alikumail-blog

[cat-doggy]

❤🎁🍔🍯 :P

❤️ - "What's your favorite color?"

That's a hard one bc I love colors so much. I guess I'll say all of them, hehe.

🎁 - "What's your special interest(s)?"

My current special interests: The Sims 1-4, PSAs/PIFs, mlp: fim, fnaf, online horror, lost media, Splatoon 3: Side Order, animals (I blame casual geographic for this one/hj), lgbtqia+/mogai/liom, weird internet lore (I also blame Whang! for this one/hj), weirdcore/dreamcore/kidcore/traumacore, Mario Kart 8 Delux, autism, and Creepypasta (this one's slowly coming back)

🍔 - "Do you have sensory problems with food? What food do you like to eat?"

Yes, I do, and I hate it so much 😭, everyone I know irl thinks I'm just a picky eater, but no- some food textures and tastes just overwhelm me so much. My favorite/safe foods are chicken (grilled and fried), tuna, shrimp, ramen, mac and cheese, mashed potatoes, spaghetti, chimichangas, and burritos. (I am unhealthy- *cries*)

🍯 - "Do you stim? What are some ways you stim?"

Yep, I do. My stims consist of randomly screaming, hand flapping, jumping, sticking my tongue out, scratching myself/neg, looking around places, head jerking, rubbing my face against my stuffies, pacing, chewing/biting, playing with my hair, rocking back and forth, hissing, meowing, and creating random noises. I do have a tic disorder, too, so some of these might/can double as tics-

Edit: I forgot some stuff woops-

[steviewashere]

If It Has to Happen, Let It

Rating: Teen and Up CW: Emetophobia, Vomiting, Panic/Anxiety Attack, Negative Stimming as a Form of Self-Harm/Self-Regulation Tags: Post-Canon, Established Relationship, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Sick Steve Harrington, Traumatized Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington Has Migraines, Steve Harrington Has Emetophobia, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Eddie Munson Takes Care of Steve Harrington, Cuddling, Steve Harrington Has Good Parents

Okay, I wrote this while enduring a migraine. So we'll see how good this actually is. But I couldn't shake this idea, so here it is. Also, this is based on experience and I have pretty debilitating migraines and emetophobia. I'm asking y'all to be kind about this, that's all. <3

Read On AO3

🤢—————🤢 Steve used to have normal, everyday headaches when he was younger. They’d last a few hours. Be kind of an annoyance, prickling him with an undercurrent of ache. Sometimes make it hard to focus on tasks at hand. But they weren’t life changing. They didn’t affect every aspect of his day to day life. They didn’t linger or take over or knock him down for the count. His headaches used to be normal.

Now they aren’t. They’re debilitating. Humiliating. All consuming.

It wasn’t the concussions that resulted in the migraines, surprisingly enough. Everybody seems to think that and they’re not wrong, not really. But his mom had them. And his dad had them. And his nana had them.

The migraines started out as being mainly genetic. It sucked, sure. They’d come and go. Once every few months, maybe. At most. Just for a day. Isolate him to his bedroom. Leave him to spread on his bed with an ice pack on his forehead. That sort of thing.

Then the concussions came. One after the other after the other. They got worse. Astronomically worse. It wasn’t just a day that the migraines would hang around. It was multiple days. It was an entire week. Even once, it was three weeks in a row. He was sensitive to everything, sometimes nothing. The smell of Robin’s perfume. The sound of Dustin’s voice. The lights inside Family Video, inside Scoops Ahoy, inside his own house. He’d hole away. Lay in the expanding darkness of his bedroom. Curtains closed. Bed stripped of his sheets. Ice on his head, under his head, wrapped around his neck. He’d sleep shirtless, sleep nude, sleep fully clothed—his body couldn’t regulate. Would barely get up because the world would swirl around him like he was standing in the eye of a hurricane.

Worst of the worst, though, was the nausea.

When he was little, he remembers his nana taking him out for his seventh birthday. Pancakes—Mickey Mouse shaped pancakes, topped with fruit and whipped cream and as much maple syrup as he wanted. He drank orange juice, bubbled the liquid with his straw, took bites of his nana’s egg salad, giggled and snickered and cried with joy. It was fun. A good day. And then no less than eight hours later, he couldn’t keep himself standing. Could only kneel, stripped to his dinosaur themed underwear, hair stringy to his head, his mom cooing softly in his ear—hurling and spewing and coughing on and off for hours. Until, eventually, he landed himself a pretty uncomfortable spot in the emergency room, IV in his vein, and tears on his cheeks.

He remembers the all consuming fear when his stomach would flip. When his mouth would begin to salivate and his throat would burn with the bile that came up through burps, and how his hands would shake. Remembered all the times between being seven and now where he’d kneel on the tile of his bathroom, head stuck inside his toilet bowl, clamping to the porcelain with his slick palms, heaving until there was nothing left to give. And then he’d hack some more, just to see if he was done. If it was over. If he could be relieved instead of walking on glass.

