#cw: withdrawal

[artpharos]

I doubt she'd ever know that I'm going through antidepressant withdrawals. I doubt she'd even care, even though she's the reason I'm on them in the first place. To date, I've spent $4k in mental health support because of her, I've went through 3 years of constant breakdowns and psychosomatic pains, I FINALLY caught depression after years of her trying to convince me I had it, and now I'm going through antidepressant withdrawals with my brain buzzing every minute and she won't even acknowledge that any of what I feel- my anger, my grief, my heartache- is even REAL.

When she first hurt me 3 years ago she begged for me to stay, then said that all my reasons why I was angry at her for hurting me was because I was depressed. That nobody else in the whole goddamn world spotted said depression because I only trusted her the most. Whenever I asked her why she even wanted me in her life, she said she loved my fics and art, and couldn't put into words why she liked me. That she didn't tell people why she liked them AT ALL in case they stopped taking her seriously if she said it too much. So she never told me WHY she 'loved' me; what she even respected about me, something to actually give me some context for her wanting me in her life after she treated me like shit because 'we were so close so I thought you wouldn't take me snapping at you repeatedly seriously'.

So since she can't fucking tell me ANYTHING and just expects me to fucking read her mind cuz communication is for people who aren't close apparently, I think that's bullcrap and she just wanted me around because she didn't like the feeling of being called out for being an asshole. That she truly only ever cared about what I produced or what I gave to her (art, fics, someone to tell her how SMART she is), and not ME as a person. She didn't want to 'learn' how to deal with me if I really did have ADHD lmao and thought I just need to fucking get over my actual friend that I was supporting daily through their mental health struggles dying. Nevermind that my grandpa and another friend have died since I last spoke to her and I am still fine.

She kept talking about how she missed her friend and how I wasn't her friend. Fair enough, her friend would just roll over and suffer with a smile no matter how many times she hurt her. She kept saying how she wanted us to go back to how things used to be.

Truthfully? I wish she would just. Fucking apologise for hurting me all these years. But that's a pipe dream so frankly I just want her to do the fucking bare minimum and acknowledge my feelings are real. But see, if I tell her about my feelings and it hurts her because its not packaged in a nicely logical way, it's emotional manipulation and I intend to hurt her!! So like. Guess to her, nothing I ever feel is real.

She didn't want me to think of her as a horrible person and I didn't, not even after I finally named my pain. But her choosing to walk away, choosing to say none of this is real hence it can't be her fault- I can't still think of her as anything but horrible.

And she gets off scott free from any consequence while I continue to suffer because of her. It's fucked up.

I'll be fine, though. Withdrawals are nothing compared to the three years she put me through.

I wish she could be a better person. She can't, because she already thinks she's God's gift or something. I still wish; every god damn day.

[charlenthetical]

i just experienced the worst withdrawal symptoms of my life after forgetting to take my SNRI two days in a row.

it felt like my spine was crawling out of my skull, and i had to twist my head with its rotation to keep it from succeeding ... in retrospect, my neck was just sore, but i think i experienced some level of psychosis.

take your meds, kids.

[intotheelliwoods]

This is part 2! Part 1 can be found here~

Masterpost

[sailorspica]

Why... am I still hesitating over things like this?

ATTACK ON TITAN #55, "MIDNIGHT SUN"

[carnivorousyandeere]

This is really fucked up but thinking about a yandere taking care of you while you’re having medication/drug withdrawals….

Maybe they’re comforting, patient, heart breaking at the pain you’re in. Don’t worry, they’ll help you through it, love you through it. Their love will fix everything, just try to relax in their arms…

Maybe, secretly… they enjoy the sight of you sick and helpless, feverish and delirious, begging for relief. Maybe it scratches a sick itch deep inside them to watch you suffer. Maybe they enjoy wiping your tears and pressing kisses to your mouth as you cry a little too much.

Or maybe, this is a punishment. You haven’t been behaving well. Fighting, trying to escape, saying things just to hurt your captor’s feelings… maybe they think you deserve the nausea and skull-splitting pain. They brush the side of your face gently, and smile when you flinch away.

