#SELF-HARM TW

[cffeine]

(mentions of self-harm)

whenever it was painfully apparent dazai was about to relapse, mori and chuuya would have a discussion and within the hour dazai and chuuya would be on an undercover mission that requires the both of their full attention

[teaboot]

I try not to be too shy about having had a history of self-harm because I believe one of my greatest obstacles in my recovery was the isolation which grew from shame. It's an embarrassing and vulnerable topic, and I feel that if anyone in my social circle had felt safe enough to tell me about their experience first, I may not have taken so long to reach out and get better. It's a serious topic that is close to my heart.

With all that said and out of the way I absolutely intend to make fun of myself about it

[demonbarbers]

thinking so many thoughts about sweeney and johanna today… the way josh!sweeney and maria!jo mirror each other with their psychically. the same twitchy hands. the same slouched posture. coping with stress by hitting their head with the palm of their hands. picking at their cuticles. my dad and i were exactly alike my dad and i were nothing alike etc etc

[mentalhealth-selfshipping]

Your f/o isn't disgusted by your self-harm scars. Sure, they wish you never felt the need to do these things to yourself, but they're not going to resent that part of you. If you think they'd be revolted to touch or even look at you, you're sorely mistaken.

They also support you through whatever you may wish to do with your scarring, whether it be cover-up tattoos, scar removal treatment, or nothing at all. They want you to do whatever makes you feel the best.

[greenisnotyourcolour]

Phoenix and Miles discussing what they didn’t talk about before - Miles’ year after aa1 (dialogue takes place in 7 yg)

[adrift-in-thyme]

Whumptober Day 8: Outnumbered

Read on Ao3

- Time/Malon

- Summary: when Time ends up in a battle he can’t win he dons the Fierce Deity mask — a choice with grim consequences

CW for blood and injury, a character losing an eye, possession, self-harm, and vomiting

——————————-

Link stumbles for what must be the hundredth time in the last few moments. His steps are unsteady, his body weary. The room spins like the water of the Great Bay Temple. If he stops moving for even a moment he is certain he will be swept up in its nauseating current.

The screams of monsters ring in his ears, deafening, skull-splitting. It has been a long time since he battled so many.

…if there ever was a time when he had.

A lizalfo swings its dagger dangerously close to his head. Gritting his teeth, Link fells it with a thrust of his gilded sword. But ten more replace it, all crowding around him, battering his body with weapons and claws and teeth. His armor feels about as effective as his regular tunic now. Each blow beats upon him like those of an iron knuckle’s ax.

A particularly wide swing of a dodongo tail trips him up. He nearly falls, catches himself, retreats a bit.

Another step backward, another step closer to the wall.

His heart pounds so loudly he can hear it over the ruckus surrounding him. Sweat runs down his face in rivulets. It has long since soaked his hair and tunic.

He spares a glance toward the ceiling, vaguely wishing he could see the sky through it.

How long has he been in here?

Easy. Simple. That was what Zelda had dubbed this mission. What they had both believed it would be. After all, monsters seldom flood Dodongo Cavern like they did in the days of Ganondorf. And though the Gorons are normally averse to asking for help, they make an exception when it comes to him. They hadn’t warned him of any great threat either.

There had been no reason for suspicion, no need to suspect something dreadful awaited him in here.

All of these monsters…it is as though they appeared out of the air solely to face him.

Link pulls a spin attack, sending some of his assailants flying. He weaves Din’s fire into the tail end of it and the screeches reach a fever pitch before promptly dying out. But the powerful spell hardly makes a dent. If anything, it makes things worse.

He straightens, breathing hard, and squints into the gloom before him. There, standing atop the charred remains of the monsters he has just vanquished stands an iron knuckle.

Desperation cleaves through him at the same time the beast breaks into a run. It shoves aside the monsters crowding around it as though they are weightless. The sound of its clanking armor echoes in his ears and seems to shake the cavern.

With a grunt of exertion, he forces himself forward to meet it. Exhaustion drags at him, his limbs are heavy and numb, his breath comes in haggard gasps. But he keeps going anyway, slicing at the monsters that leap at him.

He has to make it out of here alive. He has to. Malon is waiting for him. She had made him promise to return. And the Hero of Time has never broken a promise.

Especially not to someone he loves.

The iron knuckle brings its ax down in a sweeping motion, cleaving through the air and sending monsters flying. With shaking hands, Link brings up his shield to block.

…it goes flying.

The sound of it hitting the cave wall reverberates in his aching head. His breath catches in his throat.

