#it's not in the dsm

[blaithnne]

I cannot stop thinking about Episode 5 of TADC because Ragatha is, however unintentionally, one of the best examples of how isolating and difficult it is to interact with the world as an autistic person I have ever seen. To the point it genuinely makes me sad to think about her. I need to make a post expanding on this at some point but rn just. The way everyone assumes there’s some sinister hidden meaning to everything she does and says but she’s literally just trying to be nice and she doesn’t understand why it’s not working. The way she tries so hard to make connections but it constantly falls flat, she says things that hurt without realising how or why. She follows the rules she’s been taught will make her friends — she’s kind, she’s forgiving, she’s accepting and apologetic when she messes up, but for some reason it’s just not working. She tries to mimic other people, she tries to laugh at past experiences, tries to open up about her past like everyone else is doing, but now everyone’s uncomfortable and looking at her like she’s crazy and she doesn’t get it!! She doesn’t get it!!! Jax is a jerk and he’s mean to everyone but for some reason Pomni likes him and she doesn’t get it, she doesn’t understand! Pomni tells her it’s okay to be a jerk sometimes but Ragatha doesn’t like being mean, she wants to be nice to people, but she does it anyway, she gets mean like Jax and Zooble do but now Pomni’s looking at her like she’s done something wrong but she just did what she asked her to!! She doesn’t get it!! At the end of the episode everyone goes off into their groups and Ragatha is left alone, after having tried so hard to make friends and fit in and make people like her, she’s still alone, and everyone thinks she’s weird and unapproachable and she just has to give up and accept that she is inherently unloveable. Her evil alter ego tells her she’s going to die alone and nobody loves her and the only thing she corrects her on is the fact that they can’t die here. The few that might like her when she’s around don’t miss her when she’s gone, because there’s nothing to miss. Ragatha has spent her whole life systematically stripping away everything that makes her different and unlikeable in order to make herself more palatable to others, and in the process she has made herself a personalitiless blank slate with no unique identity for others to latch onto and appreciate. She has nothing to add to any conversation because she’s too afraid of being disliked to have a memorable personality beyond being generally polite and nice. And just. God. Someone get this girl some noise cancelling headphones and a therapist on speed dial, being this good of a representation of what it’s like to be autistic, especially to be an autistic person with trauma, is not good for the soul. That final shot just destroys me right in the heart. My poor girl.

[biggest-gaudiest-patronuses]

maddening that there is a common medical condition whose symptoms consist of massive long-term loss of mental and physical functions, due to the incredibly damaging effects of prolonged stress overextending the mind and body by pushing it into survival mode beyond endurance—and that there is no medical term for it. despite the fact it's so damn common that everyone knows of someone suffering from "burnout."

[prokopetz]

Today's aesthetic: cosmic horror tabletop RPGs from the 1980s whose creators wrote the "madness rules" by simply plagiarising a list of disorders and their descriptions from the DSM-II and turning it into a d100 lookup table, except the DSM-II still listed "homosexuality" as a mental disorder (it wasn't removed until the DSM-III), with the result that there are several published tabletop RPGs where there's a small but non-zero chance that seeing Cthulhu will make you gay.

[pencil-n-pen]

HANDLE WITH CARE

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hotch x fem! reader

masterlist | kofi

summary: spending the night at aaron’s usually puts you at ease, but not tonight. A broken mug brings up old memories, but he still has a way of soothing away old hurts.

cw: implied/referenced past abuse

a/n: honestly idk i just wanted to write hotch comfort. this has been in my drafts since like day 1 of this acc

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⊹ .

It’s really stupid, in hindsight.

In the moment though, it was really, really scary.

It was late. This is mistake number one.

You were trying to quietly make tea and whatever odd hour it was. You can’t check the oven timer. It just keeps flashing 12:00.

Making tea quietly is hard, though. Every sound seems to echo and all the shadows seem to crawl. You’re this close to closing the living room curtains you can see from the corner of your eye. You don’t, though. Not being able to see would be worse.

Anyway. You’re trying to make tea quietly. You’re staying over at Hotch’s —Aaron’s, as he insists you call him when you’re alone— Jack is away at a sleepover. It’s just the two of you.

You couldn’t sleep. Usually, being with Hotch is the strongest sleep aid in the world. You tend to conk out the second your arms find his in bed.

But not tonight.

Tonight you slept in fitful bursts. Your skin prickled and crawled with restless anticipation- of what, you’re not sure.

Not wanting to disturb his sleep on such a rare day off, you got up. Tried to do what you did when you had nights like these before him. Only watching tv is too loud and you don’t have any books here.

