#talk of abuse

[drabbles-of-writing]

Easier

AO3

Summary

“...there’s this kid I’m fostering.”

Except for that, which stopped him before he could even start. He was sure the confusion showed, because the man smiled nervously again, and he didn’t lean closer, or whisper, but his voice did drop in tone a bit, not as audible over the clamor of other patrons.

“She, um,” He started to raise a hand, paused, then tapped his left cheek, “she has scars on her face, too.”

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Hunter didn’t often wander by himself.

This went for either realm he was in, but especially the demon realm. Old anxieties about being known as the Golden Guard, someone tracking him down, taking their vengeance for what he’d done—it made him paranoid.

The human realm wasn’t entirely safe, either. He didn’t have monsters lurking in the shadows anymore (supposedly), but the people were still unfamiliar, they couldn’t know what he was, and, well, he was pretty much always aware of what kind of town this used to be.

But it was just a little easier. Enough so that, when Willow wanted to linger in line at some food store he didn’t remember the name of, he barely thought twice about offering to stand in line at the coffee place a few stores down and grab something for them.

Willow would meet him there. She’d handed him some cash from the wallet Camila had gotten for her, even if they filtered between the human and demon realm these days, and told him she’d be there soon.

It wasn’t as bad as his mind liked to convince him some days. Heck, his worst anxiety was just tugging on his beanie every once in a while! If that was all it took out of him, the mild inclination to check that it covered his ears, then he was golden.

Er, bad word. That was a bad phrase.

Course, it wasn’t great, but it never really was. He got anxious about eyes all around, and while the others could usually reassure their fears by looking around and finding nobody cared all that much, Hunter was rarely that lucky. There was about a forty-sixty chance he’d look up to find some human quickly averting their gaze.

The baristas were nice, at least. He knew they were paid to be, but their eyes didn’t linger or flicker across his face, and he remembered Luz joking that they’d probably seen much weirder things in the early hours of morning.

He’d given his order, under the name Noceda (just because, really. It was still a little giddying to hear it out loud and know it applied to him, too), and he’d stood off to the side. They were pretty plain orders, and the line wasn’t that long.

It was pretty cold out, though, so he was quick to drop anything he had on a small table to claim it, which wound up being a key chain Luz had given him. 

They didn’t even have keys to anything, she just felt like getting him a small metal ring with charms on it. He figured it was a joke gift meant to be left hanging on a hook, but he wound up enjoying fiddling with it when he had nothing better to do.

Look up, find the stares quickly retreating, pretend he didn’t see it, then listen for his order again. Rinse and repeat. He mused that, by the time Willow got here, they might have finally gotten used to his presence. 

He noticed an older man, about Camila’s age, out of the corner of his eye. Tanned, but not as much as the original Noceda’s. Shaggy hair in slightly tired eyes, a small stubble forming. He, Hunter noted, kept shooting quick glances his way.

The anxiety set off again, and he coped by fiddling with the keys, standing just next to the table. Jacob was the only witchy weirdo in town, the others were normal, or kept it very under-wraps. He was not going to get cornered in a crowded building, and Willow would arrive soon.

Slow breath in, another out.

Noceda was called, and he was quick to get up and fetch the drinks. The baristas still smiled because they had to, and he smiled back because it was polite, and retreated to his table in the corner, so far separated in the structure that hardly anyone would notice him. It was cold outside, and there were more people inside. Witnesses.

Easier to assure himself what could happen during the worst-case-scenario than to convince it wouldn’t happen in the first place.

He looked up, the guy looked away again, taking his order from the barista. Hunter had half a mind to keep staring at him, then glare when they met eyes. See how he liked it.

But he didn’t, because he would much prefer being seen as the enigma than the possible threat in the room, so he tapped one finger along the cup of his drink, his free hand messing with the key chain. Willow would arrive soon.

It was a bit surreal to look out the big windows and see people walking past. Felt like looking through one of their televisions, or a crystal ball. A scene straight out of any pretty movie about love or family during the autumn months. To him, at least.

