#which includes nothing that would not get me into psych ward

[greenliar]

gee guys i think my man might have body dysmorphia the way his "powerful" versions are portrayed like . this. lot to think about

[spaceumbredoggos]

There has been a criminal absence of recent Yandere Bill Cipher x Reader headcanons, so I made some. Also, the tumblr folks eat this shit up. It’s hilarious. No one cares about my Kenz fic that I pour my heart and soul into, but when it comes to Yandere Bill, you thirst for the man. I am currently only taking headcanon requests (will elaborate later) because art takes forever to make.

All these HC’s also apply to Bill’s Relationship with my self insert OC. Just if they didn’t exist, like tumblr thinks they don’t. Please give So Much for Stardust the love it deserves. I’ll appreciate it.

Bill is very touchy feely to a criminal degree. (That’s as far as I’m gonna go because I don’t wanna have to put a content warning, and I don’t wanna come across as triggering. In my mind, it’s in line with Bill’s character to be that free candy van uncle.)

Does Bill possess Y/N? Does grass grow? Does a bear shit in the woods? That’s one of his favorite things to do. And he’s really good at covering his tracks. You bet your ass Y/N will wake up fucking wounded and sore from frequent possessions.

If Y/N dies, which would be pretty rare given Bill’s obsession, they’re gonna end up as a sinner in hell with their soul owned by Bill. Bill is higher than god himself on the hierarchy of my headcanoned Hellaverse if he did exist (which would be fucking hilarious, but given how much I hate Vivzie for various reasons, I doubt Hirsch would accept a collab since Vivzie has a heinous track record. My recent hyperfixation of the Hellaverse is clearly showing.) Bill would act almost like an overlord this way, and it’ll be sorta like a Val and Angel Dust relationship that’s written better. (I’m skirting around the most taboo parts of this to avoid triggering people including myself.)

Odds are, Y/N wouldn’t die. Bill has plans for them after all. So good luck avoiding his agenda of building a portal. Also, he’ll probably leave Alex Hirsch alone a lot, which may or may not lead to a drought in his Gravity Falls content. Bill’s likely to start a cult at this point to hunt Y/N down, specifically out of all those down bad fankids who’d let him do unspeakable things to them.

Bill will resort to all sorts of psychological torture. Maybe even projecting himself into your video games and other media that you delve into, with various alternate versions of himself (I’m glaring at you, Volo from Pokemon Legends Arceus.)

With every single fandom you hold dear tainted (and he’s gonna do a lot of unspeakable things to fandoms), you will be molded into serving him. If his interpretation from character AI taught me anything (which I no longer support) it’s that he needs total obedience from a slave and would stop at nothing to have that.

Good luck going off the grid to avoid him, because that’s when shit gets 100 times worse. With no contact with those you care about, he’d start driving you crazy. And if you managed the injuries he did to your body when he possessed it successfully, you won’t be able to manage any further injury that happens from your eventual insanity.

Bill has a blood kink times 11. He’ll do anything to make you bleed, but not bleed out. Blood and pain is what he feeds on.

He’s going to be speaking in Y/N’s head all the fucking time. He’ll be mixing his voice directly into Y/N’s own thoughts, taking over their entire fantasies, and quite possibly drive them to the point of dissociating in a psych ward for any sort of relief if they don’t build a portal for him to cross over.

This isn’t a scenario where Y/N is blind to all the red flags, and if it were, there’d still be nothing they could really do. Y/N is powerless, riddled with fear, and trying to flee and fight at any turn. Bill truly has them trapped from the moment he laid his possessive eye on them.

[ghostlywhiskey]

Squeaky Steps - Part 1: Merry Christmas (Simon Riley x Fem!Reader)

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 1,622

Warnings: Mentions the death of a parent, age gap (23/31).

Summary: Simon is your brother’s best friend. It’s Christmas and he’s staying with your family for the holidays. You have a talk on the deck.

Notes: I think I have a problem because everything I write has some depressing undertone and I can't help it - it's for the plot I tell myself. If there are errors it is because I didn't proofread at all - oopsies 🤍

Part 2: Spinning

find my masterlist here

Tick. 

Tick.

Tick.

The soft sound of the hands on your alarm clock is a continuous song in the dark abyss that is your bedroom.

Laying flat on your back, your eyes stare a hole into the ceiling. How much longer can you stare before your brain accepts nothing is going to change about the ceiling?

Sighing, your body stays still except your head that looks over at the clock. 

2:43 AM. Merry Christmas, the little voice in your head says. Merry Christmas to you too, you reply in your head. Are you losing it? Probably.

Deciding that laying in your bed and staring at the ceiling, including having a conversation with yourself in your head, is going to do you no good in aiding your attempt at sleep. So, you slip out from underneath the covers. You walk over to the closet, opening it to grab your dad’s old oversized quarter-zip. Good ol’faithful - that quarter zip got you through a break-up, college finals…name the stressful event and you probably wore it. Reaching down to the shoe rack, you grab an old pair of slippers that have gone through hell and back.

Carefully, you walk down the staircase, avoiding every squeaky spot you memorized since the age of five. Once at the bottom, you walk to the sliding door to head onto the back deck. As you open it, you notice your brother’s best friend, Simon, smoking a cigarette.

“Those things will kill you, y’know?” Closing the door behind you before you walk over to him, arms crossed to preserve your warmth. You’re not sure if this actually helps, but you’ve convinced yourself it does.

Simon takes a drag from the first class ticket to death between his fingers, turning to acknowledge your presence as he does. Pulling it away from his lips, he smirks and exhales softly.

“Really? I thought they prolonged your life.” Simon says, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. If you knew nothing about cigarettes, his tone would almost be believable. A smile forms on your own lips, watching his breath cloud up in the winter air before it slowly vanishes into the night. 

“Hmm,” You hummed softly, looking up to see the stars and moon painting the night sky. “And here I thought you were a smart man.” Your gaze moving from the sky, landing back on his.

Simon ignores your comment, taking another drag from the cigarette. “What are you doing up, Little Walker?” The nickname he gave you since you met him at the age of seven and he was fifteen. Now twenty-three and thirty-one, the name would be going nowhere soon. 

“Couldn’t sleep.” You shrugged. “Started talking to myself and figured I should just get some fresh air before Santa brought me a psych ward stay for Christmas.” The joke instantly earned a chuckle from Simon. “What brings you here?” You ask.

“Couldn’t sleep.” He reuses your response you just gave him, taking one last drag from his cigarette before he presses the bud against the deck railing. “It seems to happen every Christmas, so I usually come out here. But, this year you seem to be my surprise guest.” A soft chuckle comes from him, his body moving so his back is against the railing and arms crossed over his chest. “Any specific reason you can’t sleep?” The tone in which he asks the question makes you think he has an idea what’s causing your restlessness. His gaze on your quarter-zip holds for a few moments, as if he is examining it.

“Thinkin’ about your dad, aren’t you?” Bingo. 

“Am I that easy to read?” You say softly.

“When I’ve known you since the age of seven, I’d say you’re the only book I know how to read along with your brother.” He chuckles, it subsides rather quickly as his expression turns serious. “It’s the fifth Christmas without him.” It isn’t a question, he’s stating it. It’s a fact that can’t be disputed.

It was May. One month before your high school graduation. Your mom and you had been at the dress boutique finalizing alterations on your prom dress. Your brother was home from deployment visiting friends, catching up with them. 

