#cw: anxiety/panic attacks/mental illness

[filthforfriends]

Chapter 19: Northern Lights

Author's Note

Word count: 8.2k

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Operating on autopilot, you brush your teeth while a sense of existential dread settles just under your sternum. It's heavy, asphyxiating. Today was gonna be hard. Largely because you weren’t allowed to have a hard day since it’d been Damiano that had a crisis: relapse. He needed your support and you’re pondering the extent of this responsibility when the drug test on the back of the toilet catches your eye. Somehow, you’d forgotten about it.

Negative for everything. Except marijuana, which Dami had already disclosed. Overwhelmed, you slide down to the floor with your back against the wall. You didn’t feel anything. Not relief, nor anger. Not even disappointment. Stranger than numbness was the urge to cry when your eyes won’t even tear up. Standing upright then spitting out the foamy toothpaste, you stare at your reflection. Cry. If you’re gonna do it, do it. Because after this you need to be strong. So cry. Fucking cry. The tears don’t come. Your dry eyes burn, and despite sleeping relatively well, you look drained of life force.

In the name of coping mechanisms, you devote an extra five minutes to a makeup look that always makes you feel put together and pretty. Today it comes off as clownish. The blush is too intense and the eye shadow garish. There isn’t enough time to take it off and start again so you avoid looking in the mirror and shift focus to getting dressed. One thing at a time. Pairing this mantra with caffeine will likely be the only force propelling you through today. One thing at a time still feels like more than you could handle, but not functioning wasn’t an option, either. Your chest tightens.

“Hey, goodmorning.” Damiano’s voice startles you. He typically got up around when you left for work.

“Shit! What time is it?”

“It’s 8:07, don’t worry.” Dami harshly clears his throat twice, trying to get rid of his gravelly morning voice. It's almost an accurate replication of normalcy, except he won’t look at you. Damiano begins making espresso and his eyes briefly dart in your direction.

“What do you want for breakfast?” The moment’s cognitive dissonance is truly formidable. 

“I –” Obviously he was trying to make last night up to you. Should you accept? Do you even want to?

“I – no! No. You – we’re not just gonna skip to this part.” He looks so fucking wounded, a kind of woundedness that can only be achieved when you’re not expecting the pain. Only visible for a second, then he hides it. Still, you’re in agony.

“You – I need…I – don’t do that! Don’t make that fucking face at me. It’s been less than 12 hours and we were sleeping most of them. How can you reasonably expect me to have processed last night in less than 12 hours?”

“You’re right, it's not fair. I guess that I –”

“If you know it's not fair then why are you so fucking destroyed over it!? I can’t –” You stare out the window, thanking whatever cosmic entity may be that you can’t cry right now.

“I’m sorry.”

“No!” Your voice comes out high pitched and guttural in anguish. “No, don’t –” You stamp your foot. It was a childhood habit that you loathed, but still made an appearance in moments of emotionally charged exasperation.

“I’m sorry. I was just, I was just…” He trails off, staring at the floor. You stomp across the apartment and briefly strangle him in a hug. Dami is so surprised that by the time he embraces in return, you’re pulling away, keeping your gaze fixed on the chipped corner of the kitchen cabinets. Because meeting his eyes up close, even for a millisecond, might be more than you can bear. With a large step back, you attempt verbal communication.

“Don’t apologize for having an emotional reaction.”

“I’m sorry for relapsing.”

“That you can apologize for.” Next you stare at the catch all basket by the door and feel your face heat up. “I just can’t take you looking so devastated over me not wanting to play house right now.” Had you not demanded last night that he disclose the hardship of Substance Abuse Disorder to you? This morning he does so for all of two nanoseconds and you react like this. 

“No, I’m sorry. I take it back.” Of what you can see out of the corner of your eye, Dami’s expression is perplexed.

“You take what back?”

“That reaction. I want to know what you’re genuinely feeling right now. I want to support you through this.” You steel yourself before meeting his eyes, but Dami is, again, intent on staring at the ground. He presses his lips together while rapidly shaking his head.

“What?”

“You shouldn’t be, ugh…” Damiano sighs heavily. In the background, the water boils audibly. He returns to his task of making espresso while crafting a sentence. One hand is braced against the counter. It's the same hand that caressed the bare skin of your stomach last night. What the fuck had you been thinking? Even while disparaging yourself, you can feel how sturdy and reassuring and loving Damiano’s body was as it lay behind you. He couldn’t have pulled you any closer without undressing. And it felt so natural.

“You shouldn’t be consoling me. I’m the only one that should be apologizing, even if you’re angry, if you yell at me, whatever. And you don’t, ugh…” Dami uses the hand not bracing to gesticulate. “Supporting me through relapse doesn’t mean not being pissed at me. I – that reaction,“ he points towards the bathroom, “was perfectly fine. It was fine. I just wasn’t sure how to acknowledge what happened and be like ‘oh, hey! Sorry I relapsed. Can I make you breakfast? Not in I’m-making-amends-through-this-gesture-and-if-you-accept-I-will-expect-it-to-count-towards-my-forgiveness kinda way, but in a I’m-up-and-want-to-do-something-nice- for-you kind of way.” You take a beat to think and settle on meeting him in the middle.

“I will take an omelet and a double, please.”

“Okay.” He sighs in relief and sort of smiles. Also inhaling deeply for the first time since probably yesterday, you return your focus to getting ready. When selecting a pair of shoes, the safe at the bottom of the closet is a reminder to give Dami back his phone and keys. The memory of the night before comes crashing down; his suicidal ideation, how tortured he was by self-hatred. You end up on all fours, studying the scratched floor of your closet while weathering this rat’s nest of emotions.

You’d let Dami back into your life knowing relapse was inevitable and deciding it was an inevitability you were prepared for. However, he’d been so even keel since coming home that it made yesterday jarring as a reality check. 

“Hey, um,” he knocks on your bedroom door, tone uncertain.

“Come in.” You don’t feel short of breath until your voice comes out as such. Dami slowly opens the door, holding your plate and espresso.

“You okay?” 

“Just getting your stuff out of the safe.”

“Oh.” Awkwardly, he steps out of the room and turns his back. You’re so caught up that, on the first try, you enter in the wrong code. The safe beeps abrasively and a small light at the top of the keypad flashes red. On the second try you make a point not to be frantic and get it right. 

“Okay, here you go.” The metal door of the safe slams shut. Your nervous system is so fried that you jump, heartbeat skipping.

“Right.” Damiano swivels, both hands occupied with your breakfast just as both of your own hands are occupied with his belongings. In disjointed gestures you try to exchange the items before realizing it's physically impossible.

“Let's set it on the dining room table.”

“Right, yes. Good idea.” You cringe at the silence following Damiano putting the dishes down. “Um…okay, so now you will be late if you don’t leave soon, actually,” he calls from the kitchen.

“Shit!” You pull on your most well-worn pair of boots. Even scurrying around the apartment, they omit a sophisticated click each time the sole collides with the flooring. Upon making it to the door, you look back to see Dami sitting at the table and eating. In front of your empty chair is the untouched omelet and full cup of espresso he’d so tenderly made for you. The scene was reminiscent of a date night. As if he’d cooked dinner for two, then been stood up. So Damiano was left to eventually eat his meal all alone, after accepting you wouldn’t show. Cold food and wondering what he’d done wrong.

Dami isn’t reading into the moment at all. His down-turned eyes are preoccupied with his phone, but his words from last night are still fresher than a wound needing stitches. The phrase “do you a favor and throw myself off the roof” is running through your head on repeat, even when you try to direct your thoughts elsewhere. In fact, Damiano was standing almost exactly where you are now when he’d said it. 

“Are you gonna be okay?” Your voice comes out frail and shaking, so much so that Dami’s head snaps up.

“Yeah, sweetheart, I’ll be fine.” Sweetheart. He misses the slip-up because he’s preoccupied by concern, setting his fork down to examine you. “I’m just gonna treat it like any other day: eat this, work out, go to treatment.” Unable to feel your face, but aware that this is an appropriate time to nod, you consciously perform the gesture. “I mean, obviously, I don’t feel good right now, but I’ll be okay. A lot of rehab was focused on getting back on the wagon, so to speak.”

“‘Kay.” 

“Like, I hate myself right now, but I’m not gonna throw my sobriety away and go on a bender or something. Because I know that ultimately I’ll end up feeling so much shittier. Try not to worry.” He smiles in good humor: knowing, gentle, calm. “I’m sure you will anyways, but you don’t need to.” The difference in Damiano���s temperament since devoting himself to treatment is suddenly so evident. His chest isn’t puffed out with bravado, speaking from the perspective that he’s less fallible than your typical mortal. He’s not manic, you realize.

“You’re sure?” Dami’s conciliatory expression is brimming with empathy. 

“Yes, my love,” he placates, then catches himself. “Erm – y/n, sorry. Basically, I…I’ve examined my behavior a lot. Not just in the sense of hurting people, but also – I’m totally springing this on you, so I’ll skip to the point. As a person, I am done behaving that way, okay? So you’ll go to work; I’ll go to therapy where they’ll probably treat me like a pipe bomb. Then we’ll complain about how shitty our days were while eating takeout.” After the alarming way he’d spoken last night, it was a relief to hear Damiano genuinely sound like himself. The steady, resilient version of himself that predated addiction and the omnipresent hysteria.

You’d been holding out for it, gazing into the sky every night as if searching for the Northern Lights. Damiano acting like the man you fell in love with again – despite the incognizance with which he did so – was worthy of exactly this display. Opulent shades of violet and greens so electric they become yellow hurtling across a midnight canvas with the abandon of a child first learning to dance.

“Are you okay?” You’re about to say yes, out of habit, then realize that you could choose honesty over politeness and admit that the answer is no. But what’s the result? Being late for work and, in the process, interrupting Damiano’s routine. He needed the control and predictability his schedule offered, now more than ever. Allowing him to expend even an ounce of this precious resilience on comforting you was downright irresponsible. Dangerous, even, because you had no idea how much tranquility the day’s events would require. 

But it wasn’t that simple. Concealing your emotions had previously fueled communication failures which contributed to breaking up. Logically, mending things meant doing the opposite. Damiano’s simple question left you to choose between his sobriety and your relationship. The choice was obvious. You’d made it before. It was the exact choice presented to you at the time of the breakup. An event from which you feel so far removed, that it might have happened in a past life. Simultaneously, in this moment, the pain is fresh enough to sting, as if it was merely yesterday that your heart was mercilessly cleaved in two.  You want to scream, out loud, how the fuck did we end up here again? 

