#I wrote this following my exhaustion from working myself out of a ptsd attack

[stagark]

Warmth Amidst Dust

Gender-neutral Reader & Jiyan Comfort

Minors DNI - this blog writes dark and sexual content.

Content warnings: Panic/anxiety/ptsd attacks, left vague but reader experiences extreme dissociation and derealization and struggles to breathe due to anxious thoughts. Mentions of minor character death, paranoia on reader’s part. Basically, reader has a panic attack and Jiyan holds you while you breathe. Please be aware of the tags and do not read if these topics may trigger you.

Can be interpreted as romantic or platonic! You are a soldier under General Jiyan who has pushed yourself too hard recently, causing panic attacks. General Jiyan noticed and offered a shoulder to hold while you relearn how to breathe.

Word count: 1.5k - Also read on Ao3

You never once thought you would ever thank the dust of Norfall Barrens. As a rookie soldier you had grimaced through it, determined to protect the city you loved despite the discomforts and hardship of enlisting in the Midnight Rangers.

But now, three years later, it was a welcome respite from the sharp, biting winds. The particles stuck to your sweat-slick skin, a grimy but effective layer that allowed you to fight the abominations with a shield from the bone-chilling wind streams. The icy breeze got to you over time, seeming to attack your skin at every opportunity, leaving your limbs tender and your bones brittle.

Unexpectedly, what relieved the wind chill the most was another gale, one scripted by your trusted general, Jiyan. He moved like a deadly dancer guided by a loong dragon’s spirit. It was clear your sentinel itself chose Jinzhou’s general, his unwavering sense of justice an arrowhead directing the war against the Lament’s effects.

A composed man who overflowed with warmth and care at his core, he warmed every space he ever entered both with his aero resonance and his very spirit. The medic turned leader was almost universally beloved, a man who faught alongside his soldiers, a voice of strength and reason so desperately needed in and out of the battle field. His mere presence strengthened resolve against the Lament’s corruption, igniting and directing soldiers’ will to fight for their home like the strong tendrils of wind that uplift gentle embers into roaring and ferocious wildfires. His guidance inspired you and so many others, and you worked hard to earn your place in a unit directly below him.

The call of your name by one of your companions shook you out of your thoughts. In the relative safety of your camp you were able to let your mind float following your shifts on watch. You tended to do that more often these days. Only in battle was your mind sharp; otherwise you were simply a shell of a human, no different from a golden echo on the field. Warmth graced your hands in the form of a bowl of hot soup, the scent of spices wafted into your nose, a very welcome surprise. Such commodities were rare these days, perking up even your dulled senses.

“Come on, I know you’re tired from your shift but we have a feast prepared today!” a new fellow you fought alongside with today called at you with a smile. You managed to offer one back. A feast in these parts meant warm food and extra proteins, and spices it seemed, this time. A welcome blessing in this hell. While you’re sure you would be glad, truly, your soul never stirred in celebrating any longer. Years of war had stolen your life force, only your determination and spite sustaining you. But it was easy to wear a mask of normalcy, falling into habits to alleviate your mind of a little bit of stress, letting your consciousness float and watch your body acting from above you, a spectator instead of a player.

The warmth of the bowl certainly sang to your body, blood pumping heartily from the sustenance. But your mind was as barren as the lands you camped on, a floating ghost devoid of nearly everything, that only came to life with skill and sharpness gifted to you in battle by adrenaline.

That very familiar chemical rushed through your veins, releasing your body from its cold prison and igniting your muscles to tense, ready for action. A foreign sound had resonated around you, causing the adrenaline to release. The call was loud at first, a deep bellow sounded, followed by quick, breathless exhales of mirth and an echo of the very sound by vaguely familiar voices. It occurred to you then: laughter. The noise was laughter. You shifted your gaze around the camp, finding the young soldier who handed you a bowl howling heartily with some senior officers. How long had it been since you had heard laughter for it to sound so foreign to you?

You truly didn’t know.

It wasn’t unwelcome, but it was a disruption to your routine that allowed the voices in your head to rise louder, your mind waking to make sense of the new occasion.

What was the joke, why was your comrade so happy? asked your mind. Mild annoyance traipsed through your thoughts, uncharacteristic, but an understandable ally. This was not a place for disruptions. Anything could happen here.

What if there were TDs creeping up on the camp right now? What if they had heard the ring of joy and legions of them were gathering to snuff it out, racing here in ground-shaking gallops like horsemen of the apocalypse. You had seen so many of your allies, your friends, fall to those beasts. Resounding memories of their cheers of camaraderie in the early days echo throughout your mind, cruelly juxtaposed with visuals of their brutal deaths. The monsters taunted you, holding your loved ones’ image captive and jeering at you while they poisoned your world, your beloved city, your home.

The world around you seemed to distort at the thought, the sky dropping. You were caged in by some invisible force, and noisy panic bubbled in your chest. Air began to feel denser, a newly elusive substance your lungs had to chase. The very thing you began craving seemed to mock you, seeming to grip your ribs and crush them inwards while refusing to let you draw in a breath. Your chest stuttered and attempted to heave before being yanked back by your achingly empty lungs as you began hiccuping for breath. Only when your airways started to sting and your face began to numb did you realize your situation and manage to gasp for breath.

You didn’t know how long had passed after you wheezed the sound of panic. You felt nothing until the bowl you were clutching was removed from your lap. A large hand came to rest on your shoulder, replacing its warmth. A scent so familiar that it unconsciously calmed you followed its motion: a fresh forest breeze tinged with the sharp sting of metal. The air began to flow in smoothly, enriching your body. A cooperative ally once more.

“Breathe, soldier,” the strong voice rumbled.

General Jiyan. Your general, Jiyan. The air once again blessed your bloodstream, feeding every inch of your body and once again giving you the gift of life. You had begun to breathe slowly and deeply, just as you had learned in training. In for four, hold for four, out for four. The familiar timings of the count served to calm both your body and mind.

The presence of safety, of your general’s strength near you, was a very welcomed gift. You sighed from your chest once the world had returned to clarity and life size in your vision and you once again heard the murmur of celebration around you. Unfortunately, your reaction was not unfamiliar to you. The toll of seemingly endless battle drew on your very soul, leaving your body weak and weary. And yet, after dozens of times, not even a decorated soldier under the great General Jiyan could manage to snap yourself out of the hell on Earth that was your own mind, not on your own, not in a way that left you sane.

“I’m sorry, general. I let my head get the best of me. Thank you for-“

The hand on your shoulder squeezed gently but firmly, a message to stop talking. As you looked up to gaze in the golden eyes of your general, you were met with pure gentle care. His understanding smile reached his eyes.

You caved to your pure exhaustion. Wordlessly, he let you relax into him, your head coming to rest against the front of his shoulder. You sighed once more, lungs filling to capacity and deflating equally in rhythmic undulation as your spirit came back to inhabit your body, bit by bit. Your general was so warm, so caring, so safe. Eyes closing against his form, your breathing slowed even without your measured counting. One steady hand gripped your side while the other came to rest along your shoulder blade, forearm resting comfortingly against your tired back. He rubbed gentle circles firm into your spine, grounding and soothing the ache in your muscles.

“Don’t speak. Ive seen you pick up extra shifts, push yourself hard. It is the most worthy of causes, no one here faults you, least of all me. But your work is done today, soldier. Rest.”

There was no hint of a waver in his voice, no false sympathy or concern. This was General Jiyan. This was safe. You nodded into his chest, accepting the help you so desperately needed. Jiyan hummed his approval as he continued to soothe your back. You could feel him brush away the dusr, replacing its tentative shield with his own unrelenting one. Your very bones seemed to breathe again, and your thoughts wandered not to the chaos and havoc of the war, but to the warmth and comfort of your general’s presence as you were surrounded by a joyful camp, grounding you instead of letting you dissociate. This was safe, and so, you breathed.

