#healthy coping mechanisms? never heard of em

[treetimesthree]

saturday

The first time I spent time with you alone, I could barely look at you. You, splayed across my dorm couch. Me, sat on the floor in front of you. My hair would brush your thigh if I looked back at you, and the sensation made my heart beat so hard I feared you would hear it. That night I pressed my lips together harder than I ever have before, afraid a confession would fall from them faster than I could stop it. I failed miserably, and I still remember the feeling of your thigh pressed against the back of my head as I looked up at the stars in your eyes and the most beautiful smile I have ever seen.

On our first date, I was so nervous I kept a checklist of important questions on my phone. Each question asked in time with the hammering of my heart, the flutter in my stomach, the breathlessness in my voice. Your favorite color, favorite artist, favorite flower. I wrote the answers down just in case, but I knew I wouldn't need them; I knew if it was you, I would never forget (I still can't look at bright pink roses).

I asked someone what their favorite color was recently. The words tasted like sand on my lips. I don't remember their answer. And I didn't write it down.

#i miss her #letters i'll never send #shitty poetry #actually idk if this counts as poetry #shitty writing then #healthy coping mechanisms? never heard of em #heartbreak

[rottenpumpkin13]

Out Of Context Shit Heard On The SOLDIER Floor #5

previous: 1, 2, 3, 4,

*Zack walks in with his head in a pumpkin*

Zack: Zack-o'-lantern

Genesis: do you think our menstrual cycles have synced?

Sephiroth: please stop crying. I am not equipped to deal with depression this early in the morning.

Kunsel: When I die please donate my penis to science.

Angeal: Director Lazard dresses like a gay penguin.

Sephiroth: Is fruit cake an insult? I just called someone a fruit cake and thought it was quite funny.

Kunsel: Why does Rufus sound like he went through puberty twice?

Sephiroth: I thought the Molly you spoke of was the name.

Roche: Kunsel can have a little medieval torture, as a treat.

Zack: Where were you when my hand was stuck in the toaster??

Sephiroth: I don't know what Coraline was complaining about. She had two mothers.

Lazard: One of these days I'm going to lose my shit and punch Genesis in the face.

Angeal: (on the phone): I-just-swallowed-whiteout help desk, Angeal speaking, how may I help you?

Genesis: Merry Christmas.

Zack: It's October?

Genesis: Alright shitty Christmas then.

Zack: *break dancing while Genesis sobs*

Genesis: If we're all single by age forty let's become a married throuple.

Angeal: I can't tell if that drawing you did is President Shinra or Colonel Sanders.

Roche: Fuck it. I'll just steal Sephiroth's hair. It's no big deal!

Sephiroth: I would commit unspeakable atrocities for a single piece of lasagna right now.

Cloud: Ronald McDonald would never treat me like this!

Sephiroth: I do not mean to be immature, but I will now be giggling whenever we reach the 69th floor.

Genesis: Eat this apple and tell me it doesn't taste like chicken tenders.

Angeal: Sephiroth stop laughing Genesis might be going to jail.

Zack: 🎶 Grab somebody sexy tell 'em HEY *tackles Sephiroth*

Cloud: There's a pickle in your wallet. Is that a metaphor?

Lazard: There's no need to act defensive, Roche. Lots of men have gay thoughts about Sephiroth.

Genesis: Bullying IS a healthy coping mechanism.

Lazard: Do you like my new bottle of pills?

Cloud: What if—bear with me—What if! No one cares about Loveless?

Sephiroth: I think he's the size of twelve capybaras stacked on top of each other.

Angeal: Which one of you gay clowns told upper management about—Put your hand down, Genesis, that wasn't a compliment!

Zack: *through a mouthful of cookies* HE'S A DILF!

Angeal: You can't threaten me with a butter knife.

Sephiroth: If I sniff this entire box of markers, will it put me out of my misery?

Zack: My fear is that he'll come at me with a rolling pin.

Cloud: Seph! Stop choking Genesis with that extension cord he's into that shit.

Lazard: If you keep this up, Sephiroth, I'll make you wear a shirt for a week.

Genesis: How do I look?

Angeal: With your eyes, Gen.

Roche: I personally frame all of my speeding tickets.

*Cloud walks in shaking*

Cloud: GUYS! ZACK CAN DO MATH!

Sephiroth: Somebody stole a jar of jam from my desk drawer.

