#they arent alone

[petrichor-and-moondust]

Sometimes I find myself sitting down, wishing for One Thing. 

One Thing to look back at and say, this is what caused it. This is the route factor. The One Thing which caused the pain. The illness. The endless doctor's appointments. The worried looks. The long talks. The eggshell walking.

One Thing. To explain the shaking. The anxiety. The panic attacks. To explain the sleeplessness and the scars. To explain all these responses I have to minute occurrences. 

One night, I talk to someone. We're sleeping on the sofa as I explain to her the voices. The actions that weren't my own. The feeling of being on autopilot. She tells me, you're dissociating in those moments. That's what it is. It's a trauma response.

But, I tell her, I'm not traumatised. So I can't be experiencing a trauma response to trauma that never happened. I have loving parents. Who love me and each other. I've always had friends. I am loved and supported in my interests and pursuits.

Sure, I tell her, maybe my parents took a while to come around to the LGBT stuff, and hey, maybe they haven't learned to accept the trans thing, but they're there. And they haven't kicked me out, or stopped loving me, or stopped treating me they way they always have. Maybe I got teased a bit in high school, but nothing extreme. Definitely not enough to count as trauma.

At 2am in the morning, I stare into the sorrow as she looks at me and tells me. 

“Growing up neurodivergent in a neurotypical world is a traumatic experience.”

Growing up queer in a cisgender, hetero-normative society is traumatising.

And I stop. And I laugh it off and we move on to another topic.

But.

But.

I keep thinking about it.

“Growing up neurodivergent in a neurotypical world is a traumatic experience.”

And I think back. To the childhood I remember in a haze. To the kids I surrounded myself with and called friends. I think about them. I think about how they never tried to really learn about my interests, other than sitting while I talked about them. I think about how they never stood up for me when I got made fun of by the boys in our year, and the years above, for liking a "babies show".

It was Pokemon. I was in primary school.

I think about how our "friendship" fizzled out the second we left for high school. They were all going to the same high school. I wasn't. 

And that was that.

I think about the little girl who got along better with the boys. I think about her best friend at the time who said he liked her. I think about how for years beforehand everyone had teased them for "dating". 

We were 10. The only thing I was interested in was drawing cats and reading books.

I think about how she told him she liked him too. I think about how she thought she was being truthful. Because she did like him. He talked to her, and dug up worms with her without calling her gross, and he knew more about Pokemon than anyone else in their class. So she said "yes." She told them they could be boyfriend and girlfriend.

I think about how they never kissed. How really, everything they ever did was platonic. How she had been so conditioned into being forbidden from touching a boy unless they were dating. How she was never taught to express love for a friend. How she didn't know the difference between platonic and romantic feelings.

I think about how their first "date" was going to the cinema. How her mother sat beside them the whole time. They called each other boyfriend and girlfriend and held hands and hugged each other goodbye every day and got each other Valentine's gifts.

Then, a month into high school, just a few months after the whole thing started, they broke up. I think about how they hadn't met up in months. He barely messaged her. She told him she didn't want to be his girlfriend anymore.

Years later, and she hears he told everyone she dumped him because he got glasses.

She had glasses. 

I think about how I was 8 when I got my autism diagnosis. I was 8 when the doctor appointments started.

I was 17 when they stopped. 

I was 9 when my teacher pulled me to the side. I was 9 when he looked at me and said he didn’t think I should put what I had on my introduction for the wall.

I was 9. I wrote that I liked to draw and climb trees. I wrote that I had Asperger’s Syndrome.

Because that’s what I was told. That was the big label they smacked on my file.

I don’t use that term now. I understand the history. The pain that happened to get it. And I refute it. I am autistic. Autism. That is what I have. There is not high-functioning, No low-functioning. No specific labels to sort the “good” autistics from the “bad” autistics. Because there are none. There are autistic people and non-autistic people. That's it.

I was 9 when my teacher told me I shouldn’t announce it to everyone. That I should try and hide it.

I didn’t. I wrote that shit down and I got it stuck to the fucking wall.

And kids read it. And they asked me what it meant. They thought I was sick. Then disabled. I hated that. I wasn’t disabled, I said. I was just like them, but more awesome, I told anyone that asked.

And yeah. I was more awesome than them. But I was also disabled. Even if I didn’t want to admit that out loud, or even to myself.

“Growing up neurodivergent in a neurotypical world is a traumatic experience.”

I repeat it to myself as a mantra. As I think back.

