#my autism is the reason I get violent thoughts and urges? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

zosonils-art · 4 years ago

Link

Rating: General Audiences

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Category: Gen

Relationship: Ferb Fletcher & Phineas Flynn

Characters: Ferb Fletcher, Phineas Flynn, Perry the Platypus (Phineas and Ferb), Linda Flynn-Fletcher

Additional Tags: Autistic Ferb, Autistic Phineas, autistic phineas is more implied and could also be taken as adhd but he has both anyway so, Autistic Meltdown, Autism, Sensory Overload, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Illustrations, Canon Continuation, Fix-It of Sorts, i think????? i don't frequent this goddamn website i don't know, Brotherly Love, Crying, some of the crying is me

Summary: A stressful day pushes Ferb past his breaking point, and Phineas feels that he has a responsibility to set things right. Takes place immediately after Ready For The Bettys. Was supposed to be a simple continuation fic but got wildly out of hand. Ph*n*rb shippers fuck off this isn't for you.

---

as you’ve probably figured out if you’re following my main, i recently wrote my first fic since i was about 13! it’s available on ao3 at the link above, but you can also read it on tumblr by clicking the readmore on this post! i put a lot of effort into this and it took a lot of courage to post, so feedback is greatly appreciated!

"Mom! Guess what Ferb did!"

Phineas bursts into the kitchen energetically, still buzzing with adrenaline from the day's adventure. Ferb follows a step or two behind. Linda turns her attention from the freshly baked pie in her hands to her sons, although Phineas is too beside himself with excitement to consider whether or not she's paying attention. "He made a secret tunnel, and a spy headquarters, and a villain's lair, and a hover jet shaped like Perry- tell her, Ferb!"

Ferb doesn't match Phineas' enthusiasm. In fact, at the moment, he's sick to death of it. He prepares to launch into the explanation he's been trying all day to give. "Actually, I-"

"Wait a second," Linda interrupts, eyeing the boys with suspicion. "Why are you two soaking wet?"

The interruption is just too much for Ferb. He doesn't even process the question, just lets out a harsh shout of frustration. Phineas recoils - Ferb almost never shouts. "I give UP!" Ferb yells, his voice shaking on the last syllable, and before either of his surprised family members can respond, he turns around and storms off, his destination betrayed by the distinct clunking rhythm of stairs being stomped on too hard and the sound of a door slamming upstairs.

For a moment, the kitchen is silent. Linda recovers before Phineas does, her eyes narrowing in disapproval. "Young man, that is not how we talk to each other in this house!" she calls, setting the pie tin and her oven mitts down on the kitchen counter and following Ferb's path to his room. Before she can make it to the doorway, though, her progress is halted.

"Mom, wait!" Phineas pleads. He's finally caught onto what's been going on all day, and although he's still only half processed it, he knows he doesn't want Ferb to be in trouble for it. He frantically tugs on Linda's arm to draw her attention. Once he's sure that she's stopped, he withdraws his hand (he's still wet, after all, he doesn't want to make her uncomfortable), but sidesteps around her to put his tiny body firmly between her and the doorway to the living room. "Mom, please don't be mad at Ferb, it- it's not his fault! I'm sure he didn't mean anything by it, he's just..." Phineas' voice trails off briefly, but he forces it back into action, complete with the most serious expression he can manage. "If you're gonna be mad at either of us, it should be me, okay?"

At first, Linda returns Phineas' gaze with suspicion, then her face softens with realisation. She crouches down to her son's eye level, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Phineas, did something else happen today?" she asks, the anger gone from her voice.

Phineas hesitates, dropping eye contact again. He's almost certain about the cause of Ferb's outburst, and he can't help but mentally beat himself up for it to a degree. "Well, Ferb's been trying to tell me something all day, but he kept getting interrupted by our spy mission, and I guess it must have been really frustrating because he hates being interrupted but I didn't realise and-" he pauses to breathe, and shudders as he inhales as if on the verge of tears - "and I should have asked at some point but I just kept getting distracted and I didn't even realise how upset it was making him but-"

"Phineas," Linda says gently, and he gladly accepts the invitation to cut his rambling short. His breathing is shaky, but he doesn't cry just yet, even though his emotional state has nosedived in barely a minute. After giving him a moment to snap back into focus, Linda continues. "Phineas, honey, it sounds like this has just been a misunderstanding. On my end, too," she adds, regretting having snapped at Ferb earlier. Phineas nods with a nondescript mumble of agreement. Although he still obviously isn't looking, Linda gives him a reassuring smile anyway, accompanied by a gentle squeeze of his shoulder. "Thank you for telling the truth, sweetheart," she praises him.

"Mmh," Phineas mumbles, tugging at his shirt collar. He tends to fiddle with his shirt when he's nervous or overexcited. It doesn't hold a candle to bouncing his leg or flapping his hands, as far as stimming goes, but it's a lot easier to do while someone is touching you. "I just should've realised what was up earlier, then he probably wouldn't have freaked out..."

He finally glances up again, and the look his mom is giving him tells him that he should drop the argument, so he stops. Linda ruffles his hair affectionately, leaning forward to reach all the way behind Phineas' oddly-shaped head, and flinches at the unpleasant reminder of how waterlogged he still is. She stands up, flicking her hand dry. "I'm sure he knows you didn't mean to hurt his feelings," she reassures Phineas. "Why don't you dry yourself off and then go talk to him? Which reminds me," Linda motions towards the puddles tracked all over the kitchen floor, "why are you two so wet?"

"Oh, we fell in Isabella's pool," Phineas answers matter-of-factly. He isn't quite back to his usual blindingly sunny disposition, but the panicky tremble in his voice has at least disappeared.

Linda smiles, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. "Well, that I believe," she says. She'd tactfully decided not to comment on whatever that secret spy headquarters spiel was that Phineas had been getting worked up over, but she suspects his latest imaginary game took the boys to Isabella's backyard and ended up having some real-life consequences. "Oh, hi, Perry," she adds, as the platypus in question waddles into the kitchen.

Perry responds with his familiar chatter. Phineas leans down to pet Perry on the head. "At least you've had a stress-free day, huh," he says, then leaves for the bathroom. Perry stares at him blankly.

---

Ferb is having a meltdown.

He knows what this is, of course. He reads every textbook and blog post on the subject he can find, just in case it helps him make some more sense of himself. If he misses one, Phineas will no doubt have found and memorised it himself for the same reason, and will gladly rattle off anything new. Knowing why there's a raging storm beating at the inside of his head, however, is entirely different from quelling it. By the time he reaches his bedroom, he's trembling so violently that he can barely stand. He stumbles to his bed, pushing his hands down into the mattress to keep himself on his feet.

It's like feeling every feeling from every second of the day all in the same moment, and it hurts. So much is happening in his head that he can't even isolate a single thought, let alone process what it means. Is he angry? That'd make sense, sure, but his mental state isn't exactly conducive to deductive reasoning at the moment. Is he sad? Scared? Something else entirely?? He can't tell what emotion or mixture thereof it is, only that it's hurting his head, and he wants to get it out but he doesn't know how. He's struggling to breathe now, his arms shaking with the effort of keeping his body supported, and as he draws in a desperate shuddering breath Ferb feels something wet in his eye and then on his face, and he remembers that his entire body is wet and he hates it. It's cold, and his hair is sticking to his face and uncomfortably close to his eyes, and his clothes cling to his body oppressively and he wants to tear them off and stop feeling everything. Instead of doing that, he forces himself to breathe in again and looks around the room frantically, hoping to find something other than absolutely everything to concentrate on.

His eyes land on Phineas' bed, and although his vision is blurring as the panicky tears pour down his face, he recognises the shape instantly. Is he mad at Phineas? Should he be? He should be, right? If Phineas had just stopped to listen to him for once, he wouldn't be here with the world ending inside his brain. Another violent wave of emotion sends a shock through his whole body, and Ferb is still in no state to identify it, but he gets the message. He doesn't want to be angry. Not at Phineas. In fact, he doesn't want to feel anything he's feeling at the moment. Not the turbulent assault of everything inside his head, not the hammering rhythm of his heart trying to beat its way out of his chest, not every tiny thing that touches his skin or the light from outside that still feels blinding through the curtains or the muffled sounds of conversation downstairs that he doesn't have room in his brain to translate into anything but more noise.

Sensory overload is another term Ferb knows, and it's another one that doesn't really help to know in the moment. The feeling of anxiety that's been growing in his chest since that morning finally becomes too much for his body to handle, and he collapses on his bed, weakly gripping the blanket for support. Burying his face in his covers blocks out most of the sunlight, at least, but it doesn't significantly improve his mood. He shivers, partly from cold thanks to still being uncomfortably wet, partly from the sobs making his whole body convulse. (When did those start? He doesn't remember.) He uses the last of his physical strength to pull himself fully onto his bed and curl into himself, trying desperately to calm himself down.

...

It's not working. Why isn't it working?? It's as if every effort to steady his breathing just makes him cry harder, every attempt at a calming thought being shattered into a thousand anxious ones by the merciless torrent of everything whirling around in his mind. Ferb is suddenly hyper-aware of how empty the room around him is, and it makes him feel helpless. It's the first feeling he's managed to connect a name to with absolute certainty this whole time, and it's terrifying.