#ff7 #ffvii #final fantasy 7 #sephiroth #ffvii crisis core #genesis rhapsodos #final fantasy vii #angeal hewley #final fantasy #cloud strife #zack fair #ff7 crisis core #final fantasy 7 crisis core

[lokislittlemidgardian]

Hi friend :) can please write Bucky x little reader where our therapist recommends we try age regression and how we are very hesitant at first but he just makes us feel loved and comfortable?

Let’s try it

Content - age regression, cg!bucky, psychologists, anxiety, apprehensive!reader, light swearing, soft toys, dummy use, bottles, slight angst, fluff cuddles, not proofread, don’t like don’t read.

Summary - when your psychologist gives you a new coping mechanism to try bucky helps makes you feel comfortable with trying it.

Authors note - thank you for the request my love sorry it took so long I hope you enjoy it!, reblogs are greatly appreciated<3

Translation - honey love = med lyubov'

“Age what?” You questioned your psychologist curiosity, you never got over how many things you’d never heard of before in terms of the mind.

“Age regression dear, I think it might benefit you” dr irin said plainly with a reassuring smile plastered across her lips “what does that entail?” “Well age regression therapy is when you revert to a childlike mindset in order to heal your inner child so to speak.”

You sat there for a minute trying to process the information given to you. “So how old would I go back too?” “It’s hard to say dear, it depends on what your mind does” she smiled reaching into her desk to pull out a pamphlet and some recommended websites.

“Now I was also thinking that some people who experience age regression find it easier when they have someone to take care of them, so maybe your partner James-“ “Bucky, yeah no I’m not bothering him with this” you said butterfly’s making their way into your chest.

“Okay hon” dr irin said softly “just know it’s nothing to be ashamed of, it’s perfectly healthy” “okay” you sighed looking down at the pamphlet.

───── ⋆⋅◇⋅⋆ ─────

“Hi baby” Bucky smiled putting down the spatula and turning down the heat on the stove before walking over too you.

“Hi Bub, what’re you making?” You asked curiously walking over to the frying pan “pancakes, figured you might like some after your session” he smiled kissing your temple.

“Aww thank you, you bloody softy come here” you smiled pulling him in and kissing his soft lips “your welcome, so how’d you go?” He asked returning to the stove and flipping a pancake over on the other side.

“Yeah it was okay” you sighed sitting down on one of the kitchen chairs “what did you talk about?” “Not much she just gave me some strategies” you sighed smiling as you watched Bucky place the pancakes on a plate “what do you want on ‘em bub?” He said walking over to the fridge.

“Can I have one with maple syrup and fruit and another with lemon and sugar please?” “Of course you can my love.”

───── ⋆⋅◇⋅⋆ ─────

A few hours went by eventually turning the sky dark.

You were currently sitting on the sofa your favourite show playing on the telly while scrolling through your unanswered messages of the day.

Suddenly you realised your phone was about to run out of charge “buck can you get me my portable charger please?” You called out to Bucky who was sitting in the kitchen reading a newspaper.

“Sure where is it?” “In my bag I think” “okay”

In retrospect you probably should of remembered that you took your bag to your appointment. A few minutes later bucky came out with your portable charger in one hand and the pamphlet in his vibranium one.

“Here you go doll, hey what’s this?” He asked as he scanned the contents “what’s what?” You asked plugging in your phone and looking up at him “oh shit.”

“It’s nothing” you said quickly attempting to snatch it off him only to have him hold it up higher still accessing the words “it’s just something dr irin gave me give it here” “sounds interesting” he said gently giving it to you.

“Don’t judge it please I don’t even wanna do it it’s stupid” you whispered “hey hey no it’s not stupid if your doctor said it might help you should give it a go” he said kindly sitting next to you gently making you look at him.

“But I don’t know how and what if it doesn’t work it’s gonna be weird I just don’t-“ “hey dolly look at me yeah deep breaths in for 5 hold for 4 out for 5, that’s the way” he said softly guiding you through your breathing.

Once you calmed down you talked Bucky through what your psychologist had told you and he was completely on board.

During the next few days things went back to normal, that was until bucky received a large package “Bucky” you said suspiciously watching him sign for it seeing his cheeky smile.

“What have you done now” you said accusingly “ahh it’s actually for you sweetheart” he said kindly placing the box on the kitchen bench and ripping it open.

Inside there was a selection of soft toys, colouring in books, some bottles and a teal dummy. “Oh buck” you said breathlessly moving to embrace him.