“Y/n?” He cocks his head then his eyebrows furrow. You remind yourself that Damiao is not your boyfriend. You cannot expect him to provide the level of comfort and support a primary partner would. If you needed it, then too fucking bad, you’d have to get it elsewhere. This was a decision you made, a boundary you’d set. Because a stronger version of the fragile girl quivering by the front door knew that Damiano solely focusing on his own wellbeing was necessary for his sobriety. So you try to pull it together and decide on reaching out to Sam during lunch break. They had the wisdom of someone twice their age with the inner serenity to match.

“Hey.” Damiano stands upright, rounding the corner of the table. The sound of the chair legs against the floor makes you flinch, breaking your train of thought. Holding a hand out, you stop Dami from approaching.

“I feel guilty for not having time to eat  the breakfast that you made me. I really don’t want to start out today with you feeling rejected or lonely and end up reaching for substances to cope.”

“I don’t feel rejected and just the thought of liquor makes me nauseous, right now.”

“Liquor…you know liquor isn’t the only thing I’m worried about.”

“Well, frankly, the other stuff is a lot harder to get, especially if you’re not willing to poison yourself. It's also fucking expensive in Rome, so I’d have to be carrying around a fuck ton of cash and look." Damiano picks his wallet up from the table and opens it. The only currency that falls out are some coins and a two dollar bill Victoria gave him for good luck. “The fuck am I gonna get with this?” He holds it up, almost grinning until he examines your features and realizes that this has been the opposite of reassuring. Dami immediately picks up on turmoil brewing beneath the surface, but little does he know that it’s more like a cataclysm. 

“You’re thinking about it.” It's a struggle to force the words out, like your body doesn’t want them to be true.

“Last night I was, yeah.” He admits it quietly, but his whole demeanor changes. Dami felt triumphant a moment ago, for not using drugs, not giving himself the means to acquire drugs. Instead of validating his achievement, you’d disregarded his triumph and replaced it with a profound feeling of defeat. It was quite literally the worst thing you could have done.

“And I know it – that I, um…” Dami sighs, nervously switching his weight back forth. “God damn it. So last night was one of my lowest moments and I really, really fucking wish you weren’t there to see it because it's not representative of who I am or how I feel. What I – baby, those were just thoughts. They were just thoughts, I promise.” His voice is so fond that your heart hurts. “I don’t ever plan on acting on them. I’m not gonna hurt myself. I know I really scared you when I said –”

“Mm mm!” You gesture for him to stop talking while squeezing your eyes shut and turning away. The urge to cry creates pressure in your throat, but the tears won’t come. So it feels like you might choke or be sick. 

“Take a deep breath,” Damiano coaches after falling silent for a moment. You comply, grounding yourself via powerful inhales through your nose, exhaling out of your mouth. It was adjacent to a breathing technique you’d learned in yoga. The feeling mostly passes.

“Okay. I can’t talk about this right now.”

“Of course.”

“I want to talk about it. I will talk about it. I just need…”

“Time to process.” He finishes your thought after observing several seconds of you staring at the ceiling, searching for the right words.

“Yes. All I want in the entire world right now is for you to focus on yourself. Get stable, do things that make you happy. Don’t worry about me.”

“...okay.” Damiano scrunches his nose up while slowly turning away, as if he’s biting back the words he’d like to say.

“Okay.” You pick up your keys and double check that you haven’t forgotten your phone. “So, I’ll see you –”

“I am worried. About you, I am worried.” The silence hangs over your heads like a noose. “You’ve got so much going on internally that I can’t read you. We’ve been together for so long that it’s really unsettling.” You’re at a loss for how to respond. “You used to be so forthright with me. Like absolutely transparent until…until things started going downhill.” Dami shoves his hands in his pockets, shoulders raised in a defensive gesture. “And I want to take things at your speed. I want to fucking – to be transparent with you. But you, you…” He sighs heavily and relaxes, turning his gaze towards the window where morning light is seeping in.  

“What?” 

“I know we said we would wait until things weren’t so in flux, which –” he laughs bitterly.. “Which, god damn, I somehow made worse last night.” Damiano’s eyes return to the floor, where the big toe of his right foot is nervously tracing the seams. “I think, for my sanity, we need to look at the R.A.S. again and really talk.” R.A.S. is an abbreviation for what has been dubbed the Relationship Anarchist Smorgosboard – essentially a map of all possible relationship components. Often, polyamorous folks – yourselves included – used it as a tool to precisely define everyone’s desires and expectations. For you and Dami, the topic of non-monogamy actually resulted from discussions about relationship anarchy. So the request isn’t the issue. It's productive and healthy, even considering the metric ton of emotional labor. The strain with which Dami says “for my sanity” however, makes you nervous.

“Yeah, okay, uh…”

“Fuck me,” he groans, rubbing his face harshly. “Maybe I don’t wanna do this now. After yesterday I – you’re not gonna – I just destroyed all fucking progress!”

“I, I…I don’t know how I feel, Damia. But, obviously we don’t have to have this big heavy talk if you’re not ready for it.”

“That's not what I’m saying,” he snaps. Your left hand starts to shake at the agitation in his voice. If he gets upset, it’ll interrupt the routine keeping him intact. What will he use to deescalate then? 

“Have you taken your meds?”

“Y/n, I –” Dami’s tone is venomous and biting, but he stops himself from lashing out mid-sentence. He goes into the bathroom and takes his lithium, hands gripping onto the edge of the counter as he swallows painfully. He takes a second to manage his anger, meaning that exactly what you were trying to avoid is happening. He’s burning through that precious resilience for your sake. Each second that you watch the sharp outline of his clenched jaw, you wonder if this was the moment that Damiano dips into reserves that he needed for later in the day. 

What if he drinks again? Or worse, uses coke? Heroin? What if he goes on a bender then we don’t talk again for three months? What if he OD’s and permanently damages himself? What if he dies? It will be my fault. What if the resilience that could have prevented it is being used up this very second, right before my eyes? What if I’m signing his death sentence with my mere presence? 

“The reason I want to renegotiate isn’t really because I need to renegotiate.” Damiano speaks while still standing in the bathroom. Out of something adjacent to survival instincts, your mind has plunged you into disassociation. He may sound steadfast, but his voice barely cuts through the mental fog.

“It’s more that I want to clarify exactly where the boundaries are. So I know what I can ask because…” Dami pauses to rinse his face. The sound of water landing on the porcelain is eerily distorted from the disassociation. “Sometimes we are so connected. Like last night, not just when we were cuddling, but when you were genuinely pissed at me. I could feel your anger. You let me feel it, but then this morning you’re so far away. I don’t know what planet you’re on and we were never like that before, ever. Even at the very end, you were more present than you sometimes are now. I’m not trying to criticize you, I’m really not, but…” You force your eyes to focus when Dami goes quiet. He’s just brushing his teeth. He’s okay. 

“But I just want you to let me in and I don’t know if I can ask that as a nesting partner. Even when you’re submitting, there's like 15% you’re holding back. And I get that it's a trust issue, but when we were on the bed,” the faucet is running again. The sound is still detached from reality. “With just a vibrator between us, you let me in completely and it was amazing. Not just because of the sex! There’s other moments where we’re intimate emotionally and then this wall just comes up. It's so sudden that I don’t think you’re doing it intentionally. But I don’t know, you tell me.” Silence. Your chest hurts. “Sorry that I’m making you late for work.” Work? The anxiety of obligation yanks from inside your ribcage. Work!

You try to get a grip on reality, but have to compromise for a grip on the countertop. As soon as you begin coming back into your body, the necessity for air is overwhelming. But you can’t breathe and you’re so fucking dizzy that you can’t even focus on sustaining the most basic of bodily functions. So you try to grab the countertop again and miss again.

“Y/n?” He knows you wouldn’t just leave, unannounced. So Dami pauses his morning routine to check if you’re out of ear shot or giving him the silent treatment. Upon seeing your blanched face and restricted breathing, he feels like a dumbass for not considering the obvious third option: panic attack.  

“Hey, you’re okay. You’re okay, baby.” Damiano throws distinctions between boyfriend and nesting partner to the wind while taking you into his embrace. “You’re gonna be fine, piccola mia. Come here. C’mere, baby.” He hugs you loosely, but the arms around your middle are snug as Dami pulls you onto his lap, perched on the edge of the couch. For a few seconds the dissociation lingers and you don’t have control of your limbs. What follows is much worse. There's deep, intrusive stabbing pains in your chest as you fight for air. 

“You can breathe, baby. You can breathe, your body just forgot how for a second.” His tone is so calm and even, having perfected this skill over the years.

“Can’t.” Your ironclad grip on your purse finally fails and the sound of its contents hitting the floor then scattering is so that loud you shudder. “Can’t!”

“Yes, you can, piccola mia.” Finally, you regain control of your limbs, wrapping your arms around Dami while pressing your face against his shoulder. This isn’t close enough, so you turn chest to chest and wrap your legs around him too. He gives you just enough space to readjust, no communication necessary since Dami predicted this reaction. Panic attacks made you clingy when they made others claustrophobic.

“My little koala bear,” he coos. For a moment, it feels like someone’s lodged a dagger in your lungs and you cry out, intending to say his name. But, for days, you were forced to constantly implement life or death boundaries when doing so is in direct conflict with your very nature. The resulting strain morphed into blinding fear that, in holding power, you’d destroy what you loved most. What you needed as an animal, amongst a world constantly delivering over-stimulating levels of novel information. So the name – or more accurately the plea – that comes out, at 8:31 AM, is his honorific.

“Did you say ‘Daddy?’” He barely misses a beat. You nod, all the color returning to your cheeks as a blush. “Awe, do you need Daddy to help you calm down? Well, I’m right here, topolina.” He runs a hand up your spine and under your hair to firmly grasp the back of your neck. It wasn’t restricting anything, the gesture was about control. Specifically, to indicate that you had none.

“Listen to me.” His tone of voice makes you shiver. It’s just as firm as the grasp of his warm, muscular hand. “No, keep breathing. I didn’t tell you to hold your breath.” You gasp for air, hyperventilating. Damiano tsks, tucking your hair back so he can put his mouth directly to the shell of your ear. “Piccola mia, listen to me.” He dips into a baritone while whispering, breath fluttering against your eardrum. “Feel this?” Dami squeezes the back of your neck. “Mine. I decide how you breathe.” 

Oxygen. It's the first and last thing most humans have control of and he just rips that away, wholesale. Your mind is so relieved that it finally lets you cry, feel. Dami softens, slowly rocking back and forth, the same way you soothe a cholicky baby.

“Daddy’s here. Daddy’s here.” He repeats the phrase in a sing-song voice between counting the pace of your breath out loud. “We’re gonna start with four. In, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four.” 

