#shes not BROKEN because she has ocd

[katyobsesses]

Once again I am reminded of how much Emma Pillsbury deserves better than William Schuester

[furiousgoldfish]

I've finished reading "I'm glad my mom died", by Jennette McCurdy. it was an insightful and painful read. I've learned more about eating disorders than I ever knew before, and some distressing facts about the entertainment industry. The book deals with the topics of child abuse, eating disorders, childhood sexual abuse, toxic relationships, sexual coercion, childhood exploitation and overall exploitation of children in the entertainment industry, so take these as trigger warnings if you're going to continue to read this review.

The book starts in the author's childhood, showing us the bond between her and her mother. They're doing everything together, the mother extremely invested, the child eager to please. Then we learn, that in order to please the mother, the child has to not only violate their own comfort and bodily boundaries, but also pretend that it's what they want as well. Showing any kind of dissent from their mother's decisions, even a wrong type of face expression, will bring out something extremely painful to any child – having to see their own mother cry. So the child learns to act happy even when she's reluctant, resistant, sick, tired, worried, opposed or completely nauseous with what she's being put thru. Most of interactions are about putting a performance to please the mother and make her happy, all while the child is being sexually abused, forced into career of acting they didn't want, forced to deal alone with pain and mental illnesses, never getting a relief from pleasing.

No matter how much the child has to endure, she is always assured that if she refused to do what is asked, the consequences would be much worse. If she didn’t consent to be touched in the shower - she would get cancer. If she didn’t use up her birthday wish to ask for her mother to keep being alive, her mother would die. If she refused to act, her mother’s dreams would be dead. If she had her own favourite color, her mother would cry.

The mother only wants this obedient, pleasing, easily manipulated and controlled version of the child, so she keeps expressing pain at the mere idea of the child growing up. The child picks up on this, and in order not to break her mother's heart, attempts to stop growing. Mother is delighted with this extreme act of pleasing and obedience, and promptly teaches the child to restrict calories to stop their body from development, purposely throwing the child into anorexic disorder. She also witnesses the child's introduction to ocd, and decides to hide it, even reprimanding anyone else who brings it up and attempts to get it diagnosed.

Mother is the child's center of life, and she demands to remain so. The child knows nothing but pleasing; she had to learn insight, and study every mom's mood, desire, whim, face expression, speech patterns. She can recognize from the tone of voice what her mother is demanding at the moment. But she's never allowed to learn about herself. All of her tones, behaviour, speech patterns, smiles, desires, it's all an act she has to put on, not to make her mother cry. Her actual self is being buried further and further down, at the immense pressure of the mother's demands for it to not be existing in the first place.

Reading this book while knowing about the effects of child abuse and child neglect, will make you extremely uncomfortable. Because you already understand that having a child's boundaries violated and broken, will leave long lasting consequences, and it's not an innocent act of 'forcing child to do what adults think is best'. But to take it a step further, to make the child act like this is what they also want, that they actually have no boundaries, no desires, no identity or will of their own, that brings devastating consequences. It creates strain that doesn't end, neverending shame for feeling, for needing, for wanting anything. Guilt for being human, shame for feeling pain after being completely neglected. Not being able to see your own narrative anymore, because anything you think or feel needs to submit to a single goal – making the parent happy, making the parent look good.

The entertainment industry the child is exposed to brings one painful and toxic thing after another. To a child, being forced to compete in an industry where they declare your value based on how well you fit an imaginary role they set out for you, is poisonous. Being informed you're "not good enough" over and over again, having to try again, having to see someone else being special enough, wondering why you're not chosen, that is painful even for an adult to take. Not being allowed an identity because she was acting to be her mom's projection was bad enough, but now she was being judged and projected on by multiple people, expectations of her only bringing her further anxiety. To the author, it was almost natural, because it's all she ever knew. She had to smile and pretend it's okay to submit her to appearance changes 'because she might fit the role better', okay to starve herself to remain smaller looking, because it's easier to take advantage of a young-looking actor. At one point she manages to cry on cue, and these adults around her are so fascinated by it, they ask to see it again and again. And this wasn't acting. The child was bringing up the most traumatic, most devastating scenarios in her head, and she cried for real. She cried in real pain, and the adults were telling her to do it again and again, just so they could look at it more. I felt sick reading that.

The author's childhood revolves around mother's desired career, but also mother's cancer – which mother uses as a tragic backstory and a bargaining guilt-trip on every person she wants to use, and as a satisfying torture for her children. Having a child deal with the fact that their mother might die, is a terrifying and painful ordeal, and as much as possible, parents try to protect their kids from re-living that type of fear. The author's mother, however, recorded the experience and forced her children to watch it over and over again, praising them for breaking down and crying, suffocated by the pain of it. The author gets reprimanded for not having the pleasing-enough reaction, when she's only two years old. The cancer, once resolved, manages to come back, and ultimately creates the biggest turn-around in the author's life – her mother is now dying.

At this point the author is a young adult, trying out her first relationship, and immediately we see exactly what her childhood had set up for her – she doesn't notice her relationship is abusive. Having been sexually abused all her life, it's completely normal for her to dissociate and do anything to please, because she knows that to do anything other than that, would bring immeasurable pain and guilt and loss of the connection. The relationship was against her mother's wishes, and when her mother finds out, the author is subjected to the most vile tantrum of hatred, contempt, insults, slurs, threats, revenge, and is told she's now cut off from the entire family, and also urged to send them money for the new fridge. The author, terrified and devastated, does everything to fix the relationship with her mother, under severe pressure of guilt, shame and self hatred for "hurting her sick mother" – her mother even accuses her of causing the cancer.

It becomes very clear why the author had to deny herself everything in order to please the mother – this was the threat, hatred and pain that was expecting her the second she stopped. Seeing what her mother was ready to put her thru is eye-opening and scary to be aware of, nobody alive should want to cause that amount of pain to their own child, for making a choice, for trying to make a connection with another human being.

Another set-up we see from the traumatic childhood, is the author's relationship with food. Being subjected to starvation, at the hands of her mother, caused the author to experience severe shame and pain while eating, causing her to develop bulimia. She could no longer continue the starvation, once she was away from her mother's side, and the most natural thing for a body who was starved, is to demand food, to increase the instinct until it can no longer be controlled or repressed. Her body was trying not to die. This is where I learned that eating disorders are terrifying in the way they bring out a relief from feelings, relief from trauma, they can stop guilt and shame and can be used as a coping mechanism. Reading about this, I felt lucky I was spared from that type of self harm, because it was absolutely devastating for the author's life and health, but the worst thing about it was just how much the author blamed herself for all of it. The author did not do this to herself, she was set up to experience this from the start. Processing her feelings was not even an option – she wasn't aware she was even allowed feelings in the first place. Her feelings were never allowed to surface, or to be seen on her face, she was allowed only to feel what her mother approved of, only act on impulses that were pleasing. There was no way for her to recognize or feel the trauma, the amount of feelings were unsurvivable for someone whose body was not used to experiencing a single non-pleasing feeling.

The death of the mother was made as painful as possible, mother insisting until the end for her wishes to be fulfilled, for everyone to keep the role she had set for them. For her daughter to keep starving herself, to keep a job that thrived on continuing the trauma. It was painful to see.

The author attempted therapy, and after the therapist suggesting her mother could be abusive, quit instantly. The urge to preserve her childhood, her closeness and the bond with her mother, the building blocks of her life, prevailed. It was exactly what I would have done as well. It would take a lot of time before the author was ready to attempt therapy again, and to be able to talk about what her mother did to her, under the guise of 'wanting only the best'.

The traumatic aftermath of her mother's death only kept getting worse, as the author now struggled to keep sacrificing her health for her career, only to please the producers and the mother who was no longer alive, she struggled to mourn her mother when she was never taught how to mourn, or allowed to feel something so painful. She struggled with missing her mother. The eating disorder plagued her every interaction and shared meal, she was not allowed to rest and have fun. She struggled with other abusive family members, who insisted on still controlling her with guilt. She struggled thru her relationships, which were filled with so much coercion and neglect. The first time the author had a sexual experience that wasn't coerced or demanded her to dissociate from the trauma of it, she ended up breaking down, because she finally had a reference to how traumatic her past experience were. This was heartbreaking to read.

The author, thru the entire book, is the most down-to-earth person you can imagine. She states everything in facts, she informs you right away that she hates bringing emotions in her words, and she stays true to it. She takes every thing matter-of-factly. She doesn't romanticize, she doesn't indulge in nostalgia. She points out every hypocrisy and pretend she can see in others, she points out the true intentions of everyone's actions. When she's struggling with the extreme effects of eating disorders, she takes this matter-of-factly as well, it's just a thing she does. There's no other way to go on with it except for normalizing it, the extreme traumatic reactions are normal, the self harm is normal. It makes it very clear how even the most logical and factual person, can be controlled under the weight of guilt and shame, until she's not allowed to think in certain directions. Until she has to accept that impossible and extremely vicious things are normal and to be defended, in order to protect her sanity from what is going on. It proves that nobody is 'too emotional', or 'too sensitive', the author certainly wasn't any of these things. She was tough, smart, insightful, enduring, extremely invested in making other people happy, and avoiding the worst of pain for herself. And it didn't save her, it didn't make the abuse obvious. Because we're all vulnerable to it just the same.

The author manages to stay in therapy the second time, and is finally allowed to recognize her own feelings and emotions, which opens the way to processing them without using extreme self harm via eating disorders. She recognizes her acting career for what it is, a painful, traumatic exploitative deal she took under coercion, that only does harm to her life, and she quits. Her fight with the eating disorders is long and painful, and it feels like something you never completely recover from, but you improve, you manage to enjoy a cookie and it's a big victory, something you weren't allowed or able to do thru the most of your life.

At the end of the book, the author is at her mother's grave, this time aware of what transpired. The effects of her mother's death on everyone was a true proof of what she was – a detriment. The mother's husband moved on almost immediately, and was able to admit to the author that he wasn't her biological father – her mother lied into her death about it. Giving the author another betrayal, and another painful reality to deal with. The author realizes had her mother still been alive, she, the author, would still be in almost constant state of pain, still starving herself, still doing whatever would please the mother, no matter how devastating it was. She finally acknowledges, that her mother was a narcissist. That the abuse was horrifying. And that she still misses her. But, she won't be back to visit the grave.

I found the book both painful and welcome in my life. I hope that other abused children and adults will read it, and that some things will click. Maybe another narcissistic parent had tried, or is trying to starve their child into anorexia, maybe someone else has been mislead to believe their ocd is something normal and something they shouldn't get any support and help with. Maybe there's more children whose will and feelings are being taken away, who have to pretend they have none. Maybe there's other children who are forced to live without being given any acknowledgment, who aren't allowed to feel their own feelings. Who are forced to live in a hoarder house and defend this. Who are able to only see the story for their parent's point of view, who believe all of the vicious things their parents do is for their own good – I hope it helps to see the reality. I hope if you're experiencing the consequences like this, that you know you are being set up, and you didn't do this to yourself. I hope you realize that the shame cast on you is something put there to control you, and it's not your shame to feel. The shame belongs to the one who did this to you.

