#me and excel are besties

[sosquaresowhat]

I get to make an inventory spreadsheet for fun today and I am so hype

[chiropteracupola]

A very fine captain, and a finer friend.

[wordpress-blaze-157764418]

numb little bug

I want to start this off by saying—loud and proud—I am a BIG believer in mental health treatment, medication, therapy, Reiki, moon water, yelling into the void... whatever it takes to feel okay again when you’re not.

That said, this is not a post about bashing meds. This is a post about finding the right ones—and the very real hell of wandering through the wrong ones like you're in the world's most depressing pharmacy-themed escape room.

For years, I was in and out of medication. I always had this mental image of the version of me I wanted to be—happy, light, energetic, sarcastic in a charming way (not the burnt-out feral goblin flavor). And for a while, I was that person. I was active, smiling, fun, present. A good mom, a good friend, a good me.

Then life did that thing it does. You know, where it sucker punches you and then asks why you’re crying.

Between COVID, burnout, isolation, and the thousand papercuts of adulthood, I slowly became a version of myself I didn’t recognize. Introverted became full-on hermit. I hated leaving the house. Hated even thinking about it. I was trapped in a cycle: Work. Home. Despair. Insomnia. Repeat.

And because life wasn’t spicy enough, I started drinking way too much and mentally berating myself for not “getting it together.” I thought, I used to be strong. I used to be fun. I used to laugh more. So, like any exhausted, overwhelmed, emotionally constipated healthcare worker, I went to the doctor.

We ran through the Greatest Hits: insomnia, panic attacks, depression, that “everything is wrong but I’m still somehow functioning” vibe. I’d always been high-strung, perfectionistic, a bit of a control freak (Type A, but make it spicy). Eventually I was tested for ADHD and autism—and surprise! My brain’s just a limited-edition collector’s item.

I left with a pile of prescriptions and a flicker of hope that maybe this was the start of getting myself back.

At first? Magic. I was sleeping. I wasn’t panicking. I didn’t care so much if the towels weren’t folded the “correct” way (and that’s saying something). But… I still wasn’t happy. I didn’t feel like me. I felt numb. And yeah, numb can feel like “better” compared to raw despair—but eventually, it’s just another prison.

New meds, new hope, same result.

I was exhausted no matter how long I slept. I was hiding in bed from my own life. I watched my dogs—who just wanted to play with me—lay by my bed like little furry emotional support sentinels. My kids needed me, and I couldn’t reach them from whatever fog I was buried in.

It got dark. Really dark. Like “do I even want to keep doing this?” dark.

I finally sat with my little cocktail of pills and wondered: what if part of what’s wrong is right here in this pile? SSRI after SSRI, they numbed me, but never healed me.

So I did what you’re not supposed to do (don’t be like me, seriously), and I stopped everything except my sleeping meds. Withdrawal was like fighting a demon in a Walmart parking lot with flip-flops on—but eventually, I surfaced. And something weird happened.

I started to feel… better.

But of course, life tossed another curveball and my anxiety and panic attacks came storming back in like they were late for a meeting. So I went back to the doctor, hat in hand, feeling like an idiot. Another SSRI. Round four. Spoiler: it did not fix me. I was back to dragging myself out of bed, missing out on life, watching time with my kids and dogs vanish into a medicated haze.

So yeah, I finally said, enough. We tried a different class—an SNRI this time, with Wellbutrin in the mix.

And then…

I. Woke. Up.

Like really woke up.

I felt rested without a pharmacy’s worth of pills. I cleaned my kitchen at 10 p.m. because I wanted to. I started talking with my kids again, asking questions about their lives and actually being present. I didn’t cancel plans last-minute. I walked the dogs. I got up the first time my alarm rang. I didn't feel like I was existing in some doomsday fog. I started living again.

The worst part of feeling good again is realizing how long you didn’t. How much you missed. How much of yourself you lost—and how alone you felt in that hollow space.