“Daddy,” you croak, twisting the fabric of his shirt around your fingers. It's an ugly sound, revealing just how desperate you feel. Desperate to do right by him. Desperate to keep him sober, even though you know that, ultimately, it was out of your control. But it couldn’t be out of control because you couldn’t lose him again now that you’d remembered how much you needed him. Now that you stopped subsisting on scraps in the form of memories. During the split, it had been heartbreaking to recall the dysfunctionality. Even more heartbreaking, however, were reminders of a joy more potent than you’d ever felt in your adult life.   

“Daddy, I…” need you. I’m ready to admit that you are an essential piece to the ever changing puzzle that is my life. But you can’t get the words out before the urge to sob takes over, so end up omitting a wounded whine, like when you trip over an excited dog and accidentally step on its tail.

“Oh, piccolo mia,” he laments. Apparently the noise was just as painful to hear as it was to make. You tighten your legs around Dami’s hips, knowing full well it's probably too much. He throws caution to the wind and pulls up the back of your blouse, untucking it from your pants. His hand is clammy from nerves when it touches your back.

“I’m right here. Daddy is right here, giving you all his attention. And the only thing you need to do is breathe with me.” With the movement of Dami’s hand on your skin, you begin falling into his rhythm. There's no penalty when you choke up or make a mistake. Damiano rubs circles on your back at the exact same pace with which he counts. You’re grateful that he knows not to set it on your butt or flank today. Once you’re calmer, he moves up to six counts, then eight. 

“I love you.” It’s the first thing you say when the eight counts feel manageable. “I – I need you.”

“You need me?” Dami is so pleased that his voice sounds like a warm blanket. He readjusts the position so your eyes can meet. Realizing this moment has to end, you begin clawing your way to the surface. The further you are out of subspace, the less his leaving will hurt. Damiano’s face visibly falls.

“There. You just did it. You were totally present with me then you put a wall up.”

“Don’t let go of my neck!” The words are so rushed they’re barely discernible.

“Topolina, I will never discipline you like that.” Your bottom lip trembles, but you keep your eyes on him because it's grounding. “I will never ever be callous with my sweetest Little Girl.” His words and the earnestness which accompanies them unlock a vault in your mind. It’s so well concealed that you’d hidden it from yourself, and for good reason, apparently. Every notable memory of submission to Dami comes rushing back, all at once. The hand on your neck shifts, almost negligible.

“Not ready!”

“And I’m not letting go,” he responds in his softest voice, overflowing with affection. “I’m just kissing your forehead, silly goose.” Damiano uses his grip to pull you a couple centimeters closer and tilt your head down. “Mwah! Mwah, mwah. See?” He makes theatrical noises as his lips meet your skin. It's an effort to make this stressful moment lighthearted, but your hands continue clenching the fabric of his t-shirt. When Dami moves to kiss your cheeks, he ends up wiping a couple stray tears away. You hadn’t felt them fall.

“Undo your fists. I’m not going anywhere.” Uncurling your hands takes some effort. You splay them across Damiano’s back to feel his heartbeat. Again, you’re stuck between states: being Little and functional adulthood. Correction: calling what you could reasonably achieve today “functional” was probably too generous.

“I can see you fighting it so hard, topolina. You don’t have to. I’m right here.” He thinks you’re battling subspace because of all the times you’d coped with sub-drop alone during the breakup. It’s certainly a factor, but more worrying is the fact that your brain is sabotaging both your mornings. It didn’t feel like a safe time to slip into submission. 

“I – work! Gotta, gotta…” You couldn’t afford to become non-verbal. 

“No.” Both his tone and expression were stern. “What you’re going to do is allow yourself to be 100% present with me for a few more minutes. Non-negotiable.”

“I can breathe though.”

“You’re so afraid you’re trembling,” he deadpans. Even with faltering interoception, you can sense that it’s true.

“Why’d my brain just, just…”

“It's adrenaline.” What you’d intended to ask is why in the fresh hell did my brain launch me into headspace. Damiano wraps an arm around your lower back and pulls you flush against his body, so close your noses are touching. “I need you to feel how steady I am.” For a second, the shaking gets worse as your emotions intensify, but then it lessens. With your entire being, you wanted to believe that Dami was steady, that today’s events couldn’t compromise his sobriety. His gaze is so intense that you’re both drawn in and fighting the urge to look away.

“I am okay. You are okay. Our relationship is okay. And you can get back to reality without putting five football fields of space between us. That’s what I’ve been doing a piss poor job of communicating all morning.” Embarrassed for reacting so drastically, you nod, then try to avert your eyes. Damiano doesn’t allow that. He grabs your chin and uses it to turn your face back in his direction. For a second, the urge to fawn almost takes over completely. 

“Now there she is,” he coos. “There’s my perfect Little Girl.” Your cunt throbs so you collapse forward with a dramatic groan. 

“Why you gotta say the sexiest shit when I’m trying to pull myself together?!” Damiano breaks character and laughs right in your ear, so loud that it organically brings you to the surface.

“Okay, okay. Scene over?”

“Mhm.” He begins taking his hand away which earns an agonized whine. Dami freezes.

“Scene not over?”

“No, it’s just…sudden.” You sit up which turns out to be a horrible idea because your gaze falls to Dami’s lips. Your logical mind knows not to kiss him right now. But your submissive side wants to give him everything you have and more, especially since a hand on the back of your neck is exactly the gesture he’d use to pull you in for a makeout. So you stare at his lips again before consciously tearing your eyes away.

  “This is doing wonders for my ego, watching you fight the urge to kiss me.” That earns him an eye roll. “Oh, the sass is back! So we’re feeling better then.”

“Yeah.” You look at the floor and this time he doesn’t stop you.

“Okay, I’m actually gonna take my hand away.” You brace for it, but the air is still cold and bitter against your neck. Plus, what feels like the weight of the world resumes its resting place on your shoulders. Damiano moves his hand up a few inches, onto the back of your head instead of taking it away from the area entirely. He watches for subdrop, eyes pained after seeing how crestfallen you are. Needing a respite from the intensity of this unexpected moment, you decide to let work know that you’re going to be late. The tears in your voice are recent enough to pull off a very convincing performance about your sick grandfather being in the hospital with a mystery illness.

The veteran secretary who answers the phone finds your project manager right away. She offers to give you the whole morning off, visibly piquing Dami’s interest. Based on his expression, he expects you to take it, and if not for coinciding with his treatment schedule, you would. Instead, you promise to be there within an hour.

“You didn’t want the morning off?”

“I think that we’ll both do better keeping our schedules today.” He considers this for a moment then accepts it. Dami sets both palms on your mid-thigh to indicate that this was now an adult interaction between equals.

“We need to have a tough conversation or two…or five.” He tries to make you smile, but your stomach flips instead. “Obviously not right this moment, but we both need to find space in the next couple days. It’s time.”

“You’re right. I know it, I’m just, well, scared, as per usual.”

“Yeah, me too.” You look up in surprise. Damiano was the most courageous person you knew. He was the one to call it, even though it was obvious to both of you that avoiding a discussion for any longer would be counterproductive.

“Scared about what?” He looks at you wide-eyed and sputters while gesturing to the door. “Damia, I told you not to promise me perfection because I knew it wasn’t realistic. My expectation is that you try your absolute best to stay sober and when relapse happens, you fight like hell. And I don’t want to impede your ability to do that by making you spend all your inner resources on me.” Anxiety concealed as exasperation creeps into your voice. “Which is why I didn’t take the morning off. Because I didn’t want to interrupt your routine, when that routine helps you be sober. I didn’t want to create a demand for emotional labor, when –”

“What, by having emotions?” he interrupts sharply. 

“I – yeah. You’re used to having these peaceful quiet mornings and I just…”

“Existed? Experienced things? Was a human being with needs?” 

“Yes, but I – I mean, yeah because I – You, you’re still at risk of like, like…It's more important! Your sobriety is more important.”

“Than your emotions?” He narrows his eyes as if that's an unhinged beleif.

“Yes! It's more important than my emotions. It's more important than me. It's more important than everything!” 

“No!”

“Yes!” You push his hands away and stand up, pacing to the other side of the living room.

“I am the only one that can prioritize my sobriety above all else, and I do! Despite last night, I fucking do! My sobriety can’t be your priority.”

“Why?” you snap and whip around, shooting daggers with your eyes.

“Because it's my life.”

“Ditto. I can prioritize whatever I want.”

“You have to prioritize yourself. You can’t live for somebody else!”

“Prioritizing your sobriety is living for myself because I would never be okay if you died from an overdose and you fucking know that. So I’m not sure why we’re fighting about this.”

“Because only I can keep myself sober,” he implores. 

“I fucking know that!!” you screech through gritted teeth. It's a fact that haunts all my waking hours and several of my slumbering ones. “I don’t live in some fairytale land where I control your decisions. Nor do I want to, whatsoever. But I can make your sobriety easier, so I’m damn well going, too. Today of all days!”

“It's not your responsibility!” He stands up and gestures in frustration.

“Did I say it was!?” Doubt starts to creep in as to why Damiano is hellbent on whatever point he’s making.

“You’re –”

“Am I annoying you when I try to help with your sobriety? Is that what it is?” 

“Wha – no. No.” His tone changes completely, all the wind gone from his sails.

“Fuck,” you sigh and bite the inside of your lip. “Sorry, I just did that thing where I get insecure and you have to be nice to me instead of having your feelings.”

“That’s not what just happened.”

“Seems…” You’re about to say that it seems like Damiano has to bottle up his feelings instead of getting to resolve them. And that it felt like he started to avoid fights with you pre-breakup, since you’d get all pathetic like this. Dami was so empathetic and didn’t want to deal with your occasional bouts of middle school level self-confidence, which became more numerous as things fell apart. It was the only bit of jealousy, in terms of his other partners, that had staying power: confidence. Glowing, radiant, unshakable, sexy confidence. The opposite of your insecurity, which was so powerful that it could totally warp your sense of reality, as it probably was now.

“There! That! Tell me, just fucking tell me.” Damiano’s pointing at you, so you look down at yourself, startled. “It started with you hiding your anger from me, but it's become this. Like you won’t take a single step without considering how it might impact my sobriety. You edit out everything that could possibly trigger...I don’t even know what! Like, I’ve started playing a guessing game where I try to think of anything you could plausibly say in a situation that would jeopardize my sobriety. And besides that last night, there was never anything I couldn’t handle.”

“I…” your brain feels like sludge. “A second ago was just classic insecurity, but generally…yeah. Yeah, I’ve been walking on eggshells a lot, if I’m honest.” Dami sighs in relief and approaches.

