#i don’t have DID but I have cptsd which is like a step down on the spectrum

[friendlycursedspaceotter]

she’s an artist. she’s got DID and it’s not villainized. her armor is a bunch of tiny freaks in a trench coat. she’s good friends with one sword and traumatized another as a child but they are rebuilding that relationship. she infiltrated the mafia. her husband supports trans rights and I think she does too but this hasn’t been confirmed and probably won’t be for at least 3-5 years in our timeline. probably more. she needs therapy but was probably one of the reasons it was invented. she’s also ginger. I’m not saying who it is but you know who it is.

[seven-oomen]

Breaking the cycle | How Teen Wolf portrays its traumatized fathers

First of, I would like to say that the following words are my take on this. I am a 29 year old trans man of Caucasian descend who is an domestic violence and abuse survivor. I am diagnosed with ADHD since 12 and diagnosed with CPTSD since this year. I understand trauma and I understand what it does to people. But I am not a professional. I am a fan.

Secondly, the characters I’ll be talking about today are specifically the fathers of some of the main characters in Teen Wolf. Namely Chris Argent, Peter Hale, and Noah Stilinski. 

I realize there are many more traumatized parents who would fit well in this essay and while I thought about including them, I decided that for now, these are the three characters I’m focusing on.

I would love to hear your thoughts about some of the other parents and how their traumatizing pasts might have contributed to the way they raised their children.

Sources are listed under the read more. The gifs I’m using are from Google.

I will be focusing on these characters, discuss what sort of trauma they have, how it affects them and how it affects the way they then raised their children. And why their stories are important for trauma and abuse survivors.

Let’s start with Noah Stilinski.

From Episode 3, Season 6 Sundowning we know the following about Noah’s homelife:

Elias was known for being both emotionally and physically abusive, and on at least one occasion, Noah stepped in to protect his mother from his abuse, causing his father to inadvertently throw him into a glass coffee table; his shoulder was scarred, and tiny fragments of glass remain under the now-healed wound even in the present day.

He even tells Scott: (While talking about a memory of him and Claudia in College.) “The kind of father I wish I had. The kind I... I hope to be."

In the same episode Noah also refers to the incident above as “That time.” Indicating that it wasn’t the first time this happened and it wasn’t the last either.

Piecing all the information together we can conclude that Noah was emotionally, psychologically, and physically abused by his father. We can also conclude that this abuse extended to his mother. Meaning he was also a victim of domestic violence.

There is also evidence in the episode that Elias might have abused Stiles, or at the very least has a very negative opinion of his grandson.  “ That's right! Act like I'm not even here! Go crawling back to your dead wife and loser son!”

This scarred Noah, both physically and mentally. We see evidence of this in episodes where he reacts violently and explosively any time his son is hurt. He immediately blows up and threatens physical violence against the people who hurt his son. 

A part of that is parental protection, but imagine that someone beat the living crap out of you and those you love every day of your life. Once you’re free of that person it leaves a mark and a smoldering fear of seeing the people around you getting hurt. When it happens you get angry, at the people who hurt your loved one, and at yourself. You weren’t there to protect them, you were too late.

Noah blames himself whenever Stiles gets hurt. I believe, based on his childhood home life that Noah corresponds his son getting hurt with failure as a parent. And knowing where he comes from, that’s an extra sore subject for him.

We have basis of it in canon.

We can also see that Noah’s guilt tends to eat at him if he ever has to discipline Stiles or yell at him. As shown in the following scene.

I believe that the abuse Noah endured makes him a very scared individual especially when it comes to raising his son. He’s constantly afraid he’s turning into his father, his afraid of making the same mistakes. He’s afraid he’ll scar and traumatize his own as he was traumatized himself.

The fact that Noah is aware of what he’s doing, that he stops when asked is enough of an indication to tell us, the audience, that he isn’t his father. Once Stiles indicates he’s okay, or simply tells his father to stop, Noah stops immediately. He usually hugs his son or initiates a kind physical contact right after. 

He stops, he reflects, realizes his mistake, and tries to do better.

This is one way to break the cycle. Noah’s not perfect at it, we can see him struggle many times. He insults Stiles or his intelligence without meaning to, passing it off as a joke, he’s constantly working and is not around as much as he should be. And those are valid criticisms of this character.

But deep at his core Noah’s trying to break a cycle of physical and emotional abuse, he’s trying to be there for Stiles. Tells him to go to school, tries to keep an eye on Stiles and tries to talk to him whenever he has the chance to explore Stiles’s wellbeing and feelings.

This is a man who went through hell as a child, became a father, and decided to do better.

Noah is a character who effectively broke a viscous cycle and has a wonderful and strong relationship with his son as a result. It’s not without flaws and Noah’s not perfect. But he’s generally not abusive or an abuser. And that is a step in the right direction.

It also shows us, the audience, that no matter what home life you come from, you can arise above your own traumas and do better for the next generation.

-

Now Chris Argent is an interesting one. I already talked about Chris and trauma in my daddy’s little soldier meta.

Considering the type of person Gerard is, and how he treats several teenagers in the show. I believe Chris is also a victim of emotional, psychological, and physical abuse. We don’t know much about his home life with his mother, so that I can not speculate on.

What we do know is, Gerard has no qualms about hurting children and teenagers. He’s admitted that he would kill his own son if it meant he survived. He’s raised his own son to be a weapon and to compartmentalize his emotions. I shudder to think as to what methods Gerard must have used on Chris. But as we never see them, I can only speculate.

So how did Chris break his cycle of abuse?

By not raising Allison to be a hunter. For the first seventeen years of her life, Allison didn’t know the Supernatural existed. She was kept out of her father’s life until it was no longer possible. She was never raised as a soldier, she wasn’t raised to hide her feelings. If anything, her father encouraged her and nurtured her to the best of his abilities. Chris tried to be there for his daughter. 

He even moved her to France to get her away from their lives. He quit something he was raised to do and did it successfully, just to protect his daughter. He grew up to be everything his father wasn’t.

And while Chris, too, is not perfect at it, he does try and breaks the cycle.

He’s aware of their problems, addresses them, and tries to do better. He even extends this nurturing and protective side to Isaac later down the line. 

Chris, a victim of abuse, sees the signs of abuse in Isaac, and decides; this one, this one I will nurture and protect too. Which he eventually accomplishes by bringing him to France and away from the craziness that is Beacon Hills. (Would have been nice to get a good plot about Chris adopting Isaac, but well, that’s another rant.)

Chris, like Noah, shows that even if you were raised in the worst circumstances, by being aware of your trauma and how that affects others, you can break the cycle and come out on top.

-

And last but not least we have someone who went through an horrific event and possibly emotional abuse from his family, discovered he was a father, and then had to adjust.

I’m talking about Peter Hale.

Now Peter is not a morally good character in general. He has no qualms about killing people who get in his way. From what we know about his childhood Peter also had anger issues as a small child and often broke his toys. 

However, the reason why I’m stating that Peter was most likely emotionally abused (I think by his sister Talia) is because we know that Talia, would not believe Peter about the fire and the Argents and waved his concerns away without considering them. She manipulated multiple of his memories and frequently hid the truth from him. And we know that their relationship from before the fire was strained.

We also know that Peter does care about his family. He cared for Cora in the hospital and he does care about whether Derek lives or dies and tends to keep an eye out for his nephew. In later seasons we also see Peter caring about his only daughter Malia and even express fear for her wellbeing when they go up against the Anuk-Ite. 

His love for Malia is eventually what frees him from the Ghost Riders control and his wish for her to live is what motivates his decisions in Season 6 to try and keep her safe, and when he can’t keep her away from the fight, he joins her and tries to protect her.

Now I believe that the Peter we see in S1,2, 3 and S6B are the real Peter Hale. A traumatized man who believes his only way to stay alive is through manipulation and careful planning. But he does genuinely seem to care about a few people, Cora, Derek, and Malia.

In Season 1 Peter is still coming out of his traumatic event (being burned alive and then being in a coma) and he has to navigate a new world. He kills Laura (or so it is speculated) for her Alpha power and to heal himself. Because to Peter, he is the only one who can avenge his family and resolve the traumatic event he went through.

Revenge, of course, is generally not a good way to resolve trauma and the plan doesn’t work. His trauma is not resolved by killing Kate and he dies that night.

When Peter comes back practically powerless he has to navigate carefully and he does so through manipulating the people around him. To Peter, manipulation is the only way to stay alive and get ahead. This idea of his, had to come from somewhere.

This is where my theory of emotional abuse kicks in. Because if Peter was emotionally abused by his sister (for which there is evidence in canon), he most likely picked up his tactic of manipulation as a survival tactic.

Now out of the list. Peter is the only person who doesn’t fully rise above his past. The past still haunts him as he becomes a protector of Beacon Hills in S6B. But I firmly think that if we got to see more of Peter past this point, we would have seen a man starting his journey to recognizing his toxic traits and trying to do better by them. But that of course, is just speculation.

Peter’s story teaches us that the road to healing and becoming a better person isn’t always linear. It’s not a given that you’ll heal if you aren’t ready to accept it. Or if you’re so focused on getting revenge that healing is impossible, it’s also not going to work. And usually, trying to heal requires a positive presence in your life (Malia), a support system (Malia and the pack), and a willingness to recognize what you’re doing wrong and to better yourself moving forward.

Sources:

Breaking the Cycle of Child Abuse - Article written by a psychologist and peer reviewed by a psychiatrist

The cycles of violence - Article written for the WHO by the University of Birmingham

The Teen Wolf Wiki - for all information and episodes of these characters

Teen Wolf - MTV tv show that owns the characters.

[fanfoolishness]

on the subject of rocks (SUF)

Steven and Jasper have a long-overdue conversation.  Set two years after SUF, canon-compliant. A little angst, a lot of hope. ~2500 words.

***

Steven is eighteen years old when he decides he wants to try to speak with her again.  

If she wants to, that is.

He thinks he’s ready.  He thinks the conversation might dim the feeling of her fragments cutting into his palm, the weight of his crime crushing his heart, his gut, his gem.  Therapy has helped a great deal. But there are still nights he wakes up panting, remembering what it felt like to let go, to hurt, to shatter, and he wonders.  

If Jasper has the same terrible memories, the same haunting, then maybe they should talk about it.

He talks with Dr. Boverman for hours.  He wants to be sure this is right.  Not just for him, but he wants to make sure this won’t damage her further than he already has.  They go round and round.  They’ve spoken of so many things, old wounds that pierced and bled and fractured, but most of those wounds were done to him.

The blood on his hands is less than he’d once feared it was, but it still doesn’t scrub clean.

“It will always be with you,” Dr. Boverman’s calm voice says.  “You shattered Jasper.  You didn’t intend to, but it’s what happened.”

“I know,” says Steven, and the thought no longer incapacitates him with shame.  It was terrible, violent, the worst possible action committed at nearly his lowest point.  But he accepts it, now, accepts that this will stay with him always.  That it should.

And yet -- 

He and Dr. Boverman strategize.  Roleplay.  Hours of scenarios, how to accept if she never wants to talk to him again, what to do if Jasper says she isn’t ready, what to do if she lashes out, what to do if she fights him, what to do if she bends her hands into the Diamond salute.  Each scenario frightens him at first, sends his heart racing.  The first time they talked about it he glowed pink again for the first time in months.  But the terror fades a little every time they speak, and several weeks later, he thinks he might be ready.

***

Little Homeworld is always different and always the same.  It’s a comforting flow of change, new Gems appearing each time he visits, old teachers moving on.  His family is still there, of course, and he has plans to catch up with them tomorrow.  But today -- today he wants to know if this is the right time.

If there will ever be a right time.  And if there isn’t, he thinks he can make his peace with that.

He finds Jasper sitting on a fallen log at the edge of the forest, alone as he’d expected she would be.  A sketchbook sits in front of her, colored pencils at her side.  His footsteps crunch on autumn leaves.

“Jasper?” he asks hesitantly, ten feet away.  

She turns to look at him, her form unchanged from the last time he saw her, the stripe through her eye disrupted, her horn broken.  So she hadn’t gone to Yellow, then.  A thread of fear mixed with guilt begins unspooling within him.  Maybe he wasn’t ready after all.

Jasper snorts, a gruff smile spreading over her face.  “I wondered if you’d stop by, one of these days.  I heard some of the others say you were coming into town.”

“Hi,” says Steven hesitantly.  He takes a deep breath, remembering his strategies.  “I -- I’d like to ask you something, Jasper.”

“Shoot,” she says in disinterest, picking up a pencil.  She makes scratchy marks against the sketchbook paper, scribbles he can’t quite make out.

He edges closer.  “I was wondering… I’ve done a lot of thinking.”

“Sounds like you.”

Despite himself, he chuckles slightly.  “All right, fair.”  

“Thinking about what?” she asks.

“About you,” says Steven honestly.  “And me.  What I did to you.  What we did to each other.”  He lets out a long, tremulous sigh, returning mentally to his gemstone, taking deep breaths with his diamond as his anchor.  “And I wanted to see if you wanted to talk about it.  It’s okay if you don’t, or if you want me to leave you alone.”  Breath.  Another.  “I’m so sorry, Jasper.”

She glances up at him, giving him an odd look, then gestures beside her with a powerful shoulder.  “Go on.  Sit down, already.”

No ‘my Diamond.’  He’s more relieved than he’d expected to be.  He sets down his bag and sits down on the ground, resting against the log instead of sitting on top of it with her.  He sinks into the soft loam, leans against the fallen trunk.  It’s more comfortable than it looks.  A few feet between them seem like miles, or inches, he isn’t sure.