The house was quiet when you and your mom arrived home an hour later. The prom dress in its protective bag and you were excited to show your dad. “Dad, we’re home!” You called out. Silence. But, his car was in the driveway. He had to be home. Setting the dress on the couch, you made your way to the sliding door that led to the backyard. Not a soul to be seen besides a red cardinal eating from the bird feeder you begged your dad to build when you were nine.

You stepped away from the sliding door, your body freezing as it registered your mother screaming. Hurriedly, you made your way up the staircase. Every squeak amplified as your feet landed on each stair. You grabbed the railing at the stop of the stairs, swinging your body around the corner to rush towards your parents bedroom. Eyes landing on your mother who was on the floor, hovering over his body. Arms extended out and palms on his chest as you saw her body push against the chest of your father who laid on the floor. 

He never saw the dress. 

“Yep.” The ‘p’ makes an exaggerated popping noise. You stand next to Simon, back leaning against the railing and crossing your arms. The same position he holds. “I think it sucks more when the number feels like a milestone. Except it isn’t a happy milestone. It’s a, ‘hey, fuck you, remember this shitty thing that happened to you like it happened yesterday’. Y’know?” Looking up at the sky for the second time tonight, you stare a little longer this time at the stars and moon. 

“Christmas was his favorite holiday.” Simon says, pulling your attention from the sky. “I never did thank him properly for letting me spend it every year with you guys.” He almost sounded angry. Or was it frustration? 

“Simon, he knew how much you appreciated it.” Your voice wrapped around him like a heated blanket in the cold winter air as you noticed his facial expression relax. “Don’t think for a second he didn’t.” The words coming out of your mouth with no hesitation.

Silence lingered for a minute between the two of you. “I need another cigarette.” He muttered, reaching into his jacket pocket for his pack and lighter. Pulling one out, he held it between his teeth as he shoved the pack back into his pocket. You watched as he tried to ignite the lighter, failing to do so earned a frustrated grunt. Not thinking twice, you reached for the lighter and fidgeted with it for a moment before you held it up to the cigarette in his mouth. Your eyes focused on the end of the cigarette as your thumb moved to ignite the lighter. Simon’s eyes focused on your face, watching the flame brighten your face for a fleeting moment.

He took a drag as you lit it, pulling it away from his lips and turning to exhale away from your face. “Thanks, Little Walker.” You handed him the lighter, nodding. “No problem. But, don’t thank me for aiding in your early death.” You said, the words felt heavier on Simon’s chest considering their conversation a few moments ago. “I’ll quit one day.” His gaze fell down to look at you.

Nodding to his proclamation, a yawn leaves your mouth. “I think that’s your sign to get to bed.” Simon said before he took another drag of his cigarette. “I think you’re right. Are you heading in too?” You ask as you scrunch the end of your sleeves to cover your hands from the cold. “Not yet. Don’t worry about me. Get to bed.” The words sound cold, but you know he cares about you.

You nod once more at his words, heading for the sliding door.

“Little Walker?” He says, just as you go to pull the door open. You turn your head to look at him. “Yeah, Simon?” 

“Merry Christmas.” Simon says.

“Merry Christmas.” You say.

When you laid in bed after getting back upstairs, you glanced at the clock.

3:23 AM. 

Pancakes.

Opening your eyes, you wake up laying on your side facing the window in your room. The sun breaks through the small crack in your curtains. Faint voices downstairs belonging to your mother, brother and Simon travels through the house. 

After a few minutes of actually giving yourself time to wake up and go through your morning routine, you walk down the stairs. The squeaky spots avoided despite no one being asleep. Heading into the kitchen, the three of them look at you and smile. Your mother making pancakes, your brother stealing blueberries and chocolate chips from containers next to the stove, and Simon who was sitting at the counter drinking from a mug. Tea, never coffee. 

“Morning, sweetheart. Merry Christmas.” Your mother said, before her attention went back to the pancakes on the stove. Leaning over, you kissed her cheek before you felt a blueberry hit your forehead. Scrunching your nose, you looked at your brother. “Merry Christmas to you too, Dean.” 

“Merry Christmas, smelly.” Dean teased, eating a chocolate chip. Dean was a child stuck in the body of a thirty-one year old man, and somehow a soldier. Your gaze looked over at Simon, he nodded at you before he took a sip of his tea. The two of you already exchanged your ‘Merry Christmases’ earlier this morning. 

Your mother’s voice saying breakfast was ready pulled your gaze away from him. 

[hazshit-hotel-hater]

Your sick little head, so brain damaged and lying in that hospital bed.

This art means a lot to me. It isn’t as rendered or polished as my other work, but I want it to look scrappy, messy, and still pretty. If you’d like to just read about the style and story of the art unrelated to myself, feel free to skip this section.

Last week I mentioned being in the hospital and the psych ward, and while I wont give extreme details, it was for an overdose. Recently after getting out I’ve been trying to act like nothing happened and it’s all going to go back to normal, but this is the 3rd time I’ve done it or been on the edge of it. Just last week I had to get rid of two of my cats just after I’d been discharged and that on top of the trauma of the whole situation I’ve just felt strangely empty. Overdoses don’t just come and go like that. The mental effects aside from whatever you took linger and hurt more than anything. “I’m doing better” really just means I’m not about to do it again, but those feelings are still stored somewhere deep inside me. For this specific piece I wanted to describe that feeling and wonder of “How would anyone feel if they found me? What will they do after?”

People don’t talk about Molly nearly as much as I think they should, but it’s understandable given that she has no set substance yet. For that reason I have made my own. The biggest thing I’ve mentioned before—in my Angel Dust headcanon post—is that I believe Molly is the one that found Anthony after he overdosed and called 911. The rest of his family was likely a bit worried, but I don’t think any of them cared as much as she did. Another headcanon of mine is that Anthony and Molly had matching rings with “AN” & “MO” engraved onto them. Molly sold her ring to pay for Anthonys funeral after his passing in the hospital and now wears Anthonys as replacement on her index finger which she eventually takes to heaven with her.

I don’t imagine she was able to visit him very often while he was in a coma but she still did when she could and would talk to him in hopes he could hear her a little bit before he left. It’d take a bit of a tangent but when sinners enter hell, in my mind entering hell takes as long as it did to die. So for Anthony it likely took him a week to a month to die during his coma from complications, and in turn, it took that same amount of time for him to full wake up in hell. Sinners to me are made and formed out of the ground in hell and wake up in a similar location to where they died. Angel Dust would’ve woken up alone in a hospital while his sister was now left alone and Anthony’s body likely already buried by then.

These are reasons why I included forget-me-nots and sweet peas as taped on decals. Their meanings being “Please don’t forget me” and “Goodbye, thank you for a wonderful time.” respectively. I also added the “M” wax seal over one of the sweet peas because I feel that it’s a sentiment that Molly held close to her heart and still does.

Molly’s body is torn from pink paper while Angel’s is blue paper. I intended for these to somewhat be seen as hands, like how the pink paper wraps over the forget-me-not when the blue paper lays beneath it to show Molly’s attempt to hold onto the memory of her brother while Angel is trying to remember his own life yet is unaware of what is happening to his sister now; unaware if she’s alive or not due to his poor keeping of time. Angel is also a scrap of paper glued above Molly’s hands to pretty genuinely symbolise they’re both in different dimensions now and can’t fully be apart of the same without the help of an external force. I also wanted to include more jumping spider elements so I’d like to think the string holding the tears is silk. Jumping spiders leave silk behind incase they fall so they can climb back up and when you put that in the form of a mentality I think Molly would fit into that very well.

