#mention of mental health issues

[mymultiverse00]

Left Behind

This is my first ever Twilight story. I hope you like it!

There are no hiding spots for humans in Volterra Castle, especially when considering its residents. Oh, I can find a dark corner to huddle in for a little while or even go outside to bask in the blazing hot sunshine, but no matter where I go, someone will always find me. They follow my voice, or my scent, or the sound of my wheelchair on the ancient stone floors, and like magic, any hope I had for some blissful solitude is completely shattered. But today is different. Today there are visitors in the castle from far away covens, and suddenly, no one around me can spare me a second glance, not even my mate. That part hurts the most.

I met my mate only six months ago while working in town at the old Volterra library. At the time, I had no real home, no living family, and really, no hope. I was barely eking out a living, limited by both my mobility and my inability to speak the local language. I was depressed and crippled by low self-esteem and severe anxiety. I barely had the will to go on, but then I met Marcus, and everything changed.

Every day for three months the tall, somber man visited me at the library, and slowly the two of us developed a relationship that blossomed into love. He confessed his feelings and his secret one rainy night in my tiny apartment and offered me a future I couldn’t possibly turn down. He moved me into his home and introduced me to his family, and never once was my disability an issue for him. In fact, he went out of his way to make things easier for me. Every day he told me he loved me, and brick by brick, he helped me rebuild my self-confidence and push the depression away.

As soon as I agreed to move in, Marcus started renovating and redecorating his rooms, adding low-profile furniture and other accessible fixtures. He remodeled the bathroom completely, adding grab bars and a roll-in shower with a sturdy teakwood bench across the back wall. He brought in a new bed that had the ability to be raised and lowered at will, along with a mountain of pillows designed to take pressure off my back, hips, and knees, and never once complained about his own discomfort.

He also considered my other human needs, expanding doorways and lowering work surfaces, creating unobstructed pathways to the garden and conservatory, and even convincing Aro to hire a full-time chef to cook my meals. He made it very clear that he wanted to make the remainder of my human life as simple as possible and would stop at nothing to make me happy.

There was only one thing he couldn’t change, however, and I have a hard time holding it against him: the stairs. Volterra Castle is full of ancient stone staircases everywhere you look. Stairs going up to Athenadora and Sulpicia’s rooms; stairs going down to the kitchen and the activity room for the lower guard; stairs keeping me firmly planted on the first floor of the castle at all times.

Normally, stairs are not a huge issue. Marcus took great delight in lifting me up into his strong arms in order to ferry me anywhere I wanted to go. He would loop my arms securely around his neck and pick me up like a bride, sneaking kisses and snuggles all along the way. I would giggle girlishly at his roguish behavior, and he would smile, and maybe we would be late to our destination if we ever made it at all. Today, however, the stairs won.

——————

The morning had been a busy one, with everyone buzzing around the castle, preparing for the arrival of some very important guests. Marcus and his brothers were holding a summit of sorts, and covens from all over Europe would be arriving at noon for two days of festivities. There would be a grand reception this afternoon and evening, and after the meetings ended tomorrow, there would be a lavish ball. This was the first time I would be introduced to such a large group as Marcus’s mate, so I was extremely nervous, but my love had assured me that I would be welcomed by all.

Or at least I would have been, had I been in the throne room with the rest of the group. Somehow, in all the excitement of handshaking and backslapping during the arrival of our guests, everyone forgot about the half dozen steps required to enter the gathering hall, subsequently forgetting about me too.

After 45 minutes of rolling back and forth in front of the doors and occasionally speaking Marcus’s name out loud, hoping to catch his attention, I decided to give up. Obviously, he was too busy to miss my presence, as were Aro, Caius, my sisters, or my friends in the guard. My feelings were hurt, undoubtedly, but seeing no other option, I decided to return to my room and wait for someone to realize I was absent.

No one noticed.

Hours went by without a peep. No one came to look for me, and no one brought me dinner either. I couldn’t get to the kitchen myself because of the goddamned stairs, so there was nothing left for me to do but stay exactly where I was, hidden in the furthest corner of my room’s veranda, trying not to be hungry and trying not to sob out loud as I cried. My heart was aching as the heavy feeling of abandonment settled over me, and my old friend, self-loathing, started creeping in. The next several hours were filled with ugly thoughts and horrible sadness, and though I wanted to resist that darkness, it completely overwhelmed me once more.

——————

It was nearly midnight when I finally heard my mate’s frantic voice calling out for me from our shared bedroom.

“Y/N!” Marcus called, a hint of desperation in his tone. “Y/N? Where are you my love?”

“Out here, Marcus,” I replied listlessly, barely raising my voice as I knew he could hear me. I was mentally and physically drained from the emotional upheaval of the day and made no real effort to emerge from my safe little hiding spot. I could hear how upset I had made him, and I was unsure if I could face him just then.

“My darling!” He cried, finally spotting me and speeding quickly to my side. His eyes quickly scanned me for injury. “Where have you been, little one? I couldn’t find you.”

I looked down at my hands as I answered him, too afraid to look into his eyes. “I’ve been here, Marcus. All day.”

“But why, tresoro?” He took my hands in his. “Did you not want to meet our guests? Many of them came here just to see you.” I could tell he was disappointed in me and my heart broke just a little bit more.

“I-I-I… did want to…” I stammered, “But I couldn’t. There was no way for me to get into the throne room, Marcus. I was left behind,” I concluded quietly, blinking back the tears that threatened to fall.

“Left behind?” He questioned.

“Yes.” I paused. “How long, Marcus?” I asked dejectedly.

“How long for what, Y/N? I don’t understand.”

