#then stop misusing words like depression and anxiety. say what you really mean

[wortcunningwitch]

PSA: my blog is NOT for people who believe crystals can cure disease, mental illness, chronic conditions, disabilities, etc. or people who believe crystals can substitute modern medicine and be effective in the slightest. yes, this includes people who say crystals can “help with depression/anxiety/etc”.

[ivory-sunflower]

✨Hyperfixations✨

Hello!

If you’ve seen previous posts from this blog, you might already know that I’m autistic; It’s not something I hide because I don’t see the point in doing so. I’m putting this disclaimer here so people don’t come for me and try and call me out for whatever reason.

I’ve had many fixations through the course of my life, as I’ve gotten older the way they develop and the impact they have had definitely changed. In my early teens I was dealing with a myriad of other mental health issues alongside these fixations. However, at the time we didn’t realise that that’s what they were because I was only diagnosed when I was 14. It’s important to note that I was dealing with other issues, as those issues consumed a huge amount of energy and so I never realised how truly draining hyperfixations are. It’s only now that I’m fairly level with my other issues that I have seen the full effect of a hyperfixation. I always put my lack of concentration and the exhaustion down to the anxiety and depression, but it’s become clear that they weren’t the only factors.

I joked in a couple of posts that Temples were becoming a new fixation for me, but oh boy... It has hit hard. It has completely knocked me off kilter. For the last 3 or 4 weeks (maybe longer) it has been almost unbearable, all I can think about is the band and it’s incredibly difficult to concentrate on anything else. Even when I manage to focus on something else, if someone says something that fires something in my mind then I’m just out for the next half an hour. I’ll be trying to do physics revision, I’ll be looking at Milikan’s oil drop experiment, I’ll see the word “Atomised” and then I’m off thinking about ‘Atomise’ and suddenly it’s been 2 hours. 

It’s just so frustrating because I’ve never experienced a fixation in this way before, it’s so intense and I just want it to stop. I know that I shouldn’t get so annoyed with myself over it, but it gets in the way so much for me. When my mental health deteriorates and I can’t work or concentrate I find it easier to accept because I know that when my brain is in puddle mode that doing anything complicated just isn’t viable. The people around me also recognize this. With this fixation, I’m finding it hard to justify why I can’t do anything. I just can’t get myself to view it as “valid” because my brain certainly isn’t in puddle mode, it’s very active in fact, so I understand why I can’t shift that energy to be productive. It’s much harder to explain too and the people around me are less understanding. I’ll be honest, I don’t blame them for not understanding - heck, I barely understand it myself at times - how can I expect them to understand something they’ve never experienced and never will? It’s been a nightmare trying to keep up with college work, and I can feel myself beginning to burn out because of it, I feel like I can’t let myself fall behind because the reason doesn’t feel “valid” to me. I can’t exactly go to my tech teacher and say “Hi miss, sorry I didn’t do any of my assignments or coursework this week, I’ve been thinking about a band.” - granted, there’s more to it than that but at a basic, bare-bones level that is what I’d be saying. To someone who doesn’t live in my autistic little mind, that sounds like the most ridiculous excuse imaginable.

It’s hard to explain that it’s not voluntary in a lot of ways, it just happens whether I like it or not. It’s getting to a point where it’s impeding on my ability to function normally. I can’t sleep properly because I can’t get my brain to shutdown and stop thinking about them, or the music, or whatever else. I get distracted from work, from daily activities like cooking and cleaning, even hobbies are getting neglected unless they’re related to the fixation. I’d been learning ‘Clare De Lune’ on piano but that’s been sidelined for ‘Certainty’, any guitar parts I’d been learning and writing have just been ignored because I just can’t concentrate on them, but I can with Temples riffs. The only times I’m not thinking about them is when I’m sleeping and when I’m worrying about other things (intrusive thoughts kinda worries), even then I’ll occasionally start worrying about Temples. Example: “Does Tom remember my brother heckling him last year? He probably does, and he hates me.” - that’s a bit of a side point but one I thought I’d mention anyway. 

To an outsider, I will just look like an obsessed fangirl and if you want to think that of me then go for it, if this post doesn’t change your mind then I’m not going to convince you otherwise. I wouldn’t compare this to a fangirl experience, because usually those experiences are enjoyed by the girl in question. With this, I spend a lot of time wishing I wasn’t like this. I spent months fighting it off when I could feel it starting. I’m not saying it makes me completely miserable because with a hyperfixation does come happiness and excitement, it’s part and parcel of it, but in between those times I hate it. 

I have had very complex feelings around fixations in the past and the same rings true with this one. It seems to be hard to grasp for neurotypical people that we do NOT choose to fixate on the things we fixate on. For me this stirs a lot of anxiety because of the obsessive nature of a hyperfixation. My last few have centered on real people, such as bands or YouTubers, and I always feel awful about it because it feels creepy. I would never actually stalk these people, but the amount of content I consume and the energy that goes into it all just feels like too much even though there’s not much I can do to stop it. I can take away the media but that wouldn’t stop me thinking about it. I’ve experienced a lot of ostracisation from past friends because they found my fixations weird or annoying, and that feeling of rejection got internalized and I can’t stop myself from thinking that I’m weird because of it. I know for the people around me, it probably does get boring that I only talk about one think for hours at a time and it’s only in the last couple of years that I’ve found friends who take the time to let me talk about my thing without getting annoyed or taunting me. Even with a supportive network, I still find it hard to get out of the mindset that fixating on real people feels wrong.

I’ve had this complaint for years, but recently I’ve seen more and more people misuse the term “hyperfixation” and it’s really been bothering me. It seems to be the new  ✨cute, quirky thing✨ to say that “X, Y, Z is my hyperfixation!” when in reality the person saying this probably just really likes X, Y, Z. I get so frustrated because they don’t realise just how tiring they can be, how they don’t always make a person happy, and how they actually make us feel. Not to mention the fact that when too many people say it in the wrong context *Context by Temples starts playing* the word starts to lose it’s meaning. This only makes it harder to explain to people “no, I don’t just really like this thing, it literally consumes my whole life, I’m so tired, please make it stop!”. 

This has been sitting in my drafts for a couple of days and I wasn’t sure if I should post it or not but after talking about some of this stuff with a friend, we decided that maybe I should. I won’t be tagging this under Temples because it doesn’t feel right. 

~ Love Ginger xx

19/01/2021

[dat-town]

CODE Z3RO | EPILOGUE

characters: BTS & Red Velvet genre: thriller, futuristic au warning: a lot of depressive thoughts once again, as in the survivor’s guilt summary: The twelve most ambitious and promising university students are welcomed in Choego, the world’s first entirely artificial intelligence-driven city, to compete for five job contracts that could change their life. But what if something goes wrong? What if they get trapped? What if the city suddenly turns against them? Can they find a way out before the countdown reaches zero? words: 1.2k tagged: @philosopher-of-fandoms​

➼ Chapter Index

Fear is scary.

Fear can spread like an epidemic and can kill just the same.

Choego was a brilliant and terrifying example of how fear could transform the world. What had started as one’s ambition, other’s fear turned into the nightmare of millions.

After Yerim's article finished by Jungkook had gone viral thanks to some hacking on Yoongi's part, it had been all what the world had been talking about. Even the normally technology-obsessed South-Korea had gotten scared of what artificial intelligence was capable of if not handled well. Since this project had been supposed to make the world a better and safer place, its downhill had been a real slap to its supporters. Due to the heavy protests and petitions, Cheongsan Group hadn't been able to continue the project, at least not out in plain sight. Millions of won had gone wasted to build a city that was nothing but a skeleton with its bones made of metal and glass by now. Radical protestors had burned and destroyed everything beyond Choego bridge, so it was only a pale shell of its shiny self from years back.

Steps echoed on the metal as a young boy more worn from years than he should have been crossed the bridge full of litter, posters and already burnt candles among withered flowers. He stared into the distance with a dark, remorseful look on his face and his steps became heavier and slower the closer he got to the city that had been once his dream. With each meter memories that had never left him came back to haunt him more vividly, painful memories making him grimace and grip on the bocquet of white lilies he was carrying tighter. He found the flowers quite fitting as it symbolized youth and innocence just what they had all lost on the island. So he didn't only have nine flowers but twelve and he laid it over the asphalt in front of the police cordone and stop signs.

Both the Cheongsan Group and the Korean government had compensated the families of each participant and the researchers who had lost their lives in that deadly cage. The survivors had been given generous amount of money to ensure a life without financial troubles just to keep their mouths shut about the details. There had been trials they had to go through reliving the horrific events again and again but it hadn’t been enough for the gossip-hungry reporters and film producers wanting to make a blockbuster out of their trauma. Nobody had really cared about them, just their story.

“Jungkook...”

The boy snapped his head, turning at the call of his name even though for a moment he thought he was just hallucinating. But coming face-to-face with the new arrivals, it felt like the band kind of déjavu. He hadn’t seen them since the trials had ended, the last time they had talked had been in the hospital when the stitching had been removed from Yoongi’s arm. Jungkook hadn’t stayed. He couldn’t have.

All those eyes and knowing glances at him, the pitiful looks on anyone who knew what he had been through, or at least they acted as if they understood. They could have never fully understand. The guilt, the panic rising in his blood whenever he became painfully aware of being watched. Technology had its eyes everywhere and he was still scared of it backfiring. The psychologist assigned to them had called it post-traumatic stress syndrome and prescribed some pills but those couldn’t suppress the voices in his head. Just as he would never forget the faces of Yerim’s and Seokjin’s parents when he had visited them and had gotten to his knees to ask for their forgiveness.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Yoongi whispered and patted him on the shoulder with an understanding twitch in the corner of his mouth. They all knew that they would never be able to be entirely okay. Nobody could have been after the things they had seen. But being okay was a subjective thing.