“You hold me down. You keep me sane. Not just sunshine you, but scatterbrained, insecure, anxious you. Keeps-an-extra-pair-of-pants-in-her-car-since-she-always-spills-her-coffee-driving you. Veterinarian in a past life, too competitive for board game nights, can’t stick to the grocery list, maker of near disaster via spontaneous hugs in the kitchen at the least opportune moment you. Scowls at men, but smiles at every child, and they always smile back. Picks the restaurant, but can’t pick what to order, then insists on tipping too much at bad service. All music is dancing music, borderline delusional optimist, empathy for the socially invisible, never finishes a book before starting another because she hates endings. Believes in love instead of god because she can find something to love in everyone she meets. Everyone has beauty and purpose and fascinating complexity.”

“Dami…”

“Calls me out on my bullshit when all the others are too intimidated. Remembers who I am when I forget. Understands my art when the public doesn’t, but believes that anyone can be an artist. Believes that the world is full of magic, in the form of human possible connection.” Damiano backs you against a wall, bodies barely brushing. “I could keep going,” he whispers. “You don’t have to try. Just be.”

“But I want to be sure that I’m not jeopardizing your sobriety.”

“On the off chance that moment ever comes, I will tell you. I won’t let you compromise my sobriety.” Some of that weight lifts. “The way things were when we broke up, they’re never going to be that way again. I am prioritizing my sobriety and I've got a small army of physicians helping me. You don’t need to prioritize my sobriety anymore.” He sets a hand on your ribcage, still speaking in a whisper. The moment is extremely intimate.  “It's taken care of, my love. It's time for you to be taken care of. And I know we’re gonna have this same conversation again and that's okay.” 

You loosely wrap your arms around Dami, to keep him close and extend the moment. Just based on your body language, he can tell that you’ve finally internalized what he’s been trying to say.

“I’ve been anxious about coming home and you’re gone.”

“Not going to happen. No surprises, no disappearing acts.”

“Okay.” You cast your eyes anywhere by his face. Damiano takes your jaw in his hand, coaxing you to look at him, but not demanding it as he did minutes ago. You take a couple seconds to corral your emotions first, since you can’t gauge if your reaction is gonna be more tears, hyperventilating, smiles, giddiness, or feeling lovesick. He sees this effort and presses your body into the wall using his own.

“Let me in,” he demands. You stop intentionally directing your features into an expression and wait for thoughts to come up organically. Except they don’t, so you try to recall how this worked when transparency was your first instinct with Damiano. Unfortunately, the only thing discernable is your sense of smell informing you that Dami is delicious. You’d braced for the stench of booze coming from his pores this morning, but it's not because he barely drank. So he still smells like home, plus a tiny bit sweaty from getting too hot in his sleep. That was only perceptible up close though. His skin would be salty if you licked it. You can also tell that he brushed his teeth while you were getting dressed, but that should be obvious. He wouldn’t have gotten in your space like this otherwise. 

So the urge to kiss him returns with a vengeance. You attempt to see around the obstacle to identify something of your innermost thoughts. What do I feel? How do I feel? Horny, obviously, which wasn’t exactly news. More like your resting state. It’s as if your mind is a shaken snow globe. So you’re squinting your eyes to see the miniature winter wonderland below. But all you can perceive is the mental permafrost that is wanting to ride Damiano until you collapse and this fucking blizzard obscuring your vision. 

“Y/n –”

“I genuinely can’t figure out what I’m thinking. I’m trying, I swear.” 

“Can I take a guess?” he smiles. “You’re horny.” After the initial embarrassment, you get flustered, consider hiding it, decide not to, and end up aroused. Damiano’s gaze devouring your blush certainly inspires confidence, as well.

“Actually it was way more specific than that, but sure.” You can see the progression of Dami’s emotions: aroused, realizing your transparency, excitement, even more aroused. 

“Why do you torture me?” He boxes you in with his arms and uses his pelvis to keep you pinned against the wall. When his cock twitches you smirk and raise an eyebrow, but a more serious answer crosses your mind. “Tell me, tell me,” Damiano chants.

“I don’t want to jerk you around, with the physicality stuff. Because on a couple days it’s been…I wake up feeling really steady and so do you. Then I come home and you’re reading a book on the couch and you’ve done all the laundry and I just want to fucking…slip my panties off and grind on the crotch of your jeans while we makeout until I’m sore. And then maybe you – anyways, then some –

“No, no. Finish that thought first.”.

“Your tongue can be really, really gentle,” you admit, feeling a tiny bit perverse. “Soft, soothing, so when I’m sore it's – it's, um, nice.”

“What’s my tongue doing?” He leans down and speaks directly into your ear again.

“You go down on me.” Your voice starts to climb in pitch from the anticipation.

“Right there on the couch?”

“Mhm.”

“We don’t even make it to the bedroom?”

“I, um – It’s just in my head.”

“But just in your head, we don’t make it off the couch.” His lips barely brush your neck. Was it an accident? 

“No.”

“Why? Cause you’re too desperate?”

“Hng, I –” He boldly nips at the base of your neck.

“This okay?” he murmurs. As Dami speaks, his breath hits the spot of saliva his mouth left on your skin and you’re so keyed up that it evokes a full body shiver.

“Mhm!”

“So are you desperate because you need to cum? Or desperate because you got carried humping me since you were too horny to stop yourself?” Somehow, one of the arms that had been around Dami’s waist is now clutching his shoulders as he licks your neck. You don’t remember it happening.

“What…was I just talking, um –” Thankfully, Dami raises face to look at you which makes thinking easier.

“Anyways, then some.”

“Huh?”

“That's how your next thought started: ‘anyways, then some.’”

“Oh, um…then, I don’t know, maybe I have a bad anxiety day or I talk to my therapist or something reminds me of a painful memory and I don’t want sexual touch.”

“But do you always want physical touch of some kind, like cuddling?”

“Well, I came climbing into bed with you last night, didn’t I?” He smiles wide and looks over the couch for a moment.

“Yeah, that's true…and very good to know. If all days are good physical touch days, you are about to get very sick of me.” Now you’re both smiling like fools and the gravitational pull of chemistry has your noses nearly brushing while Dami slips an arm between the wall and the small of your back. It occurs to you that this is the same move he made in the shower, when encouraging you to grind against his leg.

“I just don’t want you to feel rejected or misled if you touch me in a certain way and I’m not into it, even though I was yesterday. Because it's so momentous since we were broken up for a while.”

“Well, you can just tell me that and I’ll understand.” You nod, but the fact that it isn’t so simple occurs to you. Damiano sees it and raises an eyebrow. 

“Okay, I forgot how fucking inconvenient this mind reading thing is but –” he bursts into joyful laughter, head thrown back. You rest your other arm on Dami’s shoulder as well. In return, he pulls you body to body, resting his other hand on the top of your ass with a watchful expression. It’s exactly the point you were making.

“Obviously, I wasn’t feeling like jumping your bones today. The way you placed your hands over there,” you nod towards the couch, “I really appreciated, because it was exactly the right thing. Like it was so conscientious and considerate and nurturing,” even saying the word made your pussy throb, “that I’m pretty sure it turned me on. So fuck if I know how this works!” Again, Dami is filled with boisterous laughter that's infectious. As you giggle along, you wonder if he was right about just letting your organic connection do its thing. “My brain was like ‘Wow. He’s so nuanced about doing this in exactly the way I need. He’s so respectful about the fact that this is totally non-sexual for me that it's making me wet. Oh, wait.’”

“Okay. So sex is never a –”

“Sexual contact,” you clarify. “I still don’t feel ready for proper love making, I’m sorry.” Dami’s face is the most offended it's been all morning.

“Sorry? What do you mean ‘sorry?’” 

“I know, I know,” you brush him off with an eye roll. 

“For fucks sake, don’t apologize. Why would –”

“Stop, you’re so dramatic!” You jostle Damiano while speaking and he almost delivers a retort before changing course in an effort to make you laugh. Effusive, he gasps and brings a hand to his sternum in scandal.

“Who, me? Dramatic?? Never!” You’re filled with a yearning that originates in your mind, but starts in your cunt. This time you don’t fight it off as it travels upwards to envelope you. “I would –”

“Kiss me,” you interrupt, so giddy that you’re bouncing on the balls of your feet. Caught off guard, Dami stops speaking. “Kiss me, kiss mmm –”

Notes: It's a good one! Thank you for waiting for this update and for reading this fic. I hope the holiday season is at least bearable for y'all. And if its not, me and my Masterlist are here for you!

-XOXO Eden

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[gaymaramada]

HCs: Puss dealing with anxiety post-TLW

Since his chase with Death himself, anxiety becomes a new constant for Puss — lingering throughout the day — and it bugs him to no end. And since his anxiety stems from his fear of dying, it’s easy for him to subconsciously latch onto the smallest of things.

Sometimes he’ll just feel the tightness in his chest and the adrenaline beginning to run through his veins, but he’ll have no idea why. There’s no danger, nothing to stress over, why does he feel like this???

He gets extremely frustrated over this, which only serves to rile him up more, and by the end the day he’ll feel so drained despite not having done much at all save for some basic travel. He can’t help but feel like a failure, the words of his past lives in the Dark Forest echoing in his mind.

It takes a bit for him to open up to Perrito and (eventually) Kitty about it, his pride still holding him back. When he does, Perrito actually confesses that he still gets scared, too — that there’s still a small part of him that, as irrational as it may be, fears that Kitty and Puss will try to abandon him, too.

“It kinda feels like a hole in your heart, y’know?” He says, “But the thing is, rather than making it bigger by letting it fester and get all yucky inside you, you could instead focus on filling the rest of your heart with good things. The hole won’t go away, but the more you grow around it, the smaller it will seem, and the easier it will be to bear.”

And if Puss shed a few tears that day in the corner the ship’s cabin with Perrito in his arms — well, that’s no one’s business but his.

Puss will still get panic attacks, but they happen less and less often as time goes on to the point that they’re mostly a rarity. When he does have them, however, they hit hard. Much like the ones he has in TLW, every logical thought in his head is drowned out by the instinctive, primal urge to run, to get away, only he can’t because he’s shaking too hard and his knees are buckling beneath him and he can’t breathe.

Perrito is never late to catch his attacks, as he’s practically glued to Puss’ hip anyways; when he sees him spiraling, deep pressure therapy is his go-to, as it seems to be the most effective. Sometimes, if Puss is at a point where he can’t speak clearly and the space around them is safe/private enough, he’ll actually lie himself down on the floor and vaguely gesture to his chest so Perrito can go over and lie on top of him.

Kitty also does what she can to help; while not as naturally skilled as Perrito, she does manage to help Puss through other methods. Sometimes she’ll talk him through it, focusing on his senses to help ground him. Other times, she’ll try to distract him, rambling on about crazy past heists or idiots who tried to pull one over on her. Somehow, even if he’s still shaking, she always seems to be able to get him to crack a smile and maybe even get a laugh out of him.

