#tw childhood flashback

[arwenkenobi48]

So I randomly thought of a Christmas Carol parody featuring my favourite anime demon but ran out of motivation aside from this little poignant snippet. Thought it was worth sharing with the world anyways. You’re welcome.

The young boy sat alone in his room, obsessively watching the mechanical movements of a model train with wide eyes. “Wow!” He whispered in awe, standing on tiptoes as he peered over the top of the high wooden table, just as he’d done many times before. He could watch that miniature train forever, its small rails clacking as it travelled in an endless circle.

Enmu was sure he recognised the kid. There was something about the faraway look in his eyes that seemed oddly familiar. “Do you remember him?” The glowing Spirit asked quietly, although they both knew the answer to that question. “Good heavens…” Enmu murmured, a strange sense of bittersweet nostalgia sweeping over him. “It’s me.”

[psychocitysblog]

Why does being alive have to be so hard?

[irlangelsdiary]

just a shoutout to any survivors <3

i see you.

i hear you.

i know its hard

i know some days are more difficult then others

but i also know you are strong, and brave.

i know you are going to get through this

i know you are going to heal

i know it will take one day at a time

but i know you will heal

we will heal

we will live without our trauma ruining us, we will love ourselves, empower ourselves and laugh and heal and one day it wont hurt as much.

one day.

[cry-baby6]

[starryvomit]

i was taught from a very young age that the world is not safe.

[zombie-boygrrl]

There is nothing like being triggered into your dog related childhood trauma, feeling like you're back in that rusted cage, and then four days into that flashback, you see a cat get hit by a car.

The cat flops towards you on its side, looking as if it's playing.

If it wasn't in the road, no one would be any wiser.

Except me; Except you.

I saw your eyes; glossy, pupils wide.

You landed on the pavement, outstreching a paw as I ran towards you.

You twitched, your tail curled, your back arched.

There was no blood.

You didn't let out a sound.

You just looked at me.

And suddenly, I was you.

Led on that pavement, statically pleading for help.

Your eyes were glossy as you died.

And here I still am, led on my side.

And all I know, is I have been were you have been.

But you were a cat, and I, a dog.

I tried to save you.

For almost twenty minutes, I tried to save you.

I didn't leave your side, not until you were wrapped up in that pinkish red towel, and driven away from that pavement.

You urinated two minutes before you were taken away. I knew that that was it.

Is this it for me too?

[bl0w-m3]

TW!!!!!!! SA!!! ABUSE!!!!

I was doing so much damn better. Then a memory of my father literally trafficking me to a pedophile popped up, and outwardly I’m cool I’m fine I’m going about my life, but internally I am NOT handling it well at all. I’m constantly anxious like this pit in my stomach that won’t go away. I can’t sleep and I won’t get out of bed in the morning until noon. I’ve stopped going to the gym. I’ve stopped eating as much. I have no sex drive.

I have no therapist because they all keep dropping me and I don’t know how to cope with it at all so any advice would be greatly appreciated

[bpdmaxxer]

I hate getting flashbacks so much I don’t wanna remember. I wanna repress my brain repressed stuff for a reason why am I remembering it I wanna forget

I wanna forget so bad.

[secretly-a-catamount]

Let Me Avow

(This Story Can Also Be Found Here On Ao3

Part One Can Be Found Here

Note: Although This Is Technically Chapter Two Of This Fic It Can Easily Be Read As A Standalone)

  It had been raining the day Annabel Blackthorn turned nine.

  It was always raining.

  At least the Blackthorns’ house was dry, Malcolm had thought idly as he watched his friend wring the rain out of her hair, the orphanage had always been wet and leaking, the sagging, patched roof and broken window offering no protection against the harsher of the elements. The water droplets caught in Annabel’s hair looked like the diamonds Mrs. Blackthorn occasionally took out of the family vault and wore around the house. She looked like a bird, poised on the edge of his cot, ready to fly far, far away.

  “Malcolm?” She was the only one who ever called him by his name, to the rest of the Blackthorns and their servants — who feared the retribution that would surely be dealt to them if they dared be kind to him — he was simply “warlock” or “boy” or “you”. Not Malcolm, never Malcolm, never to anyone who wasn’t her. (He wondered, sometimes, if that was the reason why he loved her name in turn. He knew it wasn’t.)

  “Yes, Annabel?” Her voice was steady, his was too, as if he were an equal lightly chatting with her during a social call, instead of a servant she’d tracked down in the depths of her family’s house, where she was expressly forbidden to go, to let him tend to the discolored bruises her father had left across her face.

  “Would you tell me a story?”

  “What kind?”

  “Something true.” Her eyes seemed to burn in their sockets, blue-green flames flickering behind a brittle, paper mask. “But not so true that it . . .”

