#psych survivor trauma

[neuroticboyfriend]

not that people who've been to the ward are immune from being pro-psych, but if you've never been to a psych ward*, i sincerely don't want to hear about how psychiatry/psychology is good because you've had such a good experience with X provider, or X medication saved your life. *i also don't want to hear about how the forced treatment was what you needed or how the ward you went to let you have your cellphone etc. etc. i genuinely do not want to hear it.

like. the first hospitalization traumatized me so bad, i became dangerously delusional, was re-hospitalized, and sent to state. when they transferred me, i was strapped down into a gurney at all points on my body, *head and neck included*, and loaded onto an ambulance. my parents lost most of their parental rights; i was a ward of the state and had near zero rights. when i got there, they made me choose if, "if necessary," if i wanted to be wrangled down and forcibly injected with a sedative... or wrangled down and locked in a padded room all by myself (but at least i had a choice, right?). i signed consents and paperwork that i did not fucking understand. then i was told i'd be locked inside for 2 straight weeks (which yes, they followed through with). the psych ward was remote, nothing but barbed fences and trees around us. cant even see the sun through the heavily tinted windows. that was the *start* of the stay. i'm sure you can imagine nothing good came after.

so like. if you walk out of a place like that thinking it was good for you, then i can only imagine how traumatized you are and i hope you heal someday. but if you've never faced the destruction of your autonomy like that and go around being like "oh this is good actually" then shut the ever living fuck up.

[night-wyld-system]

Trauma-Punk (Coining)

Concept

An aesthetic and social group/movement focused on trauma survivors of any and all kinds. You have gone through hell and back and you are allowed to be loud, angry, aggressive, and selfish. Traumapunk is for all the unsavory survivors who don’t fall into society's ideal victim mold. It’s taking back the power from times you could not before, it’s being independent and self assured, it’s saying fuck you to the system that allowed your traumas to occur, saying fuck you to the abusers you may have had. You don’t have to be quiet or docile, you can be loud and aggressive.

All trauma survivors matter, and the discrimination and biases we face on a daily basis should no longer go ignored. This is a movement for all the cluster-b disordered people, all the people with PTSD, all the people with DID/OSDD, and any other trauma induced disorders. Everyone with the “wrong” reaction to their trauma and everyone who has decided they will no longer take anyone's shit.

All trauma survivors can be a part of this, regardless of disorders or the lack thereof. Your trauma no matter how big, no matter how small, is valid.

Trauma Punk Flag

[Image ID: The trauma-punk flag, consistent of 7 stripes which are reflected horizontally. The stripes go as follows; Dark Sienna, Rosso Corsa, Old Brick, Carousel Pink, Old Brick, Rosso Corsa, and then Dark Sienna. The flag is all tinted towards a redish color. End ID]

The flags colors all have their own meaning

Dark Sienna: All the negative feelings and emotions that comes from having experienced trauma, the feeling of being alone.

Rosso Corsa: Anger towards what happened, having to fight to survive. Not being docile.

Old Brick: Any and all people with socially unacceptable reactions to their traumas- including disorders, temperament shifts, and being untrusting of others. (Separate from anger).

Carousel Pink: Recovery and healing

This flag is free to be used and never requires any credit.

Core Beliefs

Pro/Supports

People with Personality Disorders

People with PTSD/cPTSD

Traumagenic Systems (DID/OSDD)

CDDs (Complex Dissociative Disorders)

People with lesser known disorders like RAD, ASD (acute stress disorder not autism), DSED

People with trauma based adjustment disorders

People with trauma based anxiety disorders

People with “problematic” (trauma induced) OCD themes

Anyone with trauma

Low empathy

Hyper empathy

Well researched self-dx

Sex-workers

Hypersexual survivors

Sex repulsed survivors

Trans People

Gay People

Intersex people

Xenogenders

Self-defense

Angry Survivors

Survivors who want revenge

Survivors who want to see their perps be better people

Anti-Psych/Psych-Critical

Psychology/psychiatry should be available for those in need- however there are massive issues within the field and it needs to be addressed. We personally prefer Psych-Crit, but people recognize Anti-psych more.