“How long did it take for you to realize I wasn’t there with you, Marcus? 2 hours? 4?”

He closed his eyes as it finally started to sink in. “Y/N, I’m…”

“Disappointed in me?” I whispered. “I understand. I’m sorry, Marcus. I have not been a very good mate to you today, and I have shamed you. I understand why you and the others did not look for me. I have not been an asset to the family.” Tears streamed freely down my face as I tried to apologize for my shortcomings.

“Y/N, no. Please don’t cry.” Marcus begged, crouching down to my level as he tried to comfort me. “It is I who should apologize. It is my duty to look out for you and to protect you. I have failed in that today; I should have remembered you needed help with the steps. There were so many people, and I got caught up….”

“I thought you didn’t want me anymore.” I interrupted with a sob. “No one came for me all day, and I thought I had done something wrong! Maybe I have become too much of a burden on you..”

“Never, amore!” He said with conviction, bending his head low to kiss my hands.

“But it’s true, Marcus! I know it is! Every day you are forced to do things you would never typically do, all because of me,” I said sadly. “You’re the King of Volterra, Marcus! And I have you spending your days babysitting me. You help me in and out of bed; you help me dress; hell, you’ve even had to help me in the shower a time or two! You’re forced to carry me around this castle all day long - and my wheelchair - because I can’t even get myself to the kitchen to feed myself. I’m asking you for too much, and I don’t want you to resent me for it.” My tears were hot and burned my cheeks as they continued to fall. “I’m sorry for disappointing you.”

“Oh, Y/N,” he soothed. “Come here, darling.” He scooped me out of my wheelchair and into his arms, hugging me tightly to his chest. “Y/N, my heart, I love you! More than anything in the world. You are my mate, and I do all of those things you mentioned before because I want to. I am honored that you allow me to help you throughout the day, and you could never be a burden to me. If anyone should be apologizing here, it should be me! I disappointed you today, and I am sincerely sorry for that. I never want you to feel left behind or unwanted again, and I will spend the rest of our eternity making up for my error today. I will also speak to our contractor about adding some wheelchair ramps where we can and an elevator as well. I should have done so long ago.” He wiped my tears away with the sleeve of his robe. “Can you forgive me, sweetheart? I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

I nodded slowly against his chest, taking in deep, ragged breaths in an attempt to calm my feelings. I love him so much that not forgiving him was never really an option for me. After a long time, I spoke to him again.

“Marcus?” I asked quietly. “Do you think things will be different… after you change me?”

He smiled at me, gently moving some stray hair out of my eyes before he spoke. He sighed softly, resting his forehead against my own. “I don’t know for sure, my precious one. We have seen vampire venom heal a number of injuries and ailments in the past, sometimes even snatching someone back from the brink of death, like dear Jane and Alec. Every change is different, darling. I want you to know, however, that no matter what the outcome of yours, Y/N, I will always love you and will work to keep you by my side forever.”

“The world’s first vampire in a wheelchair.” I scoffed. “Some claim to fame.”

“How about ‘Queen of Volterra, Mate of King Marcus’ for a claim to fame?” He suggested, gazing at me adoringly.

“That could work,” I giggled, moving to bring our lips together in a tender kiss. “I’m sorry I let my anxiety get the best of me, Marcus.”

“And I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you needed me, my darling girl. Now, I know it’s late, but we need to get some food for you, and then I believe I can come up with some more… creative ways to apologize to you. Interested?”

“Always.”

The end

[shadowkira]

I think I'm finally starting to feel my meds doing something,

but that something is currently feeling like my chest is heavy and like a black hole simultaneously.

I've brought all my writing stuff and am going to try to at least push through at write the most clear scene in my head... which involves a second reunion of sorts between Yaz and the Doctor that was held captive by the Grand Serpent.

There are TWO big things I need to accomplish with this fic: "Yaz sandwich" and the two Doctors making out (in front of Yaz.)

[xan-izme]

𝐌𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐚𝐲𝐧𝐞𝐬

Prologue

Part 1

Your mother was a beautiful kind and dangerous woman. In short. She was a Falcone. And for young Bruce, being with her was a thrill. Being Batman gave him a thrill, but your mother was a different kind of thrill.

Till she got pregnant. And the thrill was gone.

Your mother kept you of course. Counting the days till she gets to hold you in her arms. And when she finally got to hold you, to feel you close and hear your sweet little voice. The rest of the Falcone men decided that your mother wasn't ready to take care of you. So, they forced you out of her arms and sent you to Bruce.

Bruce held you once. And immediately passed you to Alfred. He was too young to become a father. (Never mind the fact he was already acting as a father to two boys)

He didn't have time to play daddy. Deep down Bruce did come to care for you over the years and attempted to try and hold you. But then Jason died, Dick distanced himself. Holding you, an innocent little thing, felt wrong.

When you were eight. You had tantrums. Night terrors. terribly scared of the dark. Thunderstorms especially. Gotham famous for its long dark nights and loud thunderstorms. Bruce, too busy with his new sidekick, Tim. Didn't have time to comfort you. No matter how heartbreaking your scrams for him were. Crying for him, so he can save you from whatever nightmare you have woken from.

But only Alfred occasionally Dick, would come and save you.

Bruce would give you toys, new dresses as a form of apology. He wouldn't give it to you directly. But have Alfred give it to you or leave it in your room when asleep. But no matter how many new toys he gives you. Those nightmares just never stopped.

Due to the neglect. Your mother was able to meet with you secretly. As years passed, she was able to steal you away when Alfred wasn't hovering around you. Take you to shop and give you whatever you wanted. Holding you in her arms and not wanting to let go.

