Speaking of therapy, I say, as though we're old friends, and you're not a stranger trapped in this metaphorical elevator with me and you can hear the suspension wires starting to fray.
I've been doing a lot of work recently that's focused on imposter syndrome and the feeling that no matter how well or how much I do, I'm not good enough. That I'm somehow tricking everyone into thinking my work is actually good.
Some days it's a minor niggle in my head that I can gentle and soothe with logic and affirmations. Or smother, depending on the mood. Other times it's loud and all-consuming and the mental anguish it causes me is so real I can feel it twitching in my muscles. This desperate fight-or-flight instinct with nowhere to go and nothing to fight but myself.
Anyway, because I'm several types of Mentally Unwell™, I was switching between workshop sheets ahead of next week. Filling in different forms. (Trying to get a good grade in therapy) And I got my "recognize your harmful ADHD coping mechanisms" worksheet mixed in with the "you're not actually lying to people, you just feel like you are because your brain is full of weasels" worksheet, and seeing them side by side made something go topsy turvy in my head, and I just had to sit and breathe for a couple of minutes until the urge to scream passed. Because it clicked, it all suddenly clicked.
The reason the imposter syndrome workshops and therapy sessions aren't sticking was because I do routinely trick people into thinking I'm someone I'm not.
Because I'm masking my ADHD for their convenience.
I've always known there was something wrong with me. My neurotypical peers made it abundantly clear I didn't fit in or was failing in some way I couldn't see nor remedy, no matter how hard I tried.
So I compressed myself into a workaholic box of hyper-competence in the hopes they'd stop noticing the flaws and exploit like me instead. And then subsequently lived with the daily fear that if they looked too close, they'd realize I'm a monumental fuck up with enough personal baggage to block the Suez Canal.
If you ever need someone to burn themselves to ashes for your comfort and convenience, I'm your gal.
Or I used to. Until I had a bit of a breakdown, and the rubber band holding my brain together snapped and pinged off into the stratosphere, never to be seen again.
Unfortunately, the trauma of living like that didn't also fuck off and instead left a gaping maw where my personality ought to be, so now I get to deal with that aftermath.
And it's that aftermath that's affecting the imposter syndrome shit. Because yes, I am hyper-competent and good at what I do-- but it doesn't feel real because that is how I mask.
And the truly frustrating thing is I am good at what I do. I am not pretending. I worked hard to be good at this. It just feels like I'm dicking around because 90% of my personality turns out to be trauma masquerading as humor in a trenchcoat, and having people genuinely like something weird I'm doing is so foreign my brain has decided it's just another form of masking.
I'm pretending to be a good author so people will think I'm a good author, and my brain thinks we are in Danger of being found out. We are in Danger, and writing is Dangerous because then people will know I'm Weird and not whatever palatable version I've presented myself as for their NT sensibilities.
Like the neurotic vampire with a raging praise kink wasn't an obvious giveaway.
Anyway. I got nothing else. Thanks for listening.
I'm going to go be very normal in another room and not stare into the abyss of my own soul for a bit.
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Vox: Save your little project or fight your greatest enemy. You can’t do both!
Alastor: I’m sorry… what did you just say?
Vox: You can’t do both?
Alastor: No! I mean the other thing.
Vox: Save the hotel or fight your greatest enemy?
Alastor: HA! You think you’re my greatest enemy?
Vox: Yes! You’re obsessed with me!
Alastor: HA! No I’m not.
Vox: Yes you are!
Alastor: No I’m not.
Vox: YES YOU ARE! Who else drives you to one up them the way I do?
Alastor: Lucifer.
Vox: No he doesn’t!
Alastor: Susan.
Vox: WHO?!
Alastor: Look my chum, I’d say I don’t currently have AN enemy. I am harassing a few different people.
Vox: What?!
Alastor: I like to fight around!
Vox: Okay okay, look. Im fine with you fighting other people if you wanna do that. But what we have is special. So when people ask you who’s your number one rival you say?!
Alastor: Susan.
Vox: NO! Are you seriously saying there is nothing- NOTHING special about our relationship?
Alastor, our aroace king: Woah! My dear, I don’t do “ships!”
Vox: What?
Alastor: As in “relationships”, there is no us.