“I told you angel I’m on board with this 100 percent”

───── ⋆⋅◇⋅⋆ ─────

A few days later you finally slipped after lots of research and trying out different approaches. You were currently sat on the sofa with your dummy in your mouth and alpine laying down beside you her soft breathing and snores alerting you to the fact she had fallen asleep.

“Daddy” you whispered to Bucky watching his face light up when you called him that “yes little one?” “Look at pine pine” you giggled pointing at her “aww she’s asleep, what do you think cats dream about baby bunny?”

“I dunno, mice?” “Mice” he chuckled heartily “yes” you said definitively “dada” “hmm?” “Can I have a cuddle?” “Of course you can my little angel” he said softly.

Repositioning yourself to lie between his legs your back of resting against his chest you felt his vibranium arm gently come to play with your hair “do you feel better med lyubov'?”

“Mhm” you hummed feeling yourself grow sleepy in the embrace of your caregiver.

───── ⋆⋅◇⋅⋆ ─────

Taglist - @bootlegmothman420 @littlephia @whippedforhongjoong @youngstarfishdinosaur @patchesofwork @buggyateabug @autisticbeauty @friendlyneighborhoodkillerbunny @sparklybuck @2-gay-possums-in-a-trench-coat @hopelesswritergall @stuckysgirl27 @sleepyprinc3ss @chaotic-little-witch @looksthatkilledd

#daddy!bucky #daddy!bucky barnes #little!reader #cg!bucky #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes x reader #sfw age regression #caregiver #age regression reader #sfw littlespace #little reader #agere sfw #ria answers

[toliveforitall]

day one of trying to work out when i feel the need to cut

imma end this either super depressed or super jacked i guess we’ll figure out which along the way

#healthy coping mechanisms?? never heard of em #self harrrm

[lockedstuck]

moving your mouth to pull out all your miracles

April 2021 - Gamzee Makara

You don’t like the way your thoughts proceed on halo, helldog, or haloperidol, or whatever Karbro calls it. After you take it, the world feels blunt, impersonal, and grayscale, like you’re a motherfucking puppet with a head full of straw. Your brother used to love a poem about that, about some guys with straw heads, but mostly about the world ending.

Kurloz liked a lot of motherfucking things before he did nine months in Rikers for cocaine distribution. Originally it was only supposed to be six months, but he got into a fight and got three months added on. When he got out, he was thoughtful and quiet, even a word of acknowledgment seemingly beyond him. You’ll be damned if that ever happens to you, if you let the system hollow you out until you can’t express the simplest serendipity.

Right now you’re sketching your friends, quick sketches with the charcoal set Dr. Levin brought you. One of Karkat having a rare smile for June, one of Sollux and Roxy talking about programming, one of Dr. V addressing the group about healthy coping mechanisms, and one of Porrim braiding Calliope’s hair. You always feel more like yourself when you’re sketching or painting. Fewer thoughts in your head to get jangle-tangled together and create nonsense. You can keep your miracles straight this way.

You’re cool. You’re easy. You’re loose. No snapped strings, heads full of straw, or blasphemies here, no motherfucking way. The ativan caravan marches through your head, sings your sharp edges to sleep. Nurse Dolores knows what’s up, she only makes you take the medications you want to take. Your cognition flies free, like birds in a breeze, a calm going on between your ears.

Roxy turns and grins at you, her face pale as the moon against her dark hoodie and darker lipstick. She has a smile all her own, a knowing smile like the two of you are in on the greatest secret in the world. You wish you knew precisely what that was about, but everyone has their own internal workings. You can’t know and fix everything about everyone all the time. That’s what you were trying to explain to Sollux last night.

He’s a good guy, but he takes too much on. Same for Karkat. They take on everyone’s issues and make them their own. Only the mirthful messiahs should be able to do so much; humans like trying that hard is a minor sacrilege. If the pair of them would just stick to themselves, maybe they wouldn’t be so sick. You’ll fold more flowers for them - paper flowers that banish repetitive, ruminating thoughts.

You like Roxy a lot, though. She dances through each emotion in its totality, riding the waves of her feelings without fear. Okay, maybe not fearlessly, but with more abandon than you would expect. When she looks at you, you feel warmth all the way to your core, the way you are when you’re about to fall asleep all curled up in your sheets.