He’d ruined plenty of Pyrex bowls. Dirtied plenty of blankets. Stained several mattresses. He’s apologized through tears as his mom helped clean up the carpet in his bedroom. Let her pet his sweaty hair and say it was alright, even though he knew it wasn’t. Even though it would scare her when he’d dissolve into hysterics.

Steve doesn’t do nausea. He doesn’t do throwing up. He doesn’t even do burps. That’s how afraid he is.

The migraines don’t help. If anything, they make him anxious. Make him trapped inside his own body, shaking and breathing shallowly. Knobby knees and burning tears. Flapping his hands out at his sides as if the stupid movement could will the feeling away. Sometimes, when he’d get really upset and he couldn’t calm down, he’d take to slamming his closed fists over his thighs. Trying to distract himself with another sensation. Something else that should bother him. Steve would slam his palms into his chest. He’d claw at his stomach until he’d either bleed or tire himself out. Would tangle his fingers into his hair and pull, hard enough to leave long strands in his palms. He’d hurt and hurt and hurt until he could forget what it was like to have bile coat his throat.

And he knows, by all means does he know, that to any ordinary person he looks like a basket case. He knows that sometimes it seems like he’s overreacting. That he’s making something out of nothing. But he can’t help it. He can’t help the little freakouts or the rapid breathing or the sound of skin smacking against skin.

Sometimes he knows how to regulate. When he’s feeling even the slightest bit sick. Open a window, stick his head out and take several long gulps of cold night air. Stick himself under a near third degree burning hot shower. (Because his mom had said that hot water helps. Not this hot, but she doesn’t need to know.) He keeps a case of ginger ale. Has a new addiction to peppermint gum. Shoves his big head between his knees and just prays. He’ll say over and over in his head: “You will not throw up. You don’t need to throw up. You aren’t sick. You won’t throw up.” 

It’s all worked. Kept himself puke-free since sixth grade.

But now he gets migraines.

And today’s the worst one he’s ever had.

——— If he doesn’t open his eyes, he won’t throw up. Because if the light gets in his eyes, the pain will worsen. And if the pain worsens, he’ll throw up. But he won’t. Because he doesn’t do that.

It’s 9am on a Monday. He woke up nearly four hours ago, head throbbing, lights infuriating, and body aching. His sheets have been pulled away. And his blanket is tossed somewhere on the floor. Down to his underwear and nothing else. Very briefly, he considers stripping those off, too. He’s sweating, even though the A/C is on, even though his window is open, even though it’s something like forty-three degrees out.

He can’t take the smell of himself. Or the pillow under his head. Laundry detergent, sweat, and the lingering ghost of cologne. His stomach is churning like crazy. Every little movement makes his insides flare. And he thinks, at any moment, he’ll upchuck onto his mattress. Maybe he should go lay on the cold bathroom tiles, wrap himself around the base of the toilet.

I won’t throw up, he thinks behind the deep furrow of his eyebrows, I can’t throw up. I don’t need to. Don’t throw up, Steve.

He should get up. Get an icepack. Something to snack on. His medicine.

But if he stands up, he’ll be slammed by vertigo. If he’s dizzy, he’ll throw up. And if he throws up, he probably won’t stop. And then his heart will try to burst out of his chest and he’ll still be throwing up and then he’ll have a heart attack all by himself, but he’ll be covered in his own puke. He gently turns his head into his pillow, where the cold is running from him, and groans.

Something clatters to the ground downstairs. Followed by the thud of several footsteps. But he can’t get up. Vertigo means throwing up. I won’t throw up, I won’t throw up, he repeats, a mantra.

Then, all at once, his bedroom door is swung wide open and the bright amber light in the hallway is bleeding into his room. It’s lighting up the hand by his head, the hairs dangling over his eyes. He doesn’t bite back the whine that erupts from him. Somebody’s walking closer, their shadow overbearing and large over him. Their body heat like the lick of a freshly lit campfire. He’s burning in their orbit—crisping, boiling, ready to be eaten alive.

“Christ, Steve,” the person states. The person is Eddie, once he hears the voice back in his head. A familiar rasp in his voice. And that’s when Steve picks up on the scent of a recently lit cigarette. He kind of wants to reach up and strangle Eddie, choke him until he promises to never smoke again. Maybe this is how Robin feels about him, too. “It’s fucking freezing in here. Why is your window open?” He steps away towards the window, the light coming back full force. “You’ve got a shift today, y’know? Robin’s already there. Called me to come get you because you’re late and—“

“Shut up, Eddie,” Steve finally gets himself to grumble. It doesn’t have the bite he wants it to have. Weak and small and breaking. He opens his mouth again to add more, but his mouth begins to salivate. He shuts up, swallows and swallows and…It doesn’t work. His stomach clenches harshly and he whimpers, hand traveling down towards his overheated middle, digging into his soft flesh, nails sharp and biting. I won’t throw up. Don’t throw up.