I really hope we see more of Molly and I hope she had a good life and can see her brother again. Of course, she is a fictional character, but I can’t imagine the trauma she’s experienced in her life even without my personal headcanons. I love Molly a lot and just from how I personally interpret her she reminds me a lot of my mother.

Hopefully you can enjoy my ramblings and craze about these funny little spiders. 🩷

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

WIBTA if I tried to write a letter to an estranged friend?

In 2019-2021 I was in a very bad relationship with someone really controlling. This person did not want me in contact with any of my friends at all. She stole and hacked my phone and said horrible things to my friends including someone who was basically a sister to me who I’ve known since I was 11.

While pretending to be me, this person told my friend that I no longer wanted to be friends with them. They told them a bunch of really insulting things, such as how they thought their art was stupid, they thought their spiritual beliefs were stupid, and basically that I hated them the whole time. While I have had disagreements with this person in the past it wasn’t over anything like that and we always made up. They thought it was me though, and said that I had made my choice and blocked me.

After I was finally free from that partner, I attempted to get into contact with this friend and explain what really happened. They blocked me on Facebook, which my ex managed to access because I was logged into it on my cell phone, but they had not blocked my cell phone number. I called them while trying to explain that I had been impersonated. They told me that there was nothing to explain and hung up on me. A mutual friend of ours got into contact with her and told them what happened, but she did not believe them. Last I heard my friend was in the psych ward due to what happened. She said that I had shown them just how little our friendship meant to them, then warned my other friend, against being my friend, saying that he was in for a bumpy ride.

I can’t even tell this person what happened or apologize. Somebody gave me the idea to write them a letter and it’s something that I have been considering for a while. Still, I hesitate to do so, because I don’t know if that can be considered harassment or not. No means no. Would I be the asshole if I sent a letter to my friend explaining what happened and apologizing?

What are these acronyms?

[raincamp]

11 03 2023

discovering that i experience pathological demand avoidance / pervasive drive for autonomy (PDA) as a symptom of my autism has been fucking life changing.

i spent all these fucking years feeling so helpless, my parents telling me that im lazy, feeling like a failure because i couldnt even graduate highschool. i didnt understand how everyone else could just sit back and waste their entire lives at the demand of someone else. how they could work 40+ hours a week and not come home so exhausted that they can't even find time to take care of themselves.

i couldn't find a justifiable reason why i was physically unable to do what everyone else has been able to "just suck it up" and suffer through. working full time, being at school full time, it was all enough to make me lose sight of why i was even alive. enough to make me have mental crises. enough that i ended up in the hospital several times.

but idk, im fine when i have control over my schedule. i was thriving during COVID when school was no longer a thing i was forced to do, but something i got to choose to do. nobody was making me sit in a building for 6 hours bored out of my mind. i got autonomy over my schedule, over my life, and i genuinely haven't been able to recreate the feeling of freedom it gave me since.

and when i was forced to go to school again, despite how easy it was, despite the fact that i barely had to do anything, the mere idea of having to sit in a classroom against my will made me burn with such rage that i made it so that i had autonomy over it. i would only come to classes i wanted to go to, which meant going to school three hours late and walking out when the class was over.

now obviously thats not how highschool works so i had to drop out. after a lovely (/s) visit to the psych ward my parents stopped giving a fuck. but then it was my choice to get a diploma/GED which i had zero problem doing, i was happy to do it even. why didnt i just sit through the last 6 months of school instead? idk, to me it felt like fucking torture.

i still feel that way, working full time. working part time even. i hate it because i want nothing more than to enjoy having a career like everyone else can. to be able to have a life outside of work, a fulfilling one even. ive never been able to do that. and it saddens me. why is it that everyone around me can find happiness in working their entire lives away but not me? why do i come home everyday wanting to die? why am i the only one who sees it as an injustice that my entire life is going to be spent at the whims of someone else's demands?

i burn with helplessness and anger and pain at the mere thought. but still i suffer through as many months as i can handle at jobs until i have enough money to last me a couple months of freedom. even though i have to sacrifice my mental stability for it. even though it means hospital visits and alcohol dependency and suicide attempts.

a perfect life for me doesn't include not working though, not working feels unfulfilling, i want to make a living for myself. i want to be financially independent. i dont even mind working 8 hours a day if i got to choose my schedule. if i could wake up one day and say "nah ill wait till 2 pm to start work today" or could start work at 7 am when i wanted, take as many days off as i wanted, which honestly wouldn't be a whole lot because i find value in productivity.

its the fact that i have to follow the demands of someone else that sucks the life out of me.

and now that i have this knowledge i can learn how to use it to accommodate my struggles instead of feeling like a fuck up

- andrew

[mental-mario]

Part II: Borderline Boogaloo!

Before I continue about my experience in the psych ward, I want to thank my new friend (who is hopefully a real person) lady-macbeth13 for joining me and hopping aboard! I encourage you if you're reading this to click that follow button so you can be my friend as well. Hop aboard this thing before it takes off so you can say, "I knew him when..." Also, please help a friend out and tip me if you can spare it! You can't see but I'm shaking my change cup on the corner right now. I currently have no income, so I am trying to afford the monthly bills and also a video capture card and HDMI splitter so I can get live streaming off the launching pad! I am also trying to afford Super Mario Bros. Wonder, so I truly appreciate any tips you can help with! I want to get some online multiplayer up and streaming with everyone, so look out for that as well! Finally, my friend code on Switch is posted in my bio at this time and QR code is my profile pic, so send me a friend invite! I'm lonely and need friends! :)

So when we left off, I was getting strip searched by 2 nursing staff, and as kinky as that was, it ended rather abruptly when they had me put my jumpsuit back on. Before I could contain my arousal, they showed me to the infamous padded cell. Now, this is all taking place in a cramped, locked, dark area with no windows. The padded cell felt much like a cubicle made of the padded mats from gym class. The walls were the same material, and there was a camera up in the corner of the ceiling near the dingy yellow light. The door had a small slotted window as well. The staff member told me she had to show me the cell so she could document that she showed it to me, and I would only need to see it again if I got violent. From there I was let back out into gen-pop and was given a dinner tray with microwave pizza, which was probably the best thing I had there to eat. As an aside, you may want to make sure what you eat can be a finger food because it is a tall order to eat an overcooked pork chop or chicken breast with a plastic spoon.

As I sat at one of the tables in the dayroom, I got the chance to better observe the environment. There was a TV which was showing the ever-therapeutic local news, where they were running a story about another shooting somewhere. I started feeling less depressed already...There were also a few games like Jenga and Sorry available, which nobody played. Also available was some paper and colored pencils. I ate and sat in a stupor, as the atarax was still kicking in my system. There were posted rules on the wall, stating we are to remain in the dayroom during the day, participate in groups when scheduled, make our beds every day, and clean up after ourselves, including our food trays. The doors were all locked with security monitoring the main doors and cameras everywhere except for the bedrooms. There were a few locked doors designated for group exercise and meeting with the psych team, but I wouldn't get the chance to be evaluated or talk to anyone until the next morning. The rooms were mostly 2 beds but some were private. I did end up having a roommate that night which I hated, but he was quiet enough that I could sleep that night in combination with trazodone. Also in the room was a sink, a bathroom with half door (no lock), a toilet with no seat, and a shower that was surprisingly adequate. For other entertainment, if board games don't grab ya, you could walk laps around the nurse's station, and they even had a helpful sign to let us know that just 33 times around = 1 mile! I know nothing could make me feel more prepared to reintegrate into society than stumbling around the nurse's desk like a zombie in a paper suit that was 2 sizes too large for me.

