#cw: some passive suicidal ideation

[dandylovesturtles]

Leo & Donnie, trick (Please no character death, thank you!)

This will make more sense if you read the previous trick or treat (the Leo and Draxum trick)

Unfortunately this has become. a whole Thing. I didn't plan for it, it just happened. I'm currently calling it the Sidelined AU

CWs: Internalized ableism, light passive suicidal ideation

---

Here's what being stuck in a demonic suit of armor for two days gets you:

Brittle bones.

No mystic powers.

Hovering brothers.

A catatonically depressed dad.

A catastrophic decrease in muscle mass.

Chronic fatigue.

A concerning amount of brain fog.

A bedroom on the ground floor (under construction).

Sensitivity to light and smell.

And a wheelchair. Apparently.

Donnie brought it in ten minutes ago, and he's spent that long infodumping about all the features he's built into it. Leo hasn't really kept up, because of the whole brain fog situation, and because he doesn't normally listen to infodumps of this length, anyway.

Instead he's been focused on keeping his lunch down. Something about the wheelchair twists his gut in a sharp way. It just feels so... final. Like if he sits down in that, he's officially given up.

Donnie is still rattling on. He's been smiling the whole time. Leo doesn't know what about his situation invites smiling.

(Some part of his brain, the less bitter and angry part, notes that it's the same smile Donnie has whenever he shows off new tech. Leo ignores that part of his brain.)

"Any questions?" Donnie asks him suddenly, and Leo blinks his way out of his own thoughts. Donnie is looking at him expectantly. Still smiling, his hands gesturing at his creation. The wheelchair. Leo's gut twists again and he swallows forcefully. Reaches over and sucks down the last of the water from his water bottle, and even that simple motion takes Herculean effort.

He's already forgotten what the question was, so he says, "No," because he feels that sums up all his feelings about the situation.

"Excellent," says Donnie, because he can't read a room to save his life. "Then do you want to take it for a test run?"

Leo stares at him so he doesn't have to look at the chair.

"No," he says again.

Finally, Donnie's smile falls. It morphs into something concerned, and Leo isn't sure he likes that any better.

"You said you were feeling alright," he says.

Sure, he did say that, because all he ever says when they ask how he's feeling is "alright." Well, that's not true. Sometimes it's "okay." Or "fine." Or, "Jeez, Raph, stop worrying about me before that chasm gets any bigger."

The point is, he did say he was feeling alright, but alright isn't good enough for... whatever this is.

He struggles over his words for a bit before finally getting out, "I don't need a wheelchair," which is the main point, as far a he's concerned.

Now Donnie's expression turns more frustrated. "Yes you do."

"No, I don't."

He sighs. "Leo, we've been over this. Your legs aren't strong enough to carry your weight, and you can't risk a fall in your condition. Do you want to be healing from a broken pelvis on top of everything else?"

He doesn't. But he doesn't say that, just stares stubbornly at Donnie to avoid looking at the chair.

"The wheelchair is only for now," says Donnie. "Once you've recovered enough, a walker, then a cane, or crutches. We've been over this-"

"I don't need a cane," says Leo, cutting him off. "Canes are for old people."

"They are not," Donnie argues. "They're for whoever needs them. Which includes you."

"I don't need one."

Donnie grumbles something under his breath that Leo can't hear, because damaged hearing is another one of the things being trapped in a demonic suit of armor for two days gets you. "Alright. Is there something wrong with my engineering?"

He frowns. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, is there something unsatisfactory about the chair that I can fix so you would be more willing to use it." He gestures at it. "It's okay if my design isn't to your liking. I have others."

Leo shakes his head. "This isn't about your engineering." This isn't about you.

"Well maybe if we make it about my engineering then you'll stop being so stubborn!" Donnie snaps, and Leo feels his hackles rising.

"Oh, screw you, Donnie."

"Screw me?" Donnie spits back. "Screw me for trying to help and not just watch while my brother lets himself waste away! Yeah, screw me."

"You don't have to watch anything," Leo snaps back. "The door's right there."

"What's your end game here?" Donnie demands, taking an angry step forward. "You complain about Raph carrying you everywhere, but you aren't doing anything to fix your situation. You won't exercise, you won't use the wheelchair - you're giving up!"

"I'm not giving up!" Leo lies.

"Yes you are and I'm sick of watching it!"

"Then leave!"

Donnie opens his mouth like he wants to argue further, but then he throws his hands up and turns on his heel. "I'm done," he says, then stalks out. He tries to slam the curtain behind him as he leaves, but because it's a curtain it just ends up swinging back and forth.

Which means Leo can clearly see as Raph and Mikey duck out of sight.

"Donnie, maybe you shouldn't have-" Raph begins, but gets cut off.

"I'm not treating him with kid gloves. If he wants to rot in bed then let him."

"He's having a rough time, so-"

"You can keep coddling him. But I'm done."

Leo hears retreating footsteps, then a heavy sigh. Raph is still right outside his room.

It takes him a moment, but he pokes his head in eventually.

"Heeey buddy," he says, adopting his baby voice, and Leo wants to scream but he doesn't have the energy. "Need anything?"

"No. I'm fine," he says instead.

"You sure? Because Raphie can-"

"I'm fine," he says again, tired, and lays down so he can stare at the ceiling. "I'm just gonna sleep."

"...Okay. Night Leo."

He's gone and doesn't come back. Mikey doesn't come, either.

Leo regrets his decision a few minutes later, because all that yelling made his throat dry and painful, but his water bottle is empty, and he doesn't have the energy to get to the kitchen, and if he uses the chair...

He groans, pulling his blanket over his head. Already, the brain fog is turning his thoughts to white noise, and the fatigue is pulling him down. Thirsty or not, sleep will come.

Another thing being trapped in demonic suit of armor for two days gets you: a cure for insomnia.

#dandy fanfiction #dandy trick or treat #rise leo #rise donnie #rottmnt #sidelined au #cw internalized ableism #I can't believe this #things will improve I promise

[ultraviolet-cello]

Day 8 of the tristamp analysis marathon and jesus christ i am!!! really excited to do these now because people have been adding onto/being nice abt my stuff and that's super cool. Thank you again to @tristampparty for running this! I didn't manage to join in on the book club last year so it's nice to have a fun little event all the same

[But as for next book club,,,, well. I'm extremely transgender about trimax and would love to join in]

As always, spoilers for trigun stampede and trigun maximum! Also some CWs for Vash-typical passive suicidal tendencies and discussion of his psyche

So! Episode 8! I have.... mixed feelings, on how Tristamp portrays Knives. On one hand, I definitely think that we're being lead to believe that Vash has always been a peace-loving kid and that Knives has always had those tendencies, which would set up for season 2 to break that down. I hope.

The one thing I couldn't figure out, ofc, is the Knives not needing to eat thing - My friend millions-dykes theorized a black hole/white star dynamic a little while ago [as seen in the screenshot. I'm Organ, they are Nagito Malmonella]

aaaaaaaaanyway, we still get these little instances of knives just being a kid, and it's the funniest thing in the world to me. Vash is also apparently in tune with him enough to pick up on that and it's such twin behaviour.

There's also just a lot of cases of Knives smiling or being giggly around Rem, which,,,, he's such a mama's boy like we know this but it's so nice to have it reinforced. This theory of Knives having always been cold/standoffish just doesn't track - the only time he usually seems uncomfortable is when Rem touches him or when he talks about Plant stuff - particularly when he's talking about being different to Vash. Knives, to me at least, is a tad autism-coded :]

OKAY TO THE SCENE[TM]

So obviously this has changed from when we first saw Vash tell the story. Vash's sequence of events runs as follows:

Vash walks up to the little hill that Knives is laughing maniacally on top of -> Knives says "I finally did it! It worked! -> Vash confronts him with "How could you do that?" -> Knives reassures him with "Don't worry, I left the Plant ship" -> Knives says "I even got Rem killed!" -> Knives points out that Vash is his accomplice, but does not elaborate why. "Don't get mad. You're already my accomplice, isn't that right Vash?"

Now the sequence of events in this version is provably more accurate (the same audio is used in the black box recording discovered later), and goes as follows:

Vash wakes up from the escape pod and goes "Nai, where are you?" -> He spends some time following Knives' footsteps where he sees the crashed pods and fire and Knives laughing on the hill -> Knives says "I finally did it! It worked!" -> Vash says "I can't believe you killed Rem!" -> Knives says "Don't get mad. You're already my accomplice, it was you who told me the passcode - Am I right, Vash?"

So there are several inconsistencies in these two versions of events, most notably for me is that Vash is the one to bring up Rem. If the 1st telling was correct, it would imply that Knives wanted to kill Rem, but that part is conspicuously absent, because Vash is the one that brings her up.