If he was making any noise before in his attempts to control his breathing, he's stopped now. No sound escapes him as he lies in place, too preoccupied with the overwhelming barrage of thoughts in his brain to move. More than anything, Ferb wants his brain to just shut off. Everything in his mind blends into a horrible white noise that won't stop, threatening to drown him in static.

Through the raging mental cyclone, he just barely hears the knock at the door.

Phineas waits a moment before entering his room. He wants to make sure Ferb has time to process that he's here. A few seconds pass, then he opens the door slowly so that it doesn't make any sound. A stab of guilt hits him when he sees Ferb curled up on his bed, visibly distressed. He's facing the opposite wall, but the way he shudders as he breathes makes it obvious that he's crying. Phineas feels his heart sink. He'd really hoped it wouldn't be this bad.

"Hey," he says softly. Ferb grips himself tighter. Just a minute ago, Phineas would have been the last person he wanted to see, but now his desperation for comfort outweighs any lingering hints of animosity. He doesn't object to his brother's presence, so Phineas gently closes the door and walks over to his side of the room. He sits on the bed, watching Ferb to see if he reacts negatively to the shift in weight distribution, and tenses up slightly at how damp the blanket is. Of course, Ferb wouldn't have stopped to dry off on his way up here. A closer look confirms that while a lot of the water on his body has run off and soaked into his bed, Ferb is still almost as wet as he was when he arrived home. Phineas frowns - that can't be comfortable, and it's probably making him feel even worse. "Are you okay?" he asks.

Ferb curls into himself even more instead of asking. The question is so frustratingly rhetorical that he almost reconsiders the possibility of being angry, but the idea still scares him, so the feeling passes. Fortunately, Phineas understands the unspoken 'obviously not' with no further input, and continues to talk. "I'm really sorry about today," he begins. "I know you don't like being interrupted, and I should've realised that it was making you feel bad but I just wasn't paying enough attention and- and I'm sorry, because it's kinda my fault you got so upset," he apologises, not realising that he's holding back tears until he stops to breathe. He wills himself not to cry. He's here to try and make Ferb feel better, not guilt him into forgiveness.

It takes a second or two for Ferb to process what Phineas is saying. It's a struggle to drag the words through the confusing whirlwind of everything still rampaging through his head. Eventually, after a great deal of mental effort, he shakes his head in response. Perhaps he was angry before, he still can't tell, but he definitely isn't now. He can't manage anything beyond the simple gesture, but it's not the first time he's been utterly uncommunicative, so Phineas understands the meaning as well as he needs to: it's not your fault.

"Th-thanks," he stutters, although Ferb's acceptance does little to settle the crushing feeling of responsibility. "Next time you can speak I'll let you tell me whatever it is you needed to, okay? I promise." He smiles a little. "No more secret agent business to interrupt you."

The last sentence sure prompts a reaction from Ferb - he rolls over so that his face is entirely buried in the blanket and makes a frustrated noise without opening his mouth, his body shaking with some mixture of anger and physical strain. Phineas inhales sharply and recoils, no more prepared for an audible outburst from Ferb than the first time. "Hey, what's wrong?" he asks, already speed-testing possible answers in his head. "Did you not have fun today? Of- of course you didn't, that's why you're upset, but I thought you did a great job on the spy mission! It was really cool." He's trying to be reassuring, but Ferb just shakes harder, seemingly becoming more aggravated rather than less.

Phineas tilts his head in confusion. "Ferb? Ferb, it's okay, I-I'm sorry. Did... did it not go the way you planned?" he guesses, searching increasingly frantically for any change in Ferb's body language. "Hmm... oh, were you not finished building it yet?" He thinks back to Ferb's numerous attempts at speaking to him throughout the day, hoping that he'll find some clue that makes everything fall into place - and something clicks in his brain. He deflates a little at how painfully obvious the realisation seems in retrospect, with a soft "Oh." Sighing at his own ignorance, he directs his voice to Ferb again as he says, "You didn't actually build all that, did you?"

Ferb sits up slowly and turns to Phineas with his signature deadpan glare, the silent, biting sarcasm undermined significantly by the tears still falling from his eyes. Phineas hums concernedly. "Is that what you were trying to tell me?" he asks. Ferb gets partway through rolling his eyes before giving up and returning to the fetal position.

Phineas sighs sadly. He hates seeing his brother cry. There's nothing he wants to do more than pull him into the tightest hug he can manage, but he knows Ferb won't appreciate being touched in this state, so he opts to fiddle with his shirt again to keep his hands busy. "Who do you think did build that stuff?" he asks. Ferb doesn't care. On any other day, a secret spy lair being hidden under his house would be cause for immeasurable excitement, but after the day's events he's thoroughly sick of thinking about the subject. Phineas picks up on Ferb's antipathy towards the question and, sensing that it might be a sore topic for some time, decides not to bring it up again for a while. He'll satisfy his curiosity sometime when it doesn't come at the expense of Ferb's comfort.

An uncomfortable silence falls over the boys. It's broken when Ferb suddenly sniffles loud enough to make Phineas jump, sits up again, and halfheartedly tries to wipe the tears from his face. "Oh geez, hold on," Phineas says, leaning over to rummage through his short pockets. He eventually pulls out a wad of tissues, somehow unaffected by the earlier impromptu dive into Isabella's pool. He offers them with a gentle "here you go" to Ferb, who takes a few silently and scrubs at his eyes.

While he still doesn't feel good by any stretch of the definition, Ferb at least doesn't feel completely awful anymore. What was once a violent hurricane in his mind has receded enough that he can focus on the world around him without breaking down, at least for the time being, and he's left feeling just drained. He balls up his handful of tissues and tosses them at the bin under his desk. The ball makes it to Phineas' leg before unceremoniously bouncing to a stop. Phineas picks it up and throws it the rest of the way to the trash, standing up to do so.

Rather than sit down again, he kneels down and pulls out one of the drawers conveniently built into the bed. Ferb watches inquisitively, still too out of it to immediately catch onto what's happening. Phineas rummages a little before finally pulling out a pair of pyjamas, suggesting, "You should dry off and change your clothes." He pauses to think. "Can you make it downstairs to the bathroom by yourself?" he asks. At any other time, it would be a silly question, but Ferb is always exhausted after a meltdown. The visible effort it's taking him just to stay upright isn't lost on Phineas. Ferb ponders the question, then gives a tentative nod. He's definitely shaky, but he really wants to change into something dry.

"Great!" Phineas smiles encouragingly. "Should I bring the usual stuff to the living room? Your bed's probably not gonna feel comfortable until it dries out." Ferb glances down at the unmistakable damp silhouette of where he had been lying earlier and nods again, more confidently. He slowly gets to his feet, first pushing against his bed for support, then grasping the hand Phineas offers him. He lets go once he's certain he's regained his balance, and only then does Phineas hand him his pyjamas. "I'll come meet you downstairs, okay?" Phineas says. Then, pulling at the bottom of his shirt, which is still a bit soggy despite his best efforts to towel it off, he adds, "I should probably change into something dry as well."

---

Ferb rubs his eyes as he comes out of the bathroom, his drenched clothes swapped out for his much more comfortable pyjamas. He's stopped crying, it seems, but he's still feeling sensitive enough that the light from outside bothers him. He's relieved to discover that it's much darker in the living room - Phineas must have been here already. The curtains are drawn so that the lamp on the end table is the only light source in the room, softly illuminating its surroundings with a pleasant warm glow. He doesn't have the energy to analyse the entire room, even in these far more bearable conditions, but his attention is drawn to his favourite weighted blanket folded neatly on the couch. He sits down and drags the blanket over him, struggling a bit with the weight, but relaxing once he feels its reassuring pressure on his legs.

It's as he's settling into his position on the couch that Phineas enters with an "Oh, there you are, Ferb!". Perry is firmly but comfortably wedged under one of his arms, like a fuzzy teal football or loaf of bread, and seems altogether unbothered by his position. Ferb gasps quietly at the sight of Perry, his eyes brightening momentarily, and reaches out for him with various soft noises of urgency. Phineas wastes no time in setting Perry down next to Ferb, and the platypus reacts with a gentle, almost soothing chatter. Ferb instinctively mimicks the sound under his breath, and Perry responds with a nearly identical noise. Ferb echoes it again, slightly louder this time, and his face lights up with a weak smile, the first one he's managed all day.

Taking this as a sign of progress, Phineas sighs with relief as he sits on the sofa. He makes sure to maintain a respectful distance from Ferb, who's running a hand through Perry's fur as they echo the same low growling noise back at each other. (It pains Phineas not to join in, but he senses the two have gotten themselves into a groove that would be rude to interrupt.) Ferb's smile fades almost as soon as it appears, but he seems much more relaxed after the change in clothes and scenery. His hair is sticking up in every direction from being towelled dry, and Phineas stifles a laugh at how silly it looks. The back-and-forth chattering eventually dies down, and it's only then that Phineas continues. "Mom's gonna make you some tea, and she says if you aren't feeling better by dinner you can eat in here if you want," he says. Ferb turns to him and raises a thumbs-up briefly before returning his hand and focus to Perry.

