#we don't even care if we drown

[jayciethings]

This post calls forth Brits like sirens to sailors

Late 16th century silver-gilt pomander with labeled spice compartments. Used for aromatic and spiritual purposes since the middle ages.

[horsemage]

I think we should bring back basic etiquette lessons such as shutting the fuck up when you’re watching a movie in a group that is not exclusively your friend group 🙂

[medicinemane]

At least I could disable the suggestions but just... I'm sick of it, I'm sick of companies trying to think for me

I'd rather be miserable but doing shit my own way than placid and glass eyed and just taking whatever companies tell me to

Like... literally just asking what I get out of writing a post on tumblr... zero suggestions, just letting me say whatever dumb stuff comes to my head

[keeps-ache]

mm i Neeed to go the beach

[skrunksthatwunk]

just found out rascal (babycat)'s been with his owner this whole time instead of my roommate which is. something. :|

[set-phasers-to-whump]

the motherland don't love you, the fatherland don't love you, so why love anything?

prompt: drowning their sorrows

whumpee: kind of all 3 of napoleon solo, illya kuryakin, gaby teller

fandom: the man from uncle

hey!! this fic is a bit different from my usual stuff, it's much more about the angst and kind of the character study type aspect, so it's not whump in a traditional sense. nonetheless i really enjoyed writing it and i hope you like reading it!! (title from ya hey by vampire weekend)

“Listen,” Napoleon says, after his sixth or seventh glass of Scotch. “Fuck the Central Intelligence Agency.”

Gaby raises an eyebrow at him, takes a sip from her glass, and waits for him to say something else. 

Napoleon, however, seems to have lost his train of thought. “Fuck the CIA,” he repeats. “Nothing but a bunch of extortionists.”

“Yeah,” Gaby agrees, with the tone of one who doesn’t know exactly what it is they’re agreeing with but who is staunchly in support of it nonetheless. “Fuck the CIA,” she echoes, giggling at the English curse. 

Napoleon smiles, then grows serious, evidently having remembered his earlier thoughts. He sets his glass down with a thump. 

“No, really. I mean, God knows I’m no saint, but…look at us.” He gestures in a vague circle that encompasses himself, Gaby, and Illya, all painted with bruises and cuts of varying severity, marks of a severely botched mission and the reason for their present collective inebriation. 

Napoleon then gestures to himself, prods at his fresh black eye with a bit more force than is wise. “Ow.”

“We do not work for the CIA,” Illya points out, speaking slowly to avoid jumbling his words. “Only you.”

Napoleon scowls at him. “Not the point, Peril. My point is…my point is, how often have we looked like this because of an UNCLE mission?”

Illya shrugs, scrunching up his face like he’s actually trying to count. 

Gaby answers for him. “Not very often. Not this bad.”

Napoleon points at her. “Exactly. UNCLE has better intel - well, maybe not this time, but you know - and they actually sort of care about us. Like, Waverly probably wouldn’t threaten me with prison if I was a little cheeky with him. Probably.”

Gaby and Illya both nod. 

“And,” Napoleon starts, more to indicate that he wants to keep talking and less to introduce a well thought-out sentence, “and. Okay. I mean, I’ve never been in the KGB and I didn’t grow up in East Berlin, so I can’t really speak for you guys, but my boss here?” 

He stops, considers his use of prepositions, realizes they’re not actually in the States at the moment, and rephrases. “Back in the US, I mean. Sanders, my boss, terrible man, really, talking a big game about the country being on top of the world like he’s the one who put it there. Anyway. He threatens me with prison pretty much weekly.”

Gaby looks at him intently. “Can he actually send you to prison?”

Napoleon shrugs, does his best to be nonchalant. “Probably. It wouldn’t be too hard to convince whoever it is that needs convincing. I mean, sure, I’m useful as an agent, but at the end of the day I’m nothing but a dirty thief who should worship the ground the CIA…well, I guess the CIA as like, a thing, can’t walk, but you know…I should worship the ground the CIA walks on because they kept me out of prison. Not that working for them is anything like freedom.”

“I understand,” Gaby says, leaning slightly against Napoleon’s shoulder, partly as a gesture of comfort and solidarity and partly because everything has gone a little spinny. She waits until the feeling subsides, then speaks up again. 