He throws himself sideways just as the ax comes back around. He can feel the wind as it rushes past him. But he hardly has time to celebrate his victory. Though his quick maneuver keeps his head on his shoulders, it also sends him right into the midst of the other monsters. And before he can react, one leaps for him, weapon held high.

Pain explodes across his face with nauseating force. He stumbles, back hitting the wall with a resounding thud, sword clattering to the ground. Pressing a hand to his eye, he screams.

They close in on him with sadistic eagerness, sensing weakness. But their forms are hazy and indistinct. His fear of them seems very far away now, replaced by a terror of another sort.

Blood streams hot and fast down his face. A throbbing burn grips his eye.

…or the place where his eye once was.

Another blow sends him to his knees (though he can’t help but think he would have ended up there anyway). He falls, choking on blood and bile. The room tilts and he slumps against the wall, trying to breathe.

The pain is endless, pounding behind his eye sockets, streaking through every part of him. And he knows, even through the agonizing haze, he knows he is not going to make it out of here. Not now, wounded as he is.

Link grits his teeth and plunges his bloodied fingers into his pouch. The item he needs is not difficult to locate. After all, he would know the feel of this mask anywhere. It is impossible to forget.

Even so, he pauses for a moment to gaze down at it. The vision in his remaining eye is hopelessly blurred by pain and blood and sweat, but he can still make out the familiar crimson markings. They stir up an all too familiar dread.

He closes his eye, grip tightening on the worn wood.

The iron knuckle is charging again. He can hear its footsteps echoing, even over the screams of the monsters that surround him.

Go on, comes the familiar voice, soft but strong. You know you have no other choice. Put on the mask, little one. Allow me to save you.

Link drags in a haggard breath, fighting to remain afloat on an ocean of agony. Slowly, he lifts the mask to his face.

Forgive me, Malon.

It latches onto him in a searing blur of red-hot light and breath-taking pain. He screams, shrill and panicked and anguished, as control over his own body and mind are snatched away. He can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t feel anything beyond pain, so much pain…

Then, abruptly, something shifts, and there is only darkness.

Be calm, little one. I will protect you.

Something cold and stifling, familiar and oddly calming blankets him. Link’s grip begins to slip. But he doesn’t plummet. Not yet. By some blessing he holds on.

Even through the drifting haze he can feel his body moving. He knows when a monster is felled by the Deity’s mighty blade, or when his failing limbs take another step. Though the agony and horror are distant, he knows that they are there. And he grasps onto them like a lifeline.

Because that is what they are. Without them, he will fall completely. The Deity’s embrace, though painful at first, is too comfortable, too placid and mindless not to draw him in.

Rest little one, he murmurs, against a backdrop of screaming monsters. You are safe.

Link would believe him if he didn’t know better. If he hadn’t nearly lost himself so many times before.

When the last monster falls he fights to surface from the deep.

Release me, he orders, even as the cold and dark begin to tighten around him like bonds of iron. You have done your job.

I cannot release you now.

Link tries to inhale but his chest feels heavy, his throat tight, and he comes up short. Fear begins working its way in through the numbness.

I want to go home. Let go, Deity. Now.

Why? You are safe with me. You are strong.

Link’s grip slips further. All he can see, all he can feel is black — smothering and frigid. It numbs the agony, chips away at the terror. He could, given time, become comfortable in it. He could grow accustomed to being nothing more than a shadow in his own body, without feeling or thought, without control.

Without pain.

No.

If he gives in now he will be here forever, caged in an inescapable prison. He will never work beside Zelda again to protect the land they love. He will never ride Epona across the rolling hills of Hyrule Field, or play his ocarina with the Skull Kid and his friends. If Navi ever chooses to return, he will not be there to greet her.

And Malon. Beautiful, sweet, fiery Malon. He will never see her again.

Slowly, he begins to lift his hand. It trembles with exertion and exhaustion. And despite his desperate need to escape, it is heavy, reluctant. Some treacherous part of him yearns to stay, as it always does. It yearns to be free. But what freedom is there in a cage?

NO.

It is not his voice that utters the word this time. No, though it is his mouth that forms it. The voice is firm like a father’s, but icy as the winds of Snowhead.

The invisible bonds tighten. He chokes. His fingers freeze, mere inches from his chin.

Little one, you are not thinking correctly. Your pain blinds you to the truth.

You think that you can go on without using me. Do not think that I did not hear what you swore to Malon. But how can you protect her without donning my mask? Look upon yourself.

