#anxiety reactions

[ebongawk]

WAIT OK I HAVE ANOTHER ONE it’s prob cheating to send two so you can save this for another time but!!!! just chrissy fidgeting w eddie’s jewelry. his rings, his necklace. like she’s anxious abt smth and over time learned instead of like biting her nails or pulling hangnails or smth he’ll let her do that

Chrissy always had an issue with biting her nails.

As a child, whenever she was anxious about school, or nervous about dance competitions or cheer routines, her nails found their way between her teeth, chewed ragged and brittle.

Her mother called her disgusting. A ruler or wooden spoon was often produced, seemingly from thin air, to smack Chrissy across the back of her hands whenever they found their way into her mouth.

The main reason she started painting her nails was because the chemical taste of the polish made her nauseous. As her issues with food worsened, nausea became increasingly harder to control, and she found herself in the bathroom more often than not.

Her nerves, however, found new ways to ruin her.

Using those pretty nails she now sported, Chrissy dug into her cuticles. Picking at dry skin or tiny abrasions, creating hangnails she could then tear away.

Jason called her disgusting. Lightly smacking her hands with his own or with his school notebooks. Telling her constantly that every part of her was so pretty, but she was ruining her hands. Ruining the illusion of beauty he cast upon her by reminding him that she was human.

She couldn't break up with her mom. But she did break up with Jason.

Free of his oppressing weight, the urge to pick at her nailbeds lessened. It didn't disappear completely, of course, but she found healthy skin growing over her tiny scars.

Then she started hanging out with Eddie. And, for a little while, she didn't even notice how her fingertips stopped bleeding.

One day, sitting at the lunch table Eddie and his friends occupied, Chrissy's mind had been sloughing through the finals they had coming up. She was decently confident about most of them, but O'Donnell could be killer when it came to testing. Often asking things not covered by the study guide, so she and Eddie had spent the past four afternoons in his bedroom, textbooks open and flashcards made, trying to get one another ready for their teacher's unhinged brutality.

Her anxiety, during this thought spiral, had heightened exponentially. She stopped moving all at once when she remembered that Sandra had taken a bad scrape during practice yesterday – cheer season was over, but Chrissy was determined to keep the younger girls occupied through the year so they wouldn't be so rusty when they came back in August – and she'd used her last band-aid for the scrapes.

Sighing, Chrissy looked down to inspect the damage.

And saw Eddie's hand in her lap.

She glanced over. Eddie was still fully engaged in whatever conversation he was having with Jeff – his unoccupied hand twisting and twirling through the air to accentuate his points. But his left hand was loose between hers, one of his rings twisted to face his palm.

Chrissy twisted the ring back to right. Then did another circuit, finding it strange how natural it was to fiddle with his rings.

Looking up at Eddie again, he met her eye with a curious smile. Tilting his head to one side in silent question that she just shrugged at, instead scooting the tiniest bit closer and dropping herself seamlessly back into the conversation.

She didn't think of it again for a few weeks. Until she and Eddie were tucked up at his home, watching some British scary movie called Underworld and sharing a bowl of popcorn. They'd started the evening next to one another, but as the movie progressed, Chrissy found herself almost entirely in Eddie's lap. Curling into his side with every scary part, until her knees were tucked up to her chest and her feet were pressed between his thighs.

Every jump scare made her wince, shoving her face into Eddie's shoulder and peeking through one eye until the scary parts were over.

The movie was almost completely finished before she registered Eddie's hand in her lap. Her fingers twisting the rings around his over and over, slipping them up and down his knuckles.

Her nailbeds had never looked so healthy.

Remaining quiet until the previews ran, Chrissy slipped from Eddie's lap, standing and stretching as Eddie moved to flip on the light.

"What'dya think?" he asked, picking up the popcorn bowl and a few stray kernels before walking it into the kitchen. "Weird, yeah? Did I fill your weekly scary movie prescription, Miss Cunningham?"

She'd told him, ages ago, that she wanted to start liking scary movies, because he loved them so much. They now had a weekly movie date, watching something from his repertoire of slasher films before loading one of her favorite romance tapes into the VCR.

(Tonight, it was Breakfast at Tiffany's.)

"Yes, Dr. Munson, it was exactly what I needed," she said around a grin, walking into the kitchen with him. He had his back to her, squatting in front of the fridge for another movie snack, and Chrissy wrapped her arms around his shoulders. Hoisting herself onto his back and pressing her cheek against his neck.

Beneath her, Eddie let out a little chuckle. Something Chrissy turned her head to taste with her lips against his spine.

