#my anxiety attack

[knight-in-sour-armor]

[sunsoaked-feathers]

just imagine if i was constantly mic’d up and someone made a compilation of all the moans and grunts i make because of my old lady joints throughout the day

[wordpress-blaze-126741834]

"My Living Nightmare with an Online Bully: Episode 8"

Growing up, I was made fun of by my younger brother and male cousins for being an ABCD (American Born Confused Desi) because I was “too American,” aka “too white,” and not Pakistani enough to their expectations. And I went through a phase, mostly during my college years, where I wished I had lighter skin, even choosing to wear green or violet colored contact lenses to appear prettier or more exotic because I wanted to be accepted by the cute white boys, I found myself attracted to in college. Since I never dated or was even asked out by guys in high school, I figured the new eye wear could help boost my chances with a love life on a college campus. 

It boiled down to this: I was being ridiculed by my family for not being Pakistani enough, and I was being overlooked by the cute white boys (possibly) for being too Pakistani. I couldn't win.

And now here I was, several years later, being accused of hating white men?

What the hell was happening?

Did I lapse into some alternate universe? 

Like really, y’all, what the fuck?

I don’t think I’ve wanted white people’s approval more than anything in my life. I say this as a partial exaggerated statement, but growing up, in my eyes, white folks had it all. They lived in the better houses on the better side of town, not the South Side of Monroe where all of us “coloreds” lived where our homes looked nothing like the beautiful two-story houses on Deborah Drive over on the North Side. Plus, white people were usually the beautiful cheerleaders and the handsome football players at Ouachita Parish High, and they were most likely to be voted on the homecoming court as queen or elected as prom king because everyone loved and accepted them. I wanted that for myself, but more importantly, I wanted them to love and accept me back.

And when I finally got to a point in my life where I was and am okay with my beautiful brown skin and my dark brown eyes, where I am happy with being just me and not caring about what others think, where only I need to be loved and accepted by ME—I am now being accused of hating the one people I admired the most, the one people whose approval I deeply wanted once upon a time?

What. The. Fuck? 

This experience with “The Bully” has been a betrayal in great proportions for me, and I don’t know how I will ever be able to reconcile what happened to me. In the days, weeks, and now months since last summer, I have found myself feeling very uncomfortable around some white men. And I say “betrayal” because I always played “the game” right by adhering to “their” rules, assimilating into the American culture—even at the cost of losing my own Pakistani identity at times, where I felt like an outcast within my own family. 

For every guy who broke my heart, who all happened to be white, I still felt I was to blame for them not loving me back, believing there was something wrong with me.

I was spiraling within my own thoughts:

I felt less than. 

I blamed myself for not being what they wanted me to be—whatever that may have been.

Maybe I was supposed to be weak and dependent, relying on them for help so they wouldn't feel intimidated by me.

Maybe I was supposed to be the one who made less money than they did so they wouldn’t feel inadequate around me. 

Maybe I was supposed to be the stereotypical submissive Asian girl who should keep her opinions to herself and her mouth shut but remain exotic enough to fuck. 

Or.

Maybe some white men are just insecure, misogynistic, racist dipshits. 

I don’t know, but it wasn’t enough; I was never enough.

After all, if I had been better or enough, then the “Actor” would have never cheated on me and left me.

“Howard Hughes” would have never ghosted me.

And the “Dude,” aka my (former) handsome neighbor with the cute dog, would be knocking on my door right now, begging for me to grab a bite to eat with him and his sweet pup again.

*Right?!

Again, this would all be so funny if it wasn’t so bizarre and dangerously hurtful for my mental well-being. 

At this point, I had started confiding to a few of my close friends who were not fellow educators, letting them know what I was dealing with, that my emotional psyche was being greatly affected by “The Bully’s” torment. In the past, I’ve always shared little of my teaching world with my non-teaching friends because sometimes I just don’t want to talk about work when I’m with them, plus it’s sometimes hard explaining my world to folks who’ve never been on the teacher’s side of a classroom with 35+ students. It might not be fair to assume, but I’ve never felt like they get it. But now, with what I was dealing with, I needed their support, and they needed to know what I was going through. And in the midst of this experience, I was still dealing with the loss of Jerry, one of my closest friends from college who died earlier in the year, way too soon at 47. Jerry L. Johnson, my dear friend, a beautiful black gay man who would understand and actually “get” what I was going through was not around for me anymore.

