#i haven't had this objects out of my brain its been been months since i saw it

[wigglepiggle]

oh look a cool show hmm I don't think this will have a huge effect on m- ajnanananaanajnwsjwnwnwjhswjwjwu category 17 autism event occurs

[akunoniwa]

Knife Prty

AN: gang. I've not published anything in like. Three months. For me, this ""piece"" is more of a way to break the ice of my mind that's since frozen over. Overall, I am very reluctant to write, let alone publish, Astarion for various reasons, but I was listening to Deftones one day and was feeling devious.

Synopsis: In which you hold the memory of your first encounter with him very near and dear... He uses it to his tactical advantage...

Pairing: Astarion x fem!reader/tav

Warnings: MDNI, knife play, most definitely would not recommend fucking or getting fucked with a knife handle, sorry it sounded hot,

WC: ~2.3k

A knife balanced against your neck, a familiar blade, increasingly warm with your heat. It was a grave distraction as it teetered threateningly along the grain of your skin, but you’d made a purposeful mistake of telling Astarion how nice it felt to be not just beneath him, but his dagger. It was objectively dangerous, the feeling wasn’t conveniently replicated, thus it felt… real this way, vital. His hand had an instinctual way of slotting itself between your thighs, the heart of his palm blanketing your blooming clit. Two fingers coaxing slick sweetness and moans from your body that twined around him.

“Is this…” Your hand searched behind you to grab at his right upper thigh, pulling him into your backside, “...What you needed, my love?” His words, shrouded in his misty tone, implored you in tandem with his hand.

He was in too many lovely places at once, your muscles slacking in unison as you both stood bare in the middle of the large bath in the vacant House of Hope. Fresh killers you were, in need of a cleanse in every sense, but something about finally taking out Raphael and his accessories had you both at peculiar odds. Astarion was made to witness your vulnerabilities to Haarlep, and despite knowing you well at this point, he found he was unable to accept that you were actually susceptible to its charm. Even if that weren’t the case, he wasn’t about to say he was basking happily in the image of you being ridden by an incubus who ought to just be Raphael himself. The more he was made to think about it after the fact– fighting beasts to save Hope, slashing down Raphael himself… His mind deviated drunkenly back to your body… You. With someone… Something else. 

He decided he’d have you in that very spot, right in the Hells where his heat in this moment would make even the waters here boil over.

You two haven't really spoken about what happened in the graveyard, perhaps enough had already been said and done. It’d been weeks since, and no matter how paramount it was to you both, in different respects, Cazador had virtually nothing to do with the looming Elder Brain.

But Astarion’s declaration of his new ‘life’, or an amendment of his living death, still prevailed. This revitalization of sorts stood prominently, following him decisively like a shadow he didn’t have. Constant proof of him as him.

The sharpened metal at your throat was an afterthought to you at the time, but a thought nonetheless– one Astarion had hung onto dearly. Ever since you’d told him in a passing moment that you found your first encounter with him haunting your more unsavory moments, he couldn’t rid himself of the reminders.

“Gods, yes…” You shamelessly ground your hips into his beckoning hand, requiring his attention like nothing else. He was, needless to say, extremely turned on by you in any case, but here… Like this, adorned with his blade that had just slain that imbecilic devil, in addition to his enslaver just weeks prior. He could hardly allow his mind to wander trying to understand, but here his knife somehow signified something of untouchable worth. Trust… A morbid reenactment, sure, but how he adored you so, obsessed with how he was able to thrill you in such an asinine way.

You could feel him straining against you, that familiar sensation of his needing you… Though, he enthusiastically opted to see how long he could play with you, guiding your orgasm through the thickets of his teasing maze.

“Sick little love… I can feel you pulsing against my fingers, so fucking hot and wet.” His remark was serpentine and crude, hips rutting his cock ever so slightly between the swells of your perched ass, “How many times have you thought about this…?” He needed to sift through your tainted mind, needed to hear of your hunger, starvation, for him, as much as he tries to pretend he doesn’t love the assurance. Does your mind, too, think of him like he does of you? Remind me… He’d think– You must keep reminding him of how he tears your sanity to such decadent shreds.

