#suicide discussion

[its-sunny-somewhere-else]

Stay away from me I only have one eye left

[asleepymonster]

Heavy topic ahead, CW: suicide discussion

One thing I hate about our mental health institution is how impossible it is to talk about feelings involving suicide.

I contemplate suicide every now and then for various reasons. I don't think I'll act on it, it's more of an escape fantasy for me, something to look at and think "man that would take all my pain away."

The one and only time I confessed these feelings to a therapist several things happened that made everything so much worse for me.

1) During that session I couldn't get my thoughts and feelings out because I kept having to assure her I wouldn't do it.

2) They tried to send me, someone who has very very severe agoraphobia, to an institution. It went as far as actually getting me into the building.

3) Between confessing my feelings and being forced to visit the institution, I got so anxious and scared that I actually started making a plan to end my life before they could force me from my home. Luckily I didn't end up being forced to go because I'm relatively sure I would have carried it out. I cannot express to you guys how terrifying the thought of being forced from my home into a strange bed surrounded by strangers is for me.

4) Everyone, literally everyone, made it about them. I could not properly express exactly how I felt because how I felt didn't matter anymore.

I was put in a situation that made these feelings 10 times worse. I know I'm not alone in this happening. I have a friend who did get forced into an institution after confessing their suicidal thoughts, then was left with a huge dept and ptsd from the uncaring process. I had another friend who went through almost the exact same thing, except without the debt because she was on Medicaid. These aren't isolated incidents, it's how people trying to express themselves and get council for these feelings are treated.

Anyway I've also learned I hate therapy, it doesn't work for me, and no matter what they tell you, you cannot talk to them about everything.

[skinteresting-enough]

I think Nimona's depiction of suicidal ideation is something we need more of in kids' movies. Obviously not all or even most of them, but some. Because, let's be real, there are more suicidal kids than we want there to be.

If I may use myself as an example, my first suicide attempt was when I was 12, and I found myself wishing for child euthanasia to be legal at a younger (not much younger, but younger still) age than that. And I don't think I'm some freaky exception.

I do think kids should watch these movies with parents present, or at least be able to safely discuss them with parents later. I do think that watching a movie with a suicidal protagonist when you're suicidal yourself but unable to safely discuss it with anyone may be too much.

But we should not hide suicidal ideation from kids. Otherwise they will feel even worse if they develop those feelings themselves.

[random-basil-lover]

Ironically Omori made me less suicidal?? Is this reserve psychology???

Idk, I just saw them kill themselves in the bad endings, saw the "stabbing" option in my playthrough, saw Basil's corpse all still and depressing and I was like "nah, this shit ain't worth it". I may be someone's comfort character.

[mogai-sunflowers]

suilexic!

suilexic-

a gender that is/is related to the word ‘suicide’! 

note: this gender is not about glorifying suicide and is a serious gender. as someone who has made attempts, i do take this very seriously, AND i still acknowledge how this part of life can impact one’s gender, which is why i’m making this term.

[Image ID: A flag with eleven equally-sized horizontal stripes. From top to bottom, the colors are navy blue, red, pastel red, pale red, pastel red, red, pastel red, pale red, pastel red, red, and navy blue. There is a red box with a vertical pole of the same color through its center in the middle. End ID.]

term and flag by me, requested by no one :)

[briarpatch-kids]

Hey so since apparently there's a VERY different story being told,

Uhhhh

Finch tried to kill himself in front of me by lighting himself on fire with a blowtorch, nearly burning my home down in the process, then sent me a 5 message rant over how I didn't help him at all in the 7 months he lived rent free in my house, then called me 5 times in a row until my husband called the hospital to make him stop, then tried calling AGAIN with a psychiatrist in tow, basically kept it up until we had to threaten a no contact order through the courts on recommendation from MY therapist.

The reason we were arguing in the first place was actually that he tried to blame cancelling a date over his anxiety on having to take care of me. He was talking about it was so unfair that the other roommates have a regularly scheduled Sunday game that was one of TWO nights a week he had to be home. Because I'm disabled and can't be home alone. On top of that he had 5 hours from the date time start until he had to be home and had an open invitation to bring the date here and hang out after. Things escalated when I told him that was ableist and he knew it. He wasn't "just trying to stay home with briar" he was trying to blame cancelling his date on Briar's disability and literally tried to light himself on fire when he couldn't.

Sorry for the continued drama, I really fucking want to be done with this but someone let me know that he was saying that bullshit and

[catsingbad]

vent

What would happen if I just killed myself right now?

It's not like anyone would care about a pathetic crying piece of shit like me.

I'm not smart. I'm fucking stupid.

I'm not contributing anything to society or my family so what's the fucking point?

Maybe I won't, maybe I will.

I will try to live for another month and if I hate it, I will do it.

[bpdrecovery101]

"help im splitting" post

Hi.

I'm tired of being sick.

I'm also tired of trying to research and being told nothing or "maybe you need to let your relationships go" (that sounds like giving up, honestly).

As of tonight, this moment, 11PM PST on August 12, 2023, I have split badly. I have relapsed and distressed those who are important to me, causing me to be more distressed. I can't live a life like this.

Consider this (hopefully) like a bit of a BPD survival guide. Essentially, it's a bit of a diary, too. As I recover, you can recover too.

We can do this. Intro below the cut. (tw for suicide discussion, ideation, splitting)

hi.

this is me with my dog (and my blurry cat in the top left corner).

this picture was taken about a few hours before id split really badly and almost attempted. i have attempted in the past. i would also split later that night and proceed to do things that would distress people that i would regret.

this is also me that day

got a new dog. i love her! except bpd kinda made me forget that, and kinda made it irrelevant. i just thought, in those splitting moments, that everybody hates me and im better off dead.

these things weren't true, of course. i thought that sharing a bit of my story may help. im going through it with you. sometimes it's fine, a lot of the time it isn't.

im kinda tired though of living like this. i dont want to live wondering when my next fit will be. it's exhausting, and it exhausts those around me too

so the name of the game here is recovery. diary posts are tagged as #diary so you can block them if you want to. otherwise, im sharing my experience and what is helping me recover.

we got this. it's hard but we can do it.