I think about when a mother placed a hat on their kid’s head fresh from the dryer. How it was warm and far too big. How that kid put a badge on it and proudly declared that it was her hat now. Covered it in button badges and wore it to school every day. How she wore it everywhere. Around the house. In school. Going to restaurants. In the middle of summer they walked around wearing an adult man’s thermal hat weighed down with metal button badges like it was armour. And in a way it was.

Every day she walked into class with that hat. Every day, she was told to take it off. And didn't. Couldn't. The hat kept her safe. She needed that hat like a limb. 

I think about how the hat was a comfort item. Still is a comfort item. Maybe it doesn’t get worn every day, but it’s still there. Sewn up and fraying at the seams. But they will always have that hat.

I think about every time a teacher told her to take it off. I think about every raised voice, every pinch of the eyebrows, every exasperated sigh she received. I think about every time she was told to stop fidgeting. To sit properly. To pay attention. I think about how she was still the smartest damn kid in that class when she never paid attention in the way she was told to. The way she was forced to. How she drew in all the margins. How she read books in maths and wrote them in English. How she desperately wanted to fit in, but still wanted to be herself.

I think about how she never consciously masked. How she was always too quiet or too loud, and definitely always, always too weird. Strange. But she paid attention to the little things. The way the girls talked. How they interacted to each other. What they liked. I think about how she never understood it. But she mimicked it. She learned to stand like them, play like them, and talk about boys with them- how they were annoying. How she hated them. How she wanted this one to be her boyfriend. I think about her being put on the spot and pressured into giving up the name of the boy she liked. I think about how no one believed her when she said there was none. I think about how she chose the name of the boy who she was “rivals” with.

I think about the scars on her shins that have long since faded. I think about the concerned looks and hushed voices. 

I think about how the first time she hurt herself wasn’t standing over a sink with a razor blade slicing into her arms like in the movies. I think about the little kid furiously trying to cut her nose off with her duvet cover. The kid walking around with a friction burn over her face for weeks. The kid scratching at her legs like she was trying to dig something out. 

I think about how she was taken back to the doctors. The forcefully cheery rooms with the forcefully cheery woman. Who wanted to know. Who wanted an explanation as to why a bubbly, loving and loved for kid was mutilating themselves in any way they could.

She didn’t get an answer. 

How was an 8 year old supposed to explain something so complex? To say it felt good? To say they didn’t know? To explain they were punishing themselves for being different, being an outsider, being weird?

The kid spent months talking to her. She chalked it up to a sensory issue stemming from autism. She showed her how to make stress balls from balloons and flour. She sent them off with a wave and another inch to the growing file.

I think about how the pixie cut she got when she was 7 paired with the hand-me-down trousers of her brother’s got that girl mistaken so often for a boy. How the kid’s refusal to wear skirts or dresses got her labelled a “tomboy”. I think about the lady who mistakenly called her by a boy’s name. I think of how that name stuck. How often that kid got teased and laughed at and called a boy. Of how much she hated it, because of course she wasn’t a boy. Of course she wasn’t. That wasn’t possible. I think about how really, she didn’t mind being called a boy. I think about the time her brother’s teacher asked her mother to “control her youngest son” when she sat in on a meeting. How she hated him for wanting her to sit still. How she was thrilled at the belief she was a boy. How she smiled quietly at her mother’s lack of correction.

How she sat still for the rest of the meeting to make sure her mother didn’t bring it up again.

I think about how she just hated the teasing. Being seen as different. Being the outsider once again. I think about how she finally had a reason to point to why people teased her. About how she wouldn’t get a single haircut for the next 4 years.

I think about the first person she met who liked the same things she did. I think about how much time they spent together. How they depended on each other. How toxic that became. 

I think about how at the raw and tender age of 13 that movie-moment happened. Under the cover of darkness with a sharpener and a screwdriver. I think about the obsessive tally marks on skin and paper. The lack of reasoning for drawing the blade over and over again. I think about how they went months without being discovered. I think about the obsessive counting of the scars.

15. 32. 40. 

And then they were back in that doctors office again.

I think about the first woman, who lasted three sessions total, once a month. Then the next. Another three sessions. Then the man, who cancelled their third appointment and never rescheduled.

I think about them being tossed like a hot potato from therapist to therapist. I think about how they could never build up trust with them. I think about how unwanted they felt. How hopeless did you have to be to be unwanted by the people who were supposed to help?

52. 64. 72.

I think about the confusion and the fear and the sadness from going through puberty. I think about how much hatred they aimed towards themselves for it. How many names and flags and genders they cycled through to feel like they fit. To feel right.

 I think about how they never did.