Jasper regards him coolly, tilting her head slightly to one side.  “Why’d you really come here?”

“To talk to you,” says Steven, his hands folded and calm in his lap, his breathing slowing.  “You told me once that I was the one who needed help.  I’ve been getting it.”

“Told you,” she says, but there’s no gloating in her voice.  She purses her lips, face tensed in concentration.  At last she says, “So have I.”

He blinks, hands coming apart, fingers falling open.  He raises his head and gazes up at her, wondering if he’s heard her right.  “You have?”

“You told me to do something better with my life,” says Jasper, picking up her sketchbook.  At this angle he can see what she’s drawn.  It’s a rock -- what was it with her and rocks -- but a tenderly realized rock, craggy edges shaded in carefully, mosses and lichens rendered in textured shades of green and brown.  

“Jasper, that’s -- that’s really beautiful,” says Steven.  He’s been working on his art, too, but he’s no good at the type of delicate detail work laced into her sketch.  “Who taught you?”

“Ruby,” she says.  She sets the pencil down beside her, hands tensing on the sketchbook.  “I don’t go to Lapis’ classes.”

“Right.”  Part of him is saddened to hear it.  Another part of him is grateful for Lapis’ sake. He wonders which of them he’s most like.  “It seems like you’ve really taken to Little Homeschool.  I’m glad for you.”

A small scoff of a laugh, but it softens at the end into something more like a real smile.  Jasper shakes her hair, its white strands catching in the dappled sunlight beneath the trees.  She looks… calm, like this, and it’s not a state he ever remembers seeing her in before.

“What about you?” she asks suddenly.

“I’m doing well,” he replies, still shocked that they’re talking at all.  It’s going far better than most of the scenarios he’d practiced with Dr. Boverman.   “I visit with my family every couple of weeks.  I’ve been spending a lot of time in cities lately.  All the noise and hustle and bustle… it’s different, sometimes it’s overwhelming, but I like the energy.  It’s… good.  It’s really good.  Connie and I meet up every week.  And I talk to my therapist.”

“What’s that?”

“A therapist?  Um… it’s like a healer for human minds.  But it’s not instant, like with Diamond powers.  It takes time.  A long time.”  He gives her a small smile.  “Sometimes it’s two steps forward, one step back, but overall, I’m feeling a lot better than… before.”

Jasper considers his words.  She leans down, and he realizes a shiny blue beetle is crawling over the tip of her boot.  He tenses, waiting.

Jasper watches the beetle go, making no further move toward it.  It ambles away peacefully.

“You are not my Diamond,” she says into the silence.

“No,” he agrees, and something inside of him unclenches.  “I -- I’m a Diamond.  But mostly I’m just Steven.”

“I hated you for so long.”

He fights an urge to be sarcastic, to bite back at her.  This doesn’t sound… angry.  He keeps quiet, and lets her speak.

Her hand clenches into a fist, heavy against her thigh.  “I thought that if you could stop being weak, if I could make you stronger, I would have my Diamond again.  My purpose.  Someone to protect, someone to serve.”  

She stares into the woods, and he remembers his hands and legs awash in pink, the glow as he tore through the trees beneath a starry sky.  He remembers jagged laughter, his gem humming, a power crueler than he’d ever felt before --  

“I know.”

“Don’t ‘I know’ me when I’m talking to you,” she snaps.  “I’m trying to -- arrgh.  I thought this would be easier.”

“You thought what would be easier --” he starts to ask.

“You know.  Talking.  Ugh.  It’s nothing like a good fight.  The target keeps changing.”  She crosses her arms, still staring off into the trees.  The sun shifts overhead, casting her face in shadow.

“That’s called a conversation,” he says gently.  “Battles are battles, but a hard conversation… it can hurt.”

“Now you tell me,” says Jasper, and it takes him a solid minute before he realizes it’s a joke.  He laughs, but it’s too late, and Jasper shakes her head.  “Look.  Steven.  I -- I’m sorry.”  The words are hasty and fumbled and fast, but he catches them, barely.

“You’re sorry?” Steven yelps.  “But I’m the one who shattered you.”  It still comes out like a dirty word, almost two years later.  He wonders if he’ll ever be able to fully say it, if he’ll ever be able to act like it hasn’t scarred him.  He hopes not.  “I’m the one who should be apologizing to you.”

“You have.  Just now, and before,” she says, shrugging.  “But I only said I’d teach you to get you to fight me.  And you did.  And I lost.”

“Because I lost myself, I lost who I was, you didn’t make me --”

“But you were off-color,” growls Jasper.  “You were -- what do you humans call it again --?”

“Sick,” he says softly.  Such a small word.  It barely begins to cover everything that went wrong two years ago, but he knows CPTSD won’t mean a thing to her, and that’s okay, that’s not what he’s here for.

“Sick,” she repeats.  “And I --”  She digs her hands into the tree bark, small flakes of it crumbling beneath her shaking hands.  “I made you worse.  So that I could get something I wanted.  I failed to protect my Diamond from myself.”

“Jasper --” he gasps.  “You’ve been blaming yourself? For me shattering you?”

“Someone’s got to do it,” she huffs.

He rubs the back of his neck with his hand, tries to take another deep breath, reminds himself to return to the thought of his gem as a centering point.  He can do this.  He can do this.  It’s just, this isn’t how he thought it would go at all.  

He closes his eyes.  Remembers the way she screamed at him, punches in the gut, the face, the sides.  Remembers the way she goaded, the way she pressed, how proud she looked of how frightening he’d become.  He doesn’t know what to say.  “I -- I was sick,” he manages finally.  “I -- you’re right.”

“Of course I am.”

He shakes his head at that.  “But I’m still the one who did it.  I still have to take responsibility for hurting you,” he demands.

Jasper gives him an appraising look.  “Hmph,” she says, and he doesn’t know if it’s a hmph of agreement or a hmph of disdain.  It’s hard to tell with Jasper.  She holds the silence an uncomfortably long time before she says, “Maybe.”

“This isn’t how -- I wanted you to be mad at me,” Steven admits.  “I wanted you to be pissed off! To tell me to get away from you!”

“I can still do that,” says Jasper, apparently turning the thought around in her mind.  She chuckles, very slightly.  “But if that’s an order, I’m ignoring it.”

He laughs.  “You’re full of surprises, Jasper.”

“Am not.”

“You kind of are.”

“Don’t be so surprised then.”  She picks up her pencil, returning to her sketch.  Grass starts to grow beneath her rock, verdant blades springing up from dark soil.

“I thought you hated the local ecosystem.”

“It has its functions,” says Jasper begrudgingly.  “If I leave the grass it provides better contrast for the rocks.”  She picks up a different shade of green, adding highlights.  “It’s still puny.  But it has a purpose of its own.”

“What’s yours?” he asks, then kicks himself for getting so personal.

“Only if you tell me what yours is.”

Two years ago, the request would have paralyzed him.  Two years ago, he’d have panicked, spun out with a lie, tried his best not to think about who he was and what he was supposed to do.

He just smiles.  Breathes in the fresh green air, so different from the machine-smell of the big city.  Beneath the green there’s a hint of salt, the promise of the sea.  It smells like home.

“My purpose is to be Steven,” he says simply.  “To be myself.  To grow and change.  To love myself, regrets and all.”

“Sounds all right,” says Jasper begrudgingly.  “Sort of like mine these days.”  She turns to him, frowning.  “You got something to write on?”

“Uh, let me see.”  He rummages in his bag.  “Oh hey!  I have my sketchbook, too.”

“Well?” Jasper says, pointing to the boulder before her.  “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

He flips through his sketchbook, passing pages of silly Connie faces, a self-portrait in pink and white, Lion poses, CPH classic fanart.  He settles on a blank page and Jasper shoves a green pencil into his hand.  He feels smooth wood, the lightness of the organic drawing implement rounded and gentle in his palm.  No sharp edges, no jagged fragments, no terrible weight dragging his clenched hand into the hot water.  He blinks back tears.

The sunlight shifts, the golden hour arriving, brilliant light shafting through the leaves above and lining the forest floor in spun-gold glory.  His hands don’t quite have this kind of magic in them, but he tries his best, his drawing including sketches of the rock, the grass, the trees beyond them. He adds a gleaming line of yellow at the edges.  He’ll show it to Dr. Boverman at their next appointment.

“Not bad,” says Jasper, peering over his sketchbook.  “You added the trees.”

“It just felt more complete that way,” he says.  He glances at her drawing.  The rock is resplendent, resting on gold-touched grass, light captured in patches against the mosses and lichens.  “You can see all of this?  It’s incredible, Jasper.”

“It’s just what it looks like,” she says stubbornly.  “It’s a good challenge.”

“Like a conversation,” he says, half to himself.  

“Something like that.”  The breeze flutters past them, carrying faint birdsong, the far-off scent of the sea.

“Thanks for talking with me, Jasper.  I know you didn’t have to.”

“Of course.  I do what I want,” she replies, and her voice is gentler than he’s ever heard it.

[beautifuldarkmind]

tw // s*lf harm, su*cidal ideation (sorry)

Hey, it’s the creepy NHS anon here.

Thank you for responding to my ask! I’m sorry you had such a rough time getting a diagnosis. You shouldn’t have had to go through all of that. Honestly it sucks that the NHS is so reluctant to diagnose anything mental health related.

When I was 14 I thought I had depression and anxiety. I finally convinced my mum to take me to the doctors when I was 16. The doctor was super nice. She tested my thyroid function just to make sure nothing else was causing my feelings, then referred me to CAMHS. That was…an interesting experience. I remember asking my counsellor to diagnose me, but then at the next session she said she couldn’t, that it “wouldn’t be helpful” because I was still growing. Now that I think about it, one of the days I was at school and during a class I was furious for some reason. I even said to a classmate that I was willing to fight anyone who got in my way. Despite my mum disagreeing with me, I cancelled my appointment that day. (My mum was worried they’d stop my sessions all together if I cancelled, but they didn’t.)

Fast toward to recent years and I’ve been on and off attempting to get a diagnosis. Last year (so when I was about 18) I asked to be referred to the autism clinic, and thankfully the GP accepted, but the clinic is still closed and even when it’s open I’ll still have to wait, possibly several years. Then I made another appointment (different GP) to be referred to a psychiatrist. She refused, saying that GPs are trained to deal with mental health issues. I brought up OCD, so she asked where I got my information from. When I told her I researched it online, she just brushed it off and then did the typical depression/anxiety test and she said both were severe, then said “take some drugs” (which is didn’t because I didn’t trust taking drugs prescribed by someone who did a 3 minute yes/no type quiz without actually fully exploring my issues).

I spoke to a different GP just over a month ago to get a fit note for my Universal Credit. It was supposed to just be to make adjustments to what I was supposed to do, but he didn’t ask what the note was for, so he marked unfit for work. Which is great because that’s secretly what I wanted but feared being judged by people around me for thinking I needed that (particularly my parents). I mentioned that I thought I could have OCD and CPTSD, and he didn’t deny it but he simply said CBT helps for both. He then asked if I was currently doing CBT and I said I’d done it before but I quit. (That’s a whole other story but tldr I really don’t think it was for me, or at least the “therapist��� wasn’t.) He said he would send a self referral link.

Fast forward to a few days ago and I had another appointment with him to discuss my fit note (because it only lasts for a month and you have to go back to renew it, which sucks). He asked if I had referred myself to CBT and I said I hadn’t yet because I didn’t want to, and he said “please do that for me” in a somewhat stern voice. I then brought up BPD and I think he said he would refer me? Honestly I was a bit overwhelmed because he called 40 mins early and I was in the car with my dad, so I was super weary of him asking questions about what I was saying to the doctor (but he didn’t). He then brought up PD support groups, which I’m considering doing, but you have to call up the place and I literally hate phone calls. Oh, speaking of which, all the appointments from the autism one onwards were all on the phone, so not only was I struggling to process what they were saying to me most of the time, but I was also so anxious that I couldn’t articulate my feelings properly. :)

Anyways, I am 20 now, which I only mention because I feel the same as what you mentioned. My brother is married, my childhood crush is married, my friend who I introduced to my friend group who then proceeded to discard me is getting married. Everyone seems to know exactly what they’re doing. They all have friends. But not me. I haven’t had friends since I was 14, and even then I don’t think that friend group was entirely wholesome. They made me feel like an outcast, like I was weird, that I needed to be more like them and not be like me. Which has probably contributed to me having a very vague sense of identity. And I feel like I’m still 14 and yet everyone is expecting me to behave like an adult. I’m supposed to know what I’m doing with my life even tho I literally cried in the shop when I was pressured to choose between 2 pizzas.

I have no support system. My own parents seem very dismissive of my problems, equating everything to social anxiety. When I’m stressed out of mind to the point of feeling suicidal, my parents say “that’s just life”, which…well, feeds into the feelings. For years I’ve felt stressed. Then if I’m not stressed I feel absolutely nothing. And if I’m not feeling empty I am angry, sometimes for no reason. And if I’m not angry, I am curled in a ball trying to bottle up the urge to self harm and batting away suicidal thoughts.

It’s like I have a huge chain pulling me down underwater and everyone else is in the beach drinking cocktails or something. Sometimes I thrash and try to get people to notice, but people think I’m just having fun. Other days I just feel like letting the chain pull me down.

Please forgive me for rambling and probably not having a very consistent train of thought in this post. I have a tendency to blab on about my “problems” (if they even are that), I guess as a way to connect? Idk. This post makes no sense.