Phineas quietly watches his brother for a moment before speaking again. "Do you want me to stay?" he asks. Exactly how sociable Ferb is while he's coming out of a meltdown varies. He almost invariably needs some time on his own to mentally reset, but sometimes it helps if someone he trusts is there to reassure him for a while first. In Phineas' experience, asking is always the best way to tell.

Ferb hesitates for a second, then surprises both of them with his answer, which is to turn and collapse into Phineas' lap with one arm hooked over his legs in a sort of pseudo-hug. Phineas tenses up, not sure how to react. He cautiously puts an arm around Ferb, in a comforting gesture that doesn't fully subject him to the overwhelming sensory experience of a true hug. Ferb doesn't fight it, just repositions himself so that he's lying down with Phineas as a makeshift pillow and sinks further into the gentle embrace. Phineas laughs softly. "Okay, I guess you do."

This is nice, Ferb thinks. Definitely an improvement over violently sobbing alone in his room. Perry must be feeling relaxed too, because he climbs onto Ferb's stomach, circles a few times, lets out one more chatter, then flops down and goes to sleep, purring gently. Phineas giggles at the platypus' behaviour, and Ferb's shoulders shake in silent laughter - his blanket absorbs enough of the sensation that it just tickles. Watching Perry doze off reminds him that he's still exhausted, despite the positive change in environment, and his attempt to stifle a yawn fails. He's still on high alert, and he knows he won't be sleeping for longer than a few minutes until the emotional clutter completely drains from his mind. With that said, both the blanket and Perry weighing down on him make for a pretty cosy combination, and he finds himself fighting to keep his eyes open. Maybe just a moment of rest will be good for him.

Before he knows it, his eyes are closed, and he's powerless to prevent himself from drifting off. Phineas accepts his new career as a pillow without comment, simply adjusting his right hand so that both his arms are positioned protectively around his brother. Being trapped in place for the time being doesn't worry him. Ferb won't mind being stirred awake when their mom arrives with his tea, and until then Phineas can easily occupy himself with thoughts of what to do tomorrow. Besides, he can subject himself to a few minutes of quiet if that's what Ferb needs. What kind of a brother would he be if he couldn't, right?

Ferb half-consciously brings a hand to Phineas' wrist, as if it'll float off if he isn't holding on. He can feel his brain shutting down, and he welcomes the change. The last thing he's aware of before his consciousness finally leaves him in peace for a moment is the sound of Phineas' voice, promising him, "You're gonna be okay."

#zos writes #phineas and ferb #ferb fletcher #phineas flynn #won't tag perry or linda since they're side characters basically #anyway please for the love of god reblog this. links don't show up in tags so literally the only way people will see this is reblogs #i'm serious about the fuck off too if ph*n*rbs even LOOK at this post i will stomp you to death with my hooves

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liberatrolls · 4 years ago

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IN DEFENCE OF ERIDAN AMPORA: a simp post

People often compare Eridan to Gamzee, and normally when they do it’s to push Gamzee into a pedestal and to villanize Eridan. I’m here to change that:

Let’s lay down some key facts here:

Both Eridan Ampora and Gamzee Makara are highbloods

Highbloods that live on Alternia 99% of the time have an incurable bloodlust.

Eridan Ampora and Gamzee Makara are the troll equivalent to 13 year olds.

Gamzee Makara and Eridan Ampora both experience highblood rages.

Gamzee Makara used sopor slime to numb the murderous inclinations he as a highblood was subjected to.

Eridan Ampora had a moirallegiance with Feferi Peixes in which it was established that she was the pacifying party. (Feferi was Eridans “sopor pie”.)

now that we have laid down some facts, i will now present to you my VERY biased argument for why Eridan should not be villainised, and why Gamzee should not be martyred.

From the beginning, we are clued in to Eridan’s state of mind; it’s not doing so well. Feferi has dumped him early on in the timeline of events. He canonically only gets along well with Karkat - and that’s only because Karkat is an insufferably pale hoe and I’m of the belief that Eridan may have been crushing on Kar but not admitting it anyways... that’s besides the point. My point is, Eridan canonically has no one that would be considered a true “friend”. On the flip side, we have Gamzee: a troll who’s drugged up personality allowed for him to get along with multiple people. He had a budding one sided moirallegiance with Karkat (more on that later) as well as several other trolls willing to talk and interact with him without question. While hopped up on sopor pies he was very easy to get along with; sopor pies are a depressant and a sedative and their hypersedative properties allowed Gamzee to exist as a troll with no highblood instinct. It suppressed his innate instincts as a highblood and produced a personality that was ONLY made up of the childish soporific illusions that he created himself.

Now, Eridans personality was his own, and in the beginning while he did not interact with a ton of people, he still had people to positively interact with: Fef and Kar. He also had some interaction (albeit very negative and full of pitch and ashen solicitations) with the other trolls of the session. Then they stopped caring about him. It was sudden and unwarranted. Feferi dropped him the moment the world ended and they were in the game. He’d been killing lusii for her for sweeps (because she didn’t want to do it herself), feeding g’lybg’olyb for her, but the moment she didn’t need him to do that for her anymore, she dropped him. When he went and told her STRAIGHT UP that he’d been thinking of doing something similar albeit for an entirely different reason, she laughed in his face and essentially blew him off. Karkat... didn’t not care about him? He had his own issues to take care of, as the blood player of his session it was essentially his duty to manage everyone else’s bonds and connections, and he was stretched very thin. But he still broke his pact with Eridan, a promise he made, and this was a promise he made when he KNEW Eridan was growing more and more unstable.

None of this is to say this is any of their faults. This is to set up what I am about to say next.

And that is:

Eridan was a lonely, 13 year old kid, battling with highblood urges, ON TOP OF:

what appears to be the beginning symptoms of borderline personality disorder, obsessive compulsive behaviors, rapid mood swings, violent intrusive thoughts, and very clearly being on the autism spectrum. All of this, and he grew up in one of the most violent civilizations imaginable, inundated with propaganda and being constantly told that he was BETTER than all those below the hemospectrum. And unlike Gamzee, he was *sobor* for this. He grew up like this, he did not tamper it down with any soporific; he only had Feferi to calm him down from his more violent urges.

On the flip side, we have Gamzee: also a 13 year old kid, battling with much of the same things, BUT: he has what Eridan didn’t have

he had a support system.

Karkat tried his damndest to pacify him, entering into a moirallegiance with him when Gamzee couldn’t reciprocate and Karkat was definitely not 100% mentally capable of caring for anyone other than himself(and that’s... debatable *insert long ass rant about how karkat literally kept himself awake for days and weeks on end, definitely had PTSD, crippling social anxieties, and probably only kept himself and his area clean ritualistically*)but he tried, damnit. Gamzee also had a budding matespritship with Tavros, as well as the support of most of the meteor. They trusted him enough to lay in a pile that HE MADE.

Is this to say that he’s an evil conniving asshole? No. This is to say that he is NO BETTER than Eridan, and that Eridan is NO WORSE than Gamzee. They were BOTH 13 year old CHILDREN playing a game that traumatized them, living in a world that was built to force them to submit to their roles in society, suffering from extreme abandonment issues and mental health that went unchecked. They were BOTH CHILDREN. And things went wrong for both of them.

If you’re going to blame one then blame the other, and if you’re going to martyr one then martyr the other. Because they both didn’t deserve what happened to them. They BOTH needed someone in their corner who COULD help them. Unfortunately they didn’t have that, not out of anyone’s fault, but just because the others that surrounded them? THEY WERE ALSO CHILDREN, with their own traumas, their own unchecked mental health and emotional baggage.

Eridan put it best himself:

its hard

bein a kid an growwin up

its hard an nobody understands

#homestuck #eridan ampora #eridan rant #homestuck rant #rambles #homestuck meta #hot take?#maybe?#my thoughts

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butterflyinthewell · 6 years ago

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#AutismIs

Just need to remind some people who shall remain nameless that I don’t glorify autistic!Groot’s autism in my autistic headcanon of him. I show the ugly stuff and it’s part of the picture of his version of normal.

Groot is exactly the kind of autistic person autism moms rant about when they say autism is nothing good and all kinds of ugly.

[Groot says “I am Groot.”]

[Groot says “We are Groot.”]

Groot is nonverbal by alien standards. His speech is five words total and isn’t understandable unless you know him really, really, really well. A trained ear can learn to understand that his speech actually is language and means something. I have him type on an AAC device in my fanfics to help this process.

But Groot makes weird noises. He’ll pace around in circles and groan. He stims. Sometimes he smears poop if he gets his hands on some. If he wore clothes, he would need to be dressed and undressed by somebody else because there’s a high chance he’ll walk out with everything on backwards or inside out.

He can’t follow instructions well if they’re thrown rapid fire at him, but he’ll do better if somebody takes an extra second to make sure he’s paying attention and tells him exactly what they need him to do. He understands words, but he pays more attention to voice tones and actions than he does the words being said. He gets lost doing “simple” tasks sometimes.

He’s aware that there are social rules, but can’t really follow them even when he tries. The best he can do is it still like a statue and not move or make a sound and hope he blends into his surroundings. If a sensory need comes up, such as hunger or thirst, he’ll usually attend to it regardless of what’s going on around him.

