#or my mental health for that matter. pretty sure the antidepressants im on are fucking me up but i am on a legacy prescription

[nebulouswaters]

I'm havin a rough go at it folks

[kazmorosov]

|| bill skarsgard, cismale, he/him || ( kazaran morozov ) is a ( 25 ) year old ( senior ) at rockport university studying ( business + literature [TA] ). people say they are ( ardent ) but also ( stoic ), and remind others of ( coffee rings on crisp paper, losing their sense of reality, hushed arguments ). bet they sure didn’t expect anyone to know about ( his plagiarizing to succeed and honor his terminally ill mother he killed ) but someone does, and ( kaz ) better cooperate if they plan to keep their lives. || james, 20, EST ||

hi i’m so sorry this took a long ass time to put out but im herE lmao here’s my baby

tw; murder, addiction/substance abuse, abuse mentions,

gen. info:

full name: kazaran nikolai morozov

nickname(s): kaz

b.o.d.: december 14th

label(s): the escapist, the academic, the fallen, the philanthropist, etc.

height: 6′4″

hometown: bangor, maine

sexuality: str...aigh...t ? question mark ?

biography:

born to a self-made businessman and a philanthropist with a penchant for odd names

his father’s a russian who moved to the u.s. in his childhood who still has many...unique, ties, to the country though none of those are important

his business involves military equipment and he works closely with the u.s.’s military (ahsdfghk conspiracies ?)

and his mother was a plain jane (literally--her name was jane) from a family of politicians; his uncle’s a senator

kaz is the eldest out of seven children (christ) and yes all of their names are just as excessive as ‘kazaran’

grew up with the pressure of the ‘golden child’ title; kaz had to be perfect at everything he did, from his grades to after school activities to manners and presentment

was always expected to follow in his father’s footsteps and like ?? partner with him once he was old enough? 

which is fine and grand except kaz had never given a shit about his father’s business; his real passion had always been for the arts, particularly literature and even more particularly poetry

he found that the arts was probably the most...free, kaz could get, without actively rebelling against his father

b/c god . . . his father is a force to be reckon’d w/

very strict man, likes to be in control constantly, not the...best, emotionally towards his family. or verbally. sometimes physically. y’know.

this really only...amplified, kaz’s perfectionist attitude. it was mostly out of fear of repercussions than much else

kaz has, however, always loved his mother.

jane is the opposite of their father, a woman who loves the world and everybody in it with this...heart of gold, and best intentions in mind

the only problem was that she was horribly submissive to her husband

aNYWAys okay, kaz grew up fairly unscathed but only because he was so...conformist, y’know?

loves his siblings and would die for them, but god--he’d have to side with his father just for his own sake, which definitely strained his relationship with a few of ‘em

AnywAys again; was pretty well-known in his high school

for being like, intimidatingly tall but also was fairly popular? star of the track team, student gov president, in DECA or whatever.

went to rockport just because it wasn’t...too far from home, and partially because he wasn’t allowed to go out of state.

and he was fine w/ it, man

his mother got sick his freshmen year, however, it wasn’t...horrible, at first

it was concerning, yes, but the doctors said she was going to be fine

jane was pretty...adamant about not letting her condition effect her children, too, so she acted as if she was fine

kaz, being a dumbass, was like alright fine this is fine and went on w/ life

sophomore year he met his soulmate; a future veterinarian named freya

n i mean he just...fell for her immediately, y’know ?? n ig she felt similar enough b/c they started dating immediately

it was really...good, for him; especially as his mother’s heath had suddenly taken a turn for the worst

kaz wound up taking two years off of school to care for his mother; his father was gone more often than not, and he felt as if his younger siblings shouldn’t have been burdened with the task

and well...jane never got better, only worse

it was at the point where the doctors had sent her home, knowing that nothing else could be done--she was confined to her bed, and miserable. in pain, really.

one...day, as kaz was tending to jane, she broke down. i mean, just, a full on emotional breakdown, a complete episode, begging him to just...put her out of her misery.

