#suicide drugs

[neuroticboyfriend]

If you struggle with substance abuse but not addiction, you still deserve support. If you struggle with suicidality/self harm urges but don't act on it, you still deserve support. If you struggle with psychosis and paranoia but have insight, you still deserve support. If you struggle with anything but are "coping with it," you still deserve support.

You dont need to be in imminent crisis to get help - safety planning, harm reduction, resources, and accommodations. You're still struggling. You're still suffering, You're still at risk/in danger. You deserve better - you need better. Your health and wellbeing matters.

[dolliexii]

[11o8x4]

everyday life . when will you break the cycle

[7roaches]

warmup doodles

[eldhuug]

[Volition] I wish this madness would end

[Logic] Where did this pill trip begin?

[Electrochemistry] I take my ups, ups, ups, and downs!

Redraw of a year old concept :-)))

[yousaveeveryonebutwhosavesyou]

Nothing works anymore, drugs don’t work (escaping reality) medication doesn’t work (happy pills/sedation pills/sleep pills, therapy/venting/ranting/talking about it doesn’t help, doing happy stuff doesn’t work, no matter what I do nothing changes or feels any different.

[neshatriumphs]

Aight. Short lil' sweet, sad, whatever update and shit. Trigger warnings for mental illness fuckery and pills, etc.

The other day, for the first time since 2008 or so, your favorite bitch tried to self terminate. I don't wanna get too graphic but many pills and several pillows were used until I was placed in restraints by somebody hopped up on drugs.

I cried a lot, got sick, flooded with exhaustion and anxiety, went to work, and came home to the openings of a manic phase.

I am in said manic phase this moment. I have been doing housework for over 12 hours and rest nor sleep are on the horizon. I have had some tough conversations, but cannot contact some people, because they will try to send me to a facility.

Also. My rent was almost failed because of my roommate. I am not interested in ending my life, though I am still interested in my life ending.

I simply needed to get it off of my chest. I've been suffering in silence for months, but the past few days were the hardest it's been in years.

If you're still reading, I am both sorry and appreciative.

[harvey-guillen]

God forbid, I exude confidence and enjoy sex. Do you think I relish the fact that I have to act like Mary Sunshine 24/7 so I can be considered a lady? I'm the Marcia fucking Brady of the Upper East Side, and sometimes I want to kill myself.

Sarah Michelle Gellar as Kathryn Merteuil in "Cruel intentions" (1999) - video src

[stevieschrodinger]

Eddie finds King fucking Steve Harrington crying in a bathroom. It's the last fucking thing he ever expects to see and he really, really wants to laugh about it. Really, he does.

But Steve's a perfect Omega in his perfect cheer leader get up and even with his face blotchy and red he looks fucking beautiful. And Eddie might think King Steve is a bitchy piece of work, and he might think that Steve almost definitely deserves whatever is happening to him...but Eddie's just a weak ass Alpha, and the whole bathroom reeks of distraught Omega, and Eddie finds himself saying, 'hey, man, are you like, okay-'

'Just fuck off!' Steve snarls back at him.

And, yeah.

Okay.

Eddie gets it.

Just as the door is swinging shut on him he hears Harrington shouting suddenly, 'wait! Munson! Hold on-'

So Eddie goes back in, 'yeah?'

And Steve has his wallet in his hand and is pulling out a wad of cash and is fixing to buy every pill Eddie has. Which, wierd enough to maybe clang a tiny alarm bell in Eddie's head but also, like, fuck it. This isn't his problem and Harrington's cash is as good as anyone's, 'you planning a party?'

'Sure,' Steve replies, pocketing the baggies somewhere in his cute as fuck cheer skirt, 'it'll be a rager.'

'Whatever man,' Eddie says as he leaves.

'Oh yeah,' Tommy fucking Hagan. Eddie hates him, but it's hard not to overhear, 'he cried he was so fucking desperate for it.' And all the jocks laugh.