I hope you’re having a good day. <3

- 🌸✨ (in case I send another ask again, but I’ll try not to because I don’t wanna bother you)

So sorry you're going through something similar. My GP sounded exactly how yours was, the typical anxiety/depression test and then just throwing those at you.. they dont seem to be trained in diagnosing and they dont want to hear anything more either. It's honestly almost impossible getting a diagnosis through them, the system here is really messed up... its just disappointing and seems to be failing so many people including you.

It does sound like you're going through a hard time, it's not nice especially when you feel a loss of self identity, you dont even know who you are and just feel lost in life. I think that was definitely the main point of realising something was up.. I had a VERY distorted view of myself and others around me and that was why I'd often self sabotage everything and then I'd feel so empty and angry at the world and just explode...

If you can go privately then do so, therapists are not able to diagnose and they will usually tell you 'we don't like to label' but even without a diagnosis you can still see if you can access DBT therapy. Amazon also has lots of DBT workbooks that I've used and its helped me to really understand myself!

If you often feel invalidated by your parents then that is known to cause BPD or borderline traits, especially if you've been suffering with mental illness in childhood and they tried to claim that it was nothing....you mentioned anxiety and I was told the approach my parents may have took to my severe anxiety is what brought on many of my symptoms of BPD. You start to feel ashamed of yourself for feeling that way because your caregivers make it seem like the issue isnt important and you feel as if your feelings dont matter also because that is how you have been made to feel.

I'm not saying this is definitely the cause but in my case I was told that the constant feeling of invalidation may be why I have such a warped idea of myself and why I cannot regulate my emotions. I was never told HOW to regulate or shown how to, just told to ignore my emotions and now I dont know how to deal with them😀

but yeah I'd really recommend taking a look at some of those dbt books online or reading more into it so you have a better understanding of yourself. You've already taken the first step and that's identifying that something may be wrong so you are self aware and clearly want to change for the better 💕

I hope everything works out for you, it's not nice feeling this way but you've got this 🥺🙌

[qwertyfingers]

Hi, I'm curious, could you elaborate on what things people in SPN fandom produce that you wouldn't have been able to filter out as a teen? I'm not really sure what you're referring to. Problematic porn? Bad takes? Wanky fan activity?

okay uh CSA, incest, and suicide trigger warnings for my answer here lol

first off i dont. really think you actually need me to explain this to you and the way this is worded really feels like either an attempt to minimise some truly atrocious shit or like, imply that i think highly of myself which is not true? i'm full of bad takes bro. i don’t care what people are posting as long as it’s not harmful. but there’s a few layers to the issues i was referring to yesterday

1) while it’s gotten a LOT better over the years, the defense of john’s parenting still happens fairly frequently, and as a kid who related extremely deeply to dean’s specific brand of Menhol Eelness that kind of defense of abuse would have really messed with my headspace! it’s messed up in and off itself to defend people who harm their kids - even unintentionally! - but the way that it specifically affects children who are still being abused is the worst of it. every kid with CPTSD who’s ever had to see someone defend behaviours they recognise from their own abusive family as done out of or as excusable because they had a good reason remembers that shit for the rest of their LIFE

there are echoes of what happened to me in dean, both in the abuse and trauma itself and the way it affects him in the aftermath. to see those things minimised by fans can be really re-traumatising for people. i’m very glad that my exposure to it comes at the end of several long stints in hospital and several years of intensive therapy. i don’t know that 18yo me who attempted suicide on a near weekly basis and hallucinated my abusive step father in my house all the time could have coped with takes like ‘its okay because john was drunk and alcoholism isn’t his fault’ or ‘john wasn’t abusiv he was just grieiving’ or ‘john didn’t abuse dean, everything he did was reasonable for their lifestyle’ without becoming deeply unwell. 

2) we also all already know how much deeply fucked up incest content gets made and shared in spn circles. like, okay,  have made peace with the existence of incest shipping. i blacklist that shit and i move on. most of it is avoidable and i can kind of forget about it if i’m being careful. but some of spn fandom is on another level. people write and draw some shit that is like, actively triggering on the ‘call my therapist and beg to be sectioned’ level. i had to renew my lorazepam prescription for the first time since lockdown started lmao.  one of the fandom darling artists literally posted graphic dean/jack porn on their blog next to their really popular castiel art like. i’m not kidding when i say that would have made me hurt myself when i was younger

3) there are a LOT of really weird interactions btwn minors and adults in this fandom and while thats noit something that the corner of tumblr/discord i move through has any real problems with, i still see shit go down in other circles / servers, and the things i saw on the  periphery when i was younger tell me it used to be wayyyyyyyyyyyy worse. adults actively encouraging like 13yos to read/write porn, children being pressured into incest content, 30yo+ people having intensely sexual interactions with minors like. 

as someone who is generally of the belief that ‘minors n adults shouldnt interact online’ is the dumbest shit i’ve ever heard, supernatural fandom does sometimes make me think im wrong and wish i could set everyone under the age of 18 in a safe enclosure away from some of the insane people that go here like. 

in general i think that teens having adult friends in fandom is good becuase it allows an avenue for discussing legitimate issues you have and they can be really helpful to help rpotect young people! I literally owe my adult fandom friends from my own childhood for giving me the lagnuage to talk about the abuse i faced and they were the first people who ever made me feel like i had a way out of my situation. without older online friends i might never have found out that the reason i had no interest in sex was because of trauma, or figured out that the reason reading fic about women or trans men upset me so much was because i was projecting my trauma onto them, and with cis mens bodies i didnt have that issue. i owe all of those things to adults who in the modern day might be chastised for being friends with me because i was young, but i needed them! 

all this is to say that i think the breadth of inappropriate adult/minor interactions over the years have led to an environment where a generation of 20-somethings are now terrified of interacting with teenagers (for fear of becoming the adults who traumatised them), and a generation of teenagers who are largely terrified of talking to adults (for fear of being traumatised) and miss out on guiding hands that some of them really need. if the adults in your physical life harm you, and you cannot turn  to adults on the internet, what do you do? 

4) i’m so tired of people writing underage porn, bro. there are enough adults in this show, grow the fuck up

[hillbillyoracle]

Question and Answer: A Shadow Working Method

My partner has been working through some rough shadow work stuff lately and stumbled upon a method independently that I had been using a few years ago and I wanted to share it here in case anyone might find it helpful. I used to think of it as texting myself but question and answer is probably a better way of thinking about it.

But First, Why?

So much of why shadow work is difficult is because our brain is working against us. It doesn’t want us to look in the shadow. Whatever our brains find threatening winds up in the shadow and it will do it’s darnedest not to notice it. One way this manifests is through our automatic thoughts.

We get used to thinking in certain ways without question. We assume truths; often without realizing it. This is actually a good thing. You don’t want to be guessing about everything in your day to day life. That would be exhausting. But some truths that work their way in there aren’t so true. Or at least they’re not so true anymore – those who’ve done trauma work understand that precarious line.

So what we need in some shadow work is to slow things down so we can see more of these automatic thoughts and interrogate them a bit more consciously. Using a question and answer format helps us do that.

How?

How I usually did this was to open a word document and use one initial for my questions, usually and F for what I thought a friend would ask me or T for what I thought a therapist might ask me, and another initial for my answers, just M for my first name. And I’d start by writing how I’d vent to a friend, going over what I was feeling and how I understood the situation. Then I’d pause, take a deep breath, and try to think of what a friend or a therapist would ask me about the situation. It might look something like this.

M: I’m so fucking pissed at my friend right now. They keep overreacting to things and it’s making me feel like I can’t say anything to them. I feel like I don’t have anyone to talk to these days!

F: Are they usually like this?

I try really hard to keep the questions neutral because true friends aren’t usually ones to be super judgmental. Sometimes it helps to act like someone else wrote what I did and ask myself what I’d ask that person. Sometimes I’ll even try to be reassuring or kind though that’s more for a self care approach than shadow work which kind of needs to be uncomfortable to work.

M: I mean I guess not; it really feels that way though. It’s happened a lot recently.

F: What’s a lot look like?

M: Idk at least once or twice a week

F: What’s going on in their life right now?

M: They’ve had a lot of stuff going on at work I guess.

F: Do you think that might be impacting them?

M: I’m not sure.

F: Would you be open to asking them about it?

M: Yeah, I guess I could.

Here, I might reach out to the friend and ask how they’re doing with their work stress and that they’ve seemed a little stressed out. If I’m really feeling up to it I might offer to help them in some way – prep meals for them, be moral support when they need to vent. I’ve found a lead for my immediate need but it’s key that I don’t stop here. Because I want to find out what caused such a strong reaction in the first place.

F: It sounds pretty upsetting when friends can’t respond the way you’re looking for, where does that come from?

M: I’m not sure, it just feels really bad, you know.

F: Is it because you aren’t getting what you want?

M: No, I can handle that. I think it just makes me feel like I’m too much.

F: What does it mean to be too much?

M: It means I’m alone and no one can handle being around me.

F: So it sounds like it feels really isolating when you feel like you’re too much. Have you felt that way before?

M: Yeah some of my exs made it sound like I was too much to handle. Some of my teachers too used to say that.

F: So you’ve heard it from people early on. Did isolation usually follow?

M: Yeah usually there was a break up or I got sent to some room where people didn’t have to deal with me.

F: Oh so it sounds like some part of you is expecting to get rejected when your friend reacts like this. Is that really what’s going on?

M: I’m not sure? Like I think I worry about that on some level yeah.

This is a real example by the way. This is how I would work through something that came up for me recently with this model. I wound up using a different way but this way would have worked wonderfully and I’m thankful to my partner for reminding me of it.

But What if I Can’t?

That’s fair this is something that there’s plenty of barriers to for many folks. If you’re used to being around toxic family members or friends, it can be hard to imagine what a neutral third party might say. When I was struggling, I tried to ask myself, what would I want a friend to say? But this too can get complicated because maybe you’d want a friend to explain it away for you and make you feel better so it can swing into unhelpful territory.

So in that case I’d have some stock questions in mind to answer, prepared when you’re in a neutral to kind headspace and have them around for when something shadowy comes up. These are some that generally come up for me in some form or another but you should add your own.

What happened in the most clinical terms?

What am I feeling?

What do I want?

What do I feel ashamed of?

Who or what used to make me feel this way?

Does this feel the same?

Is this actually the same?

What am I pushing away? Why?

How can I be kinder/firmer with myself?

What then?

Then you might find you’ve got a stuck point – a belief that feels true and is causing problems for you – or you may have stumbled onto a trigger. Emotional flashbacks as a paradigm are a core part of how I do shadow work so I don’t say that lightly; for more on that see Pete Walker’s work on CPTSD.

If you have a stuck point, write it somewhere that allows you to come back and revisit it every few weeks and see if what feels true has shifted. Think through what experiences you would have to have to move the needle on what feels true and try to seek them out safely.

If you’ve found a trigger, get to know Pete Walker’s 13 Steps for Managing Flashbacks. I recommend most people with triggers work with a therapist but I know that’s not always accessible, even with insurance, so if you aren’t able to the best advice I have is to be gentle with yourself and know you’re not alone. You’re not defined by having triggers but by how you mange them.

Conclusion

I hope this is helpful for folks. I know it’s helped me out a lot and my partner���s been making really good headway with it too. Let me know if y’all have any questions and I’d love to see where people take this with regards to their shadow work.

If you liked this, consider tipping me here. 

[losttrans-lation]

”Do one thing everyday that scares you.” - Eleanor Roosevelt

Today was spontaneous. Which is something I’ve never truly been great at, but today I accomplished a goal. I went to the San Genero Festival and I didn’t have a full blown break down.

For my new followers who don’t know me, I suffer from CPTSD, which normally makes crowds really challenging for me. I never really enjoy attending large format events because I get overwhelmed, claustrophobic, anxiety ridden, and I can have panic attack’s.

It was the first time, in a very long time, that I actually enjoyed something so crowded. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t free of disarray, but it could of been much worse that it was.

I went early afternoon with @l.a.sjogren and her mother, and hunted out a restaurant for lunch. Then we walked around for a bit, and the crowd got really thick all of a sudden, which instantly started to make me insanely anxious. It passed quickly and we escaped the heavier crowd, then we did some light shopping. The anxiety passed as the day went on...

However we had left before I got to get some Italian sweets, and I had my mind set on buying these gold oak earrings I was eyeing earlier that day. I went uptown, to see if some friends would join me, but no one was free tonight. So I made a decision, to push through and go alone to the festival again. Something I never do, because I’m always too scared, I’m gonna have a problems with someone or myself.

I nervously headed back downtown as the sun set, with the earrings as my mission, and turned up the Spice Girls blaring in my ears. As I began walking up the subway stairs, I was stunned. The crowds were much worse at dusk, and upon arrival, I felt the middle of my chest start to throb relentlessly. I was starting to have a panic attack, and I felt utterly hopeless that I’d come all this way to have to go home.

I stopped, brought myself over to the side, and focused on trying to stay calm. I counted down from 100 by three, and tried to remind myself how much I wanted those earrings, rather then send myself into a panic. I started to relax, then I pushed myself into the crowd. Bobbing and weaving through the masses. My temples and cheeks began to become soaked wet with sweat, as I maneuvered through the people. Passing by strollers, wooden barricades, and even some tattooed white police officers.

The festival was alive at night, a beast in its own authentic right, but I tried to concentrate on the goal. The smells of the food, the loud brazen conversations, and rattling music created a haze clouding my mind. I started seeing the little lights down the blocks, bead up and then star out with gleam. I was becoming overwhelmed...

