#tw therapy

[whump-mania]

Hear me out:

Evil therapist.

Whumpee gets out of whatever situation they’re in with Whumper and goes to therapy, turns out their therapist is some sort of demon/being that feeds off of fear and trauma

So they just keep milking the information out of Whumpee about how they were hurt, all under the guise that it’s to help them but really it’s so they can feed

[violetmuses]

Butterfly - A. Aretas ❤️‍🩹 🦋

Title: Butterfly - A. Aretas ❤️‍🩹🦋

Fandom: “Bad Boys” Film Universe

Character: Armando Aretas

Pairing: Armando Aretas + Female Reader

Main Storyline: Armando goes to therapy for the first time. 🏷 @deja-r

=====

2024

“If sessions don't work out, just let me know, all right?” Guiding the classic Porsche, Detective Mike Lowrey stood as Armando's biological father.

“Fair enough.” Armando Aretas nodded before taking an opportunity with something new.

Who knows what could happen next?

_____

Before everything kicked off, Armando observed this lobby.

Aretas?

Very few people waited here, but Armando stood when the receptionist called his name.

His footsteps then moved down this hallway and you greeted Aretas. while shaking hands.

“Welcome, Armando. Come in.” You showed enough kindness, but remained professional.

“Hello.” Offering slightly accented English, Aretas knew so much better than to cut responses with attitude. “Thank you.”

“Of course. Let's get started.” You prepared to help another client.

_______

“What are you looking for?” You offered this gentle yet important question.

“Peace.” Armando had clipped most answers throughout.

“It's a journey.” You told the truth. “Nothing happens overnight.”

“I know, but…” Aretas struggled to express himself.

“Take your time.” You still relayed notes while sitting across from him.

“It's not easy here.” Armando finally revealed more.

“Does the police department bring issues?” You're aware of his background, criminal history and all.

“I'm used to fighting, but silence always bothers me.” Aretas said. “I've been waiting for something else to happen.”

“What helps you feel better during certain moments?” You questioned him again.

“I don't even know what to say. There's no time to slow down here.” Armando continued offering his perspective.

"When leaving, help yourself out today. No work or stressful situations.” You wanted to improve his feelings at the moment. “Do something that makes you happy, however small.”

“Okay.” For the first time this afternoon, Armando tried to grin. “That's not too bad.”

“All right. Thank you for trying.” You gathered essentials to leave and bid farewell

Armando didn't even realize that so much time passed with you.

“Thank you.” Aretas offered gratitude in return and shook your hand before leaving.

Outside waiting for Mike's Porsche, Armando veiled another smile.

Life didn't feel cold anymore.

[heartsofminds]

at least i let the light in (i).

"No one was more responsible than Bradley. No one was more reasonable than Bradley. No one was more mature than Bradley. No one else had life figured out the best they could like Bradley had. . . But no one knew how deeply sad Bradley actually was." or Bradley is on a downward spiral and Natasha doesn't know how much more she can take or the unofficial sequel to 'cause no one breaks my heart like you.

A/N: well guys, here we are! months after publishing 'cause no one breaks my heart like you, i decided to write my ass off and truly deep dive to the bottom of bradley's heart the best i knew how. while I'm not an expert and don't know everything, i am super proud of the work I've done and cannot wait to share more of it in the weeks to come. so for now, enjoy this small tidbit of the series and prepare yourselves to ride this rollercoaster with me! also, a special shoutout to jordan (@gretagerwigsmuse) for letting me ramble about this and reading over the millions of screenshots and drafts I've been hoarding over the past six months! i could not have had the courage to continue to write this or publish it without you!

After - Three Months 

Maybe Natasha was mistaken; a phenomenon that did not occur very often. 

She’s one of those people who’s a lucky guesser. Precisely the kind of person who could say “fuck it,” roll the dice of whatever was being talked about, and always come out victorious, and if not entirely correct beyond a reasonable doubt, was as damn close to right as anyone else could get. 

But she’s not a boaster. 

Sometimes being right is embarrassing and she never seemed to like the attention it brought; making people roll their eyes when asked for her opinion or always lucking out in a money pool whenever a bet was placed amongst her friends. She likes being right but she doesn’t necessarily like the reputation being right gives her, so she closes her mouth, nods her head, and tries to put on her best poker face whenever a bad idea is uttered from the mouths of her colleagues. 

Watching people blow their own bullshit in their faces is comical and she and Bob get an absolute kick out of it whenever it's on Jake’s dime.  

But this time it isn’t Jake or Javy or Maverick or anyone she would giggle and be in stitches over looking silly and distraught. 

This time it’s Bradley, and from the iron flavor in her mouth from where she had been biting her lip the entire night, she knows that this is bad. 

This is really bad. This is super bad. This is fucking horrible.  

In hindsight, Bradley had a little bit of a problem. In hindsight, it was a stupid idea to let him have as much as he did. And in hindsight, it was downright imbecilic to let him get that wasted, play a game of pool with Jake (who loves to engage in smack talk), and not tell Jake about the breakup which resulted in Bradley leaping over the table and trying to beat the absolute shit out of him for making a joke about his girlfriend whom everyone else had yet to establish was now his ex-girlfriend. 

Maverick, who watched the entire thing go down from the bar stools, practically begged Penny on his hands and knees not to throw them out and she obliged but only after tasking Mickey and Bob with taking Bradley to the bathroom and letting him calm down in there before he was ready to come back out. 

And Nat knew that they all should probably head home and that Penny had every right to kick them out for the evening (and probably should), but she remained quiet while trying to ignore the sinking feeling in her stomach. Her careful eyes caught wind of Bradley’s incapacitated disposition as he stood slumped between Mickey and Bob as if he was an anchor ready to sink to the bottom of the ocean. 

Their gentle arms held him steady while their faces wore desperation. The chunky wet spot of acid on Bob’s pant leg told Natasha everything she needed to know and from the way Bradley’s head hung, he was down for the count.

If she was being truthful, Bradley had been down for the count for a long time; much longer than anyone had ever really taken notice of, and the seed of anxiousness planted in her torso only bloomed with each assisted step he had taken toward her. 

Natasha was mistaken, and letting him tag along tonight was an incredibly bad idea. 

“Hi, Nat,” he slurs with reddened cheeks and a boyish grin on his face. Part of him looks like the boy she had gotten to love like a brother all those years ago in flight school; way before the stupid mustache and the muscles and the “slight” drinking problem he’d developed over the past nine weeks. 

“Hey, dumbass,” she snides back. She’s so overwhelmed that irritation is the only feeling coursing through her veins. 

“We had a bit of an. . .” Mickey looks toward Bob who looks as if he’s about two seconds away from passing out, “incident in the bathroom. He really needs to get home, Nix.” 

She sighs deeply; the likeness of a sleepless night and a massive headache in the morning a premonition burning bright behind the heavy blinks of her eyelids. Her hands hold her hips and her shoulders slump. She and Bradley had ridden with Jake to Hard Deck tonight, and she’s sure that the debit card saved to her Uber account would not appreciate a twenty-five dollar fee for an eight-minute straight shot up the road. 