It’s still hard for the cat to come to terms with this new devil on his shoulder, the pale scar on his forehead a forever reminder of its presence, but as long as he’s got his new family team with him, he’s sure he’ll be just fine.

#will i ever stop writing abt this cat’s mental illness? #spoiler: no i won’t #cw anxiety #cw panic attack #puss in boots #puss in boots: the last wish #puss in boots the last wish #kitty softpaws #perrito #team friendship #headcanons

[pummoosun]

Im not having a good mental health day today :[

Getting those like, mini anxiety/panic attackie thingies, few times today already and it sucksss

#cw mental illness #cw panic attack #cw anxiety #pummoosun ramblings

[heartxsighs]

✦ ・( aslihan malbora. cis woman. she / her. ) ⸺   🦬   greetings,  buffalos !   walking  around  campus,  sporting  HER  LIBRARY  BOOK  TUCKED  UNDER  HER  ARM  we’ve  spotted  ZEYNEP  SAHIN,  a  thirty  years  old  who  contributes  to  our  thriving  community  as  a  LIBRARY  ARCHIVIST.   according  to  our  intel,  she’s  been  around  the  sanctuary  for  TEN  YEARS  and  what  we  know  about  her,  aside  from  the  fact  that  she  DOESN’T  agree  with  the  decision  to  close  the  gates,  is  that  only  a  handful  of  people  know  about  her  ongoing  autoimmune  disease,  something  that  has  afflicted  her  for  several  years  and  does  not  seem  to  be  letting  up  no  matter  how  desperately  she  hopes  it  does;  she  can  most  often  be  seen  with  her  nose  in  a  book  and  while  zeynep  doesn't  make  it  obvious,  she  enjoys  writing  anything  from  poetry  to  short  stories  just  to  keep  her  mind  occupied  when  she's  unable  to  sleep  or  when  she  isn't  working;  she  struggles  to  verbalize  what  she's  thinking  or  feeling  at  times,  and  this  is  where  words  on  paper  come  further  into  play  for  her,  so  she  keeps  a  little  notepad  in  her  pocket  in  case  she's  feeling  anxiety  and  doesn't  think  she  can  verbally  communicate  effectively.  doesn’t  that  make  her  fantastic ?   we  think  it  does,  and  that’s  why  we  appreciate  her  so  much,  grateful  for  what  she  gives  to  our  community.

 

꒰ basics ꒱ ✦ full name. zeynep aylin sahin ✦ nicknames. zey, z ✦ age. thirty ✦ d.o.b. february 29th (pisces) - they celebrate on either feb 28th or march 1st typically ✦ gender. cis woman ✦ pronouns. she/her ✦ orientations. demisexual heteroromantic ✦ marital status. single ✦ occupation. library archivist ✦ languages spoken. english, turkish, some arabic

꒰ physical ꒱ ✦ hair color. brown ✦ eye color. brown ✦ height. 5 ft 6 in ✦ piercings. one in each ear ✦ tattoos. none ✦ distinguishing marks. a couple of birthmarks on her arms ✦ fashion style. when she's at home or alone, it's sweatpants and a raggedy t-shirt at all times. when she is out and about in the sanctuary, she likes to make herself presentable, to put forward the illusion that everything is fine, even when it isn't. her outfits vary in styles, from skirts that make her look Extra Librarian-ish, to dresses, overalls, and black jeans with a nice top. two things you can always expect from zeynep: 1) her Outside:tm: clothes will always be clean, neat and nicely put together, and 2) she will always accessorize with a necklace or bracelet or a series of rings. ✦ face claim. aslihan malbora

꒰ psychological ꒱ ✦ positive traits. gentle, sentimental, creative, kind, engaging, thorough, organized, observant ✦ negative traits. sensitive, quiet, guarded, awkward, anxious, petty, self-conscious, gets very in her own head ✦ mbti type. infj - the advocate ✦ temperament. melancholic ✦ education level. she is relatively smart, and given that she was homeschooled, zeynep finished her high school education a year early, practically devouring the courses and information she was learning. she was set to begin college at eighteen, but unfortunately never got the chance to, as the outbreak happened and squashed her plans. ✦ hobbies / skills. it may not be a very useful skill now, but it was a hobby back then: dancing. she was placed in ballet classes from a young age and advanced through with the rest of her peers, learning various moves and eventually working her way up to going en pointe. for all her distaste for being in the spotlight, something about the recitals and performances seemed to quash that fear, although she would experience a load of anxiety beforehand. other than that, if you want to know something specific, zeynep is the girl you go to. she has an interest in various topics and studying them, so if you have a question you want answered, and she doesn't know it, she'll gladly do research for you, just so she can have the chance to learn, as well. for other hobbies, she enjoys 'old lady' crafts, such as crocheting, knitting, and the like. she is also a very good writer, though she'd be embarrassed for anyone to read her works or to be given praise for them. ✦ mental ailments. anxiety, panic attacks, occasionally struggles to get her words out and thus finds herself frustrated and goes non-verbal ✦ physical ailments. multiple sclerosis, which is a chronic disease of the central nervous system. essentially, her body attacks itself, leading to various symptoms. some days are much worse than others for zeynep, and she latches onto the good days like a child would their mother. her bad days... well, they're the ones where she stays inside and struggles to get to work, depending on how utterly exhausted she's feeling. before coming to the sanctuary, stress caused horrific flare-ups for her, and she was sick for a long time after she and her father arrived. zeynep doesn't let anyone know about her ailment, because she doesn't want to be a burden on others, mentally or physically. it's easier to pretend like things are alright, though i'm sure some people have noticed in the collective ten years she's spent here that she's not altogether well.

꒰ familial ꒱ ✦ mother. ceren sahin (deceased) ✦ father. bayram sahin ✦ siblings. ahmet sahin, twin brother ✦ children. none ✦ significant other. none ꒰ history ꒱ (i'll make this nice and filled out later) cw: illness (multiple sclerosis), familial death

✦ yada yada, born to older parents who had her and her brother as 'oopsie' babies; the two were homeschooled because their parents wanted to keep them close; both were put in classes for things they enjoyed - zeynep in dance, ahmet in martial arts, though his parents worried about him getting hurt; when she wasn't dancing, her head was in a book and she read at least 2 every given week; she started dealing with health issues at the age of 16 and it would take a year for her to get a diagnosis; of course, it was only a year after that that the outbreak occurred and life went further to shit; her mom passed due to other circumstances, but zeynep, ahmet and their father remained; they were her rocks when she struggled, when her medication ran out and flares couldn't be tamed; they would arrive at the sanctuary two years after the outbreak, calling the place home; it would take her one year to get healthy enough to begin to work, and she immediately locked eyes on the library, where she was trained to be an archivist; some days, she thinks she won't survive, not because of the outbreak, but because of her own body raging against her ꒰ headcanons꒱

✦ she gets very sentimental about things that are important to her. she'll keep them in a special place, organized to perfection, and handle them with extreme gentility. before the outbreak, she kept all of her old pointe shoes and cried over the fact that she couldn't take them with her (although she understood it wasn't rational to keep them.) she also cried when her mom's necklace was lost after she, her father, her brother, and the group they were with had to make a quick run for better shelter ✦ she takes her time with things, prefers to be slow moving and not in wild rushes that stress her out, since her mind tends to do that anyway; thus, she ends up having a greater appreciation for the small things - the way the moon looks shining through her window, the soft fluff of a kitten's fur, the twinkle in her father's eye when he smiles. small details mean the world to her ✦ zeynep tends to be pretty socially awkward. some days, it's like she's fighting with a demon to get the right words out when they just don't want to come. quietness is her comfort zone, because she can too easily get over stimulated by voices and loud chatter. that said, she doesn't necessarily have a large preference towards being completely alone, but being shy makes it hard for her to be in large groups of people or entertain conversation from more than one or two at a time. she'd much rather be by the wall, watching what's going on or reading a book than to be stuck in the middle of it all, or the center of attention. too many eyes on her makes her wary, as if they can all see right through her. ✦ while she uses her little notepad to communicate some days when her mouth just doesn't want to work or she's too anxious to also deal with stumbling over her words, zeynep is also very big on physical communication - little hand touches, bumping someone with her shoulder, giving them a hug. obviously she's not going to just walk up to someone random, who she hasn't gotten to know very well, and hug them. but if the two are friends and she wants to show that she's there for them, she'll use one of these gestures, or show up at their door to spend time with them when she's not in her own little world ✦ she has several notebooks full of short stories she's written, but her latest piece is a poem; more later ✦ zeynep has a competitive streak, likely from growing up with a brother. she's also incredibly passionate, and sometimes, these two traits mix together in a 'deadly' way; more later lmao ✦ comfort matters deeply to her. this isn't just mental comfort, but physical, as well. for as much as she wants to have her mind at ease, she also needs to have her body relaxed and at peace. wrapping up in several blankets at a time can help zeynep with this, and if you end up visiting her in her room, you'll likely see her in burrito form ✦ loves psychology and reading about it; more later yeet ꒰ wanted connections꒱

✦ other librarians, as well as those who visit the library, please! i'd say this is where she gets most of her social interaction, and something about it being 'professional' really helps her to keep that hat on and choose what words she's going to use with a lot more intention than just in a regular conversation. she can answer questions about facts and books a lot better than she can talk about herself. watch out, though, she might start rambling about a topic she's really interested in, and then you'll be stuck listening to Nerd Shit:tm: for at least five minutes ✦ i'm ngl, having either her father, her brother, or both of them would fill me with such happiness, i can't even describe. they're both part of her support system, and she's part of theirs, holding their hands, telling them it's going to be okay, or giving them sympathetic smiles if they're having a rough day ✦ i'd say she might do the above (holding hands and telling them it'll be okay during a rough spell) for people she's close to, as well. it might take a little bit of extra effort to become an actual friend of zeynep's, but once you are, it means that she feels more comfortable with you than anyone else and can let herself just be, without having to feel self-conscious. she can engage the way she wants, without having to explain. she might not be overtly talkative, but she understands that being a physical presence is important, too, when it comes to others not feeling alone. just being there for someone, essentially, whether they're talking about an issue or just silently spending time with each other making idle chatter ✦ i'd say she's rather understanding towards others, except for when they're being assholes. then, she'll think the most petty thoughts about you all while staring you down a bit menacingly. seriously, it's kind of scary how she can get. even if she's not saying what she thinks out loud, it's not hard to tell how she's feeling, especially if it's anger or frustration ✦ it's been ten years, so maybe a past romantic interest or two? i have no idea exactly how this would have gone, so we can discuss it in depth together if you're interested. she has a preference towards men, but needs to have a connection with them on some level to be able to take the step of "hey, we're in a relationship now". she doesn't want to play around, or do casual dating - but hey, that could have happened in the past, before she figured out what she's interested in. and/or closed herself off because she thinks her illness would be too much for someone else to handle ✦ i'll get more here later as i think of things!!