Turns out there is a party tonight; Steves not here yet though, not as far as Eddie can see, at least. Not that he'd thought about it. Not that he was worried about the Omega, or anything. Just stupid instinct.

'It'll be the end of the cheerleading, that's for god damn sure, no Omega of mine will be walking around dressed like a slut.' And Eddie paused, deliberately stops to listen.

'Where is Harrington then, since he's so yours then?'. Some stupid moron pipes up.

'Piss off,' Hagan snaps back, 'doesn't matter where he is; that's my pup in him. He's not gonna have a choice, I'll have him bit by this time next week.'

It takes about four seconds for Eddie to put it together, and then he's running, pushing and shoving people out of the way to get out. He knows Exactly where Steve lives. He's been there to sell at a couple of parties and he probably breaks fifty speeding laws on the way over. The house is dark and no one answers and panic is truly clawing up Eddie's throat now.

He's imagining Steve dead on the floor somewhere, mouth frothing from the overdose.

He doesn't think twice about throwing himself over the back fence, Harrington had big fancy sliding doors out onto the back yard and if those are locked Eddie will just smash them-

Steve's sitting there. Just sitting there. He's got a beer and his feet are in the pool and Eddie can hear gentle splashing where he moves his feet around.

As Eddie gets closer he sees a little pile of baggies and...they all still have pills in them. Eddie's never been more relieved in his entire life.

Steve startles when he realises Eddie's there, must have been so in his own head he didn't even notice Eddie scramble over the fence.

'Hey, Steve, sorry, I just- I was- I got worried.'

Eddie crouches next to Steve, sweet Omega who smells so desolate; he hasn't even opened the beer.

'I, ah, heard Hagan, you know, he, uhm, anyway, got a little- thought I'd check on you, you know.'

Steve's voice is cool and emotionless when he answers, 'he telling everyone about my heat?'

Eddie nods, Steve snorts derisively, 'didn't even want him, just got caught out and he swore he'd use a rubber, lying fucking prick.'

'You don't have to do this, though -' Eddie starts to slide the little stack of pills away, but Steve gets him by the wrist.

'No take backs no refunds, right? That's what you tell people?'

'Well, yeah, but, I mean, I'll make an...an exception.'

'No thanks. Not like I got a lot of choices right now.'

'Steve...there...there's got to be something-'

Steve kicks a little, splashing the water. It's dark now, the stars are out, and he cranes his head back to look at them. 'I'm pupped. Without an Alpha I'll get separation sickness and all that shit. He's going to want to bite me, so my choice is let him, die to the sickness, or just do it now. And like fuck am I letting Hagan bite me, that's a fate worse than death.'

Eddie privately agrees, 'but what about, like, a different Alpha?'

Steve snorts a laugh, 'someone I know? Going against Hagan?'

And Steve is right, there's no one around who would do that; pretty much the whole school would turn on them at Tommy's whim. They'd be a social pariah; Tommy would do his best to make their life not worth living.

Fortunately Eddie knows an Alpha who is already in that position. 'What about me?'

[depresso-espresso-5150]

Sometimes it scares me how much I think about going out for a walk, and never coming home. How willing I am to leave everything I have, and everyone I know.

s.m

[torchflies]

Okay guys, I'm still drowning at work but here’s something good that's been keeping my head above water 🤣: retired rockstar Tom “Iceman” Kazansky. 

Ice is born to a pair of early hippies in VW Kombi bus painted with all the colors of the rainbow. He gets his first modeling gig after he's scouted at a Janis Joplin show on his Daddy’s shoulders, before or after Big Brother and the Holding Company. 

Anyway, fact is that baby Ice ends up with his face plastered all over everything from Camels ads to diapers. He eventually ends up doing commercials and then bit parts on TV shows and movies. He does Disney for a good long while, with Bobby Driscoll levels of success. But by the time the mid-70s roll around — teenage Ice is the frontman of a heavier crossed with glam rock sorta band: think Def Leppard, Kiss or even Mötley Crüe (way before their time on the Sunset Strip). 