But asking Jake for a ride home after he’d been sat icing his left eye with a Heineken bottle isn’t ideal either. 

Her eyes dart to the watch on her left arm; an old Cartier with a white face and hands that were always ten minutes off the hour. If she remembers right, multiplying the drive time by two would get her an estimate of the walking time, and if they jay-walk on Jasper and Kinnecky, they could shave off four minutes and be at her front door in about- 

“Twelve minutes?” she looks up at the triad of men and flashes a small smile in the process, “Do you think he could make that long of a walk?” 

Bradley tries to straighten his legs to stand on his own, but his knees buckle before he can even put his full weight forward. He giggles to himself; the sound childish and carefree. He attempts to lean his head on Bob’s shoulder but slams his forehead down too enthusiastically and knocks heads with the sheepish brunet instead. 

“I’m gonna be so honest with you, I don’t think he can tell you what color shirt he has on. It’s a miracle he’s even standing right now.” 

Natasha groans and puts her face in her hands.

Fucking hell, Bradley. 

“Don’t be mad at me. Please don’t be mad. Don’t be mad,” Bradley speaks up. His voice is whinier than usual and it’s one of the few phrases he’s bothered to utter tonight. His weight still remains supported by his two friends and for a moment, she feels guilty for even being frustrated with him at all. 

The warm hazel of his eyes peer into hers and she can almost feel his sadness and solitude. Bradley always liked to operate like he was angry, but anyone who dared to get close enough to him knew that the anger was how he felt about himself; a mirage of explosives made up of pure loneliness and hurt. 

“I’m not mad —” 

“Oh my fucking, God!” Bob screeches. 

A slosh of yellow vomit exits Bradley’s mouth faster than anyone can manage to process. The warmth of his stomach acid mixed with the various types of alcohol he had shoved down his throat throughout the night makes everyone around them wrinkle their nose, and it’s in that moment - the one with Bob dropping Bradley’s arm in shock and Mickey being left to support his weight alone and succumbing to his friend’s heaviness sending them both straight to the floor in the puddle of puke - does Natasha accept the fact that this was a mistake and that Bradley had no business being anywhere but on a bathroom floor with a cup of water next to him. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Mickey groans, his arms pushing himself up. He grimaces as he stands and examines his hands; the chunks of what was in Bradley’s stomach (which isn’t much besides alcohol, he figures) sitting warmly on his palms and making its way between his fingers. 

Bradley grunts from the ground and is almost an afterthought due to the catastrophe taking place in front of them. Javy and Jake jump from their spots near the pool table and help him up. 

Natasha can feel the headache brewing in her temples. She turns to look around and take count of all the watchful eyes. Even though she’s beyond mad at him right now, she always finds herself looking out for Bradley. After a quick sweep of the bar with her gaze, she figures that he’s not embarrassed himself too badly to never show his face around again. 

Her eyes catch Penny’s sympathetic look. She mouths an apology while Penny nods and slowly starts to make her way to the supply closet in the back. On her way out from behind the bar, she pushes Maverick’s head with her hand a little bit harsher than what could be considered playful, and Maverick simply gives a sheepish grin in return. 

“M’soooo tired,” Bradley garbles some more. His head hangs as if his neck isn’t attached to him. 

“No, no, no, no. You can’t go to sleep right now!” Javy discourages. He pulls Bradley’s arm tighter around his shoulder. The brunet is properly jostled and Jake grumbles beside him. 

Jake sends a sharp glare to his best friend at his sudden movement and for a second, he feels a wave of sympathy wash over him. It’s no secret that Bradley and Jake had been each other’s least favorite person for much longer than they had been friendly, but the fact that they can call each other that now - a friend - makes this taste so much sourer in the blond’s mouth now. 

“But I’m tired!” Bradley croons. His body starts to go slack again as if his bones were made of rubber. 

“But you can’t go to sleep, man!” Javy tries to reason. 

“Why not?” Bradley continues to whine. His eyes squeeze shut and he stomps his foot like a toddler.

“Because – fuck, dude – because you just. . . can’t!” 

“Why,” his foot resounds on the ground to punctuate his word, “Not!” The force of its landing causes him to stumble back a little despite the hunkering support on both sides of him. The room spins slightly and he chokes back a gag. 

“Penny hates sleepers and you’re already skating on thin fuckin’ ice with her,” Javy snaps, “I suggest that if you don’t wanna lose a hangout spot, you try and get it together.”

Bradley attempts to mock him, but the effort it takes to remember what was said proves itself too great. He gives up after his third attempt at unscrambling his words and instead sticks his tongue out. 

A frustrated puff of air leaves Jake’s mouth before he turns to Natasha. The face he makes is something Nat likes to call his “bitching face,” which everyone knew he made when he had something to say (which was all the fucking time, so he would often argue that it was just his face). She rolls her eyes to mentally prepare for the bullshit that’s about to come out of Hangman’s mouth. 

“So what’s your plan, Phoenix?”  

She hadn’t expected for his statement to be so tame, and for the first time tonight, the pressure of having to be right pinched her nerves like a thorn. For once in her life, she doesn’t really have a plan, and the realization startles her. 

“Shit. I – I don’t know–” she stammers. 

She feels a sharp pain in her thumb and glances down to see the side of her nail torn to shreds and spewing crimson. She curses herself internally. Picking anxiously at her skin was a habit she thought she had kicked after flight school. 

Jake’s lips form a straight line of dissatisfaction with her answer. Bradley utters something incomprehensible to the sober ear and Javy shakes his head, pretending to understand what the brunet is saying when he truly has no clue if it was even English. 

“I don’t feel good.” 

Despite the confession being whispered, the world stops turning as if it were screamed from the rooftops. Bradley’s face pales. Javy can feel his chest squeeze with a sense of dread. Jake’s grip on his friend’s shoulders tightens. 

“I need you to tell us what we’re doin’ before he starts blowin’ chunks everywhere!” 

Natasha just stands still with a God’s eye view of the scene unfolding in front of her. Had you gone back in time and told her this would be her life three months ago, she’s positive she would’ve laughed in your face. 

No one was more responsible than Bradley. No one was more reasonable than Bradley. No one was more mature than Bradley. No one else had life figured out the best they could like Bradley had. 

But no one knew how deeply sad Bradley actually was. 

And no one knew that this is exactly where that deep sadness would land him. 

“What’s the plan, Phoenix?” Jake’s voice booms and bounces around in her ears. 

Her hands come up to push the flyaways from her French braid back. Natasha’s face feels hot and the mugginess of the bar feels like a wet paper towel trapping her movements beneath its paper tendrils. 

Think. Think. Think. Think! 

“You need to make a decision –” 

“I don’t fucking know!” she screeches. 

Time stands still and everything seems to be moving in slow motion. 

Penny whips her head around to see the commotion; her eyes wearing worry. Bob straightens his back due to her sudden change in cadence. Javy shifts uncomfortably on his feet. Mickey and Rueben give each other wide-eyed looks while Jake’s lips mold themselves even further into a straight line. 