#cw illness mention #cw illness #cw mental health #cw anxiety #cw panic attacks #cw familial death #cw death #( interactions — zeynep. ) #( visage — zeynep. ) #( vibes — zeynep. ) #( featuring — name here.) #survivors.intro

[plusfuckingultra]

Time to play a game of :

Is my anxiety/panic tag team double damage attack an actual response to recent stress?

Because I had a singular cappuccino over 6 hours ago?

Or because I've forgotten to take my meds since Thursday night?

#medication #panic attack #anxiety attack #anxiety #mentally ill #anxiety disorder #antidepressants #anti-anxiety meds #cw medication #the world may never know #the worst game ever #0/10 would not recommend

[beautifuldarkmind]

its nearly 7am. I've been trying to sleep all night but I'm having an anxiety attack and can literally feel my heart pounding throughout my whole body and cant stop shaking. I have to be up in an hour. I'm tired but at the same time I have so much adrenaline from all this anxiety. Pray for me guys. Why does anxiety always creep up on you at the worst time possible. I'm sleep deprived :(

#personal #anxious #mental illness #anxiety disorder #tw anxiety #trauma #tw anxious #ocd #panic attack #panic attacks #anxiety attack #social anxiety #panic anxiety #anxiety #generalized anxiety disorder #anxiety problems #anxiety struggles #anxiety blogging #anxiety cw #mental health #vent #rant

[dddemigirl]

Yay I had a panic attack 🫠😭

#alexa rambles #vent #venting #panic attack #tw panic attack #cw panic attack #vent tag #mental health #mental illness #anxiety #anxiety disorder #generalized anxiety disorder #actually mentally ill #actuallyanxious

[mjlovegood]

It's been a while since I wrote a poem and this one is not quite one I think, but I wrote this in a mental breakdown about feeling hopeless but still wanting to stay alive and wanted to share this one with you♡

I just get through today

Not tomorrow, not next week, just today.

And I say, I'll wait and see what will happen today

Just focus on this day

And I take it just one step at a time

Just this one, not the whole run

Just this next step, doesn't matter what happens next.

Just focus on this step

And I'll be allright,

even though the fear surrounds me.

Even though I can't see clear.

And when the panic suffecates me,

I just focus on what's near.

Cause I'm not done, not with life, not with living.

My story isn't done today,

I'm not done so whatever comes this day,

I want to survive and stay

Cause I'm not done, with the world and with all the people

Who surround me and who I all love so dear

Every day, so I'll say, I focus on today, I try everything to stay.

I just get though this hour,

Not the whole day, not this week or the whole month.

Just this moment, that I can see

and I focus on all these feelings inside me

And I focus on this next breath,

Cause its all that I can control now,

Just this next breath, what happens next, I don't know yet,

But I take it one breath at a time.

And I'll be alright,

Even though this grief is blinding,

Even though my joy has disappeared.

And I know it will get better,

so I wait till my head gets cleared.

Cause I'm not done, I'm not done with fighting

Even though it sometimes feels like to much,

Cause I know it's not a losing battle,

and one day I will be enough.

And I'm not done loving everyone around me,

Enjoying everything they say.

I'm not done writing my story,

so I will just get through today...

#anxiety disorder #childhood trauma #exhaustion #panic attack #social anxiety #mental health #mentally ill #mental breakdown #sewer slide #panic disorder #depressing shit #tw depressing stuff #cw depressive thoughts #really dont know how to feel about this one so who knows how long this one stays up just wanted to share this one for now so we will see ig

[hedonists]

the worst thing about anxiety is forcing yourself to go about your day and pretend everything's fine when your heart is racing 130 miles an hour and you feel ready to faint. But you have to ignore it and tell yourself you'll be fine, nothing bad is going to happen so just keep pushing.

#nemesestext #cw: anxiety #cw: mental health #cw: mental illness #cw: panic attacks

[lameass96]

I actually had the longest panic attack of my life today. While at work. I feel so drained. I just want to cry

#cw anxiety #mental illness #tw panic attack

[entiish]

void ranting under cut xox 🫶🏾 

im in my feels rn it’s been like FIFTEEN YEARS on this platform, and writing/creating/fancasting etc has been my safe space and beloooved by me for about seventeen years at this point....  and im just high and emo and reflecting so this is NO BEARING if ur following me for musings or gifs or any of my creations 💜💜 

anyway

you know whats wild?? after i was mobbed by the Toxic rpc fandom and some RP partners about a decade ago — i’m taking breakdown crying hyperventilating level of carnage i went thru — , i took a break and when i came back i took on a whole new persona (and also only rped in controlled environments) but this person who was a white aussie, or an ASSUMED white aussie by everyone around.   i think thats bc a lot of people have hella misconceptions about australia and aussies and out multiculturalism but i digress)       idk why, aside from some weird online racism trauma ig, and fear.  like so much anxiety and fear.  and i used to often play two different aliases, or id eventually cave and make a second, just so i could be my authentic self even if my face or name wasnt shared.    but i could also be my pretend self who felt safer online at that time.   and like??? its so INSANE to think about late-teen me who did that.   bc it was still me, and i was just living in this Hyper Reactionary state where i was so sure that i would be targeted again so i kept switching myself around as both protection from those people (i STILL remember their aliases to this day)   ----- but like.. in the last few years those two personas meshed ig?? so even tho ill always be Aware and on the lookout for those people, i dont find myself as an adult reaching to hide online anymore. i’ll NEVER make the mistake of sharing my actual name online again but i dont feel the protective need to split myself into two pieces or hide my race out of fear of someone recognising me as the ‘mexican aussie’ anymore  — and thats not me being an ass, we’re straight a rare breed on this platform, like supER rare. how many aussies have yall rped with fr? and how many of those were of mexican heritage?? EXACTLY. point is, its definitely obvious and im cool w that now

the catch is tho, by trying to protect myself back then i lied to a lot of people to make myself “seem” more acceptable, which is so fucked up bc A) ive ALWAYS been acceptable as i am    & B) !!!! i made myself into a liar and i hate that and i struggle w that a lot, like to this day. i am sure that these people who developed bonds with the ‘white’ me will feel hurt by my actions and that makes me feel awful bc i never meant to do that.      & C) i’m too scared to go back and pick up old muses or work i spent time in etc, rp things that ive loved so deeply bc some where played by the ‘white’ me, and the others would have been played by my more autheNtic me. (EVEN THO. THEY’RE THE SAME PERSON.) and if someone i cared about who doesnt know this happened upon it, then refer to point B.

my point is that i made a mess for myself by being driven into a place where i didnt feel safe being me.    i’m not in that mindspace anymore but the mess i made still haunts me sometimes 😓

#internalised racism tw #pointless feelings rant?? #skye talkin shit* #high cw #drug use mention tw #[ might delete when i wake up ] #[ i had therapy this week this is why im in the Well of Feelings ] #mental illness tw #panic attack tw #anxiety attack tw

[tatersgonnatate]

Lololol panic attack in public and now I'm hiding in shame

#tate talks #cw mental health #mental heath awareness #mental illness #cw panic attack #panic attack #anxiety disorder

[anastasiapullingteeth]

Calm. Down. Stay.

{Or The Things I Learned While Training My Reactive Dog}

My submission for this year’s @aggressivelyarospec’s Aggressively Arospectacular event! **Disclaimer: this is not a guide on how to train a reactive dog. It’s just me talking about my own experience.** [CW for mentions of COVID, anxiety, disordered eating and general bad mental health.]

It was August 2020, five months into the COVID lockdown, and I was losing my mind.

I’ve always been introverted. More interested in staying in my comfort zone (home) and indulging in my own activities (lazing around), so as bad as this may sound, lockdown wasn’t really the problem. The previous year and a half of commuting for two hours to get to work, plus years of suffering from insomnia, anxiety, and other debilitating problems were. By the time the pandemic happened, I was walking on a tightrope and the recovery was taking longer than I’d anticipated. That was when my mom, with zero thought put into it I may add, decided we needed a dog and got a month-old puppy.

I’m not one of those people who consider their pets as their actual children, but dogs are, in fact, pretty much like kids in at least one thing: not everyone is prepared to have them, and wanting one is not reason enough to get one. And, boy, I wasn’t prepared.

Given the bad state of mind I was in, the shitty job I had (and still have), and the historical event unfolding in real time, it was safe to say I was barely capable of taking care of myself, let alone a pet, but my mom promised the dog was going to be hers and, since I didn’t have the heart to rehome the puppy, we took her in and named her Quimey (“beautiful” in Mapuche).

I had plenty of dogs while growing up, but Quimey is my first dog as an adult and, although she was supposed to be my mom’s, I’m the one responsible for everything concerning her: I feed her, take her to the vet, walk her, clean after her, pay for everything... It’s a full-time job on top of everything else I already have on my plate but, even though my mom wants to help, she can’t really do much because Quimey has way too much energy and her strength and impulsivity can be dangerous if handled wrong, so I ended up taking up the responsibility myself. How hard could it be, right? It’s a dog. Then, of course, it became way harder.

Due to her chronic illness, my mom couldn’t leave the house during that time between the beginning of the pandemic and the first vaccines, so I was in charge of groceries and anything else she needed. Due to a lot of different factors (particularly that she’d been separated from her mother way too soon), Quimey wasn’t properly socialized when we got her, so, in an attempt to fix this, she often came with me to do errands. 

She’s naturally nervous, so getting out of the house involved a lot of shaking, but nothing too bad to be considered a problem. The walks went okay and, after some time, she even stopped shaking, but then, one day as we waited our turn outside a store, she jumped on a random woman seemingly out of nowhere, scaring her. She didn’t actually bite her or even try to hurt her, but, from that moment on, I was a little wary of taking her with me in case she did it again so I tried to keep her at a safe distance from other people. It seemed to work and I thought we were back at a safe place, but I was wrong.

A couple of months later, Quimey was attacked by a neighbor's dog that’d been left outside without supervision. I managed to pick her up before the dog could do any damage, but, since we couldn’t really avoid him, he tried to attack her on several other occasions for at least a month or so, until the owners saw it and finally kept him inside. Sadly, that was enough to scare Quimey for life and the primary reason her reactivity began. She’s now terribly afraid of strangers and other dogs (particularly small ones) and is literally impossible to take her anywhere without her having what’s basically a panic attack. Trying to revert that as much as possible is what I’ve been aiming for for the past 3 years.

Living in a place that’s not pet friendly and without easy access to trainers and other specialists, having a reactive dog has been a journey, but one that, looking back, has taught me more than I’d expected.

.

