#tw mental health issues??

[xan-izme]

𝐌𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐚𝐲𝐧𝐞𝐬

Prologue

Part 1

Your mother was a beautiful kind and dangerous woman. In short. She was a Falcone. And for young Bruce, being with her was a thrill. Being Batman gave him a thrill, but your mother was a different kind of thrill.

Till she got pregnant. And the thrill was gone.

Your mother kept you of course. Counting the days till she gets to hold you in her arms. And when she finally got to hold you, to feel you close and hear your sweet little voice. The rest of the Falcone men decided that your mother wasn't ready to take care of you. So, they forced you out of her arms and sent you to Bruce.

Bruce held you once. And immediately passed you to Alfred. He was too young to become a father. (Never mind the fact he was already acting as a father to two boys)

He didn't have time to play daddy. Deep down Bruce did come to care for you over the years and attempted to try and hold you. But then Jason died, Dick distanced himself. Holding you, an innocent little thing, felt wrong.

When you were eight. You had tantrums. Night terrors. terribly scared of the dark. Thunderstorms especially. Gotham famous for its long dark nights and loud thunderstorms. Bruce, too busy with his new sidekick, Tim. Didn't have time to comfort you. No matter how heartbreaking your scrams for him were. Crying for him, so he can save you from whatever nightmare you have woken from.

But only Alfred occasionally Dick, would come and save you.

Bruce would give you toys, new dresses as a form of apology. He wouldn't give it to you directly. But have Alfred give it to you or leave it in your room when asleep. But no matter how many new toys he gives you. Those nightmares just never stopped.

Due to the neglect. Your mother was able to meet with you secretly. As years passed, she was able to steal you away when Alfred wasn't hovering around you. Take you to shop and give you whatever you wanted. Holding you in her arms and not wanting to let go.

Slowly, your mother was gaining the favor of some of the Falcones. To let her have you back. To welcome you back into the Falcone family. Once she gets the whole family to agree. She can make a case of child neglect against Bruce Wayne and take her sweet Babygirl back.

But when you were ten. Your powers began to kick in. You told Bruce, hoping your father would help you. Help you understand. Bruce, told you to keep it a secret. And to tell no one else.

Having a kid who was a meta was the last thing he needed at the moment. Trying to re-connect with Jason who still had deep hate for him instead focusing on his first-born child who was struggling to understand.

You felt like a freak.

And it wasn't long till you lost control of your powers. To keep it short. You accidently killed a few other kids with your powers. It was an accident. You swore. You see you would have just been left off. Your a kid. It was an accident. But most of all your a Wayne. But one of the kids you killed was a Falcone.

And Bruce couldn't risk you getting killed. He cared about you. Just not as much as he should. So, to avoid the wrath of the Falcone's. Bruce had to claim you were mentally ill. Sending you to Arkham. Only for a few months. That's what he said to you. That's what he promised.

You did your six months in Arkham. Six months turned to eight. Eight months turned to ten. Ten months turned to two years. Then finally, you were taken out from your cell. Lead by two prison guards. They said you had a visitor. You assumed it was another reporter. But was proven wrong when you see Bruce on the other side of the thick glass. You were shocked but happy to see your father.

"Daddy." You spoke softly as you slowly smile, putting your hand on the glass. Bruce hesitates to put his hand on the glass, once he does, he focused back to you. Your eyes stared at him with so much love and hope.

". . . Your case. . . the court decided you're, too unstable to attend court, so. . ." Bruce didn't look at you as he spoke. So, he couldn't see the smile on your face fade. Confusion taking over.

"But. . . I did my six months. . . I-I've been here for a year! Daddy, please I didn't do it on purpose!" You were on the edge of crying.

"I promise. I'll get you out of here as soon as I can." Bruce wanted to try and console you. But that was harder due to the glass between you two. He reaches out his hand to the glass once more. But the loud buzz that queued it was time for you to get back to your cell.