[pollsnatural]

Spin the wheel to get a spnblr discourse topic.

[cameoappearance]

[ image description: Twitter screenshot from Satan @s8n (who may or may not be the Tumblr user by that name) that reads "Suicide is never the answer. You gotta outlive your enemies." Timestamp: 11:43 pm 9/1/19. There is a reply from "tay | 5" @tayisnotokay (also may or may not be the same user) 18 hours before the screenshot was taken that reads "this is strangely motivational". ]

[metanarrates]

ugh anthy is so good. nearly every single other story I've seen about a Mysterious and Tragic teenage girl has failed in some way either because the writer forgot to give the character complexity and an internal life, or because the tragic things in her life were far too aestheticized to have real teeth. anthy succeeds as a character largely because the whole story is dedicated to deconstructing an aestheticized view of her & her suffering, and also showing how that aestheticized view dehumanizes her and denies her agency. she is not a harmless victim or a beautifully agonized one - she is a teenage girl who is reacting in realistic, complex ways to a lifetime of crushing systemic abuses. and similarly, every teenage girl around her is also reacting in complex ways to their own suffering under patriarchy.

depiction of sad teenage girls often posit their pain as a natural phenomenon, something that is just intrinsic to girlhood. adding a layer of mystique onto them just further serves to obfuscate the sources of teen girl suffering. instead, teenage girl pain becomes palatable. consumable, even. #aesthetic. these depictions are unthreatening because, by their nature, they cannot depict societal issues in a way that would demand a restructuring of society. we can posit a familial tragedy but not a tragedy of the family structure. we can lament a beautifully mentally ill sufferer but not the systems of wellness and community that failed her. et cetera. nothing can ever hold up an uncomfortable mirror, only a flattering one.

revolutionary girl utena directly says that that idea is bullshit and that its teenage girls are suffering as a direct result of entrenched systematic oppression. and in that uncomfortable honesty, it's able to be WAY more authentically hopeful with its sad teenage girls. anthy is able to finally walk out of the society that trapped her and live freely of the image that was constructed around her! she can be a flawed human girl who is still going to be happy with her girlfriend! her victimhood is not eternal and does not mean she can never find happiness! A TEEN GIRL DOES NOT HAVE TO STAY IN A COFFIN IN ORDER TO DESERVE COMPASSION!!!!

[imposterogers]

batman canon: canonically cursed gotham, pseudoscience, creatures in the sewers, freeze guns, twenty rogues running rampant, the most absurd villains imaginable including kiteman condiment man & eggman, campy/eccentric outfits & personalities, superpowers used for evil

batman live action (excluding adam west, michael keaton, and gotham 2014): ok but what if we make gotham a normal ultra realistic city…………with normal levels of crime……………with one villain per year…………..how about that

[ghost-proofbaby]

never love an anchor (e.m. x reader)

"On some level, I think I always understood that a ship could never really love an anchor."

warnings: severe hurt/brief comfort, suicidal ideations, severely depressed reader. again: detailed recount of suicidal ideations. dead dove: do not eat.

wc: 5.8k+

an: i cannot emphasize this enough - this fic deals with a severely depressed, and blatantly suicidal reader. it is extremely heavy. it is extremely triggering. it is extremely self-indulgent. the romance aspect is ambiguous and the comfort aspect at the end is brief. this is a genuine, and sincerely personal piece of writing. it is an outline of how suicidal ideations may present themselves to some people. of these 5k words, 4k is deeply littered with reader's ideations without sugar coating. please, please, please do not read this unless you're in the state of mind to read it. you've surely heard it before but i'll say it just to be sure: it is a permanent solution for temporary feelings. and, just in case no one has told you, i'm glad you're alive. if you're reading this, i'm glad that you're alive. you're enough.

if you find yourself feeling like reader, i urge that you find resources such as those linked. hotlines, therapists, friends, your doctor, your family - please. i do not wish these emotions upon anyone, and they should never be taken lightly.

that being said, here are my guts from a very vulnerable moment, spilled out across the page. please handle them with care if you choose to read.

Technically speaking, the pressure that the human body is capable of handling almost seems infinite. When introduced slowly, and time is given to adjust, there is no pinpointed amount of pressure that dooms the human body. Like a crab in slow boiling water, your body should be theoretically able to handle a steady increase, bit by bit, and never truly notice. 

So why does it currently feel like you’re dying?

The pressure was never an overnight thing. It was a conglomeration you’d gathered, piece by piece, collecting little souvenirs of all the responsibilities you can’t currently remember if you’d ever agreed to along the way. It hadn’t been sudden, it hadn’t been with lack of adjusting, it hadn’t been a pressure suddenly unloaded upon you all at once – you’d done this, brick by brick, all with your own two hands. 

Keeping up with friends, keeping up with work, keeping up with expectations. Always trying to run ahead of the curve, always trying to be better. You should be fine. You shouldn’t even notice. You shouldn’t be sobbing on your bathroom floor, clutching the edge of your porcelain tub, every single breath a labor of survival. 

It feels like every bone in your body is splintering. It feels like the world has cracked open your ribs, one by one, just for show. You don’t feel poetic like the movies, you don’t feel like a valuable lesson learned in the books. You feel as though you’ve become nothing more than some crude display in a contemporary art gallery, and you were the one to hang yourself on the wall. 

Needles prickle across your skin with another heaving sob, as if you can feel the push pins you’ve used to spread yourself out for consumption. 

We still on for tonight? 

The text from Eddie glares at you from your phone discarded on the floor mere inches away. You’re lucky the screen hadn’t broken when you’d thrown it down on the ground on your way to the toilet, dry heaving through all your tears. 

He wasn’t a part of the issue. If anything, he was part of the solution. 

A shining clean slate, pristine whites and a scratch-free surface for you to press your cheek to when it all got a bit much. An abyss of freedom and openness for when the world was all a bit smothering. An anchor to cling to, a rope to tie around your wrists to keep from floating too far. The willow tree in a graveyard to rest your back against, the caress of a warm sun even if only momentarily as you stared out across headstones of all the pieces of you that you can never get back. Every version of you that has long since buried, a few even with newly churned dirt resting upon them. Something soft, something sacred, to rest your hands upon. 