Slowly, your mother was gaining the favor of some of the Falcones. To let her have you back. To welcome you back into the Falcone family. Once she gets the whole family to agree. She can make a case of child neglect against Bruce Wayne and take her sweet Babygirl back.

But when you were ten. Your powers began to kick in. You told Bruce, hoping your father would help you. Help you understand. Bruce, told you to keep it a secret. And to tell no one else.

Having a kid who was a meta was the last thing he needed at the moment. Trying to re-connect with Jason who still had deep hate for him instead focusing on his first-born child who was struggling to understand.

You felt like a freak.

And it wasn't long till you lost control of your powers. To keep it short. You accidently killed a few other kids with your powers. It was an accident. You swore. You see you would have just been left off. Your a kid. It was an accident. But most of all your a Wayne. But one of the kids you killed was a Falcone.

And Bruce couldn't risk you getting killed. He cared about you. Just not as much as he should. So, to avoid the wrath of the Falcone's. Bruce had to claim you were mentally ill. Sending you to Arkham. Only for a few months. That's what he said to you. That's what he promised.

You did your six months in Arkham. Six months turned to eight. Eight months turned to ten. Ten months turned to two years. Then finally, you were taken out from your cell. Lead by two prison guards. They said you had a visitor. You assumed it was another reporter. But was proven wrong when you see Bruce on the other side of the thick glass. You were shocked but happy to see your father.

"Daddy." You spoke softly as you slowly smile, putting your hand on the glass. Bruce hesitates to put his hand on the glass, once he does, he focused back to you. Your eyes stared at him with so much love and hope.

". . . Your case. . . the court decided you're, too unstable to attend court, so. . ." Bruce didn't look at you as he spoke. So, he couldn't see the smile on your face fade. Confusion taking over.

"But. . . I did my six months. . . I-I've been here for a year! Daddy, please I didn't do it on purpose!" You were on the edge of crying.

"I promise. I'll get you out of here as soon as I can." Bruce wanted to try and console you. But that was harder due to the glass between you two. He reaches out his hand to the glass once more. But the loud buzz that queued it was time for you to get back to your cell.

"Please Daddy don't let them take me!" You cried, putting both hands on the glass. You were in full despair. Bruce didn't know what to do. He can take the risk from the Falcones and get you out with a snap of his fingers. Or he can make it easy for everyone but you and wait till you serve your time.

". . . I'm sorry" Bruce can see you falling deeper and deeper into dispare.

Guards burst from the doors and had to forcefully take you away.

"No- No! Daddy please! DADDY!" Your screamed louder as the guards took you away, reaching out to Bruce who just stood there. And did nothing. As always.

Seven years later.

No one ever visited you again. Well, no one from the Waynes. But your mother visited you every week. Her visits where the only reason you kept saine.

Arkham isn't all fun and games. Obviously. You were immitted into Arkham's fucked version of rehabilitation. You started hearing things after your first month in Arkham.

. . .

You sent letters almost every day to the Wayne manor. But never got any back. None from Bruce. None from Dick. You and Tim weren't close. So, you didn't expect anything from him. Alfred prefers to call you. Wanting to hear your voice to make sure you were not lying to him when he asks of your wellbeing.

You stopped sending letters to Bruce a few months ago. Not like he'll respond anyway. You don't need Bruce. You have your mother. And she's all you'll need. She's your world now, your reason to keep living this pointless life. And once you're out, Mama promised to give you a big hug. Which you so desperately needed.

🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸

"𝙸 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚢. . . 𝚍𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜 𝚖𝚎?"

[gor3sigil]

I’m Trans and Insane and I’m doing fine.

[TW Psychosis, transphobia, psychophobia, medication, psych ward]

“Are you sure ?” she asked.

I remember looking back at her in disbelief, because that was certainly a question I never asked her when she came out.

“Why do you ask ?” I say.

“Dude, I’ve seen you go into depersonalization so hard you even thought you were a human soul in a robot vessel and now, you want me to trust you when you say that you, too, are trans ?”

That’s the memory that comes back to me as I fold and put in my bag my psychiatrist’s note attesting that I suffer from gender dysphoria, NOT LINKED to any psychotic symptoms. Here it goes in my folder with my prescription note, an increase - again - of my anti depressants and Xan, and my endocrinologist’s HRT prescription, increased too - finally.

I go to two separate pharmacies to pick up each prescription for two reasons:

There is only one in this godforsaken town that always had testosterone in stock.

I can’t explain to you with words the look you can get when you give back to back, to someone who, despite not being a doctor, works in healthcare, a note for trans HRT and then a note for psychiatric meds.

And I’m lucky, because I’m not taking antipsychotics anymore. Contrarily to what you could think, it doesn’t magically makes the voices and the shadowy people disappear, but it can make a mess of your head pretty bad and my doctor and I both agreed that I didn’t need more damage up here than what I already had. And no, it doesn’t make your delusions vanish magically too: in fact, I was still pretty certain that I was talking to my soul family out here in Argentine telepathically about my mission on Earth, the meds just made it more difficult to understand their voices, but the belief was still solid.

Anyways, I’m back home with the Hoy Grail I fought tooth and nails to get: a letter from the Sacred Council of Mental Sanity also known as Psychiatry that I was, indeed, a bit delulu, but also trans, and that both things didn’t play into each other. My transness wasn’t a delusion, my delusions didn’t have anything to do with being trans.

Or did it ?

Chicken or egg, you know the drill. Did I have my selves fractured before and one of the piece that shattered my brain happened to make me trans or was I just trans with a shitload of traumas in the back that made me insane ?

But don’t worry, at least, trans people when we’re together, we have each other’s back ! Right ?