Anti/Against

Ableists

“Narcissistic/Histrionic/Borderline/Sociopathic” Abuse 

The abuser made their choice, having a disorder will never make someone be an abuser, that abusive person CHOSE to be evil. Your anger should be at them, not fellow trauma survivors.

Trauma Comparison

All traumas are valid, some may be harder to deal with than others but we are still all survivors.

Sanists

Fakeclaimers

You never know what someone is going through it is not your place to decide if they have a disorder or not

Terfs/Swerfs/Radfems

Transphobes

Homophobes

Transmeds

Intersexists

[downbadbytheriver]

OK so I had a thought today while playing BG3 re: Astarion. Out of all the companions/party members, Astarion is the one who looks towards "you", aka the PC, more than any other during dialogues. And no matter if you are romancing him or have high approval. I've noticed this fact is often used in screenshots where people are like, "aw look how he looks at my Tav/Durge 🥹".

BUT, here's a different take on that ^.

TW: discussing abuse, trauma

Astarion's particular trauma is in the form of long-term abuse and manipulation where he had to obey and perform 'correctly' for Cazador, or face serious consequences and punishments. People with this specific flavor of trauma are often very, *very* in tune with others' behavior and emotions, due to the fact that their survival depended on this skill and their ability to read their abuser(s) and their mood, perception of them, etc. *Even if* what the abuser(s) are upset about is not their fault or even may have anything to do with them - almost *especially* then, actually.

I think Astarion watches the PC intently out of survival habits and a need to read them constantly for any sign of behavior change.

It's not a signal that the PC is abusive; it's just a survival skill Astarion will probably never stop using, like any of us who have ever *had* to use it constantly. It doesn't stop once you're out of the abusive situation or relationship, safe, or even in a healthy relationship. Once your mind learns to do it, you never stop. (It can also have positives, like being very empathetic towards others and picking up on moods/behavior changes in a way that makes you very good at supporting and helping others.)

Watching Astarion do it makes my heart hurt, but also love his writing even more.

[belinhagamer999]

Traumatic psychology/psychiatry experience flag

[PT: Traumatic psychology/psychiatry experience flag /END PT]

A awareness flag for those who experienced trauma with psychology or psychiatry, and also those who don’t have trauma with it but bad experiences. This is in honor for people who tried to cure their neurodivergence but psychology or psychiatry harmed them in some way, people who had terrible experiences with therapy, and etc.

I decided to make this flag, because we aren’t represented and our experiences are almost always invalidated and ignored even by other neurodivergent people! We have our own right of choice to not recover or seek other ways to heal ourselves, whatever makes us more happy!

[IMAGE ID: The image features a lilac and white checkered or grid pattern filling a square-shaped frame. At the center of the image, there's a white square that contains the psychology symbol. The design conveys a sense of simplicity and elegance. /END ID]

Lilac and white are typical colors of healing, it represents our internal or external alternative healing methods. Psychology symbol with an X in it shows that we’re tired, we don’t want to be in a harmful environment anymore

Please this is a coining blog, discourse isn’t allowed.

[emohorseboy]

Shelving books at my new job and reacted to this like a vampire next to a stack of bibles

[shitcomscriptwriter]

I Don’t think some of y’all realise how awful the mental health system is to children.

Even if you are lucky enough to get help early on, it’s a gamble. I went to so many hospitals and therapists and psychologists, all of whom claimed to be state of the art.

Nothing was ever different. I was scrutinised, used as a lab rat, put on a crap ton of medications that made me sick, made me gain weight, made my symptoms worse.

You grow up with a sense that you can’t trust yourself. After all, doctors know best, don’t they? So you must be wrong! But the doctors aren’t helping you at all… so what’s going on?

Then come the residents and medical students that put you through the same sloppy thought exercises and wear you thin, and you didn’t even consent to them practicing on you!

Rant over. For now.

