#but offering it to suicidally mentally ill people like myself

[pillarsalt]

MAiD is not a mercy -- it's an excuse to refuse to spend money on sick people who need it so their lives can improve. It's a way to guilt vulnerable people who could heal into killing themselves, because apparently needing help from others means you should just die actually. Fuck you, Canadian government.

[oflgtfol]

it is really unfortunate the way suicidality is talked about nowadays because it’s either all a joke so it’s hard to discuss in a serious capacity or it’s so upsettingly serious that you can’t even discuss it without fear of like being institutionalized

[tcookies777]

Where I am now

Many of you have left such kind comments and sent me messages out of concern for my wellbeing. For that, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. I also appreciate your patience as I understand it can be difficult to wait months for a chapter update on a long, tedious fic such as The Anatomy of Love. Your patience for this story is always sincerely appreciated.

I've been struggling for months to find the right words to say. To decide whether to express the ache in my heart or draw lines and stay silent. But while a part of me wishes to say little to nothing on the matter out of a sense of shame, the better part of me recognizes that conversations like the one I'm about to raise are something that needs to be discussed more. If only to raise awareness of the topic or help destigmatize it. If only to normalize issues like these. If only to just help someone else who might be going through a dark period in their life as well.

It's here that I'll give a final warning of the sensitive topics of this post. So feel free to turn away now if the topic of mental illness might be upsetting.

Trigger warning: suicide and mental illness

Ok, so here goes....

My sister committed suicide. I won't go into details of course, but it was not peaceful or quiet - it was violent, gruesome, and excruciatingly painful. So much so that the police thought it might've been a murder and harshly investigated us, making everything more difficult and traumatizing than it already was.

She had battled with depression for nearly 2 decades, deteriorating far beyond recognition. We had grown estranged over the years of my childhood because she pushed loved ones away, blaming them for the way she turned out but also still relying on them to survive. An awful cycle of codependency.

I myself have been battling with high-functioning depression for the past decade, which is one reason why I struggle to respond to people's messages. From readers, friends, and family alike. I, too, have an issue of pushing people away. Because I'm ashamed for them to see how broken my life is. Because I have seen the way people judge you for having a mental illness. I have witnessed friends, family, and even Healthcare workers gaze upon the mentally ill as if they are a sore sight.

To be honest, I understand both sides; it can also be frustrating to pool all your time, effort and resources into trying to help someone who does not want to be helped. It burns you out. That despite your efforts to fight for that person, they do not fight for themselves and you're forced to watch them deteriorate in a slow, agonizing process.

"At the beginning, you’ll do your best to shoulder all my burdens. At the beginning, you’ll be strong about it. But over time, you’ll come to regret it—you'll come to regret me, and the burden that I have become to you." — Kakashi, Chapter 30 of The Anatomy of Love

On the other side, it's hard to take that step to accept the help offered to you. It's hard to find the strength to meet your loved ones halfway and help them to help you when you hardly have the strength to even get out of bed. Yet, you also feel guilty because it feels as if you are just dragging down those around you.

These are the feelings Kakashi expresses to Sakura in Chapter 30, when he tries to explain the reasons why they cannot and should not pursue a relationship. Guilt and self-loathing are the feelings that have been eating me up inside for years, as they ate at my sister as well.

We were born from a loveless, violent marriage. So we didn't know how to love each other, though we did whether we wanted to or not. Likely it was the trauma that bonded us. But put together, my sister and I were oil and water. Loving someone who is your family but is practically a stranger to you is incredibly difficult and taxing.

Yet, I understood completely. You just don't know how to show love to someone when you were never given love.

But despite my estrangement from my sister, I still love her. Being a 1st generation American often means you have nothing but your family. When you have no house, no savings, no relatives to turn to - just your immediate family - it can be a toxic, tough love where you have only that person whether you like them or not. And in Asian culture, family is especially everything even when it's completely dysfunctional.

So why am I updating TAOL now?

It's mostly for myself. Because it's my own comfort fic that allows me to engage in therapeutic writing. It's a story of loneliness and love of all forms (romantic, sexual, familial, etc). More importantly, it's a story about finding family, finding love, and finding home. Something that I've yearned for all my life.

And it's a story of pursuing happiness even when you think you don't deserve it. It's a story that shows good coping mechanisms and bad coping mechanisms and their consequences. It's a story of picking yourself up by the bootstraps even when you just want to sit and wallow in despair. And it's also a story of embracing the love of those around you and taking their hands when they reach out to you and offer their support.

At its core, The Anatomy of Love is a story about fighting loneliness, self-hatred, guilt, and mental illness with love. With the love of friends and family. And with the love for yourself. Because while it's important to have a strong support system to love and look out for you, it is just as important to love yourself and really put in the effort to take care of yourself. And sometimes that means being ""selfish"" and prioritizing yourself over others.

Why am I saying all this?

I'll admit, I'm uncomfortable revealing the skeletons in my closet to strangers online where everyone can judge and share my secrets. I'm embarrassed to admit that TAOL's themes are projections of my own desires, and for people to know that I write about such things in fanfic because of the fact that I don't have them. But I'm just too insecure to talk to anyone 1 on 1. Not to mention that, unfortunately, it's not that simple to just go to therapy (especially when the healthcare system is broke here).

Most importantly, I hope that if there's anyone out there reading this and going through a shitty point in their lives as well... I hope you are able to take comfort in the fact that you are not alone in this. We individually have our own demons to fight, but we're all fighting the same battle.

I wish I could say it gets better, but there's honestly no guarantee. So many times, I've had to stop myself from telling patients "things'll get better" because that's a promise that we're taught never to make. The truth is no one knows if things really do get better. Personally, I haven't been feeling better at all. For most of my life, people have been telling me it gets better and to just be patient, but every year it actually gets worse and worse. And just when you think things are starting to look up, it instead gets even more worse.

It's tiresome waiting years for things to get better when it seems it's nowhere in sight.

But I'm trying my best to take it day by day. I do my best to get out of bed, go to work, take a proper shower, feed myself. I do my best to love myself - mostly out of fear that what little family I have will one day disappear and I will have no one left to love me. No one but myself.

But sometimes my best does not feel enough. Sometimes I hate myself more days than others.

That's okay, I tell myself. I hate myself today, but I will love myself tomorrow. I will forgive myself eventually. I can be happy eventually. One day at a time.

Because on my better days, I realize that not every person can afford to wait for things to get better. You have to be the one to take the initiative - get off your ass and take that step forward and make things better yourself. All the people around you can offer you all the help that you need, but the most important thing is that YOU have to want to help yourself.

So that's all I am able to say for now. I do apologize if my thoughts are a bit discombobulated. I am still struggling to find my feet when it feels like I'm still drowning under pounding waves of darkness. If you've read this far, I appreciate you taking the time to read this.

Meanwhile, I hope you guys can continue to enjoy reading The Anatomy of Love. The chapter is not entirely to my satisfaction due to the last minute revisions I made, but I wanted a sprinkle of happiness in the moment. I think that's something we all need.

Also, thank you for the messages you have sent me and the comments you left. I'm truly sorry I do not have the courage or strength to respond, but please know I am forever grateful and touched that people would reach out to a stranger like me.

Hope to see you soon,

TCOOKIES

[forbidden-salt]

Breaking the Silence; My Mental Health Story for Worldwide Suicide Prevention Day

By ForbiddenSalt

9/10/2024

Trigger Warning: This blog post discusses suicidal ideation, depression, and mental health struggles. If you are in a vulnerable state, please read with caution, and know that support is available through resources like 988, friends, and loved ones.

Resources and helpful tools for self and loved ones provided below the fold.

My Story:

Suicide Awareness Day holds a deeply personal meaning for me. For years, I struggled silently with suicidal thoughts, depression, and anxiety, unsure of how to ask for help or whether I deserved it. Sharing my story now is not just about raising awareness, but about offering hope to anyone who feels the same weight I once carried.

At the age of 13, I began to experience something many people are hesitant to talk about—suicidal ideation. But it wasn’t until I was in college that I truly realized how dangerous those thoughts had become.

I remember one day when I was walking across campus from class to my dorm, lost in thought, and accidentally stepped off the curb without looking. A car was coming toward me. Instinctively, I jumped back, avoiding an accident. But what happened next startled me more than the near-miss. As I stood on the sidewalk, tears welled up, not because I was relieved, not because I was scared—I was upset that my instincts had saved me. I realized I wasn’t crying because I had narrowly avoided getting hit by a car; I was crying because, in that moment, I wanted to be hit. It would have been an "accident"—a way out without me having to act intentionally.

It dawned on me that this was something much more serious than I had admitted to myself.

This wasn’t the first time I had experienced suicidal thoughts, but it was one of the most shocking moments. I knew I needed help. I sought out a counselor at the campus health center and, for a time, tried therapy. When I went home for a break, I spoke to my doctor, and she prescribed me an SSRI. I confided in my family and was met with mixed reactions—some were supportive, while others expressed concerns about the medication, urging me to stop taking it as quickly as possible. This set up an internal battle for me; I began starting and stopping my medication over the next few months, caught between fear and shame; and eventually quit all together.

Suicidal ideation lingered in the back of my mind for years. I wished for a pause button, a way to make the world stop so I could catch my breath and somehow not fall behind. I dreamed of getting hurt or sick enough to be hospitalized, just so I could take a break from life’s demands. But I never let myself act on those thoughts.

It wasn’t until my mid-20s that things got so bad I returned to therapy. This time, it was different. My new therapist helped me understand that I wasn’t “crazy”—I was carrying the weight of childhood trauma and years of struggling to survive. She diagnosed me with complex PTSD, and for the first time, I felt understood. Her support gave me the strength to make significant changes in my life, including moving to a new state.