“Transidentity ISN’T a mental illness !! We don’t DESERVE to be FORCIBLY LOCKED UP and MEDICATED and MADE TO CONFORM FOR OTHER’S SENSE OF SECURITY !!”

Neither do I, RIGHT ?

Oh

Or do I ?

Remember what she said, my girlfriend, right at the beginning ?

How I can’t be trusted about myself when sometimes I don’t even have a sense of self anymore or I have too much selves who fight against each other ?

And what do we say to that ?

Get treatment. Get in-patient. Take medication. And for the love of God, shut the fuck up about it, you’re giving us a bad name.

Because being trans and crazy can’t exist. It’s absurd. You have to fix one of these two things. Choose which jacket I’ll wear, and they call it a straitjacket for a reason it seems, so am I queer or am I insane ?

All I know today is there isn’t a universe in which I’m a trans without any mental illnesses, or mentally ill without being trans. And yet, I can’t tell you how many time I got asked “do you think you’d be trans if you never got through [x trauma] ?”. I. Don’t. Know. I’ll never know. And I deserve just as much agency as you get despite being mentally ill. If you don’t believe in that, don’t come yapping about “liberation for all of us”, but “if one of us is crazy they’ll all think I am too and that can’t happen”.

No LGBTQIAA+ person deserves to be told they need to be put away, to be cured, to be allowed out in the open only if they’re deemed “acceptable” by society’s standards. And no mentally ill people deserve to either.

No trans person should be going through years of counseling to have the access to HRT.

And I shouldn’t have had to threaten my own mother’s life to avoid being locked in an adult psych ward at 14.

If you ever think, for one second, that these two things have nothing to do with one another, you are far removed from history.

To hear queer people say “yeah but some mentally ill people are dangerous !” feels like you don’t even know where you come from.

And if I want to say, that me being trans is linked to me being mentally ill, or at least, that both are connected in a way, all hell breaks fucking loose.

So I’ll explain very carefully.

See, when I was young, my mind got shattered into a thousand of pieces I had to try to glue back on. All these pieces of myself broke further more down the line because I couldn’t catch a fucking break. And now, it happens that the final puzzle does not have the same face it had before. It happens that its shape changed over time, for reasons over the control of all of us who tried to build ourselves back. Now there’s a bigger picture, less pieces, a few other shadows, and me. Built from the shatters. With my own needs and afflictions.

And whoever you are, whatever your agenda might be, I will not let anyone take any agency away from me under the false pretext that I can’t know anything for myself. They say that about children, they say that about minorities, about physically disabled people, about the people they want OUT. And my trans siblings, you know that.

I came out for the first time 7 years ago, to my then girlfriend, who was the one asking the question that is the first sentence of this text. I came out a second time 3 years ago. Been on HRT, had top surgery, had psychotic breaks, got my meds changed, switch therapist.

Because I am trans and crazy. And yet, all these choices I made, I made myself. It didn’t have to be that hard to get the basic care I needed. It didn’t need to be. But it WAS. And I’m part of the lucky crowd of people who had access to out-patient treatment, who never have been locked up in ward, who managed to stay alive through meds withdrawals without medical assistance when I had no therapist.

Be very careful of when you start to put conditions on the rights you think you deserve. Be very, very careful about your definition of sanity and of how it warps the way you see people. When you start to say “I have access to that, but there’s people like X or Y who shouldn’t BECAUSE”, pause and ask yourself what led you to think this way. More often than not, you’ll find yourself playing the same mind games as the ones you swore to fight against, and when it gives them the upper hand, they won’t hesitate to come for you after that.

[fridayiminlovemp3]

the fact that this is real is beyond horrifying

[poisonousquinzel]

they deserved better idc 😐

[dumbbitchdisaster]

I hate living in extremes

Its either starving or binging

Its either full recovery or full relapse

I can’t go in between, it feels like failing if I do

[nonbinarymlm]

We Need to Accept that Silly Things Can Hurt People

Please allow me to ruminate a bit more on mental health on this blog. I have ADHD and OCD, both disorders commonly stereotyped and conflated with minor, silly behaviors like yelling SQUIRREL when you see a squirrel and organizing things by color. These stereotypes can often minimize and erase the genuine difficulties and harm that these conditions can cause. That’s very true, and it often causes intense sensitively and knee-jerk denial around stereotypes around this. I don’t think that’s necessarily the best reaction, because sometimes people can have symptoms very similar to these stereotypes.

I think we need to accept that silly things can hurt people. Silly, ridiculous symptoms can devastate people’s lives. People shouldn’t have to react into their painful past and trauma to get people to take their symptoms seriously when those symptoms are silly on their face, because that turns things into a pain competition and can result in gatekeeping how much people must suffer before their seemingly ridiculous symptoms get taken seriously.

I think we just need to, as a society and culture and social norm, accept that silly things can genuinely, sometimes intensely, hurt people. Yes, I do have the impulse to tell an animal’s name when I see that animal, and yes it’s part of my symptoms that makes it harder to me to drive and hold conversations and do basic functioning. Yes, I do worry about incredibly tiny and silly things, that the world’s tiniest cut means I’m literally dying, and this has at times been incredibly miserable to live with and severely inhibited my functioning and nearly lost me a job. Also I’m going to joke about it sometimes because it’s funny. I’m not going to find a joke about it from a stranger with no OCD funny, because they have no idea how much pain it can cause me.

Sometimes these conditions are absurd in ways that are funny. That’s true and people with the conditions should be able to joke about it. But everyone needs to understand, just because a symptom is absurd doesn’t mean it can’t also devastate you and ruin your life. So if you don’t have these conditions and aren’t super close to someone who has them, I think you should be sensitive and avoid joking even if it seems silly and funny. I think there is where true destigmatization lies: accepting that the silly brain can also really hurt.

