bend you over and taste you, mm?” He’s wrong, he’s so wrong. You trusted him, you trusted his gentle smile and his helping hands. The looks he always threw your way, you thought were accidents, innocent. But look how wrong you are, and look how you can’t bring yourself to hate him, not when he’s pounding into you like a beast, not when his teeth are sinking into your flesh, not when he’s turned your mind into mush, driving you so, so close to the edge. The knot inside you getting tighter, and you could feel him twitch inside you, you could hear his growls and grunts. You could feel his hands tightening on your hips, so much, knuckles turned white, too much, he was shaking. And his words pushed you over the edge, free falling into pleasure “Who’s my baby slut? Yeah, yeah, it’s you! Who’s my good baby girl? That’s right, it’s you. I own you. I own you. I own you...” I was your voice getting higher and louder, your walls milking him, and your tongue lulled out, his name coming out in a choke that made him spill over, releasing inside you…

Pulling out, you were grateful for the blankets, keeping the mixture of both of you from staining the couch. With the first proper kiss of the night, his lips chapped and demanding as they pressed into your much softer one, he stood up, and put his cloths back on. Making his way to the door, leaving you in the cold room alone, but not before a few last words “I’ll be back soon little slut, don’t miss me too much, ok?”

#asahi x reader #asahi azumane x reader #asahi azumane #asahi smut #haikyuu asahi #haikyuu!!#haikyuu x reader #haikyū!!#haikyu x reader #haikyuu smut #hq smut #smut

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skevans · 4 years ago

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Nocturne op.72 no.1 — Essay

Hi, welcome to my long-forgotten tumblr I barely remembered existed. Dust and cobwebs aside, this is an essay I initially wrote in French for a Literature class. Don't ask me how the hell I found the will to hand this in to my teacher, bless his soul.

A couple of years later, I found that essay in the depth of a folder on my computer. I remembered what was in it, to a point, but when I decided to read it again, I got very emotional (and very mortified 'cause oh god school). And during the following weeks, I started thinking about a lot of things that were still floating unresolved within my head. But then, I decided to write. And after a few days of internal debate, I posted the first chapter of A Sea of Silence.

It's been months since I finished that story, and those months have not been kind to me for many reasons. And maybe that's why, this week, I started thinking about that essay. When I did, I was overcome with a desire to share it with the world—and especially with the people who read my fic. So here it is, hastily translated but just as honest. Please note that it discusses anxiety.

And so, thank you if you take the time to read this, and an even bigger thank you if you read the essay, too!

Nocturne op.72 no.1

When I think back on my childhood, I hear the sound of piano. Various melodies follow me, accompanying me in a waltz between memories. It’s my mother’s interpretation of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata that haunts the quiet moments. My sister and I would play in an adjacent room, glowing with delight as our mother started the first movement. It’s the piece’s somber and melancholic tone that colours my memory, but it’s a good kind of darkness—the kind that feels like the soft touch of night as you walk under the stars. My mother didn’t stop there; she would segue into the second movement, a graceful interlude that almost got swallowed in between the grandiosity of the other movements. And at last, she would tackle the final piece. I remember the anticipation; I remember wanting to watch her fingers fly over the keys. We would sneak in the living room—don’t make so much noise, you’re gonna bother her!—and thus we became the spectators to a private concert. The combination of semiquavers and staccato, everything played presto agitato, was the most fascinating thing. And despite the intensity and the tempestuous rhythm, I would sense my muscles relaxing, my thoughts lightening, the frenetic beat of my heart slowing. When I listen to this piece now, there’s still a glimpse of that long forgotten peace.

I turn six and I learn the piano. It’s a decision that comes from me, but also from my mother. It’s a decision that pleases me, even enchants me. The learning process goes well; I love to learn and I love to play—a rarely seen fervour seizes me. My motivation originates both from a desire to walk into my mother’s footsteps and from a childish inclination to create noise. The teacher likes me, and the sentiment is reciprocal; she speaks with a soft voice, but underneath there is an unyielding tone that I come to respect. She nudges me forward, constantly making sure that I don’t neglect my practice. I try to meet her expectations because I want to succeed, but also to maintain that impression of calm that possesses me when I sit at the piano.

