#makes recovery for myself feel scarier

[harrylights]

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[re-discover-communication]

24 but slightly altered - what was the inspiration for some of your major AUs? Especially curious about Woodwork :)

I don't know if I can talk about "major AUS" considering I only have 7 fics posted for now... I'll take out dawn Chorus and go one by one in chronological order.

Gonna be long and forgive my grammar

-Afternoon Road Waving Grass

I don't remember what exactly started it. I know I wanted to write a platonic/ non explicit joshler fic (and we all know how it ended) in which they were uni students, and I had this "what are we" scene in my head. So I started planning this scene, in which the dialogue was happening via home phone, and all was going great until I realized that in 2024 no twenty-something uses a home phone to talk with their friends, rather they chat. So I had to move everything in a period where home phones were the main thing, asked my mom and she said the 80's, "hey wasn't AIDS a thing in the 80's?", looked for a documentary online to know how to write the historic setting right... and it ended up rewiring my brain. If you have 4 hours to educate yourself, watch it. Other materials are listed in the bottom notes of the fic.

-Woodwork

The video of The Craving, rather than the song. I think I listened to it once or twice, before and while writing? The video is what sticked to my brain the most. Josh was supposed to be a solitary asshole since the start, I don't remember when nor why I decided to make him deaf, chopping Tyler's left leg was to spicy things up a pinch more. Both their backstories were built to answer to a question I made myself: "why is Josh a solitary asshole?" Because something happened to him that made him like that. "So what happened?" Then made my brain work on that. Tyler was easier. Also, in the past I had read some fics "with" deafness, disability and chronic pain (mostly by Edy and tjstar). They helped me a lot.

In my head, Josh's house is my father's family house in the balkans. The surroundings and the village described in the story are, or are inspired from, the real existing place my father comes from. The village with a single stony road, the town at the feet of the mountain. Years ago a there was a cloudburst that caused tons of damage to both, and another time there was a smaller one that caught my family and I while on the road. Water got in the engine and shut the car down. My father grabbed me from the back seat like a cat and yeeted (yote?) me in a friend of his' car who brought me up in the village, while my family waited the tow truck Seeing all that rain come down was scary. The car dying under my butt, scarier. When we all returned home I was the only one dry.

Artist Tyler is a trope I like a lot (I don't even know why). It came natural to me to make him so, it also gave me an excuse to fit some top lore/stuff/elements. I thinks that's all.

EDIT: I was gonna forget this. Josh's difficulty with his feelings is an enhanced "version" of my own. I often find myself not understanding how I feel in certain situation or about/with certain people, both in positive and negative cases. But Tyler's anxieties too are my own, and not that much enhanced.

I wanted a quiet love for them.

-Nature's Naked Face

Have you ever come across this post? With the TV series of The Last Of Us + my own thoughts about the recovery of the Earth thanks to the extinction of humanity (we have all seen the general improvements during the pandemic) + I DEMAND A GOOD ENDING And still make the vibes somehow soft despite the apocalyptic setting. A soft and colored apocalypse.

-Evolutionary sleeper

This one would need a post all for itself. To make it short, I forced myself to carve a story out of the homonymous song by Cynic. I quickly realized I needed a "filling" to the setting I had in my head, and looked for it into Nietzsche's philosophy (mostly the parts of Thus Spoke Zarathustra I had studied in high school. In the book, the dragon is an allegory of the Church *wink wink*), with some of my own beliefs. The hardest, worst writing process I've had in six years and half. Never again. PS: Blurryface is terrified while trying to kill Tyler because he cares about him and dreads Tyler's supposed destiny after committing sodomy. He's terrified for Tyler.

-The Growls From The Waters

Easy. I saw that moodboard you had made, did not read the fic BUT read the tags --> brain started cooking --> "HMM horror? let's go read some horror" --> read some Lovecraft horror stories and lowkey copied his story building style and descriptive sequences. Inserting elements from Dema lore came naturally. Oh and I had also played Dredge few months prior, I love Dredge. The smut was gratuitous and absolutely necessary.

-Suspirium

The movie Suspiria (2018) directed by Luca Guadagnino. 75% is identical to the movie's plot. Though, the OST was the BIGGEST inspiration. Like a user said in a comment, and made me understand, the music is a character itself. If you're not too bothered by body horror, I suggest you watch it! Not the best movie ever made, still a piece of art. The music is better than the movie though

[topazadine]

On making your mental illness your entire identity

I've noticed a really disturbing trend where people turn a mental illness into their entire online persona. I noticed it a lot with Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID), which is a very real and very unglamorous disorder rooted in deep, catastrophic trauma.

As someone who has been in recovery for bipolar for over a decade now, I'm telling you that this is a terrible idea that will just keep you stuck.

(Rest under cut to spare your dash lol)

It's good, honorable even, to be open about your mental illness, but it has to be productive. When I talk about bipolar disorder or my C-PTSD and its attendant horrors, it's not to say it's so uwu quirky like the TikTok girlies, but to share resources and get helpful support from others - not just sympathy or attention.

This cultivates a healing mentality amongst myself and others: we're trying to get help and build our coping skills. Why? Because mental illness sucks, and if you wallow in it, that mental illness makes you suck.

Mental illness isn't fun. It's not something that makes you want to dress up and dance around for attention. It eats away at your life, takes away your joy, makes you struggle to do even basic things like cleaning your house or staying focused on tasks.

More than that, mental illness can make you bitter. "Why me? What did I do to deserve this? Am I just a bad person, born wrong?"

If it's C-PTSD, you get angry: "Someone else did this to me. It's their fault. Why do I have to clean up their mess? They should have to fix this!"

Unfortunately, it is your responsibility. You have to manage it, cope with it, get help for it to the best of your ability and funding. You can run from it for a while if you want to, pretend it's not a big deal, or even glamorize it to make it seem powerful - or to make you seem like a poor little waif who needs everyone's attention.

But it will catch up to you, and the fall will be even harder if you've turned your mental illness into a load-bearing aspect of your identity. Suddenly you don't want to get better, because there's nothing else to you.

Fixing the illness will mean you need to develop something else to make your "thing," so you cling to it. Treatment is scary, but losing your entire persona is even scarier. This throws you into a spiral where you get worse and worse, refusing to get help so you don't have to rebuild your life from the ground up. And, sadly, I suspect that this could literally kill people, if it hasn't already.

I am not at all saying that you need to be ashamed of your mental illness or hide it. In fact, hiding your illness is also bad, because you won't want to seek help if you're too embarrassed to admit what's wrong.

Being mentally ill doesn't automatically make you a bad person, and you shouldn't feel guilty about it. But you also shouldn't turn your mental illness into a comfort object and a shield that veils all the other important parts of you. It should never be used as an excuse for bad behavior or a substitute for a real personality.

I have found that thinking of my mental illness in the same vein as chronic physical illness ensures that I don't think of it as some magical condition that elevates me beyond "normies." No one gets online and turns diabetes into their schtick. No one walks up to strangers and introduces themselves as having liver disease. People may say that their Hashimoto's disease is kicking their ass today, but they don't use it as an excuse to be a dick to other people (at least I have never seen that).

You need to do the same thing with your mental illness. In many ways, it is who you are - bipolar disorder, for example, changes your brain chemistry and even puts you at risk of certain organic diseases - but it is not all you are.

Instead of making social media accounts where you post nothing but your mental illness, make an account about something you chose about yourself, whether that is cosplay or a hobby or a special interest. Yes, that may not get as much attention as the wildness of mental illness, but it won't get you stuck.

And don't get addicted to the attention you get from disorderposting. All those strangers who like your posts don't really care about you; worse, some of them don't want you to get better because you are just content to them, and when your content becomes more "normal," they'll drop you without a second thought.

You'll destroy yourself for a few dopamine hits from seeing line go up, and is that really worthwhile? Is that fair to you - to your story and your overall life? No. It's not.

You deserve better than that, and you deserve to want better than that. So if you're thinking of making a social media account dedicated entirely to whatever mental illness you have - don't. Please.

[florilegiumofblips]

This past year I spent a lot of time learning how to be honest with myself. I've spent a good portion of my life trying to be the Poster Girl for Everything Always. I can't always pinpoint what it's rooted in, but I have a long history of shaming myself relentlessly when I'm not meeting up to some imaginary but ever-pressing standard of perfection. I think this is partly why I always have a project going. I have to make sure I'm earning my figurative keep. I'm worthy! I'm valuable!

(I'm in recovery.)

This shaming includes (but is not limited to) when I have completely human emotions and reactions to life. Instead of meeting whatever I find with some semblance of kindness and honesty, some, hey this is totally human and normal, I desperately shove it down and berate myself if it has any scent of imperfection. This won't do, put it away, nobody wants to see that. So, I've spent time gathering up the courage to let my outsides match my insides, so to speak, to have loving permission for myself to be whatever mess I need to be in order to feel like I can live with some kind of integrity, wherever I am. For the sake of being genuinely loved. What better thing is there than to be honestly loved for who you honestly are?