[variety-fangirl]

Neighbours / Moon Boys x fem!reader

Summary: you're the new neighbour, looking for a change of scenery and people, a fresh start. Your neighbour, Steven, is someone you find yourself trusting easily and quickly. Something about you both draws the other in, enticing each other to explore what this could mean. Yet, you have a secret about why you moved, will you feel comfortable enough to open up to him?

Warnings: 18+ NO MINORS angst but mostly fluffy, mentions of previous toxic and abusive relationship (beginning of physical abuse, manipulation, and emotional abuse), swearing, let me know if I missed anything! Will add more later as the story progresses.

Author's note: Hello! I am back with something quick and lovely that I have been working on for a while. It feels good to get slowly back in to writing 😊 College really had taken so much out of me and my joy for writing when all I was doing for 10 months straight was writing long essays, it was also nice to take these months to relax and come to terms with everything. So much has been happening 😮‍💨 But I hope I will be back more consistently now, fingers crossed! I've been mostly writing to get new and fun ideas, hoping it would entice and inspire me to write. I hope you guys enjoy anyways and feel free to ignore my rant 😅 Feedback, comments, likes and reblogs would be greatly appreciated and lets me know how I'm doing. Thank you for reading and enjoy my loves 💜

Word count: 1.9k

You huff as you place another box on the floor of your new apartment, watching the movers bring in two more. You felt thankful that you had decided to pay extra for the movers to help you bring all your belongings up, far too much to have done on your own.

There were endless stairs, and it would have taken you hours to bring it all up here yourself, especially with your new sofa, bed, and dining room set. All were bought cheaply from a friend second-hand who was more than happy to help you. She was one of the only ones you'd told where you were going, and had left your address and new number with to contact you. Everything new and different, nothing to remind you of the old life that you'd left behind.

You started unpacking the basics whilst they brought the rest up, there were still quite a few boxes because you had to buy most stuff brand new. Luckily you had hidden as much money as possible before leaving, so you had more than enough to buy what you needed. You would work on buying extras and niceties when you had spare money throughout, you'd moved far enough that you were hoping not to have to move again unless you wanted to in the future.

That was at least the hope. Not because you were forced to leave in the middle of the night terrified for your life.

You try to take a deep breath as you subconsciously rub at the scar on your neck, you are safe now. You wanted to distract yourself for as long as possible, so you sorted the boxes out where they needed to go, to their newly allocated rooms.

It would be weird to live on your own again after so long, it had been five years since you'd run away from home and four since you'd started dating and moved in with your now ex, Noah. It was a scary thought once more, to be alone. More alone now than you'd been before, at least you had your best friend, Natalie, at home. Now, she lives four hours away from your new place in London.

You made her promise to conceal your number and hide your address, you knew he'd go to her first to ask where you'd gone. She would lie, she'd always been good at it but he wasn't stupid. He knew you would have told her, you just prayed he wouldn't hurt her. You could never forgive yourself if she got hurt because of you.

She was one of the only people who meant anything to you in this world. She at least had her boyfriend, Tyler, who was like a brother to you. He would protect her, he always hated Noah for how he treated you. Tyler had hated Noah from the moment he met him, made you known of it also but you just chalked it up to a bad first impression and yet it never improved no matter how much time they spent together. It wasn't until three years in that Noah showed his true colours and by that point, it was too late. You were in deep and he was a master manipulator and narcissist, he'd played you well. He almost came between you and Nat but she wouldn't allow it, tried to make you see him for who he really was. It didn't take much convincing when the major problems started in the last year of your relationship together.

The first time he'd hit you was a year before you left him, he apologised and said he was drunk. The typical excuse and blame on anything but himself. Promised he "won't do it again", two months go by and it happens again but this time more frequently. He drank more, went out frequently, and came back later. By the six-month mark, you caught him cheating for the first time (that you knew of).

That was the moment you vowed to leave him, it was as if all the years of manipulation and abuse faded away and you came to your senses. You had to save enough though to leave, so you let Nat and Tyler know of your plans and they helped you to set everything up. It took you six months of planning and saving, and you were finally ready.

The night finally came, you waited and told him before he had a drink, that you were leaving him. He started out crying, begging you not to leave him, you didn't budge. He tried to initiate sex, but you said no and he didn't like that. That night was the worst abuse you had endured the whole of your relationship combined. He threatened you, managed to get you down on the living room floor with a knife in hand, and held it to your neck to the point of blood drawn. You sobbed, pleaded with him, said just about anything to get him to calm down. You would still leave but you would say anything to get him off you. He began slowly slicing your neck open whilst screaming that he loved you, only luckily managing to get an inch before you kicked him in the balls hard enough that he collapsed just to the side of you.

You ran to the bathroom and locked the door, terrified out of your mind. You grabbed the first aid kit to clean and patch up the gash on your neck. Having done this a few times when he threw stuff at you or pushed you into surfaces sharp enough to cut skin. You had a few scars all over your body, it wasn't pretty but you wore them proudly to signify that you were a survivor. He tried to bash down the door before leaving, yelling about going to the bar and he would 'see to you later'. You knew that would be your only open window to leave, he would be at least two hours there. You immediately called your best friend, she and Tyler came over to help you in any way they could.

You packed two suitcases of clothes and shoes, a duffel bag of prized possessions and important bits, a backpack of money and goods to sell, and quickly changed from your bloody clothes into something clean but comfortable. You grabbed the first aid kit too for your neck. Everything was packed into your car in less than an hour, saving you enough time to wipe anything important and any trace of you behind, away. You immediately booked a two-day stay at a cheap hotel an hour away on Natalie's computer for the night so you could figure out your next move. He would come looking for you the second that he realised your stuff was gone and that terrified you, he was not a man who gave up on things he wanted.