and, god, kaz had never disobeyed his parents (minus his studies in literature but y’knw what. . . not important rn) but that was so ?? morally ?? conflicting ??

they cried together for a long time until y’know. deciding what to do.

as soon as she had fallen asleep, kaz put a pillow to her.

he was never...caught, tho that may have involved some bribery on his father’s end who knows

the day after the funeral, kaz proposed to freya and she agreed.

and it really should’ve been fine if kaz’s mental health didn’t rapidly deteriorate like...he was not handling it well

freya helped, yes, but she could only do so much

turned to drugs, particularly painkillers after a minor car crash and just...a mix of shit, y’know.

probably stole drugs from his fiance’s job tbh

got on antidepressants, which only worsened his shit b/c he started ?? occasionally hallucinating his dead mother ??

his creativity had also just. shat on itself. he couldn’t write, no matter how hard he tried

his mother had really wanted him to pursue his dreams, and god, he was too far in his degree to drop literature

so he started....plagiarizing, his works, b/c kaz is a whole ass idiot. but he hasn’t gotten caught yet, somehow

his fiance thought the cruise program would be a great way for kaz to possibly, recover, since she could see how bad he was doing so he weNt because of her

also yes at this point he had gone back to school; had even gotten a TA position because he used to be...one of the best in his class, y’know ?

anyways yeah im paraphrasing this all horribly but idc u get the point

drug addict, mercy-killed his mother, loves his fiancee, tortured soul, y’know all that

personality:

likes to pretend he’s much calmer than he actually is, y’know

likes the whole aloof and distant thing b/c it’s already so easy for him to be intimidating

he can b a lil snarky, a lil sarcastic, but he’s overall always been really well meaning?

can be extremely passionate about his hobbies, or his future wife, or really...anything he mildly likes, tho, y’know?

gOD is he always feeling so guilty, tho, it really weighs him down

but he’s also like...usually high, sometimes u can tell but more often than not u can’t ??

because he’s obsessed w/ seeming okay. and doing okay. and being that average dude next door, y’know?

he wants to be normal, to feel normal, but he’s got this wave of emotions crashing into his chest and he’s in sm pa i n constantly

like he’s got major anxiety but u won’t know unless u catch him in midst of a panic attack and like he’d rather die than somebody see that

probably journals as a way 2 like...cope, and keep himself calm

uuhh he’s like lowkey a huge softie. will cry at sad movies and won’t care tht he’s crying about it

takes teaching rly seriously but he’s also always concerned somebody’s going to figure out that he’s just. a fraud.

smart, with dumbass energy

like he just...sometimes doesn’t think ??

loves his fiancee a whole bunch but this distance thing is...sm harder than he thought it would be. she’s his anchor and he’s just ?? floating aimlessly now

but yeah he’s always acting like he’s okay, like he’s gucci.

uuuhhhh god i dont know what else to say tbh ?? he’s just. a mans. being a mans.

probably doesn’t sleep super often b/c not only is he a TA, but he’s got some mf nightmares man

wanted connections:

got a girl best friend but he needs a...dude best friend?

other friends in general, honestly

professors he’s got some sort of relationship with b/c he’s working for penelope rn

a flirty unrequited thing, where they keep tryn but kaz is like nO i am TAKEN look at this photo of my beAUTIFUL FIANCEE

ppl pissed at him for the grades he’s given them LMAO

people...concerned? for him?

bad mf influences who are like LET’S GET FUCKED UP

a dealer y’know. somebody on the ship who can give him what he wants which is a Lot

uuh let’s brainstorm together, bb

like srsly just. gimme a like, i’ll pop into ur dms w/ my messy tall son and be like let’s fuck him up !