I don't mean this in the fake-real sense that's often flaunted around on the internet, like, "Here's what I look like without under-eye concealer! Look how vulnerable I am!" I mean it in a much heavier sense, like, hey I feel like I might be failing at marriage and I'm scared. Because one part of this mess I had been lugging around inside had to do with my marriage. I had taken what were completely normal feelings and pathologized them; I had used them to turn against myself and tell myself I was some kind of failure. I let them fester for so long that if I kept it going, I'd guess it could've destroyed me, or my marriage.

So, this year I found the courage to look my husband in the eye and tell him all of the things I had been feeling but pushing away, or covering up, or talking around, with the unfortunately misled hope that if I ignored them for long enough, or dressed them up enough in the right lighting, I wouldn't have to deal with them. Things like,

Sometimes, I think I got married too young.

Sometimes, I think I squelched concerns about you that I shouldn't have, back when we were dating.

Sometimes, I wonder what my life would be like if I had given myself the chance to explore more relationships.

Sometimes, I want out of the box we've closed ourselves into.

Sometimes, I feel a panicked suffocation at how we are parents now, how we made a life together and how none of this can be un-done.

What I know now is that these are totally normal. These are things one thinks after being with the same person for nearly a decade. I was reading about the seven year itch a few months ago, and how most of these questions come with it, and that people either decide to leave or they process it and take their relationship to a new, fresh place.

Now I know all of this, but upon first feeling these things, I thought for certain I had done something wrong. This isn't what someone in a good marriage feels. This isn't how it's supposed to go. If it's good you don't also want out sometimes. So I tried to privately think them away, but, wherever you go, there you are. Because I didn't air them out, they got darker and perpetuated. They swam around my head at night, making me sweat and toss. They were scary to utter internally, alone, in the quiet, dark space of my heart where they lived, and they were scarier still to see falling off my lips and into the open air in front of my husband, this man who I loved so dearly. For a long time, I held them all gingerly in my hands trying to keep them contained, turning them over and over quietly, because I couldn't make sense of them.

I was so happy, but then I wasn't. How does that work?

Turns out that's kind of just how it works.

It also turns out that it's ok.

It's ok.

[theatlasrealm]

SHORT KAI HCS/SMITH TRIO HCS

—-Kai visibly Looks shorter than the rest of the ninja however he looks taller than Jay only because of his hair gel but in reality he and Jay are the same exact height

—-I said this before and I will say it again to reach kitchen cabinets or any high place kai either does one of two things :

1) airjitzu’s and sets the entire place on fire 2) becomes an Olympic gold metal gymnast

THERE IS NO INBETWEEN

—- Kai doesn’t get bothered much that cole and Zane are taller then him bc they are older… but the fact that his YOUNGER SIBLINGS are taller than him keeps him awake at night..

—-sometimes when nya or lloyd wake up in the middle of the night, scared and shaking, they go to the same person they’ve been going to all their life for nightmares: Kai

—-kai influenced/helped Lloyd a lot. And I mean a LOT, just as much as he helped nya. hair care routine? yeha kai showed Lloyd. how to deal with panic attacks? kai helps him breathe, and taught him how to handle it in case Lloyd is ever alone. Also someone else also said this btw but Lloyd’s weapon is a sword gee I wonder why

—-KAI IS THE FASHIONISTA SIBLING I REPEAT HE IS FASHIONISTA SIBLING-

nya: Kai if I was in your shoes

Kai: first of all my shoes are pieces of art second of all you shouldn’t even be in those shoes good lord we need to go shoe shopping I can’t have my dear sister walking around like that

—-guess who’s holding all the shopping bags when the trio goes shopping! Ur right it is nya and lloyd

“kai please stop we don’t need more clothes”

“lloyd, life is a runaway what do you mean we don’t need more clothes”

“kai that’s it we are going home if I have to carry one more bag-”

—--nya and Lloyd can’t hide crap from kai he just knows

Lloyd, thinking: I hate myself

“hey Lloyd u okay buddy??”

“YEAH!!”

Kai brother instinct triggered

Kai pulls out weapon: abominable hug

weapon was effective lloyd is feeling better

—-kai is a good liar/actor to most people except nya girl sees right through his facade

nya, “hey kai everything okay?”

Kai,” yeah don’t worry everything’s fine!”

nya gently hugs kai and Kai has an emotional breakdown: a sequel

—-kai,”how’s the weather up there”

nya and Lloyd,” we weren’t aware garden gnomes could talk”

—- when any one of them is sick the remaining two know exactly what to do.

Nya is sick? Give her some soup ! Give her some space! She’s independent and isn’t a fan of being taken care of (lloyd respects that!) but yk kai….Kid isn’t scared of nyas rages 💪

Lloyd is sick? give him some soup! make him laugh! hug him! Thankfully he’s smart enough to stay in bed and recover because he knows if he does that the recovery process will be faster! the real question is if kai knows that…

Kai is sick? Code red full lockdown bro is gonna go try and discover a new species while burning at a high temperature. um kai isn’t scared of nyas rages but when she yells at him for not resting while sick she’s like ten times more scarier someone save the poor boy oh look savior lloyd has arrived oh wait nope false alarm he’s yelling at Kai too

—-they all casually share hoodies, graphic tees, etc. but for Kai it looks little too big.. um…. don’t tell him that though…..

—--if things are too overwhelming for Kai he goes to nya and Lloyd. everything seems to melt away when they look up and smile at him

—-don’t insult nya or Lloyd in front of Kai or Kai’s gonna do a full sailor moon transformation and then into a VICIOUS garden gnome.

—-whenever nya’s inventions/ideas don’t work out, she gets angry and frustrated at herself due to her perfectionist nature. Kai always manages to make her feel better

“hey don’t worry nya, you have wonderful ideas and such a smart brain! you created so many things and I couldn’t have been more proud. how about we go eat a snack and then you can come finish this project later! I’ll even help!

—-Kai is really good with ‘feminine’ stuff like sewing (he probably used to stitch up ripped clothes when him and nya were kids) and hair. he knows 7384377348 different hairstyles and does nya’s hair whenever he can. he also tried to teach Lloyd but the poor kid became jumble of confusion. he managed to teach him braids though!!!

you think this is it? naw shawty I’ve got part two coming out soon.

[fedzkun]

anon who couldn't stop thinking about your fics here, it was both actually! i really like mind control esque fics and lullabies/claim+indisputable both scratched my brain in different ways.

in lullabies' case, you got a lot across in what was a pretty short word count, especially in the second fic. you added just enough emphasis in the moments you wrote that it was easy for me to fill in the blanks for the parts you didn't write. it was really masterful writing to me. i couldn't stop thinking about the possibilities and what izuku experienced before he was rescued for him to turn out that way.

in indisputable's case, a lot of the moments felt sus to me while reading, but i didn't put all the pieces together until the very end. the ending really surprised me, but at the same time i felt like i should have seen it coming. i read the whole thing again afterwards and was really amazed by all the foreshadowing. for every detail i noticed there was another one i didn't think twice about haha. and rereading it while putting myself in izuku's shoes really messed me up but in the best way. the whole thing is definitely my favorite take on his dynamic with afo.

Aha, I see!

Yeah, in lullabies above, which was my first bnha fic, I think I was mainly getting a feel of things and a lot of my angst style carried over from previous fandoms. I think it’s also just scarier overall to let readers imagine what horrors Izuku went through, and make it look like recovery for him is an impossible task. I really want to update that series soon. Fun fact, but since it was my first, I’ve only watched until S4 that time. Haven’t read the manga yet then, so reconciling then and now should be fun.

On the other hand, Claim+Indisputable were brain dumps when the New Order Quirk came out, so it was angst directly in concert with the manga.

Thank you! I appreciate your patronage of my wares! 💕💕💕

[selfiecharmedlife]

Re: Face/Off or Recovering from FFS

CW: Body stuff

As of today, it’s been just over a week since I had facial feminization surgery (FFS). Leading up to the procedure, I felt very isolated. Not many people undergo FFS in the first place and most of the people I spoke with that had undergone the procedure were far removed from the anxieties I was, and am still, feeling. Luckily, I did have the chance to talk to some people who had journaled in the weeks leading up to their procedure and shared their thoughts during that time. So now I’m writing this down so that maybe I can pay that forward to someone else.

FFS is an umbrella term for a number of procedures. Specifically, I underwent a forehead reduction, hairline advancement, brow bone reduction, mandibular angle reduction and chin reduction. My surgeon assured me that recovery would be significantly easier than vaginoplasty recovery, but that didn’t help my nerves. I was so anxious that I asked for an additional meeting before the procedure so we could touch base again just so I could feel a little more secure in my decision. It didn’t help. In the weeks leading up to my surgical date, I barely slept most nights and had a hard time focusing on anything during the day. 

