#depression?

[cryptid-corpse]

Trying to identify my own emotions like ahh yes I feel .. a negative emotion... I feel uncomfortable, I feel pain in the chest

#anxiety? #depression? #anger? #who knows

[queer-apocalypse]

I don't see people talk nearly enough about what having your bending taken from you must entail.

Your bending is not just a weapon: it's the tangible manifestation of your energy, it's a big part of how you interact with the world and a vital, organic function of your body.

And I'm sure this was especially true for Ozai, if Iroh's description of his aptitude towards firebending from the cradle in Legacy of the Fire Nation is anything to go by.

I can't help but think about how losing it must've affected the rest of his bodily functions.

Ozai struggling to regulate his body temperature in his cold, humid cell, hugging his own shivering body tight enough to leave fingers imprints on his arms and still not finding any comfort because the cold is coming from within.

Ozai suddenly finding himself breathless after the mildest physical effort because a lot of his breath regulation was based around fire control as well, and his lungs still try to steal more oxygen than he now has need for.

Ozai losing sensitivity in his limbs some days, and being so overly sensitive his rough clothes feel like sandpaper on his skin some others, because his nerves' endings are raw and burned with the trauma of deprivation.

Ozai's body being incapable of holding onto much food because his whole metabolism was partially relying on the fire inside him.

Ozai's mind floating aimlessly every so often, unable to focus with the decreased temperature of his brain, unable to keep track of time and faces and to discern the muddy blur of his emotions, if he's still able to feel any at all.

Ozai slowly flickering and fading away like a flame trapped under a glass, with no oxygen and nothing to hold onto.

#atla #ozai #firebending #energybending #aang #angst #depression? #yeah depression #I've been sick these days and maybe I'm projecting but yeah #are we sure this was the most merciful option aang?

[brightgreendandelions]

i feel like i, in some sort of bizarre way, have forgotten how to be a person

#textpost #vent #depression? #i just don't feel emotions like i used to

[xxxadgothur]

Why the fuck do I often think "I gonna go home" when I'm just chilling in my own home?

#useless text post #depression? #mental health

[brotart]

4 days until the party. I should be happy.

#It's my favourite characters congratulating me for living another year. Why am I not happy #art #artists on tumblr #my art #anime #oc #fnaf #springtrap #the owl house #amity blight #the owl house spoilers #look at them #depression? #ventish #self portrait #purple #birthday #my birthday

[tleeaves]

Plagued by horrible feelings that don't go away, only fester. (I feel like everyone who knows me hates me or even mildly dislikes me, and I have literally no evidence whatsoever, everything is always circumstantial and my brain jumps to mean conclusions.)

Sometimes you grow up with this feeling like something is wrong with you and you step back and wonder if it was just the Catholic church environment and undiagnosed neurodivergence or if maybe you are a little bit fucked up and you can no longer hide it.

#lil vent post #imposter syndrome in a different font? #depression? #self-loathing? #grief and hurt manifesting in strange new ways? #trauma? #just complicated emotions rising to the surface because I'm super stressed about exams and wish I never knew anyone ever? #social anxiety?? #idk man your guess is as good as mine #I can't figure out how to fix this

[thenightmareinyourcloset]

You know it’s bad when you start listening to your 2021 playlist

#oh shit #depression?

[ub-sessed]

I have fucked up every single thing I have tried to knit over the past three days. I don't know what to do. Knitting is what I do when I'm not up to doing anything else. What do I do when I'm not up to knitting? This afternoon I lay in bed for an hour and a half doing literally nothing.

I wonder if it's another perimenopause thing.

I should probably take a break from knitting for a couple days, but I seriously don't know what else to do with myself.

That said, one of my favourite things about knitting is that it's pretty much the only thing I allow myself to be bad at. So maybe I should just keep casting on, fucking up, frogging, casting on, fucking up...

#perimenopause? #depression? #burnout? #stress? #knitting #knitblr

[skijumping-fam]

i can’t breathe

this literally made my whole life

#ski jumping #andreas wellinger #depression? #cured #will to live? #restored #a little dramatic but oh wel

[criticofallthings]

5:37am EST its been a damn hot minute (more like a couple of years prolly) anyway cant sleep wont sleep dont sleep I'm thinking back to a time where seasonal content was interesting with the spoicy lore drops. Also angst because why not since the Guardian x Crow ship cannonically sunk 😩 idk what a title is and no beta test readers so typos & issues abound, dont be a dick if u want me to fix it tho. This one kinda picks up waaaaay down the road from the other one I did about these two???