[Groot eats a leaf off his shoulder.]

[Groot drinks water out of a public fountain.]

He loses all control of his body when he has meltdowns. He’s the person who will chew his wrists all the way through (they heal fast), beat himself until he ruptures his eyeballs (they grow back :P), bangs his head until he either cracks it open (heals fast) or gives himself a concussion (takes time to recover from), and that’s not mentioning the screaming and flailing he does in between.

His meltdowns are brutal if he’s sick, triggered, in pain or overstimulated. Overstimulated meltdowns burn off in a few minutes. The other kinds can last until the problem is solved. His ability to communicate understandably goes away when he’s in distress, so his friends have to take note of his behavior to find out what’s wrong. Sometimes he gets violent when he has meltdowns...

[Groot thrashes a bunch of bad guys around a hallway.]

[Groot lets out a roar!]

His senses are in chaos a lot of the time. It’s hard work for him to make sense of the world around him, but he knows how his own brain works and he works with it instead of fighting against it.

Groot’s every waking moment is not meltdowns and misery because his friends know how to take care of him and support him. He’s treated like a person and not a problem to shuffle around or solve.

When he flips his shit, his friends immediately go into “what happened to you?” mode rather than “make him stop that!”

Yes, an element of their action is to help Groot control his body and soothe him so he doesn’t seriously injure himself, but afterward they immediately go into “find out what’s wrong” mode because calming him down when something is wrong is only a temporary fix. They solve the problem behind the behavior instead of stopping the behavior and leaving it to repeat and repeat and repeat and...yeah.

Does my description above make you see Groot as anything other than a disaster?

Try this: Groot is a competent, sweet, selfless, giving person who aims to please and tries to love everybody unless they give him a reason not to. He is intelligent, but can’t show it very well because it’s not intelligence as most people think of it.

He doesn’t think in words at all unless it’s remembering something said to him or remembering text; everything else is sensory, images and concepts. It’s a lot of work to turn all that into mere words. People talk about making things cognitively accessible-- Groot typing is him making his thoughts cognitively accessible to neurotypicals. Imagine taking all the information from every book ever written and having to summarize all of that in a single color or sound, and you’ll have an idea of what Groot has to do mentally with every word he types.

His ‘native’ language is emotions. People smiling at him and him smiling back is a conversation in his mind because feelings were exchanged. He learns peoples’ behavior patterns and maps out what their actions mean in the context of the situation. People whose actions and body language don’t match their words frustrate him because it feels like they’re lying to him. He gets an urge to shake somebody and ask them what they actually feel when what they say and what they do aren’t lining up.

Groot is the most at home in nature. I mean, he is a walking plant, so it makes sense that he’s wise in the ways of nature. This is where his intelligence shows up, but he rarely gets to display it when he’s out in space.

He can figure out what season it is on a planet by observing the temperature, general weather and where shadows fall. He memorizes the wind patterns of planets he visits and notices how they change throughout the days and seasons. In a building, he memorizes all the airflow patterns and notices when it changes. Yes, that means he’ll feel you breathing in a room that’s normally very still. His “airflow maps” can be great in a spaceship if there’s an air leak, because he’ll notice the change in how air flows and look for why.

He can use his taproots to taste plants and see if they’re poisonous to somebody else or not. He can do a ten finger countdown when rain is about to arrive and it’ll come down when he hits zero. He’ll map out where and when the sun(s) / moon(s) will rise and set. He’s pretty good at guessing if it will be hot or cold out that day. He can hear the rumble of hail and warn people before it arrives. (Or he’ll try.) And if he tells you there is going to be a tornado in two minutes, GTFO because there is going to be a tornado in two minutes, and he will stand within ten feet of where it will touch down.

Groot loves finding fractals in nature. The spirals of ferns, the repeating patterns of leaves and the centers of flowers bring him total delight. He loves watching sunsets change colors and feeling rain bead on his bark. Seeing the world reflected in miniature in a dewdrop can hold his attention for ages. He likes dancing to the wind as much as he likes dancing to music. The sun is his friend and the stars are distant companions.

He thinks neurotypicals hurry against the flow too much. He would describe them as people wondering why they got hurt while trying to make a tornado stop spinning when they could’ve saved themselves the trouble by taking shelter and waiting for the tornado to pass.

[Groot holds out a flower to someone out of frame.]

There, I just gave two detailed images of the same person.

Now please consider how you talk about the autistic person in your life and realize you might be painting a totally hideous image of them that doesn’t represent who they are at all.

Autistic people are more than behaviors and struggle.

#actuallyautistic #autism #autistic headcanon #Groot #Guardians of the Galaxy #long post #gifs #flashing #seizure warning #tw eye scream #tw unsanitary #tw feces #tw tornadoes #infodump

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nebris · 7 years ago

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The Rage of the Incels

Incels aren’t really looking for sex. They’re looking for absolute male supremacy.

Lately I have been thinking about one of the first things that I ever wrote for the Internet: a series of interviews with adult virgins, published by the Hairpin. I knew my first subject personally, and, after I interviewed her, I put out an open call. To my surprise, messages came rolling in. Some of the people I talked to were virgins by choice. Some were not, sometimes for complicated, overlapping reasons: disability, trauma, issues related to appearance, temperament, chance. “Embarrassed doesn’t even cover it,” a thirty-two-year-old woman who chose the pseudonym Bette told me. “Not having erotic capital, not being part of the sexual marketplace . . . that’s a serious thing in our world! I mean, practically everyone has sex, so what’s wrong with me?” A twenty-six-year-old man who was on the autism spectrum and had been molested as a child wondered, “If I get naked with someone, am I going to take to it like a duck to water, or am I going to start crying and lock myself in the bathroom?” He hoped to meet someone who saw life clearly, who was gentle and independent. “Sometimes I think, why would a woman like that ever want me?” he said. But he had worked hard, he told me, to start thinking of himself as a person who was capable of a relationship—a person who was worthy of, and could accept, love.

It is a horrible thing to feel unwanted—invisible, inadequate, ineligible for the things that any person might hope for. It is also entirely possible to process a difficult social position with generosity and grace. None of the people I interviewed believed that they were owed the sex that they wished to have. In America, to be poor, or black, or fat, or trans, or Native, or old, or disabled, or undocumented, among other things, is usually to have become acquainted with unwantedness. Structural power is the best protection against it: a rich straight white man, no matter how unpleasant, will always receive enthusiastic handshakes and good treatment at banking institutions; he will find ways to get laid.

These days, in this country, sex has become a hyper-efficient and deregulated marketplace, and, like any hyper-efficient and deregulated marketplace, it often makes people feel very bad. Our newest sex technologies, such as Tinder and Grindr, are built to carefully match people by looks above all else. Sexual value continues to accrue to abled over disabled, cis over trans, thin over fat, tall over short, white over nonwhite, rich over poor. There is an absurd mismatch in the way that straight men and women are taught to respond to these circumstances. Women are socialized from childhood to blame themselves if they feel undesirable, to believe that they will be unacceptable unless they spend time and money and mental effort being pretty and amenable and appealing to men. Conventional femininity teaches women to be good partners to men as a basic moral requirement: a woman should provide her man a support system, and be an ideal accessory for him, and it is her job to convince him, and the world, that she is good.

Men, like women, blame women if they feel undesirable. And, as women gain the economic and cultural power that allows them to be choosy about their partners, men have generated ideas about self-improvement that are sometimes inextricable from violent rage.

Several distinct cultural changes have created a situation in which many men who hate women do not have the access to women’s bodies that they would have had in an earlier era. The sexual revolution urged women to seek liberation. The self-esteem movement taught women that they were valuable beyond what convention might dictate. The rise of mainstream feminism gave women certainty and company in these convictions. And the Internet-enabled efficiency of today’s sexual marketplace allowed people to find potential sexual partners with a minimum of barriers and restraints. Most American women now grow up understanding that they can and should choose who they want to have sex with.

In the past few years, a subset of straight men calling themselves “incels” have constructed a violent political ideology around the injustice of young, beautiful women refusing to have sex with them. These men often subscribe to notions of white supremacy. They are, by their own judgment, mostly unattractive and socially inept. (They frequently call themselves “subhuman.”) They’re also diabolically misogynistic. “Society has become a place for worship of females and it’s so fucking wrong, they’re not Gods they are just a fucking cum-dumpster,” a typical rant on an incel message board reads. The idea that this misogyny is the real root of their failures with women does not appear to have occurred to them.

The incel ideology has already inspired the murders of at least sixteen people. Elliot Rodger, in 2014, in Isla Vista, California, killed six and injured fourteen in an attempt to instigate a “War on Women” for “depriving me of sex.” (He then killed himself.) Alek Minassian killed ten people and injured sixteen, in Toronto, last month; prior to doing so, he wrote, on Facebook, “The Incel Rebellion has already begun!” You might also include Christopher Harper-Mercer, who killed nine people, in 2015, and left behind a manifesto that praised Rodger and lamented his own virginity.

The label that Minassian and others have adopted has entered the mainstream, and it is now being widely misinterpreted. Incel stands for “involuntarily celibate,” but there are many people who would like to have sex and do not. (The term was coined by a queer Canadian woman, in the nineties.) Incels aren’t really looking for sex; they’re looking for absolute male supremacy. Sex, defined to them as dominion over female bodies, is just their preferred sort of proof.