The image of walking into the operating room stuck with me more than anything else. The wording of my pre-op instructions made it sound like I would have to walk into the OR instead of being wheeled in like my last procedure. There was something about that idea of having to open the door myself and place myself on the bed that was so much scarier than anything else. It would be like strapping myself into a Tower of Terror ride; a leap of faith that I had to take myself. For the record, I hate thrill rides for this exact reason. 

Even if everything went right, I might still not be happy with my outcomes and $20,000 USD for the worse. There is always the chance of a negative reaction to anesthesia or things healing poorly. Nevermind how some portion of the outcome is going to be up to the aesthetic preferences of the surgeon. With all that in mind, I still knew that I would regret it if I didn’t go through with the procedure. �� 

When the day came, my partner and I were up at 3am. I say we were up, but I was too nervous to sleep. All the same worries about outcomes, complications and the cost of the procedure kept knocking around in my head. I ended up going with the same surgeon that did my vaginoplasty a few years ago. He is still working out of the same hospital so it felt oddly familiar walking back into the same waiting room. My partner and I ended up sitting on the same bench where I had cried years ago. Sitting there, I clearly recalled how it felt asking my caretaker if she thought I was doing the right thing as if that was a question anyone could answer for me. This time, even if I didn’t know if I was making the right choice, I found comfort in knowing I wasn’t making a bad choice.

Everything else from there to the OR was routine. I winced as the anesthesiologist put the IV in my arm and tried to look unbothered when one of the nurses kept calling me a man. Mercifully, they wheeled my bed into the OR. I was a wreck of nerves as I passed the point of no return and then the lights went out. I woke up hours later in the recovery room. All that work researching the likelihood of waking up during surgery for nothing. 

My eyes were almost swollen shut, my head was wrapped in bandages from the brow up, my mouth was full of painful sutures, my threat was irritated from the breathing tube and to make it all worse I immediately threw up. The combo of existing irritation and vomiting was worse than anything from the actual surgery. My body was producing flem to try to soothe the irritation but that ended up making it difficult to breathe. Coughing to clear the flem irritated the sutures and…you probably get the picture.

Back at home, I spent the rest of the day in bed communicating with my partner via text messages because it hurt too much to talk. I couldn’t bear to look at myself in the mirror and my partner astutely covered up all the mirrors I was likely to walk past. An eyewitness told me that the bruising was extensive around my eyes and my face was so swollen that it looked like a perfect sphere. Eating anything but ice chips was painful. Did you know Pedialyte makes popsicles now? They rule. 

The surgery was on Friday and the following Monday morning my doctor removed the dressings and gave me a chin bra to wear for the next four weeks. It’s a weird looking compression wrap that goes under my chin to support it while it heals. According to him, my healing was going great but I still refused the mirror when he tried to show me what I looked like. 

Despite my best efforts, I did end up seeing my face eventually. Our brains have a very advanced neural network for recognizing our own faces. Between the still painful swelling, incision marks tracing my hairline and (still) black/bloodshot eyes, my brain popped an error message. Yes, I could touch my face and feel it. I knew I was looking at myself. Emotionally, it just didn’t click. I didn’t want it to. 

Physically healing has been fine for the most part. I can’t smile or laugh too much before my jaw hurts or eat solid food just yet, but every day is a big step forward. At this rate, my sutures and incisions should be healed in another week or two as I’m getting ready to head back to work.  

But even as things get better in the short-term, FFS is a long and complicated healing process. Things will continue to shift and settle for up to a year before I really know what my face will look like. I’m sure that at some stage of the healing process, I’m going to look in the mirror and feel disappointed before things shift again. 

Everyone I’ve talked to has told me that they’ve ultimately been happy with their results, but what if I’m in that small percentage that isn’t? What if those nerves never reconnect and large parts of my face will always be numb? Those are all possibilities right now. 

There is a happy ending for now at least. Despite my best efforts, I caught myself in the mirror again this morning. It wasn’t long enough for me to recognize the incision, bruising or swelling, but my brain did see the stranger in the mirror and think “she’s kinda cute.”

[a-random-aroace]

Ok so AU where Deku almost got turned into a Nomu when in U.A, and instead of being all depresso espresso he has gained a very dark sense of humor, and he can also sharpen his fingernails and teeth into basically claws/knives (Like killua).

He doesn’t really talk about the experience but with the info from the dark as hell jokes they can piece together some of what happened. When the class tries to be soft with him he gets very annoyed, because he doesn’t really like being treated like a soft baby that will cry at anything scarier than a bee.

Sometimes he will freak out and think he is back at the lab, and either run somewhere (most of the time he ends up finding All Might) or attempting to fight the class.

He doesn’t like to go to Recovery Girls or hospitals because the lab was like a fucked up hospital of pain, and smelled like a hospital. So when he goes to Recovery Girls he freaks out. He still has OFA so that can be a problem sometimes. They have found out that bringing Recovery Girl to Deku works a bit better.

When the Leauge Of Villians attack, he freaks out and kinda goes into “kill mode” or he runs away. It really depends on his mood.

There are a few people who can calm him down and get him to feel safe, and they are All Might, Uraraka, Iida, Recovery Girl, and sometimes Aizawa. He feels comfortable around most of the class, and to Bakugou’s disliking, he is not really afraid of him anymore.

He is still a mega fanboy, and still has a lot of the same personality as before, just those changes. He has changed a lot, but is also the same at the same time if that makes sense.

Ok so I’m editing this and boom here ya go

................................ ................................ ........................

I was walking around the city, hoping to find somebody to help, when I got a feeling I was being followed. I whipped my head around to see nobody. I sped up my pace.

It was early Sunday so I wasn’t expecting to see many people. I turn a corner, and feel the eyes on me again. I take a left into the first alleyway. I walk in a square and turn my head around. I spot a hooded figure standing there, staring at me. I quickly go back to the street.

Fuck my life I think as I speed up, trying not to run. I quickly make my way around into a more populated area. Did everybody just decide to avoid this place today?? I finally see people. Thank god, maybe I can lose them in the crowd. I walk as calmly as possible through the crowd, but still feel the eyes.

I feel tears start to well up in my eyes. Goddamnit I shouldn’t be crying, this isn’t a big deal. I wipe the tears away, and start to make my way to a less populated area.

All of a sudden the sidewalk seemed very interesting. I look up to see a tall, blond, bony figure turning the cover ahead of me. I sprint around the corner, tears already falling. Dad... he can help...

I feel something, no, maybe someone, wrap their arms around me. I whip my head around, looking down already, and...

“Izuku?” I turn around completely and see the kid clinging to me, crying. “Let’s get you home.”

Home. That never sounded so good before. I feel myself get picked up. The eyes are finally off me. I bury my face into All- dad, and feel more tears coming. Sobs escaped from my lips. Dad patted my head.

“Don’t worry Izuku, you’re safe now. I will protect you....”

[kaypeace21]

i’m a survivor too, and i found that certain scenes/stuff will said just really struck me as ‘csa-survivor’-like? i felt a bit uncomfortable about headcanoning it happening to someone else, especially for a fandom as wild as this one, but your metas have really been a comfort to me because they’ve been able to pick out and explain things that i couldn’t necessarily find the words for myself.

and yeah, i would love to have a character like me that is powerful and who finds love and who gets a happy ending. the people who call the theory disgusting always kinda hit wrong with me because although csa is a difficult subject, we shouldn’t be ashamed about sharing it. they sound like they’re trying to say that it’s a bad topic to talk about and implying that it can’t happen to kids, which uhhhhh-

(i’m sure that’s not what they mean, precisely, but it’s still what they sound like, and i wish that they would stop implying that we can’t exist, especially in popular media. we do, and i’m not gonna pretend we don’t, and if they feel uncomfortable with the topic they can just use the block button. we deserve to have some well written representation just as much as anyone else. also, i really really hope that will gets a happy ending.)

anywayyyy i love your theories and i can see your post in the tag so i think you’re fine?? have a good day ❤️❤️❤️

SORRY, this ask took so long to respond to. It always warms my heart to hear other survivors speak and say they found comfort in my theory.

Yes, I think I and a lot of c*a/r*pe victims (subconscious or otherwise) were triggered by some of the symbolism/visuals in s1-3. And s3 made it hard for most of us to ignore the past imagery- since s3 wasn’t as subtle.