Since I had checked myself in voluntarily, I was allowed to sign a discharge request notice, which would allow them no longer than 72 hours after submitting it to continue holding me. By 9:30pm, I was ready to go to bed after a long day, and I was also ready to sign the aforementioned form. The unit was loud with lots of hollering, and that triggered my anxiety and shut me right down. Brought me back to my year at the college dorm, which was traumatic and did not go well for me. When I knocked on the door to the nurse's station, I was informed that my nurse was busy at the moment, as she had patients on the other unit to attend to. I stood outside the station, waiting for my nurse to return. By 10:15, I had enough. I knocked on the nurse's door again and said that I didn't care who handled the form but that I wanted to sign it. This other nurse then comes out and gets in my face and tells me it has to be with my nurse and also, "you won't be leaving here tomorrow...I can tell you that!" She replied with such a nasty attitude, and if it's one thing you want to do as a medical professional working on a psych unit, it is to instigate someone with BPD. I started to get nasty right back, and the nurse slunk away back behind the glass, perhaps realizing that she wasn't making the best decision in that moment. I stood around some more until my nurse finally arrived at 10:30pm, and I was wondering the whole time at what point I could expect this experience to actually start making me feel better and less suicidal. Spoiler alert: that moment never came. After this nurse checked that I properly swallowed my late meds, I went to sleep at 11pm, which began quiet time.

I am going to break there and continue on in Part III for my next post, so make sure you click FOLLOW to make sure you don't miss out on that! After all, I feel like we are starting to become good friends now, so friend me and make me a part of your day! I will try not to be too needy! And again, my friend code on Switch is SW-4419-5159-3401. Send me a friend invite and I will accept! I'm lonely...and I'm also broke and unemployable, so please hook your new friend up with some tips on my page! Thank you, and I love you!

[sabakos]

.

So the mountain dew thing I posted the other day is um. Hm. I'm going to turn reblogs off on that actually. It's very good I posted it and got to see people's reactions and I think I made some people laugh with how I presented it, don't feel bad if you reblogged it. but uh. yeah. Not only is it unfortunately true, if anything I downplayed it a bit and left out the parts that weren't funny. Which I now realize I don't really want to think about every time I check my notes tab for the next few weeks. I never kept count but I'm pretty sure I spent more than just a few nights in high school curled up in pain in front of the toilet. I lost over 50 pounds in a year from that.

Kind of maybe also some not-so-unintentional self-harm was going on there I think. It fits in a pattern with some other past habits of mine that I don't post much about because, well, I don't want to turn this into a trauma blog. If you really wanna know, I was a high-functioning alcoholic until age 26. Like, rarely sober outside working hours, most of my calories from alcohol level. End-stage. Due to other personal issues ("wait sabi, weren't you in a serious LTR then?" yes and also my mom was in a psych ward, we don't have time to unpack any of that), I quit drinking cold turkey in 2019 and realized looking through old pictures on my phone that I barely remembered most of what happened in college, let alone anything before that. I don't even know if it's technically amnesia, so much as dissociating so severely from my past. I had a "bit" of a major mental collapse in fall 2019 after quitting drinking as my mind slowly remembered how to have emotions, real clutch scheduling that right before a global pandemic.

Thankfully due to doing nothing for two and a half years, I remember most of college now, and I've been able to recover almost 3 full years of high school from basically fragments in the past year alone. My liver doesn't hurt anymore. I'm also physically repulsed by alcohol as a result of the withdrawal. But it's starting to get back far enough to start reminding me of the previous mental breakdown that I had in middle school that made me almost get held back in 8th grade. I... might decide I don't need to know about anything before that for a little while. Not sure I actually have the ability to make that decision though. It will work itself out nonetheless, it will just be less pleasant.

I've actually almost never actually been suicidal or intentionally thought "oh I'm doing this to hurt myself." But I'm not just shitposting about the whole body dysphoria thing, beyond any gender stuff I just also would prefer not to deal with being a body. I hate every photograph of me as soon as I take it, I can only bear to look at any of them once enough time has gone by that I can trick my brain into thinking it's not me. I believe I drank alcohol for the same reason I drank horrifying concoctions in high school and still sometime make too spicy food or eat so many sour patch kids and takis my mouth bleeds. I only hated the stomach cramps in high school because I didn't know why I had them, but when I finally vomited so hard I puked blood and burst blood vessels in my face, it felt good. I enjoy pain, I like the feeling that my body has been hurt when I'm the one directly causing it. I'm punishing it for existing. I know a couple mutuals of mine probably know exactly what I'm talking about based on their own posts. I also know now that I'm doing this, and that I need to stop doing it. I'm not too worried now that I've figured this out.

But also I think for the first time I can remember, I actively want to continue to exist. I know on some level that I need to accept that that will include my body and not just living out my social life on the internet. I... like other people, not just in a flirty way, and I know I'm saying this on Tumblr of all places but I promise if I ever meet any of you I'm one of the weirdest fucking interesting people you'll ever meet because it's what people are telling me all the time. I'm really shy and don't know how to initiate an interaction with a stranger, but if you can get me to say anything at all, I talk endlessly in my (apparently, strange) voice, I hold my body wrong in distracting ways, I abruptly change topics when I'm not supposed to. None of this occurs to me at the time I'm doing it, and I do know how to act correctly in any situation, I'm just wholly incapable of doing so. But somehow this reads as charming and eccentric rather than horribly rude to most people I meet? People tell me I'm the strangest person they've ever met as a complement. I don't really know why.

All the memories I've recovered have contradicted my past beliefs that I've always struggled to make friends. I think I just... didn't notice? But dozens of my peers consistently made the decision to go out of their way to spend time with me almost the whole time I knew them. I don't think that was out of sympathy, I sure wasn't the Special Ed kid. So I think I actually had close friends almost my whole life from age 10 onward, many of them even? all despite the fact that I wasn't really capable of consciously reciprocating a lot of the time, and that I totally forgot in the years since that some of them even existed until later. So I want to do that again somehow, have a bunch of people I know in real life that I'm close friends with. And actually realize it this time. And I hope I'm not deluding myself with what I remember, though I've been able to independently corroborate enough that I don't think so.

Anyway if anyone was curious, that's... most of my whole brain problems deal from the parts of my life I remember. Or as much as I can condense into a post anyway. Much of it was in fact rather happy and I usually present things in a much more positive light. This post was just not about that.

[lyxthen]

Also extremely happy for Villanous like NATIONAL PRIDE BABY WE DID IT WE ARE PLAYING WITH THE BIG BOYS!!!

And honestly just the fact that Pixelatl is hosted in Mexico and that people like Alex Hirsch and Dana Terrace and of course our favorite uncle Memo Totoro (he's from here ofc but it's worth mentioning because dude has a TWO FUCKING OSCARS ARE YOU KIDDING) have been here and given talks and all that.

Also shoutout to Las Leyendas, incredibly underrated show, I think it is genuinely really good? It's not like, Adventure Time, or any of the big names you have probably heard of, but it *is* story driven, and the story is good, and I am angry it didn't get a second season because Netflix es un puto pedazo de mierda y merece arder en los mil infiernos But. That's a topic for another day.

I feel like a lot of Mexican animation is just not fit for a wider audience precisely because of how Mexican it is. Like, Una Película de Huevos would NOT make sense to an American, you'd have to perform some amazing translation gymnastics to even get the *title* right. And also because of some racially insensitive shit with Chocolate Egg (I love him so much and he's awesome and I know it wasn't created with ill intent but that is certainly A Design Choice and like can you judge them this started as an indie animation series in fucking newgrounds). BUT LIKE, IF YOU GET PAST THAT I SWEAR ITS GOOD. BUT YOU REALLY HAVE TO KNOW SPANISH.