Vash's retelling also omits the fact that he was the one to give Knives the passcode, shifting more blame onto Knives. It's very very interesting to me. Finally, Knives mostly has his back to Vash when he dissolves into laughter again. Which is a technique often used to hide if you've been crying or are having a hard time keeping some emotional responses down.

And I'm not even done with this flashback! The scene where Vash just lies down and wants to give up is,,, Well, in Trimax, ever since Tesla, Vash has struggled with suicidal ideation - he's the one that asks for Rem to just kill him, and that's heartbreaking, but we also see a bit of that leaking through here again, where he just wants to lie down and give up. It also gives me hope we're gonna see that Tesla aftermath scene in the next season, because that'll be breaking Vash down into his more complicated, messy parts.

Okay so I do think that the subtitles Aniwave uses are... a little bit Wack, I'm pretty sure that they're unofficial and probably a bit wonky, and I'm only slightly conversational in Japanese so I have 0 idea about this, but hey I think someone should inform Wolfwood, for no particular reas- [I am dragged away by security]

[I did check the dub, which referred to Plants giving birth which I think is much more likely to be accurate. But it'd still be funny for Wolfwood to have to sit through Plant sex ed so neither of them get pregnant]

Rem really was very, very young,,,,,

There are four photos here, but only one is given to Vash. I wonder why,,,, Possibly to gauge his recognition of Knives being in the photo, or keeping the other three to learn what they can about Knives.

The night/day progression cycle here doesn't really match up with Vash's little tally, so I don't think it's counting days. Given that he apparently went to say hello to everyone in cold sleep while on the ship, I think it's a little more likely that the tally marks are for them....

Do we ever actually get to hear Rem say the blank ticket thing in a flashback? I don't recall it, but it is said to Vash after the whole Stabbing Incident in Trimax, so that's possibly why they've kept it from us.

Theeee markings under this Plant's eyes match Elendira's, which. Obviously Elendira in tristamp is part plant there's just so many little details that lend themselves to it,,,

The HAIR COLOUR CHANGE AAAA

I like the little wall of Vash baby pics in the background here, but he still didn't get any of his 3 other ship pics back :(

Finally, Vash's line of "an Independent will make up for what an Independent has done" is interesting because his guilt complex really does spiral, huh. The reason Knives telling him "Oh, you just feel guilty for the Big Fall, huh?" in a later ep fucks him up so much is because like. That is kinda true to an extent. Vash is his own kind of self-deluding, but that only really starts spiraling at about this point in time.

Alright, setting up for a Day of analysis tomorrow, because I have many thoughts and feelings surrounding Knives (I love him very dearly and I hate him a lot (affectionate)) and we Will spend some time talking about Trimax Flavour Knives because my understanding of him is fundamental to my understanding of Tristamp Flavour Knives.

Thank y'all for the fun comments and theory addons!!! I'm having a lot of fun and we're really getting into how [normal] I am about Trigun!

#cli speaks #trigun #trigun stampede #tristampparty #cli analysis

[fallenclan]

// cw • this fic contains discussions of grief, passive suicidal ideation (im probably exaggerating it a lot in the tags tbh but if its a sensitive topic b careful), dissociation, and nongraphic death. please take care of yourselves!! :3

me if cranking out fics of just me smashing characters with the angst hammer 18 consecutive times was a crime 🚔💁‍♀️

--

Brambletuft doesn't categorize herself as someone with an anger problem.

There are cats like Wormshade and Flyspots, straight up with their anger. If they are angry, they make it known.

There is Maplestar, his quiet fury. You'll never see him angry, it doesn't show as more than irritation, but the way his claws scratch on the floor beneath him, and his eyes hold the smallest hint of disdain. When you know what to look for, you can read him like Silverbelly does the stars.

Poppyfeather is similar; you'll never know how she feels unless she wants you to.

Yewberry is entirely silent in his anger. He doesn't scream, or shout, he endures. He puts his anger to good work.

Otterslip, so unlike his son, was incredibly angry. Grief driven and desparate and begging for vengeance that was never owed. So angry, paws driven by cold hard rage, he killed Stormsight with no remorse for his actions.

Brambletuft is not angry. She appreciates the world, she splashes in puddles and takes care of preserved poppies and lilacs and feathers. Brambletuft is a simple cat, who enjoys simple things.

But she can't say she's happy all the time. That would be a lie. But it's not anger. Anger has never suited her. Honestly, neither has sadness or anything else. She prefers to just ignore her feelings.

She floats.

--

It happens once, when she's an apprentice and she fails an assessment. Her legs shook themselves still and she floated away from the world.

She very easily decides floating is far superior to feeling, so she does that. She floats during battles, and patrols, and she floats through her ceremony. She only knows her name because her sister repeated it.

-

Henryclaw never hid who her mother was, not from her and Poppyfeather, at least. A sweet kittypet named Bun. A gorgeous calico, who lived in one of the small houses near the valley. She gave Bramblekit and Poppykit away to keep them safe, and that was that.

It never did stop the distant longing she sometimes felt, when Bluefern would curl into Jaggedstripe, or when she saw a new queen patiently sitting in the nursery.

That affection was something she wanted for herself. It makes her feel upset, and sad. It makes her float.

--

When she comes back from patrol, camp is in chaos.

It's a cold day for the season. A cool breeze drifts in and out of her ears, making her shiver.

When she'd left that twilight, cats were retiring to their nests. The ones who weren't sleeping or getting ready to were either on watch, about to leave for patrol, or finishing their prey.

There is a small circle of cats in the clearing, gathered around something.

"What's going on?" She asks, shooting a sideway glance to Pinefrost, who shrugs in response.

Then Silverbelly pushes past her, rosemary in her jaws. The clearing smells vaguely of mint and lavender. She recognizes the smells because once Hopepaw dragged her along to collect herbs. The cats part around her, and she hears a commanding yowl over all the noise.

Hailcrash, standing at the center of the fray. "Stars, give Silverbelly and Hopethistle some space to work. Shoo, all of you. You can come back out when we start the vigil."

The vigil?

Brambletuft stands and watches as the cats part. Some stare at her, pitiful expressions painting their faces.

It feels blue. Not the pretty blue, where the sky is bright and the lakes are still. It's the tormentful blue, of dreary blue clouds and pouring rain.

Poppyfeather, she's dully aware, is sobbing.

Why is she sobbing?

And Silverbelly and Hopethistle and Poppyfeather are the only ones standing there now.

She sees the dulled, gray speckled fur. Blood inbetween strands of fur, limbs stiff.

--

She sits the vigil. But she's not there.

She is hardly aware of Poppyfeather's wails, or her own tears trickling down her face. She can't bring herself to listen to Jaggedstripe's stories, or Applebranch's fond reminiscence.

Henryclaw is gone. Maplestar is exhausted, Hailcrash is grasping at the unwoven seams of the clan that are slowly unraveling, and Silverbelly is still fighting with her grief.

It sounds stupid, but her father is no longer there with her. Why do anything?

--

"Brambletuft," comes a gentle voice.

The moon shines bright. Normally, she would take a moment to appreciate it, but today she tucks her nose into her tail and squeezes her eyes shut.

"Brambletuft, the gathering is tomorrow. Would you like to go?"

That's Hailcrash, with her careful eyes and her twitching ear.

She shakes her head. No.

Archclan was at the gathering. She didn't want to see a single hair on any of their foxhearted pelts.

Henryclaw had a single wound to the back of his neck. Clearly meant to kill. His body was found near the Archclan border, and it reeked of them even with the rosemary clogging her senses.

"That's fine," Hailcrash says. "Rest, alright? Silverbelly will be here to check on everyone later," on Brambletuft, "and Yewberry is staying behind too. Poppyfeather's here as well. Take it easy."

Brambletuft has been taking it easy for a half moon. She's been floating since she saw the body in the clearing, with long dried blood soaking the rocks and a sharp pang of grief in her heart.

--

"Brambletuft, Hopethistle wants to see you."

"Tell her 'm busy," she snaps.

"Like, right now," the voice continues. She vaguely categorizes it as male.

Yewberry.

"Tell her I'm watching Waspkit."

"Wrong. Teddyfluff's watching Waspkit," Yewberry says. "Come on. You know how Hopethistle is. Trying to avoid her is like trying to dig through a stone wall. I'll go with you, if you want."

Stop inconveniencing him, her mind says. Yewberry has more important things to do than babysit you because you're sad.

"That's fine, I can go myself," Brambletuft mumbles, pushing herself to her paws. Her throat feels parched, her eyes unfocused and fixed on the ground.

One paw, two paw. One paw, two paw.

She thinks if she loses that rhythm, nothing will make sense. The world already feels jumbled and confusing.

One step, two step.

Yewberry is trailing behind her anyways, half hovering and half trying to give her space.