And then, I came across something, that struck the very core of my soul. In the corner of my eye, across the street... Candied grapes. Little red orbs on skewers, all poking out of round foam bowls, with the other candied fruit. These were something I truly loved, as a child in NEPA, and not something that’s findable everyday for sale. They sold them at the Italian Festival in Scranton, Pa - every late summer.

I couldn’t help but think of the sweet memories my mind began to conjure. Times when my family wasn’t arguing, times when I just got to be a child, and times when I was happy. Too often happiness was something I used force myself to be, when I wasn’t really happy at all... but today, it cleared the thick haze in my mind, from blinding me of finding joy in the festival at all.

I admired the candied grapes, like a dog eyeing a chunk of fresh beef, savoring the very moment it would touch my lips. I waited at the counter, asked for the treat, exchanged cash with the old Italian man, and grasped one straight off the skewer before I could even snap a photo.

It crunched in my mouth, as the grape bursted open, flooding my tastebuds with tart juice. The now hollow sticky sweet strawberry flavored shell, cracking with each snap of my jaw. Oh what heaven! What sweet solitude! I teared up a little, and thought about how something so utterly simple, could bring me back to a place of such joy.

I stepped between two booths, and thought to myself, how I wouldn’t of even remembered that, if I didn’t come back to the festival on my own. I took some deep breathes, pulled out my phone, and changed the music to Cher. Her voice began to echo between my ears, and I started breathing a little easier. Time to find the earrings...

Along the walk to the earring booth, I rattled through a grilled corn on the cob, a pink lemonade, one oversized chicken spedi kebab, and some homemade zepolis. Belly at max capacity! And while my face was covered in powdered sugar, I saw the booth shining across the street. Finally, I had reached my destination, and I was still somewhat in one piece.

The booth owner, who’s curly grey hair was now tied up, instantly remembered me. I had joked with her while admirering her wares. She greeted me with a warm open smile, grabbed my hand, and asked me if I had enjoyed the festival today. I smiled and nodded, then expressed my interest in the gold oak earrings. She wrapped them up, and as I passed her the cash, she made note to tell me “she’d knew I’d be back.”

I kindly thanked her, then continued further into the crowds, heading towards the exit end of the festival. As I reached the end, with earrings and even an extra grape skewer, wrapped up in my freshly bought bag. I wondered how much of my life I’ve missed because of fear... and how much I’d given up, because of it.

Something that might not be fixed overnight, but something that I’ll keep working on changing for the rest of my life.

Our journey does not define us, but reminds us, of who we truly are. Don’t let fear taint your existence.

#writer #writersofinstagram #transexperience #m2f #trans #transgender #cptsd #mentalhealthawareness #mentalhealth #onedayatatime #lessfearmorefun #creatingchange #vunerability #growth #survivor #myjourney #transtumblr #blog

[mszegedy]

30 Days of Autism Acceptance: Days 11-16

This is a list of questions by @autie-jake (full list here), where you’re supposed to answer one per day for every day of April. I keep forgetting to do these daily, so here’s all the days since my last post. My last post is here.

April 11: How open are you about being autistic? Do you usually tell people?

No, it never leads to anything good. Instead, I act like my autistic traits are normal, and other people’s allistic traits are weird. I will say things like, “You know how horrible it is to try a new food and find out that it’s the wrong texture?” and then call them weird when they reply, “No.” But I don’t bring it up without a purpose; my next line is then, “Huh, weird. Well, anyway, [anecdote involving autistic trait].” This is usually when I’m explaining how my day went, or if someone just told a different, relevant anecdote.

Or if someone asks, “Why do you flap your hands when you’re excited?” I just say, “Being excited makes me want to move, which I think is pretty normal. Why, how do you express your excitement?” (I’m genuinely curious. I still don’t know the answer.) I also recommend various kinds of stimming to people who are stressed out. I think it helps.

Hopefully this builds a clear image for people of what’s normal for me, without the label. And perhaps when another autistic person later tells them it’s an autistic trait of theirs, it won’t be so exotic for them.

April 12: Talk about social skills and communication. What kind of things do you find hard?

My record time for ordering at a Subway (with no queue) is around 15 minutes. That’s my record lowest time. I find it difficult and intimidating to make sense of the menu, and to ask for the ingredients I want. I’d rather just order a complete thing.

I have trouble answering questions about myself. This is partly because “myself” is not a very meaningful concept to me, but also because I find it hard to remember what I’m like, and to monitor my thoughts. This has less to do with autism, maybe, and more to do with my DID (or similar condition).

People’s brains are very opaque to me. I can sometimes guess at what a person’s feeling, but I never feel like I have a good model of them as a whole. I’m a lot better at figuring out what the family dog is thinking. His favorite activity is licking things (as a stim I guess), and sometimes he gets hungry or horny. When his fur is wet, it’s really uncomfortable for him texture-wise. He has an erratic sleep schedule, and hates it when I stay up too late. He’s afraid of ledges, but if he really needs to get down one, he’ll steel himself and jump. He loves the first 20 seconds or so of freedom when he gets to go on walks, and will gallop at top speed every time, because that’s the only time of the day that he gets to do that. That’s a lot more sentences about the family dog than I could write about any given human. I think I know these things about humans, too, I just don’t feel like I can rely on them or string them into a coherent whole. Although, people also have significant amounts of episodic memory, unlike me and the family dog. So that’s a complicating factor.

I’m very bad at telling how uncomfortable I’m making people. I do my best to not actually hurt people in any way, but they still get unfomfortable around me because I’m “weird”. (The fact that I’m trans doesn’t help.)

People rarely like my apologies. Part of that is my whole fight-or-flight complex owing to a history of abuse, though. I tend to over-apologize, and people think it’s insincere or annoying.

April 13: What kind of things do you have trouble with as an autistic person? Why do you think you have trouble with it? What helps?

Executive dysfunction is a thing. Whole books have been written on how to beat that. I don’t know what works best for me personally. Making lists, letting myself fail or partially fail, and breaking things down into extremely small steps are all pretty helpful for me. In general, reducing the “RAM” tasks take is the most effective strategy for me, because I have very little ability to remember what I’m doing, both on the short term and long term.

As I mentioned previously, I’ve been serially unable to learn how to drive. This might have to do with a traumatic car crash I had as a kid. No solution yet.

I’m very bad at hearing. I like headphones the best. They can beam whatever I’m trying to hear directly into my ears.

I can’t be at parties, like most autistic people. At college, I’ve done bartending in a safe, relatively quiet corner at a party once or twice, though, as well as being a doorperson. (It’s ironic that the party organizers act grateful that you’re doing the door shift, but then most of your time as the door person is spent shooing people back inside so that they don’t get too loud and cause people to call the police. It’s like staying outside is a privilege.)

April 14: What would you like other people to be more aware of when it comes to autism?

I can’t think of any one thing. I don’t think the average person knows any autistic traits in particular. It would be nice if they at least knew one. Also, the obligatory, “People should know that autism occurs in more than just white boys.”

April 15: Free day! Write about any topic you want!

The rest of my neurotype is rather exotic. Apart from ASD and ADHD, I have DID-spectrum dissociative issues, blending into PTSD and CPTSD-like issues thanks to multiple and sustained traumas. I’ve started keeping a journal to help me track my day-to-day life, because these things mean I have an extremely poor episodic memory. It’s very time-consuming, but I’m only doing it for a 30-day trial period. What helps is that I’m not writing the journal to myself; I’ve made many other attempts to start a journal, but I couldn’t get enthusiastic about writing to my own self.

April 16: Do you experience hyper empathy or low empathy? Talk about it. What is it like?

I have hyperempathy. I often get more emotional than the person I’m feeling empathy for. This can be overridden by my DID-related defense mechanisms, though. When defending myself, I can be mean to people I perceive as threats without remorse, except for a more abstract remorse when I reflect on it later. But otherwise, I get extremely happy whenever I get the sense that someone is having a good time, extremely sad when other people seem sad, very embarrassed when someone is making a social mistake, and so on.

I’m not very good at watching dramas by myself, because when anything happens that I know will make the characters feel bad, I can’t watch it, so I pause it and come back to it like 15 minutes later. If I’m watching with someone, though, I won’t pause it; but I might cover my face and/or ears.

[finsterhund]

Childhood Emotional Abuse and the Resulting Unhealthy Fears Involving Comfort Items

For those unfamiliar with the concept of comfort items/comfort objects the idea is simple. People, children especially, become emotionally attached and find comfort in an inanimate object. The most famous example being Linus’ blanket from the Peanuts comic.

Studies have been done that show comfort items being more common among children living in suburban communities and in cultures where parents are expected to work full time and spend long periods away from their young children. Rural communities where parents stay closer to home and work in jobs that can be done on one’s own property see comfort objects in children less.

It used to be believed that a comfort item was evidence that a child did not have a healthy strong bond to their maternal figure, but more recently it’s suggested that developing a bond with a comfort item can also be the first steps to independence from a parent as a child explores their personal identity being separate from their provider. It being the first thing that is theirs that they have responsibility over.

Comfort items are also fairly common in children with developmental disorders, and adults on the autism spectrum can often have them as well. They serve as a means of grounding one’s self and finding familiarity, security, and safety in an unfamiliar or perceived unsafe environment.

And with that understanding it should come at no surprise that people with trauma disorders will have comfort items as well.

Recently I’ve been trying to rationalize why I have such an unhealthy view on the physical health of, and personal responsibility for the natural wear on my comfort items. I’ve seen many others who don’t seem emotionally devastated by comfort items fading, greying, losing their softness, becoming threadbare and such. There’s more an interest in protecting the textile feel of the worn stuffed toy than there is in making them bright and soft again. But for me it’s a source of emotional anguish.

To me the physical wear on any of my stuffed animals (my comfort items are almost exclusively stuffed dogs these days) is the source of significant mental duress. To the point that I will suffer not bringing them places because I fear for their safety. At the cost of my own comfort.

I have figured out what I think is the reason for this.

I have severe abandonment, attachment, and loss issues and these have been directed at my comfort items due to the sheer amount of times in my early childhood that mine were stolen, harmed, and destroyed by my birth parents. Often times as a punishment or as an attempt to forcibly “cure” me of my mental illnesses.

Warning: the following few paragraphs will be discussing this. In explicit detail. I want to get it out of my head. I want my experiences out. I want them heard. But they are tough to hear.

My earliest memory of a comfort item being stolen were the most common way my birth mother punished me for anything and everything up to about age 7. My birth father physically abused me which many people will rightfully say is worse, but the things my birth mother did were severely emotionally abusive. Bear in mind, the reasons for this “punishment” weren’t always bad things that I had done. Off the top of my head some of these reasons for being punished were:

Not paying close enough attention when something pertaining to her religion was being done or said

Complaining about something to do with her religion in any way was immediately and severely punished. Was pretty much the only time she herself physically abused me.

Stuttering when reciting passages from the bible (bear in mind this was age 3-6 and I had a significant speech impediment)

Being selectively mute

Speaking out of turn

Crying. For pretty much ANY reason. Including fear, hunger, and pain

Accidentally hurting myself

Not eating properly (holding cutlery right, chewing properly, being a picky eater)

Showing visible fear or apprehension in public

Not wanting to be held, hugged, touched, or picked up

Showing resistance towards intrusive, uncomfortable, or unpleasant medical procedures

If it was severe enough (it angered her enough to resort to violence) she would “safely” beat me with her hand or a wooden spoon, but most of the time it was a psychological punishment that took advantage of my Achilles's heel: stuffed animals.

Now even though I definitely was not ready, she forced me to sleep alone starting around the age of 2. I was one of those kids who was TERRIFIED of sleeping. (not of the dark yet, but that’s coming, oh don’t you worry) I did not feel at all safe in the house when it was day time, and was constantly afraid and looking over my shoulder and alert of impending dangers. My ears constantly pricked for the tiniest of sounds. This is common for CPTSD sufferers. It’s hyper-vigilance. Anyways, this was worse at night. It was too quiet, and my birth mom was often at work. That was when she worked. Night shifts. So naturally being without her (despite her shortcomings I trusted her and relied on her back then) it was scary. This was also the same time frame that the Spot incident happened which messed with my brain severely. I remained a bedwetter up until around 10 due to this and further complications because of how I was emotionally abused.

The point I’m haphazardly getting at and providing context towards, is that I would usually be punished by having my stuffed animals taken away at bedtime. Knowing, full well, that they were the only things that helped me feel safe. She made a big deal about this too. Mentally degrading me for it. Sometimes she’d take them away one by one to further incite fear. She made sure to know each of their names and made it seem like they were going to be emotionally harmed by being taken away as well. I remember one distinct instance where I didn’t want to recite whatever bullshit she was trying to record me saying on camcorder (I was also scared of cameras) and I whined and tried to run away. She pinned me down in place and said that for every mistake she’d take away one of my stuffed animals. I couldn’t talk. Evidently we got down to all of them (about five) at which point I began sobbing and pleading with her to have even a sliver of empathy. She did not.

This punishment sits comfortable in the timeline coincidentally around the same time that my nyctophobia first started to present itself/develop. It also aligns with when I was locked in my bedroom with the light bulb removed for hours at a time as a punishment. I could not in any way verbally react to being forced to sleep in the dark with no stuffed animals because my birth father would just beat me. Even crying relatively quietly. At that point I was unrelenting and “the only punishment that worked” was physical violence. Everything else had been taken from me. I’d pass the hours by holding as still as possible and breathing shallowly. I was given a nightlight by a relative eventually but this was also frequently stolen from my room for bedtime as a punishment. My memories of this blend together with being forced to sleep in the dark later into my childhood. It was all the same: The completely cover yourself with a blanket, not move or make any sounds, and hope you mercifully fall asleep even though it feels like you’re suffocating under there thing.