Jungkook might have left the country to live in hiding after providing enough money to his family to get by easily, but Seulgi had barely left her room anymore. In the very beginning she had lived in that eight square feet as if that had been her world. Since her mother couldn’t deal with her daughter’s depression and anxiety well, it was Yoongi who had visited them from time to time, talking to Seulgi in a gentle voice, telling her it was going to be alright and persuaded her to take a shower or to take a walk outside. She had her ups and downs, sometimes almost believing that she could be normal again after a small victory of grocery shopping and getting her favourite sweet as a treat but then she woke up screaming from a nightmare again.

Her eyes were hollow now as well as she was staring at the ashes of the city that had destroyed them. Her and Yoongi had come here every year on the anniversary of the tragedy. In the first few years, there had been others as well, some reporters lurking around and Park Jimin’s father had even sent flowers but five years had gone by and everybody seemed to forget all about it. Everybody but them.

“You came back for good?” the hacker asked the younger boy, almost man now, but Jungkook just shrugged.

“I don’t know,” he murmured, voice hoarse and deep from the misuse. He didn’t have to say it out loud that he hadn’t found his place in the world anymore, no matter where he had gone.

Yoongi acknowledged his answer with a nod, fingers twitching. From outside, he looked the most composed, the only one who could really move on but he had his own troubles. He worked from home, keeping an eye on the cyber world and getting paid by governments for security fixes but sometimes when memories clashed he had those episodes with the urge to yell and break everything in the room. Sometimes he still heard the voice of Choego’s artificial intelligence as it haunted his dreams.

They had been called the survivors of a murderer city and yet, all three of them were stuck in limbo, being half-dead inside, while the world around them argued about the newest trends, the cause behind the current inflation rate and global warming.

So the world was the same and at the same time it was different, because technology advance was not idolized anymore, some even claimed it the doing of evil. Yoongi knew well it wasn’t, no mean in itself was just as it wasn’t the Dark Middle Ages anymore. Technology and artificial intelligence could save lives, could indeed change life for the better, could help the economy, the nature, the humans, but only if it was in the right hands. Technology was power and it was always the matter of who held it and what it was used for.

In the very end, it was always the human factor that was faulty.

After all, we are the variable that can change the world forever.

THE END.

[theonethatwritessometimes]

First Step

    Hi! So this is a story that I wrote for my final essay for school. I would like to share it with you guys even if it’s not that good. Possible trigger warning though so proceed with caution.

word count : 1681

My dark brown hair was soaked even darker. The water droplets fell from my hair only to be soaked up by the fabric of the towel I was wrapped in. Grace, my sister older than me by two years, stared at my with so much sympathy that I almost gagged. My mother and father yelled at me. They were red faced and slightly embarrassed that I would try such a thing. I was labeled ungrateful and thrown into my room for the remainder of the day. During the night I could only think how close I was to my goal. I just stared at the bandage on my wrist. So close. I was young then, I didn’t know what life had planned for me. 

    Even though my parents didn’t understand or care about what was going on with me, they still had me thrown into therapy. They couldn’t have this little secret be known about so the therapist was one known around the rich community. So I found myself outside the therapist's office. His name was displayed on the door, “Dr. John Vizsla”. The second I was about to turn around and leave, he walked out with a smile on his face. “Hello, you must be Victoria.” Dr. Vizsla said with his hand out as a greeting. 

    Dr. Vizsla wasn’t ugly. He had slicked back black hair with some wisps of silver buried deep within. His beard was the same way, slightly more silver than his hair let on. The suit he wore was a dark black. It was almost like looking into a dark abyss. His eyes were the weirdest part of him. It was like they were an ember mixed with amber. They pierced into my eyes when i didn’t reply. “Yes, but please call me Vic.” I said as I finally took his hand. We walked into his office. I was surprised by the high ceilings and the red and white color of the walls. Gave me real Hannibal Lector vibes if I’m being completely honest. 

    “So,” he started but I interrupted, “How much are you getting paid for this?” I felt and still feel that that was an okay question. It wasn’t inappropriate question, I think. He chuckled either way, “I was told you might be like this. Didn’t expect it so early. However, Vic, if you want me to help you, you have to be honest with me. If you are serious about getting help, then I will help.” I looked at him once again, he was writing something on his notepad and to this day I still want to know what. “If you must know, $230 an hour. Your parents offered that much even though I usually go as high as $140.” My nostrils flared slightly. Why would my parents offer so high if they didn’t care? My conclusion is that they cared a little bit but not that much. 

    “How do you feel in social situations?” Dr. Vizsla asked. He grabbed his pen, clicking it while waiting for my answer. The clicking resounded around the room and I took a deep breath. Might as well be honest with someone. “I feel like I don’t belong in normal society. It’s almost like I’m hyper aware of everything around me but still being the most oblivious person alive. Sometimes it feels like I’m being stared at but when I turn around, literally no one is looking in my general direction. It’s like when people are just laughing behind me, I feel like they’re laughing at me. I don’t know how to stop. It’s not just social situations either. I feel like half, if not all, of my friends are only my friends out of pity. I can barely get out of bed in the morning because all I think about is how I have to live everyday, over and over. Same stuff, different day.” I always had a tendency to overshare. Dr. Vizsla was nodding while writing down notes. “Have you ever tried to commit suicide?” he asked when he stopped writing. Something about him made me want to tell the truth. So I did, “Yeah.”

    “May I ask how?” He looked at me, pen ready. I guessed it was going to come up anyhow. I gulped, “I-uh. I tried to make myself bleed out in the bathtub. I didn’t get very far before my sister walked into the bathroom looking for me.” He nodded but didn’t look surprised. “Women do actually prefer drowning over jumping.”

    “Why would you let me know that? What if I try again?” I said, slightly angry with his word choice. “You won’t. Not if it means your sister finds you again. Whether she’s older or not, you don’t want to put your sister through that pain.” Dr. Vizsla told me from the place in his chair, one leg placed over the other so he could write better. I looked up to keep the tears in my eyes, not wanting them to fall, “You’re right.” I looked back down at him. “No one can imagine the pain on her face when she saw me in that bathtub. And what hurt the most is that she thought it was her fault. That she hadn’t been a good enough sister. She just kept..saying sorry.” He let me breathe for a moment. 

    “How did your parents react to your attempt at suicide?” He asked. I scoffed slightly, wiping the tears from my cheeks. “They told me that I was a disgrace to the Constantin name. They were so angry, trying to justify my actions and calling me names. They never actually stopped and asked me why. Why would I want to not exist anymore.” I paused and took a deep breath, “To be fair, I don’t think they want to know. Maybe the thought that the reasoning could have anything to do with them is too much.” Finally, I stopped. Cursing myself for telling a stranger all of my problems. Technically it's his job but it's still a little weird. I get the whole doctor patient confidentiality thing, but does it really stop them if they don’t say names?

    I shifted on the dark brown leather chaise lounge that Dr. Vizsla put in his office for his patients. I had to lift my leg up, as it had gotten slightly fused to the precious leather. I completely wasn't paying attention and it took the sun fluttering in through the window for me to notice. I noticed Dr. Vizsla was staring at me when I followed the sun. Quickly i shook my head trying to focus. 

    “Did you say something?” I tried to say softly as not accidentally offend him. Dr. Vizsla smiled and nodded, “Yes, Miss. Constantin. I want to put you on a low dosage of sertraline. It will help with your depression and anxiety,” he handed me a slip of paper. “ here’s a prescription. Go to any pharmacy and you’ll be set.” He said with a smile. “Thank you.” I said as I took the paper. 

    “No problem. We’ll schedule you for every other Thursday for therapy. Is that okay?” He asked as he was about to write more information. “Yeha, that’s great.” Dr. Vizsla continued to write whatever he was doing before while nodding as he did so. A couple strands of his dark brown hair broke free from the gel. I snickered quietly and looked around the room again. I didn’t notice the window like white marble panes on the walls. It was a nice subtle touch that I just know my parents would die for. 

    “So, Miss. Constantin. For a stress reliever and something that would deter you from misuse of the medication, not that I think you would but it’s happened, I suggest getting out and taking a quiet walk when you feel pressured or overwhelmed. Ok?” I nodded. I always liked going for walks. 

    A couple days after my second appointment, I felt like my resolve was going to split. Everything made me want to crawl into a hole and cry for eternity. 

    “Breath, Vic. What did Dr. Vizsla tell you?” I said out loud. I recalled him saying something about taking a walk. Quickly I rushed around the house gathering things I needed for the walk. Water? Check. Dog leash? Check. Bags? Check. Dog? Not check. “Loki! Come on bud. Wanna go for a walk?” I yelled; my voice echoed through that halls. From a slight distance I heard the pounding of nails trying to run on hardwood. All I could do was brace myself when my all black Great Dane Pitbull mix came running at me at full speed. I got close to the ground and held out my arms, welcoming the impending doom. The moment he ran into me, I was knocked down onto my rear end. Loki was so excited that he could only lick my face and jump in semi circles. 

    “Loki! Bubba! I need you to calm down!” I tried to yell through my laughter. It was moments like this that made me want to stay. Loki was one of the reasons I had hesitated.

    Then it dawned on me. Maybe I should stay. Try to get better. Life is what you make it, right? Then, in that moment with Loki, I decided I’m going to make life what I want. Sure, I still have thoughts that I shouldn’t have but I try my best to combat one negative thought with three happy ones. Even if they are the same ones, I still think them. Because I want to live and make something of myself. I still see Dr. Vizsla, he says I’m doing better but he wants to keep me in therapy just in case. I’m fine with that because I’m still getting the help I deserve. Which is a thing that everyone should do. 