Thus: tea.

It started raining a little while after you got up. The pattering of the droplets against the roof and the windows helps drown out the racket you’re making.

You’re not really making a racket, you tell yourself. It just sounds like you are because it’s night. This would all sound normal in the daylight.

It’s the mantra that keeps you going on nights like these. You’ll feel normal in the daylight. It’ll go away in the daylight. You won’t feel so haunted in the daylight.

In the daylight, in the daylight, in the daylight.

You get lost in your thoughts. It happens fairly often on nights like these.

Only Aaron’s stove is newer than yours. It heats up faster.

The teapot lets out a terrible, wailing hiss, shattering the fragile silence.

You lunge for the kettle, hands moving too quickly and too clumsily to move it off the burner. Your fingers slip. The side of the kettle slams into your forearm, and you don’t quite manage to stamp down the pained yelp that rips its way from your throat the second the searing pain registers.

Your nervous system reacts before you do. It jerks your arm to the right, away from the kettle.

And into your empty mug.

You watch in horrified slow-motion as the cup is swiped off the counter, falling to the floor in an explosion of porcelain.

Your arm is screaming in pain. There is boiling water and a hot tea kettle on the floor. There are shards of mug everywhere.

You hear a thump. The creak of a door opening that signifies Aaron coming out of the bedroom, Aaron being awake, Aaron coming to you.

For a moment, your brain just… catches. Sort of like it gets stuck in this web of fear-induced indecision.

The footsteps sound rushed. They come closer.

To compensate for the momentary freeze, your brain kicks into its highest gear.

You drop to your knees on the floor of the kitchen so quickly they crack on the linoleum. You can’t tell if the sting is from the fall or the boiling water. Would it still be hot? Is it still hot?

The footsteps stop. You scramble to get a hold of the pieces of the mug, shaking fingers grabbing, grabbing, grabbing. They’re clutched tight in your palm when you speak, words rushed and tumbling out of your mouth.

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, please go to bed, I’ll clean this all up—“

A hand reaches out for yours and you flinch. Not a full body one. Just like what happened with the burn. Your nervous system reacts before your brain can process. Takes your hand away from the threat.

Only the hand stills. Stops, right where it is, and your entire body feels funny, and something doesn’t seem right.

Then you stop too. You don’t move. You don’t grab more pieces of the mug, but you don’t drop the ones you have either. Your knees are throbbing. Your arm is burning, stabs of stinging pain pulsing in time with your heartbeat.

The hand retreats and the person crouches down, and you recognize those pajama pants, that hand, those feet.

“Honey?”

You keep your eyes trained on the mess. On the wreckage.

“I’m sorry.” Your voice cracks over the words.

“Shh,” He hums, and the hand reaches out again, slower, closes over your wrist and turns your hand over. A second hand pries your fingers apart and gently shakes your hand, the mug shards dropping to the floor, tinged scarlet. They mix with the spilled water, washing the kitchen floor a kaleidoscope of linoleum and sharp edges and pinky-red water.

He gently pulls you up to your feet, strong arm going around your waist. It doesn’t cage you, doesn’t box you in. Another hand turns your head away from the kitchen floor and all at once a switch flicks in your brain, and you remember. Where you are, who you’re with.

If Aaron notices your sharp intake of breath, he doesn’t say anything. He leads you to the bathroom, sits you on the toilet lid, and pulls out the extensive first aid kit he keeps under the sink.

“Can I see your arm?”

You hold it out to him, looking at his face only when he’s not looking at you.

He doesn’t look mad. You still have the vague urge to run.

He examines it carefully. “It’s only first degree, but it’s fairly big. We’ll need to run it under cool water for at least ten minutes, and then apply some burn cream and bandage it.”

He’s telling you exactly what he’s going to do. Talking you through all the steps. So you won’t be caught off guard by anything.

“Sweetheart,” He crouches down in front of you again, and you feel bad for his knees, “I’m going to need some sort of confirmation.”

You nod slowly. “Yeah,” Your voice is raw, “I think I bruised my knees when I— when I fell.”

Your pajamas consist of an oversized shirt —one of his— and a pair of pajama shorts. It’s helpful because he doesn’t have to roll up any pant legs to check your knees. It’s unhelpful because in the adrenaline crash, the bathroom is cold, and so is the toilet lid.

Your shivers of fear are replaced with ones of cold. A small but marked improvement.

He examines your knees, thumbs brushing deftly over the skin and leaving goosebumps in their wake.