If what incels wanted was sex, they might, for instance, value sex workers and wish to legalize sex work. But incels, being violent misogynists, often express extreme disgust at the idea of “whores.” Incels tend to direct hatred at things they think they desire; they are obsessed with female beauty but despise makeup as a form of fraud. Incel culture advises men to “looksmaxx” or “statusmaxx”—to improve their appearance, to make more money—in a way that presumes that women are not potential partners or worthy objects of possible affection but inconveniently sentient bodies that must be claimed through cold strategy. (They assume that men who treat women more respectfully are “white-knighting,” putting on a mockable façade of chivalry.) When these tactics fail, as they are bound to do, the rage intensifies. Incels dream of beheading the sluts who wear short shorts but don’t want to be groped by strangers; they draw up elaborate scenarios in which women are auctioned off at age eighteen to the highest bidder; they call Elliot Rodger their Lord and Savior and feminists the female K.K.K. “Women are the ultimate cause of our suffering,” one poster on incels.me wrote recently. “They are the ones who have UNJUSTLY made our lives a living hell… We need to focus more on our hatred of women. Hatred is power.”

On a recent ninety-degree day in New York City, I went for a walk and thought about how my life would look through incel eyes. I’m twenty-nine, so I’m a little old and used up: incels fetishize teen-agers and virgins (they use the abbreviation “JBs,” for jailbait), and they describe women who have sought pleasure in their sex lives as “whores” riding a “cock carousel.” I’m a feminist, which is disgusting to them. (“It is obvious that women are inferior, that is why men have always been in control of women.”) I was wearing a crop top and shorts, the sort of outfit that they believe causes men to rape women. (“Now watch as the level of rapes mysteriously rise up.”) In the elaborate incel taxonomy of participants in the sexual marketplace, I am a Becky, devoting my attentions to a Chad. I’m probably a “roastie,” too—another term they use for women with sexual experience, denoting labia that have turned into roast beef from overuse.

Earlier this month, Ross Douthat, in a column for the Times, wrote that society would soon enough “address the unhappiness of incels, be they angry and dangerous or simply depressed or despairing.” The column was ostensibly about the idea of sexual redistribution: if power is distributed unequally in society, and sex tends to follow those lines of power, how and what could we change to create a more equal world? Douthat noted a recent blog post by the economist Robin Hanson, who suggested, after Minassian’s mass murder, that the incel plight was legitimate, and that redistributing sex could be as worthy a cause as redistributing wealth. (The quality of Hanson’s thought here may be suggested by his need to clarify, in an addendum, “Rape and slavery are far from the only possible levers!”) Douthat drew a straight line between Hanson’s piece and one by Amia Srinivasan, in the London Review of Books. Srinivasan began with Elliot Rodger, then explored the tension between a sexual ideology built on free choice and personal preference and the forms of oppression that manifest in these preferences. The question, she wrote, “is how to dwell in the ambivalent place where we acknowledge that no one is obligated to desire anyone else, that no one has a right to be desired, but also that who is desired and who isn’t is a political question.”

Srinivasan’s rigorous essay and Hanson’s flippantly dehumanizing thought experiment had little in common. And incels, in any case, are not actually interested in sexual redistribution; they don’t want sex to be distributed to anyone other than themselves. They don’t care about the sexual marginalization of trans people, or women who fall outside the boundaries of conventional attractiveness. (“Nothing with a pussy can be incel, ever. Someone will be desperate enough to fuck it . . . Men are lining up to fuck pigs, hippos, and ogres.”) What incels want is extremely limited and specific: they want unattractive, uncouth, and unpleasant misogynists to be able to have sex on demand with young, beautiful women. They believe that this is a natural right.

It is men, not women, who have shaped the contours of the incel predicament. It is male power, not female power, that has chained all of human society to the idea that women are decorative sexual objects, and that male worth is measured by how good-looking a woman they acquire. Women—and, specifically, feminists—are the architects of the body-positivity movement, the ones who have pushed for an expansive redefinition of what we consider attractive. “Feminism, far from being Rodger’s enemy,” Srinivasan wrote, “may well be the primary force resisting the very system that made him feel—as a short, clumsy, effeminate, interracial boy—inadequate.” Women, and L.G.B.T.Q. people, are the activists trying to make sex work legal and safe, to establish alternative arrangements of power and exchange in the sexual market.

We can’t redistribute women’s bodies as if they are a natural resource; they are the bodies we live in. We can redistribute the value we apportion to one another—something that the incels demand from others but refuse to do themselves. I still think about Bette telling me, in 2013, how being lonely can make your brain feel like it’s under attack. Over the past week, I have read the incel boards looking for, and occasionally finding, proof of humanity, amid detailed fantasies of rape and murder and musings about what it would be like to assault one’s sister out of desperation. In spite of everything, women are still more willing to look for humanity in the incels than they are in us.

Jia Tolentino is a staff writer at The New Yorker. https://www.newyorker.com/culture/cultural-comment/the-rage-of-the-incels

#The Sisterhood

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fangirlinginleatherboots · 7 years ago

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I'm not sure if you're awake right now but I wanna ask, can you describe some things your ocd causes(I don't know if that's a good word to use but it's all I can think of) you to do? I'm wanting to write a story involving a character with ocd, while I'm doing research I remembered (I might be wrong though so feel free to correct me) that I think you said somewhere before you had it and since you kind of inspire me to go after things I thought I ask. If it's too personal feel free to delete!

Also, ocd story anon, I read that trauma can be a cause of ocd, do you believe that your ocd could've come from your trauma?

This is a very very long response going into a few of my (and some alters) OCD traits and some reasoning behind them and the range of responses I have to various triggers. It actually helps me analyze my traits better when ppl ask stuff like this so I may have gone overboard as stuff kinda clicked in my brain but hopefully somewhere in here you will get your answer.

So, I’m going to start with the last question first. MY OCD was not caused by my trauma, however my traumas have completely shaped my compulsions and obsessions to a point where my OCD traits are almost inseparable from my PTSD. See, I’m autistic, and OCD is part of this co-morbidity package a lot of autistic people end up with, to a point where the co-morbid disorders are often not even diagnosed after the autism is because its that common. (They’ll diagnose separately if you need treatment for one of them. like the reason i have ADHD and OCD listed as dx’s is because the doctors count them separately on me bc i need medication for them, but they’re extremely common to the point of being expected with most ASD dxs)

Yes, I have OCD and have always had, but my trauma caused so much anxiety that the disorder reshaped itself around specific triggers. There are many layers to my OCD, it’s actually a strange sort of nonspecific looking presentation because of how many alters also have OCD, so it becomes difficult to tell who has which O and C thus there being a lot of inconsistency in whether or not a trigger affects me.

It’s also worth nothing that some doctor’s feel that I fit under the specific label of “scrupulosity” or rOCD (Religious OCD) because of how much of my stuff revolves around religion. I don’t always agree that it’s this because while my O and C are based on religious themes, I don’t believe in the concepts behind the things. I believe most of the religious stuff is just from religious trauma.

On one layer, I have a number obsession. There are certain numbers that are tolerable, a few that are “cursed,” and one that is “blessed” and one that is “perfect.” I will do anything to change things to match my blessed and perfect numbers. I will even fudge the truth a little (not a lie, often an exaggeration, by about one or two digits) to make something fit those numbers. To randomly come across a cursed number or even just a slightly intolerable one, makes me very anxious and can shape how i spend my day and how much time i spend with my better numbers. The way my trauma shaped this compulsion was that my numbers tie to religious stuff, since my traumatic environment was often religious, or trauma would be inflicted with religious reasons.

There is an alter that has a compulsion to say a prayer. When we have intrusive thoughts (which you super need to research if you’re writing OCD bc it is a KEY PART of the disorder but ill go into it later here), someone starts reciting the prayer. Sometimes I will as well just because it’s easier to go along with it. Not completing the prayer is not an option. I mean that with absolutely every intent. Not completing the prayer is NOT AN OPTION. It does elieviate some background anxiety, so whoever is dealing with that is being helped by the compulsion, but it is extremely frustrating and upsetting, especially since i am as non-religious as i can possibly manage to be. The prayer is also said whenever something is uneasy or something triggers specific flashbacks.

One of the most obviously noticeable and upsetting for all involved O and C is being “dirty.” There’s a VERY wide range of triggers here, from actually dirty/germy/unclean things, to unpleasant/intolerable sensory triggers, all the way to conceptual dirtiness like sin, virginity, and lying. This can affect me subtly sometimes, like how i compulsively tell the truth and over share so that i feel clean or how i cannot go to sleep after a fight if it has not been resolved. (”never go to bed angry” they said, well shit now i literally cant cool.) This can also hit me violently and to a point where I am a danger to myself. I worked at a movie theater for a summer some time ago and touched something that was a bad sensory feeling while cleaning a dirty theater. I then proceeded to scrub my hands in near-boiling water for almost fifteen minutes in the break room, broke down sobbing, and when I got home i sat under very very hot water in the shower until my skin was raw and red for days. It doesn’t often get to that point, but when it does, I’ve been held down for my own safety since I’ll literally rip my skin and bite myself to punish myself for being dirty. It is frequently bad enough that I will let myself do something “dirty” as a form of self harm since it seriously makes me miserable and sick. This stuff comes both from religious trauma and from just....crappy normal autism feelings and manifests as my most disabling OCD trait.