I get why people have reservations about the theory. But the debates to the contrary are usually just plain offensive. Or people trying to be respectful but being the opposite. There’s the obvious bad-apples . I got many anons after part 1 of my DID theory saying it “ruined/tainted byler”, and “if that happened to Will i’ll stop shipping byler” , or that it  “ruins the best gay character” ,  and to “remove the post immediately”. And this was when I was open about being a gay c*a victim. I obviously blocked them. Many survivors don’t come forward because they’re afraid people will see them as “tainted”, “ruined”, “ just their trauma”, or blame them for what happened. So yeah, it pisses me off when people say similar stuff about Will (and thus other c*a victims). Not even diving into the messed up psychology about byler/mileven shippers (knowing i was a lesbian c*a victim) but purposely spreading bs rumors about me being a p*do that was into Will/Noah-all because of the theory. -_-

Then there’s the people who try to be “respectful” but literally do the opposite.

I’ve heard numerous times it’s somehow “less offensive” to just use r*pe imagery to make monsters scary. Rather than have  the monsters have that imagery cause Will created the monsters from his memory/imagination-and st is a story of Will healing from that trauma. SORRY- I disagree. Using the worst experiences of peoples’ lives (and triggering their trauma) for no real purpose- except to make their monsters scarier to the normal/general audience who haven’t gone through it so won’t be triggered like us - is MORE OFFENSIVE to victims! NOT LESS! At least to me.

Then there’s the people who say “c*a should never be talked about (in stories).” Which I disagree with. V*ctims have already been told by ab*ser’s  and enablers of the ab*ser- to never talk about what happened to us  . So it rubs A LOT of us the wrong way when people say this.  Because (subconscious or not) you remind some of us of the people who used to hurt/silence us. People say this -simply for their convenience (like ab*sers) and cause deep down they’re uncomfortable with our existence and equate the despicable act to us the innocent v*ctim ...or just want to deny the horrible reality of the situation (like many enablers who deny the truth and hurt us because they don’t want to accept reality) . And 1) It brings us back to a time where they told us to NEVER talk about it- and makes us feel like we did something wrong when we didn’t! 2) Every psych professional says with-holding/keeping the ab*se a secret is detrimental to our mental health.

Plus, there’s a HUGE difference between sugarcoating/minimizing trauma or WORSE glamorizing, condoning, or romanticizing C*A in stories (ex: pretty little liars) VS showing how the action is wrong, causes trauma, but showing recovery and happiness is still possible for v*ctims.  if the story shows how accurately traumatizing it is (instead of minimizing/glamorizing it)- it’s incredibly rare for that character to get a happy ending. Having a story about recovering from that type of trauma and finding happiness despite such hardships would be amazing for US survivors! We rarely get stories with a happy ending-  it’s more harmful to us survivors to never see ourselves get happy endings in tv/film/books. How can some survivors (in a dark place) think there’s a light at the end of the tunnel- if it’s never shown?Also if Will has DID too- it’s good mental health rep, along with queer rep (and survivor’s rep.) All 3 groups rarely are treated well or get happy endings in media. A lot of people may feel more heard, seen, and a bit more hopeful for the future - If Will (and other characters) get a happy ending.

And even though st has many themes- like say homophobia. To try and hand-wave all the disturbing  r*pe imagery away  as ‘Will is just gay so the monsters are like that”. IS SOOOOOO offensive. Trigger warning for examples. I’m sorry what part of Max saying when Billy had c*nsensual s*x it’s “good screams” but when possessed by the mf he causes Heather to do “bad screams” read as gay???! Having the possessed ch*ke/dr*g people before throwing them in trunks (like it’s implied Lonnie did to Will -since Jonathan checked Lonnie’s trunk for Will in s1)?Tying their arms and legs up/ g*ging  them and  getting on top of them and saying “stay VERY still it’ll all be over soon”-before a monster shoves it’s tentacle into someone’s mouth and inserts a goo - just gay??? Similar to the sentient vine/shadow monster forcing itself down Will’s throat. Let alone Will saying things like “he made me do it”, “i felt it everywhere”, or being tied to a bed and screaming “help! stop! it hurts! let me go!” While Jonathan is the only one who’s visibly triggered by this and has to literally turn away and hug someone . Or barb, billy, and El spiting up a white liquid from their mouth (similar to will spitting up a slug and lying to his mother about it ).El/billy touching a suspicious looking slime with their hand and looking at the substance confused . El drawing Papa with 3 legs (the middle one being shorter) ,  trying to undress in front of the boys , and Benny saying “I think she’s been ab*sed or something”.The theme of ab*sive dads- brenner , Lonnie, and Neil . Even when the demogorgan (called in d&d the “deep father”/ in the show “a man without a face”) attacked Barb it’s chopped up with scenes of Nancy having c*nsensual sex (the monsters are doing the opposite symbolically). There’s way more examples but NO- to try and hand wave /equate ALL OF THIS to just “gay imagery” or an “a*ds metaphor” is WAY more problematic. And just offensive (specifically to gay people) than just admitting what it may actually represent. R*pe imagery and gay imagery is NOT THE SAME THING!

Also ST has never been a kid show- maybe rewatch the show and see the rating of tv-14 . Goodness sake- s1 has a st*ged su*icde, k*dnappings, m*rder, discussions of physics, h*mophobia, and s*x (with stancy in s1 & jancy in s2-s3). S2/3 discuss at their finalies recovering from tra*ma . S2 had gra*ic de*ths,  a man causing a women br*in damage/ and faking her m*scarriage, and a gang of vigalantes k*lling criminals. s3 had critiques on capitalism /media/s*xism, many d*eaths, and questionable imagery like the prior seasons. The Duffers constantly reference  movies & events from the 80s (capitalizing on 80s nostalgia /subverting 80s motifs that middle age people  from that time remember)! Those people were their intended age demographic . Most 80s centric refs go over most kids’ heads (heck a lot went over my head too since I wasn’t alive in the 80s XD).The Duffers even said in the book “worlds turned upsidedown”  “it’s not a kid’s show despite having kids”. And maybe it’s a coincidence but when Lucas in s3 hands Will the “devil’s baby” firework (a hint about Lonnie) he says “18 and over only.” Which idk is a weird/random af line unless it’s foreshadowing that the show will get darker about various themes- and maybe even change ratings.

I get people wishing nothing bad ever happened to Will or Jonathan. And being apprehensive and not trusting the Duffers to do such a story justice (cause it’s difficult to do). But personally i trust them to do so tastefully with tact and not be exp*itative, (overly gr*fic) or offensive to v*ctims. You can disagree and think the show is about something else (or not trust the Duffers)- but it’d be great if people could stop using these other messed up talking points. While trying to appear ‘(fake) woke’ and like they care for victims- cause we see through it that you really don’t.

Have a lovely day anon ❤️ ❤️ ❤️

Update- I just really agreed with and appreciate the tags in this reblog

[lifeafterpsychiatry]

I really resonated with your post on Mental Illness Lying To You. It was like a big weight off of my shoulders knowing that it isn’t just me against myself. But just my mental illness lying to me. Thank you for sharing. Xx

You're welcome! Basically I think that while your mental illness is a part of your life and affects you, it is not "you" - and I think it's important to maintain some degree of separation. Cause otherwise you can end up in a situation where letting go of your mental illness feels like letting go of yourself - which can make the recovery process even harder and scarier than it already is. That's why it's so important not to let your suffering become the defining aspect of your entire identity.

[ms31x129]

Woohoo! Time for Chapter 4! I had to make a another DJ! I felt compelled! I hope I have ideas for 3 more! @cultureisdarkbeer @monikafilefan @today-in-fic

Chapter 1 - Courage to Jump Tumblr LINK  AO3 it is HERE.

Chapter 2: Luck of the Irish Tumblr LINK or AO3 it is HERE.

Chapter 3: Graffiti of the Heart Tumblr LINK or AO3 HERE.

Chapter 4: Leave Your Demons At The Door  (Click on the name for AO3) or if you like Tumblr just clickity-click on the Keep Reading link below.

{Summary:

After seeing the past through Dana Scully's eyes, Jackson decides he needs a cold one. With the letter remaining in his possession, he finds a motel room to stay for the night and heads out to check out the nightlife. Of course, the past decides to hitchhike a ride. Jackson's internal conflict reaches a fever pitch when he steps into his birth parent's past at a time when they were fighting the future.}

“All men should strive to learn before they die what they are running from, and to, and why.” -James Thurber

Jackson entered the motel room and tossed his knapsack off his shoulder, its buckles scraping along the surface of the small table as it came to a halt. Not ready for any type of sleep, he flopped on top of the bed with an arm cradling his head and flipped blindly through the channels to drown out the noise of the rest of the motel.

A lonely emptiness ate at his soul like the dying feasting on its last meal. There was nothing scarier to him than the idea that he could be sentenced to a purgatory of existing like this, nothing and no one with whom to speak. No compassion, no remorse, his soul had darkened to the point of charred coal without a hope for recovery. So why not embrace it? Why choose to be alone in madness?