Holding the next dose, the next hit as a way to keep you in line. “Say that you love me?” You’re so tired, been fighting so long. You say it. “Say it again.” You say it again, voice hoarse and trembling. “Say it again, like you mean it this time.” You can’t.

[langernameohnebedeutung]

[broodwolf221]

thinking abt. things.

things like solas not joining the inky for a given mission and discovering smth in his books that might help track the red templars so he brings the info to cullen only to find him shaky and sweaty and obv cullen tries to brush it off but look me in the eye and tell me solas wouldn't recognize withdrawal for what it is

mini fic bc I can:

He hasn't actually been to the Commander's room before, but he found something useful. He would normally bring it to the Inquisitor's attention, but they were out on the field and it seemed redundant to hand it off to someone else, especially since there were few he trusted to properly convey the intricacies of the information. Besides, there was no reason for him to fear Cullen. There had been countless opportunities for him to push back against Solas or the other mages, but he seemed truly dedicated to setting aside his past as a Templar. The role, if not the abilities.

Because of this, Solas entered the office lightly. What he found was... surprising.

Cullen looked haggard, worn, with deep circles under his eyes. He also looked absolutely shocked by Solas' presence, straightening up and trying to compose himself. Trying... and failing. A better posture couldn't hide the sweat shining on his face - inappropriate, considering they were high in the mountains, surrounded by snow and ice - nor the trembling of his hands, even though he tried to still then by laying them flat on his desk. "Solas," came his delayed, stiff greeting. He inclined his head slightly to the Commander in response, then moved nearer and set the book down on the desk. Cullen looked at it with obvious curiosity, but Solas no longer intended to discuss it. Not at the moment, anyway.

"Look at me," he said instead, voice far firmer than he ever would have thought to use with Cullen. The human seemed quite as surprised, gaze snapping up. "Focus on me. Breathe."

"What are you-"

"I said breathe," he insisted. Cullen continued to stare for a moment before doing as he said, although it was more a huff or sigh than a true breath. Solas arched a brow. "Breathe deeply."

Cullen frowned but obeyed, taking a deep, genuine breath and exhaling slowly. "Good," Solas said gently. "Feel the desk under your hands. The air against your skin." He watched a furrow grow between Cullen's brows. "Do not concern yourself with these things, just feel them." The Commander let his eyes slip shut as he focused, face relaxing slightly. "Keep breathing. Do you feel the cold air? Concentrate on how it feels in your nose, your throat, your lungs."

Slowly his trembling eased, although Solas knew it wouldn't disappear. He'd seen people go through this: in the flesh and in the Fade both. He knew deep breathing wouldn't counteract the physical effects of withdrawal - he had to assume from lyrium, distantly impressed by Cullen's willingness to undergo such a risk, to break the chains the Chantry and the Templar Order bound him in - but it would help with the feelings of panic. With the sense of being unable to possibly withstand such horrible feelings and urges.

"Good," he said again. Cullen had continued taking deep breaths, eyes still closed as he concentrated on his immediate surroundings instead of his panic. "This is normal. It hurts, I know, and your body is fighting you. But you still have control. You are stronger than this."

"Am I?" Cullen's eyes opened at last, meeting his with a strange desperation. Solas nodded.

"You are. To have gotten this far is evidence enough." Cullen snorted, then shook his head.

"So, who told you?" Cullen asked, Solas arching a brow.

"No one." Now the human frowned again.

"Then how..."

"I recognized your condition." Cullen stared for a time, searching Solas' face before eventually shaking his head and standing upright.

"You are... thoroughly unexpected, Solas." A pause, as if he was debating whether to say more. "Thank you." He inclined his head slightly.

"My pleasure, Commander."

[pluralcultureis]

Plural culture is one of our alters started vaping so now all of us deal with withdrawals and are so damn mad

.

[mercurialkitty]

So if folks want a relatively safe thing to ask Misha at the next con, pls ask him what it would take to get Gotham Knights released on DVD.