There, I found another therapist who continued to guide me through the ups and downs. I started back on an SSRI and have stayed on it ever since. Through this process, I realized that what I had been dealing with wasn’t just emotional—it was also biological. My body wasn’t producing enough serotonin, and my chronic illnesses, were compounding these mental health struggles by denying my body the tools to make its own serotonin and through the weight of the symptoms. Especially for a while before there was any answer or treatment plan in sight.

I went through EMDR therapy, talk therapy, and put in the hard work to heal. I focused on my physical and mental health, fighting for answers and for my life. Slowly, I began to reclaim control. I started to recognize the warning signs of passive suicidal ideation and created an action plan for when those thoughts creep in. I don’t go to therapy as often now, but I still have touch-base appointments in case something changes.

Through this journey, I’ve learned so much about myself and the nature of mental illness. Depression, anxiety, and PTSD were not signs that I was lazy or difficult, though I was often labeled as such. They were symptoms of a much deeper issue. I wish people could see that depression isn’t a mindset or mood and suicidal thoughts are not selfish—they are the final, fatal symptom of a disease.

It took a long time for me to accept that what I went through wasn’t my fault. I wasn’t to blame for the trauma I endured or the way my brain and body responded to it. And if you’re reading this and find yourself in a dark place, I want you to know you are not alone. I know what it’s like to stand in the darkness for so long that it starts to feel like home. But I also know that it is possible to fight back, to heal, and to find hope again.

If you can’t fight for yourself right now, I encourage you to reach out to someone—anyone—who can sit with you in your pain. Let them help you find a therapist, a doctor, or simply help with daily tasks. It might not be the person you expect. For me, one if my company leaders had noticed my depression and helped me find a therapist. I had a best friend who sat with me over the phone while I sobbed broken hearted, encouraging me to seek help if I needed it. That going to the hospital if I needed it wasn’t shameful or weak but brave and admirable. It was my grandmother, who spoke to me daily, reminding me of my faith and offering love when I couldn’t love myself and felt those I loved most didn’t love me.

Faith also played a huge role in my healing. I’ve had my share of questions and anger, but my belief that God could handle my questions and my rage helped me through some of the darkest times. I questioned why my life was going the way it was, why I was feeling the way I did, if He knows everything before it happens, if he’s all powerful why didn’t he step in to change the course of my life away from this. My questions turned to anger and I had to keep reminding myself that God had shoulders big enough for my anger, my tears, my pain. That I could toss all of it at him and he’d still see me still, love me. I never doubted his existence, and honestly to this day I still don’t have all the answers but I’m sure one day I’ll understand and I’ve realized I was still loved even when I couldn’t see it.

My family eventually came around too. Even my dad, who I had thought didn’t believe me, recently admitted how scared he had been for me after he had kept his fears hidden for years since it had gotten bad. We were able to talk and he listened, shared his point of view, and made the effort to understand. He allowed me to assure him I was safe now, I was doing better, and it’s changed our relationship for the better. While I had found my way to stability without knowing if my family believed or supported me, learning my family did care enough to worry, cared enough to learn, and loved me enough to listen even if what I said was hard to hear meant the world to me.

If you’re struggling, know that there is help out there. Call 988 for support, reach out to friends, hug your dog or cat, cling to your faith—whatever gets you through the next moment. Each day is a step, and that’s enough. It doesn’t have to be a leap—it just has to be forward.

Resources for support below:

Here are some coping strategies:

1. Box Breathing: This simple technique can help reduce anxiety. Breathe in for four counts, hold for four, exhale for four, and pause for four. Repeat until your heart rate slows and you feel more grounded. You can do this while on a video call too just let your eyes glide along the edges of the screen while you hold and breathe.

2. Straw Breathing: Another great calming tool—take a deep breath in, and then slowly exhale like you’re blowing through a straw. It mimics the relaxing response of the parasympathetic nervous system and helps you focus.

3. Journaling: I started journaling, reminding myself it didn’t have to be perfect. It was just for me. I stopped feeling guilty if I skipped days or weeks and let the words flow when I needed them. If you struggle with journaling, try creating an anonymous blog where you can rant and vent without worrying about dates or continuity. I have a separate Tumblr just for this—a void I can yell into when I need to.

4. Bilateral Stimulation: Butterfly taps—crossing your arms and tapping on opposite shoulders—helped calm me during moments of stress. This was especially useful during EMDR therapy, which became one of my strongest tools.

5. Creating a Routine: I used to go to the gym to cope before my chronic illness made it harder, so I shifted to art as a form of expression. Creating anything—whether it’s a routine or a creative outlet—can make a difference.

6. Boundaries and Emotions: Learning boundaries and reconnecting with my emotions was vital. One book that really changed my perspective was Rage Becomes Her by Soraya Chemaly, which helped me embrace my anger as a valid emotion. Learn how to advocate for yourself and establish boundaries. This takes time, but it’s one of the most empowering things you can do for your mental health.

7. Prioritize Yourself: Make time for what you need—therapy, the gym, a bath, or a doctor’s appointment. And allow yourself to rest. Your mind and body will force you to stop if you keep ignoring the warning signs.

8. Taking Shortcuts: Too tired to make a proper meal? That’s okay. Eat food however it comes—deconstructed meals are all the rage anyway. I’ve had moments where lunch was just handfuls of cheese and lunch meat. The goal is to nourish yourself, and sometimes that means being kind to yourself about how you do it.

10. Create Safety Nets: If you're heading somewhere that could be triggering, plan for it. What’s your exit strategy? Can you bring a comfort item, like a fidget toy, a blanket, or a stuffed animal? Having a plan can give you a sense of control.

11. Redirecting Negative Thoughts: When I get caught in negative thoughts, I ask myself if these thoughts are helping me process emotions or if they're just hurting me. If I’m not ready to process them, I work on redirecting my focus to something more helpful.

13. Emotional Support Animals: If you can, get an emotional support animal. My mini schnauzer has helped me through so much, even though she doesn’t know it.

How can I help a loved one:

1. Listen First: Before jumping to solutions, take time to listen. Validate the person's feelings, and let them process before suggesting how to fix things. Most of the time, they already know the solution; they just need space to work through it.

2. Stop Shaming Mental Health: Be mindful of how you talk about mental health. I’ve overheard loved ones shaming people for being "selfish" or "foolish" for being depressed, anxious, suicidal and even those that did commit suicide not knowing how often it was on my mind. Those words made it even harder to speak up and ask for help.

3. Fear and Guilt Are Not Helpful Tools: Fear and guilt are not effective motivators when it comes to mental health. I once told someone close to me that I didn’t believe people who commit suicide go to hell. Just as someone who passes from cancer doesn’t go to hell for how they died, I believe the same for depression—it’s an illness. They responded that they hoped fear of hell would keep me from acting on those thoughts. I explained that, by the time someone is ready to act, they likely don’t care anymore. The weight of the pain is overwhelming, and fear or guilt won’t pull them back.

4. Recognize the Signs: Suicidal ideation, passive suicidal ideation, and suicidal plans are all dangerous and need treatment and support. It may begin with passive thoughts like, “I wouldn’t mind if I didn’t wake up tomorrow,” but those can shift into active planning if left unchecked. Just because someone hasn’t acted on it doesn’t mean they don’t need help. Depression doesn't always look the same for everyone. It could be messy rooms, low energy, or a lack of interest in things that once brought joy. It could also look like reckless behavior, withdrawing, or joking about death. These subtle signs shouldn’t be brushed off—they’re as important as overt cries for help and worth a check as little as “hey you keep making these jokes, I just want to make sure you really are okay?” If someone is talking about feeling hopeless, giving away possessions, withdrawing from loved ones, or engaging in risky behavior, these are red flags.

5. Offer practical support: Whether it’s helping with daily tasks, providing a ride to a therapy appointment, or just sitting quietly with them, practical support can be a lifeline.

6: Encourage professional help: Gently suggest therapy, medical care, or other professional help if the person hasn’t already sought it. Be patient and compassionate, understanding that reaching out can be terrifying for them.

7. Be present: Sometimes the best thing you can do is just be there. Your physical and emotional presence can provide comfort, even when there are no words.

If you have a loved one who you worry is going through something, or has confided in you and you are worried for them. Don’t wait. Speak to them. Ask them how you can help, what’s going on, listen. If you’re afraid for them, even after they have gotten to the other side, don’t let your fears tear at you for months, tell them then listen and trust that when they say they are good, have come out the other side have an action plan for when they notice the signs - belive them. If you can’t let it go still, seek your own support. The fear of loosing someone you care about is worthy of attention. If you’re reading this because someone you love is struggling with suicidal thoughts, thank you for caring. Supporting someone with suicidal ideation can be incredibly difficult, but your presence matters more than you might realize.

If you or someone you love is struggling, find Resources for Support:

1. National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: Dial 988 for immediate help in the U.S. Available 24/7.

2. Crisis Text Line: Text HOME to 741741 to connect with a trained crisis counselor.

3. The Trevor Project: Focused on supporting LGBTQ+ youth, The Trevor Project offers crisis intervention and suicide prevention services. Text START to 678678 or visit their website.

4. NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Illness): NAMI provides free, confidential support for mental health concerns. Call the NAMI Helpline at 1-800-950-NAMI or text NAMI to 741741.

5. The Jed Foundation: Focused on mental health support for teens and young adults, the Jed Foundation works to protect emotional health and prevent suicide. Visit jedfoundation.org for more information.

6. The Veterans Crisis Line: Veterans and their loved ones can call 988 and press 1 or text 838255 for confidential support. Available 24/7.

