#panic attacks cw

[banannabethchase]

My mom is downstairs watching the presidential debates, and I watched 3 minutes. My heart rate spiked to 137 and I feel a panic attack threatening.

I didn't talk a lot about this during the 2018 or 2020 elections, because I was still recovering from my dad's death and a lot of different huge life changes. But in 2018, one of my students came into my classroom and I knew something was off. After the assistance of an interpreter, a phone call to his mother revealed that he had watched his father the night before be taken from his home because he was suspected of being undocumented. This child was in first grade. We didn't know what to tell him. Mom asked us for advice and we didn't have any.

During the 45 presidency, I had many students ask when "they" were coming to get their parent. I had students ask me not to speak Spanish, because they were afraid that if they were heard speaking Spanish in front of the school somebody would hurt them. I have multiple intellectually disabled students, multiple physically disabled students, and I didn't know how to tell them that the person that the president put in charge was willing and interested in pulling away their educational rights. Not to mention my students who have any variation of a palsy watching videos of 45 mocking them on television.

I don't like Biden. I think there's a lot of things he's doing wrong and a lot of things he can do better. However, there's a lot of stuff he's done right. Not enough, but some. Voting for 45 is bringing back trauma into the lives of very young children who aren't old enough to understand it. It's enforcing laws on bodies. It's enforcing laws on identity. And it's absolving those who have committed actual violent crimes, because you cannot tell me that somebody becomes a billionaire without hurting others, to the degree of reducing their taxes.

Not voting is a mistake. Not voting is a privilege. Unfortunately the reality is we have two shitty options. One is a failing grade at a 50%, and the other is a failing grade at 0%. As a teacher, I know full well that you can recover from a 50% in the grade book, but you can never recover from a 0%.

[timeclipsed]

— ;; Snowfall premature to its conventional end-of-the-year debut has the streets coated in a pearly blanket of frost, amply bundled denizens scurrying to-and-fro all around.

Catenating after the Doctor, miscellaneous bits of scrap tucked underarms, Tails is no different. Muffs, gloves, a scarf and a puffy coat protecting him from the gelid onslaught, he pauses as they pass the obtuse front window of one of the many shops lining the road. Gazing into its displayed setup of festive décor, awe consumes his features as he tilts his head, craning it to peer at Robotnik, whose bootprints leave a rhythmic impression on their path back to the shop the further he gets.

❝Feels like winter took forever to get here this year,❞ he comments, ocean eyes searing into the back of the skull in such a way that prompts the other to pause as well, finally turning back, ❝when we disappeared a few months ago, I thought the year would go by just like that. But… wow.❞

— ;; Quirking a brow, Robotnik stares at Tails from behind those dense ocular spectacles, as if attempting to discern the actual tone behind his words. Momentarily processing, before deciding with certainty that Tails is not, in fact, being sarcastic for once, he gives a rather desiccant reply.

❝You do realize it’s been more than “a few months”, don’t you boy?❞ 

— ;; Hustle and bustle, brumal static in the air, incoherent chatter from all around fully stands still, just like that. Torpidly, his heart suddenly ringing in his ears, Tails turns his head to meet Robotnik’s confused expression, his own twisting into something of mortified disenchantment.

❝…What?❞ Faintly, the singular leading query spills from Tails’ lips, in disbelief of what’s been stated. Lowering wide eyes to their feet, subconsciously observing the frigid fractals that land all around, making the snow its only home. ❝You… you’re lying. I don't believe you. ...How long… has it been?❞

Contemplating for a second, and with the click of a tongue, Robotnik answers, ❝I’d wager it’s been somewhere around fifteen or sixteen months. Did you honestly think time wouldn’t continue to pass from where—❞

❝My birthday,❞ interjecting before he can finish his mordacious remark, Tails’ head whips back up to stare desperately, ❝did my birthday pass?❞

❝I figured you'd have noticed on your own, but it came and went.❞

— ;; Resisting the sudden urge to disgorge, to stain the sleek sheet of ivory into a versicolor canvas of bodily suppuration, the congery of stray mechanical pieces cascades from his tenacious grasp instead, spilling all around their feet.