[ntls-24722]

Voma, the lampliker

another case of me ruining things with lore

CW/TW: ↓ detailed description of drug use, addiction, and withdrawal (I realize that I really should've been putting this earlier... my apologies)

SO, PROPER NAMES: they are called the Possessed.

They're a spiritual zebraman militia who chew this fungus, a bioluminescent, poisonous stimulant in order to stain the inside of their mouth with the bioluminescence and get a high from it. They believe that the glowing mouths of Debu is the source of their strength and power, and by chewing the fungus they get that power too, which is partially correct - chewing it, they don't need to sleep or eat, get visions or hallucinations, and are working at 200% capacity while on it, becoming "possessed" by the Debu spirit (which is often said to be the source of their sudden bursts of violence...).

However, unbeknownst to the zebramen, this has awful effects on their body, as you could imagine. The Possessed are given the Possesion fruit (they call it a fruit, they are incorrect,) constantly - so they barely sleep at all, barely eat at all, outright collapse from exhaustion or drop dead out of nowhere, have seizures, chew at their fingers (sometimes they break or chew them completely off), they become nauseous and can barely hold down what little food they do eat, and their hallucinations and psychosis often scare them and lead them to depression and paranoia over everything/everyone. And if they survive THAT until retirement, they're going to have withdrawals for the rest of their life

One big symptom though, is the rotting of their teeth! The fungus is acidic and chewing it constantly has eroded their teeth into falling out, which is bad, but is especially bad considering that the zebramen are constantly showing their teeth! They have lips and can close them, but by default they're smiling. The Possessed either hide their bottom faces with cloth or unnaturally close their lips shut.

I imagine statues or sculptures of the Possessed look a lot like sumerian devotive statues... huge eyes because they're held so wide during possession that their scleras are constantly visible, and tight lips.

[whumpbump]

Baby Pt 14 - The Park

Cw: under the influence of drugs, withdrawal symptoms including vomiting, abandoned

Whumpee was on their own, sat on a bench by themself. How long had it been since BiBi and ZaZa had gone away? Surely they would come back.

The stars began to peek through as the haze lifted from the drops.

BiBi and ZaZa still weren’t back. Whumpee supposed they could wrap themselves in their blanket and wait a bit longer, eat some of the cereal that BiBi left them, and wait.

After what felt like hours, Whumpee had to take the blanket off despite the weather being on the chillier side. They were too sweaty.

It was dark out now, Whumpee didn’t mind because the light hurt their eyes. Balling up the blanket as a pillow, they laid their head down and rested on the bench for a while. The cereal was coming back to haunt them in the worst way. It was whole grain loops, it shouldn’t have made Whumpee that ill, if not for the drops. They hadn’t had any in hours. Back at home, they were constantly on it.

Whumpee felt themselves begin to drool and their breathing picked up. Oh gods. Oh here it, here it comes. Whumpee managed to tip their head over the edge of the bench as bile and cereal flowed out with little effort aside from their screaming abdominal muscles. Retching and dry heaving, Whumpee wiped the remnants off their mouth and chin and flopped back down. That was better.

Managing to fall asleep, Whumpee dreamt of the home they were missing, the place they referred to as home for the past several months. Somewhere in Whumpee’s brain, they knew it wasn’t the right one but through the damage done by the repeated drugging and brainwashing, Whumpee couldn’t remember. There were people aside from BiBi and ZaZa that were missing them, but Whumpee couldn’t remember them either.

As the sun rose, Whumpee hid their face the best they could to avoid the sunlight. It was too bright. They fell back asleep until the sound of cars woke them.

A mother and her young son arrived. The little boy ran from the car to the swings, paying Whumpee no mind. As soon as the mother saw Whumpee, dressed in childish clothes and next to a pile of vomit, she was on the phone with the police.

Maybe that lady could help, maybe she knows BiBi and ZaZa!

Stiff, sore, and trembling, Whumpee made their way over to the horrified young woman.

“I-I don’t want any trouble.”

Looking up into her eyes, Whumpee asked so sweetly, “Have you seen my BiBi and ZaZa? They left me here yesterday and I’m waiting for them to come get me.”

