#auditory flashbacks

[unproduciblesmackdown]

shake your hand in character ft. flashback joe iconis, cyril von miserthorpe, krampus, the fancy tree, mister macabee, quince, little evalina, debra neezer jolie, flashback joe jr., flashback mama, poinsettia, hot candy, clouds, santa, aunt lorette, rufus?

[biohacked-bunny]

Unfocused & Fixed (Self Portrait 2023)

- Photo & edit by @biohacked-bunny

[witchblade]

the vi/viz album potential if they had a singer in their group

[astronomy-two-worlds-apart]

thinking about how me last night at about this time was quite literally going through it lmao

[dyeher]

Warnings: mutual masturbation, phone sex, dirty talk, praise, see notes for the eavesdropping warning [it is non consensual, you don’t know they’re listening].

Notes: aggressively horny mikey who lets his friends get off to you touching yourself idk if that counts as non con voyeurism or not. unedited: read at your own risk.

“Are you naked?”

Your brain hasn’t quite caught up to the fact that you’ve answered the phone and so you chalk up that question to a simple auditory hallucination.

“Manjiro? What time is it?” you ask groggily.

“Fuck the time. Are you naked?”

You blink up at your ceiling, once, twice, on the third blink things begin to focus. You pull the phone away from your ear to check the time.

2:46am.

“What?” you reply absently. “Why are you calling me this late?”

“It’s early. Stop ignoring the question? You naked or not?”

You swallow, your brain finally registering the rasp in his voice. You can hear the shower running in the background and the soft, sticky schick, schick of him obviously stroking his cock.

“I’m not,” you answer, thighs immediately pressing together. “Is everything okay?”

“I need you to get naked,” he demands. “Right now.”

“No,” you scoff. “It’s like three am, I’m already awake just come over.”

Manjiro makes a pained sound at your denial. “No?”

It’s almost like he hasn’t heard you. “I mean no. Just come over Mikey.”

“I can’t- I can’t wait baby,” his groan is breathless. “Need you to touch that little pussy for me.”

You frown. “But—”

“Don’t make me repeat myself. Clothes off and start touching that pretty pussy,” the growl echoes through the speakers. It has you scrambling to pull your oversized shirt off. When you’re finally naked you prop your pillows up against your headboard and put the phone on speaker.

“Naked now, gorgeous?”

“Yeah,” you nod even though he can’t see you. “‘m naked.”

“Good,” he grunts. There’s shuffling and then the water turns off and you realize you’re on speaker. It makes sense because he would probably need both hands. “Need you nice and wet, can you touch yourself for me? Play with that pretty pussy for me, I wanna hear how wet you get.”

The words have you keening, a shiver running down your spine, goosebumps erupting across your exposed flesh. Your nipples pucker at the command in his voice. You whimper, your legs parting as you brush your fingers through your folds.

“How do you feel baby? How’s that little cunt feel? Tell me.”

“It’s soft,” you whisper, distantly you hear a muffled curse but Mikey’s groan distracts you.

“Yeah? Nice and soft and wet?”

“Mhm,” you hum, fingers rubbing a lazy circle around your clit. Your slick has coated your fingers as you drag them to dip gingerly into your opening. You spread it along your lips and up to the hood of your pussy before repeating the action. “Nice ‘n wet Mikey, just how you like it.”

“Fuck.” The loud slap of his palm on the tile in his shower makes you jump, your fingers slipping clumsily through your flesh. “Good girl. You rubbing your clit the way I showed you? Slow and steady?”

You pout. You can’t do slow and steady right now. Your fingers rub frantically at your clit, the sound of him fisting his cock, his heavy breaths and rough demands.

“Can’t-” you whine, “-go slow.”

“Gorgeous.”

Only Manjiro Sano can make a nickname like gorgeous sound like a threat, or maybe you’re just very well conditioned.

“Whose pussy is it?”

“Mik-”

“Whose?”

“‘s yours,” you pout.

“Exactly, and I gave you permission to touch it, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you pull your fingers away from your pussy, flexing them as he continues.

“Good girl,” the sounds of him stroking his cock have stopped. “And you know how I like when you touch your pussy nice ‘nd slow for me? Yeah, gorgeous?”

“Mhm,” your heart is pounding, a flashback of the one time you’d made Mikey mad enough to punish you fueling the violent ratcheting of the organ.

“Nice ‘nd slow only,” he intones. “Okay?”

“Yes, Mikey,” you reply.

The sound resumes on Mikey’s end, and for a moment you swear you hear grunts in the background.

“Make yourself cum for me,” he suddenly instructs and your fingers fly to your clit almost of their own accord. You do as he asks and rub slow, steady circles around the engorged nub. Whimpering and whining at how sensitive it is, at the delicious friction created by the pads of your fingers.

“‘s not enough,” you complain. “Can I- can I please put one in?”

Perhaps if you weren’t almost drunk on lust, near deaf from the frantic staccato of your heart and the roaring of your blood. Maybe if you weren’t balancing on the knifes edge of an orgasm you’d have heard the chorus of curses that followed your question.

“Shit, yeah gorgeous,” Mikey chuckles, breathlessly. “Such a good girl,” he grunts, “so polite for me.”

Any other time you might have been embarrassed by the sloppy sound your pussy makes when you slip your finger inside. But at Mikey’s loud curse you feel only satisfaction as you work the finger deeper. You can’t quite reach that spot that Mikey can. The one that makes you scream for him, and your single finger can’t fill you the way his cock can but, Mikey’s whispered encouragement is enough.

“Wanna fill you up, gorgeous,” he grunts, the stroking has sped up, you can almost see him. Naked and damp, his hair sticking to his neck and forehead, one hand braced against the far wall in his shower, his eyes dark and unfocused as he fucks his fist. “Wanna feel you cum all over my cock and then fill that little pussy. My little pussy.”

The possessiveness in the final statement shoves you over the edge. You come with a breathless squeal, your walls clamping violently around your finger. You babble Mikey’s name, encouraging him to cum.

When you recover and Mikey talks you back into the land of the fully functional you try to ask him if everything was okay again. He brushes you off. Tells you it’s just a little left over tension from something that happened earlier.

You know better than to ask what happened.

“Back to sleep gorgeous,” he says. “I’ll be there when you wake up.”

—————————

Mikey takes a long look at Draken’s relaxed face.

“We’re never doing that again,” he decides.

“But—”

“Why not?!”

“C’mon, Mikey!”

He ignores the protests as he stalks out of his bathroom. He barely deserves you, he can’t afford to share you with anyone else.

He can’t, because he’d hate to have to kill one of his own for crossing one of his invisible boundaries. Though, any boundaries where you were concerned should be in some variation of neon something.

He closes his eyes and takes a centering breath. He can’t do that ever again. Share you, even if it’s through the phone.

He can’t.

[punkstylerecovery]

Something I've learned about triggers is that's they really vary so much depending on the person. Not just as in what triggers you but how you're triggered as well. Yes, some people experience visual flashbacks. But some of us only FEEL as if we are back in an extremely traumatic moment, which can make it harder to recognise as a flashback. Some of us experience hallucinations, like hearing parts of the event/s, or smelling something that you smelled when it occurred. Some of us will get headaches or stomach aches when we're triggered. They're a lot of different reactions you can have to triggers and a lot of them aren't even recognized as flashbacks or a result of being triggered, even when they are.

Which is why, as someone with PTSD who has a bucketload of different responses to being triggered, I have to ask myself "when did x symptom start? was I triggered?" a LOT because I usually don't immediately recognize I've been triggered. Sometimes I merely find myself feeling ill with no idea why at all until I realize I've stumbled upon a trigger. A lot of us do because the way that triggers are talked about is extremely watered down and simplified for the convenience of others, despite how difficult it can make it for some of us with triggers to recognize them.

But in case any of y'all are wondering: hallucinations (visual, auditory, tactile and more) can be a sign you've been triggered, same as nausea, headaches, seemingly random waves of emotion (that don't seem to match your current activity) and a lot of other things as well. And plenty of times you're not going to realize you've been triggered, which is why it's a good thing to ask yourself questions when things like these "randomly" pop up.