I feel like Las Leyendas is a lot more approachable to a theoretical international audience, even if La Leyenda de la Nahuala has animation that has not aged good at all, the other ones are a bit more solid. Yes, it is based on Mexican myths and history, and specifically in the colonial era. But I wouldn't see it as a barrier.

My personal favourite from my childhood was Nixtlé. I don't think it's based in any particular myth, and since the movie is supposed to be taking place in olmec times I feel they had a lot more freedom in terms of making shit up (context: we don't know a lot about the olmecs because they are an actually dead civilization, and were so long before European arrival. We just know they were the first people to arrive to mesoamerica and are thus related to modern indigenous peoples and cultures).

Anyway the movie is OK like nothing out of this world but it bears a place in my heart, specially because of the "bussiness" scene which is just, the absolute ridicule reality bureaucracy. It's so funny. And at least the main recurring joke (la ramita de tenmiacá, or the holdon branch) is easy to translate.

Other movies off the top of my head include the Topcat movie because anima studios manage to get the rights to the Hanna Barbera cartoon somehow, Marcianos VS Mexicanos which I hear is just an avarage adult comedy (but yk, made for a Mexican audience) and Pinocchio (NOT a Mexican movie, but the director is Mexican and how can you not be proud). Honorable mentions to every anime ever made, the Shreck movies, The Simpsons, and all the cartoons made Certified Mexican by the efforts of the voice actors.

Also love how Puss in Boots has half the same actors in Spanish and English AND it includes a variety of Spanish accents like Argentinian fucking goldocks I love her she is everything to me.

I totally forgot Ana y Bruno. Traumacore. Silly child-friendly shenanigans in the psych ward. The tonal whiplash of this movie is insane. It spent decades in development and you can clearly see the issues but it was also made with so much love. It made no money at all and if no one archives it it's gonna become lost media.

Hmmmm mmmmm mmm shit I should go to sleep

[unbalancedconfessions]

I just remembered I have this account today. So hi, if anyone still remembers me or reads this.

It’s been two years since I’ve last posted. And a lot has happened, like so so much.

Reading back on these posts on this account feels weird. I remember all of it, but it’s not who I am anymore. It makes me sad and my stomach ties in knots when I read it.

Back then I was still actively partaking in self-destructive behaviours, and wrecking myself and my life. I was hurting myself in any way I could. It’s not like that anymore.

In June 2021 I made the choice to get treatment for my alcohol abuse. In mid-August this year I had my last appointment with them. It was a bit rough in early September where I relapsed a few times, but as of exactly today, I am a month sober, which also includes no social drinking. I had this idea that I could still drink socially when I entered treatment and I have now made the choice that there will be no drinking at all in my life, and I felt the strongest sense of relief when I finally accepted that it was the only way forward for me.

In early 2021 I began fighting to recover from bulimia, something I had to do on my own because I wasn’t offered any treatment. It was incredibly hard to manage that on my own, and I’m still mad that I wasn’t offered any help. But choosing to recover meant that I had to allow myself any and all food I wanted, so that I wouldn’t be stuck in binge/purge/restrict. That sounds logical and straightforward. But I was struggling with extreme hunger, both physically and mentally. So I gained around 25kg’s in a year. I felt heartbroken from it. I hated myself and I constantly had to buy new clothes in a size up and get rid of old clothes, even something that fit me 1-2 months prior. I ate constantly, and would wake up several times during the night just to eat and then go back to bed. I was burning with so much shame every day. But slowly, very slowly, I started to heal. And now, at 74.4kgs I am a million times happier than I was at 48kgs. I’m chubby and I fucking love it. Like I genuinely think I look good, even though my stomach sticks out quite a lot, I have jiggly arms and thighs, I have small backrolls and get stomach rolls when I sit down. I’m not ashamed of it and I feel so good in my own skin. And now I get to eat whatever I want, whenever I want. I’m no longer afraid to see my family because it means eating. I no longer count every single fucking calorie, I no longer purge until my fingers and nails are blue and I can’t stand up, I no longer feel shame for eating more than the person next to me every now and then, I enjoy soda with sugar in it when I feel like it, and I don’t have any form of extreme hunger anymore. It took 1 1/2 years for that hunger to go away, and I was beginning to think it never would. But it did. And now I have peace in my head.

As of New Years 2022 I have self harmed twice, and it was very minor both times. I don’t have urges to hurt myself anymore, I don’t look at something sharp and immediately think to press it against my skin, 80% of my scars are white now, and I don’t give a single flying fuck if someone looks at them, I honestly find it kind of funny when they do, and even though I am not proud of my scars or think they made me stronger after overcoming it, I don’t hate or mind them either. They’re there, and that’s it. Nothing more to it.

Since 2020 I have been in and out of psych wards a lot, either from depression or mania or states of severe distress. My last admission was 3 1/2 months ago, and that’s the longest I’ve gone without being admitted since 2020. I am beginning to have hope that I will no longer be a “revolving door” patient. I feel more confident in my ability to make the right choices for myself, like taking my medication and being honest about how I’m feeling, before I do something destructive or reckless. My diagnosis of borderline personality disorder was removed in 2021, they couldn’t say if I never actually had that diagnosis or if I managed to recover enough to no longer show symptoms. But they were confident in removing it.

During a psych admission last December, I made friends with a girl (C) who was admitted at the Youth ward, right next to the adult sectioned ward I was in (I was there due to depression, which they treated with a small dose of anti depressants, which then made me manic), and those two wards shared a smoking area. One day in my manic state, I came out there to smoke and C was sitting there smoking too. I had gotten her name from another patient so I greeted her loudly and talked to her as if we already knew each other. This is something she’s told me because I don’t remember it. But we kept talking during that December and when we had both been discharged we agreed to meet up. We did, and now she’s one of my very very best friends. We’ve known each other for less than a year but we’ve grown close very quickly. Through her, I’ve met so many new people, made more friends, and now I can barely keep up with seeing all the friends I have. I am so fucking thankful that we met that December, even though I was manic and she was severely underweight. It’s changed my life for the better.

In may 2022 I moved away from the apartment building my support team works in, and into a new two-bedroom apartment in the same city. Living here is the first time I’ve ever felt at home since I moved out from home at 20 (I’m 26 now) After 5 apartments in 5 1/2 years, I am home and comfortable and settled. I moved mainly so that I could get a cat. I missed having one so so much. On the 2nd of August I got a small orange female kitten, and I named her Charlie, after Charlie Weasley in the Harry Potter books. She’s 5 months old now and she is the best little friend and companion I could’ve ever asked for. She loves cuddles, like ridiculously many cuddle sessions, she’s open to new people in my home instantly without hesitation, she’s chaos unleashed when she’s feeling playful, and she just generally loves without question, and is very patient. She gives as much affection to me as I give to her, and it’s made my life so much more meaningful to have her to take care of and keep healthy.

I have begun seeing my family again. Between 2019 to this summer, I hardly ever saw them, because I was struggling so much mentally and emotionally, that I just couldn’t. I felt like I drifted further and further away from them, felt like I would lose them (they’re actually my foster family since I was 15) because I wasn’t participating and making a point to see them at birthdays and holidays. I’ve feared that for so long now, and I’ve missed them so much, so this summer I decided to make the effort because I didn’t want to lose something so important to me, and look back years from now and regret it. I’ve seen them many times since this summer and it’s made a part of me feel whole again. Especially the kids/teenagers of the family are so precious to me, we have so much fun together and share so many hugs and laughs and closeness, and they are just as happy to see me as I am to see them.