Even the music playing over the speakers seemed to quiet down. 

It all makes her want to cry. 

Her breathing is rampant and her heart beats raucously inside her ears. Her pulse is in tune with it and she can feel the blood coursing through every single vein in her body. Her hands shake and her body feels electrified from all the adrenaline. 

Making a choice isn’t doable right now. And making the right choice is a task that remains an unsolvable dilemma with a bright red “danger” sign at its conclusion no matter the option. 

“Fine,” Jake grumbles. He turns his body slightly to face Javy. “He’s comin’ with me.” 

Javy widens his eyes; his thoughts formulating what he wants to say before he can even come up with the words to express it. “He can’t even stand straight. How in the fuck are we gonna get him into that stupid ass lifted truck –” 

“Can you just shut the fuck up and help?” 

Javy rolls his eyes and lets out a puff of air that he hadn’t even realized he was holding in. Jake is lucky that they had been best friends for over a decade and Bradley even luckier that Javy has a soft spot for him. 

Natasha’s mouth feels stuffed with cotton and her limbs molded by concrete as the two men breeze past her to lead Bradley out of the front doors of Hard Deck. She could almost convince herself that the entire scene was a dream had it not been for the whiff of cologne and the slight tang of Bradley’s vomit hitting her nostrils as they walked by. 

She slaps down a fifty-dollar bill on the bar top near the cash register before jogging into the sandy parking lot with the sky-painted indigo and violet above them. 

By some miracle, Bradley is dragged (not without any hiccups or the impending fear that he would start projectile vomiting everywhere) all the way to the floor of the backseat of Jake Seresin’s black Ford F-150. 

“Lard ass,” Jake mutters as he slams the door of his truck closed. Javy slides into the backseat with Bradley and another hollow sound of metal shutting can be heard. 

Jake rips open the front passenger door for a meek Natasha, whose arms had yet to move from their crossed spot over her chest. Despite the dry summer heat nipping at her body and her damp arms showing evidence of her sweating, she feels cold. 

Shocked. 

Numb, is the word she’s looking for but can’t seem to find. 

Her thumb rubs over her watch band and her purse hangs stagnant near her belly button. She looks as if she had seen a ghost. Her fingernails leave small scratches where blood had been drawn from her nervous picking. 

Jake swats at her hand gently; telling her to let go. Telling her that this is okay. That this is under control. 

That she needs to let go and let him help. 

They stand silent in the hollows of the bar’s parking lot and Natasha can recall very few times where she had felt like this. 

There was a weariness that grew in her whenever she told her dying grandmother that she would get to see her walk the stage at her high school graduation. There was a need for protection when she had broken up with her boyfriend before getting her first deployment assignment. There was a loss of hope whenever she looked at Bradley’s pleading eyes in her living room tonight, begging to let him tag along and carve out what he wants to say but can never manage to utter; “I’m lonely and I need help.” 

Dread. 

Impending doom. 

Knowing the outcome despite trying to convince yourself that if you pray hard enough or ask God kind enough or are a good enough person or try your best or whatever the fuck you believe in doing – that this will work out and that you’ll come out on top. 

But all that does is set you up for your grandmother to die two nights before high school graduation and for your boyfriend of three years to admit that he was cheating on you for two and a half of those. 

All it gets you is a drunken best friend with demons and night terrors that still swallow him whole with fear despite sleeping on her living room couch and being thirty-seven years old. 

“You coming?” Jake’s voice cuts through her downward spiral of thoughts. 

She gulps down her feelings of decay. She makes a mental note to bring this up to her therapist this week even though she knows she’ll skate around it and they won’t get to unpack it for at least three more sessions. 

“Y– yeah. I am,” she wipes at her forehead with the back of her hand, “Thanks.” 

Jake gives a sharp nod of his head to her. Despite being a major shit-talker, he doesn’t really have much to say outside of the realm of having a good time or riling up some trouble. 

He and Natasha aren’t close by any means of the word, but his appreciation for her had doubled the size since seeing all that she goes through dealing with an obliterated Bradley. Most friends don’t stick around like she does. 

He sure as hell wouldn’t. 

She throws herself up into his passenger side seat and closes the door before Jake can get to it. He’s already taking her and Bradley home, she figures. He can’t keep doing favors for her. 

But then maybe shutting my own door is rude. 

And then the thought spirals into why she doesn't think anyone wants to do nice things for her and how she’s undeserving of the good deeds she’s been dealt and then realizes that this thought pattern can wait because there are much bigger problems in her rear view. 

Natasha turns her head to peer into the backseat. Bradley lays with his head in Javy’s lap and his legs folded in some miraculous knot. Javy doesn’t seem to mind and sits with his arms spread across the backs of the seats; scrolling away on his phone and checking his March Madness bracket to see exactly how much money he should be collecting at work tomorrow morning. 

“How’s he holding up?” 

The sound of her own voice surprises her. It comes out soft. Less assured. Less assertive than it usually does. She thinks that she sounds like her mother in a way before she discards the thought. She’s always hated the sound of her mom’s voice and – 

Bigger things, Nat. Way bigger things. 

Javy lets out a sarcastic chuckle. “Pretty shitty,” he looks down from his phone and turns his neck to the side, “Can’t even hold that big ass head up on his own.” 

Natasha lets out an airy snort. Her eyes continue to drink in the sight of the two men behind her before her attention snaps to the sound of Jake climbing into the driver’s seat. 

He lets out a soft groan before shoving his key into the ignition and the engine roaring to life. His hand finds the button for the stereo and clicks it off before any sound can come from it. 

“How you holdin’ up back there, ‘Yote?” he asks, right arm behind the back of the passenger seat as he begins to back out. He whips the gear into drive and guides the wheel with the palm of his left hand. 

“Haven’t had to play EMT yet if that’s what you’re asking.” 

Jake’s eyes catch Javy’s face in his rearview mirror. The idea of saying something sarcastic crosses his mind, but he doesn’t indulge in it; not now when shit has hit the fan and there’s seemingly no end in sight. 

There’s a time and place for his snide comments, he thinks. 

See, I’m learning. . . .God, these people have made me soft. 

He wrinkles his nose and checks his periphery for Natasha. She sits solemnly at his side like a child who knew they were in for it once they got home. Her hands sit in her lap; fingers busied doing God knows what (probably picking, Jake would guess, but he’s too focused on trying to get everyone home without someone dying to actually look to confirm). Her mouth is set in a deep frown and her face competes with the moon for how pale it is. 

Jake had never really looked at Natasha before, but he’s seen her enough in quick glimpses and fond flashbacks to know that she’s never appeared this hollow. 

Something is weird. 

Something is off. 

Something is wrong, and Jake starts to wonder how anyone could have missed it at all. 

He opens his mouth to comment on it before he’s interrupted. 

“Turn left up here,” she whispers. Jake has to blink a few times to prove to himself that he had actually heard her voice come out like that and hadn’t dreamt it up. 

