#i am not really exaggerating. ocd is really just like that

[jungkoode]

ALTARS IN SHALLOW WATERS | 02

➔ PAIRING: Taehyung x Y/N (ballerina x stalker AU)

➔ MOODBOARD

➔ RATING: Mature, 18+, explicit themes and content.

➔ DATE POSTED: May 05, 2025.

➔ SUMMARY: Altars crumble faster in shallow water. But he still knelt like it was sacred. No one ever warned you that worship could look like love. Or that love could look like drowning.

➔ TAGS: second person perspective, female reader, ballerina!Y/N, stalker!taehyung, obsessive devotion, psychological tension, fixation, worship dynamics, Paris setting, religious imagery, voyeurism, sacred/profane dichotomy, slow burn, touch starvation, ritualistic behavior, gradual corruption, power dynamics, mirror imagery, water symbolism, sensory details, clean/unclean fixation, contamination OCD, professional dancer, self-destructive patterns, compulsive behavior, unhealthy coping mechanisms, possessive tendencies, praise addiction, spiritual yearning, toxic attraction, dangerous adoration, self-loathing, body discipline, mental health issues, self-harm, mental deterioration, unresolved sexual tension (for now).

➔ CONTENT in this chapter: self-demanding thoughts; perfectionism, self-critique, pushing oneself, expectations, dismissing praise, first encounter, lowkey sadistic streaks (lol you go girl), shaking, trembling, antisocial behaviors, anxiety, ocd, curiosity

➔ AUTHOR’S INTRO AND TRIGGER WARNINGS

➔ MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQ | WORDCOUNT: 3k

➔ A/N: So, fair warning, I know the aesthetic needs work, I know there’s no color but it’s 3AM and I pushed myself to post this because I have been writing and editing all night and I needed this bitch out or I wouldn’t allow myself to sleep (tragic). SO. Here’s my baby number 2. What can I say about this one, truly… I think you can really pin down OC’s personality in this one a lot better, bahahahahaha. I know what you guys were thinking when you saw stalker x ballerina, and I’m glad to twist your expectations completely and be like ‘yeah nope’. You’ll see how this develops but… Yeah I don’t know, I fucking love her. I adore the water imagery, I adore the nicknames I’ve given these two and I can’t fucking wait for you guys to see more. I also adore him, no lies told here. He’s so pathetic and reverent and ugh my heart combusts everytime I write him shaking (I am mentally unwell, we all know that). Anyways, no more yapping from me. Enjoy this monster. As always, I’ll be maniacally laughing while reading your unhinged comments. Mwah mwah mwah. 💕

➔ SERIES : PREVIOUS | NEXT

KIKI NATION’S DISCUSSION THREAD FOR THIS CHAPTER

PLAYLIST

Another twirl. 

Your body knows the motion by heart—the sharp pivot, the snap of head and shoulders following a fraction of a second later, the correction of your core that comes automatically. 

Another twirl. 

The floor beneath you creaks, just slightly. Just enough to notice. Just enough to hate.

Another twirl. Another twirl. Another twirl.

It's not perfect. It's not enough. 

Your ankle wobbles one-eighth of a centimeter on the landing. Invisible to anyone else. Glaring to you. You will never achieve perfection if you don't master a simple fucking twirl.

Another twirl. 

Camille sneers from the barre. Her reflection catches yours between rotations—that twist of lips, that narrowing of eyes. It is ugly, really, that expression on her face. The way her mouth quirks down at the corner, the way her nostrils flare just slightly. You would feel anger at the derision in her mouth, but it is so exaggerated it's pitiful, really. So you deviate your gaze, focus on the mirror in front of you, and continue twirling.

Another. 

Another.

The studio’s windows are streaked with last night's rain—Madame never allows the cleaning staff to touch them during rehearsal weeks. ‘Too distracting,’ she says. As if anything could distract you from the absolute necessity of this movement.

Your leotard cuts into your hip, just slightly. You'll have a mark there later. You don't adjust it. Discomfort is irrelevant. 

"Excellent extension,” Madame calls your name from the front of the room. 

Her voice is crisp, just as usual. You don't register it. Praise means adequate. It is what's expected of you. Expected and therefore unremarkable.

The rest of the company has moved on to petit batterie. You remain in your corner, working. They glance at you between jumps. You don't look back.

Madame calls your name again, and then says, "join the others, please."

You nod once. 

You take your place at the back of the group, not out of modesty but because it gives you the clearest view of yourself in the mirror. 

You need to see the mistakes before anyone else does.

Jean-Paul catches your eye in the reflection. Smiles. You don't smile back. His smile isn't for you—it's for the image of himself smiling at you. Everything he does is performance. You recognize it because you do the same.

The piano starts. Your body follows. Jump, land, repeat. Your muscles know the pattern. Your mind catalogs each moment, each placement of finger and toe. It's automatic, this dissection. This constant evaluation.

Madame walks among the dancers, making corrections, yet she never approaches you. That's not a compliment. It's simply acknowledgment that you'll fix your own flaws before she can identify them.

Elodie, in the front row, keeps glancing back at you. Her form is flawless as always, but you note how tense she is. How she always is around you. 

She knows you're gaining on her. She's thirty next month. Ancient, in ballet years.

The combination ends. The pianist pauses.

"Let's try that again," Madame says. "And this time, perhaps with some actual musicality? We are artists, not robots."

She isn't looking at you when she says it, but you feel the words land anyway. You've been called mechanical before. Precise to a fault. It shouldn't bother you—precision is the foundation of excellence—but something in your chest tightens.

Water break. 

The other dancers cluster by their bags, talking in low voices. 

You stay at the barre, stretching. 

Your hamstring protests. You push deeper into the stretch.

Madame beckons you. "A word, please."

You cross the room, spine straight, chin level. Your reflection follows you, a pale ghost in black cotton.

"Your fouettés are improving," she says. 

It's not a compliment. It's a fact.

"Thank you, Madame."

"The company performs Ondine next season. I'm considering you for the lead."

Your face remains neutral. Your pulse does not. 

Ondine. The water nymph who gains a soul through love, only to lose everything. 

Not just a lead—the lead.

"I'll work harder," you say.

Madame's mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. "That would be inadvisable. You're already overtraining. Work smarter, not harder."

You nod, though you don't agree. There is no ‘smart’ way to excellence. There is only work. Endless, punishing work.

You turn back to the center, Ondine in your head.

You’ll research her later. 

The piano begins again. You take your place. Your custom Freeds creak slightly���you'll need a new pair soon. This one has perhaps two more hours of life in it. You've already prepared the next pair, scoring the soles according to your usual pattern, crushing the box to your exact preference, sewing the ribbons in the specific formation that minimizes blisters on your Achilles.