--------------------------

"Uldren Sov, Awoken Prince."

"Brother. To the Queen."

The titles fly out with cold dissociation. Crow pauses a moment, unable to meet the Guardian's gaze. He speaks another, vehemently, his voice quaking with furious emotion:

"Murderer."

The Guardian watches, unable to speak words of solace, knowing there is none that they can say. It tears at them, rips into their gut, to see Crow like this...to know they have no right to console him. To know just how fragile this simmering warmth that had hatched between them through the Wrathborn Hunts and Hawkmoon, truly is. The Guardian had reconciled with Crow's past, they know that Crow is not him, the two are different men...but how would Crow feel about it all?

What does it feel like to suddenly know that you have kissed the lips of your past self's killer? To know that body you enjoy waking up next to was once the same body hunting you down for revenge? That the hands that caressed his face so gently this morning, yesterday could have been wrung around his neck until it snapped like dry firewood beneath an axe?

The Guardian is stone, signs of life only showing by the whitening of their knuckles, tightly clenched into fists at their side. Crow shifts awkwardly and the Guardian's heart squeezes, breath hitching as they see Crow slowly turn to look them in the eye. At first his expression was unreadable, but then he spoke, voice low and hissed: darkened by what he felt but did not show.

"And you," his voice trembles with effort, hands moving to gesture at the Guardian "you, YOU knew everything!"

The Guardian takes a half step back, Crow's sudden outburst unexpected and deeply piercing. Hurt lines the corner of the Guardian's eyes and in shame they cannot maintain Crow's burning gaze.

"Just...how could you??" Crow's voice returns to a whisper, trailing into a choked back sob. "You, I-I-how could you...?"

The Guardian raises their head to look at Crow, they see him half extending a hand out to them. Palm upwards, pleading, his face contorting with anger and disgust, grief and wholly heartbroken. When be speaks, its barely above a stuttering whisper:

"I-he, no m-me...I've hurt you so much."

Time trails on, mere seconds but now an eternity. The Guardian can't respond, they dont know what they could do here, if there's anything to be said. Their own lack of words frustrates them and the Guardian can only moreosely return Crow's gaze. He breaks it off and turns his face away, half of it fully obscured in the dark shadows of his hood and the other half sharply illuminated by the Helm's lights.

"I'm sorry."

It was spoken gently, cautiously, as if the Guardian was the one who had been suffering. They take a tentative towards Crow, still trying to find a remedy dor the situation. But before they can begin to speak or draw closer, Crow withdraws.

The coil around the Guardian's heart constricts ever tighter and they find themselves rooted in place once more.

"I...I understand. I don't think I would have told me either." A heavy sigh causes his shoulders to rise and fall, curving inwards, instinctively protective of himself. Crows looks up at the Guardian once again, seemingly shruken and by far the most uncertain the Guardian has ever seen him as.

"I need to get out of here." Crow's voice is slow and trembles slightly, still just barely more than a whisper.

"I'm afraid...of who I used to be." Discomfort and fear linger in his next words and Crow must look away to say them.

"That he'll come back somehow...that somewhere deep inside, you do too."

Crow tugs on his hood, covering his eyes, turning to walk away from the Guardian. They reach out to him, heart racing anxiously, trembling slightly as they realized what Crow was preparing to do.

"I need to get out here. I need to get as far away from her as possible. Somewhere I know my choices are my own."

The Guardian's fingertips barely graze the edges of Crow's cloak as he transmats out. The Helm is woefully quiet as the sounds of the transmat firing fade into the low mechnical background noise of the ship.

"I'm sorry." [please stay]

Without Crow in the Helm, no one is around to hear the Guardian's whispered apology or try to figure out their innermost thoughts. And no one at all would hear their anguished cries.