Why does he still let you rest your bloodied and dirtied palms on his shoulders? Did he ever agree to that to begin with? 

You can’t remember. Or maybe your brain is simply refusing to recall. 

I hate to cancel, but I’m sick. I don’t think I can come out tonight :-( 

What? Is everything okay? Are you okay? Do I need to bring you anything? 

Please don’t.

The please is what gives you away. You should have forgone it, should have offered him a lighthearted response instead. 

But there is a pit in the bottom of your stomach, and seeing all the question marks across his text only made it more terminal. Only gave it more reason to swallow you whole. Only gave it more reason to grow and to tangle up and to restrict each stuttering breath of yours that you can’t seem to steady. 

Another buzz comes from your phone, but you don’t look to read it. You resort to resting your forehead against the lip of your toilet, all attempts at a deep breath futile as you finally taste the salt across your lips. 

Were you too much? Were you not enough? Was it possible to be an odd juxtaposition of both? 

A harrowing thought crosses your mind, and you know if Eddie could read minds across the intricate webbing that connects cell phones, he’d grab you by your shoulders. Maybe shake you until you see sense, or maybe cling to you until the thought has faded into nothingness. As if he could squeeze you hard enough to press together all the splinters that are left of your bones, forming a new body – a better body. One that can handle the pressure. One that isn’t imploding upon itself. A more durable mind, a more capable suit of skin to occupy. 

Does it even matter anymore? Would it even matter if I simply vanished? 

Would it be so bad to let the pit finally consume you? To just give in, to let it erase you from existence. To finally wave your white flag and let the awfulness inside of you finally win the battle, erasing you from existence and leaving behind an empty space in the world that could be filled with someone better.

Someone who could be a better friend. Someone who could be a harder worker. Someone who wasn’t choked up on their bathroom floor, beginning to contemplate if the painful gasps were even worth it. 

Were you worth it? Were you worth the air in your lungs? Or could it better serve someone who could handle all the pressure? 

And it wasn’t even that much pressure to begin with, if you pick it apart thread by thread. It was the natural weight of the human experience, and you were still crumbling. 

There was a full bottle of ibuprofen in the cabinet. There was a busy street not far from your home. There was a bathtub that could easily be filled with water – you’d never been good at holding your breath, unless someone counted the last few months, in which that seemed to be all you were good at. 

There was even a bridge, 5.27 miles away from your house exactly. You could already envision the patch of grass you could park your car at, feel the drop in temperature as you stood and overlooked the tame waves of a man-made lake.

Maybe your feet didn’t even have to leave the pavement. Maybe it would be enough to just stand in the silence and see the jump with your own two eyes. 

You felt like nothing more than a ghost of yourself, yes, but maybe. Maybe, just maybe, there would still be a broken shard within you that could stir awake at it all. Maybe if you got up off the bathroom floor and set yourself into motion, it would open its eyes just in time to scream no. 

Ghosts don’t just appear. They were a vibrant soul once – they were somebody once. 

But it’s hard to imagine that you ever were. When it gets like this, it’s hard to push through all the tumultuous thoughts and loathly emotions to remember that. A version of you vibrant, a version of you that might have been worthy, if only for a moment. 

A version of you that wasn’t insulting to compare to others. That was capable of progress, of earning your blip of existence. 

You don’t want the bottle of ibuprofen. You don’t want the busy street. You don’t want the overflowing tub. You don’t even want the calm of the bridge. You just want it to stop. 

There’s a knock on your front door that echoes through the entire apartment. You dread that you already know who it is, but you can’t get up to answer. 

You can’t move from this very spot. You’re terrified of what will happen when you do. 

Will your bones collapse into ash upon the floor? Will you make one wrong move, and in a fit of pressure, make a terribly permanent decision for what feels like a terribly permanent feeling? 

Maybe you were born with the pit in your stomach. Maybe you were born with that black hole inside of you. Cursed to always be yearning, always be a juxtaposition, always be a ghost of what could have become. 

You think you hear the click of your front door opening. You think you hear heavy footsteps across the hardwood floors. You think, you think, you think. That’s the issue. 

The tears are still coming and going in erratic tides. The salt is drying out your lips, your cheeks, the corners of your eyes. You’d thought you’d been incapable of any more emotions like this, but your tear ducts have managed to prove you wrong. 

Does it even matter anymore?

You’d left the bathroom door wide open. 

Were you worth it?

You’d been home alone – past tense.

A more durable mind, a more capable suit of skin to occupy.

A soft gasp of your name has you microscopically lifting your head from the toilet seat. You know what the scene looks like; it looks like nothing more than the excuse you’d used. You look as though you’re ill, like you’ve been spilling your guts across the bathroom floor all night. 

If you had been, would it all feel a little less heavy? 

“Hey, Eds.” 

You’re tired. You’re exhausted. Your voice is nothing more than a drag of a whisper as you look up at your anchor standing in the doorway, his face painted with concern. 

Maybe you were an anchor – maybe being an anchor wasn’t a good thing. After all, what use does an anchor have beyond weighing down the ship? 

“Jesus,” he mutters as he rushes to your side, falling to his knees carelessly as his hand flies out to brush back tendrils of your hair, “You look like shit.”

You felt like shit. 

Selfishly, you lean into his touch, desperate for comfort. Desperate for those caring palms to soothe the ache you’d carried since birth. Desperate to hear him tell you that you’re wrong – hands to promise you that you’re worthy, fingers to wrap around your bones rather than these burning ropes. You’re bloodied and raw, fully on display, and you just want to be okay. 

You don’t want the bridge. You want Eddie. You want him to magically make it okay, and that’s unfair. 

You’re not his weight to carry, not his burden to shoulder. 

After far too long of a silence, one in which he sits patiently in with you, all you can really reply is a broken, “Yeah.” 

Immediately, he knows something is wrong. Because of course he does. 

Because he’s a good friend. He’s a good person. He has the right words more often than not, and his hands were always formed to heal rather than injure. Create rather than destroy. Those warm palms are made to hold the space he’s earned in the grand scheme of the Universe, and it almost makes you nauseous as the jealousy spreads. 