I learned that only I have to muster the strength to get help, no one can do that for you. You’ll be better for it, I promise you. I just took the first step.

[allroundlostcause]

PTSD is NOT a life sentence.

NO.

No, no no no no. This is exactly the sort of statement which both romanticizes mental illness, and prevents people from seeking help, to engage with therapies that are available to them (even if they cannot access the best kinds of therapies) and keeps people trapped.

Listen up: PTSD is one of the most difficult mental illnesses to recover from, but difficult =/= impossible, and if a person with PTSD reads a statement like this and feels that their situation is automatically hopeless, what reason do they have for trying? 

PTSD is NOT a life sentence.

At least, it doesn’t have to be. It can get better, it can be managed, and though I don’t believe in words like ‘cure’, people can recover. And I do mean recover. Some people live without lingering triggers, or without experiencing triggers every time they are exposed (and what a revelation that is! Holy shit, the shock and relief when you realize you’re not in meltdown is hard to describe. And even if you are triggered again next time, you know now that it’s not going to be the same every single time). They can sleep and smile and laugh and study, feel sad about what happened without experiencing symptoms of panic, rage or whatever symptoms they usually feel. It’s possible to escape from the thoughts of suicide that can go alongside PTSD, because of the feeling that it cannot get better. These things are attainable for many people. Many.

TL:DR –

Recovery from PTSD is not easy, but it is possible for many people, with help.

Spreading misinformation that it is an automatic life sentence is unkind and irresponsible.

People who take steps to get help, who find ways to make sustainable lifestyle changes (especially avoiding alcohol), and who have the support of others, are more likely to get better than those who do not. This is not victim-blaming. People can’t do this stuff alone.

It’s not easy. I know that, both as someone in recovery from PTSD and someone who teaches others, and talks to others, about PTSD and many other mental illnesses. But it is fucking worth it. Getting your life back, or having more good days, or less disability, means it is worth it.

Actually want more? Click away.

Important note to start: I am not saying this is easy, or quick, or that some people can’t easily access treatment. And I’m not saying that everyone will get better – sadly, that is not the case. I am saying that it’s not a life sentence, certainly not for everyone. And severity of symptoms doesn’t predict outcome, which is to say, just because it’s really, really severe doesn’t mean you can’t recover.

It’s also important to realize that even if a person doesn’t achieve the recovery they want (and deserve) from PTSD (regardless of what they have and have not tried), that their symptoms can’t be helped, that their life can’t be more satisfactory, that things can’t be easier. 

Also: just because it is trauma-related doesn’t mean it’s PTSD. Depression after trauma is just as common as PTSD. Even a person experiencing flashbacks and triggers may actually meet the criteria for depression more, which might be good news for treatment.

In my ‘real’ life, I am a senior researcher and educator in mental health who travels the world assisting in the set-up of programs to assist mainly young people, and I often find myself having conversations with my international counterparts about the importance of changing the way young people view serious diagnoses. 

So here is some helpful advice.

Seek help. And actually, since most people won’t seek help on their own, encourage someone you care about to seek help and help get them on this journey. Heads-up: If you treat PTSD like a life sentence, if you use these helpless and hopeless words, you’re actively discouraging people from seeking help. There are effective treatments. For young people, too. And new treatments are being researched every day. People who receive treatment generally do better than those who don’t, and there is no magic wand, here, sometimes people need to try a few things before the right treatment is found.

Sought help? The counsellor/psychologist/whatever sucked? Okay. They’re human too; some are not as good at their jobs as others, and compatibility is important. But don’t mistake the fact that a therapist is going to ask you to do uncomfortable and difficult work as a sign that they are incompatible. Yeah, it will be hard, and some of it will be harder than what you’re experiencing right now. But it won’t be hard for as long as what could be decades of PTSD will.

Seek support from people who care about you. Offer support to people you care about. Social support reduces some core symptoms of mental illness. Hot hint; telling anyone than PTSD is a life sentence is not in any way supportive. Helping someone out when they feel like that themselves is.

You can only take the sting out of triggers by having exposure to them. I’m sorry, I know that’s hard, and it might take a long time to get all the way there. Maybe this year and next when a door slams you’ll go into meltdown. But maybe the year after that, your heart will race, but you will have learned enough to say 'that door slammed, but it didn’t slam because I was about to be harmed; doors are slammed all the time, and though I’m feeling triggered, I’m no less safe than I was before the sound'. And maybe in two or three years, a door will slam and a minute later, you’ll be sitting there with your mouth wide open because you’ve just noticed you had no physiological reaction at all. And maybe one day someone you care about will slam a door and you’ll say “please don’t slam the door. It makes me uncomfortable and brings up memories I don’t like to focus on.” And maybe one day you’ll stop even noticing that doors get slammed. There are treatments that help with this, like prolonged exposure therapy. Easy? No. But in time, it can be effective. And a person with PTSD knows that right now, nothing is easy.  I used this example as it was in the above text. But it’s the same for other triggers. Kissing someone. Having someone touch your neck. A smell you associate with your trauma. Getting into a car. Anything. Whatever it is. It doesn’t deserve power over you.

If the trauma itself is too much to deal with right now, deal with the other stuff. Anger and depression are hard to escape when PTSD is the central problem. There are effective self-help strategies for depression, and many anxiety disorders, and while there is less evidence about the effectiveness of anger therapies, there are online options for learning about how to handle it. Try MoodGYM. It is effective for many symptoms and illnesses, but it’s bloody hard work if you take it seriously. And this is your life. It’s worth it.

Medication is not the answer for everyone, and it is not a cure. But some people do find it helps. Medication is not an answer by itself, but for many people, it reduces associated symptoms enough to work on other areas.

Exercise helps with moods, reduces physiological reactions to stress (including triggers) and improves sleep quality. Sleep suffers with PTSD and all other mental illnesses. It’s a vicious circle where the illness reduces sleep quality, and poor sleep quality makes everything else worse. Exercise can help with PTSD. Notice I don’t say this is easy? It’s not. It’s hard to motivate yourself, you may not want to leave the house (you can run on the spot in your room, to start with – that would be an achievement in itself). It’s also worth it, and it can be cost-free. Reducing some of the symptoms can make it easier for you to work on others.

Alcohol misuse is a strong predictor for chronic PTSD. Which is to say, if you drink (and probably, use other drugs, though there is less research) PTSD is likely to be worse and last longer. I know, believe me, I know that sometimes it seems like spending all your time drunk is better than spending all your time struggling with PTSD, but it’s not. 

Don’t take my word for it. Do your own research if that will help. Some of it can be confusing or hard to read if you’re not used to reading a lot of research; you might feel disheartened when you see that one particular thing only helped 40% of a group. That’s actually not too bad at all, and what is missing from a simple reading of the research is things like, hey, that’s people who might not have had an improvement at all if they hadn’t tried that, or the fact that you’re seeing it compared to something else that’s known to work, or that avoiding alcohol makes people both more likely to try a treatment and more likely to respond. It’s complicated literature and it’s a reason why it can be difficult to reference everything in a post like this. In my professional life, I talk about the difference between best practice, and what works. Just because A is ‘best practice’ and didn’t work, doesn’t mean that a bit of B and C, along with reducing substance use, doesn’t turn out to be the thing that works for you.

If you have PTSD – don’t lose hope, please. Life can get better. Mine did. 

Whether you have PTSD or not, please don’t contribute to the spread of the idea that it’s impossible for anyone to recover. It’s not true, and it should not be something someone hears when they are in the early stages of PTSD. Recovery can take a long time.

[brutallyangelic]

Magician On The Cross.

Agape (Ancient Greek ἀγάπη, agápē) is a Greco-Christian term referring to love, "the highest form of love, charity" and "the love of God for man and of man for God".

Why is it that the ones who give out their heart to others are the ones who feel it less ? As if giving is receiving is an untruthful teaching and we all kept passing the classes thinking that it is the right way to an education but we were never really getting our money worth ? Were we ?

The word says that,

“Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.”

Basically saying, the reason I have not screamed in anger and disgust to this world is because God gave me His hope, to see this pain turn into power but sometimes I feel that saying is misused for evil and on other days I feel the the mountains of life tumbling on my shoulders, crushing my bones into the ground, making me one with the soil. Having my body turn into decay but were we not taught that plants get their energy from the Sun ? So just as long as yes I am crushed and feel as if I am done for, but the Sun will still come out and give me a reason to stay another day and not stop fighting.

I have learnt to be patient via the aching anxiety attacks to pass, the depression to pass, having scars from 3 years ago having to pass, pain to power I mean power over pain I mean my pain overpowering me to pass, my mother being stubborn as shit, my father being stubborn as shit, myself being stubborn as shit.

When I was about 15 , I had my father scream at me because Mental Illness was the punch line and my breakdowns the sound track, my magic tricks were the lies I told myself and everybody else. I am the worlds worst magician because I can never do a show that is believable yet alway believable and the best anyone has ever seen for I am able to slice myself in more than half and still be whole but I can never quite disappear without making an appearance.

Love is showing that person on the street the same amount of kindness you would to your best friend. Love is seeing her scars on her wrist but not saying anything but as you hold her hand you pray that God kisses her wounds as well as her scars. To show absolute kindness to another while having your heart being bruised till you know it is not your am-mature magic tricks keeping you alive but Gods Grace because my wand is kind of fucked and nobody is listening to me trying to explain the punch line and I think it’s because I don’t even understand it or maybe it’s because it makes sense inside of my head but my head has been the problem for so fucking long and I am still making sure I do not hate myself for shit I cannot control...

Breathe.