Eddie heaves a disappointed sigh. “Dude, you have to go to work. I’m sorry if you didn’t get enough sleep, but you have to go.”

Steve’s chest rises and falls a little too quick. He can’t catch his breath. Can sense the tremor in his hand through the back of his neck. Too hot. Sweating. Drooling onto his pillow. Kind of wants to cry, but can’t do that. Can’t do that in front of Eddie—he won’t understand. Won’t be able to calm him down like his mom can or give him words of comfort like his dad sometimes does.

Instead of dignifying Eddie’s conversation with a response, Steve sits up hastily. Legs dangling over the edge of his mattress. Vision swimming. Tears prickle in the corners of his eyes. His stomach swoops deep, then sloshes up towards his lungs as if it’s trying to break free. The throbbing is back full force, pulsating and overwhelming. He can’t see, he can’t breathe, he can’t get himself to wade away the nausea. I won’t. I can’t throw up. I can’t. I can’t.

He groans, reaching up to the sides of his head, gripping himself harshly. Fingers in his hair, pulling and tugging and pulling and tugging. Head tucked towards his knees. Swallowing and swallowing and…He tugs as hard as he can on his hair, eliciting a loud whine from his throat.

The window doesn’t close. The curtains don’t even move. But Eddie does. His body swarming Steve, his heat engulfing him as if he’s a house on fire. Hands flittering out. “Steve? You okay?”

“Mi—Mi—“ Steve stutters before gagging. He cries through a quick exhale from his nose. He can’t make it all stop. His heart’s beating too fast. His chest hurts from how fast his breathing has gone. He can’t. He can’t.

“Sweetheart? Are you gonna be sick? I can get you to the bath—“

“No, no, no,” Steve rushes out. “Not gonna—Won’t throw up. Can’t.” He tries to take a breath through his mouth, but with his lips agape and his tongue working to make words, saliva floods out of him. The heat of his own spit warm on his thigh, it glistens in the little bit of light from the hallway. “Head,” he whimpers, “hurts.”

“Shit,” Eddie softly curses. He crouches down in front of Steve, his hands floating above his trembling knees. “It’s a migraine. Okay,” he whispers, “what can I do, sweetheart?”

Steve sobs. “I dunno,” he wetly murmurs. Another wave of nausea crashes over him and he leans forward with his next gag. He’s not going to throw up, but the more the pain increases and the more his stomach flips and the warmer he gets, he may just do the opposite. That thought alone makes him cry harder. He detangles his fingers from his hair, flaps his hands out in front of him like mimicking a bird, and then thrashes them down onto his thighs. In front of him, Eddie visibly winces. But he does it again, harder.

He can’t see that well, but notices the way Eddie’s hands scramble out to stop him. But he flinches away. Fisting his hands tighter, enough that his nails bite into his palms, and punches down on the surely forming bruises. “Steve, stop it. You’re hurting yourself, stop it,” Eddie scolds firmly. But Steve doesn’t. Eddie visibly is shaken up, rocking forward on his heels, hands stuck between actions, and his voice warbles when he speaks. “I think,” he states slowly, “we should get you to the bathroom. And you should go ahead and try to flush out your system—“

“No!” Steve yelps with a whine. “No, I don’t need’a—“ He takes a quick, shuddering breath. Chest caving in with his panic. His thighs are sore and his hands sting. But he slams down again. “—don’t wanna—“

“Stevie,” Eddie murmurs lowly, placating, “you’ll feel better if you let it out. I promise, sweetheart, you will feel better, okay? I’ll sit with you. Put a cold rag on your neck. I’ll—“

Steve’s saliva dribbles from his mouth again, more this time. His stomach gurgles. And it’s like somebody has an iron grip on his brain, squishing the organ between their fingers, toying with it like Play-Doh. I’m going to throw up, he realizes in panic. “Eds—Ed, ‘m gonna—Gonna—“

Gently, though purposefully, Eddie grabs Steve by the elbows. Half-walking, half-dragging them to Steve’s ensuite. He shoves them down in front of the open toilet bowl. And lays his left palm flat on the center of Steve’s back, wincing at the first jarring wet-heave that comes from the back of Steve’s throat.

He pets his palm up and down Steve’s spine. “Get it out, Stevie. I’m right here. You’ll be okay.”

With Eddie’s words and the soothing touch, Steve finally allows himself to expel. Bile burns through him. And he shakes through the first splatter into the toilet bowl’s water. He could never stand the smell, the sound, or the look of vomit. Yet here it is, sour and salty and yellow. Chunky and swirling and fresh. The next heave makes him start crying again, but he doesn’t care anymore. Doesn’t care about breaking down in front of Eddie because he now has to deal with this—the overwhelming anxiety that floods through him, out of him with each hurl. The rabid beating against his ribs and the gasps through sobs.