❝How—❞ cadence oscillating, forcing back the voluminous lump plaguing his throat, ragged breaths leaving puffs of cold air in front of him, he dares to ask. ❝—H-How old am I?❞

❝Fifteen,❞ Robotnik answers with lukewarm certainty as he hunches to collect the discarded parts. ❝You’d be fifteen at the moment.❞

— ;; Quailing to the ground right then, clammy knees pressing into the cold, Tails barely even registers lissome hands webbing ‘round his form effortlessly, gathering everything in calculated silence. That’s it; that’s all he’d needed to hear for any sense of stability he’d had to come toppling down, thousands of miniscule fragments spilling out like hail that rubs against his bare arms, leaving him with freezer burnt welts—

—Leaving his entire world dark, ensnared in a Cimmerian cloister whose clutches stretch with emptiness as far as the eye can see in any direction.

❝You ne- you never told me—❞

❝It’s not my job to make sure you’re keeping your head on straight, boy. Get up.❞

— ;; Breathless, as if he’d just been gutted, all he can do is shake his head, collapsing sideways into the snow. Legs curling to meet his chest, arms folding around them and holding tight as if they, too, would disappear were he to release them. After a moment, he hears Robotnik scoff.

❝Do you want to lie here and freeze to death? You’re acting ridiculous.❞

— ;; Readying a snarky response, any form of quip to get the Doctor off his back, his mouth grows agape, but no sound comes. Neither in the way of movement; he feels locked up, glued to the ground in this manner. Silence, having befallen the pair, grows thick with every passing moment, until the point at which it’s shattered by Robotnik’s swivel of the heel, restarting the earlier trek towards the workshop.

❝When you’re feeling up to acting your age and rejoining society, I’ll be back at work. Lest you decide you want to perish from hypothermia, at which case I would advise you to expect an unmarked grave and an empty funeral.❞

— ;; But Tails doesn’t hear, curling those namesakes around his body in some feeble attempt to self-assuage. Tears, tepid in comparison to the weather, drizzle down his face, melting small holes into the snow beneath as they roll off his cheeks lopsidedly.

He realizes in that moment that he will never know home again.

[findmeinthefallair]

Hunter is lucky in that he can be happy for someone he has a healthy dynamic with (i.e. Luz, when he watched her, Camila and the rest being happy with Stringbean).

Coz I'm now giving it a shot visiting someone (outside family) who damaged my mental health for years, trying to be happy with them and their new baby. And whelp, panic attack, hyperventilating, sweating and a burning pain shooting up my left arm.

[muutosarchive]

" you're getting blood on the carpet. " / for Larry

"oh . . ." lawrence swallows thickly. can taste the iron fluid on his tongue. minutely, at least. feeling it slide down his throat. "uhm . . ." shaky, whimpering, pathetic. man cringes at the sound of his own voice, dripping hand lifting reluctantly from his side. sure enough, the ichor drip, drip, drips from the tips of his fingers. some arguably his own, from sliding hands down blades creating nasty, deep cuts in his palm. luckily he's not in any database that would render the blood useful, however the fear of being apprehended is ever present regardless.

"i -- i - mmm . . ." tunnel vision is plaguing his eyes, and hearing is currently dampened. he feels as though he's somewhere else, and the weight upon his body is keeping him tethered to the ocean floor. seizing of his sternum in panic of drowning taking place 'pon quivering lip. speech coming forth with a flare of his features in an apologetic cringe, and an almost uncontrollable whine. "m'sorry!" he gasps, mouth open in a show of lower tier of teeth, also stained.

how did it get in that treacherous maw of yours?

tears prick hot as magma at the corner of his eyes, and his fingers shake as chin lowers to look at them. such resulting in realization that he couldn't touch his face without further painting it red. panic further sets in, causing him to inhale rapidly. eyes flickering from one stained paw to the other, as he begins to feel as though the inflation of his lungs was doing no good at actually bringing in oxygen.

he grips his shirt, tugging, as his eyes find priscilla. pleas swimming in soft blues as he looks at her beneath blood-stuck lashes.