“It does not boast. It is not self seeking. It does not keep record of wrongs. It does not delight in anger but rejoices in the truth. “

Growing in the Love that is not from this world but trying to grow the world is like being in love with the potential of a garden, no a rose but you water the garden and do what you can But the roses has thorns and you already have a tolerance to pain but all of those thorns they threw at each time someone made you feel like you weren’t right went deep into your left hand ?

or that time you couldn’t turn your head left because of all the tension so you almost stabbed your right hand hoping that it would cause some sense ?

But you know that you make perfect logical sense in an illogical world or you are just so fucking complex that you cannot function normally so instead this world rewards you with the thorns on the roses and places it as a crown on your head as they lay you on The Cross. But did I mention how beautiful it can be. How the roses are as red as my blood?

But, it always protects, always trust, always hopes and preserves, it never fails.

As you lay open armed, naked , bruised and bloody as they rip you of everything they think you are. You know that this was the climax of the punch line because you were always so much more than the last element to a structure of humor. As you look at this world that never deserved you but they needed you and exhale out.

“ Father, forgive them for they do not know what they are doing... It is finished. “

- Nicole Druchen.

[abbymcnevinstudio]

Abby McNevin is not my name

In today’s blog, challenge #4 is writing about the meaning behind my superwebname. I suppose this refers to the name that I am using in the internet which is not even my real name.

True enough, Abby McNevin is not my real name. It is a screen name that I’ve been using in the internet since 2007 onwards.

The origin, you may ask?

Why Abby?

I started my first job in 2006. I worked at a grill and chill -concept restaurant (but at that time, Bruneians chill more there than of ordering the grills menu). I was trained at one branch in the city for three months and I was the only local there. The rest of the team were filipinos. It was quite hard for them to quickly call my name “Hamizah”. Some tried calling me Hami, one person tried calling me Ham (wait, what?) and some ended up pronouncing my name as ha-my-zah.

One of the crew (let’s call him Ryan, not his real name), so Ryan, whom I got close to, kept mistakenly calling me Baby and then quickly apologized, proceeding calling my real name. We were so close that we would “karoeke” our favourite songs with full emotion while we’re in the kitchen doing dishes together. We sounded terrible but we didn’t care. The kitchen, specifically the sink area was basically our stage and our orange uniform were the only dashing outfit we could afford because what you wear doesn’t matter, it’s your performance that counts :p

Ryan kept telling me that my face and my long hair resembles a lot like his younger sister whom he’s very close with among all of his other siblings. Her name is Baby. She’s supposed to be a little shorter than me and my skin is a bit more fairer. I would always told him, Rubbish talks! and we’ll sprayed each other water. Whenever the branch manager walked in to check what was the chaotic sound, we both would automatically pretended like it was not us, continued washing the dishes as if we never played around and blamed the next door shop who was making the random noises :p

That time was the start of smartphone era, Ryan didn’t own one to show me pictures of Baby but he kept promising me he’ll bring Baby’s picture to work to prove. Rubbish, I said. One day finally, I was just arriving to work when I saw my workmates were gathering around and talking in tagalog, seem discussing something that needs attention. Ryan was in the middle holding some papers (which at that time I thought was regular papers). I asked them what happened, are there bad news or sorts. They all looked at me, and then looked at the papers Ryan was holding. Repeatedly until someone started saying “Twins, twins!”. Actually, Ryan was holding photos of Baby. I finally have the opportunity to see Baby although in picture forms only and yes, my jaw just dropped to the floor. There were pictures of her alone, with Ryan, with the whole family and even pictures of her when she was really small and in school uniform. She really looked like me. He wasn’t talking rubbish after all :p Ryan asked if me and him could take photos together so he could show me to his family especially Baby that there’s a Bruneian twin of her ^^ I said yes!

Because of Ryan, everybody else started calling me Baby. Not so long however, it evolved to Abby. It was because our branch manager wanted professionalism and the name Baby to his view is not suitable at work. Since everyone really comfortable in calling me Baby, one crew suggested Abby. As time goes, I got comfortable with this name so much that I started introducing myself as Abby. Even my work nametag was Abby. I am not sure why though but I feel this connection with that nickname so much. I feel happy. I feel free. I feel energetic. I feel more expressive.

I just googled up if Abby has a meaning itself? I visited a site addressed sheknows.com and their records said;

Abby

The name Abby is a baby girl name.

Meaning

Hebrew Meaning:

The name Abby is a Hebrew baby name. In Hebrew the meaning of the name Abby is: Father rejoiced, or father’s joy. Gives joy. The intelligent, beautiful Abigail was Old Testament King David’s third wife, described as ‘good in discretion and beautiful in form.

People with this name tend to be creative and excellent at expressing themselves. They are drawn to the arts, and often enjoy life immensely. They are often the center of attention, and enjoy careers that put them in the limelight. They tend to become involved in many different activities, and are sometimes reckless with both their energies and with money.

My verdict: The last sentence feels so familiar! ____________

Why Abby McNevin?

In 2007, I enrolled in a college further away from my home and workplace. However, that doesn’t stopped me from working. I kept the job but transferred to night shifts on schooldays and day shifts on Friday and Saturday. The college was okay though I was bullied at first. I was not aware of backstabbers. I was not aware that people could be so mean. I grew up in a different district, rather a more village surrounding and I was stucked in those mentality – that I could trust anyone, everybody’s nice and as long as I am nice, people are kind to. Those bullies crushed me mentally, so bad.

I spend more time with myself, thinking to what happened? Why do I have lack of confidence? Why am I making myself in despair by letting those bullies making my college life miserable? There were two “head” bullies at the time who treated me like $h!t. That was why I felt so sad and stressed. Not one but two seperate people bullying me. They appeared to be a “friend” to me at first, then they misuse my trust and innocence by making false statements about me. Both of them, although at two different times (they both were not friends with each other too as they hate each other) – spread false statements about me to the rest of the school. Accused me of doing things I didn’t do that definitely had distorted my image to others including tutors. At those stage of life, I learnt that more people will listen to what they heard than what they see. Imagined coming to school and being stared by others including people from different classes…shown those unfriendly face, not even a Hi, as if I am a hated figure. I kept holding myself from falling to a hole of depression. Part of me just want to give and a part of me want to fight. I could have ignored but I couldn’t escaped the bullies at class. I was too young anyway to ignore such issue. I had my own family issue and I could remember that I kept having suicidal thoughts.

God is love. I made a circle of friends who didn’t listen to those haters but rather, be at my side. I clearly remember them, ten of them who was there since the beginning. 8 in my class and 2 from different level and course. I was lucky that God blessed me to have these ten hearts who had looked me in my soul without me trying and didn’t join the rest. However, I couldn’t really hang out all the time with any one of them because they all were having own close-friend bond and two were guys from different courses. Although I could recall now how sweet they were to throw me a birthday surprise at a cafe near to our college :)

Anyway, since I was mostly alone, I made an online presence of myself. Deciding to add McNevin at the end of Abby’s… making me, Abby McNevin. The internet was like my no b.s crib where I could show more of myself through writing, photos that I’ve taken including photos of myself, expressing opinion and sharing music that I listened to. I make friends with people from different districts, girls and guys, various age groups and I found myself interested to those who were bullied, had less to no friend and seem depressed. Because of my strong online presence in different popular platforms at those time, I quickly gathered a lot of attention and had more friends all around Brunei…including at college. Even tutors were chatting with me online and sharing photos and opinions with me. In other words, people at school had started to get to know me and finding contradictions from what they heard.

Funny enough, I never tried to explain myself to anyone. I’m not at fault, I was not what I was falsely described and hence, I need not to explain myself. Let Karma works and by the end of the day, only good people with good intention wins.

At senior year, it was very obvious that finally more and more people had realized those bullies were making lies about me as they came to know me more as myself and not from what they heard… and suddenly becoming my friends.

As you come to know now, the name Abby McNevin is not just a name for me, for which it was never my real given name. Abby McNevin is an identity that pushes me to get back up, face my anxiety, become confident, fear not those bullies, be strong and believe in the power of positivity. I had the opportunity to ease others’ depressions and gave my moral supports. Along my journey in strengthening my own stand and support others who needed encouragement, I listened to a song called “The Middle” by Jimmy Eat World. I had no one but I had this song. Abby McNevin listened to this song every single day during her times being bullied and feeling lonely. She didn't know where's friends are, where's her family and questioned life. Up til today, when someone had those experience somewhat similar to I’ve went through, I would gladly share them the link to that song :) I’ve went through things alone, it was a dark scary path and I was lucky to manage being only by myself escaping depression. Whenever I can, I will help those who couldn’t make themselves out in the light alone.

If you happen to know Abby McNevin online from the past, that you happen to stumbled into my new blog now and we are not talking anymore to date and we use to talk most of the time previously. Worry not because I am sure I could remember you if I come across your name or you yourself. I believe it is time and life changes that separated us from being still talking. Believe that mentally and in my heart, I appreciate you. Spread love! If I have shown you love and zest, I wish you spread it to others around you and you yourself has become part of the legacy.

You knew the story now. It’s Abby McNevin, bye bye now and advanced Hello for next time, signing out.

:)

[purplekimberly]

lightning before the thunder (i was alive until you pulled me under)

Words: 4748

Warnings: Depression and PTSD mention, I guess. Kim’s whole blog is one big depression and PTSD mention tbh. And some paranoia and anxiety. Also, very, very slight drug misuse. Kimberly Hart is a human disaster.

Notes: Writing Prompt #1 - the SF Rangers finding their soul crystals.

Boston, Massachusetts - 5:28 AM

Her eyes are closed. Warmth surrounds her, someone’s arms under her back and legs, carrying her.