It had taken you two months to find this apartment after a lot of rejections and failed apartment searches. It had immediately caught your eye when you saw the ad for it on one of the apartment renting sites. It was perfect for your situation. Multiple floors of tenants would make it far harder to search through unless you knew which floor to look at so you could blend among your new neighbours. A locked front door that had a security number code to be allowed entry and without it you couldn't enter. Security cameras on each floor show all angles of the apartments, which each tenant has access to for their safety and peace of mind through an app you can download on your phone.

You had downloaded and gained access before you'd started moving the boxes in. You were given access a week beforehand, which helped your anxiety and tight chest to ease just an inch. You knew it would take some time for you to feel safe and be able to walk down the street without looking over your shoulder every five minutes or keep your taser on hand in your pocket with your fingers gripping it just in case. You were constantly worried and paranoid that he was watching you from around the corner like he would pop out at any moment and drag you "home".

The police had never given a fuck about you or your situation, Noah's family has money and connections, so it was always swept under the rug. Just another number, another person to suffer in silence, until one day your dead body would have turned up. They would just pretend they didn't know. A murder gone wrong, you imagine they would chalk it up to.

You take a few calming breaths whilst unpacking, listening to the footsteps and quiet chatter from the moving company men. It eased the anxiety when someone was around, it helped you to feel safer and calmer. As if, if someone was with you or near you, you could be protected from the 'big bad wolf'. You were hoping to become friendly with some or all of the neighbours on your floor, not just for safety in case something happens but also because you'd never been allowed to make new friends with your old neighbours. Noah had made sure of that.

So, you were hoping that this move would be the perfect opportunity for you to do so. You loved to bake cakes and savoury treats but hadn't been able to with Noah because he always ruined things you loved, but now he was gone you could finally pick it back up again. You were planning to bake something sweet as a gesture to introduce yourself to your neighbours, hoping it would make a good first impression.

You walked back into the open apartment that was now your own little safe haven and smiled with contentment, this was the start of a happy new beginning for you. No more fearing what mood Noah would be in that day when he woke up, no more being abused daily, no more sobbing silently into your pillow or taking an emotionally broken moment of peace to cry out your feelings in the shower after he'd hit you. Just you, your new clean apartment, and the ability to do as you please without fear.

It didn't take the movers long to bring the remainder of your boxes up between the three of them. They took off just moments ago, and now you were finally alone. It felt strange, not hearing shouting or items smashing. Just pure blissful silence in your home. Your own place to do with as you please. It felt wonderful to have freedom.

You felt tears cloud your vision as you stared out the window you'd opened when you first stepped inside the apartment, feeling the warm Summer air blow in. The overwhelming emotions of freedom and serenity hit you like a punch to the gut, a sob immediately pulled from you as you sank to the ground. You felt the year-long toll of abuse and terror that had been weighing down your shoulders finally crumble and release you while the sun flowed into the room. You fought the battle and came out victoriously on top for the first time in your life and it felt amazing.

Once the sobs quieted down and the tears had stopped, you took a moment for yourself. You opened a bottle of your favourite wine and picked up an empty glass to pour yourself a drink. You took the bottle with you as you sat back down on the floor in front of the open window, feeling the warm breeze kiss your skin gently and watched the sun in peace. It was still early in the day, you would have plenty of time to unpack later on. But for now, you just want to relax without worry for the first time in a long time.

[welcome2theinternet]

Here's a fun idea. Don't comment on what people eat or if they're losing/gaining weight. Doesn't matter if you thought it was a compliment. You don't know why that may be happening. Some people lose weight when they're anxious or depressed (or of course suffering from an eating disorder). You may have meant well but it can be triggering or upsetting

[myimaginationplain]

do you ever think about how Ohkubo extremely casually dropped the fact that Spirit & Kami were teen parents & then proceeded to never expound upon that fact or bring it up ever again despite it explaining a whole lot about them & Maka

[uncanny-tranny]

It's weird how people paint "daddy issues" and even "mommy issues" as, like, a joke or a failure on part of the person who has those issues, rather than recognizing that daddy and mommy issues stem, for so many people, from abuse. What this all is is just abuse apologia, and nobody seems to either notice or maybe even care.

When somebody with daddy or mommy issues opens up about the "why," I can't ever seem to shake the fact that they tend to have gone through a ton of abuse and bullshit as a child. It's just crazy that other people would look at that and see a joke or a failure of the once-child who was abused.

[happyk44]

Annabeth breaking up with Percy after HoO because the Misery thing freaked her out and after the war she finally had the time to look back on it and process how scared she was and her panic is just "get away get away" and she just needs a break to get past it and Sally having Estelle and clearly she loves Percy still but she also has Paul and a new kid now and she seemed painfully resigned to Percy being cast into another war and so he's just clawing at Grover, begging loudly and near violently for him not to leave him like everyone else, on the verge of suicide, and Grover promising he won't but Percy doesn't believe him even as he calms down because people leave, they leave, they leave, they leave, he's broken and horrible and disgusting and they leave and Grover has Juniper and Lord of the Wild duties and he'll leave just like everyone else and what's the point of life anymore if everyone he loves is just going to leave?

[jacksprostate]

Treatise on why No, the doctor just giving the narrator of Fight Club (full name) his requested sleep medication or sending him to therapy would not have Fixed Him

Firstly, saying giving him the insomnia meds would’ve fixed him ignores the reason he has insomnia in the first place. He is so deeply upset by his place in society that he literally cannot sleep. Drugging him to sleep would not change that. That, of course, is the easy, quick response.