“In Berlin, they trap us. East Germany is supposed to be a good place, that’s what they tell you, but then they build this wall through the city. And what are we supposed to do? We can’t go over it, they will kill us. It’s like they don’t understand that it’s the same city on both sides. There’s no freedom like that. I don’t even miss it.”

She falls silent, finishes her drink, pours another, contemplates it for a moment. 

“I do miss it, I guess. Is it possible to not miss your home?”

Her eyes have gone a bit glassy. Unconsciously, she rubs at the fresh red scratch on her cheek. 

“It isn’t like East Germany ever cared about me. Or anyone, really. Do you know how many people they arrest every day? For nothing. They questioned me about my birth father once. Two years ago they arrested my neighbor for…how is it in English? Sed… something. They said he was against the state. He was only a painter.”

“Sedition,” Napoleon chimes in, shaking his head. 

Gaby nods. “That’s it. Sedition.” She pronounces the word carefully, committing it to memory. “And even then I - I do miss it. Even after everything. There is nothing left for me there, no one. Still, sometimes I think about how I can never go back, and I think it should feel like…like freedom, but it doesn’t.”

She leans more heavily into Napoleon and shuts her eyes. She will not cry over this. Over a place that does not care for her in the slightest. Over a place that she is indifferent to and misses in the same breath. 

A soft silence. Gaby scrubs at her eyes. Illya shifts slightly in his chair, keenly aware of the fact that it would seem to be his turn. 

He finishes the last of his drink - he doesn’t know what it is, something Napoleon made that had tasted good earlier but is now horribly bitter. He doesn’t know how many of these terrible drinks he’s had. He should have kept count. He shouldn’t be so drunk. But he is, and so his tongue is loosened. He takes a deep breath and tries not to wince when his bruised ribs protest. 

“My father was not a good man,” he says, and then stops. Napoleon and Gaby both look at him, attentive. He looks away, continues after a beat. 

“He was arrested. Sent to Gulag. He stole money from the Party. I thought, they will kill him. But he is still alive. No one can see him. They will maybe tell me when he dies, I don’t know.”

He pauses, considers, formulates the English words. “He is a criminal. Or else they would have freed him. He is in prison for almost twenty years. Oleg Grigorievich, he says to me sometimes… Solo,” he says suddenly, looking at his partner. 

Napoleon looks back at him with startling intensity. “Yeah?”

“You said that Sanders, he threatens you with prison, yes?” Illya asks, and then barrels on atop of Napoleon’s affirmative answer. 

“Oleg Grigorievich also does this. He tells me I will end up in Siberia like my father if I do not perform well. I love my country, I will die for my country, but…I do not love him.”

Gaby nods seriously. “Fuck Oleg Gri…gorievich,” she proclaims, pausing in the middle of the patronymic to hiccup. Napoleon snorts, and she elbows him. He winces. 

“Your elbows are sharp. And I already have a bruise,” he complains. 

“Sorry,” Gaby apologizes, mostly sincerely. 

Illya looks at them. He is beginning to think he should not have begun speaking, because now he is not sure that he can stop. 

“I am good at my work. KGB needs me. I am happy to work for my country. But…”

“Go on,” Napoleon encourages, leaning forward. 

“We won’t tell anyone,” Gaby adds. “Nobody tells anyone anything.”

“Except each other.”

“Obviously.”

“I was just making sure!”

“But,” Illya continues, and Napoleon and Gaby turn their attention back to him. “You are nice to me.”

He doesn’t say anything else. His face feels hot and his throat feels tight. For a very long moment all three of them just look at each other. 

And then, as if by design (though neither one of them had spoken to the other), both Gaby and Napoleon get up and grab hold of Illya’s hands. 

“What are you doing?” Illya asks, scarcely moving despite their straining. 

“Come sit with us,” Gaby says. 

“Please?” Napoleon adds. “So we can all be miserable together.”

“We are already together,” Illya points out. 

“Come on, please?” Gaby asks. 

Illya heaves another sigh that has him wincing. “Okay.”