[sarahinshadows]

No Touchy

I would like to take a moment to quote from the great philosopher Kuzco:

Possible trigger warning: Violence

I think I have said this before, in fact I know I said it before, but I write all this stuff off the cuff with no preparation whatsoever, so things I wrote in the past aren’t always concrete memories... Where was I going? ... Oh yeah. I’m asexual.

I’m a rather, I suppose “skittish” would be the best term, around other people. One might even go so far as to say I am afraid of other people. Physical contact is something that does not come naturally, and following that line, sexual activity is not really something I seek out, or really consider as a possibility. Perhaps it has something to do with my distrust of people in general.

My fear of other people, is closely related to my dislike of physical contact. In turn, that is indicative of my lack of trust in other people. Physical contact implies a certain level of trust, I would argue. You trust the other person in your physical proximity not to hurt you. Hugs are just fancy ways to get stabbed in the back.

I’ve never been a hugger. School life just made it worse. A particular incident in 7th grade comes to mind. Things are exaggerated, and twisted in this tale to cover up the fact that this happened somewhere in the neighborhood of 25 years ago.

In my school career, 7th grade was the first year we were no longer given a recess. We were given a brief study hall-esque period after lunch, but that was about it.  This really didn’t affect me too terribly much, it just meant that I could read my book inside without the harmful glare of the daystar burning my flesh. On one particular day, as I was reading, minding my own business, when one of my classmates knocked the book out of my hand. Used to such behavior, I shrugged it off, picked the book back up, and resumed my reading. Not long after, a different classmate came along and knocked the book out of my hand. Then a third... and a fourth... I got angry and asked with some amount of venom in my voice for them to stop. That is when the attack came.

I was accosted from all sides, classmates attacking me, hitting me with anything they could get their hands on... including the actual desks. Let me tell you, getting hit with desks is not fun at all. The attack continued, and I backed further and further away, until my back was against the wall, I was shielding my face, hoping for them to stop, and I’m not afraid to admit I was crying. I was begging for them to stop. They didn’t stop, until the teacher showed up.

When the teacher showed up and saw the state of the classroom, they asked what was going on. Me being a blubbering mess hiding beneath the coat hooks couldn’t answer. Words had left me. The kids all responded with some variation of “The giant was attacking us.”

Without any care for the fact that I was the only one hurt, I was whisked away to the principals office, and was extremely close to expulsion, saved only by the courage of 2 out of the 30 kids stepping in and telling the principal that the other students’ account of what happened was not true.

Events like this embed themselves into your psyche. You may not remember the exact details, but your mind remembers the pain, the fear, the sense of hopelessness. Those become a part of who you are. It is possible that with some bit of therapy at the time I might have been able to overcome it, but my parents believed that I had in some way instigated the ordeal and rather than seeking help for me, they treated me as if I had done something wrong.

How does this story relate to anything I have said previously? It’s that letting people near you, leads only to pain. Trust is something that will get you hurt.

Is this some form of PTSD? Who knows. Has it shaped me into the hollow husk that I am now? Most definitely.

And thus... no touchy.

But that isn’t to say, I am completely opposed to touching. I am in a way a bit of a romantic. I like the romance that comes with a relationship, but not the sexual aspects. I crave the intimacy of such relationships. And I don’t care who it is with; male, female, or anyone else on the spectrum between. But for that to happen, I need to trust the person. Even once I do trust the person, physical contact is occasionally met with fear, and resistance. Sudden touches cause me to jump, and pull away. This has led to the downfall of more than one relationship...

And I suppose my lack of trust in other people is also why I stay in the closet about being transgender. Give people something to hurt you with, and they will. The sense of otherness that comes with being different from other people can be a sort of fear. If I present as who I appear to be, sure I will face ridicule, but it is a ridicule I am used to. It is pain and isolation that are like old friends at this point. Coming out, allowing people access to that facet of who I am... That is terrifying. Better to face the devil you know, rather than the devil you don’t right?

I write this as I prepare to sleep, prepare for another work week, and I realize something as exhaustion starts to set in (or perhaps it is just the meds) perhaps I am writing for catharsis, which I am... But perhaps I am also writing in the hopes that I will give myself permission to come out of the shadows.

[honeylikewords]

How about just he's protective cause his past and he wants to make sure she's safe? Is that ok?

Sure, I don’t see anything objectionable there!

I should specify that for this one, I wrote it in the vein of dealing with Santi’s very definite PTSD following the events that transpired in the film. In my headcanon, Santi lives somewhere in the U.S., now, and has lived there for a few years, and none of Lorea’s men have ever figured out anything about what took place, much less been able to find him, but Santi still experiences bouts of paranoia, increased tension, and anxiety about his worst-case-scenario fears and the guilt he has regarding Redfly’s passing.

As such, this piece does deal with some of the pieces of the PTSD puzzle in Santi’s life, and I wanted to include that as a potential content warning for anyone who might get a little stressed about it. There are also mentions of guns and weapons, just as a follow-up warning about the content.

So, TL;DR: Content Warning: Discussions of PTSD, mentions of paranoia, anxiety, violence, guns, and weapons. Nothing explicit or detailed, but mentioned in passing in regards to the concerns of a veteran adjusting to civilian life. 

It’s going to be okay, I promise! (Since we all know I don’t do dreadful angst). While it does center on the difficult topic of love and relationships with a partner who is dealing with trauma and the associated stress, there is hope, love, and compassion at the heart of it. So, in the end, it will be alright!

Without further ado, let’s get into it!

Santi’s worked in a difficult, frightening field since he was a young man. Well over a decade spent in the service of the U.S. Army and then three years deep in the Colombian police has taught him to be tense, cautious, vigilant. He sleeps with one eye open, as the saying goes, long after he’s left the live fire behind, and there’s only so much he can do to curb that natural inclination towards tension. But things only get more complicated once he’s no longer alone in his life, and he has to factor in a whole new set of variables; namely, his beloved.

Santi is naturally a caring, protective person, wanting to keep those he loves safe, and keep even those he hardly knows as safe from harm as he can. He believes it’s his duty to serve others in that capacity. He wants to keep the goodness of the world protected, and is willing to put himself on the front lines, quite literally, for that reason. But now that he has her– this precious, singular life, delicate and so unlike himself– he becomes even more careful, more protective, determined to keep her and her, in particular, the safest of all.

He hovers around her more than he does anyone else, more than perhaps is usual for a common man commonly in love. He stands close and watchful, his body a shield against the world, sometimes hunching his shoulders so that he covers her and diminishes the visibility of either of their faces, thus warding off wandering eyes. Santi keeps his head ducked low in public as his eyes scan around, watching the bodies and posture of the people around them, anxiously awaiting the attack he’s so paranoid will take her from him. He paces around his bedroom at night, thinking every rustle in the bushes outside his apartment is some assailant in the dark, ready to pull her from his hands.

Santi checks and double checks the locks on the front door. He specifically bought a car with a key fob that could start the ignition from a distance so that he can stand a safe ways away, start the car, and see if someone put in a bomb. At every place they go, Santi needs a seat where he has eyes on the exits and entrances: he needs to be able to see a door, or he cannot relax. Santi sometimes, on his worst days, won’t feel comfortable with either of them eating food he hasn’t seen be prepared or prepared himself, and therefore just outright cannot do restaurants without getting panicky. 

He doesn’t like taking Ubers or Lyfts, and specifically asks his sweetheart to not use those systems because he worries so much about what might happen. “If you need a ride, you can always call me,” he reminds her. It’s not that he wants to control where she goes– far from it– but rather that he has horrible visions in his head of her being kidnapped by some hypothetical hitman sent by the last vestiges of Lorea’s army, sent in disguise as her driver in order to destroy Santi’s life by targeting the one thing that has come to matter most to him: her.