Ice can sing just about anything the band needs him to — think Adam Lambert's levels of range, just straight-up incredible. He's tatted up from dick to tits and has tried just about every drug known to man by the time he's nineteen, starved himself for years, and spends every hour of his life pandering to people who don't give a shit about him.

At twenty-two he realizes that he doesn't even like himself anymore. He doesn't know who he is without being Kairo Jett (his stage name). 

Then, his friends start dying. 

It’s 1981, and sure they were occasionally dying before — booze, drugs or taking their own lives — but now they're all dying of something that doesn't have a name and he's terrified. 

So, he quits and runs away to a life of structure that he's never had. He runs to the USNA, dyes his hair bleach blond, stops wearing heavy makeup, starts eating again and just becomes Thomas Kazansky — then the Iceman, a new kind of stage name.

The Iceman, who has shared the stage with all the greats of rock music, watches Maverick serenade their instructor in the O Club with one of his old songs and has never been more enamored with anyone in his whole life. 

He falls ass over tea kettle the minute Maverick asks him if he's ever heard of the band Tommy Eats the Drum Kit.

Ice doesn't stop laughing for hours. 

[hufflepuffwritingstuff2]

Fight

This is another dark one guys, it's dealing with suicide again, no one dies but if this topic triggers you, then you shouldn't read this one.

“Come on!” Hero shouted, “is that all you’ve got!? Hit me!”

Villain tilted their head, their dark energy-filled fist freezing mid-strike.

“Why are you taunting me?” they asked slowly.

“Why do you care!?” Hero demanded, “do it, you know you want to- I’ve been a pain in your side since they day we met! Or are you going soft?”

Villain’s eyes narrowed. They shot an energy beam right at them. Hero didn’t move. The beam hit them squarely in the chest, knocking them to the ground.

They didn’t even try to dodge, Villain thought.

“What was that?” Hero bit out, staggering to their feet, “I thought you were a villain, not a sissy!”

Hero and Villain stood there for far too long before Hero growled, throwing an ice beam at them. Villain easily side-stepped it.

They’re barely fighting back, Villain thought.

“Hero, stop.” Villain said.

“What, you don’t wanna fight me now?” Hero asked, “am I making it too easy for you? You don’t wanna kill me unless it’s when I’m at my prime, is that it? You’re sick. If you won’t fight me, I’ll find someone who will!”

Hero turned to leave, but Villain struck, pinning them to the ground with a blanket of dark energy.

“No.” they said, striding up to them.

Tears brimmed in Hero’s eyes.

“Do it,” they said quietly, “please.”

“You’re not well,” Villain said, lifting Hero into their arms, “I’m not going to kill you. I’ve never wanted to kill you, and I’m not going to let you kill yourself either.”

Hero struggled in the cocoon of dark energy, writhing in Villain’s hold. The tears were falling freely now.

“Villain, please,” they begged, “please let me go, please don’t make me stay here any longer, I can’t do it-”

“You are stronger than this,” Villain snapped, “and you will get through this. You don’t get to quit.”

Hero opened their mouth to beg some more when they felt a pinch in their neck. A syringe coated in Villain’s power whizzed over their head and back into Villain’s pocket.

“No!” Hero shouted.

Villain began to walk back to their base, holding Hero tight. Hero continued to thrash around in their grip, until eventually their eyes fluttered shut, and their limbs fell still. Villain watched the steady rise and fall of their chest as though they might stop at any moment.

…

Hero stirred on a soft surface. Their eyes fluttered open, though their vision was too blurry to make out any surroundings. They had been wrapped in a plush blanket. Their vision started to clear, and they made out Villain’s figure, their arms folded across their chest, a concerned frown on their face.

Hero bolted upright in bed. They scrambled to untangle themselves from the bedding and stood up. The action sent a wave of dizziness through them but they somehow managed to steady themselves. They started to march right up to Villain when-

“Gah!”

Hero banged their head against a thick layer of glass. They put their palm up to it as if that would make it disappear, eyes going wide.