He lets them pull him to his feet. For a second he gets horribly dizzy and he has to close his eyes. When he opens them again, he’s leaning against Napoleon and Gaby has her hands on his back. 

“I’m fine,” he says. “Just dizzy.”

“So’m I,” Gaby agrees. “Come on, let’s sit.”

The three of them stumble back to the couch and sink down onto it rather ungracefully. Napoleon ends up in the middle, with Illya curled into the corner beside him and Gaby lying her head on his leg. 

“I’m glad you ruined my car,” Gaby suddenly says, not moving her head from its pillow. 

“What?” Napoleon asks. “We destroyed it. Beautiful car, too.”

Gaby shrugs as best as she can given her current position. “If you didn’t ruin my car, we would not be here now.”

She does have a point, Napoleon figures. “I’m glad we’re here,” he adds. “Working for the CIA is mostly terrible. Working with you is fun. You’re…” He trails off, unsure of or unwilling to fully voice any further words. 

Illya shifts a little closer to them, carefully. “At home I am part of machine. I do not mind this, but with you I am something else. Not a machine.”

“Just a person,” Gaby says. “More free.”

It’s different for her, she knows. Her career as a spy has been with Waverly alone. The only person controlling her is someone she trusts and likes. 

And yet Napoleon agrees. “Yeah,” he says, slowly. “I mean, Sanders is still in charge of me, but so is Waverly, and with UNCLE I’m not a prisoner of the US government, or at least I don’t feel like one. Maybe one of these days I won’t be, I don’t know. I’d work for UNCLE, with you guys, even if it was my choice, is what I mean, I suppose.”

“I am maybe not so free at home,” Illya chimes in, leaning slightly onto Napoleon. “This is how it is, I don’t mind. It is important that there is an order, things like this. But we…we care about each other, yes?”

It takes Gaby and Napoleon a second to realize that they’re being asked a question here. 

“Of course,” says Napoleon. 

“Obviously,” Gaby agrees. 

“Okay. We care about each other. And maybe so does Waverly. This is different. I am…I have…I can be something else here. And that is good too.”

“Well put,” says Napoleon. “Now, I don’t know about you guys, but I’m feeling a little bit too drunk and a lot bit like I’d like to go to sleep.”

“Me too,” Gaby chimes in. 

“Yes,” agrees Illya. 

“And I’m not moving.”

“Me either.”

“I will stay.”

Napoleon nods slowly, closing his eyes when this makes him too dizzy. “Glad we’re agreed.”

They rearrange themselves as best as they can, which involves a lot of shuffling around, grabbing of arms for support, and general wincing. Eventually, they manage to configure themselves in a reasonably comfortable manner, all stacked and tangled together. 

“Goodnight,” Gaby mumbles, voice muffled by the fabric of Napoleon’s shirt. 

“Night,” Napoleon echoes, already half asleep with his face pressed into a cushion. 

“Goodnight,” Illya concludes, head propped up at a slightly uncomfortable angle against the armrest. 

In the morning, there will be pounding headaches, empty glasses and bottles to clean up, and various injuries to check in on. But for now, there is only silence and comfort. There is only them.

thanks for reading! this was a whole different kind of beast to write but i really loved getting to explore their characters like this, i have so many thoughts about them that don't often get to come through in my usual 'beat them up' fics. i hope you enjoyed this!!

[bluastro-yellow]

does it ever hit you that people live in completely different worlds. people perceive and elaborate the world in completely different ways, influenced by their past experiences and the social bubbles they're in. these bubbles rarely touch you're barely aware they exist until you discuss something with someone and it's as if you're in two parallel universes. I don't know how to elaborate

[eternallyanxiousandstressed]

another vent, don't mind me. just need to get things out

[hareofhrair]

It's so important to remember that people who get sucked into cults and conspiracy thinking aren't just stupid or doing it to piss you off. This stuff serves a need for them that isn't being met elsewhere. For a lot of older folks, it's community, a hobby. It offers a sense of control over a world that feels chaotic and terrifying because You know what's Really Going On. You have the Secret Knowledge to keep you Safe. The ultimate appeal of conspiracy thinking is the underlying assumption that someone is in control of all this. That someone CAN control all of this. For a lot of people, they find these things when they're at their lowest- drowning in medical debt, struggling to stay afloat, fighting with addiction or untreated depression. Cults will often offer actual physical support that these people desperately need. Conspiracy circles at minimum give them someone to blame, and a community that sympathizes with them and commiserates with them.