His pace slowed only to allow for precision, his middle and ring finger hooked inside you knowingly as he worked at your left shoulder with his tongue.

“Fuck…” Your small, overwhelmed squeak indicated he was doing exactly as he should, rubbing the velvety spot just past the threshold of your cunt that made you shudder in his embrace, “I don’t even know…” He felt your head fall back on his right shoulder in blissful dejection, “It was more than a few.”

“My routine of devouring you isn’t enough, hm?” His fine-pointed fangs indented your skin on cue, not yet drawing blood.

You let out a breathy laugh, “Admittedly… I was nervous about the pain at first, but… You always manage to make such reckless things feel so good…”

“You drive me insane, darling. Utterly insane. Especially when you say deranged things like that…” Still hooked, his fingers sped up with dedicated intent to make you cum, skin sticky with sweat as you were sealed against his front, “A knife to your sweet neck is all it takes to make you drip down my hand?” You made him feel murderous, vulturine… Alive? Your adorable reactions picked at all the right places within him like crows.

You hummed a dizzied whine in time with his firm pace, a rush of everything creating a cyclone deep within your core, “But, you’re holding it…”

“That I am, dear. Watching you fucking lose yourself like this is truly a sight to behold.” The knife pressed its taunts as he fucked into you while you tried to keep steady.

“Don’t stop…”  You couldn’t and didn’t want to fixate on anything else but the pleasure he was giving you, “Please…” Your free hand subconsciously rushed to blanket the one that worked at your beckoning hole, making him gleam beneath your needy touch. His precum began to gradually garnish your backside– Why in the Hells would he stop now?

He need not hide his satisfaction, never with you, a grin causing his words to fray upward with lust, “Pretty, pretty thing… Cum for me.” He sprinkled your shoulder with nipping kisses once more, “ Give it all to me…” He crooned right into your center, his tone broad and smoky.

Hardly needing much past a syllable, your violent shakes when you cum were one of his favorite things to witness, let alone cause. His hand was caught in a vice grip between the tide of your plush thighs as he continued to press into that perfect spot as you came, your moans resonating through his cock. He loved the way your nails dug into the back of his thigh to bring him impossibly close, the other hand around his wrist… Holding onto him for all that you were worth in this moment.

“So divine…” He dragged the knife torturously down your chest, its fine point flicking just barely at your nipples, circling them, “I know how much you like when I tease here…”

You wanted to cry out, every nerve ablaze after your orgasm as you warmed his coated fingers. Instead, you gnawed on another dulled groan in your mouth as the metal tip tickled your areola.

“Let me hear you, darling… There’s no one around.” His voice enveloped your mind like a lecherous fog, words enunciated as they cut into you, “I’d almost say that’s a shame, as I can’t decide if I’d want everyone in all the Hells and beyond to hear your little noises, or have you all to myself.”

“Astarion…” He was breaking you, collecting your pieces, and puzzling your lust-drunk self back together as he pleased.

It seems everyone at camp has been reaching the apex of their struggles at once, especially since reaching Baldur’s Gate– seeing an unwanted face or two is inevitable. It’s been a smothered blur, and to put it more plainly, you and Astarion have not really been afforded time together. It was absurd, fighting almost toe to steel toe beside him, but this was the case day in, day out, everything else had to wait. You’d begun to miss him… You’d tried to brush it off, perhaps it was just you and some arrangement of irrational justifications. His biting quips seemed more distant, even when he held you after a long outing, he felt… Far. And the only reason for this was the non-squirmy affliction you both shared for each other. Of course, he missed you dreadfully. Hence his body currently being superimposed onto yours, an eclipse of raw, splitting desire.

“Give me more… Say it again.” He urged feverishly as your hips still twitched here and there, your movements waking through him.

“Astarion.” You trailed a caressing hand up the arm he latched around your front, just listening to what little was left in your mind. You found the hilt of his dagger gripped in his other hand, guiding it so the fuller would rest on your flattened tongue. Licking a careful stripe towards the tip, he watched in an attentive daze, your projections onto the knife translating to his groin just as you’d hoped.