“What is this!?” Hero demanded.

“An intervention,” Villain replied coolly, “I went through a lot of trouble to make this cell a comfortable living space and not, well, a cell.”

Hero’s eyes darted around the cell wildly. The thick glass wall in front of them had a keypad only accessible from Villain’s side, and the other, stark white walls had been hastily decorated with things like a television, a shelf full of books, and a small intercom panel. There were cameras at all angles, and there was a doorway that led to a tiny bathroom.

“This is ridiculous,” Hero spat, “you thinking keeping me prisoner is going to give me a will to live? You’re crazy! If anything, this is just going to make it worse!”

Villain didn’t respond. They just stared at Hero, whose hands had clenched into fists at their sides.

“Let me out,” they said.

“I’ve contacted some of my colleagues,” Villain said, “one of them retired from villainy and is now pursuing what I’m told is a very fulfilling career in psychotherapy. You’ll be talking to them tomorrow.”

Hero stared slack-jawed at Villain.

“Now you’re telling all your friends about my problems!? I swear Villain, as soon as I get out of this I’ll-”

“You’re not getting out of this.” Villain said flatly.

Hero cursed loudly, tears brimming in their eyes.

“I don’t want to be here, don’t you get that!? I’m sick of all of this, I don’t want-”

“I don’t care what you want,” Villain said sharply, “I’m not going to lose you. I don’t care if you never speak to me again; as long as you’re still alive, I’ll be satisfied.”

Villain turned to leave, heading to the stairs. Hero slammed their fist into the glass.

“Villain! Get back here!”

Villain ignored them, going up the stairs and out of sight.

“This isn’t your call to make! Villain! Let me go!”

Hero screamed in frustration. They punched the wall with an icy fist that did nothing but make their knuckles throb. They looked around the cell for anything they could use to escape. There was nothing. In a final act of desperation, they formed an ice shard, intending to jam it into their chest, but just as the tip made contact with their skin, it melted.

Hero looked at their wrist, seeing a power-suppressing bracelet there. They sobbed in defeat, crumpling to the floor. They hugged themselves, letting out every guttural cry they had been holding in for the last month.

Upstairs, Villain watched the scene unfold through the security feed. As Hero wailed, Villain’s heart shattered. Looks like they were going soft after all.

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[rinhaler]

In The World My Demons Cultivate

“Why do you miss me?” he breathes again, your voice hitches at the thought of explaining yourself so intimately. So desperately. You won’t be able to stop him from judging you or mocking you for being so weak, and still, you do as he asks.

✧˖*°࿐: 18+ only, no minors.    ✧. ┊ ghost!toji fushiguro x f!reader

Genre: angst Notes: cried so much writing this oof Warnings: 18+, fem!reader, no smut, dead character (obviously), mental heatlh struggles, suicide ideation, grief/loss, drug abuse, pet names. Words: 3k

Does it ever stop?

“No, not really,” he answers.

You look up, seeing a familiar face, a familiar scar. One that you haven’t seen for a long, long time. It makes you laugh. You’re giggling like a little girl as you look at him. And he’s looking at you, too. A missing memory that you’ve blotted out every single day for as long as you can remember.

How old were you?

How old are you?

It doesn’t matter, you suppose. In the grand scheme of things nothing really matters to you or anyone else. You don’t matter and no one else does, either. You’re just another set of lungs tarring them with filth at the end of the day.

You quit, you did.

You really tried to quit.

But it’s the only thing that makes you stop thinking about your miserable fucking life for a few hours until you pass out and have to live it all over again. Everyday is the same. How do people live like this every single day until they die?

How do people pretend they aren’t suffering when they are?

They are.

You are.

“Can you read my mind, Toji?” you laugh.

He nods. And he notes how your eyes instantly flutter closed when he places a hand on your bare shoulder. It’s been too long since you’ve been touched.

Held.

Loved.

He knows you better than you know yourself. He’s always been like that. You’ve never been able to keep a secret because he’ll get it out of you one way or another. You’ll crack under the pressure of a stare so intense it could turn mere rock to diamonds, the power of glorious green eyes over your fragile mind.

