#who wouldn't be depressed.

[nepenthean-sleep]

everybody loves to ask about your mental health but they never like to talk about the societal factors keeping your mental health worse

[money-and-dandellions]

I am totally fine

...Lester, who saw that Meg was like him, while observing her and her Beast...

...(and who didn't admit to himself, that he had a Beast too)...

...Meg who was so scared and worried out of her mind that Lester is in dander and is going to die in the cave of Trophonius that she kept trying to catch his attention and started singing in order to guarantee his safety...

...Lester, who selflessly agreed to give his life only if Meg is going to live; and then proceeded to put himself under risk of being suffocated...

...Meg who was helplessly watching how [her] dummy stabbed himself in the heart and fell limb (I am sure that for a second she was not sure if it was the end or not)...

...Lester who watched people he knew only for a few hours were killed for his sake, clearly not understanding why they would sacrifice themselves for him ("and, for some reason, Jason Grace decided that I would not die today too")...

...Meg, who was watching how her best friend was dying from poison; she didn't want him to die, she cried because she didn't want him to die...

...Lester who helped her to kill her Beast Nero... (I am sure that he is very proud of this achievement of hers)

...Lester, who promised her to come back, no matter what, because the sun always comes back...

Apollo, who did.

They, who became each other's family, because their families are shit (not all of the people/gods).

[cryptiduni]

“white mourning.”

[timothylawrence]

like idk how to tell certain bg3 fans this but wyll is also a victim in his own right. even if he acts all 'okay' and doesn't regret what happened to him/what he chose. it's a very poignant part of his character that he is very much a tragic victim in his own right .

[givemewallywestorgivemedeath]

Growing up in an extremely ultra religious, cult-like family was a mindfuck for multiple reasons but that doesn't stop unfortunately, even when you escape. For example, see: The overwhelming feeling of boiling hatred and shame for who you used to be.

The angry hatred for the past person I used to be, the version of myself that mindlessly parroted my family's beliefs and listened to their every command, constantly simmered under my skin and invaded my every thought. I was embarrassed of what I used to be- even as I made friends of different ethnicities and faiths, as I listened and explored new ideas and worlds that I never knew existed, as I started the first LGBTQ+ club at my school and volunteered with kids who deserved so much more- there was always a little voice in the back of my head.

"They would hate you if they knew what you were. They would hate the horrendous teachings that were seared into your mind, the things that you used to say and believe. You are nothing but a pretender."

And it is true that my beliefs were bigoted in all the worst ways. It is true that I believed truly heart-wrenching things without a second thought and judged others in such harsh and unfair ways. I told myself that there was no coming back from that, not really. There was nothing I could do to ever make up for it.

Then I remembered that the person who said those things wore velcro light up sneakers and collected finger puppets that the librarians handed out as awards for reading picture books. The person that held signs at pro-life rallies and anti-LGBTQ+ protests had a cherished sticker book and hunted minnows in the creek after school and adored their puffle on club penguin and was really into greek mythology and had skinned knees from climbing trees at recess and knew every Disney song by heart and was absolutely terrified of the dark.

That person was a child.

I was a child.

It took a really long time. Years and years of reflection and distance, but I've decided that I can't hate the past version of myself anymore. I feel pity and remorse, I feel anger- I feel so much fury and violent rage- at what my childhood was and I grieve what could- no, should- have been, but I no longer resent who I was.

I'm not ashamed.

I am so, so, so unbelievably proud of that little kid. For being brave enough to leave the comfort and safety of what I was told was right. For not being afraid to be wrong. For seeking out information and knowledge in a culture that praised ignorance. For questioning everything, relentlessly.

I am by no means a perfect person, I never have been and I never will, but I am proud of myself in every iteration that has ever existed because I know that I have never stopped trying to understand and learn and grow, and I never will.

If you have ever been in a similar situation and feel similar things, first of all: My condolences on your lost childhood. Second of all: Please be nice to that past version of yourself and recognize all the hard work they did to make you who you are today. That person was a survivor and an inspiration. They deserve nothing but love.