And I’ll be honest, I still wake up wondering if it’ll slip away again. If it’ll all fade back into the haze of too-much-and-not-enough.

Because here’s the truth people don’t talk about enough: not all meds work the same for everyone. SSRIs, SNRIs, tricyclics… it’s all trial and error. And error. And another error. And then maybe a win.

You think you’re doing everything right—taking your meds, seeing your doctor, checking all the boxes—and you still feel like a ghost in your own life. And worse, no one gets it. They don’t understand why you can’t just “come out,” or “go for a walk,” or “snap out of it.” They don’t understand the bone-deep shame of missing your kid’s milestones because you were too tired or anxious to get off the couch. They don’t get that you want to do things, but your brain has other plans—usually involving doom spirals or hiding under weighted blankets.

But if you’re in that space right now, let me say this: Don’t settle for half of you.

Keep going. Try the next thing. Advocate for yourself like your life depends on it—because sometimes, it really does.

I’m still on medication. I’ll likely always be. But now, I’m on the right ones. And for the first time in years, I feel like myself again.

Not numb. Not empty. Not just surviving.

Me. Whole. Here. Living.

And that… makes all the difference.

Source: numb little bug

[carouselunique]

Im SO SORRY, i am just bothering you at this point with the many asks, i hope u don't mind, i made some fanart of your Side Stars AU in your style, i just love it so much😭 the way u draw ponies is so inspiring, it makes me want to do something, i hope its ok, please keep with the amazing work❤️

omg NO you are not bothering me at all! I love audience participation and kind interactions it fuels the creative drive! I’m actually just saving questions until I have a good idea for a picture for them so if you don’t see answers right away it’s cause I’m planning!

And this is so good! I’m really happy my AU is inspiring you! And you did wonderfully drawing Minuette and Twilight! I especially love how big and prominent Minuette’s cutie mark is because designing that one took the most effort! Wonderful job!

[citadelofthestars]

Tagged by @thelaststarfalling to post 6 non-selfie pictures from my camera roll, thank you so much! <3 This was a lot of fun so I'm tagging a bunch of people 😁 @aloveofclaritea @iamfitzwilliamdarcy @coldswarkids @incoramsanctissimo @furubat @paranormal-taters @saintcolumbiformes @thesquireinvictus @songs-of-stones @quonunc @valiantarcher @mariposasmonarch @starless-planet @distance-does-not-matter and anyone wearing the color blue!

[ladytemeraire]

Today's crafting struggle:

"One of these baggies has about 600 seed beads, I've got a full one and a partial, that should be plenty to finish off this shawl right?"

[does math]

[blinks, double checks math]

"...That is absolutely not enough to finish off this shawl."

(1600+. That's how many beads I need to finish off the shawl. My magpie tendencies have once again come back to bite me.)

[wordpress-blaze-157764418]

numb little bug

I want to start this off by saying—loud and proud—I am a BIG believer in mental health treatment, medication, therapy, Reiki, moon water, yelling into the void... whatever it takes to feel okay again when you’re not.

That said, this is not a post about bashing meds. This is a post about finding the right ones—and the very real hell of wandering through the wrong ones like you're in the world's most depressing pharmacy-themed escape room.

For years, I was in and out of medication. I always had this mental image of the version of me I wanted to be—happy, light, energetic, sarcastic in a charming way (not the burnt-out feral goblin flavor). And for a while, I was that person. I was active, smiling, fun, present. A good mom, a good friend, a good me.

Then life did that thing it does. You know, where it sucker punches you and then asks why you’re crying.

Between COVID, burnout, isolation, and the thousand papercuts of adulthood, I slowly became a version of myself I didn’t recognize. Introverted became full-on hermit. I hated leaving the house. Hated even thinking about it. I was trapped in a cycle: Work. Home. Despair. Insomnia. Repeat.

And because life wasn’t spicy enough, I started drinking way too much and mentally berating myself for not “getting it together.” I thought, I used to be strong. I used to be fun. I used to laugh more. So, like any exhausted, overwhelmed, emotionally constipated healthcare worker, I went to the doctor.