Suggestions for Keeping Yourself Safe:

1. Create a safety plan: Write down a plan for when suicidal thoughts occur. This could include calling a trusted friend, therapist, family, distracting yourself with an activity you enjoy, or going to a safe place where you can feel grounded and making an appointment with your doctor.

2. Reach out to a support network: Whether it’s friends, family, or a therapist, let someone know how you’re feeling. It’s important not to isolate yourself when you’re struggling.

3. Remove means: If you’re feeling unsafe, remove items that could be harmful or ask someone you trust to hold onto them temporarily. There is no shame in this ever.

4. Practice grounding techniques: When suicidal thoughts take over, try grounding yourself with techniques like deep breathing, focusing on your senses, or engaging in mindfulness exercises. These can help bring you back to the present moment. Call on your faith if you need to to get by, play with your pet anything to help you get grounded and move through the feeling

5. Remember that feelings pass: In the heat of the moment, it can feel like the pain will last forever. But emotions are temporary, and feelings—even the darkest ones—eventually pass. That feelings are normal and natural and have no moral judgement, feel it, acknowledge it, and let it move through knowing another feeling will come your way take its place.

Recovery isn’t pretty, and life isn’t perfect; but you are worth fighting for.

[misscammiedawn]

I want to talk a little about Suicidality. More importantly, how to talk to those experiencing it.

This is a heavy topic, though. It's under a readmore.

Massive content warning for suicide discussion.

I am of the firm belief that we need to talk about this. Not talk around it or signal how bad it is as this will not enable people the space to discuss without judgment. It's a tough topic. I think about it ALL THE TIME and never talk about it. It just keeps the thoughts in my head. I want to speak. I don't need to be heard. I just want to speak.

When I get really bad and start relapsing I spiral hard. Sometimes that spiral will push me away from loved ones, sometimes it'll trigger a bout of picking at emotional wounds that have scabbed over but more often than not I seek sources of comfort that do not require other humans.

Sometimes I talk to therapy chatbots so I can spew my emotions out at someone who will not be burdened or remember it-- this is for when I know it's a temporary storm and I need present relief without permanent consequence.

Sometimes I look online for messages that can ground me. Those "reasons not to die" inspirational videos and I typically close them the moment they make broad and reaching assumptions.

"You're loved"

"You have so much to offer"

"You're important"

Because they do so much harm to me. I don't know if they do good things for other people but I am fully cognizant of the fact that these people are shooting empty platitudes into the air. Which means when people who do know me say these things, I cannot fully trust that they are not just saying the words that society have conditioned them to say to people in pain.

When someone says these lines are they offering perspective that my mentally ill irrationality has left me blind to or is it telling me what they think I want to hear?

Every time a perfect stranger who has never known my life or my heart tells me these things it makes those words and sentiments weaker.

I can't speak to any experience other than my own. But I am a contradiction. I've passively desired death continually since I was a teenager. I have lived more years with the desire to end myself than I have with the desire to live. Over half my life since a turning point that opened a door in me that can never be closed.

I'm not going anywhere. The Event also instilled in me a lifelong commitment that I will never do to others what was done to me. I refuse.

But it gives me a perspective that makes the struggle all the more painful to me.

I desire and detest the final exit.

So the guilt trip doesn't work either. I know how it makes people feel. I've lived that. The thought of doing it to another person makes me... feel like shit. Which just feeds that evil dragon that whispers dark secrets in my ear. The more I am guilted, the worse I feel. The worse I feel, the weaker my resolve becomes.

So if you cannot positively or negatively influence a person with the potential of regrets and appeals to emotion. What can you do?

The obvious answer is listen.

That does help.

But I'd be a hypocrite if I took my worst impulse and fed it into a ELIZA chatbot and preached for other people to listen. Clearly I am denying those in my life the opportunity to do that for me, half because I know the pain of hearing someone talk about those topics and half because, as mentioned, I do not wish for permanent consequences to temporary emotions.

The other step is that I am desperate for someone to condone it.

If I could go back and have an honest to god conversation about things, with the people who instilled this hatred of suicide into me. I don't think I'd try to change things. I'd just want to hear why, understand it and say "I really wish you wouldn't, but I understand why you want to."

PhilosophyTube's episode on the topic has been sitting rent free in my head for years.

It's the simplist and most powerful phrase in the english language, I think: “I understand how you feel.” I've been up there. I've flown that mission. I fly it a hell of a lot. And you're not necessarily bad or broken inside just because they're sending you up. So you fly safe, Cosmonauts. - Abigail Thorn

I don't want to kill myself. I don't want anyone to kill themselves. But all of the talk, all of the activism, all of the push for suicide prevention. It focuses on stopping a person with a desperate desire to escape their circumstances, their pain, their existence and it asks them to not act on those desires.

There's no version of events where the desire itself is treated. Even when a person has no drive to follow-through, the desire doesn't truly go away. Decades of therapy, better life conditions and reasons to live haven't made it go away for me.

At my worst, I research it. Run the numbers. Live the fantasy. The information I got from ethical exit resources lives with me. I know exactly what to do, what to buy from Wal-Mart. On one hand I feel empowered by the fact that I have control in that I can do it and I choose not to. Some days that gives me comfort. Other days I curse 2020 Camden for researching that forbidden knowledge and burdening us with it here in the present.

A hard thing I had to do recently in trauma therapy was write down the full list of actions I'd take and send it to people I love so they could recognize the steps if I started to take them. That flooded us with shame. Also inspired some of the need to talk about it.

But still, I don't really regret poisoning myself with the knowledge of how to do it, even if it most certainly is a detriment to me.

Because "I understand" is just a sentence. "I've been there" is just a sentiment.

What gets me through. What helps me survive?

It's feeling like I have a choice and that when I'm hurting and desiring to scratch that itch, I can ask myself "do you want to go to Wal-Mart?" knowing full well I'll get that sharp and angry "NO!" in reply.

Because there's something else I learned in that "forbidden research".

One of the doctors who was involved in activism for Canada's MAiD laws (and was imprisoned for helping people attain The Final Exit) was on a podcast talking about their view on euthanasia and when they feel it is inhumane to let someone live. They spoke about the cruelty of keeping someone in suffering tethered to life for the comfort of the surviving family and noted that guilt was not a good motivator and would only cause further knee-jerk reactions and defensive behaviors.

So he told a good story about someone who he helped.

"Can you imagine having one more happy memory?"

The person at the end of their life spoke about the pain they were in, the way their mind was giving in on them, the sad faces surrounding them all of the time and the fact that all the memories of vibrance and life were being replaced by this slow downward spiral as the months dragged on. There were joys of seeing loved ones and there were comforts and conversations and then... dying became routine. Expected and inevitable and there were no more fresh and beautiful experiences to be found in the process of dying. Only pain.

When the patient knew without a doubt that they would never have another happy memory to enjoy before the end they said they were ready to go and no one around them could argue.

It was a bittersweet story but it stuck with me.

2001 was the first time we acted self-destructively. We have had spirals, even since hearing that story in 2020 (one even started us writing this post), but I considered hearing it while on the edge of the knife to be the moment I reaffirmed the knowledge I'd never do the deed.

2001-2020 our motivation was in pain. In knowing what it's like to get that call from the hospital. To have to be buzzed in to the mental ward to visit the shame-filled loved one who needs all of your love and understanding and you silently ask yourself "is it selfish for me to feel hurt? Who will even comfort me in this time?" to take responsibility and be strong when everything is falling apart...

I can't. I won't. Never. Never EVER.

That kept us safe for a long time. But it made the storms so hard to weather and it made that thought at the back of our head insist "we'll do it eventually"

In 2020, when we knew we were an hour's shopping trip away from the edge, that story gave us something to dream. "Hey, idiot, we're working so hard to transition. Why would we give up now?" and, yes, the process of transitioning damned near killed us... but it wouldn't always be hating ourselves and feeling like the journey was impossible. We could climb Mount Celeste. Just give it a year. A month. Another day.

Can you still imagine us happy?

If you can, then live another day. Just carry on. As long as you can imagine a world where you have one more happy memory it's worth the pain of today.

I don't know if this will strike everyone the same way it did me. But it helped. So much. In a world where all the creature comforts like concerts and cinemas were stripped and we spent weeks and weeks alone indoors going quietly crazy and growing terrified of a hostile world that was about to see an attempted insurrection in the near future, it was so easy to be consumed by darkness and give in completely...

And I think we've done okay. Fine enough. I doubt life will ever live up to what was hoped or imagined. Things will always be a struggle. Things will always be tense and hard. But there will always be moments. New happy memories. I owe the me of yesterday the smiles of today and I owe the me of tomorrow the ability to experience those smiles.

I don't need to be told I am loved, I am valuable, I am all the things that my illness refuses to let me believe.

I just need to know that I have experienced happiness in the past and it's not impossible for me to experience it again.

That'll keep me going.

[lookingfornoonat2pm]

One of the things that has been fucking me up the most about Aaron Bushnell's self-immolation is how much I connect to it.

And I want to say that what follows is not meant as a correct take. It is not meant as an opinion or a corrective or as advice or even as wisdom. It may even be outright and absolutely negative. But it must be said, and I must say it.

During the height of the Covid-19 Pandemic, as I was working in total isolation as a mental health professional, I thought about self-immolation a non-trivial amount. I thought about going to the CDC headquarters and lighting myself on fire as a protest against privatized medicine. The failure to provide free healthcare during the pandemic is, to me, one of the most monumental failures of our government, and of our society, in my lifetime. It is a failure to which I feel deeply connected. As a disabled person, as a professional, and as a child of a mother and a brother of a brother, my body and heart scream from the pain of knowing that all of us are alone when we are in ill health. I fantasized that my death could provide a flashpoint around which there could be a rallying cry for meaningful change.