The next step is to play at a recital, so we set off for the musical conservatory. I’m ten the first time I play before an audience. Panic controls me—I worry I won’t be able to perform, and the thought loops in my mind until I believe it. I climb on the stage in spite of my terror, and the room morphs into a cage. At 10 years-old, the size of the concert hall is intimidating, to a point that my heart crawls up my throat. The exit is far—way too far—and all the stares fixed on me feel more like I’m attending a trial than a recital. My hands become damp (how will I play if my hands slip?), but wiping them on my dress of red velvet means showing my fear—and my father always tells me not to show my fear. So I look at the floor and force my legs to move until finally, finally, I stand before the piano. I sit. Even now, I believe it’s impossible for me to play my piece, that piece I yet find so easy. I take my time adjusting the bench; once done, my hands reflexively settle over the keys. One deep breath—and I start to play. That tranquility I’m so desperate for guides me, and the audience fades from my mind. My eyes track my fingers as they find all the notes—not one mistake—and for a moment, it’s like I’m floating over my body, surrendering utter control to instinct and music. Once the piece ends and my hands lift from the piano, it’s the thunderous applause that tugs me back into reality; I walk off the stage, that paralyzing feeling of fright dismissed.

The feeling that possesses me is anxiety. At 6 years-old, as I begin learning the piano, I don’t know what anxiety is; the only thing I understand is that music offers solace. When I turn 10, I can’t find the word to explain that emotion that assaulted me as I stepped on the stage. It’s with time that I discover the word “anxiety”. I see my reflection in the definitions I find in dictionaries and on the web; it’s those definitions that grasp onto me, that glue themselves over me until I cannot dissociate them from my being without ripping out of my skin. The term “anxiety” now belongs to me—or rather, I belong to it. The years pass and my thoughts cede before it. My anxiety takes control of me for a period of my life; I have lost all mastery of myself. I graduate from high school with terrible difficulty; I drop out of college three times. But anxiety doesn’t stop there; she smears her poison throughout all spheres of my life. My relationship with my family degenerates slowly but surely—so do many of my friendships. Working becomes a hurdle because my boss at the store agitates me with her severe attitude—it feels like nothing is never enough and everything is wrong. I cannot stand myself anymore. Anxiety seeps into my body, an army of swarming bugs that infiltrate all I am as an individual. They contaminate me from the inside, and I am nothing but a puppet, subjected to circumstances out of my control. And this lasts and lasts and lasts for eight years—eight long years. I lose my footing and fall into the arms of depression several times. Appointments with doctors tell me what I already knew. We try solutions and then more solutions; there are good times, scarce but cherished. But happiness and peace of mind slip through my fingers like grains of sand; I grab another handful, but it was never meant to last. These feelings end up seeming distant, unreachable, impossible. I mind myself to the fact that I will have to live with the physical and emotional wounds my anxiety inflicts on me. Time and experience allow me to gauge my level of comfort and how to react; sometimes, I cannot step out of my apartment. And so life goes on—and I am swept away by the tides.

Thinking back on this slice of my life, I’ve come to several conclusions. There were many happenings that were completely out of my control—and yet, as I dig deeper and deeper, I realize that this deviation originates from one thing in particular.

The year I turn 15, I experience an acute pain in my right wrist. Holding a pen for longer than a few minutes is impractical; playing piano on a regular basis is impossible. Those news, validated by a medical consultation, are not surprising—but they are heartbreaking. Later, the pain extends to my shoulder. Within weeks, I become an unwilling witness to the collapse of my dream of studying and teaching piano. The problem comes from within me, within my body—my love for the piano is the trigger to this pain. I’m told that a cure is implausible—you can do exercises to lessen the pain, and you have to eliminate repetitive movements since they will worsen it, and yes, miss, that includes the piano. I used to play piano at least one hour a day, something that unconsciously kept my anxiety at bay—but the inability to play for longer than a few minutes opens the door to my anxiety. I discover myself anew when I’m 16: tirelessly worried, always anxious, terribly distrustful. It’s the start of the downward spiral. I am not me anymore, I am someone else. Anxiety is my mother, instability is my father, fear is my sister. I am reborn into an unknown world dubbed Real Life by my family, who firmly believe this is part of being a teenager. But I don’t believe in this Real Life, and I pray to all and nothing for a miracle. I only know one line of prayer so I make up my own. I fill fictive litanies with my fears and my hopes. Amen. I refuse to consider this existence as True because to me, it can only be False. But my convictions are tossed aside, their dismissal hammered into me endlessly. It’s almost as if a huge neon sign hangs on a wall of my bedroom: Welcome to Real Life! But all I see are ridiculous directives that only bring misfortune—don’t forget to register for our latest draw! Discover what setbacks you will endure next! I don’t want this—I refuse, I reject, I refute. It’s the song of my mind, playing on repeat; I want to believe it—I want to believe it more than anything else because I have exhausted all of my solutions and the future beyond is veiled in uncertainty.