“Kim-” She recognizes the voice and struggles to open her eyes, trying to find the speaker. Kat’s face drifts into view, momentarily, but her eyelids are heavy. Her head is pounding. “Kimberly, I’m sorry-” Kat sounds… choked. Distraught.

Kim desperately wants to open her eyes, find out why Kat’s sorry, why she’d ever be sorry for anything, why she looked like she’d just committed the greatest sin, but everything hurts too much. She’s warm, too warm.

She hears a siren, loud and blaring, in the distance. An ambulance, coming for her. Coming for her because she’s wounded, because she was exhausted and fell and Kat found her. Kat under Rita’s spell, Kat with a golden heart and a tragic stroke of fate- no, wait, that’s not right. She doesn’t know that yet.

Open your eyes, she thinks. You have to tell Kat that it’s gonna be okay, that you forgive her, no matter what.

You have to-

The siren comes closer. Louder. Help is coming. For her, for Kat, even though she doesn’t know it just yet.

It screeches, almost like a-

Kim jolts awake in bed, heart racing, her breaths coming in heavy sighs. The thermostat in her house is set to a chilly 60-something degrees, but she’s so warm. Her bedsheets are tangled around her body, smothering her in heat, so she struggles for a few minutes, shoving them aside.

The cool air stings her skin like needles but does little to help how hot she feels. Grumbling to herself, Kimberly gets out of bed, putting on her slippers and padding to the kitchen in the dark. The motion-sensor lights she has set up in the hallway from her bedroom to the dining area burst on as she drags her feet past them. It’s a good security measure that she installed during a particularly paranoid few months of her life, and now, it’s practical for her early morning sleeplessness.

She flips on the kitchen lights as she enters and grabs a glass out of the cabinet, filling it with water from the fridge. For so many long seconds, that’s the only sound in Kim’s ears as she bores holes into her fridge door, eyes sleepy and unfocused. The flowing water as it fills her glass.

Her jaw clenches as she strains, forcing herself to focus on something more. Something that she heard earlier in the silence of the morning, something that woke her up.

Something that sounded like a demon she never killed.

Kim almost misses stopping the pressure on the water dispenser, and her hand jolts as she quickly moves to avoid spilling water all over her floor. “Shit,” she mutters to an empty house, sighing and taking herself and her glass to the kitchen counter.

It’s early. A few hours before she has to get ready for work. Kim takes a sip of her water; it does nothing to calm her nerves or the buzzing in her ears, but it makes her feel slightly less hot. Only slightly.

At her feet, T.K. sidles up to her, pressing against her ankles. Kim stoops down and picks him up, holding him against her chest; he purrs, satisfied, into her shirt.

“Yeah, I’m really warm, huh? It’s weird,” she raises her eyebrows at him; he studies her with no response, “Kinda like talking to my cat is weird. Don’t judge me.”

Kim closes her eyes and breathes, trying to find a sense of calmness that she knows exists somewhere in her head. She stands there, in her kitchen, holding T.K. for what feels like another hour before he jumps out of her arms, scrambling off into another room, and she takes that as her cue to move.

The microwave clock says it’s only been three minutes. Kim sighs.

It’s gonna be a long ass day.

She takes a long gulp of water, sets her glass down for later, then goes back to bed. There’s still time for a power nap before class.

__________

Cambridge, Massachusetts - 10:52 AM

The light buzzing in her ears hasn’t stopped, even after she took a nap, woke up, took her meds, and tried drowning it out on the drive to work with obnoxious dance music.

It annoyed her all throughout the exam she administered for her French feminist history class, only adding to the unnerving sounds of exam silence like clicking pens, tapping feet, and someone’s Fidget Cube.

Well, her Fidget Cube that she’d been messing with in her lap, hoping she could muffle the sounds with her dress and not bother her students. Not that anyone complained about it. (Not that she’d really care if they complained.)

She’s packing up the finished exams into her folder and throwing that folder into her backpack when her phone rings. Kat’s smiling face stares up at her from the caller ID, and Kim nearly drops her bag.

The way she fumbles with the talk button is so embarrassing that Kim’s glad all of her students left only minutes ago.

“Katherine?”

“Hey, Kim! How are you?”

The buzzing in her ears dies down.

She takes a breath.

“Uh, I’m… good, I guess. Just finished up a class. You?”

This is awkward. For her. Or, she supposes, she’s making this awkward in her head. They haven’t talked in a long time.

And, the time before that, there wasn’t much talking being done.

Kim blushes at the thought and thanks God that Kat didn’t FaceTime her.

“I’m doing great, which is, actually, what I wanted to talk to you about.”

She makes an “mhmmm” noise and waits for Kat to continue, sitting back down in her chair. There isn’t a class in here until noon, so she’s good for awhile.

“I’m gonna be in Boston in a few weeks with the kids, and I thought, maybe, if Tommy could get some days off, we could… drop by and spend some time with you.”

That’s… not what she expected Kat to say. 

Well, she hadn’t really been expecting anything at all.

“Uh.” Kim swallows and thinks about the million ways those particular few days could go wrong.

Kat takes her hesitance as polite rejection and keeps going, her words turning into rambling, “I mean you don’t have to say yes. I know you’re pretty busy with your classes and this time of the semester, and it’s gonna be a handful for me because we’re going for a competition but, I don’t know, I just thought it’d be nice, you know, just to see each other again.”

Somehow, Katherine gets that all out in one breath, and Kim has to take one of her own to process it all.

“I- yeah, sure, I mean…” She has no idea what she means. Where the hell was that sentence going? Nowhere. “Uh, just lemme know? Like, I don’t know, maybe as it’s coming up and stuff, so I can clear my schedule? Or not since you’ll be busy, too, but. You know what I mean.” Does she, Kim? Does she really? God, get over yourself.

“Great! I’ll let Tommy know for sure. I have to go now, but it was nice to hear your voice again.”

Oh, God, that was a very specific choice of words. “It was… nice to hear your voice again, too, Kat.” There’s silence as Kat hangs up; Kim sets her phone back down on her desk.

“What a fucking day,” she sighs.

__________

Boston, Massachusetts - 11:10 PM

The buzzing comes back sometime around three in the afternoon, and after a few hours, Kim just tunes it out. She’s not sure what it is - could be any of the shit that she deals with - but whatever it is, it doesn’t go away after she takes her second Zoloft for the day after dinner. She really shouldn’t and knows she shouldn’t, especially because she’s already had the one in the morning before work and a second one is over her daily dosage, but also because taking Zoloft in the evening always makes her unable to sleep and wake up anxious as hell.

Kim’s already feeling the effects by the time she sits down to start trying to make a dent in her exams late in the night. She turns on the TV, flips around on the channels until she finds a rerun marathon of Bewitched, and goes to town.

She doesn’t move for a long time, long enough for P.C. to come and lay on her lap, effectively ensuring that she wouldn’t get up for another few hours after that. The words on the pages are starting to blur together with the red marks she’s making, a definite sign she should stop. So, Kim takes a break, setting her exams aside on her coffee table. Her eyes drift to the fireplace, underneath the TV, where a few pictures line the mantel. She knows those faces, but she stops her thoughts before they go any further.

She’s zoned out, her gaze focused on a picture of her and the gang before Tommy’s White Ranger days, when she hears it again, unmistakably loud and piercing in the night.

The call of a firebird.

Kim bolts up from her seat on the couch, startling P.C., who gets unceremoniously dumped on the floor with a hasty apology falling from her lips as she runs to her front door. Her hands fumble clumsily with the lock on her door, and she finally throws it open, stepping into the night, eyes searching the skies.

"I heard you," she whispers to nobody, but if it's out there, it'll hear her, too, "I'm here... I'm listening."

She waits for it again but sees nothing in the darkness, hears nothing in her heart.

“Come on-” Kim hates herself for the edge of desperation that’s in her own voice. It’s like she’s seventeen again, riding around on the streets of St. Moineau, guilt tumbling around the inside of her skull, sickness in her stomach. She wants something more, and she shouldn’t.

A bright light zooms into her line of sight, coming down from the cul-de-sac at the end of the street, zipping over her shoulder and through her doorway. She whirls around, instinctively slamming the door closed, and turns to face the thing in her living room.

It’s small and violet in color- no, lavender- no, hot pink- The wisp seems to fluctuate in various shades of purple - Kim tells herself it’s her imagination that some of them look pinkish - as it glides around the living room, evading P.C.’s attempts to swat at it.

Well.

She grabs her phone from the coffee table and pulls up her contacts list, clicking on the home number for an old friend. She gets on her knees and, with her free hand, she yanks P.C. into her grasp and holds her close to her chest, muttering, “Oh, no, you don’t - I don’t need you breaking something right now.”

After two rings, someone picks up.

“Kim? Is that you?” Tommy. Her heart skips a beat, and she swears on her life that the wisp flashes hot pink for a second, but when she blinks, it’s violet again.

“Uh, yeah, it’s me.” She suddenly remembers the time difference and sputters, “Wait, shit, sorry- I didn’t interrupt dinner, did I? I’m sorry, it’s nothing-”

“No, no, you didn’t interrupt anything.” Tommy’s reassurance rings clear through the phone; Kim breathes a soft sigh of relief; her heart feels slightly, only slightly, lighter. “Are you okay?”

“Um, that’s debatable,” she says, her eyes following the wisp as it keeps zipping around, noticing how it gravitates to the pictures she has on the fireplace mantel, “There’s... a ball of light in my living room, and it’s freaking my cat out.”

“What?” Her reaction, exactly.

“That sounded better in my head.”

“What’s going on, Kim?”

“I have no idea.” P.C. squirms in her arm, so she reluctantly lets her go and watches her hop up to the top of the couch and glare at the floating wisp.