I think about his parents who were there every step of the way. I think about his mother who confiscated all of his sharpeners. I remember him thinking about the irony of being an artist unable to sharpen his tools. 

I think about the years of sleepless nights. The nightmares. The sleep-talking. The days where he felt he was on autopilot. The stories from his mother of childhood night terrors and hours of screaming on end.

I think about the voice in their head. I think about the body it belonged to. I think about all the times he was in control. I think about the times they watched him sit on the end of their bed and whisper all their worst insecurities and self-hatreds to them. I think about the times he held their hand when they were scared and told them they would be okay. I think about how no one ever saw or heard him except them. I think about how they had always known he wasn’t real. I think about how real he is to them.

I think about their high school career. Five years of hell. I think about the homework. The exams. The refusal of breaks. The notes about behaviour from teachers. The being singled out in class for fidgeting. The ban on fidget toys. The stares. The remarks. The teasing. I think about the face of bravado and the easy laughs and the dark humour shared with friends. I think about the shoebox on a wardrobe filled with notes passed in class. I think about the relationships made and the ones shattered.

I think about the best friend who turned out to be a creep. Who broke their trust so wholly that they didn’t think they would be able to trust again. All the days of shared classes where hearing his voice gave them panic attacks. Where looking at him made their lungs shrivel.

I think about comments made and the ones unsaid. I think about all the relationships broken from secrecy. I think about queer kids who were terrified to admit it to anyone. Who only shared their pain with those who understood. With those who were the same. I think about queer kids planning how to move out as soon as they could. Queer kids making safety plans for when they came out. Queer kids finding family in each other. Queer kids who run away. Queer kids who don’t.

I think back to the 7 year old crying when her mother found a backpack in their wardrobe filled with clothes and chocolate bars. I think about that kid’s plan to run away. How she didn’t want to. How she didn’t understand the need to. How she felt the need anyway.

I think about the 13 year old’s plans to run away. I think about their whispers under covers to friends who would shelter them. I think about how they never went through with it. 

I think about the pills.

I think about the first ones. I think about the blue ones. I think about the capsules. I think about the powdery dry replacements. I think about the ones split in half. I think about the ones from bottles and the ones from strips.

I think about the ones sat beside the sink and the ones sat beside the bed.

I think about her words.

“Growing up neurodivergent in a neurotypical world is a traumatic experience.”

I think about how much I wish that were wrong.

I think about how much I know it isn't.

I think about the trauma of being different. I think about the trauma of being autistic. I think about the trauma of being queer. 

I mourn the loss of my childhood as I look back at all the trauma that permeated it. I think about how many queer kids will never realise what happened was trauma. I think about how many neurodiverse kids will never realise what happened was trauma.

I think about how I never realised what happened was trauma.

I think about kids who lived through it. Kids who didn’t. Kids who survived the system. Kids who were failed by it.

I think about the 7 year old kid with the pixie cut.

The 8-year old with the new diagnosis.

The 9 year old in the waiting room.

I think about the 10 year old with friction burns on their face and legs.

The 11 year old making stress balls from balloons and flour.

The 12 year old finding a friend.

I think about the 13 year old with the fresh scars.

The 14 year old who tried to explain them.

I think about the 15 year old who overdosed.

The 16 year old who survived.

I think about the 17 year old who was discharged because they aged out.

I think about all the kids who didn’t.

And then I stop. And I breathe. And I think about the 18 year old who is here. The 18 year old who is now. 

The 18 year old who is traumatised. Because growing up neurodiverse in a neurotypical world does that. But I think about how the 18-year old won’t let that define them. How they will survive. And thrive. 

Because traumatic experiences don’t last forever.

And they are so much more than the sum of their past.

They are the cause of their future. 

[lvnesart]

need her

[elfcollector]

SILENT HILL 2 (2024) — "it's time to let it go."

[doctormori]

hey wanna see a silly fucked up headcanon I had

HYPOTHETICALLY him drawing these triangles is a mindless cry for his parents, that maybe, if they weren't entirely gone, they'd be there watching him.

[your-stranger-halfblood-things]

Fellow ace and aro spectrum people,

How do you view Valentine's Day?

[littlecrittereli]

Hey there! I read both Reprogrammed and Decoded and was blown away. Unfortunately (sorta), my odd little brain had one little question that was burning from the end of Reprogrammed till the end of the story: what about the Wild Kratts Kids? How did they react to Chris's disappearance/return? I know if I were 8 and my teacher (i guess thats an okay metaphor? maybe?) randomly disappeared for 3 months and came back 10 pounds lighter with dozens of new scars and white hair in their early twenties, I'd be a little torn up/curious. How would Chris feel about showing up on screen in front of a bunch of kids in his state? Would he...wear a...hat...or something...? I don't know, just thoughts lol

They never told the public that Chris was missing (Didn't wanna scare the kids or give the Villains the knowledge that they were vulnerable)

And being out in the most rural parts of the world, it's not uncommon for them to go months without any sort of public appearance. For now, Martin is handling any sort of press alone until Chris is ready to be back in the public eye.