Even then, when he does drive her, he drives defensively, sometimes putting his hand out towards the passenger side car door and using his arm as a shield over her chest when he stops short, or if a car comes speeding out of nowhere. He refuses to let anyone else take the wheel– never does he snap at her about it, but always firmly, politely, sweetly, but strongly decline her offer to drive him– because he just can’t, can’t, can’t feel safe unless he knows he’s controlling the vehicle. 

Santi still owns guns, and he hates that. He hates that he has a gun safe in his apartment. He despises the two guns in there (a handgun and pistol), and wishes beyond all other wishes that he could finally let himself get rid of them. But he can’t: he’s still, even now, a soldier, needing to always be prepared for when the shit hits the fan.

Naturally, he’s licensed and safe to have them, educated and instructed and well-versed in the safe use and maintenance of them, but knowing they’re there makes him feel like more of a secret monster than he knows how to express. 

He tells his sweetheart about them so that she isn’t horrified or surprised– better to meet it up front, he tells himself– but does not take them out of the safe, nor show them to her. Instead, he shows her his certifications and training documentation, his legal permissions to own, carry, and use them. He shows her the registration on each weapon and carefully explains that he has never, ever drawn his weapon unnecessarily, and never will.

“I promise you,” he tells her, holding her hands tight, “That those… things will not come out of that safe unless it is the direst, absolutely necessitated situation on earth. I swear on everything that I am. You don’t have to be scared.”

He does the same thing with the combat knives he still keeps around. He doesn’t draw them from their protective sheath, doesn’t flash them at her, but merely informs her where they are, shows her that he is safe to use them, and reassures her that they will never, ever be used unless there is an actual, dangerous, life-or-death scenario playing out.

But for him, the fact that he keeps the knives is damning, in some capacity. He thinks about it every time he drives himself to and from work; he’ll cast a glance at the glovebox on his right side and think about the bowie knife inside, think about how it sits mere inches of reinforced plastic away from his sweetheart every time she rides shotgun with him, think about how he wishes he wasn’t still only able to sleep if he knows he has an accessible means of self-defense nearby.

And oh, god, his sleep. He’s better, now, after a few years, but he still has trouble, and he can’t sleep with his back to the door or window. He specifically chose his apartment because the bedroom had no windows, and he could face the door easily with his back to the wall. At night, when she sleeps over, Santi silently guides her into the one of the only two positions he feels safe in: either her pressed between his back and the wall, with his front facing the door, or his back pressed to the wall as he cradles her and faces the door. He needs to be the first line of defense if anything comes through that door, needs to be able to wake up, jump to the ready, and cover his sweetheart from whatever could be lurking out there.

Sometimes, when he dreams, she can see his face screwing up as if in pain, his breathing coming in too short, too hard, too shallow, and his arms will clench around her, cleaving her close. He clings onto her as he buries his face into her skin and grips her too tight to be mistaken for a simple hug: he’s having those dreams again. The ones where she’s being taken from him. All she can do is rub at his shoulders and whisper in his ear, tell him she’s here, she loves him, she’s safe.

Of course, she notices this overflow of fear in Santi’s life. It’s not something anyone could miss; the way he seems to clench up any time someone stands too close to them in public, the way his arm always presses her close and his hand grips into her side, as if he’s going to yank her down into a bomb-cover pose at any moment. He feels, at times, to be more like a bodyguard than a boyfriend. And it worries her.

She talks to him about it at length. Anyone in a committed relationship would have to talk about this at some point, but especially for her, there’s this need to comfort him, help him, be present with him. There is a real need to have frank and earnest discussions about what he needs and what they have to do for each other if they want this to work, and, by God, do they both want it to work.

By now, she knows about his previous work– no solid details, of course, because so much of it is still considered sensitive information under Federal protection– but she doesn’t really know about those tragic final days in Colombia. She doesn’t know about what really happened, just bits and pieces: it was his last mission, he tells her, and he lost a good friend because of a bad, bad mistake he, himself, made.

“I don’t think I could let myself do that again,” he tells her one night as he sits on the end of the bed and holds her hand after a long, exhausting talk about this particular beast of a burden he carries. 

He feels so big, but yet so small, far away from her even as she feels his skin against hers. 

“I couldn’t let myself be the reason someone else I love gets hurt. I can’t be selfish like that again.”

“Santi–”

“A-and I’ve done everything I can,” he interjects, his eyes focused on the carpet, brows furrowing, “To ensure nothing else happens. I know they haven’t followed me here. I know they can’t find me. I know none of them know about me, or about you, or–”

“Santiago Garcia.” 

Santi looks up from the floor and meets her gaze, part steel, part sheepishness. 

“It’s going to be okay. I’m here.”

Her hand rises and she cups his cheek, fingers grazing over the protrusion of his strong cheekbone. He watches her face as her eyes follow the path of her fingers over his sunlit skin, over his grey-black beard, over his bitten and chapped lips, over the bridge of his proud, broad nose. She’s stroking his face, just the way he’s fallen in love with, trying to calm him, and he’s hardly even paying attention to the actual sensation of her fingers, but rather watching her face as she touches him.

He watches her explore him, watches her sensate with him. He studies the little flickers of her eyes, the tide-like motion of her lips, the alternation of her breaths between her mouth and her nose. He watches the woman he loves reach out and love him back, and everything else fades away to background noise, just for a minute.

When she’s done mapping that familiar route over the expanse of his face, her eyes come back to his, and he feels her intentions as clearly as if she’d spoken them. He leans forward and puts his forehead to hers, closing his eyes and taking in a deep breath.

“I love you,” he says, the words clean-cut, clear, chosen.

“I love you,” she replies. 

It is not an echo. It is a response. Chosen, just as his words were.

“And I want to keep you safe.”

“I know that.”

“So… please let me, you know, at least do some of my things. If just for my own peace of mind. It doesn’t have to be everything. And I don’t want to control you. But I just breathe a little easier when I feel like I know what’s going on.”

“Okay,” she whispers, putting a hand on his face and rubbing her nails at the thickest part of his short sideburns, grazing the silver hairs that mingle with his dark curls. “It’s okay to do some of it– the driving, the door-watching, if that’s what you need– but… safely. Just remember that it’s my job to help you as much as it is yours to help me, right?”

“Yeah,” chuckles Santi, brushing the tip of his nose against hers, butting their heads softly. “You keep me safe, too, you know. You do.”

She kisses his jaw as he says that and nods, smiling against his skin.

“It’s not going to be easy,” she mumbles into his cheek, “But I’ll be here. We’ll be safe, we’ll go slow. I’ll protect you and you protect me, and we can work on making that a less scary thing for you.”

“I just… don’t want to lose you,” he breathes. 

“You won’t. You can’t. I’m stuck on you, whether you like it or not; I’m going to be here to help you, okay?”

“Like it or not,” Santi mimes back, rolling his eyes playfully. “As if I don’t like having this beautiful–”

He takes a moment to peck her cheek.

“–Sweet–” 

Another peck, on her other cheek.

“–Very, very kind girl–” 

A last, warm, long peck on the lips.

“–Doting on my nervous old ass.”

She smiles at him and kisses the creases around his eyes, hands passing through his dark, salt-and-pepper curls. They hold each other close in tight hugs, squeezing hard, as if each squeeze is a beat of morse code to tell the other the unspoken depths of their love. I am here, the squeezes seem to spell. I am still here.

It’s a long journey ahead of them. There is no need to describe how hard it will be. It will not be a journey that ends with a magical cure and a happily ever after with no caveats, no mistakes, no difficulties. But it’s still a journey that is worth it. They’re worth it. 

They keep each other safe in all the ways those who truly love each other do; physically guarding one another, emotionally protecting the other from pain, soothing what aches come with the nature of being human, supporting each other in their mental strife. And it’s all worth it. 