[possamble]

AHA thank u i was mostly just. frantically pulling the "no hetero" card bc farcille is super super always endgame for me and the "marcille has two hands" thing is absolutely not for me and my personal characterization of marcille

i like. can't find it anymore for some reason but there was a farcille fic set just after the shuro confrontation where laios reaches over to hold marcille's hand and ask her if she likes him or if she's just tolerating him too and it was so. the vulnerability. the puppyness.

that safety and security he must feel in knowing that she wears her heart on her sleeve and he will always know when she's unhappy with him because she will absolutely let it be known. the way that falin's first revival was the turning point for the way he felt about her because, for the first time in his life, protecting falin wasn't something he had to shoulder alone. there was finally someone else who cared about her as much as he did (in his eyes, resenting his parents for failing to protect her) and would stop at nothing to save her. the way it must have been proof for him that, not only was falin not alone anymore, he wasn't alone anymore.

idk why i like rather than dislike the fact that his only framework for parsing how he feels about "the first girl other than his sister that he's ever cared this much about" is a comphet romantic lens. like he would have the autism moment of fully assuming that he's in love with her for a while and just like. not? doing anything about it? because he doesn't feel the urge to, nor is he sad that he knows marcille would mostly likely never "feel the same way" about him?

like. he "figures out" that he's "in love with marcille" with all the passion of printing out a label and sticking it onto a favourite scrapbook for organizational purposes. he's equally happy to be her husband or brother-in-law so long as it means she stays close and is part of his family.

i know logically i should hate it but it's sooo crunchy to me. my comphet besties ever. designated plus one and dance partner to all fancy and formal occasions. having actual real chemistry but the "romantic" part of it is some weird shapeshifter smokescreen. augh

[kyouka-supremacy]

---

[zmbienoir]

woke up to someone on my DNI rbing from me urgh

literally a 50 yr old who has no clue what "yandere" really means, demonizes npd, and hates poly people

actually insane behavior

news flash guys..... yanderes can be awful and abusive people too who aren't devoted but just want to own or control you 👍👍 doesn't make them "fake yanderes" it just makes them abusive

also like half of yanblr is people with npd or narcissistic tendencies

[worstloki]

sigyn that married loki like ages ago so when it comes out he's jotun she's like. 'well it's a bit late to do anything about that'

[saulweissberg]

Last night I told a stranger all about you They smiled patiently with disbelief I always knew you would succeed, no matter what you tried And I know you did it all in spite of me —IN SPITE OF ME, MORPHINE

content warnings: neglect, abuse mention, drugs, alcoholism, death, depression, grief, homophobia, allusions to antisemitism.

I’m a bad father. This is an unfortunate truth about myself. I am a loving father, but a neglectful one. I do not hit my son, I don't yell or mess with his emotions, I haven't gone to jail or drunk myself into a stupor or picked drugs over him, but I am still a bad father. I am a loving, affectionate father, and I try to give Micah everything that I can. I buy him whatever he wants. I take him on trips—or I did, when he still allowed me to—to wherever he wanted. I told him how smart, how handsome, how funny he is, a million times over. But none of that will make up for what I didn't give him—my time. I chose work over him. I chose work over everyone. 

Every attorney I've ever known has done the same. 

My own father had done the same, to a lesser degree. A lawyer just like me, though our specializations are different, and sometimes I wonder if he would be disappointed by me going into family law instead of criminal law like he had. (By that metric, would he be even more disappointed by Levi, my twin, choosing academia over the law?) My father was there, physically, but his mind was often somewhere else. He was busy thinking about how to get his client off on man two instead of man one, or expatiating on the meaning of mens rea, or just something. Just something that gave him a faraway look in his eye, something that captured his attention instead of us and we could only get it back if we were too loud, or if we called his full name in our boyish, shrill voices, which he hated to hear because children should always respect their parents. So, he was there in body, but the mind…

Our mother made up for that. Where my dad was distant until it was time for a lecture or a punishment, my mother was overly involved. She wanted to know what Levi and I were talking about so late into the night, or if we had girlfriends yet, or who was better: Bon Jovi or Van Halen? As if we didn’t know she thought good music consisted of two names only—Frankie Valli and Meat Loaf. She was sometimes a little outnumbered by her hyperactive children, but she has always been a strong woman, and she has always taken everything in stride. The only thing that ever got in her way was my father’s death. It was so sudden, so abrupt, that it changed the very nature of all three of us for the rest of our lives. My mother fell into a deep depression for a few years, a fugue that was only broken by our high school graduations and an opening on the country club’s board. Levi and I were always codependent, but our father’s death made us circle the wagons—mom was too distracted, dad was gone, and we were mostly on our own. We only had each other. We kind of preferred it that way.