He’s good. 

And you’re simply rotten.

You used to lie to yourself and say it was simply one rotted bit amongst plenty of good, but tonight, it all seemingly comes to clarity. You can’t dig out the bad, cleanse yourself of the rot, because it’s all decay. 

You don’t have to let the pit consume you – it already has. You were born with it, and it had swallowed you whole from the first cry that had ever left your lips. 

He makes himself a bit more comfortable, and you almost feel bad for reducing him to nothing more than the bathroom floor, “You wanna talk about what’s really wrong?” 

“I’m sick.” 

“This isn’t just some stomach bug.”

Your throat begins to tighten again, and suddenly, his gentle touch across the crown of your head burns. Your eyes water ferociously, and your chest caves into itself.

You can’t make a better body or a more sound mind out of the mess you’ve become. You can’t pull gold from tarnished rubble. 

Confessing to him will only be handing over something heavy, something terrible, that he shouldn’t have to struggle with as well. But not offering him a sliver of the truth almost feels more dishonoring. 

“Do you ever feel like a waste of space?” you croak, leaning back, finally accepting that the small space of the toilet that had been cooling your face has gone warm. Another thing you’ve ruined, in hindsight, “Like, this world is filled with great people, and I just… I just, I’m taking up the space- I’m wasting the space-” 

You can’t get out the proper words. You don’t know how.

How do you say you want to cease to exist when you’re not really sure if that’s the truth? You’re miserable, and you’re selfish, and you’re not entirely sure your feet would have ever left the pavement if you had driven yourself to the bridge. You’d be too scared to do it.  

Too scared to miss the day that science announces it’s found a cure to all your rot, a miracle drug to erase the pit, a way to reverse all the damage you’ve been comprised of your whole life. 

His brows furrow and his hand stops all the calming movements, “What? Are you- are you saying you feel like a waste of space?”

It feels silly to admit it to other people. To try and describe how it all feels. Like a child trying to convince their parents the Boogeyman is real, you have to make him see that you’re right. You have evidence, you have proof, and it’s not just a feeling. 

“I don’t feel like I’m a waste of space,” you finally correct, both yourself and him, “I know I’m a waste of space.” 

“Bullshit.”

“Eddie, don’t-”

“No,” he cuts you off. And somehow, in only a way that he’s capable of, it’s not offensive, “You’re not. I’m not going to sit here and listen to my favorite person claim they’re wasting space-”

“I am!” It’s your turn in the cycle of interruption. You pull away from him entirely, chest heaving with the weight presenting itself once more, tears starting to fall all over again. You can’t even distinguish where the old tears stop and the new ones begin, “I really am. All I seem to do lately is just exist. And that’s such a- such a- that’s such a waste. I can’t read any of the things I should enjoy these days, I can’t even write. All of the words feel like they just come out wrong. I’m letting everyone down left and right, I’m never living up to whatever pedestal you’ve put me on. I don’t even know what I’m doing with my life. I don’t even know where I’ll be in a year from now – I can’t even see that far in the future.”

Heaves become sobs, and the crumbling has begun once more. A cycle of breaking, a cycle of demolition. Even leaving behind the rubble feels like a crime. A waste of space. 

“I don’t think I’m a good person,” you manage to spit out between all your visceral reactions, “Every year, I tell myself the same thing – I’ll be better, I’ll be kinder, I’ll be worth it. And every year, I fail.” 

Can he see it? All the fractures and splinters and pits and metaphors? 

Can he smell it? All the rot and the destruction and hopelessness?

Can he feel it? All the pressure? 

Through your sniffles, you press your back to the tub, knees to your chin as you wrap your arms around your legs, desperately trying to shrivel up. To take up less space. To waste less space.

“I used to think I could make up for it,” you whisper, “I could offer people things that made them forget I’m… so useless. But I don’t think I’m even capable of that anymore.”

If he’s about to respond, it’s drowned out by your cries. You press your eyes hard into your kneecaps, until you see stars, and you try to swallow down all the embarrassment. Try to stop all the hurt from spilling out, to stop all your guts from painting the bathroom walls. 

He could simply sit there, let you wallow in your misery alone. Sit and stare as the artwork finally serves its purpose to the visitors of the gallery. Maybe jot down some commentary on how with your bones all spread out like this, the point the artist was attempting to make becomes oh so clear. 

And yet, he doesn’t. 

You know it’s his arms that are wrapping around you, pulling you from the chill of the tub and into the warmth of his chest.  And you let yourself smother within the fabric of his shirt the same exact way in which you’ve convinced yourself you smother everyone around you, let yourself breathe in drugstore cologne and his last cigarette rather than think about all the thoughts that had been spiraling you into dismay over the last twenty four hours – over the last twenty four years. 

He’d probably been smoking while waiting on your call tonight. Probably riddled with anxiety, if the shake of his hands pressing into your back are anything to go off of. An anxiety and waiting game that wouldn’t have to exist if you didn’t exist.

The thought makes you cry harder. 

If a ghost dies, can it even still return back as itself? Can it still find it within itself to haunt empty hallways, and watch the ones it once loved find peace?

“You’re not useless,” it sounds as though Eddie might be crying as well, if not just a little choked up, “You’re not- I swear- You’re not useless, okay? Never have been, never will be.”

His murmured words are nice, but they fuel an unimaginable guilt. It was supposed to be a nice night. A night of movie marathons and midnight coffee, of trying to remind yourself why you still stick around. A moment of incomparable joy and sweet reprieve as your stomach ached from laughter, your cheeks swelling with an infallible grin that Eddie always seems to pull out of you.

There’s no smiling, no giggling, right now. Just his favorite band shirt from the show you two had attended a few years before, soaking with a fast-growing stain from all your tears. 

When you don’t answer him, only manage to wrap your selfish arms around his waist, he continues, “How long have you felt this way, sweetheart?”

And if you hadn’t already been shattered previously, that would have finally broken you. 

