#mental hospitalization tw

[greywoodrpg]

𝕒𝕤𝕒 𝕙𝕠𝕝𝕝𝕒𝕟𝕕

he appears as though he was born forty-five years ago but is actually one hundred and seventy-nine, he is a vampire who lives in mystic grove as a head librarian, and is in no coterie. he looks an awful lot like andrew scott.

“It’s alright to lose yourself to madness.”

tw: mental illness, mental hospitalization, death

Asa Holland was born in Ireland in 1844. His father had money, but wanted his son to earn an honest living- and so Asa learned a trade early and became a tailor’s apprentice. Asa was unassuming, quiet and mousy, but as he learned from his boss, he seemed to come alive. Clothing and the arts, sewing and creating. When he had free time he began to learn painting as well. But his father saw his relationship with the man, and fearing the worst, sent his son away to ‘correct’ his behavior. At the age of 15 he was living in a mental hospital in England- and many never left these sorts of places. Asa’s aggression came out from his anger at his father, but it only showed those in charge of him that he truly couldn’t be trusted to be sent back out into society. And so for years upon years, he rotted in hospitals. His father rose to higher positions in government and couldn’t afford to take his ‘mental’ son out- and so if anything, he’d be transferred about to other psychiatric institutes. Until one day in 1888. Someone came into his derelict bedroom, unknowingly about to change the man’s life- a creature, a vampire, hungry and lonely. Asa was turned, somehow not fully killed in the process of the feeding. And in his turned state, he went feral. The doctors and nurses who had held him there, force-fed him pills, mistreated him... Asa left the place a bloodbath, but it was assumed he’d been one of the many casualties of the mysterious events of that one night in 1888 at St. Irene’s. But instead, Asa was free, finally. He left that nightmarish place and traveled about, to London, back to Ireland. Eventually, years and years later, to the States. Now as an almost 2-centuries-old vampire, Asa is an unsettling but kind man- there is a quiet intensity to his eyes that have seen the invention of electricity, of cars and phones. He is antiquated in some ways, naive in others. But Asa runs a tight ship at the library, having taken over from the old woman who was set to retire. He does his best to create all sorts of clubs, study groups, and story-times at the library.

“what power did he attain when settling in greywood?”

Asa found that he had an amazingly green thumb after moving to Greywood- but due to being a vampire, he can’t go out during the day. He’s found ways to get around it, and his back patio is a huge garden of vegetables and fruit he can’t eat, beautiful flowers, and he’s often seen under a patio umbrella, working on a watercolor with a cat in his lap and surrounded by his beautiful plants that are sometimes scarily huge. 

penned by... eli

[hospitales]

[a-frog-in-a-bog]

one of the things that pisses me off so much about taylor swift's romanticizing of the abuse that happens in psych hospitals is how far back she had to go in history to find a decade in which there was even a slim chance she would've been institutionalized for being a wealthy white woman with opinions. THAT'S the real reason she picks the 1800s to sing about, not because the poetry was better or whatever.

she either thinks horrific medical abuse is a thing of the past, or she knows that there are people who are being forced to undergo electroshock therapy, chained to beds, restrained, strip-searched, assaulted, beaten, and neglected RIGHT NOW but she is far too privileged to ever be subjected to that today. so she has to pick a different time period to stage her ✨ insanity era ✨, knowingly utilizing triggering imagery and minimizing medical abuse as a metaphor for having emotions. i wouldn't doubt either possibility tbh

[spectral-slugcat]

Theriantok: “Aslong as your identity doesn’t harm anyone it doesn’t matter!! Be happy”

Also theriantok: “OMG YOU IDENTIFY PHYSICALLY?? YOU NEED TO GET HELP YOU HAVE LYCANTROPHY YOU WILL END UP IN A MENTAL HOSPITAL”

[littleblood]

[vellichorom]

@/bogleech when will my husband return from the war I WANT TO DIVORCE HIM SOME mORE

[zebulontheplanet]

I think people don’t understand Schizoaffective depressive type. And that’s ok, there isn’t a lot of resources on it. But I think people undermine it. For me, Schizoaffective WAS schizophrenia with a mood disorder. Some have less symptoms then others, some have more. I sadly had a LOT of symptoms, and it ruined most of my teen years. I was hospitalized for the first time at 12/13(literally a few weeks before my 13th birthday) I don’t think people realize how fucking young that is to be hospitalized.