“Yes, darling…” He finally pulled his fingers from you, experimentally wiping your slick onto the knife. You could feel his smirk radiating beside your cheek as he tugged the blade to his lips. Making sure to secure your eyes, you watched as he tasted your sweet mixed with metallic, making you writhe beneath the image before you.

Swiftly, as he does, he flipped the dagger to lead the rounded pommel down over your stomach, slowly flowing over your pelvis, ultimately pressing down on your clit. He managed to grip it in a way so as to avoid cutting his own hand, running the ball between your swollen folds.

“Mm, I wanna touch you…” You whined pitifully as you writhed, wanting to make him feel as good as he was making you feel, lavish him in pleasure as you’d been ceaselessly imagining.

The moonlight was damn near blinding that night on the overgrown plot of his not-so-restful place… How he pushed you back, fiercely, claiming everything as his own– most importantly, himself. You almost giggle at your spontaneous recollections, how forceful yet tediously careful his movements were as he made it no secret that he’d take you then and there. How his knee swiftly presented you to him, his relentless, passionate kisses…–

“Perhaps I want to be sure that we are on the same page…” The pommel grazed your quivering center, rolling your arousal to a fro, insinuating his intent, “Do you think I enjoyed watching you moan beneath that infernal wretch?”

“I was truly trying to sort out the hammer business… I can’t say I was willingly enthused, he had to charm me just to get me to consider taking my clothes off.”

“It was certainly a… production… But I must be frank, it was not something I ever dreamed of being made to see. How that… Thing nearly made you succumb to its little tricks.” He angled the dagger so as to push it inside you, just a bit, dragging out another melodious moan from you.

He chuckled at this, deciding to drop the matter for the moment, “My filthy darling… You wouldn’t cum around my dagger, would you?” He chided, knowing full well that he’d see to that being the case, “It seems… You just need to be fucked, no matter how.”

The hilt was thick, stretching you generously as its smooth leather pushed further into you. He gripped the guard to avoid splitting his hand, but the risk of a small injury paled in comparison to this, “Maybe there’s something about Avernus, this house… I just feel… Hot,” You debated momentarily, wondering if it’d be more of a burden to speak from what little of your mind remained, “...And I didn’t want to bother you by telling you that I missed you. In any capacity… I’ve missed all of you.” You forced coherence despite him establishing a cyclic rhythm.

He kissed your cheek a few times in response, though found himself quickly perplexed, “Bother me– Darling, never. You’ve… Missed me?”

“It’s been fighting nonstop for weeks, and save for… A few instances, the last few months. All I’ve wanted was to just be able to relax with you, to truly just be.”

“You’re going to tell me this as I’ve buried a dagger handle inside you? You’ve got peculiar timing, my sweet.” His movements subconsciously stilled as he was looking to you for an unknown kind of answer.

“Gods–” You clenched as he kissed your neck this time, allowing his fangs to indent just enough to make themselves known again, “I’m sorry… I guess I could’ve said it any time… I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“No, no, no– love, so could I,” He opted to always shower you with every pet name he could recite, perhaps as a habitual hedge, perhaps to drown you in his doting, “I’ve most certainly missed you, too.” He could feel you attempting to move onto the dagger, sending his body and estranged soul into a frenzy, “So, so much…” He found he just wanted to make you scream, in this particular instance. He’d been rearranging the meaning of intimacy in his mind slowly but steadily alongside you. While harrowing associations would inevitably remain attached to the act, he wanted to overwrite as much of that as he could with images of you. Of true rejoice, pleasure. He swore, his cock twitched upon reminding himself just how good you make him feel, body and beyond.

[callipraxia]

Continuing from the conversation in the reblogs of the link below the keep-reading, since while the broad subject of "let's ramble about mental illness and substance abuse metaphors in this kids' show!" is still the same, I'm on to talking about a different character (Specifically, Fiddleford)/realized belatedly that the OP might appreciate this.

So, Fiddleford and his memory gun.