[ramblingsandruminations]

When Suicidal Ideation is the norm

All the help in the world becomes a muddy puddle of shitty affirmations, thorned gaslighting, and useless guilt. If one more person tells me "have you tried yoga/deepbreaths/vitamin B..." Ugh. Who am i kidding? This is tumblr, where you can always find somone who says exactly what you are thinking ( #omgmetho #datme #meirl ). Weve all heard the "stop giving advice and atart taking it " speech, we're all likely to have read some post about the "evils" and " abuses" of therapy and inpatient treatment, and I'll bet a paper hat, some vending machine doodad, or some shitty-yet-adorably-hipsterly prize that within 100 reblogs someone links to some news article about "Queer Youth Completes Suicide And We Think You Will Pay Us to Feel Bad About It, Don't Forget To Like, Share, and Subscribe to Trevor Project, Your Reblog Will Save A Life (And Keep Us Relevant For Our Advertisers)." Tomorrow(well, next daylight hours) my 26-year-old depressed college freshman self is going to walk into my schools coubseling office and tell them i never recieved the location for the therapist they reffered me to (true story--Honestly not avoiding treatmwnt, even if it is useless) and request a second referral. Ill sit through some lecture about self-advocacy veiled in "concerned questions" and once again be misgendered, deadnamed, and criticized for giving a fuck (note: commenters looking to describe me with the word "cuck," i see you there, good for you, let me know how that white kkknight holier than thou red pill rage fest dopamine addiction is filling the gaping void of existential dread within you). After that, there is always a small chance they'll see just how depressed i am, and faster than you can say "looney is a word based in misogynistic beliefs of womens mental health and menstrual cycles being unhealthily and unscientifically connected to the moon," ill be fielding questions which boil down to "do you want to kill yourself" and "do you have a plan." By this time in my life, i've gotten pretty used to BSing my way around psychology. All it really takes is knowing that all they can take you on is your word, and nothing else. "Do you want to kill yourself?" they ask, and i reply "*short pause, heavy, short exhale denoting weight and truth* Well, yeah. But quite frankly, suicidal ideation is a part of my everyday life- nothing i do isn't plagued with some form of "i should wrap this mouse cord aroubd my neck and die" or " i wonder if that branch is strong enough to support my weight" or "man, my head hurts, but i bet a bottle or two of ibuprofen could make it stop." For me, its not a question of wanting to die, its a matter of what do i have to live for, and ive been through enough inpatient DBT and group therapy to help me cope, using breathing techniques and self-care tips to push me through the worst of it." This is usually if not always all they need to hear. Sure, im depressed, but anything they could tell me is something i know and am already doing-i sound to them more like a patient leaving inpatient than one entering it. Our hospitals are overfilled, understaffed, prqctucally unfunded; if im "stable" im staying out of their ledger book. Occasionally, they still worry, having one of those "consciences" their peers claim to have lost when a schizophrenic patient tried to bite their ear off, and ask a follow up "but are you sure? You seem distressed, and if you need some help, we are here for you," to which all i have to do is look at them through sad, but strong eyes and say "Thank you, but i have a great support network of friends and of course, my boyfriend. He's fantastic, and one of the most important things to have happened to me. He keeps me on this side of the dirt." A small tired chuckle, and their focus diverts towards affirmations of how good it is to have support, their therapy brains running on autopilot. Then all it needs is some "active" listening, uh-huhs, and compliant assurance that ill keep working on myself to assuage them of any guilt or corncern. Maybe, though, ill tell them the truth, and let them take me in. Three hots and a cot, after all. I'll fight through my dysphoria as they ogle every nook and cranny of my malformed body trying to see if im hiding a weapon or some drugs; I'll continue to insist on a private room and remind them calmly yet firmly that no, i will *not* room with a male, and their lack of knowledge on how to treat a transgender non-binary patient is well behind on proper treatment according to WPATH, the APA, and our state govt. When i get a room, theyll say that i should take as much time as i need to get acclimated, and not worry about what the rwat of group is qorking on, and then contradict themselves within 5 minutes and say i need to go to group, theyre waiting on me. In my fresh new scrubs, ill walk in and within seconds, ill identify how th staff monitors who came in when (usually different colored scrubs based on different halves of the week, and of course, anyone likely to leave within 