Schizoaffective has ruined my life. It’s not “haha, I was seeing things and a little depressed” no, it was constant hallucinations, delusions, anxiety, paranoia, etc etc. it was depression so bad that I’d cry daily. It was depression so bad that I’d have intense depressive mood swings that would be life threatening. It was bad. And I want the stigma of Schizoaffective to stop. I want it to be more known about. I want it to be talked about more.

Schizoaffective is intense. It’s schizophrenia plus some. That’s intense. I have childhood onset, and that’s intense. None of this is quirky. I will be on medication for the rest of my life. I will rely on people for the rest of my life because of it. I don’t think people understand that.

[the-alarm-system]

”Oh this dsm-5 collaborator supports endos” “Oh my psychiatrist supports endos” “Oh the APA said this about tulpamancy!”

We should stop giving a fuck, you think they care about us? They don’t even give a shit about traumagenic systems, they force them into fucking mental hospitals the same way they will you. Even if you’re not traumagenic, your plurality will be seen as disorder because psychiatry will always label any existence beyond the norm as a fucking mental illness. All systems are not allowed in the “non disordered future” they need in order to protect capitalism and profit. Psychiatry won’t fucking save you, quit trying to use it to justify your existence.

our existence is justified by ourselves.

[im14andivebeen14foramonth]

Ponyboy Curtis mental hospital stay hc bestie??? (We love all of your hc wanna like talk sometime?)

YESSS I LOVE PONY MENTAL HOSPITAL STAY (also thank youuu and omg yes ofc!!)

pony gets sent to a mental hospital around the winter after dally and johnny died

his concussion, along with his deteriorating mental health, caused him to start having hallucinations and night terrors of dally and johnny

his worsening mental and physical health started to show signs throughout his everyday life, mostly making him quick to anger. the school eventually called social services about it, as pony's anger was presenting itself at school with him getting into constant fights and yelling at teachers, which was very unlike himself. when he revealed that he had seen johnny and dally a few times and had consistent vivid nightmares about them, social services thought he might be going crazy

since it was the 60s, he got sent away to a mental hospital by social services, when in reality he wasn't going crazy like they thought. it was just his head trauma causing a short bout of hallucinations, and then ptsd triggering his nightmares to spike and be about dally and johnny

darry and soda fought tooth and nail to keep him from being sent away, but darry reminded soda and pony that this was a sort of deal between social services and darry; if darry cooperated and let pony spend some time there, and pony was doing better when social services evaluated him at the end of his stay, than they would let darry keep custody. darry didn't see much of another way around it, and though he didn't want to, he let them send pony away for two weeks

this sparked a lot of anger and resentment in pony, who hadn't been getting much sleep lately which automatically caused him to be quick to snap in anger at others. not to mention, pony being away from his brothers only made his nightmares worse. so, when pony first gets to the mental hospital, his first few days are spent lashing out, throwing furniture, and screaming at the workers until his throat goes raw

the first few visits were family only, and since pony was in a bad spot with darry, they never went well. he'd usually be dragged away screaming and kicking, yelling at darry for ruining his life. both darry and soda would walk out of these visits crying, though darry's were silent tears and soda was full on bawling

after a while though, pony realized that he was really missing being back home with his brothers. he may have been upset and struggling, but he also knew he wasn't "crazy" like the doctors said and shouldn't be there. he decided to start being on his best behavior so that social services would think he was getting better

in some ways he was getting better. his time away from his brothers, the gang, and his house made him realize just how much he had been missing out the past few months. it made him want to get out of the house more and go back to doing the things he had stopped doing months ago, like going to the movies and the DX. it also made him realize that if he didn't work on trying to get into a better place mentally, there was no way he'd be able to stay with darry, and these few days without darry and soda were some of the hardest of his life and he didn't want to think about spending any more time without them

he really did try to take in the good things that the doctors were saying and ignored the bad things. he especially started journaling more