That or you’ll tell him of your own volition.

Does he really possess the power to read your mind? Is that why you love him, so unequivocally? Through all of your faults, he’s here. Through all of his, you love him, still.

You smile.

“I wish I was dead.” you grin, but his face is stoic.

“You said that out loud.” he hisses. You mewl, and it’s gentle, as he runs his fingers through messy, unwashed hair. You’re like a cat, eyes closed and purring for him as you rest your head on his thigh. “Don’t joke about dyin’, sweetheart.”

You didn’t think he’d come, no matter how hard you wished for it. You hadn’t thought he’d show up just for you. And yet, here he is, with his back pressed against your headboard and a deep rumble in his lungs with every heavy intake of exhausted breath.

Like it’s hard.

Hard to breathe or hard to be with you, you don’t know. You don’t want to know, either. He’s here, that’s all that matters now. Things feel good again, normal.

“When did you get here?” you wonder, your voice is barely above a whisper as you speak. Eyes still closed so delicately; he can see the way your eyes are trying to explore your bedroom despite them being shut. He likes that about you, that your mind can never switch off.

But he hates it, too.

He’s not alone in that.

“I’ve been here the whole time, baby.”

Did you forget? Have you misremembered because you’re so fucking stoned? It’s possible, but unlikely. And still, you don’t question it. The warmth of his hand on the crown of your head, the pudgy but sturdy flesh of his thighs beneath your cheek are enough.

You don’t need answers, not now.

The blue light from your laptop flickers and blinds you as the same trailer that Netflix has been repeating for hours now continues to loop and loop. It should be driving you mad, but it isn’t. It’s inaudible to you, especially now.

A heartbeat fills your ears and ricochets between the four walls of your bedroom. The vociferous beating might deafen you if you don’t clear your mind of it, if you don’t speak you might succumb to the burden of it.

“I’ve missed you.” you whimper.

His hand freezes, tongue drying in his mouth before turning into sand he’ll surely choke on. He swallows, and it’s loud. A cartoonish gulp as he hears the sorrow in your words, a meek cry for help that you wouldn’t dare admit to. You couldn’t do that to him, not really, not right now.

“I know.” he sighs.

“I’m so…” you start, your voice fading away as you contemplate keeping your words to yourself. He isn’t the type to care, is he? He hasn’t missed you, anyway. Or at least he didn’t say it, which, to you, surmounts to the same conclusion.

You aren’t missed, not by him.

Neither of you speak, but his fingers resume soothing your scalp. He won’t say he’s missed you. He won’t tell you anything you want to hear; he isn’t like that.

Could it be that he can’t, rather than won’t? It’s trite, burrowing your head between each word and letter he’s spoken and hasn’t spoken. Searching for some double meaning in the words he chooses instead of just some meaning.

Any meaning.

What does it mean to find purpose or reason at a time like this?

It won’t help and it won’t change things. You’ve long accepted that things don’t change for the better. They change, things certainly change. But not for the better. Or maybe they do, for other people.

Not you.

Never you.

“You’re so loud.” he mutters, prompting you to roll over to face him. He looks down at you, it isn’t patronising. It’s generic, which might be worse. There’s no feeling with him, in him, from him. At least if he was patronising you he’d feel something for you.

He’s felt nothing for so long.

You wonder if he ever felt something for you.

“I didn’t say anything.” you tell him.

He does nothing except poke his index finger into your exposed temple, and for some reason, it urges you to smile for him. It’s been so long since you smiled because you wanted to, not because you were forced out of sheer obligation.

That’s why you don’t mind, or rather, prefer being home with nothing but Netflix trailers playing on continuous loop for hours and hours on end while you get so high you scare yourself stupid until you pass out.

It’s a disgusting habit that you can’t rid yourself of.

It’s your only comfort. Your only solace from how downright devastating and pathetic your wretched life truly is.

Nobody expects anything of you when you’re home alone.