Love is worth that effort.

[rachelthompsonauthor]

The Reasons Social Media Breaks Can Help Our Mental Health

I haven’t written for a while and I don’t have one solid reason. I have several.

Embrace your creativity

Working more than usual, for which I’m grateful.

Parenting — As a single mom of two teens, that’s a job in and of itself. My kids are good yet ya know, they’re KIDS.

Owning my own business and all that comes with that — fabulous clients who depend on me to be fabulous means 18-hour days just to run meet the demands, and that’s with an assistant! Not to mention the administrative crap, taxes, and all that.

Personal relationship — private. That’s all I’m gonna say about that.

Writing — Broken People is in the hands of my amazing editor and loyal friend. She lost her beloved mother so she understandably took time off. I know I want/need to add more to the book, yet I’m patiently waiting to get my structural edit back to find out what to write to fill those holes.

Focus  — more on my business writing, chats, and clients. I’m pulling together my third biz book and finding joy in helping writers navigate book marketing, branding, and social media.

The main reason I’ve not been blogging here? I’ve felt this online fatigue. I’m just…tired. Tired of the ranting and raving, of people’s entitlement over what I choose to post. Over what others post. Of the attacks. We’ve become a nation of attackers and attackees.

Will pain soaked in rage one day become empathy? Or something far darker…

What Happened to the Art of Conversation on Social Media? 

The camaraderie which drew me to Twitter, Facebook, other channels, and even blogging is now full of blowhards teeming with rage and vitriol about well, everything. From books to politics to #MeToo to even cats (always a safe choice), sharing our lived truths has now become filled with denials, gaslighting, and people thrusting their absolute right to judge with aggressive opinions on what others have lived and experienced — and I’m just super fucking over it.

As I wrote in my post on protecting ourselves from social media trolls, I employ those same protections — yet those steadfast on spreading toxicity still slip through. As an advocate, vocal survivor and compassionate supporter of other survivors, I realize that puts a target on me because I’m willing to ruffle feathers. I’m here to have those difficult conversations.

Yet, it can be exhausting.

Twitter: I took a few days off Twitter this week. A few days off Facebook the week before. Why? Well, with regard to my tweets about what happens to survivors (regarding the brain and neuroscience), people decided to throw back as me enabling Harvey Weinstein (as if) and the latest situation with Asia Argento (I’ve made no comment on that). So to use my tweets as somehow part of those conversations made no sense.

Projection. People making assumptions about me without looking at my bio, what my tweets were in reference to, etc. One person became upset with how someone else used my tweet. I mean. This is not my problem.

Facebook: I shared a quote with the word ‘motherfucker’ in it, and someone decided I’m supporting rape culture because of that, and she decided to call me out on her page as a rape apologist. The quote itself is empowering.

I make the choice whether to engage. In some instances, I did respond with compassion and empathy and had good conversations with a few people about the long-term effects of sexual abuse on the brain — something more people need to learn and understand.

People are hurt and angry. Many are survivors themselves. I’m feeling the feels, too. I’ve lived with this rollercoaster for four decades. It’s a long, hard road to healing.

I’m a huge believer in The Four Agreements and this one: don’t take anything personally is more important than ever right now. People say what they say based on their own point of view and belief system.

The Four Agreements by Don Miguel Ruiz

My point: this harsh criticism directed at me or ANY survivor and/or advocate is so entirely lacking in compassion, I’m having a hard time getting my head — and heart — around it. Yet, it’s NOT really directed at me. People are projecting their reality onto us. Being vulnerable in this situation is simply not a choice. And usually, I’m Teflon. Lately, I’m not.

So, I made the decision to check out of social media for a few days for self-care.

Is Social Media Necessary? 

We make our own experiences on social media. I’ve always believed that and still do. It’s helpful for building communities (e.g., the #SexAbuseChat I founded back in 2013 has become a wonderful, supportive community for survivors and I look so forward to these conversations each week – Tuesdays, 6pm pst/9pm est). Chats are such a terrific way to meet others with common interests and learn from one another.

But…is it necessary? Naw. We can all live our lives just fine without it. As writers and business owners, it is extremely important for branding, networking, and connection. It’s super helpful for connecting with readers. Is it the only way? Naw. There are lots of ways writers can still connect in other non-social media ways: advertising, conferences, newsletters, book clubs, writing articles, podcasts, etc.

For visibility sake, I strongly recommend it. For your mental health sake? If it’s too much, take a break or hire someone to handle it all for you. An aside: I have one client who simply cannot focus on writing if she checks into social media, so she only handles Instagram (because she’s a photographer and she loves the photog community there). She has never once logged into her Twitter, Facebook, G+, LinkedIn, or Pinterest, and says she never will (and she’s got many, many bestsellers). She simply finds it too overwhelming and stressful.

Social Media/Mental Health Decisions

Here’s what we need to ask ourselves:

What is your goal in having social media accounts?

If you go without social media, do you feel better or worse? 

Is being on social media hurting you? If so, how?

Is social media making you anxious and depressed or in some way, affecting your mental health?

Is social media stopping you from writing your book?

I asked myself all these questions and decided to take a break from my personal accounts. Even a day or two made a difference. I didn’t announce it. I just did it. And the world didn’t end. In fact, I felt like a weight had been lifted.

I can’t afford to shut it all off entirely since clients pay me good money to create and manage their content and channels for them. Besides author branding and book marketing (and writing my own books), social media IS my business. I can’t afford to not be on it. I can afford to give my brain and mental health a break from the personal attacks, though.

Making Positive Mental Health Changes 

Many people become addicted to social media; the studies are well-known. If you fall into this category, I suggest consciously weaning yourself, and slowly adding back in real-life interactions (interestingly, suggesting this on Twitter created personal attacks). Make your mental health a priority over social media. Crazy suggestion, I know.

Imagine that — suggesting something so crazy

as talking to people face-to-face. What am I thinking! (And I get the whole introvert thing. I’m an introvert. That’s completely different than a recluse who never leaves their home.)

Embrace your creativity. What can you be doing besides chatting on Facebook or arguing with people on social media? Get creative! Write, paint, draw, think, whatever. Just do something. Change that negative energy into positive energy.

My own strategy: unfollowing and whittling down my own followers on my personal accounts, as well as blocking and muting a ton of people, as is my right. These changes feel good. Taking action feels good.

Social media is what we make it, and I am owning it, as opposed to it owning me.

 Do you need help right now? Contact RAINN.org (all genders) or 1in6.org (for men).

Read more about my situation in my award-winning book, Broken Pieces.

I go into more detail about living with PTSD and realizing the effects of how being a survivor affected my life in Broken Places, available now on Amazon.

The post The Reasons Social Media Breaks Can Help Our Mental Health appeared first on Rachel Thompson.

source http://rachelintheoc.com/2018/08/reasons-social-media-breaks-help-mental-health/

[iwriteficsnottragediesladies]

Soldier Girl pt 8

A/N: Okay, here’s the next chapter. So, what really is the reader’s story and what happened to her overseas? I cried multiple times while writing this because it is so real to me. I have ptsd and although my trauma was different than the reader’s, her struggle and feelings are truly my experience as well. I wrote this from the heart, so I hope that’s okay.

@multifandom-slytherin

@toystorytwowasokay

@beeboatthedxsco

@melonandtheirfictionalcharacters

tw: talking about ptsd, explaining trauma, happy ending

It was a day off. You were just sitting around in the hotel room with Brendon, cuddling and watching the marathon of Law and Order playing on tv. Suddenly, Brendon speaks quietly.

“You know,” Brendon started, “We’ve never really talked about it.” You look to him.

“What?” You asked, but you were pretty sure where he was going.