But with time, I realize that simply wanting something, no matter how much, doesn’t mean it will slip into the world through the cracks of my resolve. And so, I begin to toil over my own fate. I try to shape it. I fail. I try again. It’s a cycle with no end in sight. I wander aimlessly through life, and thus I discover more of myself and I try to understand. Questions assail me; most of the time, there is no answer; when there are, they are often unpleasant. Still, I accept them—because I have learned that closing my eyes and rejecting a reality will not bring me anything. This crushing problem, this anxiety that manipulates me, I try to be aware of it—and in the end, I accept it. She is part of me, too intrinsic for me to surrender her; she welded her existence in my foundations, and if I break free, I negate myself. But what crystallizes with time is the recognition that I’m living a fight that I believed lost before even entering the arena. It’s an intimidating fight: my adversary is formidable, and there is no end in sight; it’s an everlasting battle that occurs every hour, every minute, every second. And yet, I am not done—I gather my arsenal, I warm up, and I entre the arena. No referees—this isn’t a fair fight; there cannot be a winner, only moments of victory. My adversary steps forward, and in her, I see me—me as I was for eight long years. The signal goes off and we begin. No turning back now.

Strangely, what helps me survive the daily fights is time. Throughout this turbulent journey, my wrist undertakes its never-ending recovery. Nine years later, the dreadful pain I felt at every move has become a memory. I live alone now, and getting access to a piano is not always easy; neither is it regular. But one day—one day, I decide to try again. I make my way to my mother’s house on a day where she and her husband are absent; the fragility of my resolve hangs over me, and I cannot let it waver out of self-consciousness. In the basement are all of my mother’s sheet music—all of my sheet music—and it takes a lot of searching before I finally find the last piece I learned when I was 15. The last piece I ever played. Too eager, I snatch Chopin’s Nocturne op.72 no.1 off the floor, grabbing a few more sheet music from that part of my life forever ago. At last, I sit on the piano bench. I open the booklet, flipping through the pages until I find the Nocturne; it’s one of my favourites, whether by coincidence or a design of my own. But it’s with wretched bitterness that I realize I am unable to play the piece. Not only has it been nine years, but my dexterity has vanished, bidding me goodbye with a mocking smile. My fingers each weigh a pound; I hear myself strike the keys with a mortifying clumsiness; the resulting sound is disappointing, closer to chaotic noise than the flowing music of my memories. Nothing happens like I want it to. However, the same passage of time that helped my injury gave me the strength to cross out the word “abandon” from my vocabulary. I sometimes know victory, more often I know defeat, but what has become unfamiliar is capitulation. So I close the booklet, hiding the piece I yearned for, and I pick another one. It’s an easy piece, but in truth, nothing seems easy anymore; the piece is a crutch, a stepping stone towards more. In time, I will get sick of hearing Chopin’s Waltz op.69 no.2, my mind saturated by the melody from months of practice. It’s a challenge, and I start to get obsessed with the notion of learning this piece, because learning it means I can learn more. Nothing will stop me.

There is progress, but it’s slow and it’s tedious. Each week, I ride the bus to my mother’s house so I can practice for one hour, sometimes two. These hours are precious; I try not to squander them and I try even harder to remind myself this is just the beginning. My wrist still hurts at times; whenever I test my limits, a zap of pain echoes through my hand, signalling the end of the practice. It slows me down, frustrates me to no end, but the possibility of not playing for another nice years snaps me out of those low moments. And one day, six months later, I pick up Chopin’s Nocturne op.72 no.1 again. I start with the left hand; the constant rhythm of the triplets played legato rips the stitches of a long-buried wound. A ghost rises out of it—it’s Me as I was, and it possesses me, guiding my hand with its cold touch. I play the first line, then the second; soon enough, I jump to the second page. I am not here, not really; rather, I am lost to that old fragment of beloved peace. Now that I recognize the beast in me as anxiety, I finally understand that those moments of solace happen when I hear the twinkling notes of the piano. And so I get on my feet in the arena and I stand ready to continue the eternal fight. There are other ways to keep anxiety away, to rationalize it, and I think back on my first fifteen years, nearly empty of anguish, full of other pains, but also filled with hours of music. I learn Chopin’s Nocturne in three months. It’s not perfect—it will never be—but I can play it. I play it until I can do so with my eyes closed.