Speaking of sleep, Dr. V says that if you keep sleeping through the night, and keep what he calls “disruptive outbursts” about the Dark Carnival to a minimum, maybe you’ll get discharged in a couple of weeks. You’re not exactly in any rush to go home. Home means having to fend for yourself, and fewer friends to keep you in good spirits. Besides, Kurloz is home, and for all that he may be your brother, he gives off bad motherfucking vibes. You wish he’d be easy, like old times, but those days are a long way off.

You remember when you used to be able to relax at home. Relax, smoke a joint, sell an eighth or two, and have dinner without having to fend off your brother’s brooding.

Karkat takes the seat next to you, and you clap him on the back. Physical contact may be discouraged here, but there’re no narcs around to encourage law and order at the moment. You think a support team got dispatched to address Feferi wandering around with no clothes on again.

“What’s up?” Karkat asks.

He nevertheless looks preoccupied and far away. That’s unfortunate.

You take another folded flower out of your pocket and hand it to him.

“There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance; pray, love, remember; and there is pansies, that’s for thoughts,” you recall from a play you had to read in AP English a couple years ago. You can’t exactly remember what the play’s about, but stray lines here and there stick out to you like a sore thumb. Except neither of your actual thumbs are sore.

“That’s from Hamlet, isn’t it?” Karkat asks, shaking his head at you. “What’re you, the bard of 3 East?”

Now you’re not certain about that, but you’ll take it.

“Someone’s gotta be, ain’t they? I got more poetry if you want it.”

Karkat sighs. “Yeah, lay it on me, Makara. Dr. Vandayar told me I’m not getting discharged next week so I’m not feeling great at the moment.”

Poor Karbro looks like he’s full of thunderstorms. Maybe a calm vista will quiet him down. You pull a few lines of poetry free from your memory.

“I shall wear white flannel trousers and walk upon the beach... I have heard the mermaids singing each to each... I do not think that they will sing to me.”

“Go on,” Karkat says, looking all at once pensive and a little sad.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves... Combing the white hair of the waves blown back... When the wind blows the water white and black,” you recite. Now, Roxy, Calliope, and Porrim have stopped to listen to you. You go on, establishing a proper rhythm.

“We have lingered in the chambers of the sea... by sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown... ‘till human voices wake us, and we drown.” When no one says anything, you interject, “That’s the end of the fuckin’ poem, y’all.”

“It’s beautiful,” Porrim whispers. “Did you write that?”

You shake your head in the negative. “Naw, that’s some other motherfucker’s ideas outta my mouth. I wrote a couple of my own lines last night if you wanna hear ‘em, though.”

“Sure,” Calliope says, smiling and clapping her hands once.

“My muse distills my melancholy, pins it to the corkboard with a tack. She presses down upon the pigments, bleeds my blues into the boldest black.”

Even Karkat looks surprised. He narrows his eyes at you.

“If you don’t go study art or literature, or something along that line, I’ll fucking kill you.”

“Ain’t no need to resort to murder, brother,” you reply. “And while I’d like to go sit in a motherfucking college somewhere, I ain’t got shit for tuition.”

“If I have to take up a goddamn collection, I am sending your ass to college. Tout-suite.”

You guess now is not the time to inform him that you straight up flunked outta college after you kept forgetting to go to class. You sat in the grass memorizing poetry and sketching the first dandelions of March, which got in the way of your learning anything or taking your exams, or any of the shit college students are supposed to do. You didn’t mean to forget, but you’ve never been great at any routine shit.

And you’ve always had a knack for going where your thoughts take you. When you were a kid, you would leave the house and walk up and down the streets of Harlem unattended. Your grandmother used to read you the riot act for doing something so reckless and nonsensical. Later, during your hospitalizations, you learned that the way your thoughts stuttered and tangled was called schizophrenia, and doctors medicated you accordingly. They called your prophecies delusion, and you beg(ged) to differ.

The medications ground your thought process to a stuttering halt. You hated it. You hated being cut off from yourself. So you stopped taking your meds. And here you are again, with your strange thoughts and remembrances.

“Alas, poor Yorick. I knew him, Horatio,” Karkat murmurs.

You grin at him. He understands more than he lets on.

June winks at you, and then walks away to the women’s side of the unit, presumably to call her father. She calls him every day at 8 am and 3 pm, like clockwork. Karkat gazes at her as she walks away, the back of her short dress fluttering behind her.

“June looks nice today,” you say to him.

 He stops staring and glances at you for a moment.