You can’t pinpoint when it started. You can’t clear the smoke of memories and find an exact moment that you can point to and say, there. That’s where the hurt starts — that’s where the rot starts. 

“I don’t know.”

In your mind, it’s a wail. Loud and ferocious, efforts of all it has taken to withstand the pressure of your undoing screamed out loud. 

But on this quiet bathroom floor, it can’t even be considered a whisper. Nothing more than the spoken words lingering from a ghost who can’t give up the haunt. An echo of a memory, an echo of the piece in you that can’t let go, not yet.

Not of existing, and not of him. Your fists hold him so firmly against you, you’re scared that you’re going to bruise him. Hurt him just from the sheer effort of trying to show that you love him. 

The only way you know how to love – a violent dog who will always bite the kindest hands. Leaving behind bloodied knuckles even if you hadn’t so much as snipped this time. 

You take a sharp breath, aware of the levity of the words you’re about to say, “I don’t want to exist anymore, but I wouldn’t even make it off the bridge if I tried.”

It’s not about the bridge anymore. In all likelihood, it wouldn’t be the bridge you turn to. There’s a grand metaphor somewhere in the admittance, but your mind is just too tired to try and paint a prettier picture of it for him. 

Because exist is just a placeholder. And there’s a bigger, scarier word that should stand in its place. 

He starts to break the hold, and you nearly sob out again just at that. Losing the warmth of his chest and arms strike pain somewhere deep within you, just north of the pit that’s devoured all that’s left of you. 

“Bridge?” Phrased as a clarifying question, but when you see his face, it’s clear he knows. There are no good words left to say about it, “Sweetheart, no.”

There are worse reactions to be had. More scenarios that end in slamming doors or deafening silent treatments. Realizations that you’re right and it’s not worth it – defense mechanisms that involve them leaving first. 

“I couldn’t do it, even if I want-” 

Even if I wanted to. The words you can’t speak, dying on your tongue. 

Do you want to? Where does the pain begin? And where could it end?

“You really don’t see it, do you?” he laughs humorlessly, his hands still gripping your biceps in a death hold, “You… you just…” 

He doesn’t know what to say, and you don’t blame him. You knew this was heavy; you knew this isn’t the type of bomb to drop on someone you love. 

But if you didn’t, where would the bomb have gone? You’re not equipped to detonate it. You’re not equipped to survive the explosion. You wouldn’t want to survive that explosion. 

“I’m sorry,” your words pour out, beginning to shake beneath his palms, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” 

Dry, cracked lips feel as though they nearly split from the apologies. More violence, more devastation, more of what you always knew you were. You can see it in his eyes – you’re dragging him down with you, right down to the bottom of the ocean. You’re being an anchor. 

He’s all stutters and harsh breaths, panic filling the space with your own as his eyes search yours, “Don’t apologize. You don’t have to apologize. Just-”

He cuts off and is pulling you close again. Slamming your bones into his, wrapping up around you as if he might be able to keep you safe from the world. From your own mind. 

“I don’t need apologies,” another squeeze of your closer to him, another attempt to pull you away from the dangers that lie within, “I don’t- I just… Can I help? How do I make it better? Just say the word. I’ll do it.” 

It’s not your job. That’s not your job. 

You don’t realize you’ve said the words out loud until he’s squeezing you so tightly that you now can’t breathe. Until all you are is him. All his old t-shirts he’s lent to you that hang in your closet, all the nights spent with tangled legs as you sit across from each other on your couch, all the phone calls in which he refused to be the first one to hang up. Cologne that is too cheap to be able to cling so ferociously as it does to all your surroundings, chain-smoked cigarettes you always chastise him for because they’re gonna kill you one day, the smoke of his latest blunt resting in an ashtray as his head finds home in your lap. 

All the inside jokes. All the hugs. All the simple texts, if for nothing more than to just check in on each other. The broken reminders of having someone out there that cares. That loves you. 

How can such rotten hands pull such love from others? How have you yet to infect him? 

“I know it’s not my job,” he finally says, and you know for a fact he’s crying along with you before the first of his tears have wet the crown of your head, “It’s never been a job. You’re not a job. Okay? Get that through your head. There’s- Fuck, there’s plenty of things I wanna drill in that pretty little head of yours right now, but I know I can’t, so just get that.”

He’s trying. A little trill of his tongue that falls a bit flat when he refers to your pretty little head, a brief squeeze of your shoulders as he tries to relax a little. He wants to make you feel better. He wants to make it better. 

But he’s still holding you like he’s terrified. You did that – you instilled that fear. 

“I’m a mess,” you whisper in bitter realization, ash on your tongue as you process what you’ve done. You’ve already apologized, but you’re seconds away from doing so again, “I’m- I’m a mess, and I’m dragging you into it, and I’m sor-”

“Stop being sorry.” Definitive words, no room for argument. The smallest of shifts as things click into place. He isn’t budging – he isn’t letting go, “Do you remember when I first met you?” 

You can’t tell if the question is meant to have a point, or if it’s meant to be a distraction. You let it grow into the latter.

“Yeah,” you breathe out against him, melting into his chest, trying to focus on his voice rather than the ones in your head, “But tell me about it anyway?” 

“Two years ago. Technically, two years and seven months,” he starts in the same voice he used to take on during Hellfire sessions, before the members had scattered from coast to coast and his D&D club only became a rarity when the stars aligned. There’s still a crack to his voice from his tears, but that doesn’t stop him, “We were in some cursed fucking diner we don’t even go to anymore, in the dead of the night, and all the servers knew your name and order,” he paints the picture with a humor that should feel out of place, but it settles some of your breathing. Omitting all the vivid details, opting for triggering the memory with words you’d just get. You can feel the stick of the plastic beneath your thighs, you can smell the grease of the kitchen. You can see the cloudy night out of the oversized windows. He’s a natural born storyteller in the most subtle of ways, always knowing his audience, “You were sitting all alone in that booth, and all of Hellfire had just left. Gareth had just told us how he was going to college in California – did you know that?” 

“I didn’t.” 