Camille watches you from her place at the barre, her freckles barely visible beneath her foundation. She performs friendship whenever others are watching, but you've caught her moving your water bottle from your spot, just slightly, just to see what you do. 

Collecting weaknesses like souvenirs.

It is pitiful.

She is pitiful.

You are not.

Another combination. Another chance to fail. Another chance to be slightly less imperfect than yesterday.

L'heure bleue.

The hour, however, is not currently blue. Hours don't hold colors in themselves. The name is pretentious, like most things in this city. But the fluorescent sign flickers that particular shade of navy that matches the rain-slicked streets outside, so perhaps there's some truth to it after all.

You catalog the store methodically. Four aisles. One register. Three security cameras—one broken, its red light permanently extinguished. The floor tiles are chipped at the corners. 

Imperfect.

Everything is imperfect here.

Rain slides down the windows in precise rivulets. You've been caught in it twice today already. First during your morning commute, then during the three-minute walk from the studio to this convenience store. Your hair—still pulled back in its regulation bun—is damp at the edges. The slight discomfort of wet hair against your scalp is familiar. Almost comforting.

Better the rain, anyway. You need to understand water if you're going to embody it. 

Ondine. 

It sits in your chest, the role, like a stone dropped into deep water, heavy like an anchor pulling you under. 

You can already hear the applause, see the perfect arc your body will make as you take your final bow. 

Another performance. Another success. Another inevitability.

Your eyes move across the shelves with surgical precision. Land on the protein bars. The numbers flash in your mind automatically: 20 grams of protein, 180 calories, 4 grams of sugar. 

Excessive. 

Unnecessary. 

You grimace.

The bar goes back exactly where you found it, aligned with the others. Your stomach tightens—from hunger or discipline, you're not sure there's a difference anymore.

Your bun pulls at your scalp, the slight sting a reminder of structure. Beauty is pain. Excellence is sacrifice. These are not platitudes but mathematical certainties. Input equals output. You have the equations memorized.

The oversized cardigan hangs past your hips, concealing the lines of your body. Leotard, tights, canvas shoes—not pointe shoes, never pointe shoes outside the studio. That would be blasphemous. Disrespectful to the craft. You'd sooner walk barefoot through Paris than subject your pointe shoes to the indignity of street grime.

You move through the aisles with the same deliberate placement of feet that you use in adagio. Heel, arch, toe. No wasted motion. No unnecessary steps.

The cosmetics section is in the back corner, poorly lit. You need cotton pads. The ones at home are nearly gone—three left, to be precise. Not enough for tomorrow morning's routine. You glance down, locate them on the bottom shelf. 

Crouch.

A blur of motion interrupts your descent. Someone reaches—faster than you, more impulsive—and retrieves the package. Hands it to you without a word.

You note the gloves first. Latex. Clinical blue. Worn at the fingertips as if from constant scrubbing. 

Then the downturned face, completely obscured by ashy, wavy hair that falls forward like a curtain. 

You can't see his eyes. Can't see anything above the bridge of his nose. Just the curve of his mouth, pressed into a tight line. The shoulders hunched slightly forward. The careful distance he maintains—close enough to hand you the cotton, far enough that no part of him risks touching you.

"Thank you," you say. 

Your voice sounds strange in the empty store. 

Too formal. Too precise.

He doesn't respond verbally. Just nods once, a sharp downward jerk of his chin. His face remains tilted toward the floor, hidden behind that fall of unkempt hair.

You take the cotton pads. The package is slightly dented on one corner. Your eyebrows furrow before you can stop them.

The reaction is immediate. He snatches the package back, so quickly it startles you. For 2.5 seconds, you stand frozen, watching as he examines the shelf with frantic intensity. He selects another package—perfectly intact—and offers it to you with both hands, like a supplicant.

His fingers never touch yours during the exchange. It’s like the avoidance is intentional. Thought out.

You straighten, the pristine cotton pad package in hand. Consider saying something else. Decide against it. What would be the point? Social niceties are performances without purpose. At least on stage, the performance means something.

The rain continues its assault on the windows. You'll be soaked again on the walk back to your apartment. Your hair will frizz at the temples. Your canvas shoes will squelch with each step.

Bothersome.

You approach the register, mentally calculating how many steps it will take. It feels oddly hollow, this convenience store… 

Empty except for the cashier—a pink-haired girl with three facial piercings who hasn't looked up from her phone once—and the strange man with the latex gloves.

Seven steps to the counter. You take them.

The cotton pads make a soft sound when you set them down. The cashier doesn't move.

"Excuse me."

Your voice is clipped. Necessary.

She looks up, blinks, then sets her phone down with visible reluctance. Scans the package. Names a price that you mentally note is 0.20€ higher than last month.

Inflation. Even cotton isn't immune to economic decay.

You reach for your wallet—left pocket of your cardigan, where it always is—and find nothing. 

A blank space where certainty should be.

Your hand slides to the right pocket. Also empty.

You left it at the studio. The realization arrives without emotion, just a fact to be cataloged. An error to be logged. 

You never make this kind of mistake. 

(You made this kind of mistake.)

"I don't—" you begin, but stop. 

The sentence is a dead end. Unnecessary. 

You'll simply return the cotton pads to their shelf and come back tomorrow. It's inefficient, but not catastrophic. You have three pads at home, which is sufficient for one more morning routine. You'll adjust.

The pink-haired girl sighs. Her lower lip has a small sore where the ring passes through.

Before you can pick up the cotton pads, there's movement to your left. 

The man with the gloves steps forward. Not close enough to crowd, but close enough that you register the height difference. 

It is inevitable, catching  the scent of something warm beneath the clinical sting of antiseptic—roasted chestnuts, perhaps. The kind sold in paper cones along the Seine in winter.

He keeps his head down, that curtain of fluffy hair obscuring his features. One gloved hand extends, placing exact change on the counter.

His fingers are long. Elegant, even in those hideous blue gloves. You notice a slight tremor as he pulls his hand back quickly—as if the proximity to the cashier might contaminate him somehow. 

The money isn't for him. He hasn't bought anything. It's for your cotton pads.

"I don't need—" you begin, but he's already retreating, backing away from the counter, from you.

His shoulders curl forward. The blue latex of his gloves catches the fluorescent light, making his hands look bloodless. He steps backward, once, twice, eyes still fixed on the floor.

The cashier shrugs, takes the money. "Need a bag?"

You shake your head. No. More plastic waste for something so small would be absurd. Wasteful. Undisciplined.

The cotton pads are yours now, purchased by a stranger who won't look at you. 

You should thank him. Social convention demands it. But when you turn, he's no longer beside you.

You scan the store, methodical. Not by the register. Not in the front aisle. You spot him in the back corner, methodically straightening items on a shelf. The motions almost beautiful in their devotion to order.

Three steps and you're close enough to speak without raising your voice.

"Thank you for the pads." 