But of course they still run into a wild kratts kid every once and a while.

He's still working on his alibi.....

[dipperscavern]

was having some robb stark thoughts last night trying to fall asleep… sigh

you and robb usually rise in the mornings at the same time. queen & king in the north, you have duties to attend to that force you both out of bed earlier than you’d like. but sometimes, robb has to be up before you.

his weight dips down on the bed as he sits beside your sleeping form, fully clothed & ready to leave. he wants to let you sleep, knows you need your rest—but you’d kill him if he left without waking you up to say goodbye.

his hand comes to tuck your hair behind your ears, soft murmurs of your name rousing you from sleeps hold. he pulls his hand back as you open your eyes, both of you smiling at the sight of the other. you reach out, still half asleep, hand finding robb’s. he brings your hand to his mouth, kissing it as you look up at him—love etched in your pupils. you pull him closer, & robb chuckles at your neediness, voice warm & dripping like honey. he leans in, pressing chaste kisses to anywhere he can reach. he starts at your cheek, trailing down to your jaw and eventually your neck. each kiss grounds you firmer and firmer to the present, pulling you out from the hazy state sleep puts you in.

he eventually stops, resting his head in the crook of your shoulder. he closes his eyes, soaking up your presence before he has to become king in the north. right now he’s just robb, the man you grew up with at winterfell. your hand comes to run through his curls, as your other thumb massages lightly at his temple. he relaxes further into your touch, a groan rising from deep in his chest. robb’s body had been wound up tight during his time at war, as to be expected. the weight of his burdens sit heavy on his shoulders, long days of fighting not only lannister armies, but sometimes his own men—clouding his mind with headaches that only you seem to be able to relieve in the slightest.

“keep doin’ that and I won’t be able to get back up.”

he’s only teasing (he’s completely serious), making you laugh as you retract your thumb from his temple. his eyes flutter open, sighing at his own stupidity, wondering how he could ever ask you to stop making him feel good. his mind takes over, reminding him of his duties. if he doesn’t get up now, he surely won’t be making it out of this tent by high noon. he can already hear greywind rustling from his guard outside the entrance of the tent, warding off someone’s presence.

he gathers his wits, trailing kisses back up your neck. once he gets to your cheek, he even teases by placing a kiss at the corner of your mouth. he smiles at his own antics, proud of himself, before he presses his lips to yours. his hand comes to cradle your jaw, kissing you long & firm, as he sits up. your lips chase his, and he places a quick peck on your lips once more as he stands up. his hand leaves your jaw, and you could almost whine at the loss of his touch.

you watch him turn & walk away, he doesn’t turn around to look at you again, knowing if he does—he’s going right back into your arms. he grabs his sword, opening the flap of the tent & walking out. you stretch, content with his goodbye. you’ll get up in a few minutes, and you’ll see each other around the camp, but it’s the quiet mornings before the world wakes up that keeps you both sane. you smile, hearing robb & theons voices outside the tent as they walk away.

“what took you so long? greywind almost had me for a snack, you know.”

“would be a small meal.”

is screaming at your own writing something u shouldn’t admit cause AHHHHHHH. put me & him in a room tg & we BOTH walking out pregnant.

[s0fter-sin]

god the way ghost’s voice drops when he tells soap, “you’ll need to improvise to survive”

before that, everything he says is steady but when he acknowledges that soap’ll have to do something outside his skill set, something he intimately knows to be difficult, his voice wavers. he does the same when he says, “welcome to guerrilla warfare”; it’s sombre and serious in a way he doesn’t act for the rest of the mission. if you read into it enough, he almost sounds apologetic; like he knows exactly what soap’s about to go through and wishes he didn’t have to

he keeps soap going; poking at him and making jokes, giving him tips and asking about his progress. he never lets him stop and take a second to think bc he knows the moment he does is the moment it'll all hit him; the betrayal, the pain, the fear, the deaths, all of it will drown him and if that happens, soap won't make it

he needs him to be a soldier through and through and he knows this is one of the worst kinds of battlefields you could end up on

and the only times he slips is when he acknowledges that fact

it happens again when he says, "tryin' to get you here alive and in one piece". his jovial dark humour facade drops for just a moment when he has to face the potential reality of losing soap. then he tries to pick it back up again with, "one of us has to survive to tell the tale"; completely discounting himself as a survivor to try and rally soap and make him think it’s all down to him

and soap does the same thing

when he's calling out for ghost on the radio, he's tentative, testing the frequency, then when he doesn’t get a response, he grows desperate; "ghost, this is 7-1, do you copy?"