We ran through the Greatest Hits: insomnia, panic attacks, depression, that “everything is wrong but I’m still somehow functioning” vibe. I’d always been high-strung, perfectionistic, a bit of a control freak (Type A, but make it spicy). Eventually I was tested for ADHD and autism—and surprise! My brain’s just a limited-edition collector’s item.

I left with a pile of prescriptions and a flicker of hope that maybe this was the start of getting myself back.

At first? Magic. I was sleeping. I wasn’t panicking. I didn’t care so much if the towels weren’t folded the “correct” way (and that’s saying something). But… I still wasn’t happy. I didn’t feel like me. I felt numb. And yeah, numb can feel like “better” compared to raw despair—but eventually, it’s just another prison.

New meds, new hope, same result.

I was exhausted no matter how long I slept. I was hiding in bed from my own life. I watched my dogs—who just wanted to play with me—lay by my bed like little furry emotional support sentinels. My kids needed me, and I couldn’t reach them from whatever fog I was buried in.

It got dark. Really dark. Like “do I even want to keep doing this?” dark.

I finally sat with my little cocktail of pills and wondered: what if part of what’s wrong is right here in this pile? SSRI after SSRI, they numbed me, but never healed me.

So I did what you’re not supposed to do (don’t be like me, seriously), and I stopped everything except my sleeping meds. Withdrawal was like fighting a demon in a Walmart parking lot with flip-flops on—but eventually, I surfaced. And something weird happened.

I started to feel… better.

But of course, life tossed another curveball and my anxiety and panic attacks came storming back in like they were late for a meeting. So I went back to the doctor, hat in hand, feeling like an idiot. Another SSRI. Round four. Spoiler: it did not fix me. I was back to dragging myself out of bed, missing out on life, watching time with my kids and dogs vanish into a medicated haze.

So yeah, I finally said, enough. We tried a different class—an SNRI this time, with Wellbutrin in the mix.

And then…

I. Woke. Up.

Like really woke up.

I felt rested without a pharmacy’s worth of pills. I cleaned my kitchen at 10 p.m. because I wanted to. I started talking with my kids again, asking questions about their lives and actually being present. I didn’t cancel plans last-minute. I walked the dogs. I got up the first time my alarm rang. I didn't feel like I was existing in some doomsday fog. I started living again.

The worst part of feeling good again is realizing how long you didn’t. How much you missed. How much of yourself you lost—and how alone you felt in that hollow space.

And I’ll be honest, I still wake up wondering if it’ll slip away again. If it’ll all fade back into the haze of too-much-and-not-enough.

Because here’s the truth people don’t talk about enough: not all meds work the same for everyone. SSRIs, SNRIs, tricyclics… it’s all trial and error. And error. And another error. And then maybe a win.

You think you’re doing everything right—taking your meds, seeing your doctor, checking all the boxes—and you still feel like a ghost in your own life. And worse, no one gets it. They don’t understand why you can’t just “come out,” or “go for a walk,” or “snap out of it.” They don’t understand the bone-deep shame of missing your kid’s milestones because you were too tired or anxious to get off the couch. They don’t get that you want to do things, but your brain has other plans—usually involving doom spirals or hiding under weighted blankets.

But if you’re in that space right now, let me say this: Don’t settle for half of you.

Keep going. Try the next thing. Advocate for yourself like your life depends on it—because sometimes, it really does.

I’m still on medication. I’ll likely always be. But now, I’m on the right ones. And for the first time in years, I feel like myself again.

Not numb. Not empty. Not just surviving.

Me. Whole. Here. Living.

And that… makes all the difference.

Source: numb little bug

[fabronics]

All right...listen--HEAR ME OUT--! *gets ejected without remorse into the sky Team Rocket style*

[murdleandmarot]

@toki-toro I had a grumpy cat in mind. And his friend :)

[theslyvoid9]

not a great picture courtesy of me but FISH CABINET RAHHHGGGGG !!!!!!