The words come out stiff. Clinical. Ridiculous, suddenly. Thank you for the pads. As if there's any meaning to the gesture beyond simple efficiency.

He freezes completely. His back to you, shoulders gone rigid. You can see the line of his spine through his oversized black shirt. Too thin. His belt has been cinched to the last hole and still hangs loose at his waist.

When he doesn't respond, you consider walking away. You've fulfilled the social obligation. Acknowledged the gesture. There's no reason to prolong this interaction.

But something stops you. Some strange, unquantifiable curiosity about this man who won't face you. Who performs small kindnesses while visibly shaking. Who wears medical gloves in a convenience store.

You wait for a response that doesn't come.

A drop of water falls from your hair onto your collarbone. Slides down beneath your leotard. The sensation is unwelcome and bothersome.

He remains perfectly still, as if movement might shatter something crucial. His breathing is shallow. Almost imperceptible.

You should leave now. The exchange is complete. The social obligation fulfilled.

Instead, you tilt your head slightly. Study the slope of his shoulders. The precise angle of his neck as he stares fixedly at the shelf before him. The way his gloved fingers press against his thigh in a rhythm you can't quite decode. 

Something about him is... delicate. Like a blown glass figure one breath away from shattering.

A strange impulse seizes you. You want to see his face. Want to know if his features match the fragility of his posture. Want to understand why he refuses to meet your eyes.

You step to the side. Just slightly. Just enough that you might catch a glimpse of his profile.

His reaction is immediate—he turns away, keeping that curtain of washed-out hair between you. Maintaining his anonymity with surprising determination.

The motion is too deliberate to be coincidental—as if he's preserving something vital through this avoidance.

You find it... interesting.

Most men stare. They always have. Since you were thirteen and your body first began to take the shape that others found worth watching. Their gazes slide over you like oil—unpleasant but expected. A toll you pay for occupying space.

This man refuses to look at all. Refuses even to be seen himself.

The novelty of it sparks something in you. A flicker of curiosity. A desire to press just a little further.

"Why are you helping me?" The question is direct. Almost rude in its bluntness.

No response. Just that same rigid posture. The same careful avoidance.

The cashier calls from the front: "We're closing in five."

You should leave. The cotton pads are secured. The errand complete. There's no logical reason to remain.

You take one step back. Then another.

His shoulders lower by perhaps two millimeters. Relief.

Your eyes narrow. What a curious reaction to a simple retreat. As if your mere proximity causes him distress.

As you turn to go, something catches your eye. A small plastic employee badge clipped to his belt. Mostly obscured by his shirt, but partially visible now that he's shifted position.

The convenience store's logo. A name printed beneath it.

Kim.

That's all you can see from this angle. Just a single surname.

You file it away. A data point that shouldn't matter but somehow does.

Four more steps and you're at the door. The rain is still falling, harder now. Your shoes will be ruined.

At the threshold, some impulse you don't examine makes you pause. Turn back.

He's watching you now.

Not directly. Not obviously. But you can feel the weight of his gaze from across the store. Can see how he's angled just slightly in your direction, observing through that muted veil of hair.

When he realizes you've caught him, he jerks his head away. The movement is so abrupt it's almost violent. As if being caught looking is somehow worse than looking itself.

Something unfurls in your chest. Something you haven't felt before and therefore cannot name.

It feels like power, but softer. Like command, but quieter.

Like the moment in rehearsal when you know—absolutely know—that every eye in the room is fixed on the perfect arch of your foot.

You watch him a moment longer. Note how his hands have begun to shake more visibly. How his breathing has quickened. How he seems to be counting something under his breath—his lips moving in a silent rhythm.

Afraid. He's afraid. Of you.

The realization should make you uncomfortable. Should compel you to leave.

It doesn't.

Instead, you find yourself... intrigued. By his fear. By his avoidance. By the contradiction of a man who will pay for your purchases but won't meet your eyes.

He's like a puzzle with missing pieces. An equation that doesn't balance. A phrase of music that ends on an unexpected note.

And you… 

You’ve always been intrigued by seemingly unsolvable problems.

As you push open the door, the bell above jingles—a cheerful, discordant note in the tense silence of the store. The sound makes him flinch, though it's difficult to tell if it's the suddenness or simply the fact that it marks your departure.

But you file the reaction away with everything else you’ve noticed about him. Building a catalog of responses. Creating a framework for understanding.

You step into the rain, cotton pads clutched in your pocket. 

The water hits your face in cold droplets. Your shoes squelch with each step. Your hair grows heavier with accumulated moisture.

None of it matters.

What matters is tomorrow's rehearsal.

What matters is Ondine.

What matters is perfection.

What matters is, strangely, the image of his downturned face. 

The graceful arc of his wrist as he straightened those bottles. 

The way he was utterly aware of your presence.

It was beautiful—his fear; his distance. 

It makes you wonder what would happen if you shattered it.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

goal: 250 notes

taglist: @cannotalwaysbenight @taevescence @itstoastsworld @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7 @mar-lo-pap @mikrokookiex @minniejim @curse-of-art @cristy-101 @mellyyyyyyx @rpwprpwprpwprw @billy-jeans23 @calmyourtitts7

© jungkoode 2025.

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[boilingheart]

my therapist gifted me a book about adhd to read and man. trying to read a book about adhd with adhd is proving to be a... colorful challenge.

i'm trying to replace doomscrolling with reading, yet i keep finding myself back on tumblr or twitter. oops.

[batwynn]

I’m not—and never have been—Catholic. Or any part of any religion, really. And yet I sit here in my rotting body and look at all the broken things that just keep breaking around me and wonder what horrible thing I did to keep being punished every fucking minute of every fucking day. I go through all the objectively bad things I did over my lifetime, and try to weigh them against a feather. I try to bargain with myself that some things weren’t as bad, or maybe this one thing carries all the ‘sin’, or maybe it was just me being born? Because I was born not breathing, blue and dead. But they brought me back and then it started. One cursed thing after another. My friends, my therapists, even my own family often think I’m exaggerating the sheer number of bullshit horrible things that happen. Screen shots, receipts, having it happen in front of them be damned. A lot of them never know that I hold back, I lie to cover up even more things. I pretend some of the things are no big deal. I try to share only the major ones, and I try to dumb it down so it doesn’t seem like too much. Like I got this. I can handle it. It sucks but it’s not that big of a deal. (Sometimes I can’t do that. The catastrophic times.)

I don’t know. Maybe it’s my OCD side of things that likes to find clear reason and fault in the random. Like one side of my brain decided it was going to be my live-in Catholic guilt. Maybe I am cursed. Maybe I did something wrong somewhere between being dead and alive, somewhere in those first few minutes of breath. I genuinely don’t know. But I keep going through the same cycle of begging something, or someone to make it stop, more things breaking, and trying desperately to figure out the answer to Why?