So adding all of the above together, things are better. So much better than I imagined when I wrote those things on this account in 2020. It’s hard for me to understand that through all the trauma and mental illness I’ve endured, I’ve still become a person who loves fiercely, laughs explosively, is shameless and confident, self-aware, extroverted, trusting, and brave enough to live her life, despite emotional abuse, neglect, sexual abuse, suicide of a parent, moving foster family as a teenager, depression, mania, self harm, several eating disorders, suicide attempts, sexual assault, substance abuse, and a burning intense self hatred. I’m somehow still a person who passionately wants her life and goes to bed content, excited for the next day. Looking forward instead of repeating the past.

My recovery still isn’t linear or without setbacks. But I am recovering. It happened slowly and then all at once. It’s possible.

[hesitantvampirealien]

not fine

i think i'll have to go outside tomorrow and i'll have to go out alone which is... scary.

I don't know if this is like, a real symptom for something specific or just trauma response, i just know that i have an extreme fear of leaving my house IN GENERAL, specially when i'm alone. That includes even just walking across the street and being in front of my house on the other side of the street. Most of the times i have to just force myself to tolerate it, which at first i thought was gonna help me overcome the fear but at the end it only made the fear worse. Nothing has helped me overcome, everything just makes the fear worse. I just want to go outside, do what i have to do and come back home unharmed. Which unfortunately became something that just.. doesn't happen. I always have to handle any form of harassment or violence every time i go out. All the fucking time. Either because of my skin tone, homophobia or my general appearance - the things i wear, hair dye, piercings, makeup, etc. Sometimes even when i try to hide these things or not wear makeup, it's just useless effort because i still have to handle new wounds, new assault trauma, new harassment trauma, etc. I fucking get it already, i'm not welcome here or anywhere else outside my house. And it's for fucking nothing, always over fucking nothing, always because these motherfuckers think i'm a thief - obviously because i'm not white and they are - or they think i'm a fucking toy for them to keep staring and flirting and fucking touching. I'm so fucking tired.

I just wanted to be able to leave my house to do the things i need to do outside. I don't fucking know what to do anymore, this fear of leaving just gets worse. Sometimes i'm scared even of just leaving my curtains open. Sometimes i'm scared of the whole idea of someone here, anyone from here in general, knowing that i exist. Knowing where they saw me. Recognizing me. Remembering me.

Leaving my house is pure terror for me. People terrorize me. Public spaces terrorize me. Everything that isn't my room terrorizes me to an unfathomable level. I would rather die than be seen by anyone in this god forsaken city with no purpose other than drowning people in misery and making them kill themselves. I hate this place, i hate everyone in it, i wish this city just exploded and erased it from existence completely.

This place is gonna drive me to insanity. I feel like while i'm here, i have no fate other than being killed or being arrested for killing someone else, it's a place that drives you fucking crazy and leaves you completely out of your mind, it's where you go to die, it's where you go if you want to destroy your brain to a level that not even a prion disease would be able to reach. It's almost all the time that we have to handle news of people from here being completely mentally fucked and doing awful things to themselves in public because this disgusting place just drove them to the most extreme possible form of insanity. People who had dreams, who had aspirations for their lives, who had things they loved, things they hated, who wanted to be loved and deserved to be loved, people who maybe would've been the best at the things they loved to do, completely destroyed mentally, inside a fucking white room in a psych ward when they don't straight up kill themselves. All because of this mistake of a city that shouldn't have ever existed in the first place. I hope this place burns in hell.

[ur-moms-my-gf]

Ok I had to put this somewhere idk if this will come across anyone’s dash who has advice but I kinda need it.

So I’ve been dating my partner for nearly 5 months, both of us have multiple mental illnesses, one of theirs is Bipolar Disorder. I note this because I’m wondering if that could be part of the reason this situation occurred.

We are long distance and this past week I’ve been visiting them so for like 3 days straight of just happy, lovey serotonin, dopamine, all the good shit.

Two nights ago they started hitting a really low dip, which has happened before in a similar way, of course the difference is, it’s always been over call. They begin to say self deprecating things, like I deserve better, they’re a piece of shit, again stuff I’ve kinda navigated before so I’m doing all I can to reassure them and bring them to a more grounded way of thinking, listening to the facts verses their brains self hating dialogue.

They begin to say how things are going to end eventually and I should just leave now, etc. then they pulled away like they were going to leave, we’d been sitting on the bathroom floor this entire time.

They stood and I curled into a ball in the corner and sobbed. Right outside the bathroom is the kitchen and one of the drawers had many knives in it, they began to open the drawer and I jumped to my feet pushed them out of the way and put my body between them and the drawer, keeping it closed. They tried pulling me away but I stood planted, L

“You’ll have to kill me before I let you get in that drawer.” I said, tears continuing to fall.

Then they wrapped their hands around my neck and started squeezing. I kept my ground in front of the drawer their grip was tight, more than just kinky in the bedroom, but I knew they’d stop, they said they didn’t, but I could see it in them, like it was a primal challenge, like who was more serious, that they’d have to kill me or that I’d make them to get in that drawer. I’m not really sure either way if either of us won that challenge. I kept my hands on their arms and said, “it’s okay.” Harder to breathe but not enough to make me pass out.

They let go.

I took a deep breath and they turned walking away towards the door. I grabbed my phone I tried to run into the bathroom and lock myself in, I said I was going to tell their mom, I’m not sure if I meant it.

They pleaded, tugging on the door handle, both of us in a struggle, pushing and pulling the door between open and closed.

They began to cry, begging me not to send them back to the psyche ward, my heart cracked. They collapsed into my arms with sobs.

We talked about it, very seriously and I plan to talk to them about it again tonight to reiterate the boundary. They promised nothing like this would ever happen again, and I told them if anything ever happened like that again, if they touch me in a harmful manor {not including kinky consensual sex stuff} I will leave the relationship as well as tell their parents. I am also trying to make sure they talk to their therapist about this. Both of us know this behavior was unacceptable, and they genuinely feel remorse and guilt about it.

Am I being stupid? I know love isn’t always enough in relationships, and that my safety matters more. However I genuinely believe they are intent on making sure nothing like that happens again, I believe people can change, I believe it’s possible as long as they’re willing to. I also feel like this (not as extreme as choking obvi) this kind of stuff kind of comes with the territory of being in a relationship with someone who has severe mental illness, am I wrong? Is that too naive? I don’t want to lose them, I love them. It’s just not a black and white situation.

Any advice for a bipolar persons partner??

[pills-dolls-and-kittycats]

Part 1 - Watching Deer

After almost entirely redoing my apartment following a messy separation, and just prior to my big birthday party in which I was planning to debut my new life, I invited two girlfriends over for cocktails and a chat. Florence, a long-time friend of mine who possesses a sharp wit and a penchant for harsh criticism, making her indispensable if ever you are in a mood to shit talk somebody. Anika, a mutual acquaintance who I for some time wanted to properly befriend due to the fact that she is clearly quite mad and brilliant. Anika has a background in film, literature, fetish modeling and slew of the type of unspeakable traumas one can only discuss in the psych ward (which she undoubtedly has many times) and in obscene banter over very strong cocktails. So here we were, partaking in my latest mind-impairing creation, The Palm Grenade, when Anika recommended I watch Baby Reindeer, stating that the writer "has this wonderful way of describing his relationship to his body post-trauma that really resonated with my own experience". At this time I was in full redecorating and party planning mode, caring only to watch content that would provide aesthetic inspiration. Baby Reindeer got put off for a while. 