[buckyalpine]

Tw

Hi sweet dolcezza (that is Italian and means sweetness so sweet sweetness :) )

Hope you are doing well, I want to thank you again for your beautiful blog and wonderful works.

I am reading the last things you posted, beautiful as always!

Since I live for the drama, the sadness, the darkness...

I was thinking about how a broken boy with traumas, Bucky 🫢, would react about his girlfriend having mental health problem.

Maybe she has been developing them...

She wasn't always like that, she lost her sparkle and he doesn't know her like this, he sees another person, another woman, another human.

He can't understand and is confused, maybe mad.

On one side I think about him being supportive, on the other I think about him being disrespectful and invalidating, like he had lived major traumas but, he says "he is not complaining so much about it or playing the victim" like her.

-I had this hint because my mental health is not good, I have severe OCD, since I was a kid basically I remember being this way since the age of five four. I am struggling with ed and borderline personality disorder.

And I had partners that, even if they lived traumas, still invalidated mine a lot and called me names, so the were basically toxic.-

And i can't picture where Bucky could fall. Toxic? Supportive?

I love him, but sometimes he acts shady and not always I can read him.

I see him dark most of the time.

But they can always repair the relationship and be together or not?

(I am problematic with toxic guys ahahahaha)

Sorry for this and my life story, noone asked about buy still. I just think you are the best person to write something as deep.

I really hope you are doing good and enjoying your day so far.

A lot of kisses and hugs and support.

🌺

18+

Babes we are one in the same with toxic men. I like to think there's the version of Bucky who has so much love and empathy for others going through mental health struggles and then there’s the Bucky who loves you but doesn’t know how to process things and acts impulsively. Here, we look at the second. 

Warnings: Angst, Mental health issues, some toxic behavior, (happy ending, they learn to fix things)

Disclaimer: Some of the stuff in this fic are things I/others have gone though so please refrain from comments about why the reader stayed or what the reader should have done or how the story should have gone. Sometimes I get super sucked into the angsty parts and struggle to undo the damage so don’t read too much into it. 

I imagine it starts off bad because Bucky's still learning to deal with his own mental health and there are times where he can be selfish without meaning to. He's so used to having you comfort and take care of him, he doesn't know what to do when you start to change. He’s been through so much, he can’t imagine someone else feeling his level of anguish.

You’re no longer the same person he fell in love with. Your sparkle is gone. A grey dullness encasing you. He doesn’t know when things changed or why but he just wants you back; the distance between you both gets worse with each passing day. You try your best to still be there for him because you know he needs it; you love him with all your heart even when your own feels heavy. 

"Baby, are you okay?" 

"I’m fine"

Bucky practically scoffs when you ask him how he’s doing because you should know he’s never fine. He’s never okay. He doesn't know why you bother asking him when its the same shit he deals with on a daily basis. 

You can't bring yourself to tell him how you're feeling because you know he doesn't have the capacity to help you when he's struggling himself. He shrugs, not knowing what else to say, letting you wallow in your misery, taking his frustrations out during his workouts instead. Things continue to worsen; you fall deeper in your spiral while Bucky continues to shut you not, realizing it’s you who needs him. 

“Can we talk?”

You’re desperate at this point, hoping maybe he’ll at least listen but he shakes his head instead. Bucky can’t stop the bitterness that starts to rise in his chest; he missed his ma, his sisters. His missed living in a world where he understood the things around him, where he didn’t have to feel like a lost toddler every time he stepped outside. His feelings have nothing to do with you, he really does love you but all the bitterness spills onto the one person who is always there for him. 

“What’s the point y/n” 

“I-I just feel...” You shrug, not knowing how to tell Bucky of all people that you felt empty. 

“What do you feel. I don’t know what you even complain for” 

“I feel like I have no one Bucky” You felt your stomach drop when his eyes bore into you, as if he's challenging your feelings. 

“You still have your cousins, other family, friends. You complain so much but you’re so spoiled. I’m going through shit too, but you don’t see me acting like a victim”

You swallow the anger that tries to rise, trying to understand his point of view. It all comes to a boiling point because you're trying your hardest to hold it together while he doesn’t see your spiral break down.  You felt your heart splinter; after every time you had held him, loved him, cared for him, he looked at you with emptiness. 

“Bucky, I know you’re going through things-

“Things? You think I can just turn this fucking shit off y/n? I’m not fucking normal, and you’ll never fucking get it. Honestly, I don’t know what to tell you, I’ll stay at Steve’s tonight”

He makes his way to the door and you know you can’t be alone tonight, there’s too much going on inside.

“Please don’t” your voice is a plea, your practically begging at this point. You can feel your throat tighten because you feel selfish for struggling when he’s been through so much worse.

“Bucky please stay” you trail behind him, your knees shaking. You try to tug at his wrist but he doesn’t let you. When you finally try to cling onto his arm, his composure breaks. 

“GET OFF ME” he pulls out of your grasp, sending you stumbling back. He’s usually mindful of his strength but he doesn’t think and you lose your balance, ending up on the floor. He freezes in utter disbelief with himself, he’d never in a million years even try to hurt you. 

“Fuck, baby I’m so so-”

“Don’t”

Your eyes are now stone cold, your voice was low. He tries to help you up but you scramble away from him, adding distance between you both.  He takes a step forward again but something isn’t right, he finally sees how broken you look. 

“Y/n….”

“GET OUT”

Your voice tore through the walls and his eyes are wide with fear because he's never seen you so broken. He’s never heard you raise your voice like this; you’d always spoken to him softly. He’s scared because he didn’t mean to push you to your breaking point and he doesn’t know how to take it back. 

"I-"

“GET THE FUCK OUT” 

You pick yourself off the floor, your heart beating through your chest. You practically see red, after everything you had done for him, he called you selfish; you sat through every one of his panic attacks, his depressed days, his nightmares. He couldn't listen to you for one night. 

"You fucking piece of shit"

You angrily tried to wipe your face, moving away from him to pack a bag, not wanting to be near him for a minute longer. You go straight to your room while he runs after you, panic rising, he wants to cry but he can’t, not right now. 

“Doll I’m sorry-

“I don’t care” You rummage through some of your belongings, feeling yourself go numb. You felt like your mind didn’t even belong to you anymore, your body moving in autopilot. Bucky hates the vacant look on your face, he wants to hold you and tell you he’s sorry. He tries to wrap his arms around you, not knowing what else to do but you shove him away, shaking your head.

“Don’t-don’t touch me, don’t ever fucking touch me again”

He watches helplessly when you rip yourself away, shoving a few things into your duffle bag, not meeting his eyes. 

"I-I don't fucking love you, I-I'm d-d-one with you"

“Baby please don’t go” 

“Oh, so when you beg, I have to stay?” You scoff, letting out a humorless laugh “Fuck off”

He’s terrified now because while your movements are robotic, your body is shaking and you don’t even seem to notice. Bucky hates seeing you trembling; you’re about to leave the room and walk out but he stops you. 

“Bucky, move” You suck in a breath, your nails digging into your hands, but he stays rooted in place. 

“No bubba”

“Don’t call me that” Your voice trembles, another surge of anger flowing through you when he tries to reach out for you. “I SAID DON’T TOCUH ME”

He pulls you to his chest and you try to rip yourself free but he doesn’t let you go. 

“LET GO”

Bucky shakes his head, hugging you tighter, his tears dampening your hair. The screams and wails ripping from your chest burn his insides, you desperately try to escape but he cradles you closer. 

“M’sorry”

“L-let me g-o”

“M’sorry baby, I’m sorry, I’m sorry” He doesn’t care that your hitting his chest, he doesn’t care that your hands keep striking him. He can feel your body give way, your breaths uneven, months of pain spilling out all at once. He hugs you tighter like he should have done ages ago, realizing you needed him more than ever. Your body continues to fight but your angry screams turn into pained sobs. 

“I’m so sorry my babygirl” 

He carefully carries you to the bed where he can hold you in his lap. He tries to think of what you do for him, warming your body, rubbing his hands along your back and arms. He feels awful because you always take such good care of him and he was grasping at straws trying to do the same for you. You deserved so much more. 

“Shhhh” His lips brush against your forehead, one hand gently rubbing your chest while the other continues to soothe your back so he can regulate your breathing. “Slowly baby, breathe with me, okay?” 

You say nothing, but you try to follow his breaths, letting him take care of you. He continues to tell you how much he loves and cares for you, how sorry is he for hurting you. Exhaustion takes over and you allow yourself to fall asleep with him. A part of you is still angry but your too weak to move and you need to be held.  

You wake up in the middle of the night feeling his chest tremble against you. His soft sniffles are muffled as he tries to keep his cries down while cuddling you close. 

“Bucky?” You lift your head to see his broken expression. 

“I’m s-sorry” He chokes out, breaking down. He feels selfish again because he should be the one comforting you but he was angry with himself. “I-I can’t believe I hurt you angel” 

You move up so you can wipe some of his tears, his face puffy having cried for hours through the night. 

“I just needed you” You gently your fingers through his hair trying to calm him down. 

“I-I said shit I never should have said baby, I’m sorry. M’sorry sweet girl” 

“Why did you say those things” you whisper, your voice still hoarse.

“I’m so sorry angel, I- there’s not excuse, I’m sorry I was so selfish doll”

You nod, still feeling drained though a part of you feels better. You hadn’t fully forgiven him yet but you knew he meant every word plus there was no one else in the world you loved as much as him. He thinks about the way he mistreated you, realizing he really didn’t deserve your forgiveness at all. Your words replay in his head and his breaths become shallow. 

“Do-do you not love me anymore?” His voice is a broken whisper. You knew you didn’t mean it. The thought nearly kills him. He would have gone through hydra again over ever losing your love. Your thumb brushes over his lips silencing him. 

“Please don’t say you don’t love me”  He nuzzles himself further into your side, hugging you tightly, his voice a whimper. “Please, I’m sorry” 

“I was just angry Bucky. I love you” He calms down slightly but hes still on edge with himself. He wants to do better. He wants to take care of you. You had been there through everything for him and you deserved the same love a thousand times over. 

“I promise I’ll try harder angel” 

He stays true to his word. 

It doesn’t resolve overnight.

But he learns. And so do you.

He’s patient with you. He gives you endless love. He has his own hard days, and so do you but your by each others side through it all. He sees your sparkle return brighter than ever, 

Because he really does love you. 