This was no drug addict after a rough night. This was no homeless person taking refuge at a park. This was an impaired adult who was lost and was likely abandoned.

“Uh-um you know what, I have not seen BiBi or ZaZa-“ Whumpee teared up. “But, but listen! I know some nice people who can help! And I’ll wait with you until they come.” Whumpee smiled.

The young woman held the phone back up to her ear, confirmed her safety and asked instead of police, for an ambulance and a disabilities advocate.

@whump-on-a-log @eatyourdamnpears

[inevitably-johnlocked]

Hi sweet. do you recommend johnlock fics about drugs and Sherlock's addiction/withdrawal. And if they are from the Victorian era I like them too 💘💘💘

Hey Lovely!

I do! I have a few lists, though nothing specific to the Victorian era:

Self Harm, Danger Nights, and Drugs

Drugs and Drugging Pt 2

Realistic Drugs/Drug Rehab (Community Recs)

Rehab/Mental Hospital AU (Community Recs)

If anyone has something more specific for Tiempo, please do add them here! <3

[warpedlegacywrites]

happy dadwc friday Duchess! How about a prompt for Cullen coping with addiction/recovery 🥺😭💖

❝ All the things that I ran from I now bring as close to me as I can. ❞

happy writing :3

Happy @dadrunkwriting! Thanks for this prompt. Here is some slightly circular narration about Cullen's withdrawal, with a focus on his early nightmares post-lyrium.

CW for torture, sleep deprivation, claustrophobia, psychological torture

Sleep isn’t a problem at first. In fact, for the first week or so, he barely notices a difference. His dreams remain blurred, unfocused. Filtered by the last filter he’d taken in Kirkwall. His last one ever, so he keeps reminding himself, though practiced hands still reach for the vial at his bedside when he wakes blearily with the dawn. Muscle memory. Habit. Conditioning.  Sleep isn’t a problem, even after the symptoms start setting in. When his reaching hands shake so hard they can barely grip the glass of water. The water he gulps greedily down, while wishing it were gleaming blue instead of clear. The water he can’t seem to keep down, retching it back up moments later. No, even when his insides are on fire and his whole body is racked with the searing pain, sleep isn’t a problem.  It’s not until the worst of the pains and the cravings subside, when the Song is little more than a half-remembered tune in the back of his skull, and his body can actually, truly rest. That is when sleep becomes a daunting, dreadful torture. 

Every night, when he lays his head down, he knows what’s coming. He’ll try to stay awake as long as possible, reflexively wincing away from the pain. But inevitably, his eyes will close, and he will open them again in the blood-stained halls of Kinloch Hold. Torchlight flickers over bodies, too many to count. 

The light is tinted by the magically manifested curtain of his cell. A slender column holding him captive. Too narrow to do anything but kneel or stand – he can’t even properly sit, let alone lie down. No matter how many hours, days, nights pass, no matter how his feet and legs and back ache. He remains standing until he can bear it no longer, and then he kneels in prayer. His knees are bruised and bleeding. He’s exhausted. More tired than he’s ever been. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he understands he’s still asleep, but the fatigue is just as he remembers it. He doesn’t recall how he ever managed to sleep, if he ever did. 

His cell is round, affording him a panorama view of the carnage. Every so often, a new body will race through in an attempt to reach the stairs to Cullen’s right. They’re always cut down before they clear the first handful of steps. Every time, Cullen tries to warn them. Every time, his voice doesn’t penetrate the perimeter of his cell. He hears its echo bounce back and forth over his head, driving him mad with his own voice. Every time, the demon emerges from the shadows it hides in. Razor claws rake across torsos, drawing forth gushing red. The room is infused with the smell of blood. Fresh and stale, the stone is saturated with it. Eventually, Cullen stops smelling it. But as tortured with guilt as he is over his failure to save even a single soul, watching them die is still the lesser evil. 