“Every time you have nightmares, it’s the same dream, isn’t it?” He asked somberly. You swallow uncomfortably.

“Yeah,” you whisper, “It is.”

“Have you ever told anyone what it’s about?” He asked concerned, wondering if you had ever really processed it.

“No,” You whisper even more quietly.

“You know you can tell me anything, right?” He asks sweetly. You pause and look down at the sheets.

“Bren,” You say and slowly shake your head, “You… You wouldn’t…”

“I wouldn’t what, baby? I wouldn’t understand?” He softly urges you to continue.

“No. You wouldn’t…” You try so hard to get the words out and tears were filling your eyes. “You wouldn’t want to be with me anymore,” You say your worst fear out loud so quietly that you wonder if you had truly made a sound at all. Brendon exhales in response, so you know that he did in fact hear you.

“Y/n, I want to be with you,” Brendon says with certainty, “There’s nothing you could say to change that.”

“But what if it did?” You reply with tears ready to flow. You thought over the risk of telling him again and shook your head. “Brendon, I can’t lose you,” You say desperately.

“You are not going to lose me,” Brendon stated, “We are here. In this hotel room. We got here in a series of events so crazy… We found each other, and we did not get this far to lose each other, Y/n.”

“Brendon,” You said, ready to give in. You need to talk about it. You needed to get it off your chest. You can’t take it anymore.

“Y/n, you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” Brendon prefaced softly, “But just know–I never want to lose you. No matter what.”

You pause for a few seconds.

“We were out in the field, doing community outreach,” You begin.

Brendon realizes you’re sharing your story. He listens closely.

“Handing out food, water, to the locals. There was this little girl, about eight. A lot of times, people wouldn’t want to accept our help. They were in a dangerous situation–becoming friendly with us could put a target on their backs. But this little girl–” You pause with a small chuckle, remembering her electric smile. “This little girl stepped out of the crowd and ran over to me. She wrapped her arms around my legs in a hug.”

“The rest of the locals decided to take a chance on us too, and took our help. She looked up and said ‘tabdu waka'anaha ‘umiy‘. I don’t know a lot of Arabic, but one of the villagers who was beside me picking up a supply pack told me ‘she said you remind her of her mother. She died not too long ago.’”

Tears started to stream down your face as the pain of the memory floats back to you.

“I thought maybe, just maybe, I was making a difference in the world. That all the long days of training and sacrifice were finally making my life worthwhile. Then there was an explosion. It wasn’t big, but it was close. Everyone ran in different directions. Shooters came out of nowhere. It was enough to drive our troop back to the helicopter. I heard the blades firing up, but then I heard a noise, a small little cry next to me. The little girl.”

“S-she was laying on the ground, hit. I tried–” You cut off, your voice cracking and tears streaming. “I put pressure on the wound. I thought maybe… Maybe we could get her to the infirmary or… But one of my guys was pulling me off of her, screaming that we needed to go.”

“I didn’t want to leave her, but he wasn’t going to leave me there to die either. I heard the little girl as he dragged me away. She screamed ‘al'umu‘”

“Mommy.”

“She was screaming for me. She thought that I was her mother, leaving her in her last moments, Brendon,” You lose control of your tears and you’re not calm enough to have some composure at all. “I can’t stop thinking about her, dreaming about her,” you sob, “I killed her.”

You had finally said everything out loud. You’re completely lost in your pain and panic, barely even coherent anymore.

“Y/n,” Brendon tries to stop you.

“I killed her,” You repeat, interrupting. You feel like you can’t breathe. It feels like the walls are closing in on you.

Brendon just pulls you closer and holds you. You whimper and try to get out of his grip but Brendon won’t let you go.

“Shhh,” Brendon said as he held you tighter, “Y/n.”

You’re still trying to get out of his grip.

“I can’t stop these memories, Brendon,” You cry out, “Please, make it stop.”

“Easy, baby, easy.” he soothes, keeping his grip firm. He sniffles. You realize he is crying too. When had he started crying? “It’s going to be okay.” You start to get worn out and slow down a bit.

“Make it stop, make it stop,” you repeat quietly, withdrawing into yourself. You give up your fight and become limp.

He can’t stand seeing you this way. He would do anything to take away your pain.

“Just breathe baby,” Brendon replied calmly, “You’re okay.”

You do your best to follow his directions. You cough and sputter, trying to breathe through your sobs. He smooths back your hair.

“I’m a terrible p-person,” You whisper against his chest.

“Please don’t say that, Y/n,” Brendon begs you, his own voice cracking now. “It’s okay, baby,” He places a kiss on the top of your head with a sniffle.

“I’m so sorry Brendon,” You say through your tears. “What I did…” You trail off, too ashamed to finish your sentence.

You look up at his face now dripping with tears, confused that he was still even talking to you. You don’t understand. You did something unforgivable. You are disgusting. He should fire you and do away with you entirely–you don’t deserve any of what he has given you. Yet here you were, being held in his arms.

“You did what you had to do to survive,” Brendon finished for you.

“No, I could’ve… I…” You trail off again, unsure of what to say.

“There was nothing you could have done,” Brendon said quietly, shaking his head. “It’s awful. It’s war. It’s terrible. But it wasn’t your fault, Y/n.”

You had never talked about it before, so it never occurred to you that maybe it wasn’t your fault. You had always believed that you should have done more. What happened was absolutely tragic. But it’s true–you did everything you could.

It wasn’t your fault.

“Y/n,” Brendon started, looking deeply into your eyes, “Everywhere you go, you light up the room. You do so much good in this world. It’s how hard you work, the way you care about other people, even just the way you talk to fans… You share your love with the world in a way I’ve never seen,” He pauses to sniffle and then smiles through his tears, “When I look at you, I don’t see ptsd, or your past–every time I see you, I see the beautiful person you are.”

You are in shock. You search his face for uncertainty, but you find sincerity in every word he speaks. This is not what you expected. You expected him to be disgusted, to realize you are not the person he thinks you are.

“Brendon,” You look at him, speechless. He places his hand on your cheek and looks at you.

“Y/n, I love you,” he emphasizes to convince you of how he feels.

The world stops turning. You wonder if your heart has stopped or if it’s just beating too fast to feel it at all.

“You have been through things that no one should ever have to face,” He shakes his head, “But you are strong, and I’m so lucky to have you in my life, Y/n. I can’t imagine it without you anymore. And I love you.”

“I love you too,” you whispered what you had known all along. Your eyes refilled with tears of a new kind. You lip trembled. “I love you so much Brendon,” your voice now full volume as you burst into tears all over again.

You crawled into his lap completely and he latched onto you. You feel so safe in his arms.

“I love you baby,” Brendon coos, “You mean everything to me.”

“I love you too, Brendon,” You reply, feeling yourself melting into his chest.

“It’s okay, baby,” Brendon ran his hand through your hair, “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Oxygen is finally filling your lungs. The truth is out in the open and Brendon loves you all the same. You have never felt so complete. In minutes you’re asleep against him, exhausted from your full blown panic attack.

But you can rest your head easy knowing: It wasn’t your fault, and Brendon Urie is in love with you.

A/N: I hope you liked this. I kind of put myself out there a bit, but I feel like sharing my feelings through the reader might give a window into my world for you all. Plot line suggestions are always welcome. I have one from an anon that I plan on using for the next chapter, so I love when you guys contribute.

Read the next part here: https://iwriteficsnottragediesladies.tumblr.com/post/166217033758/soldier-girl-part-9

[therealdragonnerdagain]

I can't remember if I said this before or not, so I'll say it now.

Cullen's original depiction in DAO and DA2 when he just fucking snapped and killed people? It WAS realistic.

When I said that last year or the year before or whenever, I lacked the articulation to really say why. Ironically enough, I was on debilitating medication that made it difficult to communicate here and properly express myself, which led to people accusing me of abelism and racism and all this nonsense (lofuckingl).