Guiltily, he had found pleasure in cruelty, a joy in its power as a boy growing slowly into a man. Not for the first time, impossible questions riddled his mind. What if inside he was one of them? A bomb waiting to detonate; his existence serving its purpose to end it all. He thought he’d never be pure enough to make it through the gates of heaven anyway.

Why toggle the light and dark? He wondered while rubbing the barely there stubble along his chin. What was he afraid of besides loneliness? What was there to fear when you were the monster?

The springs of the sagging mattress creaked out a warning as he rose up and headed out to clear his head. At least he could find company in the loneliness of numbers.

The streets he walked were nothing like any he had traveled before. Yet they were etched in his head with a sharp knife, a scalpel scoring information deep into his DNA like some strange work of art. As he passed storefront windows and busy restaurants, there was a familiarity there that tickled at his brain akin to recognition. The insistent feeling led him to a bar and his height and a little illusion granted him a bar stool and a beer.

“You’ve got to train for that kind of heavy lifting,” said the bartender as the used beer glasses clinked, clanked, and stuttered against the highly polished, lacquered wooden bar. After several drinks, Jackson was barely able to steady his arm enough to prevent them from crashing to the floor. “Having a bad day?”

“You could say that,” Jackson sighed, chasing down a hiccup with what was left in his glass. “You come here often?” he smarted back.

“I’m the owner of this establishment actually,” she returned as she wiped up the last of the spilled beer. “Tonight’s been busy so I’ve been helping out.”

The other bartender finished doling out the last of the drinks to the customers and joined her to help clean up. He pointed at Jackson hunched over against the bar. “You look familiar... and I never forget a face.”  

He didn’t reply, afraid of it getting him tossed out, instead pointing at the bar for another round.

“So what brings you here?” The older woman asked, her short blond hair wisping over her forehead like bangs. She said it casually, but Jackson got the sinking feeling she was either testing his age or his blood alcohol level. Both of which were enough to refuse him any more service. It would only take a closer examination of his ID to uncover it was created courtesy of a man in a long trench coat in a dark alley.

The two bartenders were waiting for an answer and his depression overruled his logic. He opened his mouth intending on just feeding another lie to strangers who cared nothing for him, but carelessly started to ramble instead and the room spun without him.

“I’m part of an experiment to conceal the truth about the coming apocalypse,” he scoffed, wondering if that were even true anymore while he fingered the condensation on the beer glass. “Contagions, on a global scale to wipe out the planet except for the chosen few. I’m the atomic bomb: the savior and the sinner, and I can choose to destroy or save every man, woman, and child on this planet.”

Jackson chuckled to himself at how crazy his tale already sounded. His hands and arms were now animated as he spoke, staring at the bartenders straight in the eye.

“So of course they killed my parents. I’ve been forced to leave my girlfriends, drop out of school, I’m more of a bad joke than a friend. I’m Jackson, but they call me William…”

The man had the same look plastered on his face that most people had at hearing anything remotely “out there.” The older woman just look resigned, as if she’d heard this same shit on a different day. Maybe she had. Nothing surprised him anymore.

Noticing they both were still waiting for him to finish his spiel, he dove right back into the bullet point version of what he called his life.

“I realized I was part of the X-Men when I was just a kid,” he huffed at comparing himself to hero’s when he felt like a manifestation of evil. He leaned back with his hands gripping his knees, blowing a stream of air through puffed cheeks. “And now I chase after threads of sanity, trying to find who I really am, armed with a letter and a prayer hoping to find the courage to go to my birth mother, hoping she still wants me and has some answers. I’m shouting to the heavens or whoever is out there on the other side of my one-way sonar that the sky is falling. It’s goddamn Armageddon: earthquakes, flooding, fire, and disease.”

Jackson shook his head and rubbed his eyes. Knowing anyone else—anyone “normal” would consider this insanity, yet they were the building blocks of his life. They were what made him him . Saying them out loud as if he were confessing to his mom’s priest at their old church on Sunday mornings felt like a slap in the face.

“I’m the shitstorm of alllll time.”

“Well, that sure makes me feel better about myself,” the woman joked as she closed out his tab. “Looks like 86 is your lucky number, kid,” she told him, effectively ending his rant.

Jackson got the joke. She didn’t believe him and thought it was all some big hallucination from his consumption. Through her stimpering chastisement, she was throwing him out and refusing to serve. The depression and irritation at not being taken seriously yet again sunk from his heart into his stomach.

“You know, I’ve come to realize that one is the loneliest number,” he said, sulking with an arched brow and bathing in self-pity.

“That’s where I know this kid from,” the male bartender interrupted. “You remind me of that Spooky Mulder man. The woman passed him a curious look.

“You remember the FBI agent? Used to come in here years ago with his pretty redheaded partner.”

The female bartender smiled and nodded, a glimmer of recognition danced across her face and she added, “I hope the poor bastard realized she was crazy about him and grew a pair to finally ask her out.”

“Spooky Mulder?” Jackson questioned. That was them. Goddamnit! he thought, realization dawning. Once again following in the shadows of their history; literally it seemed.

“Yeah, I remember him bringing in his partner, what was her name?” she asked the other bartender.

“It was the same as the famous baseball announcer.” He snapped his fingers while Jackson gaped at the irony of it all. “Vin Scully—Scully was her name. Brought her in here after saving her life out in the arctic or some shit. Or she saved his life? I don’t know if they ever got that straight. Anyway, they would drink in here sometimes.”

The woman examined Jackson’s face. “Now that you mention it, he kind of looks like them.”

Jackson was afraid the jig was up. He tossed a couple fifties on the bar and stood, using the barstool to steady himself as he blinked twice to bring his doubled vision into focus.

While stumbling towards the door, a gang of bikers were making their way inside, marking out their turf like a wolf pack. They were rowdy and demanding, pushing the crowd aside as they grabbed their barstools and ordered drinks, harassing the patrons. Another younger, inexperienced bartender tried to settle them and it only appeared made them angry. One pulled him by his collared shirt to whisper something in his ear. Another one held out a knife, fingering it like he couldn’t wait to use it, while another man displayed the holster of his gun. If this was a bar frequented by the FBI, they were taking the night off.

Jackson’s heart pounded within his chest with what felt like a force hard enough to crack a rib as it yearned to beat free of its cage. His senses went on high alert and every color in the bar glowed brighter, every noise louder, smell stronger. With every movement anyone made he was prepared to react.

The song “Glitter and Gold” played through the bar’s sound system. Adrenaline and anger spiked in his veins like he had a double shot of caffeine. They were going to pay for their drinks and their disruption.  

In a dopamine rush, Jackson covered his frame in illusion, a monstrous form he invented as a child. Everyone froze at the sight of Ghouli before them. The eyes of the witnesses of Jackson’s transformation bulged and he could hear their strangled cries of mortal terror. Bulbs burst from the fixtures until there was barely enough light for shadows. The darkness fed his rage. Even the stars and moon seemed to cower behind clouds through the window preparing for Jackson’s storm. Everyone, everything, was now his prey.

Through the mirror at the bar, Jackson caught a reflection of a young boy with utter terror taking over his once innocent features, and his mother with her arms wrapped around him ready to give her life for his survival. In that moment, something inside Jackson snapped, or finally broke free perhaps. He heard it like a twig cracking in his mind, a subtle deafening sound. He ran. The bikers fled fearing he was headed their way, but Jackson was running away, not towards. Running to feel the sweet pain in his lungs, lactic acid building in his muscles, reminding him that he was real, he was human.  

Jackson “the monster” was no more. The old him really had died in the depths of the water on that cold night at the docks.

Now outside, the cars zoomed as they passed him, the drivers never taking notice of the monster running down the street, half human half Frankenstein as his illusion faded. People were too busy hurrying back to a welcoming home, eating their sirloin steaks and mashed potatoes with their family, making sure the children ate their vegetables. Somewhere parents beamed happily as they knelt down to tuck their kids into bed with a story in hand...

Would he ever know that comfort again?

Depression and self-loathing, like liquid death swarmed inside him, the blackness flooded and choked him begging his body to choose his future.

Heaving and gasping for breath with his avatar long gone, he slowed and finally stopped, leaning on his knees as he hunched over and concentrated on not vomiting. The sky spun and he heaved out the night’s libations. He wasn’t much of a successful drinker to begin with. Somehow he ended up on the damp ground, not certain how it happened, but he could feel the frigid water seeping into his jeans. His hands rested back into the soil as his feet dangled off the curb and into the street.

That monster was not him and it would not return.