And then she's at the medicine den. There's a kit (Owlkit, she thinks) laying in a nest way too big for her.

"Brambletuft," Hopethistle greets. "How are you?"

Brambletuft dully blinks at her, silently urging her to make an inference. Based on her matted fur, dull eyes, and sluggish movement, she was obviously not doing well.

"Okay, that's fine. I just wanted to ask you some questions?"

Hopethistle says it like a question. Like she has a choice, because everyone in the room (even Owlkit with her two-moon brain) knows that Brambletuft has no choice in this. Not really.

"Okay."

"Do you want him to stay, or?" Hopethistle glances at Yewberry, who shifts his paws.

"I can go if you-"

"I don't care," Brambletuft says. It comes off a lot meaner than she wants it to, so she reclarifies. "If you have stuff to do, don't waste time with whatever this is."

Yewberry decidedly stays still.

"Okay," Hopethistle says. She looks at a tiny stack of herbs, like she's mentally recounting something. "So. A few questions."

"Yeah, okay."

"Have you been feeling sad, tired, or hopeless recently?"

Brambletuft glares at her with all the will she can muster. "My dad just died and you're asking if I'm sad."

Hopethistle blinks. "So yes?"

Brambletuft, with as much irritance as she can muster, stiffly nods.

"Okay," she continues. "Any feelings of despair? Like life isn't worth living?"

Her tail twitches. "Why am I doing this?"

"I'm sorry," Hopethistle says. And she does look upset, but not upset enough to stop. "I just need a yes or a no. Or a nod. Anything that gives me a solid answer."

Brambletuft blinks. "Repeat the question?"

"Do you ever have thoughts of despair or feelings that life isn't worth living?"

Brambletuft thinks of the weeks she's spent floating in her nest, practically dead to the world. Everything passed by in a blur of bleary sleep, nightmares, and pain.

She looks at her paws, and slowly nods.

Hopethistle's eyes briefly glisten. "Do you intend to act on those feelings?"

Brambletuft couldn't. Poppyfeather needed her, even if they hadn't spoken for a week. She mutely shakes her head.

"Right," Hopethistle says, her voice catching in her throat. "You have off from patrols for another half moon, until I or Silverbelly can talk to you again. Try not to isolate too much, okay?"

Hopethistle, in her own stupid stubborn way, cares. It's why she makes a good medicine cat. It's how she gets even the most prideful, stubborn cats to accept her help. She has an element of ferocity and sharpness to her that she most definitely inherited from her mother.

Brambletuft goes back to her nest, leaving Yewberry to stare at her with some expression she can't quite place.

--

She wakes up again, for the third time, restless and upset, and instead of trying a different sleeping position, she leaps over sleeping bodies and slips into the tiny hole behind the elder's den.

It's snowing.

Her paws take her across the territory, until she stops at the valley border.

--

She doesn't want to admit it, but since Henryclaw died, there has been something eating her from the inside.

Not some scary bug, or a bad piece of freshkill. It's something herbs can't fix, and it's something she can't walk off.

It's choking. It wraps around her lungs and it squeezes and it doesn't let go. It makes her throat dry, and her eyes burn, and her fur stand on her spine.

--

Brambletuft, entirely alone in the night, with a sloppily caught mouse in her paws, stares at them. Blankly.

She is stiffly aware of the cold biting into her, even through her thick fur.

She stands. Not proud or tall as she used to, but grief-stricken and tucked into herself.

"Brambletuft?"

Brambletuft whips around, hackles raised, claws unsheathed. Yewberry walks out, and promptly sits next to her, pointedly avoiding her (dull) claws and her puffed up fur. She probably looks crazy.

"How did you find me?"

"I wanted to follow you after Hopethistle's interrogation," Yewberry begins, "but it looked like you wanted to be left alone. So I waited, then I went on patrol and came back and you were sleeping. And then I kept waking up, and your tail brushed me when you were leaving, so I just decided to follow you. Sorry if that wasn't-"

"No, that's fine," she interrupts. Her heart pounds.

"You sure? If it wasn't, you can just say that."

"No, really. I don't mind. I don't want you to-"

Her lungs clench. Her mouth snaps shut.

--

Exactly one half moon after her first interrogation, Brambletuft is dragged to Hopethistle and she starts rapid firing questions again.

Brambletuft gives some half-hearted answers. Simple "okay", "no", "yes", the whole thing.

"Does it ever feel like you're living life on autopilot?"

"What?"

"Sorry, bad example. Caught it from a friend. I mean like, does it feel like you're just a cloud, drifting around without really feeling anything?"

"I guess," she answers.

--

Yewberry pauses. "Want me to what?"

"I don't.. ah..." Brambletuft fumbles with her words. Please, brain, work. Talk to the pretty boy! "I don't want you to leave."

"Okay. Is there anything you want me to do?"

--

"What?"

"I think you've been having severe dissociative episodes for most of your life. When did you say the first one was?"

"After my first assessment. I think I was, ah, seven moons?"

"Brambletuft, this has been going on for 25 moons and nobody ever figured it out until right now?"

--

"Just, stay here." Brambletuft pauses. "With me."

I don't want to be alone, passes through her mind. He would understand, talk to him.

The words die in her throat.

--

Dissociation is a mental process where someone feels a disconnect from their thoughts, feelings, memories or sense of identity.

Wildfang's word, then Sunwish's words. Silverbelly repeats them. Hopethistle repeats them again, with the same long winded definition.

Hopethistle listed symptoms like they were second nature. Knowing her, they probably were.

Some of the symptoms of dissociation include forgetting about certain time periods, events and personal information, feel disconnected from your own body or the world around you.

Brambletuft can't remember anything that happened over a year ago. She doesn't remember a single detail from whatever Poppyfeather was telling her about this morning (Wow she is a horrible sister-)

--

"I feel like I'm floating," Brambletuft murmurs. It's so late that the moon dips back over the horizon, the sun greedily soaking up every inch of spare dark skies and turning it to bright orange and pink.

"Oh?"

"Like I'm just floating through life, and I've been stuck in the trees so I don't fly off into the sky, but now I'm on the moors instead of in the forest so I'm just flying away."

"Oh," Yewberry softly says. "I don't want you to fly away. Can I be the rock holding you to the ground?"

Brambletuft laughs, the first time she's done so in at least a moon, and rests her head on his shoulder. He immediately tenses when she does so, but he doesn't try to move her (which he could easily do, if she was being honest).

They stay that way, then fall asleep when the sun shines right onto the creek.

--

"Screaming," Owlpaw says. Brambletuft whips her head around to stare at the apprentice.

Hopethistle called it therapy. Brambletuft called it, with passion, hell. Owlpaw calls it training.

"What?" Owlpaw tilts her head. "It's therapeutic. I always see you. You're so quiet when you're upset. Try being loud about your feelings, and maybe you'll recognize them."

And so, Owlpaw orders her to go to the Cliff, and scream out all her feelings. And yes, she said it in those exact words.

Stars, she's taking orders from a 8 moon old ball of rage. What's next, Salmonkit starts using her for climbing practice?

--

Brambletuft stands on the cliff. Wind whips at her face, she ignores it.

Yewberry is there, with his quiet support. He even offered to scream with her, if it made her feel better.

She humbly declines his offer.

--

Bramblepaw is quiet.

Poppypaw is the loud one. She makes enough noise for both of them. Bramblepaw is silent enough to stay behind her. Poppypaw talks to all the other apprentices, telling them elaborate stories of how Goldenstar saved her from eagles.

(It was so badass, she'd exclaimed. Bramblepaw had to admit. Yes, it was badass.)

--

The choking feeling doesn't go away. It never does.

But, she starts fighting it. She won't let it win. She gets up and she gets on patrol and she tackles a pheasant with Yewberry and brings it back, a Feather kept in her nest as a prize.

She goes to mark the border, and take Salmonpaw on badger rides even if she's a bit too big for them.

She climbs to the top of trees with Yewberry and they talk, and laugh (once they touched noses. Scandalous.)

--

She goes to the cliff, and she screams herself hoarse. And again, and again, until her throat burns and her face hurts from her mouth being open for so long.

Yewberry, with his not very silent support, bowls her over as soon as they're off the cliff and under a sparse tree, and she laughs and lets him even though she could definitely knock him on his ass if she wanted to.

--

"I should've been angry sooner," she murmurs.

"I think you deserve to be angry," Yewberry nods. His head finds a familiar place on her shoulder. "No, no wait. You deserve to be angry."

Brambletuft, in all her adrenaline fueled glory, nods, leaping to her paws once again. "I deserve to be angry."

"You deserve to be angry," Yewberry repeats, his eyes bright and happy.

Happy for her.