And, as an added bonus, the glass windows allowed a reflection. So he could, in fact, sporadically check the reflection to the people moving behind him, and he didn’t have to look like the weird guy who didn’t know where to stare. Which was somehow worse than staring back at the people staring at him, for some reason he couldn’t explain.

He was tucked away, so there weren’t a lot of reflections, but that was good. It meant no one was close by, and he and Willow could talk in peace when she arrived.

He caught a reflection there, its shape easier made out than the others, which meant it was closer. Brown jacket, white shirt, tall, all things he slotted into tiny circles of information Someone checking to see if the table was taken, he would’ve thought, if the reflection wasn’t turning more clear.

He tensed his shoulders and jerked his head around, key chain clutched tightly in his fingers. One of them was an oddly decorated spoon, another some kind of long monument from a place in the human realm he’d never been. Both weren’t sharp, but Luz showed him how to hold them in his palm like Camila had taught her in case he ever needed to stab anything with them.

It was the man. Of course it was the man.

Hunter looked up, and hoped he was subtle in moving the key chain around in his closed fist, one of the ornaments poking out by his pinky. Would it be better to show the obvious threat, he wondered, or hide it?

The man gave him a sheepish, nervous smile, constantly glancing around. One hand was rubbing the back of his neck, the other in his pocket.

“Hey, uh,” The man cleared his throat, a bit raspy, “I’m sorry, I really don’t mean to bother you—”

“Can I help you?” He asked coldly, narrowed eyes looking up and down.

“Uh, only if you want?” The man tried, still shy, looked back to something again, then to Hunter. “Again, I’m very sorry to bother you—are you here with anyone?” He stopped.

“My friend is picking me up.” He said, still coolly.

“Alright, yeah, so—feel free to tell me to shove off, I get it, but…”

Hunter almost did. Sneered his lip, where witchy, sharp teeth were harder to hide than the flat ones of humans, flashed them in a warning as he told the guy to bug off.

“...there’s this kid I’m fostering.”

Except for that, which stopped him before he could even start. He was sure the confusion showed, because the man smiled nervously again, and he didn’t lean closer, or whisper, but his voice did drop in tone a bit, not as audible over the clamor of other patrons.

“She, um,” He started to raise a hand, paused, then tapped his left cheek, “she has scars on her face, too.”

More apprehension. But now Hunter was just a little curious. Worst case scenario, he tries to get too friendly about it, and he moves to sit closer to the baristas until Willow arrives. Or talk loudly, Luz told him that's good for getting attention.

“She’s been, er, kinda staring a lot since she noticed you.” The man said quietly, glancing back, then to Hunter. “She hasn’t really met anyone with—yeah, uh, is…I think she’d like to say hello, if that’s okay?” He asked worriedly, wringing his hands together. “Again, you really do not have to, it’s totally fine, I can explain it to her, she just seems kind of excited. Just until your friend arrives, or even a minute, if that’s alright—”

“Where is she?” He found himself asking before he knew he was talking. It came off more monotone than he remembered being.

The man had a tiny bit of hope on his face, stepping to the side and gesturing with a shoulder. Hunter did his best to keep his head very still, shifting his gaze as subtle as possible.

Across the cafe, and searching for anything short, he could see her. A girl, her right side facing him, shifting in her seat as another man, about the same age as the first with paler features, talking to her.

His mind helpfully supplied that she looked a little younger than King, if Luz was being honest about humans having similar appearances in age to witches and (some) demons.

He could see her head shift a bit to the side, towards him, before it quickly jerked away, and she leaned forward to whisper something to the man across from her. He gave a small smile, patting her hand.

He couldn’t see any scars from her, but, then again, it was only the right side.

“I’m really sorry to bother you, kid, I’m sure you don’t want—”

“Okay,” He decided before he could over-analyze, slowly leaning back in his seat, fingers uncoiling slightly around the key chain, resting loosely between his hand and the table. “I-I mean, I’m not,” He looked up to the man's face, shifting into surprised relief, “I’m pretty bad at talking, not very—I’m not good at that.” He warned, clearing his throat awkwardly.