There’s so much coming out of him. Too much.

“Jesus,” Eddie mutters, “holy…You’re okay, Steve.” He leans across to the toilet paper dispenser for a few sheets. Folds it with one hand and wipes away at Steve’s face between short bursts of vomit. Barely draws his hand away before it starts up again.

Steve spits big globs of saliva-puke. Angles his head so Eddie can catch his eyes. Meekly says, “‘M sorry, Ed. ‘M sorry.”

“Shhh,” Eddie soothes. “Don’t apologize, sweetheart. You gotta do this, it’s alright.”

“Yucky,” Steve sighs. “’T’s…I hate this.” He closes his eyes as vertigo slams sideways at him, T-boned by the dizziness. Takes a burbling breath through his mouth.

“If you have more, let it out, Steve. It won’t do you any good to keep it in.”

He cries softly with his next exhale. “‘M sorry,” he keens. And then he’s convulsing forward with his next gag.

Time stretches, it feels like, for hours. His knees ache and his skin is cold and his hands are slipping with how wet the toilet bowl is from his sweat. Throat sore and stomach empty. But the malaise from gagging for so long lingers, making him dry-heave when there’s nothing left to give. He rests his forehead over his left forearm over the back of the toilet seat. Sniffs and keeps his eyes closed. Shaking through the last bit of it.

Distantly, the sound of the sink goes off next to him. He’s so out of it, he didn’t even realize that Eddie stood up and left him momentarily. Wishes he could leave this, too. Wishes he could step outside of his body and not experience this anymore, for the rest of his life, for the rest of time itself.

Eddie crouches down beside him again. Gently grasps him by the chin and pulls him up to be face to face. He runs the lukewarm rag over his chin, his lips, and under his nose. “Good job getting it out, Stevie,” he whispers, “how are you feeling now?”

“Tired,” Steve mumbles, “and gross and in pain.”

He gets a nod in return. “Okay,” Eddie mutters, “let me get your migraine things, alright? I’ll take you back to bed.”

Steve sighs. Closes his eyes in exhaustion. “‘M embarrassed, too.”

The rag and Eddie’s hand slowly comes off his face. The cloth is crumpled in Eddie’s palm when Steve glances. “Why’re you embarrassed, Stevie? It’s okay to throw up. It’s fine.”

He shrugs. “Just—“ And Steve looks down towards his lap. At the mottled bruises on his thighs, peeking out from his two day old underwear. The light scratch lines on the soft give of his belly. “—It’s stupid, isn’t it? I’m afraid of vomiting. Of vomit. I—I have a meltdown like a toddler when I feel like ‘m gonna puke and…and I get all hysterical and whiny and I sob like crazy. And I—I dunno. I was overreacting and I made you have to take care of me and it’s just…I’m just being dumb.”

“Hey,” Eddie says softly, that scolding edge back. “It’s not dumb, Steve. Vomiting is traumatic, I get it. And—Before you try and interrupt me—you didn’t make me help you. I helped you because I noticed that you were struggling. And had I not, you probably would’ve made a big mess in your room. I wasn’t going to just leave you in a state like that.”

“But it is stupid, Eds,” Steve urges, voice wavering. “It’s stupid because I’m a grown fucking adult. And I should be able to handle this. I should—“ The tears come back. “—Just fucking look at me. Crying, again. I’m so—“ He groans in frustration, fingers clenching into his palms, cutting them up again.

Gently, Eddie unfurls Steve’s hands. “Look at me, Steve.” He does. Fiercely, softly, Eddie continues, “You are sick right now. You didn’t feel good. You were scared. You were anxious. In no way, shape, or form were you stupid for reacting like this. Alright? Steve, you were overwhelmed with it all. I’m not going to judge you because you’re afraid of vomit. The only thing I’m concerned about is the hitting, but we can talk about that a different time, okay?”Eddie’s thumbs work tenderly into the backs of Steve’s hands. There’s a glimmer of protectiveness in his eyes and Steve latches onto it. Lets himself begin to believe that it’s actually okay. Even if his circumstances are concerning. “You wanna know a truly dumb fear?” Eddie murmurs lightly.

Steve almost wants to cry more with how caring Eddie is, but he pushes it to the side. Favors the distraction. “What?” He mumbles.

“I’m afraid of birds. And not them existing or being in my space or landing on my shoulders. I’m afraid of birds flying above me and pooping on my hair,” he states genuinely. Steve can’t help but snort, albeit weakly. “See? It’s kind of dumb, y’know? When have I ever cared about my fucking hair, Steve? Never, that’s when. Well, unless there are birds nearby.”

“I guess it is a little dumb,” Steve whispers.