Ever since I started teaching in 2007, I have dealt with my fair share of students complaining to me about their grades and even about my teaching style. It’s just part of the job—you’re never going to satisfy every student. And I’ve never shared much about this with my non-teaching friends or family. Teachers do a lot of work for very little pay and gratitude. It’s not really a field known for its high paying salary, even if college professors make more money than the K-12 educators. But let’s be honest, it is a profession that should pay more than it does because of the amount work we do and for the services we provide for our students—with very little appreciation in return. Yes, we are in this profession for the students, and my best memories from teaching stem from the many positive interactions with students whose lives were made better from being in my classroom and vice versa because I learn so much from them as well. Some of my friendships today are with former students!

But even with all the good we do and the great experiences this profession can bring, there have been hazards with this job that we don’t talk about, and here I was going through the most hazardous part of the job—being bullied by a student over a fucking failing grade. (Workers' comp, y'all!) And this experience was affecting my personal well-being and mental health in a really shitty way, and I never felt more alone in my life.

Read on to Episode 9.

*Just for clarification, for the last 2 years, I've gone out with 4 men. I walked away from all of them since I didn't feel I should settle for less. I do know my self-worth.

Source: "My Living Nightmare with an Online Bully: Episode 8"

[krs-kross]

[littlefankingdom]

Bruce is a overprotective and kind of strict parent, but he is very lax in some domains where other parents wouldn't. Here are some examples:

His kids stealing money from him. You will never catch Bruce Wayne lecturing his kids for taking his money. In the Arkhamverse, Jason steals 5 millions from Bruce's bank account to buy his army, and the problems for Bruce are: he didn't know it was Jason so it stressed him a bit, and Jason used it to buy an army.

Stealing from him in general. What is his is theirs. Unless it's dangerous. (Cars are death machines for his anxious self, which is why buying another batmobile for the young justice is not acceptable, or is kids taking it for a ride. He did made Redbird for Tim as a gift for when he got his license.)

Stealing from the cops (he has done it himself so many times)

Stealing money from rich people. In Knightfall, Bruce meets a British vigilante named Hood who steals from the rich to give to the poor, and Bruce had NO problems with that. He likes the young man. Stealing possessions is an issue tho. (Dick should follow his Robin Hood's dream, his father is fine with that)

Hacking into government facilities or anything really. Unless it's to harm an innocent civilian, like a classmate, he will not say anything. Hacking the FBI? Good. Hacking a russian mafia? Ok. As long as they do it safely and follow Barbara's instructions, it's fine.

Lying to him. Bruce is always impressed when he realizes one of his kids lied to him and he believed them. He's the Batman, after all, they have been able to fool the Batman. When he learns that Tim invented a fake uncle, he is proud of him and he tells him such, because he made the Batman believed it.

[diamondzart]

I simply could NOT resist, okay?

I SHIP IT! I DON’T CARE! I SHIP IT :D

[hajihiko]

The answer was 'panic attack'.

[pixlokita]

A very glazed page 39

Previous - next - first

[bruciemilf]

no I'm not biased abt Bruce. Where'd you get that idea

[icantbotherwithusernames]

ahem @candycatfalls i heard we were drawing theraprism bill now. i don't mind participating

[nonebinary-leftbeef]

His ass would NOT list five things you can see, four things you can touch, three things you can hear, two things you can smell, and one thing you can taste

[galacticmonsterenergy]

i shit myself trying to draw this

[pokedash55]

I don't know how psychologically sound this is but I had fun thinking about how Anxiety and Fear working together would actually be hell for Riley.

[mediumgayitalian]

Nico wakes up to gagging and a soft glow coming from the bathroom.

His first thought is, bizarrely, that Hazel’s home. But her bunk is still empty, and her shoes aren’t by the door, and she didn’t wake him when she came in. She always wakes him when she comes in, even if it’s four thirty in the damn morning, because nothing makes her cackle quite like Nico choking back curses and tweaking under her smothering pillow.