48 hours wearing "normal" clothes), and see the therapist or doctor talking about emotional management techniques. When i sit down, eeyes will be on me, some with looks of angey jusgemwnt, some with awe and wonder: what could THEY be in for? The group leader will ask me my name, ill state it and my pronouns (to several uncomfortable shifts in the room), and theyll let me know what they were talking about. Ill make a good effort to participate, play along, etc. Someone in the group will be desperate to control the conversation, talking more and more as if this entire experience is just for them- another person will be too dissociated to say anyrhing, despite the doctors attebpts to get them to open up. Already, the cliques will become apparent; humans are aocial creatures, after all. When we leave for the next scheduled activity (either rec or lunch, depending on the time) the docs will be watching me- im on suicide watch, and they expe t me to jump out a window or try and slit my wrists with a paperclip or something. Im not a danger in this regard; ive been threatened with solitary and ECT if i dont comply before- i am their prisoner and i must comply. Within an hour or two of being there, ill be able to notice how well funded they are (or more likely, arent.) The quality of their reading materials; the availability of puzzles abd how well taken care of they appear. Recreation will be the most bare of kindergarden activities; coloring books, maybe a tv with basic cable. A daycare for adults, abd not the cool buzzfeed articles. Someone, probably an addict, will be trying to fanangle their attendee into giving them special treatement- a snack, or an extra smoke break. I'll be sitting in a corner, smirking- the staff arent even an eigth as dumb as this person thinks, and they've seen this type before. They might get something, but itll cost them sour looks from staff and less accommodating treatment with the doctors. After the second hour, we'll have another activity (second group, rec, or maybe "outside time" if its a particularly fancy facility; while the sun will certainly be shining, our feelings of freedom will be dampened by the high fances and walls keeping us from getting away). This is usually wheb the realization sets in that im stuck here for 72 hours plus, and ill be counting them down to stave off boredom. 15-30 minutes in to this third hour, ill be called in to meet tye psychiatrist, fisrt meeting with an attendee to fill out the generic details, then 30-45 minutes of diagnosis before im told ill be put on ab antidepressant, an anxiolytic, and tramodol, a sedative marketed as "something to help me sleep" and "another antidepressant" which makes me laugh every time. Tramodol is the auppressant, the "slow down" drug which helps keep everyobe on a nice, calm level thats safer for the orderlies. Were i violent, id concur; instead, i begin to wonder how long it will take before i no longer feel persistently asleep once i leave. A couple weeks, likely. Hopefully, the food will be good, but not likely 5 star- one place ive stayed had been cooking for us in the break room, sometimes PB&J, sometimes microwaved quesadillas. Maybe theyll have more drink options than coffee, water, and sugar-free koolaid- maybe not. Likely not. Some of us will complain; most of us will know it is a fruitless endeavor. After another group or two, it will be dinner, then wrap up group. We will discuss what progress we think we made today, and be sent to bed after meds are distributed in little paper ketchup cups. Most places wont do the "cuckoos nest" tongue check, but some will, particularly the ones with kleptos and pill ODers. Lights oyt will be around 10 pm, the beds will be plasticky and the blankets thin, and sleep will only cone rhanks to our sedatives. Day two, we'll be woken early, around 6-7, by an orderly checking our blood pressure and body temp. Well all gather in the hallway, rubbing sleep out of our eyes and head to the eating area for breakfast- which loooking back will likely be the best meal of the day, not the least be ause we have access to augar and caffiene. By now, i will likely have made a friend, probably with an older woman or two, and we will enjoy surreptitiously smirking at each other when the teoublemaker patwnt tries to get an omlette or something silly. Someone will start telling fanciful stories dreamed up in the night; talk will eventually turn to who is leaving today. The orderlies will be trying to not look too interested in what we reveal to each other instead of them. They will not succeed in this. Ths first morning they will use as a test of how i deal with frustration. An older nurse will act exasperated, as though taking care of me is a curse she was tasked with. She will try to cut theough any response i give her, and rudely discount anything i try to say, as if accuaing me of lying. Knowing it is coming doesnt help it hurt less. If it overwhelms me, ill be labeled as dramatic- if not, as detached. Sluggish from the new medications, i will be treated as though i ahould