the next time he saw darry and soda, he broke down in tears and kept saying how sorry he was for lashing out at them, and he promised them that he was going to get better. he started to bring his journal to the visits so that he could read off the things he was feeling to them, which opened up a big door for communication between the three

darry and soda of course forgave him, and never really blamed him for any of it in the first place. although they were worried about pony, they agreed that the doctors were wrong, and pony shouldn't be in there

after a little while, when the doctors had decided that pony is doing better, they let two-bit and steve come to the visits too. seeing them only makes pony miss being home even more, even if it seemed like they were all walking on eggshells around him

at the end of the two weeks, pony seemed to have made a "full recovery" (he definitely didn't, but pony's always been a good liar) and the doctors deemed him fit to be released. after meeting with social services, they decide that pony has gotten better enough to stay in darry's custody

it wasn't exactly easy when pony came home. pony still had night terrors and spent days at a time without sleeping, leaving him miserable and irritable. the curtis house was really tense and everyone tried to be super calm with pony. he appreciated the effort, but he eventually had to tell them to stop treating him like he was a piece of glass, which led to things going back to mostly normal

safe to say that pony spent a lot more nights with his brothers by his side, which helped lessen his nightmares, and he read off a lot more of his journal (and just his stories in general. darry and soda had really liked hearing the things pony had to say and wanted to hear more of the things he wrote. it became a sort of bonding thing between the three)

[inkblot22]

Can You Keep A Little Secret?

JFC this took me longer than usual I'm so sorry anon. I sort of explained it before, but I didn't exactly use your prompt, based on ineptitude on my part. After I finish reading Oshi no Ko, I might try again! Line divider by @/cafekitsune.

This fic is aimed towards sort of everyone, but the reader possesses afab features (they don't come into play until later, this chapter has no mention of them.) You'll understand what I mean by it being for everyone if you read the first paragraph or so. It has to do with suspending your belief/ employing your imagination.

TW for: lots of confusion, semi-shy reader, creep behavior, mention of death, mention of lobotomy/grippy sock jail, reincarnation. These warnings will get worse, and this takes place when all characters are 18+.

Waking up was never your favorite part of the day, but that feeling increases tenfold when you wake up in someone else’s body. You know for sure you didn’t look like this last week, and the name on your ID is similar to your own, but you don’t recognize the face in the mirror. Whoever you’re inhabiting has a few similar features to your own, but your skin was never this dewy, your eyes never so… hollow and strange. 

When you looked up your name, you found out that you, or your body, at least, had died in your sleep. When you looked up the name on that ID, you found out that you’re the child of some big business man and a prolific model, and you apparently dabble in acting. Your dad isn’t your dad, but he calls you every night to make sure you’re settling into your “new” apartment. Your mom isn’t your mom, but she has popped by once or twice to ask you how you’ve been and make you really good food. She mentioned last night that your acting instructor was worried, since you hadn’t attended your Thursday classes, and also that your agent has been trying to contact you. You didn’t know you had an agent.

When you called your agent, who was literally just titled “Agent” in your new phone, she sounded relieved then irritated, chiding you for living the high life too fast. She said you weren’t popular or loved enough to go on week-long benders, and then she mentioned that she had a job for you and she’d see you on Thursday. According to this phone that isn’t yours, Thursday was tomorrow. 

You made a night of getting prepared- slathering on the fancy face masks, trying on various outfits, scrolling through the pictures on the phone of your new body in the past, painting your really gorgeous nails- and then you went to sleep and woke up to a phone call from your new dad. 

“Hi, sweetheart!”

“Uh… hi, Dad…” You mumbled. You didn’t know him from Adam, but there was no point in being rude to him.

He pauses, and then he speaks slowly, “Did you hear from your agent, honey?”

“Yeah- yeah I did, uh, I have acting class in a little, and she said she has a job for me.”

“Oh, I’m glad to hear it! You know you can always visit me if something is wrong, okay? Just call me or Devin and he’ll come get you as soon as possible.”

You don’t know who Devin is, but you don’t point it out, “Of course. Thank you, dad.”

There was another pause. This one stretches out for a while and then he mumbles, “Okay… love you, sweetpea.”