“It’s alright, really, a hello would be fine.” The man said, reassurance practically melting off his relaxed shoulders. “Thank you, seriously, thank you.”

Hunter started to awkwardly mumble out that it was okay, but the man was already turning around, giving a gesture with his hand. The second man caught it, said something to the girl, and she sprung upright from her seat so fast he swore it looked like a piece of film was missing.

He had the instinct to run a hand through his hair as she hopped off the seat and scurried over, but remembered the beanie halfway through it. He just settled with turning his body to the side, almost entirely facing away from his table, pressing the key chain between his clasped fingers and letting the weight, and odd feel, soothe him.

“Be very polite,” The man instructed the girl, not unkindly, taking her hand as she came up, much more shy than she’d been in her mad dash.

She didn’t seem to hear him, moving a little closer to the table, her other hand in a fist and drawn up to her chest, eyes wide and nearly awed.

He could see her better, now, and not just because his right eye hadn’t been great in the long-distance vision department. She was wearing an array of bright colors and a skirt that meshed oddly with worn sneakers, combined with a maroon jacket that had a bunch of pins, all of which seemed to have no relation other than being colorful, scattered across it.

He could see what the man was talking about, now. He’ll admit, his brow gave a tiny twitch of surprise, but he really shouldn’t have been.

Her scar was twisted and gnarled, a blend of tan, white, and pinkish red splashed over dark skin. It went across most of her left cheek, a clear burn. It was rounded out, the lines between where the scar started and ended far too defined to be from a regular fire. It left an indent just under her eye and went over her jaw, ending at the top of her neck, though her cheek looked as though it’d gotten the worst of it.

“Hi,” She’d said quietly, ducking her head, though she kept looking up.

“...hey.” He croaked, voice cracking a bit, and he quickly coughed to clear it, finding himself, unsurprisingly, grasping for words. “What’s, uh, what’s your name?”

“Zuri,” She said quietly, shifting her foot.

“Cool,” He said, a bit lamely, “I’m–I’m Hunter. Nice to…meet you?”

She mumbled something that sounded echoing to his last line. He grasped for something to say, focusing in on her pins. He had a brief memory of Luz trying to pin a bunch of odd designs to her beanie before deciding to iron them on.

“I like your pins.” He tried, and she fully looked up at that.

“I found ‘em at a gift shop.” She offered, peering down at her jacket and pulling on it, then, with a tiny smile, pointed to one with a lot of glitter around a rather realistic looking bear. “I stole this one.” She announced, proud.

“It was on the floor without a tag.” The man (foster father? Her dad?) said quickly, bending down a bit and waving a hand. “They weren’t very expensive, and—”

“I stole this.” He said, if only because the memory was the first thing that came to him, uncurling his hand and separating one of the charms, revealing one shaped like a howling wolf made out of thin wood, a noticeable piece missing from the tail. “I meant to pay for it, but I just grabbed it and forgot, and I was too embarrassed to tell anyone in case I had to do the walk of shame back in and admit I was a thief.”

Zuri giggled, grin turning more genuine, more relaxed. The man also seemed more relieved, giving a tiny step back and standing back up, though he still held her hand.

Hunter offered a small smile back, twisting the charm between his fingers. The nervous thought hit him again, and he raised his other hand to tug at his beanie a bit, pushing some hair trying to peek free back inside. He had the thought of cutting it again, which he knew was dumb, because he’d just gotten it cut last week.

Zuri followed the movement, a tiny bit too locked in to be a casual look over. An old mantra whispered involuntarily; watch the hands, not the face, the hands always move before the face ever will. 

He twisted his charm a little harsher.

Her gaze lingered on his face. He kept his eyes to the right side of her head, more focused on her ear. He was suddenly feeling very self-conscious about his right eye, the one he knew sometimes didn’t open as wide as the other without him realizing, the one he knew some people noticed was just a tiny bit off, thanks to the scar just barely crossing over it.

Zuri shuffled her feet again, looked down, looked back up, and moved a little closer to the table, one hand loosely holding it as she flicked her eyes over his face.

“Did your mom do that, too?” She asked.