"Please Daddy don't let them take me!" You cried, putting both hands on the glass. You were in full despair. Bruce didn't know what to do. He can take the risk from the Falcones and get you out with a snap of his fingers. Or he can make it easy for everyone but you and wait till you serve your time.

". . . I'm sorry" Bruce can see you falling deeper and deeper into dispare.

Guards burst from the doors and had to forcefully take you away.

"No- No! Daddy please! DADDY!" Your screamed louder as the guards took you away, reaching out to Bruce who just stood there. And did nothing. As always.

Seven years later.

No one ever visited you again. Well, no one from the Waynes. But your mother visited you every week. Her visits where the only reason you kept saine.

Arkham isn't all fun and games. Obviously. You were immitted into Arkham's fucked version of rehabilitation. You started hearing things after your first month in Arkham.

. . .

You sent letters almost every day to the Wayne manor. But never got any back. None from Bruce. None from Dick. You and Tim weren't close. So, you didn't expect anything from him. Alfred prefers to call you. Wanting to hear your voice to make sure you were not lying to him when he asks of your wellbeing.

You stopped sending letters to Bruce a few months ago. Not like he'll respond anyway. You don't need Bruce. You have your mother. And she's all you'll need. She's your world now, your reason to keep living this pointless life. And once you're out, Mama promised to give you a big hug. Which you so desperately needed.

🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸

"𝙸 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚢. . . 𝚍𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜 𝚖𝚎?"

[rotting-bitch]

try to be gentle while tearing me apart

[schizopositivity]

Here's a reminder to fight the internalized sanism/ableism in your head.

If you have executive dysfunction, don't compare your productivity to people who don't.

If you have anhedonia, don't compare your struggling to keep up with hobbies to someone who doesn't.

If you have paranoia, don't think of your fears as any less valid than the fears of someone who doesn't.

If your meds make you tired constantly, don't compare your energy levels to someone who doesn't take those meds.

If you have issues with concentration, then you won't be able to pay attention as well as someone who doesn't.

If you're in the deep end of a pool, then you can't compare how well you keep your head above water to someone who is standing in a kiddie pool.

Please try to think of these things when you feel "lazy" or "childish" or "a failure" compared to other people that don't struggle with the same symptoms as you. If you have a mental illness that will affect how you act in everyday situations, then it will in fact affect you in everyday situations. It's not an excuse, it's just a reality. We need to try to be kinder to ourselves.

[gor3sigil]

I’m Trans and Insane and I’m doing fine.

[TW Psychosis, transphobia, psychophobia, medication, psych ward]

“Are you sure ?” she asked.

I remember looking back at her in disbelief, because that was certainly a question I never asked her when she came out.

“Why do you ask ?” I say.

“Dude, I’ve seen you go into depersonalization so hard you even thought you were a human soul in a robot vessel and now, you want me to trust you when you say that you, too, are trans ?”

That’s the memory that comes back to me as I fold and put in my bag my psychiatrist’s note attesting that I suffer from gender dysphoria, NOT LINKED to any psychotic symptoms. Here it goes in my folder with my prescription note, an increase - again - of my anti depressants and Xan, and my endocrinologist’s HRT prescription, increased too - finally.

I go to two separate pharmacies to pick up each prescription for two reasons:

There is only one in this godforsaken town that always had testosterone in stock.

I can’t explain to you with words the look you can get when you give back to back, to someone who, despite not being a doctor, works in healthcare, a note for trans HRT and then a note for psychiatric meds.

And I’m lucky, because I’m not taking antipsychotics anymore. Contrarily to what you could think, it doesn’t magically makes the voices and the shadowy people disappear, but it can make a mess of your head pretty bad and my doctor and I both agreed that I didn’t need more damage up here than what I already had. And no, it doesn’t make your delusions vanish magically too: in fact, I was still pretty certain that I was talking to my soul family out here in Argentine telepathically about my mission on Earth, the meds just made it more difficult to understand their voices, but the belief was still solid.