[dysmotility]

one of the scariest things about being a psych survivor is that you don’t know what to do anymore when you need help.

hospitals don’t feel safe. residential don’t feel safe. and yet i still have the same mental health issues that caused me to seek care in the first place, plus the additional trauma.

i’m having a hard time right now. i wish i could just “get help” but it’s not that simple anymore. these programs just chew you up and spit you out, and i don’t want to go through that again. but it’s terrifying ti be on your own.

[starblaster]

conversion 'therapy' survivors 🤝 psychiatric survivors 🤝 ABA survivors 🤝 special education program and IEP survivors 🤝 troubled teen industry survivors 🤝 cult survivors

[shattered-yet-whole]

WIP - I was gonna write an AU psych ward fanfic but then i just started writing my psych ward trauma. Antipsych. This happened a while ago, I'm okay now (and I'm not grateful it happened).

tw - suicidal ideation, descriptions of suicide rehearsal, psychiatric abuse, trauma

--------

“Why are you here?”

I look at the psychiatrist’s tie blankly. He’s dressed in a suit, a clipboard and pen in hand. I haven’t even gotten my clothes back, I have to wear a hospital gown and pants four sizes too large, and am not allowed footwear other than grippy socks. The only thing I have left that's mine is my chipped glittery nail polish. I've picked it halfway off over the past day despite desperately trying not to. But this guy is walking around in shiny Oxfords and a suit.

I don’t look at his face. I know he’s looking at me, expecting an answer. Something I’m learning here is that they wait for you to speak. Even if you take a long time. They don’t try to speak for you. Sometimes I wish they would. It would be easier to say what they wanted to hear if they did. Instead I have to guess. I suppose I’m used to doing that, but it’s a lot scarier. “Don’t you know?” I say.

“Yes. But I want to hear it from you.”

Great. I have to tell him in my own words. It’s like a school assignment, but the grade is how long I’m going to be locked up.

I had been in the ER for 13 hours before I came in, and then I stayed up 2 more hours getting here. I wasn’t allowed my phone until I’d been there for 6 hours. No calling my friends. No telling anyone where I was. No one to talk to. Just me and the book I brought, the book I couldn’t focus on because I’d just gone to the counselor’s office because I was having a hard time and now I was at the ER for a psych eval. The counselor who sent me to the ER had said he thought I would just get connected to resources in the community. He said he didn’t think I would be sent to a psych ward.

I’d done a lot of staring at the ceiling to just get through to the eval part, 4 hours in. 2 hours after, when I finally learned I was recommended inpatient, the social worker told me even if I hate it now, I will be grateful later. Once I feel better, I will approve of the decision to involuntarily commit me. My current wishes tossed aside for a theoretical future me who is glad I never a choice. If they’re right, I should kill myself now so I never become such a monster. All alone, with a life shattering brick dropped on my head, I finally cried.

After the eval, I’d begged the nurse for my phone so I could tell my friends where I was. So I could tell my roommate why I still hadn’t come back at 9pm when we usually saw each other by five. My phone was nearly dead when I got it. I called my friends. I called my parents. My friends stayed with me the rest of the 7 hours I was there. They hugged me and cried with me until I got taken away in an ambulance at 3am. I wondered how much a 45 minute ambulance ride cost. I wondered if it mattered.

What a fuck-up I must have seemed. I’d heard of some college kids going to psych wards before. I knew someone who had called a suicide hotline at 4am and got the cops called to take them in. I hadn’t thought it would happen to me.

It’s nice, in a way. To know how bad I’m doing. I’m bad enough that I need to be locked up. For my own safety. I’m so crazy that I can’t be trusted to make my own decisions. I hadn’t known I was that bad until now. I still don’t believe it. It’s a mistake. But it’s nice they think I’m struggling.

He’s looking at me again. I don’t remember what he asked. “Can you repeat the question?” I ask.

“Sure. Why are you here?” he says again.

Right, that was what it was. I smile. I smile when I’m nervous. “Well, I… I…” Why is he making me say this. He knows what I did. I didn’t even try to kill myself. It’s not that bad. “Well, I was… I was… Sometimes I get into these moods. A lot of times I’m normal and fine. But sometimes I just… sometimes I just want to die. I used to try not to think about how I could do that or anything.” I sigh. I had tried so hard to not think about methods. I must have known I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from doing shit like this eventually. “Because I know this sort of thing would happen. But this time… this time I did. I looked up bridges I could theoretically jump from. But that seems like it would suck.”