My birth mother rarely relented with the bedtime punishments. Even though I would spend the rest of the day begging her to. She could pretty much force me to do things just by threatening them. I tried to be as good as possible but it really felt like she could do it at any time, no matter what. Like she was deliberately looking for things that would justify it.

She showed a lot of resentment towards me and did psychologically abusive things like this frequently back then. She did let up with time. Early in my life she harbored a lot of resentment because my conception had ruined her life, career, and tied her into an abusive marriage and she did, no question, take it out on me. I think a big reason why it stopped is because in order to get me ready for kindergarten I had to see a speech therapist and they immediately told her that she was being fucking batshit and making me worse.

I don’t 100% blame her for this. I know full well extremists in her religion promote this as “proper child training” and she was extremely gullible, believing pretty much anything that was spoonfed to her with the trappings and flavoring of her faith, and that a lot of the time my birth father would make her punish me or else he’d physically assault me. But still, it’s obviously something that destroyed the way my brain works. I was something she didn’t want. That she didn’t value. She learned to love me (or at least the concept of having children. She doesn’t value ME per say, as an individual or for who I am) later, but the early childhood developmental damage was done. We can dance around the issue of who’s responsible, who’s guilty, who’s at fault all we want but in the end it happened and I suffered for it.

Going back to what I mentioned earlier where if it involved her religion she’d go feral, at one point when I was a very very very hyper 5 year old stuck inside for Sunday school instead of getting to play outside on a bright warm summer afternoon like a regular boy I had brought a dog with me named Swirly. A golden retriever with slightly curly fur fabric and a soft fake rubber nose. He had been bought at a Rexall drugstore. Anyways, I was bored out of my fucking mind because I was 5 and was forced to sit in a stuffy dusty room and listen to big complicated grown up words from a six thousand year old “translated into extremely dated English” book and started stimming with Swirly by moving his ears up and down and similar small, non-obstructing things. Once Sunday school (hour and a half) was over it was pretty much time for the regular church service (hour and a half to two hours) so for those wondering that means a 5 year old boy who is very hyper having to sit still and do nothing and “pay attention” in extremely uncomfortable clothes his birth mother forced him to wear for a total of around 3-3.5 hours. So, knowing that the five or so minutes between the end of Sunday school and the beginning of the regular service would be the only chance I got, I began running around in the church basement and tossing Swirly up in the air and catching him. A fun activity to get some of my pent up energy out with and stretch my legs right? Wrong. My Sunday school teacher who was an asshole and an absolute lying manipulative scab got all snappy and hostile towards me and tried to force me to hand over Swirly. She had never hit me, she had no power over bedtime, so of course I wouldn’t obey. Fuck you. So I refused to hand over Swirly and easily avoided her by running the fuck away and hiding in the storage closet. She then snitched to my birth mom, claiming that I was a “serious disruption” and being “disrespectful” and “not paying attention.” My birth mom then took me outside to scream at me, took Swirly, locked him in the car, and then when the ordeal was finally over she took me home and beat the absolute shit out of me and then wouldn’t let me sit down after because I’d get blood everywhere so I was forced to stand but I ended up just lying down face first on the floor because my legs got too tired. Swirly was kept on a high shelf in the cupboard for a month as further punishment. Part of me thinks I still have him... somewhere... I renamed him to a character in a book I liked. But yeah. In case it wasn’t obvious I hated going to church. Sure the windows were cool and it taught me the valuable skill of staring off into space and daydreaming about cool space battles and shit, but it was so much a waste of time that I will never get back. I also wasn’t allowed to bring toys with me after that. Made me hate it even more. Congratulations.

I was immune compromised and that factored into stuffed animal theft a lot. She would frequently take my stuffed animals and force them through the washer and dryer. On hot cycles. Sometimes used bleach. This destroyed many of them and caused further distress. I started actively fighting against attempts at washing my stuffed animals with tooth and nail; hiding them, attacking with violence, and the classic begging and pleading and hysterical sobbing. It was at this time she introduced me to a book called The Velveteen Rabbit. This book actually has extremely positive messages about the wear and tear of children who love their toys making them “real” which likely would have helped me with this if not for how I was introduced to the book but it ended up being completely ruined for me because instead it was used as a cautionary tale of “let me wash your stuffed animals or I will BURN THEM” because of the boy in the story having his possessions burned due to scarlet fever. I really don’t know what it is about Christians and burning things. Specifically stuff that’s made for kids. To this day if you burn something meant for kids I will laugh at your funeral. You are a detriment to society.

So anyways, I was threatened with fiery stuffed toy execution if I didn’t let them get matted and torn with chipped and shattered safety eyes in the washer and dryer. At one point I did get a stuffed toy burned. By my birth father. I don’t remember why but I do remember him tormenting me about it, degrading me, and being physically restrained as he threw the penguin who’s name has long since been repressed in a far recess of my brain never to come out again into the woodburning stove. I remember the event like an out of body experience where I was only loosely connected to the physical plane. Like I’m not in control of my own body. Most of my traumatic memories are like this. It’s like I try to forget that that was me and that I’m watching a movie instead. My brain humanely doesn’t show the actual burning. Only the toss.

I’ve had other things burned. Books, VHS tapes, computer games, drawings I’ve made, etc. They’ve all been extremely traumatic and my brain blocks out most of them. I remember I had a Dragonball computer game or something (all I remember was it was a disc) and my birth mother burned it because she was under the impression that Japanese cartoon styles looked “evil, hateful, and demonic.” This happened sometimes too. I wasn’t even being punished. She was just a religious lunatic who thought kid-friendly media that didn’t promote her religion was dangerous and needed to be destroyed. She frequently got parenting self-help books that promoted beating your kids and burning secular toys to show your kids that they were evil. She eventually eased up on this with time though and I went from being screamed at for wanting to watch Pokemon at 4 to getting to own Pokemon cards and Harry Potter books (bot not letting my birth father find out) at 12. 

Things being burned happened a little bit later into my life, around 5-10. The stuffed animal theft (with them being returned eventually most of the time) was from earlier. Theft of personal possessions that held significant emotional value to me was continued to be used but it stopped being used as a punishment and started being an attempt to “cure” me of being mentally ill. “Weak” as my birth father called it, but as I’ve come to suspect “easily identifiable as being abused in the home” as being the true motivator. They were under the impression that I needed to be forcibly made to stop having comfort items altogether.

I had trouble with sensory feelings. I could only wear specific fabrics, clothes that fit a certain way, and would become severely distressed if forced to wear an unsuitable fabric or something too tight. As a result I would become attached to articles of clothing for feeling just right. I had a pair of bright green shorts and they were my favorite shorts. Even though the only damage that ever befell these shorts was easily fixed, my birth mother decided that I was relying “too much” on these shorts and tried to hide them. I found them. She then destroyed them in my presence to “teach me a lesson.”

Things like this happened frequently throughout my life. Another instance I remember vividly, when I was 8 or 9 was when me and my brother got happy meals from McDonald’s. They came with a little stuffed toy. My brain can’t piece together what it was, repression and all that. But I remember it being red. My birth mother had taken us out to McDonald's for some positive reason. Because we had good report cards or something. Anyways, so we had McDonald’s and went back home but she forgot something at the restaurant so she went back to get it. Leaving me and my brother alone with my birth father who decided for whatever reason that we hadn’t deserved McDonald's so he came into our rooms to beat us and take away the toys. My brother submitted quicker than I did and I heard him hit the wall and not cry after before my birth father went to me. I had a death grip and absolutely did not want to let go. I put up more of a fight and he physically assaulted me, squeezing around my throat with one hand and tearing the toy out of my hands with the other. It ripped. I tried to take it back and he repeatedly slammed my head into the metal bars of my bed frame, causing bruising and broken skin on my right temple.

My birth father frequently did shit like that. Just decide out of the blue that we didn’t deserve something or needed to be taught a lesson. My birth mother when she was around would come between us in these circumstances so he often waited until she was gone. He didn’t like us being “spoiled” with praise, nurturing, rewards, and food so he’d often treat us this way after something positive happened like we went with my birth mom to see a movie or to the swimming pool. Getting a new stuffed animal was usually grounds for harassment.

Honestly the fact that this was so common it’s a wonder that I’ve managed to keep the most important stuffed animal from my early years with me. Battered, worn, falling apart, missing his face, with skin grafts and a loose eye Ope is worse for wear, that’s putting it lightly. But I still have him. My guess is that it’s because he was given to me by my grandparents and they died when I was five. My birth mother had and still has a lot of remorse for leaving them, for not listening to them about my birth father, etc. His connection to them probably saved him from destruction or being thrown away. I’m not complaining. He matters so much to me. Despite how badly he’s fallen apart all these years he’s the only stuffed animal who’s degradation doesn’t cause me as much emotional stress. It still makes me sad when I think about it, but that’s just Ope. I still chew on his nose. Some things are eternal.

The last time I had to deal with parental stuffed animal theft was later. Within the couple years or so before my friend rescued me and took me in and we shared that fateful first apartment. At that point my birth father was gone and the locks were changed. He wasn’t living there. Because of my high school’s disability program I had got a part time job. Yes me. With a job. It was possible at one point. Anyways, while I was out, being the SOLE BREADWINNER of the house at the time, my birth mother for some fucking reason decided to take a bunch of my stuffed animals to the thrift store. In her infinite wisdom she didn’t think far enough ahead to consider that:

Going to thrift stores is one of my only recreational activities. 

That I did so very frequently. 

And that exact thrift store was my favorite one to go to. 

Never mind the fact that eventually I would have noticed when I got out my stuffed animals to brush them for stress relief. She really did think I was that stupid. It went about as well as you’re thinking it went. I went to the thrift store, went to the stuffed animal section. “Oh. I have one of these! I have one of these too. Wait... the dent in his safety eye is the exact same one that I--” And then I was in HYSTERICS as I had to buy back as many of my stuffed animals that hadn’t been sold yet as I could. My brain repressed pretty much everything after discovering that they were mine. Can’t remember bringing them up to the front or coming back home. I was absolutely DESTROYED. Why the fuck would she have ever thought that this was an okay thing to do? I don’t know. 

When I went back there to clear the old house out several years later she had the nerve to get mad at me for wanting to donate things I didn’t want (but she wanted me to want), as if she hadn’t snuck behind my back and done it to things I actually held value in, taking advantage of me being at work to do so.

Looking back on just how much my comfort items were exploited to abuse me and torture me for the crime of existing it really isn’t a matter of WHY I get so manic about and attached to the ones I have now. You should be able to see the clear path of progression that lead to me being so terrified of bad stuff happening to my things. I also have to wonder if this didn’t also contribute to my unhealthy addictive and obsessive personality. I was misdiagnosed as being on the autism spectrum and I wonder if my hypersensitivity, special interests, and the like are the result of being punished for enjoying things and having boundaries. Maybe my new psychiatrist will be able to tell me that. But for now I just wanted to write out a bit of a memoir about these sorts of things. It feels good to acknowledge and expel them onto the internet.

Where I am now I am constantly buying stuffed dogs, each with their own name, each being cared for and valued. Some are more important than others: 

Tiny, bought for me by one of my best friends Rob/Fishytales who is my immediate go-to when I’m having mental problems to just hold close. Afraid to let anything happen to him he mostly gives comfort by just being there. A reminder of what a great friend Fishy is. 

Whisky, who goes with me to conventions as part of my cosplay, who I hold in my arms when I sleep and who’s deteriorating softness has been the subject of many a late night vent post or cry. 

Wheezy, who I bought at a flea market where I eventually got robbed and lost everything else I bought except him because I held onto him. A meme parody of the original Whisky who ended up being the one I brought around in public when we were searching for a new place to live and I didn’t feel safe where we were crashed for the time being. 

The beanie baby dog army, toys used to be kept as an “investment” now selling for a dollar a piece and easy to buy in perfect condition. A reminder of my early years and great high quality stim toys who look cute and are satisfying to hold. My four favourites being the one I had as a toddler, the one I always wanted to have but was never able to, the one that’s named after my first childhood dog, and the one who was also a dalmatian like the first aforementioned one. (Dalmatians used to be my favourite breed) 

The customized beanie baby dogs with wings, just like my dream stuffed animal I’ve always wanted to have, and just like my imaginary friend who became my voice when I had none. 

There’s the Vicious plush and the Andy plush, characters from my favourite video game who brighten up my room and make it feel safe.

I have a little red pillow that is technically a comfort object. I’ll always hold onto it.

And my Andy hat helps too doesn’t it? It’s like armor for when I go outside. Being Andy is my first line of defense for fears and trauma woes.

Last of all is Ope. Who despite looking like a rotting corpse has kept me moving forward and feeling brave. Who comforts me with his textile feel, smell, and just by being there.

And you know what? So many people, even now, have at one point felt the need to berate me about my “stuffed animal problem” as if my 1 dollar each beanie babies are as much of a crisis as your super expensive but socially more “acceptable” adult grown up hobbies, or in any way comparable to having thousand-dollar-limit credit cards or car payments or whatever.

Like no offense, but it couldn’t be more obvious that these mean so much to me because of severe trauma and child abuse. Your lack of compassion or failure to acknowledge another person’s life experiences is demeaning and degrading. Wow. How dare I buy stuffed dogs at thrift stores and occasionally on ebay and want to get collars for them and bring them around with me everywhere. It might not be that way for every child with a comfort object, but mine WERE because I didn’t have a bond with a maternal figure. And I still don’t. I don’t know what it’s like to have parental guardians. I don’t know how to feel safe. I have violent nightmares almost every night and wake up with bruises all over my legs. Apparently I’m not loud during these nightmares so they’re easy to ignore. I get that. Fine.