[bibibbon]

Now about Tenya:

. Tenya is practically known for being punctual, but in an exaggerated way, since he always does everything to arrive at the place at the promised time, so much so that he is one of the first students to arrive at school. He ends up criticizing those who are late, only earning annoyance from his classmates, something he does not understand.

. Tenya has a huge idolization of his brother, Tensei. But Tensei is a little bothered to see his brother treating him like a god, he is always trying to get Tenya to stop this exaggerated admiration. This is also noticed by their mother.

. Tenya is autistic and has an OCD when it comes to keeping everything organized, to the point where he gets really irritated by people who are disorganized. A fact is that when he was a child, he almost had a breakdown when he noticed the whole room was messy after the art activity. He always leaves his belongings and clothes organized. He says he wants to leave everything ready for tomorrow.

. Tenya doesn't have a good relationship with his father, a former hero and head of the Ingenium Agency. This is because his father puts excessive pressure on his son, in addition to setting goals that Tenya does everything he can to achieve. One fact is that Tenya got an 8 on a math test and his api didn't speak to him for a week. As for his mother, she always wants to please him, and comfort Tenya while he cries and vents about his father's pressure, which always ends with her preparing hot chocolate and cookies for him.

. Tenya doesn't have many friends, only Ochako and Izuku at middle school, since he's always criticizing and trying to bring order, making his classmates tired of his attitudes, something that makes no one want to come to him to talk or ask him out. Tenya doesn't understand this, besides it hurts him a lot.

. Tenya always carries two spare glasses in case he breaks or loses the one he is using. He also always carries orange juice in his backpack during physical activities.

. Tenya does a lot of artistic gymnastics, which explains his muscular body and how good he is at jumping and falling. He soon gains a training partner (Izuku), since he also does this type of sport, requested by All MightStar.

. Tenya and Izuku didn't start off on the best of terms, as Izuku was incredibly able to answer questions faster than Tenya, and also got a higher grade than Tenya. This resulted in Tenya seeing Izuku as a rival, but they soon came to an understanding and became friends.

. Tenya is still amazed when he sees All MightStar in the living room of Izuku's house, especially when he sees him cleaning and carrying a basket of clothes. Izuku always laughs at Tenya's reactions.

What do you think? (Sorry for the long asks, I'm glad you're interested in my rewrite)

Hi @lorddog45 👋

I love how you're sticking to Tenya's Canon characterisation, making him a die-hard rule follower because he thinks and has been taught that it's both the best and right thing to do. I wonder how you would choose to present his conflict when he does learn that said rules aren't always the best at protecting people and aren't always the right thing.

I love the Canon focus on just how much tenya admires his brother, and I hope that with this admiration, we get to see more of tensei and how tensei feels about the hero world in general. Do you think tensei would try and sheild his brother, lead him to believe that nothing can go wrong if rules are followed? Do you think after tensei's attempted murder that he would be more honest with tenya and give him advice about the cruelty and dark truths of hero society?

The autistic and ocd tenya headcanons are to die for!!!! I always headcanoned him as autistic so I'm glad to see that others think this as well.

Tenya and shoto parallels!!! The strict father who holds way too much over the child's head drowning them in expectations that will most likely hinder and squander their potential in the processs. I am surprised that tenya still wants to be a hero after all of this maybe that's a nice contrast he has to shoto who until izuku convinced him and reminded him of why he enjoyed all Might didn't have much feelings to becoming a full fledged hero that would use both his quirks to their fullest potential

Desire for order and peace but also the desire to be seen as friendly and good clashing with tenya. Tenya not understanding how him simply wanting to do what he believes is good is harming him and everyone else.

This is Canon to me!!! Tenya does indeed carry and have a stack of glasses that he just knows he will need them because of the amount of times he has broken his glasses and he keeps a few bottles of orange juice that he sometimes ends up giving to ochako or izuku

Artistic gymnastic tenya!!!! Never thought of that but it makes sense and izuku getting inspired and becoming his partner is such a great idea and mirrors Canon how izuku was inspired by tenya's flexibility on how he moved his legs and started to incorporate that in his hero fighting style. I feel like ochako would join them as well and they would start to mesh both ballet and gymnastics

Tenya and izuku one sided rivalrly from tenya who thinks izuku is trying to one up him and also admires izuku while izuku just thinks tenya hates him and sometimes gets reminded of bakugo

Tenya being an all Mightstar fan and forgetting that his friend has all mightstar as their adopted parent mirror's izuku and how much he loves heroes and how izuku would definitely go into an analytical fan ramble whenever he meets tensei

[fuck-customers]

Huh. It worked.

So, I'm unbelievably burnt out at my job but I guess a tiny part of me either still cares like 1% or is OCD because there are certain things that drive me absolutely up the wall and I really, really want them changed/fixed. But each time I bring up suggestions to my managers, they swiftly ignore me.

Just to be clear, the suggestions are "hey maybe we should have price tags on the products that we're selling in the store. I'm willing to take the time to tag things if you could provide me with the machine that prints the tags. Customers complain to me every shift about our products not having visible prices." Or "hey whatever happened to the price scanners? We used to have them on the main aisles and then one day they disappeared. They weren't malfunctioning before that. And if they were, why weren't they replaced? It's been years. Customers hate having to track one of us down to price check something." Or "hey our online inventory is completely inaccurate and it makes finding products difficult for us and customers. Is there any way to fix this? Can we employees be doing something?"

Of course I get brushed off or told some vague bullshit like "oh corporate made the decision" "it's up to corporate" with no further explanation.

HOWEVER.

I realized my manager was paying attention to some reviews because she had us change some things based on some survey. Like greetings. I figured out that we had receipt surveys. (we have never been required to push these and only management can read them, so there was no reason I would know about them before this) I tested out ny theory by artificially tanking our greeting ratings and my manager almost immediately was on us to greet every customer. I realized I could use this to my advantage and make complaints/constructive criticism as "the customer" (nothing obvious that would come back to me. I'm not stupid. It's not like I'm leaving reviews that say "give OP a raise! They're the best!" I'm not that stupid)

And you know what? It's slowly working. I had heard many customers complaining about the lack of price tags, so some "customers" complained about them in the reviews and a few weeks later, my manager was tagging everything in the queue line. I'm currently still working on getting the entire store properly tagged and getting the godawful music they play on the radio changed. (Ok fine, that one's for me, I can't stand that garbage, specifically Lovefool by The Cardigans. It's a mediocre song on its own, but I am not exaggerating when I say it plays at minimum twice an hour- I counted) But it's fucking working. No one is more shocked than me. Because my main motivation when starting this little project was to prevent myself from completely losing my mind and also screaming some of the things I hated about the store into the void and would you fucking know it? The void is responsive.