These people aren't stupid, they're hanging on to something they believe they need.

One day you might be desperate enough to believe you need it too.

[pa-pa-plasma]

"fiction doesn't effect reality" do i not exist in reality? & another question: are you fucking stupid?

[creativepromptsforwriting]

Angsty Sentence Starters #5

"I'm screaming and no one listens."

"Who am I without you?"

"How did we end up like this?"

"I thought you understood, but clearly, I was wrong."

"Every day feels like a battle I can't win."

"I can't keep pretending that everything is okay."

"Why does it always have to be like this?"

"You promised you'd never hurt me."

"I'm tired of being the one who cares more."

"There is no home to go back to."

"It feels like I'm drowning."

"You don't even notice me."

"Feels like we lost it all."

"I'm not going to leave you alone again."

"The more I try to forget, the more I remember."

"We're out of options here."

"How can you stand there and act like nothing's wrong?"

"Sometimes I wonder if you ever really loved me at all."

"I believed in you, but now I see the truth."

"You used to be my safe haven."

More: Angsty Masterpost

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[jiangshiu]

𐙚 cho hyun-ju x reader — braiding her hair

slightly edited as of 1/7

her hair is tangled, nowhere near as styled as it was upon her arrival.

your fingers gently thread through the brown mess — the texture is not as brittle as you'd expected, pleasant to the touch just enough that you want to keep your hands buried in it for just a while longer.

so, for a few more minutes, you allow yourself to slack off, to enjoy the feeling of hyun-ju's surprisingly soft locks. she doesn't utter a word as you play with and twirl her hair, not even when you accidentally tug at the ends a bit too roughly.

it's only when you pull away, about to start working on your masterpiece (or in other words, the braid) that she finally speaks up, her voice quiet, timid, “...i've never had anyone do this for me before. thank you again.”

her confession makes you pause. for a moment, your brain struggles to pick an appropriate reaction. you want to express pity, console her, ask her more, but you'd rather not open any old wounds.

instead, you settle for the simple truth; “in that case i'm honored to be the first one to do this.”

with that said, you finally get to work. you divide hyun-ju's hair into three neat sections, interlacing the strands together. you take your time, treating each piece of the braid like it might break if you as much as twist it the wrong way. every piece falls into place perfectly like a puzzle as you intertwine the dark locks, your pace intentionally slow, leisurely.

a shaky breath slips through hyun-ju's lips, her shoulders slinking back a bit as she lets herself succumb to the gentle motion of your hands. despite not being able to see her face, you're certain her eyes are closed, drowning in the sensation.

“if...” you start, nearing the split ends of her hair, “when we get out of here, i think we should try out more hairstyles. and get ourselves some cute hair accessories. oh, actually, we should go to the mall and buy some pretty clothes as well! what do you think?”

it's like you can hear her lips curl into a small, appreciative smile, “i'd like that,” she admits.

as you secure hyun-ju's locks with a hair tie, a smile blooms on your face as well, “i'm counting on it then.”

“there,” your fingertips follow the length of the braid — truthfully, it's far from perfect, a few stray strands sticking out here and there, but little do you know she won't really mind.

hyun-ju turns around to face you. her black eyes carry a hint of uncertainty, like she's unsure of herself, “thank you,” she repeats, “it means a lot.”

the reluctance in her voice is loud and clear. she doesn't want to lose this precious moment of serenity just yet. because neither of you know when you'll have the opportunity to do something like this again, or if there even is a chance to escape this death filled land.

“actually, hold on, i'm not done yet.”

for the final touch, you tuck out two strands at the front. curling each strand in between your index fingers to give them a temporary wave, you catch hyun-ju's eyes slowly trailing down your face. she seems to be absolutely entranced by you — from the way your lips are pursed in concentration, to the kindness in your gaze that nobody else here has bothered to show her.