That’s not to say that I had bad parents. My parents loved me. My mother still loves me. Even for the generation that they came from, or being New England Democrats in the eighties, my parents were rather progressive. They hated Reagan deeply and looked… favorably upon gay people. They never taught us to hate anyone—except Conservatives—and we were told to look at the world through a lens of understanding. The Weissbergs were proud to be contemporaries of the Kennedys and the Wadsworths. A long, long blue blooded lineage of doctors, lawyers, professors, and authors. We were like the rest of high society, except for our differing religions, and I think that kept us humble. To know that we could waltz right into a party, but know we wouldn’t be entirely welcome. That there were some doors that would always be closed to us, no matter how long we have lived here or how far back our family tree goes. We weren’t as stuffy as the WASPs. We know how to have fun… as long as we don’t bring any shame to the family name. 

My parents knew something was different about me, and in their own way, they had accepted that. They accepted it in the way someone ignores someone’s drinking because at least it’s not meth. Particularly at that time, when my father was still alive. Now, my mother’s a sweet old lady, but even she had some reservations about my behavior when I was a teenager. I made sure never to do anything in front of them, but in the microsociety that I grew up in, rumors were told more often than truths. Part of what came back to them was true. I was… lecherous. Despite barely clearing 5’5” for most of high school (until a last minute growth spurt), I had a natural ease with people. Especially girls, but not only girls. Even after the death of my father, I have always been able to just walk into a room and now I’d be leaving with someone that night. My parents tutted and shook their heads at my antics when it came to making out with a senator’s daughter at the country club, but my close relationship with my childhood best friend Aharon was outright ignored—denied—best as they could. Not because they thought it was wrong that I liked another boy, but that I'd do it so openly.

Again, I did not have bad parents. It was the eighties, so all things considered, my parents were a liberal safe haven. That’s as best as we could ask for back then, just the right to exist. To be acknowledged. Because even if they were turning a blind eye, you’d still have known something was there to turn away from it. And, despite all the petty arguments I used to get into with my father, I know he loved me. I know my mother loves me, but she’s not always proud of me. I don’t know if my father would be proud of me. I have every success in the world, but I don’t have my son. I don’t have a wife anymore. My firm is all I have. My work is all I have. Sometimes, that’s okay with me. Because it has to be. I have nothing else, and that’s by design. I just didn’t realize what that design was until it was too late. It made me successful, but it made me a bad father.

It’s not that I didn’t want to be there for him. Or my wives. I just wanted more than anything to be able to do both. To be the father and husband that they needed, and the lawyer that I am. I couldn’t do both. I don’t think anyone can. Most of my colleagues in New York came from the same type of background—rich families, a legacy admission to whichever ivy league, an expectation for success, a wife and kid at home. The majority of them had the same kind of proclivities. Some were actually worse than me, if you can believe it. Drug and alcohol abuse runs rampant in the legal circles in any city, but particularly Manhattan. Particularly in prestigious white-shoe firms. A few of them would proclaim they’d hate for their children to follow them into law, that the stress and environment wasn’t worth it, but most of us would be lying if we said that. It’s sort of the ultimate validation, isn’t it? Your children wanting to follow in your footsteps, to be like Daddy because that’s exactly what we did. Even if we did things slightly differently, like choosing a different specialization, we still became lawyers like our fathers.

That’s the thing, though. I never pressured Micah to pick law school. I never pushed it on him, or said ‘you’re going to Columbia like I did and that’s final, anywhere else—especially a state school—is a betrayal’ like some other men did. I have always wanted him to be happy, to find his own path. If he wanted to be a lawyer? Then that would be amazing, it would make me glad, but it was never a requirement for my love and attention. I never wanted anything for Micah but the very best. I guess the very best doesn’t happen without a more attentive father. That was what he needed and I hadn’t realized it until it was too late, because I thought what I was doing was the very best—giving him whatever he wanted with the money I earned. Showing my devotion to him through setting him up for life, so he could go to an ivy league school or climb mountains or just whatever the fuck he wanted to do. The freedom to do what he wanted, to be who he wanted to be.