But with regard to therapy? The biggest flaw is that it ignores a central tenet of the book. Part of what tortures the narrator and drives him to invent Tyler is that his feelings about this collective, systemic issue are constantly reduced to a Just Him thing. His seatmates ask what his company is. He’s the only one upset at the office. He gets weird looks if he says the truth of what he does. People will do anything in their power to pretend he is the issue, as an individual, because it is far scarier to consider the full implications of the systemic issues implied by what he is saying. Everyone treats it as if the issue is him, so he goes insane. He does anything to get someone to say, holy shit, that’s fucked up, what you’re a part of is wrong. In an attempt to feel any sort of vague sympathy and catharsis, he goes to support groups to pretend to be dying, because then at least people don’t habitually blame him for his anguish. 

Saying therapy would fix him ignores that his problems are not individual. They are collective. It’s the reason the entire story resonates with people! Something deeply, unignorably wrong with society, where people would rather blame you for bringing it up than try and address it, because it feels impossible. I don’t blame people for this, really, because it IS scary. It’s terrifying to sit and feel like you’ve realized there’s something deeply, deeply wrong, but if you say something, people will get mad at you since it’s so baked into everything around you. Or, even if they agree, it’s easier to deal with the dissonance by pretending it’s individual.

And it’s not like that’s not the purpose therapy and medications largely serve, anyway. Getting into dangerous territory for this website, but ultimately, the reason the narrator was seeking medication was because it’s a bandaid. A very numbing bandaid. For these very large, dissonance causing problems, therapy does very little. Medications do what they always have, and distract you with numbness or side effects. It’s a false solution. He is seeking an individualized false solution because he has been browbeaten with the idea that this is an issue with him alone, when it's plainly clear it's not. 

Don't get me wrong. Obviously he has something wrong with him. But it's a product of his situation. It is a fictional exaggeration of a very real occurrence of mental illness provoked by deep unconscionable dissonance and anguish.  There is a clear correlation between what happens and his mental state and his job and how isolated he is. 

The thing is, even if he were chemically numbed, I do think he would’ve lost it regardless. Many people on meds find they don’t fix things. For reasons I’ll get into, but in this case because even if numbed or distracted, once you’ve learned about deep, far reaching corruption in society, it’s very hard to forget. Especially if, in his case, you literally serve as the acting hand of this particular variety. He’s crawling up the walls. 

So why do people say this?  Well, it's funny I guess. Maybe the first time or whatever. But also, often, they believe it, to a degree. Maybe they've just been told how effective therapy and meds are for mental illness, they believe wholeheartedly in The Disease Model of Mental Illness, maybe they themselves have engaged with either and have considered it successful. Maybe they or someone they know has been 'saved' by such treatments. 

But in all honesty.... What therapy can help with is mentality, it's how you approach problems. For issues on a smaller scale, not meaning they are easier to deal with my any degree, but ones that are not raw and direct from deep awareness of corruption; these are things that can be worked through if you get lucky and get an actually good therapist who helps build up your resiliency. But when your issue is concrete, something large and inescapable? It's useless. At best it can help you develop coping mechanisms, but there is a limit for that. There is a point where that fails. To develop the ability to handle something like this requires intense development of a comfort with ambiguity and dissonance and being isolated and a firm positioning of your purpose and values and and belief in wonder and all the other shit I ramble about. The things that the narrator lacks, which lead him to taking an ineffectual death knell anarchist self-destruction path. Therapy, where the narrator is, full of the knowledge of braces melted to seats and all the people that have to allow this to happen? It fails. 

And meds — meds are a fucking scam. We know the working mechanism of basically none of them, the serotonin receptor model was made up and paid its way into prominence. We have very little evidence they're any better than placebo, and they come with genuinely horrific side effects. Maybe you got lucky. I did, on some meds. On others? I don't remember 2018. The pharmaceutical industry is also known for rampant medical ghostwriting, and for creating 'off-label' uses for drugs that have gained too many protests in their original use, then creating a cult of use to then have 'grassroots' campaigns for it to be made a label use (ie, legitimize their ghostwritten articles with guided anecdotes). 

The DSM itself is basically a marketing segregation plot. It's an attempt to legitimize the disease model by isolating subgroups of symptoms to propose individualized treatments for subgroups that are not necessarily all that separate. But if the groups exist, you can prescribe more and different medications, no? Not to mention, if you use the disease model, you can propose that these diseases are permanent, or permanent until treated, considered more and more severe to offset and justify the horrific side effects of the medications. Do you know why male birth control doesn't really exist? Same reason. They can justify all the horrible side effects for women, because the other option is pregnancy. For men, it's nothing. 

And they're not bothering to invent new drugs without side effects. When they invent new drugs it's just because the last one got too bad of a name, or they can enter a new market. Modern drugs don't work any better than gen1 drugs. They still have horrific side effects. At best, the industry will shit out studies saying the old one was flawed (truth) so they can say this new gen will be better (lie). They're doing it with ssris right now. 

Fundamentally, the single proposed benefit of any of these drugs is that they numb you. To whatever is torturing you. It's harder to be depressed if you can't feel it, or if you just can't muster the same outrage. Of course, there is people who find that numbness to be helpful, or worth it. But often, it's stasis. For the people who have problems that can be worked on, it serves as a stopgap to not actually work on said problems. The natural outcome of the disease model is stagnation for those whose need is to develop skills and resiliency. It keeps them medicalized and dependent on the idea that they're diseased and incapable. Profitable. Stuck in the womb. 