“Shit,” comes a small voice from the bathroom, followed by more retching. “Shitshitshit, no —”

Nico bolts for the door.

“Hi,” Will says, or tries to. His scarred knuckles clench with every gag, wrapped too tightly around the rim of porcelain to tremble like the rest of him.

Something about the wobbly smile he keeps trying to form in between gags. Something about the sweat that has drenched his t-shirt, something about the deep circles under his eyes, something about his spot in the bed completely cold, wrinkled.

Something is not adding up.

“You’re not sick,” Nico murmurs, pressing the back of his hand to Will’s forehead. Will mutters something about bliss, leaning into Nico’s hand; he smiles again, but it is strained, and at odds with the glassy look in his eyes. The sharp, rapid breaths.

“Just don’t — feel good.”

Every word is punctuated by a big, heaving gasp, like he’s trying to breathe through heavy cotton. On a hunch, Nico slides his hands down Will’s face, brushing the goosebumps on his neck, the irritated, pulsing tendons, and rest flat against his chest, over his heart.

His heart that is pounding, so quickly it is actually challenging to recognise as a beat rather than a buzz.

“You’re having a panic attack,” Nico says quietly.

Will shrugs. He gags again, but clamps his mouth shut before it goes anywhere, breathing deeply and carefully through clenched teeth, squeezing his eyes shut. His heart pounds faster, and the rapid movement of his chest grows shallow, but he manages to choke back his bile, swallow down whatever nausea is plaguing him.

“I’m — fine.” His laboured breathing is the loudest sound in the cabin. In the camp. “I’m handling it.”

Nico watches him. Watches him clench his jaw and squeeze his eyes shut and make a noise like he is being betrayed, like he is being sold for thirty silver by his own body, his own mind; watches him flex his muscles rigid and hold himself still like he can stop the nails and thorns from coming. He thinks of wide smiles and far away eyes and mental health pamphlets and cheerful slogans on infirmary walls.

“I think one of those things are true.”

“I don’t need —”

Whatever he doesn’t need is forgotten, because he is heaving again, only this time his body finds something to dredge up, even if that something is stomach acid and he cries as it burns its way up his throat, and in between heaving he wheezes, horrible whistling gasping noises, and his hair plasters to his forehead, and his body slumps into Nico’s hold and jerks away from him like rocky waves against a lakefront.

“How long have you been here?”

Will just shrugs again, and he cries, and he says “Leave, please,” and Nico wraps an arm tighter around his waist, and presses a kiss to his sweaty temple, lingering, holding, tasting salt from Will and from his tears both, and squeezing his eyes shut, and holding back the anger. Gritting his teeth and softening his hold, deliberately, resting his fingers delicately on the dip of Will’s hip, the raised pink of the stretch marks along his ribs.

“I hate it when you run from me,” he murmurs, and Will sobs again.

“I can’t breathe,” he says, and Nico squeezes and promises he can. “I’m dying. I’m dying, I’m gonna —”

“I’m here, Will.” He doesn’t say you’re not dying. He doesn’t say you’re fine, because this is the longest they’ve sat together in five days, because it is the the quiet middle of June, because yesterday Kayla spent half her shift screaming at Will to get out and ignoring him when he shouted back. Because the bandage around Will’s wrist has been worn to threads, because Lee’s hoodie has not been washed in weeks, because there is a newcomer named Michael and Will cannot even look at him. Because it has been bad. “I’m here.”

It is as much a reminder as it is a plea as it is a reprimand as it is a fruitless nothing, because when Nico struggles he gets angry, when Nico struggles he gets mean and biting and violent, but when Will struggles he wants the world to kill him. And for all that Nico is halfway to the grave he has clawed and chewed and fought his way to survival. And when Will scratches at the skin around his ears and screams into his hands and opens the chapped over scars on his lips his palms his fingers, Nico can only hold him, Nico can only gently pry his nails from his flesh and tell himself that one day they will get to the point where Nico wakes up. Where Will wakes him up, where he burrows into the place between his arms and his chest and hides in someone else for once. Where he trusts someone outside of himself enough to bare his back.