“Yeah, um, she looks nice every day,” he replies. “Not that I make it my business to notice.”

You point to the delicate paper flower he has in his hand. “Sometimes the most miraculous thing you can fuckin’ do is give another person a taste of serendipity.”

Roxy smiles her cheshire cat smile from her seat by the television.

“That’s right, Crabby. Dontcha think June deserves her very own miracle?”

Karkat reddens, looks at the flower in his hand, and takes off for the women’s side.

“Hey, Egbert!” he shouts. “I have something for you.”

By the time you see June again, she’s wearing the small red flower in her hair. Roxy gives you a satisfied little nod, then asks you if you’d like her to put your hair in braids.

“I’m not as good as Pomary with hair, but I’m alright, I guess. Your hair looks like some birds took up residence in it, dude.”

“Why, thank you,” you reply. You take a seat at her feet, after she grabs her comb, brush, hair grease, and spray bottle out of sharps.

She’s right. She’s not a thing like Pomary when it comes to braiding. You’re used to the gentle motions of Porrim’s hands as she manipulates flowers into your hair, but Roxy tugs great fistfuls of your hair into twists. It feels nice, like she’s tethering you to the present, to the here and now.

You tell her that, thank her for bringing you back, and she blushes crimson.

“Aw, I’m not tryna do all of that,” she responds. “Just tryna work through my anxiety. Dolores gave me an ativan an hour ago, and I don’t feel it yet.”

Roxy bends low, and plants a kiss on your forehead, right where your skin meets your greasepaint. Her lips are the softest thing you’ve ever felt.

She keeps braiding, manipulating your hair into cornrows. With Roxy near you, you don’t necessarily have to be a prophet or an apostate of the mirthful messiahs. You don’t have to deliver special messages to special people. You can just be Gamzee Motherfucking Makara, doing you as per usual.

#gamroxy #junekat

[kennedycatherine]

things may be shitty but sometimes I'm shittier

I’m overheard retelling half a joke my friends have heard 30 times over. One of the greats in my rotating stock of five. 

“Wait, what’s this about?” Asks someones boyfriend and I lean on an elbow, angle myself toward him with a grin.

“It’s actually a really funny story.”

His girlfriend rolls her eyes, “it’s not funny.”

My eyebrows go up, in, “I think it’s funny?”

“Kennedy,” she begins and looks at me with even eyes, “it makes people uncomfortable.”

She says it like a mother warning her toddler not to pull his pants off in front of the dinner guests, not again. And I feel a lot like he might;

Defiant - it is a funny story, I’ve done the math on which details can stay in, which have to go out, I know where to pause for a laugh or a sigh. He’d probably like it. 

Ashamed - it probably isn’t funny to everyone, perhaps my math was just enough to keep people engaged, the pauses great for a sympathy laugh. He probably wouldn’t like it.

“Another time,” he whispers with a soft, consoling smile and I silently curse his girlfriend. 

Fuck you, Kierstan, you don’t know the first thing about comedic timing.

The story in question is about the time I found my sister cold and unconscious. I thought she was dead. The punchline about my being in a pink velour costume when the EMT’s arrived and the bit about the stolen laffy taffy, oh and her not being dead - fully worth the undeniable emotional lows. 

Believe me when I say that in some circles, it’s a funny story. There are branches of comedy, Netflix specials, peoples entire careers and livelihoods that are rooted in dark comedy - there is a vast market for illuminating and lightening the horrifying. Also trust me when I say I know how deeply unfunny it is to watch someone you love overdose. 

The story is funny now. A few years ago it wasn’t. It was a nearly unspeakable thing. An experience that happened and it wasn’t funny. 

But life goes on. 

You have no choice. 

Around the time of the pink velour tracksuit and the laffy taffy, I found myself laughing uncontrollably at my desk. I’d just left the job I’d gone to college for and found myself in the pit of broken dreams - an 8 to 5 desk job. The absolute thrill of it all - somedays you might file, somedays you might answer a few more calls than usual. Somedays your boss might ask you to bend over and pick up his pencil while you wear the skirt it was gently (but firmly) implied was mandatory. Mandatory only in the sense that no one could tell you that you couldn’t wear pants but they sure were more forgiving of car naps running 15 minutes over if they could glimpse a knee. 

And boy, did I need the car naps. 

It’s funny because I thought I was doing great. Really, for awhile I thought I was the best I’d ever been. I was laughing pretty much all the time, at everything. I’d never found the world more funny. By all accounts, I was having a great time.