“I know,” Eddie murmurs, grinning. “Vomit isn’t dumb, though. I promise, Stevie. We can talk about it later, if you want. Or never, if you prefer. Let me get you settled in bed and I’ll grab your stuff.”

He lets Eddie guide him back to bed. Fluff his pillow. Lay him supine. When he returns, he’s holding three ice packs, a bottle of prescription migraine medication, a plate of toast, and some water.

Steve watches in silent infatuation as Eddie lays it out all careful on his bedside table. As he tucks the icepacks where they need to go. Helps Steve take his medicine, eat, and drink. And almost begins crying again when Eddie rubs gentle circles on his chest.

“Lay with me?” He quietly asks.

Instead of making up some long winded excuse, Eddie immediately strips down to his t-shirt and boxers. He slides right next to Steve, not touching, but not too far away, either. Rolls over onto his side to face Steve and gently places his hand over the cold compress on his forehead. “This okay, baby?”

He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly as he tries to relax back into his pillows. “Yeah,” Steve whispers, “‘m just nauseous still.”

“Okay,” Eddie mutters, “I’ve got some Altoids in my jacket if you want them. Your chewing gum might agitate the migraine more.” He reaches over the side of the bed and fishes out the tin can of mints. Pinches three with his index finger and thumb. And requests, “Open your mouth, Stevie.”

Steve lets him place the mints on his tongue. He spreads them out so that one is in the center and the other two are on either side. “Will this help?” He asks around the Altoids. As if to mock him, a feeling of malaise washes over him. Immediately, he lays his hands over his stomach and digs his fingernails in.

“Hey, hey,” Eddie whispers urgently, abandoning the ice pack and grabbing Steve’s hands instead. Soothingly rubs his thumb up the back of his hands and down to the underside of his wrists, where his pulse is hot, fast, and concerning. “No more of that. No more making yourself hurt.”

“Don’t wanna be sick,” Steve pants, breathing heavy through his nose.

“You won’t be sick,” Eddie says like a promise. Somewhere deep within Steve he knows Eddie’s saving face, saying something false. But he can’t bring himself to come to that realization. It sounds like the voice in his head. I won’t throw up, he thinks in tandem. “Just keep your eyes closed, alright? I’ll keep the door closed. I didn’t shut the window. Focus on the icepacks for me, sweetheart.” Steve squeezes his eyes shut as tight as they’ll go, relenting when it only makes the migraine pulse alive. He tries to center the cold spots. “Where are they, Stevie?”

“My…My forehead.”

“That’s one,” Eddie whispers, “two more.”

“And my neck. And—“ He takes another deep breath. “And under my head,” he breathes out.

“Good,” Eddie praises softly. “That was good, baby.” He gently squeezes Steve’s palms. “Tell me what usually helps. Let me help you through this so that you don’t…I don’t like seeing you hurt yourself.”

Steve quietly whines. Digging back into the icepack underneath him. Breathing out the last little bits of nausea from that particular wave. But he knows it’ll be back. It’s how his migraines always are. “I like the cold air on me,” he confesses near silently. “And I need to make sure I have mints or gum in my mouth. And I—It’s stupid.”

“Nothing’s stupid, just tell me.”

He huffs. “I have to tell myself I won’t throw up. Like I need to hear that I won’t, I guess.”

Gentle and nimble fingers massage his hands and wrists. Small circles, little vertical stripes, horizontal strokes. “I’m getting the box fan from your parents’ room. And then we’ll just lay here. You won’t throw up, Stevie.” As Eddie gets up, he leans down and presses a chaste kiss to his cheek—even where it’s sallow and tacky.

There’s something in the way Eddie says it, nonchalant but not dismissive, that makes Steve believe he’s right. Something in the way he’s not disgusted or afraid of Steve’s everything after, something in that kiss like a vow. So he indulges. Lays with his eyes shut, the box fan eventually blowing the cold air from his window onto his too warm skin, and Eddie’s fingers massaging his hands. Every single time he tenses, Eddie soothes him with that same promise.

He keeps Steve away from harm. Squeezing his hands firmly when he tries to hit or scratch at himself. Pets his hair and coos softly in his ear. And holds the icepacks when Steve goes boneless with sleep, mouth agape and drooling, snuffling softly into the calm silence stretching between them.

At the end of the day, he’s still afraid of vomiting. It’s probably something he’ll never get over, something he’ll be challenged with for the rest of his life (or however long these migraines last). Though, Eddie doesn’t judge him. Doesn’t let the negative in. He’s braver with Eddie. Safer. Afraid, but comforted.

That’s all he could ask for while going through this.