“You think too loud,” he starts, the force of his pointed finger becomes deeper but soon leaves completely. Your skin feels colder, right after. Like losing an extra layer of clothing despite being in a warm enough room, you miss the feeling regardless. “You gotta stop.”

You shake your head, closing your eyes again.

“I can’t help it, there’s too much to think about.” you breathe.

The thought of him disappearing into the night never to be seen again, it horrifies you, and it’s at the forefront of your mind. He’s been gone for so long now, you’re sure. He lied, though you aren’t surprised in the least. He’s always been a liar that still possess the ability to have you hanging on his every word.

If you talk, you’re scared he’ll leave. Though he can hear your thoughts, or so he claims.

Again, he’s a liar. If that were true he would have left by now. If he knew how pathetic and desperate your reeling mind sounded he’d have run off and done exactly what you’re worried about him doing.

“You’re so hurt up here, baby,” he tells you, words hushed and secretive as he strokes his thumb across your forehead like you’re precious. Like you’re brittle enough to turn to dust if he applies too much strain. “Aren’t you?”

A sob leaves your throat, and you want the world to swallow you up right then. Tears begin to pour from watery eyes and soak into the material of his trousers before you even think about answering. You do, though. Because you want to, not because he’s making you. You nod, an uncomfortable beat of sniffling silence goes by before you utter a word.

“I wasn’t j-joking.” you start, “I don’t want to be here.” your voice cracks as you speak, the notion of your words and the burden on them weigh down on you enough to make you dizzy and sickly.

He shushes you, not because he wants you to stop talking, but he wants you to stop working yourself up into a nauseated stupor.

“Why?”

“Because I miss you, Toji.” you sit upright, your temperature feels like it drops below freezing when you part from him fully. He pulls you backwards, into his arms before you’re both lying side by side. His chin rests atop your head while you play with your hair, too choked up to say another word.

He doesn’t say it back, again.

But maybe him holding you like this is his way of saying it.

“I don’t know what you mean.” he tells you. His voice is quiet as he speaks into your hair, but you hear him clear enough. You want to argue, but you can’t. The room spins and it feels like you’re floating. Everything mirrors over what feels like hours. Furniture isn’t where you remember it being and you don’t feel like you’re in the right body anymore.

Is he here with you?

You feel a squeeze.

You don’t know what’s happening, anymore.

Those hours that passed were barely a minute. His face is nuzzled into the juncture between your neck and shoulder, and his breath is mystifying against your skin. Every huff is like ice and you feel the way your skin clusters and rises in uneven bumps as it tries to preserve any remaining warmth lingering through your body.

“You can tell me, without telling me.” he explains, though you don’t really follow. His arms tighten around you again before releasing you slightly, slowly, enough for you to wriggle around in his hold if you choose to. You don’t. You’re completely still, digesting his words. “I’ll hear you, no matter what.”

“I don’t know what to say, Toji… I, I really don’t.”

“Why do you miss me?” he breathes again, your voice hitches at the thought of explaining yourself so intimately. So desperately. You won’t be able to stop him from judging you or mocking you for being so weak, and still, you do as he asks.

Not because he told you to, no. You’d do it anyway. You do it every single day when given the opportunity to dwell. All he can do is hold you as buckle under the lofty ideals and pressurizing weight of your spoiled existence.

I miss how I felt with you. I miss how life felt worth living each day because there was so much to do with you. Nothing felt impossible, everything is impossible, now. Even small things that are simple for others, aren’t for me. Things felt new and exciting, I’m too tired of everything now. Food seemed more appetizing with you, everything tastes worse now.

Things are meant to get better, easier. People say that but I feel the same as I always have. It fluctuates, there are ebbs and flows but ultimately I’m always going to be sad. My skin feels worse and my body doesn’t belong to me anymore. I don’t want to be in it, I don’t want to be attached to the skin and bones that are meant to be mine. They aren’t. They were never meant to be mine. I’m wasting the oxygen in my lungs, I’m rotting.