If it weren’t just a little quieter than how she’d been talking previously, it would’ve sounded entirely natural. Enough so that he was already shrugging and shaking his head before he even noticed her foster dad whispering something that may have been a curse, shifting a little, unsure if he should say something.

“Nah,” He said, easily, and when he briefly met her simple curious, faintly hopeful eyes, he found it was easy. Not entirely, of course, but more than he thought it would be, “they're from my uncle.”

Zuri’s mouth shifted in a silent O, nodding slightly as she seemed to thoroughly turn those words over in her head. 

Hunter found himself glancing at her scar again, then back to her face. It was kind of messed up to be glad she barely batted an eye at such an admission, right? Were normal kids supposed to pester about that sort of thing? Should he look more unnerved?

Maybe that was Willow getting to him. Or Gus. Either was possible.

“Do you still live with him?” She questioned, head tilting. Hunter was aware of the man being very still, and very silent.

“No, he’s—” he probably shouldn’t talk to kids about death, “He’s gone, I live with another family now.” He managed to get out, even with the stumble. “They’re a lot nicer.” He added, his crooked, closed-mouth smile becoming fairly sardonic.

“Oh, okay, good.” Zuri nodded, satisfied, and serious only in the way a young kid on a mission could be. “I don’t live with Mom anymore, either, ‘cause they said she wasn’t good at it. I don’t think your uncle is very good at it, either.” She decided, very matter-of-fact.

Hunter snorted involuntarily, shoulders twitching with it. Zuri gave the tiniest of startles, barely a flinch, but the small smile came soon after. He figured that was definitely something normal kids weren’t supposed to see and understand.

He hunched a little more, elbows on his legs, twisting the key chain around in his hands as he looked down at it.

“Yeah, he sucked.” He agreed dully.

“My new family is really nice, too!” Zuri added, and he glanced to see her tugging on her foster dad’s sleeve out of the corner of his eye. “They even have a cat!”

“My friend has a cat.” Hunter looked up, the sardonic smile still there, if lighter. “Her name is Ghost.”

“Mine’s called Whiskers.” Zuri’s grin went wider, and he noticed that her scar scrunched when she did, skin pulling oddly, tighter than her other cheek, and it made the indent by her eye more noticeable. “Mom doesn’t like cats.”

“My uncle didn’t like anything.” He offered, and Zuri giggled again, hand over her mouth before it dropped, just a smidge.

“Has yours gotten better?” She wondered, eyes still happily bright.

It took him a moment to remember what she was referencing, and that they weren’t just talking about their crummy parents. The man started to lean down and whisper that she had to be polite, would she want someone else asking that? 

Hunter tilted his arms, thumb brushing the red, raised skin over his left wrist, thinking.

“Not really,” He found himself answering, and the man paused, Zuri looking back. “Gotten a lot worse, if I’m being honest.”

“...oh.” Zuri’s shoulders slumped, curling in a little, hand moving by her cheek. He could see the man moving again, a hasty, unsure movement towards her shoulder—

“Some!” He added hastily, much too quickly, “some, uh, get better, though.” He forced a calmer tone. “I mean, I don’t—I’m not really sure.” He admitted with a one-armed shrug. “I think it gets a little easier, though? Kind of?” He lifted a hand slightly, pinching two fingers together. “Just—I mean…my friends help, I got myself a great family, and it’s not as…” He swallowed thickly. “It got worse, but…then it started getting easier again? I-I think that’s supposed to happen.”

Zuri blinked at him, slowly, and uncoiling, just a smidge. The smile was softer, and he sheepishly offered his own, even through the heavy weight in his throat.

“It is?” She asked, the smallest of pleas.

“Yeah, yeah,” He fought around the weight, “it…yeah. Eventually, it gets a tiny bit easier. Promise.”

Zuri’s smile turned bright and wide again. Almost an excitement, more of a reassurance. He wouldn’t call it hope. He wasn’t brave enough for that.

Through the quiet conversations of the cafe, he heard the chime of the front door. He instinctively glanced over, sitting up near instantly when he caught green hair and braids.