"I deserve to be angry!" She laughs (cackles. she definitely cackled). She catches her breath, and turns back to Yewberry. "I deserve to be angry. We deserve to be angry."

"Have I ever told you how much I love you when you do this?"

And, all her adrenaline dissapears, in favor of instead making her fur puff out with embarrassment and having her tuck into herself instead, with Yewberry's laughter in the background.

And the thorns constantly wrapped around her lungs seem to loosen.

--

-🍭 (the horrors (my organs) persist but so do i. )

i jhsut spent an hour and a half writing this HGELP

AUGH MY FUCKING HEART NOOO I LOVE THEM SMM.... crumbled on the floor holding my chest. i love them SO MUCH its unreal this just made me love them even more,, lollipop your writing is so fucking incredible i love it so so much

#fallenasks #fallenfic #lollipop anon

[cryptid-crow13]

I have a migraine, but I wanted to write so I projected onto Tim <3

word count: 1,633

CW: chronic pain, migraine, passive suicidal ideation

Red Robin sat on the edge of a rooftop and closed his eyes. He’d signed off for the night, but hadn’t returned to the Cave or the Nest. Everything today was just too much and his head pounded.

Tim knew he hadn’t gotten any blows to the head recently, but that’s almost what it felt like. Any of the lights in the city were like ice picks and any sound made his head throb. However, he stayed sitting on the edge of the rooftop and sighed. The idea of making the trip to the Nest or even one of his safehouses almost made him hurt worse.

He didn’t bother calling over comms to ask for help. Tim thought of having to deal with Bruce, Dick, or Damian made him want to bang his head on the concrete of the roof. It wouldn’t make the pounding in his head go away, but maybe he wouldn’t have to deal with it or them.

Tim opened his eyes and immediately snapped them closed against the pain it brought. He would be more worried about getting caught on the roof if he could think past the pain. It felt like everything around him was at a volume that threatened to blow his ear drums, but he still couldn’t focus on any of it enough.

Tim tightened his grip on the roof’s ledge when a wave of pain threatened to make him fall. It felt like his brain was going to burst out of his skull.

He slowly leaned back to lay on his back with his legs hanging over the edge. He didn’t trust that he wouldn’t just fall at any given moment. Tim supressed a relieved sigh when some of the tension in his neck eased.

His mind drifted in a haze of pain. Tim tried to gather his thoughts into anyhihng coherent so he could head back, but all he managed were half formed thoughts. He really should have ended patrol as soon as he had realized his vision had gained a distinct static quality that wasn’t due to the lenses in his domino. He’d thought he’d have more time or that he’d be able to push past it. He did manage to push past it as long as he kept moving and adrenaline was pumping through him. However, as soon as he’d stopped to rest he had to end patrol.

The others didn’t ask questions about why Tim would cut his patrol short. They didn’t seem to think it was odd when normally keeping Tim from his regular patrols was like trying to herd a cat. Tim couldn’t think of why they didn’t ask past the hurt. Nor did he think the metaphor in his own head made very much sense.

Tim flinched but didn’t move when a thud sounded on the roof. He slowly pieced together that the sound was boots hitting concrete. Tim forced himself to open his eyes.

A red helmet stared down at him and Tim couldn’t find it in himself to care.

“What’s up with you?” Jason asked in a voice that was far too loud.

Tim’s face scrunched in pain, but he couldn’t make himself cover his ears.

“Red Robin,” Hood said gruffly and Tim forced himself to pay attention. That name meant he needed to focus, but the effort of it was monumental.

Tim managed a hum in acknowledgment.

“Why the fuck are you still out? I thought you ended patrol early.” Jason’s voice had lowered in volume and Tim could only feel relief.

“Head,” Tim managed to say.

“Concussion?” Jason asked and Tim watched idly as he crouched down.

Tim shook his head and immediately regretted it when the motion made him feel like he had vertigo.

Jason hummed above Tim. A gloved hand rested on Tim’s forehead, just above his domino. He sighed in relief at the pressure and feeling of cool leather.

“What’s wrong, Tim?” Jason asked in a voice that Tim knew he should have more thoughts on, but he couldn’t manage anything past confusion.

“I feel like my brain is going to burst out of my ears,” Tim deadpanned.

Jason cursed and Tim mourned the loss of the pressure on his forehead.

“Are you really out here with a migraine?” Jason asked in a voice that made Tim want to cry. Why was it so loud?

Tim only managed a pained whine.

Jason cursed again as he shuffled a bit further from Tim. There was the sound of his jacket rustling and when he unzipped something Tim whined at the noise. He didn’t realize he’d closed his eyes until he opened them again when something was set on the roof beside his head.

Jason’s helmet stared back at him and Tim made himself look back up at Jason. He had moved closer again and Tim noted how his jaw was tense.

“Ear plugs and then I’m taking you to a safehouse,” Jason said in a whisper.

Tim groaned, but managed to lift his arms and take the ear plugs from Jason’s hand. He put them in and felt tears prick his eyes in relief. Everything was so much quieter and it made Tim feel like he could think just a bit more.

Jason bullied him into standing up and held Tim close when he teetered on his feet.

“I’m gonna grapple us down, but I need you to hold onto me,” Jason said and Tim realized he’d put his helmet back on.

“I can do that,” Tim said quietly. He moved under one of Jason’s arms and wrapped his own around the taller man’s neck.

Jason nodded and shifted his hold on Tim before he walked them to the edge of the rooftop.

Tim groaned, but held on as Jason lowered them to the ground.

“I’m sorry, Timbit, but we’re gonna have to use my bike. I don’t want anyone trying anything while we’re walking,” Jason said in a tone Tim barely recognized as regretful.

Tim hummed in acknowledgment and followed Jason. A gloved hand held securely around Tim’s upper arm to keep him steady and walking straight.

A smooth black helmet was pressed into Tim’s hands. He fit it over his head and sighed in relief again. It blocked out even more sound and the visor dimmed the lights around him.

When a hand tugged at one of his wrists he looked up and saw Jason had sat on his bike already. Tim allowed himself to be tugged closer. He held onto one of Jason’s shoulders to steady himself as he sat behind him.

Tim rested his head against the broad back in front of him and didn’t bother to feel embarrassed. Him and Jason had a much better relationship now, but they weren’t exactly close per-say. It felt odd having Red Hood care for him when the man had caused him so much pain before. Tim lost his train of thought to pain when the motorcycle roared to life under him. He tightened his hold around Jason’s middle.

Jason said something and patted at Tim’s hands consolingly before they started moving.

The drive was a blur of pain and noise. Tim was ready to start crying by the time the engine shut off.

Hands patted Tim’s own again and he reluctantly pulled back.

“Almost there, but you gotta get off the bike,” Jason said in a hushed tone.

Tim opened his eyes and realized they were in a small underground parking garage.

He held onto Jason’s shoulder again as he stepped off the bike.

“Safehouse?” Tim asked.

“Yeah, Timbit. One of my safehouses,” Jason said as he stepped off. He didn’t comment on how Tim still held onto him.

Tim whined and closed his eyes when the helmet was removed from his head.

“Sorry,” Jason said quietly. “You can keep your eyes closed, okay?”

Tim nodded.

He idly followed Jason as he was directed with a hand on his back. Tim tried to focus on the point of contact and not how he wanted to curl up in a ball and cry.

He sat when Jason directed him to. Tim relaxed back into the cushions and listened as Jason moved around. When the movement stopped in front of him he opened his eyes.

The lights were still off and Jason stood in casual clothes. He held a bundle of clothes out to Tim.

“Change. Just leave your stuff on the table. I’ll handle it.”

Tim took the clothes and changed out of his gear. The shirt he pulled on was far too big, but the shorts he was able to pull the strings on and tighten.

Jason walked back into the room.

“Did you take anything?” He asked.

“No, was in the middle of patrol when it started,” Tim said quietly.

“What the fuck, Timmers? You spent half of your patrol like this?” Jason asked in a harsh whisper.

Tim’s shoulders sagged. “I didn’t think it would be this bad.”

Jason scoffed and guided Tim by the shoulders to a bed.

“Lay down. I’ll get you some pain meds and water.”

Tim whined but listened and crawled into the bed. He closed his eyes and drifted in a haze of pain again.

A hand tapped his and Tim looked down to see Jason holding out a pill and water. Tim recognized the letters on the pill and popped it in his mouth. He took the water gratefully. It was cool and eased some of the pain.

Tim lied back in the bed and gasped when something cold was set against his forehead.

“What the fuck?” He asked.

“Its just an ice pack. Now shut up and go to sleep. We’ll talk when you can actually function again,” Jason said gruffly.

Tim flipped him off, but sank further into the pillows.

~*~

That's all I have for now. I might continue this and post it properly onto ao3, but who knows. I just wanted to project and Tim is the one that suffers with me today.