For a split second, Link sees his reflection as though staring in the mirror – ashen skin and an eye bright with feverish light; blonde hair streaked with crimson and plastered to his cheeks and forehead with sweat; right eyelid sealed closed with drying blood and marred by an angry gash.

You cannot even protect yourself.

You are weak without me. Powerless.

The words propel past his defenses to pierce his very soul. For a moment, and only a moment, Link hesitates.

Listen to me, little one, the Deity rumbles, his voice encompassing Link and pulling him downward. You know you need me.

No, I don’t, he grits out, even as his eye begins to slide closed, his body to go limp. He feels oddly lightheaded, yet heavy. Perhaps, if he surrenders he will be able to breathe again. Perhaps, if he releases his grip now he can rest.

No? Why then, have you worn my mask for seven days?

If he could still draw in air, it would catch in his throat.

Seven days. Seven–

He had thought it had only been one.

How far had he truly fallen to be so unaware? How close had he come – is he even now – to being the Deity’s prisoner? As trapped as the Skull Kid was in Majora’s clutches.

Horror grips him tighter than the Deity ever could, forcing him out of the unfeeling oblivion and toward the dazzling light of day. Link forces himself to grasp the edge of the mask.

Little one, do not be unwise. Remember. All actions have consequences.

He grits his teeth, steels himself, and pulls. It feels as though he is tearing off his own skin. A strangled cry erupts from him, only growing louder and more shrill as the right side of his face begins to burn. The sheer intensity of it nearly makes him black out and for a terrifying second his fingers slip. But through pure desperation, he holds on.

“Come back to me fairy boy,” Malon murmurs, calloused hands cupping his face. “You hear? Be the hero you’ve gotta be, but come back.” A teasing smile lifts her lips. “After all, I need someone to help me manage the cuccos.”

He chuckles. “Is that all you need me for?”

Laughing, she gives him a quick kiss. “Of course not. I need you to feed the horses too.”

The mask comes off in a screaming streak of molten agony. Link crumples.

The right side of his face is all burning, aching pain. Stars dot his vision on the left, broken only by the grayish-red of the blood that coats every part of him. Shoving himself to his knees, he pitches forward and vomits bile.

He dropped his sword at some point, he realizes dimly as he holds himself up on shaking arms. It lies before him, mighty blade reflecting the rocky walls. And when his vision clears for a moment, he can just make out his own reflection wavering upon it.

He looks much the same as he did when the Deity had shown him his state – bloodied and wounded and much too pale. But…there is something there that wasn’t before.

Link inhales sharply, hand flying up to touch the right side of his face. Markings have seared themselves into the flesh there – stripes of crimson, a crown of royal blue. And the eye he had thought he had lost is open despite the gash he knows is still there. It glows in the darkness — white, pupiless, and demonic.

A cry breaks free before he can stop it. Viciously, he digs his fingernails into his face, tearing and scratching. New blood runs down in rivulets and furious red marks mar his flesh. Yet, still he rips himself apart.

Maybe this is a mask too. Maybe if he pulls hard enough, it will slide off revealing his true face underneath.

But his efforts are for nought. The markings remain. And at last, he stops, dropping his hand to his side.

For a long, terrible moment, he gazes at himself. Then, he leans forward and vomits once more.

——————

He doesn’t truly know how he makes it back to the ranch. Likely by the same desperate stubbornness that made him fight the Deity and has guided him through all the hardships of his long life. But however he makes the agonizing journey, it no longer matters once he reaches that familiar path.

He can see their home through his fading vision and make out the familiar form of Malon. She stands on the porch, hair waving softly like a flame dancing with the wind, hands clasped before her chest. Beneath the serene glow of a new moon, she looks almost ethereal.

His aching limbs scream as he breaks into a run.

She meets him halfway through.

“Link!” she cries, tears welling in her eyes, horror on her face. She cups his face, gently, paying no heed to the blood, sweat, and vomit. “Oh, Link, what happened?”

He drags in a breath. “I fought the Deity.”

Terrible comprehension enters her expression.

“Fairy boy,” she breathes. And something about the way she says it goes straight to his heart.