HEY! I like that song. I know Malwart got rid of the price scanners around the store to force customers to download the app. And are even making some self checkouts pay to use by making them only available to Malwart+ subscribers.

-Rodney

[max1461]

Anyway I'm glad OCD doesn't get the same level of discourse that other mental illnesses get, I think I would hate that. I have various thoughts about my OCD but relatively few I would like to share, or be subjected to debate on or whatever. In general I don't think of OCD as like, a secret superpower or some shit like what people say about ADHD, I mostly think of it as a hindrance. At the same time it's not exactly true that I would take a pill which "cured" it if offered: I suspect that mental illnesses are, mostly, more like exaggerated expressions of tendencies that are present in all brains. Like everyone obsessively worries sometimes, and people lie on a bell curve or whatever wrt how much they do it. And people with OCD are just outliers on that bell curve (or a collection of related bell curves) to the degree that it gets noticed and given a name. But like, one suspects you couldn't just flip some switch and do away with this without affecting the whole brain system in more complex knock-on ways, i.e. changing who I am as a person. And I really like who I am as a person! So if the cost of that is that I occasionally worry in this way that's really irrational, and cope with it through irrational behaviors, that's like, a totally reasonable price to pay for being me. I would accept that price and refuse the pill. At least if I'm right about how all this works.

[clatterbane]

That was actually one thing that exasperated me the last time I dealt with my uncle in person.

He had a serious mad on at my stepdad, which had obviously built up over the years. There are plenty of legitimate criticisms to be made there! I lived with the man for many years, and he really is difficult to deal with and kind of a big jerk. I am very aware of this. I have talked to the man maybe once since the last time I was back home.

Inserting a cut for long and ranty shit, dealing with some family drama and rather traumatic financial happenings. Also nobody wanting to fucking listen to me about things they were invested in not hearing.

My mother had her own problems, or she would have run far away before they ever got more than a date or two in--much less stayed with the guy for 20+ years until she died. Marinara flags all over the place.

I am sure that some of the man's persistent financial problems really were kinda self-inflicted. I mean, on top of legit being multiply disabled and going through two bouts with cancer when I was still a kid.

But...to my original point? Said uncle (my only surviving blood one) also has the Family OCD, and worse tendencies than I do to fixate on things that piss him off as a handy distraction from other anxieties. Easier to rant than to deal with the other fears. I understand this probably better than he does, and it's still really hard to take sometimes.

Anyway, on this occasion he had partly managed to get fixated on the specific idea that Stepdad The Jerk must have been making a bunch of shit up all along about that big looming medical debt from the cancer surgery. Because (his wife, the longtime hospital administrator and CPA) knows very well how medical debt works, and that ain't it!

The thing is, Jerky Stepdad is very very bad at straight-up lying. He will just make shit up sometimes to cover his ass, but it doesn't work so well. (Usually he WILL just try and rules-lawyer his way through, and that really does tend to work better than you might expect. People often just don't know what to do.)

And yeah, I was there to see up close how that went. The key: it wasn't normal medical debt, legally. Because the surgery was done through Big State Medical School Hospital in Richmond, leaving him in like $60,000+ in mid-'80s money worth of direct debt to the Commonwealth of Virginia itself once Blue Cross refused to pay after preapproving it.

(The same surgeon was ready to do the exact same procedure at the VA hospital just down the street instead otherwise, but Medical School Hospital had so much better facilitate overall. Stepdad is part of probably the last group of Vietnam vets where the VA was still theoretically on the hook for covering all future medical treatment for literally anything, but yeah you're better off going elsewhere if you can at all. The freaking VA was willing to cover this surgery. That's how experimental a treatment it really was by then.)

So yeah, that was why we had actual state employees from the Attorney General's office calling nonstop and actually harassing me too starting from when I was like 12. (I am not exaggerating. Half of what they were doing was anything but legal. They were even trying to get me to accept responsibility for his debt before he died from a cancer with a not great prognosis. Knowingly dealing with what was obviously a kid who was not even blood related to him.)

Jerky Stepdad also managed to personally piss off the sitting state Attorney General at the time. Which is honestly no wonder. But, over most of the like 7 years she was in the position? He really did kinda get targeted by that office--with the whole household along for the ride.

Oh yeah, being the actual state? They really could pull shit like seizing every penny of state income tax returns, seizing a sizeable chunk of your damn unemployment checks, placing liens on any property you have (yep, very much including your house!), and so on. Ad nauseam. Then ring your phone some more to hassle anybody unfortunate enough to answer, like the worst collection agency ever, working on the state's dime.

They did try to foreclose on the house at least once. I was there. I saw the legal papers and the (broke) scrambling to forestall that. He was still in that house at last check, very much alive decades after that liver resection and still a giant PITA to deal with.

Normal medical debt doesn't work that way. Debt owed to the Commonwealth of Virginia very much does. And I had a front row seat for most of that shitshow, like it or not. It directly impacted me a lot, and I saw the various official paperwork to confirm pretty much every story the dude I didn't even particular like had supposedly pulled out of his ass pertaining to that whole mess.

Of course, Darling Uncle didn't want to hear a word about how some assumptions were very seriously off base there. As little as I even enjoyed being put in a position where I felt compelled to defend somebody I was pretty mad at myself at the time for some other reasons.

It was much easier to continue on that misplaced rip, and make up his own stories to justify all of it.

He was actually being unusually careful to make it clear that he was righteously pissed at Stepdad, and knew I had nothing to do with any of the shit he was ranting about. I still resented the hell out of getting put in a position like that YET AGAIN. By somebody who wouldn't fucking listen to anything he didn't want to hear.

But yeah, family.

I got extremely sick of ending up smack in the middle of too much shit, trying to play moderator for people behaving very unreasonably whether I wanted to or not. As the kid of the (at least equally loud!) Designated Scapegoat who had just thoroughly departed the scene, or was maybe still in the process of doing so. I don't remember the exact timing of that exasperating interaction. There was rather a lot going on. NOBODY needed that shit on top of it.

[bananonbinary]

i'm always very wary of the idea of like, "real" versus "mild" disability. or worse, "real" versus "fake." the implied idea in that last post (from op, not the addition) that, "oh, well, obviously a REALLY disabled person shouldn't be expected to do things they literally can't, but mildly disabled people need to stop doing that." or the discourse around "therapy speak," or people "watering down" terms like ocd and intrusive thoughts. or one that i've definitely complained about before, the idea of "feigned incompetence" from abled people.

it's. ugh. look. i understand that some people really are co-opting and misusing terms, or exaggerating their symptoms, or pretending to be worse at something than they actually are. and its really really frustrating and upsetting.

but also. i am very very very afraid of the way people talk about these issues, because 99% of the time, their solution seems to be, "only True Disableds are allowed accommodation, and I am the sole arbiter of what disability is." idk, as someone who went most of my life undiagnosed but turned out to need a very high level of support, i just don't see a way to address these issues that don't hurt more than help. i think it helps more to just take people at their word and assume they really can't do the thing they said they can't. even if they're undiagnosed and just think it's a personal quirk. if they're honest, you've just helped someone. and if they're not, that's probably something that requires a long conversation rather than a snarky ratio on twitter, you know?