A simple nod and a turn much wider than he would have liked it to send them to the driveway of a charming California bungalow. Natasha’s car sits outside the garage parked next to the God-awful and constantly falling apart Ford Bronco that everyone and their mother knows belongs to Bradley Bradshaw. 

Jake fixes his wheels to be parallel to the lip of Natasha’s drive before throwing the vehicle into park and killing the engine. He throws the door open and hops out to help Javy pull Bradley’s deadweight out of the truck to take him inside. 

“Up you get, dumb fuck.” 

Bradley lets out a soft groan before being fixed across both men’s shoulders. His feet drag on the ground and his eyes remain closed. His brain is absent of any thoughts and the possibility of him remembering a single detail about this tomorrow is slim to none. 

Natasha jams her house key into the lock and switches on the hallway light. She doesn’t bother taking off her shoes before she’s turned the corner to her kitchen to fetch some Ibuprofen and a glass of water. Javy and Jake silently struggle behind her, and she tries to ignore their hushed comments of “Oh shit!” after a loud thud fills the house, which she presumes to be them accidentally dropping Bradley on the ground. 

Her feet feel like they’re stuck in buckets of cement as she stands before her kitchen sink; idly watching the air pocket bubbles of water fill the glass she holds beneath the faucet. The thought of getting Bradley water from the Brita filter in her refrigerator briefly crosses her mind, but then she remembers that she’s angry with him, and at the very least, he doesn’t deserve filtered water. 

It’s a childish attempt at getting even, she knows, but she can’t express her annoyance any other way without feeling as if she was a raging bitch. 

Her hand mechanically slaps the lever on the faucet to shut it off and her throat tightens when she hears the sound of her coffee table being scraped across the floor and Bradley mumble a whiny “Ouch!” 

Natasha takes a deep breath and attempts to count to ten. 

One. Bradley is okay. Two. Bradley is okay. Three. Bradley is okay. Four. Bradley is okay. Five. . . He’s fucking killing himself and you’re not even trying to help. Six. What kind of fucking friend are you? Seven. You should be ashamed of yourself. Eight — 

With a wobbling lip and starry eyes, she forces herself out of her kitchen and into her living room where she finds two of her friends huddled around her other one; trying to position him on his side so that he can properly fall asleep. 

“You fucking – you fuckin’ dropped me!” Bradley cries, his limbs flailing around like a baby’s. 

Jake rolls his eyes. “Don’t cry over spilled milk, Bradshaw,” the lightbulb to say something shitty goes off in his head, “. . . S’not even milk you’re gonna remember spillin’.” 

Bradley wordlessly slides himself deeper into the couch and smushes his face up against a throw pillow. Natasha watches from behind and makes a mental note to go ahead and plan on taking that pillow to the cleaners tomorrow. 

It would be by God’s grace if she came to the living room in the morning and the cushion was absent of vomit. 

“Don’t be a dick, Hangman. He’s already down bad enough as it is,” she speaks, brushing past him to set the water cup down on the coffee table. Her fast hands move the small waste basket hidden by her lamp near Bradley’s head. Her palm lingers on his head; fingertips ghosting the space where his hairline meets the back of his neck. 

She sits down on the loveseat adjacent to the couch with a ‘plop.’ All that can be heard is the buzz of the cicadas outside and the anchoring, rumbly snoring exiting Bradley’s mouth. Javy shifts his weight between his two feet. Jake chews on his lip. 

No one speaks. 

The elephant in the room has gotten harder to ignore. 

Natasha senses the ball forming in her throat before she feels it; the scary, dark monster of angst that everyone seems to want to will away. Its claws dig themselves deep into the crevices of her throat and tear every part of her to shreds. The stinging prickling of her eyes becomes harder and harder to blink away. Her nose begins to run; leaking the secret anguish she had been keeping to herself for months. Her limbs feel as if they had been injected with pure lead and she can’t will herself to move. 

Because this is it. 

This is the end. 

This is the official cry for help that she had never wanted to make. 

It’s crazy, she thinks, how your body can betray you even harsher than your worst enemy could. 

Jake knows she’s crying before Natasha knows she is. Growing up with four sisters gave him a special radar for hidden emotions. The knowledge startles him a bit because never did he ever think that she had it in her to be so. . .broken. His eyes widen when her chest begins to wrack with sobs.

He and Javy share a wide-eyed gaze as if the scene playing in front of them could be any less real. Both men had never been great at comfort because they never had to deal with it, and as she tries to stifle her cries in an attempt to not wake Bradley and to not freak out Javy and Jake, she wonders if the anger she holds in her heart for Bradley makes her a bad person. 

It’s insane, she thinks, that in one of her darkest moments, she can’t help but be horrified of being an awful human being. 

All she had ever known was sacrifice and she can’t help but want to throw in the towel. To stop fighting so hard. To stop caring so much. To stop loving so deeply. 

But she can’t. 

I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. 

And thus the tears continue to fall while she wipes furiously at her eyes. Through a blurry lens of reality, she looks down and sees marbled red between her fingertips, but says nothing. The metallic stench of her own blood dripping out of her nose isn’t enough to stop her frenzy of thoughts beating her feelings into those of self-doubt. If anything, the blood attracts the emotions of worthlessness like sharks to live bait. 

“Shit,” Jake hisses. The sound of his boots tendering his steps toward her makes her cry harder. “Shit, shit, shit. It’s okay. It’s alright.”

 His hand moves in slow motion to reach out and touch her, but he snatches it back before it makes contact with her body. 

Although he’s good at detecting sob fests, he’s never been good at resolving them.

“Holy shit, that’s so much blood,” Jake whispers louder than he intended. He sits on his knees in front of her and tilts his head to both sides of her face to get a good look at the geyser of blood spewing out of her nose. 

Javy sends daggers toward him before making a plan in his head. “You take her to get cleaned up,” he instructs, “I’ll stay with tilt-a-whirl to make sure he actually makes it to the trashcan.” 

Jake opens his arms in offense and opens his mouth to make a complaint before Javy stops him, “Blood or puke, dude. Your call.” 

The blond’s lips form a straight line before he quickly makes a decision. He ushers Natasha up and gently guides her to the bathroom down the hall. She can barely see with the rate of tears building up in her eyes and though she would rather die than show weakness, the vulnerability sat revealed on the cushions of her loveseat. 

There is no tough guy act available for her use anymore. 

As she sits on her toilet seat lid with her head tilted forward over a wastebasket, she determines that Jake Seresin isn’t the most atrocious thing she has ever encountered and has a slight appreciation for his detached demeanor. 

He doesn’t ask any questions. He doesn’t push her to say anything. He’s more than content with the silence and sits on the ledge of her bathtub with his elbows digging into the tops of his thighs. 

In any other circumstance, they would be ripping the other a new one; trying to embarrass each other by coming across the other’s faults with a fine toothcomb. In another world, Natasha is somewhere teasing him about being a softy. In another world, Jake is rolling his eyes at whatever she was saying and dismissing it with a nasally, “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” In another world, he never sets foot in her house and in another world, she doesn’t fall apart at the seams like this. 