“Start from the beginning.” He sounds like a leader again, like the Tommy Oliver she knows, taking charge.

“Uh, well, this morning. I woke up this morning, and I- I heard...” She can’t say it, can’t get the words out. It sounded more real in her heard, but now, saying it to Tommy... God, it sounds insane. It sounds like a lonely, desperate woman who lives with two cats and wants to be young again.

“What’d you hear?”

“No, it’s stupid,” she mutters, waving the notion away with her free hand even though Tommy can’t see her, “Forget it. I just- I took too much Zoloft today, and I’m probably hallucinating. It’s nothing.”

Well, that was definitely the wrong thing to overshare.

Tommy’s voice becomes worried, laced with too much concern that has Kim thinking this was a terrible idea. “How much have you taken?”

“I- uh, two. One in the morning before work and one a few hours ago after dinner.” She lowers her voice to a whisper, unsure as to why she does it, but it just feels right, like a secret between the two of them, “Tommy... I heard the firebird.”

“What?”

“I heard it,” she repeats, the conviction behind her voice getting stronger; God, Kim sure as hell hopes she isn’t hallucinating, “It woke me up this morning, and then, I heard it again just now, before this... light thing flew into my house. It looks kinda like Navi. From Zelda. Just, you know, for your imagery reference.”

There’s silence as Tommy processes her words, so she continues.

“I know it’s real, Tommy. P.C. sees it, too. I’m not... I’m not going crazy.” For any regular person, it’d sound exactly like she’s going crazy, but Kim’s not just anybody. She’s talked to a floating head in a tube for three years of her life. And a few times in her mom’s living room in St. Moineau.

Not to mention the whole Power Ranger thing.

“I believe you.”

“Thank you.” The relieved sigh that falls from her lips and the tension that drops from her shoulders leaves her feeling the most refreshed she’s felt in some time.

Suddenly, the wisp starts circling itself in one spot, so Kim stands, taking a wary step toward it. That must be the right thing to do because it zips off, disappearing down the hallway.

“It wants me to follow it,” she narrates to Tommy, although she’s more focused on the following than actually talking to him at this point.

“Is it still in your house?”

“Yeah,” Kim rounds the corner and spots a purple glow coming from her open bedroom, “It just went into my bedroom.”

“Be careful,” he warns.

“What’s it gonna do, blind me?” Tommy’s disapproving silence has her smirking, if only a little. “I’ll be careful, cowboy.”

One of her nicknames for him slips out so easy; neither of them comments on it.

She walks into her bedroom and comes to a full stop. The wisp is floating over her bed, circling itself again; Kim raises her eyebrows.

“It wants me to take a nap?”

“What?”

“It’s over my bed,” she explains.

“Maybe it’s looking for something?”

Kim doesn’t know if the wisp can hear Tommy or even understand him, but at that, it stops and zips under her bed, coming out on the other side and repeating the process until it’s just circling her bed from top to bottom.

“Under the bed...” Her heart skips a beat again, and she almost drops her phone trying to get it out of her hand. “Tommy, hold on for a sec; I’m putting you on speaker.” She hits the speaker button and tosses her phone on the edge of her bed, getting on her knees as fast as she can.

The wisp has stopped moving and now is just floating there, beside her, waiting. She knows exactly what it was looking for. Kim reaches underneath her bed, blindly, until her hand hits a box and she grabs it by the handle, dragging it out into the open.

It’s a long, black case, secured by a lock; Kim puts in the combination easily. “Didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” she murmurs. 

The lock clicks, and she pops the case open, her breath catching like it’d been yesterday when she’d shoved all of this away under her bed.

A sleek black and pink bow sits in the mold of the case, its companion arrows strapped to the top of the case.

And, right underneath, in a corner, her pink morpher and the emergency communicator Zordon had given her years ago.

She glances at the wisp, her hand hovering over her morpher, “This? Is this what you want?”

Almost comically, the wisp bounces up and down. Yes, it seems to say.

“Kim? What’s happening?”

Oh, right. Tommy.

“Uh...” she pulls her morpher out of the case and sets it on the ground beside her, “My morpher. It... it wanted me to get my morpher?”

This is ridiculous.

“I- This is dumb. Impossible. There’s a- a floating ball of light in my bedroom and- it’s just a stupid coincidence.”

Tommy’s silent for a long moment, and she has to glance at her phone to make sure he didn’t hang up. “Kim, coincidences are impossible. And, in our lives, being Rangers, nothing’s impossible. Therefore?”

“Therefore, coincidences don’t exist,” she finishes.

“You heard the firebird and you were led to your morpher. That means something.”

“It means I’m not just some pushing-forty cat lady who’s delusional and misses being superhero.”

Tommy sighs, “You’ve always been more than that to me.”

There’s that specific choice of words again.

Kim’s snapped out of her thoughts when the wisp ducks down to her eye level and reaches out with surprisingly warm tendrils, wrapping them around her pinky and tugging gently but urgently.

Something stirs in her heart.

“Tommy, I have to go,” she says, picking up her phone, “I- I have to do this alone. I’ll call you later.”

“Yeah, okay, I get it. Just... be careful, okay?”

“Of course. Thanks for...” She doesn’t know what she’s really saying thanks for, actually.

But, Tommy understands. He always does. “You’re welcome.”

She hangs up and throws her phone back on her bed. The wisp floats, slightly impatiently, at her side. Okay. She can do this.

Kim takes her communicator, just in case, and clasps it shut on her wrist. It doesn’t work anymore, she thinks, it wouldn’t since Zordon’s long and dead and he was the one who gave it to her. But, it’s a precaution.

She springs into motion after that, running over to her closet and stripping off her pajamas for more comfortable jeans, a shirt, and a leather jacket. As an afterthought, she loops a belt around her jeans and grabs her morpher from the floor, attaching it securely to the back of her belt and hiding it with her jacket.

“Okay,” she eyes the wisp, “If you wanna take me somewhere, let’s go.”

Great. She’s talking to a ball of light. Not the weirdest thing to ever happen, though.

The wisp zips out of her bedroom, and Kim follows it to her front door, where it bumps furiously against the window, wanting to be let out. “Alright, alright,” she mutters, opening the door, “Don’t break my door down.”

She steps out onto her porch, closing the door behind her and making sure it’s locked and that P.C. and T.K. didn’t follow her out. In her driveway, the wisp waits by her car, lightly bobbing in place. Kim briefly wonders if anyone else on her street can see this: her standing in her driveway and a weird, purple ball of light in front of her.

Kim gets into her car and straps herself in, pulling out onto the street. Hovering over her hood, the wisp floats a little ahead of her car, a tendril jutting out and pointing her in the direction it wants her to go.

It’s probably - no, definitely - a road hazard to be driving while a ball of light shines in her eyes, but she manages to not get into any accidents leaving her neighborhood. The wisp leads her into the night; the streets are relatively quiet, very few cars on the road, so Kim doesn’t feel too awkward or nervous about being seen. She drives until the wisp stops, abruptly in front of a shop.

The street itself is illuminated by lamps but completely dead, save for a 24-hour McDonald’s at the next traffic light, so Kim pulls off by the curb and parks, getting out of her car, curiosity pumping in her veins.

Her wisp - she supposes she thinks of it as hers, now, since it, well, won’t leave her alone - bounces in front of a thrift shop, one Kim’s never been to before. Inside, the lights are off, and the neon sign over the door informed that it was closed for the day.

“It’s closed,” she states, feeling much like a mother telling a child they can’t go get ice cream because all the parlors are shut for the night.

In front of her eyes, the wisp flashes hot pink, unmistakably this time, and she freezes as a sharp screech sounds out through the night again. She flinches, covering her eyes with her hands.

“I’m here,” Kim bites out, glaring at the wisp, “What do you want from me?”

The wisp returns to its violet hue, circles itself twice, then takes off down the street.

“Okay, fine,” she huffs, “Don’t answer me. It’s cool.”

She gets back in her car and briefly considers just going home and sleeping. Immediately, the wisp zips back to above her hood, as if it sensed her thoughts, and rocks from side to side. Its way of saying ‘no,’ then.

Resigned, Kim starts up the engine and pulls back onto the street, back to her task of following a ball of light that she really hopes isn’t leading her to her death.

She drives and drives until the streets that the wisp is leading her onto start to look really familiar. She’d passed by Park Street Church when she realized where she was.

“Hey,” Kim taps on her windshield to get the attention of the wisp (which she’s sure wasn’t necessary but still), “Are you taking me on the Freedom Trail?”

Obviously, the wisp doesn’t respond but Kim takes the bouncing in place that it does to be a ‘yes.’

So many Boston landmarks later, the wisp comes to a full stop, so abruptly that Kim instinctively slams on her brakes, thinking that she missed something.

“Fuck,” she grumbles. Thankfully, there weren’t any other cars around to witness that. She parks next to the curb and gets out, looking up at the building she’s been brought to.

Old North Church, one of the last landmarks on the Freedom Trail.

“Okay, now what?” she asks, raising her eyebrows at the wisp.

It zips forward, so she follows, checking the street for cars before she crosses and heads for the door of the church.

The night is so quiet, so when a howl echoes in the air, Kim stiffens, her hand instinctively edging towards her morpher. It’s her last line of defense, even if she’s not sure if it still works after fighting the Armada.

Were there even wolves in Massachusetts? She’d heard of some up north in Maine and some reports of not-coyotes-but-not-wolves on the news, but not too many.

The wisp wraps a warm tendril around her pinky again and pulls her along. “Yeah, you’re gonna protect me if I see any wolves, huh?” It lets go when they come to the church door. 

Kim frowns. “So...”