Anyways, I’m back home with the Hoy Grail I fought tooth and nails to get: a letter from the Sacred Council of Mental Sanity also known as Psychiatry that I was, indeed, a bit delulu, but also trans, and that both things didn’t play into each other. My transness wasn’t a delusion, my delusions didn’t have anything to do with being trans.

Or did it ?

Chicken or egg, you know the drill. Did I have my selves fractured before and one of the piece that shattered my brain happened to make me trans or was I just trans with a shitload of traumas in the back that made me insane ?

But don’t worry, at least, trans people when we’re together, we have each other’s back ! Right ?

“Transidentity ISN’T a mental illness !! We don’t DESERVE to be FORCIBLY LOCKED UP and MEDICATED and MADE TO CONFORM FOR OTHER’S SENSE OF SECURITY !!”

Neither do I, RIGHT ?

Oh

Or do I ?

Remember what she said, my girlfriend, right at the beginning ?

How I can’t be trusted about myself when sometimes I don’t even have a sense of self anymore or I have too much selves who fight against each other ?

And what do we say to that ?

Get treatment. Get in-patient. Take medication. And for the love of God, shut the fuck up about it, you’re giving us a bad name.

Because being trans and crazy can’t exist. It’s absurd. You have to fix one of these two things. Choose which jacket I’ll wear, and they call it a straitjacket for a reason it seems, so am I queer or am I insane ?

All I know today is there isn’t a universe in which I’m a trans without any mental illnesses, or mentally ill without being trans. And yet, I can’t tell you how many time I got asked “do you think you’d be trans if you never got through [x trauma] ?”. I. Don’t. Know. I’ll never know. And I deserve just as much agency as you get despite being mentally ill. If you don’t believe in that, don’t come yapping about “liberation for all of us”, but “if one of us is crazy they’ll all think I am too and that can’t happen”.

No LGBTQIAA+ person deserves to be told they need to be put away, to be cured, to be allowed out in the open only if they’re deemed “acceptable” by society’s standards. And no mentally ill people deserve to either.

No trans person should be going through years of counseling to have the access to HRT.

And I shouldn’t have had to threaten my own mother’s life to avoid being locked in an adult psych ward at 14.

If you ever think, for one second, that these two things have nothing to do with one another, you are far removed from history.

To hear queer people say “yeah but some mentally ill people are dangerous !” feels like you don’t even know where you come from.

And if I want to say, that me being trans is linked to me being mentally ill, or at least, that both are connected in a way, all hell breaks fucking loose.

So I’ll explain very carefully.

See, when I was young, my mind got shattered into a thousand of pieces I had to try to glue back on. All these pieces of myself broke further more down the line because I couldn’t catch a fucking break. And now, it happens that the final puzzle does not have the same face it had before. It happens that its shape changed over time, for reasons over the control of all of us who tried to build ourselves back. Now there’s a bigger picture, less pieces, a few other shadows, and me. Built from the shatters. With my own needs and afflictions.

And whoever you are, whatever your agenda might be, I will not let anyone take any agency away from me under the false pretext that I can’t know anything for myself. They say that about children, they say that about minorities, about physically disabled people, about the people they want OUT. And my trans siblings, you know that.

I came out for the first time 7 years ago, to my then girlfriend, who was the one asking the question that is the first sentence of this text. I came out a second time 3 years ago. Been on HRT, had top surgery, had psychotic breaks, got my meds changed, switch therapist.

Because I am trans and crazy. And yet, all these choices I made, I made myself. It didn’t have to be that hard to get the basic care I needed. It didn’t need to be. But it WAS. And I’m part of the lucky crowd of people who had access to out-patient treatment, who never have been locked up in ward, who managed to stay alive through meds withdrawals without medical assistance when I had no therapist.

Be very careful of when you start to put conditions on the rights you think you deserve. Be very, very careful about your definition of sanity and of how it warps the way you see people. When you start to say “I have access to that, but there’s people like X or Y who shouldn’t BECAUSE”, pause and ask yourself what led you to think this way. More often than not, you’ll find yourself playing the same mind games as the ones you swore to fight against, and when it gives them the upper hand, they won’t hesitate to come for you after that.