But now that I'm off the lyrium meds, free from the symptoms of bipolar, and clear minded, I'm gonna explain why Cullen's portrayal pre-Inquisition was more realistic. And please read this entire thing before foaming at the mouth and attacking me with childish insults.

In Dragon Age Origins, Cullen has a mental break and kills six mages. It's realistic that this would have happened to him -- not simply because he was suffering mental anguish -- but because he was probably groomed to snap.

Think of the environment the Circle was at the time. People already hated mages. The surviving templars would have been pretty pissed at mages and constantly going on about how dangerous they were and how they deserved to die and how Uldred's snapping "proved" that mages should be locked up, killed, and lobotomized.

(to see my rants about Uldred's justifiable anger and unjustifiable but understandable terrorist act, search for the tag "origins rant" or just search "uldred" here on my blog)

After the Warden concludes The Broken Circle, Cullen is mentally disturbed and mentally exhausted by the events there, and finds himself surrounded 24/7 by the sort of people who would only ENCOURAGE his hatred and paranoia for magic. It's like being a disturbed Civil War vet and having anti-black people constantly around who encourage you to hate blacks while you are already in a frail state of mind. Such a person might snap and kill some black people in a church or something. It's happened. Look it up.

So Cullen is in a shitty environment where other templars encourage his anger. Gregoir realizes Cullen needs real help and needs to get away from other templars, who are letting recent events fuel their prejudice. Gregoir sends Cullen to a chantry to recuperate, thinking the quiet time away from his fellow angry and embittered templars would help him.

Of course, this doesn't help Cullen either. The chantry constantly preaches against magic and constantly demonizes mages as awful, depraved, and dangerous. If anything, Cullen's sickness is going to deepen, not heal. The chantry would only encourage Cullen's hatred of mages, not guide him back to reality and teach him that mages are people and that maybe the mages wouldn’t have rebelled if there was nothing to rebel about.

After the Chantry consoles Cullen that his hate for mages is justified, Cullen is packed off to Kirkwall, where Hawke can find him in a calm but still very prejudiced state in regards to mages.

On the outside, Cullen seems very put together, but there are moments when the cracks bleed through, showing that he's not *really* recovered. When Hawke first meets Cullen, it's like walking up on a scene of police brutality. Hawke can even crack a joke that Cullen is out of his fucking mind. Of course, the mage Cullen beats to a pulp is possessed, so Cullen's brutality is immediately justified, but for someone who's paying attention, it's pretty obvious that Cullen is still very sick and hasn't gotten the help he needs.

Cullen even goes on to tell Hawke to her face -- even mage!Hawke -- that mages are not people but weapons. He is a sick individual in need of help and admits as much later in DAI when he discusses the events of DA2.

Fast forward to DAI. The developers have noticed Cullen's mass following and decide to cash in on female gamers' desire to be the one to finally help Cullen heal. So they write a cheesy, unrealistic story about Cullen working through his drug addiction and prejudice seemingly overnight -- after years of listening to people tell him mages are scum, he now believes otherwise, even if he still thinks mages should be locked away, stripped of all humanity, lobotomized, and used like tools in every war.

Cullen loves mage!Inquisitor but all other mages are scum who should be locked away. Again, the same way racist Solas makes an exception for Lavellan, this is beyond Twilight levels of toxic. 

It is also unrealistic that Cullen -- after being shown as sinking into a downward spiral of addiction and hatred for TEN YEARS --  would leap overnight from being a sick, bitter, and prejudiced individual to being a soft puppy dog for the female gamers to magically save. It was . .. . (wait for it) . . .

BAD WRITING.

That being said, I still enjoyed Cullen for what he brought to Inquisition. I’ve said in the past that he was one of the few characters who actually felt like the Inquisitor’s friend to me and not a worshiper. But as much as I did enjoy having him in the game, I still had problems with his writing. Because I’m a writer and I love the craft to be executed well, even in a video game. 

Honestly, how elitist is it to pretend video games can’t have good writing? Bioware has shown that they can have good writing. So when they fail in that regard, it shows. Or at least it does to me, a person who doesn’t worship a fictional character to the point that I must attack others with less than positive opinions about him. 

And to attack someone with insults because they don't agree that Cullen is perfect is really shity and childish. Oh the irony of people defending Cullen as a mentally ill man by attacking a MENTALLY ILL PERSON who, at the time, had difficulty expressing herself.

When I wrote my original Cullen posts, I was just eager to be a part of the discussion with other Dragon Age fans. I did not set out to hurt anyone or offend anyone, and I did not deserve all the scorn that was heaped on me for failing to properly articulate my opinions. So fuck all of you.

Every time I think of Cullen, though, I think of the men with PTSD who I knew while I was living in a military rest home. And I know Dragon Age did REAL people with PTSD a disservice by failing to give Cullen a proper arc and instead using him to cash in on fangirls.

Loghain, another character with PTSD, actually had a proper arc. Cullen did not because Bioware wanted to milk fangirls for cash.

That's my opinion. And if you don't like it, kiss my black motherfucking ass.

[karen-carlisle-off-the-artboard]

Steampunk Hands Around the World, 2019: This is Me.

https://karenjcarlisle.com/2019/02/27/steampunk-hands-around-the-world-2019-this-is-me/

I had planned to do two or three posts for this year’s Steampunk Hands Around the World. One was a photo montage of various steampunk outfits and events I’ve attended. The other was about my writing and steampunk books. But that isn’t my whole story.

I have a confession to make. I’m not the person I used to be. And this infuriates me. I used to be spontaneous, always the first to volunteer, to be out front and centre. I loved meeting new people and doing new things. I loved a challenge.

I used to love dressing up in costume, trying on a new persona, the more outrageous and gregarious the more fun I had.

I daydreamed. I laughed out loud at the ideas that popped into my head. I wrote. I drew. I created… stuff.

Then the Black Dog sniffed me out. His name was Anxiety. He whispered in my ear, destroying my confidence, crushing my creativity and stamping his mark on my soul.

It happened slowly; a toxic work environment and increasingly stressful situations piled on top of each other over several years. My health deteriorated. My smile faded. It was hard to get up in the morning. It was even harder to drag myself to work. My faith was my only armour, giving me hope to trudge onward. And it was exhausting.

It wasn’t until a specific, and dramatic, attack at work that I realised I was no longer ‘me’.

That was 2012. Two years later my world collapsed. While I struggled to find myself, to pull myself out of the sucking great hole that is anxiety, the work situation deteriorated. It was quit or sink. The black dog won this round.

I quit. My career was over.

It wasn’t until last year I had a name for the particular mongrel black dog who beat me. His name was PTSD.

‘What has this got to do with steampunk?’ you ask.

I know this sounds depressing, but I assure you there is a glimmer of light outside this particular kennel. Let me explain.

There’s a saying: It’s always darkest before the dawn. There’s also another saying: What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.  When I was a child, my grandma used to say this. And she was right – as usual. Sometimes it takes a kick in the guts to find out who you really are. And this is my story.

Like many other steampunks, I always found the aesthetic intriguing. I’d seen movies (yes, I know, everyone always mentions ‘Wild, Wild West’), read books but it was years before I knew it was a ‘thing’ – and it had a name: steampunk.

But it wasn’t until 2006 that I delved into it seriously.  The following year I had completed my first steampunk outfit. Then I discovered there were other people out there, in the wild, doing things! I’d found my tribe. There was an entire community – not just local, but worldwide!

Over the next several years my world slowly changed. I gradually retreated from my favourite pastimes. I didn’t know why. I just trudged along, wallowing deeper and deeper. Then 2012 happened. I retreated from the world to lick my wounds. When I ventured back in 2013, the world was a different place – or I thought it was.