“I’m here,” he whispers again, and he presses his lips to Will’s hair and holds him as he sobs, “I’m here, I’m here, I’m here.”

[nonranghaes]

heads up: panic attack. vent for writer.

jisung knows how to take care of you now. he shuts your laptop, setting it aside as he quickly books it to the fridge and back to push a cold water bottle into your hands. you're getting overwhelmed, rambling up a storm about an assignment you did that now looks like you copied someone else who had the same idea. he tells you that it happens, that its normal, and to just email your professor about it... but he knows you. he knows himself. sometimes little things feel too big to handle, and they blow up like this. he holds his hands over your own, thumbs tracing alongside the inside of your wrists.

"it's okay," he says, keeping his voice as calm as he can. "it's gonna be okay. it's early enough. you haven't done any work yet. if she wants you to change it, it'll be okay. you're going to be fine."

you sniffle, tears streaming down your cheeks as you struggle to breathe as your chest grows tighter. you're babbling all over again: what if what if what if she gets mad at you what if she hasn't graded your assignment because she reached out to your advisors who's on vacation what if you're in the process of getting in major trouble for a misunderstanding and you just don't know it yet?

he kisses your forehead, gentle as can be, and his hands slide up to your biceps. "honey. i promise, it's going to be okay."

the water bottle slips from your hands, hitting the floor and rolling away as you move in to hold him. you squeeze your eyes shut, breathing growing more rapid as you try to hide. from what, you don't even know, but you bury your face in his chest and grab fistfuls of the back of his shirt. he embraces you, tracing circles on your back as you sob.

"it's okay," he says again. "just get it out..."

and you do. you sob into his shirt, losing yourself for a minute. two, five. you lose track. but you pull away, breathing a little more even, face stained with tears. and you meet his eyes after a moment, sniffling still.

"'m sorry..." you wipe at your face with your sleeve. "'m overreacting again--"

"it's okay," he cups your cheeks. "i'd panic, too. would i be overreacting?"

he knows the answer is yes. but he knows you'll say no, just because neither of you downplay each other's feelings in the moment even if you do sometimes laugh over the stupid things later on. he kisses your forehead again, wiping away some of your tears with his thumbs. he reaches down, scooping up the water bottle and offering it to you again. without a word, you accept it, twisting off the cap and taking a long sip of it before passing it back to him.

"better?" he says quietly. and when you nod, he sighs in relief. "i think... before you do your next assignment... we should do something silly."

you nod, and then reach for your laptop. "after i email her. will you--"

"yes." he kisses your cheek, always on the same wavelength as you when it comes to moments like these. "i'll read it before you send it. do you want a snack?" he stands, stretching, already ready to hunt in the kitchen for whatever will make you smile the most. "i'll grab us some snacks."

"yes, please." you open up your email, and wait a moment before turning to watch him go. "i love you."

he beams as he spins to face you one last time now, already making a heart with his arms, just to hear you laugh a little at him being silly for you. "i love you more!"

[tenpintsof-sundrop]

-> people stealing, binding and selling fics on Etsy, risking everything that AO3 has built since the Anne Rice lawsuits

-> AI scraping being everywhere and Gen Z seeing nothing wrong with using AI to "help" fanfiction or outright "write it" for them, while older fanfic authors have struggled for years to perfect the style you love

-> comments being down across the board and consumption culture being at an all time high. a fic gets 800 notes practically overnight and doesn't get a single comment (and sometimes I literally have to beg for comments/feedback on my fics when I know that hundreds of people are reading them)

-> me, grinding my teeth while pouring my heart and soul into a 40k fic that I know will be forgotten by fandom in a month or could possibly be stolen to be sold as a "novel": I do this because I love this. I do this because I love this. I do this because it's my passion. I don't want to quit doing something that I love so much.

[felisgalactus]

Another doodle dump

I’m obsessed with how I drew Prime Bumblebee he turned out looking completely haunted, or like he’s gonna break my kneecaps.

Busted out the glitter gel pens for fun