She doesn’t get a chance to ask what she’s doing here. The wisp abruptly shoots up into the air like a rocket, flying until it reaches the steeple of the church. At the end of its trajectory, it circles around the weathervane at the top then zooms back down to her, bouncing expectantly.

“You... want something up there?”

A shorter bounce like a hop. Yes.

“Well, how the hell do you expect me to get up there? I don’t see any 200-feet ladders or any- AHHH!”

She’s cut off by her own scream as the wisp zips behind her; something grabs the collar of her jacket, something hot and gross that feels like teeth grazing the back of her neck, and suddenly, she’s being lifted into the air.

“Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck-” Kim closes her eyes, not wanting to see how high up she is. With the rate at which the wind is whipping around her hair, face, and body, she’d guess she’s going up pretty high.

Be careful, Tommy had said.

What’s it gonna do, she’d mocked, blind me?

No, as it turns out, it’s going to drop her to her death.

Kim loses her breath with a thump as she’s haphazardly deposited on the top ledge of the steeple; she clings onto the brick under her hands and makes sure that she has a tight grip before opening her eyes.

Don’t you dare look down...

She looks down.

“Oh, God, I’m gonna die.”

Falling from a church no less. She finds that ironic, but it’s not quite as funny right this moment.

Beside her, the wisp bobs casually like it didn’t just get her stuck on top of a fucking building in the middle of Boston. 

“I hate you.”

In response, it floats up to a part of the steeple above her, but under the weathervane, where the brick has been weathered away. Something glints inside of the stone, catching the shine of the moonlight.

Kim squints at whatever it is. “Something’s in there... You want it?”

She gauges the distance if she reaches up and stands on her tiptoes. It’s doable, and she doesn’t really have a choice at this point. “Alright,” she sighs, “I can’t believe I’m doing this... Didn’t even give me a chance to finish grading my tests.”

Leaning up on her toes, Kim holds on tight to the steeple, pressing her body against the brick as close as possible so she doesn’t fall, and reaches with one hand, fingers scrambling for the object stuck inside of the stone.

Her hand brushes against whatever it is, and it briefly flashes a deep purple. “Looks like a gem or crystal or... whatever,” Kim murmurs.

“Wait, you dragged me up here for a fucking rock?”

The wisp bobs out an affirmative then tugs on her hand with another warm tendril. It really wants that rock.

Sighing, Kim reaches up again, straining and mentally cursing her height and short arm span, and her hand finally closes around an edge of the crystal. It’s stuck in the brick pretty solidly, so she tugs on it until it starts wiggling in place.

“Almost there...”

One last yank has the crystal coming out into her hand, reflecting violet in the moonlight, but the force of her pull throws her off balance. “Shit-” Her free hand scrambles for a handhold, but the bricks on the steeple aren’t made for holding onto.

The last thing she hears before she loses her footing on the ledge is the howl of a wolf.

[efrondeur]

Do you have any writing or dos/donts tips for new fanfiction writers??

I’m just gonna start this out by saying i’m so honored that you asked me this especially since i’ve only been writing for less than a year whoops but anyway... Buckle up.

Proper grammar is very important

While it might be easier to type how you text and message people, basic sentence structure is important in a. Making your writing legible and b. Making it flow well

Use commas, just be careful how you use them

If what your saying can be said as an aside, chances are you’re going to use a comma or a hyphen

COMMAS ARE NOT USED SIMILAR TO THE PAUSE POINTS WHEN YOU SPEAK GET THAT OUT OF YOUR HEAD RIGHT NOW

Yes sometimes, commas and speaking pause points line up, but it’s not always

Use sentence length to set the mood

Longer sentences slow the reader down, so using FANBOYS or semicolons can really help to create a calm mood

Shorter sentences make the reader read faster, so you can use it to show anxiety or fast paced thoughts or actions

Make grammar your bitch

Proper grammar is important, but misusing grammar can be extremely helpful in setting the mood

For example: run on sentences, bad grammar, but if you use them, it shows that the character is having one long, trailing thought and possible anxiety depending on how the run on is structured

Also, not everyone talks properly. Not everyone says “I’m going to go read.” In fact, most native English speakers say “I’m gonna go read.” Learn how the character speaks, and use that.

If you’re going to use google docs (cause lbr not everyone can afford Word) get the grammarly extension on chrome, it’s like your own personal beta

PLAN

Know where you want your fic to go and make notes

If it’s a longer fic, write out a timeline, get your thoughts down and in order, it’ll save time as you write it out as well as prevent forgetting any plot points

Write down what the characters are like at the start of the fic and then at the end of the fic. Longer fics should have some sort of change and growth

However, if you’re going to write a shorter fic, this doesn’t always apply. Some shorter fics are specifically written just to show one point in a character’s life or characters lives and therefore there might not be much growth

Stay open to ideas

Sometimes your writing is going to take you in a different direction than planned. That’s okay.

If you don’t like where it’s going, DON’T DELETE THE SECTION, instead, move it somewhere else, i.e. a new doc, and start from where it started to veer off it’s path

DON’T COMPARE YOURSELF TO OTHER WRITERS; THIS WILL BE YOUR DOWNFALL

First, everyone has their own way of writing, don’t try and mimic it, or your writing won’t feel genuine to you or your reader

Second, there is always going to be someone better than you. Always. The more you compare yourself, the harsher you’ll get on yourself, and the less you’ll like writing

Third, everyone has to start somewhere. You will post bad fic. I have. Everyone has. It’s how you start, and it’s how you get feedback and grow. Don’t be ashamed of it

Fourth, you are never done growing. You will always be learning new ways to write, new ways to better express feelings and thoughts

Body language

Body language is a solid 60% of conversations, whether you notice it or not

People can actively hid something in their voice from you, but it’s harder to do so with their body, as so much of what we do is subconscious

Learn what your character’s tells are: when they’re lying, annoyed, happy, frustrated, upset, etc. Also, using general tells are pretty good, too. Quite a few people tend to look to the left when they lie, or cross their arms when they’re being defensive.

Showing is better than telling

Through body language, thoughts, and actions, you can show a character’s feelings a whole lot better than outrightly saying it.

This doesn’t mean never tell, but when you do it all the time, the story gets kinda boring

Find your audience

You want to hit moms in their forties? Write like a realistic, romance author

Wanna hit teens? Write about more fantasy and science fiction, hitting romance while still developing characters as they grow and age

Reach out to others in the fandom

talk with people, make friends, come up with headcanons together

encourage them and they will encourage you

having people to talk to about things is honestly so important and the entire reason i’ve been able to keep writing as well as the reason why i stopped for months before i started writing for voltron

Find how you relate to characters. Don’t make them you, but use how you understand yourself to write them. It’s how I write anxiety, depression, adhd, and anger disorders

Have fun when you write

Talk with friends who enjoy what you’re writing about, share little snippets, get people excited or make them cry

Get yourself excited about making people squeal because of tooth-rotting fluff, or have their heart melt with heavy angst

Read other’s works

Learn what you like and what you don’t, what others like and what they don't

See what works when it comes to imagery and what’s better to just say

But oh my god, don’t ever steal. You’re writing should always be your own. You can take inspiration from other people, but when you steal their work it’s unbelievably rude and is extremely upsetting to the author, plus it’s against literally every sites rules and copyrights, and don’t copy their writing style, it just doesn’t work

One thing I do, that I honestly wish I didn’t, but is at least helpful for me

I always get in the mindset of the character, i.e. if Keith’s upset, I get myself upset and then write, or if Lance is super enthused, I get myself really happy

This can be really exhausting and taxing at times, so do this at your own risk

Music can completely change how you write

Find or make a playlist that has the mood for how you want to write something

Be aware of how the song is affecting your writing, and change it if you need to

When the characters are talking, try to hear their voices in your head and channel that when you write

If you listen to the character’s speaking what you want them to say, it becomes easier for the reader to hear that as well

It makes the characters a lot more believable

Relationships aren’t black and white

there’s cutesy little things, fights/arguments, sex (if you write that) and so much more

think about how you interact with your friends. how you sometimes get frustrated with them and just need to be alone, or how easy it can be to talk with them and spend time with them and how sometimes it can be a mix of the two. it’s a lot like that just with romance and kisses

no two relationships are the same. keith and lance don’t have the same dynamic as shiro and allura. hunk and lance don’t have the same dynamic as hunk and keith. everything and everyone is different and compliment each other in different ways. 

I think this is it and i’m sorry with how long this is, but this is everything that i’ve learned/have helped me over the past 10 months. I hope they help you too!!!

[thegloober]

Want to Be a Better Father? Stop Trying to Be a “Good Man”

What does it mean to be male and a father in a world that is increasingly dispensing with not only traditional gender norms and the who-does-what in the family dynamic, but also with the very idea of gender itself?

If, as we are told by activists, psychologists, and national treasure RuPaul that “it’s all drag”, that gender is a performance, not a reliable marker of identity, what challenges do these new understandings of identity pose for men who want to be good fathers but do not want to rely on outdated gender roles?

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What makes a “dad” when we live in an era that does not trust the base identity of “male”?

Dr. Kenneth Moffatt has an idea. A Professor of Social Work and the current Jack Layton Chair of Social Justice at Ryerson University in Toronto. Moffatt is the author and co-author of multiple papers dealing with the current state of social work and its challenges, as well as the highly influential Troubled Masculinities: Reimagining Urban Men, which was first published in 2012 and became a core text in the “Crisis in Masculinity” conversations of the early 2010s.

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We spoke to Dr. Moffatt spoke candidly about the difficulties facing men today, especially younger men who take on the role of fathers. While occasionally striking a warning tone, Dr. Moffatt nevertheless wants to remind fathers that while contemporary masculinity is fraught with hurdles, it does not need to be frightening.