“Looks like you might’ve cut one of them on one of the pieces. It’s not too big, though. Better than your hands.”

You wince at the mention.

He stands, pulling you up with him.

“What hurts the worst?”

“Burn.”

“We’ll take care of it first.”

He turns the sink tap on, checking and double checking the temperature is to his approval before gently guiding your arm under the water. It stings on first contact, and you bite your lip through the pain. You’re sure you’ve made enough noise for the night. The pain mellows, relief following hot on its heels.

Aaron stands behind you, his presence a solid weight. One hand holds your arm in place under the water, the other hovers over the faucet, ready to make any adjustments to the temperature at your word.

You don’t make any.

You’re tired, abruptly. Your hand still stings and your knees ache, but without the sharp stabbing of the pain in your arm, the exhaustion of the past five minutes rushes into you all at once and you sag, like a puppet with its strings cut.

Aaron catches you, hand over the faucet leaving to place a steady hand on your waist.

“You’re not going to hit me. Or yell at me.”

He presses his face into the back of your neck, not so much as kissing your nape as just pressing his lips against the skin there.

“I’m not.”

“I know that,” you say, going for confident but tripping and falling into desperate, “I know that. I was just. I forgot. In the moment, and I got scared.”

The hand on your waist squeezes once.

“I was scared too, you know.”

“Why?”

“Because you were scared,” You can feel his chest vibrate as he speaks, “And you were hurt. And for just a moment, I didn’t know how to help you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s nothing to be sorry for. I was scared for you.”

“I know, I’m just. I know how rare days off are for you, and I was trying to be quiet, so you could sleep but I—“

“Hey, hey. Slow down. Don’t work yourself up.”

He moves your arm back and forth under the water, slowly working the angles of the burn so it all gets evenly cooled.

“Sorry,” You say again, both for lack of anything else to say and just to make sure he knows that you are. Guilt pulses and pounds to the same beat as your heart, to the same rhythm as the pain in your knees and your hands.

“I know you are,” He murmurs, voice a gentle wash of concern and something tender. He always knows just the right thing to say, especially when you’re like this. “But you don’t have to be. I’m not upset.”

“I know,” You answer, and this time he doesn’t respond. He probably knows that your words weren’t for him.

He works methodically through applying the cream and bandages, and then as he fixes up your hands and knees. You’re careful to keep your eyes trained on his, focusing on the feel of his hands and not the fear that jackrabbits in your chest every time your focus slips.

Once finished, he guides you to your feet, and there’s still concern etched in the lines of his face, right in between his brows. That’s where he always keeps it— his worry.

“Do you want to go back to bed?”

You could. You should. He’s tired. He deserves to sleep in and you should be able to fall asleep again, because he’ll be there, and everything is fine, and you are fine.

But there’s still pieces of mug on the floor and you feel like there’s pieces of you stuck there too, and your mouth goes dry, and you never did drink that tea, and what’ll happen to the mess? What will things look like in the daylight?

Foolish? A foolish girl, yes— always overreacting.

“Honey?” He says for the second time tonight.

Your face crumples. “I’m sorry.”

He folds himself around you again, easily. His arms slot into place like a puzzle piece- always the right angle, the right feel, the right amount of pressure. He holds you together as you cry, frustrated and tired and all the things you’d tried so desperately not to let show.

“You’re okay,” He whispers, hand smoothing over your neck, your back. All those vulnerable places that itch. “You’re okay.”

He repeats the words as your cries quiet to sniffles, as you start to think he might be right.

You pull away, wiping your hands across your face. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what— I’m okay now, I think.”

His eyes search your face, looking for any signs that isn’t true. “It’s okay if you’re not.”

“I know,” You say, and you really do believe it this time, “I just… it’s frustrating. That this still happens. That you still need to do this. It happened so long ago, and I don’t even think about it anymore, really. It’s weird, it’s just- the mug. It broke and I just… I don’t know.”

Aaron listens attentively to your rambles, no sign of being annoyed or exasperated or anything. “I understand. Healing isn’t linear, sweetheart. There are things that happened to me many years ago that I still think about.”

He dips down, pressing his lips to your forehead. “And I will always do this. Always.”

For the first time tonight, you believe him, fully.

You’ll be okay. Maybe not now, but you will be.