[ed-recoverry]

Shoutout to everyone whose abuser(s) were never punished.

Shoutout to everyone whose abuser is living a normal life.

Shoutout to everyone whose allegations were immediately dismissed.

Shoutout to everyone reported their abuser to the police and nothing happened.

Shoutout to everyone whose abuser was able to get out of significant legal punishment.

Shoutout to everyone whose abuser is generally seen as a good person.

Shoutout to everyone whose abuser is a “pillar of the community.”

Shoutout to everyone whose abuser has lied about you.

Shoutout to everyone whose abuser has framed them.

Shoutout to everyone whose abuser threatened them into silence.

Shoutout to everyone whose abuser discouraged them from reporting.

Shoutout to everyone who lost friends after reporting and or exposing their abuser.

Shoutout to everyone who lost family after reporting and or exposing their abuser.

Shoutout to everyone who received backlash for reporting and or exposing their abuser.

Shoutout to everyone who has created a rift in their family or friends by reporting or exposing their abuser.

Shoutout to everyone who is terrified to tell anyone about their abuser.

Shoutout to everyone who never had the opportunity to talk about their abuser.

Shoutout to everyone who feels like talking about their abuser is worthless.

Shoutout to everyone whose case was dismissed by the court.

Shoutout to everyone who faced backlash after their abuser was put in jail.

Shoutout to everyone who faced backlash for testifying against their abuser.

Shoutout to everyone who still has yet to be believed that they were abused.

Shoutout to everyone who knows their abuser will never be punished.

Shoutout to everyone who knows their abuser will never face backlash.

Shoutout to everyone who knows their story will be dismissed by loved ones.

Shoutout to everyone who spoke out about their abuser, but wasn’t believed until something happened to someone else.

Shoutout to everyone who spoke out about their abuser and wasn’t believed until they seriously harmed you.

Shoutout to everyone who has been mocked for trying to speak out about their abuser.

Shoutout to everyone who has faced social repercussions for speaking out or exposing their abuser.

Shoutout to everyone who has suffered financially for speaking out or exposing their abuser.

Shoutout to everyone whose abuser has admitted guilt, but never faced justice.

Shoutout to everyone who knows they were abused and are punished for it.

[noctnis]

a good day will be a good day will be a good day will be a good day

[silence-ofdeath]

“I am alone with my own thoughts and it’s dangerous.”

-cress

[mil-hoples]

Once you care you're fucked

[tonysbed]

Prom Paddock queen | MV1

Max Verstappen x fem!reader

!Triggering Content! ED!

Summary: Max tries to be there for you while your whole world evolves around calories

A/n: Went with the most “popular” ED because the request didn’t specify. If it’s wrong just send me another request through with more details, I love you all!!❤️

(listened to Prom Queen by Beach bunny while writing)

mental health masterlist | main masterlist

You had been this way before you got with Max. That’s why it took him a little while to realise what was happening right in front of him. The first time he realised was when he had found the pancakes he made for you in the bin.

It would’ve been fine if it hadn’t been the 3rd time. He sighed and went up the stairs, not entirely sure how to proceed.

He knocked on the bedroom door “Schatje?” You hum and he opened the door, seeing you on the bed with a book. He closed the door behind him.

“How have you been?” He stays near the door. You set down your book “Good. How was the meeting?”

“Good.Always the same you know” You nod, smiling and looking down to your book.

“How did the pancakes taste?” You smile “Great. Thank you” You say and focus back on your book.

“Stop lying, please” You tilt your head at him “What? You think I wouldn’t tell you if they were shit?” You scoff and close your book.

“Baby, I saw them in the bin. All of them“ You opened your mouth to protest but couldn’t. He sighed and sat down on the bed.

His blue eyes bore into yours. Your nails picking at your skin. Max pulled your hands into his. Not a once of anger on his face.

“Talk to me. What’s wrong? What do you need me to do?Ill do anything” You shake your head “I can’t ask that of you. This is my problem” He closed his eyes for a moment.