With an anguished sob, he collapses into her waiting arms.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

ash beloved, as a prince of woe and misfortune (a fibromyalgia haver) can i request some jameson on a bad pain day

the current vibe is 'i need to pee but my legs are fucking screaming and i havent even moved them yet and my shoes feel too tight because all my peripheral joints are getting inflamed' and i feel Terrible bc i used to be able to just ,, do stuff and now i cannot because of the evil 'You Have Pain And Doctors Don't Know Why' Disorder™

i am not sure whether i want to revel in shared misery or schadenfreude but i am sure i want to see a guy in pain

Anon, my gift to you and my sympathies for your Whole Body:

CW: Chronic pain, self-harm (brief, self-hitting), self-loathing, aftermath of whump, recovering whumpee

-

"You pushed yourself too hard, that's all." Nat tries for soothing, but when she puts a hand out to touch his shoulder, Jameson shoots her a furious glare and she carefully shifts it back again. "Right. Okay. You have to take things slow, honey, your legs-"

"-are goddamn fucking useless, yeah, I get it. I got it." Jameson's rasping voice is thinned to little more than a whisper as he hunches over himself, sitting sideways on the couch with his legs out on the cushions bent at the knees, refusing to straighten. He slams a fist down on his thigh just to feel a bloom of new pain that's is brighter and new compared to the eternal goddamn throbbing of the old. It's... nice. He tries it again on the other side.

Jesus, how fucked up is this? That this is what helps?

"Hey, hey now," Nat says, and before he can do it again she takes his wrist in her cool hands and holds his arm steady. "Not your best idea. I didn't call any part of you useless, that isn't what I said, honey."

"I wanted to walk to the goddamn gas station." Jameson glares at her hands, but he holds still under her deft, gentle touch. He doesn't pull away, or hit anything, he just... sits here, his knees shifting and muscles twitching in a pointless attempt to escape what's inside of them, what's as much a part of him as his own breath in his lungs now. "It's less than two miles. Less than two! I used to-... to run, on the treadmills in training, for fucking five miles, ten miles, no fucking sweat. My handlers told me I had a record for going so fast. I could run for fucking days on end, if I had to! Now..."

He groans, dropping back against the arm of the couch, even angrier when hot tears burn against his eyelids, trying to force their way out.

"Jameson-"

"Now... I can't even fucking walk."

"You do have the crutches, and the chair you can use, I know the sidewalk runs all the way past the gas station-"

"I wanted to fucking walk, Nat! I felt really good this morning! This shit didn't start up until I was putting on my fucking clothes! I shouldn't have fucking needed the goddamn fucking crutches or the stupid fucking chair!"

He grabs almost sightlessly for the crutch leaning against the couch, has it in his hand, and pulls his arm back to throw it.

"I hate this fucking shit!"

Nat's hand closes back around his wrist, and this time her grip is like iron, and Jameson feels his rage wither when he meets her steady hazel eyes.

"Jameson. You are not going to throw that."

Nat rarely uses this voice. Not with him. But now she does, firm and even stern, brooking no appeal. If she wasn't Nat, that voice would be an impossible turn-on. He'd be on his knees, not that he could do that without screaming any longer. He'd be begging her for... anything.

If she was Nanda...

No one's ever going to be Nanda. Not ever again. He pushes down the sharp, if finally slightly faded, spike of pain.

Nat refuses to let him look away this time. "Listen to me. That crutch is a tool, not a weapon. It was a gift, and it is a gift for you. It lets you go places you could not go before. Just like the chair. So if you break it, it's broken, and you lose that tool. Please, honey, don't cost yourself something that helps by getting angry at it for being needed."

"I didn't need it, before," He whispers, and she takes the crutch away from him, laying it down on the floor. He lets her do it. "Even when I was on the run. I didn't need this shit until I started getting better, and it feels like I'm just getting worse."

She nods, and holds his hands in her own. The ache in his fingers fades a little when they warm to each other. "Your body is incredible," She says, voice low. When he scoffs, she shakes her head, smiling. "Come on, let me finish. You survived two people who tried to kill you."

"Technically five people have tried to kill me."

"Five?" Nat looks, briefly, so baffled that Jameson nearly laughs. "You've only mention the two-"

"Those were the two where I killed them first," He says, voice low. "I don't even feel bad about it."

"I know. And I'm not asking you to feel bad. I've done some things in my life I'm not proud of, too, but it kept this safehouse together and I don't regret it for a second."

"What... what did you do?"

"We're not talking about me. I'm saying that you lived when other people died. You have survived more than any other runaway I've ever met. Your body carried you through it. It kept you alive. It kept you moving, kept carrying your weight when it wanted to give out because you hadn't given up fighting. Now, it doesn't have to carry you so far anymore. Your body knows you're safe, that you have people here who care about you, so it's hurting like hell because it hasn't allowed itself to hurt as much as it needed to for a long, long time. Your body carried every bad thing that ever happened to you, and I for one am grateful for it, because it got you here to us. Look at you."