OH MY GOD FISH CABINET!!!!!!!!! I LOVE THAT SM OMGGGG OUGH ALL THE BEAUTIFUL SHAPES AND FORMS leaving that place with a suspiciously fish cabinet shaped bag wAIT I MEAN NO HAHAH LIL OL' ME WOULD NEVERRR i can definitely be trusted to be left alone with this cabinet i would never dream of taking it please you gotta just leave me alone with it for no reason at all hahaha

[mazojo]

They are so based actually

[madame-bawdy]

hey. hey nerds. yeah, you.

go play Roots of Pacha

[junewild]

nil is so interesting to me as a character.

on the one hand, obv i believe it’s unacceptable to declare any group of humans as inherently disposable & especially to set yourself up as judge, jury, and executioner for them. he’s open about the fact that he’s not a good person, & he admits that he chooses bandits because he sees them as subhuman & therefore can avoid any consequences he might experience from hunting them.

on the other, he also says he confessed to his war crimes & accepted the punishment without balking, which isn’t what you’d expect from a sociopath who targets bandits because society won’t care. so. is he better or worse than eg serial killers who target prostitutes because they’re seen as disposal by society? is he actually making the world a better place? & does it matter?

& no matter which side of the “it’s for the ultimate good” vs “it’s a bad attitude” of the argument you come down on, the way he calls out aloy for her self-appointed duty as protector of the weak is fascinating. “i’ll keep your secret—that, deep inside, it feels good to kill someone” (paraphrased).

it almost feels like a little nod to the player. “oh? are you feeling satisfied in your ability to land headshots and nail silent takedowns? have we successfully gamified killing? what is an acceptable casualty, & why are you the one who gets to decide that?”

[cloudbends]

This week was somehow both excellent and abysmal at the same time in completely different aspects and the mental whiplash is taking quite a toll.

[eyepatchdate]

hello i would like to introduce you to my new fnv oc: a boomer that doesnt fit in with the boomers because he likes small explosions instead of big ones and he sucks at flying

[wordpress-blaze-157764418]

numb little bug

I want to start this off by saying—loud and proud—I am a BIG believer in mental health treatment, medication, therapy, Reiki, moon water, yelling into the void... whatever it takes to feel okay again when you’re not.

That said, this is not a post about bashing meds. This is a post about finding the right ones—and the very real hell of wandering through the wrong ones like you're in the world's most depressing pharmacy-themed escape room.

For years, I was in and out of medication. I always had this mental image of the version of me I wanted to be—happy, light, energetic, sarcastic in a charming way (not the burnt-out feral goblin flavor). And for a while, I was that person. I was active, smiling, fun, present. A good mom, a good friend, a good me.

Then life did that thing it does. You know, where it sucker punches you and then asks why you’re crying.

Between COVID, burnout, isolation, and the thousand papercuts of adulthood, I slowly became a version of myself I didn’t recognize. Introverted became full-on hermit. I hated leaving the house. Hated even thinking about it. I was trapped in a cycle: Work. Home. Despair. Insomnia. Repeat.

And because life wasn’t spicy enough, I started drinking way too much and mentally berating myself for not “getting it together.” I thought, I used to be strong. I used to be fun. I used to laugh more. So, like any exhausted, overwhelmed, emotionally constipated healthcare worker, I went to the doctor.

We ran through the Greatest Hits: insomnia, panic attacks, depression, that “everything is wrong but I’m still somehow functioning” vibe. I’d always been high-strung, perfectionistic, a bit of a control freak (Type A, but make it spicy). Eventually I was tested for ADHD and autism—and surprise! My brain’s just a limited-edition collector’s item.

I left with a pile of prescriptions and a flicker of hope that maybe this was the start of getting myself back.

At first? Magic. I was sleeping. I wasn’t panicking. I didn’t care so much if the towels weren’t folded the “correct” way (and that’s saying something). But… I still wasn’t happy. I didn’t feel like me. I felt numb. And yeah, numb can feel like “better” compared to raw despair—but eventually, it’s just another prison.