"p-please, help me." he exhales harshly. "i d-d-dunno - hic - what t-t'do."

🍒 @divinehr

[dxrkl1ght]

CW: Panic attack, musophobia, and scratches!!

everything's okay...

Part 5/5

- Part 1/5

- Part 2/5

- Part 3/5

- Part 4/5

DCA! Serial Killer AU by @ayyy-imma-ninja & @moonlit-dreamers

This comic is not canon to the AU!! This is just made for fun :)

[scullcrusher101xd]

clinically curled

[solarmorrigan]

Saw someone mention how Steve tends to get defensive when he's anxious and it stuck with me, so here's my take on the "Steve breaks a dish and has a panic attack about it" trope

cw: descriptions of nonstandard panic attack, implied/referenced child abuse

-

The distinct sound of shattering porcelain is followed by a vehemently hissed, “shit,” and then silence.

“Steve?” Eddie calls from the couch into the kitchen. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Steve calls back, but his voice sounds tight in the way it does when something definitely isn’t okay.

Eddie pushes himself up and moves to the doorway, looking in to see what the trouble is. The kitchen of the house he and Wayne had been “gifted” by the government isn’t exactly huge, and he has a straight line of sight to where Steve is standing by the sink, eyes squeezed shut as he pinches the bridge of his nose, and to the red and white shards of porcelain on the floor by his feet.

“Hey,” Eddie says, but Steve doesn’t look up; if anything, his posture only gets tenser. “You’re not cut or anything, are you?”

“No,” Steve says, and his tone is still a little off, but he doesn’t sound like he’s lying.

“What was that, anyway?” Eddie asks.

Finally, Steve takes a deep breath in and opens his eyes, looking down at the mess on the laminate. “Mug.”

As soon as he says it, Eddie recognizes the colors for what the design must have been. “Shit, the Campbell’s one?”

Steve doesn’t say a word, just gives one sharp nod.

Eddie sucks a hiss of breath in through his teeth. “Shit,” he says again. “That was Wayne’s favorite.”

“I know,” Steve says tersely. “I’m sorry.”

His tone is definitely weird. “I mean, I’m sure it was an accident, Steve–” Eddie starts.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says again, almost snapping this time. “I’ll clean it up.”

“O-kay,” Eddie says slowly, watching as Steve jerks into motion and moves over to the corner where they stash the broom and dust pan.

“I’ll apologize to Wayne when he gets home,” Steve says as he starts sweeping up, even though Eddie hasn’t said a word.

“He gets home at, like, six in the morning.”

“I’ll make sure I’m up,” Steve says shortly.

“Steve, you can just tell him what happened later, he’s not going to stand around demanding an explanation. I mean, seriously, you think Wayne is gonna be pissed if you’re not there, immediately scraping at his feet when he comes through the door?” Eddie scoffs, but Steve remains silent. Eddie watches as he finishes sweeping in short, sharp motions, brows pulling together as Steve apparently fails to pick up on the joke. “…he won’t be, y’know.”

Steve shrugs. His expression has gone eerily blank, and he takes the dustpan over to the garbage can to dump it.

“Hey, don’t–” Eddie reaches out, and Steve jerks to a stop just in time. “You don’t have to toss it, man, we might be able to glue it back together.”

Steve sends Eddie a sharp look. “I’m not gonna be able to hide that it was broken, Eddie,” he says slowly, as though this should be painfully obvious.

“I’m not suggesting we hide it, I’m just saying we might still be able to use it,” Eddie answers in the same slow manner. “It’s not junk until you’re sure you can’t fix it.”

“Right,” Steve snaps, dropping the dustpan on the counter so sharply that the shards of porcelain clink against each other. “Can’t even clean up right.”