“Oh, um, that’s—” He started, turning back to the two.

“Quite alright,” The man assured, voice a bit rougher than he remembered with his own smile, nudging Zuri’s shoulder, “we have an appointment to go to, remember?”

“Aww, but—”

“Hunter has somewhere he needs to be, too.” The man said gently, standing up straighter. 

Zuri whined again, but she didn’t do more than pout as the man gently led her away. Over her head, Hunter met eyes with the man, and with relief so palpable he nearly thought he was feeling it, he mouthed thank you.

Hunter could only give a jerky nod.

“Bye, Hunter!” Zuri called cheerfully, waving her other hand as the man led her away, to where the second one they were with stood a bit closer to the front doors, two coffees in his hands, looking on in anticipation. “See you later!” 

“Yeah,” Hunter echoed, giving a small movement with his hand, “bye.”

His eyes followed them as they met up by the door, the men murmuring something to each other as they handed coffees over. Zuri chatted something lost in the crowded conversations, and with her hand still delicately held, they pushed open the doors.

And then they were gone.

“Hey, sorry that took so long!” He heard Willow, distantly, as though a field away, though he could see her sliding into the chair across from him out of the corner of his eye. “The line went on forever, and some guy was trying to order—Hunter?”

Slowly, only when he’d lost sight of maroon through the doors, Hunter’s eyes drifted over. Her hair was frazzled and displaced by the wind, or maybe that was just the rush of running over.

His throat still felt heavy.

“Hey, what happened?” Willow stood quickly, though never sudden, hand reaching and gently grazing his arm, barely a touch, frowning, “are you—?”

“Yeah!” He jerked, shaking his head and quickly bringing a hand to his face, knowing very well how choked it came out, pressing the palm of his hand quickly to both eyes. “Yeah, I’m–I’m fine, I’m fine.” 

“Do you wanna get out of here?” Willow suggested lightly, hand moving to skim his shoulder, no pressure, never pressure, and he was getting a little better at not flinching.

“Yeah, that—” Hunter inhaled shakily, staring off and blinking rapidly to stave off the wetness he could feel threatening to build up. “That would be nice. We should—yeah, head back.”

“Okay,” Willow said, and Hunter moved at the last minute to grab their drinks before she could.

“You—you’re already carrying the food.” He got out, taking a slow breath in and giving her a crooked smile. “I can get this.”

“You sure?” Willow’s eyes darted around, looking for some threat that had never been there.

“I’m fine,” He assured, hesitating briefly before giving a tiny nudge of her arm with his shoulder, “good—good feelings, I promise.”

She relaxed a bit at that, though still wary of everything around them. He tilted his head, and the other patrons felt more like moving poles or trees than eyes as they slipped off to the door.

Willow pushed it open, and Hunter gave a quick survey of the streets, the pathways, before he was even free of the threshold.

Obviously, there was nothing. Too many people walking around on a rather nice day, and they may have gone around to slip through buildings in a shortcut. It was anyone’s guess.

Still, he looked, and only when Willow gently brushed his side did he turn and nod off in the direction back to the Noc—back home.

He smiled at Willow again, just to be sure, and Willow smiled back, softly asking to taste her drink, and he silently handed it over, movement still jerky as they walked, but easier than it used to be.

He wondered, distantly, if Camila might know about younger kids that lived in the area. Just to check.

Then Willow asked him something about figuring out which sandwich was supposed to be his, and he came right back to the present, where no threatening eyes watched, and no shadows lurked.

It probably startled him more than it should to find that, for once, he almost believed it.