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[doberbutts]

I just wanted to say thank you for the post about the safety precautions video. I take a lot of similar precautions (I have the same portable door lock) because of my PTSD and OCD and the fact my abuser knows where I live. I even have an emergency escape plan out a window and onto the roof! I live in a really poor area with a lot of violence, there's been three murders on this street in the last couple years and our cars been vandalised recently. I know what people are *trying* to make a point about in that post, but it does make me feel bad seeing such overt mocking. So I really appreciate you pointing out so much of this can also come from genuine trauma not just "watching too much true crime"! I hope you have a good day 💖

Yeah it's always obvious to me that the folks who think some of this stuff is silly or overkill have never really lived through a situation where that could have been a life or death thing. Which, honestly, that's great for them! I wish everyone could live somewhere that they did not have to fear break-ins and active threats on their lives! But that's also unfortunately not where everyone lives and that does include white people (although the point about it being weaponized unfairly against people of color, poor people, and disabled people, the populations that are the most at risk of this type of violence, is also extremely valid)

It's similar to my discussion about weapons, arming yourself, and self-defense. It is all good to say that most people in this country will never actually need to defend themselves from this type of harm. It's also untrue to say that it never happens, because it has happened to me, it has happened to my friends, and it has happened to people I know even only tangentially.

I have a doberman in part because I want a dog that has a fairly decent chance of biting the fuck out of someone who breaks in to hurt me. I carry a weapon everywhere and I took a fairly serious self-defense class. Why? Because when I was in college, a drunk man repeatedly tried to break in while I was sleeping and I have no idea if he would have hurt me if that door had actually opened. My parents' house was broken into while we were home when I was still a child, and my sister was sitting only a few feet from the door when it swung open. Between her scream and our dog coming barreling down the stairs at him, he chose to flee, but what if he hadn't? What if she'd been in bed like the rest of us were, away from the door? What if we hadn't had the dog, or if she hadn't heard my sister and come charging in ready to defend her family?

Someone broke into my mom's dorm when she was in college and stood next to her bed touching himself. He did not ever touch her, and she reported it the next morning, after laying awake frozen in fear all night about what could have happened. Multiple someones broke into my aunt's dorm at a completely different college and did touch her, for hours, and she was found the next morning as a beaten and bloody whimpering mess. My aunt has severe PTSD and was diagnosed with schizophrenia shortly after. She never had symptoms before, but now she sees those men everywhere she goes. My other sister was beaten to a bloody pulp by her former partner and spent many years looking over her shoulder expecting to see him reappear. My dad was shot in the arm just walking down the street from his mom's house to his school due to gang violence and watched a man die on the same block as his mama's doorstep, and now has a ritual every night of checking each and every door and window despite living more than two hours away from that neighborhood 40 years later.

I am glad that so many people have never had to consider protecting themselves from this kind of violence. I am glad that the crime statistics say that this type of violence is becoming more and more uncommon. I am still going to lock my house up and install security measures and keep a weapon on me and know how to defend myself with it and teach my dog to bite the fuck out of anyone who walks through that door. Mostly because I remember being a terrified teenager holding the hammer out of my toolbox to my chest and staring at my fire escape door until the banging stopped at 3 AM.

[butchspace]

Hello, I am going to discuss my thoughts on content/trigger warnings as someone living with OCD. I am absolutely open to good faith engagement and discussion on this topic.

Having some thoughts on the idea that adding trigger warnings somehow ultimately harms the person with the trigger. They absolutely can create an easy tool to obsessively control your access to the topics/to avoid them, but I’ve always felt it should be the potentially triggered person’s decision on what they were ready to do about it. Uncontrolled exposure is just as capable of causing obsession as is avoidance, in my opinion.

I think of the (terrible telephone retelling of a) case I heard about while discovering recounts of actual lived experiences with OCD.

—The following example discusses intrusive thoughts about domestic violence.—

A woman had an obsession with being was afraid of hitting her boyfriend. Her compulsion was that she would have to hold her arms stiffly by her side. She recognized this as OCD and sought exposure response prevention. Her therapist told her to try and ignore the compulsion, or potentially do the opposite. The woman became so obsessed with healing she forced herself to keep her hands away from her sides (almost obsessively) and constantly checked whether or not she “still wanted to hit him.” In the end, the ERP just became entangled with her obsessions.

It takes so much strength to face these types of problems and practice the mindfulness and grace with yourself to recognize it. It’s something you really need to be ready for because it’s going to take a lot of effort to do the hard thing when the easy thing is right there.

How can we claim it’s best to “force” exposure on someone else? How can we go around vigilante therapising people we have deemed too ill to do it on their own (or just be left alone)?

This is not to say that anyone is bad if they can’t or don’t want to tag things. More just my thoughts about how pushback against that idea can swing too hard into trying to prove not tagging was morality correct.

Some articles that articulate so much of my experience with OCD:

Having No Cure for OCD Is the Cure

Help! I Have OCD About What’s OCD

In the spirit of bodily autonomy, I think we all deserve agency in our lives no matter how “incompetent” other people may think we are. When you’re ready, you’re ready. There’s no healing to be had sitting around thinking you’re broken or lazy or whatever for not being ready to change. We all owe each other the kindness to do what we can in good faith, too.

I started doing too much table setting in the tags, so I’ll put it under a read more, lol.

I recognize that this isn’t very radically (in the abolition vs reform sense) anti-psychiatry, and I do have a complicated relationship with that idea. I recognize that I have a good deal of privilege (particularly among people with more stigmatized/less understood “disorders”) but this framework is the only one I’ve ever been able to access that gives me any insight into myself at all. That isn’t something everyone can afford to do in several senses.

As a physically disabled person, I just connect my experiences with chronic illness and mental illness (which I think can fall under the umbrella of chronic on its own) more and more these days. What truly was the difference between not being able to do something out of pain versus anxiety? Our brains are organs, too. Our thoughts are chemical and hormonal, too.

One of the fondest memories I have of coming to terms with disability was explaining my experience with an autoimmune condition to a bipolar friend, and he replied that we were “chronic illness buddies.” And I felt so understood as someone who has suffered with various types of anxieties for their entire waking life.

[shikoslady]

Theory about Niffty (SPOILERS AHEAD)

*I posted this on another platform a couple weeks ago. I did add some new thoughts to the post.

This theory is based off of what has been confirmed as canon by Vivziepop and what we see of her in the series.

Niffty was an abused, suburban housewife from the 1950s. She is confirmed to be Japanese in her 20s when she died. She snaps after an ugly fight with her husband (Fred) and stabs him in the back repeatedly until he is dead. She has a complete psychotic break and laughs as she runs down the street with a bloody knife. Police try to talk her down but in her broken mind she tries to attack them. She is shot 3 times in the torso and dies from her injuries.

Evidence:

Niffty's appearance: Wears a poodle skirt, apron, and has 3 hole shaped designs on the torso that resemble gunshot wounds. Her hair is cut in a bob style that would have been typical of a housewife in that era.

Niffty's mental state: obvious OCD regarding cleanliness and pest infestation. Sadistic, erratic and unpredictable, unstable. Likes feeling pain. Clear signs of having been through trauma.

Niffty's hobbies:

-Makes crowns out of roaches. The crown is a perversion of a flower crown, something some mother's would make for their children in the summertime. This shows she is creative and may have enjoyed crafting in her human life.

-puppet shows. It is mentioned she puts on roach puppet shows... a sign again of creativity. Puppet shows were popular in her era.

Niffty and the stains. In a line that sounds like it's a throwaway, Niffty says she named the stains on the carpet. There is a large one that she named Fred. The stain resembles the one left from her husband's body after she killed him.

Niffty's interest in Bad Boys: This is also psychological. For those who have experience abuse first hand this will make a lot more sense. Victims of abuse tend to find partners that are similar to their abuser because it is all they know. They feel uncomfortable in healthy relationships and are drawn to the chaos they know. It takes years of therapy and healing to break this cycle.

Niffty and Alastor: She seems to be very fond of Alastor beyond her usual attraction to bad boys. Alastor is illuded to being the baddest of the boys in Hell and yet, she doesn't do her usual thirst lunge or comments over him. I think he makes her feel safe. Perhaps he is protecting her... Do they have a deal? Does he own her soul? We don't know for sure. We know Husker is bound to Alastor however I don't assume that is for sure without their arrangement explored further.

Niffty and Vox may have known each other.

There isn't much to go on other than they both died in the 1950s. Niffty is afraid of cameras (television), and Vox's smile as he watched her on the tv when she killed Adam and again when she was being interviewed for the deed.

This could easily be explained as him being glad Adam and the exterminations are over or that could be a misdirection. The only reason why I question these two scenes is because of the Heaven scene with Charlie and Vaggie running past Adam and Lute. Until it is known that it was Vaggie they were talking about, it makes perfect sense for them to be annoyed with Charlie being there.

Niffty vs Adam:

Before Niffty surprise kills Adam, he is berating the group with insults. He claims they should be worshipping him since humanity sprung from his loins. He goes on to call them "ungrateful disgusting losers," then Niffty stabs him. If she was an abused housewife, this kind of verbal assault from Adam would have been triggering. She kills him in a similar fashion to how she murdered her husband, laughing maniacally the entire time. She stabs him multitudes of times before hoping off and prancing away from his dead body with a proud smile.

What do you all think?

[camojacketfag]

when do you stop feeling like you're waiting for your life to start? im 22 and ive accomplished nothing, it feels like im at a standstill.

Well, for starters, I had a breakdown in a meijer parking lot at 8:15pm yesterday, sobbing to boygenius as I was telling myself that I’ve paused my life for the past four years to try and heal from crippling childhood trauma and therefore I haven’t really had the chance to truly have fucking fun and live life man.