Lmk what you think!

#cryptid crow caws #dc #tim drake #jason todd #red robin #red hood #dc fic #chronic pain #i'm not sure how to tag this and honestly i don't care much rn

[orchidbreezefc]

You made the wbg Mike guide which I love but I'm wondering what exactly you mean by the cowboy thing being a form of self harm for Michael.

cw for murder, suicidal ideation (the passive sort), and self harm (psychological, not physical). mike guide is [here]

the cowboy accent was originally a prank concocted by mike and michael for their first mission to save mikey, which is probably one of the primary regrets of mike's life, and during this mission, as part of the cowboy act, michael killed a man with a cold-bloodedness that surprised all three. when mike and michael reminisce in 107, michael says something got into him that day and never left (presumably the gay cowboy ghost that periodically possesses tumblr users to make posts).

after he drops the act michael confesses to mike that he had been shaking terribly when he killed kaz, but in the moment, trying to keep up the grizzled old cowboy routine, he sells it. he doesn't let on how scared he is. he gets the job done.

that's the utility i'm talking about that is both a coping mechanism and a form of self-harm. in that moment michael realized the cowboy schtick accessorizes wonderfully with his own self-worth issues. he can use it as a mask and bury his emotions. feelings? michael? no, you're mistaken, he's much too grizzled for that. have you seen his pipe?

the cowboy act functions first of all to hide his feelings, from himself and others--a form of self harm in itself--but more than that, i think he uses it to remind himself of his conviction that his life is over in all ways but physical.

he seems to be getting away from this type of thinking, particularly with sly's help, but my read on michael is that he views himself as a loose end that has yet to be tied up. everyone he loves from his own timeline--everyone who was his and not first and foremost some other mike's--is dead. his timeline is a dead end.

michael is a refugee from his own life and, to him, a product of the grim reaper missing a spot. he should be dead already, but for some reason he still has his life, so he may as well use the stolen, cheated remainder of it to protect the other mikes and help preserve in their lives what he failed to keep safe in his own. it's not as if he's good for much else.

and really, what better role for a man whose days are numbered than the grizzled old cowboy mentor who is destined for a heroic sacrifice? what better reminder that he no longer gets to have things for himself, that he's nothing but a side character in someone else's story?

#woe.begone #woe.begone meta #michael walters #sage speaks #sage original post

[an--artistic--autistic]

attended a webinar on suicidism (in a queer/disabled context) and it was amazing to actually hear people talking about stuff that i have been thinking about and experiencing for years

thoughts below (cw suicide mentions, ableism, transphobia, homophobia, the entire topic is pretty heavy so please take care of yourselves)

to preface - I am not suicidal.

I was suicidal for about 10 years, and only within the past year or so was I able to sort through everything enough to feel stable and healthy enough to continue living.

The biggest takeaway from today (imo) was the emphasis on by basically forbidding people from talking about suicide and their experiences with suicidality (in both an active and passive context), we are effectively isolating people and adding to negative experiences or whatever pressure they're currently facing.

Most professionals (or suicide hotlines, etc.) will end up reporting people for suicidal ideation, which frequently results in involuntary psychiatric holds, police involvement, legal repercussions, and so on.

Which then results in suicidal people just... not confiding in anyone.

In my experience, I didn't tell anyone I had been suicidal at all until a year after my first (and only) serious attempt. I was terrified of dealing with any reactions that came from it.

I am involved in both the queer community and disabled community, both in real life in my city, and online (to an extent). I rarely talk to people who haven't considered suicide, yet it still feels very taboo to discuss, and it feels like we have to always reassure everyone else that no I'm not going to do it, don't worry about me while simultaneously discussing very heavy details about our lives and our health.

This summer I've also been working on a suicide prevention training program focusing on non-binary and autistic youth. It's important when talking about this to recognize that within these circles, suicidality is extremely common. We can't pretend that it's an isolated thing, or can be solved with "willpower" or medication. Sometimes, an involuntary hold will make things worse. So many queer and disabled people consider suicide due to bigger, systemic issues.

The two biggest factors for me were the risk of not being supported during my transition, and not being able to access effective support for my disabilities.

Something my psychologist did wonderfully when the topic of suicide came up (again, several years after my only serious attempt) was actually listen to my reasoning and understand why I was experiencing that. And afterward, she agreed with me.

I had laid everything out, every concern I'd had with my future, every condition I had placed leading up to my attempt, everything I had felt when I was at my worst, and she had listened, and she understood.

She did not report me to anyone, she did not call the police. The extent of her involvement was to make it clear to me that if I ever found myself in crisis again, to come see her.

I have always been a "problem solver". I get it from my mom, and it's been exacerbated by my autism. I think that in order to support people who are or have been suicidal (myself included), we need to make space to talk about it. We can't truly provide support if we aren't willing to listen.

It's far more helpful to ask how to support someone, what resources they need, find things to try, and treat suicide not as some horrific depressing thing, but as the last option. It's a matter of finding things to put before it rather than eliminating it entirely.

The whole "oh but you have so much to live for" "what about how your friends and family will feel" "oh things will get better later on" frequently isn't helpful to hear as a suicidal person. I didn't have much to live for. I didn't worry about how people would feel. I didn't have a future to strive towards. Hearing that usually just made me feel worse, and made things harder to deal with.

Getting my diagnoses allowed me access to support. Prior to that, I was so overwhelmed by the concept of being a person— to have to keep living like that was the worst possible thing I could imagine. At that point I had no possible future as things were.

Also the absolute fucking ableism that is MAID, going hey you have societal permission to die but only if you're disabled fuck you. It's literally just saying that they don't care enough about our lives to look at other possible solutions. I understand how someone would be interested in MAID. I've looked into it for myself — I've told my mom exactly what circumstances in which I would actually apply for it and I have her full support. But it's insulting to see that expanding the program is more convenient than putting as much effort into other solutions.

I think that's all I have right now, but I might add more later once I've had more time to process (and i have an assignment due in an hour which isn't helping).

I'd love to open up space to talk about this more with people, especially if others would find that helpful. I'm really lucky that my friends and irl community are open about this stuff, but most people don't have a place where they can safely discuss stuff.

if you've made it this far through my rant/infodump on this i am thoroughly impressed, and I apologize for any misspellings or typos. I haven't reread what I've put.

#disability #chronic pain #fibromyalgia #autism #actually autistic #autistic #cane user #transgender #cw suicide #tw suicide #cw suicide mention #tw suicide mention #suicidism #ableism

[theorderofthetriad]

Looking back on 2022, I don't think i can truly express through words how grateful i am for Izzy fandom, and specifically all the transmasc creators making Izzy trans in their works, but I'm going to make an effort:

(cw for dysphoria, internalized transphobia, and suicidal ideation)

I spent a good portion of this year struggling with dysphoria and fighting off the fear of transition. I knew really well that I hated my body the way it was, but I didn't have a positive concept of what the alternative to my current body was. I was stuck in the shitty between of hating my body as is but being afraid of what it would change to.

And then i encountered a lot of trans Izzy art and fanfiction! At this point I was already fully enveloped in Izzy fandom, especially stizzy fandom, so when i came across stizzy fics with trans izzy in them, i read them. Some of you guys did a really good job of making trans Izzy hot as hell, and I think i really needed to see that so i could know that i'd be able to find myself hot in the future.

And suddenly everything i had been so afraid of about transition became blissfully normal. Seeing Izzy be portrayed as trans gave me an idea of what my own body might look like, and I liked that idea. The overwhelming feeling that i had to transition, that i needed to transition, suddenly became i want to transition, that i'm excited to transition.

Apparently that was what I needed to actually pull the trigger and schedule an appointment to talk about transitioning.

On August 11th I had that appointment. On August 20th I went to Emerald City Comic Con and (after asking that question that blew stizzy fandom up) I got to meet Con O'Neil and tell him that I was about to start transitioning and that being in the fandom for his character had inadvertently put me in a community with other trans men at the exact time in my life that i really needed it. Five days later, on August 25th, I took my first T-shot. Last Wednesday I started my 5th month.

This is literally the best i've felt in like a decade. I'm drawing again. I'm taking way more care of myself than I ever have. I'm taking up sewing projects. I don't passively want to die every waking moment of my life, in fact i don't want to die at all anymore!

This time last year I had essentially given up on my life, I literally saw no future for myself and i kinda gave up on everything. Today I'm genuinely exited for what the new year is going to bring, and i can see myself in that new year.

So, thank you, Izzy Fandom. It might be a stretch to say you saved my life, but you've definitely helped make my life feel worth living, and honestly that might count for more than just saving it.

Have a happy new year.