“you're watching me like a hawk,” you tease her with a toothy smile, tugging on one of the strands lightly.

that seems to pull her out of her trance-like state. she blinks a few times and looks down at her lap in shame, nervously wringing her hands, “sorry...”

“don't apologize,” you shake your head. you fluff up her bangs a bit as you continue, “i don't mind it if it's you looking at me.”

hyun-ju clears her throat. a faint blush dusts her cheeks as her fingers brush against her new hairstyle, careful not to dishevel it, “how do i look?”

your smile brightens.

“as beautiful as ever.”

[thousandyearphantombunker]

low functioning means you are incapable of basic activities of daily living (bADLs) such as:

bathing or showering, dressing, getting in and out of bed or a chair, walking, using the toilet, continence (which sometimes gets excluded) and eating.

I understand that people feel like high functioning hand waves away their struggles with employment or depression or burn out or sensory processing or learning disabilities but high functioning as a label wasn't meant to address that. It was meant to address what's listed above. If you are mostly capable of a good portion of these tasks then you are probably high functioning. I know it's not exactly comforting to hear but no matter how many times you change the labels to 'low support' or 'level one' and idk what else we will come up with people will still erase our struggles but I'd rather have someone assume 'high functioning means that girl doesn't need help' than have people like my uncle not have a label like low functioning that tells people he needs help.

Quick side note: Also notice on that list of basic ADLs things like verbality aren't listed? Nonverbal doesn't automatically mean incapable of bADLs it means non speaking! Many nonverbal are very capable of independence and deserve to use swear words on their AAC devices if they express the desire to!

But yeah you might think high functioning erases your issues but the labels aren't focused on things like employment or driving skills or grocery shopping. They're focused on your ability to dress yourself without wearing your clothes the wrong way because you were confused or because you can't figure out how to put on an outfit or find your clothes.

If anyone here honestly holds the belief low functioning people have it easier then you need to wake the fuck up

my fellow low support needs/"high functioning"/level 1 autistics, please stop treating support needs labels like a personal attack on your struggles.

low support needs doesn't mean no support needs. low support needs doesn't mean you don't struggle. low support needs doesn't mean you can't be disabled by your autism. low support needs doesn't mean you can't have speech difficulties or severe sensory issues or bad symptom days.

all that low support needs/level 1 means is that you can usually complete activities of daily living with minimal assistance. [pt: on average, you have relatively lower support needs than some other autistic people.]

i know sometimes it may seem like these labels are erasing your struggles, i used to feel the same way. but the reality is that medium and high support needs autistics feel a lot worse when we keep calling these labels "unnecessary" but excluding the people who most need them from the conversation entirely.

[yeyinde]

The 141 finding out you've never had sex.

Just casually drinking, playing cards. A joke causes it to slip out.

body electric: the virgin edition

Gaz, the instigator, mutters something about not having been fucked in ages. this springs up a sudden surge of comradery, because, yeah. neither have they.

Soap's devote Catholicism (i like to imagine) leaves little room for flippant intimacy. he tries to be a good boy. key word, of course, being: tries. but the last serious relationship was years ago. back when he was grunt. he's pent up. abstinence, yeah? he holds it tight in his hand. but the thing about fists is that they're often mistaken for anger. Soap's a realist masquerading as an optimist. he knows whoever falls into his jowls next will be a MacTavish by the time he's through with them. and commitment. well. his comes at a price. a hefty one.

Ghost prefers casual flings where he doesn't have to take any clothes off. unzips his trousers, frees his cock, and then tries to pretend he's a real, flesh and blood, human. to feel something, anything, except a vacuum between hollow bones. but his tastes are peculiar. on the side of unhinged. he hasn't found the perfect body yet satiate himself with.