Ask yourself when the symptom started, what were you doing, who was around, until you can get a feel for the situation. Sometimes it can take several times before you recognize what's causing it and sometimes you don't figure it out at all but it's always better to ask yourself these questions than not because even if you don't figure it out, it helps make you more aware of yourself and your surroundings and how they interact with your mind and body.

[wee-snek]

“I forgive you” parallels

Ok. Listen up, my little sweet potatoes. I figured something out.

I previously posted about how I thought the Final Fifteen “I forgive you” might be code.

And then today I went for like a 6 hour aimless drive to clear my head, and, yeah, I have audio recordings of a few of my favourite GO scenes, which I listen to on repeat sometimes as an auditory stim. And I noticed a few interesting parallels, and I think I’ve cracked it.

We, as the audience, have seen a few things only once before.

Season 1, after the Bandstand Breakup, outside the bookshop, Crowley is back and saying ‘let’s run away together’. In this conversation, we see the only on-screen instance (before the Final Fifteen) of Crowley calling Aziraphale stupid, and the only previous time Aziraphale has used the specific phrase “I forgive you”. If we take this and the bandstand together, we also have very likely the only previous time Crowley has been bold enough to say ‘let’s go off together’.

So what happens in Season 1?

1. Armageddon Part I is imminent.

2. Crowley suggests they run away together.

3. Aziraphale says ‘no, I’m going to stay and work with heaven to fix things’.

4. Crowley calls Aziraphale “stupid” for taking sides and believing heaven cares about good.

5. Aziraphale says ‘I forgive you’.

6. Crowley leaves.

7. Aziraphale talks to the Metatron and gets transported to heaven against his will, and is expected to fight for their cause.

8. Crowley waits for him.

9. Aziraphale comes back to Crowley.

10. They work together and things turn out okay.

Does any of that sound familiar?!?

Let’s look at how the Final Fifteen plays out:

1. Armageddon Part II is imminent

2. Crowley suggests they run away together.

3. Aziraphale says ‘no, I’m going to stay and work with heaven to fix things’.

4. Crowley calls Aziraphale an “idiot” for taking sides and believing heaven cares about good. (Also: you’re an idiot for choosing heaven over me).

5. Aziraphale says ‘I forgive you’.

6. Crowley leaves.

7. Aziraphale talks to the Metatron and gets transported to heaven (against his will?), and is expected to fight for their cause.

8. Crowley waits for him.

I mean….

Is there any chance at all that either of them doesn’t remember the first time they had this conversation? That they’re not also seeing the parallels?

That Aziraphale isn’t getting flashbacks to Armageddon, that he isn’t aware that something could go terribly wrong here, but that he has to try and, please, Crowley, be here when I get back?

Listen, when I say “I forgive you” I know we’re only halfway through this dance? Wait for me. I’ll come back to you.

(I wasn’t going to add this, but the only time Aziraphale has used to the word ‘idiot’ is when he said “I’m not an idiot, Crowley” when he thought Crowley was going to use the holy water on himself and that’s some foreshadowing I don’t really want to explore).

[piracytheorist]

Hey uh, wild headcanoning here but, you know how Twilight said it was Anya's crying that reminded him of his painful childhood?

Yeah, I don't think the sound of crying was the only thing that brought him back.

Crying is a subconscious call for help; its plain translation is "I'm in immediate need of help and I am too distressed to use words". Anya was in such a shock after being kidnapped that she had no words to express it, so she cried. When she realized she was being rescued, she clutched onto her rescuer. She was in need of someone to help and protect her, and when she found that, she held on for dear life.

And... I can't help noticing that the way Twilight remembers his young self... is him desperately clutching at his own torn and blood-stained shirt, because there was no-one left for him to clutch onto.

He had no-one to protect him when he needed someone.

Anya clutching onto him the way he'd hopelessly clutched onto himself made him realize that he had become that protection for her - and that was the very reason he'd become a spy, to become the protection for the vulnerable, the way he wished someone had protected his vulnerable self.

It's why this scene has such an impact. It was more than the auditory stimulus that caused the flashback. It was physically and emotionally triggering too, a rare combination that he hadn't been exposed to in all his years as a spy.

(I know I'm using manga screenshots but please don't spoil me for future chapters)

[thinkingisadangerouspastime]

good things about ep. 7:

this episode was by far the best at working with film as a medium. there were still issues, to be mentioned soon, but this ep did a lot of things that impressed me on a level of cinematic structure and format:

some actual tension!! simply showing the trio running from cerberus created investment and stakes for me in a way no monster fight or other obstacle had before (a matter definitely enhanced by the music)

the use of flashbacks!! now, i have some issues with the content of those flashbacks, but since im basically getting two degrees in assessing media i know how to give credit where credit is due lmao. these flashbacks were doing interesting things cinematically, creating parallels with percy's experiences in the present, especially that last flashback where they continued poseidon's voiceover into the present moment. fuck yes!! use the medium of cinema to your ADVANTAGE!!

related to the use of flashbacks, the match cuts!! they were so good, as they helped make visual those narrative and characterological parallels being constructed through the flashbacks. film is an inherently visual and auditory medium, and it was so refreshing to see the show experimenting and making effective choices with those tools

some issues with ep. 7 and the series as a whole:

i'll admit it. im tired of the trio already knowing everything about every obstacle they face (having to improvise in the fight with cerberus was so refreshing and retained more of the spirit of the book as opposed to uh. every other obstacle). and i think this connects with show's overall struggle with writing, adaptation, and the medium of film. these writers have committed the cardinal sin of assuming their audience always needs explanation. in any writing class (fiction and screenwriting are my personal expertise), you are told to assume your audience is smarter than you think, bc a writer's instinct is to assume they need to be clear about action and themes out of a fear of confusing their audience and the end result of that situation is a boring, overly explanatory piece of work. (an re the young viewers, kids are freaking smart!! i literally teach kids of the age range these books are directed for and they are so quick-witted. kids don't need stuff handed to them on a platter, they know how to put puzzle pieces together.)

example of the aforementioned "too much knowledge" issue: the pearls. (people have already explained the issues with medusa, the casino, procrustes, etc., so im going for a new one that's been bugging me a bit.) after percy received four pearls, the general conclusion people came to was that one pearl would break, forcing them to have to choose three people to go/one to stay and thus making the choice more "meaningful" (i.e. bc the opportunity to save everyone had been stripped). it's a fair choice, a fair reason, a fair analysis, and this is a change that bothers me but much more minimally than other changes to the show. here's the deal: the reason they had to give four pearls in the show was bc the trio already knew exactly what the pearls would do. there was no reason to give only three pearls bc that would force a character (probably percy) to raise the question of like "hey, that's not enough to save four people!" so where am i going with this?

in the books and the musical, we get the alluring line of what belongs to the sea can always return to the sea. percy gets three pearls in the book and a seashell in the musical, where he doesn't know right away the specifics of what this gift does (the seashell is an excellent example of adapting a story to a new medium, as a low-budget theatrical production can't afford the effects of smashing three pearls and causing people to vanish from the stage, so blowing the seashell to open a portal was a great move that worked for the new medium and retained the spirit of the source material - percy having an epiphany well after receiving the gift about what, exactly, the gift did and how it would help him). in the show, they issue is that they already know, thus creating the dilemma of there being no reason not to give four pearls. again, not the worst choice the show has made, but it's another example of how the show's most pervasive issue is over-explaining and giving too much information to its characters.

in short: the pjo show doesn't understand "show don't tell." they love telling even though "showing" is Most Important in film as a medium, like it's even more important to show what's going on in film than it is in prose because cinema is an inherently collaborative medium that generates a visually-dominated product. the show clearly lacks a fundamental understanding of the medium it is working with!! and that is bad!!

another issue: the lighting. this show suffers from the current trend in film to make dark scenes impossible to see in.

more characterological problems: the gods are not imposing. just to speak of ep. 7 alone, why was hades so... banter-y? in the book he literally makes percy's hand "move... against [his] will" to show him the pearls. there was none of that power and domineering energy in the show!! the pjo show keeps hammering us over the head with what should be a series-long revelation about the gods' flaws and pettiness and spite and misuse of their incredible power, and yet all of the gods seem almost like... caricatures. where is their ability to be charismatic and threatening. to be lax and powerful. to remind us that they can, have, and will kill demigods.