not be here, and will be led aroubd more quickly than i am rady to be. I will notice that part of it is that i am beginning to realize how broken down i feel i am. Reaching out will result in canned answers and "the doctor is busy's". After all, this iant about me, and theyve seen my type before. At lunch, i will be upset by the bland meal, abd ask if they have any hot sauce, or maybethey will be out of a preferred tea, or the food will not be enough to feed me. The newcomer who arrived at morning group will share a look with the quiet patient. I will try not to notice the parallels. A therapist will ask to talk to me today. It may be a nice session, but will essebtially boil down to "let me give you ideas for solving your problems, so that your depression seems more managed." By the end of the day, they will already begin my release plan. Theyve fixed me, they are sure. I will also get my clothes back. The aurvey will be slightly different today; instead of asking on a scale of 1-10 with 1 being best abd 10 being worst how was my day, it will be the opposite: scale of 1-10 with 1 being worst and 10 being best. This way, they can track how much is me being honest, and how much is me remembering numbers to fake it. (Once, a nurse messed up so often that it was a sentence by sentence change). Later, if there is any improvement, it will be used by the hospital as signs that treatment is helping; if it gets worse, that i had a rough day and shouldnt think much of it. Bedtime will come, and i will relish it- being sedated takes a lot out of a person. When morning comes, the eggs will feel soggy and cereal with be a much better choice. A bagel will be carried into morning group and more DBT will be discussed. I will mostly be checked out; they are pulling most of their material from a 12 step program, and the leader is a student of psychology learning how to help people, but ive heard it all before, and that sense of guilt just pushes me towards suicide harder. At this point, ill feel just how desperate they are to get me out; nurses eill hint at things being the "wrong" answer with " you dont REALLY mean that, do you sweetie?" and " well, you cant keep thinking THAT way, or we'll have to keep you here longer." Boredom and longing for home will encourage me to pretend to be better, and not tell them how last night before falling asleep i stared at the vedfrane wondering if i could take it apart and form a springwire noose, or tear the blankets to make a rope. When they ask if im feeling better, it will actually mean "are you done with your timeout from reality? Have you learned how to fit in properly yet?" The meds wont really begin having a noticable effect for months- they know im lying. What they hope for is a glimmer of hope and a mountain of guilt for wanting to hurt others by hurting myself. Ill fake those, too. Still, ill be misgendered. Still, theyll blame hormones and buzzfeed rather than neurology and chemistry. After all, im well-adjusted, not at all like the Caitlyn Jenners and Wachowskis they read about on their facebooks. Its just a phase, and im just confused. I didnt try to hurt myself- nothing is *really* wrong with me. What can i do? Try and strangle myaelf, or others? That just means im lashing out, and ill get a new med regime and another 3 days, this time strapped down. Being strapped to a bed and left alone is mind-numbingly boring. If i tell them i still want to kill myaelf, theyll just nod their head and tell me it will go away soon; if i say i have a plan, rheyll keep me playing chess and reading AA papers until i apologize. Their job is not to fix me, their job is to stabilize me and make sure i dont break myself more. The fixing is my responsibility. Day four is release day. They will claim i have made improvements and have me fill out an action plan for when i feel depressed again. It will include people i can call, and ways i can push through bad feelings. It is my exit exam.when i pass, ill be set up with a therapist outside the hospital later in the week, and told how to connect with various resources. They will think i didnt know there were trans support groups. I will think that if it was just a support group i needed, i wouldnt dream of death. Neither of us will admit these things. And so, ill come back to school. Late on homework, i will have to prostrate myaelf with dictors note beggibg for forgiveness. I will get it, more due to policy than empathy, and at the end of the day, i will lay in bed, stare up at the ceiling, and contemplate which of my top three anchor spots would be the best ending to my story. Other than medical bills, nothing will have changed. Life drones on. I think i understand why death seems,so much better. In death, i can pretend there is a solution. In death, i can imagine a cure. In death, i can envision a caretaker and easier existence. It doesnt matter that death is the end of it all- i can pretend it willl be more, and my imagination can create many comforts in that void. But even death is a lie, and nothing will ever stop hurting.