Everyday is the same.

I only rot and wither.

I’m lonely and unsatisfied. Nothing makes me happy because I don’t have you. No lover will compare. No meal will stave away the starving pangs I feel in my stomach. No drink will be cold enough to quench my thirst in the beastly summers and none will be hot enough to warm my bones in the bitter winter.

I’m wholly unsatisfied.

People do great things. Not me. I don’t doubt people would miss me if I died, but I don’t really care. It’s selfish, but I’m tired. I’m exhausted. I miss you, I miss you more than I’d ever be missed. I mourn your life, a life that isn’t mine, more than I will ever mourn my own. Every breath I take feels like a theft. I’m stealing the air and lung capacity of someone greater than myself, someone worthy.

I’m worthless.

I speak sentences no one cares about, not like you do. No one will ever care about me like you do, and you don’t even miss me. I wouldn’t, either, I suppose. Any words I say, poetry I write, canvas I paint, is worthless. I am a burden in people’s eyes, my creations aren’t worth viewing, my point of view isn’t worth seeing, I’m worthless.

I am worthless, Toji.

Do you think I am? Maybe if things were different, maybe if I didn’t miss you so much, I wouldn’t feel like this. I wouldn’t feel burdened by a life lost and squandered that I will never be able to know the way I so desperately crave. It’s my fault, I know. I love you and I want you back but I’ve lost you forever.

What I have now, my miserable little life, is what I will have forever. A true burden, a hinderance, a stain. I can’t do it anymore, I can’t. How am I expected to live a life I’m so depressed by for the sake of others. So I don’t make my family or friends sad. It’s selfish, I’m selfish, I’m finding it hard to care as each day passes.

I’d rather be with you, now.

Things don’t get better, I won’t get better.

I know my thoughts are loud, my thoughts are exhausting and it’s hard to hear or think clearly like this. But if I’m with you, it’ll stop.

I don’t want to miss you anymore.

I don’t want to be lonely anymore.

No one loves me the way I need to be loved; but I don’t know how to ask for it.

You sit bolt upright, breathless before running to the bathroom. You’re panting and your mouth feels warm and icky from the taste of swallowed tears. Though your face still shines under the bathroom light from them. You don’t have a glass, you bend over and drink water directly from the tap as you try and regain your composure.

He’s staring at you from his spot on the bed as you gasp and devour each droplet you can. It coats your tongue and bulges through your throat as you take heartier gulps than you had any business taking.

But soon enough, you’re back in his arms as you try and calm yourself down. You’re always tired, but now, after that, you’re exhausted. You wonder if he really did hear you or if he lied to you. It doesn’t matter you suppose. There’s nothing you can do to make him miss you too. There’s nothing you can do to force him back to you.

He’s gone.

For good.

“Why are you still here?” he asks you. Your eyes open, only a little, wondering if you heard him right. “If you were serious, if you weren’t joking, why?”

“… I’m scared,” you admit. “I wasn’t joking… but I am scared. And I know… I know people love me, I know people care about me. It doesn’t feel like enough, it never has and I don’t think it ever will. But… it’s something.”

“Why are you scared?” he continues.

“I— I don’t think things will get better.” you confess. “But what if… they do?”

You don’t see the way he smiles when he hears you speak. When he hears that resilience in your words. You’re hurting, you’re struggling. And still you’re here. You’re trying, your fighting. You’re hoping.

Things might not get better. But what if they do?

One day you might remember why your favourite foods are your favourite foods again. The TV shows and films you love might feel warm and familiar again. There could be someone, anyone, waiting to find you so you can share these things with them, too.

Things could change.

People might listen to your thoughts and care about them. The words you write might matter to someone. The paintings you create might be worlds people fantasize living in as they hang on their walls.

Someone might love you the way you need to be loved, without you knowing how to ask for that brand of love.

Toji misses you, he mourns you, too. But you understand, now. He doesn’t want to hold you back anymore. He doesn’t want you to keep suffering because of him. Because you miss him.