But listen. We are mortal, only here for a little while. We shouldn’t have to suffer just to appear normal to appease some industrialist dehumanizing status quo. We should do things because it makes us happy, because it makes us feel safe, because it gives us comfort, peace, and enjoyment. We should care about comfort, health, safety. That means having a home, medicine, food to eat, and of course, things that bring emotional well-being. Like my dogs do for me.

And when you ridicule me and make fun of me for doing what I can to feel safe in this big scary world, you are serving as echos of the same violence that refused to let me bring them to school, that took them from me to try and force me to be “normal,” that stole them from me to punish me for things that children just do, because their children. You echo the way they were stolen to “cure” me of things of which there isn’t a cure. Which DOESN’T WORK. It only causes further mental damage. So all you’re doing is being the ghost of that damage. making so that I can’t escape it, recover, or heal.

I don’t know if I’ll ever not feel guilt for my stuffed animals showing their age, getting dirty, and little accidents that sometimes just happen. Maybe with time I’ll stop projecting blame onto myself, the victim of what happened, and realize that I was just a regular kid in an irregular situation. But until then I DO know that YOU shouldn’t be projecting shame onto me for something that harms no one.

I wish I could go back to when I was five and knew how to stand up to people. To tell adults that invade my personal boundaries “No.” Because telling me how to live my life is the definition of invading my personal boundaries. And you need to stop.

I’m proud of my stuffed animals. I care about them. In spite of how I was raised to perpetuate violent and fear I want to treat them with love, respect, and dignity. They’re not just worthless, disposable, things. I love them.

And my first step to standing up for myself and not taking blame for things that aren’t my fault will be bringing them with me. Keeping them with me. I will not be ashamed of them. I have not only suffered but survived horrors few children in the western world go through and my stuffed animal entourage is my reparations. I have the right to have them. Especially after my past. 

They give me independence. And that there’s something I have control over in this world.

[ridingthattrauma-train]

About Us

The system. I/we haven’t named it.

Rosie, 19, female, asexual. I front 90% of the time. I experienced prolonged abuse and neglect ages 0-11, and then was in the foster care system from 12-18, where additional verbal abuse and medical neglect happened. When I aged I got my own place. I’m disabled due to injuries from when I was little. I started therapy a year ago and was diagnosed with DID, HPD, and PTSD (CPTSD).

I don’t have social contact beyond my therapist and my social worker, and never talked about what I was experiencing (that turned out to be DID) with anyone until this therapist. So she has suggested I explore some online communities for people with DID so I can hopefully meet people and make friends who have been through similar things. So here I am.

Lucy is 14, female, probably straight but she’s not sure. She’s protective and can get really angry. She used to yell and throw things and break stuff, but she’s gotten a lot calmer since therapy started. She never sleeps which has been really hard on the whole body, but she has meds now that help when she’s front and it’s bedtime. She loves fast food and watching MMA videos on YouTube. She’s pretty much 100% co-conscious, and I think will probably make a blog.

Hannie is 4 and doesn’t think about gender. Hannie is pretty much terrified all the time, she shakes and her eyes are always really wide and she jumps at everything. Hannie loves to make forts and hiding places, and has a permanent hiding spot in the closet and a sort of nest thing behind the couch. Hannie is obsessed with all of the Shrek movies, Shrek toys, the soundtracks, coloring books - everything Shrek. Sometimes it helps her calm down. She remembers lots of bad stuff.

There are three other alters that I’ve named but am not ready to discuss - Red, Wolf, and Dorothy.

I’m pretty nervous about posting this but it seems like a good step.

[howiend]

friday night instructions tw.

trigger warning(s): questionable consent, sexual scenerio, language, mature themes, stokholm syndrome, npd, cptsd.  i had been at home on a friday night, lounging around in old pajamas and eating popcorn when i got a text from corey with vivid instructions that jessie was coming over. and she was coming over for a reason. that reason was i was to make her cum with my mouth and then film it. my stomach knotted as i looked at the text, tossing my phone to the bed. i knew it was wrong; i knew that this situation was fucked up. corey, sat at his house that he lived in with his girlfriend, texted me — his slave, essentially, that his sidekick was coming over and i was to make her feel good. i was to be a good girl. the thought of the situation truly made me want to cry and i began to shake, knowing that “no” wasn’t an option. the last time this was brought up, he told me what he thought. ”i don’t give a fuck if you’re uncomfortable,” his voice was harsh even via text. there was no out of this. i sighed, counting to 10 to calm my nerves before texting him and saying “okay”. i then got up and jumped in the shower, getting ready for a visitor that i wasn’t expecting and honestly, wasn’t in the mood. i’d never been with just girls before — sure, i kissed girls and they were fun. but i’d never shared an intimate moment with a woman, not like that. because i wasn’t interested in jessie - i wasn’t attracted to jessie. but it didn’t matter. i had orders and i knew that not doing it would be even worse than just stomaching it. jessie and i hadn’t gotten close yet. we were still on each other’s lists of people you didn’t trust. she knew about me while i didn’t know about her and corey. she’d been fucking him behind my back as well. i didn’t trust her one bit, but corey asked me to try. i knew corey truly cared about her. i knew that there was something about her that drew him in; whether it was her easily controllable nature or the fact that she would do literally anything for him. and i thought i would doing anything for him. turns out jessie was even deeper than i was. once i was showered and i had cleaned up my place a bit, i heard a knock at the door. opening it, i saw jessie smile and step into the house. setting her things on the ground, jessie looked at me and smiled, “you don’t have to do this.” i laughed and opened my eyes widely at her, “yes i do. you know i do.” “no,” she began, but we both knew. even then. “we both know, jessie, so let’s just..come on,” i said, at least trying to make fun of the situation that i was completely unprepared and truly uninterested in. as she walked into the bedroom, i sat down on the bed and she sat next to me. she hummed a little to herself. her long brown hair fell down her back as she looked at me in the glow of the room. i sat in front of her before she reached out, rubbing my arm to which i fell in suit of touching her arm and rubbing along her skin. anxiety had me shaking, but i just kept moving. i turned my brain on autopilot as i made her lay down and get naked. as she removed her clothes, i took my phone and began to video her. the sway of her hips echoed the screen before she laid back down on the bed. ending the video, i undressed as well before then getting between her thighs, giving the skin a kiss at her thigh. she smelled like this musky earthy smell. like rose hemp oil. her eyes were low and her hair up in a ponytail. i kept my eyes on her as i began to taste the most intimate part of her, something that should have been reserved for someone who loved her. who cared for her. and i think that is what made leaving her so hard. she stayed with him when i left. she betrayed me — after everything we had been through together. i was never in love with jessie, but i cared for her deeply. for her safety, for her life. things that jessie didn’t care about herself — so why should i care? as i tasted her, unknowing to her many other outings thanks to corey, i heard her moans echo throughout the room. the camera was pointed at me, but my head down. only my glasses slipping off the bridge of my nose were visible behind the curtain of hair. as it became more and more intense for jessie, she began to drop the phone - which i was told that she was to be the star of the show. i grabbed it and pointed the camera at her, giving my jaw a break and using my fingers. 1, 2, then 3 as she raked her fake nails along her smooth skin. her skin was a soft olive color. no visible scars, but she was damaged underneath. that much i knew. misery knows misery. we were back burners. we were toss aways and here we were, doing something that probably neither of us (i can’t speak to jessie) wanted to do. for a fucking man. looking back, i wanted to slap myself for even considering it. as she moaned, i pointed the video at her, hooking my fingers just enough to make her collapse into oblivion on camera. i watched as stars twinkled in front of her eyes and her skin came alive. as she came down, i went to the restroom and washed my hands. when i came back, jessie smiled at me and patted the spot next to her. “he gave me instructions, too,” she began, running her fingers along my bare chest. there went my stomach again. knots. knots that tugged so tight that i still remember the gut feeling of wanting to disappear into a hole. i hesitated as she told me the instructions that were left for me. due to me being on my period, jessie was left with the other option and one that corey liked to use and abuse whenever he wanted. “i don’t know,” i said, really anxious. that was more intimate than what i had just done. i couldn’t do that. i couldn’t. she wanted me to try. she tried. “cmon just let me try, you might like it. if you don’t, it’s fine,” i remember the reassurance. i hated every second of it. i hated that i let her do it. i hate that i let corey make me feel forced to do it. his words echoing throughout my head the entire time i ‘ooh’ed and ‘ahh’ed. i faked it. moments later, after the video was done and the lights had died down. jessie looked at me, heads running through her head, “did you cum?” “yeah,” i said, dismissively. “but did you really?” her eyes narrowed and she knew. she knew i hadn’t. “i’ll make you cum one day with my mouth! i will!” i laughed lightly at her tone as she got up and began to get ready to leave. i remember staring at my bed from the floor for awhile, knees against my chest, wondering how i’d gotten so far in that i couldn’t find my way out.

[revlatte]

Can I Be Me?

It goes without saying that almost everyone that knows me is aware of my love and devotion to Nippy, Whitney Elizabeth Houston. It was a national tragedy when she transitioned from this life 8 years ago. Devastating. 

Since her passing, there have been several documentaries about her life and the struggles she faced with sexuality, belonging, and just being herself. Sidenote: My belief is that Clive Davis collaborated with Nick Gordon to intentionally murder. She had recently signed the largest music contract to date for $100 million and ten years. Almost destitute, Clive Davis advanced her quite a bit of this money, only for her still to be in financial trouble at the end of her life. It was very clear to Davis (and the world) that “The Voice” was gone. Instead of the effortless long notes and melodies to which the world was accustom, we received broke, short, notes pregnant with despair and suffering. For Davis, the predatory music producer, there would certainly be no return on his investment. Tours and music deals had been canceled. What a flop?

I believe it was at this time that Davis began to have conversations about how to reconcile this issue. For Davis and Arista, Whitney was worth far more dead than alive. Alive, she was an embarrassment and liability. 

Nick Gordon stood to benefit from the fall of N. Once she was gone, Bobbi Kristina (Whitney’s daughter) would inherit the money. As N’s long term “adopted” son, Nick had become very close with both N and Bobbi Kris. Sure ‘nough, after Nippy died, Bobbi Kris and her Aunt (damn her, too!) took control of Nippy’s limited assets. 

A few short years later, Bobbi Kris died in the same way... head down, in a hot tub. Common denominator: Nick Gordon. 

And just a few years after Bobbi Kris’ untimely and suspicious death, Nick Gordon died in the *same* way as Bobbi Kris and Nippy. But, ya know, Clive Davis and the music industry had nothing to do with the elimination of Whitney and her daughter from the face of the planet. Just hours before his death, Nick Gordon was consumed with the death of his late “fiance”/ wife, tweeting about the circumstances around her death.

Nevertheless, Whitney could not escape from the shadow of her past. She had a very colorful period (if not demise) during her long-term relationship with R&B’s Bad Boy, Bobby Brown. It was a disaster from the start. Whitney and Bobby’s collective drug use, spending, child neglect, and acting out was painful to watch. They were toxic, codependent, and just... terrible. I do wonder what friends stepped in, assisted, attempted to break the cycles and illuminate the destruction. 

Friendship can make the difference between life and death, success and failure, pain and sorrow or joy and liberation. Friendship. Being known. Being seen. Being loved unconditionally. Being enough. 

As many Nippy friends recall, CeCe Winans sang “Count on Me” with Nippy on the Waiting to Exhale soundtrack. It’s the last song that plays, after a year of watching these four Black women, on their New Year’s Eve together. As many know, Nippy and CeCe were long term friends. In fact, N made sure that CeCe and BeBe were professionalizing their performances, had the appropriate outfits, and supported them emotionally, financially, and spiritually. CeCe has done all but to distance herself from Whitney. In fact, I recently attended a concert where she did not acknowledge, in her autobiographical comments from the stage, anything about the friendship with Nippy or how she supported them. Instead, “safe” and “more appropriate” reference points were offered to the packed, almost exclusively Black, audience. 

And where was CeCe during Whitney’s downfall? Why couldn’t we offer the same level of support, compassion, and understanding to Whitney that we offer the countless white women who flood our screens with their housewife and reality TV shenanigans? Whitney, once America’s Sweetheart, was demonized and vilified in our press and collective conscious. I can only imagine how this must have felt. 

Through it all, Whitney denied herself time and time again to be of service (and profit) to others. One documentarian excavated, from Nippy’s life, one of her favorite refrains, “Can I Be Me?” Nippy just wanted to be “normal” and live a life that focused on family and joy. But everywhere she went, she found herself. She could not escape the mistakes, pain, or tragedy of her past. She was always gazed upon through the lens of failure and judgment; or at least that is how it seems from my vantage point. 

Without doubt, Whitney experienced trauma and abuse. Whitney made mistakes. Whitney, like many Americans, struggled with addiction, self-worth, and mental health. And guess what, she made mistakes and bad decisions along the way. 

But, she “found her own strength” and began to rebuild herself. Though she was not the best actor, indisputably, she put her all into this career and vocation. She found excitement and joy with having meaning and purpose again. She was connected and surrounded by a community of people who loved her, kept her well, were gracious, compassionate, understanding, and loved her unconditionally. That sense of purpose, meaning, and respect was life changing for Nippy. After many years of struggle and heart break, a musical career that was near its end, she was beginning to find her way, home, again. 

And just like that, she slipped through the cracks. Just when she started to live life on her own, for her fulfillment of joy and liberation. 