"That freaked out, sweetness?" he asked, grabbing a jar of the strawberry jam he kept just for her and a couple cans of Coke before standing. Keeping herself firmly affixed to his body with her legs around his waist.

"No," Chrissy answered. "Just wanted to be close to you, that's all."

Eddie huffed, setting his wares down and yanking her further up his back. Situating her to be a little more comfortable before he grabbed peanut butter and the half-eaten loaf of bread from the pantry.

"Yeah?" He paused in his actions, setting the clean butter knife he'd just grabbed next to the jam. "We can, uh. We can get a hell of a lot closer, y'know. If that's your real aim here."

Gosh, he could be such a boy sometimes. Chrissy snorted, burying her face in his neck.

"But what about Breakfast at Tiffany's?"

"Audrey Hepburn will be waiting for us when we're finished, sweet girl." The hand around her knee slid up, gently stroking the outside of her thigh. "Or we can put her on in the background. Make her bear witness to our incredible physical connection."

"Eddie."

"Chrissy."

Rolling her eyes, Chrissy tapped her healthy, wound-free fingertips against his collar.

"Bedroom," she finally said, laughing loudly when Eddie whooped and threw a fist in the air before sprinting down the hallway.

After, as they lay together in a sweaty pile of contentment, Chrissy snuggled into Eddie's chest. Eyes closed, relishing in the smooth, easy way his hand drifted up and down her side, from her hip to her ribs and down again.

"Eddie?"

"Hmm?" He took a final puff of his cigarette before ashing it.

"When did you notice that I pick at my nails?"

He hummed, rolling that thought around in his mind.

"I dunno," he admitted after a moment. "Early, I guess? Beginning."

Tapping her fingers against his stomach, she took his hand where it had continuously been drifting against her skin, bringing it up and pressing her lips against the rings.

"How come I didn't realize you distracted me?"

"I can't answer that, sweetness," he responded around a shrug. "I just figured you needed something to fiddle with. Better my hands than yours, in my opinion."

Chrissy paused, letting that sink in, before she opened her eyes and looked at him.

"What, so you were gonna let me pick at your nails?"

Eddie just shrugged again, a new grin stretching his cheeks. Dimples coming to life under her disbelieving grimace.

"If that's what it took."

"Eddie, that's so gross."

"Guess it's good you picked at my rings and not my nails then, huh?"

"Why would you let anyone––"

"Not anyone," he interrupted, taking her hand in his and letting her fingertips fall across his lips. "Just you."

Oh, the way he could so simply send a swarm of butterflies to flight in her stomach.

"I don't want you to hurt yourself," he said after a moment, honesty dripping like honey from his words. Sprinkling droplets of sticky sincerity across her skin, so she'd feel the mess of his truths for days and years to come. Waggling his eyebrows, he finished by saying, "But I don't mind if you hurt me a little sometimes."

"Eddie."

"Slap me, baby, I know you want to."

"Oh, my God."

[freckleslikestars]

(some of) my favourite lines from The X Files 5.12 Bad Blood

[tunabesimpin]

Me when the anxiety fights back

[handweavers]

something that really made me stop and interrogate my inherent knee jerk emotional reaction against ai art was asking myself if there really is a meaningful difference between someone cutting up images and pasting them together to make a collage without citing sources or getting permission for every image they used in the collage, and an ai generating a new image using models trained on existing images without citing courses or getting permission for every image used in the new image - if that's even possible, which i'm coming to understand isn't how the technology even works. like if your fundamental argument against ai is because it doesn't cite sources or ask for permission and change someone's art without their consent, there are a lot of non-ai art forms that involve that, and they've existed for a lot longer than ai has. when faced with this i don't think the answer is "well everyone who has ever made a collage or remixed a song is doing evil plagiarism too" so that leaves us at having to abandon this specific argument against ai for the same reasons.

and we have to ask ourselves, if we were to go after everyone who ever remixed a song or made a collage without permission, who would that benefit exactly? because the average person couldn't afford to sue someone for using their photo in a collage without consent, only corporations could. much like how copyright law has made music companies a tonne of money and serves to protect their interests, i don't think expanding copyright law is the answer here. which is why i don't think arguments against ai that focus on intellectual property are actually helpful, the problem isn't inherent to the technology but rather the economic system we live in.

[stuckinapril]

still very much have my anxious attachment style at play but i'm getting so much better at being okay w people leaving

[alexmey-does-an-arts]

[marcobodtlives]

AoT Things as Cats on my Phone:

[cephalonheadquarters]

I hate my ocs so so so so bad how do people do this and be normal about it . also i canr draw diesel consistently sorry

lol..