But in this world, the one with an entire box of bloody Kleenex filling the waste basket she has her head over, they don’t say anything because they truly don’t need to. 

The thing no one tells you about hating someone’s guts is the way that you’re so accidentally in tune with them. 

You know how they think. You know what nasty little habits they have. You know exactly what makes them tick. 

And you know precisely what faces they make when they want you to spill your guts. 

Natasha tries her hardest to ignore his wandering eyes and looks down at the mess beneath her instead. She can feel his stare slicing through her body; layer by layer: skin, fascia, muscles, organs, bones, and all. 

“He’s been putting vodka in his coffee every morning.” 

Jake quirks his eyebrows together. His stomach drops at the idea of what her admission may reveal. 

“I suspected it for a while. He’s never been a Yeti cup kind of guy,” she lets out a sarcastic laugh, “So one day I went over to his desk and took a sip. I figured he wouldn’t mind.” 

She shifts uncomfortably and her tears begin to slide down the apples of her cheeks like a waterfall once again. 

“You know the shitty part about being right no one ever tells you? That it applies to dumpster fires too. Like, I didn’t wanna be right about my best friend drinking on the job but. . .”

Silence fills the air. Jake’s heart starts to race. This can’t be good, he thinks. This isn’t good, he knows. 

“But?” he leads, leaning forward more to make sure that his ears don’t miss a single word that falls out of her mouth. 

“Went by his desk every day for a week straight and sniffed his cup. I was right.” 

Night and day pass before Jake can let the idea – no. The fact that Bradley had been showing up to work drunk settle in his stomach. It spreads like a thick goo that he can’t swallow down. 

“How long?” he asks quietly. Gently, like a parent whispering as they hold their sleeping baby to their chest. 

She licks her lips. The wetness of her tears help mend the dryness her mouth had encountered. 

“Three months.” 

The admission is dropped like a bomb. The effects of both of them knowing changing the intricate thread of life as they know it instantaneously. Jake’s chest starts to heave with a feeling that he doesn’t recognize. 

Hurt. Anger. Disgust. Care. Sympathy. Hatred. 

All of these things that he has never felt at one time. All of these things that he doesn’t have a name for. 

His mouth moves faster than his brain. “You know you have to report him.” He says it with such finality and although he knows it’s the right thing to do, it certainly isn’t the right thing to say. 

Natasha narrows her eyes at him. “You think I haven’t thought about it? You think it’s just that easy?” she scoffs, anger making her cheeks crimson red, “Fuck you, Jake!”

He knows that he shouldn’t take any offense to her words, but the weight of the events of tonight has taken a toll on him, and her words plant a seed of irritation in his heart. 

“He’s coming to work drunk, Natasha! Screw me for wanting to keep people alive.” 

She takes a deep breath. Her knuckles whiten around the rim of the trashcan she’s holding as a means to try and calm herself down. 

“Look,” she speaks through gritted teeth, “I know this is horrible –” 

“Horrible? Just horrible?” his words sound sharper than he intended them to be, “Horrible is your dog dying or losing a bet or staining your white couch with a fucking nosebleed.” 

A sarcastic laugh leaves his mouth as he stands up to leave the bathroom. “He’s gambling with life, and he of all people should fucking know better.” 

“Because using the dead mommy and daddy card against him is soooo fucking rich, Jake. What else is new? Huh?” She shoves the wastebasket to the side and stands up to look him in the face. 

“You gonna pull the dead grandma card on me? Cheating ex-boyfriend? Oh let me guess. The female pilot who belongs in the kitchen and not the Navy?” With each word, she gets closer and closer to him. 

“Don’t let the fact that I have a heart and actually try to do the right thing make you forget that I’ll fuck your life up beyond repair. You’re absolutely the last one to talk about gambling with life when you tried to kill your team and didn’t even feel an ounce of sympathy. Being number one means nothing when you kill all your competition, fuck face.” 

The dried blood around her nostrils leaves a scarlet film in its wake. Jake takes a few deep breaths to remind himself to calm down. He knows that she’s right. He knows that he hasn’t quite redeemed himself. He knows that despite everyone having a chummy attitude with him, he is still considered a person who cannot be trusted. 

Because he does bail. He does cut people down to make himself feel better. He does eliminate his problems instead of facing them. 

“I know that he’s your best friend. I know that he means the world to you, but what he’s doing is dangerous, and you helping him hide it will only bite you in the ass in the long run,” he exhales softly, “You need to tell.” 

She rolls her eyes and reaches past him to flip the light off. She stomps past him back into the hallway that leads to her living room. 

“You still don’t fucking get it. You’ll never fucking get it!” 

Her gaze finds Bradley sleeping softly on the couch and Javy curled up on the loveseat fast asleep before she decides to lower her voice. She turns on her heel to face Jake once again and takes a deep breath to calm herself down. 

“You don’t have to get it or understand or even pretend like you give the smallest ounce of a fuck about him, but I do. I care about him so fucking much, Jake. And I know that it’s fucked up and I know that I’m not doing the right thing, but I can’t rat him out because betraying him when he’s like this would hurt him even more than getting in the cockpit wasted.” 

“Nat –” 

She holds up her hands to his chest and distances herself from him. The tears start to form again and she wonders if she’ll ever stop crying. 

“I can’t take this away from him. I can’t take the only thing he has left away from him and you can’t make me. . . . Because this time, he might just hate me enough to dig the hole so deep that he won’t be able to climb back out.” 

The collage of versions of Bradley she had gotten to know and love so well over the years of their friendship blind her with sorrow and sadness. She truly knows him in a way that no one else ever will, and while part of her takes pride in that, another part of her wishes there was someone else to help share the load because she’s tired. 

She’s so fucking tired and there seems to be no relief in sight. 

“And I’d rather him rot away on this couch knowing that someone loves him than get a phone call that he—that he killed himself because I helped everything get taken away from him.” 

She zips past him to her linen closet to grab a blanket for Javy. “So yeah. You don’t have to get it but I do, and I’m gonna continue to stick by him regardless because that’s what friends do.” 

Jake stands dumbfounded in the dimly illuminated doorway as she carefully unfolds a blanket and gently lays it on Javy. He watches as she turns to Bradley and puts her finger underneath his nose to ensure that he’s alive and breathing. Her eyes refuse to meet him as she walks into her bedroom and shuts the door. 

And when she wakes the next morning to find Jake fast asleep in a chair alongside Javy and Bradley, she knows that there was nothing but truth to the words he had uttered to her last night. 

When they wake, they separate and leave for work like the events of the evening had never happened. 

Like Bradley hadn’t projectile vomited at the bar the previous night or that Javy hadn’t dropped him on his ass in Nat’s living room. Like Natasha hadn’t cried so hard her nose bled and that Jake hadn’t had the chewing out of his life given to him in a bathroom at three in the morning. Like everything is fine when they all know that it’s not – the textbook definition of burying an issue beneath a rug. 