But when she died, the news outlets and headlines flooded with Whitney’s past, drug use, relationship scandals, and negativity. I was sickened to my core. My stomach turned over. Even in death, there was still a need to vilify her living. Yet, this occurred while simultaneously taking pauses from our national news cycle to honor her accomplishments and living. It’s a particular type of dark schizophrenia that, unfortunately, we have all become used too. 

And oh, don’t I know it too well. 

Let me be clear: I have made mistakes (even recently!). I had made bad decisions. My poor decision making has harmed myself and others. At times, I have been ambivalent about life and endeavored to self-assassinate (an attempt at humor). In these moments of feeling low, not being able to manage my mental health, and feeling disconnected, I could not see a way out of the desperation of despair that consumed my spirit. I struggled with my addiction, acting out, and codependency. I was a mess. A whole ass, fucking mess. 

Then one day, I hit a bottom, finally, and looked at myself. Puffy eyed, tears streaming down my face, I stumbled to get off the cold floor as my friend helped pick me up. I was so caught in despair and hopeless that I punched a whole into the bedroom wall by the closet. Then, we walked to the bathroom to clean up. I just wanted everything I could not have. As I started into the mirror, I saw the person looking back at me in a new way. “ENOUGH!” I yelled. “STOP!” I screamed. This. Is. Bottom. No more of this. No more living like this. No more chaos. No more fuckery. No more drama. 

The lyrics and melodies of Nippy lifted me, as usual, from a place of hopelessness and despair to a renewed sense of hope and eventually peace. It’s been several months and at least three seasons since that day. Each day gets a bit easier, though, healing is not linear. 

As I attempt to stabilize my life and build new patterns of being in the world, I am called to consider the questions for the liberation of my soul:

- Is this decision/action life nourishing?

- How does X increase my wellness?

- How is/are these Ys in alignment?

I’ve developed new patterns, routines, and supports to facilitate in my recovery. And, I feel new, loved, revived. 

All of this as I am still navigating the complex web of trauma and lived experience. So much trauma. It is overwhelming to consider at once. The last 8 years have been a learning experience of understanding and coping with Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (CPTSD), which is different and nuanced than PTSD. How can I be me when I’m trapped in trauma cycles?

The last several months have been devoted to uncovering, recognizing, and transforming these cycles. However, it is hard to stabilize if you do not have a physical home... It is difficult to find peace when you cannot do the basics of supporting yourself because you cannot find gainful and meaningful employment (that, in and of itself is embarrassing, humiliating, and defeating)... It’s hard to live in the shadow of  failed businesses that were supposed to provide means for collective economics and liberation. And sometimes, it’s just hard to get out of bed. 

But most of all, it’s difficult to be in recovery, start a new life, and be a transformed soul on the path of healing, wellness, and recovery when people only see you through your past, trauma, chaos, fuckery, drama, and pain. Completing simple tasks, like adjusting resumes, performing job searches, trying to find community, and authentically connecting require so much emotional labor that it’s overwhelming. And instead, I do nothing, relive former trauma, and am reminded of how far outside the web of mutuality and interconnectedness I feel. I can see and watch the people I formerly knew, shared meals with... folks that stayed in my home... folks that I considered family... build and find joy, anew. I observe networks forming, shaping, and shifting and me being there to watch from the outside. Or the folks that you affiliate with all going on and planning trips together, engaged on group chats, hanging out and you just never being enough to be included. It fucking sucks. I can only imagine what Nippy must have felt. Can I Be Me?

How do we share with people who have written us off, who have sent us messages that end with “wishing you all the best” but don’t contact me again, to the people who said we’ll never be different... that I am healing. And recovering. And getting well. And not to judge me for my past, mistakes, fuckups, and chaos? To allow me to show them that I am better? How do we create spaciousness for both brokenness and healing simultaneously?

Here I am... again. Wondering, wishing, waiting. As my folks approach retirement, I realizing that enough is enough. It is time for me to settle down, do the same thing, get in a career, align with vocational calling, and build a future for me and my family. BUT, how does one do this when the networks of people with whom I was formerly connected just see me as deviant? A monster? Not enough? Too emotional? Too much? When you know that before you even touch the knob of the door, it will never be opened and there ware no windows that will open either. In many ways (incarceration, housing instability, lack of depth within social network, financial instability, failed relationships, closed doors to job opportunities), I am constantly being reminded that I am an outsider, unwelcome, not enough, under valued, not respected, and no... I cannot be me. 

Whitney, as we enter the season where we remember your life and transition, I am grateful for you. I see you, fully. You and I are made from the same dust and will return to the dust from which we were made. 

Here’s to hoping that someday, we’ll all be free.

[the-roci]

@silver-89 replied to your post“Unpopular Opinion: fandom is too quick to forgive Amos for the things...”

But Alex put hands on Amos first? And it's pretty clear that's a thing you just Don't do to Amos because CPTSD responses aren't controlled. Amos had to pull himself back from that response and it was clearly a struggle. I don't think it's as simple as "he has childhood traumas" and I'm sorry if anything I've ever posted about Amos seemed to say that when what I mean is "he has C-PTSD" which is different and more complicated than PTSD. I don't mean to make excuses for him. I absolutely hated the altercation with Naomi and I wish there'd been a different resolution to the altercation with Alex because I think they dropped it. But what I understand of C-PTSD and how it alters a person's moral compass and how their empathy works . . . I'm not sure it's fair to hold Amos to a standard he was never taught.

Alex touched Amos first, but I don’t think that equates to threatening to kill someone. Especially after Alex was essentially baited into having a potentially more aggressive reaction. Honestly though, I find it difficult to talk about who was at fault for what in these situations because the lines are often blurred, multiple missteps that led to an explosion that could have been contained. It always turns into a spiral of ‘well this person did this,’ ‘yeah, but then they did this,’ and holy hell, stop this ride because I want to get off.

I agree that someone’s mental state can absolutely alter their actions in the present moment, which absolutely happens with Amos, but I don’t think it’s fair to expect everyone surrounding Amos to adhere to a general code of conduct, or to use the fact that he was triggered as a justification for what happened -especially when he has shown some level of understanding and growth when it comes to basic human emotions (when he apologizes for manhandling Naomi, for example). Granted, that was one step on a journey that’s likely going to be many miles, but I don’t think it’s acceptable to excuse what happens along the way.

Using childhoods and mental disorders as validations (for lack of better word) is such a slippery slope. It’s the reason people woobifying villains (Loki never meant to try to commit genocide, he just had a really trouble childhood, Grant Ward wasn’t a mass murdering fuck head, he was just abused as a child, so of course he’s not going to know it’s not acceptable to murder and abuse other people. Childhood aside, but they’re doing is wrong).

The compelling thing about Amos is that he chooses to not go down that path. He knows he’s capable of it, but he rejects it, or at least, does his best to. He does whatever he needs to do to find, and stay, with people who will point him in the right direction, and then he figures out how to get there. How strong do you need to be to unpack your shit and find this level of understanding? To put work into bettering yourself because the alternative is unbearable? Amos is an example of the lengths some people have to go through to either 1. Overcome their shit or 2. Manage and deal with their shit because overcoming it isn’t an option.

Through all of that though, when he is triggered, or he does have a violent response, I don’t think justifying it with C-PTSD works, just like I can’t shrug and say, “well, I was having a manic episode when I did that, sooo...oooops.”

Does C-PTSD  that play into it? Certainly. Should it be involved in the conversation? Yes, but not when we’re talking about the other characters and their own feelings about what happened to them. I also don’t think people should feel like they can’t point out that Amos fucked up or did something awful without having the diagnosis looming over everything they’re saying, ya know. 

[mentalillnessmouse]

(tag syn pls) How do I stop punishing myself & my body for being sick? I'm chronically ill and mentally ill and I constantly find myself hurting my body (not eating, eating to much, self harming, purging etc) and hurting myself/my brain (not going to my psych when I should, isolating, triggering myself etc) because I feel like I deserve it and I'm frustrated at myself/my body for letting me down almost. I've got CPTSD from chronic child abuse of all varieties and I know that has something to 1/?

(tag syn) I know that has something to do with all of this, like I can even recognize I’m doing these stupid behaviors but I can’t stop, and that just makes me do them worse to punish myself worse, it’s a horrible cycle and I’m just staring outside of myself, watching it happen. (I’m also dxed with DID so dissociation’s huge) I want to stop I just have no idea how or where to begin. I hate myself and I hate my body I hate that everything around me and about me fails. 2/2

Hi anon, I give you a lot of credit for reaching out to us. This is a great step in the right direction towards stopping the cycle of self-sabotaging and self-destruction. Small steps like these will add up over time to getting physically and mentally healthier. Beginning this recovery process is going to take time to get yourself motivated and stay that way,  but when you are feeling motivated to take steps forward, maybe start out with small types of self-care, like eating a meal if you haven’t in a while, staying hydrated, or taking a shower. like I said, little things add up. I highly recommend you reach out for support from someone, preferably a MH professional. You said you have a psych, which is great, schedule another appointment with them and let them know you are recognizing this cycle you are in and that you are starting to think that you want to get out of it, but don’t know how to start. Ask them if you can see a therapist regularly (or if they are for therapy, if they can help hold you accountable for regular appointments). Telling others about our intentions to make positive changes can actually encourage us to make them happen, so sharing about your struggles and your intent to recover with people you trust, can be difficult & scary, but also rewarding. It is important to have support system. Something that can help you start having more lasting/consistent motivation to recover is making a recovery journal. There are some great instructions in this video and also on Tumblr tags and Pinterest. The video link I gave you is about suicide, but about part way through, the therapist who makes the video, instructs viewers to stop and get materials to make the journal. The part I like about this recovery journal approach is the “reasons to recover” list. I made a list like this for each of my struggles at the beginning of my recovery, one for my ED, one for Self-harm, one for depression etc. I had a bunch of lists and I added to them, at least 1 thing a day. Know that there is hope for you to feel better about yourself, your body and your life. You can learn to start treating your mind and body better. It will take time and patience, but count your victories, those little bits of progress are very important and do add up. You deserve just as much as everyone here on MIM to feel better, to be healthy and to get support while you work on it. Take care,Ari

[allopropaganda]

In regards to these posts 1  2

As we, hopefully, reach a new era in our history, one where we may talk freely among ourselves and explore new and old ideas. We are at a cusp of growth.

We have dealt with foaming aphobes, we’ve been dealing with them for so long, maybe we forget that there are other levels of violence.

Let me be clear, I have been fighting for a long time. Reactions that spring up in me come from years of “training”, I have a very intuitive grasp of social justice issues and I’ve come to realize/reason that just because something seems obvious to me, can’t make it so for others. I think we need a bit of breakdown to see where the community is becoming ableist, aphobic, and victim blaming, and areas that are going to hurt us in the long run.

So this post is in two parts, because when I said I felt “ganged up on” I meant it in more than one way.

The Personal Attacks.

You make what you believe to be an innocent comment, maybe you make hasty judgements, and in many many ways even I - the CPSTD sonofabitch - must admit, that there would be no way for you to truly know where you’ve misstepped, before you’ve stepped.

Nobody thinks they’re saying something harm/that harmful, and that’s essentially why it’s not up to them to decide they didn’t! (not without real evidence).

*dramatically opens curtains* Come see through my eyes *tinkling music plays*

Firstly, claiming I had reacted aggressively - was majorly aphobic and ableist. For the aphobic part, that may be a little easier to see. My response did not shame someone, believe me I can shame I’m sure you’ve seen it. I did not look to attack them personally, I actually did not attack at all! My response was about the heartache a-specs had to go through, it was about experiences that happened to me. To assert that I was harming them, that mentioning the attacks on me where harming them, the words “that’s messed up” come to mind.

The left hook on this is the implication that showing any emotion and not seeking to soothe the aggravator is aggressive. At no point does an oppressed person have to placate the oppressor - nor does the oppressed person have to coddle and soften words to soothe their feelings. If you spread oppression, even if you didn’t mean to, that is your rightful title! And the world is inundated with people making these  mistakes, the best thing for you to do is own up to them, take responsibility, and seek to rectify! THAT makes you an ally! THAT truly changes the world! And yes, you can definitely spread oppression even if you are in that group, that is exactly how oppressive systems work! They rely on many hands.

Boop down to the abelism which I don’t think you could have possibly recognized even if you DID take a special interest in me, or in C-ptsd, or remember those two things at a time - but this is what happened to me all the same.

C-PTSD Is Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Many of you may be familiar with PTSD, that’s what war veterans get diagnosed with all the time. I think we can all remember instances where it’s been depicted of war veterans suddenly going in to “fight mode” when they get triggered. All of the bad instances where they had to survive comes up, boiling hot like a geyser, and the truth is that it’s not always wrong.   That’s me. I don’t know what you may be thinking what fight mode may be like, but fight mode is filled with fear, panic, and anger. I am ready to attack and disable my attacker at all costs. For me, enemies are everywhere, everyone’s motive is suspect, each new thought is a breakdown in my spatial cognition. This is a survival mechanism that is made to protect me.

So what I’m saying is, with all of this running through my veins, clouding my mind, how my brain screamed attack and justified any means of survival, and was actively telling me that not to attack was wrong, I still did not attack. I did a really great job of restraining myself, in the interest of bettering my community, and you…trashed that.

And in regards to claiming my tags were “aggressive”, well like I mentioned above about hostility and all - my tags where about asking if this ask was legit or not. So with CPTSD it is hard to tell when someone is being sincere, or reading any other emotion other than hostility. Let me tell you, I have literally read really nice messages sent to me and couldn’t understand them because I read them in an hostile slant. So that’s why I ASKED, to make up for my disability.

