#sh culture is

[shcultureis]

Sh culture is lying to everyone u like bc u don't want them to worry... But wantig ppl to worry

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[skittzels]

sh culture is being body checked at random and being forced to stay clean during the summer so that way no one knows what you're going through.

[magg0t1nfested]

There’s this weird dichotomy of not wanting anyone to know you’re suffering and also desperately wanting someone to acknowledge your pain

[borderline-culture-is]

BPD culture is purposely triggering yourself when you feel empty/numb, so at least you'll feel something.

[ryn-stillstanding]

i feel annoyed at how bpd is talked about.

not about the stereotypes that are played into, but it’s more about the fact that every time i want to learn more about my illness, all i can find is: “they have very unstable relationships which makes them feel bad and then they act out cause they are impulsive”

that’s a simplification and over exaggeration - but it’s true.

even in bpd subreddits, it’s people complaining and talking about their relationships and how it messes with them, asking for opinions.

i don’t mean to sound insensitive, because these are real issues. but im just tired of the other symptoms being ignored.

for me, it’s constant chronic (2+ years) intrusive suicidal thoughts, constantly feeling like i am being judged by those around me, sh’ing because i “need to be punished for my mistakes”, and being unable to tell anyone around me what i am going through because “if they knew, they would hate me”. its being so empty that i can’t tell if i, or the world around me, really exists.

it’s isolating, swinging from happy to suicidal in just a few minutes. it’s feeling rage because nobody knows what ive been through, but being unable to tell anyone. it’s repeating my worst memories over, and over, and over again until i can’t take it anymore.

im not comparing experiences, they are all valid. but i am tired of not seeing any representation of my experiences in bpd communities - and of seeing 700 “my boyfriend did [x] and then i did/feel [y]” posts instead.

am i alone in how i feel? do i even have bpd?

somehow, even after a diagnosis, i convince myself this is something i have made up for attention, even if its something that i never talk about.

[cuperno]

Das Problem mit Gefühlen ist das ich sie nicht kontrollieren kann.

[pienhime]

[narcissisticpdcultureis]

npd culture is self-harming so that i can show off the scars and let everybody know that i am the most mentally ill. not because i actually want to hurt myself or anything like that. self-harm only as a way to prove that i'm more mentally ill than everyone else.

-💥🧨💥

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[shcultureis]

Sh culture is scratching and picking the scabs off then complaining in ur head when it hurts

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[uncanny-tranny]

Like obviously the whole "they're just doing [x] for attention!" is completely asinine because humans are social creatures who need attention to some capacity, but also... in your narrative, does everybody do things specifically for your attention? When somebody does something drastic or shocking, is it not because they're desperate for help but just because they crave your attention specifically? Does the sun rise and set at your command as well?

[hpdcultureis]

hpd culture is feeling like ur sh is invalid when you do it for attention but then feeling like ur hpd is invalid when you don’t do it for attention

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[aspd-culture]

what is an aspd flare? found the term in a response of yours, and I've never heard the term

Similar to chronic illness flares, it is a notably significant increase in severity of ASPD symptoms that lasts some amount of time (can be very short like minutes or hours, or long periods like days or weeks), but then goes back to a lesser (but still diagnosably present) severity of symptoms.

Someone in an ASPD flare might find themselves (not an exhaustive list) unable to mask as they normally can, being extremely irritable beyond normal, having more violent urges and/or thoughts, having a harder time controlling those urges, struggling to care for themselves not for physical reasons but because they feel like doing "healthy" things is repulsing, having even less affective empathy and/or remorse than usual (for those who have some amount of it on a regular day), being unable or unwilling to use cognitive empathy, stuggling with substance use, desiring to do increasingly reckless or dangerous things, struggling with sh or sui thoughts, etc.

Plain text below the cut:

Similar to chronic illness flares, it is a notably significant increase in severity of ASPD symptoms that lasts some amount of time (can be very short like minutes or hours, or long periods like days or weeks), but then goes back to a lesser (but still diagnosably present) severity of symptoms.