My 20s have been a lot of healing and slowing down as life continues to move past me so fucking quickly. I told myself I was gonna have fun this year and instead I got my heart broken, I relapsed in my OCD, I cut ties with a shit therapist who invalidated me time and time again and I played far too many video games. Through out it all I also lost so many friendships who don’t fully understand how debilitating OCD truly is and my current social life consists mostly of imaginary conversations I have inside my head. But hey, we’re still fucking kicking! What really defines an accomplishment man? Whose timeline are you comparing yourself too? Most of the lives constantly being lived so publicly are led by neurotypical people with such big opportunities very different from lives like ours man. Therefore you’re doing yourself a disservice to try and compare your life to theirs. Acceptance is the hardest pill to swallow. I truly despise patience. Yet I also have to come to terms with the fact that I move at a much slower and methodical pace than everyone else around me. I know in the long run I’ll be grateful I decided to heal now as opposed to later but I still feel so fucking robbed man. Of time. And opportunities. And life. Time that I may never get back. Time in which others my age spent developing their careers or social relationships, I was stuck in my little room listening to sad lesbian music and having no one around but my dog and the obsessive thoughts that felt intensely unavoidable. I’d say life, or at least the life you’re talking about, will never truly start man. That life is just a piece of fiction. I guess what I’m trying to say is that life has already started, it’s just waiting for you to notice. Your perception is just warped, much like mine, but I know that although I can list all of these awful things that have happened over these past four years, I know that nudged somewhere in between it all, I’ve still lived. I saw some sick ass concerts, I gave myself my first stick and poke, I got drunk and shared to much, I allowed myself to question love and it’s mechanisms and meaning, I started a photo blog and have steadily worked towards creating what I see everyday in to something others can relate or come back to, I got punched in the face, I busted my lip trying to open a bottle of vodka, I drank to much caffeine and felt like I’d ascended to a higher state of consciousness. After I relapsed, I felt broken man. So much new trauma I’d have to go back to and stitch up all caused by trusting a professional who only made me believe that my own personal experience of the things I’d gone through was actually wrong. Yet somehow, it ended with me finally believing myself once more. And vowing to never let anyone make me feel like she did ever again. 11 years of trauma and hard work doesn’t deserve to be so easily destroyed just because you have a degree and I don’t. Still, I believed myself again. I believe myself now. And I know going forward that if we continuously compare ourselves to lives being lived that will never cross paths with ours then all we’re gonna do is spend eternity wondering when it will ever finally fucking begin. I promise you, it already has, and although I don’t know you, and you might believe that it’s been more bad than good, or that it’s not as valuable when compared to others achievements at your age, it’s still yours, and there’s still time, and it’s always been there, it’s just waiting for you to notice.

[strawbubbysugar]

🍔💛🖤🌈💤🩹💭

write away, bubby! ^^

EHEHE OK

🍔 HAMBURGER — is your oc good at cooking? are they good at baking? which one do they prefer?

None of them are any good at either, Dahmia because she’s a princess that has never had to cook for herself, and the boys because they’re incapable of eating/taste

💛 YELLOW HEART — how many languages does your oc speak? what language(s) are they learning, if any?

Dahmia would speak a French, Latin, and Spanish equivalent for the universe

Arche & Elio could know any language, so long as they have access to the programming for it! Currently, Arche has Latin, French, and Greek equivalents, and Elio has Russian and Spanish!

🖤 BLACK HEART — has your oc killed or seriously wounded anyone before? have they broken someone's heart and/or broken someone's trust?

Dahmia: no. Yes.

Elio: yes. Yes.

Arche: no. Yes.

🌈 RAINBOW — what is your oc's sexual orientation/gender identity? what pronouns do they use?

Dahmia: she identifies as a princess and eventually a queen, if that makes sense? She identifies with she/her and feminine things and traits and presenting that way, but she doesn’t really vibe with the way ‘woman’ and ‘girl’ feels. She’s bisexual!

Elio: he/him nonbinary! He is also bisexual!

Arche: he/him man, who identifies less as a boy than he does as either a man or male. Gender is less important to bots though so it doesn’t affect either of them as much! He is a woman/woman adjacent enjoyer

💤 SLEEPING SIGN — is your oc a light sleeper or a heavy sleeper? how are their sleeping habits?

Dahmia: when she’s got the proper amount of sleep, very light sleeper. Shifting in bed beside her will wake her up.

Arche & Elio completely shut down when they sleep, so pretty heavy I’d say hdfhs

🩹 ADHESIVE BANDAGE — does your oc have any physical and/or mental disabilities?

Dahmia: chronic pain, autism

Elio: Audhd

Arche: bodyless, anxiety, mild ocd

💭 THOUGHT BALLOON — what is your oc's MBTI, enneagram, and/or other personality aspects (if known/interested in)?

Dahmia: INFJ-

Elio: ENFJ

Arche: ISTJ

[lex-the-lesbiann]

May I ask for nark headcanons pretty please???

Hi! I’m so so so so sorry I’m responding to this just now but yes!!!! Nark headcanons!!!!

(I will be pushing my she/him Lark agenda with this btw sorry /light hearted)

-demons don’t really get cold but Nicky steals wears Larks jacket anyway

-on/off relationship in high school but they never really acted like they were off even if they technically were. ex. “me and Lark are going to the movies” “aren’t you two broken up rn?” “yeah, so? 🤨”

-Nicky wears black leather, Lark wears brown leather

-they both barely graduated high school and didn’t even try to bother with college

-both hate being alone (Nicky due to abandonment issues from Glenn. Lark because he feels safer if there’s someone else around)

-Lark has OCD and compulsively checks that doors and windows are locked and secure but Nicky makes it so she doesn’t do that for long by demanding cuddles to sleep

-Larks basically never late for anything ever which is comforting for Nicky because Jodie was a cop and was late kind of a lot and Glenn was barely even there and everything

-worst pda couple. the other kiddads had to hold an intervention for them at some point.

-Nicky goes by ‘Nicky Freeman’ and Lark goes by ‘Lark Garcia’

TYSM FOR THE ASK!!! and I’m sorry again I’m answering this so late!!!

(oh @alix-is-o-a-k also asked for Nark headcanons I think!!)

[thebluestbluewords]

Spiraling

TW for anxiety/OCD-like thoughts. This one is completely self-indulgent. Carlos-centric, because I like it when my badass characters also have brains that are a little bit broken. +

The stupid thing is that there's no trigger. 

It's just. 

Everything. All at once. All the time. There's math class, which Carlos loves fiercely and completely, only today his usual teacher Mr. Gemble is out sick. Which would be fine. People in Auradon get sick all the time, and then they get better, and there's nothing to worry about, except-- 

Except for how sometimes people get sick and they don't come back. Sometimes a little flu turns into something worse, and it means fluid in his lungs and long term damage from the smoke and need to start an antibiotic course right away and if I thought it would get used I'd send them home, but with that family-- 

There's nothing to worry about. People in Auradon get sick, and then they go to a doctor, and they get better. Simple. A dependency. Mr. Gemble is out sick so that he can go to a doctor, and he'll get the treatment he needs, and he'll be back in school once he's feeling better. 

He's going to get better. 

The sickness isn't going to spread. 

Viral infection and endemic and need a higher sample to provide effective inoculation. 

But they're not on the Isle of the Lost anymore, and everyone at Auradon Prep has a course of vaccinations before they come into the school for the first time, and the only exceptions are them, and it's not like Carlos is that close with his math teacher. Not like he could be the vector, bringing whatever illness took out a teacher, an adult, a man who's always seemed strong and healthy and whole, back to his crew. 

He's not-- 

There's nothing to worry about. 

So he sits in his usual seat. Middle of the class, Evie at his back, both of them against the wall, door directly in their line of sight. He pulls out his notebook and his pencil that appeared in his room one day, and he does not burn them because they were contaminated. Nothing could be done. No disinfectant can get out the spores-- 

He takes notes. Doesn't touch his face. Eyes, nose, mouth. Clear. He'll wash his hands after class. His bag is contaminated now, if the notebook was inside it, but he can take everything out later, if he brings it in the shower, he can take everything out and wash it clean, and he'll run the ultrasonic bath for the metal pieces, he can use the key to get into the lab and borrow the enclave, and don't touch your face, that's how it spreads. 

Carlos lowers his hand. 

The movement looks like he's raising his hand. He knows with the rational part of his brain, which is why the substitute teacher Mrs. Sidney calls on him, because she saw his hand move and she's young, and her voice is high-pitched and a little bit sharp because she gets nervous around the four of them, because she's a good Auradon teacher, a nice young teacher, and-- 

He doesn't even know what the question was. 

She called on him because she's a nice Auradon girl fresh out of teaching school, and she's scared of his crew but she's trying not to show it, she's trying to take care to treat them equally and bring them out of their shells, and she doesn't know, she doesn't know. 

She doesn't know that Carlos isn't supposed to talk in class, because letting people know how much he knows is dangerous and he's small but he's fast and he's smart and he doesn't want to be tapped as a henchman for one of the adults, so he will keep quiet and slip out of school before anyone can catch up to him and he'll stay quiet in class and maybe answer one question a day, because that's a normal amount, that won't stick out, and even if he gets them all correct it won't matter if he's only getting one or two things right. That's a normal amount. He's normal. Nothing special, nothing worth noticing. 

There's nothing to worry about. 

He stutters out a non-answer. Stupid, stupid. He's got to pay better attention. 

"I don't know," he says, and it's the truth, but he doesn't know-- 

It's not safe to be too clever, but it's also not safe to be stupid, and Mrs. Sidney sighs like she's disappointed in him, and there's nothing he can do to play back the question and make it make sense, so he just ducks his head down and keeps his hands on his desk and doesn't move them again, and-- 

It's not safe to draw attention to himself, so he won't. He'll draw away and inside himself, and he can't feel shame if he can't feel his body, but he needs to stay aware of his hands so he doesn't touch his face and contaminate everything, so he can't retreat all the way. 

So. That's one thing. 

The bell rings. 

The bell rings, and Evie's getting her things together behind him, and Carlos needs to move, because everyone is moving, because passing periods are short and staying still isn't keeping him safe anymore, so he moves at automatic speed through the motions, pencil tucked in his shorts pocket, wash his clothes later, and notebook in his bag, don't touch your face, and textbook shoved in behind them. His bag goes over his shoulder. Don't flinch. His free hand goes in his hoodie pocket, so he can tap the handle of the knife he's got tucked there, small and close and safe. 

His shoulder throbs. 

That's another thing. He's got something fucked up about his right shoulder, something small and hot that burns down his arm through his elbow every time he picks up his bag and shoulders the weight of it. He's not allowed to check the anatomy textbooks out from the library because they're restricted to only people taking the A&P courses this semester. Idiot boy doesn't know what he's reading, he just likes the pictures. But. He's pretty sure that his shoulder isn't supposed to burn, and even flipping through the whole thing in the library, because people are always watching the Isle freaks and he can't linger on any one illustration for too long and reveal a potential weakness, he can guess that there's some sort of nerve damage. A pinch or a twist or something that can't be fixed except with rest and time and general good health. 

Chronic pain, the clinic doctor said. Bone shards. Too small to be worth operating on, not with this level of healing already. 

The barrier is a curse. 

"Gods," Evie says, and Carlos does not jump. "I'm starving today. D'you think they'll have the croissant sandwiches at lunch?" 

don't eat that. it's not safe. give it to mama. 

Carlos forces his face into a smile, because Evie loves croissants, loves flaky bread and soft pastry, loves them loves them loves them loves them. "Probably. If they don't have them out you can ask Janelle in the kitchen to get one for you." 

Evie sighs as she shoulders her bag, and Carlos is watching her face so he sees when there's no wince as the weight hits her shoulder, and Evie's bag is even heavier than his, so it's stupid that he's the one dealing with pain, but he's always been—

He's not weak. 