You mentioned that your own father influenced your role of the father today. What was father like, and how did growing up with him influence your thinking?

My father was a child of the Depression. His family lost their farm. That was never talked about and was a source of shame. When WWII came along, my father suffered another shame, in that he was flat-footed and couldn’t fight. That was a really big deal back then, being told you could not fight in the war. And I know all of this from my mother. My father didn’t speak about his own life, ever.

From him I learned that fatherhood is extremely difficult, especially if you are not a man who comes to it easily. My father never came to fatherhood easily. He was trapped in fatherhood, trapped in being part of a family, trapped working in a car factory. So his idea of being a father was one thing: that he was a “provider”. He could never talk about caring for us, only providing for us.

What’s the biggest lesson you learned from him?

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What I learned from him, and I don’t think of course that I learned the right way, is that fathers have their own life outside the home, but at home are distant, angry, strong, and scary. A lot of my thoughts about how I want to be in the world, and what I want to do with my work, are in reaction to him. I want to be a different man.

There is a whole field of psychology that describes fathers as the being in charge of symbols within the family, which is a way of saying the father holds the “last word”, makes “the laws”, and even though some of that strict gender reading does not work for me, the base idea really speaks to my idea of what a father ought not to be.

It’s a strange time to be a man. You are surrounded by fragility, especially economic and social fragility, yet in order to be a “good man” you have to perform this authority role of the Good Man

Even though you are describing a kind of fatherhood that it would be easy to set aside as being typical of a generation ago, many of these traits appear in contemporary fathers. Is this because fathers beget fathers, and thus the patterns don’t change?

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I actually think that the technology sector has become the new factory work – unpredictable hours, abrupt layoffs, having to work constantly, etc. It is creating a new generation of absent fathers. And the technological revolution demands a higher competence from men – men are supposed to know how to work every gadget, how to deal with every online demand, and have no shortage of confidence. We’ve found a new way to make the father the “provider” with our emphasis on 24/7 productivity, and, more insidious, creativity. Young men are under constant pressure now to be innovative, which was not a pressure for my father, for instance.

That’s a terrifying, but apt, comparison.

At this particular moment, men are stuck in a contradiction: there is so much precariousness in the workplace, and yet men are expected to carry that. I know the next thing I’m going to say is controversial, but for all this talk of the new family and changing gender roles, if you are talking about a heteronormative family today, the burden to be in charge of that symbol, the “provider” (even though the reality is that nobody is in charge of those symbols anymore) still falls to the adult males.

And because we are going through a period of rigorous examinations of misuses of power – which I am all for, having experienced abuse with my own dad – young men are under enormous pressure to present, and I stress present, a kind of righteousness around questions of power, when in reality that position they take, of being always correct and rigorous, becomes another version of the “male as guardian” role, which is antiquated.

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Young men are under enormous pressure to present, and I stress present, a kind of righteousness around questions of power, when in reality that position they take becomes another version of the “male as guardian” role, which is antiquated.

How can we end this cycle?

It would be better for young men today to learn how to talk about their vulnerabilities than to present this vigilant front. They are playing an old trope of masculinity even if they imagine they are not. Sometimes young men use this righteousness, which comes from a good place, as a way to shut down dialogue — and what could be more old-fashioned masculine than enforcing silence?

It’s a strange time to be a man. You are surrounded by fragility, especially economic and social fragility, yet in order to be a “good man” you have to perform this authority role of the Good Man – even when everything around you says the certainty you need to perform this act is totally not reliable.

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So the answer needs to be honesty about your feelings and the ability to admit when you don’t know something?

What would the world be like if more men simply said, “You know what? I’m kind of fragile right now. I haven’t figured everything out. I’m not the best at everything I do.”? I feel we would be in a healthier place if we could engage in discussions about maleness that emphasize a kind of useful de-stabilizing of what maleness is. But I don’t see much hope when the kinds of essentialist readings of masculinity, or gender itself, offered by people like [author] Jordan Peterson are best sellers.

I feel we would be in a healthier place if we could engage in discussions about maleness that emphasize a kind of useful de-stabilizing of what maleness is.

How does this trap play out for men who are fathers?

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In a way, the trap could have a liberating effect, once the father realizes he’s being asked to choose between living a life with his kids that focuses on openness and potential versus being the old fashioned Dad, once he steps away from what he thinks he’s expected to do.

For instance, if he has a young boy, and the boy is not forming in a way he is comfortable with – you know, everybody wants the smart kid who is also socially adept and also a bit sporty, all that last generation stuff, which we thought we’d dispensed with but is still very present – instead of seeing the situation as a problem, why not see it as freeing?

Why not engage with who the child is in all the ways that child is a person, and not be worried about whether the child simply meets a standard of maleness? I think fathers have trouble engaging their male children on the child’s own level because how your child performs, in everything from school to social situations, is now part of the father’s own success anxieties. Fathers worry, “Is my kid being productive and innovative and connected?”, while at the same time they know, deep down, that trying to be all that themselves is actually making them unwell.

Fathers worry, “Is my kid being productive and innovative and connected?”, while at the same time they know, deep down, that trying to be all that themselves is actually making them unwell.

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That anxiety is all too real.

The father’s anxiety is totally understandable, because he lives in our adult world and sees how precarious everything is. But if being a father is a kind of perpetual awareness of your fatherhood and what it means, why not use that alertness to foster limitless moments for openness, listening, and celebrating?

It’s about changing the norm.

Break the chain of expectations, the linear passing down of these masculine anxieties. If the father does that, he may find all kinds of wonderful surprises in his son’s maleness and especially in his own.

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Source: https://bloghyped.com/want-to-be-a-better-father-stop-trying-to-be-a-good-man/

[atragedycalledexistence]

Hi, so here we are. If you’re here, then I either told you the link and you’re a friend, or you stumbled in some how from the world wide web. Either way, hello and welcome! I’m glad you’re here and hope you’ll decide to stay awhile.

Since this is my first post on here, I’ll tell you a bit of my story, as most of you probably won’t know me personally. I first started on Instagram, using a private account that I only shared with close friends, as a way to vent my struggles in an artistic way. But, Instagram is also where tons of my high school peers are also recording every moment of their lives. I wanted more of an anonymous platform away from the prying eyes of all the teens from my high school and university. So, hence my blog moving to tumblr. Now for the juicy details you really want to know.

I’m a 21 year old university student living in the United States, but before this I was a 13 year old kid scared to death of my mind. I went through middle school and the entirety of high school without a clinical diagnosis, so basically I was at war with my mind 24/7 for 6 years before someone was finally able to tell me what was wrong with me. 

At the young age of 12 I lost my best friend to suicide. I was one of the last people to talk to him alive and I didn’t even notice, so I carried the weight on my shoulders of thinking I could have stopped him if I wasn’t so naive. He was 3 years older than me and knew a lot more of the cruel world than I did. His death and the events afterward is where I began my journey. A year after my best friend’s death, I lost my grandfather, whom I was very close to, to cancer. The following year I started high school. Going through school I was always the little alt rock kid who was a nerd through and through. So, with my alternative look and interests came a target on my back visible to everyone. I was an easy target for misplaced anger and stress. I would listen to the insults hurled at me without saying a word back. That being said, I didn’t exactly have anyone to talk to about the things I was feeling. At the age of 16 I had my first psychotic break. And when I say psychotic break, I mean insomnia, voices in my head, swallowing meds, the whole nine. By the age of 16 I was, unknowingly misusing opioids to cope with the voice in my head and the crippling anxiety that kept me from doing the simplest of tasks like sleeping, eating, waking up in the morning, and even talking to friends. So, I would take codeine (left over from an illness I previously had) to knock myself out and cause me sleep. The effects the drug had on me, as I know they are different for other people, were basically the fact that it made me both lethargic and incredibly tired. I would dose myself up good just to finally get a good night’s rest after being up for four days straight. This was also at the same age that my self harm was to a point that I would need stitches, but I thought if I told my parents they’d freak out. So, that resulted in me keeping a sewing needle and thread in my sock drawer for those nights I went a little too far. I became my own medic. I still to this day don’t know how I didn’t get some kind of grotesque infection from my crude sutures. That same year I figured if you took enough of any medication it would kill you. I laid in bed one night and swallowed, what I thought was, several doses of the same medicine I’d used to put myself to sleep. It was enough to make me sick as hell, but not to kill me. Today, I am incredibly thankful for this, but back then it was just another thing I couldn’t do right.

I thought that graduating high school would bring about a whole knew life for me, but it didn’t. I wasn’t magically cured just by receiving my diploma. As I started college, I found out that while you were an active student of the university, the health center was free to use. So, at the age of 19, I finally mustered up enough courage to go to the heath center and admit myself into the counseling services they offered. I can, without a doubt in my mind, tell you that that was the best decision I have ever made in my life. And if I’m being honest, it saved my life. The counselors and therapists at my university are all medically certified and they are all so sweet and caring. I actually have a wonderful bond with my therapist and I’m thankful for his guidance and help every day. Anyways, I was clinically diagnose with OCD, Manic Depression, and Generalized Anxiety Disorder. So, hello and welcome to my blog about my life as a manic depressive, anxiety ridden kid just trying to make it. These are the accounts of my life as the manic episodes hit or as I need to vent and bring light to an issue I’m dealing with. I’m hoping to show other people out there with the same mental disorders that life can go on, and sometimes its good and sometimes its bad, but regardless you are never alone.   This blog was made to use both of my artistic abilities, in writing and photography, to express my personal feelings about my disorders.

*side note: all photos used are my photos (unless otherwise specified) and watermarked for protection of my art*