It is, as usual, impossible to be 100% sure of much about the Portal era, considering that Ford's view of reality seems to have already started becoming distorted by the time he began writing Journal 3, and it is true that Fiddleford's signs of trauma after, say, the gremlobin incident, or his nerves when he realized what the probability of failure was, were actually pretty reasonable responses to the things that he was going through. However, Ford does act as though he's always been a bit concerned about Fiddleford's nerves, and when everything is taken into account, it seems more probable than not that the man does/did suffer from some form of anxiety disorder, probably in the OCD 'family.' Once I accept this premise, his story rapidly becomes a solid metaphor about the dangers of self-medicating.

Yes, yes, I know. The moral of the story is to deal with your problems...but nevertheless: the memory gun works as a metaphor for drugs and compulsions and how they don't really solve your problems, and it works especially well, I think, as a metaphor for alcohol and/or sedatives (Ativan, Valium, etc.). When used judiciously and with deliberate goals and limits, these things can be highly useful, or at least do more good than harm (alcohol is an antiseptic, for a lot of history it has been safer to drink than the average water supply, and it at least used to sometimes be 'prescribed' to people with certain heart problems who couldn't afford expensive medications, nerve pills are actual medicine, and as for the gun, we have the canon examples of the end of 'A Tale of Two Stans' and the finale). If you start to feel you need a drink after work every day to keep coping with your job, though, or needing a nightcap just to go to sleep...that can go real bad, and that's if you aren't developing this habit on top of OCD and/or one of its sister disorders. Fiddleford does appear to have such a disorder, and while he already had some ritualistic behavior (his Cubik's Cube, his alleged superstitions around graves, his tendency toward trichotillomania, the amount he checks and rechecks his work), he really loses control of himself when he gets access to the memory gun.

I suspect, between the temptation to instant relief it presented him every minute of every day and the secretive nature of it (no doctor supervising him, nobody frowning disapprovingly into his trash can, etc.) that memory gunning himself at the slightest inconvenience became both addictive drug and compulsion for him at some point, to the point that he was eventually frying his brain for even such a minor stressor as cutting himself shaving - or rather, for such seemingly minor stressors, since to him...who knows what that looked like? Anxiety Brain is wonderful at forming objectively sketchy connections that spiral into long chains of increasingly frantic 'reasoning.' From an outside viewer's perspective: it's a scratch, big deal. A path I could imagine Fiddleford's brain going along might run more like: "I cut myself shaving - why are my hands so shaky, why did that happen - were my hands even shaking, or was I just not paying attention? I can't do anything right! I can't even shave right, never mind raise a kid right! Which reminds me that I haven't seen my son in six months, I might as well have been cheating on my wife, I'm a terrible husband, a terrible father, just a terrible man, why didn't I do something before things got so out of control?? I could have stopped all of this, but now my Friend is out of his mind, he might end the world any day now, I don't know if my wife would have me back at this point if I even had the guts to go home and beg, and now I have this cult to run - but how can I run a cult when I can't even be man enough to face my own family? And it's slipping out of my control, I never meant things to go this far - They're all gonna turn on me, Stanford and Ivan and Emma-May are all gonna team up and murder me, oh God, it all makes sense now - !").

And then the gun made all that noise just...stop. He could sleep. He could run a cult. He could do things other than worry about Ford blowing up the planet any day now, or what was going on at home, or if the things he saw in the gremlobin's eyes could really happen. As soon as it started, he could just...make it all go away, as often as he wanted, at the click of a button. And by the time the side effects started becoming obvious, and he was losing his ability to speak properly and tearing his hair out without even remembering he'd done it and stealing clothes off scarecrows, well...thinking about those side effects, wondering if this thing he feels he cannot live without anymore could be responsible for them, was almost as distressing as thinking about all those motor accidents. Which, naturally, meant it was time for another mind wipe/drink....