Price. well. with his bloody hands, he thinks he'd rather not dirty the same people he swears to protect. and divorcing at the age of 30 does that to a man, maybe. his role as a captain (an excuse in retrospect) also keeps him from unleashing his wants. the very same ones that are probably best under lock and key, anyway. it's just for the best, really. something he ought to do because the moment he has another chance to sink his teeth into someone's neck, he'll tear them apart. break them into pieces.

despite bringing it up, Gaz knows the real reason he's single is because he's pushy. he wants. so he takes. and then takes some more. more. more. until his gullet is full of the person he's obsessed with. carrying them around in his breast pocket everywhere he goes. the perfect mate. the one he can shower with unfettered affection. a deluge, in all honesty. one with the ideation to drown. biblical floods. trapped beneath him. he likes it more than he should, but. singedom, then, he supposes.

and then you roll the dice. admit, sheepishly, that, technically, you have them all beat. zero is always lesser than five, ten, twenty. but it's this misstep—zero, never—that catches their attention.

suddenly, you're not surrounded by kin but a pack of wolves. all hungry in their own ways, all starving. it just makes sense to quench their hunger with you, doesn't it? friend, ally. pretty little thing. so sweet for them. and perfectly mouldable. putty they shape to their hearts desire. the perfect mate.

Soap grips his rosary. the sign of the cross, heavenly Father and Holy Spirit, digging into his palm like the burn of a baptism. what's devotion if not pain? he cuts himself on the gold. offers blood of the sacrament to whoever might be listening, and leans in, sniffing.

Price's knuckles are white. he leans back, hidden in shadows. all you can see is spark of burning orange from his cigar as he takes mouthful after mouthful of smoke, contemplating. assessing.

"that so?" he doesn't even need to look at his Lieutenant to know that the man has gone still. too bad for you, it's not from shock.

Ghost barely holds himself back. keeps tight in his seat. fists clenching. unclenching. he has a good enough read on the people around him to see the unfiltered desire ripping across their face. scorching. but to bite, with his mouthful of jagged, seraded teeth; ones meant to rip, break, tear, would ruin you. permanently. unequivocally. and—

"wanna give it a go?" all eyes turn to Gaz, electric in his seat. eyes smouldering umbre. "i mean, you trust us the most, don't you?" us. it's stunning, he thinks, the way Gaz can weave tapestry in the air like this with just his words. one tangled like shibari binds. "and we care for you a lot. we'll be gentle. it's up to you, of course, but—"

Soap's bloody hand disappears under the table. you gasp. "yer askin' fer it, ain't ye? beggin' so pretty fer it."

"n-no, i—"

"mind your manners." Price. his voice is chiselled into char, authoritative; low. a lulling command spoken in a breath of smoke. "and don't lie, love. or i'll have to take you over my knee."

the tension is thick. Soap's arm moves, slow. deliberate. Ghost has clench his jaw to avoid bearing his teeth. snarling.

Gaz cuts it with a knife. hews compliance into your skin with a fine needle point. "it's okay. we'll take such good care'a you. make you feel so good."

your submission is a heavy thing. oppressive. the shallow dip of your chin, the blistering heat simmering under your flesh, burning right, is the prettiest fuckin' thing he's ever seen. he does clench his jaw this time. tight, tight. tight

until something pops.

"okay." you yield. head bowed. beautifully submissive.

when he looks around, catches the predatory crackle in the air. his hackles raise. immediate. instinctual. and ah, right.

it's easy to forget he's surrounded by a wild pack of stray dogs. starving ones, too.

[inkskinned]

even 2 years ago people still said autism with a whisper. it was also how people sometimes whisper lesbian, like they're afraid of uttering a slur. autistic was either an insult or it was something terrible, a horrible burden only select people endure. "select people" were usually 9 year old boys and skinny white men.

they are not hispanic young adults with a dog and a life and friends. i can make (sustained, calculated, painful) eye contact. with certain people, i don't even have to count how many seconds i am holding their vision - i can just look at them. i can wear clothes that bother me, i will just have a worse day than usual. i might cry about any changes to my schedule - but change is scary! this is normal!

when i was 16 it was OCD. i mean that was the thing everyone said. i totally have ocd. they would arrange 6 colors of gel pen in rainbow order (no worry for indigo feeling left out) and they'd be "so ocd" about it.

if you struggle with intrusive thoughts, be careful at this next paragraph, but. at 16 i developed a compulsion that involved self-harm. my ocd was convinced i was simply forgetting that i'd hurt someone terribly - a thought that persisted for no clear or delineated reason.