Natasha almost tricks herself into pretending like the entire evening had never happened until she spots Bradley’s black Yeti cup on his desk. She stares at it with wonder and hatred and she doesn’t even realize how long she had been standing there until she feels the warm drip of blood seeping from her nose slide down her face and onto her chest. 

Natasha Trace was a person who was very rarely mistaken, but now she can say that her mistakes run large when she is. 

Because Bradley Bradshaw is fucked, and there is absolutely nothing she can do about it. 

[entropymoths]

Sharp Edges: Questions for the Muse TW: Angst, Introspection, Dark themes, Depression

What was the last thing you catastrophically fucked up?

Do you wish you had more friends?

How do you feel about the friends you have?

What don't you trust yourself with?

What do you still want to learn? Will you?

What traits have you inherited from others? How do you feel about them?

Do you play with your phone during one-on-one social situations?

How susceptible are you to external validation/judgment/criticism?

When were you last intentionally provocative?

Are you waiting to be saved?

How do you feel about your current job or state of unemployment?

Do you remind yourself to step back and think objectively?

What are you afraid of losing?

Do you avoid raising hurt feelings for fear of rejection?

How do you process anger?

Do you justify occasional asshole behaviour by being unobjectionable for the majority of the time?

What have you done unto others that would upset you if it were done unto you?

Do you rant? Have you asked your sounding board/s how they feel about that?

Are you lonely?

Describe an idyllic afternoon you haven't experienced.

How do you feel about birthdays?

Have you settled for survival?

What responsibilities have you run away from?

Are you letting someone down? If yes, what will it take for that to change?

What are your coping methods?

What are your least apparent dysfunctional behaviours?

How do you feel about the place you live?

Do you lie about your political beliefs?

Is saying 'No' to someone in earnest need something you can do?

Describe your rock bottom.

What are some of the things you wish people would do for you?

Are you pretending any aspects of your personality?

How do you react to conflict? How do you feel about that?

What was the last thing you lost sleep over?

What are you taking for granted?

Are you emotionally manipulative? Is it conscious?

How do you feel about the lies you've told?

What old damage are you still carrying?

What won't you let go of?

Have you really forgiven the people who wronged you?

Is there anyone in your life you can confidently say understands you?

If you could write an anonymous message on a billboard, what would it say?

What do you pay lip service to?

How difficult is it to perceive yourself fully?

Are you trying to be better? Who for?

What are you ashamed of?

What is your biggest crutch?

What do you hide from others?

What would you start over, if you could?

Just how destructive is your negative self-talk?

What do you fantasize about?

What traits do you detest in others?

When are you most envious?

When are you most resentful?

What do you believe is your biggest failure?

Describe the person you wish you were.

Do you idealise running away?

What are your character faults? Do you enjoy any of them?

Describe a dream you remember.

Describe a nightmare you remember.

What aspirations or pastimes have you given up? Why?

What do you most fear someone saying to you?

Do you talk about people behind their back?

Can you comfortably be alone?

What is something you wish you had said to someone?

What are some of the lies you tell yourself?

What fears are you avoiding?

Have you ever ghosted someone?

What makes you uncomfortable?

What do you want? Is there a reason it can't be yours?

What makes you feel trapped?

What aren't you doing for fear of repercussions?

[snug-as-bugalugs-in-rugalugs]

I only included options that I thought had some chance of winning, regardless of the frequency of their appearance on the show. Obviously there are plenty of good not-included candidates though, so if you have other opinions, that's what the other option/reblogs are for :)

[brinnanza]

the problem with therapy is that an hour a week takes forever to actually get anywhere one hour is barely enough time to get through my four main childhood traumas and my food issues and that's just me saying like literally what happened out loud not even what effect it had on me like man by the time she's caught up on my laundry list of traumas because I have never once processed an emotion ever or at least I hasn't before literally this very calendar year the heat death of the universe will have occurred. I mean yeah I'd love to skip directly to the things currently bothering me but unfortunately all my coping mechanisms are enormous fragile rube goldberg machines and the context is all actually tremendously important I have been traumatized by a series of Normal Events that people usually just get over and unpicking the fucked up thought patterns and behaviors is. an endeavor. I have done so many mental gymnastics. I can justify or denigrate anything. at this point I just need someone to tell me where I've gone wrong so I can correct except that requires knowing how I got here!! and that's going to take forever!!! and the time will pass anyway so obviously I'm gonna do it but ajdjxjdhsjsh I already hate talking out loud it's sucks and I'm bad at it I could be snuggling cat at 1230 on a Friday but noooo I've decided to fucking heal or whatever UGH

[fallstaticexit]

TW: therapy / depression

Really felt like opening up, this is a safe space, right?

I’ve finally taken the steps to work on my mental health and I’ve been seeing a therapist. I’ve had 2 sessions so far. I was pretty terrified of the idea of therapy because the thought of unpacking my depression and childhood trauma felt overwhelming and honestly so terrifying but, I’m happy and proud I did it. I hope to come out of this healthier and stronger and happier and I hope it reflects in my work as well. (COTF my be on a longer hiatus, at least until my sessions are complete or I feel mentally ready to tackle this epic episodic story I created with the grace and love she deserves ❣️)

I started playing this game during the pandemic which is around when my depression began. The Sims 4 was my escape from reality for a long, long time. Everyday I’d get lost in the world I created and there was just something about finally having the control I wish I had with my own life that made the bad days tolerable. But escapism wasn’t the cure, I learned. I knew I couldn’t depend on it to make me happy for the rest of my life even if that’s all I wanted. Because on the days it didn’t make me happy or I was unable to play it, I felt lost and angry. Like now what, what else is left? I was left to deal with the sadness. I had to dig deeper and reach out and ask for help. And I finally did that. And it feels pretty damn good, if I’m being honest. I just want to feel better. I want to be the best version of me, whoever she is. For myself. For my wife and kid. And with counseling and really putting my mental health on the forefront, I hope to achieve that. I really really hope so.

That’s all I wanted to say. ❣️

[flare-captin]

I just had a war with same of my friends and when it concluded we all got therapy which was run my same friends that were also in the war lol I died like 5 times

[our-arospec-experience]

cw:// trauma, CPTSD, ignorance on arospec, therapy/medical

——————————

me, explaining to my therapist how my romantic feelings have been drastically changed by my C-PTSD and how i’ve accepted that change. that i’m content identifying as aro and explaining the process of how i came to that conclusion (this blog was a part of it hehe)

her, pulls out DSM-5, not being able to find aromantic and says to not get lost in labels, to address the issue but she says she understands why i chose the label and is supportive??

like i love my therapist, she’s really sweet and understanding but omg miss girl doesn’t really understand LGBT terms and language and she can be ignorant by accident. that gave me whiPlash like thanks but what?? that’s the point of labels? i don’t want to trauma dump every time im asked why i no longer desire/feel for/repulsed by romantic things so i say i’m aromantic because it’s less triggering. i didn’t know what aromanticism was before or that romantic attraction can be different from sexual. and when i found out, it really resonated with me. i could understand a lot of aromantic’s experiences. i didn’t feel alone/weird anymore. i’m still sapphic sexually but romantically i’m aro/caedro. and i’m chill with that

- 🌻 anon

I’m glad you’ve found a label you resonate with so well :) Hopefully your therapist accepts you and lets you talk to her about aromanticism.