Someone in an ASPD flare might find themselves (not an exhaustive list) unable to mask as they normally can, being extremely irritable beyond normal, having more violent urges and/or thoughts, having a harder time controlling those urges, struggling to care for themselves not for physical reasons but because they feel like doing "healthy" things is repulsing, having even less affective empathy and/or remorse than usual (for those who have some amount of it on a regular day), being unable or unwilling to use cognitive empathy, stuggling with substance use, desiring to do increasingly reckless or dangerous things, struggling with sh or sui thoughts, etc.

[pienhime]

[narcissisticpdcultureis]

TW: Self-harm

Questioning NPD culture is cutting yourself and not caring too much about hiding it, and constantly trying to get your family concerned about your mental health because you want attention.

— 🕸🕷

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[shcultureis]

sh culture is using tissue + masking tape as bandages

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[theloveinc]

barbarian!bakugo + buying apples. you’ll notice I didn’t put any work into this making it more … fantasy-like. And that’s bc… I still couldn’t figure out how😞

(warning: misogyny, you are described as a maiden / dress wearing, you have a pa, world building sucks, bakugo … doesn’t talk)

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Being the only maiden on one of barbarian!Bakugo’s cross country journeys. I’m not sure yet how or why you’re there, but I’d say he’s traveling and one of his fellow clansmen took you as a prize, or maybe you just hitched a ride on their cart yourself.

But they stop in a small village one day, parking their horses at the edge of a town square of cobblestone and brick, merchant booths surrounding the small shops: of butchers and farmers and fishermen and traders, all rowdy and beaming as they show off their wares.

The men split up (the one with green hair in a leather vest declaring he needs a blacksmith, the lanky one with dark bangs in the direction of new snare wire), though the bulky blonde one (the one in thick furs and pelts who’s never really spoken to you) stays around, picking at the shiny, pink apples of a booth quite close to where the cart you sit on in boredom is parked.

“Five gold for a sack, sir” the man behind the creaky, wooden stand says. He’s stout, thin-haired and wrinkly, all his years in the sun selling fruit showing proudly on his tanned skin. He gestures to the wide array of fruits, each like a piece of candy he wants to show off.

Bakugo (you think his name his, or rather, that’s how he was introduced to you by the redhead with unnaturally sharp teeth, biggest of the group) glances up, frown thin and tense and blood red eyes narrowed. His shoulders shift, the muscles of his exposed stomach rippling as he breathes, the smooth skin of his forehead pinching as if he’s calculating a sale just as he would any other battle or raid.

The sign next to both the men clearly states that apples are two gold a sack. Pears are three, plums are one. “But I’ll give you a deal for four gold,” the man continues.

The blonde ponders, inspecting the apples diligently as if they could be poison, or a waste of a trade. His eyes narrow slightly, lips pursing, and you realize, in his reaching for coin, the intuition he so usually takes pride in (saving the men once from a brutal hound attack, and you, too, another time when a swamp dweller caught the hem of your trousers) is not there… and that they don’t use the same alphabet. Maybe he can’t even… read.

“For two gold,” you call.

Both parties look to you. One set of eyes in an suspicious glare, the other in a tart and angry bitterness. The merchant’s leathery face sinks into a melted frown, his fists clenching as your own hand shields your eyes from the bright sun and hides a protective squint.

“Didn’t your pa ever tell you not to meddle in grown men’s business?” he half-shouts back, the laugh in his voice now tangled with a snarl, downright and plain rude.

“The sign says two,” swinging off your seat, you smooth down your simple frock as you point to the wooden board stained with charcoal that’s hung up next to him. “One sack of apples for two gold.”

Bakugo’s eyebrows raise for the briefest of seconds, then fall in another glare as his hand drops from where he holds his coin (in small, canvas bag tied to his belt with thin, leather cord. It sags against his hip, his pants dipping and uncovering a v-line that descends further into a region you’ve only seen once; at a bathing river in the hills, the bare curve and marks of your own hips exposed—)

“Don’t know where you picked up letters, missy,” the merchant scoffs. “Reading is men’s work.”

You approach the barbarian’s side, his head (messy with hair) tilted towards you as he watches on in silence. From the pocket of your dress, you take out two gold of your own and flick them on the table before you.

“My pa taught me how.”

Then you take Bakugo’s hand (thick and rough and hard to hold) in one of yours and march right back to the horses and cart. Bag of sweet, pink apples in the other.