core thematic issue: the show lacks the humor and fun and adolescent spirit of the books. i've seen a lot of people insist the show is directed for young readers of the book, which i don't disagree with, but the lack of humor and energy and vitality is undoubtedly turning off a lot of younger viewers. in a lot of instances, everything feels so gritty and angsty, lowkey like the winx adaptation (but on a less severe scale). we have moments of sass/sarcasm, moments of levity, but it doesn't feel like a core trait of the show (much less of percy) like it does in the book. and honestly, i think that's a loss! if rick wanted a grim pjo adaptation, fine, but i wish the show hadn't been advertised as something perfectly attuned to the spirit of the book bc it's just not. if it was, i'd be laughing a lot more.

now, let's talk about sally...

i don't love how they've characterized sally in this show. i respect that they wanted to "modernize" her character and more accurately demonstrate the struggles of a single parent raising a child with learning (and in percy's case, also magical) difficulties. i genuinely do respect that choice, and i can follow the thorough-lines created in the show that illustrate this revamping of her character. similarly, i can respect that they didn't want sally to seem like a stereotypical "passive" victim of abuse re gabe, hence her explicitly pushing back at him. that said...

i still don't think these are effective or necessary changes, because i don't think sally was portrayed as overly passive or as a perfectly equipped parent in the book. i understand the argument that gabe is still presented as abusive, i.e. that he checks her phone without permission and controls access to the car, but those moments feel so technical. when i rewatch those scenes and examine the acting (both line delivery and bodily cues), sally is outwardly derisive toward gabe ("who's yancy?" / sally sighs and shakes her head, exasperated, has the long blink to give an extra beat before responding: "the school."), yet at the same time there's a banter between them, where sally insists that she's going to go to montauk no matter what, and if gabe disagrees then she won't bring back both their sandwiches for the knicks game that they apparently watch together often (implied by "you know i hate watching the knicks alone!" "so do i!"). sally holds herself confidently in this scene (hands on her hips). gabe is forced to actually ask politely for his sandwich order (and notably holds his shoulders slightly inward, visually closing himself off in a physical representation of surrender). two of my friends, diehard pjo fans who are not literature or film scholars, were both confused as to why sally and gabe seemed to be bantering within a seemingly standard relationship dynamic - not necessarily the happiest of couples, but a standard married couple (as opposed to clear imbalance of power between them in the book).

to be clear, it's not that sally needs to be a "passive victim of abuse," and it's certainly not that the show needs to explicitly depict gabe hitting sally or percy for us to understand that he is abusive. my issue is that the show seems to have not understood what made sally a strong character initially: her willingness to endure anything for her son, including marrying an abusive man who smelled so rankly human in order to prevent monsters from finding them. like, sally resisted gabe's abuse in the book! the reason blue food is a major motif in the first place is because sally and gabe had a fight where gabe insisted blue food wasn't a thing, and thus percy observes that "ever since, my mom went out of her way to eat blue."

in other words, verbally standing up to one's abuser is not the only way to demonstrate that a character is not a stereotypically weak, helpless, passive victim. it's definitely an easy choice with regard to cinematic staging (and the show has a pattern of taking the easy way out of conflicts and nuance), but i think the real issue is that sally's vocal protests come in tandem with the defanging of gabe. why does his body language and tone falter in arguments with sally? does he not have the upper hand? where is the evidence of an imbalanced power dynamic? there is no one way to write abuse bc the tragic reality is that abuse happens in an infinite number of ways, but nonetheless i am frustrated with the route the show went down in the first ep bc it feels reductive to the core of sally's character and her strengths: her endurance, her implicit but present rebelliousness, and her love for her son.

im also not a fan of some of the flashbacks we're getting with sally. it's not that sally shouldn't be "allowed" to get frustrated ever, but a major element of her characterization in the books is that she didn't take that frustration out on percy. i just don't see sally jackson getting upset that percy doesn't want to swim (beside that, i can't imagine percy not wanting to swim lmao). i just don't see sally jackson almost aggressively telling percy that he is the one making their goodbye ugly (because he's being a kid?? who doesn't want to leave his mom?? you're telling me sally wouldn't recognize the root of his anxiety immediately??). i just don't see sally speaking vaguely to percy about there being things she has to do that he doesn't understand instead of doing her best to meet percy where he's at with her explanation. if someone is coming to this show without having read the books, i genuinely think they might be starting to question sally's parenting, i.e. if she was really as wonderful a mom as percy insists or if he simply sees her through rose-tinted glasses. bc here's the thing: percy does see sally and his mom's struggles through rose-tinted glasses, and it's because sally bottles up and hides her struggles and frustrations from him. she doesn't let percy witness those frustrations. as such, there's an incongruity between book!sally and show!sally that doesn't mesh for me.

in short, show!sally feels like a new character to me. that's fine if that's the route they wanted to take, but again: why advertise it as a faithful adaptation if you're not going to be faithful to the core elements of central characters?

im also disappointed by how much the show has stripped annabeth of her character besides her intelligence. i have some thoughts about the adultification of young Black girls and the fact that annabeth is Black in the pjo show, mostly that i can't tell yet whether the show has the self-awareness to offer commentary on this reality for many Black girls through annabeth's character being seemingly defined by her intelligence and maturity or if they're simply unwittingly replicating this circumstance. i need more material before i can make a concrete assessment here, but all the same, i wish they were allowing these kids and especially annabeth to be kids - to make mistakes, to fall into traps, to have little crushes and get flustered, and to not know everything about every monster/obstacle before they come to face it.

people have talked to death the issue of the pacing so i won't belabor it but in general this show has terrible pacing. the first two eps are rushed (we got so little luke that im concerned his betrayal won't have much heart/meaning/oomph in the final ep), the constant unnecessary exposition creates periods of narrative drudgery, most of the fights lack tension bc the choreography is effectively nonexistent, them missing the solstice deadline has so far sucked the wind of the energy of their quest (of which there wasn't much in the first place bc the show did a poor job establishing the looming threat of a globally destructive war being on the horizon), and in general there's no sense of stakes. sigh.

i probably have more thoughts, but i'll stop for now bc i've got a shit ton of assignments to work on. in sum: the show lacks an understanding of how film operates as a medium, and while the merit of the show as an adaptation can be debated, it's simply a poorly constructed and lackluster piece of tv.

(but on the bright side? the trio is killing it even with the weak material they've been given, and their acting talent is the only reason i and many of my friends have kept watching)

[raaorqtpbpdy]

Dead on Arrival

Written for the Phic Phight Prompts: In some hospitals, CPR is done to a patient despite them being declared dead on arrival. This is a courtesy to the family. The doctor doesn't expect the scream when they lay down the defibrillator paddles on the boy's chest (from @eyesofcrows), Danny gets caught in the middle of a bank robbery. Can he diffuse the situation without revealing his powers? (@wingedflight), and For some reason someone uses defibrillators on Danny, the feeling is all too familiar to him (@phantomphangphucker)

AO3 Link

[Warnings for blood, injury, violence, flashbacks, minor dissociation, hospitals, and near-death experiences]

Daniel Fenton was dead on arrival. Everyone there when he was brought to Amity Park General Hospital knew that. No pulse, no breathing, already cool to the touch. But his parents were inconsolable, desperate. They demanded something be done. So the doctor called for a defibrillator and started chest compressions, just for the parents' peace of mind. They'd just lost their fourteen-year-old son. It was the least the doctors could do to extend them this courtesy.

When the nurse came in with the defibrillator, they cut away the boy's shirt to press the paddles to his bare skin, ignoring the slick blood covering every inch of skin. They all knew nothing would come of this, that it was more or less for show, but they did it anyway. The nurse set the charge.

"Clear," warned the doctor before administrating the shock.

None of them were expecting the corpse to scream. A visceral, bone-chilling scream. A scream that rattled the windows, that made the lights in the whole hospital flicker with the force of it. A scream like the auditory incarnation of pain itself.