I was also deeply afraid and alone, as so many of us were during the years from 2020 to 2023. Such fantasies, as they often do for the suicidal, offered a fantasy of escape and of righteousness when I worked as part of an indefensible system.

Even writing about this feels like spitting on the cause of Palestinian liberation and of the end of Israel's genocide against the Palestinian people--because I am making a post about myself and about my own experiences.

But what compels me to write all of this is that, as a mental health professional, I cannot stomach the idea that we are all just going to write Aaron Bushnell off as "sick" or "unwell." I'm not even convinced it is proper to call his death a suicide, in the sense we use to refer the terminal ends of depression and despair. We must be able to think and to write and to understand spiritual and political life outside and beyond the medical or the clinical or the merely pleasurable or painful.

We MUST be able to acknowledge the truth of sacrifice. People really do sacrifice for things that are greater than themselves, and such sacrifices are not sick, or wrong, or delusional.

The irony of my demand for universal healthcare coming along with my demand to take seriously the human being beyond the medical is not lost on me. But the contradiction is only apparent. Below both of these--the call for a political and spiritual life beyond the medical or the financial, AND the demand for the provision of the human right to medical care--is a profound belief in the absolute dignity of the free human person. And it is in fact the ongoing war machine, of which the Israeli genocide is a part, that is the other side of the machine which denies me and my clients and my fellow citizens a meaningfully free social world.

If you see Aaron Bushnell's death, and the people who acknowledge and honor his martyrdom, and think that this somehow justifies your own suicidal ideas or fantasies, I beg you to reconsider. If you see Aaron Bushnell's death, and think that the best thing you can do is die for a noble cause, I beg you to think about how much more your living body can do than your dead body can. But I cannot and I will not accept the idea that we must think of sacrifice as meaningless. Aaron Bushnell did not die for nothing, and I, and millions of people like me, will see to it that he did not.

[northern-passage]

cw: mention of suicide

not sure how many of you are into traditional horror games (or more specifically the indie horror game scene)

and while i don’t usually play these games myself i enjoy watching playthrus on youtube and one of the games that circulated pretty recently was MADiSON, as well as martha is dead, and less recently was the blair witch.

all 3 of these games have 2 things in common: they are “psychological horror” and they all have suicide endings.

i hated all of these games. i think if i had to choose, martha is dead is the one i hate the most. but i don’t want to talk about that specifically (we’d be here all day)

it’s very obvious that there’s a trend towards “psychological horror” or as they call it in film for some reason, “elevated horror” and i think it’s fair to say that that’s true for IF as well. i don’t think that’s a bad thing, i like psychological horror, i don’t really have a preference to be quite honest; what i dislike, though, is the demonization of mental illness.

it’s always been a problem in the horror genre, but now i think it’s shifted slightly in a less direct way. i started thinking about this because i was watching a review about the blair witch project game, and she opens up the video talking about the ending, as well as MADiSON’s.

she made some really interesting points that i think are worth repeating. i know up until recently i had a “sanity” mechanic in tnp - it served a purpose, and it still does, but it never really needed to be labelled that way.

the reviewer even makes a comment about how mental health has been reduced to a “bleak soft magic system” - a game mechanic, a setting for people to play around in, a setting where bad things can happen for no reason other than it’s dark and edgy and shocking.

her criticism essentially boiled down to: mental illness isn’t your playground to experiment in, to spitball ideas for your horror game, it isn’t a toy you can pick up and play with. it’s not a game mechanic, it’s something that real people live with every single day. and that really resonated with me and put into words what i couldn’t.

tnp revolves around the hunter and their mental health - it’s an important part of their character, and impacts the way they interact with their companions and the wider world of the game, as well as how they deal with the rot. and with it being fantasy, it definitely blurs the line - is it magic? is it their imagination? is it the rot/their illness? was the hunter the killer all along?

mental illness can be scary. but it’s also manageable. it is not Thee Horror at the end of this book. and i think that’s important to remember when writing some of these horror stories. what is the point of mentioning this here, in this specific story - is it just for shock? is it just to imply and emphasize some imagined horror about the mentally ill? is it just to slap “dark themes” in the description, to grab the attention of some edgy readers? or is it actually serving a purpose in the narrative, offering something of substance beyond “mental illness scary”? beyond “dark and edgy” just for the sake of it?

here is the original video. i haven’t finished it, but the opening 10 minutes is where she discusses the trend of “suicide endings.”

it definitely made me pause and think about how i’ve approached things in tnp, and definitely made me regret not changing the humanity mechanic sooner.

[crush-zombie]

Where I am in life? Things that have happened. The continuing circus of the wild west of my existence. It's a long post ;

I lived in Ontario for three years, from 2018 to 2022, in a couple of places.

The friend I was supposed to move in with, to ease my spiralling depression, backed out at the last moment with threats. The "you're lucky I'm not around or I'd beat your ass" kind of threats, because I refused to give up and let despair engulf me.

I ended up in the basement of a friend of my mother's for a year. For apartment-finding (and legal) reasons I had my sister (and her partner) come as well, and after a year of searching and filling out applications the three of us got kicked out. We stayed in the woods by a highway for a week before getting sent to a homeless shelter.

2 months there was bad. The details probably aren't necessary, but it was dehumanizing.

After that we ended up in one of Canada's "hot spots" for Covid when the pandemic broke out. It took about a month there before my sister's partner started (continuing to) abuse me. My sister didn't care. My illness(es) had been intensifying all throughout those years, but they really hit a fever pitch at this time. I spent a lot of time gasping on the floor.

Along with my illness(es), during all this time I was struggling with suicidal feelings and urges. That's why I moved to Ontario to begin with-- I hoped things would be better there somehow, like a complete idiot ;

After threats from my sister and her partner a friend back in Newfoundland offered me an out. I returned, tail between my legs and my dog, who I dragged through all this chaos, was getting so old he can barely walk. My energy was so, so low and I put just about all of it into caring for him.

About 6 months into living with my friend she unloaded all her issues with me (that I studied like a motherfucker, because I am and always am convinced that I'm the problem in everything)-- that I eat too much, I don't clean the house enough, I'm "disrespectful" (conversely another friend often tells me I'm "too polite"), I "over parent" her daughter (this still confuses me), that she didn't believe I was disabled, that covering for my old, sickly dog was disgusting. I spiralled very hard, and got brought out to the dining room table to be told all the things I should be doing and what I was doing wrong. Immediately afterwards I started planning my suicide. My dearest (internet) friend kept me from death, but in its place I started developing an eating disorder, eating nothing but one meal a day (which sometimes didn't happen) and being nearly bedbound with hunger and exhaustion every day. I started cleaning the house, sweeping, tidying, doing the dishes and folding laundry for the two other adults and one child in the house. No-one complained. I'm convinced everyone in the world would be flattered to have someone bend to their neuroses.

When I forced myself to stop believing I was disabled I lost the language to describe my experiences. I ended up with a counselor in a matter of a week because of my mental state, and he had the unfortunate and arduous job of piecing my shattered mind back together. It's still missing bits... rough in a lot of places.

April of last year, I had to put my dog down. I was spending all my time taking care of him because he couldn't even stand anymore, and the vet really laid it down for me: this was it. So... Even just writing about it puts a lump in my throat and hot tears in my eyes. Grief is hellish agony, maybe the worst I've ever experienced. "I wouldn't be surprised," my counselor said, "you loved that dog more than most people love their own children."

In June I moved again. Currently I'm renting a room with a bunch of dirty 20-something-year-olds who do nothing but smoke weed all day every day and spend 8 AM every morning coughing until they urge, so I roll over and stuff ear plugs in my ears. At least they seem to be good people, and they know to keep their noses out of my business. And $600 for a single room and access to a (disgusting) bathroom, a (disgusting) kitchen and a (disgusting) laundry room with everything included is far, far from the worst I've had. I'm poor, but... it's something, and something isn't nothing.

[nerves-nebula]

being suicidal is pretty funny sometimes. pretty much everyone in my family who doesn't die of cancer dies by suicide. got all my matrilineal grandmas for the past like 200 years, plus mom's dad, an uncle, a cousin on my dad's side, etc. mom's tried before. people in my family love to kill themselves it's like our one uniting pastime transcending all politics and opinions. me n my siblings all have that mental illness mental hospital patient swag too but i got on meds that work seven years ago and i've been golden since. written a bunch of fiction about characters dealing with generational curses and suicidality and chronic pain and grief. have had people tell me that those stories saved them and/or gave them strength at extremely dark times in their lives.

which is awesome except now my immune system has started trying to kill me, i guess as a punishment for not ending things when i was 15. which is making me suicidal for the first time in ages. but this time it's for extremely reasonable reasons of, like, 'you can only lose so much of your brain function and ability to move and capacity for pain before it's just simple logic to die about it.' got an OC i project alla that on so i can write it when i can write, which is hit-or-miss due to the aforementioned brain function stuff, but it's like. NOW if i kill myself everyone who was helped by my writing is gonna think it was all a lie and that life really is hopeless bc if i couldn't escape the generational curse then why should they, and it's just. like. no guys i SWEAR i meant it and still do mean it. it's still relevant for you. i am just dying for reasons that are completely unrelated. chill out

anyway i'm not allowed to die by suicide OR by autoimmune disease because i too have been forbidden by my life partners, & it would actually ruin their lives if i did, so i'm not in danger or anything. most of the time i'm very well-adjusted and coping excellently. and i hope you're taking care of yourself as well. it's just like DAMN. i really gotta fight EVERY GODDAMN DAY for the next SIXTY YEARS?? EVERY GODDAMN DAY?? AM I NOT ALLOWED ONE FUCKING BREAK,

man that sucks ASS. i mean. it's like kind of funny that your entire family lineage appears to be fucking cursed. but in a "god that sucks" kind of way not a "haha" way.