[gothmods]

Grandmother replaced the livingroom chairs again. I had pieced together that this would happen. Which i had to piece it together because no one actually told me let alone consulted me on said new chairs.

Which i dont necessarily want to be. But it is a reminder that im in a limbo of sorts, i live here but it isnt my home.

Im expected to pay half of the cost of the new fridge, but not considered an essential opinion-haver when it came to choising the new fridge.

And i feel like i cant say anything which idk if its just imagined but it feels like if i bring stuff up its taken as confrontational. Idk its hard to explain because i know that the issues with communication are reflective of years of dysfunction rooted in events that i am 100% treated as confrontational for still caring about.

Its crazy how much of who i am now feels connected to back then. I hate obligation, am hypersensitive to being treated like a child, i want independence and value privacy to a degree where i withold inconsequential things. Or at least thats the me that exists here (throwback to my last overly long word vomit). And it really is all me desperately trying to never be in that situation again even though its theoretically impossible because im an adult.

I need to move out. I cant. It sucks.

I want to make myself a life that looks nothing like my childhood. I want to forget it ever happened.

And i just feel like i cant do that while im here. Its enough work as it is convincing myself im not exaggerating how badly it impacted me. Which ive been doing for like 12 years now :/

Its what scares me the most about having kids tbh. That ill fuck them up via the control i have over them/by failing to see them as a full person without even noticing thats what im doing. That they'll try to tell me something i did hurt them and ill dismiss it or make excuses.

I know there are some parts of my upbringing i will never replicate. The christian cisheteropatriachal view of sex and the shaming peoples appearances. But the other parts terrify me because i know that that mentality towards children is so deeply ingrained in our society.

And also i guess because thats the wound that still stings. Which the sex stuff did for many years but alas that is also due to my ocd grindset but its also like. Its easy enough to feel like im getting my own back for those things by being gay and openly a sexual being and by getting piercings and dressing how i want.

But theres no easy victory for the other stuff. Ironically thats what makes me want kids. Because if i could prove that it didnt have to be like that, that there were always other options if only people had looked for them, then i could finally settle the gnawing anxieties that tell me im wrong to be upset over how i was treated.

Either that or abolishing the nuclear family and the education system as we know it. That sure would be nice.

Which will always be the hardest thing for some people to get i think. Beyond how much i hate that school and hope it burns down and beyond my dysfunctional relationships with family that im not sure they even realise how dysfunctional they are. That being denied autonomy can be traumatic.

That being repeatedly denied autonomy while in emotional distress is traumatic and that its traumatic regardless of the intent of the people who hold power over you.

[librarycards]

*might be sending this to a bunch of people with great blogs who I really like and appreciate

saw a claim made that ocd "can never be cured, like thatevery person who has ocd will always deal with it, "have it" and that's because ocd is caused by a "chemical imbalance in the brain" and that it's been "proven by research". so they say you can't deal with ocd for only a few months or years, if you say you have than it wasn't actually ocd you're lying or exaggerating. which I find ridiculous and insulting, but than they say something worse "research has proven it's chemicals in the brain" which sounds even more ridiculou (im anti-psychiatry all the way. but what can I say to that?! any thoughts?? is this person referencing any real research? or just made up pro psychiatry nonsense??

I'm afraid I might not have a satisfying answer to this ask, mostly because I'm 1) agnostic (at my most generous) to the "chemical imbalance theory" of "mental illness" (as it were). there is nuance to this: i don't think that we are somehow entirely unaffected by our brains, in terms of structure and contents etc. Rather, I think that the construction of "mental disability" is relatedly only tangentially to what our brains actually "do." That is, the construction of mental disability preceded and continues to exceed what is capable of being known about the brain "itself," because mental disability is first and foremost a social, medical, legal, linguistic construction. Little more evidence of this is needed than the fact that I have never had my brain scanned, yet have been diagnosed with myriad mental disabilities and institutionalized against my will. The brain is to mental disability what "sex" is to gender –– a mythology of concreteness designed to (unsteadily) bolster the flimsiness of the diagnosis, the assignment.

While I am also uninterested in recovery as a paradigm, and in theorizing what it might look like to be "free" of a certain part of the way i move through the world (ocd included), I am interested in collective healing with and through self-determination and free association. What I know for sure, despite the murkiness of everything else, is that it is possible to substantially improve your quality of life in a wide variety of ways: some people find medications that help, some counselling (whether professional or informal). Others choose spirituality and meditation. Others self-direct using freely available therapeutic resources. Still more enlist the help of their friends and loved ones to keep track of types of behavior they'd like to avoid. And, of course, some don't do any of that, and it is their right to do so, so long as they are not endangering others, regardless of how shitty it feels (both for them and the people who care about them).

so: I'm giving you a non-answer. I don't believe in cure because I don't believe in disability-as-disease. I think people who are obsessed (haha) with figuring out the etiology of different diagnoses are at best naïve and at worst eugenicist. (Note: i am not upset with you, nor do I think you're a eugenicist or any other genre of bad person! Thinking about these things does not make you bad. Asking these questions in good faith does not make you bad, either.) I think that we will be much better positioned to talk about living and improving together when we forget chemical imbalances or medical decrees of terminality or unrecoverability or treatment resistance, and start thinking about things we can do in our lives now that help us create better futures.

[chasedeys]

anxiety ridden babbling ahead that i felt the need to type out but literally no need to interact with this at all lmao but feel free to read for entertainment!

one of the superstitions i have is not liveblogging bengals matches or even being on here for some reason i cant explain. and this oh well whatever fuck it idgaf mentality im trying to apply vis a vis the 4-7 record negates that sort of. but if i lb and it all goes to shit I might kms lmaoooo /hyperbole ofc but the entire thing is crazy and im hemming and hawing over this like an insane person

like i had a trial run (laughing at myself as i type this) with the steelers browns game but since the stakes are ??!???!?! the results are very much inconclusive because if the steelers lost then good for the bengals! that means that the steelers can be beat by a team with a shit record and a team we already beat once (that had 3 different qbs for one game and clearly going through shit throughout the game which is a whole other variable fuck up) but the browns defense is sigh and bengals defense is also sigh of a different direction and if the browns lost that would be better for us making-the-playoffs-wise because of the w-l records etc but also bad bc ffs how are we beating the steelers and then the steelers lost which is good but also not good because now we're literally a single win record in front of the browns. for fucks sake bengals literally what is the matter with BUT ANYWAY my point is should i really actually make myself lb because i have so much shit to say like i can YAP yap you know and keeping it all in hurts idk that's an exaggeration i just like typing shit out dramatically as you can see from literally this entire post im actually pretty quiet irl off tangentially sorry but anywayyyyyy