The doctors and nurses all slammed their hands against their ears, desperately trying to block out the sound, to no avail. It was the most horrible thing they'd ever heard in their lives. But it meant one thing. Danny Fenton was alive after all.

—

It was rare for Danny to encounter trouble with humans. He was a ghost hero, after all, so he mostly dealt with ghosts causing trouble. There were a few exceptions, like Freakshow, and sometimes Vlad, but even the exceptions were at least ghost-adjacent. These guys weren't.

They were one hundred percent human, committing a one hundred percent human crime. Two in the bank lobby, two more cracking the safe. Danny had just been coming to cash a birthday check when they showed up waving guns around and demanded everybody get down on the floor. It wouldn't have been fair for Danny to go ghost to fight a bunch of bank robbers, but of course, they were pointing guns at civilians, and he wasn't about to let that slide, either.

"That's it, nobody's gotta be a hero," one of the robbers said, and that sounded like a cue if ever Danny had heard one, because there was no way he was about to let that happen.

"Excuse me," he said, standing up to get their attention entirely on him. Immediately both the robbers in the reception area had their guns trained on him. It was preferable to having those things aimed at regular humans, not to mention an unfortunately familiar position for Danny to be in, so he had no trouble remaining calm as he raised his arms to show them he couldn't fight back.

"Si'down, kid," barked one of the robbers.

"I was just wondering if this is really the best use of your time," Danny said casually, staying on his feet, keeping the robbers' focus all on him. "I mean, surely you have better things to do than rot in prison, right?"

"There'll be no prison, 'cause we won't get caught!" the other robber said.

"Sure you won't," Danny said sardonically. "Except, you're not wearing masks, and this place is full of cameras." Idiots. Danny's presence might've given them a fighting chance, that is, if every public building in Amity Park hadn't made the switch to Fenton Spook-Proof Security Cameras about a year ago. "So I have to wonder what exactly your plan is here? Are you gonna get radical plastic surgery with the money you steal?"

The one closest to Danny smirked. "Robbie hacked the cameras before we came in, ain't that right, Robbie?"

"Uh... I thought Nick was supposed to do that," said the one standing by the teller's desk.

"What?!" said the first guy. "That was your job!"

"I don't know how to hack cameras, Jack." Robbie responded.

"Jack, Nick, and Robbie, huh?" Danny repeated. "Robbie the robber? Who's your fourth guy, Steal?"

"Melvin," Robbie said, "but his last name is Steel. How'd you know that?"

"And what's your last name?" Danny asked.

"Johnson, but I don't see what that has to do with anyth—"

"Robbie you fuckin' moron!" Jack groaned. "Now he knows our names and our faces!"

"Oh, shoot!" Robbie lowered his gun to slap a hand over his mouth.

"That's not a bad idea," Jack said, putting on a wicked grin and leveling his gun at Danny, whose eyes widened. "He can't talk if he's dead."

"Wait!" Danny shouted, but he didn't have time to say anything else before Jack shot several rounds into his gut and he collapsed backwards onto the floor.

Dark red bloomed across Danny's shirt. It stung a little, but it wasn't so bad, actually. Not as bad as an ecto-blast, but worse than a paper cut, he decided. Although, that could've just been because his brain hadn't caught up with the injury yet. His extremities were already loosing feeling as blood pumped out of the holes in his abdomen and pooled around him. It was a shame. Danny really liked this shirt, and now it was completely ruined.

He knew he'd bleed out before the police arrived, even though the robbers had failed to prevent the teller from tripping the silent alarm. He'd probably be okay in the long run, but he'd pass out for a bit while his body healed. All Danny could do was hope these idiots didn't realize that everyone else in the bank had also heard their names, and could therefore identify them just as well as Danny could. As long as he was the only one who got shot, everything was okay. That was his last thought before he lost consciousness from the blood loss.

The next thing Danny knew, was the all too familiar sensation of electricity shooting through his heart. It wasn't as strong as the last time, but it reminded him of it, of the portal accident, and the memory alone made it feel much much worse. The phantom pains that tore through him as he recalled the worst experience of his life increased the pain a thousand fold.

A scream ripped from his throat.

Whatever was happening in that moment didn't exist to him.

He had no idea where he was, or how he'd been zapped, or what else, or who else was around him.

All he could see was green.

All he could feel was a burning pain lighting up every nerve in his body, ionizing his atoms, rearranging his molecules.

The smell of ozone and charred meat filled his nose.

The metallic taste of blood overtook his mouth as electricity arced between his teeth.

His screams would echo in his head for months to come, would haunt his dreams as long as he haunted the Earth, perhaps longer.

It was overwhelming.

He was overwhelmed.

After a lifetime and a moment, the pain started to fade; the sensations ebbed. Everything was still. Everything was quiet, but for the ringing in his ear drums.

Danny felt floaty and faraway. He fisted his hands, digging his nails into his palms to ground himself, and pushed himself into a sitting position. Gradually, he became more aware of his surroundings.

He was in a hospital room. It smelled like antiseptic and blood. The light was out. Shattered glass glinted on the countertop. The hospital bed was thin but soft under his hands. He took a deep, shuddering breath.

No one seemed to be there until Danny looked down. A doctor, two nurses, and Danny's parents were all unconscious on the floor, blood dripping slowly from their ears. Alarmed, Danny checked to see if they were alive, and sighed in relief when they were.

He'd done this.

It was all his fault.

[starfishinthedistance]

My last post on PTSD being more than flashbacks and nightmares kinda took off, so I wanted to talk about something many people mentioned in the reblogs: flashbacks are probably not what you think they are.

The depiction you see in movies where someone is suddenly thrust into this vivid hallucination where they see everything in extreme detail and completely forget where they are is possible, but certainly uncommon.

For a lot of people, it's kind of like a mental image. Like your brain just involuntarily starts strongly daydreaming the trauma, and you're seeing it in the back of your mind. Sometime it's an "I close my eyes and see it again" that kind of thing. But there's also other kinds than visual.

There's auditory, but that can happen without a visual component. And it can feel like a hallucination, but again it can feel like your brain is playing the audio from the back on your mind, like a vivid daydream.

There's also somatic (sometimes called tactile or physical) flashbacks, which is where you physically feel yourself being touch like how you were again (very common in assualt and physical/sexual abuse survivors), sometimes as a hallucination, sometimes as the same sort of back of the mind daydream thing.

And then there's emotional flashbacks, really common in abuse survivors and C-PTSD, where you feel like you're emotionally back where you were when the trauma happened. You're feeling what you felt when the trauma happened vidily enough for it to feel like you're back there. This is different from emotional reactivity after being reminded of trauma, because it's this exact sort of re-experiencing of the emotions you felt. Emotional flashbacks actually feel like you're back there, emotional reactivity doesn't, it feels like you're reacting to it but it's not happening again.

All of these can occur together in the same flashbacks, or separately. So you can have an auditory-somatic flashback or just an emotional one, etc.

People also said this is similar with nightmares, but I don't experience them myself so I can't say (people with PTSD nightmares feel free to share your experiences!)

[markhoffmanstits]

WE DON’T HAVE TO FIX EACH OTHER.

Fandom: Saw/Spiral: From The Book of Saw

Pairing: Spiralshipping // Zeke Banks x William Schenk

Time Taken: Approximately 5 - 6 Hours

Word Count: 3,437

Warnings: Spiral Spoilers, Flashbacks, Fight Scenes, Not Proofread

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

The watch sounding in the quiet room was almost deafening. Dark eyes staring at the wall, blankly. There’s a storm, a flurry, of thoughts going around in the head of the detective.

Zeke turns his head, leaning back in the recliner he’s sat in, his feet kicked up on the coffee table as he stares out the window, now. Something to satisfy his mind, maybe.

Nothing does that, though. Not anymore.

The flurry in his mind is nothing more than memories, coming in quick flashes, sometimes too fast for him to ever process; despite that, he knows exactly what he’s seeing behind his eyelids.

The warm eyes that he had come to see as kind, once upon a time. A familiar voice, though it sounds faint, almost muffled and underwater in his memories.

That horrible texture of the skin under his fingers. Everything is always simple visual and auditory memory, until this moment. The realization of whose skin that was — whose skin that should have been — always brings a new sensation.