#santagno #izzy hands #ofmd #stizzy

[wolfiemcwolferson]

Hi, I have this really really really sad Piarles headcanon thing that can never be a fic, but it’s going zoomie in my brain and I have to go write BN so here’s a bunch of interconnected thoughts that form an AU in a trenchcoat.

Sol and River have seen this and have told me it’s too sad for human consumption, but here we are. Do not click if you don’t want to be sad because there’s no happy times here. Also CW for death and alcohol and passive suicidal ideation and just dark dark dark.

Pierre Gasly goes to his grave with the etchings of many lovers on his skin. Men and women alike had come and gone from his bed in the latter half of his life, but only one managed to get underneath. To write his name directly on his heart. Charles.     Charles carved his own name in Pierre’s heart the summer Pierre had been 23 and no amount of sex or tequila or fast cars could erase it nor could they bring him back.     Pierre Gasly goes to his grave with one name on his lips and even though he’ll never know it in this lifetime, when Charles hears about his death - months later while he’s in the middle of making his morning tea - he will get in his car and drive 10 hours to get back to that little park the two of them met in.     Because Pierre’s name is similarly carved into Charles’ heart. And no amount of success or money or friendship could ever erase it nor could it bring Pierre back to him.     What the fuck is a soulmate for, Charles shouts to the sky that night, driving back to his city and his life, if you don’t get them in this life? What was it for?

.

I have this scene in my head of them laying in Pierre’s shitty room in his shitty bed and Charles says “I love you” and pierre frowns and says “I think you love how I make you feel” and Charles says “isn’t it the same thing?” And pierre kisses him and says “I used to think so, but now I think love is making the other person better. And then when Charles leaves, pierre holds his chin and says “I love you” and Charles says “I know”

.

There’s a night where Pierre skips work (he’s a bartender but they won’t fire him because he’s been there forever) and he and charles drive like two hours to a lake because they don’t live close enough to the ocean and charles says he feels sad and pierre is like “water always makes me feel better” and they’re sitting right at the edge and charles says “do you ever wish it was you? Like what’s the point in living if this is how you feel all the time? What’s the point in pressing on when you’d rather walk into the water and not come out?” And pierre has him in between his legs, pressed to his chest and he sighs and says “it passes. That feeling.” And charles says “aren’t you supposed to ask me to stay alive for you or some shit” and pierre squeezes him again and says “I’m too busy trying to stay alive for me” and charles starts to cry and says “I wish it had been me” and pierre says nothing because there’s nothing he can say. He wishes it had been him too, but then he wouldn’t be holding charles so maybe he doesn’t wish that. He doesn’t know anymore. “Let’s go back” he says instead and then he and charles drive back at 3 am and charles whispers halfway back to Pierre’s “I would miss you though. If it had been me” and pierre slows down. Drives the speed limit.

.

Pierre let’s Charles stay at his place for a couple of days because Charles’ family is out of town and Charles has A Responsibility and Pierre doesn’t want him to stay alone because sometimes Charles is just a bit too dark and one night he gets home from work and Charles is up watching a movie on Pierre’s couch and it’s clear he’s been crying and so Pierre scoops him a bowl of ice cream and they don’t talk because there’s nothing to stay but it’s the intimacy of not being alone in your sadness that matters and eventually they go to bed and Charles whispers “thank you” and pierre kisses his forehead and then Pierre doesn’t sleep that night because he knows that he has to send Charles away because Pierre can’t fix him and he can’t help him get better and he just wants to look at him a little more.

.

Charles trails off in the middle of a sentence and Pierre stops what he’s doing to look at him and Charles is staring out the window and pierre touches his arm to get his attention. “Charles?” Charles turns towards him and says “it’s the first time I told that story and had to use the past tense.” And so Pierre asks him if he wants to go to the store and Charles says “it’s 4 AM. No stores are open” and pierre says “then we can go walk down to the park” and Charles nods and then pierre tells him a story while they walk and when he gets to the end of it he takes Charles hand and Charles says “I wish you would be mean to me. I wish you would tell me to get over it.” And Pierre asks “would that help?” And Charles shrugs and Pierre changes the subject again because sometimes he does want to yell but he won’t because it doesn’t help either of them.

.

Charles is laying with his head in Pierre's lap and Pierre is playing with his hair and Pierre has already told Charles that he has to go back to school and Charles asks "do you think you could call me? Like could you call me occasionally?" And Pierre's hand stills and says, "I told you the first night I met you that I would never lie to you" and Charles sits up and won't let Pierre touch him and then he finally says, "I wish you had never said that to me" and Pierre gets up and makes them some food instead of saying anything that he actually wants to say.

.

So, Charles goes away to school in the fall like he’s meant to and he gets his shit together and has A Whole Life, but he never stops thinking about Pierre.

He’s his soul mate after all.

.

Anyway. I’m very sorry to put this on you in the middle of the night. This is the equivalent of me turning a basket upside down and shaking out the dust so I can use it again properly.

#piarles #this is dark #do not go here #Not a fic just fic notes

[liverobinreaction]

💌

💌share something with us about an up-and-coming work (WIP) that has you excited! (from this ask game)

Hehehehe I can't give you a snippet of something that I'm just. Absolutely vibrating about (hint, it's for the Batfam Big Bang), but I can give you a little look at 'Crack Your Molars While You Dream', an AU of Banshee where Tim uh. Basically uses suicide as a melatonin replacement when he can't sleep. And. He does this when the Titans Tower debacle happens.

CW for: suicide (both passive ideation and straight up actual suicide) and Pit Rage (bc I know I have some followers who don't like it!)

Jason isn’t really sure what he’s looking at.

Or- well. He is. Objectively, he knows exactly what’s in front of him. It just isn’t really making any sense.

He had a plan. One way or another, he was going to beat the shit out of the new Robin, and force B’s eyes on Red Hood as an immediate threat. Then he’d snag the Joker, launch into his ultimatum, and profit. Or die. One or the other, as long as the bastard that killed him was dragged down with him. He had everything primed and ready, had a strict schedule to follow and contingencies for every small thing.

This is not in any of his contingencies.

On paper, Timothy Drake is easy to hate. Excellent grades, perfect pedigree, rich and talented and gifted and so on. No wonder Bruce decided to upgrade to a better model. Depression or suicidal tendencies really did not appear anywhere in Jason’s observations.

And yet, there is currently the body of a 15 year old kid tucked into bed, a bottle of pills that faintly smell of almonds on the bedside table, and a note on top of a neatly folded Robin suit that says ‘Please don’t worry.’

He isn’t breathing. Jason already checked.

Fifteen years old. The same age Jason was when he died. And now the new kid is dead as well, by his own hands no less. Jason doesn’t know how to feel. The green nags at him to be angry, to be enraged, because how dare his replacement be this weak, this cowardly, to taint the Robin name with a suicide-

He blinks slowly.

Because that’s what this is. A suicide.

The green fades.

It’s hard to be angry at a dead kid. Even one like Tim Drake.

#bug replies #ask #redrvbins #my writing #banshee in a well #banshee au #crack your molars #ask game #tw suicide

[rosella-writes]

"No. No, what I see before me is a façade. A shell of the one I once knew," for anyone you like?

Thank you!! I used this one for some navelgazey existential angst paired with (CW!!) suicidal ideation under the cut.

For @dadrunkwriting Warnings/Tags: 1st person, Solas POV, suicidal ideation, dissociation

I thought many times about what it would mean to die. 

Before, there was no death, not in truth. A dinan’shiral was an oath, meant to end in transformation — an undoing of what one was, an opportunity to become something else. But to die… to end and expect nothing more, not even a spirit imitating what one once was, seemed like a perfect sort of peace. 

It was no sacrifice, it was resignation. 

In the world I awoke in, death was a foregone conclusion. It was something one ran from, feared, prayed to be spared from — but it found everyone, more or less, in the same fashion. I wondered if one day it would take me. 

The thought of it calmed the pounding of my heart in the darkest of my lonely moments. To die would mean a completion of duty, a release into nothing. I considered it as I did a hopeful future — for no matter how I viewed such an outcome, I could not imagine a space for myself within it. 

No, this dinan’shiral would fulfil the very literal meaning of the word. 

From time to time I considered hastening it. It would require recklessness and foolish action on my part, rather than passivity. I was never one to wait for my fate to come to me, and it was tempting to rush towards it if only for peaceful release. But every moment I considered it, there was something to stay my hand. 

Corypheus had the orb. 

The Wardens plumbed the earth for the keys to the Fade, whether they knew it or not. 

The Inquisition was fledgling and young, too small to support itself quite yet. 

The Inquisitor was a hot-headed, hasty woman in need of direction she would not take.

I loved her. I loved her. 

I gave her up to spare her, and in so doing crushed any further will I had to endure past the completion of my duty. 