[earthfulbliss]

Helloooo friends✨ For the last few days I have been very indecisive as to whether to come back onto this account and to make this post, but here we go👉🏻 From the bottom of my heart thank you thank you thank you for sticking with me during my time away from Instagram. I have been feeling super uninspired and unmotivated with this account. I have been finding the state of my mental health awfully challenging and I’d say this is the main reason behind not posting. At times I have become close to deactivating this account, but in learning to seperate myself from this horrid disorder, I have discovered that deactivating my account is not what I want. This disorder has taken so much control over my life, so much from me, and I mustn’t let it take anymore. There is NO WAY I’m not beating this battle because I know that myself and everyone else out there who may be struggling are soo much more than this disorder. Unfortunately recovery isn’t easy peasy. It’s uncomfortability, it’s tears, it’s extreme anxiety and it’s freaking hard. It is so easy to lose motivation and slip through the cracks into something bigger and scarier than you. Something that drowns out every positive thought and every piece of strength you thought you had. I am still learning to catch myself, and that is okay, because I know I will get there✨✨✨ If anyone has any ideas/inspo for what you would like to see in my feed pleeasee comment below! Thank you guys for being the best little Instagram community. So much love for you all💛 https://www.instagram.com/p/B3q4vnMJ_qI/?igshid=eholl04egvtq

[universal-kitty]

How about Godot?

Also, I hope you feel better soon 💖

   The door clicked open and- with a relieved sigh- Rachel was finally home. As much as they appreciated being with friends, making connections, it all left them too...anxious. Did the others really like them? Was there any friendships left to build on? Was it a wasted effort, better spent alone? What if they didn’t even want them around, tolerating them only because they still had one tie to the group, and so they put up with the unwanted shenanigans because of their friendship...?

   Anxiety swirled in their gut as they set down their backpack with a sigh, trying to find some joy in the pink front of the bag, showing off the inside array of fictional characters they cared too much about.

   To no avail. It didn’t lessen the anxiety and rising panic in the slightest.

   “Well, there’s a sight for sore eyes... Welcome home, Kitten.” That caught Rachel’s attention, looking up to see the visor of their boyfriend, Godot. The former Diego Armando... Legally still was, but you’d never much hear him acknowledge those “old days,” as he said. They were over with. Godot is all that remained.

    “Hey, Godot...” He eased things, but not by enough. Something noted in the way his head tilted, staring them down behind the visor. Rachel was used to this, by now; the constant switching of is he looking versus is he not? Today, however, it isn’t a question.

   He sees a lack of energy and they know it.

   “Something wrong?” He asks at last, stepping closer and slipping his hands onto their hips. It’s their favorite way to be held, sighing softly in comfort as they lean into him, head resting on his chest.

   “Yes...and no. No, because I think I’m just overthinking it. This shouldn’t be a big deal... But at the same time, I’m not sure I’m doing the right thing.”

   “Oh?”

   “Yeah... I mean, I wanted this! I wanted to be included in a friend group again. I wanted to lessen the hurt that he...had so much fun without me. Cause I don’t have a group of friends to hang out with around here... You know? But suddenly, amidst a game and realizing I still don’t know how to talk to people... I don’t know!!” Rachel sucked in a harsh breath, shaking slightly under his touch. Quietly, he moved his hands up, pulling them closer to him and noting how their hands tightly gripped his shirt. “I want to believe they want me around, but... I feel like I don’t belong, still. I wonder if anyone wants me there at all.

   “...I just want to belong somewhere, Godot... I don’t want to keep being like this, but it’s so, so hard to...” It wasn’t a surprise that a few tears escaped, crying softly into his tie. He was relieved that he didn’t have his coffee at the time, at least; able to kneel down a bit in order to sweep up his distressed datemate into his arms and move away from the entrance, back over into the living room.

   Taking a seat with his Kitten in his lap, arms wrapping around them in the way he knew they liked best and doing what his visor would allow of pressing his face close to their’s. Perhaps not the best attempt with such a machine on his face, but he worked with what he could.

   “Your anxiety... It’s a too-hot cup,” he mused thoughtfully, loud enough to be heard over the muffled sobs. “You can’t drink from it so quickly, or you will only get burned. Even if they don’t last long in the views of others, the burns on your heart never heal the same, do they? We both know this sort of pain, but you, Kitten, have it happen more than I do... Your brain works overtime. Don’t let it.

   “I know it’s hard to do. Took me a long while to figure it out, myself. Time inside and out of jail... Don’t need jail time to know what I’m going to tell you though, right?”

   A pause settled and though the tears hadn’t quite stopped, the harsh breathing was steadying and so were the sobs. A slow calm as they came down from scarier heights...and Godot, still patiently waiting for them to answer.

   “That... That I, um, should...work past my anxiety? And keep trying?” Rachel’s meek voice was so cute, but not quite the answer he sought.

   “Close, but not quite, Kitten. Work past your anxiety, by all means. However, if things aren’t working out for you, stop. You can’t force yourself to like black coffee with how sweet you are... Don’t force yourself to give some of that sweetness into other’s cups who don’t even deserve it.” Rachel paused, looking up at him and the tight line his lips had become. His tone had suddenly become biting and while it was certainly in part because of the situation at hand...

   “...You deserve it, though. Don’t bring yourself down with me, babe,” they said, voice soft as they stroked his prickly cheek of stubble, fingertips caressing the skin below the edge of his visor. He shuddered, but stayed quiet. “...I guess you’re right. I shouldn’t force myself, it’s just-”

   “Leave the worries to Trite,” he pointed out, a grin slowly spreading on his lips. Though the two had long settled their differences, hearing Godot refer to his old “rival” Phoenix as “Trite” meant he was teasing again...and purposefully aiming for smiles. (None yet, but the look Rachel gave him for it was good enough.) “We’ll eventually get back home to California. There’s some good friends of ours there, isn’t that right? Edgeworth, Rhodes, Wright, the Feys... Things will get better, Kitten. No need to fuss about life, when life works itself out all the time. With or without our help.”

   “...I suppose.”

   “I’m right.” Another grin as they sighed, wiping away remaining tears that lingered on their lashes. The grin settled as he watched them, affection only growing in his eyes at how Rachel was settling down; tired, still a little tense, but doing better, step by step.

   Those beginnings of recovery were all his heart needed.

   “...Thanks, babe. ‘m love you.” A pause, looking up at him suddenly. “...Can I take your visor off? I wanna see you.”

   “I won’t be able to see you, though,” Godot pointed out, tilting his head; a visual way to show the arched brow under the visor. Rachel seemed a little sheepish at the reminder, but pushed on.

   “I know...but I want to see you. Just for a little bit...! I’ll put it on after, okay?” There was a gentle persistence in their words. Easy enough to say no to, to promise “some other time” and enjoy the moment in it’s red visuals. The only vision he had left...

   The only issue is he long found himself not wanting to deprive his love of even the little things. Even if it meant his vision for a few minutes...

   Godot sighed. “Alright, I suppose... But afterwards, you’re putting it back on and I’m making us coffee.”

   “Deal,” was their speedy response, moving so that they straddled his lap, hands beelining for the familiar clips that kept the visor on his face. With the removal of it, his vision was gone...but Rachel had described his most recent appearance to him not that long ago, at least.

   Skin was still tan, but looked a little paler thanks to the visor and lack of sunlight. His eyes had become glossy, pale from the damage the poison had done to his eyes. A true blind man, far as he could tell. And a more recent addition, a streak of still-noticeable white from one side of his face to the other, crossing the bridge of his nose; a scar from when Dahlia’s channeled spirit had struck him across the face with a blade.

   They insisted it added to his charm, but Godot was unsure of that. (Still, suppose if his Kitten says so, it might have to be true. That, and they insisted Mia would’ve agreed. He was sure on that much, at least. Perhaps they were right, after all...)

   He sighed at the darkness, the warmth traveling over his face in the form of fingers and the faintest feeling of their breath. Those his eyes moved, he saw nothing...but for some reason, the weirdo liked watching his eyes move. Never could explain it beyond, “It’s cool to see them move... I love your eyes. That’s...really all there is to it, I suppose.”

   “...I love you,” they murmured again, Godot breathing in when the air around him warmed, hair tickling his cheek. Moving in for a kiss? He was just finding his mind again to reply in kind when their lips were over his, gentle and just slightly chapped. (Where had their chapstick gone, the goof?) He kissed back, a hand threading through their hair and getting a firm hold on it once his fingers peeked through the strands.

   Hearing their shaky breaths when they pulled away made him smile a little, listening to it a moment longer. Feeling the warmth of their breaths and the slight heat of their face. Blushing? Wouldn’t surprise him any; Rachel tended to light up like a candle around him... So, so easily. Really gave him an ego boost, if he was honest.