That same feeling of raw, fresh fear, mixed with a dreaded sense of misery and hopelessness. Despite their short time together, they seemed to click. Everything was a perfect fit. It all seemed to work.

Zeke raises his hands to his face, immediately placing his palms over his eyes as he grits his teeth.

Why — why must his brain torture him with the constantly replays, the constant want and need to see him? None of this was ethical.

His life was nowhere near normal — nor ethical — anymore. So, why should he care?

The detective stands up, letting out a groan as his back pops. He thinks about it long enough to wonder if he’s really getting that old. He knows he isn’t.

Grabbing his coat, Zeke slips on arm through a sleeve as he grabs his keys off of the table near his door, walking out. He’s not planning on going far, but he carefully secures the door, anyway.

Bounding down the hallway, he manages to fight his right arm into its sleeve, pulling the coat up over his shoulders. It feels looser than usual, no shoulder holster to take up space.

Zeke notes that he feels a bit naked without it, but he’s only going downstairs. He should be fine. William — no, he refuses to think of him by name — that monster should be nowhere near his apartment. He’s not that stupid. Is he?

No, this cat-and-mouse game has gone on for months, reaching a year by the end of the next month. He isn’t anywhere near that stupid.

In his train of thought, Zeke doesn’t realize how fast he’s made it to the lobby, his destination. He slips past a small group of neighbors having a friendly, even joyful, conversation, with a barely muttered “excuse me.”

His keys jingle in his hand as he shakes the keyring, trying to shuffle through them to the key of his mailbox. He manages to select the correct one, fixing his grasp on it between his fingers as he unlocks the mailbox.

Such a simple action puts him on edge. The ‘gifts’ left for him still haunt him. They always will, he thinks, though he hates to imagine it.

Zeke’s breath catches in his throat as he sees a small package in his mailbox. He hasn’t ordered anything. He started to reach for his phone, but what’s he going to do? Call for help?

They’d laugh. Call him paranoid. Tell him that Schenk was gone, moved away, not to be seen or heard from again.

In that moment, Zeke felt completely and utterly alone.

Chest tight, he struggles to take a few breaths, and slowly glances around. It feels as if time is slowed; but just on the other side of the lobby windows, the sun is shining, the cars passing by as if everything is normal.

Zeke wonders for a brief moment if Schenk is inside one of those cars. Maybe he’s inside the white Chevrolet Suburban that just drove westbound, or he could be in that midnight blue Mazda 3 that was going eastbound.

Or maybe he isn’t here at all, right, Zeke?

Why would Schenk be here, again? Why would he be near the one person who saw him for what he is?

A blonde female in the small group of neighbors turns her head to look at the detective, a quizzical look in her bright eyes. She seems to want to ask him if he’s okay, and such a sentiment is enough to snap Zeke out of his thoughts.

He grabs the package, the action too quick for him to talk himself out of it, practically slamming the mailbox shut before pulling his keys out and walking past the group once again.

This time, they fall silent, a few stepping away to give him space. He does brush arms with the blonde, who still looks to him as if she wants to say something, but Zeke runs up the stairs to his floor before she can.

He needs to open this package. Suddenly, it feels as if his life depends on it. He stares at it, noting that there is no return address, no postage stamp or label.

Just a handwritten name;

Detective Banks.

Looking up from the package, Zeke notes that the numbers before him, on the door, are not his apartment, but rather the apartment of his late father, and he ducks away. His feet are moving on their own, down the hall.

Struggling with his keys as he very carefully tucks the package under his left arm, as carefully as someone may handle a live bomb, the detective lets out a frustrated hiss as his keychain slips from his grasp, landing on the floor.

“God damnit-“ He crouches down, reaching for the keychain, but movement spotted out of the corner of his eye catches his attention.

Zeke instinctively jumps up, and he scrambles for his firearm, realizing that it’s not on his person. Again, the feeling of being vulnerable, exposed, is back.

His sidearm is in his apartment. His has no weapon to defend himself, only his fists.

Does he retreat inside his apartment with the package, or does he follow the person he saw?

He debates, knowing that there is no guarantee that what he thought he saw, just out of the corner of his eye, was really there.

After a moment, Zeke picks up his keys, and slowly, stepping very gingerly, walks down the hall, towards the location of the movement. It’s another stairwell, he knows.

He doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath, his grasp on the package under his arm suddenly much tighter, as he steps out to look at the stairwell leading to the next floor.

Nothing. There was no one there.

Zeke wonders if he’s going crazy. Maybe his paranoia, his lack of sleep, and everything else in his life is finally catching up.

He retreats back to his apartment, walking quickly as he finally manages to select his apartment key from his keyring. He slides the key into the lock, turning it and pushing the door open before pulling the key from the lock and shutting the door.

He, once again, is sure to secure the door behind him. His keys are dropped back onto the table, and he picks up his sidearm, holding the pistol in his right hand as he walks to his counter, setting the package down.

Zeke sets his pistol on the counter next to the package, carefully and hesitantly. Maybe this will, quite literally, blow up in his face. Would it be worth it?

In the back of his mind, if this is from Schenk, maybe it would be. Part of him feels as if he’d do anything to hear from that man, at least one more time.

He has the passing thought that he wishes he had taken Schenk up on the offer to be partners. He was going to, before his emotions clouded his judgement.

He grabs the sealed fold-over flap at the top of the packaging, slowly ripping it open. He tenses, pausing mid-tear to feel for any threads, any wires.

Zeke comes to the realization that the package is, likely, not rigged. None of the others had been.

William only wanted to kill the bad cops. He didn’t consider Zeke to be one, and Zeke knew that.

I have been loyal to you since the day we met; fifteen years ago.

… Is this a show of loyalty? To show that William hadn’t forgotten him?

Zeke, once more, grabs the fold-over flap, and completely tears it from the package, spilling the contents out onto the kitchen counter.

His breath catches as a badge falls from the package, skidding across the counter surface, a horrible sound of metal against faux marble.

Has it started again?

Pure fear courses through Zeke’s veins, and he grabs the badge as quickly as he can, raising it to peer at the badge number. It’s not one he’s familiar with, but he memorizes it. He needs to remember it.

He picks up the disc, in it’s own small sleeve, to protect it from scratches during transportation. There’s another handwritten message on the sleeve, though it’s not a name.

Miss me?

Zeke doesn’t notice as a faint, whispered “yes” escapes his lips, carefully removing the disc from the protective sleeve. He feels like a ghost as he walks towards his small, almost pathetic looking, television set.

His footsteps don’t sound out in his mind. He isn’t hearing himself. His feet feel as if he is floating, hovering just barely above the floor. All of this feels surreal.

He’s suddenly hopeful. Hopeful that William has come back for him.

He opens his DVD player, slipping the disc inside and closing it, focusing on the television screen, as it his entire life hinged on what he was shown.

His stomach twisted as the screen came to life, a smiling, thinner build man, dressed in a black coat, with that familiar red hood, seemed to peer at him, unseeing.

“William,” Zeke mutters, and his fingers twitch as if he wants to reach out, but there’s no one to touch, no one to hold. He is alone in this room.

The smile falters, and Zeke notices a hint of sadness in William’s eyes, which would possibly be hidden by the slight distortion of the video, if not for the fact that the man’s shoulders were down, almost as if he were slumping.

“Ezekiel… Zeke.” The video distorts, just a bit, and then clears up. “Oh, how long it has been. You’re still with the department, but they’ve turned their backs on you, even more than before, haven’t they?”

The detective casts his gaze downward, as if avoiding eye contact with a man who isn’t there.

“You’re loyal, you believe you can make a difference from where you are. I know that’s what you’re reaching for. Your goal.”

A small, bitter chuckle resounds from the man on the disc, and the recording once again distorts for a moment.

“I want to play a game, Zeke. I want you to find me. It shouldn’t be too hard. You still stop by the place sometimes, despite the vacancy of it and the memories that follow.”

Zeke’s head perks up, and he immediately stands, rushing to his coatrack to grab his shoulder holster, slipping it on under his coat.

“Come find me, Detective Banks.”