NOW if i kill myself everyone who was helped by my writing is gonna think it was all a lie and that life really is hopeless bc if i couldn't escape the generational curse then why should they, and it's just. like. no guys i SWEAR i meant it and still do mean it. it's still relevant for you. i am just dying for reasons that are completely unrelated. chill out

anyway i'm not allowed to die by suicide OR by autoimmune disease because i too have been forbidden by my life partners, & it would actually ruin their lives if i did, so i'm not in danger or anything.

these are hella fuckin relatable. the main reasons i cant kms are

girlfriend would be so sad :(

it means i wasted ppls money sending me to college

if i kms then who will finish my comics???? who will talk casually about incest on this damn webbed site???

i often describe it as less of wanting to kms and more like i want a break from life. like a nice coma or something. or the ability to skip over periods of time. UNFORTUNATELY i must SUFFER to LIVE. SAD oh well guess I'll embrace the good and bad the world has to offer, as if I have a CHOICE!!

[compo67]

struggle bus

this is a mental health/chronically ill post/personal info dump

cn for suicidal ideations, bipolar disorder, depression, mental health

my therapist is on leave for a month, so in the meantime, i'm meeting with my DBT group leader for therapy once a week

the mental health struggle has been real this past month. lots of depression, anxiety, and voices that get so loud that tell me what's even the point of living

i struggle a lot with managing my bipolar disorder and depression. i struggle with getting dressed and showered most days. even the stimulants i'm on don't help as much as they used to before. i spent all day last saturday asleep or crying. i lost a whole day of working on my big bang, something really important to me, because i just couldn't wrangle my brain into functioning in a positive or healthy way

i'm hopeful about sitting with my psychiatrist this thursday and talking about switching antidepressants and maybe upping either the mood stabilizer or the anti-psychotic

i'm also hopeful that he'll be on board with one of the two treatments my other providers have recommended: keta and TMS

both are concerning to me, but they're both recommended for treatment resistant depression

i can't hardly picture what it's like not to be depressed

i know this might be weird to read, because i write such happy/romantic stuff, but it has been a continuous struggle to deal with being so depressed, especially in the past 2 years

i can't keep up writing or my patreon as much as i want to because i'm either too depressed or in too much pain and i just... feel like i let people down because of it

i have been avoiding doing really important paperwork (applying for financial hardship assistance and LTD stuff)

now it *has* to be turned in and the deadline is looming

coming back to this post a few hours later and i feel a bit better sharing this. it's important to me that i share not just the happy stuff but the other stuff that's going on too

i know i will get out of this spiral/flare. it's going to take time and effort, but i *want* to do it

it just gets really hard sometimes

especially when i'm under so much pressure from financial stress

like, i am doing my best to take my benefits and dig myself out of debt while at the same time trying to stay afloat with things like my car payment, car insurance, gas, phone bill, groceries, medical/dental premiums, medical expenses, and everything else

i am hopeful that doing some light SP work will be another income stream and lessen the pressure, but i can't depend on that until you know... i actually start. and who knows how many hours or projects i'll be offered and can physically do?

this flare up has just been awful. i've been flared up since the end of march and prednisone is not doing the trick, which means it's not inflammation, it's probably just EDS

i say just EDS like it's a cold or something when it's a genetic debilitating disorder/syndrome

i think EDS is one of my biggest struggles. it just takes so much energy to keep my joints together

sigh

i just want to be back working full-time, thriving and surviving on my own

but it's not possible at the moment

if i go back to work too soon, i'm just going to wind up in the same place i was in 2021--a big mess

i've been on and am still on the struggle bus

even if it's a struggle bus, i still want to stay on a bus

i still want to be "here"

even if some voices get really loud and try to convince me otherwise

if you made it this far reading, please know i appreciate it

you didn't have to read this but you did and therefore, i <3 you

things will get better.

[ina-nis]

The barriers to accessing treatment keep on pilling up...

“Affordable” therapy that isn’t really affordable. Therapists who offer low cost and/or sliding fee are limited to certain places and professionals, and the waiting times are immoral.

The “specialties” are focused on resolving “simpler” issues that impact quality of life. Even when you can find something more particular (such as trauma-informed, or queer-specific), it only goes skin-deep.

Maybe this is how I see things now, since I have years of treatment on my back. Personally, it feels like it’s not enough, it doesn’t reach the root of the issue and... I’m on a stalemate.

There’s 2 things that feel especially sour for me, considering my personal circumstances: the fact that professionals (and clinics themselves) are not willing to take upon patients that are suicidal, and the fact that all therapy is supposed to do is to get a person to achieve a degree of functioning and decrease suffering.

In the latter, I feel I’m 100% functional. I can take care of myself, I’m lucid and I’m able to do basically everything on my own (taking into account limitations due to physical and other psychological conditions). I’m already doing everything within my power to “decrease suffering” that is... all those things you see out there about exercising, diet, hobbies, going outside regularly, sleep hygiene, self-care, etc... they all, indeed, decrease suffering.

I’m still suffering though. At times, I feel like it’s worsening actually, the activities I engage with to “decrease suffering” end up having the opposite effect so... I feel like, slowly, some of those activities are augmenting suffering instead.

It makes sense considering treatments and “solutions” for all kinds of issues have “standards” and these standards, in practice, don’t really apply to everyone.

When I was in the process of getting a diagnosis for chronic pain, I was told I “should exercise more”. Yeah... I guess I didn’t think about that, huh? The funny thing is that I’ve been always a very active person, one of the reasons I started pursuing a diagnosis was because I was unable to exercise.

I guess it’s trickier in the realm of mental illnesses, because oftentimes, they’re “invisible” conditions. Of course, a doctor will see me suicidal and suffering and assume my sleep/diet is bad, I don’t exercise, don’t go outside and don’t have any hobbies. When you do tell them that, then the answer is “therapy”.

And you go to therapy, where the exact same assumptions will occur because that’s usually how it goes.

My impression so far is that I need to do everything “harder” and “stronger”, as if I were doing those activities lightly, and this is why they’re not working. The intensity or amount don’t really make a difference in my suffering, but it will surely leave me more and more exhausted. And it’s all such a horrible trigger for obsessive-compulsive behaviours: I obsess over sleeping well (so I put myself through a very strict schedule), I obsess over my diet (I have a million eating disorders), I obsess over exercising and my hobbies and going outside (so I force myself to do these things whether I want it or not), I obsess over self-care (so the inside of my head is a echo-chamber, from which I can’t escape), and so on...

Not surprisingly, my sleep is shit, my diet is shit, and everything else is also harming me in a way or another, but I (feel like I) need to keep on going because “this is also part of the treatment”.

The other piece, suicidality, from what I understand, is about professionals and spaces not wanting to take accountability or be held responsible for someone else’s life - many explicitly will exclude people who are “in active psychosis” or “suffering with homicidal or suicidal urges”, etc, so... the patients need to have some degree of functionality, and achieve some level of “normalcy” to be able to receive treatment.

Well, okay then, what are the options for me? I’m suicidal but I’m no in imminent danger of dying so I don’t want to access mental health crisis resources because they would not be helpful for me in my current state. At the same time, this is something that’s affecting both my quality of life and functioning as I’m unable to, among other things, seek and maintain stable employment or a support system. Trapped in poverty, unable to afford treatment as well, and so on... predictably, all things that increase suicidality.

I either have to lie to, maybe, receive treatment, mention suicide during therapy and have it become a shitshow because the therapist thinks I’m going to die ASAP, don’t listen to me and everything goes to shit. Or I do mention it beforehand and am barred from receiving care altogether until I’m “stable enough”. Regardless, I feel like I have to lie and water down my issues to be seen as “normal” and palatable and not have my autonomy taken away from me.

The last thing, and I guess the thing that stings the most, is the fact that anything that doesn’t “improve” with the most common styles of treatment, therapy, coping skills and self-care approaches, fall into “treatment resistant” territory.

To me, the answer and the reason why that happens is quite simple: it gets to a point that it’s not an individual fault anymore.

I have to believe in this. I’m doing already everything I can to get better, if I’m not getting better there must be another explanation that doesn’t have to do with me and my efforts. I have had my share of self-blaming and it didn’t help, it never does. At least blaming literally anything or anyone other than myself doesn’t corner me into despair. I can try and have some hope I’ll find a way out.

Maybe you think it’s hard to believe? Society is built upon ableism, culturally, socio-economically and more. Oh, I wonder why things like schizophrenia, eating disorders and depression are so hard to treat... I’m sure it has nothing to do with stigma, sanism and demonization of mental disorders, neurodivergent and fat people, it also has nothing to do with increasing rates of violence and discrimination, oppression, capitalism, the political climate, the environment that’s falling apart... I could keep going.

In my personal case: personality disorders are deemed difficult (if not straight up impossible) to treat, and people with personality disorders are to be avoided at all costs, left to remain marginalized or just thrown under the bus, as collateral damage or worse. Who the fuck cares about these “sickos”, right?

I care. I have to care.

As it stands, my mind is set on dying so I need to keep on going despite it all. It’s hard... experiencing rejection upon rejection, so many doors closing, so many opportunities gone to waste, so much time that has been lost and can’t be recovered. Trying the best I can, doing all these things that are supposed to help, smiling through it all, being positive through it all, trying to keep my head up and stay optimistic through it all.

My mind, I, don’t see another way out. It’s just a matter of time now.