Jameson shifts, trying to move his legs so he can face her. They protest with a scream that he has to grind his teeth against, but he manages to get both feet flat on the floor. "Look at me?"

"Yeah. Look at you. You're alive, honey." She smiles, hands on either side of his face, and he finds himself - reluctantly - smiling back. "You're alive and you wake up every day and sometimes the days are good, and sometimes they're not-"

"Like today. Today sucks."

She laughs, short and soft, and he loves her so much it is physically painful, the way that you love a mother, or a sister. "Yeah, okay. I'll give you that. But today is just one day, and you've got more comin'. Maybe tomorrow you can walk to the store, or maybe you'll need the crutches or the chair, but you know what? You'll still get there, if you want to, because you are the most stubborn son of a gun on earth and if you want those awful taquitos, I know you'll find a way."

Jameson's smile shifts. Incredulous, he asks, "Did... you just say 'son of a gun'?"

"Oh, shut up. I grew up in a family where that was just about the worst thing any of us could say without serious punishment. Sometimes that stuff still comes out." She pokes him in the nose, watching him wrinkle it in response.

There's a pause.

Then he clears his throat.

"It wasn't, uh, it wasn't taquitos." He discovers he's mumbling, flushing a little.

"Oh. Doughnuts, then?"

"No, not those, either, just... it's stupid. But Vince, uh, the other day he made this stupid fucking joke about Red Bull, so..."

"So..." She blinks, eyebrows furrowing. "You were... going to buy him a Red Bull?"

"I was... gonna buy about fifty and put them in his bed."

Nat just stares at him, blinking, as seconds stretch slowly out. "You were... you were going to-"

"Buy like... fifty Red Bulls and put them in his bed, uh, cover them in his fucking blankets and like arrange them like a person, and then... you know... It, uh, makes better sense in context."

"How could it possibly? You know what, doesn't matter. Here's what we'll do. You get those crutches on your arms, and i'll drive you to the gas station, and we will... we will get you your... fifteen Red Bulls."

"Fifty."

"Oh, my God. Where do you even get that much money?"

"... Vince gave me money."

"You're using his own money to prank him?"

"It's not like he fucking needs it!"

"You know what? I'm going to stop asking questions when the answers only give me new questions to ask." She pats his arm, and he takes the opportunity to brusquely throw an arm around her and crush her tightly to him in a hug. "Jameson-"

"Thanks," He mutters, then pushes her back and away so he can clumsily get on his feet. His knees nearly buckle, but when he throws his hand out Nat is holding the crutch, and he slots his arm into the cuff that fits just below his elbow. Nat has to hand him the other one, and help him with his shoes, and the whole time his legs ache like someone is slowly sawing them off with a nail file, but he stays standing.

He wants to play this stupid fucking prank on Vincent fucking Shield, and he can already tell it's the only thing he'll be able to do today and even that's only with Nat's help.

By the time they get back from one single errand he'll need more painkillers and a nap just to recover enough to finish putting the energy drinks into Vince's bed. Then maybe another nap after that.

But it's what he wants to do.

Fuck it.

If he only gets one thing to work on this shitty day, it might as well be the most bafflingly confusing thing he's ever done.

Plus, Nat always plays Jameson's playlist when she drives him in her car. So that's one good thing.

-

[irondad-defensesquad]

Sometimes you can't make it on your own

Also on AO3! A drabble that kind of got out of hand.

TRIGGER WARNING - self-harm (nothing graphic)

--

“Are you seriously hiding your injuries from me again?”

“No! No, I’m not–”

“Then why the hell are you wincing?”

“Mr. Stark–”

“Why do you do this? Peter, I want to know when you’re hurt. How am I going to help you if you don’t even trust me?”

“This is different, okay?” Peter raises his voice.

“How is it any different?!”

“BECAUSE-! Because…”

Peter gulps, trembling. Tony has his arms crossed.

“... It wasn’t a bad guy.”

Or at least not the kind of bad guy they’re familiar with.

“And it wasn’t on patrol,” Peter adds.

Tony is quiet, trying to solve the mystery on his own.

“You… You can’t help with this, Mr. Stark. Because…” Peter sniffs. “I deserve it.”

He doesn’t want to cry and look even more pathetic to his mentor, but the boy’s repressed tears are close to exploding his chest. Meanwhile, he can sense the horror coming from Tony.

“I’m sorry. I-I really am. But you don’t have to do anything. This is just… something that happens. Something that… I don’t know, helps, somehow. I need this, Mr. Stark. So you can’t help me. A-And it’s just going to heal soon, it’ll be gone and- and then everything will go back to normal. It’s fine.”