I laugh. It’s a nervous laugh. It’s a ‘isn’t it funny that jumping from a bridge to kill yourself would suck?’ joke. One of the classics. He’s not laughing.

“Anyway, I was just feeling… I don’t know. I felt useless. I just keep thinking about dying and killing myself. It’s stupid. And I—I wasn’t trying to kill myself. I don’t know if people think I was trying to kill myself and that’s why I’m here. But I wanted to do something. To—I don’t know. To see what’s even possible. So I—so I—so I—”

This is the part I always get stuck on describing. I don’t know how to put what I was feeling into words. I don’t know how to describe what I was doing. I don’t know why I was doing it. It seemed like a good idea at the time. But then again, it had seemed like a good idea to go to the counselor’s office at the time.

“I took—I took a belt. Right? And I hooked the metal buckle part over the door knob—it’s one of those long ones. And I kind of—I kind of—I don’t know. I kind of wrapped it around my neck once and held it with my other hand. So that if I passed out I would be fine. And then I sort of… pulled down. To see if that would… do anything. I did that a few times, and then I was scared that I did it. And I told the counselor the next day.”

It hadn’t been empty blackness like I’d hoped for. It had been a pulsing pressure in my head. I did it a couple times, to see if I could get the empty blackness. Then I stopped. Because it had seemed like such a good fucking idea before I did it, but then I realized I’d done something very worrying and should probably be in therapy. Even if the voice that had started the whole thing was telling me to do it again. It wasn’t real before I’d done it, but once I’d done it, it was too real to ignore.

He’s writing on the clipboard. I have a sinking feeling I’m not getting a good grade. “I wasn’t trying to kill myself,” I repeat.

“I know,” he says. He’s still writing. I wish I knew what it was.

It’s just me and him in my room. He woke me up when he came in. I went to sleep after breakfast. When I was admitted at 5am last night, one of the techs told me I should try to be awake during the day and asleep at night. Go to groups. Talk to people. It would help me get out sooner. But I’d already been up for 20 hours and it was 5am. So I was going to sleep and they were just going to have to live with that. Apparently you can’t skip the psychiatrist appointments, though.

“What’s got you so suicidal?” he asks.

The world. Everything. And yet, nothing. My life is great. “What do you mean?” I say.

“What do you think about that makes you want to kill yourself?” he elaborates.

“I… I don’t know,” I say. “The… the environment, I guess. Global warming. Kinda sucks to feel like the future is ruined. And the species and the ice sheets. Rising fascism.” I remember a tumblr post where a therapist talked about her patients talking more about those sorts of things making them depressed. That made it seem like an okay enough reason to give to a psychiatrist. And it’s not like that isn’t a big fucking bummer making me not want to be alive.

He makes more notes. “Anything else?” We both seem know that’s not enough on its own to make me constantly thinking about suicide.

I shrug. I’m just so stupid and worthless doesn’t feel like a cogent enough explanation. And I can’t phrase it like that. That would be stupid. “Feelings of… worthlessness, and um.” I search for something in my head. It’s fuzzy. There’s nothing there. I always remember everything so well when I’m crying in bed thinking about how much I want to kill myself. I could write essays on the subject in those moments. Instead I just rehash them to myself, over and over. But I can’t remember any of it now. “I dunno. I can’t remember unless I’m spiraling. A lot of anxiety. Around… people. Social anxiety.” I nod.

Sometimes I get attacked by my social anxiety, memories from years ago—three years, five years, a decade—sending jolts through me as I remember them. I remember what I should never do again. What I’ve learned. Lessons I can never forget, even when I can’t remember what taught them. I usually throw myself onto my bed and writhe in the agony of memories, clinging to ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘I want to die’ like I'm falling in an abyss and they're the only rope up. I can never remember what the memories are until they’ve started their assault. I don’t know how to describe that, though.

