It Gets Better
In my teens and early 20s, I was suicidal. Actively, for a while, and then mostly passively throughout college. Never made an attempt, but thought about it a lot.
Once I got married and had kids, suicidal thoughts were less frequent. I did, however, think an awful lot about either alternate universe versions of myself that were doing something different, or about living off grid, or about just getting on a greyhound bus and travelling literally anywhere else. When I saw a post on Tumblr once about how "wanting to disappear and run off into the woods" was a more mild form of the same thought process that gives you suicidal urges, it made a lot of sense.
Earlier this year I once again got the overwhelming urge to change my entire life. But instead of wanting to stop existing, or wanting to walk away from everything and start from zero, I realized - I want to rearrange my furniture. I want to paint all my walls. I want to rip up the paving stones in the back yard and plant flowers. I want to learn woodworking.
And I realized - I will probably always be restless. Combine the ADHD with never living in the same house for more than 4 years at a time as a kid, and you get a brain that constantly craves things that are new. But I've finally hit a point where the life that I'm in is mostly preferable to me. I've found people and relationships that I cherish. The fact that I want to stay and fix what I have instead of wanting to drop everything and run means that I like the majority of what I have. The good things about my life outweigh the negatives and the stress and the boredom that still remain. I finally have built up enough good in my life that it wouldn't be worth tossing it out.
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hm. how do i say what i'm meaning to say with this post... ok, so, it's not that i dislike the muses i'm writing and i do understand why they're some of the only muses getting written---i did re-theme the blog after rui for a reason---but i'm the sort of person who generally feels restless if a lot of my muse list is going unused or if i have to stick to the same couple of muses for a little while. i wonder if it would do anything for me to go back to posting some more content that involves me randomly generating a muse to write, or maybe offering up some things i've done less in the past that involve me suggesting sort of out-there dynamics...? ah well. something to think about.
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I just wanted to let you know that I made a carrd for my self ship things! It includes an overview of my f/o's, a short description of my self-inserts as well as some information on their relationships :)
It's still a work in progress (e.g. not all s/is and relationships have pictures at the moment because I didn't manage to draw/design them yet), but I hope to expand it over time as my ideas develop.
I also made a few tiny changes to my pinned post. I mainly reorganised the f/o section. I was starting to look really cluttered unpleasant to read to me, hence I decided to make a carrd in the first place. In that way, I feel like I can include substantial information while still making look everything nice and keeping things organised.
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Part 1
Part 2 -
The vine momentarily went slack around Tintin's neck, as if not for a respite, but to patronisingly offer an opportunity for his spiteful remarks in response. As much as this man did love the sound of his own voice, his demands to hear the words of especially his enemies would far often outweigh that need in pursuit of exactly what he wanted and desired.
His throat burned, voice cracking in pain as he could somewhat exhale from his lungs, chest aflame with tightness and panic. His mouth was set in a line, as set as it could be with the proximity of this man to him. The eyes were unmoving in their direct eye contact, brow tired yet furrowed in bitter concentration.
"Perhaps before we met...or after we got rid of you," the reporter spoke with hoarse spite, regardless of the fear in his eyes and gut. He didn't really have much to lose, it seems, if a world like this was molded to his victims' psyche. He'd already seen too much, but it was a privilege at this point. Sakharine would not allow him to have such peace.
Those eyes in front of him appeared red and seemed to shine with some sadistic playfulness and hunger as the reporter spoke. The action of one of his hands into a slow fist as he felt the familiar feeling of his arms being pulled and now twisted back at an unnatural and agonising angle and pace to the point he began to panic, fearing he felt imminent dislocation. It took every ounce of Tintin's will to not cry out in pain, though the evidence of this manifested as tears spilled from the corners of his wide, unflinching eyes. The vines around his ankles wrapped around them tighter, more possessively, threatening to break them, and the one around his neck fell back, his privilege to offer responses finally silenced and denied.
One thing he couldn't deny though, was how much he was shaking with his breath coming out in chokes of pain and exhaustion and actions of trying to swallow it all back down. Even if the man wasn't right in front of him, his whole mind was a landscape that could be seen into and exploited. For once in his life, his real feelings were put on display in their true colours that he had never shown to anyone, not even the captain. He wondered if he could see or hear anything that he would come running. He didn't even know where he'd even ended up passing out, for crying out loud. He could be ANYWHERE.
Sakharine reached up with a hand up against his head and this time he flinched, feeling the vine press tighter against his throat and mouth emitting almost silent screams. His hand crawled up towards his head through his hair, those eyes filled with vile admiration and head tilted slightly in observation. He felt the familiar ache envelop his brain, a reminder of all his headaches that plagued him for days up until this point. A symbol of this psychological pain that now flooded the inside of his skull. Everything that was happening now just felt like blinding pain where all he wanted to do was scream, but this man reveled in not even letting him have that.
"Oh, what a shame," Sakharine drawled with mock pity, watching his prey endure this with not a single way out, "Your mind is showing something far better. You're in far too deep for any kind of cry of help for anyone. Not like the captain could even help you if he wanted to. He's most likely too drunk to even realise."
His voice turned cold, his grin not as wide but still showing those teeth. His eyes burned into him icily. "Not like you'd let anyone help you. There's a reason you hide from people. You've been a lonely boy ever since you were born and thrown into that orphanage. You don't want anyone to get hurt but you'd let a thousand men beat and drug you into unconsciousness before you tell anyone your real feelings. There's running away and then there's that."
"You can't fool me. Tintin," he spoke maliciously, grin arriving back again as clearly as it had gone away, "it was fate that you happened to hold that dear ship I needed. You wouldn't swap it for anything else. This wasn't just about mystery and adventure. You couldn't get rid of me that easily, not with that ghastly poor effort. You knew it. You belong right here with me. To me. I could give you so much more than anyone else ever could."
The boy's head was beginning to arch against the pillar, unable to tear himself away from it. His endurance with torture was a sight to behold, but Sakharine was more than willing to test his limits. A cruel excitement lit up in his eyes as he watched the tears running down the boy's face. There was that shark-like grin again, breathing against his face now. "It's too early for me to break you so physically. You're far too fun. We've got all the time in the world, so perhaps...a slideshow. Why not relive so many of your fondest memories instead?"
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