Peter clutches his baggy shorts, most specifically where his thighs sting.

Tony stands there, not saying a word for now.

You might as well think he’s going to leave. Either because he believes Peter, or he thinks the kid is a lost cause.

That’s what Peter gets wrong.

“No.”

There’s some anger in Tony’s voice, but it’s not out of annoyance.

“Kid, you do not deserve any sort of pain, ever. Maybe it helps in the short term. But it hurts, doesn’t it? It burns, you don’t like it. I can see you don’t.”

“But Mr. Stark–”

“And listen, just because you do it to yourself, that does NOT mean you deserve to suffer in silence. You don’t have to bear it. You don’t have to put on a brave face and pretend you’re fine. Peter,” Tony inhales before he loses himself to tears as well, “out of anyone, I completely understand how you feel. I always thought I should be made of iron, but I’m not. I’m a person. I feel pain, and I don’t have to bear it alone. Sometimes I might not remember it, but it’s true.”

The teen tries to open his mouth again, but besides the lack of words, Tony is grabbing his shoulders to make Peter gaze at him, actually look at him and see all that pain Tony is talking about inside his dark eyes.

“Just because you have powers, that doesn’t make it okay. Until it heals, it’s going to hurt like hell. You’re not going to sleep well with the wounds stinging, are you? You’re going to cry on until you fall asleep, and you won’t sleep peacefully. No one is going to have any idea how much it hurts you. And even when the cuts are gone, you’re going to keep hurting. It’s still in your head, haunting you. You’re not aiding the cuts. You won’t let anyone help with that. And the one who’s going to suffer the most is you. Me, your aunt, your friends, we’ll get worried and sad, but Peter, your pain is what matters the most to us, not our own feelings.”

Tony’s hands reach Peter’s cheeks, some fingers touching the latter’s brown curls.

“Listen, I know it’s not easy to let people know you’re hurt. But you can trust me . I’m going to get upset, but I’m not going to blame you, kid. I’m going to help the best way I can. I promise I am not going to make you go to sleep hurt. I am not going to blame you for doing this. I’m sorry for probably making you think otherwise,” Tony continues. “All I ask you is to please, please don’t be silent about your pain. Please, come to me when you need me. You’re allowed to need someone. You’re a teenager. I’m the one who looks out for you, I want to look out for you. You’re my kid. Okay? You’re my kid. I want to help. Let me in, Peter. I want to be part of your life. Not just the good parts, but the messy, complicated parts not everyone wants to confront.”

Hearing all of this makes Peter start sobbing.

“I-I’m sorry–”

“Shhh, shhh…” Tony wraps his arms around him, lying Peter’s head on his shoulder. “It’s going to be okay, kid.”

“H-How? How is it going to be okay? Will I ever be okay?”

Tony is obviously not going to have a clear answer to that. However…

“We’ll figure it out together, bud. I promise.”

It’s what Tony said. Until Peter feels better, the road to recovery is hard.

He doesn’t have to think about the end of the road right now.

It’s the way there.

And it’s not linear, it’s not clear.

There might be fog, rain, blizzards, sandstorms…

But at least Tony will make sure Peter doesn’t get lost.

[666news-and-horoscopes]

[anti-ao3]

okay, sorry to hammer on the topic of bullying, but the whole "bully with a sad backstory" belief is extremely harmful to victims/survivors.

idk where it started, but firstly, i do think that school shootings influence this belief. everyone always says that school shooters have been bullied and/or abused at home, which might be true sometimes. but that isn't the root of the problem. the root is white supremacy. it's lack of gun control. because if all victims of bullying became school shooters, then where are all the marginalized groups, like black kids, disabled kids, women, lgbt+ kids etc.? if anything, though, they would probably be demonized. since most school shooters are white, then you'll see them being treated like poor little guys on the internet. i'm talking mainly about the usa, but here in brazil, where i live, we also have school shootings and we learn that the shooters were part of neonazi communities online.

fiction does reinforce this, to the dickheads who think "fiction doesn't affect reality". there are too many bully characters to possibly mention here. but most of them have something in common, they're abused and/or neglected at home, or maybe they're also bullied. but trust me, that is very uncommon in real life. i only had ONE bully who was also mistreated. all my other bullies were privileged, rich kids that just loved making my existence unbearable. and again, many of the victims of bullying i knew, including myself, weren't white, or they were disabled and/or fat. before anyone says it, yes, i'm very aware that bullies learn from their parents and families. but that doesn't always mean they're ABUSED, too. if anything, their families probably encourage their kids being an asshole to minorities.