#angst #destiny crow #destiny 2 season of the lost #the guardian #this is not a happy story #what is a happy ending #big sads #depression? #aoc #fanfic #destiny 2 #d2 fanfic #guardian x crow #except not really #canonically #just friends #and i hate it #reblog if u enjoyed #pretty pls

[futilechildhooddream]

I dont remember feeling this empty all the time, but then again maybe it was always like this and I just dont remember. maybe before it wasn't emptiness, it was anxiety. now its looking at the world and knowing there is beauty but feeling disconnected from all of it. I feel like I'm the AI, endlessly generating something but nothing worth anything, endlessly an outsider. not quite depressed but is this what depression is? seeing yourself and the future as disconnection, tv static. I dont want to scroll but the weight on my bones doesn't have to be physical to leave me immobile. there's a respite found in books but still as the day ends my soul screams not quite... not quite right... did the glass always used to be meaningless? half empty or half full... what's the point of this...

#mental illness #emptiness #personal #cw vent #depression?

[wraithwillow]

does anyone know which mental illness makes it so that sometimes i cant do anything but stare at a wall and then other times i feel almost manic and want to start a brand new career from the ground up by myself and get tattoos and cut my hair and reinvent my personality and then i go back to only being able to stare at a wall

#is that adhd #is that bipolar #am i bipolar #or is it just autism again #depression? #place your bets lads

[mcgillicuddytheseventh]

The rot consumes(ideally very fast)

#depression?

[sevdidntdie]

tldr ok so like a bit of ranting here:

i've been playing the violin for twelve years now, and've had my current teacher for the last thirteen months. now, she's a good teacher, i'm sure, but the fact that i dread going to lessons and that afterwards i feel sad weak and depressed for the rest of the week- idk what to do bc i'll graduate high school n this program in two years and i don't wanna drop violin so close to the end, but i'm no longer enjoying music lessons, talking with the instructor, or having fun.

u know when you're keepin up a straight face but inside u wanna cry/yell/shout/insult/sob? thats me every lesson and every time i see her. she knows i've been doing this for twelve years and keeps calling on me to play Twinkle Twinkle for six-year-olds to "be a role model". she knows i'm not going into music after this (and also said NO many times), but im now being forced to enter yet another competiton "for the chance to win". she knows im going to a bunch of conferences/lectures as part of my history major plan, but bc im missing "required Advanced Music Theory" classes i shouldn't graduate.

i haven't told her any of these things; i'll probably wait till when i graduate cuz i wanna see her face if/when it changes expression.

i had a great monday and a great tuesday but oof there goes the rest of the week #sad

sorry about this y'all but i'm kinda pissed rn and i'm worried that this may cause me to drop violin which i don't wanna do.

#music rants #music teachers #oppressive music teachers #depression? #history major #music is no fun anymore #ruined week #every week #thank goodness i have therapy tomorrow #sighhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

[xy-nox]

Showers in the dark

I don’t know nor care if anyone has said or made a point of this already but may I preach the value of showers in the dark?

Maybe just me, but it always feels so different from if you just close your eyes. It’s darker for starters but being in the dark?? Like—

it feels so fucking ethereal. Like, your mere fleshbag doesn’t exist. You’re all and nothing and it’s awesome! It might help with dysphoria if you’ve got that like me If you can, I you want to and if it’s safe so you, try Turing the lights off while you shower sometime. I swear it changed the fucking game for me

#Shower #shower thoughts #shower in the dark. Yes that is a threat /j #dysphoria tips #maybe? #hygeine #lifestyle #life #try it sometime #Depression? #Me? Understanding how effective tagging works?

[hollyannewrites]

Halfway Cafe

There is a halfway cafe. Halfway between places. Halfway between times.

It’s always open. Someone is always sitting at the third barstool from the end. Someone is always just entering or exiting the bathroom. There’s always some sort of soft indie-pop-rock music drifting out of speakers that can’t ever be seen. There’s always someone new behind the counter, who always seems to know your order before you’ve placed it. You never see when the barista changes; you must not have been looking.

I come here often. I like to sit, swirl the straw of my vanilla iced coffee. Sometimes I write in my journal, just whatever floats to the surface of my mind. Sometimes I draw mindlessly on blank pages to see what comes out. Sometimes I just sit, and ponder life, and stare at nothing. Here, I am no one. Here, my life outside does not matter. Here, no one bothers me.

Until now.

He enters like a tornado, swinging the door wide, coat flapping, curled hair wild, panting and shaking the water droplets out of his hair. He strides to the bar, grins at the current barista, takes his hot chocolate with extra whipped cream, and proceeds to walk past seven empty tables to sit at the chair right across from me.