“Well, he did,” his chin presses against the top of your head, a huff of a laugh escaping him, “Dropped the bomb it was our last summer as a club probably. We were happy for him, though. Real fucking happy. Got milkshakes to celebrate and made plans to get drunk off our asses the next night to keep the party going. It was dumb, and I’m getting off track, but…” 

Baited breath, you’re waiting for him to continue. No thoughts of the bridge. No thoughts of your failures. Living in a small memory with him on the floor of your bathroom. 

“Anyways, you were sitting there all alone, with a plate of fries and ranch.” 

“Oh, God,” your nose scrunches and you try to pull away, suddenly remembering how embarrassing this memory ends for you. It suddenly didn’t seem like the best way for him to make you feel better by any means, “No, I remember how this story ends, and-”

“I’m not done,” he locks his arms around you, and you can feel the whisper of a smile as it brushes against your temple, “Obviously you know where I’m going with this, but I’m not done, sweetheart. Because all the other guys had just left, and I’m sitting there, realizing the only other customer was some random person over across the diner, scribbling away in some notebook. Thought you looked cute when you were all focused like that, y’know? But then you were so focused that it became distracted, and you spilled that ranch all over yours-” 

“Please, stop.”

You’re laughing through the words, weakly, the air of desperation in the word please being far different from earlier in the night. No bridges, no failures. 

“I was probably being a weirdo, trying to run over and help you or whatever the fuck I was trying to do. I probably made it worse, right?” 

You’re there, remembering a version of Eddie that was a stranger, taking napkins to the knees of your jeans and smearing the ranch rather than really helping you clean it up. “Yeah, just a little bit.” 

“Sorry for that, by the way,” he airily apologizes before continuing, “But I just remember thinking about how focused you were on that notebook. And how you laughed with the waiter. And how you were just… lost in your own little world. And how you were so cute. You were so nice. The type of person I wanted in my life. Took one look at you with that ranch all over your lap and thought, huh. I want to get to know that person.” 

“Nice? I was not nice, I was-” you cut off, heart all but stopping as you recognize the point of it all. It wasn’t meant to just be a distraction. He was making a point. “I was a… a mess that day.” 

“Exactly.”

He pulls away again, and this time, it’s a little easier. The world has put a pause on its ending and you can handle the weight of his arms lightening for a few seconds, just so he can get a good look at your face. 

“You were a mess the day that I met you, and I still wanted you in my life,” he says each word deliberately, not breaking eye contact. Fear has broken through to determination. “And even if you’re still a mess today, I still want you. Nothing changes. You get that?” 

No bridges.

No failures.

The weight of it all had been heavy. The type of sorrow you thought was never meant to be carried by more than your own two hands. But he had taken it in his palms, lifted it from you entirely, even if it would only be temporary. One day you’d have to endure the pain again, get to the root of the problem. Figure out if all your ailments had been something wired into you since birth, or things you’d picked up along your way. But for now, you could breathe again. You could hear the drumming of your heart in your ears, and you could hear every single one of both yours and Eddie’s breaths in the silence, and that was enough. 

“I don’t want to die,” you finally quietly admit. Saying one of the bigger, scarier words. The thing you’d been too afraid to let slip off your tongue originally. “I just- sometimes it all gets a bit loud, you know? And I know you said don’t apologize, but I am sorry that I scared you. And I’m sorry that you have to take the bad to also get that little bit of the good with me.” 

His hand leaves one of your arms for the first time since he’d first wrapped you up, and it finds its way to cradle the side of your head. Holding you as if you’re porcelain still. You know that won’t go away, not tonight. “I’d rather have your bad days than have nothing at all,” he chokes up once more, and you can see tears threatening to welt in his eyes, “You get that, too. Alright? You’re worth it. Bad, good, funny, sad – give it to me. I’m asking for it. Just don’t… don’t leave me with the nothing.”

You’re worth it. 

He’s found a worth in you attached to nothing at all. He’s sitting here with you, on the bathroom floor, and his perception of you has nothing to do with what you can only offer. 

It just has to do with you. He sees you, and he’s decided you’re worth it. Even now.

He smiles softly, as if he can see the realization dawning upon you, “You wanna get up off the floor now? We can go sit on your couch or bed or something.” 

You’re quick to shake your head. Your knees are partially digging into his thighs, your breaths are matching his. 

“Okay,” his face falls slightly, but not entirely. Not entirely, “That’s okay. Do you want me…. Do you want me to go?” 

Another shake of your head. But this time, you need to offer more than just the motion of your head, especially when you can feel tears returning as your throat tightens up, “No. No, just- Stay with me? Please?” 

Your hands reach out without you even processing it, gripping his wrists, desperate and clinging and still verging on the edge of violent. The thought of being alone is terrifying, but the thought of having to watch him walk out of this room is even more petrifying. 

He doesn’t even flinch as you sink your claws in. His smile only returns, and he shuffles to pull you both to hold your backs up against the wall across from the toilet, “Of course. I’ll stay, sweetheart. I’m not going anywhere – wouldn’t even dream of it.” 

His words shake just a little less than they had when he’d first entered the room. 

He can’t fix it all magically. That isn’t his job, isn’t his role, isn’t his choice. But he can sit here with you, on the floor of the bathroom, endlessly patient and tragically caring as he urges you to lay down. He stretches his legs out and pats his lap once before hovering his hands over your shoulder, guiding you until your temple is flush with his thigh. 

He can choose to not hesitate as his fingers immediately push through the baby hairs by your temple, a soft hum in the back of his throat that sounds exactly as you feel.

Hesitantly content. Just for now. It’s enough. 

The storm is receding. As hours pass by, and noises of uncertainty become more confident hums of a song you faintly recognize, it all settles. He stays. You stay. The storm passes for the time being, and the hole tempers itself for just the night. 

It’s enough for now. You’ll worry more tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that. You’ll talk more about why you feel this way, and he’ll offer better solutions. The weight won’t simply be passed into his waiting hands and forgotten – one day, you’ll find a way to lighten it through dissipation rather than through catastrophe. 

One day, the seas will calm, and you’ll find yourself the ship rather than the anchor. 

And the captain can be the boy who sits on the floor with you through the sadness, content to wait out the storms with you until you find the worth he sees in you.