There are other things like closing drawers and straightening and arranging things that are done to feel that I am being “good” because of reprimands I received in the past that made me feel like I am “bad.” I am sometimes able to not act on these compulsions, though it takes conscious effort to choose not to. Whether or not this stems from trauma doesn’t really matter to me. I know that most of the fronting alters have these “little OCDs” be it through me or for their own reasons. Tia for instance has to keep things in the kitchen a certain way and Phoebe has to complete certain physical activities a certain way or else she gets upset or feels she did a very bad job/failed.Since I’m really just. going at this question lmao lets talk a little about intrusive thoughts. Intrusive thoughts are upsetting/disturbing/unacceptable thoughts you do not take pleasure in. For me, a few of them make me feel dirty, which triggers my compulsions very badly. Some relate to trauma, others don’t make sense. There are very common ones such as urges to kill or mutilate self or others, urges to do disastrous things (like causing a huge car accident), urges to do disgusting sexual acts (to self or others, often to unacceptable people like children, elders, and the undesired sex), urges to become a serial killer/rapist/shooter/etc, and other such painfully upsetting things such as those. These are often what fuel the obsessions in OCD and the compulsions are to make these thoughts stop or hurt less. Personally, I get a lot of sexual ones because of how poorly the topic was handled in my childhood. I get ones about elaborately slaughtering a specific abuser, about doing things that will kill me, about mutilating myself and mutilating pets (those are the ones that fuck me up the most i think), and about doing very destructive things that would harm a lot of people. I also get some about terrorism happening where I am, but that one is FOR SURE a trauma thing so maybe it could just be my PTSD.

Intrusive thoughts occur with a LOT of different disorders!!!!! It’s just OCD when you have compulsions to cope with them. Even then, it has to be a certain way for it to qualify.

I hope I was able to give you somewhere to start in terms of information. OCD is a very big disorder and is a major reason why I’m unable to function in a workplace environment. I didn’t go into the specifics of every compulsion, but if you have questions, I don’t mind talking about this stuff. It helps me process it to explain it to others and I end up healing a little through oversharing I think.

#bootsie's advice column #collective #bootsie's adventures #Anonymous

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scaredyjokes · 4 years ago

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ur wish is my command

long rambly rant that will hopefully make even the smallest a mount of sense below

if you didnt know, there is a mental disorder called ASPD or antisocial personality disorder. this is the actual medical disorder people mean when they say psychopath or sociopath. its also linked somewhat with psychosis for most people, for some reason i dont understand because they are very different disorders.

some common symptoms of aspd include: low empathy, disregard for laws and authority figures, having muted emotions, feeling little to no guilt or remorse and chronic boredom. because of these, people with this disorder who dont get enough stimulation and mental help can fall into self destructive and/or criminal behaviors. but its not an automatic thing. just because someone has aspd, or npd, it doesnt mean that they are automatically abusers, or murderers or any of the other things you probably think when you hear 'psychopath'

but people dont recognize that. most of the time they wont even try to. people with aspd and/or npd face immense amounts of abliesm even within the neurodivergent community because of the stereotypes that people refuse to educate themselves on. think for a moment, and try to see if you have ever, whether it be in a movie, book, podcast, or real life conversation, heard someone use the words psycho/sociopath in a way that isnt meant to hurt or be a warning. you probably cant. i know i cant. even when people with aspd try to tell people what it actually means, they dont listen. or if they do, they probably think youre some kind of exception to the rule. i

pulled up the batman wiki for the joker and found 3 counts of the word sociopath and 5 counts of the word psychopath. trust me, none of them are used in any way other than negative.

having low empathy doesnt make you a bad person. having muted emotions, intrusive thoughts, a high self esteem, violent urges, or not caring about the law dont make you a bad person. you are a bad person if you intentionally hurt people. none of the symptoms of aspd, or any other mental disorder dont make you do that. your mental disorders do not control or define you. what you do on your own does.

there are lots of other disorders with similar symptoms to aspd. people can have low empathy because of autism, intrusive thoughts because of ocd, etc. but the reaction to those disorders is completely different to the reaction to aspd and people refuse to learn, or just. use different words. there are descriptors out there that arent abliest. shocking, i know.

take a second again and if you have a mental disorder, or hell, even if you're neurotypical, try to imagine you wake up one day to your mental state being treated the way aspd is. its only ever villainized in media, the most positive way people use it is as a joke and you constantly hear people talking about jow if someone has x mental disorder, they are abusive, no if ands or buts to it. it would suck right? thats the reality for people with aspd and npd.

hell, ive seen people say that people with aspd and npd should be forcefully sterilized. they are supporting eugenics all because they cant possibly imagine someone with a mental disorder they view as 'bad' being even just an okay person. and the joker is just a mix or romanticising and villinizing, his only relationships are unhealthy at best, when he makes robin his 'child' its through torture and brainwashing, he manipulates harley quinn into thinking shes in love with him and then proceeds to constantly abuse and threaten her. hes just the almagamation of all the problems and stereotypes about the way people view aspd and im pretty fucking sick of seeing him everywhere.

enough of the annoying abliest not even funny clown. give a movie about the evil mothman already

*looks the joker*

the Amount of abliesm in this character is ASTRONOMICAL

#love ur local sociopaths and narcissists yall #sorry if this is confusing its basically my angrily word vomiting

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diamondsableye · 7 years ago

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The Ivory Parasite

It's kinda funny how your viewpoint on anything really can be completely shattered within a day, hell, usually it happens in a matter of minutes for most. Like the time you caught your parents putting presents under a beautifully decorated tree (probably adorned with ornaments yourself) on a chilly Christmas Eve. Or maybe when you lost one of your teeth and didn't tell your parents out of forgetfulness and woke up to the sight of its shiny, pearly color still resting under your pillow. If you never had any of those wondrous experiences, you are either in denial, or you had no childhood. Sorry, I'm rambling, aren't I? Well, the fact of the matter is that I am dying as we speak. (or type for that matter) I should probably specify and say that I am dying as the result of becoming a host to a devilishly malicious parasite. It's almost comical how I thought just a few hours ago that the only real harmful parasites you could get in the modern world were maybe tapeworms, but even then they're easily dealt with and even easier to prevent. I think I've droned on enough and should probably start explaining how this mess even started. I'm not sure how long the Incubation period lasts, but if this thing takes control of my brain first, then I'm going to speed things along.

To start off, I should probably give the setting where all this started, which is around the southeastern area of the U.S. I'm not going to give my precise location in case some idiot tries to be the hero and save me. Please don't look, really. I don't know If you can stop whatever is afflicting me once it fully takes hold, and the fewer people I come in contact with, the better. Anyways I'd advise you not to go out at night, actually, venturing into any dark and moist environment is probably a bad idea as well. (as you can see, I learned that the hard way.) Lock your windows and doors too, hell carry cyanide around with you too, just anything you can think of to keep yourself safe from this damn parasite! But I digress, I at least want to get the story of my encounter out there, so you know what to expect, or something like that.

It all began last night, a particularly humid night for that matter. I was dealing with lots of stress, from social events to finals and the end of school, and even a few existential crises here and there. (I have never been sure of my life or anything for that matter.) So I ventured outside to get some environmental therapy. I was living in a cheap apartment at the time, (One not even suited for roaches if I might add.) so I threw on some old sweatpants and a hoodie, before deciding to take an Uber out to the local park. My car at the time was my parent's 'hand me down' and frequently had to go in for maintenance. I can't get another car that's at least decent for not finding a high paying job fast enough. (Then again, what kind of high paying job can I really get with an arts degree anyways that doesn't require a minimum of ten years experience?) I'm getting sidetracked, the point is I was out there alone without any quick way to get back to my small flat. That didn't really register with me however because I was already in the midst of a full blown panic attack and even the few sentences spoken between me and my driver was enough social interaction for weeks in my troubled mind.

For a moment I realized that the park was less occupied than usual, but I reasoned with what little sanity I had left, that there were fewer people at night, and I usually strolled through the park grounds during the day. Using the flashlight on my phone, I decided to take my usual route through the deer trail that I had discovered a few years back, during one of my first few trips here. I should probably mention that I have high functioning autism and some various other mental issues that typically come along with it, like ADHD and anxiety. My old psychologist that had done social therapy sessions with me during my teenage years recommended that I try nature walks as a form of stress control. So ever since I was about 16 or so, I've frequented this place often and knew most of the east side like my own home. That being said, it was glaringly obvious that my small 'hidden grotto' as I referred to it, had been discovered. I couldn't tell if the damage was done by an animal or a human, but whoever or whatever had done it really ransacked the place. The overhanging tree next to my climbing rock near the middle area of the clearing had been nearly shredded in half, with deep gashes in the bark. I was honestly surprised that it was still standing. Patches of dirt and soil had been torn up from the earth and had been strewn all about the spot of land and the various forms of foliage that dotted the vaguely barren expanse. Small areas of shrubbery had been completely ripped from the ground from their roots (But not all were in one piece.) and appeared to be thrown around the site. This set of my already shaken nerves, but oddly enough the urge to run never came. Instead, I was utterly captivated by my own morbid curiosity.