Vox, immediately after Alastor leaves: *sobs and cuts his photo out of a group photo*
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Severely neglected component of modernish rockstar Eddie fics is Robin deciding to become an internet hater for Eddie. Like she finds out Eddie is semi/famous and is like "oh, you know what'll be hilarious?" And makes a twitter account dedicated to dissing him. You cannot convince me she wouldn't. Eddie knows she runs the account (it's not even negative it's just to rag on him. Tweets like "Eddie Munson seems like the kind of guy who would tell his friend he'll get her dr pepper and then get some bullshit knockoff. What the hell is a peppo" and "Eddie Munson has probably gotten so distracted by his SO that he walked into a wall and then was still so distracted said SO thought he was concussed." Or "Jeff is actually the best member of CC Eddie probably walked on cafeteria tables in HS" And of course "everybody says I hate on Eddie too much but they don't know he woke his SOs bff up just to ask if there was any peppo left. Twice.") But he can't do anything about it. It's a bit of a meme, because the account never says anything actually mean about Eddie, or his music. Just. Bizarre hypotheticals. (They are not hypothetical)
People are like "how do you feel about EddieMunsonh8r at twitter dot com"
And he has to grit his teeth and say people can have their own opinions about him, ignoring the fact that Robin was literally sitting beside him poking him when she tweeted earlier that day about him wiggling his fingers and saying he'd like to have a little morsel (in reference to cheezies).
When asked why she does it she just says "to keep him humble. And also it's funny to see if people believe he would do this stuff."
Gareth proposes one of them make an account like that about Steve, semi famous stuntman who's doing some more acting now, and the next day Robin tweets "CC seems like the kid of guys who'd make a fake hater account about Steve and use actually silly billy things he does as content" (Jeff tattled)(Eddie groaned)(Steve and Robin cackled)
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Imagine: Omegaverse AU where Ghost had his scent gland cut out by Roba.
Ghost barely survived it, and now he doesn’t have a scent of his own. He’s never tried, but it’s a logical assumption that he won’t be able to sustain a mating bond, either. He can usually pass his lack of scent off as just using the scent suppressants military members almost always use on missions, but it’s harder during downtime when there’s not such a need for them.
Ghost is close to Soap, flirting and bantering with him constantly, *likes* him, but he never outright tells him. He likes Soap’s scent, too, an odd but alluring combination of citrus and a hint of gunpowder—one would think the two scents together would be disgusting, but when it’s Soap, it’s not.
Ghost keeps the mask on to hide, and doesn’t lift it even to eat when others are around. It’s kind of a pain sometimes, really, and he’s considered being done with all the bullshit and just taking it off, but then Soap would know. He wants the bond and affection between them to last. It’s fucked up to lie to him, but Soap won’t want him when he finds out Ghost can’t actually bond with him, and Soap is the closest he’s been to someone in years.
Soap, while slightly skeptical of Ghost’s unwillingness to take off the mask, doesn’t entirely connect the dots and just thinks Ghost’s scent suppressants work amazingly.
Until the day Ghost sustains a head injury on a mission, that is. He’s losing blood fast and Soap can’t see a thing with the mask on, and he just barely convinces Ghost to take it off so he can staunch the blood flow better. Soap gets him patched up enough that he won’t bleed out on the way to exfil, but with the danger now past, he notices the deep, unmistakable scar of a botched scent gland removal on Ghost’s neck.
After Ghost is treated in medical, he makes an effort to avoid Soap, simply not wanting to bother with his pity or disgust.
He knows Soap liked him back at one point, but if they had ever gotten that far, they’d never be able to actually bond. Soap deserves a real mate.
Soap catches on by the end of the first day that Ghost is avoiding him, but Ghost is elusive if he wants to be, and Soap doesn’t catch him in the man’s favorite smoking spot on the roof until a week later.
Ghost hears him coming, but doesn’t pull his mask back down. Soap’s seen the scar anyways, so it doesn’t really matter.
“Long time no see, Lt,” Soap says.
Ghost doesn’t reply and takes a drag from his cigarette. He shouldn’t have let himself get so close to Soap, because he knew it’d go to shit once he found out about the scar. People usually date to bond. Ghost can’t do that.
Soap stands next to Ghost.
“Care to share?” Soap asks. Ghost hums and gives the cigarette to Soap, and they silently pass it back and forth until it’s a stub.
“Gonna tell me why you were avoiding me?” Soap asks, blowing out the last puff of smoke. “Kinda rude to vanish on someone like that.”
“Figured you’d know that one,” Ghost replies.
“If it’s about—“
Ghost cuts him off. “It is.”
“So you’ve been flirting with me and didn’t think to mention it? I’ve been wanting to fuck you for the past six fuckin’ months,” Soap says, sounding irritated. “Kiss would’ve been nice, too.”
“I didn’t because I knew you’d act like this,” Ghost says, pointedly ignoring the fact that Soap just admitted that he likes Ghost—or that he did at one point, anyway.
“So you like me?”
“Yes,” Ghost says, “but I think you can find someone that’ll be able to keep a bond.”
“It doesn’t make a difference,” Soap says resolutely. “I want you anyway.”
Ghost doesn’t scoff, but he sort of wants to. Of course it makes a difference.
“Just drop it, Soap,” Ghost says.
Soap does, for about ten seconds. Then he grabs Ghost by the collar and kisses him hard, smashing their lips together and biting at Ghost’s lips. Ghost kisses back just as hard, savoring how their bodies feel pressed together, hands gripping at each other’s clothes and skin.
This won’t last, but Ghost will take what he can get.
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