The year I decide to sit at the piano again, I return to school. The first semester is trying; I haven’t studied seriously in over five years—good habits are difficult to unearth. I try to keep my demanding job despite the crushing amount of pressure, but there comes a moment where I cannot breathe under that weight, and stress wins once more. Everything appears ready to crumble before it began. Luckily, my mother realizes that my fragile pyramid of cards is about to fall, and she wakes me up with harsh and well-aimed and true words; we don’t always understand each other then, and feelings get bruised, but in time, things will change for the better. I still fail the classes I took; I search for a new job. My anxiety hit me with an uppercut that could have turned the tables in her favour, but I stand again and again—I stand long enough to finish college a year later. I am 24 the day I hand in my final project that allows me to graduate. As I walk out of the building, there is pride accompanying me, but most of all, it’s a soothing sensation of satisfaction that wraps itself around me. It resembles that peace of mind I find from the piano, and that is what makes me smile.

The next fall, I have my own piano. The opportunity to play whenever is still incredible. Not long before the purchase, the pain in my wrist flares once more, stronger than before. But this time, I know what to expect. I adapt instead of running away; I’m not 15 anymore and I have so much more experience in the suitcase I carry through life. I get tests done in hope of a permanent solution; they reveal nothing new, but the professional advice that follows those tests opens the door to new possibilities to rein in the pain. Those possibilities are comforting in their own way; that absolute sense of defeat is now barely discernable.

I still believe that the Me from over ten years ago will not come back to life; she doesn’t exist anymore; her only vestige is her love for music. But that is alright—I am not the same person I was at 6 years-old when all I knew was the music weaving through the house. I am someone else, so I baptize myself anew. I allow myself the sanctity of a second chance, that unreachable notion always evading me. But this time, I chase it. I grasp it close to my heart. I take it—and I live it.

#writing #essay #anxiety

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brightside-brigade · 3 years ago

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I see a lot of people thinking us not being a trauma based system means we don't struggle with our arrangement. But actually, we do. It's not something posted about here often cuz this account is meant to be, well, more or less positive. But we do struggle, an I figured I should list them, as to prove to the ones who think we don't that we do, an this isn't jus a fun game for us.

1: an probably the biggest. While we don't mind it, we all to some degree wish we were... our own own beings. You know. Here, with our separate bodies. Like a gang. Especially Sally an Levi, because we're all romantically involved, we want to be able to hold eachother somewhere other than the astral or headspace. As for Cherryblossom? I'm pretty sure she'd jus love to explore an stuff. Being confined to one body on this plane is uh. Well. A little annoying sometimes.

2: infighting. That's probably self explanatory. Though we always make up in the end, we can't always get along. Disagreements happen. Partner fights happen. I don't think anyone can get along all the time.

3: this one's more personal to me, but I often really don't wan to let others front. The body is one of the few things I have control over, it feels, and so I can get protective an stubborn. And if I'm not willing or relaxed, it can be painful for me when they try. Like, mentally, and a headache. I'm the only one who gets this though. The others don't. Am not sure why it'd jus me. If anyone can possibly explain that'd be cool.

4: getting new members is stressful an confusing. Now, we still view ourselves as spiritual to some degree, as our two most prominent members, Sally an Levi, are technically spiritual in origin. But lately, there's been.. actual splits. We're technically at a 7 members count now, jus haven't got around to making intro posts, an two don't even have names yet. There's many that want to form, and in headspace they're viewed as tiny little points of light by what I refer to as the "core". It's not a core person or entity, it's jus a big ass purple orb.