🤢—————🤢

[gh0sthands]

whumpee who picks at their skin (maybe a nervous habit, an unhealthy stim, or as self harm), and caretaker who will gently take whumpee's hands in theirs to prevent the picking. who uses fidget/stim toys, hand holding, or anything else to prevent the picking without shaming whumpee.

caretaker who will help clean up whumpee's skin if necessary. who knows it's not an easy habit to break.

caretaker putting scar gel on whumpee, if they want it. kissing the scars. covering for whumpee if people ask about the wounds/scars. getting whumpee fun/unique bandaids (if they use them).

caretaker never judging whumpee for their stims, their habits, their coping methods, but helping whumpee work toward healthier ones

[69constellationsinatrenchcoat]

Do you guys have a grounding box? What kinds of things do you use if so?

We do!! Though, we call it our sensory box. It's got a large mix of things we've collected over the years (and I do mean years.. we've got a baby rattle in here from childhood, lol)

essential oils and candles for scent based grounding

fidget toys: chewy things, pointy things, fidget spinners, fidget cubes, head scratcher, pop-it, putty

a kaleidoscope

stuffies: including three peas in a pod that we can throw at stuff without doing damage if someone's angry

puzzles: Rubik's Cube, one of those ball pushy things, and a couple metal puzzles

self harm alternatives: acupressure bracelets and rings, silicone slap bands, and some random keys haha

and a letter from my mum about how much she loves us (as a system)

and the box is decorated with things that make us happy!!

[halfsizehellboy]

oh man okay. more thinking

hot shit do i feel enlightened bc audhd House makes so much sense to me!!! he surrounds himself with chaos and novelty and stimulation but still adheres to things that don't change-- his apartment, when he lives in it, it always set up the same way. it's mentioned he's had the same guitar for many years, as well as numerous medical texts. He uses his same red mug all the time at the hospital (he has a designated hospital mug. it lives at the hospital and he only uses it at the hospital). he is very adamant about his office space-- it only changes drastically for him in season 8. just before he leaves. he and Wilson have a fun schedule-- bowling nights, poker nights, etc-- and he does spontaneous stuff all the time, but he orchestrates it. he enacts enrichment time for his fellows and Wilson. he canonically spaces out during/stops processing conversations all the time because he's thinking. he will forget to do basic things while on cases, and there's that one episode where he stays up all night because he's cooking something. he is the king of "shit i forgot to eat. i forgot to shower and pee. i forgot--"

while im thinking of eating!! he has that bad hunger recognition. he will forgo eating for days for cases, fixations, pain levels. he usually eats off of wilson's plate anyways, and i think wilson mainly eats because he's made it part of routine, and that if he forgets to eat house definitely forgets to eat, and that usually ends badly. i dont think house has any specific avoidances but he does usually go for pizza, or anything wilson's made. he likes fries.

the adhd bit makes him more prone to addiction (it's a real thing) and he does show those behaviors (vicodin, alcohol). he has to have either the puzzles or the substances, taking him off both fucked with him a lot (mayfield and afterwards). in prison he got managed doses of vicodin, and he was getting antsy and desperate for the challenge of a good case towards the end of that arc. he all but jumps on that heat allergy guy, risking his chances of parole multiple times to try and get close. side note, did y'all see his equation scribblings on the wall by his bunk? hes so silly

ive also been thinking like. we see very large-scale self destructive behaviors from nearly everyone in the show but we don't see a lot of self-regulation outside of house's stimming so that means i get to make up my own and project onto wilson.

wilson spends a lot of time masking at work so we don't see him fully let loose and i think that he is a fan of full body movement. he's jumping up and down. he's pacing the apartment and swingin his arms. he sways and rocks in place. at the hospital and places that aren't safe he keeps the stim energy to his hands/fingers, or taps his foot/bounces his leg-- things easy enough for neurotypicals to pass off as nervous energy. he loves to click pens but he only does it when he's alone or with house because he knows that other people find it annoying (house doesn't care, he starts clicking/tapping too and it's like they're drumming together). he and house learned morse code and annoy the ducklings and cuddy with it all the time.

bad times wilson scratches a lot (this is me projecting btw). at his scalp, at his arms, anywhere he can get to; and usually he's self conscious enough to do it where he can hide it under his clothes (house is unaffected and can tell anyways)(usually because he's there trying to help wilson stop scratching)(but if he's not he can still tell and wilson doesn't wanna know how). he also presses/rubs his face a lot (in general and not just bad times wilson), and bad times wilson gets abrasions on his eyelids/cheeks from his sweatshirt when he has a meltdown. i've seen another person talk about this, but i think he absolutely tears his cuticles up. he's managed to stop biting/tearing his nails down to nothing but between vigorous scrubbing for the OR and not liking lotion (sensory bad. i need it for my arms and the backs of my hands sometimes and i always wipe it off of my palms and fingers) his hands are so dry. house makes fun of him but he does carry around a nail file because he's trying to stop picking at his fingers regularly, and limit it to a bad times emergency regulatory behavior.