You are valid no matter what :)

[wildemaven]

spent most of therapy crying… being a human is hard sometimes

[pumpkin-spice-whump]

Therapy

okay this is low-key a short one, and not very eventful. Just Jesse branching out a little and going to therapy! (sorry if my writing of therapy sucks, every time i go to write this i totally forget how therapy goes lol) Also this is a chaos post but im trying to get into writing for jesse again. I miss him

CWs: bbu, therapy, grief, victim self blaming.

Masterlist

———————————–

Bree stared at the young rescue sitting across from her, in the den of Cooper Hernandez’s home. It was always a little nerve wracking, meeting with someone new. Would she be able to help them? Did they want to be helped? It was even more so meeting with an ex-pet. What kind of pain had they experienced? How deep did the conditioning go?

She’d met with clients who had gratefully and swiftly shed their previous identity, ready to take on the world as a free man or woman. And she’d also met with clients who had no interest in moving on, who were much more comfortable as a pet. It was freedom that scared them, it was healing they didn’t want. And she had no idea which one she’d get.

She met with Cooper before the session, so he could give her the low-down on what kind of person this rescue was. She learned that his name was Jesse, and that he kept it from his previous owners. She learned that he was roughly twenty years old. He was trained as a Platonic and worked for his buyers as a nanny. She learned that he left of his own free will, although he seemed to regret it ever since. He was severely physically abused and most likely sexually abused. He was having a very difficult time transitioning to his new life and leaving the family he lived with behind.

Throughout Bree’s five years of working with the pet liberation movement, she’d learned that Platonics and Romantics often had the most difficulty in moving on from their owners, regardless of if they left themselves or not. They were taught that they only existed to please their owners. They felt as if they’ve betrayed them by leaving, not saved their own lives.

She could feel this just from looking at Jesse. He looked miserable. He was thin, although she had no idea if that was a product of his time here or not. There were deep bags under his eyes and they were red rimmed, as if he was crying before coming in. He kept fiddling with his collar and looking at the door. He sat on the couch cushion furthest from Bree, which she was actually happy for. If he felt  he may be in danger with her, it was good that he would at least try to preserve himself. So many rescues don’t even bother.

When he first walked in she greeted him with a, “Jesse? Nice to meet you. I’m Bree,” which he nodded to, but he hadn’t said a single word himself.

Bree leaned back in her chair to give him space. She didn’t have a notepad in her hand -- she felt as if he might get nervous if she began to write things down without telling him what they were. “How are you settling in here?”

Jesse twisted his collar around his neck, staring at the carpet between them. “Fine.”

Bree nodded. “I know it can be difficult transitioning to such a new situation so quickly.” He didn’t respond. “Have you talked to any of the other rescues living here? Or Cooper and Contessa?”

He hesitated before answering. “Gwen.”

Bree smiled. “Gwen’s a great girl. Has she helped you settle in any?”

“Um. She told me to try this. To try talking to you. I mean.”

“Did she?” That was very nice to hear, actually. Gwen had her own reservations about therapy when she first arrived, but four months in she was opening up more than Bree even expected. “Why did she say that?”

“She said you would help.”

“What would you like help with?” Jesse glanced up at her for just a half a second, but even from that Bree could tell he was holding back tears. “She said you could help… with my girls. Help me feel better about-- about abandoning them.”

“The girls. The children you cared for?” He nodded stiltedly, quickly running a hand over his eyes. Bree pointedly took a drink of her water, taking her time with the lid to give him a moment to compose himself. “Well. I can tell you right now you didn’t abandon them. You saved yourself, Jesse. It’s something that’s not cowardly, but admirable. Do you believe me when I say that?”

He nodded immediately, not even trying to convince her he was telling the truth.

“You don’t have to lie. I know you don’t, and that’s okay. We’re going to work on it together, okay?”

He opened his mouth like he wanted to talk, but hesitated. Bree waited patiently. “I just -- I don’t. I just want to know if they’re okay.”

“Are their parents with them?”

“Their parents are divorced. They live with their -- their mother during the week. She has a nanny. I don’t know who will care for them on the weekends.”

“Their father? The nanny?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. But they--” He cut himself off, frowning deeply and swallowing hard. He was scared to cry. “They don’t know them like I do. They don’t care like I do.” He worked his jaw, twisting his collar around his neck. Bree could see the skin underneath, chafed and raw. She reminded herself that they will have to discuss other self-soothing techniques.

“Why do you say that, Jesse?”

He looked at her with such pure and sudden pain in his eyes, that Bree was taken aback. “They weren’t trained for it,” he said. “If I’m taking care of them, I know they’re getting the best care. I left them in hands that aren’t prepared, not like I am.”

“You think they’re unsafe because of that?”

“I know they are.”

She feels her eyebrows draw together. “How do you know that?”

“I--” he stopped again, thinking, looking over at the door. He lowered his gaze, wiping his eyes. “I just feel it.”

Bree’s hands itched for her notebook, but she didn’t reach for it. Instead, she watched him. Watched the way he was once again avoiding eye contact. Watched the way he was curled in on himself, protecting himself. The way he kept twisting that collar with one hand, and the other was knocking against the couch in a pattern only he knew. He was tense, like he could try to run any second. Bree knew, though, that even if he wanted to he never would.

“Did you leave of your own free will, Jesse, or were you taken?”

He swallowed. “I left,” he admitted, ashamed.

Bree nodded. “Why?”

“My owner--their father… he hurt me.”

“Did he hurt them?”

“No.”

“Ever?”

“No. Never.” He chewed his bottom lip. “He just -- he worked a lot. So he wasn’t home. But he never hurt them.”

“Do you regret leaving because you think he’ll start, or because you think they’ll miss you?”

“They’ll miss me,” he whispered. “I miss them.”

Bree smiled softly, but he was not looking up to see it. “But they will be okay. And they will heal. They’re children. You will miss them. I can tell you really loved them. But, Jesse -- what do you think would have happened to you in that environment?”

“What do you mean?”

Bree searched for the right words. She didn’t want to push him to this conclusion, she wanted him to reach it himself. “I mean… do you think you would have been safe there? With the man who hurt you?”

He shook  his head silently. Bree went to continue when he did speak up, albeit quietly. “He would’ve killed me. I think.”

She nodded. “Do you think the children will heal better from having witnessed you die -- or from knowing that you left to be somewhere safer? Don’t they love you too?”

“I think so. I -- I hope so. I love them.”

“So… can you agree that it was better for you to leave than to stay? That you’ve saved them a lot of heartache in the long run?”