I’m sure I would definitely improve with the right treatment, the right professional and the right amount of time - I know I would because I still feel like I’m so close to finding a satisfactory answer(s) - but when I’m faced with reality, the lack of a support system gets to me, and so do all these barriers to accessing treatment, and so does existing in a society that either/or don’t care about me, don’t see me and don’t want me here.

I don’t want to die, and I don’t want to live a miserable life either.

It is all really painful after all...

[friendofthecrows]

The problem: Having a mental breakdown/BAD intrusive thoughts/feeling suicidal BUT I have an assignment I need to get done.

These two things are probably unrelated, but the first is making it nearly impossible to do the second. I desperately want help but have no idea who to ask or how anyone could even help.

Please do not DM me offering to talk. I usually really appreciate it when people do that, but I feel like I have been taking more than I am giving and I can't let any of you help that way right now. If you try, I will not respond.

Advice on what the hell I even do in this situation in the notes is fine, however. I feel like I make the wrong decisions every time a conflict between my mental health and real-world responsibilities comes up, which is a recurring theme due to my being Very Mentally Ill. I am often having some sort of crisis. This makes it difficult to do things reliably, but I Need To. You cannot challenge the idea that I need to get things done and be functional. I understand it's harmful to tie your worth to productivity, but my brain is going But Not For ME, I cannot let myself be useless. (evil bad harmful thoughts. do not think these thoughts.)

[txemrn]

Until You Love Me

Chapter 2: I See Other People...

🖤 We're just getting started! Catch up here!

Pairings: Ethan Ramsey x f!MC (Casey Valentine); f!MC (Casey Valentine) x f!OC (Tatum Erikson)

Series Summary: Constantly worried about Ethan's faithfulness, Casey Valentine's paranoia reaches an all-time high when she meets a blast from his past.

Chapter Summary: Trying to make sense of Tatum's unusual behavior, Casey tries to spy on her as she interacts with Ethan

Music Inspo: "Paparazzi" - Kim Dracula

Word Count: ~2500

Rating/Warnings: 🔞 Mature Audiences Only🔞 This miniseries will contain NSFW material (🍋), infidelity, language, discussion and/or depiction of medical situations, gaslighting, mental abuse & illness, suicide, violence, criminal activity; alcohol use

A/N: I am participating in week 2 of @choicesflashfics prompt challenge! I chose prompt #2: “I can’t believe you would even think to leave me like this.” The prompt will be in bold.

A/N2: This is very much an AU; our main characters will be written OOC; most of these characters and some plot points belong to our friends at Pixelberry. Special thanks to my sweet friends that helped me brainstorm and pre-read various parts of this. This is not beta'd, so please forgive my errors.

~🖤~

‘Do I know you?' 

Tatum’s response replays in my head, sending crippling embarrassment through every cell in my being. This can’t be happening. Surely I misheard her. I nervously titter. “Um yeah,” I fiddle with my fingers, “I’m pretty sure we know each other.”

Confusion etches across her face as she closes the chart. “I’m sorry,” she quickly shakes her head as if to clear the uncertainty from her own mind. “I’m new to Edenbrook–to Boston, actually, and I’ve met and seen so many new faces. My apologies for not remembering,” she holds out her hand for mine, her charming smile brightly painting across her soft lips. “I’m Tatum Erikson.”

‘Apologies for not remembering’? Am I going crazy? How could she possibly forget last night?

I can’t.

And probably never will.

I can still feel her teeth grazing against my most sensitive of areas, her fingers spreading me apart for her tongue to lap up my arousal. When my orgasm tore through me, she tenderly stroked me through my euphoric bliss, her swift teasing sending me into another one.

It was incredible. And she left me starving for more.

But, she doesn’t remember?

The searing burn of bile touches the back of my throat as the room begins to spin. I try to act casual and offer her a friendly smile, but her stare says it all: her eyes are penetrating me with confused judgment; a carefully-groomed eyebrow cocks itself into a high, curious arch; the corners of her rosy lips turn downward the longer the silence festers between us, and she finally puts her arm down.

Damnit. Say something, Casey…

“Um…” I snicker, “right.” I thump my palm jokingly across my forehead. “Sorry, I–I’m Casey,” I stutter, “Casey Valentine.”

Tatum’s eyes widen in realization. “Casey Valentine,” she enunciates slowly, her eyes taking in my whole body as she softly titters under her breath.

She does remember.

I blush, coyly chuckling to myself. I breathe a sigh of relief. “I was nervous you forgot about last night–”

“Last night?” Tatum questions. “At… Donahue’s?”

I blush again, covering my face. “Yeah,” I quietly whisper, combing my strawberry blonde wisps behind my ears, “and… well, with what happened in the bathroom.”

I feel a swirl of heat creep up my neck, a thirsty ache growing between my legs as I remember our impromptu intimate moment together. And I can see she’s remembering it, too as she fumbles with her papers, a rosy pink appearing across her cheeks.

“Um,” she clears her throat, “does Ethan know… um–?”

Shit, is she starting to regret it, too?

“No,” I interject. “But, it’s okay,” I smile. “We can just… keep it between us.”

“Whatever,” Tatum mutters under her breath, chaotically packing up her charts. With the clicking of her heels, she marches down the hallway that connects the emergency department with the rest of the hospital.

I sigh to myself, raking my fingers through my hair. That could’ve gone better… it definitely could’ve been worse. 

I glance around the department, pinpointing the interns. Hopefully none of them saw that exchange. I definitely don’t need this situation growing out of control… and getting back to Ethan. I know it would only upset him. 

I can’t help but smile as I watch this new batch of doctors with their patients, gathering information so they can successfully diagnose and treat. They seem to have everything under control without my help for now.

Gently shaking my watch down my wrist, I look to see that it’s just after 8AM.  Ethan is usually halfway through his first cup of coffee, but that idiot… I laugh to myself thinking about it. He never eats anything with it.  And he wonders why he’s chewing on Tums by lunchtime.

I better grab him a croissant.

Or maybe a cranberry orange scone. 

He seemed to enjoy that the other day when he had his private meeting with Bloom. He looked so distressed, so disgruntled during their conversation, but when he had his pastries delivered…

I touch my fingers to my heart, the memory of that beautiful, crooked grin curling across his face… I exhale heavily, my eyes fluttering closed. 

I love making him happy.

Looking back to my first year residents and seeing that they under control, I decide to take a detour in my day. Humming to myself, I exit the emergency department, reaching the main corridor of Edenbrook. As per usual, it is busy with the Monday morning bustle; it’s comforting being here and watching everything. 

I casually make my way up the back staircase, dodging healthcare providers coming and going.  Ethan’s glass-enclosed office looks out over the commons; it’s the first thing you notice once you’ve reached the second level. As I draw closer, I can see him leaning against his desk, and my heart skips a beat.  I didn’t realize he didn’t shave this morning. I mean, it was a late night, but he knows I love his stubble.

And he’s laughing.  I love seeing him in a good mood; it fills my heart with so much joy knowing that he’s having a good day so far.  I wonder what’s making him so happy–

I freeze in my tracks, my mouth running dry, as a large lump forms in my throat.

No… No… it can’t be.

I clench my eyelids closed, thinking maybe my contacts are blurry, or–or maybe I’m imagining things. But when I slowly open my eyes again, she is still there.

What the hell is Tatum doing in there? With my Ethan?

I slink behind a planter, hiding from their view as I continue to watch the scene unfold in his office.  Tatum is casually sitting in a chair, her long legs crossed, and the hem of that red dress laying uncomfortable short across her knee.

Perfect.

They giggle every so often, Ethan tossing his head forward with his hands in his pockets, but his crystal blue gaze remains fixed on her.

Are they flirting? 

Determined with curiosity, I inch myself closer to the open office door. I need to know what they're talking about. 

I lean in.

Closer.

"...in the bathroom at Donahue's."

"What?" Ethan scoffs, crossing his arms. "Are you kidding me?"

Shit! Why is she telling him? It was supposed to stay between us!

Anger bubbles in my veins as I slowly back away from the office. Fuck, Tatum! How could she betray me like this? And of all people to tell, she told my Ethan!

Oh God…

My love… he knows.

Shit. Shit. Shit…

"Valentine?"

I abruptly pivot around towards the smooth, soulful deep voice, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. 

"Dr. Carrick!" I try to play it cool. "H–how are you?"

He towers over me with his hands on his hips, his handsome stormy eyes pierce curiosity into mine. "I'm fine," he answers, almost like he's asking me a question. He looks to Ethan's open door and back to me. "What… are you doing here? Does he know–?" He motions to me with his finger and back to the office.

"Yes!" I smile, "Sorta… I'm just stopping by to say hi, but he's in a meeting with um, uh… with–"

He quietly whistles through his teeth, crossing his arms as he stares at the blonde bombshell sitting in the office. "Tatum Erikson." He tries to stifle his flirty grin, but he can't help himself. "That is one…" he pauses for a moment to drag his tongue across his bottom teeth, "... gifted woman."

What does that mean? Has she slept with him, too?

"Yeah," I choke out, "she's, um, something. H–how do you know her?"

"Hopkins," he dryly replies, staring intently at Tatum. "She was one of the top students in our class. Even beat out me and Ramsey." 

I nod slowly, continuing to watch the interaction between Ethan and Tatum. They would grow serious until one of them would break the tension, and they would both fall into a fit of giggles. She would occasional swat his arm, or he would give her that adorable crooked smile, his way of checking to see if she caught his dry humor.

They get along well, just like old friends do.

Or lovers.

Stop it, Casey.

"Tobias," I clear my throat, trying to act casual. "Did Ethan and Tatum–"

"Case," he interrupts, stepping in front of me to block my view. He places his large hands on my shoulders, offering me a smile drenched with pity. "Don't." He shakes his head. "Don't do this to yourself, sweetie."