[forwhenyouwanttoeat]

11/19/18

I feel like such a failure. All my life I've looked forward to going to college. I felt like college would be the fresh start I needed, all my problems would disappear. I would shed my old, pitifiul self and become someone good. When I got to college, my dream school, all my probelms came to light again. My anxiety and depression came back stronger than ever. I was partying 3-5 nights a week. Not because I love to party. (Don't get me wrong, I like to party every now and again for sure). But at UCSB I was partying purely to fill the ever growing void inside me. Partying gave me an excuse to get fucked up and numb myself. There's something catharic about getting wasted with a bunch of people you don't know. It's like I get to be someone else for the night. To everyon else, I'm just some happy-go-lucky college chick. They don't know it's only mask, and underneath is someone who fantasizes about her own death mulitple times a day. Partying also have me the opprtunity to meet boys who showed me attention and gave me the validation I so desperately craved. I love my drunk self. She'outgoing, enterntaining, the life of the party. The problem is that drunk me has a tendency to hit up all kinds of dudes, who usually aren't very receptive to my drunken antics.Drunk me is also prone to random hook-ups. The day after parting I feel disgutsing. Not from the hangover, but from the boys. Whatever interaction occurrs with them always makes me feel so empty the next day. Like a shell of a person. It leaves me feeling even more worthless than I normally feel. I don't know why I'm so stupid. I know that 99% of boys in IV just wanna fuck and never see me again, yet I still go along with it holding onto the hope that just maybe one of them will see me as more than a body and want something more. Actually, it doesn't even matter to me that they just want to fuck. I'd play the game because all I want is intimacy and I don't care if that's the only way I can get it. SO partying so much defintely didn't help my mental health whatsoever. All the partying, coupled with how hard all my classes felt and how fast the quarter moved, led me to have to take adderrall in order to get any school work done. Except that backfired, because whenever I would take adderall I just wanted to go to the gym and work out for hours at a time. It took my mind off everything else. Then the xanax dependance got really bad. I took it pretty frequently-either to turn my brain off when I was a having panick attacks, erase bad memories involving boys who used me or played me, and to calm myself at the end of the day when I wanted to kill the adderrall tweak. It was a vicious cycle. A month and a half in and my mental health was down the drain, as well as my grades (it's kind of hard to go to class when you're too depressed to get out of bed and dealing with a drug addiction). All I could think about was killing myself. One particularly bad night, I was coerced into having sex that I didn't really want to have and that same night, another guy picked me up and took me to his apartment. We hooked up, which was the reason I went over in the first place, but after he just got up and disappeared, leaving me outaide on the curb at 3am with no way of getting home. I finally got uber to download and got a ride back to the dorms. I wanted to burst into tears. I had about 8 xanax bars left and I took them all at 4:30m that morning. I slept through my 19th birtday. That was my breaking poing. The next day I officially withdrew from school. Now I'm back in Jamul after slaving away in high school in order to get out. Im such a disappointment. I couldn't even make it through one quarter of college. I'm supposed to start going to therapy and get on an antidepressant in order to get my shit together so thst I can go back in the Spring, this time in my own aprtment instead of the dorms. I'm so scared the same thing is going to happen. Maybe I'll be more mentall stable, but I'm convinced my brain is actually damaged from when I overdosed at Hard Summer so I don't know if I'll be able to get through it academically. And I'll probably end up back on Xans and Adderrall and eventually spiral out of control again. I don't want that to happen though. I want to make my parents proud; after all, I'm supposed to be the "smart sister". But I don't even really want to go down that path. That means I'll get a degree eventually, and a job and basically forced into adulthood. That's my biggest fear-growing up. I don't think I'm capable of doing it all on my own. I'd rather just OD on fentanyl and cut my losses now before theres more to lose. Or find a sugar daddy thats willing to fully support me financially so I don't have to grow up. And then when I get older and ugly, I'll kill myself and at that point no one woukld care as much because they'd see me for what I really am-a worthless whore. God I'm so depressed. All I want is to be loved. No one's ever gonna love me for me, which is why I have to put so much time and effort into making my body look good. If I was pretty, I wouldn't even care if I was a little overweight.