house fights meltdowns to the death. he hates having them, he hates having to be vulnerable like that (and that's a canonical trauma response). he has held one off through sheer will for an entire week before wilson called out sick for him and made him take a day off. they ended up taking a long weekend to recover. on the occasion they're both melting down at the same time, it's a multiple days affair. wilson will recognize what's happening and try to make sure everything in the apartment is low effort and accessible from the floor because house's meltdowns are more often than not pain response and that means that house stays on the floor. and when wilson is melting /neg he doesn't want to leave house. on a sillier(?) note they have a tally/competition for shortest meltdown (wilson), longest meltdown (house), fastest to meltdown (house), longest amount of time spent holding off a meltdown (house), most efficient meltdown (wilson), and most meltdowns located in the hospital (wilson).

man i'm gonna have to make a fic for this, it's getting wild just on posts

[unknown-echo]

THROWS AT MACH FIVE. TAKE MY PUNKROCKS DOODLES ‼️

[box-of-chaooos]

Fern headcannons!

The little hat nubs are infact a part of him, they can move like an animals ears he just tends not to but eventually to communicate better when he’s silent he will use them for instance wiggling them when he’s okay and folding them back if he’s down.

He has a pressure stim, hence the skwose (idk how it’s spelt) finn gives him making him feel better

He has bad habits of self destructive behaviour and general violent behaviour but he feels horrible afterwards so he tends to boil his anger over till his snaps and ends up having a meltdown somewhere quiet.

He loves to be swaddled up to sleep so when he sleeps he usually sinks into the treehouse leaves or wraps himself in them.

His pants aren’t poofy he pulls em up around his tummy which squishes it at his hips.

He is very animalistic at times especially when angry, like standing on all fours, hissing etc but also outside of being angry, he sits sort of frog/dog like and likes to flop like a rabbit would do.

He stims by putting his arms in the air

Fern is friends with people outside of Finns relationships with them. He and lemon grab actually get along quite well and the ice king actually, when ice king barges in to hang with his ‘bros’ Fern and he actually get along alright.

He can’t eat human food but Jake can blend it up for his body to absorb it instead.

He doesn’t have spit and can’t cry tears but he has sap instead, watery sap. His tears aren’t salty their sweet!

He finds physical contact very hard and doesn’t actually like it all that much, instead he fist bumps, head nudges or even tackles people to show his affections.

The grass boy got the tism

When he sleeps he has to rub his feet together and keep his legs moving or they feel restless and stiff, he grinds his teeth too as seen in whispers.

He has vivid nightmares a lot and finds it really hard to sleep often times and so decides to instead sit and watch stars.

Adding to the last one, being to so late marcaline bumped into him one time and now they hang out when he can’t sleep, sometimes they go to late night parties or just mess around in the dark together playing pranks and stuff.

Fern loves gloomy weather, rainy gloomy weather with the smell of Damp grass and mud he finds it really peaceful to be in like he can really just be the weather feels comforting to his low moods that and sun he’s actually not that fond of bright lights in his eyes.

He hangs with neptr like finn and Jake hang with bmo.

[mirroredmemoriez]

I was going to reblog a post but then lost it… Anyway on the topic of Amanda smoking, I don’t believe she would after being taken under John’s wing.

It’s the same concept as being addicted to drugs? Obviously it’s not as extreme, but smoking is well known to fuck up your health. I don’t think she’d do such especially knowing that John was dying. Which no matter what decisions he makes, he can’t change the fact.

She has the choice to live a more healthy life and live for a long time. However, I do believe in spats of stress just like when she self harmed in Saw 3, that Amanda may turn to smoking when she can’t handle everything going on around her.

As somebody who orally stims- Smoking isn’t even always about being addicted to the nicotine either. Sometimes it just helps when you’re stressed to be able to do something with your mouth! Which is why I personally get through many packs of gum and always end up opening my lip piercing by biting it- I don’t want smoking to always be my go to.

Is this me possibly projecting my oral stims on Amanda? Maybeeeee….But that’s here nor there, because even if I didn’t, I still believe what I’ve previously stated.

[thecouncilofidiots]

Raaaahhhhhh /negative

I was scratching our leg (I know I know, bad stim), forgetting we had a bandaid on (...because I kept scratching our leg), and it's Texture /bad!!

[devoursbears]

i do not know enough about intrusive thoughts but like . I nearly constantly am thinking about my ability to maim kill and die. I've never had serious suicidal ideadion, but. I'm showering and I think about how i could slam my body down and hit my head in just the right way to die. I see a knife and I picture what it would be like to like. Tear Into Meat and Flesh.

A small animal near me is in no danger at all but I have visions of how i could accidentally crush thm or how i have the power and strength to end their life and that I dont want to do that.