Thus I fumbled my way towards that final eluvian, where I left her, anchorless, in my wake. I took the path step by step, fooling myself all along that there was one more task, one more requirement, before I could rest. But when the mirror sealed shut behind me, casting me into darkness, my form was illuminated on its dead surface like that of a drowned corpse. 

I saw no honour in the stretched skin over these pale bones. I saw no pride in the slump of these shoulders. No. No, what I saw before me was a façade. A shell of the Pride I once was. To end, then, would be a mercy I was not certain I deserved.

But one I longed for nonetheless.

#suicidal ideation cw #mental illness #depression #solas #dragon age #solavellan #my writing #dragon age inquisition #dadwc

[campfire-collective]

relevant to current events (in my life):

(cw: suicide, suicidal ideation, etc., just in case ur filtered tags didn't catch it)

i think a lot about how much being suicidal as a child shaped me. like, it's been a big topic of reflection for me, because a few months ago, i hit a point where i'd been suicidal longer than i hadn't been.

i never got to make jokes about how some minor inconvenience was going to make me kill myself, because for as long as i've known about them, that kind of joke would make people who cared about me and knew what i was struggling with very, very concerned.

i told some friends a story about how the first time i was open with a therapist about this, i was worried they would think my plan to kill myself was stupid, so i didn't tell them, and i got classified as "passively suicidal" and therefore safe, even though i had thought about sitting in my bathtub and slitting my wrists so many times i couldn't take a shower without seeing it. it's a funny story, right? i was worried about my therapist thinking my suicide plan was dumb. i was worried about getting a bad grade in suicide planning, something that's both possible to achieve and normal to fear.

i didn't tell them i was eleven, because it's not funny when you're talking about someone who still hasn't lost all of their baby teeth.

now that i'm older, i understand why i felt that way, and that it wasn't spontaneous (although the genetic lottery isn't on my side), but it added its own weight to me. it's so normal to me that i forgot most people don't have a background hum of "i want to die," because i made a comment about that offhand once, and someone asked if i was okay, and told me they loved me.

like i make jokes sometimes and i don't think about it others, and sometimes i'm angry and right now i'm a little sad about this. it's been day after day of barely scraping through. i messaged koel a few days ago that i had winning streak of X days of being alive. it really feels like that.

i don't know how i've survived feeling like this for so long. as an adult i'm barely making it through. i don't know how i survived as a child. i wish i could find the me who told a friend, "i want to lie down and fall asleep and not wake up," because i was too young to really understand that people killed themselves and that was the only thing i knew how to express, and i wish i could take this from them.

it's been our burden for a long time, and i don't get to put it down, and it's worn into my bone now.

my mother told me that the habits we make when we are teenagers are the ones that stick with us. i know that she wasn't trying to be cruel, but still, i wonder if i will carry this with me always.

i'm doing okay today. it's not a "i'll reconsider tomorrow" day, or a "if i see a truck coming i won't stop" day. it's not even a "i want to die, but i won't do anything" day. it's a "i don't want to die, please be quiet and stop suggesting it" day, and those are the best i get.

i'm angry, i'm sad, i think this has changed me in its own way, and i wish it didn't.

#mine #mod sparrow #around the campfire #tw suicide #posted in real time #idk #this has just been on my mind lately #turned off rbs bc like #sometimes i write things to say #you're not alone #i have also experienced that #i understand #but this one is just #about me #for me

[ramonahblog]

TW: Depression & suicide

I made the terrible mistake of bingewatching Superman&Lois(CW) seasons one and two. While I was in a self-reflective mood.

And by self-reflective, I mean woah Ramona, remember when you were severely depressed? And how that felt? And how you might have been using over-the-counter medication a little too much? 

Funhouse mirror. That is what has been like bingewatching seasons one and two of Superman&Lois. With Jon. 

Like a lot of Jon’s behaviour is signaling severe depression. Moderate depression at best. 

I did make one post when season one was on-going about how Jon’s behaviour with the RV gave me some red flags. But only some. 

But honestly? Watching season one and two together...Holy shit, Jon’s behaviour is incredibly close to how I behaved when I was severely depressed. And I was in such a bad place that I was in the passively suicidal ideation stage of depression. Which is someone having suicidal thoughts but no plans to act on them. 

And Jon’s behaviour and comments in 2x12 and 2x13?  All the red flags. All. I have said incredibly similar things during that part of my life. Not word for word but so damn close. 😬

#superman and lois cw #jon kent cw #i made a terrible mistake to bingewatch both seasons while waiting #and it was a mistake #a big mistake #omg someone get Jon into therapy #tw

[aidenlove]

CW: suicidal ideation in relation to chronic pain and disability

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Some days I don't want to be alive. That is not something I am ashamed of. I'm in pain all the time. Every minute, of every day. When I'm smiling, when I'm working, when I'm happy, I'm still in pain. It is completely reasonable, when it's so bad I can't move or hold a conversation, to not want that anymore. I used to beat myself up for that, but I don't anymore. Not for a long time.

However, I also don't talk about it. And I've come to feel that is a mistake. I see others going through it too and feeling alone. You're not alone. We're not alone. It is okay to feel this way. It's okay to want it to stop, to want out.

There are times I feel it wouldn't matter if I died, because in a way I already have. I was a young adult who played sports, who did martial arts, who studied the sword, who went hiking and swimming, who could play wrestle with friends and hold my own in a fight any day. That person is dead. That person is gone. And what is left...sometimes leaves me feeling empty and helpless and lost. It is common, when mourning the person lost, to feel there is little point in continuing as a shell, as a burden, as an inconvenience. There are endless posts and articles and friends and family who tell me that is not what I am. As though perhaps telling a fish it is a bird long enough will allow it to fly. It is okay to be angry about that. I love the people who offer me comfort and validation. It is okay to love them and be grateful, and also be angry that their comfort doesn't find purchase in my heart. That's okay.

I know that part of my hopelessness is the result of the society I live in. I live in a world where doctors do not take me seriously because to them I am a woman. I live in a world where my worth is counted by my productivity. We are taught if we do not contribute we are a burden. "Hand-out" is a dirty term. "Charity" is an act of benevolent shame bestowed on the less worthy. I live in a world where disabily is invalid no matter what your condition. If you are happy you are faking. If you are depressed or angry you are ungrateful. I live in a world where the bare minimum is seen as too much if it isn't "earned."

I'm allowed to be angry and disappointed and sad about that. I'm allowed to hate it. So are you. I'm allowed despair. I'm allowed to fear the system won't change before it kills me. To want to escape it.

I am frequently what is know as passively suicidal. If you're not familiar with that term, it basically means I am not actively making or planning any attempt on my own life, but if a truck was bearing down on me I'm not sure I'd move out of the way.

I have my own ways of coping. As evidenced by the fact that I'm not dead. They may not work for everyone, but they work for me.

When I am in so much pain I don't want to live anymore, don't want to go through it anymore, I spend some time talking to myself about the better moments. The person I was is dead, yes. But it wasn't a trade, it was a metamorphosis. My intelligence survived, my sense of humor, my love of reading and nature, everything that makes me the person I am survived. The ability to act on a lot of it is no longer there. But I can still make my partners laugh. I can still write. I can still make my children light up with wonder when I teach them about the ocean and the stars and the miracles only seen through a microscope. I still have that. I have the person I have built, not the one who was born. I have the moments I have made and those given. Giggles and sunsets. And that keeps me going. That keeps me alive.

I bear the pain, because I choose to live for giggles and sunsets. And I will never judge those who choose not to continue. But I truly hope you do. I hope you find your own moments, and hold them close so they bear you through. When things are darkest, I hope there is some person, or hobby, or passion, or pet, or dream that is enough to be your light.

#tw suicidal ideation #tw chronic illness #tw chronic pain #disability #chronic illness #chronic pain #hope #there's some good in this world Mr Frodo #and it's worth fighting for

[love-death-and-crisis]

1: the abuse

CW: descriptions of child abuse. These are moderately detailed but not graphic. Detailed descriptions of suicidal ideation.

context

I was raised mormon under two abusive parents. My mom is a remorseless monster. She beat me and verbally bullied me and took every opportunity to scare me with things like scissors. She hid this from my dad and staunchly denied all of my attempts to call her out on her horrible behavior. I watched her beat my younger siblings and then hide the broken instrument in the trash. She gaslit me hard.

My dad was neglectful, and even though he was passive he was truly complicit in my mother's abuse. He lived in denial that anything could be wrong with his perfect family. He was usually away from home, a workaholic that volunteered far too much of his time with the church, and when he was home he was entirely emotionally unavailable. The only memories I have of him are an awkward sex talk that truly conveyed zero actual information and his dreaded "hey, I need to talk to you" chats wherein he would tell me I wasn't doing enough at church or piano or youth group or whatever. The only thing I learned from him is that I wasn't allowed to rest or feel any form of joy.