I’m not being as amicable to him as I usually would be. I haven’t been amicable since they recommended me for inpatient at the ER. Something broke in me then. I’d felt it snap, a crack of terror, and then—nothing. I’m more stone-faced now. Quiet.

I can be friendly when I need to be. I can be talkative and responsive and say all the right words and have the appropriate “mmhmm”s and “oh no”s and “yeah”s. I can laugh in the right places, when it’s polite to laugh at a joke I don’t think is funny. I can make eye contact and break eye contact at what I assume are appropriate moments. I never know if I’m doing it right, though. I poured over a book about body language in high school, trying to learn how the fuck to do it. It said that the exact percentage varied, but around 40% eye contact 60% not eye contact. I tried to get the proportions right for years. Every conversation. Look at their eyes a few seconds, look away a few more seconds. Look eyes, look away. I used to look between their eyebrows, because the eyes were too much. But I read somewhere that some people can tell and they think it’s weird. So eyes it was.

I’m dead now, though. I’m already in a psych ward. They know I’m crazy. What’s the point in trying to appear like I can converse like a human. I don’t want to have to do it. So I don’t. I stare soullessly past people when they talk to me. I examine their clothes. I look at their hair. I don’t smile when they talk to me. I don’t laugh at their jokes. They ask me how I am and I don’t ask them back.

He seems to conclude I’ve finished explaining. “Well—okay, are you voluntary?” He leafs through his papers. “Yes, voluntary. Let’s see…” He leafs through them again.

Voluntary patient. What a laugh. When I came in, I was involuntary. During intake, they gave me some forms and said if I sign them I’d be a voluntary patient. I asked if anything would change. No, they said, it was a distinction with no difference. A voluntary patient still can’t leave until the psychiatrist says they can. But I would be seen as complying with the recommended treatment. It would be beneficial to be seen as complying with the recommended treatment. So I signed. But I never mistook that little black-and-white print Voluntary for consent, even if everyone else did.

[flirts-with-dragons]

Things on tumblr I'm tired of as a severely mentally ill person:

- people saying "kys" to other people

- untagged triggers, or triggers tagged with a censor/uncommon variation

- nondisordered people forcing themselves into disordered communities

- being unable to block ads that trigger me

- still being able to see posts that I've tag filtered or from a person I've blocked

[neuroticboyfriend]

no but being told to use your communication coping skills when talking to abusive people is bullshit. abusers do not listen to their victims no matter how reasonable we are.

like. anything that shows we're an individual with thoughts and feelings is going to make an abuser double down. using "i feel" statements isn't going to help if your abuser lashes out at you for showing feelings. speaking calmly isn't going to help if your abuser is threatening you. gently stating what you need isn't going to help if your abuser neglects even your simplest needs.

also so many of us hide our anger and rage. we dont speak our mind, because it's dangerous. it's the most threatening thing to an abuser... but it's also the most empowering for us. anger is the feeling that tells us something is wrong, and we need to embrace it. because our anger is not the danger - our abuser's reaction to it is, and that reaction is not our fault.

[csaventing]

Already away from him luckily. Spoke up about the physical and emotional and verbal abuse he has done since childhood to now. Currently homeless in a psych ward. But fuck. I should probably talk to my hospital psych if he is back next week, he is really good. Because it was him. It was my father who rpd and SAed me when I was so young. Fuck. And now I, I don’t know. But I hate this.

Good that you are away from him. Best of luck.

[prnanxiety]

3/10/24

Thank. Fuck. Today was quiet and uneventful.

Yesterday was so desperate that my boss had to come in on her off day, and the nurse educator had to come in, too, both to just debrief with everyone on staff. That's how rough it was. Apparently the two of them reviewed a bunch of security camera footage, and told me my de-escalation stance was near perfect! I was pretty proud of that.

They also confirmed "Yeah, you got tossed around a bit." I really honestly do not remember getting tossed around. I'm trying to understand it. Did I leave the ground? I definitely didn't hit my head, or get punched or anything. I just remember at one point he was stanced up and punching the air in anger, and at another point we were cooling him off, and he was sitting in a chair, crying.