"Janelle's so sweet," Evie says dreamily. "I asked her for the recipe of that avocado dressing last week, you know the one, with the poppy seeds in it?" 

"Yeah." 

"She just gave it to me. Printed off the cutest little recipe card and everything. She said they have a school cookbook that they print out for all the seventh graders in the cooking elective, and she'll make an extra copy for me the next time they run it by the printers." Evie's hands flutter like little butterflies to follow the words, bright and slim like the printer paper that Carlos knows how to feed into the industrial size printers they use for the school paper. He could hack into the school computers and print off a recipe book for Evie. He can run the printer and the laminator and the spiral binding machine that Jordan uses to archive copies of the school newspaper. "She's so nice." 

Evie's got a crush. 

Highly contagious. Spreads through shared food and drink. 

Evie's crush works in the kitchens. Where everyone comes through. Where there's a lot of shared food and drink, and buffet lines where it's easy to sneeze on the silverware cups, and—

Carlos needs to wash his hands. He needs Evie to wash her hands, but he can't touch her, because he's already contaminated and she might not be yet, she doesn't sit as close to the front as he does, so he can't touch her but they both need to wash their hands right-fucking-now, and he can't touch her to ask. 

Also because he’s— he’s being irrational. And Evie can’t be as dirty as he is anyway, because she’s Evie and she’s perfect and her hands are cool and pale and clean, and he can’t ask but he needs her to wash her fucking hands. 

Um," he manages. "Yeah. She's cool. I have to—“ he jerks his head towards the boy's bathroom. 

Evie nods. Waves a slim, graceful hand. "Go. I'll do the same. We can regroup after next period. Your class isn't doing testing this week, right?" 

Carlos has his English class next period. Woodland lit. Evie's in a different English class, but he's got— somebody. 

Jay. 

He's in the same English class as Jay, which means if there's testing he has to sit in the middle of the room, so that he can leave his left side open for Jay to read off his answers, not because he's stupid, but because he can't read fast enough to keep up. They've got a system. Carlos goes through the multiple choice section first, and then flips over to the short answer portion, and that's Jay's signal to stop where he's reading and flip back to multiple choice so that Carlos can go over his answers again, but slowly, dragging his pencil down the page as he really truly thinks about every answer. And if he just so happens to leave his left side open, so that maybe someone a little bit taller can see which bubble he's blacked in and which one's he's marked as not it, that's just a coincidence. Just like it's a coincidence that he and Jay rotate who gets to sit by the window and who sits in the middle of the classroom every few days. They're keeping things fresh. If they rotate seats themselves, the teachers won't rotate the seating for them. 

He dredges the class schedule up from the depths of a mind that feels syrupy-slow and very, very far away. "Nah. No testing this week. We're doing a discussion unit on poetry." 

Evie flashes him a perfect little smile. "Have fun with that. I'll see you at lunch?" 

wash your hands, Carlos thinks, and doesn't say, because he's aware that he's not thinking correctly right now. 

"See you at lunch." he echoes. “Bye, Evie.” 

He washes his hands. 

The pencil in his pocket is dirty too. He washes it. 

His pocket is dirty—

He can't get clean here. He's got to be normal, stay invisible, get to class so he can talk about poetry from three hundred years ago and listen to Jay making fun of Audrey under his breath, and stop washing his hands before the skin starts to go red and hot and raw under the water. He's got to stop. 

There's nothing to worry about. 

Okay, Carlos tells himself. This is Auradon. Nothing really bad happens here. 

But that's not true, because Mr. Gemble is out sick, and he could spread it. Carlos messed up a question today, and Mrs. Sidney could use that as proof that he's not smart enough to be here, that he should be sent back—

he's not being sent back to the Isle. 

Ben wouldn't let him be sent back. Because they're friends. 

Carlos's shoulder throbs. 

Class. Class, then he can run back to the room and change his clothes before lunch, and-- and Evie wants to check in at lunch, because he doesn't make mistakes, and she's got to know he's having a bad day, and if he doesn't show up for lunch she'll freak out. So he can't change. Or touch anything, because he's contaminated and—

Okay. 

This is a spiral, a bad one. He's going to class, because that's what he does. He's not going to spiral, because that's not what people do here. Kids in Auradon go to Kids in Auradon go to class, and they sit still-but-not-too-still, and they answer questions when they're asked, and Carlos can do all of those things. He likes class. He likes learning, and he likes hearing Jay make fun of the girls who write dramatic poetry about how their boyfriends broke up with them and he knows how to pretend that he's an Auradon kid who's nice and sweet and not a disease vector with broken lungs who's going to get them all sent back to the isle. 

He's fine. 

Nothing to worry about. 

Nothing is wrong. Nothing is wrong. Nothing's wrong. 

Just. 

Class. 

Yeah. 

He can go to class. 

Door. Elbow. Don't touch. Don't leave fingerprints. He's not— he's allowed to be here, but if he leaves fingerprints it'll be bad, because he's not allowed to touch the nice things unless he's cleaning them. His hands are always greasy. He can't afford to spend the extra time cleaning off his fingerprints, so he won't touch. 

He's allowed to touch. 

This is a spiral. It's not real. He's not— 

His shoulder hurts. 

His bag is slipping down his shoulder, so he lifts his arm to push it back up, and the pain spikes worse than before. Stabbing. Like hot needles all the way down the length of his arm. Shoulder to elbow to fingertips. It hurts, and that's the last thing he can handle. 

There's a thing, that happens sometimes, when his body hurts and his brain is spiraling and everything is too-much-all-at-once. A thing where Carlos puts his body on autopilot. Automatic functions can continue operation without him. He can—

He can leave. He'll get to class, and get through the day, and then when things are safe later, when he can curl up small-and-safe-and-hidden in the closet in Evie's room where she keeps her designs-in-progress, he can deal with everything.

[styxnstars]

My revamped self insert has my heart,,, 🥹💖

(Click for better quality)

❀ she/they pronouns

❀ Bisexual (prefers men) 💖💜💙, greyromantic 💚🩶🤍🩶💚, greysexual 💜🩶🤍🩶💜, and recipromantic 💖🩷💚🤍🖤

❀ 18 years old

❀ 5'2" (yeah she's short, laugh it off /j)

❀ Her birthday is on October 26th 🎂🎉🎊

❀ Has autism and mild OCD

❀ Is from Ireland, but she lives in Wales with her lovely boyfriend Johan! 🇮🇪🏴󠁧󠁢󠁷󠁬󠁳󠁿

❀ Besides English, she's fluent in French (all the European dialects) and Irish 🇫🇷🇮🇪

❀ Has an English-esque accent just like her boyfriend, she picked it up from him 🤭💕 (and bc of living in Wales for a long time)

❀ She's broken her ankle once and twisted and sprained it many times because she's notorious for being clumsy, making her more prone to injuring herself. But Johan makes sure this doesn't happen <3

❀ She works at a goat farm, she basically tends to them and makes sure they're taken care of :) she LOVES her job there!

❀ She likes stars, looking for constellations, astrology, flowers, bugs, exploring meadows and valleys, singing, petting any domestic/farm animal she sees, music, causing occasional mischief with Peewit, hanging out with Sabina, visiting the Smurfs, wild birds, being called pet her MANY pet names by Johan, and spending quality time with him!! 💙

❀ She dislikes heights, loud noises, large crowds, people talking badly about her, bad weather, any animal that carries rabies, getting sick, being reassured in a condescending way, very bright tints of pink, violence, being away from Johan for long periods of time, and Peewit's singing/music

❀ Has two loving parents, but they live in Ireland where they own a family business together (selling weapons for people going into fighting, like in Skyrim). She moved out because she wanted to live a better life for herself besides living with her parents her whole life and not branching out.

❀ Is an only child, she never had any siblings and was spoiled but not to the point of turning into a complete bitch (Johan spoils her in other ways~ 😏❤️‍🔥)

❀ She isn't a thrill seeker like Johan is, but she'll go outside with him if he wants to. She's more on the shy and quiet side and is mostly an introvert. She is aloof with strangers, but Johan is a very calming presence and comforts her when she's feeling anxious 🥰 She is also a nature enjoyer and her and Johan go on many dates in valleys and meadows filled with flowers! 💐💕

❀ Peewit and Sabina are her best friends, but she spends time with them separately bc Sabina finds Peewit incredibly annoying. And King Gerard is also one of her great friends!

❀ She's been VERY insecure about herself for a long time, weight and all. She talked to Sabina about her troubles, and Sabina told her that there's nothing wrong with being chubby and that Johan would LOVE to use her plump belly as a pillow! 🥰 Sabina then had the idea to give her a makeover! ✨️💅 so she got rid of my self insert's old bandages, cleaned up the blood and scratches on her, gave her a new outfit, did her makeup, painted her nails, gave her hair accessories, and prettied up her hair into a balayage! Now my self insert feels beautiful enough for Johan to fall head over heels for her even more ☺️🩷

❀ The necklace she's wearing is a gift of love that Johan made specially for her himself! It's made of an azure blue polished heart stone and is filled with real flowers! 🌷🪻🌻

❀ She also has a pet Mini Lop bunny named Crumpet! Johan also got Crumpet as a gift for my self insert, in which he went all the way to FRICKIN GERMANY FOR, that's true love right there 💕💕💕

Fanart of her/her x Johan are ABSOLUTELY more than welcome!!

[graveyard-party666]

Blood & Wine

And yet... you're always here.

New week, new chapter. This one was written long ago but i decided to make it longer. Almost gave up because of the verb tenses in that chapter. I still decided not to be bothered by that much and just post whatever i made.

Would it be weird if i decided to change the tense i used before for future chapters?.. 🤔

Anyway... here's the song for y'all.

Red has a stupid habit of plugging both ears with headphones. From a psychological point of view, her attempts to displace the real world, even for a second, are very funny. But even if for a moment she manages to forget about where she is and what she is doing, this is already a victory. From a therapeutic point of view, exactly.

Music has always been and is a part of therapy. There is hardly anything better than just dancing with headphones in your ears. Even if you dance in a place where strange to do so. But who can blame Red for this if the door to her office is closed and her stress and anxiety levels are off the charts? Well, of course, the folders won’t arrange themselves on the shelves.

Music is playing loudly through her headphones, and Red dances around, humming the song, as she places folders in alphabetical order on the shelves. Pedantry or OCD? Ironic.

The psychologist hears little except the music playing, and what difference does it make if the door to the office is closed?

A heavy hand falls on the girl’s shoulder. Red almost doubles over in horror. The last thing she expects is any visitors, especially if the door is locked. From the inside.