[creetchure]

Saw a take on TikTok that irked me a bit so I'm talking about this here too. Yes, pretty much ever pannel of Bruce ever hitting his kids is either extremely ooc or entirely out of context. I won't deny that. But the way some of y'all talk about it as some irrefutable proof that Bruce can't be abusive is genuinely pretty fucking worrying. "Oh but Bruce loves his kids and wants what's best for them, he can't possibly be abusive" do you wanna bet the percentage of y'all's parents that you're reading found family for also think like that? Abuse doesn't need malicious intent. It really doesn't. Trying, and loving your kids doesn't automatically make you a good parent. And honestly taking away the fact that Bruce is sort of shit at being a parent makes the batfam dynamic way duller in my opinion, at least in canon

[self-loving-vampire]

Extremely dangerous how "grooming" in the context of child sexual abuse went from being a very specific pattern of isolation and trust-building with the aim of abusing someone to "telling children anything that contradicts their parents' ultra-conservative worldview is grooming" to "selling rainbow flags in a store is grooming" to "literally anyone I don't like is a groomer".

These days the word seems to most often be used by people who don't care about what it actually means and just want an easy "this person is irredeemably evil, kill them now" button.

[draiochteve]

vent

My asshole grandfather who abused my mother, was weird about me, was overall not a great guy that everyone made this smoke and mirrors around to preserve his rep Has finally died he died at 8am this morning and all I've been is happy until I remember I'm being strong armed to go to the funeral and my mother is melting down and driving me insane

[chokeonitslutt]

[pathologictwo]

y’all remember we’re talking ab allegations of pedophilia and human trafficking and domestic violence right. real-life abuse. this isn’t fucking hannibal or Genshin or some shit even as a joke these posts are fucking weird

[akanemnon]

I don't like this place. It's turning everyone edgy and sad.

FIRST - PREVIOUS - NEXT

MASTERPOST (for the full series / FAQ / reference sheets)

[chittychittyyangyang]

Listen, you should never film strangers in public without their consent, but I swear there need to be fines or something for people who do that shit in some spaces. For example: I had to go to the ER last night, and some jerk filmed a woman who just came in and was clearly having an asthma attack. She immediately got to go back, and he was unhappy about that. Believe me, I get that it sucks having to wait when you're in pain, but you don't get to pick who deserves care when. The medical system in the US is a nightmare, and the ER could be the worst moment of someone's life. No one deserves to be recorded because some jack ass believes someone doesn't look like they need care.

This is fine to reblog. People who film strangers should be shamed if nothing else.

[apollos-boyfriend]

i keep seeing people talk about dan and phil who are they???

[sarcastic-clapping]

LET YOUR DAD DIE: IT'S FINE IT'S FINE IT'S WHAT HE DID TO HIS DAD.

Lestat + Claudia: Patricide & The Cycles of Violence - INTERVIEW WITH THE VAMPIRE (2022) - Catherine Lacy, "Cut" (2019) / Anne Rice, "The Vampire Lestat" (1985) / Anne Rice, "Interview with the Vampire" (1976)

[cuntylouis]

I feel like many people have a fundamental misconception of what unreliable narrator means. It's simply a narrative vehicle not a character flaw or a sign that the character is a bad person. There are also many different types of unreliable narrators in fiction. Being an unreliable narrator doesn't necessarily mean that the character is 'wrong', it definitely doesn't mean that they're wrong about everything even if some aspects in their story are inaccurate, and only some unreliable narrators actively and consciously lie. Stories that have unreliable narrators also tend to deal with perception and memory and they often don't even have one objective truth, just different versions. It reflects real life where we know human memory is highly unreliable and vague and people can interpret same events very differently

[gertritude-art]

do younger people not know about t(-_-t ) anymore.... do they know about ( o3o) do they know about tilde abuse ~

[genderkoolaid]

there's a special kind of ableism (perhaps mixed with ageism) that comes from people who are older adults, who lived an largely abled life, who get like. personally offended by the idea that you, a young person, could DARE to also have a shitty body. like they view bad knees and fatigue as a badge of honor you get from living a long life & young disabled people don't deserve it? because we haven't suffered enough to... suffer? it's fucking bonkers. like yes ma'am I also make old person noises when getting up. i don't know why you feel like I'm taking something from you by being young and crippled.

[kindnessoverperfection]

Please, if you can, take a moment to read and share this because I feel like I'm screaming underwater.

NPD (Narcissistic Personality Disorder) stigma is rampant right now, and seems to be getting progressively worse. Everyone is using it as a buzzword in the worst ways possible, spreading misinformation and hatred against a real disorder.