   “I love you, too, Kitten.” He took a risk in giving them a return peck and- whether by luck or assistance- he made it. “Now, why don’t you put my visor back on? I promised coffee and... I think some cuddling will have to be in the plans for today.” The excited, soft squeak was all he needed to hear, laughing softly as Rachel quickly start getting his visor back onto his face, already thinking up other plans for later to help his Kitten cheer up a little more... Even if they would be hot enough to put their coffee to shame~

[fireflysummers]

Momentary Resurrection

An Attic AU One-Shot

In honor of the borths of @phantomrose96​ and @sandflakedraws​!

TW: mentions of kidnapping, suicidal ideation, mentions of past violence

ABOT Attic AU Masterpost

He thinks he is losing words.

The thought is scarier than the thought of losing his memory—because most of that has already been shot to hell, after being forced to unwillingly share his mortal vessel. It’s like tiptoeing a gaping chasm in the darkness. He can feel rather than see the lack of something, where his memories ought to be. The feeling of vast space sucking at him was terrifying, at first, but now he has simply learned how not to fall into it.

(Except on bad nights, when he awakes from the throes of a nightmare, uncertain where his dreams have bled into lost memories.)

No, losing words is so much worse, because without words he is less than helpless.

He’s useless.

Thinking about it makes Reigen’s throat burn, the phantom pains running up and down the lacerated scars of his neck.

Mogami had tried to tear the words out of him by force. To shred them in his throat before they could alert his other captive to his presence.

Reigen hated to think that it had worked.

He remembers his first time begging.

That’s inaccurate. He can’t recall what he had begged for, or how he’d approached the topic, or why he’d picked that specific individual. All he can remember is the gnawing hunger that had finally forced his hand…and the look of disgust on the stranger’s face as he’d taken in Reigen’s disheveled appearance.

And he can remember the emptiness, where the words used to be.

There had been no attempted explanation then, no charismatic sparkle to put the stranger at ease and a little more free with his pocket change. Nothing but shame.

It was then that he realized that Reigen Arataka had died in that attic, along with the words that had been ripped out of him.

The one nice thing about living under a bridge, was that nobody expected him to speak. To anybody aware of his existence, Reigen was expected to do nothing but rot away in darkness, but at least he’d been allowed to do so quietly.

The nice thing about the Kageyamas is that they expect him not to do that. But this new existence, this second chance at life, leaves him aching for what used to be.

There are times that he feels himself instinctively reaching out for the words, to fill in an uncomfortable silence or attempt to explain something in detail. On good days, they come—albeit unwillingly—rusty and tasting like blood. On bad days…well. On bad days he has worse things to worry about, than the sinking, plunging feeling that comes when the words fail him.

Like mourning, he thinks, like grieving for somebody who’s died.

Somebody knocks on the door.

There is an oily-looking man waiting on the other side of the knock—greasy hair, purple suit, and smile just a little too wide to be genuine. It grows wider still when Hisao opens the door.

“Can I help you?” Hisao asks, eyes narrowing as he takes in this stranger.

“Not at all, my dear fellow,” the stranger replies, hands flying up and around, “In fact, I am here to help you!”

“We’re not interested in buying anything,” Hisao responds automatically, beginning to close the door. But the oily man is too close, has a foot wedged firmly in its path. The smile doesn’t waver.

“Just hear me out!” the man pleads, as though he’s given Hisao any kind of choice.

“What’s going on?” Akane joins her husband at the door, taking note of her husband’s posture and the stranger who has made it his business to invade their home.

“Salesman again,” Hisao tells her, voice forced to be calm, “He was just leaving.”

“I swear to you both, I am no salesman!” The man looks scandalized, perhaps the most genuine emotion he’s displayed so far. “I am a psychic—an esper. And I come offering aid to your family in this time of need.”

“We don’t need your help,” Akane says, cold wariness setting in, “Leave.”

For a moment it looks like the man is going to do as he’s told. Both Kageyama parents hope for a second that he will, that that will be the end of things, but there’s that gleam in his eye…something nasty is on its way.

“I see, I see,” the man says, somehow taking a half-step back without relinquishing any of his foothold. “Perhaps you would not like to hear the plans your boy’s shishou still has for him.”

The reaction to his words is almost immediate, the color draining from the faces of the two Kageyama parents. The oily man smiles and shrugs, as though he is prepared to leave.

“Ah, but, perhaps you already knew,” the man says, “Or you no longer care. You think you’re safe, when you are not. After all, evil spirits tend to linger around, like a bad fart.”

“Indeed. You and evil spirits have that much in common.”

The stranger and the Kageyamas both start at the voice, coming from behind them.

Reigen stands with arms folded, head held high, and eyes pinned on the stranger at the door. For once, his eyes are sharp, calculating, as though doing mental arithmetic with this strange weasel of a man in mind. And then Reigen grins, his face transforming into something self-assured and confident.

He strides forward, the Kageyamas parting to let him through, and the stranger actually taking a step back as Reigen comes near.

“A psychic, you say?” Reigen says, tone light, one hand stroking his chin thoughtfully. “What a relief, we certainly could use your assistance.”

“As you can tell, this entire household is horribly haunted. I’ve tried time and again to tell these good people, but they do not quite believe me. I am only a minor psychic myself, and can’t quite…describe, the dangerous aura that surrounds this house, but I believe it to be massive, and malicious.”

“Oh,” the stranger says, trying not to look too relieved, “It is. Enormous! That spirit’s grudge has come to haunt this household. It wanders about, searching for a way in.”

“Indeed,” Reigen agrees, waving a hand animatedly at the Kageyama home behind him. “I thought I had seen it wandering about. Would you say it has the face of a deer or the face of a boar? I cannot tell.”

“A boar most definitely, when I saw it skulking about earlier.”

“Oh, it is not here right now?” Reigen asks, “I swear that I felt its presence just moments before.”

“It was, but it has gone. I have frightened it off with my presence, and will need to perform a proper exorcism—for a price, of course.”

“Of course, of course. You are not afraid of the ghost,” Reigen says. “You are too powerful. Or. Perhaps because there is no spirit at all.”

The temperature of Reigen’s voice drops then, but several degrees. The confidence, however, does not leave, nor does the grin. The stranger’s grin, however, fades away instantly, something akin to fear creeping into his eyes.

“I…” he tries to find the words, but Reigen has already snatched them away from him.

“Perhaps you would like to tell us how you got ahold of the police report on Kageyama Shigeo’s disappearance and recovery?” Reigen asks, leaning in and placing a hand on the stranger’s shoulder. “Or perhaps, we could just call them over now? I’m sure they would love to find out how a dirty little con artist accessed information only they should have.”

“I…I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the stranger replies, eyes darting from side to side. He’s attempted to back away several times now, each time Reigen following with measured steps. “It came to me as part of my divine gifts.”

“Bullshit,” Reigen replies, practically walking him backwards, off the property, “I never want to see your weasly little face again, you half-baked con artist. If you do, I will ensure that the police know.” He snaps his hand back with a flourish, revealing the little white business card he’d slipped from the breast pocket of the man’s odd purple suit. “I have your name and contact information here, after all. I’m sure they would be happy to speak with you.”

“Now leave.”

The stranger trips, falling heavily on his behind, and for a moment, Reigen looms over him like a dark angel. He scrambles backwards, almost tripping over himself again in his attempt to flee.

As the man vanishes around the corner, the spell breaks.

Reigen doesn’t talk to anybody for several hours. He retreats to the couch, the old blanket pulled over his shoulders, unable to hide the shivers wracking his entire frame.

Eventually, he seems to calm, instead sagging against the arm rest, exhausted.

He can hear the Kageyama family talking in the other room. Can feel the looks that Ritsu is giving him where he thinks Reigen won’t notice.

“What was that?” He hears one of them ask. Reigen doesn’t know who, his mind is too frayed to try to keep the pieces of the puzzle from melting together.

He wishes he could explain, but once again the words have abandoned him, leaving him trapped in his own spiraling thoughts.

It was a ghost, he thinks, the ghost of Reigen Arataka.

[nehawriter16]

2018, THE YEAR THAT BROKE ME

I’m currently sitting on the floor of my bedroom. It’s been a day of avoiding real work and responsibilities, but then again, escapism is kind of the theme of this year, so it’s only accurate that I’m here writing this.

Everybody is asleep, except me. And the men I like who live overseas, but they’ve been ignoring me, so I have no desire to ring them up despite the general despair and loneliness I feel. But let’s not begin our round up with boys, because although they rank high on my list of important life lessons/disappointments this year, I don’t want also want to give them the satisfaction of first place.

In the last 365 days, a lot about my life changed. I’m going to try to sum it up as best as I can.

1) In the beginning of December, I quit an internship that anybody else would have killed for. The work and constant travelling and being yelled at by crude seniors broke the delicate petal that I am. I’d landed that job at 19, and I loved that I was thrown into the adult world so early because it taught me a lot, but two years of showing up every day to do something I don’t love killed something inside of my brain. And so, I decided to take a month off and then move to a smaller firm, not realising that my job at EY would help to keep my sanity by keeping me occupied.