  “Hurts.” He finished softly, her bruises fading as his fingers slid over her skin with all the light grace she had herself possessed when she’d glided across the surface of a frozen pond earlier, knives she’d stolen from the Weapons Room tied to each foot.

  She sighed, shoulder slumping. Whether her relief was that of the pain and swelling was gone or that of the fact that he understood what she felt without a measure of doubt, Malcolm couldn’t tell.

  “There was a boy at the orphanage.”

  “Not you?” Her voice was a whisper.

  “Not me.” His voice was a whisper too.

  “His name was Tobias Finch. He had red hair, and freckles, and a book of stories. It was green and had a rather particular color on the lettering that made up the title, like gold or copper, although it wasn’t either, it was tin painted to look like something valuable. It was an atlas, this book, and it had stories. Those stories were tales, really, places where the people could dance and where they could hide and nothing bad would happen to them because of it. The writers called it a masquerade.”

  “How did they hide?” Annabel seemed to be drinking in the words. Body angled towards him, hands gently folded in her lap, her face glowed as if she had just seen her first glimpse of the sun after a fearsome storm.

  “They wore masks.” He answered, his hand still fitted to the gentle, oval curve of her face (he knew he should draw away, but he simply couldn’t make himself, not from her, not from Annabel, the only one who still spoke to him with kindness, the only one who had ever touched him gently), “covering their faces but not their eyes. So they could see but not be—“

  “Seen,” she interrupted, the singular word a rushed exhale, “so they could see but not be seen.”

  A stab of relief. “Yes, yes, that’s it. That’s exactly it.” He was glad to know that the understanding that they shared went both ways. He understood her, and she understood him, and he knew that, knew it all the way down in his bones, but it felt good to be reminded anyway. There were days where her family made him doubt. He hated them on those days, instead of nearly fearing and disliking them.

  “I wish to go there someday.” Her voice was wistful, as if she was seeing past the wooden beams and bricks and stones and mortar to a place that was better — a place that deserved to house her.

  “I’ll take you.” It was a reckless promise, one he couldn’t stop himself from making. “I’ll take you there.” His words were softer now, almost reverent, like how Annabel had said people spoke in the church neither of them were allowed to attend; Annabel, of course, had snuck in a week or so ago to steal several bottles of pink-reddish wine, her parents and brothers off in Idris, the two friends had drunk the church-wine until they’d been sick.

  Annabel suddenly seemed uncertain, as if she had just really realized where she was, had just realized who she was spending her time with, had just realized what her family would do to her if they found out she was doing either of those things.

   She was beautiful and kind, she was wonderful and goodness, she was light and his friend, but — he suddenly jumped up from his cot, limbs a tangle of nervous motion as his mouth jumped over the moon and ran away with both the spoon and his thoughts.

  “I understand if you want to leave, your parents, we can meet later, I’m got down to the village, buy some spell ingredients, I know you have a landscape painting you want to finish, we can—”

  “Malcolm, you’re being incredibly jumpy all of a sudden. Whatever is wrong?”

  “You’re apprehensive. Or you look it, at least, and that bothers me, because we’re friends. I don’t want to be the cause of your strife or—”

  “Malcolm. I look apprehensive because I bought you a gift and am uncertain if you will like it or not.”

  “Oh.” He hadn’t expected that, he knew she loved him, that’s what friends did, but gifts? She never gave him a gift before. He blinked owlishly, wringing his hands. “If I might ask—“

  “You know you can.”

  “Where is this gift”—gift? she’d bought him something? he hadn’t quite been aware that he meant so much to her—”my room isn’t quite big enough to hide a box.” Indeed it wasn’t, the room behind the great house’s boiler was barely large enough to hold the cot and two children. In true, his room wasn’t really a room, but a old, crumbling storage closet with a makeshift bed shoved into it. There wasn’t even enough space to put a nightstand, the lit candle placed in the small alcove Malcolm had carved into the wall using magic.

  “Of course, there’s no box. I made it. It’s a bracelet.” She held out her arm, on her wrist were what looked to be pieces of colored glass strung together on a thin metal wire.

  “But that’s you’re sea glass”—the sailor had told him to give them to someone special and without even thing Malcolm had turned and handed the smooth shards to Annabel, saying that they matched her eyes—“and that’s your bracelet, and it’s your birthday; you’re supposed to get gifts on your birthday, not give them.”

  She pulled him back down to sit beside her on the cot. “Shadowhunters don’t celebrate birthdays like Mundanes, so I’ve decided that I can do my birthday how I want it. I want to have the greatest gift and the greatest gift you can give me today is your happiness. And besides,” she said, unclasping the bracelet with her teeth, and than re-tying it around his wrist, “you already gave me four gifts today.”