the reason i'm saying all of this is that bullying is not treated seriously at all. i've been dismissed and ignored several times when i tried to open up about my bullying, including to my school and actual therapists. ppl often tell me it wasn't "that bad" or i'm exaggerating, and it was just "kids being kids" or "boys being boys". or worse, they'll tell me that i have to acknowledge that maybe my bullies/abusers had a tragic backstory too, and i have to forgive them. which is absolute bullshit.

bullying ruined my life. on top of my abusive household, i've become insecure, terrified of social interactions, of group assignments, of presentations, parties and so on. i'm always expecting everyone to hate me. i keep thinking everyone is looking at me and laughing at me behind my back. basically, i've become paranoid. i can't trust anyone. and that probably explains why i seriously hate bully characters and the way society treats bullies overall. i actually remember making a post about bullying on tumblr, and some idiot tried to make it about the bullies and how "they're victims, too".

maybe i'm being too unfair or too harsh because of my personal experience, but i feel very unwelcome in fandoms where bully characters are beloved. nobody thinks my trauma with bullying is valid. society tells me it's not actually abusive or traumatic. no matter how many lives we lose to bullying, nobody cares. and to be reminded of that when i want to interact with a media i like is so daunting.

[side-b-bumblebi]

Sometimes I feel like I'm walking on eggshells around other people's religious trauma and I don't know if they'd do the same for me.

I try to avoid anything that will upset them, try to avoid Christianity entirely if it makes them feel better, but they still feel more than happy to mock religious people, especially Christians, around me knowing that I am one.

Do they think it was a walk in the park having people speculate on whether or not LGBT people were going to hell for years? Do they think I enjoyed laying awake at night fighting tears because I thought my friends would hate me if they knew?

It's true, I've had an easier time than some. My mom used to have outdated ideas about LGBT stuff, but she's taken the time to educate herself. Maybe they resent that they didn't have that or something.

But... is it fair that I should face the brunt of that? Maybe I said stupid things to them before, BUT I WAS A CHILD. They gave me issues about my neurodivergent traits as a little girl that I'm still working through, but I've forgiven them, surely they can forgive me too? We were just kids who didn't know any better.

And I think they have forgiven me. They know I was young and they know they said some pretty dumb stuff when they were young too.

Yet why do they still treat me like I'm the one who hurt them? Why do they try so little to see me differently when I'm always trying so hard for them? Even silently praying before a meal or making a comment about some persecuted Christians in another country (keywords in another country) or something as tiny as wearing a cross necklace quickly gets me snide comments.

They remind me they have religious trauma. Okay. That is entirely fair and they should ask me to respect that. I've bent over backwards to respect that. But... I haven't seen an ounce of respect in return. I told them that it made me upset when they did these things because Christianity has been one of the few things that has helped me to stem my tendencies towards self-harm.

And they mocked me for it...

I'm trying so hard not to resent them and be bitter. I love them so much. We've been so close for years, I don't know what I would do without these people. But I don't feel like I can be myself around them. I'm starting to feel so very suffocated around them.

I just want to be me. I'm okay with being delicate and gentle if that's what they need. I just wish they'd do the same for me...

I have church wounds too... everyone thinks I don't, they think I'm Little Miss Perfect who's never had a problem. But I've struggled horribly with religious anxiety. I used to lie awake at night thinking about hell, terrified I would go there.

It's taken years for me to get to the point where I can really say I love God and not that I'm needlessly afraid of Him. I want to celebrate that, I want to shout it from the rooftops. And I want help on the days I stumble backwards. But they won't be happy for me. They only see what they want to see. They only see Little Miss Perfect. And even if they could get past that, they'd still think I was stupid for not just giving up on Christianity all together.

I'm so very sad right now. I don't know if I'll ever find people who love me for me sometimes...

[vampireshmu]

i have this one kinda deep cut i reaaallyy want nurserard to prod around in,,, watching my face as she touches it, telling me she just needs to figure out how bad it is but enjoying watching my eyes water up arrahjrkahyufjghgjgfh

[mentalhealth-selfshipping]

If your f/o catches you self-harming, during the act or right after, they're not gonna put on a show of "please stop, for me?" They know that's not gonna work, and it might actually make you more upset.

Instead, they'll ask if they can help you get cleaned up, if you need them to get anything. They'll help with the patchwork or go to fetch bandages with little delay. If you (or they) need space, they sit in another room while you both calm down and process. If you wanna talk afterwards, they're there to listen.