The first few weeks were bliss. After twelve hour work days, I suddenly had a lot of free time and I indulged in attending fun trainings and catching up with old friends. For a short second, life was filled with hope, up until my birthday in mid Jan.

2) Since I now had the luxury of lesser work hours, I decided to pursue one of my biggest dreams – writing a book. I already had the story in mind, and I thought that despite the emotional turmoil that revisiting some of the memories would bring, the bigger picture would be worth it. It’s almost the end of December now, and I’m still sure it is.

But the truth is – my relationship with A blossomed in 2016, and died a premature death in mid 2017. And I’ve been dragging it through the ground for longer than I should be. Sometimes I wonder if I’m solely responsible for squeezing it for the story. Or maybe it was the kind of love you can’t forget. Well, I can’t. I’m sure he has.

But one of the hardest things about writing this has been taking myself back to when we were falling for each other. I’ve been reading emails about hopes and dreams and forever after it has already ended. And how do you write about happiness when you know there isn’t going to be any? All this is important for the narrative, yes, but it fucks with my mental health so badly. 2016 me was naive and trusting. 2018 me is bitter, and not too thrilled about revisiting those moments mostly because of how much they hurt just to think about, forget turning them into an interesting cliff hanger filled story.    

I have almost finished writing it though, and that’s what’s the more important thing. I don’t know what kind of nightmares publishing and finding an agent and royalties is going to bring, but at least I will have created something tangible and coherent instead of this faraway thing that I’ve dreamt of since I was 13.

3) I tanked my CA Final – and this was the biggest disappointment, no surprises there. More than the gallons of self loathing it brought on me, it was about the burden I created for my parents. Yesterday my mother, in a burst of anger, said, “If you don’t pass in May, you can’t live under our roof anymore.” She doesn’t know this, and she probably never will, but I cried myself to sleep because that thought terrifies me.

I feel like I am already just swimming through a rubble of guilt. Most people my age have already gotten well paying jobs and have been living out of home for years now. They are financing themselves and starting businesses and I don’t even read the newspaper on a daily basis. I lack the self control I used to have in school, or maybe my mother’s constant nagging and being up my ass was the only way I stayed successful when I was younger.

Of course, this career choice was a MASSIVE bad decision, and I’ve always felt out of place in it. I will never be the best, but I really do need to pass and finish. If I can’t pass it again, I will literally sink into unconquerable depression that no amount of therapy and medicines will be able to pull me out of.

I’m supposed to start studying from the 1st, and I hope that it doesn’t drive me FUCKING INSANE like the last time it did, because this time, the pressure is higher and time, lesser.

I still have some grit left in me though. The last two months of this year have been difficult, but creatively fulfilling, and I am okay with having to go back to analytical subjects again. I feel sane enough to drop into the mental battlefield that is the CA Final syllabus.  

 4) I’m 23 in a fortnight, and at least 5 of my friends got engaged this year. I was the oldest in school in my batch so they’re all younger than me. This whole finding a boy thing is stressing me the fuck out, because as per my calculations, it would take a year of courting for me to so much as like somebody seriously. After that, it would take two years for me to try every possible method to drive him away, and torture him with all my hamartias, and THEN if he doesn’t leave, and when he proposes, I’ll be like, “Okay fine. Maybe we can be engaged.” This whole process takes 3 years. I want to be married at 26, so I only have those many. The problem is that in this time period, it will not only be difficult to find an emotionally available boy with a pretty face – WAIT, for him to find me, because women don’t do the chasing – who is also sexy and charming and reads poetry and has a sensible head on his shoulders. No, in this time period I will also be taking solely career-oriented decisions as one must, and love will always take the backseat. I want to move abroad in 2020 and he may live somewhere else, and it’s clear from my several failed attempts that I can’t do long distance. Also to be noted that you cannot try this experiment with different men simultaneously. It’s sort of a one lab rat at a time type of test.

So what, then? Fuck feelings, and only be serious with hook ups? I think I’ve filled my 2018 with at least a two dozen of those hot but dumb types (tall, abs, rolling in money, half a brain, bonus if they’re good kissers, but you can never date them seriously) and to be honest I’m getting tired of them. First of all, they’re all pussies about the poetry, it literally frightens them which I find kind of hilarious, but it’s also annoying. Sure, we can roll a joint and make out on my terrace, and they’ll just pull up when I find myself getting even the least bit lonely, but the ones I really like – the fuckboys who I see have real turning into boyfriend potential – they live abroad. It’s so cliché, I might vomit, but they literally live in London and New York. London Boy is only here for a month and then he’s gone. New York one may stay back, but he always wants to meet after midnight and there’s no fucking way my parents are allowing that.

And let’s face it, I’m a relationship girl. Sure, I’ve picked up some skills with hooking up and if we’re being honest I don’t really have to make an effort, just pick a half-interesting loser from the hundred DM’s sitting in my Instagram, and it’s done. He does the work and buys the drinks. I put out. I ghost. It’s practically a system.

But I’m bored now. I need somebody entertaining. But no matter what, one of the most important lessons I’ve learnt this year is to never settle for less than what I deserve. (At least for my heart. My body gets it when she likes it, and thats enough.) So I say no to…well, everybody. True love has literally been evading me, and may for a while, I think until this CA shit is done, because it’s more important anyway.

Until then, I literally have a broadcast list called, “FWB.”

4) Do I even need to write about fake friends? Girls are so fucking FAKE NICE, it irritates me. And I have a great group of these girls in my life, who want nothing more than to use you as a stool to get to where they want. I have very few real friends and I’m so grateful for them (okay, her) because everybody else is just about the temporary bullshit. I am always afraid of judgement with them, and everything I say comes with a “what will they think of me?” filter. I don’t think real friendships should be like that at all. No, in a true friendship, you should be able to take both – your make up and fake bitch mask off and sit around in sweats, drinking and complaining about everything that’s wrong with your life.

Is this really how adults act? Will I always have to worry about the ulterior motives of everybody new I meet? And even scarier, if I spend enough time around them, will I also turn into a self centered asshole with no backbone? Will I forget who I am and start adapting to the social settings into which I’ve been thrust?

Because I hope not. Despite everything that’s happened this year, and despite almost losing my mind to mental health (yes! A thing I am still not ready to talk about! But someday will be!) I actually like my brain and what its capable of, once it starts trying. I like the stuff I come up with, the way my thoughts come out as sentences. I am actually a fan of the voice in my head, who – let’s face it – has been a real ass friend to me also. Even though she kind of went crazy with the depression, but I think the recovery has begun.

2018 was a fucking shithole, and god, I fell deep. I know 2019 is going to be even harder but I hope it is filled with more genuine happiness because it’s been a long time since I felt “happiness” as a permanent, internal feeling. It’s just been more of a fleeting and momentary thing for a few hours before the sadness envelopes me and takes lead.

So I hope that when I speak to you in – and over – the next 365 day period that’s about to begin, I am able to share some more hope and joy with you. I hope the motherfucker I’m going to marry stops sitting around on his ass and finds me, because I’m ready for my heart to be won over again. I have mourned enough, and fucked half the high spirits crowd. But most of all… I hope this book I’ve written does well. Not just because it’s a brilliant piece of shit, and a beautiful fucking story (if I may say so myself) but mostly because I really like clothes and I could use the money.

Also it would be great to stop feeling so mediocre all the time, so yeah. That would be nice. Will keep you updated Tumblr!

Love,

NC

[hannahlowis]

Now when I think about tomorrow I tremble, It’s scares me, it gives me goosebumps and ya I worry a l.o.t BUT honestly what a progress this has been! I don’t force myself to sleep at 7am anymore just because the morning lights were creaking through my window already; my body is demanding the sleep I missed all those nights. I don’t force myself to eat just so I have something before going to work; I actually taste my food better and gain the calories I never ever thought I should burn. I could finally donate some blood in this weight! (red cross na lang ga hulat haha!). I find myself singing in the shower again, I smell thingz better like how I used to and I don’t space-out that much (just when I’m at the end of 12-15hrs shift) . So, If thinking about the future makes me feel somehow scared now, I’m happy, because nothing is scarier than feeling NOTHING at all. I’ve been waiting to see what the light at the end of the tunnel looks like and I guess this is it.

I finally learned that in grief, time doesn’t heal. Recovery is never promised. Going back will not bring you to your old self, she is far long gone.. that she is now counting on you to continue and keep moving, forwards or backwards as long as you move (you might as well learn how to dance again.. slowly). and AH! HOPE. Hope is something you lost when you encounter grief, goodnews is that you’ll meet again. Now I’m shaking hands with it and it feels good.

So yaaaa, this is Reflection timeee. Thanks for reading 😚