The detective rushes to the door, grabbing his keys and wallet, along with his badge, off of the table in his small makeshift foyer. Nothing can stop him, not now.

He rushes out the door, slamming it shut behind him. When he reaches the stairs, he hops on the railing, sliding down the side of the staircase.

The small group that was previously gathered in the lobby are now dispersed, though Zeke makes little notice of that fact as he exits the building.

Constantine Trains. It has to be that building, right? He stopped revisiting four months after William had vanished. He didn’t see a point in returning, but his trips there, he didn’t doubt that was what William was speaking of in the recording.

Zeke hops in his car, scrambling to put the key in the ignition and start the engine. When he does, he grabs his sunglasses from the overhead visor and slips them on before pulling out of the parking lot, peeling out onto the street as fast as he can.

It only takes a few minutes for Zeke to pull into the empty parking spaces that sit before the butcher shop that was previously known as Constantine Trains. It takes all his strength to not jump out of the running vehicle.

It feels like it takes ages for Zeke to put the vehicle out of gear and into neutral, pulling up the parking brake and shutting off the engine, pulling his keys from the ignition.

He opens the door and climbs out of the car. In his excitement, he never put on his seatbelt. Slamming the door shut, Zeke takes off running into the building, barely conscious of his sidearm hitting his ribs in its holster as he does.

Pulling off his sunglasses and hooking them on his shirt, Zeke rushes to the exact place that brings him so many memories, and so many overwhelming emotions.

Despite the vacancy of it and the memories that follow.

Pulling his pistol from the holster, the detective bursts into the room, and he has almost a wave of deja vu wash over him as he points his pistol in front of him, “Hands up-“ He commands.

But the room is empty.

A wave of disappointment and dread washes over Zeke, and he lets out a frustrated sigh, holstering his firearm before pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration.

Is this really just a game? Is William toying with him? Why?

Didn’t William want to see him, too? The man had looked so sad in the recording, the thought that this all was a game of manipulation never crossed Zeke’s mind, despite knowing William’s true natures.

Hanging his head, Zeke leaves the building, now walking much slower than before. In all his excitement, he now felt let down. Not only did he feel let down, but he felt *embarrassed.*

He takes his time driving back to the apartment complex. There’s no rush this time, no excitement; the feeling of the tires on the asphalt as Zeke drives circles around the city are the only thing keeping his dread at bay.

He doesn’t make it home until eleven o’clock that night, his watch quietly ticking along the hours that he stayed away.

He enters the empty lobby, and then pauses, standing in the doorway as he stares at the mailbox, his eyes narrowing into a squint.

The package. His name, having been handwritten. No address, no shipping information.

Zeke stands straight up, suddenly, and his eyes widen. “Fuck.” He whispers. “You sneaky son of a bitch-“

William couldn’t have shipped the package, not without any postal stamps or addresses. He had to deliver it himself.

He was here.

The memories that follow.

Zeke’s head snaps to look at the staircase. Before he knows it, he’s running up the steps, pulling his pistol from the holster as he finds himself standing in the hallway, staring at the door to his father’s apartment.

Earlier today, he was standing in front of this very door, before he ever opened the package.

So close, and yet so far, this entire time.

William was right under his nose.

Zeke raises his left foot, letting out a grunt as he kicks the door next to the doorframe. He feels the wood immediately give way, and gives it another kick, falling forward into a crouched position as it opens, pointing the pistol into the room.

“William!” The detective shouts, raising an eyebrow. This is it, this should be it. But William isn’t before him. The room is empty, even bare of most furniture, only filled with barebones like the old recliner and loveseat.

Zeke brings himself to an upright position, slowly walking into the room, keeping his sidearm held tight in both hands. He hasn’t been here in months, but he notes the fact that there’s a trash bag in the garbage can near the doorway of the kitchen.

He walks into the living room, scanning the apartment. He goes to take a step, and as his foot hovers over the floorboards, he hears a familiar sound behind him.

Click.

The safety of a gun.

“Hands up, Zeke.”

Panic surges through Zeke’s veins, sent out by every nerve in his body. His urge is to fight, and before he can fight it, he drops his own firearm, turning around and grabbing the barrel of William’s nine millimeter, pointing it up towards the ceiling.

He was a brief moment to note that William’s finger was never on the trigger before the male gives him a sharp kick in the stomach. Zeke falls backwards, gasping for the air that’s been forced from his lungs.

“I don’t want to hurt you, damnit.” William states, and his voice is objective, almost emotionless, but there’s a small frown on his lips as Zeke lunges for him.

The man attempts to step to the side, the detective grabbing the hood of his jacket. A cough escapes William’s throat as Zeke smashes his head into the other’s nose, effectively cracking it to the side and conjuring a cloud of crimson from his nostrils.

“Shit-“ William hisses, hooking his leg behind Zeke’s and pulling back, causing the older to trip and fall backwards, his side hitting the arm of the couch. “Zeke, stop fucking fighting!”

William’s voice is raised, and for a moment they both freeze, staring at each other as they hold their breath. The last thing either of them needed was another resident of the complex hearing the commotion.

For once, the cops arriving here would not be the best idea.

Zeke stares up at William, bringing himself back to an upright position as he watches William wipe his hand under his nose.

The younger is breathing through his mouth, and Zeke realizes that in the struggle, of which William never even wanted, Zeke had broken his nose.

Pulling his sleeve over his hand, William presses the fabric to his bleeding nostrils, peering at Zeke through narrowed eyes.

He manages to let out a grim chuckle despite the pain coming in waves from his broken nose.

“Miss me?” He asks, and Zeke immediately thinks back to the exact words written on the sleeve of the disc.

There’s a moment of silence, and then Zeke approaches the younger man, grabbing William’s arm when he starts to step backwards.

“Don’t move, idiot.” Zeke says, grabbing the bridge of William’s nose. A small yelp escapes William’s lips as the detective snaps his nose back into place, but the rush of air to his lungs through his nostrils is something he’s thankful for.

The silence is awkward, but also somewhat comforting, after so long apart, not knowing what happened to the other.

When Zeke lets him go, William goes to the kitchen and walks back out with a wet washcloth, wiping the drying blood off of his face.

When William enters the room, he notes Zeke sitting on the recliner, leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. He peers up at William, who smiles at him, now as warm as it was when they first met.

“So, partner, where should we start?”

“Before we start, we need to talk.” Zeke says, in a hushed tone, as if he’s hesitant. This makes the younger tilt his head, and he walks over to the recliner, perching a seat on the arm.

“What’s on your mind, Zeke? Do you not want to do this?” William asks, a tone of apprehension in his voice.

Zeke shakes his head, and wraps an arm around William’s waist, conjuring a yelp from him as he’s pulled down from the recliner’s arm and into Zeke’s lap.

“I just think we should do this first.” Zeke says, his free hand gently grasping William’s chin before leaning in, barely brushing their lips together.

The action is a shock, a surprise, and William almost melts like butter in the elder’s grasp, one hand landing on Zeke’s chest as the other grasps the arm holding his chin.

Zeke lets out a hum as they pull away from each other, his stomach flipping a little.

So much for ethics.

“So, who’s first?”

[lost-in-prose]

What is CPTSD?

This is going to be a long haul, okay? I will break this into sections so that it isn't so much to take in at once. When you see (☆☆☆☆) it means there is a break in information, and you can step away if need be, without getting lost.

⚠️TRIGGER WARNING: READ AT OWN DECRETION⚠️

!!This should in no way be used as a diagnosis!!

Where It All Begins: 

People diagnosed with Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (C-PTSD or CPTSD) are often victims of prolonged childhood trauma that questions their sense of security and of self (Davis, 2019), usually spanning months if not years. This could be a result of emotional, physical, or mental abuse; sexual abuse; domestic violence; growing up in a war zone or being held captive; or human trafficking; among others. This trauma stops the part of your brain that regulates emotion, the amygdala, from growing as it should, stunting its growth at only 80% of its true size (Garrett, 2019). The growth of the children's brain is also damaged because the child's neurological and psychological development, leaving the function of their brain permanently damaged for the rest of their life. Because of this it is considered a Developmental Trauma Disorder, or DTD, because the effects aren't usually seen until later in life, after the child can escape the traumatic situation. Often, children that have experienced these traumas can be classified as ACEs, or as experiencing Adverse Childhood Experiences.