“Uh… love you too. I’ll call you when I get back home?”

“Sure thing. Bye bye.”

The call ends with a click and you hop in the shower, trying to scrub away the confusion. You pair the lotion with a body spray that makes you smell like a summer afternoon in an apple orchard, and then you dress yourself in a soft off the shoulder sweater dress with a pair of tights with little sequins and gems sewn onto the sheer black material. You pull your hair back, tied at the nape of your neck, and roll on some lip gloss. You grab your bag, which isn’t your bag, and stroll out, walking down the street to get to the talent agency.

The receptionist looks at you in some measure of shock and greets you kindly. You smile and wave. He looks even more confused as you clomp into the stairwell. Once you get to the third floor, mildly out of breath, you hurry to room 3-5 and silently slide into the back.

You’re not sure why you’re acting so covert, as the class hasn’t even started. A woman with dark hair strolls in and flinches when she sees you sitting there, your new name tumbling from her lips with confusion.

“Hello.” You hope that she’s the instructor, “How are you?”

She looks at you like you grew two heads and forces a smile, “Oh, I’m well, dear. Give me a moment to look outside.”

She clicks to the window in her heels and opens the blinds looking around wildly before she turns back to you.

“Well, nothing’s on fire and there’s a distinct lack of flying pigs, so I guess you’re finally serious about getting better at acting?” 

“Uh… I…?” You don’t know how to respond, “I didn’t realize I’d been late so often.”

“Late? Half the time you didn’t even show up. The only person worse than you is-”

The door behind you opens. You clench your hands to stop the shaking you just realized you were struggling with, and turn slightly in your seat to see a willowy young man, tousled lavender hair being haphazardly smoothed by his slender hands.

The instructor snorts, “Speak of the devil. Hello, Mr. Felmier.”

He smiles, but it’s a bit too calculated. When he speaks, his voice is soft, almost artificial, “Ah ha… Good morning, Angie.”

Angie, evidently, rolls her eyes and takes a seat at the front of the room, crossing her long legs, and tilts her head skeptically, “Sure. If a satellite doesn’t crash in this room and kill us all in the middle of class, I’ll be shocked.”

“Mr. Felmier” walks over and smiles at you. It seems even more strained than before, and keeps eye contact with you as he points to the chair next to you, his voice high and sweet, “Mind if I sit here?”

“Oh, of course not. I don’t own that chair, haha!” You joke. 

His face twitches, some micro expression that you’re just observant enough to notice, but not to see, and he takes a seat. Angie gets up and leaves and you look out the window. You can feel eyes on you, and when you turn to look at him, his face is impassive save for a slight narrowing of his eyes. You look down at yourself and pat your cheeks, suddenly nervous.

“Oh, no, is there something on me?” You ask.

He doesn’t immediately respond, his eyes blinking so fast that if he hadn’t done it twice you would have never seen the movement, and then he gives you that sweet, plastic smile, “Oh, no. Your makeup is different than usual. It looks nice. Pretty.”

“I- I’m only wearing lipgloss, so I guess that’s why. Thank you.”

He nods slowly, and tilts his head, still smiling as though he’s trained to do so, “After we’re done here, did you want to go get brunch together?”

You’re about to say no. You don’t remember him, because this is not your life you’re living, but if you did know him, you’d decline anyway. Something feels funny about him. You don’t really have to decline, though, since you have to go down to floor 2 and see your agent afterwards anyway, “Oh, uh, I’m so sorry. I have to do something after.”

“I can wait.”

“I don’t want to put you out. Maybe another time?”

His eyebrows pinch together ever so slightly and his smile doesn’t strain, but it feels wrong as he leans his elbow on the back of his chair to better face you, “Did you hear the news from Mirelle?”

“What news?” You don’t know who Mirelle is.

“Oh, you’re meeting with her afterwards, aren’t you?” He smooths the hair along your temple so it is slicked behind your ear, “Are you wearing that perfume I got you? You said you hated it.”

Okay, so whoevers body this was definitely knew this man, and now you don’t even know his full name. Judging from the way he’s speaking to you, you were friends at least. Your lashes flutter and you look away from him.