[shouting-epicenities-at-you]

I'm very glad that suicidal ideation was addressed in this post. Often enough, even in circles consisting of antipsych/neurodiversity proponents, there is little discussion of it outside of "Just don't do it, ok?"

I think everyone needs to stop treating any non-condemning discussion of suicidal ideation as though the possibility that someone might want to kill themself is nothing more than a hyper-compelling infohazard pushing otherwise Smart, Healthy, Sane, etc. people to do the same.

As someone who's struggled with wanting to escape my life in such a way, the revelations that "cured" me had absolutely nothing to do with the platitudes people used to try and convince me not to do it. In fact, most people's arguments for me to not kill myself made me feel even more as though there was no other option. These people got the reasons why someone might have suicidal thoughts narrowed down to something so specifically inapplicable to my situation that I felt even more isolated than I probably would have if I never confided in them that I was having such thoughts.

the logic of pathologizing specific desires claims to stop moralization, but all it does is qualify them using absurdly circular logic.

"people who do drugs/kill themselves/hurt themselves have Done Something Wrong. but thinking that they are Bad People is cruel [true!], so they must have had a disease that made them do a Bad Thing even though they're Not Bad." or, more broadly "Healthy People want to do Good Things + Stay Healthy while Unhealthy People want to do Bad Things + Stay Sick. therefore, someone is who wants to do Bad Things is sick with a disorder that is tricking them into thinking they want to do Bad Things instead of the Good Things that their Real Self (which is being obscured by disease) wants."

do you see how this classifies anyone who desires something "unhealthy" as diseased + denies them full personhood until they embrace an identity composed of only "healthy" desires (with all "unhealthy" desires being an invasive Other)? why do we see this as this necessary? would someone become a Bad Person if the desire to do drugs or kill themselves was coming from Them + not a disease? why, if you genuinely believe that these things are not immoral? or do you believe they are ONLY morally acceptable because they come from a disease (so the person "can't help it")? if you feel like you need this model to understand your own experience, why? do you feel like it relieves a shame or guilt surrounding your experiences? why?

i need everyone to understand that, regardless of whatever personal attachment you feel to this model, the circular concept of "people who are too sick to know what's good for them (which is obvious because they are making choices which only sick ppl make)" is part of a logic that justifies all manner of degrading, violent + carceral responses to mad ppl/drug users/unhoused ppl. for every "recovered" person who embraces this model, there is a "disordered" person who resents it + that person will forever be denied the resources + social absolution "recovery" offers until they embrace it

[starlightshore]

Lingering Spirits - A Danny Phantom AU where Danny moves to Amity 2 years after the Portal Incident. Combo of Alicia Adoption (Farmboy AU) + Nobody Knows AU

A more serious/ Horror take on the AUs

Hoof, starting on a morbid foot. Please note that it's intentional that Sam is romanticizing death and has over-blown anti-human feelings. they're a depressed teenager! they're going through it and they're coping the only way they know how. They'll learn to grow more healthy world views and ways of dealing with their depression with time. Please don't assume I'm condoning their world-view lol.

Anyway on a lighter note, I wanted Sam and Tucker to look different than my usual AU stuff in this AU, so I hope you guys like the design change!

Updates will be infrequent as I'm pretty busy. However, I did this on a team call day so I was kind of productive in my other projects haha!

[sweetteaanddragons]

I Could Not See to See

(Title taken from Emily Dickinson's "I Heard a Fly Buzz When I Died," a poem about the transition between life and death. It felt appropriate.)

(Summary: Morgoth's darkness blots out even the stars. Maedhros loses hope that any of them can survive this.

Some six thousand years later, Elrond refuses to lose hope when it comes to bringing home everyone that he can.)

The last time Elrond saw a star in Beleriand was when he was thirteen. After that, the Enemy’s smog grew too thick; only the sun’s light was fierce enough to bleed through it, and that only weakly.

He was also thirteen the first time Maedhros turned to him around the campfire and said, “When you die - ”

Elrond was not sure precisely what his face did at that moment. He thought Elros would have gone for a weapon if their hands had not been so occupied with the first bowls of hot stew they had been able to risk for three fortnights.

It helped that the most threatening thing Maedhros was handling at the moment was the ladle for said stew. It helped, too, that it had been a very long time since Maedhros had been the most immediate threat to them. He had slain three wights for them only that day and taken a nasty slash to the leg in the bargain; Elrond did not think he would so lightly turn and slay them now, especially while the leg was not yet well, and Elrond, for all his youth, was already the best healer among them.

Still. It did not stop Elros’s grip from changing ever so slightly on the bowl of stew.

“If,” Maglor said hastily, sitting down between them and Maedhros and heavily stressing the word. "If you die.”

Maedhros - the greatest swordsman Elrond had ever seen - looked down at the cut on his leg that even he was not quick enough to stop. Not when surrounded by so many enemies; not when protecting two more vulnerable targets; not when so many plants have shriveled beneath the choking smoke and animals have grown so scarce. “If,” he said sardonically.

He did not complete his thought.

It was two years later before Maedhros turned to them again and said, “When you die.” He paused there for an interruption, but there wasn't one.

Around them, what remained of the Feanorian followers were doing their best to make camp as far back from the mouth of the cave as they could. Outside, the rain hissed down, and there was something evil hiding in its whispers.

There were fewer of them than there were before the rain began to fall.

Maglor was still there. Maglor was by the mouth of the cave, singing up a draft to push back against the winds greedily pushing the rain farther inward. His mouth grew tight at his brother’s words, but he didn't stop the song.

“When we die,” Elros prompted from where he was leaning against the rough stone, wincing as Elrond inspected his wrist, swollen from his fall in the desperate scramble up the mountain.

“I don’t know where you’ll go.” The words were flat, but Maedhros’s eyes were as worried as he ever let anyone see. “You might be counted Men; if you are, there is little I can do to advise you, save to say that if there is any danger where Men go, you should certainly seek your kin.”

“Tuor, Turin - ”

“Huor, Hurin - ”

“Nienor, Morwen - ”

“Yes,” Maedhros interrupted before Elrond and Elros could get too far into their game of seeing who could remember the most ancestors. “Though if it comes to it, I’d recommend more toward appealing to Beren and Luthien and less toward Turin. I know little of his curse, but from what little I did hear, you will not want to tangle with it if it still remains.”