CPTSD is not acknowledged in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders Five (DSM-V or DSM-5), but rather grouped together with standard Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Because of this error, Complex PTSD isn't accepted as its own stand-alone disorder and most do not get diagnosed with it unless psychologists/psychiatrists accept it as its own disorder (Davis, 2019). This, however, can be very detrimental to those who actually have the disorder, since the symptoms of CPTSD are much more severe than those of PTSD (Garret, 2019).

☆☆☆☆

Physical Symptoms of CPTSD:

Some of these are symptoms I personally have and others are ones I have read about/researched:

Shrinkage of amygdala

Risk of developing immune issues, diabetes, and heart diseases in the future

Increased heart rate

Increased levels of adrenaline which causes shaking and high blood pressure

Headaches and/or migraines

Talking way too fast

Loosing large chunks of time throughout the day for no reason

Chronic fatigue

Sleeping with hands on/around your neck or touching your neck excessively

Insomnia

Slower reaction time

Heart arrhythmias

Raise in body temperature

Worsening of PMS symptoms

No energy

Overreactive nerves

Hyper senses

Auditory processing problems

Emotional/Mental Symptoms of CPTSD:

Some of these are symptoms I personally have and others are ones I have read about/researched:

Compartmentalizing way too well

Wonder if you manipulate people to love you/feeling like you are genuinely unlovable

Feeling unreal

Too good at adjusting to new circumstances/can make a home in the worst situations and have no problem with it

The irrational side and rational side of yourself constantly fighting (knowing you are freaking out over nothing but being unable to stop it)

Hypersensitivity

Unexplainable feeling of doom/dying early

A. Lot. Of. Anger. And. Barely. Contained. Rage.

Good in a crisis, only to fall apart later and/or over little things

A delayed grief process (mostly due to being unable to regulate your emotions well)

Basic inability to control emotions (aka light switch emotions)

Extremely violent intrusive thoughts

Somatic/emotional flashbacks (unlike PTSD, there is not a visual component to these flashbacks)

Imagining yourself in horrible situations where you get all the sympathy (side effect of not being loved enough as a child)

Extreme attachment issues on both sides of the spectrum (isolation and clinging)

Feels like no one knows you truly/don't trust anyone/can't tell people how they feel

Think is only extremes

Triggers

Manic/depressive episodes

Obsessive need for revenge

Hypo/Hyper sexualizing yourself

Mistaking hypervigilance for being an empath

Associating unrelated things to trauma

Little to no memory of childhood/time before trauma

ADD/ADHD

Other mental illnesses including depression, anxiety, maladaptive daydreaming, age regression, suicidal thoughts, borderline personality disorder, dissociative disorders, somatization disorder, etc.

Loss of hope/inability to feel hope

Easily over-stimulated

Chronic nightmares/night terrors

Warped sense of self

Hyperarousal (easily startled)

Downplaying everything

Feeling like you are never enough for others/constantly trying to prove that you are (aka overcompensating)

Panic attacks/anxiety attacks

Miscellaneous:

Some of these are symptoms I personally have and others are ones I have read about/researched:

Problems with religious beliefs/faith

Feeling as if there is a gaping hole physically in the center of your chest, often agonizing

Often imagines a little child hiding within your skin/beside you watching at all times

Very good with/kind to/understanding of children and strangers

Imagining scenarios at night to calm yourself enough to fall asleep

No tight clothes

Things can't touch your neck

People can't stand behind you

Rewatching/rereading movies/TV shows/books repeatedly

Psychoanalyze everyone you meet

Extremely careless with own life but extremely protective over anyone else's, especially those you care for

Grew up way too fast

Looks for a hero/rescuerer/parental role to fulfill for friends

Likes sour or spicy food

Hating competition

Feeling intense jealousy over those who got help

Hating intimacy (emotional or physical)

Drawn towards hard sciences/mental sciences

Intense need to be loved but hating it/not looking for it

Hard time communicating

The profound sense that you are okay with being the villain and you may even strive to be one (and not in the cute 'I'd love to be Loki way',, but rather completely fine with betraying/hurting/killing others)

Sitting on the floor of your shower because you can't even imagine standing up

Having a problem with authority, either by hating it and acting out or being terrified of it

Addictive personality

Never let yourself stop moving long enough to be in your own head/too scared to allow yourself to think 

☆☆☆☆

Healing from CPTSD:

You cannot escape flashbacks until you deal with your trauma head on. I will tell you right now I have been healing from mine for 3 years and I'm not even halfway done. Just be patient. You have to rewire your entire brain all over again. It's going to be hard because those with CPTSD have no 'model' for what it's like (Garrett, 2019), but you've got this. I believe it you <3

Participate in self care

Heal your inner child (I do this by doing thing I never did as a child. I jump on my bed. I have dance parties alone in my room. I sneak snacks at midnight. I run with my arms wide and wave them like airplane wings. Whatever your healing looks like, do it)

Trauma-informed therapy

Behavioral therapy

☆☆☆☆

Resources For You:

SAMHSA's National Helpline: 1-800-662-4537

NAMI Helpline: 1-800-950-6264

NIMH Helpline: 866-615-6464

Mental Health America Hotline: text MHA to 741741

Crisis Text Line: text CONNECT to 741741

National Suicide Hotline: 988

☆☆☆☆

Works Cited:

https://cptsdfoundation.org/2019/09/03/what-is-complex-post-traumatic-stress-disorder-cptsd/

https://www.psychalive.org/injured-not-broken-why-its-so-hard-to-know-you-have-cptsd/

https://themighty.com/topic/post-traumatic-stress-disorder-ptsd/habits-living-with-complex-ptsd

☆☆☆☆

Quizzes:

THESE ARE NOT DIAGNOSTIC TESTS. DO NOT TAKE THE RESULTS OF THESE QUIZZES AS A SURE-SIGN THAT YOU HAVE CPTSD

Mind Diagnosis

D'Amore Mental Health

Main post can be found here.

[ghoulie-67-baby]

Overload- BAU team.

Summary: After a particularly gruelling case, the team come prepared to deal with a meltdown.

Warnings: Angst, disturbing imagery, child death/mutilation (flashback), sensory overload, auditory hallucination, stimming, angsty fluffy team.

Pairing: BAU team x Autistic!reader (platonic or otherwise.)

Word count: 1,057

My knees shook as I wandered ahead of my team, trying to carry myself with as much dignity as I could. The steps onto the jet seemed more difficult than usual as I struggled against the weakness in my limbs, using the railings to pull myself up.

I knew the team would be finishing up with the sheriff and usually, I would stay with them but today I'd had just about enough. I needed to be in a safe space. Unfortunately, that meant the case repeating in my head with no escape. I couldn't get the image of tortured, mutilated children out of my head, my hands still feeling sticky with blood even though I'd scrubbed them, god knows how many times. My shirt still felt like it was plastered to me with the blood of the child I tried to save.

Even now as I sat on the jet, herding myself into the corner, I could see the tiny bodies littering the floor. My skin felt like it was crawling from the tight shirt that I'd had to wear from my own being covered in blood and dirt. The crawling feeling was almost like little fingers and nails pulling and scraping at my skin. Dragging my knees to my chest, I rested my chin on them and tried to distract myself whilst waiting for my team.

It didn't take long for the cries of the children to be interrupted by the laughter of Emily and Derek and I let out a sigh of relief.

"Oh hey, this is where you got to," JJ smiled down at me, placing her bag on one of the seats before moving to the kitchenette. "We thought we'd have to wait for you.." Everyone settled into a seat as I zoned out, hands clenching and unclenching as I stimmed in my seat.

"Y/N," Morgan's voice pulled me from my daze. "You okay, babydoll?" I nodded, ignoring the quiver in my chest.

"Why don't you get some rest? It's been a long week."Emily's gaze settled on the growing bags under my eyes but I dropped my head to try and hide it from her. The air in the jet seemed tense and harder to breathe as silence descended on us. I felt the seat beside me dip slightly as I squeezed my eyes shut.