I don't know if they count as intrusive thoughts though because like. Its a thought exercise in texture and sensory input. I dont want to get hurt or hurt something else but its like deboning a chicken. Cracking bones and tearing meat and biting and biting and throwing is an experience. But that's not alive its not warm it doesnt bleed. This is good!!! I dont want to hurt things. But so often I'm given the thought of "what would it be like?"

[autisticdreamdrop]

what do you mean biting yourself constantly is self harm ??

no for real we mean.. it is not as extreme as the self harm we use to do, but we do get it now that it is self harm. there's a lot of low key self harm and it's hard to stop.

self injurious stimming is hard for us. but we are just realizing it is considered self harm.

biting yourself is self harm

scratching your cuts/bites/burns/scratches/scars is self harm

scratching yourself in general is self harm

hitting yourself is self harm

this might sound obvious but because we only self harm as the cutting and burning we did.

self harm is not just cutting and burning yourself

there's a wide range of things you could do to hurt yourself

your pain is valid

you are valid

[floatingwithlaura]

i keep getting uncontrollably angry that my mum trained my stimming out of me. i was doing harmless things! i looked a little odd but it hurt NO ONE. but she couldn’t stand having a freak daughter and made me punish myself every time i did it or got the urge to do it.

[cherrydrawz]

first completed prompt!!

Im a little scared being the first ever guy to post for the ava/m fandom, but also excited I think?? Im hoping to get a blackout eventually do y'all think I can do it lmao

Fandom; Animation Vs Minecraft (AvA also technically works. They're effectively the same series.)

Prompt; Starvation

👍

[goodstimoftheday]

No good stim today, today is the day before we move. Tomorrow I'm going to have a completely new home. I don't like this house my parents decided on out of the houses we saw because it is in a city and I've only lived in this house in the countryside. It's a big change in lots and lots of ways. I've been trying to be positive but I can't anymore.

I'm unable to speak and can only make some vocalisations. I've unfortunately hurt myself too and I ran away and people had to look for me. I'm scared and so so sad. Lots of my things have been thrown away and I don't have some furniture anymore.

If anyone knows what to do, please let me know.

[edgy-mahou]

[balthazarslostlibrary]

This is a post about autism, stimming, and how it can intersect with self-injury, so tw for that.

I want to make this post as a little PSA because lots of people do not know how self-injury might be different in autistic people, including doctors who are trying to treat you, and including autistic people! I only really found this out a few weeks ago, and it has given me a whole new perspective on my experienced.

If you have autism and find yourself doing something that hurts you, especially if you feel overwhelmed at the time, you may be doing a form of self-injurous stimming. I say stimming instead of 'self-harm', because the causes of self-injury can be very different between autistic and allistic (non-autistic) people.

Some reasons why an autistic person might engage in this behaviour that wouldn't normally apply to an allistic person are: Trying to regulate your reactions to sensory input. E.g. the lights and sound of the supermarket are too much, so you pinch or scratch yourself as a form of self-soothing. Not being able to recognise/regulate your own emotions (alexithymia). You might not realise you are distressed, and stim in this way to make yourself feel distressed when you think you should be. Trying to regulate your emotions. You might get really excited about something and bite your wrist or hand hard because you just can't handle being so excited (I used to do this as a child whenever we went to the zoo lol). Similar things for being angry, sad, happy, or any other emotion that can be overwhelming. Changing routines has stressed you out/overwhelmed you. Kind of self-explanatory, but maybe you move houses or start a new job, and the drastic change in your routines is overwhelming, so you might engage in this stimming as a release for stress.

Very common stims in this category include: skin picking hair pulling slapping yourself in the face biting yourself scratching yourself

Important to note here: autistic people are, in general, at a much higher risk of developing mental illnesses such as depression or anxiety which can bring self-harm with them for reasons that allistic people also experience. Being autistic doesn't mean you can't experience the urge to self-harm because of depression for example.

As an autistic person who has struggled with depression and self-harm, and has engaged in self-injurous stimming throughout my life, I always assumed that it was because of depression. While sometimes it was, I now realise that most of the time it was because I was overwhelmed with sensory input, or just overwhelmed by my emotions and wasn't taught how to regulate them in other ways.

If you are autistic and wonder if you are depressed because of self-injurous stimming, or if you relate to some of things I've talked about, try thinking about using other methods to self-regulate. Invest in some stim toys, or invest in some sensory gear like earmuffs and/or sunglasses. Try removing yourself from a situation and do a breathing exercise if you feel yourself wanting to pinch yourself or somesuch.

In saying that, if you do wonder if you're depressed, whether you be autistic or allistic, you should probably also look into that. I cannot say how many people have said to me that they wonder if they're depressed and it turns out that they are lol. Also, knowing more about the reasons for self-harm because of other mental illnesses can help you figure out the best strategies for you.

Hope this was helpful! Idk how many people will even see it, but I thought it was important to write about, since no one ever told me until I looked it up myself.