Eddie frowns, stirrings of defensiveness rising up in his gut at Steve’s continued sour mood. “I didn’t say that. I just said we might be able to fix it.”

“Fine. We’ll try to fix it,” Steve bites out, turning away from Eddie so he can put the broom back in the corner.

Eddie shakes his head, unwilling to engage with whatever snit Steve’s got himself worked into. “What happened, anyway?” he asks instead.

Apparently, this is the wrong tactic.

“What happened is, I’m too stupid to even do the dishes right,” Steve declares as he whirls back around. “Is that what you want to hear?”

“What?” Eddie is baffled, suddenly caught in the middle of an argument he hadn’t even realized was happening. “No! Why would I want to hear that?”

Steve throws his arms up, a demonstration of giving in. “Well I already said I’m sorry, and I am, and I don’t know what else you want from me!”

The heat of Eddie’s own temper is beginning to flare, but he does his best to shake it away because he still doesn’t know what the hell is going on and he doesn’t think getting angry will help. “I don’t want anything else from you! Why are you acting like I’m yelling at you? I’m not, I’m not even upset about the stupid mug, so what the hell is your deal?”

He takes a couple of steps into the kitchen, reaching out for Steve, hoping just to touch some part of him. Physical contact has always been grounding, has always been a comfort for them both; it almost seems like they can communicate better if they can just be in contact somehow. Instead of reaching back, though, Steve tenses up; it’s not exactly a flinch, but it’s as if he’s bracing himself, as if he’s waiting for Eddie to–

Eddie takes in the painfully blank expression on Steve’s pale face, the way his chest is rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths that he can’t quite seem to control, the way he’s angled himself just slightly away from Eddie, and suddenly Eddie feels cold.

It’s as if he’s waiting for Eddie to hit him.

Eddie wonders how the hell he hadn’t realized he was walking through a minefield until he was already standing in the middle of it.

(It still takes him by surprise, sometimes, that Steve’s anxiety, his panic, tends to look more like anger. That he tends to lash out like a wounded animal when he feels backed into a corner, hurt too many times in moments of vulnerability to do otherwise.)

(It takes him by surprise, but he’s learning.)

“Steve,” Eddie says softly, dropping his hand slowly back to his side, “I’m not angry.”

Steve stares at him, almost confused, like Eddie’s not doing it right, like this isn’t what’s supposed to come next. Eddie sort of wants to break something (he thinks, briefly, that he’d like to start with the fingers on Mr. Harrington’s right hand, and then move on to his left).

“It’s just a mug, Steve, it’s okay. No one’s upset about it,” Eddie says. “I’m preemptively speaking for Wayne, because I know he’s not gonna be mad at you. Seriously, getting upset over a broken cup? Does that sound like something Wayne would do?”

Slowly, once he seems to realize that Eddie is waiting for an answer, Steve shakes his head.

“Does that sound like something I would do?” Eddie asks.

Steve shakes his head again, though he’s still watching Eddie with something approaching trepidation.

“I promise it’s fine. I’m not angry,” Eddie repeats, and chances a couple of steps closer to Steve.

Steve doesn’t react this time, no tensing, no flinching, no verbally lashing out, and so Eddie lifts a hand again, reaching slowly for Steve’s. Steve lets him.

When he gets his fingers wrapped around Steve’s own, Eddie can feel how cold they’ve gone, can feel the fine tremble of adrenaline working through them, and can’t quite choke down the noise of sympathy in his throat. He tugs on Steve’s hand.

“C’mere,” Eddie says, invites him by lifting his other arm, but leaves it up to Steve.

It only takes a moment for Steve to step in close, and when Eddie lets go of his hand to wrap his arms around Steve’s shoulders, Steve reciprocates by cinching his own arms tight around Eddie’s waist. He takes one sharp breath, and then another, and Eddie can hear the way they shake going in and out.

“There you go,” Eddie says quietly, rubbing Steve’s back.