“I- I’m sorry. It smells very nice.” You don’t know how you’re supposed to be acting. The irony of waiting for an acting class while not knowing what your role here happens to be is not lost on you.

Felmier sits up like you insulted him and his voice is quiet, so quiet and tense that you don’t think you’re supposed to hear him, “Interesting.” 

You glance at him again, “What?”

“I didn’t say anything. You like that bagel place down the street, don’t you? After you see Mirelle, meet me in the lobby. I think we should have a chat.” Although he is smiling, his voice doesn’t leave any room for argument as he turns back to the front. 

You stand up, leaving your purse in your seat, and walk to the window, looking out of it for a moment until Angie strolls back in. She clicks her tongue and you walk back to your seat.

“It’s just you two? Now I’m really expecting a freak accident. Well, let’s get started.”

Acting class was… interesting. Since it was just the three of you, Angie had you read lines from a script and act out some kind of argument. She seemed pleased with your performance, but Felmier kept stumbling over his lines and making the wrong expression. He seemed tense by the time the two hour long session was over. You didn’t want to follow that thread, and besides, you had somewhere to be. You went down the stairs again and bumped into a woman with silver hair, who looked at you just as confused as everyone else had been, and smiled sweetly, genuinely.

“Hey, you. You’re a bit early.” She says.

“Uh, yeah. I guess so? I don’t know.” You guessed this was supposed to be Mirelle, your agent, maybe. 

“It’s a good change, babe. Why don’t you come into my office?” She doesn’t really ask, since she’s already leading you over.

She takes a seat behind her desk and you take a seat in front of her, and she taps away at her computer for a moment before she says something.

“You remember Epel? Epel Felmier?”

“Uh, yeah, I guess so.”

“Oh? You ‘guess so’? Not that the two of you are constantly arguing, or anything.” She smirks, glancing away from her monitor to look at you, “Regardless, I’ve got something that will help with your little PR nightmare last month. What were you thinking?”

“Uh, I’m sorry.”

Her eyes narrow a fraction, but whatever she was thinking is ignored, “You and Epel are gonna be collaborating on an upcoming short film. Hopefully the two of you don’t get into another screaming match.”

“Um. Yeah. Hopefully.” All this new information and these new people are making your head spin. You don’t want to start panicking- you did enough of that last week- but you’re already exhausted. You wonder if there’s a back entrance to this building so you can just sneak out and don’t have to talk to Epel again. You don’t think you can mentally handle him talking to you over a cup of coffee.

Your agent, Mirelle, is looking at you expectantly, like she just said something. Your heart jumps into your throat, then sinks to your gut and you clear your throat quietly, shifting in your chair.

She laughs airily, “Oh, you didn’t hear a word I just said, did you?”

You shake your head, and she laughs again.

“I just said that production starts Monday. Try not to do anything crazy. This project is monumentally important for your public image.”

“Okay. Sorry for causing so much trouble in the past.” You mutter, standing up.

She shrugs with a happy little grin, “Oh, you’re young. Maybe you’ll grow out of it.”

You just nod. How are you supposed to even respond to that? If you get mad, you’ll probably get hysterical, and if you get hysterical, that is a one way ticket to a stay in grippy sock jail or a lobotomy. Rich people are different, and even though you’re living in some rich person’s body, you did not live this life for longer than a week. 

You purposely walk to the other staircase. Most buildings have two for fire safety. Your eyes water as you pause on the stairs and you sigh before you start descending them. 

Just as you get to the exit, your hand on the door, you hear a voice behind you, “Hey.”

It scares you out of your skin. You jump and spin and squawk, only to meet the wicked smile of Epel. It doesn’t reach his round blue eyes. He tilts his head from side to side, slowly, as if appraising you, and then he starts walking towards you and you push back against the door, opening it ever so slightly. He stops his motion and looks a tad surprised.

Then his eyes narrow, “Come back in.”

His voice sounds different, rougher. You don’t really want to, but it’s hot outside and you figure from all the odd looks and reactions you’ve gotten, running would be too erratic for this poor person’s life you’ve taken over. 