Things got really bad around the age of 12-13. I remember very little from this time, but I know I was being viciously bullied in middle school and I definitely wasn't safe at home either. I remember one day feeling so oppressively hopeless that I was unable to hold back my tears. Feeling unsafe, I hurried to take the dog for a walk as an excuse to leave home. I could barely leave the house before the tears started streaming silently down my face. I couldn't get away fast enough. I made it about half way around the block when I sat down (collapsed, really) on the curb of a busy street. I was full-on sobbing at this point. I vividly remember watching each car go past and telling myself "okay... jump NOW... wait... THIS ONE GO...." I don't know if I would have actually attempted, a neighbor found me, called my parents, and my mom quickly found me and dragged me home. I remember feeling totally defeated and trapped.

Around this time, a teacher noticed how readily I accepted vicious bullying at the hands of the other kids and she sat me down to ask if everything was okay at home. I started weeping, and awkwardly tried to explain, but all I could muster was a whimpering "my parents are really mean". Despite my pleas to leave me alone, keening that if my mom found out things would only get worse, she did the right thing and reported the abuse. CPS showed up at my house, but my parents used their white middle-class charm to turn them away. The rest of the night was spent with my mom yelling at me for lying and trying to tear the family apart while my dad sat silently and listened. I frequently think of that night. I wish I had been turned over to foster care, as rough as that experience is I am sure that it would have been better than living under my parents' control.

I still weep regularly when I imagine how different my life could have been if CPS had succeeded in getting me out that day.

the control

My parents worked hard to keep me and my siblings under their control. We weren't allowed to consume much media at all. My parents only had a desktop family computer that was password protected and heavily monitored. We were really only allowed to watch G and PG vhs films, mostly disney. When I eventually got an ipod and some cheap pharmacy earbuds, she would frequently bitch at me to "take those off". I eventually realized that she didn't like the privacy I had discovered in being able to listen to something through headphones. She resisted cartoons, even things as tame as spongebob. Me and my siblings ended up watching a lot of children's TV through our teenage years because it was the only thing that wouldn't send our mom into a fit. We had a bit more freedom with books, but I got a stern talking to when my high school was reading catcher in the rye about how it would corrupt my spirit or whatever. My parents talked with the teacher and got me excused from that assignment.

I did get a flip phone in 7th or 8th grade (I paid for my own plan for a few years, and then my mom finally caved and started paying for me and my siblings to all have simple slide phones so that she could keep contact with us when we were out). My dad would read through my phone and frequently confront me about who I was texting, or why I had deleted all my texts. We fought many times when I insisted that my memory was full and I had to delete them and he insisted that I was avoiding his surveillance. It didn't help that I am amab and the only people I was really friends with were girls. (turns out I'm trans lmao) mormons aren't allowed to date until they're 16 and my dad's narrow definition of "date" really meant "hang out in a group when someone of the opposite sex is present". So he really discouraged me from forming any real close relationships.

The one refuge was a first generation ipod touch I bought during high school. The thing was old when I got it and it was so fucking slow, but it was a window to the outside world. I discovered reddit and facebook and porn. I started talking to people outside the cult. My parents tried to police that too, and set strict rules, but it was fairly easy to wait until they went to sleep and then sneak away to my room. I love that little ipod, I wish I still had it. It was a huge refuge for me.

anyways

I was taught from a young age that violence is love and that through lying I could get away with almost anything. I also got really good at hide and go seek. I still don't remember much of my childhood, but every year I spend away from my parents I discover new horrible memories of suffering inflicted at their hands that my body blocked out to keep me alive.

I hope i'm not forgetting anything big. Honestly this post can never be fully complete, and I just hope I can write and share more about my trauma in the future.

#cptsd #actually cptsd #tw abuse #tw vent #vent

[crimsoletta]

CW suicide ideation & personal VERY NEGATIVE & polarizing thoughts airing into the universe. To Organize my Thoughts Post-Realization of Whatever. Note #1

i don’t usually post here or anywhere personally to this degree

but i have nowhere to go (figuratively)

it’s too shameful to admit to anyone else what happened. to some people it’s not life shaking but it is right now for me.

i’ve burdened my close relative again. i’m going to be vague. I’m an adult a worthless one. i never realized i became one and even when i did realize. i really was pretending all along. everything feels like a facade for me suddenly. it must have been all along.

even as a facade, i never been committed. there’s nothing for me here and nothing i cared for enough not even myself. and everyone else takes the hit for me in that stead.

i’ve begun realizing ever since i was born i was a parasite and i never stopped being one. in some shape or form, i guess everyone starts off as being one. but i don’t think now that i ever stopped.

at most i’ve just been a sort of pet to drag around. not even the obedient type and not even one that you can tout around to people. i’ve just been the biggest bill for people a big investment for the affection and life fulfillment that no one actually wanted. i fell flat. i’m a dog with the lowest iq. the most unlovable and disposable one.

i lack any qualities that stand out that will allow me to stand on my own two feet. i actively choose to be passive and take no risks.

it’s been [redacted] years. people say it’s supposed to get better. I’ve barely lived. BUt people want me to be better now.

I’ve always been the chick stuck in its shell. if i don’t break out of the shell, i’ll die before i’ve ever lived. i refused to save myslef and everyone else is going to waste their lives for it.

this is my last chance to become something anything and i won’t even think twice about breaking my pattern. if anything i’m making revisions on top of it. I’m making it worse i’m regressing.

i often think. the only realities i am born are the ones my mother is unhappy. in any alternate reality only my sister is born, she has the option to divorce sooner. leave sooner. be free sooner. i was 7 more years and more. 7+ years more.

i should have been a miscarriage. i should have been stillborn. i should have been anything but myself. because that’s always going to be the worst version of me.

i used to have more notes i wrote terrible thoughts about myself though i don’t believe them to be unfounded at the moment. my self hatred was at the full time since middle school and into high school. things improved once i entered university.

but like she said… that self. that hope that i can improve motivated me to construct a false persona. the one that pretended she could handle anything. adult issues. it was never real. i could never be that ideal i constructed because there’s was never a desire or drive to be it.

i’ve grown reliant on others to push me where i lacked where i couldn’t.

i keep reading stuff on quora. i have nowhere else to go, so i go on google. i find quora because that’s the only place that phrases exactly my feelings to almost a T.

They are often right even if sometimes a bit general.

However, at the moment I do feel so wholly worthless and unchanged. I feel helpless and not at all in control of anything in my life. Something that’s not relevant in this situation directly but perhaps associated with this could be “learned helplessness”.

it’s all my fault. i can’t process that without shaming myself. all i’ve ever been was the embodiment of shame. even as i learned that i could be lovable. i still felt ashamed of that fact. why am i considered lovable. how could i possibly be lovable despite? how could i be worth it? when i mess up? when i never get better?

at least invest in someone better. someone who improves and learns from their mistakes. someone who gets up and keep running.

i have never done that. not in a way that matters. not in a way that’s consistent. not in a way that i could take charge and prove to others. i rely on them heavily because i see no other way. no other option. i never let myself grow any ego in a way that was productive.

#personal #vent #cw suicide ideation #note 1

[eyesofmyers]

ok i'll tag this appropriately and put it under the cut just to be safe // cw: suicidal ideation, suicidal thoughts and feelings

despite the tags, this is a message of hope and peace for anyone going through a very dark something ♡

in the past month I've been suicidal (beyond passive ideation) 4 times. each and every time was terrifying, but it started to fade after the first really bad time bc I knew I was going to live through it. I had lived through it before. I knew that no matter how bad I felt or scared or sad or angry that I was going to see the next day because I had done it all before. Holding on to that sliver of peace is what's kept me here. So to anyone who has been struggling to find their sliver of peace to hold onto, I want you to know that you're going to make it. Think about the most peaceful moments in your life. When the sun is orange and warm through the window, when its raining so softly and steadily, when the snow is falling so gently, when thunder rumbles in the distance after the storm has passed. No storm, no matter how terrible, stays forever. It will be scary and loud and threatening as it happens but it will roll away and disappear for a while, as storms always do. Some will be worse than others. But that sun will return and be orange and glowy and you'll feel like a kid again and you'll want to see your friends and hold them and you'll want to kiss your pets. And you know what? They all want that for you, too.

After everything you've survived already, you can survive anything, especially yourself. You're going to make it.

#tw: sui ideation #tw: sui mention #tw: suicidal ideation mention #tw: suicidal ideation #be safe #express yourself #talk to your friends #talk to your family #talk to your doctor or therapist or both #talk to someone #remember what you love #you are capable of love #you are made of love #maybe our purpose is to experience what life has to offer #and even in its worst moments #it has to offer a lot #♡