at some point i will probably write about how the idea of "morally pure thoughts" was hell for me and others with ocd, but this was the odd dichotomy for many of us: they liked our "aesthetic", but were genuinely repulsed by our lived experience. "intrusive thoughts" now means "cutting your hair in the sink" instead of talking yourself down from believing horrible things. "so ocd" is a label without any true understanding.

it's something i've talked about before - in multiplicity - but i firmly believe in the veracity and necessity of self-diagnosis. i think it saves lives and it saves tragedies from occurring. as someone raised in a house that wasn't safe, self-diagnosis was, for many years, the only viable option. 15 and honestly googling: am i depressed or are there demons affecting my behavior.

but it is not genuine self-diagnosis anymore, most of the time. it is a strange, blanched version of that whispered word autism. now certain traits are constantly seen as "autistic" - any passing intense interest. any flubbed social interaction. people say it while laughing - a touch of the 'tism.

and i like the acceptance! i do. i like that people are talking about it. i like that if i self-identify, more people speak up and say me too, bitch. but there is something-else quietly happening, the way it happened to OCD. the quirky, "fun" parts have been washed and sanitized and removed of all suffering. now it is just something that makes you "a little bit silly."

it took me 27 years on this planet before i learned to make friends. something about me just seems incredibly odd, i guess, some kind of radiation monitoring. someone once (in a way that was almost friendly) told me i am doing the right things, but in a way that's off-putting. i have scoured myself raw attempting to be charming.

someone on tiktok does a deep dive into their particular passion. the top comment says "what kind of autism is this lol". like we are a breed of animal. like it has no influence on our experience. like our life is a fresh breeze, an open meadow.

more often for me, life was a drowning.

[canihaveacalmtime]

Imagine yourself as the neglected youngest prince/princess of a powerful empire, after being deemed for harming the king's favorite child, you were sent to the underground dungeon to have you learn your lesson but that lesson which suppose to only long for 2 weeks turned into 2 years of torture for you.

So when the truth was revealed that it was a duke's family that was behind the attack of the king's favorite child, they remembered about you and realized that it's been two years since they last seen you, it just hits them hard the moment they knew that you were still in the dungeons.

When they arrived at your cell, they were devastated to see how brutally beaten up you are and you look like you haven't had any food for weeks, even months. Quickly, the king order that you be treated immediately and called the royal doctor.

As you lay limp on the bed in your new bedroom, the doctor said that your condition now is even worse than any othet patient the doctor has ever treated, worse than the knights who came back from war even and you are 10, only 10 years old. Your family can only pray for your recovery now while drowning themselves in guilt and regret.

One early morning, when your sister, the king's favorite child yeah, came to check on you and she almost cried when she saw you sitting on the bed, looking outside the window. You're awake and moving, so she immediately go and tell the others.

After that was the beginning days of all the family members to try and attempt to get your attention and fight each other over for who will be the one to pamper and take care of you. You on the other hand just doesn't budge from what they've been doing, it's like you are just a living body without a living soul.

Everyday, you have to hear them apologize to you, tell you sweet things and comfort you, try their best to lessen the wounds on your body and you're becoming sick of those things. You only want to know why they are wasting their time on you while they can just left you back in the maid headquarters where your old room is then left to rot in there, won't it be better?

So as a protest, you did the unthinkable, you tried to unalive yourself by jumping off of the balcony and let's just say they were not happy about that one bit.

At first, you just did it once so they make sure the maids will always have their eyes on you to prevent you from doing such things again until your second attempt comes with you tried to stab yourself with a piece of glass then another, then another and another. They were getting really tired of what you were doing and finally settled down to an agreement.

Make sure to don't be too panic when you wake up the next day to see your hands cuffed and the chain on your leg connect to the bed frame. Even when you tried to refuse to eat, they will just force feed you without making you hurt. Eventually, you snapped and broke down one day just screaming and crying at them, saying that why don't they just kill you already, you are so tired of everything and the pain never fade.

Your mother holds and kiss your face, making you not notice the syringe has been plugged into your neck as you slowly losing consciousness, the only thing you hear before blacking out was-

"You shall never leave our side, sweetheart. Even if the lengths we are going to keep you here is overdose, we just have no option left if you don't cooperate. Sleep tight, we love you."