He didn’t answer. They sat in silence as Bree’s watch ticked on. They used to have a clock in the room, but it was removed after it made too many rescues feel as if they were being timed and doing poorly. Eventually, Jesse nodded. One, quick nod, as if he didn’t want to do it.

Bree smiled again. “They have people to care for them. They will be okay. You had to take the chance to leave for you. Don’t you think you’re important enough to be safe too?”

“I don’t want to feel like this,” he confessed tearfully. “I feel so awful. Thinking about them and being here. I don’t want this.”

“Will you let me try to help?” Bree asked.

He glanced up at her, tears falling once again from bright blue eyes. “Okay.”

“Thank you, Jesse. I appreciate you trusting me. I want to help you.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean?”

He gave up on holding the tears back, letting them fall rapidly down his flushed face, chest heaving for breath he tried desperately to control. “Why would you want to help me? I’m -- I’m bad. I’m a bad pet. I ran away. I’m ungrateful here, I hide. Why?”

It was Bree’s turn to ponder a difficult question. “Because you deserve to feel safe, too.”

He didn’t believe her. She could tell. But he accepted the answer, leaning back into the sofa and wrapping his arms tightly around himself. She could only hope that he would believe her sometime soon. That he would choose to live his own life, and be his own person. That he would find an identity outside of being a Platonic.

That he won’t let his heartache destroy him first.

———————————–

Taglist: @mylifeisonthebookshelf @boxboysandotherwhump @hold-him-down@winedark-whump@melancholy-in-the-morning@castielamigos-whump-side-blog@cyborg0109

[askthechronoverse]

I'm staying with my brother for a month or so for therapy. Can anyone recommend a place in New Bricksburg to get a good slice of pizza? Is Brickolini's still around?

[livinglycan]

I want to be in therapy. I want to talk about my issues wit a professional. I think that would be good for me. But, I'm not in a situation where I feel like I could be honest with a therapist and trust them enough to talk about this. And if I did, what would happen?

Would they lock me away is a psych ward because of my lycanthropy? Because they seem it delusion? Would they force me to take meds to suppress It and rip it away from me? Me being a lycanthrope is such a core part of me, something I've formed my life around unintentionally, and I can't imagine life without it.

What would they do to get rid of it? How would that affect me? Would they tell my loved ones and would my family think I'm crazy? Would they just tell me I'm not experiencing this and we'll just never being it up again?

I WANT to talk to someone about this, but what would happen? I don't want to take pills and drug myself so that I don't have these transformations anymore but what else would they do?

I'm tired and worried, and I'm not even in therapy and I don't think I will be anytime soon.

[knockoff-conlon]

i hate physical therapy. nothing leaves me quite as upset or angry as going to physical therapy and feeling like a fucking dumbass because i can't move my arms the way they want me to or because my knee hurts and i can't do the stretch they're telling me to do. i hate having to do the stretches every morning. it takes so long and i still can't do them right and i still feel stupid. and it leaves me fucking uncomfortable and everyone keeps telling "i know it sucks but it'll help" like i didn't fucking know that already. im a teenager, not fucking incapable of understanding. i can't move my fucking body the right way because there is something wrong with me and i hate having doctors pointing that out and having to do this stupid stretch in front of them even though i already know i can't fucking do it. and i just have to suck it up and deal with it, just like everything else that has gone wrong these past few months. i want a break from this fucking summer. everything has been so awful and im so tired.

[lifexxxdeath]

Reflecting on my last appointment with my psychologist and her talking about our experience with paranoia and psychosis and how it relates to our DID and BPD diagnosis' because it really changed how I thought about my symptoms.

DID paranoia (C-PTSD psychosis) isn't about feelings or thoughts being invalidated/rejected like BPD is. It's the belief, no matter how ridiculous, no matter how small, that the person/thing/place/etc is here to harm me because they've resembled a familiar PATTERN. Now the system thinks the body or mind is in danger and is reacting how it's made too. But we aren't in that danger anymore or the threat might be harmless or misinterpreted. I don't think this is talked about enough in DID spaces because "psychosis isn't in the diagnostic criteria for DID" but it can and is, definitely a symptom if you have C-PTSD, which a lot of systems do.

I think this is what makes relationships very hard for our system because even though we may be in a healthy relationship, there can still be things done/said that resembles an abuser, now we fully believe we are in danger regardless of all the evidence to the contrary that's provided to us.

I can't tell you how many times I've been told "sometimes you treat me like I'm them" or "you're reacting like I'm doing xyz" etc. I'm literally stuck in a psychosis loop due to xyz and to me, at this moment, you ARE that person. Even though in actual reality, you aren't that person and very far from it.

Idk if this makes ANY sense to anyone else but it definitely helps me and most of my head mates on how we think about our triggers and how we respond to things.

[otto-c-graves]

Boy howdy, do I hate venting on here but I am livid. TLDR and trigger warning for narcissism, gaslighting, and abuse.

I cannot STAND when someone tries to tell me something I already know involving my job or passion.

I understand constructive criticism. I understand trying to be genuinely helpful. But when you’re a narcissist gaslighter that needs to be right every GOD DAMN time on EVERYTHING you do, I do not accept it.

I have been writing stories since I can remember. The one thing I took serious in school was learning how to write correctly and how to be a better writer. The one thing I’ve always wanted to be was a writer. An author. A creator of art.

But if you’re going to try and tell me I’m wrong on a simple grammar question only to back track and explain it correctly to make me look bad, I will NOT take that lightly.

Just because you stopped using big words because the people around you didn’t understand what you were saying so you dumbed yourself down to fit in. Just because you couldn’t break the cycle and understand that you could live the life you wanted, even if it meant making your family unhappy. Just because you decided you needed to have kids and pose as the perfect parent just to cut others down. Just so you could show off your children’s talents, to flaunt us off to make yourself look good. Just because your head is so thick and you believed the American dream. Just because you want to be waited on hand and foot, be respected and treated like royalty, only to have the accountability of a small child. Just because you get pissed off that people treat you like a toxic person because you can’t accept that you are. Does not give you the right to belittle others.

Just because you refuse to change for the better, does not grant you the freedom to pick at my flaws and treat me like I’m always wrong.

But you will. You will continue to do so.

And I don’t mean you, the reader, I mean my offender.

I know how to stop this. I do. But it’s easier said than done and there’s things here that I love too much to let go. And until then I can only do so much.

Essentially, please do not sit there and tell me how to do my job or my passions. My dreams. They are not yours to control. If you wanted this, then you should have pursued them yourself.

I’m sorry I didn’t come out like you wanted. I’m sorry I’m the wrong gender. I’m sorry you can’t completely control me anymore. I’m sorry I came out queer. I’m sorry you had to have me. I’m sorry I made your life miserable. I’m sorry I didn’t make you proud genuinely. I’m sorry.

And I feel guilty. I feel guilty that I’m venting. Because there are bigger problems out there. People are dying. People are suffering. There are much worse things happening and I’m sitting here, privileged, venting about a problem that seems so minuscule to others.

I’m so sorry…