So, there, started a couple of days ago and then delayed until I found this tab again though it is, you have it, @gravi-mania - the tale of how one could, if so inclined, warp the backstory of Gravity Falls into a story about bright young things whose lives fall apart courtesy of one of them getting too many uppers and the other getting too many downers. Make the framing device "Stan finally got out of prison after thirty years and went to visit his brother in the state hospital, where Ford laid eyes on him and immediately started yelling about portals and the end of the world and Stan doesn't even know what; as a result, Stan decides to stick around long enough to narrate the whole sorry tale, Prince of Tides-style, to the new doctor Ford seems to think is their nephew," and you could even get some super-depressing sober commentary on society and the justice system in there, too, along with at least very slightly lowering the research load, since sticking to that point of view would limit the scope of things to what he could see/what he knows about rather than going too deep into everyone else's heads and happenings. Though tbh, I suspect going with "yeah, let's just...not" is still the wisest possible course of action all around. really.

[velvetporcelain]

I forgot that my true lover was life itself,

hmm, wow. I haven't been here intently lately----but i'm here-- and under new alias-- if you give a shit. lol but I don't give a shit, so you shouldn't, just know that the only absolute is change, and I bow down-- you know me, a good little fucking girl. woman. sex toy. object. subject. house bitch. passive aggressive self hating eldest daughter, virgin whore--- aww come on- is my comedic way of coping confusing you?

okay, so, yeah, I think I have a new lover--- LIFE. I want to see what it does to me, how it changes me. I will treat it as such, like there is an unseen entity interested in me, observing me, sizing me--- wanting to fuck me- and not like a meaningless fuck, a tantric fuck.

I have rearranged my office multiple times this weekend just to move it back to its original position, lesson learned. I think rearranging is creative if it calls for new energy, but when it causes brain fog and frustration, well that means I was abusing its creative powers and using it as a coping mechanism hoping it could distract me and I could gain dopamine with a new perspective -- even though the perspective never changes!! sometimes I just slam the tips of my fingers on my desk and say stupid bitch out loud hoping that my body knew I was smiling sarcastically, no matter how self sabotaging it may sound. I don't give a fuck, ask me.

anyways, I don't know how many days its been since I have started detoxing from negativity from my body, mind, soul, the world has me addicted to crime, murder and fear-- I can't even right now- - with the amount of information we know-- we should have a recycling bin for our minds, we need to go through that shit and dump it, trash it, leave it. but we want to hold on to everything, even things that we haven't seen in months, things we kept for a sentimental reason but NEVER EVEN FUCKING LOOK AT IT, touch it, see it!!! ------imagine--- look at us--- just full of unused potential in the name of love, we love more that we think, we are just arrogant to what anything fucking means because now there are more than one hundred fucking definitions for one term-- for fuck sake-- have you read the book 1984 or not? filing cabinets inside our head we don't even know how they got there, we just open,--and I'm not talking about opening a tab on the internet, I'm talking about opening your standard office filing cabinet drawer-- one that socks you right in your gut and slings you back as far as it needs to in order for you to get the fucking picture--- I don't know. I hate that when I type on the computer my I is auto capitalized-- but the sound of me typing is well worth it. -- so yes, I hope you are following along, I hope you are gaining something from my writing about me that I will never be able to comprehend because it is me inside YOUR head.

well, don't be fucking shy, what do you think of me? I am ready to hear about myself, I promise I won't take it personal, or wince when you saying something that I could improve on, because what do you know? are you basing this opinion on that fucking filing cabinet of experiences you have had similar to mine? are you speaking from you ideals? what are you using to be sure that YOU can make judgment against ME inside your head? are you comparing me to what is suppose to be or what IS?

what if I am not what is suppose to be, what if I just WAS?--- IS---? its not that I don't know WHO, I already know, but HOW the fuck are you gonna tell me that you even think you know? and WHAT makes your judgments more accurate than mine? Jesus fucking christ. leave me void--- I am everything and no one ever gets everything-- surely not the rich, surely not the poor, surely not us--- expect, god, god who created everything. you can't save me because I don't need to be saved, I need to be doing to saving, but the saving happens subliminally, you can't save anyone consciously, not even yourself.----

-x

[hislittleraincloud]

i know ur not ok, i wont ask if ur ok, but i hope ur ok :)

You're right though. Haven't been okay in a while.