New meds, new hope, same result.

I was exhausted no matter how long I slept. I was hiding in bed from my own life. I watched my dogs—who just wanted to play with me—lay by my bed like little furry emotional support sentinels. My kids needed me, and I couldn’t reach them from whatever fog I was buried in.

It got dark. Really dark. Like “do I even want to keep doing this?” dark.

I finally sat with my little cocktail of pills and wondered: what if part of what’s wrong is right here in this pile? SSRI after SSRI, they numbed me, but never healed me.

So I did what you’re not supposed to do (don’t be like me, seriously), and I stopped everything except my sleeping meds. Withdrawal was like fighting a demon in a Walmart parking lot with flip-flops on—but eventually, I surfaced. And something weird happened.

I started to feel… better.

But of course, life tossed another curveball and my anxiety and panic attacks came storming back in like they were late for a meeting. So I went back to the doctor, hat in hand, feeling like an idiot. Another SSRI. Round four. Spoiler: it did not fix me. I was back to dragging myself out of bed, missing out on life, watching time with my kids and dogs vanish into a medicated haze.

So yeah, I finally said, enough. We tried a different class—an SNRI this time, with Wellbutrin in the mix.

And then…

I. Woke. Up.

Like really woke up.

I felt rested without a pharmacy’s worth of pills. I cleaned my kitchen at 10 p.m. because I wanted to. I started talking with my kids again, asking questions about their lives and actually being present. I didn’t cancel plans last-minute. I walked the dogs. I got up the first time my alarm rang. I didn't feel like I was existing in some doomsday fog. I started living again.

The worst part of feeling good again is realizing how long you didn’t. How much you missed. How much of yourself you lost—and how alone you felt in that hollow space.

And I’ll be honest, I still wake up wondering if it’ll slip away again. If it’ll all fade back into the haze of too-much-and-not-enough.

Because here’s the truth people don’t talk about enough: not all meds work the same for everyone. SSRIs, SNRIs, tricyclics… it’s all trial and error. And error. And another error. And then maybe a win.

You think you’re doing everything right—taking your meds, seeing your doctor, checking all the boxes—and you still feel like a ghost in your own life. And worse, no one gets it. They don’t understand why you can’t just “come out,” or “go for a walk,” or “snap out of it.” They don’t understand the bone-deep shame of missing your kid’s milestones because you were too tired or anxious to get off the couch. They don’t get that you want to do things, but your brain has other plans—usually involving doom spirals or hiding under weighted blankets.

But if you’re in that space right now, let me say this: Don’t settle for half of you.

Keep going. Try the next thing. Advocate for yourself like your life depends on it—because sometimes, it really does.

I’m still on medication. I’ll likely always be. But now, I’m on the right ones. And for the first time in years, I feel like myself again.

Not numb. Not empty. Not just surviving.

Me. Whole. Here. Living.

And that… makes all the difference.

Source: numb little bug

[whattraintracks]

A BUFFY STAN?? BRO THATS SO REAL !!

(im pumpkinpie59 btw fjdkdkd)

Heck yeah, I'm a Buffy stan!! I loved "Poor Little Rich Turtle" because I loved her. Absolute crime we didn't get more of her. I am constantly haunted by the fact that I must create the content with her that I want to see. So thank you for your adorable art!!

[storiecraft]

i've been super inactive here lately, and that sucks. i work full-time and do online school part-time. on top of that, my partner and i finally found a way out of our shitty living situation and we're in the middle of moving to a new apartment in the middle of the holiday season. and i have a group that i actively play d&d with and/or hang out with on weekends (when i'm not catching up on schoolwork). all of that to say, i have myself listed as a low activity blog because i sometimes go through periods of inactivity or get really selective about what i reply to. but i enjoy being here and appreciate every single one of you for being here, too. i realize i can probably come across as flighty or inconsistent. so, thanks for sticking around if you're still here.