5: one of the new ones keeps accidentally dragging out memories. His name is N, he's technically a death note fictive. He also views himself as spiritual, and he looks nothing like his source, he's some kind of unicorn satyr with midnight black fur? Thats not the point. The point is he's made some kind of library to organize memories an such, but he keeps accidentally dragging out unpleasant memories. Nothing that I'd say are traumatic... because it wasn't really that serious an the body wasn't harmed, except for one time on accident. However they're still not fun to remember an it's like. "N what the hell put that back where you got it,".

6: dealing with the urge to shatter the core. Sometimes I get tired of... well. Everything. An I think about shattering the core, or somehow remove myself all together. Not the body, jus myself. Of course, the others always stop me an the urge passes because I was jus having a bad episode, but this still troubles us.

7: somehow feeling the others moving around an it's weird as hell.

8: am the only one who gets slight amnesia, the others don't. It's not serious but annoying, especially when I can't find our Nintendo switch because someone put it somewhere else and didn't tell me. TELL ME WHERE YOU PUT IT AAAA

9: Getting Levi an Sally's flashbacks. Self explanatory.

Anyway, those are jus some examples. See? We don't have it easy! Now, overall, we don't mind our situation. But it's not all fun! So next time, don't assume a non trauma based system has it easy all the time.

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the-fern-sys · 3 years ago

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Hello I Am Kanaya A Fictive From Homestuck

I Have Two Timelines That I Will Describe Below The Cut

1) I Consider This My Main Timeline As I Usually Appear As I Did During This One

In This Timeline I Was Human And Lived In The South Of The USA Near A Ranch Where I'd Ride Often

The Most Memorable People In This Timeline To Me Were Vriska And Terezi Both Of Whom I Dated At Different Points

I Was With Vriska As A Teen And While I Don't Necessarily Regret It As It Certainly Helped Me Grow As A Person I Would Not Consider Doing It Again

My Vriska Pushed Me To Do Things I Was Uncomfortable With And Had Little To No Sense Of Boundaries Nor Did She Seem To Know When To Stop Pushing

I Broke Up With Her And It Was An Unpleasant Experience Full Of Excuses And Saying She Was Better Off Without Me And Attempts To Gaslight Me Into Staying

She Later Tried To Spread Rumors About Me Around School That I Would Rather Not Get Into

Terezi On The Other Hand Was The Best Thing To Ever Happen To Me

We Met As Young Adults And Quickly Felt A Connection That Would Stay For The Rest Of Our Lives

She Was The Smartest And Most Creative Person I'd Ever Met And Had A Vision Of Making An Old Western Style Show

If You Have Ever Listened To This Fan Song The Theme Song Was Very Similar

She Was Going To Be The Main Character Of The Show But Before She Could Make Her Dream Come True She Was Blinded

We Were Walking Home Late At Night And Then Someone Caused A Ruckus And Blinded Her

I Suspect The Act Was One Of Homophobia As We Lived In Texas In The 90's

I Am Not Entirely Sure That It Was The 90's It Could Have Been A Different Time But That Is What Matches Up Best With What I Remember

Cell Phones Weren't A Thing But We Did Have A Landline

Actually 50's Might Better Match My Memories As We Didn't Get An In Home Television Until We Were Fairly Old

Terezi And I Shared A House When We Were Old Enough To And We Grew Old Together

I Do Believe I Owned A Small Business Being A Seamstress And It Was Something I Greatly Enjoyed

I Made All Of My Own Clothes But She Insisted On Buying Hers At The Mall Just To Spite Me

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2) This One Is Just Canon Complacent And There Isn't Nearly As Much To Say On It As Far As I Can Tell

I Do Believe I Lived Happily With Rose On Earth C And None Of The Epilogue And Sequel Shenanigans Happened

That Is About All There Is To Say About That

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More Personal Things About Me:

I Have Found Equius Vriska And Gamzee From Timeline 1

I Am Looking For Terezi From Timeline 1

I Am Headmates With Jade From Timeline 2

I Am Looking For Rose From Timeline 2

I Would Like To Talk To Eridans As Ampora Feels Important Somehow Most Likely Pertaining To Timeline 2?