Red is unlikely to remember a single moment in her life when she turns her head so quickly. For a second, it seems to her that if she had turned her head a little faster, she would have simply broken her neck. A storm of emotions rushes through the girl when she sees an unexpected visitor. But one emotion is strongest of all - the desire to punch the visitor in the throat.

"Ghost, what the hell?!" the psychologist hisses at the masked intruder angrily. His face is covered by that stupid emo mask like always yet she can see the amusement in his eyes. "And how the fuck did you get in? The door was closed."

"I knocked, you didn't answer so... I just opened it." Lieutenant shrugs, stepping back, giving her space, as she takes off the headphones.

"Just opened it? Really?" Readhead can only skeptically look at the soldier, feeling the desire... desire to punch him. And maybe kiss him. Yeah, and desire to kiss him too.

"You are working with SAS soldiers." Ghost makes a simple yet real point. That's true. She works with the most dangerous men. The amount of skills they have that she doesn't know about is huge. Red doesn't even want to think about it.

"That was a cute dance, by the way."

Red could have sworn she heard the teasing tone in his voice. And for a moment she thinks she might choke him. She leaves no witnesses of her... dances.

"How long were you watching?.. Wait. No. Don't answer that." The psychologist shakes her head, falling down on the chair, feeling the embarrassment but trying not to give it away.

A light chuckle is heard from the masked man, which makes Red think for the millionth time about the plan of running away to the other side of the planet. This work is just too much.

She only shakes her head, taking the pills out of her bag.

"Did I scare you that much that you need sedatives?" Ghost asks jokingly, not understanding that what he has said is partially true.

"Antidepressants actually," Red speaks up after a short pause. She can see curiosity in his eyes.

"How are you working as a psychologist if you yourself need a psychologist?" Ghost looks at Red, smirking under the mask and waiting for an answer.

"No one would understand mentally unstable people better than another mentally unstable person," Red chuckles, hinting that Ghost himself is not as stable as he appears. No one on the team is one hundred percent fine and stable, and that's why they are so good at what they do.

"Being unstable is a blessing in a way..." Red smiles softly, swinging her high-heeled leg. "You guys use your rage and bottled-up feelings on the battlefield while still keeping a cold head and calm mind."

"I know you feel uncomfortable at the thought of me psychoanalyzing you," the woman continues, noticing the stern look of the man in the mask and a small glimpse of curiosity.

Lieutenant just lookes at her silently for a few moments before speaking up. "That wouldn't be much appreciated."

"Oh, I won't. People come to therapy in hopes of resolving their own issues. You, on the other hand... you prefer the chaos, keeps you on your toes, isn't it?" The redheaded woman tilts her head, as if looking straight through the mask.

"I wouldn't be here, in an elite military group, if my head was just chaos and nothing else," an annoyed sigh was heard from the soldier. "Psych evaluations are a big deal, you know?"

"Oh, yes, definitely... you are the best of the best soldiers, the most sane of all. And the most dedicated. You, my dear friend, know exactly why you do what you do as a job yet immense grief is following you somehow, instead of pride for many saved souls," she straightens her back, leaning closer to the soldier. "You are a badass, you know that?"

Ghost can't help but chuckle. "We went straight from you psychoanalyzing me, even though I asked you not to, to compliments." Lieutenant shakes his head in amusement.

He knew she probably wouldn't follow his request yet here he is, sitting on the couch in her office, watching her sort the papers and files.

"And yet... you're always here, Lieutenant."

Tag list: @cloudofbutterflies92 @chloekistune @justasmolbard

[twistedtummies2]

Gathering of the Greatest Gumshoes - Number 12

Welcome to A Gathering of the Greatest Gumshoes! During this month-long event, I’ll be counting my Top 31 Favorite Fictional Detectives, from movies, television, literature, video games, and more!

SLEUTH-OF-THE-DAY’S QUOTE: “There’s an old saying: ‘Don’t change anything. Ever.’”

Number 12 is…Adrian Monk, from Monk.

“Monk” premiered in 2002, at a time when I often feel good old-fashioned detective shows were on their way out, at least in the United States. Classic series like “Murder, She Wrote” and “Columbo” were nearing the end of their respective runs, and more and more people were gravitating towards what might be termed crime drama rather than Whodunnit storylines and Sherlock-Holmes-esque antics. With that said, it’s remarkable that Monk lasted as long as it did. The show ran for seven full years of straight television airtime, and was even briefly revitalized for a TV movie spin-off just last year: proof that the show’s legacy has not faded away, even after it ended nearly 15 years prior. Considering the final episode of the series broke the world record for the most viewings in cable television history at the time (a record which has, I should clarify, since been surpassed), it’s clear the series struck a chord with audiences.

I think a big part of the reason why comes from the title character: Adrian Monk himself. Monk is one of the funniest and most interesting detective characters in television history, in my opinion. He was a very different kind of sleuth, some would argue, compared to many popular detectives of the past. The humor of Monk, you see, is different from that of characters like the aforementioned Columbo or Sherlock Holmes. In those cases, these were characters who, for better or worse, everyone knew could get the job done. If they did have a silly side, it was usually either a façade to hide their inner steel, or it came from their own passions creating chaos for those around them. Monk is slightly in the latter category, but in a different way. Monk, you see…is a man who lives in fear of his own shadow. And I don’t think I mean that entirely figuratively. Sometime before the start of the series, you see, he lost his wife in a mysterious car bombing incident. The event caused an already mentally fragile Adrian to have a complete nervous breakdown, and he still hasn’t quite come out of it. As a result, Adrian Monk has become a man who is paranoid about just about everything around him. He’s a hypochondriac, has severe OCD, and his mind contains more phobias than you can really list in any concise way. Some are rational, but many are completely unfounded. He’s scared of snakes, needles, heights, enclosed spaces…even MILK he looks at with a sense of dread. Milk, I say! And that’s just to name a few!

The humor of Monk, as a result, comes from watching this man battle his own constant fear of the UNIVERSE, as he panics his way through every situation, fretting and fussing and cowering even as he scopes out scenes and picks out clues. It’s not surprising that his enemies underestimate him or that others around him get annoyed, because he’s not just pretending to be a buffoon: he’s legitimately just a constant wreck! However, through all the goofiness this setup presents – and there is a LOT of goofiness to be found – Monk is NOT an idiot. All of his overwhelming fears and nervous habits come from a very sad and fundamentally broken place, and there are times, throughout the series, where Monk shows not only a tragic vulnerability, but also a sort of inner fire and strength. When the situation calls for it, Adrian can be brought out of his shell, and shows there’s a lot more to him than just a whimpering clown. I think this is the crux of what makes the character so much fun to watch: we know he isn’t faking all this lunacy, but we also know that, at the end of the day, Monk will make the right choice, and will find some way of bringing the criminals involved in any case to justice. Many actors were considered for the role of Monk, a lot of them really big names. Some include Alfred Molina, Stanley Tucci, and the late John Ritter. In the end, the role went to Tony Shalhoub, who was sort of an actor-on-the-rise at the time. It was Monk that made Shalhoub recognized nationwide, however, and is the role he is likely best known for to this day. It’s not hard to see way: Shalhoub handles every scene absolutely perfectly, making Adrian just as sympathetic and heroic as he is absolutely ridiculous. The result is one of the most wonderfully comedic, but still competent and fascinating, characters in detective fiction, in my opinion. From battles with Tim Curry to solving the case of his late wife’s murder to trying to figure out if he’s scared of blankets or not (yes, really), Adrian Monk may not be the bravest of super sleuths…but he's certainly one of the greatest.

Tomorrow, the countdown continues with Number 11!

CLUE: “It really is very dangerous to believe people. I never have for years.”

[identitty-dickruption]

mad for life

It's been six months since I started meeting with a social worker. I like him. He’s a transman. Autistic and has ADHD. Openly a recovering addict. He’s the kind of guy I can see myself growing up to become. It’s been six months, and I finally feel comfortable enough to tell him about me. Once I finish talking, he just looks at me for a second, and I can’t breathe. “I can help you get a mental healthcare plan. The government will pay for ten sessions a year”. I barely manage to suppress laughter. Me? On a mental healthcare plan? Me? The person so bad at being a patient that I’ve never lasted longer than four out-patient sessions? Yeah, right. 

Four sessions. She tells me a metaphor about a chair, where she makes it clear that I have a leg missing. She doesn’t say it exactly like that though. “Sometimes we become unstable if one of our four pillars is missing”. I fight the urge to tell her that she’s mixing her metaphors. I fight even harder to not ask her, “but what if I’m not a chair? What if I’m a perfectly good stool or tricycle or some other three-part object?”. There is no room for questions here. There is only room for repeating the same metaphor until it’s drilled into my head. There’s no room for perfectly good stools. There’s only room for unstable chairs.

Two sessions. He asks me what I mean when I say that I think there’s something deeply and profoundly wrong with me, but I can see in his face that he knows what I mean. He asks me what I think being a good person looks like when I say that I think there’s something truly evil within me. I can’t give him a good answer. I think about the fact that I was conceived the weekend my mum was freed from the psych ward. I think about the fact that she was admitted voluntarily, meaning that the doctor told her he’d call the police if she said “no”. I think about the fact that she still screams if anyone other than my dad touches her. He tells me he wouldn’t call the police, even if I admitted that I was evil. I don’t believe him.

One session. Three hours long. I’m not sure if I’m even allowed a bathroom break, and I don’t know how to ask. She closes the door. She takes me through something she’s calling a “personality inventory”. I’m smart enough to lie at all the key questions. No, I’ve never felt so happy I felt invincible. No, I’ve never been so depressed I considered killing myself. No, I don’t hear voices or see visions or wake up screaming without knowing why. I’m here to get enough of a diagnosis that my university will give me the resources I need to get my degree. I’m not here to get the kind of diagnosis that will end with them dragging me kicking and screaming back to the place where university is seen as a silly unattainable goal. 

After this session, I tell my dad I’m worried that she thinks I’m a bad person. I have a 39 page report full of detailed analysis about how I’m broken, deranged, wrong, despite showing “no signs of past trauma”. My dad looks at me, his head cocked slightly. “She doesn’t think you’re a bad person, because this isn’t a person-person relationship, it’s a psychiatrist-patient relationship”. And in that second, everything starts to click together in my head. I’ll never be a person to these so-called professionals. I’m an unstable chair, an unruly client, a bad patient, but never a person. Why should I be? Afterall, I’m just another lunatic. 

One session. 50 minutes long. I tell him that I’ve been suicidal in the past, but that I’m not anymore. He tells me that I don’t seem distressed. I tell him I have a diagnosis of OCD. I tell him that I can’t sleep until I’ve checked that everyone in my family is alive. I tell him that I cross myself every time I have a bad thought. I tell him that I can’t stop imagining myself hurting everyone I love. He slowly explains to me that the DSM has a distress criteria for all diagnoses, so maybe I don’t actually have OCD. He’s right, I’m not distressed. I leave the appointment ten minutes early. 