I really kind of wonder if this is the adrenaline tunnel vision thing people talk about after being in firefights or whatever. Where they say "this lasted about 5 minutes" and it turns out to be 45 seconds or something, just because of the time dilation. The whole time all I was thinking about was "Please calm down please calm down buddy please don't do this."

Outside of that, it was just my educator and I talking about my charting. It's rare to have situations get this out of hand, and when they're this serious the paperwork can easily become relevant, so it has to be pristine. She looked over everything I did and we spent half an hour making corrections.

There was someone I wrote about a few weeks ago. Abused as a kid, grew up to be a virgin despite married for so many years to his wife who's also a virgin. I forget the date, I know it's in there. This patient strikes me as the way that guy was, when he was this age. Volatile and desperate and confused and scared.

I keep wondering what's going to give him stability one day. I don't want to see him ever get institutionalized. Please not that. Not prison, not a permanent psych unit. I don't know if I would ask someone to find jesus like my patient several weeks ago did, but, fuck, if that's how someone becomes functional in any independent capacity? Gainfully employed and sociable? God. It should never have to be this way to begin with.

[shitcomscriptwriter]

Growing up in and out of psychiatric hospitals and offices really ruins your sense of self.

There was very little I could hide. Every bit of me was picked apart and scrutinised, used as a teaching tool for eager students with no regard for my own feelings or opinions.

I have very few genuine emotions now, because of how many realities were constructed for me and how they presented me like I was their newest accomplishment. No part of my brain was my own.

I am a psychological cyborg.

It feels like they took my humanity and all natural reactions, but I know they didn’t. There is still a human in here, and she is screaming.

[maidofmetal]

sometimes the suicidal rage gets turned on itself n i have to prove that i can live to fuck over ever psych and doctor who has tried to kill me

[cherieye]

I was a human taught within a cult mindset that I was one of the happiest humans on earth because I had the one and true Gospel, that non Mormons would envy me and wonder why I was so different, "They will want what you have, because i have "The Holy Ghost"

I was not happy, and the idea that people I met outside of the church would only feel my uniqueness, simply because I was a part of a organization made me even more depressed. "so when people see something beautiful about me, it's only the spirit of the church they feel? it's not me? I'm nothing without this church?"

This created so much lack of confidence in myself, my worthiness and my "light" was only because of my association within a cult.

The worst part is this would create a young girl writing letters to God in tears asking them to please let her disappear from existence.

Depression creeped in and decided to create a home in my body at age 10, it became to feel like my true companion, something so familiar, I didn't know what it was like to not be without such a partner.

Noticing the neglect within my family, my siblings emotional needs going unmet and trying to meet them myself. I decided the only control I had was to soak up the pain around me like a vacuum cleaner, except I had no outlet to clear out what I gathered up. So it stayed, and piled up.

By age 17, I noticed school was actually becoming something I enjoyed, I started feeling connected to other humans and my grades were going well. I felt connected to some kind of relationship with God and I started for the first time It seems, to be grateful for being alive. This feeling was so new to me, that I couldn't help be so absorbed by something I lacked for so many years.

Like someone who was never allowed to do something for years, I overconsumed the feeling. I couldn't get enough of it, I wanted to build it up more and more...to the point where I came in contact with what is called "manic psychosis"

The church I went to considered me to be inspiring, but my family knew something was not right...and how I was behaving irrationalally.

I was finally in a world through my own eyes that felt like a dream, nothing felt real, everything was just a Devine play and there was no point of being afraid of anything anymore. I finally for the first time felt special and important and free.

___

Fast forward after many visits in hospitals stays and heavily medicated, to the point where I experienced a doctor overdosing me my first visit

I was back to the pits of darkness, creating a new belief system in my head

"So if the only time I felt free, I felt connected and happy...is something the doctors and my family...say is an illness...my joy must be an illness, it will only destroy me and others. Now I know depression is my safety...I must stay in the dark for me to never be of inconvenient ever again."

___

I am 32 now, trying tackle to very deep wound and trying to let that girl know, her joy is not an illness, it is not destructive and it does not make her dangerous or a problem

I love her, she deserves to experience safety in her self and in her own joy, In her own light 🕯️