Oh man, which brings up another thing. Gaslighting me. Gaslighting is further explained down the post but in regards to me - My thoughts scatter, and I may read things that just aren’t there. To make up for that I read, reread, think - over think, reduct my think, over think a little more, write out the thinking. There’s a hell of a lot of thinking just to be absolutely sure that I’ve had this down correctly. No offense, but I’m a really smart person, and I am highly intuitive. When I come up with a stance, I have written a book in my head to back me up (see ENTIRE POST). It is so inappropriate to jump in and say “nuh uh”, just because you like the person who said the thing, or is entirely reactionary. I see that as highly disrespectful of my intelligence and trying to take advantage of my cognitive disabilities. Hey, that could be my CPTSD talking, but also you could just not do that, ever. For the record, if I doubt something I ASK, or put it in non-definitive terms. No argument of “nuh uh” is an acceptable retort to what I put into my words.

And to put an extra fine point on it, don’t even try using my disabilities against me to attempt gas lighting me. I specifically take precautions to protect myself from that.

And for icing on the abelism cake - using anger as a reason to dismiss marginalized peoples. No.

I was able to save myself, because I’m pretty kick ass at that. You take this entire post and everything it means, and crunch it into one burst, and shove it in my soul - all of this at once and ongoing. Could you possibly imagine that I would be able to make a coherent argument? I think not. It would have gone on - everyone justifying their actions because “I can’t act right”, but this in turn sparking even more hostility. But I stopped myself, even when I KNEW I was right and you DESERVED to be gotten and I was wrong and dangerous to leave, I knew this in my soul, but I still left because I could take hold of something tiny and believe in it against all odds. To say that this is fair and just to expect other people to do, other victims to do - I could never suggest such a thing. I am just lucky. Respect people’s right to be hurt.

Part Two

In regards to our community, in the new times there will be new prejudices rearing it’s ugly head, it will be subtle, it will be blatant, it will come from our own side.

And you’ve been exposed to blatantly violent aphobes for so long, I know a certain feeling arises in you that you associate with “bad people.” To be sure, assigning labels such as “good” and “bad” person wise is a mistake made time and time again, stretching time and place.

“Nice Guy”*

*The “nice guy” is a phenomenon ever occurring in our society and is not meant as a way to gender anyone - phenomenons have no gender.

What you are teaching yourselves is that no one “nice” should be corrected or called to attention. They should have words minced, you feel like a traitor and mean for suggesting that they might have some aphobic biases. Newsflash, everyone has aphobic biases, we live in an aphobic society!

And to be honest, the “nice guy” rhetoric has been used on just about every abuse victim and should never deign to cross the lips of someone interested in justice. In my mind this is the shock, anger, and call to fight that fills my heart.

But let’s go back. For one, the defense of the “Nice Guy” is often that they didn’t know better, they misspoke, and/or they didn’t really mean that. In all of that - it doesn’t change a thing of what was done. Aphobia doesn’t just stop “because it was a mistake”, it keeps going, it gets picked up. You can’t undo what you’ve done by saying, “not me”! You can only work to erase your actions by having a reaction, you must put forth an effort to rectify your mistake. In fact, raising your hands and declaring no responsibility is dangerously disrespectful.

Next, you cannot say, “they didn’t mean that”, just because you like the person. This is a form of gas lighting. You are taking reality and shouting that it never happened. Gaslighting is abuse.

Here’s the scenario, either A) They typoed something and they said the exact opposite of what they meant. That means they still said it, that means it was still spread. That means it definitely exists and has caused harm. To say it didn’t exist doesn’t help a-specs, to recognize the mistake and take steps to fix it does. Just own up to your mistake and don’t get angry that it upset people and they reacted. Of course they reacted they just got blindsided by aphobic rhetoric, just respect their feelings.

B) They didn’t realize how horrible they sounded, until it was pointed out. This is called “internalized aphobia”, or maybe micro aggressions for allo people. It happens to everyone. That means they still said it, that means it was still spread. That means it definitely exists and has caused harm. To say it didn’t exist doesn’t help a-specs, to recognize the mistake and take steps to fix it does. Just own up to your mistake and don’t get angry that it upset people and they reacted. Of course they reacted they just got blindsided by aphobic rhetoric, just respect their feelings.

C) They really did mean what they said, but are willing to shrink back due to backlash. This has no matter (and no way to determine through isolated incidents) because all you need to do is call out the behavior.

But they were Mean to the Nice Guy  It forever remains a mystery how you can demean someone with a smile on your face, but when the oppressed don’t smile back they are viewed as the hostile ones! I think we’ve covered this time and time again! It really should not be your priority to police the emotions of a harmed oppressed person. People can react hostilely to people because they are using a system of oppression that boosters them up while putting the oppressed down. People have feelings.

The Logical Conclusion to Nice Guy So your first instinct is to not make waves, to be as understanding as possible, you are friendly, you are nice. As long as you Smile you are Nice. You see something that makes you uncomfortable and you let it pass, because we’re all friends! So that something is passed around, it’s multiplied, other people, it becomes established. The implications of why it made you uncomfortable becomes clear as an aphobic notion takes root. What was now one misinformed statement is now a war. WOULD your nice guy, because they are so nice, really want that? Would they really want to harm the a-spec community? If they would, well then they’re not so nice, if they wouldn’t, then in the end you are helping them and yourself out.

[seven-oomen]

Until the end of time | Sambucky | Chapter 1

warnings/tags/main post here

Notes:

It's been a long while since I wrote anything for the Marvel fandom but I decided to step back into it after watching fatws. I'm writing this fic through Bucky's perspective mostly because I'm also doing it as an exercise to cope with my own CPTSD. And many of the feelings like pulsating energy and sensory overload are things I myself experience. Considering the things Bucky has been through, it seemed like a logical thing for him to struggle with as well.

I haven't decided if I want to turn this into mpreg near the end, but I wanna bring it up because I'm thinking about it. Haven't made my mind up on it yet. It will get a lot happier and brighter though, near the end. And they will end up together before the fic is over. But the fun is in the journey right?

Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy this.

-

He didn’t have a family. Not anymore.

The only living family he had left could no longer remember him. She was 102 and living in a nursing home. He visited Rebecca at times but, well, it never really amounted to anything. She couldn’t remember his name, what he looked like. And he made sure he only ever visited when her children and grandchildren weren’t around. How was he supposed to explain all of it anyway?

I’m your uncle James but I never contacted you or stuck around because I got brainwashed, experimented on, and kidnapped? Yeah… that would go over well.

He only ever observed Rebecca’s children from a distance. She had two sons; James and Robert, and a daughter, Annie, who looked just like her. It gave him some comfort to know that at least her legacy would live on.

Sometimes Hazel’s children and grandchildren visited her as well, even though Hazel herself had passed away a decade ago at 90. He didn’t know if Grace had had any children. He never saw them visit Rebecca if she had. The only thing he knew about her was that she had passed away a year ago at the age of 97.

Though they were his descendants, they weren’t his family. They didn’t know him and he didn’t know them. Not really. Files could only tell you so much about a person.

And now that Steve was gone too, life had become nothing more than a dull thrum as he tried to navigate it to the best of his abilities. Which was a lot harder than he’d anticipated. Living in New York had changed in the last century, of course it had. He found it difficult to settle in and pretend nothing had changed. To live life, go to therapy. None of that truly held any meaning for him anymore.

Or at least, it hadn’t.

Crossing the names of his list had given some of it back, for a while. He enjoyed being able to use technology and his particular skill set for the common good for once, even if his methods weren't exactly... therapist approved. Not that he listened to her anyway. He didn't see the need most of the time.

His phone pinged once again as he left the scene, letting the sirens of the approaching authorities drown out the constant murmurs and images in his head. A quick phone check revealed a text from Sam.

[Barnes I need you to answer me.]

He ignored it. Again.

It had been the fifth text in three days. Sam clearly wanted something from him, most likely his help. He didn't care much anymore. All he cared about was finishing his pardon and finding something, anything to stay alive for.

Please. Please I didn't see anything.

He squeezed his eyes shut at the intrusive thought, shaking his head and clenching his hands until his nails dug into his palms. Body thrumming with a pulsating energy. No. No, not now.

A deep breath. In, hold it, and out. He repeated the gesture, navigating his way through busy streets purely on autopilot

In the sanctity of his apartment, he dropped down in the nest of blankets in front of his tv and wrapped his arms around himself.

He- he couldn't.

Images of flashing metal, blood dripping to the floor plagued his mind, and the overwhelming feeling of his throat contracting made him gasp for breath.

He couldn't breathe.

His phone pinged again.

"What do you want, James?"

Family. Love. Understanding. But above all... "Peace."

"That is utter bullshit."

"You are a terrible shrink."

It was and it wasn't. He didn't want to be alone with his thoughts but he also wanted those same thoughts to just- just stop.

[Barnes, pick up your damn phone.] Sam's text read this time.

He just needed it all to stop.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed as he breathed in and out, letting the energy just flow through him as he tried to calm his mind. Blinking back the tears that threatened to fall once he was done, he rubbed his hand over his face and got up to grab some water and a snack.

The days passed as usual.

He went to therapy, spend some time with Yori, went on a date that failed, and revisited Rebecca again. He read the hobbit to her once again, just as he had back in the '30s. She smiled at him once he was done and asked; "Who are you?"

He'd taken his leave after that. Endlessly roaming the streets of Brooklyn until evening fell and he ended up back at his apartment in front of his tv.

He had nobody left.

His sister was as good as gone. Steve had left him. He was alone. And he would die alone. Out of his mind with the walls closing in on him.

The incessant ringing and vibration of his phone pulled him out of his thoughts. Jesus…

“What the hell do you want, Sam?” He said as he picked it up, probably a little more forceful than he meant to.

“Not Sam, and I’m just checking in on you.” Rhodey’s voice said on the other end.

Shit.

He sighed. “Rhodes, I-”

“Don’t worry about it,” Rhodes paused, “Have you seen the news yet?”

He really couldn’t take this kind of bullshit right now, of course, he knew what Sam had done. “I know he retired the shield, Rhodes. You don’t have to keep checking on me. I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” Rhodes clearly didn’t believe him, although to be fair, he wasn’t sure he would have believed himself right now, “And that’s not what I meant. They-”

His tv chose that moment to cut back to the news from the commercials that had been running. Almost as if it had a mind of its own with the world’s worst possible timing. There, in white letters on a blue banner, was the worst news he’d seen in a month.

John Walker named Captain America.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me…”

“Barnes, I know what this looks like-”

“Please tell me you’ve tried to stop this.”

“I tried. They wouldn’t listen to me.”

“Fuck…” He couldn’t believe this, this was, just, fuck. He needed to punch something.

“Barnes,” A pause “do I need to call someone?”

He shook his head, though it only took him several seconds to realize; Rhodey couldn’t see him shaking his head. “No. No, I’m- I’m fine.”

Rhodey didn’t say anything for several seconds but he practically felt the man’s incessant gaze and knowing smile. “In that case, you should check on Sam, make sure he’s okay too.”

“Yeah…” He didn’t want to, especially not now. But maybe Rhodes had a point, he probably wasn’t the only one struggling with this news. “Give Pepper and Morgan my love, alright?”

Rhodey probably wanted to press on, judging by the hesitation in his breathing. He didn’t though. Something he was inherently grateful for. “Sure. I’ll pass it along. Take care Barnes, I’ll be a phone call away if you need me.”

“Alright. Bye.” He said, looking at the number on his phone screen for several minutes while the interview played in the background. He was grateful for all the strings Rhodes had pulled within the government to get him his pardon. He was grateful for Pepper’s non-stop work to get his bank accounts, social security, and money restored. He was grateful for the fact that they had helped and stuck their necks out for him, even though he didn’t deserve any of it. Especially considering his past and what he’d done to their family. They didn’t seem to care, and if they did, they were good at hiding it. They helped him anyway.

But he wasn’t part of their family. It didn’t feel like he was.

He sat there, watching Walker’s interview. And goddamn it was so stupid. The man didn’t know anything about Steve or the mantle he was taking on and yet there he was talking about him as if he’d always known Steve. Calling him his brother and whatnot.

He didn’t register the bleeding lip until a metallic taste filled his mouth, his hands clenched in his lap, and anger pulsing through him with an energy he couldn’t contain. What he wanted to do in that moment would have negated everything he had worked so hard for and would undoubtedly mark him an international terrorist once again.

Instead, he grabbed his keys, went to the nearest bar, and drank through so many bottles of booze that the bartender wanted to call an ambulance for him. He didn’t need one. It wasn’t a healthy coping mechanism in the slightest, but it was far better than tracking Walker down to pummel his ass.

Although he knew it wasn’t fair and part of him knew that Sam couldn’t have foreseen this coming. It was easiest to blame him. So he did.

It was all Sam’s fault. If Sam hadn’t given up the shield, none of this would have happened. If Sam hadn’t given up the shield, Walker wouldn’t have become Captain America. If Sam hadn’t given up the shield, hadn’t given up on Steve’s wish-

He shook his head and sighed. If Steve had been wrong about Sam being the right man, then Steve was wrong about him too. And that was something he couldn’t process, not now, not yet.

In the morning, he arranged an Uber to take him to the Air force base.

-

End notes:

So that's it for chapter 1, there will be seven chapters in total. Let me know what you think of it so far, comments fuel me and keep me writing.

What did you like this chapter? Are there things that aren't clear or not written clearly? Let me know and I will make sure to fix them.

I would love to hear your thoughts.