So, you’ll always miss him, there won’t be a day you won’t think about him.

But if there’s a chance, however small, that things might change, he wants you to take it.

“Goodnight, baby.” he hums. “… Princess? I’m proud. I'm proud of you.”

It warms your body to hear him say it. It’s a little embarrassing, but you can’t bring yourself to care. It’s words, maybe it’s lip service, but you made someone proud. And you sleep peacefully with that knowledge.

Daybreaks through the window, bright and invasive enough to break you from your sleep. You fell asleep above the covers, you aren’t being held anymore. There’s no noise in your apartment, there’s no signs of life besides your own beating heart.

Maybe it was like that the whole time.

--

© 2024 rinhaler

[allthecanadianpolitics]

The family of an Inuk man who went missing in Ottawa but was found dead last week in Gatineau, Que. is criticizing the Ottawa Police Service for what they say were failures in searching for him.

Tommy Agnetsiak, 30, originally from Pond Inlet, was reported missing in Ottawa in February, his father Robert Agnetsiak told Nunatsiaq News.

On April 6 at around 11 a.m., police in Gatineau, Que., across the Ottawa River from the nation’s capital, received a call from someone who reported seeing a body on the Quebec side of the river, the department’s spokesperson Officer Patrick Kenney said in an email. [...]

“He was missing for a long time and nobody ever saw him ever since. Nobody took it seriously,” Robert Agnetsiak said.

Tragedy has hit the family hard in the last few years. Earlier this year, his daughter overdosed while lying on a couch in an Ottawa apartment and another daughter took her own life a couple of years ago. Tommy was Robert Agnetsiak’s last living child.

Robert said he wants what happened to Tommy to be a warning. Indigenous people are being killed, overdosing, and there needs to be a change. [...]

Continue Reading.

Tagging: @newsfromstolenland, @vague-humanoid

Note from the poster @el-shab-hussein: Please avoid scrolling down to the comments. A lot of victim blaming going on there.

[virsancte]

anatomy of grief: wish

gonna explain a couple things under the cut:

i'm playing in portsim, so the portsim characters/townies will show up. i ended up writing quite a bit for this while just playing the game in portsim hence i'm here lol the save file is legit the main driving force behind my creativity around this game.

this is reese! he's simultaneously the focus of this and not. i'm not sure if it'll be a proper story or a series of edits; what i have in mind is more like a few short-ish comics with the usage of the game, so the narration could possibly get a little wonky (by a little i mean a lot).

reese was the parentified oldest sibling of their... rather dysfunctional household. he was a wannabe singer, an artist, a cryptonite drug addict, local super-parent and an unfortunate soul just short of accepting the help he needed. i ended up growing *incredibly* attached to him lol. i probably wouldn't be bringing their story to simblr otherwise.

the main narrator is eden, his sister. she was about fifteen when he passed. i want it to essentially follow the process of trying to understand the sudden loss of someone who acted as a solid rock in his sister's life, the many steps towards moving on, and possibly the eventual acceptance of the events that occurred as everything 'clicks into place'.

this is a fairly personal project(?). i'm drawing from personal experience as well as the focus of my academic pursuits. i'll explain more about the characters as i proceed! if you end up reading any of the read mores, thank you + i love you + i'd die for you +

[teaboot]

It's four in the morning and nobody asked but I think that one of the things I hate most about getting older is looking back and knowing which of the chubby-cheeked, gap-toothed little kids who collected Pokémon cards and played grounders and scraped their knees on the playground were destined for gaunt faces and blackened fingers, wearing mismatched shoes and screaming slurs at passersby from the sidewalk.

I know which of those children don't make it, now, and whose futures don't reach as far as they think, but I don't know which ones will get better, and I worry for the rest

What could have been done to help, if we'd known back then?

About the kid who gets hit by a car at 16?

About the one who's on meth at 25?

The one who killed herself a few months before graduation?

Horse girls and class clowns and little boys who dressed up as power rangers for Halloween.

Man, what the hell happened?