Okay, yes, there were some days where I convinced myself that it was okay because Micah didn’t need me. He had Terry and he had Tamara to give him the parental affection he needed. The long hours and the missed baseball games and postponed dinners were okay in the long run, because I could fix that later. I couldn’t represent Kelsey Grammar’s ex-wife again. I couldn’t impress the partners with my work ethnic by doing all my work later. The success would be long term, but the actual work was temporary. Opportunities lost at the firm wouldn’t come back again, even with the last name Weissberg to do the heavy lifting. I had to sacrifice my relationships in order to just be a tenth successful as the guy above me, and for some stupid reason, I thought Micah would always be there. I don’t know why I thought that, since my own father wasn’t there forever, but I did think that. I thought Micah would never stop being excited to see me. I thought I’d always be his hero. I thought he would never stop loving me, simply because I am his father. I was wrong. 

That’s the most horrible part, I think. That I was so stupid to think that Micah would always be okay because I’ve always been okay. I’ve come through my father’s death, all my divorces, every horrible case being okay. Maybe Terry, Tammy, and Thalia would say otherwise, but all things considered… I guess I just figured Micah wouldn’t suffer any hardships, or if he did, he’d bounce back just like I had. I was wrong. If I was a more attentive father, maybe I would have figured that out years ago. Decades ago. I’d have been able to help him in some way. If I had known… If I had forced myself to know, maybe he wouldn’t be so bad off. Or I’d be able to get him treatment earlier. Protected him from whatever happened in high school. I don’t know what it was, Ravi wouldn’t tell me, but if it set him on this path where he can’t handle goodbyes or keep his head on straight or just be okay, maybe I could have stopped that. I don’t know. 

Terry says self-pity does not become me or some shit. But it’s all I have sometimes. Am I not supposed to be sad about how I failed my child? Would it be better to act as if I have done nothing wrong? It is an unequivocal truth: I have failed Micah, and I cannot fix it. I cannot be forgiven for it. But I won't stop trying. Never.

I am a bad father. But I love my son, and nothing will ever change that. 

I repeat, nothing will ever change that.

I repeat, I love my son.

I repeat, I am a bad father.

[antiyourwokehomophobia2]

Man, it is JOEVER.

[thelioncourts]

people on twt saying nicki wouldn't call armand a slur as he did in 2x3....have y'all read tvl?? nicki is mean. nicki is cruel. of course he would do that ????

[desperatelyneedcoffee]

Kind of spoiler warning for anyone who hasn't watched My Adventures with Superman?

If anyone has watched My Adventures with Superman so far then you'll know how they're making Clark feel like he doesn't belong, that he's different and a villain. You'll also know that Clark thinks his friends feel this away about him as well because of a couple misunderstandings and not being there when these things were discussed.

If any of you write fanfics then I beg you to write some really angsty story about this. I love how awkward and shy Clark is in the series and how loving he is. This would make it so much more heartbreaking knowing he would do anything for his friends whilst he thinks they don't care about him as much as he thought. Does this make sense? Idrk if I'm making loads of sense or not but oh well.

I've only found a couple angsty Superman fics and I desperately need more to read after watching the last few episodes of Season 2. So please, if anyone is writing any please tell me! I need depressed Clark Kent in my life!!!

[applejongho]

:/

[yuseirra]

Scenes from Ch 6,7 and 8 from Memento Mori by victarion!

I'm just drawing the scenes that I personally feel are important/stood out to me a lot.. as for these scenes, I felt they were worth being addressed due to them displaying the two protagonist's mentalities

other scenes: Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 19 / Chapter 4

[uncanny-tranny]

Look, if you've encountered a disabled person's life or living standards and you personally don't like it, the least you can do is not saying "I'm so grateful I don't like like that" or worse "I'm so glad I'm not you"

It is actually incredibly simple to simultaneously not center yourself and the way you aren't disabled or the way your disabilities don't impact your life like others and to not shame and humiliate others. It's sometimes okay to keep comments like that inside your mind, where it won't hurt that person.