I wrote steampunk stories in my lunchtimes to escape. I attended steampunk social gatherings, meeting the most amazing, creative people in a community which encourages individuality and imagination.

While I’d enjoyed twenty years plus of his historical re-enactment and re-creating garb, it now felt restrictive, claustrophobic. I didn’t just want to re-create history, I wanted to twist it, control it, shape it into something new.

I wanted to break the rules. I wanted to rebel. I wanted whimsy.

I’ve written about whimsy before (A Whimsical Notion ).  What I’ve realised since then is, whimsy is my shield against the black dog. While my faith and hope always remained, what I’d lost – what Anxiety and PTSD had stolen from me – was whimsy. And steampunk provided that whimsy.

So here I am. 2019: just over six years later. I now create my own steampunk worlds and have embarked on a new career – that of writing.

I still feel like a fractured mirror, each shard reflecting a different aspect of my soul. The black dogs of Anxiety and PTSD are still there, sniffing around my feet, trying to trip me up – and possibly always will be. They still leap up and drag me down – way too often.

But there always remains hope. Hope I can fight the black dog for as long as it takes. And to help fend it off is whimsy.

In the past several years I’ve often wanted to hide, to be someone else. In reality I was searching for the old me – the person before the black dog sunk his teeth into my soul, the person who daydreamed, who created, who laughed out loud.

Now I can hide behind my shield and just be me. I’ll never quite be the old me, but I can be the ‘new’ me.

The real me. And this is me.

[viralhottopics]

31 celebrities who smashed the stigma surrounding mental illness in 2016.

It may not seem like that big of a deal when a celebrity speaks up about their experiences with mental illness. But it is.

Throughout 2016, dozens of actors, authors, artists, and athletes trailblazers we’re used to seeing smiling on red carpets or snagging gold medals on TV shared the personal battles they’ve faced behind closed doors. It was a groundbreaking year.

It levels the playing field,” Aaron Harvey says of the many public figures who chose to speak up. Harvey is the founder of Intrusive Thoughts, a group set on humanizing those living with mental illness. Suddenly, you realize the same struggles that you have might be the same struggles that someone you really idolize have. And that [makes it] OK.”

The stigma surrounding mental illness is taking lives. Many millions of people living with conditions like depression and anxiety are shamed into believing there’s something inherently wrong with them that they’re weak, for instance, or even dangerous to others. They suffer in silence because of it.

When a person with a platform becomes a face others can relate to, it becomes a little bit easier for someone else to follow in their footsteps, talk to someone, and get the help they need. Speaking up can save a life.

Here are 31 celebrities who spoke out in 2016 some of them for the first time about their experiences living with a mental illness:

1. Actress Kristen Bell wrote about why you can’t trust all of your thoughts when you’re battling depression.

“For me, depression is not sadness. Its not having a bad day and needing a hug. It gave me a complete and utter sense of isolation and loneliness. Its debilitation was all-consuming, and it shut down my mental circuit board. I felt worthless, like I had nothing to offer, like I was a failure. Now, after seeking help, I can see that those thoughts, of course, couldnt have been more wrong.” Kristen Bell, on living with depression

2. Singer Selena Gomez reminded us that you never really know what’s going on in someone else’s head.

“I had to stop. ‘Cause I had everything, and I was absolutely broken inside. And I kept it all together enough to where I would never let you down, but I kept it too much together, to where I let myself down. I don’t want to see your bodies on Instagram, I want to see what’s in here. [puts hand on heart] I’m not trying to get validation, nor do I need it anymore. … If you are broken, you dont have to stay broken.” Selena Gomez, on living with anxiety and depression

3. Musical artist Kid Cudi got candid about the limitations that living with a mental illness put on his own life.

“My anxiety and depression have ruled my life for as long as I can remember and I never leave the house because of it. I can’t make new friends because of it. I don’t trust anyone because of it and Im tired of being held back in my life. I deserve to have peace. I deserve to be happy and smiling. Why not me?” Kid Cudi, on living with anxiety and depression

4. Actor Wentworth Miller opened up about becoming the butt of a body-shaming joke amid his struggle to survive.

“Now, when I see that image of me in my red t-shirt, a rare smile on my face, I am reminded of my struggle. My endurance and my perseverance in the face of all kinds of demons. Some within. Some without. Like a dandelion up through the pavement, I persist.” Wentworth Miller, on living with depression

5. Actress Hayden Panettiere shared with fans that they might be seeing less of her because, first and foremost, she needed to prioritize getting well.

The postpartum depression I have been experiencing has impacted every aspect of my life. Rather than stay stuck due to unhealthy coping mechanisms, I have chosen to take time to reflect holistically on my health and life. Wish me luck!” Hayden Panettiere, on living with postpartum depression

6. Singer Zayn Malik penned an essay on why he had to cancel performances due to severe anxiety.

“The thing is, I love performing. I love the buzz. I dont want to do any other job. Thats why my anxiety is so upsetting and difficult to explain. Its this thing that swells up and blocks out your rational thought processes. Even when you know you want to do something, know that it will be good for you, that youll enjoy it when youre doing it, the anxiety is telling you a different story. Its a constant battle within yourself.” Zayn Malik, on living with anxiety

7. Artist Lady Gaga revealed a secret about her own battles at an event benefitting young homeless teens in New York.

“My own trauma in my life has helped me to understand the trauma of others. I told the kids today that I suffer from a mental illness. I suffer from PTSD. I’ve never told that to anyone before, so here we are.” Lady Gaga, on living with post-traumatic stress disorder

8. NFL wide receiver Brandon Marshall explained why organizing with one another not hiding away is crucial for those living with a mental illness.

I thought, How many others are out there suffering? I tell people all the time, you know, where were at in [the mental health] community is where the cancer and HIV community was 20, 25 years ago. So we have to galvanize this community. Brandon Marshall, on living with borderline personality disorder

9. Actress Rachel Bloom showed us why we shouldn’t let stereotypes about medication dictate whether we should get the proper help we need.

“I had gone to therapists, but for the first time I sought out a psychiatrist. In his office I finally felt safe. I told him everything. Each session improved my life. He diagnosed me with low-grade depression and put me on a small amount of Prozac. Theres a stereotype (I had believed) that antidepressants numb you out; that didnt happen to me.” Rachel Bloom, on living with depression

10. Musical artist Justin Vernon of Bon Iver got real about what a panic attack can actually feel like.

It was like: Oh my god, my chest is caving in, what the f**k is going on? I dont like talking about it, but I feel its important to talk about it, so that other people who experience it dont feel its just happening to them. Justin Vernon, on living with panic attacks and depression

11. Singer Demi Lovato pointed out the importance of consistently staying on top of your health for the long haul.

“Its not something where you see a therapist once or you see your psychiatrist once, its something you maintain to make sure that you want to live with mental illness. You have to take care of yourself. Demi Lovato, on living with bipolar disorder

12. Actress Lena Dunham opened up about how anxiety affects her day-to-day routines.

Ive always been anxious, but I havent been the kind of anxious that makes you run 10 miles a day and make a lot of calls on your BlackBerry. Im the kind of anxious that makes you like, Im not going to be able to come out tonight, tomorrow night, or maybe for the next 67 nights. Lena Dunham, on living with anxiety

13. NFL guard Brandon Brooks discussed the difference between game-day jitters and the type of anxiety he experiences.

I wanted to get to the bottom of whats going on. Basically, I found out recently that I have an anxiety condition. What I mean by anxiety condition [is] not nervousness or fear of the game. … I have, like, an obsession with the game. Its an unhealthy obsession right now and Im working with team doctors to get everything straightened out and getting the help that I need and things like that. Brandon Brooks, on living with anxiety

14. Actress Evan Rachel Wood spoke out about how our world’s tendency to overlook or dismiss certain groups can complicate a person’s mental health.