Because when the demon is bored waiting for new victims, it amuses itself with Cullen. It knew his desires almost the instant it captured him. All his training was for naught – Desire is a powerful demon, and it read him like an open book. It cackled, mocking his boyish infatuation. It delighted in taking her form and parading around in front of him in her skin. Calling to him in her voice, whispering in his ear, while standing well out of reach. Sometimes wanting, willing. Others, screaming in pain. Spitting vitriolic hatred at him. But always beyond his reach. 

He can beat his hands against the curtain of magic until they bleed, scream until his voice is raw and his throat is like cracked glass. But he will never break through it. 

Until he wakes, covered in sweat and hands aching from gripping the sheets so tightly, his throat sore. Surely, he must be screaming on this side of the Veil as well, but if anyone has ever heard it, they keep it to themselves. He will wash his face with cold, clean water, drink from the canteen he keeps full at his bedside, and dress for his day. 

And the next night, it will start all over again. He will try to stay awake, and then he will fail. He will try to warn his would-be rescuers, and fail. Try to escape, and fail. No matter how he tries to outrun his failures, they follow him, relentless and tireless. 

Until one night, when he looks down at the blood-soaked bodies at his feet… and there is no cell to separate them. He reaches a hand out, tentatively, and meets no resistance. He steps forward, and is not repelled back. A sob escapes him before he can stop it, though he clamps his hand over his mouth to prevent more sounds from betraying him. Yet no demon appears. It’s only him, and the corpses of his colleagues. 

He turns to the exit, and he’s halfway across the room before his steps slow. Stop. He turns. His eyes travel up the staircase, stopping at the door at their peak. There’s no way out of that room, he knows. He’s conducted Harrowings and Rites of Tranquility from inside that room. There is no escape but the way you’ve come. 

There is no escape. 

Step by step, his feet carry him to the base of the stairs. He watches himself climb them, as if observing from the outside. He screams at himself, pounding against the rounded wall of his cell, tries to tell him no. Turn around, run away. Escape. But it’s no use. 

He watches the demon emerge from the shadows, claws impossibly long and razor sharp. No matter how he screams and pounds and begs. There is nothing he can do to stop what’s about to come. Cullen watches his hand come to rest on the doorknob. Watches it turn. Watches the demon’s arm raise, and strike. He feels the burn of its claws in his flesh. 

And then he wakes up. 

He flexes his fingers, releases their death grip on the sheets. Rises with a struggle from the low cot given to him when he’d arrived at the base of the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Drinks long and greedy from the canteen. Splashes his face with cold water. And pushes aside the flaps of his tent to start another day. 

Tonight, he’ll do it all again.

[solannecontinuum]

You are my gift this year.

I adore you so .....

[silentmoor]

Tell me about how Percy handles their withdrawals the first time. :3c

You mean the very first time? They don't. They have tremors, sweats, irritable, anxious, and worse still, nauseous. They start getting paranoid. When they start having auditory hallucinations, they start using again so very soon after stopping. Yes, it relieved their symptoms, or masked them, made them feel they vague illusion of better. But they're guilty about it. They know it's killing them and they need to stop and they can only imagine what their crew would think about them using at all, much less that they failed to stop. Admittedly the problem is they full stopped without any support or help because no one knew they were using. Or at least no one confronted them about it and intervened if they did. So the effort was doomed - nigh insurmountable at least - from the start.

When they try to stop using again, they have support; they have have Kal and Sue there to keep them together and talk them down, and Ghoti to help them through the medical aspect of detox. And it works, it helps. They still experience symptoms but they're managed, even instances of paranoia or hallucinations were minor, managed or non existent.

They were clean two years before they decided to play hero and ended up MIA and presumed dead. Finding themself stranded on that backwater rock, they... didn't last very long. They have been using for a little over four years by the time of story start. Attempts to get clean again went similar to the first time: shakes, sweats, nausea, and psychological disturbances.

[fictionkinfessions]

Being bive go crazy the coffee problem never stops ahahaaaa I was like "jeez why does my head hurt" their ass hasn't had caffeine today!!!!!!! I don't think I ever got headaches from not drinking coffee that day though?

- Bive (Regretevator)

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