[tj-crochets]

Hey y'all! It's weird question time again! So that doctor I mentioned before that I wanted to make a dog plushie for because he has improved my quality of life so much* (and also inexplicably reminds me of like a greyhound or a borzoi) is my endocrinologist And, as my endocrinologist, he recommended back in December that I go see a rheumatologist, because he thinks I might have rheumatoid arthritis**. The staff at his office have been trying to get a rheumatologist for four months now. I know that, because yesterday I got a call from the rheumatologist's office and the nurse I spoke to said "Your doctor's office has been very...persistent about getting you this appointment" So now I kinda want to get something for the whole office? But idk what I could get them or make them. Like, in non-medical contexts I'd make cookies or brownies for a group, but I can't bring cookies to a doctor's office. I mean, I guess I could, but if I were them I would definitely not eat them, and I run the risk of allergy-ing a fellow patient. Is there like a gift basket or gift card or thank you card or something you can recommend?

*I mean he maybe should have found a diagnosis before offering me steroids about it but the low dose steroids have made such a HUGE difference in my quality of life I am thrilled with Tennessee's weird (to me, with my experience in California) medical practices **I don't think I have enough joint pain for it to be rheumatoid arthritis, but he's like the fourth doctor to tell me it's weird that when I got hives they usually started on joints, so maybe I'm wrong? I have the weird version of enough medical things that at this point I would not be surprised if I had Weird Rheumatoid Arthritis.

[bubblesandpages]

people who want to read dark academia while still in school are madmen

[the-forest-library]

.

[feelingtheaster99]

Oh gosh a parking garage is absolutely the worst place to be when driving for the first time

[crash-bump-bring-the-whump]

Whumpril 2024 - Day 22 - Stoicism Breaks

I've been threatening to send Mariano to therapy so here we ARE! I reference a little RP I had with @comfy-whumpee that's been swirling in my brain ever since we did it c:<

TWs: self harm mention, suicide mention, anxiety mention, talk of a shooting, talk of captivity, this is real cathartic though I promise it's not bad

Ex-military, spent most of his twenties in foreign federal prison, history of anxiety, suicidal ideation, and self-harm. Stoic, highly traumatized, closed off, slow to open up. Hesitant to talk about intense experiences, needs reassurance. Overly concerned with others' needs.

Mary Barlowe looked over her notes before walking into the latest session with Mariano Cross. He wasn't her most difficult patient to talk to, not by a long shot. She never had to worry about calling security, or convincing him to leave when time was up. He was polite, punctual, and friendly.

But he was challenging in his own way.

He'd had a full decade of people telling him that he was an irredeemable monster, and he'd taken it all very seriously. Discussing anything heavier than everyday troubles was approached with the same caution that stray dogs approached an outstretched hand. He barely seemed to have even a basic connection to his own body or emotions, sounding detached whenever he spoke about them. They were things he needed help with, of course, but it was clear that there were things buried deeper than that.

The small, quick smile he gave her when she entered was a fantastic sign. "Good afternoon, Doctor Barlowe." He was already seated, back straight, both feet flat on the floor, and careful hands folded and resting on his leg.

"Good afternoon, Mariano." She returned the greeting easily, taking her own seat in the comfortable chair opposite his. "You mentioned wanting to talk about something difficult today, did something happen?" She knew the answer to that. He'd missed a few sessions due to being hospitalized from a robbery gone wrong.

He hesitated, dark eyes darting to the table between them. "Yes. I...there was something that happened." He seemed to close in on himself, just so, hands still clasped firmly together. She could feel the tension that crept into his voice. "But I understand if we can't."

There it was, the familiar beginning of withdrawal. "Why wouldn't we be able to talk about it?" She leaned forward, a small smile on her face. She kept her features soft, her posture relaxed. "You're paying to have a space to talk about the difficult things."

"I am, yes." He trailed off, not quite meeting her eye yet. "But it was...graphic. I don't want to overstep. I've accidentally done that before, and I...I don't want to find a new therapist. I like you."

"Oh?" Mary's voice softened. "Mariano, let me reassure you: You are not the first former prisoner I've worked with, or the first soldier. If I need a moment after hearing something then I'll let you know, but you're not going to destroy me by just talking.

"You deserve to feel safe enough to say what's on your mind. I'm sure it gets heavy holding it in, doesn't it?" She saw something in his jaw tense, the hold he had on his own hand growing tighter.

Mariano swallowed, nodding, eyes on the tissue box between them. "...It does. I have dreams about it sometimes."

"I'd imagine so." She said. "What happens in those dreams?"