I could go on a long time about how this happened, why it's factually incorrect (and what the disorder actually IS), why it's harmful, and the changes I'd like to see. But to keep this concise, I'll simply link to a few posts under the cut for further reading.

The point of this post is a plea. Please help stop the spread of stigma. Even in mental health communities, even around others with personality disorders, in neurodivergent "safe" spaces, other communities I thought people would be supportive in (e.g. trans support groups, progressive spaces in general), it keeps coming up. So I'm willing to bet that a lot of people on this site need to see this.

Because it's so hard to exist in this world.

My disorder already makes me feel as if I'm worthless and unlovable, like there's something inherently wrong and damaged about me. And it's so much harder to fight that and heal when my daily life consists of:

Laughing and spending time with my friends, doing my utmost best to connect and stay present and focused on them, trying to let my guards down and be real and believe I'm lovable- when suddenly they throw out the word "narcissist" to describe horrible people or someone they hate, or the conversation turns to how evil "people with narcissistic personality disorder" are. (Seriously, you don't know which of your friends might have NPD and feels like shit when you say those things & now knows that you'd hate them if you knew.)

Trying to look up "mental health positivity for people with npd", "mental health positivity cluster bs", only to find a) none of that, and b) more of the same old vile shit that makes me feel terrible about myself.

Having a hard time (which is constant at this point) and trying to look up resources for myself, only to again, find the same stigma. And no resources.

Not having any clue how to help myself, because even the mental health field is spitting so much vitriol at people with DISORDERS (who they're supposed to be helping!) that there's no solid research or therapy programs for people like me.

Losing close friends when they find out, despite us having had a good relationship before, and them KNOWING me and knowing that I'm not like the trending image of pwNPD. Because now they only see me through the lens of stigma and misinformation.

Hearing the same stigma come up literally wherever I go. Clubs. Meetings. Any online space. At the bus stop. At the mall. At a restaurant. At work. Buzzword of the year that everyone loooves loudly throwing around with their friends or over the phone. Feels awesome for me, makes my day so much better/s

I could go on for a long time, but I'm scared no one will read/rb this if it gets too much longer.

So please. Stop using the word "narcissist" as a synonym for "abusive".

Stop bringing up people you hate who you believe to have NPD because of a stigmatizing article full of misinformation whenever someone with actual NPD opens their mouth. (Imagine if people did that with any other disorder! "Hey, I'm autistic." "Oh... my old roommate screamed at me whenever I made noise around him, and didn't understand my needs, which seems like sensory overload and difficulty with social cues. He was definitely autistic. But as long as you're self-aware and always restraining your innate desire to be an abusive asshole, you're okay I guess, maybe." ...See how offensive and ignorant that is?)

Stop preventing healthcare for people with a disorder just because it's trendy to use us as a scapegoat.

If you got this far, thank you for reading, and please share this if you can. Further reading is under the cut.

NPD Criteria, re-written by someone who actually has NPD

Stigma in the DSM

Common perception of the DSM criteria vs how someone may actually experience them (Keep in mind that this is the way I personally experience these symptoms, and that presentation can vary a lot between individuals)

"Idk, the stigma is right though, because I've known a lot of people with NPD who are jerks, so I'm going to continue to support the blockage of treatment for this condition."

(All of these were written by me, because I didn't want to link to other folks' posts without permission, but if you want to add your own links in reblogs or replies please feel free <3)

[oh-shinx]

Fun pokefashion fact!!!!!!!

*Ahem!!!*

DO NOT GLUE WIGS TO YOUR POKEMON BECAUSE THAT IS EXTREMELY BAD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I do not care that your gulpin looks bald, it is actually unhealthy!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[biggest-gaudiest-patronuses]

anyone else have multiple traumatic memories associated specifically with holidays/family vacations? because that is a topic I never see discussed in all the So You Had A Shitty Childhood, Now What? self-help books i've been reading. but for me, it was a significant thing. and the more i think about it the more it seems like this would be an (unfortunately) common experience. would be grateful to hear if this matches other peoples' experiences...