I look down at my Danskos, feeling so foolish. I begin to wring my hands as I slowly nod my head in understanding.

He pats the back of my shoulder. "Now go on. Get out of here," he smirks as he saunters away, pulling out his phone to continue with his day.

Tobias is right. I trust Ethan. He has never given me a reason to question him. He's absolutely perfect.

He loves me.

I glance back to his office one more time only to find Tatum standing at his side looking over his shoulder as they look at a patient’s chart together. Their eyes meet… and linger just a little too long on one another.

I feel my heart begin to drop as my hands grow cold and clammy. I take a step towards the office–

Stop it.

I know he loves me. 

--------

The morning has flown by, and I am quite happy with how my first day is turning out. My interns are sharp; they are doing an excellent job in the pit with assessing, diagnosing and treating patients. They barely even need me. 

It's a gorgeous summer day outside, so I'm hoping to enjoy my lunch at a picnic table in one of the atriums of the hospital. I wish Ethan could come out and enjoy the weather with me, but no doubt his first day with new staff is incredibly busy. I'm trying my best to stay out of his way.

With my lunchbox in hand, I saunter through the telemetry unit, humming to myself when suddenly, a slender arm links with mine and yanks me out of the flow of traffic. Slightly disoriented, I look up and recognize the gorgeous specimen standing in front of me.

"Tatum?"

She holds a finger to her mouth as she looks up and down the hall, ensuring the coast is clear. She laces her fingers with mine before jerking me into a dark medical supply closet. 

Watching her close the door, I curiously watch her figure step closer towards me.

"Tatum," I whisper, my nerves igniting with excitement. "What are you–?"

Her supple lips instantly find mine, as she pushes my body up against the shelving units, boxes of gauze and bandages scattering all around us. Slinking a hand behind my neck, our kiss becomes ravenous, our tongues dancing fluidly with one another.

I gasp as I feel her fingers unfasten my slacks.

And I push her away.

"Tatum, stop." I furrow my eyebrows at her at she gives me a stunned look.

She carefully comes back over to me, gently resting the back of her finger against my cheek. "What's wrong, doll?"

I push her hand away as I comb my fingers into my hair, bowing my head forward. "I… I'm so confused."

She saddles up next to me, her eyes locked on mine. "About what?"

"'About what'?" I blow a raspberry as the stinging prick of tears fill my eyes. "Tatum, you treated me like you didn't know me this morning–"

"Casey… " she croons.

"--and after last night," I sigh slowly. "You really hurt me."

"Doll," she whispers sympathetically. She cups my cheek, gently caressing my soft skin with her thumb. "I'm so sorry I had to do that."

"'Had to'?"

"Of course," she takes a hold of my other hand, bringing the back of it to her lips. "To protect you–to protect this between us."

I give her an inquisitive look as she kisses my hand again, this time her lips gently sucking on me.

"Listen, doll," Tatum leans in closer to my face. "There were a lot of people around this morning, watching us and our every move." Her expression becomes more concerned. "I didn't want what we had last night getting out and getting us in trouble. Especially with Ethan."

She closes her eyes to kiss me, but I turn my face away. "But you went to Ethan anyway. And told him." I grumble. "I saw you. And I heard you telling him."

"Casey doll," she shakes her head, "I swung by Ethan's office this morning to discuss a case that may need to involve the ethics committee." She stares endearingly into my eyes, stroking my face. "He then asked if I got to meet his beautiful girlfriend last night, and I told him I did, and that we even had a girlfriend bonding sesh in the bathroom." Tatum places an arm above our heads, leaning against the racks of supplies as her body presses closer into mine. "He's clueless, doll," she whispers. "He's not going to find out about–"

"But what's with the flirting, Tatum?" I blurt out.

"Flirting?" She sardonically snickers. "I don't know if you know this, but Ethan and I go way back. We're just friends." She starts to play with my hair, twirling it between her fingertips. "Besides… I kinda have my sights set on–" her eyes seductively track from my tresses back to my eyes. "Someone else."

"Really?"

She smirks. "What do you think?" She slowly grazes my mouth with hers, my lips tingling upon impact. 

I shrug off my white coat as she hurriedly unbuttons my shirt, caressing, tasting each and every inch and curve of my bare body.

She really is incredible. And she makes me feel like an absolute goddess when she touches me.

But what about Ethan?

Suddenly, an ear piercing alarm sounds from the hallway. A fire alarm.

Fuck.

I eagerly put my top back on when Tatum puts a hand on mine, making me stop. "And what do you think you're doing?"

She's joking, right? "It's the fire alarm. We need to get out of the–"

Tatum takes my hand, slipping it under her dress and between her legs. No panties. Feeling her warm and already dripping wet makes me shutter. "Tatum, we can't–"

“I can’t believe you would even think to leave me like this,” she giggles, a glint of mischievousness in her eyes. 

She grabs my wrist, bringing my hand to her mouth. She begins to lick her own arousal from my fingers, her tongue gliding in and out, between my fingertips. 

Oh God…

A deep burning builds in my belly as I watch her untie her wrap dress, allowing it to fall from her own body and pool around her toes.

"Touch me, Casey."

~🖤~

Tags (tag list updated 9/26; please let me know if you'd like to be added/removed)

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[strigital]

hey there, handsome beans. how are y'all?

bet y'all were wondering where tf Meg's gone again. to make long and complicated story short: a few physical illnesses followed by a severe mental crysis followed by more sickness followed by more mental problems. there was, among other things, an autistic breakdown which as we know doesn't go away easily. i will be severely honest with you guys. i do not know how i am still alive, given how horribly suicidal some of these days are. i suppose having pets does make a difference - no matter how selfish the suicidal ideation is it never manages to overpower the motherly need to love and protect these small creatures that so wholly depend on you not just for food, water and shelter, but for companionship as well… Belle, despite having only been out of shelter for like three moths, has been working her little butt off trying her damnest to convince me that i am needed: from following me everywhere like a shadow to crying like a child whenever there's a closed door between us… anyways, what was i talking about? ah yes… the horrific state both my mind a body ended up in. i honestly have no idea where this all came from. it was like one day it was sunny and calm and the next morning i woke up in the aftermath of a severe hurricane, ruin and corpses all around me. perhaps it was all brewing for a long time and i simply failed to notice the telltale signs. after all, there's no smoke without fire. there must've been a trigger. a final drop, a straw that broke the camel's back. sometimes it felt like a horror film, full of terrible thoughts and feelings that paralise you in a fetal position in the corner of your bed and keep you there hostage for days on end. some other days there would be flashes of unexplainable happiness that lasted barely a few hours and left you feeling panicked. most days there would be this prevailing feeling of numbness that wouldn't allow you to eat, let alone take care of daily chores. i've been having severe nightmares. i've plunged my body into a state of starvation. i've turned my home into a horror house of dirt and clutter. i'm failing behind in college and my boss at work is extremely unhappy with my productivity. i've lost ability to feel time: days muddle together, all i ever feel is a desire to sleep all the fucking time.

worst of all is that i cut contact with my closest people, among them - my dearly beloved husband, who still fights cancer on the other side of the planet, wondering where his useless wife gone. i've decided that it would be better for all of them, especially my hubby, to not see me in this condition. that the best i can do for them is to remove myself from their already busy lives and free them from any heartache i may cause, me being out of my mind and all. i did, however, used the very last of my strenght to reach out, to try and call for help… the suicide prevention line was a fucking joke that left me even more desperate than i was before i contacted them. i did, however, join a local autistic group on facebook and lurked there quietly, absorbing their experiences and sifting through for any sliver of hope. and i foud it. a doctor, who may just be the only specialist on adult autism in this entire country. getting an appointment with her was a small war in of itself. and she will cost me a lot of money… but as of right now i feel like she is the only person who can pull me off of the edge, before i tumble over and plummet into the abbyss. 29th of november i will sit my ass on a train and ride to another city to meet her. i pray to whatever will listen that she will take me seriously because neither my current psychiatrist nor my psychologist do. anyone i tried talking to these past two months on the matter of my crisis never offered me any help, only useless advice like "you should talk to a priest" or "have you tried reading a self-help book?". i'm drowning over here, karen, a priest and a book will only be of use during my funeral… the meds have become useless, even when i double or triple dosage.

most of all my heart aches for my husband. he tried calling me a few times yet i was too broken and lost in the dark to even have the courage to call back. i know i have no right to scream for help to a person who had been at war with a third stage cancer for almost three long difficult years. but i am teethering on the edge. i feel like that tiny hedghehog from an old soviet cartoon - lost in a thick fog, calling out for someone, anyone, looking for a way out. and the fact that no one understands or tries to understand hurts even more. the only one's who do are those anonymous people on facebook, fighting similar battles to mine. and when i read a letter from an anonymous mom who, like me, reached her breaking point and cut off any contact with her family in preparation for a final act and she only writes on facebook to find someone, anyone, to tell her what she truly needs and wants to hear in order to swerve off of this path of self-destruction i cannot help but feel an odd likeness to hope. i am not alone. but these people, those like me, simply do not exist within an arm's reach… god almighty, i so so hope the doctor will fix me. i am so tired waking up everyday with a desperate desire to die and walking all day with an invisible noose on my neck which only grows tighter every day.

i will go now and try to record a longwinded voice message for my husband… again. i will try my bestest to apologise, to try to explain, to ask for help. but how do you even begin to explain that your life so suddenly, so abruptly and seemingly our of nowhere became an open bleeding rotten sore, that only grows everyday, infecting more and more of your soul? i don't know. i never had this kind of crisis before in my life and, as if by some cruel divine joke, right now i have no family, no friends to turn to, beside my cat and my dog.

i will not ask of you to pray for me nor wish me luck. y'all have your own busy, messy lives. i only ask that you take care of yourself and your loved ones, so nothing like that ever happens to you or them. trust me when i say that no one will believe you, because this wound is invisible. they will tell you to feel grateful for having two arms and two legs and a roof over your head. meanwhile you will slowly rot away until one day they'll gasp: "how did this happen? they were such a happy person, nothing was wrong in their lives!" that's so fucking unfair, but it is the world we live in. and i know that oversharing like this on the internet is an incredibly stupid thing to do, but… i don't know. maybe another person with similar hardships in their life will read this and realise that they are not the black sheep of the human species and that shit like that happens to others too. i know this thought brings some very mild comfort to me, so maybe it will also brings some to them.

so stay strong, my beans. god knows i'm trying to. love you all and, hopefully, see you in the near future again with memes and stuff,

-- Meg K.