Zero sessions with the woman who won’t stop calling me to ask if I’m ever going to reschedule the appointment I never showed up to. 

It's been eight months since I started meeting with a social worker. I show up drunk, because that’s how I show up to everything at the moment. He asks me if I followed up on the doctor’s appointment we talked about, and I shake my head. “I’ve decided that medication isn’t for me”. He gives me that long look again. “The only difference between taking medication and living the way you live is that medication is safe”. I give him my own long look. Before I allow myself to yell and scream, I stand up and walk out. I never see him again. There goes my longest ever streak of being in the crazy system.

[shuxiii]

Everyday pt.7

Hanni Pham x reader pt1, pt2, pt3, pt4, pt5, pt6, pt7, pt8, pt9, pt10, pt11, pt12, pt13

a/n chapter might be sensitive to other individuals so please if you don't feel comfortable reading this chapter you can skip it. credits all to ''every day'' by David Levithan. Once again please if you are sensitive to the trigger warnings don't read it.

TW: mental illness, thoughts of suicide

Day 6005

Some people think mental illness is a matter of mood, a matter of personality. They think depression is simply a form of being sad, that OCD is a form of being uptight. They think the soul is sick, not the body. It is, they believe, something that you have some choice over.

I know how wrong this is.

When I was a child, I didn’t understand. I would wake up in a new body and wouldn’t comprehend why things felt muted, dimmer. Or the opposite—I’d be supercharged, unfocused, like a radio at top volume flipping quickly from station to station. Since I didn’t have access to the body’s emotions, I assumed the ones I was feeling were my own. Eventually, though, I realized these inclinations, these compulsions, were as much a part of the body as its eye color or its voice. Yes, the feelings themselves were intangible, amorphous, but the cause of the feelings was a matter of chemistry, biology.

It is a hard cycle to conquer. The body is working against you. And because of this, you feel even more despair. Which only amplifies the imbalance. It takes uncommon strength to live with these things. But I have seen that strength over and over again. When I fall into the life of someone grappling, I have to mirror their strength, and sometimes surpass it, because I am less prepared.

I know the signs now. I know when to look for the pill bottles, when to let the body take its course. I have to keep reminding myself—this is not me. It is chemistry. It is biology. It is not who I am. It is not who any of them are.

Kim Ji Won's mind is a dark place. Even before I open my eyes, I know this. Her mind is an unquiet one, words and thoughts and impulses constantly crashing into each other. My own thoughts try to assert themselves within this noise. The body responds by breaking into a sweat. I try to remain calm, but the body conspires against that, tries to drown me in distortion.

It is not usually this bad, first thing in the morning. If it’s this bad now, it must be pretty bad at all times.

Underneath the distortion is a desire for pain. I open my eyes and see the scars. Not just on the body, although those are there—the hairline fractures across the skin, the web you create to catch your own death. The scars are in the room as well, across the walls, along the floor. The person who lives here no longer cares about anything. Posters hang half-ripped. The mirror is cracked. Clothes lay abandoned. The shades are drawn. The books sit crooked on shelves, like rows of neglected teeth. At one point she must have broken open a pen and spun it around, because if you look closely, you can see small, dried drops of ink all over the walls and ceiling.

I access her history and am shocked to realize that she’s gotten this far without any notice, without any diagnosis. She has been left to her own devices, and those devices are broken.

It is five in the morning. I have woken up without any alarm. I have woken up because the thoughts are so loud, and none of them mean me well.

I struggle to get back to sleep, but the body won’t let me.

Two hours later, I get out of bed.

Depression has been likened to both a black cloud and a black dog. For someone like Jiwon, the black cloud is the right metaphor. She is surrounded by it, immersed within it, and there is no obvious way out. What she needs to do is try to contain it, get it into the form of the black dog. It will still follow her around wherever she goes; it will always be there. But at least it will be separate, and will follow her lead.

I stumble into the bathroom and start the shower.

“What are you doing?” a male voice calls. “Didn’t you shower last night?”

I don’t care. I need the sensation of water hitting my body. I need this prompt to start my day.

When I leave the bathroom, Jiwon’s father is in the hallway, glaring at me.

“Get dressed,” he says with a scowl. I hold my towel tighter around me.

Once I’ve got my clothes on, I gather my books for school. There’s a journal in Jiwon’s backpack, but I don’t have time to read it. I also don’t have time to check my email. Even though he’s in the other room, I can sense Jiwon’s father waiting.

It’s just the two of them. I access and find Jiwon’s lied to him in order to be driven to school—she said that the route had been redrawn, but really she doesn’t want to be trapped in the bus with other kids. It’s not that she’s bullied—she’s too busy bullying herself to notice. The problem is the confinement, the inability to leave.

Her father’s car isn’t much better, but at least there’s only one other person she has to deal with. Even when we’re moving, he doesn’t stop exuding impatience. I am always amazed by people who know something is wrong but still insist on ignoring it, as if that will somehow make it go away. They spare themselves the confrontation, but end up boiling in resentment anyway.

She needs your help, I want to say. But it’s not my place to say it, especially because I’m not sure he’ll react in the right way.

So Jiwon remains silent the whole drive. From her father’s response to this silence, I can imagine this is how their mornings always go.

Jiwon has email access on her phone, but I’m still worried about anything being traced, especially after my slip-up with Haruto.

So I walk the halls and go to classes, waiting for my chance. I have to push harder to get Jiwon through the day. Any time I let it, the weight of living creeps in and starts to drag her down. It would be too easy to say that I feel invisible. Instead, I feel painfully visible, and entirely ignored. People talk to her, but it feels like they are outside a house, talking through the walls. There are friends, but they are people to spend time with, not people to share time with. There’s a false beast that takes the form of instinct and harps on the pointlessness of everything that happens.

The only person who tries to engage me is Jiwon’s lab partner, Rei. We’re in physics class, and the assignment is to set up a pulley system. I’ve done this before, so it doesn’t strike me as hard. Rei, however, is surprised by Jiwon’s involvement. I realize I’ve overstepped—this is not the kind of thing Jiwon would get excited about. But Rei doesn’t let me back down. When I try to mumble apologies and step away, she insists I keep going.

“You’re good at this,” she says. “Much better than I am.”

While I arrange things, adjusting inclines and accounting for various forms of friction, Rei talks to me about a dance that’s coming up, asks me if I have any weekend plans, and tells me she might be going to DC with her parents. She seems hypersensitive to my reaction, and I’m guessing the conversation usually gets shut down long before this point. But I let her talk, let her voice counter the unspoken, insistent ones that emanate from my broken mind.

Then the period is over, and we go our separate ways. I don’t see her again for the rest of the day.

I spend lunchtime in the library at the computer. I don’t imagine anyone at lunch will miss me—but maybe that’s just what Jiwon would think. Part of growing up is making sure your sense of reality isn’t entirely grounded in your own mind; I feel Jiwon’s mind isn’t letting her get anywhere near that point, and I wonder how much of my own thoughts are getting stuck there as well.

Logging into my own email is a nice jolt to remind me that I am in fact me, not Jiwon. Even better, there is word from Hanni—the sight of which cheers me up, until I read what the email says.

Yn,

So, who are you today?

What a strange question to ask. But I guess it makes sense. If any of this makes sense.

Yesterday was a hard day. Minji’s grandmother is sick, but instead of admitting she’s upset about it, she just lashes out at the world more. I’m trying to help her, but it’s hard.

I don’t know if you want to hear this or not. I know how you feel about Minji. If you want me to keep that part of my life hidden from you, I can. But I don’t think that’s what you want.

Tell me how your day is going.

Hanni

I reply and tell her a little about what Jiwon is up against. Then I end with this:

I want you to be honest with me. Even if it hurts. Although I would prefer for it not to hurt.

Love,

Yn

Next, I switch accounts and find a reply from Haruto.

I know I haven’t made a mistake. I know what you are. And I will find out who you are. The reverend says he is working on that.

You want me to doubt myself. But I am not the only one. You will see.

Confess now, before we find you.

I stare at the screen for a minute, trying to reconcile the tone of this email with the Haruto I knew for a day. It feels like two very different people. I wonder if it’s possible that someone else has taken over Haruto’s account. I wonder who “the reverend” is.

The bell rings, marking the end of the lunch period. I return to class and the black cloud takes hold. I find it hard to concentrate on what’s being said. I find it hard to see how any of this is important. Nothing I’m being taught here will make life less painful. None of the people in this room will make life less painful. I attack my cuticles with merciless precision. It is the only sensation that feels genuine.

Jiwon’s father is not going to pick her up after school; he’s still at work. Instead, she walks home, in order to avoid the bus. I am tempted to break this pattern, but it’s been so long since she’s ridden the bus that she has no memory of which bus is hers. So I start to walk.

Again, I find myself wishing for the mundane possibility of calling Hanni on the phone, for filling the next empty hour with the sound of her voice.

But instead, all I am left with is Jiwon and her damaged perceptions. The walk home is a steep one, and I wonder if it’s yet another way she punishes herself. After about a half hour, with another half hour in front of me, I decide to stop at a playground I’m about to pass. The parents there give me wary looks because I am not a parent or a little kid, so I steer clear of the jungle gym, the swings, and the sandbox, and end up on the outer ring, on a seesaw that looks like it’s been banished from everything else for bad behavior.

There’s homework I could do, but Jiwon’s journal calls out to me instead. I’m a little afraid of what I’ll find inside, but mostly I’m curious. If I can’t access the things she’s felt, I will at least be able to read a partial transcript.

It’s not a journal in the traditional sense. That becomes apparent after a page or two. There are no musings about boys or girls. There are no revisited scenes of discord with her father or her teachers. There are no secrets shared or injustices vented.

Instead, there are ways to kill yourself, listed with extraordinary detail.

Knives to the heart. Knives to the arm. Belts around the neck. Plastic bags. Hard falls. Death by burning. All of them methodically researched. Examples given. Illustrations provided—rough illustrations where the test case is clearly Jiwon. Self-portraits of her own demise.

I flip to the end, past pages of dosages and special instructions. There are still blank pages at the back, but before them is a page that reads DEADLINE, followed by a date that’s only six days away.

I look through the rest of the notebook, trying to find other, failed deadlines.

But there’s only the one.

I get off the seesaw, back away from the park. Because now I feel like I am the thing the parents are afraid of, I am the reality they want to avoid. No, not just avoid—prevent

. They don’t want me anywhere near their children, and I don’t blame them. It feels as if everything I touch will turn to harm.

I don’t know what to do. There’s no threat in the present—I am in control of the body, and as long as I am in control of the body, I will not allow it to hurt itself. But I will not be in control six days from now.