I know this might sound strange, but I've always had a strange fascination towards the nightmarish and gruesome the world offered me. (Drawing blood is probably one of the most relaxing activities I enjoy.) It was this bewildering interest that brought me to look closer at some of the stranger markings left in the soft, moldable soil. I was confused at first, to say the least. I found myself to be staring at bundles of handprints and footprints littering the topsoil. The strangest thing was that they weren't positioned in a way I could accurately follow, or to put it simply, there wasn't any way that the prints could've been created that didn't defy the basic laws of human anatomy. Took a mental double take as I re-envisioned the possible movements that would've been taken. It still didn't add up, even if someone were to scamper around on all fours like some wild creature, there's still no way they could've made those prints. It was confusing, to say the least, and my tired mind wasn't in the mood to search for a logical explanation. So, like the idiot I am, I decided to follow the prints deeper into the woods. I guess it's my fault for always living in a sheltered environment, not knowing how to deal with wandering criminals that would hold you at knifepoint or mentally unsound druggies that would become violent at a moment's notice.

I was about a few yards into the continuing woods until the dense underbrush became too thick to pass through. Feeling rather unsatisfied I decided to head on back letting my tired body lead the way until some rustling bushes caught my attention, followed by a small rabbit leap out of them, startling me somewhat. It was injured, made evident by the long gash on the side of its body, fresh blood staining the otherwise clean pelt of its cream colored hide. I half pitied its plight while half expecting a wild fox or bobcat to chase it, following suit. Figuring that there's no reason to stick around my damaged and not so secret anymore grotto, I walked down the deer trail the second time that night, making a mental note to find another, not so banged up hideaway. I was about halfway through the trail when yet another sound grabbed my attention. What I heard could only be described as gargling, except it was the lethal kind, like the sound of someone drowning. Quickly jerking my head around, trying to locate its source, I was met with the complete lack of movement and sound, a silence which no one should ever hear in a forest. I started to panic, changing my leisurely stroll to a faster half jog. Eventually, my own nerves got to me to the point where I turned my half jog to a full run. At that point, every passing branch felt like a limb darting out at me, and every twig became fingers tugging at my hair. Even my own breath sounded like the pained gasps of someone barely living. Looking back at it now, it might as well have been.

I decided that I had enough nature for that night and decided to take the trip back home. The sun had set hours ago, and I really needed to get more sleep thanks to my unshakeable habit of working on projects throughout the night. I was about to call another Uber when I realized that I didn't have enough pocket money on hand to afford the trip back. Cursing myself and not wanting to wait half an hour for the next bus, I began the 30-minute trek back home, according to Google maps. The streets were relatively barren like usual, save for the few partygoers and late night travelers still present. It was only after a short while did I notice the now unimaginably strong smell of spoiled eggs and soured milk emanating from the resting hood of my jacket. Expecting the worst, I gently slid it off while walking, careful of its disgusting contents, and peered inside the hood.

It was a finger, a human finger. One that was green and black from rot and decay, looking weeks old. I threw it to the ground in panic, with questions racing through my mind faster than the lead car in the Indie 500. The most notable one being "how?". Maybe there was a dead body in the canopy above me? Somehow it got picked up when I was running? I was trying to come up with a reason for it, any reason at all. I flashed back to the rabbit I saw fleeing the clearing with the gash along its abdomen. It was made by a fox or wolf or some other natural predator right?

"Hey doll, ya looks as if ya seen a ghosts or somethins. Ya interested 'n a drinks?" A large, mildly intoxicated man called out to me, breaking me out of my haze. He chuckled heartily, seeing me physically jump, escaping my stupor. I hadn't realized I had passed by the rather shabby bar that served as my one fourth distance landmark. Glancing up at the one bright, now barely functioning neon sign, it read "Al's Ale". I chortled to myself at the thought of a balding man somewhere in his forties and who was most likely an alcoholic at that managing to snap me back to reality faster than my nature walk.

"What? Are ya deaf or somethins? Don't leaves me hangin ya pretty thing, I knows ya wants ta shares a shots or twos wif ol' Sammy heres" he continued with a more pronounced lisp.

"Oh, ah. N-No thanks, good-uh-sir." I responded in my usual, stutter riddled fashion. Hearing this, he let out a hearty laugh before retorting

"No mores al-alcohol for ya! Sounds ta me that ya alreadys got enoughs sweet cheeks."

"Yeah, I-I buh-better get, uh going." I meekly responded before continuing my way back home.

"Yeah! Party hard sugar tits!" he called out after me.

Pretty soon 'Sammy's' cries along with the general ruckus of the bar faded behind me as I continued on towards my apartment complex, leaving me alone with the general ambiance of the near barren street and my own thoughts echoing their hushed worried tones throughout my head. However, something lingered throughout the general atmosphere of the city's slum. The general disturbance caused by the strays and the alley cats had disappeared, but they hadn't vanished completely. Instead, they were replaced with something one would describe as being more calculated. It wasn't like the usual white noise of scurrying paws, and occasional growls, barks, and hisses during a scrap over food or turf. This was very different. It was what sounded like distant, haggard breaths, the creeping sway of determined movement and, the slight shuffle of something being dragged along the ground. I told myself that this wasn't out of the ordinary, that this was just some old, late night janitor making his rounds, garbage bag in tow.

I wasn't buying my cheap, half-hearted explanations, and becoming more vigilant than usual, began to look around for the probable cause. I told myself that I was just overreacting, that whatever this was is entirely logical. Within one quick glance, however, nearly all thoughts that this was the result of something ordinary completely vanished. I had locked eyes with dead ones. However, they retreated back into the alley from which they had appeared from as quickly as I had caught sight of them. I started off in a full blown sprint, nearly tripping on the uneven sidewalk. However, even with adrenaline coursing through me as my fuel, I have to admit that I was not terribly overweight, but I still was extremely out of shape. Needless to say, I couldn't keep running for too long and soon had to revert back to a slow walk. I didn't know what it was, or if it was following me, but I rejoiced at the sound of the usual city sounds enveloping the streets and alleyways once more. However, my good news stopped there as I had missed a turn in my hurry and was still about 15 minutes away from my apartment.

The rest of the trip back was agonizingly painful, jumping at every sound I heard. I doubted my sanity, but the world provided me with a harsh reality check each time I fell into questioning myself by gifting me with unnatural sights just at the edges of my vision, darting into some unknown hiding spot each time it presented itself. Maybe a rotting limb here, a fractured bone there, or maybe a spindly, Ivory appendage crawling back behind the corner it came from. I wasn't sure what was real anymore, only finding solace in my own room once home, locking the door just in case.

I brewed some tea for myself, not for taste but for stress relief as I settled down in my bedroom. By that point, it had started to rain, and I gladly settled down, relieved that I had not been caught in the steady downpour. The rhythmic beat of the rain put me at ease hearing its patter against the windowpane. It was almost surreal. The effect of the rain and tea combined began to lull me into a trance like state as I casually drifted between consciousness. I awaited the warm welcome of sleep, resting underneath my bed covers. However, this was interrupted by an unusual tapping at my window. Half expecting it to be tree branches or something of the like, I remembered that trees only tapped against the windows of my parent's house and that there aren't trees outside of the building. I jerked my head around almost hard enough to pull a muscle at the realization and turned to see several black tendrils retreating upwards.

I sat in stunned silence for a moment before reality came crashing down on me and bolted towards my kitchen. I grabbed a knife along with my phone and keys and was heading out my apartment door when I heard the window to my living room shatter. I was taking no chances and decided to call the police. Running down the halls towards the stairs, I glanced over my shoulder to find whatever it was already close behind after reducing my door to splinters. Taking off down the stairs, I tried to explain to the operator what was happening as best I could. It wasn't far behind, I could hear its wheezing breaths inching closer and closer to me. I finally saw the door to the main parking lot, taking my chance, I shoved open the double doors for myself and slammed them behind me into the creature. I actually managed to cut off some of the tendrils with the door as I shut it, and I could hear it screech in pain as they were sliced. I checked my phone to make sure I was still on the line, and I was notified that dispatch was on their way and would arrive soon. For the briefest of moments, I really thought I was going to make out of this alive. That feeling was all too early shattered as the creature started to forcefully pound at the doors. It only took a few strikes for it to force its way out, and I was finally able to see the beast in all its glory.

It used to be a girl, now broken by what I am sure to be a vile parasite. Her body was mangled nearly to pieces and was experiencing severe decay. The gray skin had rotted of her completely in some places, exposing some of her bones and deteriorated muscle. The black tendrils had actually been eye stalks and had a bright white orb among each tip, and they seeped out of every hole and tear in the skin. I could see them writhing underneath. The legs along with the pelvis and spine had been spun until they faced backward, and the neck was broken, leaving the head to freely move limply around in the dead flesh. I also noticed that the body was missing a foot and several fingers. However, that was only what used to be human, the real parasite showed itself by the various ivory, insect-like limbs that jutted out from broken arms at the elbow, what remained of the ribcage, and from inverted legs. To my horror, it seemed that somehow, the girl was still alive, as I could hear her shallow breaths as she struggled to breathe. I could see her twitching in pain at the touch of those stalks wriggling under her skin. I could hear what remained of her vocal chords trying to cry out, but only giving off a gargle as they decomposed and stirred into her own rotting flesh.