I Am 23 Years / 8 Sweeps Depending On Which Timeline You Reference

This Is What I Use As My Face Claim

I Don't Know The Artist As I Got It Off Of Google And If Anyone Can Point Me In The Direction Of The Artist So I Can Give Them Proper Credit That Would Be Greatly Appreciated

This Is Also Relatively Close To My Appearance

Thank You For Your Time Reading My Introduction And I Now Bid You Farewell

#Kanaya | Txt #jesus fuck she talks a lot #intros

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digital-arts-etc · 4 years ago

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Mike Pence’s fly:

From Renaissance portraits to Salvador Dalí, artists used flies to make a point about appearances

‘Portrait of a Woman and a picture showing a fly on U.S. Vice-President Mike Pence during the Oct. 7 debate at University of Utah in Salt Lake City.

‘Portrait of a Woman of the Hofer Family,’ c. 1470, by an artist from the German (Swabian) School. National Gallery UK

‘Portrait of a Carthusian’ (1446), by Petrus Christus, oil on wood. Held at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York

After this week’s vice-presidential debate in the United States, the fly that landed on Vice-President Mike Pence’s head was more of a sensation than the details of the debate — at least on social media. The fly has already been immortalized as a Biden/Harris fly swatter (sorry, they’re all sold out) and sparked a Halloween costume.

In many circumstances, flies are unremarkable. That’s probably why a French word for spy is connected to the same word for fly, mouche. When a fly becomes famous, it’s worth wondering why.

Flies have long held symbolic meaning in the history of art. In portraits made in Renaissance Europe, the presence of a fly symbolizes the transience of human life (buzzbuzzpfft!). In the great scheme of things, our lives are no longer than that of a fly. For me as an art historian, the fly was a moment to reflect not only on the history of flies in western painting, but to begin considering what the long history of this symbolism may reveal about why the fly generated so much buzz.

Humility, impermanence, illusion

Take, for example, an extraordinary little painting known today as Portrait of a Woman of the Hofer Family, painted in about 1470 by an artist from the German (Swabian) School, now in the National Gallery in London. Her elaborate white head covering highlights a perfect little fly, that’s settled on her just to remind us that our life, like hers, is impermanent.

The corollary is that we’re supposed to do the best we can with the time we’ve got. When it comes to time and eternity, as painter and poet William Blake wrote: “Am not I / A fly like thee? / Or art not thou / A man like me?” The fly is a little reminder of humility.

Painters could also include a fly to draw attention to themselves, demonstrating with their “trompe-l’oeil” (deceiving the eye) tricks that they could paint in a manner that seemed so real, a viewer of the portrait would be tempted to try to swat the fly away. The 16th-century Italian painter Giorgio Vasari, biographer of Italian Renaissance artists, tells a story about the painter Giotto fooling his teacher Cimabue by adding a realistic-looking fly to a painting.

Salvador Dalí, who was pretty much the lord of the flies (he painted them a lot) included a fly on the watch face of his painting The Persistence of Memory (now housed at the Museum of Modern Art in New York). He also used an army of ants to signify the decay of time and life’s impermanence.

All is not not what it appears

Portrait of a Carthusian, the most famous portrait featuring a fly, now in the Metropolitan Museum in New York, was painted by Petrus Christus in 1446. It depicts a bearded monk. The fly perched on the ledge in front of him signifies we’re entering a zone where all is not what it appears: we might say that what seems real is only an illusion. Or, perhaps the artist has enhanced “the quality of the subject’s ‘real’ presence by the fly resting momentarily on the fictive frame,” according to the museum.

Entomologist Ron Cherry has explored how insects have long-standing mythological associations with death. In Renaissance thought, which tended to blend medieval fabulist tales about nature with ideas about religion, flies were considered to represent supernatural power, mostly associated with evil and corruption, because they seemed to be spontaneously born from decaying fruit and rotting organic matter.

In the book of Exodus in the Bible, God mustered swarms of flies as punishment. They were harbingers of worse things, like pestilence and death. That’s a lot of deliverables for a bunch of tiny flies.

The point is that flies still remind us of unpleasant things, or as commentator David Frum noted, unpleasant things in a presidency we’d rather ignore — which is why, I suspect, given the administration’s record, some people found it so delightful.

https://theconversation.com/mike-pences-fly-from-renaissance-portraits-to-salvador-dali-artists-used-flies-to-make-a-point-about-appearances-147815

#Mike Pence’s fly #artists used flies to make a point about appearances

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