“I just dropped it,” Steve says, his voice a little hoarse. “It was an accident.”

“I know it was,” Eddie assures him. “It’s okay.”

“It was an accident,” Steve says again, and Eddie wonders how often someone has believed him – how often he’d ever even been given a chance to explain.

“It was an accident,” Eddie agrees. “You’re okay, Steve.”

Steve lets out a little noise, like maybe he’s trying to laugh, but then he pulls in another shuddery breath and rests his chin on Eddie’s shoulder. “Okay.”

In a little bit, Eddie might lead Steve to sit down on the couch, or maybe just take them both up to bed, because fuck doing the dishes after this anyway; he’ll make sure to leave a note for Wayne about the mug (ask him not to bring it up until Steve does, to not even jokingly make a thing about it), but for now, he concentrates on holding Steve close.

He’ll stand with him as long as it takes for the shaking to stop, for his breathing to even out, for him to relax even just a little against Eddie, and he'll promise, as many times as Steve needs to hear it, that it’s okay. Things will be okay.

[Prompt: Embracing your partner]

[andillbeancuteboyifiwantto]

singing praises of it gets better they never warned me what happens if it grew with you with me since the womb it nearly took my life so many times there never was a me without It the parasites kept me alive rotting away my insides well what now? you can’t slay the dragon without killing the person and I can’t heal or work it out without physical repercussions so it’s an standoff twirling the sword in my hand every slice, is an stab to the gut it gets better but its eating my insides perpetual panic attack it’s going to eat my heart sack rotten and how my bones do crumble as i fail to even get one hour reprieve at night too busy clutching at my skin begging to go backwards repressing, it kept the decay at bay the human body is intriguing minds are so fascinating nobody warned me aside losing myself, in the name of betterment that i might just finally meet the reaper

[vangh17a]

Something is wrong with Donnie's brothers.

...

Based on the very painful but so well written fanfic Caged Lungs by @qoldenskies!

It's such good Donnie angst but please please mind the tags

(Don't worry he's still alive at the end-)

If I missed any cw's let me know and I'll add them!

[emilybeemartin]

Boromir Lives AU: Panic! At the Ballroom

Got some new soup for you.

CW! PTSD, panic attack, crowds, physical violence, blood, smoking

It's, uh, less cute soup than some of the others.

The last panel is a nod to when I was having regular panic attacks a few years ago, and the only thing that helped was lying on the floor, the colder and harder the better. At night I would lie in bed and feel like I was drowning in the blankets, until finally I'd move to the bare floor, sometimes with weight on my back, until I eventually fell asleep.

Anyway! Surprisingly this actually came from a very happy and lovely fic in which Boromir has a delightful time; in writing a crowd scene, though, I figured having spent 40+ years training to die in battle, he'd never shake the PTSD. It's okay, Aragorn can spot it coming a mile away. Hard to prep for a crushed windpipe delivered by 250 pounds of war trauma, though. Happy Thursday!

Boromir Lives: Helm's Deep

Boromir Lives: Whump-Time After Pelennor

Boromir Lives: GO TO SLEEP

Boromir Lives: Aragorn's Coronation

Boromir Lives: Faramir and Eowyn's Wedding

Boromir Lives: It's a BABY

Boromir Lives: High Uncle of the White Tower

Boromir Lives: We Didn't Have a Choice

Boromir Lives: The Haircuts

[purblethinkin]

takes place sometime after season 1. wanted to draw a comic with these two

[banannabethchase]

My FitBit only recorded the second panic attack I had at work today as a workout, not the first. It also recorded my third one at home.

Yay. Active minutes.

[conspicuous-clown-car]

pushing boundaries

[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.”

[mischefous]

*cough cough* possibly… Legend whump? Him having a panic attack?

*sneezes*

*looks down at my screen*

-oh hey!...oh dear...someone better get Legend a blankie and some warm milk🥹

[v-albion]

….

He’ll be fine

…

Eventually

Context

Masterpost

@tmntaucompetition