Dunno what it could be, maybe it's that I've been dragging my feet with 8 because God, I hate this part of the story (not that my own chapter isn't already mostly written for its third part), or if it's the whole Junkie Cat Lady thing wearing me down (I had to drag in two pieces of her most characteristic furniture back into my cramped space: a mirror box end table and a leopard print Ottoman that the cats used to sleep on whenever I catsat them). Or, the fact that I've got nothing left besides my dogs and two are hella old and can just keel over at any given moment, given their age (17+). Yeah, my parents are still around but I think my mother's getting some sort of dementia (I can tell by talking to her), but that's what you get for neglecting the intellectual part of your brain in favor of being a nasty, narcissistic, manipulative cunt your whole life. Figures that would be her goddamn fate...to start to actually forget the shitty things she did to me when I was growing up.

Creatively, I've been writing other stupid crap aside from 8 and Jairo, things that could turn into mini-fic, but I dunno. Re: 8, it's like the more I watch this show, the more the glaring issues with the storyline (and this is barring ALL romantic shipping) POP out at me, nag the fuck out of me and just...ugh. I know, I've already fixed a couple of those throughout my published chapters (like Rowan's disappearing glasses), but looking at it from an objective standpoint, it's just...garbage storytelling with a lot of inconsistencies held together by the cute star of the show. Re: Jairo, I'm once again closer to publishing another Jairo than I am 8, but I just haven't had the energy.

I mentioned the other day that I had gotten new comments/praise for Under Virgin Circumstances over at AO3. And then last night, I had placed my phone into yanno, I had a story about something weird happening but I felt like I was rambling, so the short of that next thing was: Somehow, the Drive app that holds all of my Jairo documents was up and running on this phone even though I hadn't opened it in a couple of weeks.

I'm taking both of those as signs to go back to Benson for a little while. I'm not going to rush through something I care about just because of impatiences (not just the couple of fans it has, but my own...I get very impatient and frustrated with myself, it's disabling), but I really would like to publish something.

That's where I am, I guess. There, and also wanting to create more physical art. I could hardly afford it (finances have been strained ever since Cat Lady fiasco) but I got some cheap art supplies/paint and pencils for my birthday and have some ideas of what I'd like to be doing.

But I also got other needs and a brown furball that never leaves my side these days. I'm still really irritated when I think of that nurse's shitty joke...this little thing is my baby/kiddo. She acts like one. She chatters with me like a toddler when we're out on walks. (One time, she actually said what sounded like "Hello!" to some lady who said "Hi there, cutie!" on the lake and it creeped me out... I've never taught her to speak or anything. She has a weird voice...sounds like a monkey at times.) So, she's getting more of my time too, since I'm now lamenting that I didn't have enough time with her when she was tiny (the time went by SO FAST, she started growing out her limbs in barely two months 😭).

I guess I oughta keep on...keepin' on. I feel like Cairo keeps calling out to me, since all I've been seeing on my fyp has been HOD stuff, then all of a sudden there was that post I just reblogged on there. I should call her. 🫠

Anyway. Thanks for wonderin'. 💕✨

[ocegion]

7, 8, 14!

thanks for asking uwu and sorry for taking so long to answer :(

7 - Favorite actor of the year?

I'm not gonna lie I haven't watched many movies this year and my brain is also kinda foggy about what came out this year or last one, but I'll be a normie and say:

Oscar Isaacs did a terrific job in Moonknight (despite my skepticism towards MCU at this point)

Millie Bobby Brown is still my favorite performance of Stranger Things

Paddy Considine was GREAT in House of The Dragon

I don't think he's a truly great actor objectively speaking, but I saw Smiley recently and I'm still thinking a lot about it, so I'll say that Carlos Cuevas made his character pretty endearing to me.

8 - Game of the year?