[bohemian-nights]

My honest opinions on HOTD Characters:

Rhaenyra: I feel as though she doesn't do anything to better her position. Like I'm of the belief that she would've been usurped no matter what but she didn't anything in my opinion to make her situation better. It's almost as thought she thought "what could make this worse?" and then did just that.

Alicent: Unlike Rhaenyra I think she does try to better the situation for herself and her children but ultimately fails. Throughout the series she says and does certain things that are sometimes just foul and then acts as though she doesn't know what she just did. She's got the "lost pup" act down to the tea.

Daemon: He's never going to be truly "content" until he figures out what it is exactly that he wants. In my opinion it seems as though he's always trying to prove himself to someone or something. And when he realizes he's failed at doing that he lashes out (often at the people around him). He like most men in HOTD is a bad father and a horrible husband.

Corlys: I was so happy when he told Rhaenys that it was time for him to stop his pursuit of the throne. Because his ambition really tore apart his family. That being said I lost respect for him when he told his twelve year old to offer herself in marriage to a man old enough to be her father. He then betrothed his son (his gay son) to a woman. While obviously this was always going to happen but betrothing him to the heir to the iron throne knowing as Rhaenys said "his true nature" was never going to work out. I'm also 99% sure he cheated on his wife and had a lover.

Rhaenys: Similar to Daemon I often find myself wondering whether or not Rhaenys knows what she wants. More specifically if she can fight for what she wants. She says a lot of hypocritical things and is always the first person to call a woman out for "bending to the will of men" but does the exact thing herself.

Otto: Just like Corlys his ambition was his family's downfall. He's also similar to Daemon in the way that as second sons I think they both are always trying to prove themselves but go about it in completely different ways.He's very manipulative when it comes to his children and grandchildren, which isn't good.

Viserys: He disgusts me and like his daughter "his only child" he doesn't do anything to make the situations of himself and children Rhaenyra better.

Criston: I can excuse a lot of the things he does before episode six. A lot of people in the fandom downplay how breaking his oath effected him and just assume he hates women. When it comes to him and Rhaenyra I'm pretty 60/40. That being said I think he was unnecessary cold to her children. Other than that he just played Alicent's loyal sworn shield. Also when it comes to him and Alicent I'm 50/50. On one hand I'd love if they got together but on the other hand I don't think it'd make since for their characters.

Harwin: He didn't really do a lot but commit treason lol. No but seriously people get on Criston for not wanting to be Rhaenyra's quote on quote "whore" but what self respecting person does? I think he and Rhaenyra were happy but they were also really dumb. It's such a shame that he was killed by his own brother.

Laena: I felt really bad for her. She seemed so depressed. And honestly I would be too. She's a big reason as to why I don't like Daemon all that much. She was either fifteen or sixteen when she married him and fell for "the rouge Prince." Then he took her to Pentos, and isolated her from her family refusing to return to Westeros. And most likely emotionally neglected Rhaena. Not to mention Daemon was cheating on her as well and then laughed at her funeral and then slept with Rhaenyra the day of. I was so surprised (and disgusted) when people say her death was "good." As if she didn't burn herself and her unborn child to death. Only a severely mentally ill and suicidal person would do that.

Laenor: I felt bad for him. That being said I really do think the riders should’ve just killed him off. It’s going to happen next season off-screen anyway. Tbh I felt as though this just made everyone involved look selfish. Laenor because he’s leaving behind his “children” and family who he loves to thinks him dead already after the death of his sister. Rhaenyra and Daemon because how dare you allow everyone to think he was dead including his parents and “children.” Also what Rhaenyra and Daemon do at Laena’s funeral disgusted me.

Aegon: I can move past a lot of things when it comes to characters but rape has never and will never be one of them. His actions really do disgust me. Then I read the book and while I still don’t like him I find it odd they chose to go with that interpretation of him when Mushroom is the only one saying it. I will say that Aegon had the possibility to be an interesting character especially since his actor is attractive but rape really turned a lot of people off his character.

Helaena: I wish we could see more of her. She reminds me of Ophelia. I feel so bad for her. No parent but especially no mother should ever be put in such a situation for something she had no part in. I do wish she would say one sentence that didn’t have some sort of hidden meaning.

Aemond: He’s really the best of both worlds, show wise. But I see just like his mother he likes doing foul things and then acting surprised at the the consequences of those actions. He is in my top 5 characters though.

Jace: He doesn’t really do anything, similar to his mother. In the books it’s Jace who’s studying and learning to sword fight and is trying to improve his situation and prove himself. Whereas show wise he seems as though he just sulks.

Luke: Similar to his brother only where Jace acts confident and acts as though he doesn’t let him being a bastard get to him Luke is the opposite.

Baela: I would love to see her storyline explored more in season 2. Saw the trailer and I’m excited for her. Not much more to say other than she’s a true ride or die.

Rhaena: Unlike her sister who also barely speaks I can’t seem to get a sense of her personality when she speaks. She reminds me a lot of Sansa in the way that she used her courtesy as a shield/weapon and made every perceive her to be so kind and stupid. So next season she’ll be in the Vale and I’d like to see her learn a lot of political skills and meet Gwayne (he and Garmound can be combined) Corban.

Besides a handful of characters(excluding the dead ones Daemon, Aemond, Alicent, Baela, Rhaena and Rhaenys) I really could care less about most of the characters on this show. Most just range from boring to comically villainous. The writing for them is very meh.

[anarkittyuwuuniverse]

"In the anti-narcissist industrial complex, people fall into one of two camps: dangerous, alluring, abusive narcissists, and fawning, sensitive, victimized empaths.

Empaths are encouraged to trust their intuition and push all narcissistic people out of their lives. They’re provided with a laundry list of narcissistic red flags, all of them vague and none of them rooted in peer-reviewed research. Beware anyone who seems charming or whose kindness seems calculated, these resources warn. Don’t trust someone if their emotions seem superficial or they talk about themselves too much.

Never mind that a wide variety of people with mental illness and disabilities such as autism exhibit these traits. Don’t consider for a moment that your instincts might be colored by trauma or bias. You are the aggrieved party, the victim, and narcissists will always be drawn to you. You must always keep your shield raised.

I used to be the kind of person who found these resources appealing. I was escaping an abusive relationship back in 2011, and it brought me great comfort to think of my abuser as a narcissist. The term offered a way of mentally closing the door on him. I needed a reason to stop giving him second chances, and the language of narcissism gave me one. He was irredeemable—basically evil.

Yet, as time went on, I found that seeing my ex as a narcissist and myself as an empathic victim was far too simplistic. The narcissist-empath framework obscured the cruel things I’d said and done, the ways I manipulated and emotionally exploded at other people I loved.

My ex was a selfish person with a limited capacity for empathy, it’s true. But upon discovering I was autistic, I realized I shared some of those exact same traits. I also have trouble understanding how other people feel. I also need to be reminded to step out of my own head and consider how I affect others. I don’t think I’m a hopeless case. And as much as I loathe my ex, I wouldn’t want the people around him to think he’s a hopeless case either.

There are contextual factors that explain why my “narcissistic” ex became the violent, cruel person he is today. His own parents and grandparents abused him. When he showed early signs of violence, he was shamed, not helped. His whiteness, maleness, and wealth kept him isolated from other people, and he never developed relational skills. If I want there to be less abuse of power in the world, I need to fight the social forces that created him. The same is true of people like Donald Trump.

Sometimes, forensic psychologists describe incarcerated individuals as narcissistic. Pop psychology writers brand successful yet cutthroat CEOs and elusive scammers as narcissistic quite frequently. Books for abuse survivors often describe emotionally immature parents or cruel partners as narcissistic. But almost all of this is driven by anecdote, hearsay, and speculation.

There is no strongly supported, evidence-based treatment for narcissism. Like most “personality disorders,” narcissism is partially defined by how untreatable therapists view it to be. There is something wrong with the personalities of these folks, after all. That’s pretty close to saying someone is fundamentally broken. In short, narcissists are rarely directly observed by science yet are frequently described—and usually in heightened, scandalized language. Which all seems to me like an only slightly more scientific way of saying they’re monsters.

What defines narcissism? Well, a core part of the condition is having a deep disparity between the self-esteem one projects to the world (explicit self-esteem), and the self-esteem one feels inside (implicit self-esteem). Narcissistic types claim to have grandiose self-images. They seek a lot of outward recognition that they are smart and talented and good. But they also dislike themselves a great deal. Any small slight or setback can wound them intensely. They’re at a heightened risk of suicide, and their suicide attempts tend to have especially high mortality rates.

In other words, narcissists are insecure, emotionally sensitive people who want a lot of attention and struggle to connect and who often hate themselves so much they want to die. How that struggle came to be so widely panned and demonized, I’ll never understand." -Sympathy for the narcissist