When you close the door and remain leaned against it, Epel’s face relaxes. You didn’t even realize he was making any sort of tense expression. He glances at the spandrel, the area beneath the stairs, and sighs.

“You hit your head last week? That why you were missin’?” Yeah, he’s speaking entirely differently. He has a sort of charming country twang to his voice, an underlying roughness that makes him seem even more boyish than before.

“Huh?”

“‘Huh?’” He mocks, looking back at you. He looks like he might cry, but his eyes are angry, “That all you got to say? For years you’ve told me that I don’t mean shit, and now you’re actin’ like you don’t even know me.”

He is right. You don’t know him at all. Even though you’re still in the cool building, you begin to sweat. You don’t know what to say to this without going through the experiences you’ve had in the past week, so you decide you don’t have to, especially since it seems like he may get aggressive if you say the wrong thing.

You lean hard against the aptly named panic bar, turn on your heel once outside, and take off running. It dawns on you a little late that he might be following, or, seven forbid, that he knows where you live, so you take a different route as dictated by your GPS and call your new father as soon as you get in the building.

It’s the middle of the work day, so he obviously doesn’t pick up. You unlock the apartment door and pant breathlessly, leaving a hasty voicemail, “O-oh, great seven- ugh- okay, hi, Dad. I told you I’d call you when I get home, so that’s what I’m doing. Hope I didn’t disrupt a meeting or whatever. Call me back, bye.”

You flop face down on the bed and groan, rolling onto your back as the ringtone that you would never choose goes off. In bold white letters on the screen, it says “Bumpkin Boy” with no other indication of who it might be. You pick up.

The voice on the other end sounds heated, a quiet mocking lilt to it, “Bet you went home, huh?”

Your blood runs cold and your very ability to speak is ripped from your lips.

“S’okay. You don’t have to talk. I could pay you a little visit, see what it’s like to live like a nepo baby for a day, but I think…” He pauses, and when he next speaks you hear the smile in his voice, “I think I’ll just wait for Monday, since you owe me a coffee date, don’t you?”

He hangs up after that. You stand up and double-check that you’ve locked the door before you hide in your closet and try not to start hyperventilating. You can’t even beat yourself up for this one. These circumstances are entirely out of your control.

[schizopositivity]

Can people please stop comparing the stigma of their widely recognized mental illnesses to psychosis/schizophrenia? I understand there is stigma of other mental illnesses too, but that's a lot more talked about and debunked. When I make posts about my illness and community specifically I don't appreciate you derailing it to include your illness that doesn't face the same stigma.

People looking at you weird isn't the same as people filming you and posting it for laughs, people attacking you because they see you existing as a threat, and calling the police for showing symptoms you can't control. You can't convince me that the stigma around psychosis and schizophrenia doesn't exist or is the same as the stigma of every other mental illness. I see it every day, I've experienced it myself, I don't share my illness publicly because I fear for my own physical safety and humanity.

Here are some examples I have naturally come across on YouTube comments recently, people don't usually fight against these and they are the norm: [TW: sanism, serial killer mention, demonic possession mention, forced medication, forced hospitalization]

We don't commit most violent crimes in the world. We are not inherently violent. But society's belief that this is true and that we should all be locked up for the rest of our life is still believed widely today. This is what I am advocating against. This is what I want changed in the world and at the very least in the neurodiversity community. We just want to be seen as humans, please do not make this about other mental illnesses.

[starfilled-galaxy]

Me: *talking to my mom about DID blah blah blah long story*

Mom: "Like, if it was you who was telling me this stuff [that you likely have DID and hear voices talking to you] I'd definitely want to get you mental help [and put you in a psych ward]"

Me, in my head: And this is why I'm never fucking telling you I'm plural

[hospitales]

[grumpyghostdoodles]

Y u always draw Chara with long nails? Are they acrylics or something?

Recovering from coming back from the dead? Pfff, easy peasy!

Remembering that you now have very sharp nails and teeth, and that you could take your eye out if you try to scratch it? Impossible

[missm0rgue]

But nobody cares if you're losing yourself,

Am I losing myself? 📺🩸☠️

[the-intellectual-emo]

poor benny boy cant catch a break sometimes :( , welp! *proceeds to draw angst for funzies*