another superstition i have is i have to like every insta post and story. every tweet and thread from bengals official account. and read all the news segment in the bengals app and also the photos section PRIOR to the game. while the liking posts thing is throughout the game so i have to check twt and ig periodically. and this weirdly has been proven (😭!! fucking stupid ass of me i know but) bc i couldn't check on shit at all for the chargers game bc i had pressing plans and when i finally came to check the box score they were in a 6-24 stupidity and then when i fully liked all the posts and scrolled the news and photos in the app they miraculously started getting touchdowns?? this is very much not a correlation or causation of events its just a plain fucking coincidence noticed only thanks to my delusional borderline obsessive compulsive ass. but the fact that it did went on that way did not help this annoying crushing superstition of mine. but because this has been proven (they still lost but thats just a them thing and the word proven has quotation marks okay) i Cannot Not do this for all the games left 😭😭😭 lowkey borderline ocd literally hands shaking if i don't do this

i hate it 😭 but the idgaf mentality!!!! How Do I Do This. i am Not built for sports watching wow

[no-stupid-questions-official]

this might seem odd, but it has been a pretty large issue lately.

how do i stop reading fanfics that i don’t like? like, i’ll start reading a fic and half way through or so i’ll realize that i don’t like it and it’s causing me to get upset (like intrusive thoughts level of upset), and then i’ll click out of it like any normal person would.

but it will only be a little while until my brain goes back to thinking about it, and i get an urge to continue to read it. it’s hella hard to ignore this urge; it’s always in the background. and eventually, 9/10, i’ll cave and go back to reading it. 

sometimes the fic will get so horribly horrible that i can click out of it without worrying about the urge coming back, but other times the horribleness is only Just Horrible Enough. yknow? like it’s causing me emotional pain but not enough for the urge to read the fic to go away. like it’ll be enough to cause intrusive thoughts for weeks or even months after i read the fic, but not enough to make me stop.

i was wondering if there was like. Literally Anything to help me ignore the urge, because it is Really affecting me. i don’t like feeling every bad emotion at once (<- exaggerating) and i dont like having intrusive thoughts for quite possibly months after reading the fic. (<- not exaggerating)

if it helps i am almost definitely sure i have OCD, but i’m not sure if this could possible be an OCD thing, or maybe just some other ND thing. or maybe curiosity is just killing the cat. idk. point is i need to be able to ignore the damn urge.

-

[proudfreakmetarusonikku]

i really think a lot of discourse spaces are predatory on people with moral ocd. not even just like important shit. shipping discourse. character apologist discourse. they’ll prey on their own by making them see being in the in group as the only way of not being awful and those outside by deliberately attacking the person in ways that worsen the issue. and this predatory behaviour very easily leads to sexually predatory behaviour too. I’ve seen all of this. and like I’m not fucking stupid I know it upticks when I talk about my suicidal tendencies the goal is to make people with moral ocd either pawns or fucking dead. whether consciously or not that’s what a scary amount of people on this website are doing. and then they’ll blame you for “exaggerating” like no I am not fucking stupid I know you want me to kill myself. I’m not “suicide baiting” by pointing out that the discourse fuckers always always always come out in droves whenever suicidal ideation and self harm is mentioned. Some people think being progressive is getting people with mildly different stances to literally kill themselves.

[star-girl69]

DUDEEEEEE. She calls me baby youuuuu ate that harrrrrrrd. Like I had to go back in for seconds and thirds and fourths fr fr. Cause are we even surprised or are we just grateful that you give us mortals a second of your time and talent????

Babe you are so incredibly talented. The way you write is sooooooo amazing its like you just know how to manipulate your words into something that will and has had me in tears in like 2 seconds. Don't even get me started on how you write your characters. Like I don't know how I can fully and most genuinely express the astonishment you leave me in all the time.

I believe that you are one of a kind and a treasure to be cherished. I know that doubting is inevitable but I hope that you know that I'm always gonna be in the obsessed with addie corner no matter what. Like I meant it when I said that there won't be a time when you have no fans. Ever. You will forever be my favourite gorgeous goddess❤️❤️❤️.

-❤️

(I'm sorry I've been so absent school has been actually eating me alive)

(I think about you everyday though and it makes life just that much better)

(I hope you don't think I'm exaggerating😭😭😭😭All of this that I've been feeling without releasing had to be sent in a long ask my bad)

(I missed your little bonuses though, I hope you're doing okay)

(I'm always here for anything you may need, even if its literally just to tell you how amazing you are)

(love you ❤️)

#jealousclarissesupremacy

I WAS WONDERING WHERE YOU WERE I WAS SO WORRIED I SMILED SO HARD WHEN I GOT THIS ASK 🤭🤭

I CANT THAT WHOLE SECOND PARAGRAPH LIKE I CANT LIKE WOWWWW YOU THINK THAT???? ABOUT MEEE??!!!!??!?!?!?!!

TREASURE IS INSANE BTW 🤭 anyways omg. i’m so grateful wtf like i’m sorry i cant come up w something more poetic like you i just love these asks so much i get so happy and idk how to express that other than ilysm and i’m just so happy and so so grateful

also gorgeous goddess… i giggled 🤭🤭🤭

(ITS OKAYYYYY IM GLAD YOUR BACK SCHOOL HAS BEEN COOKING ME TOO 💔💔)

(EVERYDAY??!?!?!?! i think about you everyday too tho….. thinking about that one day you were so active and i got like 5 asks from you… BEST DAY OF MY LIFEEE) (also pls don’t take this as me pressuring you TRUST i am grateful for whatever you give me 🙏🙏)

(STOP. I. LOVE. LONG. ASKS. DONT ANNOY ME BY DOUBTING MY LOVE FOR YOU!!!!!!!)

(idk i’m okay i’ve just been really feeling pressured to write stuff bc the fandom is dying down (guys pls come back) and i am now firmly addicted to the praise and number of notifs i get…. lol. the bonuses have always been weird bc sometimes they come so easily to me like the first one i did was so it goes and i didn’t even have to think about it and then someone said they liked it so i went back and did it to my other fics and started doing it and idk yeah basically what i’m saying is sometimes they’re so easy and other times i have to force myself to come up w something which sucks but people like them so i’m happy to do it!!!!)

(tbh i’ll probably go back and add a bonus to she calls me baby bc i have just a little teeny bit of ocd and it will bother me but also i’m trying to let the little things go but idk we’ll see how strong i am 😭😭)

(sorry i will stop ranting now) (shoutout to anyone who actually reads that incoherent ramble)

(i need to be told how amazing i am 24/7 so that will be hard 😔) (BUT I APPRECIATE YOU SAYING THAT)

(LOVE YOU TOOOOO 💋💋💋)

#iagreesobad

[sunset-bridge]

The part where u said u'd be dying in a corner hit, dude (referencing OCD Goro post).