I know I am not supposed to interfere. It is Jiwon’s life, not mine. It is unfair of me to do something that limits her choices, that makes up her mind for her.

My childish impulse is to wish I hadn’t opened the journal.

But I have.

I try to access any memory of Jiwon giving a cry for help. But the thing about a cry for help is that someone else needs to be around to hear it. And I am not finding a moment of that in Jiwon’s life. Her father sees what he wants to see, and she doesn’t want to dispel this fiction with fact. Her mother left years ago. Other relatives are distant. Friends all exist far outside the black cloud. Just because Rei was nice in physics class doesn’t mean she should be freighted with this, or would know what to do.

I make it back to Jiwon’s empty house, sweaty and exhausted. I turn on her computer and everything I need to know is there in her history—the sites where these plans come from, where this information can be gleaned. Right there, one click away for everyone to see. Only no one is looking.

We both need to talk to someone.

I email Hanni.

I really need to speak to you right now. The girl whose body I’m in wants to kill herself. This is not a joke.

I give her Jiwon’s home phone number, figuring there will be no obvious record of it, and that it can always be discounted as a wrong number.

Ten minutes later, she calls.

“Hello?” I answer.

“Is that you?” she asks.

“Yeah.” I’ve forgotten that she doesn’t know the sound of my voice. “It’s me.”

“I got your email. Wow.”

“Yeah, wow.”

“How do you know?”

I tell her briefly about Jiwon’s journal.

“That poor girl,” Hanni says. “What are you going to do?”

“I have no idea.”

“Don’t you have to tell someone?”

“There was no training for this, Hanni. I really don’t know.”

All I know is that I need her. But I’m afraid to say it. Because saying it might scare her away.

“Where are you?” she asks.

I tell her the town.

“That’s not far. I can be there in a little while. Are you alone?”

“Yeah. Her father doesn’t get home until around seven.”

“Give me the address.”

I do.

“I’ll be right there,” she says.

I don’t even need to ask. It means more that she knows.

I wonder what would happen if I straightened up Jiwon’s room. I wonder what would happen if she woke up tomorrow morning and found everything in its right place. Would it give her some unexpected calm? Would it make her understand that her life does not have to be chaos? Or would she just take one look and destroy it again? Because that’s what her chemistry, her biology would tell her to do.

The doorbell rings. I have spent the past ten minutes staring at the ink stains on the walls, hoping they will rearrange themselves into an answer, and knowing they never will.

The black cloud is so thick at this point that not even Hanni's presence can send it away. I am happy to see her in the doorway, but that happiness feels more like resigned gratitude than pleasure.

She blinks, takes me in. I have forgotten that she is not used to this, that she is not expecting a new person every day. It’s one thing to acknowledge it theoretically, and quite another thing to have a thin, shaky girl standing on the other side of the precipice.

“Thank you for coming,” I say.

It’s a little after five, so we don’t have much time before Jiwon’s father comes home.

We head to Jiwon’s room. Hanni sees the journal sitting on Jiwon’s bed and picks it up. I watch and wait until she’s done reading.

“This is serious,” she says. “I’ve had … thoughts. But nothing like this.”

She sits down on the bed. I sit down next to her.

“You have to stop her,” she says.

“But how can I? And is that really my right? Shouldn’t she decide that for herself?”

“So, what? You just let her die? Because you didn’t want to get involved?”

I take her hand.

“We don’t know for sure that the deadline’s real. This could just be her way of getting rid of the thoughts. Putting them on paper so she doesn’t do them.”

She looks at me. “But you don’t believe that, do you? You wouldn’t have called me if you believed that.”

She looks down at our hands.

“This is weird,” she says.

“What?”

She squeezes once, then pulls her hand away. “This.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s not like the other day. I mean, it’s a different hand. You’re different.”

“But I’m not.”

“You can’t say that. Yes, you’re the same person inside. But the outside matters, too.”

“You look the same, no matter what eyes I’m seeing you through. I feel the same.”

It’s true, but it doesn’t really address what she’s saying.

“You never get involved in the people’s lives? The ones you’re inhabiting.”

I shake my head.

“You try to leave the lives the way you found them.”

“Yeah.”

“But what about Minji? What made that so different?”

“You,” I say.

Just one word, and she finally understands. Just one word, and the door to the enormity is finally unlocked.

“That makes no sense,” she says.

And the only way to show her how it makes sense, the only way to make the enormity real, is for me to lean over and kiss her. Like last time, but not at all like last time. Not our first kiss, but also our first kiss. My lips feel different against hers, our bodies fit differently. And there is also something else that surrounds us, the black cloud as well as the enormity. I am not kissing her because I want to, and I am not kissing her because I need to—I am kissing her for a reason that transcends want and need, that feels elemental to our existence, a molecular component on which our universe will be built. It is not our first kiss, but it’s the first kiss where she knows me, and that makes it more of a first kiss than the first kiss ever was.

I find myself wishing that Jiwon could feel this, too. Maybe she does. It’s not enough. It’s not a solution. But it does lessen the weight for a moment.

Hanni is not smiling when we pull away from each other. There is none of the giddiness of the earlier kiss.

“This is definitely weird,” she says.

“Why?”

“Because I still have a girlfriend? Because we’re talking about someone else’s suicide?”

“In your heart, does any of that matter?” In my heart, it doesn’t.

“Yes. It does.”

“Which part?”

“All of it. When I kiss you, I’m not actually kissing you, you know. You’re inside there somewhere. But I’m kissing the outside part. And right now, although I can feel you underneath, all I’m getting is the sadness. I’m kissing her, and I want to cry.”

“That’s not what I want,” I tell her.

“I know. But that’s what there is.”

She stands up and looks around the room, searching for clues to a murder that has yet to happen.

“If she were bleeding in the street, what would you do?” she asks.

“That’s not the same situation.”

“If she were going to kill someone else?”

“I would turn her in.”

''So how is this different?”

“It’s her own life. Not anyone else’s.”

“But it’s still killing.”

“If she really wants to do it, there’s nothing I can do to stop it.”

Even as I say this, it feels wrong.

“Okay,” I continue, before Hanni can correct me. “Putting up obstacles can help. Getting other people involved can help. Getting her to the proper doctors can help.”

“Just like if she had cancer, or was bleeding in the street.”

This is what I need. It’s not enough to hear these things in my own voice. I need to hear them told to me by somebody I trust.

“So who do I tell?”

“A guidance counselor, maybe?”

I look at the clock. “School’s closed. And we only have until midnight, remember.”

“Who’s her best friend?”

I shake my head.

“Boyfriend? Girlfriend?”

“No.”

“A suicide hotline?”

“If we call one, they’d only be giving me advice, not her. We have no way of knowing if she’ll remember it tomorrow, or if it will have any effect. Believe me, I’ve thought about these options.”

“So it has to be her father. Right?”

“I think he checked out a while ago.”

“Well, you need to get him to check back in.”

She makes it sound so easy. But both of us know it’s not easy.

“What do I say?”

“You say, ‘Dad, I want to kill myself.’ Just come right out and say it.”

“And if he asks me why?”

“You tell him you don’t know why. Don’t commit to anything. She’ll have to work that out starting tomorrow.”

“You’ve thought this through, haven’t you?”

“It was a busy drive over.”

“What if he doesn’t care? What if he doesn’t believe her?”

“Then you grab his keys and drive to the nearest hospital. Bring the journal with you.”

Hearing her say it, it all makes sense.

She sits back down on the bed.

“Come here,” she says. But this time we don’t kiss. Instead, she hugs my frail body.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” I whisper.

“You can,” she tells me. “Of course you can.”

I am alone in Jiwon’s room when her father comes home. I hear him throw down his keys, take something out of the refrigerator. I hear him walk to his bedroom, then come back out. He doesn’t call out a hello. I don’t even know if he realizes I’m here.

Five minutes pass. Ten minutes. Finally, he calls out, “Dinner!”

I haven’t heard any activity in the kitchen, so I’m not surprised to find a KFC bucket on the table. He’s already started on a drumstick.

I can guess how this usually works. He takes his dinner into the den, in front of the TV. She takes hers back to her room. And that marks the rest of the night for them.

But tonight is different. Tonight she says, “I want to kill myself.”

At first I don’t think he’s heard me.

“I know you don’t want to hear this,” I say. “But it’s the truth.”

He drops his hand to his side, still holding the drumstick.

“What are you saying?” he asks.

“I want to die,” I tell him.

“C’mon now,” he says. “Really?”

If I were Jiwon, I’d probably leave the room in disgust. I’d give up.

“You need to get me help,” I say. “This is something I’ve been thinking about for a long time.” I put the journal on the table, shove it over to him. This might ultimately be my biggest betrayal of Jiwon. I feel awful, but then I conjure Hanni’s voice in my ear, telling me I am doing the right thing.

Jiwon’s father puts down the drumstick, picks up the journal. Starts reading it. I try to decode his expression. He doesn’t want to be seeing this. Resents that it’s happening. Hates it, even. But not her. He keeps reading because even if he hates the situation, he doesn’t hate her.

“Jiwon …,” he chokes out.

I wish she could see how it hits him. The look on his face, his life caving in. Because then maybe she’d realize, if only for a split second, that even though the world doesn’t matter to her, she matters to the world.

“This isn’t just some … thing?” he asks.

I shake my head. It’s a stupid question, but I’m not going to call him on it.

“So what do we do?”

There. I have him.

“We need to get help,” I tell him. “Tomorrow morning we need to find a counselor who’s open on Saturday, and we need to see what we have to do. I probably need medication. I definitely need to talk to a doctor. I have been living this for so long.”

“But why didn’t you tell me?”

Why didn’t you see? I want to ask back. But now’s not the time for that. He’ll get there on his own.

“That doesn’t matter. We need to focus on now. I am asking for help. You need to get me help.”

“Are you sure it can wait until morning?”

“I’m not going to do anything tonight. But tomorrow you have to watch me. You have to force me if I change my mind. I might change my mind. I might pretend that this whole conversation didn’t happen. Keep that notebook. It’s the truth. If I fight you, fight me back. Call an ambulance.”

“An ambulance?”

“That’s how serious this is, Dad.”

It’s the last word that really brings it home to him. I don’t think Jiwon uses it that often.

He’s crying now. We just stay there, looking at each other.

Finally, he says, “Have some dinner.”

I take some chicken from the bucket, then bring it back to my room. I’ve said everything I’ve needed to say.

Jiwon will have to tell him the rest.

I hear him pacing throughout the house. I hear him on the phone to someone, and I hope it’s someone who can help him the way Hanni helped me. I hear him stop outside the door, afraid to open it but still listening in. I make small stirring noises, so he knows I’m awake, alive.

I fall asleep to the sound of his concern.