“It’s not. We’re a team. Your problems are mine.” His voice was stern yet somehow gentle. You fidget with your fingers.

“Schatje, please” You shake your head “This is my business.” You say and storm off into the bathroom.

His steps are fast behind you but don’t reach you before your able to lock the bathroom. You hear him stopping in front of the door.

You slide down the door, clutching at your stomach. A tear escaped your eyes “Open the door. Please, baby” You hear how his hand touches the door. You don’t answer him.

“Don’t make me open this damn door. I’ve done it before, you know that. I know how to. Please, Schatje” You sob “Please go away” He squeezes his eyes shut, and his forehead met the wood.

He peeled himself from the door but doesn’t walk away before saying “Don’t do anything stupid, please”

An half hour later you open the door, expecting Max to sit there but he wasn’t. You found him on the couch, mindlessly changing the channels, nothing catching his interest.

You climbed onto the couch and laid your head in his lap. His finger immediately tangled into your hair “I’m sorry”

“I know it’s hard but you gotta let me help you. I know you hate accepting help but I’m not asking you right now. I am gonna help you no matter what you say.”

You nod, tears rising in your eyes “Come up here, schatje” He opened his arms and you sit on his lap. His arms engulfed you into a firm hug full of love and safety.

It will be hard but you will have him through it all.

A/n: Don’t like it. But yeah..🧍🏼‍♀️

not proofread

[temedtime]

ive been lacking a lot of motivation so I decided to start one of the scams!

if this post gets 50 notes then I will eat a full meal every day for the next week

if this post gets 100 notes I will not smoke ANYTHING for the next week

if this post gets 500 notes I will get up and go on a walk every day for the next week (please no)

if this post gets 1000 NOTES I will finally finish chapter 1 of dark jerry smith x richard watterson and post it by the end of the month (if you do this I hate you)

and if this post gets 1500 notes then I will actually talk to my therapist about my problems :3

[harmoniousbpd]

bpd is like a sickness with no cure. you catch it from people who were not careful. and it slowly eats you, if you go around people, you'll infect them too. so you have to quarantine. but there will never be a cure, you have to live with this virus that you caught from someone who didn't care enough to be cautious.

[angerydj]

Something I’ve never address was how bad my physical and mental health had been over the last few years I never spoke about it publicly or even privately cause honestly I didn’t want help and wanted to change my habits at all even if it meant coming close to dying multiple times.

Running into my boyfriend by absolute chance was the best thing that had ever happened to me and him, we’ve helped and healed each other in ways we didn’t know we needed to be healed how he helped me with my eating disorder and gave me a chance to feel loved and worthy of the bare minimum and continues to do right by me and love me going up and beyond

[rotting-bitch]

I would sacrifice pieces of my flesh but I’d still be considered selfish for wanting to keep my bones

[poisonousquinzel]

they deserved better idc 😐

[bloodyrosesnthorns]

this life thing is getting too difficult to continue.

[ed-recoverry]

Inspired by the Cody Ko situation…

Shoutout to all “imperfect victims”

Though there are no such thing as an imperfect victim, shout out to all victims who have traits that make people hesitate to believe you.

Shoutout to victims who lie a lot.

Shoutout to victims who have hurt others.

Shoutout to victims who have done bad things.

Shoutout to victims who are “annoying” or “unlikeable.”

Shoutout to victims who are hard to be around.

Shoutout to victims where the lines are blurred.

Shoutout to victims who are “difficult.”

Shoutout to victims who are “complicated.”

Shoutout to victims whose case was quickly dismissed.

Shoutout to victims who were blown off.

Shoutout to victims who were hurt by a “good” person.

Shoutout to victims who exaggerate.

Shoutout to victims who forget details.

Shoutout to victims who don’t “act” like a victim (whatever that means).

Shoutout to victims who are addicts or criminals.

Your reputation and or bad characteristics do not erase what you went through. You know what happened to you is real. And that’s all that matters. I believe you and others will too.