I am sitting at the table I always sit at, in the corner, under the hanging lamp. My seemingly-always-halfway-full notebook is open in front of me, and my favorite blue pen is scrawling away on the page. I’m not writing anything important, just getting my thoughts out there. My coffee, as usual, is sitting in front of me.

He’s staring at me like he’s waiting for something, or like he knows me, or at least like he expects me to know him. I don’t know him. I look up, raise my eyebrows at him, awaiting some explanation. Instead, he reaches across the table and snatches my notebook. He pulls a pen out from somewhere, a crappy purple ballpoint.

Hello! My name is Eli.

He writes across the top of the next blank page in my book. I stare for a second, then open my mouth-

He shakes his head, slides my book back to me, taps the page with his pen. I glare and pull the book toward me.

It’s rude to touch things that aren’t yours. Go away.

I hold up the book to show him. He leans in a little, reads, nods. He leans in a little closer still and starts to scrawl on the book while I’m displaying it. I pull back and slam my book shut. He tilts his head and furrows his brow.

He stands, returns to the counter. The barista hands something to him without even really looking up. He comes back to my table, and opens his brand-new café-provided notebook, and writes:

Hello! My name is Eli. Is this better?

He slides this book toward me. He nods once, smiling. I frown.

No. Leave me alone.

I just want to talk with someone. You’re the only person here I’ve ever seen before.

I’ve never seen you in my life. Leave me alone.

He can’t seem to take a hint. I study him a bit more, since he won’t leave. Brown hair curled around his ears, hazel eyes but one is a little greener than the other. There are small freckles on his nose, and just a few on the back of his hands. Black coat over olive sweatshirt, nondescript jeans. A narrow scar along the side of his neck. I had definitely never seen him before.

At least tell me your name.

No.

Please? I told you mine.

I didn’t ask. Still no.

Why not?

I don’t know you.

But does it matter? We meet here, this once, odds are we will never come across one another ever again. We come from wherever, whenever, here it doesn’t matter, so telling me your name here doesn’t even really count as meeting me.

Vera. Now go away.

He grins when he reads that reply. It gives him a dimple on his left cheek.

Can we chat? I want to get to know you, Vera.

I hate that he’s using my name now. I hate that I told him. In fact, I can’t seem to remember why I did. Maybe I lost my senses for a minute. Can a person lose their mind just for a second? I don’t know.

Whatever.  

Why did I write that?

 I look at him again, closer this time. There’s an old brown stain on the front of his sweater, and the ends of the sleeves are frayed. His coat is missing the third button from the top. There are the faintest tracings of dark circles around his eyes. His fingertips are stained with ink of all different colors. There isn’t anything particularly special about him.

And yet, I find myself leaning forward to see what he’s writing.

Where are you from? If you don’t want to give a name, just describe it.

A big city.

I’ve always wanted to live in a big city. I’m from a tiny village by the sea. My whole family lives there. Do you have a lot of family?

None of your business.

That is not a conversation I am about to have with a stranger. In fact, I don’t know when I decided that I’d have any conversations with a stranger.

Sorry.

He hesitates, looks at me like he’s waiting for something to happen. I do nothing more than glare like I had been all along.

I have three sisters and two brothers. They’re all adults, much older than me, but when I was little they lived at home and they’d take me to the market, and the library, and the beach. They’d teach me things, like how to ride a bike, how to swim, how to avoid getting pickpocketed. I don’t see them as often now, because they moved away, to other towns, and I’m still at home. But it’s alright, because my Uncle lives down the road, and he has three little boys, younger than me, and I get to take them places and teach them things. I’ve been missing them lately.

Why?

Doesn’t matter.

His posture changes. He tucks his legs under his chair, pulls his shoulders up, writes faster.

Have you always lived in a city?

Yes.

Do you like it?

Yes.

Why?

Convenience. Also, no strangers walk up and start bothering me.

Sorry.

He looks up at me, as if trying to find the answer to a question he didn’t ask. He chews his lower lip a little and sighs.

I didn’t mean to bother you. I just…… I guess I just needed someone to talk to. I’m sorry.

He closes his book, sets the pen on the table. He goes to leave. I scribble in my book and slide it to him.

Why?

I can’t explain. There is just something so desperate in his eyes, in his words. I don’t know why, but this feels important, in a way I can’t understand.