They know that they can't force you to stop. In the end, it's your choice if you want any help or not, but they'll be right there if, or when, you decide you want it. They'll talk with you and help you any time you come to them.

Bit nervous about posting this one but I wanted to reflect my own experiences.

[oneeyedoctogod]

It’s been once month since you’re gone. Dead. Reduced to nothing but ashes and memories.

Grieving is weird.

For so long, I expected the breakdown. I was waiting for it, wary, both because of the way grief is portrayed in media and because of my own history.

It’s like when you’re outside in the winter. You feel the cold creeping in, seeping into your clothes, your fingers, your nose, your ears, your lungs. And it’s bearable at first; There’s some sun around you, protecting you. Not much wind. And you have your clothes, keeping you warm.

I felt almost okay, like I could go on. I felt strong and thought oh, this isn’t so bad? Maybe I can keep going. Maybe I’m weird in that way too and I’ll cope better than I thought.

It comes all the same. The sun goes down and night replaces it; your clothes can’t protect all of you; the wind picks up.

And I realized, ah, I’m standing on a lake covered in ice, and the ice is creaking and breaking and soon enough, I will fall in the lake and then nothing will protect me anymore.

(Is it still drowning if you’re the one holding your breath?)

I’m so tired. It’s that kind of tired that’s like a blanket over your brain, your head, your every single thought.

It whispers at night, my brain.

It lies and cajoles and tells me: are you even worth it? Why are you still here when your dad isn’t? Why did it take him and not you? Why are you still here?

Is it really worth it, to keep going?

I know those thoughts, I’ve had them on and off for, gods, 17 years by now. I can fight them off, for now. Took two pills to keep the breakdown at bay and another to sleep at night.

Two months ago, I was thinking boy am I glad to have survived. I wish so fucking hard it was still true. In my best moments, I know it is. I know my brain is lying, that the intrusive thoughts, and the self-harm and the suicidal ideation, that all of that is because I’m sick and grieving and that it’s going to get better. It did, once, twice, again and again and again.

(What’s that tumblr post again? Hope isn’t nice, it’s getting up again, blood on her knuckles, spitting out a tooth and getting ready for another round? Something like that. I don’t know how true it is, but I sure am bleeding for it.)

But I still look at my arms and want to (did) carve them up, I want to take a shard of glass and slit my throat, I want to go the train station or to the highest building in town, or a bridge or wherever else and jump. I want to swallow all my pills in one go and never wake up again. I want to slap myself and tear out my hair and — I want it all to stop. The pain, the grief, my whole goddamn existence.

I’m so tired.

You know what the worst part of it all is? It’s not the guilt, though that’s fairly high on the list too — that terrible, terrible guilt that’s eating at me because here fucking we go again, I’m going to worry all my loved ones, I’m going to be a burden again, I should just keep smiling and pretending everything is alright even if it’s not because at some point, any point, it’s going to become too much. I’m going to become too much.

(I remember my mother at twelve years old, telling me can’t you smile for once? Yet the guilt isn’t the worst part.

The worst part is that I can’t talk to you about it. I can’t call you or message you. I can’t tell you: “hey my therapist asked me how I felt about going back on meds again.” “hey I wonder if I’ll be hospitalized again and for how long this time.” “hey will I ever be okay?”

(I was right when I said mom would be back to her usual shenanigans) (I wish you were still here so I could bitch to you about it; I’m sure you would have a lot of things to say about her behavior) (I’m still shaking with rage, I want to scream so bad, I want to cut all contact with her and never have to see her again and I can’t and it kills me) (I remember you telling me that once, in a fit of rage, she broke your favorite camera. An expensive one and that you held dear.) (If I tell her what I think of her, what’s to stop her from doing the same to the rest of your stuff? What’s to stop her from leaving me to deal with everything alone? I depend on her so much, I need her and I hate, hate, hate, hate it)

It’s been a month and even if I know you’d hate it, I still wish death had taken me instead of you. I’m sorry.

But that’s easy to say. And you wouldn’t want that. So I keep seeing friends and talking and taking the meds and seeing a thousand doctors and maybe I’ll have to go back to the hospital but whatever it takes. You would want me to live so that’s what I’m going to do. One painful step at a time.

Two months ago I thought boy, am I glad to have survived.

So let’s try to get to that again.

[georgierre]

tfw when u have to go through 1000 laps of jeddah

[screencappleby]

Possession (1981), dir.  Andrzej Żuławski