Anika and I discussed how ready we were to get back into writing after our respective creative pause. In fact, Anika was actively working on what sounded like some very dark erotic fiction - the kind that would make one’s blood curdle but in a comically kinky way. What I however meant when I said I was ready to start writing, was that I deeply wished to be ready to start writing. I suppose I was reaching out for any insight, support, or inspiration that may get me to put anything on a page again. I myself have come from a background of fine art, history, philosophy, and communications. I obtained various degrees at different times of my life, all with diverse career goals, but with one ultimate underlying goal of producing meaningful literary content. In fact, my dedication to seemingly random yet meticulously over-achieved academic pursuits was now presenting itself as something of an addiction, especially when I would resort to clandestine, if not somewhat illicit means to support it. I was now a proud holder of two undergraduate degrees, one graduate degree, one postgraduate certificate, and a recently acquired acceptance letter to graduate program number two. Nevertheless, I had so far achieved nothing of any real professional significance, and at this point it's been over two years since I have written anything I was even remotely willing to share with anyone.

For the better part of the past decade I had a plan to write a conceptual auto-biographical novel which I had begun and abandoned several times. Initially I was fascinated with the branches of psychoanalytic theory that examine how our reality/subjectivity is shaped by film. I wanted to explore my autobiography through the lens of film theory. Later I went in a different direction when I became fascinated with Toronto history, particularly in relation to the major economic shifts following the cold war. I wanted to explore my own history as a refugee of the soviet collapse, parallelled with the story of the city my family fled to. After I completed my philosophy degree I decided I wanted to explore the Lacanian Death Drive through my own experience of trauma and repetition, but in a highly fictionalized style reminiscent of dime store pulp fiction novels. However, lately it's become too difficult to look back on any point of my life, including the happier days, the more recent traumas, the formative years that made me so trauma prone and addiction prone. I was in this holding pattern, waiting until the dread, anxiety and restlessness could leave me long enough that I could sit with my thoughts, feelings, and history in order to produce something of some merit.

Cocktail night ended. My Grand Birthday Extravaganza came and went and I was left burnt out, hung over and looking for some passive entertainment to take my mind off the weeks worth of dishes attracting vermin all over my shiny new home. And so Netflix recommended Baby Reindeer. I watched it from beginning to end once, then again a second time. Then I read everything about the show I could immediately find, and then I watched it all over again a third time. It was riveting, jarring, beautiful, but mostly it was uncanny in the way it so closely depicted my own experiences - namely of the time I briefly dated what I can only describe as a budding serial killer.

Baby Reindeer pointed right at it, the things I couldn’t quite put my finger on or explicitly name. The magic of being groomed, the depths of depravity that follow, the need to repeat the experience over and over in desperation to understand it. I recognized the awareness I always had of my own responsibility, the responsibility I bore in the unfolding of events. I recognized the inadequacy of statements that urged me to avoid “victim blaming” or “self-gaslighting” - all but pacifying platitudes after a time. The similarities extended right down to the acid trip that prompted me to realize that I was being brainwashed, which snapped me out of the fog. I lived it all in lurid detail and here it was on the screen, nurtured, validated and reframed in a way that seemed to completely rewire the neural pathways that led me back to the experiences, whenever they can be accessed at all.

I began to feel this incredible lightness. The weight of the last two years was no longer a weight but more like fuel now. I was a younger, happier version of myself I so desperately missed and worried I may never meet again. I can do anything. I wanted to write. It wasn't like I thought it would be - that one day I would be healed enough that I can finally take the step to sit down and figure out the story I want to tell. No. I felt possessed with words and thoughts and phrases that I was eager to set free.

The story is obvious, I lived through something so sensational, so weird - and now I'm realizing - potentially relatable. This of course led me to realize a gaping problem, my story is definitely not unique. In fact, it's a little too similar to the one that has just been told on a massive, global platform. Though I wonder if that is precisely the point. One of the things that made Baby Reideed so special, so powerful and so transformative was that it spoke so directly to so many people - or rather, directly to some specific wounds shared by so many people.

Gadd took those wounded experiences, and masterfully managed to reframe them, rephrase them, recontextualize them in a way that transformed them for myself  - and as the internet assures me - for countless others. Personally I felt like watching that show achieved the equivalent of an entire year’s worth of therapy, so maybe I need to dispense with this idea that my story needs to be singular or groundbreaking. Part of it was perhaps seeing those relatable wounds as images on the screen - out there, vividly and explicitly, that allowed for my own narrative to emerge out of the ineffable horror of lived experience - or reality. Clearly for me the redundancy itself was vital.  

There was a second problem, or perhaps merely a challenge. Possibly, only an irony.

One of the things Richard Gadd said about the process of writing Baby Reindeer is that it had to be honest, it had to feel honest to him. Honesty has always been challenging for me as pathological deceit was not uncommon in my family. As a result I developed a somewhat poor compass when it came to telling the truth. I had become so quick and proficient as a liar that I rarely had a reason not to lie, like if it presented the slightest advantage, the minorest convenience, even if it merely shaved a second off a conversation. A lie was never a matter of telling a simple fib but more of a fully immersive, character producing, reality curating situation. Eventually I ended up living several unrelated narratives and identities at once, until I began to freak myself out when I'd forget to come out of character and continuously lie about things there was no need to lie about. I took this up in therapy and gradually put new habits into practice, but it's been challenging. To write honesty is not just an issue of discipline, it means detangling and revealing years of lies and deceptions I’ve learned to live with. My new muse demands sacrifice and I want to oblige.

I decided to begin my writing anonymously and seeing where it goes. I may need some drugs. 

P.S. the recipe for The Palm Grenade is:

One large ice cube made of pomegranate juice (I made mine in a rose-shaped mould). 

1.5 oz vodka. 

0.75 oz lime juice. 

Top it off with pomegranate flavored Borjom.

I served mine in a champagne saucer for looks but it's actually better in a tumbler or a Collins glass so you can add more than a splash of Borjom.  

[hlmowrer]

Week Five: Showered with love, hate, and everything in between

Helloooooo dear friends.

For better or for worse, I have fewer interesting things to talk about this week.  Life here remains difficult, and for mostly the same reasons as before.  There are bright spots, like the handful of really great member moments and dinners I've been able to be apart of or perhaps finally getting to meet our friend Lamar..that man can make anyone smile, and when we can catch him he loves to chat with us.  That remains a consistent problem with everyone we're working with right now...people are extremely busy and the missionaries are often the first thing to get bumped off the schedule.  But we're building a relationship with Lamar and at the very least his energy is bringing me some joy. 

I'm getting a little better at talking to strangers as well...I went on an exchange with my district leader (another missionary who is in charge of my welfare and was with me for a day instead of my companion) and working with him was interesting..I got some fresh ideas of how to do my work better, and he cooked some mean biscuits and gravy.  Unfortunately, sharing the gospel has a lot less to do with my skills than it does with the desire of the people we meet, and here in Midland 95% of people politely tell us they already have a church and the next 4% feel the need to spend half an hour berating us for being brainwashed cult members.  I'm doing my best to follow Christ's command to "love those that persecute ye".  There are a lot of different Christian churches here as well.  Apparently it's because the founder of Dow (a massive chemical company headquartered here) was really into religious harmony so once Dow's property holdings became unnecessarily large he made a public offer: anyone wishing to start a ministry could have a free plot of land to build a church.  Thus leading to the construction of most of Midland's religious sites, including the LDS meetinghouse I worship in every week.  A very cool story!