I was frozen in fear, I tried to move, tried to shout for someone anyone to help me, but the only thing I managed to do was give off a pitiful whimper of fear as the parasite advanced towards me. It swiftly picked me up with the two front legs extruding outward from under the rotting skin of her arms. As it cradled me in its strong grasp, the rotten and broken human arms once belonging to the girl clasped onto my shoulders, dragging me closer to her face. She tilted her head to a close upright position, and her once brown hair, now blackened and matted fell from her face and drifted across mine. I wanted to die from the smell alone. I would've vomited had I not skipped dinner, never the less I retched and recoiled from being as close as I was to her face. Her eyes once dead in her sockets I'm now sure were peering right through me into my very soul. Slowly she opened her mouth, and two more small insect-like appendages revealed themselves extending from the tears in her neck. Without warning the ivory limbs attached themselves into my jaw, forcing it open. As the girl's mouth kept widening, the smell as impossible as it seemed, continued to get worse, and I was crying from the horrid aroma. I watched and felt as she gave me what only could be described as a kiss of death, that is, my widened mouth on her gaping one, and having what was left of her almost completely shredded lips hanging down in thin raggedy pieces darting across my face. Soon enough she extended her tongue down my throat, far longer than any human's tongue and I felt something crawl down it, something horribly rancid. With that, the creature withdrew its tongue, dropped me on the pavement and left. I couldn't make out where it was going to in my shock, and I just lied down in defeat. I cried until the police showed up and I kept crying afterward. I think at some point they tried to explain to me that what occurred was just a home invasion and I must have dreamed up the rest.

I want to believe them, I want to think that they're right, but I can't. I can't when I can feel this parasite moving inside me. I feel what I think are more tendrils moving around inside my skin, and see my blonde hair turn dark and have patches of skin turn gray with rot. I know I'll be like her soon, and I can feel it growing inside me. It's getting harder to breathe, and type, and think, and I didn't sleep at all last night. I wonder what will happen If I kill myself, will I still live and turn into that thing? Or will I kill the parasite along with myself as it's host? I know I can't go anywhere or see anyone. Otherwise, I might spread it more, despite the urges telling me to visit my friends or family or just go out into the grotto one last time. I'm trying to fight it, but I don't know how long I can keep it at bay. I really do think yhis thin is tryun to git in m hed bc I fel ih t gt n.

Sorry for the ruckus! I went to the officials, and they say that I'm all better so no need to worry!

That being said, does anyone want to trade contact info? I'd love to meet some of you IRL, you know, in real life? Anyhow, ring me up if you want to meet!

After all, I make for great company.

#creepy #creepypasta #writing

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guildedtittytwister · 5 years ago

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Its not video games its people.........

In 2019 alone a whopping 1,325 people fell victim to mindless gun violence and to this notion the government has decided to reuse a chapter in their war on video games which took place in the late 1990’s and early 2000’s because instead of address an already preexisting problem with the status quo they would turn attention to shit that has literally nothing to with the blatant disregard for human life, in fact, when you look at the demographic of these perpetrators of violence there is a 98% common denominator and that is the these are WHITE MEN………. Now the new would have you believe that these men are the result or statistic of mental illness but according to Dr. Michael Stone Ph.D. - about half of the 200 mass murderers he had studied had no clear evidence of mental illness before the attacks. About a quarter displayed signs of depression and psychopathy. Also most of the shooters had access to mental health treatment but saw no need for it or ended up acting on their violent urges regardless of treatment or counseling, case in point a one: Elliot Rodger - saw several therapists before killing six people in Isla Vista, California back in May 2014 – even still with all that had happened his therapist disagreed with the nature of his mental illness stating that his mental illness and sudden propensity for this level of violence had no visible correlation. Or Adam Lanza – who shot and killed 20 children and six adults at Sandy-Hook Elementary School before going home and killing his own mother back in December of 2012 even after receiving years of counseling from both psychiatrists and psychologists. Now what they don’t (or rather won't) tell you about Adam is that he had Asperger’s Syndrome which is a mild form of Autism, even still, all of those who counseled him or dealt with him to any capacity agree that his mental health had no correlation whatsoever with the acts that he was responsible for in the Sandy-Hook shooting. And to further solidify my point allow me to mention Devin P. Kelley had assaulted his wife and stepson five years before he killed 26 people in Sutherland Springs, Tex., in November, according to the authorities. Robert L. Dear Jr. beat his ex-wife’s head against the floor years before he killed three people at a Planned Parenthood clinic in Colorado Springs in 2015. And Omar Mateen, who killed 49 people in Orlando, Fla., on June 2016, had a history of beating his ex-wife, she told the authorities.

“Having a history of violence might help neutralize the natural barriers to committing violence,” Paul Gill, a senior lecturer in security and crime science at University College London who studies the behavior of lone-actor terrorists, said in 2016. With all these pertinent things being said there is still for some ungodly reason or another a lack of visual understanding of why this has happened for some reason no one and I mean no one is pointing out the truth of the matter instead they would rather say that – I’m citing this from a news article that recently popped up on my timeline - “Missing father and America’s Broken Boys – The vast majority of mass shooters come from broken homes” to which I say “NAH….. Fuck that…” now don’t get me wrong the title would lead one to believe that these supposed boys are just victims of fucked societal status quo – but allow me to spin a web of facts for you….. Before my stepfather came into our lives (mines and my mother’s) my mother was the victim of domestic abuse – trust me when I say that it’s definitely part of why I’m so fucked in the head. My father wasn’t around because he had the thought fixated in his cerebellum that he was not my father – egg on his face because I am that nigga’s twin – and we have (because fuck a past tense the shit’s still evident) family that just doesn’t see fit to help anyone outside of themselves so in many aspects we – Myself quite truly come from an otherwise broken home. At a very early age I had to endure mind-numbing and traumatizing shit to survived till adult-hood, considering the common environment of inner-city youth – which a lot of us 80’s and 90’s babies saw it all – drugs, sex, aids, rape, molestation, etc. etc. etc…. not many of us can say that we would at any point shoot up a place or commit crimes with the same level of heinousness. Truth be told a lot of us never received any attention from the local or federal government because of our traumas – granted that is also our parent’s faults for forcing the stereotypes that “black people can’t have mental illness” - or – “pray about it because that’s just the devil working on you” – or my personal favorite – “only white people have mental illnesses” needless to say that black families or rather Families of colors – because not all of it is the black family are inherently guilty of trying to maintain some superficial image while transgressing their child’s mental and by extension overall physical health to placate to society’s hackneyed notion that black people are too strong to exhibit any kind of emotion other than giddy coonery or zealous anger (I’m referring to you baby boomers). Regardless to the overlying or should I say hanging fruit of what is going on and what we as a nation are paying attention to – I have yet to see anyone and I do mean anyone address the obvious (I do consider that there are well-spoken individuals who have spoken up but haven’t been fully heard by the masses hence why I and writing this article to at least do my part – don’t at me) the American legal system is designed to help coddle problematic, and emotionally fraudulent White men who suffer from LDS and BNS (Little Dick Syndrome and Bitch Nigga Syndrome) whereas it is also seemingly designed to hurt and otherwise oppressed – POC’s, women, or basically anyone who isn’t either an obedient fool, narcissist, an uncle tom, or any of the latter type of people that would lick balls just for a pay raise or a faulty guarantee that they would not be target this month.

With this out in the air now let’s REALLY air Amerikkka’s dirty laundry by chopping the proverbial beast’s head off….. Shall we? With the 2020 elections coming in hot the has been an arguable insurgence of democratic candidates pushing for the chance to run against Trump – now granted I don’t trust any of them quite frankly I will say that maybe 3 are on my list of people I wanna see run for presidency… and before you assume – NO – I do not support Kamala Harris, or Elizabeth Warren, or even Bernie Sanders (I would absolutely love to see him as VP though) but it goes to say that my trust and intrigue lie elsewhere this year around. With cacophony of people that are trying to swing voters the question remains what are any of the people going to do differently - I mean they say good things to the country as a whole, however, doesn’t one’s boyfriend whisper sweet nothings to them before they proceed to FUCK the soul out of them (correct me if I am wrong in my knowledge of fuck-boy-ology but last time I checked that is precisely how that goes. Now admittedly there is a lot at stake here with the current dictator running this fine republic into an even deeper hole of stupidity and hatred but with the death toll of mass shootings reaching record highs (we’re talking historically high) and the desire to mitigate the damage and change the overall dichotomy of the suppose “amazing” country there is still after 154 years of supposed freedom and the 65 – 75 years of supposed outlawing of racial segregation and discrimination in America, for some odd reason – and I really need y’all to hear me on this black folk – we still have yet to meet the true stride that our ancestors fought, bled and died for and yet here we are arguing and tripping over infinitesimal subject matter like “is it okay for dark skin girls to wear yellow eye shadow…

But that’s no tea no shade honey……….

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