Elden Ring won it, as far as I know, I wouldn't know though since i haven't been able to get my hands on it yet

The game I spent most time in this year has been by far Hades. Honorable mention goes to Dragon Age Origins, though, since I'd been stuck on it for a loooong time (not so much due to difficulty as just being anxious about Making Choices) and I finally finished it a couple months ago

14 - Favorite book you read this year?

Probably Howl's Moving Castle and its sequels. Quite different from the movie, but really charming as well. You can definitely see that Diana Wynne Jones had taken notes from Tolkien and specially CS Lewis.

end of the year asks!

[honestpossum]

Kinda just hit me all of a sudden in a really unpleasant way just how much of a Not Nice person I've been lately. This is in regards to a good objective sort of think about my behavior. And today I had a reaction to someone extremely close to me (or was, once) texted me and they don't normally send me texts we talk on a different platform and I was instantly annoyed at them like...why the fuck are you texting me and almost texted that back to them verbatim.

"Why are you texting me?"

But I thought better of it thankfully and I was busy at the time so I didn't respond, which...isn't great either, but at least I didn't say THAT.

Im disturbed at how careless that was, and how crass and cruel and unforgiving and unkind my thought processes have been, are becoming? Idk. I didn't like it. I don't like it.

I've been isolating myself like a lot a lot a lot for the last 2 years, but especially since my dog died, I don't go out or talk to ANYONE anymore. I barely try with with 2-3 people and the last 6 months every single social interaction has left me either pissed off and ghosting from the convo or just one word responding, blatantly weeping after its over. Every conversation comes with a free anxiety attack. Every one.

So I just haven't wanted to talk. Cause it sucks, I feel like I can't talk about the shit that bothers me anymore to anyone and I have nothing happy to say so I just try to respond to what other people say and ask questions about them and redirect if they ask about me and I don't leave my house or do anything so I'm boring and have nothing ELSE to talk about except how I'm slowly going buckwild bonkers insane in a very not cute way.

I think you get the point I think you see the problem I'm in a self perpetuated feedback loop that gets a little worse every time I force myself to try again, to try to pull myself out of it so I can be the person my loved ones deserve and overcome this crippling social anxiety, it makes it WORSE somehow.

Now even if a conversation doesn't go badly (and they go badly, often, because I'm crazy and anxious and take everything the wrong way, everything offends me, everyone annoys me), even if it DOESNT go badly, when I'm having a good day...

I still have an anxiety attack afterwards and spiral and fall back into the need to bury my head in the earth and never show my face again. And now it's triggering this...selective muteness which somehow has expanded to include text based forms of interaction??? I look at the message box and my brain freezes the same way my throat freezes when I want to talk and I can't. Type. Even if I have already formed an answer I. My head, the thought of typing it fills me with dread and sometimes it takes me hours to be able to respond.

I'm trying. I am. As best as i am able, given the circumstances. I do force myself to keep in touch with the people that I would be devastated withou, but the times when I have the energy or mental wherewithal to dedicate to even those selective few is waning and becoming less and less. There are so many more bad days than good.

So it goes:

total isolation-->loneliness/depression/self recriminations/rumination/suicidal ideation --> reach out, trying to break cycle ---> interaction goes good/bad (doesn't matter, result is the same) --> interaction triggers feelsbad.jpg ---> anxiety spiral --> isolation to alleviate anxiety ---> loneliness et. Al.

And on and on and I am TRAPPED and now I'm just becoming someone who's mean and merely tolerates people I used to love and I don't enjoy anything at all anymore and I'm just fucking miserable and I'm trapped and I am an anxious mess at all times but ESPECIALLY when literally anyone talks to me and so I just end up acting fucking dickish because I'm trying not to be a fucking mess and they deserve better. They do. They deserve my best and what I am lately. Who I am? Is definitely not that.

I'm objectively the worst I've ever been in my life right now.

And I am so full of despair about my inability to escape this cycle on my own and I hate myself way WAY too much to ever think I deserve to ask for anyone's help and I think it's probably actually legitimately going to kill me if I don't find a way to stop this

And not even that is enough.

I really think I'm probably going to die before I ever lift a finger to help myself. Full stop.

It's fucking pathetic.

Hi. I'm me.