Puppies are hard to train, they’re basically just babies, but anyone who’s had a dog before they turn one year old knows that’s nothing compared to the teenage stage. Yes, dogs go through adolescence, just like us, and it’s just as bad as you imagine. If by then you manage to teach them anything, they will forget it. They won’t listen no matter what you do and sometimes will even purposely disobey you. Avoiding shouting becomes a challenge and so far I was failing.

I’m not a person of soft emotions. I’m anxious, impatient, and temperamental, and my anger issues, although not as bad now, are very much something I still struggle with. Over the years, I’ve done my best to manage and redirect those emotions, but having a fearful reactive dog can certainly push you to the edge and test your patience because they’re harder to train and difficult to be with if you lack the knowledge to help them.

In dogs like Quimey, on top of the confusing teenage state, fear takes up their minds when they’re around a trigger and they basically lock themselves in a never-ending fight or flight response; in that scenario, they won’t listen to you not because they’re being disobedient, but because they can’t. Their bodies are fighting for survival and the last thing they need is having you screaming desperately because they’re pulling at the leash or barking, so, in order to get her to calm down, the first thing I had to learn was to be calm myself. What an impossible task! Years and years of trying had proved I couldn’t do it, but I needed to. I had to.

Dogs mirror our emotions; if I wanted to show her there was nothing to fear, I had to believe it first.

.

Dogs, as well as anyone else, are unique and what could work for one won’t do much for others. Each of them has its own process and sometimes it’s ok to just wait for things to pass and manage what you can until it gets better. As a teenager, Quimey was constantly trying to escape, barked at everything that moved, and got up in the middle of the night looking for things to play with or food to steal. It was the worst six months I experienced as a dog owner because all the progress we’d achieved until then was lost. Luckily, my sister, who’s had a similar experience with her own dog, helped me with some advice. Once I understood what was happening, I took a deep breath and established a routine. 

As I said before, Quimey is high energy and needs help managing it in a way that’s safe and productive for her. So we implemented longer walks in a route that felt good for her, added scent games to stimulate her mind, practiced simple commands to control her impulsivity, and ran a few laps at night to burn all that pent-up energy that prevented her from having a full night's sleep. And it's working. Taking the time to assess the situation and try a solution is helping and something that was torturous at the beginning became bearable because I took my time. I was patient. The routine helps Quimey feel safer and more sure of herself because she no longer has to guess what is going to happen next; she is in the process of regaining control and lowering her guard, allowing her to enjoy what is around her instead of trying to run away from everything. And, what’s even more surprising, her routine is also helping me.

I’ve had trouble sleeping since I was a kid thanks to an overactive brain, and switching to full remote work due to the pandemic completely fucked any resemblance of a good sleep schedule I had so far, which wasn’t really impressive, to begin with. Routines had never done anything for me and, sometimes, having to keep a schedule for school or work even worsened my insomnia, which is the exact opposite of what one would expect. Having Quimey with me now, on the other hand, has improved my sleeping habits, not only allowing me to sleep most nights all night but also reducing the nightmares considerably.

Over the years I tried all kinds of tricks to sleep better and other things to lower my anxiety that never worked, but having a routine for Quimey did. What makes this one different? That I have a purpose. Getting better for oneself is what we all should aim for, but sometimes that’s not a good incentive when you don’t consider yourself worth it. Doing things for others can be a good first step towards healing and I already knew it’d worked for me in the past.

A few years ago, what took me out of a very long period of bad mental health was working with kids. Being surrounded by children whose parents neglected them in ways most people would dismiss pushed me to try to be the adult they needed and the one I didn’t have while growing up. I not only had to guide them academically, I also had to be able to be fully there to accompany them in their journey and that’s how I, almost accidentally, broke the streak of abnormal eating patterns and sleepless nights I'd been suffering from since I left college; adopting Quimey had more or less the same effect on me. 

Somewhere along the way I figured she, just like me, struggles to understand the world around her and her fear comes from a place of feeling inadequate to handle it. She needs someone to give her the tools to work around her big emotions and translate the things she still hasn’t fully grasped in terms she’s more familiar with. And, much like with those kids, I had to step in and be the support she needed and the one I didn’t have. And I’m trying to do that every day.

.

Two years later, we still do most of the things we started her routine with, varying between the activities she gets tired of and adding stuff that fits her better as she ages. And we’re doing pretty well now.

I used to wonder what people did with reactive dogs before our generation got so obsessed with them that we started to treat them more like living things and not like objects, but then it occurred to me that, even if you think there’s more of them now because of the way the world has changed, most of the problematic dogs back in the day were abandoned or euthanized without giving them a chance or helping them overcome what had made them that way. Most of them still are even now. That, for better or worse, is part of why I keep trying with Quimey.

There’s something people with reactive dogs say constantly, but that’s worth repeating here: as much as a bad time you’re having trying to train your dog, you can be sure they’re having it way worse. Reactivity can be genetic or a result of past trauma, but whatever the cause is, your dog is struggling to adapt to this world and it’s your job to help them get there.

Quimey’s not perfect and never will be. She gets incredibly anxious if her routine changes, still won’t accept any stranger (human or dog) to get too close to her no matter how friendly, and is afraid of the simplest things like bubbles or the sound of a door closing in the distance. She sometimes has to take natural remedies to help her anxiety when her triggers are just too much to handle and we’re still working on teaching her how to stay alone in the house without a panic attack. But she’s also the most affectionate dog I have ever had.

Learning to accept and love her the way she is and my job as her advocate has strengthened our bond and has helped me accept and work on most of my own struggles as well. Identifying and naming her emotions in order to offer a safe space has created one for me, too, one I never knew how to get before, and that, without realizing, she guided me to.

Working on doing better for her helped me do better for myself as well. 

.

Calm, down, stay… you’re safe now.

.

#AggressivelyArospectacular #essay #HI I'D FORGOTTEN TO POST THIS #lmfaoooo #aas* #aa* #long post #very long post

[aleksa-sims]

RL Simself Story ( 18+)

CW: mental illness, panic attacks

This is Dr. M., my Therapist. You have met her once before in my story. She helped me to control my panic attacks and practiced daily with me relaxation techniques. This really helped me after a while.

But now it was time for me, to use Dr M.’s help again. This time, it wasn’t panic attacks. It was rather.... stress & anxiety, that made my everyday life tough. I was afraid to leave the house alone.

Two days ago, I was already here. She prescribed me drugs, antidepressants, that I can continue to take during pregnancy. Weeks before, I attended those therapeutic group sessions she led. I haven’t been there often, but she asked me about Daniel there. She saw I wasn't well. And that's exactly the topic she first discussed with me today. She wanted to get an idea of my current situation and she was also worried about Daniel. She thought Daniel was going through something similar to me. Just he did not have panic attacks, but she was sure, he also struggled to process this thing .The attack on the two of us and the consequences of it. However, I also told her everything that had happened since Daniel left. Drugs, Adam & Ana, including N. & me.

Dr. M.: I'm glad you got confidence in me. I remember well how.... difficult certain topics for you were to address. That guy Adam, how do you handle what happened between you and him?

Me: Actually, nothing happened. And I don’t think he really wanted to hurt me. He had other intentions. It was about my sister.

Dr. M.: I see it a little differently. No matter what his intentions were or what his motive was, what he did is definitely wrong.

Me: Yes, I agree! It was wrong and made me angry. But-... ugh, I don't want to discuss about that. I get a headache from this subject.... No joke, my brain hurts rn.

Dr. M.: Here, a glass of water. You need to stay hydrated..... Better?....Fine. Explain please. What made you so angry about Adam?

Me: Um... what he did! To me.... Why does this keep happening to me?? 😫 It makes me so sick!😡 ... Agh, anyway. Pls let's change the topic.

Dr. M.: It's okay. But you did well! You finally showed me your anger and let it out... Oh, but you didn’t have a panic attack after that, right?

Me: No! I had sex 3 weeks later and well, I’m pregnant. Looks like sex isn’t a prob for me anymore.🤷‍♀️But even before that, it worked quite well between Daniel & me as far as this is concerned. You were right! Daniel wasn’t the trigger for my panic.

Dr. M.: He felt so awful about that. He blamed himself. But I’m glad this at least went well for you two.

Me: I was dreaming about him.... Again. It felt so real... I still feel like he was really with me last night. I was in our apartment. I felt like we were still together. I cleaned up, did our laundry and at night, he really came to me in my dreams... I just want to know where he is?.. Why did he leave me? And if he comes back?

Dr. M.: Let’s say Daniel comes back. What could your life together look like? Some things have changed. You are pregnant and Daniel’s situation or condition may have changed too? Could you imagine continuing your marriage with him?

Me: For him, I would try. I would also forgive him, no matter what he did. But how can I be sure he won’t leave me again?

Dr. M.: Exactly!..... You also have to be aware that you are pregnant. But do you think Daniel would be able to help you with your Baby?

Me: Um... Idk? It's not his Baby. I'm not sure if he can deal with that? But he'd help me, I know that. However, all of this is more of a wishful thinking of mine and not reality. So... I’m going to file for divorce tomorrow.

Dr. M.: That sounds reasonable. You should definitely do this step, for yourself! One of you two has to take the first step towards enlightenment, which doesn’t mean, that it really has to come to a separation in the end. My personal opinion.... Daniel had enough time. It's time to act now!

Me: Almost 3 Months.... Nevertheless, I think I made too hasty decisions and let myself be misled by false facts.... And Nico, whenever he shows up in my life, it gets complicated.

Dr. M. : Tell me more about him. How did you feel when you saw him again after a long time?

Me:...... (Gosh!🤦‍♀️) ... Ahhmm.... yea. It was okay. Nothing special. 🤥

Dr. M.: 🤨...  I can tell when you're fibbing.😉 But, let's try it this way! Ask me a personal question that interests you. If I answer, you will also answer my question about Nico.

Me: Hehe...Ok! Ahm??? Do you have kids  and are you married?

Dr. M.: No, I don’t have kids, my patients are my kids. But yes, I’ve actually been married recently.

Me: OH, congratulations.

Dr. M.: Thanks! You even met him. He examined you at the clinic when we were planning to include you in the study.

Me: No! That Doc is your husband??.. Cool! He's really nice, Dr. M. Cute. 😉

Dr. M.: Thank you. I'll tell him later. He will surely be pleased about it. 😄... But now back to you, A. How was it for you to see Nico again.

Me: My cheeks felt burning hot. I was beaming & smiling all over my face. 🤦‍♀️🥰.... Agh yea, I was so happy. Even though I was totally nervous and excited, it felt like he's always with me. And I think he felt the same. He kept telling me I was pretty and... hot. But he didn’t kiss me .He.... had a fiancé. He didn’t want to cheat on her, but I think if I told him I wanted him, he wouldn’t have said no. He made hints in that direction, but I was disappointed. Agh, honestly? I knew he was in a relationship. I wasn’t quite sure, but-... yea. I got involved with him anyway. I just can’t say no to him. I wanted him and... just a day later, I got him.