You got any other headcannons for him that you wanna tell the class?? (I mean this genuinely; I am curious)

THANK YOUUU !!!!

yes yes yes. ok wait..

i think he has freckles but he covers them up for tv and any public apperances. in third sem he doesnt give a shit anymore

i think he really likes disgustingly sweet things... the more sugar the better..!!

this is more a design headcanon thing to how i draw him but to me he has a round-ish face. nothing against people that draw him with like a long-ish face, but seeing his portrait sprites ingame i was always like. hehe round boy.... cute fluffy cheeks

on that note. i think hes built like a beanpole lol.. hes tall and lanky but muscular..? like not very visibly so. visibly he looks like a lamp post but he packs a surprising punch. he does NOT have much resistance though.. like a glass canon. hits like a truck but you sneeze on him and he crumples (this is true) (exaggeration. he has good endurance in a fight but every hit hurts him pretty bad. i hope you get what i mean.)

final design note.. i think he has stupidly long eyelashes . i suppose hes fine with them because they make it easier to appeal to the Public but sometimes he probably does wish he had shorter eyelashes.

when you catch him offguard he'll revert to Pleasant Boy Eyes tm for like a split second.

i don't think he likes physical affection very much. hes just not used to it and he finds it overwhelming. like. you know how cats get overstimulated when you pet them and they bite your hand. yes exactly like that. i think if you tried to hug him or something his mind just goes ??¡!!"?¡¡??¡¡?)(%&$%&&/ DAMNNATION!!!! and tries to murder you because apparently thats the only response possible.

i think his genuine laugh is this really cute-ugly ass laugh that only sergio enjoys. like this dog-bark ass laugh. evil laugh mfer!!!

when he was princekechi he opened his mouth way too wide whenever he spoke. i dont think this is how he naturally emotes when he talks; i think this was part of the act. very punchable

theater kid dramatic cunt disease terminal. this was true

well everyone knows this but he fights like a rabid animal. he bites people and scratches them with his horrible claws. bad animal.

i think he got a badass scar from after shido's palace fight with sergio. i should draw that sometime. i need to elaborate on this. ok if any of you know beastars, there was this time the wolf guy legoshi and his tiger buddy were having an argument ON STAGE that was very much not part of the show. anyways the tiger proceeded to "hug" legoshi to calm him down but he actually gored the fuck out of his back with his claws. something like that.

i am an Akechi last name believer. i think it was his mom's last name!

wait most important serious very REAL headcanon. he collects every form of hepatitis like baseball cards

ok those are at the top of my head :3c hope u enjoy

[running-in-the-dark]

I've got more to say on that post (tw I'm insane I don't know what to tag this as its just. mental illness man idk.)

I'm really, really glad that other people apparently really don't know what it's like to feel like that. like you're not allowed to think certain things or that thinking them makes you bad.

because fuck I wish that was me.

I find it almost impossible to talk about this but I'm trying because I've found it's really the only thing that helps a little bit - and it feels like literal torture, like. I am having to actively fight every instinct in my head to be able to type any of it.

but. just. man I just can't. sometimes I can do it, but sometimes it's like now and I get so panicked about it that all the words just fucking disappear. literally can't talk about it.

okay, I'll try a different way. so. I get extremely obsessed with fictional characters (which you know if you've ever looked at this blog because duh). obviously that means I think about them. a lot. all the time really. and it's. it is really really hard, honestly. just like. imagine having to basically check every. little. thought. to see if there's anything there that could make you a bad person.

again, can't go into any more detail because My Brain (probably should stop saying that, I guess it's like, part of the ocd tendencies I have or whatever) won't fucking let me.

so, I'm trying to work on that, and for some reason I'm doing that by writing it down instead. because then I have like, the option to go back and look at it and be like actually this is probably fine. not horrible, not the worst thing anyone has ever thought, and even if it was - no one but me is ever going to see this, so why should it even matter?

but more than anything it's like. shown me how fucking insane that is. I literally can't even write so much as like. a hug. without feeling like I'm the most disgusting piece of shit ever (lots of complicated reasons but it boils down to basically. well you're thinking about his body. and that his body would feel nice. and that is absolutely not allowed in any way). when I've said that I'm writing some insane shit I don't mean like haha, this is sooo dirty hehe :3 no guys I mean it is literally insane and mostly me literally having to write paragraphs of dialogue in which the character assures me that it's okay and I'm not horrible for thinking that and. like I'm literally writing him as if he's my fucking therapist because that's the only way I can justify it in my own head.

like, I am not exaggerating when I say that I've made myself feel like I'm physically ill from overthinking this so much. I literally felt like I had a fever because I got so extremely stressed out about it. I think that was about like. holding hands or some shit. I'm 32 fucking years old. I'm literally married (won't even get into that but fuck dude just imagine being like this and. yeah).

and the funniest part about all of that is that I feel so unbelievably ashamed about all of it that I don't think I could even mention it to a therapist or whatever. like the thought alone is so absolutely horrifying that it makes me feel like I need to be punished for it. so I just convince myself that well it can't really be OCD anyway because I don't even have compulsions anymore (even though I did, and they affected my life so much for like, 15 years at least), and well even if it could still be that even without the compulsions well it's not that bad really. I mean I don't have the issues that people with actual OCD have, it doesn't really affect me, so what if I can't think about fucking that fictional guy, imagine how much a therapist would laugh at you for thinking you should get help with that, nope your brain is just fundamentally broken (it's always been that way after all, so it can't be something like that, no you're just broken and wrong and that's why all your thoughts are bad, you're just the worst person on Earth).

I can't explain how hard it is to even like. just talk about the most mundane shit. like let's say there's a picture of The Guy and I think he looks good. it's such a struggle to let myself say that. like literally, something as fucking basic as that. literally anything that is an admission of 'hi I've thought about his face and his body and I think they look kind of nice' makes me feel like I should literally die. that's why I've been trying to say that shit as much as I can lately, with the reasoning being well if I just keep doing it and nothing horrible happens it'll get easier right? (nope it doesn't, not really)

and like, there's so much more to it than social media, obviously. like it's probably 99% my upbringing (didn't even fucking realise until very recently that a lot of it is based on religious stuff because I didn't understand that my family was even that religious. yeah I don't get it either. but there's way more than the religion aspect, just pretty much everything about my childhood and my parents and. everything). but it does play a huge part in it for me and. I don't know what to do about that and I'll probably do nothing because doing anything is hard and I'm already completely overwhelmed by everything.

yeah idk all of that came from thinking about that video too much, idk, I'm shutting up now