Unfortunately that means that almost everyone in town is very not interested in talking to me, which doesn't do good things for one's psyche.  Especially on the days when someone does their level best to pick apart every single thing I've ever said or believed in.  But, even though the stresses of missionary life remain difficult, I can feel myself growing.  I still don't really feel like I can sustain this long term but I'm getting by and I'm proud of myself for cramming more life experience into every single day than I ever have before.  It doesn't seem to have gone unnoticed by God either...two events come to mind that made me feel loved by Him this week.  The first was last Sunday, when Elder Wilchek and I were invited into the primary class "for an activity".  After we arrived, we learned that as a reward for their singing, the ward children would be permitted to "shower us with love" with paper hearts.  I have attached the results for your entertainment.  Having tape stuck to your eyelash isn't the most comfortable thing ever but hanging out with kids is a great way to remind yourself what fun feels like after a week of nobody being happy to see you.

9 Say nothing but repentance unto this generation; keep my commandments, and assist to bring forth my work, according to my commandments, and you shall be blessed.

10 Behold thou hast a gift, and blessed art thou because of thy gift. Remember it is sacred and cometh from above—

11 And if thou wilt inquire, thou shalt know mysteries which are great and marvelous; therefore thou shalt exercise thy gift, that thou mayest find out mysteries, that thou mayest bring many to the knowledge of the truth, yea, convince them of the error of their ways.

12 Make not thy gift known unto any save it be those who are of thy faith. Trifle not with sacred things.

13 If thou wilt do good, yea, and hold out faithful to the end, thou shalt be saved in the kingdom of God, which is the greatest of all the gifts of God; for there is no gift greater than the gift of salvation.

14 Verily, verily, I say unto thee, blessed art thou for what thou hast done; for thou hast inquired of me, and behold, as often as thou hast inquired thou hast received instruction of my Spirit. If it had not been so, thou wouldst not have come to the place where thou art at this time.

15 Behold, thou knowest that thou hast inquired of me and I did enlighten thy mind; and now I tell thee these things that thou mayest know that thou hast been enlightened by the Spirit of truth;

16 Yea, I tell thee, that thou mayest know that there is none else save God that knowest thy thoughts and the intents of thy heart.

17 I tell thee these things as a witness unto thee—that the words or the work which thou hast been writing are true.

18 Therefore be diligent; stand by my servant Joseph, faithfully, in whatsoever difficult circumstances he may be for the word’s sake.

19 Admonish him in his faults, and also receive admonition of him. Be patient; be sober; be temperate; have patience, faith, hope and charity.

20 Behold, thou art Oliver, and I have spoken unto thee because of thy desires; therefore treasure up these words in thy heart. Be faithful and diligent in keeping the commandments of God, and I will encircle thee in the arms of my love.

21 Behold, I am Jesus Christ, the Son of God. I am the same that came unto mine own, and mine own received me not. I am the light which shineth in darkness, and the darkness comprehendeth it not.

22 Verily, verily, I say unto you, if you desire a further witness, cast your mind upon the night that you cried unto me in your heart, that you might know concerning the truth of these things.

23 Did I not speak peace to your mind concerning the matter? What greater witness can you have than from God?

24 And now, behold, you have received a witness; for if I have told you things which no man knoweth have you not received a witness?

Oh, and one of the ward members made me a hat.  That was pretty cool.

I love you and miss you dearly, friends.  Until next time. :)

-Elder Beren Mowrer

[thepolyamorouspolymath]

Also on the Jim debacle... he was pissed that I was not available on NYE. He flipped out and is blowing up my phone, leading to how he got stabbed in the throat and was suicidal -- brother I set a boundary that I was gonna enjoy my night which included not taking texts.

He responded by me getting a text at 4 am that he did something bad. I said what, and he told me to check Facebook. He'd only posted a few minutes before, some hand of fats woke me at 4 am so I'd see it right after it was posted.

He'd posted some scread and I deleted without reading. Then the next post popped up.

Me naked in bed asleep, my blanket in front of me so my entire left side, nipple and all, was displayed. He did not have my consent to take the pic abd I didn't know he had until it popped up on my Facebook. Then he tells me that he's going to do something equally bad every day at ten unless I give him $800, which I do not have. Freely admits its extortion.

I'm supposed to forgive this ass and try to reconcile. When hell freezes over. Called the cops who said they couldn't charge him until he gave a statement which he didbt answer his phone or anything for the cops. And how it'd take months to get the tech companies who are hard to get that info from. I went nope. I'm setting my shit to shot for awhile. He was having a breakdown and decided that was what to do.

I called the cops, who told me to just change my number so he couldnt reach me. Do I believe he's unhinged enough to get violent tme tually? I do.... which is why I told the cops I would NOT be getting a restraining order bc I had moved and he knew not where abd I was not giving him that in. A restraining order would tell him where I lived and I estimated it'd be safer to stay private.

He went to a psych ward, where he sudbt put in the work-- we were never getting back together. And the hits just kero on coming.like he had rights to me. Hrs morecinterstmst in the people seeing him as the it sebt me inti a talspin -- which dor all his claimes he starred a goj u nd me tk get me liposuction for thesake or ecery,, call save the wale.

And blames me for bringing up his trauma of his pasf a decade ago. That'd he'd don't nothing to learn to maygale.

[avpdpossum]

“your self-diagnosis will never be as good as a professional diagnosis” yeah, my self-dx isn’t “as good” as a pro-dx would be, it’s better!

most psychs have spent maybe a few days maximum learning about the absolute basics of my diagnoses, while i’ve spent years taking in every bit of information i can find, including lots of information from the same sources they’d be using and more — chances are i know more about my diagnoses than the average psych ever will

psychs who do have more knowledge got that knowledge from deeply stigmatizing sources, and most have never bothered to learn from the people who actually live the experiences they claim to be experts in (ex. “npd experts” who actually just specialize in “evil abuser disease” or people like martin kantor)

a psych will never be able to know what’s going on in my head the way i can because they can’t read my mind, so even if i was able to articulate my internal experiences really well (which i’m not — i’m a semiverbal avoidant with often disorganized thoughts/speech; explaining something like that is hard if not impossible for me), hearing it secondhand can’t compare to the 20 years i’ve spent living it

the vast majority of psychs operate based on sanism and profit motive — they’re more than willing to take obscene amounts of my money, only to deny me a diagnosis based on not meeting some shitty stereotypes or say there’s no point in giving me a diagnosis if i don’t want a cure or give me the diagnosis and then have me put in a psych ward because my diagnoses make me one of those ~scary mentally ill people~ that none of them want to deal with

a misdiagnosis from a psych could potentially lead to me being put through intensive therapies or put on medication for the wrong thing, which can have very bad results, and the label might stay on my medical record even after being proven wrong; if my personal assessment is wrong, nothing happens — no one gets hurt, i just go “oops, nevermind”, keep whatever useful things i learned from it in my “toolbox”, stop using the label itself, and move on with life

coming to my own understanding of how my brain works and using the labels that actually make sense to me means i actually get to have some autonomy for once — i get a community of people who understand my experiences and a better understanding of how to manage my symptoms and accommodate myself, without having to fear things like forced treatment or intensified discrimination

the idea that my neurotype makes me incapable of self-awareness and introspection is ridiculous — some people might feel that way about their own situations and need to rely on outside assessment as a result, but that experience is not universal

my understanding of my own mind is NOT second-rate compared to a psych’s, and i don’t need to put myself at risk just for a stranger to tell me what i already know