Dr. M.: It is right to say it openly. Feelings of attraction feel strong. Certain factors can amplify all this, making it even more difficult to ignore those feelings. But how did you and he decide to continue?

Me: We talked a lot, especially about the past. There were some misunderstandings that Nico and I were able to resolve. The present is more the problem I think, his fiancée and of course Daniel.

Dr. M.: Would he accompany you here? Like Daniel did... I’m trying to help you. I think Nico has a strong, very strong influence on you. You told me about him before, and.....well! It would be good for you, but also for him, if you come here together. You think he’d be willing to talk to me?

Me: Rn, I'm not really sure?... But Nico has surprised me in recent weeks, in many ways... I’ll see him soon anyway. He’ll accompany me to my prenatal check-up. So yea, I'm gonna talk to him.

Dr. M.: I’m glad to hear he’s accompanying you.... Fine, A.! And please! Please take your pills regularly! Or do I really have to call you here every other day?

Me: No! Pls don't!... I’ll take care of myself, I promise.

Dr. M.: That's just what I was hoping to hear. All right! Then.... See you next week, I’d say.

Me: Sure!...Ok thanks, see you next week Dr. M.

Previous/Next

#ts4 #sims 4 #sims 4 story #myrlgameplay #rl story #cw mental health #cw mental illness #cw panic attack

[lifeandlies-of-regulusblack]

Regulus Black eats angst for breakfast and oh, how i find symphony in his sadness.

TW/CW: irl parental abuse. irl struggle with mental illness. *life's tough guys*

It's because all my branches were cut so fucking short. All my leaves pruned before they ever got to grow and feel the wind. My soil poured over with boiling water so as to sanitize. Dear sister, they look at the life and fire inside of you and now know exactly what they must kill.

I'm sorry but how could i EVER not feel a deep kinship for this man. Everybody talks about the troubled years of the elder sibling. But who talks about the one child left to pick up the pieces of an already shambled family when their older sibling has made every mistake -- that they're no longer allowed to make theirs?

Honestly, though... what about the children left to pick up the pieces? Left to clean up the mess after? We're here too. I feel like this is a rather unspoken facet to the older sibling-younger sibling dynamic? If not unspoken, then terribly neglected.

The first time I had a panic attack at the backseat of my father's car, my father, with steel in his voice, asked if I was about to turn crazy like my older sister. Ignoring how I struggled to hear him over the sounds of, well, me -- gasping for air I couldn't breathe in. The first time I went home early, missing last period--because I felt cracks in my mind as stabs of anxiety made me feel bloody inside-- i was interrogated. I was asked if I so worshipped my sibling... for being so fucking cruel to my parents and wasting all the hard work that went into paying for my education. Because they felt like they were still paying for my sister's.

My father who paid for my sister's education as she studied in one of my country's most prestigious universities, told me he WASN'T going to give me the same kindness -- just in case. He didn't want to have to waste his money, he said. "So pick a small school and be done with it."

I remember my sister asking me why I wasn't hit as much as she was at my age. It's not like I was never hit, I remember telling her. But there was bitterness clinging to her person, so she asks again -- but why weren't they ever as violent towards me, as they were to her? Why.

I had it so fucking good.

We used to be in the same boat but so good of me to decide I wanted to play the good daughter.

It's because all my branches were cut so fucking short. All my leaves pruned before they ever got to grow and feel the wind. My soil poured over with boiling water so as to sanitize.

They look at the life and fire inside of you and know exactly what they must kill. I was already half dead. There was nothing left of me to hit me for. They made sure of it. THEY. MADE. SURE.

I may hold fewer bruises than you do. I may have fewer scars. But aren't you glad you still want to live? That you actually have people to fight and live for?

I think they got to me way deeper. Sorry, I guess? I'm already dead.

Of course, I never told her that. She got to have enough time in her life that her anger and bitterness fuel her own passion. I grew up holding my own bitterness in silence because there's simply no point. Not for me.

I was only living so that my parents could satiate this cruel greed to prove to themselves, that they could have one child that "wasn't fucked up" that "wasn't a failure". I spent a good chunk of my life trying to erase her mistakes. Like that was all I was here for. Allowed to be here for.

(How it fucking cost them, when I was diagnosed with my own cocktail of mental illnesses -- apparently she already has hers. I was barely allowed to "have" mine. Dad said I should be thankful.)

So maybe I look at this fictional character and feel some sort of affinity for what I can only imagine were his struggles. Rebellious older brother and the sibling left to fend for himself, and thus, overcompensating to please his parents? Younger sibling made heir because his brother ran away? Well, that's sounds terrifyingly familiar.

I wasn't a fucking nazi. Nor will I ever be. So, there's that.

Though, given my field of study, I'm well aware that had my parents been (or something similar), I would've gone to the moral deep end and followed. At least regulus fucking pulled his shit together despite the sheer lack of help he got compared to sirius. I'm really, not sure. if I'd have had enough will to do the same, much more live to die for something -- when I was in a similar household situation as him.

Granted, I'm well aware my sister isn't, in any way, responsible for the abuse I went through, just as it wasn't my words or my hands that hurt her as well. I feel the same way for the black brothers too.

It's just that sometimes the discourse around regulus can tend to get very hurtful and ignorant towards how children respond and try to survive in abusive households. Or how sirius' role as an older brother takes precedent, as if the younger kids in families don't face their own nightmares. or that sometimes THEY'RE THE ONES who get hurt the most in certain situations.

This isn't a call to aggression or the dismissal of what elder siblings go through. I'm just saying that regulus is so painfully relatable and is a powerful medium when it comes to discussing what younger kids go through. YOUR YOUNGER SIBLINGS SUFFER JUST AS MUCH AS YOU DO EVEN IF YOUR VERSION OF HELL DOESN'T LOOK THE SAME.

TL;DR: younger siblings are always the last ones left. and when you're the last one left, you're the one who has to deal with everything. there are younger kids also fighting for their fucking lives, okay?

Note: i have three older siblings of which I've experienced all these things with them. Here, they've blurred into this singular presence because it's easier than actively writing out their names. Also, why would i do that? And this was written more for my catharsis. All of what I've written remain just as real. So when i say i get regulus black, i really do. I have three sirius's in my life and two of which i love but will never speak to. Ever again.

#regulus kinnie #regulus black #sirius and regulus #sirius black and regulus black #the black brothers #ancient and most noble house of black #marauders era #younger sibling #sibling trauma #yes - i do think people tend to get ignorant when it comes abuse #people only respect what's easier to swallow #think about the prettier picture. the one who fights cruelty and wins #but cruelty kills. yall. some give under the weight. #does it excuse regulus being a death eater? no. but he was far from a coward. Or to have cowardice as his defining trait. fuck that. #still -- dont be a nazi. #hp marauders #sirius black

[blnk338]

I read Ghost's backstory just now. I knew it was f-ed up but damn... He should really have a lot more problems than just being emotionally unavailable. I'm kind of surprised he's opening up to Reaper or anyone at all (it's great he is though). What's your view on his mentality in general, based on his past trauma? What are his habits caused by it? And is his original backstory even a part of your fanfic? Sorry if you already answered this previously.

anon i am so glad you brought this up bc i could talk about this for eons <33333 mwah mwah -- yes, simon's backstory is canon is RWYS!

i am so sorry i wrote this much on this LMAO

cw for heavy trauma, sa mentions, abuse mentions, eating disorders, discussion of mental illness

I think more people need to put more effort into their fics or stories when writing trauma because I often see characters be one of two things:

They're tiny, sweet, pitiful babies who don't know anything and they're so little and small and they're not even adults or people anymore

They end up being their abuser.

Both are terrible options and unfortunately, as I said, they're shown way too often and really do not illustrate a lot of trauma reactions (of course there are examples of them, but I have not seen them as commonly). I take the writing of traumatized characters from my own experiences and from my own research (and literal human empathy, which appears to be void in half of the Ghost fics I read).

I think the idea of making Ghost quieter, closed off, a wall of a man is an accurate reaction to the shit that he has been through. He has a mountain of baggage and I think it's nearly impossible to write him without considering that. There's a clear idea that he limits who he trusts, and allows even fewer people to look under the layers that he's built up; but it makes complete sense that he has a conscious amount that he "lets people see" (even those he holds dear), until he breaks down.

A few of the responses that I think he has are avoidance and isolation, and the development of depression and anxiety disorders.

Simon blocks out a lot of the memories that he has and largely tries to avoid any conversations or thoughts on the subject of his sexual assault. Obviously, as an SAS soldier, it's hard to avoid certain topics, but I feel like he separates Ghost and Simon as two different people. It's common to find that people will put up different "faces" when it comes to responses to certain traumatic experiences, and I think it makes sense that Ghost would be willing to handle anything; he could be beaten, screamed at, watch and do terrifying things, handle himself well in the battlefield, but Simon can't.

Simon is scared. Simon is nervous, anxious, he overthinks things. He bites his nails and paces around his house, he has three locks on his door, he triple-checks the windows before he leaves for the day-- Simon isn't the stone-cold person that Ghost is, Simon is trying to relearn how to be a person who doesn't hide knives under every chair in his home. (Please also keep in mind that Simon's psychiatrist was also killed, I believe, in the midst of the murder of his family, so he would also limit the mental help he gets because of a fear that it might happen again)

Isolation makes complete sense because, as I mentioned before, he might see him and Ghost as different people. Simon doesn't go out of his way to ask for help, there's an incapability to do so. With that comes helplessness because he might not see the change he wants to see in himself. He's gotten back up from getting shot, he's taken hours of beating and torture, why can't he just get past this? All of these different sides of him build into depression and mass depressive episodes, paranoia and anxiety disorders, insomnia, etc.

Eating disorders may come with that; forgetting to eat or not going out enough to get groceries often. Restless, sleepless nights. Panic attacks that rise out of nowhere, he manages to push them down into staring off into space and clenching his fist, masking it on the job or in public. Hearing people's words but not listening, spending hours in his room on base, letting his anger out in the gym, sobbing into his pillow into the wee hours of the morning.

On top of that, he also refuses to let his anger out in any way that would hurt people like his father hurt them. Simon is careful about touching people, but is especially considerate of his anger. All he does is think, think, think, about how not to turn out like his dad. That's another thing I see people headcanon, that he would be physically abusive, and I don't see that at all. Ghost and Simon don't touch people because the last thing they want to do is end up like his father.

Tl;dr: Simon is very, very fucked up from his past and is still working through it.

#rwys asks #asks #simon ghost riley #cod:mw2 #rwys ghost