When Mariano spoke again, his voice was barely louder than a whisper. "I can't call for help after I'm shot, and I wind up dying." He took a deeper breath, the sound just barely trembling. "It always feels...very realistic."

"Were you alone when it happened?" Mariano didn't move. His eyes never left the tissue box. "Mariano?" She had a feeling that he wasn't thinking about whether or not he needed a tissue.

He looked up at her, tension tight around his eyes, jaw set, and shoulders curled in on himself. "I...I don't want to hurt you."

"Have you hurt someone by talking about this before?" She spoke to him like he was backed into a corner, cowering away. He was, in a sense. It was like he was waiting for her to snap at him.

Mariano nodded.

"Can you tell me about it?"

Mariano hesitated, his grip shifting to his own elbows. He looked even smaller in the soft, pale green chair. "One of my friends asked me what happened, and why people weren't applying to the ad we put out for more managers. I said that I got shot during a robbery and almost died, and that it had gotten publicized--I don't think I went into detail, but he said that I...ambushed him?"

Mariano's breath caught. "I don't want to overstep again." He repeated. "He's a therapist and...I tried to keep things civilian friendly. It was why people hadn't been applying, and I tried to keep it brief, I...I don't really know what I did wrong. I didn't want to ask him to explain if I'd already hurt him."

A frown ghosted across Mary's face. "I see. Well, you don't have to worry about that, here. I have my own therapist, and I come to work expecting to hear about hard things."

She pushed the tissues closer, leaning forward to catch Mariano's eye. "And I think that I would've answered similarly, in your shoes. Maybe your friend was just having a hard time himself, and didn't communicate that well.

"But most people wouldn't consider that an ambush, just like you wouldn't consider it one if you asked a friend how they'd been and they said that they'd broken their leg recently, or lost a pet." She smiled softly when Mariano continued looking at her. "I think you'd just consider that surprising and unfortunate."

Mariano's jaw trembled. His eyes shone in the mid-afternoon light that streamed in through the window. "...I would."

"This hour is yours, Mariano. I'm not going to get upset at you." She plucked a few tissues and offered them over. "I've seen you for a while now. You don't have to be vigilant like that with me."

Mariano took them, holding them tight.

"Let me help you set some of that heavy stuff down." Mary offered. "You don't have to hold it all in on your own. You won't hurt me with it. It's safe."

Mariano's shoulders shuddered as he crumbled face-first into the tissues. A sob crawled out of him, escaping into his palms. It sounded agonized, like he'd been holding it in for months.

It was the most emotion he'd shown the entire time she'd known him. "It's okay to let people help you. You don't have to be a one man army anymore."

When Mariano had collected himself again, minutes later, Mary listened as he told her about the night that he almost died.

@whump-captain @whumpr @whumperofworlds @lektricwhump @cyberwhumper @bxtterflystxtches @inscrutable-shadow @honeybees-125

[darkerthanblack-666]

blindchannel story

[ladyofthenoodle]

i love that adrien’s admission of love happened in front of kagami and luka while marinette’s happened with only tikki there to hear her. now obviously alya will probably learn about marinette’s feelings for chat noir at some point, but the rest of her friends won’t—they may not even accept that she’s no longer pursuing adrien

so now adrien is the one with civilian support in his romantic endeavors while marinette is feeling more alone than ever. not only are her friends not able to help her as heroes, they aren’t there to help her with romance either. that’s gotta make her realization and his misunderstanding of her first confession attempt even more painful. there’s no operation secret garden behind her to make a new plan. she can’t practice her confession on a balcony. there’s no buffer to drag along on patrol or hide behind when she feels too awkward.

it’s hard to say what’s scarier to her right now: the adrien returning her feelings, in front of everyone with the weight of the expectations she’s built up for both herself and their friends, or facing her own feelings for chat noir, without anyone there to cheer her on or pick her up when she stumbles except for chat noir himself

[sea-glass-and-fire]

i'm gonna be real and honest and vulnerable here with you guys for a second. one of the only 2 things that made a major difference to my anxiety is to stop treating it like the enemy. whenever i cast it as some villain in my head with me, i inevitably find myself alone with the insults i hurled echoed back at me. telling my anxiety to shut the fuck up just resulted in me telling myself to shut the fuck up whenever i had an anxious thought. treating my anxiety with compassion, telling it, "i know you're trying to protect me but that line of thinking isn't helpful right now" did ten times as much as my vitriol ever did.

the other thing that made a difference is unpacking the ridiculousness of the implications of an anxious thought like it's a yahoo answer on mbmbam.