I’ve been there. It’s easier, to wallow, and resist growth because it’s difficult and painful and unfair and cruel and you can think of five billion reasons to justify your languishing. But don’t listen to anyone who tells you you’re just permanently damaged, no matter how nicely they word it, no identity or novel pathologization, no matter how many benefits they promise, especially if they swear up and down some lovely expensive medications with little solid backing and plentiful off-label usage and side effects that’ll kill you. Some days it feels like they want us all stuck in pods, agoraphobic and addicted to the ads they feed us to isolate the markets for the drugs they’ve trained us to beg them to pump us with. Polarization making it as easy as flashing blue light for go, red like for stop, or vice versa. I worry about the kids, for fucks sake. That’s a bit dark and intense, and I apologize. But I want you (generic) to understand, there is a profit motive. Behind everything. And they do not mean well. They do not care about your mental health or your rights or your personhood or your growth. They care about how they can profit off of you.

For those struggling with immovable, society problems, like the narrator grappling with how his job fits into and is accepted by society while his rejection and horror in the face of it does not, it can work about as well as any other drug addiction. Your mileage may vary. From what I've seen, recovering from being on prozac for a long time can be worse than alcohol. They put kids on this shit. They keep campaigning for more. Off label, again. A pharmaceutical company’s favorite thing to do has to be to spread rumors of someone who knows someone who said an off label use of this drug helps with this little understood condition. Or, in the case of mental illness, questionably defined condition. And like, damn, I know I'm posting on the 'medicalization is my identity' website so no one will like all this and has probably stopped reading by now, but yall should be exposed to at least one person who doubts this stuff. Doesn't just trust it. Because I mean, that's the thing right?

It's so big. What would it mean, for this all to be true? Yeah, everyone says pharmaceutical companies are evil and predatory and ghostwriting, but to think about what that really entails. Coming back to the book, everyone knows the car lobby is huge and puts dangerous vehicles through that kill people. What does it mean if the car companies all hire people to calculate the cost of a recall and the cost of lawsuits? No one wants to think about the scale that means for people allowing it or the systems that have to be geared towards money, not safety like they say. Hell, even Chuck misses the beat and has the narrator threaten his boss with the Department of Transportation. And shit, man, if every company is doing this, you think Transportation doesn't know? That they give a fuck? You're better off mailing all the evidence to the news outlets and hoping they only character assassinate you a little bit as they release the news in a way that says it's all the fault of little workers like you, not the whole system. Something something, David McBride, any whistleblower you feel like, etc. 

So I don't blame you, if your reaction is "but but but, that can't be right, people wouldn't do it, they wouldn't allow it" or just an overwhelming feeling of dread that pushes you to deny all of this and avoid thinking about it. Just know, that's in the book. That's all the seatmates on the flights. That's all his fellow officemates. It's easier to pretend, I know.

But think about, how the response fits in with the themes of the book. The story, as a movie too. What drives the narrator’s mental breakdown? How would you handle being in his position? How would you handle being his seatmate? It’s easy to say you’d listen. But have you? Have you had any soul wrenching betrayals of how you thought society worked? How about a betrayal by the thing that promised to be the fix of the first? Can you honestly say you wouldn’t follow that gut instinct, saying follow what everyone says, that person must just be crazy, evil, rude, cruel, whatever it is that means you can set what they said aside?

For a lot of people, they can do that, I guess. Set it aside. Reaching that aforementioned state of managing to cope with the dissonance and ambiguity and despair is very hard. The narrator made the Big Realization, but he couldn’t cope. He self-destructed. Even when people don’t make the big realization consciously, they’re already self-destructing. It’s hard to escape it when it feels easier than continuing anyway. When it feels like the only option,

Would therapy fix the narrator of Fight Club? Would meds fix the narrator of Fight Club? No. He knows too much. All meds will do, by the time he’s in the psych ward, is spiritually neuter him. A silly phrase, but really. Take the wind out of his sails. 

Is he fixed if he doesn’t try to blow up town? If he just shuts up and settles in and stops costing money? If he still can’t cope with the things he’s unearthed? Do you see how this is a commentary in a commentary in a commentary?

Fight Club is an absolutely fascinating story because of this. The fact that it addresses the fallout of knowing. The isolation. The hopelessness. The spiral that results from a lack of hope. This is, I think, what resonates most with people, even if not consciously. Going insane because you’ve discovered something you wish you could unknow. It’s a classic horror story. Should our society be lovecraftian evil? I don’t think so. 

Do I think changing it will be easy? No. Lord knows a lot exists to push people who make these sorts of Realizations towards feelings of individuality and individualized solutions and denial and other distractions and coping methods. And to prevent people who make One realization from expanding on it and considering further ramifications. Fight Club itself gets into this; the isolation of men being a strict part of the role society shapes for their sex leaves them very vulnerable to death fetishes, in a sense, and generally towards self destructive violence. It helps funnel them away from substantial change and towards ineffectual change. Many things, misogyny, racism, serve to keep people isolated from one another, individualized, angry, and impossible to work with. Market segregation; god knows even appealing on those fronts has become such a classic ploy that companies do it now, the US military frames its plundering that way, etc. 

I’ve wandered a bit but ultimately, my point is this: Fight Club is a love letter to the horrors of critical thinking, and the importance of not falling into the trap of self destruction and hopelessness in the face of it. The latter is why Tyler was an anarchoterrorist instead of anything useful. The latter is why it was a death cult. It’s important to work through the horrors of critical thinking so you can do it, and stand on the other side ready to believe in each other. It’s worth it.

[that-bluesybitch]

[st4rv3dcr3atur3]

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