“For so long, I was ashamed. Youre dealing with the shame that the world has imposed upon you, and then on top of that, the shame of identifying that way. Youre totally looked down upon in and out of the LGBT community. A good way to combat that and the stereotypes is to be vocal.” Evan Rachel Wood, on living with depression and coming out as bisexual

15. Actress Cara Delevingne got real about her early struggles living with a sense of hopelessness.

“I’m very good at repressing emotion and seeming fine. As a kid I felt like I had to be good and I had to be strong because my mum wasn’t. So, when it got to being a teenager and all the hormones and the pressure and wanting to do well at school for my parents, not for me I had a mental breakdown. I was suicidal. I couldn’t deal with it any more. I realized how lucky and privileged I was, but all I wanted to do was die.” Cara Delevingne, on living with depression

16. Comedian Patton Oswalt laid out the difference between living with depression and surviving the devastation of losing a loved one.

Depression is more seductive. Its tool is: Wouldnt it be way more comfortable to stay inside and not deal with people? Grief is an attack on life. Its not a seducer. Its an ambush or worse. It stands right out there and says: The minute you try something, Im waiting for you. Patton Oswalt, on living with depression and the grief brought on by his wife’s death

17. Singer Kesha opened up about what led her to a rehab program focused on treating eating disorders.

“I felt like part of my job was to be as skinny as possible and, to make that happen, I had been abusing my body. I just wasn’t giving it the energy it needed to keep me healthy and strong.” Kesha, on living with an eating disorder

18. Author John Green wrote about the dangers of romanticizing mental illness.

“Mental illness is stigmatized, but it is also romanticized. If you google the phrase ‘all artists are,’ the first suggestion is ‘mad.’ We hear that genius is next to insanity. … Of course, there are kernels of truth here: Many artists and storytellers do live with mental illness. But many dont. And what I want to say today, I guess, is that you can be sane and be an artist, and also that if you are sick, getting help although it is hard and exhausting and inexcusably difficult to access will not make you less of an artist.” John Green, on living with depression

19. Musical artist Halsley discussed her attempt at suicide as a teenager.

I had tried to kill myself. I was an adolescent; I didnt know what I was doing. Because I was 17, I was still in a childrens ward. Which was terrifying. I was in there with 9-year-olds who had tried to kill themselves. Halsley, on living with bipolar disorder, and once staying in a psychiatric hospital

20. Prince Harry addressed the problem with assuming people who seemingly have their lives in order aren’t struggling with an invisible issue.

You know, I really regret not ever talking about it. … A lot of people think if youve got a job, if youve got financial security, if youve got a family, youve got a house, all that sort of stuff everyone seems to think that is all you need and you are absolutely fine to deal with stuff. Prince Harry, on living with grief after his mother’s death

21. Actress Rowan Blanchard explained why living with a mental illness can be a learning opportunity.

“I learned this year that happiness and sadness are not mutually exclusive. They can exist within me at the same time in the same moment. While also becoming more forgiving of myself and my emotions, I became more forgiving of others, specifically other teenagers.” Rowan Blanchard, on living with depression

22. Olympic swimmer Michael Phelps spoke candidly about why even gold medals couldn’t truly make him happy.

I went in with no self-confidence, no self-love. I think the biggest thing was, I thought of myself as just a swimmer, and nobody else. … I was lost, pushing a lot people out of my life people that I wanted and needed in my life. I was running and escaping from whatever it was I was running from. Michael Phelps, on living with mental illness

23. Actress Jenifer Lewis talked about how the AIDS epidemic led her to realize she needed help.

“Sometimes I suspected that something was not quite right. Especially during the time when the AIDS epidemic was at its height and my grief was pretty much out of control. No one was talking about bipolar disorder and mental illness back then. I had lost so many friends and loved ones. My spiral into depression was overwhelming; I could not function. Thats when I couldnt ignore the fact that something was wrong anymore. Jenifer Lewis, on living with bipolar disorder

24. Singer Adele highlighted why not each form of mental illness manifests the same way in every person.

“My knowledge of postpartum [depression] or post-natal, as we call it in England is that you dont want to be with your child; youre worried you might hurt your child; youre worried you werent doing a good job. But I was obsessed with my child. I felt very inadequate; I felt like Id made the worst decision of my life. … It can come in many different forms.” Adele, on living with postpartum depression

25. Actor Jared Padalecki launched a new “I Am Enough” campaign, selling shirts to support initiatives that fight depression and self-harm.

I am enough. And you are enough. … I know I can keep fighting and I know that Im trying to love myself, but sometimes you feel like youre not enough. So this message is helping me kind of understand that I am enough just the way I was made. Jared Padalecki, on living with depression

26. Actress Amanda Seyfried nailed why we should be treating mental illness just as seriously as any other disease or condition.

“Im on [antidepressant] Lexapro, and Ill never get off of it. Ive been on it since I was 19, so 11 years. Im on the lowest dose. I dont see the point of getting off of it. Whether its placebo or not, I dont want to risk it. And what are you fighting against? Just the stigma of using a tool? A mental illness is a thing that people cast in a different category [from other illnesses], but I dont think it is. It should be taken as seriously as anything else.” Amanda Seyfried, on living with anxiety and depression

27. Musical artist Keke Palmer opened up about how her own mental illness postponed the release of a new album.

I stopped trying all together because I allowed people to make me believe that being an artist meant having big budget music videos and big record producers backing you. When in reality, all being an artist means is to be fearless in your creative pursuits. My anxiety, caused by the habit of unconsciously holding my breath, coupled with the stress of my personal life at that time created a lot of hard years of depression for me. Keke Palmer, on living with anxiety

28. Actress Catherine Zeta-Jones said she’s in a good place right now, thanks to identifying her struggle and finding the help that was right for her.

“Finding out that it was called something was the best thing that ever happened to me! The fact that there was a name for my emotions and that a professional could talk me through my symptoms was very liberating. There are amazing highs and very low lows. My goal is to be consistently in the middle. Im in a very good place right now.” Catherine Zeta-Jones, on living with bipolar disorder

29. Actor Devon Murray used World Mental Health Day to share his own ups and downs with fans on Twitter.

“I’ve been battling depression in silence for ten years and only recently spoke about it and [it] has made a huge difference. I had suicidal thoughts this year and that was the kick up the arse that I needed! Open up, talk to people. If you suspect a friend or family member is suffering in silence [reach out] to them. Let them know you care.” Devon Murray, on living with depression

30. Musical artist Jade Thirlwall discussed a dark time in her life that looked picture-perfect from afar.

“My periods stopped and things were getting out of control, but I don’t think I really cared about what was happening to me. I felt so depressed at the time that I just wanted to waste away and disappear. … It should have been a really happy time my career was successful, ‘Black Magic’ was doing well, and we were traveling and performing. On the surface I was happy, but inside I felt broken.” Jade Thirlwall, on battling anorexia

31. Musician Ellie Goulding explained how her panic attacks often came at the worst possible times.

“I was skeptical [of going to therapy] at first, because Id never had therapy, but not being able to leave the house was so debilitating. And this was when my career was really taking off. My surroundings would trigger a panic attack, so I couldnt go to the studio unless I was lying down in the car with a pillow over my face. I used to beat myself up about it.” Ellie Goulding, on living with anxiety and facing panic attacks

Many celebrities have helped bring the conversation around mental health into the mainstream. But it’s on us to make the real change happen.

While its amazing to have celebrities out there blazing trails and introducing a radical new transparency,” Harvey notes, “the most important thing is that individual sufferers communicate with their everyday connections. If we really want to make an impact on stigma, it cant just be a headline.”

If you need help, call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1800273TALK (8255). If you want to learn more about mental illness, visit the National Alliance on Mental Health.

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from 31 celebrities who smashed the stigma surrounding mental illness in 2016.