then when ghost answers, he smooths out his voice; he hides the pain, the fear, and no matter what response you give to ghost asking if he’s injured, soap brushes it off (“i’m good”, “what’s the difference?”, “i’m not a medic”). soap decides it’s in ghost’s best interest to hide the extent of his injuries

he doesn’t know where ghost is, if he’s secure, if he has any weapons; he doesn’t even know if he’s in las almas until he says, “there’s a church, i’m headed to it”. for all he knows, he could’ve run in the complete opposite direction. if ghost knows he’s hurt, then his attention would be split between his own survival and soap’s

and soap, who lets himself be poked and prodded towards the church, needs to hide his own doubts. maybe he needs ghost to believe he'll make it so he himself can believe it ("what are my odds?" "don't make me bet against you", "think i'll live that long?" "probably not")

he all but begs ghost to tell him he'll get through it and if he knows just how bad off he is, maybe he'll change his mind. maybe he'll think he won't make it to the church

maybe he'll leave him alone for good

"you injured?"

"i’m good"

"let's find out how good you are"

[galatariel]

TAYLOR SWIFT 240107 / Golden Globes 2024

[unrelatedsideblog]

Honestly it's kinda funny how big part of the fandom believes in loser Sanji and rizzer Zoro as if Sanji didn't pulled 2 girls in his introduction Arc (in front of their dates too lol) and Zoro pulled 1 girl in entirity of the canon if I remember correctly

In Zoro's defence may be that he doesn't exactly try + baths once a week but still, canon lol

[tangledinink]

Would it be better if the siblings brought swanatello a picture or something, like Leo had in the movie?

He does have some pictures, and it does help! He has a whole conspiracy-theory bulletin board that one of his brothers brought him that he uses to try to keep track of things, but...

It can be difficult for him to keep things organized, considering his current capabilities re: memory and overall state of mind. He does also sometimes lose notes or portions of his work, and he's not sure if he himself is doing this and then just not remembering it, or if it is a result of outside sabotage?

The problem is also that when he's in Full Guardian Defense Mode and focused on driving out intruders, he doesn't really remember about the board or his notes. He's certainly not going to take a break in driving out what he views as a dangerous intruder so that he can go and pick through his notes... But it does help. Donnie is more likely to recognize them since they got the bulletin board set up.

[ronnabyte]

sog more like soggy losers

[alienssstufff]

The Slimecicle analyst sleeper agent in me woke up again we analysing shit

The dynamic between qSlime and Sunny is so fascinating - like by law yes they are bound together as family and of course they care about each other and trust each other to an extent, yet there's always this distance that they try to keep.

Both Slime and Sunny put in the effort to get to know one another despite what other people say about them, but there's a billion unanswered questions Sunny has for their pop - and a billion unspoken secrets that Slime doesn't have the vulnerability to share.

Notably the assassination Slime initially had on Sunny (he never tells her this), and the conversation the two of them had in the snow when Sunny brings up the rumours. Even towards his daughter Slime is defensive, he doesn't coddle them as much as he did with Juanaflippa. The distinction between Juanaflippa (as a concept) and Sunny for Slime's character is extremely important as Sunny (even as his daughter) does not fit that flippa mold. By doing this Slime draws this line as a response from his trauma, but when these lines start to blur as Slime and Sunny do more father-daughter stuff together (egg tasks, games, lullabies) -- is when Slime starts to break down (eg: the bedtime rap).

There's only so much they can do as a family without addressing the glaring holes in their relationship before it gets worse.

[ganondoodle]

sometimes i wish i was one of those artist that make people go "this is a PAINTING???" or "with WHAT programm/medium???" but its just not what i can do or find fun :/

[hethinkslikeaking]

"omg homophobia :( the lesbian ship i want to kiss didn't kiss in an episode that was obviously going to be the backstory of another main character :( hes EXPLICITLY gay in a MARVEL DISNEY+ show and kisses his boyfriend but its still so homophobic :( the episode wasn't straight out of my headcannon so i hate it :("

do you know how dumb u sound rn

[sleepboysummer]

no one ever talks about how rickys parents BARELY EVER INTERACTED WITH HIM. how did everyone forget that.