Elros refrained from pointing out that at least hiding behind the edges of a curse would be a familiar state for them. Elrond suspected that even someone not half entwined with Elros’s mind could guess it, judging from Maedhros’s weary twitch of the lips.

“But if you are counted as elves, that is another matter. Mandos’s Halls will be safe; I cannot speak for what you will find when you are released from them.”

The part of Elrond that still remembered being six years old and watching as his father sailed away in desperate hope of Aman’s salvation wanted to protest. Aman was perfect; Aman was untouched.

But he was not six years old anymore, and he had heard enough speculative whispers by now to know that just because the fires of Alqualonde must have long since burned out and those first darkness-fueled riots long since ended, it did not at all mean that all in Aman must be at peace. Conflict would not have ended with the Noldor’s exit.

“Stick together and use your best judgment as to whether it is better to be Sindarin princes or Noldorin princes or anonymous children of nowhere in particular. But before that - ” Here, he broke off and with a sharp gesture summoned Farande over from the throng of people investigating the back of the cave for danger. “Before that, you must get there, and if the wraiths and spirits that have haunted us this past month are any indication, that may require more cunning than it once did.”

Farande saluted as she drew near. “My king,” she said, before turning to them and taking on a tone Elrond had never heard her use before; she sounded like Maglor when he was teaching. “Mandos’s call is loud, but even in the days when all there was to oppose it were some leftover traps, Melkor’s was tempting.”

It took Elrond a moment to process this. His hands paused in their gentle prodding of Elros’s wrist. “You’ve died before?”

Elros peered around him curiously as though the information would somehow make Farande look different than she ever has before.

“On the great journey to Aman,” she said. Her tone did not invite further questions. “After the final blow, your spirit will linger about your body for a few moments in confusion; already, you will begin to hear the calls. They will tug at you. When I fell, Mandos’s was by far the stronger.”

She said nothing about what she suspected about now.

The hissing whispers in the rain seemed to get louder.

“The Enemy is cunning,” Maedhros said. His eyes were suddenly very hard to look into. “He lies well. It is not surprising that some fëa may have become confused by him.”

“Can you teach us what Mandos’s sounds like?” Elros asked Farande. “So we don’t get confused?”

She grimaced. “I will sing up the best memory I can for the company,” she promised. “But it will not be perfect. And without knowing what form the Enemy’s lie takes, I cannot promise it will be close enough. Which is why, when you fall, you should keep your fëar as near as you can to your bodies until I can come find you.”

Elrond recoiled a little. “But houseless spirits - ”

“Not houseless,” she said. “Namo is too stubborn to give up the call so quickly. He will not cease calling for some time; certainly not so little as it will take for me to find you. I can guide you after that.”

Elrond supposed this might work; he had seen communication with the dead before.

But it had always been the Enemy’s dead, bound closer to the world through his magics, and the communication had always been on the order of as forcefully as possible shooing them away. He was not sure Farande would be able to find them to speak to him - unless she didn’t need to, he supposed; if she went to their bodies and assumed they yet lingered, she could speak well enough, although how she would hear them describe the sounds they heard -

Elros’s mind had already raced further ahead. “That will only work if you die in the same battle as us,” he pointed out. He didn’t bother asking what would happen if he and Elrond didn’t fall in the same battle; the idea was too unthinkable. “What if you don’t?”

She raised one scarred eyebrow, almost laughing. “You think you will outlast me, little prince?”

“No,” Elros confessed freely. Farande had been fighting since before elves first saw the light of the Trees; it was hard to credit the rumor he had heard that she was once a healer when her hands were so quick with her blades. “But what if we fall in a fight and you don’t?”

“I will,” she said, all laughter gone. “I swear it to you as I swore it to my king, little prince: I will. And I will lead you home.”

For just a moment, Elrond stared at her in blank incomprehension.

“It won’t take me long,” she promised, her hand, just for a moment, brushing up against her own neck. “You know how quick I am with a knife.”

Elros recovered quicker. “You can’t,” he protested. “Namo won’t let you out, not after - “

She laughed in earnest then, high and clear. “I will be twice slain and thrice a kinslayer. Namo will not let me out regardless, and I would not want him to; Aman was never for the likes of I. No, his Halls shall suit me fine, and I can think of no better mission to bring me there.” 

She bowed to Maedhros and went back to her work, still laughing as she went.

Elrond stared after her. He could not seem to swallow.

“If that was a ploy to get us to train harder,” Elros said from behind him. “Congratulations, it worked.”

Maedhros didn’t smile.

(It did not take someone as perceptive as Elrond to see that Farande had made no preparations to depart.

“Your sons yet linger,” she told him. “I would not leave them alone.”

“No,” he agreed. There were others who had said such, and he was glad of it. “I worry for them.”

“I will defend them to my last breath,” she promised.

“I have never doubted it! On these shores, you shall keep them safe if any can. But Elrohir . . . Elrohir, at least, will sail, I think. I am not sure about Elladan, but I think he will sail for his brother’s sake. They will sail, but the sea is wide, and my sons are not sailors. I do not know that any Cirdan’s folk will yet linger when they decide to try it.”

Farande said nothing.

There were many who had said they would linger a while longer. He worried for them all.

But there were few he thought as likely as Farande to let themselves fade to echoes beneath the trees.

“You promised once to guide Elros and I west if it came to it,” he said softly. “I ask no oaths, Farande; you know that. But is it so greater a thing to ask a different guidance home?”

She swayed forward - swayed back. Swallowed, as she looked down to the courtyard where Elladan and Elrohir played at fighting and laughed below.

“It was no home to me,” she said at last. “It - could be, for them.”

“It could be for you,” he said, softer still. “Surely there is yet some untenanted valley in Aman where our people can gather again.”

The laughter swelled louder below. It had been long since he heard it from them so light and so free.

She swayed forward.

“I will sail them west,” she promised. “If you ask it of me, my lord, then yes; I will get them home.”)