Over the next few hours we write back and forth. He tells me about his life, about his family, about his friends. He tells me how miserable he’s been of late, how his life has been changing. He tells me how he lost his mother, on a rainy night, to some medical thing he couldn’t quite understand. He tells me how his father left, no warning, no way to contact him, just gone. He tells me how his friends seem to be drifting away, how they haven’t spoken in a while and he doesn’t know why.

He tells me how he feels.

It’s like…like we were all sitting together, in a big group, my friends and my family and me. And then, someone dropped a sheet of glass between me and them. They can still see me, I can still see them, but we can’t hear each other. So, I can sit, and scream at the glass all day long, and they can’t hear me, and they don’t know anything is wrong. I can bang on the glass with all my strength, and they can’t hear it. And even though they can see me, without the sound to go with it, they think I’m laughing, or having fun, or just joking around. I thought desperation looked different in a person’s face than joking. Maybe I’m wrong and they look the same. Or maybe the glass distorts the image.

I don’t know how to answer that. What can I say? How do I answer something like that?

There’s something else about what he said. Something that isn’t sitting right with me. It almost feels familiar, like seeing someone you almost recognize, but can’t seem to remember their name. Before I even follow that thought to it’s conclusion, my pen is racing.

I’ve felt that too. That’s why I’m here. Here, people aren’t ignoring me. They’re just ignoring people in general. Here the people ignoring me aren’t people who are supposed to love me, or care about me. Here, they’re just people and I am just a random screaming person. There is something comforting in anonymity.

I have never said something like that before. Not to someone else. Why did I say it to him?

My hands are shaking. When did that start? His are shaking too, as he writes back.

There’s an appeal to anonymity, I guess. But I don’t want to scream at the unknown any more than I want to scream at the known. I want to be noticed, so I can stop screaming. That’s why I’m talking to you.

He pauses, and glances up at me. He nods once, and picks up his pen once more.

You were right. Talking to you does help. Don’t forget to remind me.

He smiles.

Thanks, Vera.

He slides the book toward me, sits his pen beside it. While I am puzzling through the cryptic words, he buttons his coat, except for the missing button. When I look up, he is walking past the seven empty tables and right out the door. He gives me one last look before the door closes, and he’s gone.

The look in his eyes is still burned into my mind. He said to remind him about talking to me. What does that even mean? He’s already talked to me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There is a halfway cafe. Halfway between places. Halfway between times.

It’s always open. Someone is always sitting at the third barstool from the end. Someone is always just entering or exiting the bathroom. There’s always some sort of soft indie-pop-rock music drifting out of speakers that can’t ever be seen. There’s always someone new behind the counter, who always seems to know your order before you’ve placed it. You never see when the barista changes; you must not have been looking.

He enters like a tornado, swinging the door wide, coat flapping, curled hair wild, panting and shaking the water droplets out of his hair. He looks around the room, taking it in. His hair is shorter. His coat has all its buttons still attached. There are no circles under his eyes. There are no ink stains on his fingers. There is no scar on his neck. He walks up to the bar, and hesitates, and looks around for a menu. Everyone knows there is no menu here.

I am here again, swirling the straw of my vanilla iced coffee. My over-halfway-full notebook is splayed open on the table before me, and I am quickly filling the new page with my favorite blue pen. Hearts are doodled in the margins, surrounding the poem I am writing.

Things begin to make sense for me. I stand, walk past seven empty tables to be right next to him at the bar. I arrive as the barista is handing him a hot chocolate with extra whipped cream. I tap his shoulder and he spins around to look at me. I show him my open notebook and write a message.

Talk to me.

All I receive is a head tilt and furrowed brows.

When you want to stop screaming, come talk to me. I will most definitely be difficult about it but you should insist on it. It’ll help. Consider this your reminder, Eli.

His eyes go wide when he sees his name on my page. He looks up at me, studies my face, staring for a long minute. He nods once and walks over to an empty table to sit. I return to my own.

He spills some of his hot chocolate on his olive sweater. When he leaves, his coat catches on the door and a single button falls to the ground. When I leave, I take it with me.

There is a halfway café. A place where two people can meet halfway.

#hollyanne writes #original fiction #meetcute #cafe #sadness #fiction #original characters #creative writing #short stories #original work #depression?