"Honey," JJ's voice was quiet and gentle. "What's going on? Let us help." I usually welcomed any physical touch from my team but as soon as her hand rested on my arm I took a sharp breath in and I began to rock in my seat. The action of rocking had always been a comforting stim but today it didn't seem to help me at all.

Within seconds, her hand had pulled back and she stiffened in her seat when I let out a pathetic whimper.

"It's too much," Spencer lowered his voice, probably for my benefit. "Sensory overload is kicking in." My rocking was accompanied by jittering hands and piano fingers as the click of my tongue filled the space. "Y/N what can we do to make this easier for you?"

"I want," Anger bubbled in my throat. "Just need," My words cut off, not being able to form due to frustration.

"It's okay," He hushed me gently, kneeling in front of me. "Look at me and go slowly." I stared into his hazel eyes as I tried to calm down.

"I need," I huffed, holding back a sob. "This off." I yanked at the shirt that clung to me, breath spiking as I got more desperate. Tears welled in my eyes and threatened to spill over as he pushed my hands away and began to unbutton it, as David routed around in his go-bag.

They always came prepared for anything whether it was emotional, social, sensory overload or difficulty concentrating. My team always kept sensory toys with them, spare clothes of theirs and music, books and anything else to keep me occupied and comfortable.

The scratchy, tight material slid off my body, leaving me in a vest, and instantly my hands moved to scratch at my exposed skin. Small movements were made around the jet, so I wasn't disturbed, as they grabbed what they had stored to help me. They all worked in sync as they moved around to make me more comfortable.

Spencer's slender fingers helped me into one of David's long-sleeved shirts, covering the welts I had caused on my skin, and soothing the feeling within seconds. My surroundings were blurred as the tears slid over the apples of my cheeks, relief and gratitude rushing through me. I zoned out, letting them manoeuvre my limbs into joggers rather than jeans and sliding my shoes off before shifting my hair away from my face.

"You feeling better, Dolcezza?" The clicking of my tongue and the piano fingers slowly subsided.

"Hmm," My hum was distant and quiet, still stuck in my head.

"Lie down Y/N," Hotch ordered gently, knowing a firm hand would work. He gestured to the sofa where Emily sat and I shuffled over, cuddling into her side before she had the chance to move. Pulling my legs up beside me, Emily's arm wrapped around me, resting on my waist as JJ sat by my feet, hand resting on my ankles. Aaron handed me Spencer's blanket and I pulled it to my face, his scent wafting into my face.

When I opened my eyes again, they met Derek, who held a concerned but warm look. He slid headphones over my head, the gentle trills of Erik Satie's classical pieces masking the hum of the jet and saving me from the cries of children I had imagined earlier.

Minutes had passed and my heart rate dropped back down as I settled against Emily, wrapping an arm around her waist. I couldn't help the intense feelings of love and gratitude for my team as they did everything they could to help me.

Eventually, I slipped off to sleep surrounded by feelings and smells that never failed to soothe me. David's shirt stopped the crawling on my skin, Emily's heartbeat calmed my own, JJ's hand stroked patterns into my skin, Spencer's blanket masked the scent of congealed blood, Derek's headphones created a musical distraction and stopped the cries whilst Aaron's gaze made me secure and feel safe.

[not-poignant]

Hi Pia! You said that you need another vacation after this vacation, so I am not sure, how puppy situation, even if it partual custudy, affecting you ( may be you in panic when he is there and then recovering when he is not, and then round and round? ), but really, If you need another vacation, I hope you know we will be here to support you for it!

It's been nearly 4 weeks now since we got Toby so I feel like I can talk about this with a bit of a clear head.

(Talk of like an actual PTSD meltdown beneath the read-more, including self-harm mention - nothing graphic. There's zero obligation for anyone to read this, especially for folks who don't think authors should ever be honest about being people with issues):

So, I've been kind of quiet about aspects of this, but I have like severe treatment-resistant PTSD and C-PTSD, and puppies specifically are one of my triggers (especially if I'm responsible for them). The reason for that is kind of awful, and I don't really want to talk about some of the things I've experienced/been through that led to that, so let's just move onto the next part. You're kind of right anon, there has been panic while he is here lol.

As a result, I had a severe meltdown the first time I tried to adopt a dog many years ago now. Could not last 24 hours, needed weeks/months to recover.

But I've always wanted to share my life with a dog and I've been in a somewhat better space over the past year or so, and I thought I could maybe handle it better. I told myself 'if I can just get through that 24 hours I'll realise it's okay and it will all work out.' Anon I cannot tell you where this thinking came from, but it was wrong. Idk why past me was kind of naive enough to think this way but here we are.

No, after that 24 hours, it got temporarily better, and then I slammed into consecutive meltdowns, each one worse than the next, until the people around me were afraid for my life. I am still recovering from some of the harm I inflicted on myself during the last three weeks and likely will be for some time to come. The combination of a really intense PTSD relapse, as well as not being able to handle (as an AuDHD person) intense changes to my schedule basically compounded and I broke.

I made the decision to rehome Toby, and first contacted the people around me. Glen's mum said she wanted a dog, and had been specifically looking into dogs like Toby anyway, and so we decided this would be best because then I could still be involved (I love Toby to pieces).

After getting some space, I finally started to adjust, and have gone back to having Toby about 4~ days a week, with a view to going to about 6 days, with one day spent with my mum, or Glen's mum.

Today is the first day I was able to handle having him on my own for around 9.5 hours. And I'm here and able to write about it, so that's progress. He'll be here all day Sunday, and then Tues-Weds-Thurs-Friday. And from there a decision will be made as to where I'm at with my mental health etc.

I'm a bit more hopeful now that I might be able to keep him, but my PTSD is still very very bad. I'm having some nights where I'm simply not sleeping until 7.30am (even if he's not here), and my hypervigilance is crazy. Like, I am having so many auditory flashbacks it's stupid. So this is why I've been saying this break hasn't been very restful or productive. Because my mental health tanked like I detonated a landmine inside myself.

I didn't actually plan the two week break for Toby! That was just a coincidence honestly.

Unfortunately I have a lot of health conditions that respond very poorly to stress, so I'm dealing with those now too. And then additionally, in all of this, I had a breast scan / mammogram / ultrasound that has confirmed a suspicious lump I found a couple of months ago (breast cancer runs in the family), and I suspect I'm going to need a biopsy. I'll find out on Monday if that's the case. That's been in the background and hasn't been helping.

There's some other stuff going on that's not really worth talking about because these are the main things, but that's a good picture I think. It turns out 'just getting through the first 24 hours' doesn't magically make a severe PTSD trigger go away. And that forced exposure is not 'exposure therapy' - that's just reinforcing a trigger.

Anyway! I feel like I'm through the worst of it, and I am seeing glimpses of how my life could be richer if I keep getting through this. But...that's why I think another break. *smiles tiredly.* I have to wait a bit now for the PTSD / C-PTSD symptoms to settle down, and I also need to see what's kind of worsened after this. Realistically, with a relapse to this degree, it could take between 3-6 months to really start recovering, or to at least get back to where I was before December.

I hope with all my heart I can get there with Toby by my side. I love him so much.

(I want to add that Toby has never ever been in a position of harm at any point, and in fact I probably put myself in harm's way for his sake, because I wanted to provide solid continuity of care - in case anyone was worried about that).

Er so yeah! But I've picked up my writing again this week and have been able to do some like...things I'd been neglecting, and I feel more human again, I just hope I get some sleep tonight

[cabbagecourt]

The idea that movie Vanessa is supposed to be a parallel to game michael honestly got me crying, like it’s not touched on too much in the fandom how much Michael knew about his father’s crimes or what their relationship was like but the movie brings so many starter points

The emphasis William puts that it’s Vanessa’s fault, her being given Garret’s plane, the fact she knew details of the murders

The hint that she was probably there when it happened?? The way she tried so hard to go against William’s orders in a way that doesn’t directly disobey him out of fear????

Just the way Vanessa seems to be so nostalgic for Freddy’s and knows so much about the place before staring into space and having auditory flashbacks lol

I’m so normal about this blorbo! I’m totally not putting them through Situations tm