  “I did?” It looked wrong on his wrist, something so surly hers on his body, something that would never truly belong to him no matter how much he went along with it to please her. “What were they? Healing your bruises?”

  “No, you silly boy, you gave me a story and a wish and a promise.” She was speaking in a whisper again, leaning in much, much closer than was proper. Her breath was warm against his face. Her eyes glistened in the faint candlelight like deep pools to the ocean, not for the first time Malcolm thought he wouldn’t mind drowning in them.

  “That’s only three things.” He whispered back snakily, uncertain, if this is going to progress in the way that he thought it was, uncertain what he would do if it did. He’d fallen in love with Annabel Blackthorn a long time ago, he just never thought she’d reciprocate his feelings.

  “Yes, it is. But that’s okay. What you’re going to give me I can you back.”

  She smiled, a slow, dazzling thing that stole the words from his mouth.

  And then she kissed him, and that stole all the thoughts from his head.

[psychocitysblog]

I have a lot of childhood trauma. I sit here day after day thinking about it over and over. You don’t just ‘get over it’. It’s something you have to live with. But why? Why did I have to go through that? I wish I could go back in time and rewrite my story.

[ribbitflings]

[multi-bee-tings]

(Kinda vent tw for mentions of CSA)

I don't remember ever actually being assaulted as a child but I've always had weird things that weren't normal. I would have dreams about being forced to act like a baby and be touched innopropriately. It was strange. I never felt any particular way about it. Just that it was weird and I shouldn't tell anyone. I was also terrified of someone breaking into my house and hurting me. I had awful anxiety. I would stay awake for hours sobbing, terrified I was going to be hurt until morning. I had trouble falling asleep and hated being left alone. I knew it felt weird. It all felt weird. But I never thought deeper about it until now, when I started having vague flashbacks. I can never tell what's happening in them. But they are distressing. I forget things a lot and deal with depersonlizaton and derealization. There is no specific trauma I remember vividly, just weird feelings. Weird signs. Why did I know about those things that young? Why was i having those dreams? Was it real or am I just trying to victimize myself? I don't think I'll ever understand.

[sunlights-daughter]

"You're not 15." [ Jasmine Angst<3]

"Hey, what'd you get on your report card?" Jasmine stood in the door frame casually.

The girl looked up from her desk as she smiled. "The usual, As, but I did get one F.."

"WHAT?" Jasmine yelled, grabbing her shoulders. Her breathing was labored and she felt like she was going to pass out. And F? She knew.. she knew all too damn well that meant. And dear God. She didn't want it to happen.

"Okay- Okay, don't show mother, okay? She'll.. god– She'll lock you in your room and starve you til you get your grade up- I thought you knew this!" She stood up and started frantically searching through drawers for something. A pen? Extra papers? Her old report card?

"Jasmine–"

"W-We can make a fake card– Draw over the letter maybe she wouldn't notice she'd be too drunk– Maybe you can say you lost it she'll always believe you over me, or-or–" she sighed, she felt her brain wracked with possibility after possibility, but the consequences that may follow...

Why hadn't she studied? Maybe she should have paid for tutoring, she should have put her in the after school program, or she–

"Are you listening to me!?"

"WHAT!?" She snapped, slamming her hands on the desk. She had tears rolling down her face. "I'm trying to figure out a way to get you OUT of this hole you dug for yourself–"

"But why when you're my mom!?"

She blinked. And looked up. Those familiar golden eyes were wide and scared. She was barely holding her pencil. Jasmine stepped back.

"Oh! Um–" She simply tried to play it off. "Right. It's okay, hun. You should, um.. Go study for an hour or two."

"That's what I was doing, are you okay?"

"Yes, yes. I've just been scatterbrained from working all day." She ruffled her hair as she left, leaving Sola confused and worried.

She shut the door behind her and leaned on it, pulling her glasses up and wiping her eyes. She took deep breaths to calm herself down, a trick a god had taught her long ago. "You're not 15 anymore.. you're not.. you're okay. You're okay for her. It's okay."

She sighed and stood up. "I need to get to work."

[anxietytriangles]

I hate my fucking brother so much. I hate that I have to see him for five days and sleep in the same house as him again. I hate how what happened 15-20 years ago feels like it’s happening right now all over again. I always block him out of my mind but there’s no blocking him out when he’s in the next room over. At the very least it seems like he wants to avoid me too while I’m here.

[kats-lagoon]

WELCOME

TO

THE GREATEST

GUESSING

GAME

EVER!!!!!!

ON TODAY’S QUESTION…

Is this chronic pain real or is it part of a flashback????!!!!!

Place your bets folks!!!!