۫ ꣑ৎ

[spacialbeing0]

Hello everyone, I am new on this platform. I'm Just a playful soul, living my truth as a proud trans person. Authenticity is my superpower, and I embrace it with all my heart. 🏳️‍🌈🌈✨❤️

Telegram : @c0yleblue

[eyekonimations]

── and, fyi, the dsm-5 can only take you so far ; manon bannerman x reader smau

the what : yn ln is a sophomore in university , a crappy drummer , and a minimum wage boba shop employee . expecting the worst once again for her third semester , yn's pessimistic world view is shattered after serving her cutest customer to date ─ meret manon bannerman , a member of katseye , the darling influencer friend group rocking social media .

pairing : uni!manon bannerman x uni!reader

supporting cast : katseye, lesserafim's huh yunjin, illit's sakai moka, new jeans' kim minji, tws' shin junghwan, & enhypen's riki nishimura

tags : smau, uni au, crack, fluff, idol x reader, katseye x reader

warnings : expletives, suggestive jokes, use of alcohol and other substances, kinda cringe but fuck it we ball❤️‍🩹🔋

a/n 07/06/25 : welcome to my first fan fiction ever and it's a social media au haha laugh it up guys. in all seriousness i think i've been parasocial relationshiping my way into katseye so much this year that i figured i'd better put this energy into something tangible.

none of the idols featured in this work are meant to actually portray how they are in real life, rather they act as reflections of the friends i've made so far in my first year with a decent amount of thought put into what they might have majored in had they attended an american university. all images used to represent yn are not her actual appearance but points of reference for a pose or whatever else. please have mercy on me i'm also still trying to figure out how to actually post on tumblr rather than lurking.....

the who : unmedicated and not regulated  ,  try being an influencer for a day

00.  a  midsummer  night's  tragedy  01.  guidance  counselors  must  die includes written media!!

02.  oh  ye  of  ill  faith  03.  herlock  sholmes 

04. i  specifically  said  PURPLE  DORITOS. includes written media!!

05. my  fortune  cookie  says  we  have  to  kiss  lol

taglist ヾ(•̀ ヮ <)و we are open !! comment to be added

[kittykatninja321]

I assume the that the reason that Jason always gets aged up in relation to other batlings in fanon is because of his position in the story/the fact that dc is addicted to drawing him like he’s 35, but I still find it weird that people seem able to grasp that Tim Steph and Cass are all basically in the same age group but seem to forget that Jason is canonically 7 months younger than Cass

[ebogosian]

I love scary movies.

[woman-respecter]

oh my g-d, the man coddlers are insane.

based on the time stamp this is regarding the gaiman allegations. and op’s main concern is…how it’s going to hurt men’s feefees? like aside from the fact that most men, even the feminist ones, are already 100% self-assured that they are a good, nay the best, person (and an allegation against a famous man won’t change that, they’ll just feel morally superior that they aren’t like him) rendering this post completely pointless, how is your primary concern MEN when multiple women have been brutally victimized?

[prokopetz]

All I'm saying is if you can take a DSM label and replace a random word in that label with "haunted" and the provided diagnostic criteria still sound reasonable, there was probably not a great deal of rigour involved to begin with.

[mimikyuno]

[carpedzem]

and yet again a small collab with @rebelwithoutabroom bc literally nothing is stopping us 🤭🤭🤭 this time it was one base two artists!! guess who drew who lol

[wintersnails]

which House MD characters are microwaveable?

Chase: becomes soggy if you leave him in too long. you can do it, he just won’t taste very good

Cuddy: no, but will authorize the microwaving of other characters if she thinks it’s in the hospital’s best interest

House: loves to be microwaved but immediately releases extremely toxic fumes

Taub: he’s literally the perfect size, the most microwaveable man i’ve ever laid eyes on. gets nice and crispy on the outside without becoming dried out

Cameron: melts

Foreman: it’s completely ineffective. you microwave him for an hour and he’s still the exact same temperature as before. he raises his eyebrow skeptically the entire time he’s rotating around in there

Kutner: catches on fucking fire and burns your house down

Wilson: labeled as ‘microwave safe’ but he starts making weird popping noises halfway through so you have to take him out when he’s still lukewarm

Amber: gets kind of burnt on the edges but she’s mostly edible. you’ve probably ingested some carcinogens tho

[batw1nk]

rlly like the pictures i took 2nite

[badlynamedurl]

Dungeon meshi ep 1 to 16: yeah I can see why people interpret Laios as autistic. He’s kinda goofy and awkward and gets super passionate when talking about monsters and sometimes says the wrong thing…..

ep 17: OH.

[the-party-city]

its really funny seeing endos and endo supporters saying "youre hurting trauma survivors by being anti endo!"

yeah? im hurting trauma survivors? you mean, the people that claim to not have trauma?

be ASTRONOMICALLY real with yourself