So imagine my surprise when one day I found my eyes full, my face damp and my car hurdling down the highway past the exit to my work. When I did arrive, this time with pants, therefor low forgiveness - I was asked to my boss’ office for a closed door meeting.

Why was I late?

Somehow telling my boss that I wasn’t exactly sure the reason but my brain was telling me I should just keep driving, maybe to the next town, maybe for hours, maybe until the border, didn’t really seem like an option. “I think I have the flu.”

Despite all the things I didn’t know, I did know I didn’t have the flu. I found myself laid out in my doctors office anyway.

When he finally threw the door open, all white coated and anxious, just like I like em’ - I sat up. We made a sort of frenzied eye contact and he asked me what was wrong. 

“I think I might be, like, totally fucking losing it.” 

I left with a plan and antidepressants.

It all sounds kind of simple and quaint.

But it wasn’t.

Stopping to consider if you’re a danger to yourself or anyone else so your doctor can qualify if you need counselling, pills, maybe a psychiatric hold isn’t charming. Those first few weeks of pills, even though you’ve been told and you know you’ll feel worse for awhile, they’re simply awful. This isn’t some beautiful woman on HBO popping a white pill with her chardonnay, suddenly noticing a pink bloom on her neglected cactus. This is ugly and painful before it’s anything else.

And slowly it did become “anything else” … most of the time. 

Depression isn’t a joke. But it is a static way of being that loses it’s edge. 

It softens. Like a shitty haircut, you come to expect the blunt, harsh edges. Your body adjusts to the sight of it. It’s still kind of scary to look at but you know what to expect.

Life goes on.

It’s just not precious anymore. 

I could barely say I’d been diagnosed. I only told the people who were close enough to see the new medication was wearing me out. Now it’s an introductory fact, “Hi, Kennedy Catherine, daughter, lover, lesbian, writer, major depressive disorder.” 

I felt for a long time like it was all behind me. The worst was over! Family, outside of some trick hearts, healthy. Depression, diagnosed, plans made, helpful medications on standby. Experiencing another dark episode seemed dull,  ya know? Just a tad fucking redundant. Been there, done it, bored by it. 

Then: March 2020. 

There was a period of limbo. I still had a job, I just couldn’t be there or do it until things got better - hardy har. I packed up my truck and settled into my families cabin for five or six weeks. It was fine, I was fine, I thought. One day I went out for a walk and awhile later watched my sister rumble through a long stretch of prairie toward me on an ATV. My phone was dead and I’d be gone, oh, three hours longer than expected?

“What happened?”

I just kind of… lost track of time? Lost my sense of direction? I don’t know, I thought. I was here but I sort of went away from myself for a second. When I sunk into the bath later with achy muscles and a blister, I felt nervous.

Now, I haven’t scared myself in years. My depression isn’t so severe that I feel unsafe with myself. Anything I did or have done to effectively terrify myself, I shed by the time I was 20. Because that can happen, you can do that. You can change coping mechanisms and learn real, healthy ways to parent yourself. The mood instability that came later, the dark times, I still felt mostly fortified. I felt like I could figure it out, like I still had access to myself to do the figuring out. 

But I could feel myself slipping away this time. 

I was talking fast about something or another when I finally said to my mom, “I think I might need help.” I wasn’t sure exactly what I meant because I didn’t really know how to help myself and I wasn’t really sure what was wrong. 

And that in and of itself is a problem. I didn’t know what was wrong? 

I was out of the job that got me out of bed Monday to Friday for three and a half years, I left the house that had become my comfort cathedral, I hadn’t seen any of my closest friends in months, I was living with my sister and my mother who I hadn’t spent longer than a handful of days with in like five years. There was global fear and uncertainty and the risk of contracting a virus that could or could not kill you but I didn’t know… what was wrong? Well that’s just deeply moronic. 

Sometimes when you need help, or when I need help, that does come in the form of professional counselling or medications or an anonymous support group. Sometimes, it’s just circumstantial and circumstances can change.

I went home.

And in a few weeks, when I’d more or less returned to myself, I could clearly see the hills and valleys my mind had just wandered. I felt strength again, a sense of renewal and excitement about my imminent return to work and society.

Then I actually lost my job.

I know, redundant. I’m tired of myself too. But bullshit is cyclical, that’s just a fact. 

And if there is one thing I’ll give myself credit for, it’s my ability to immediately concoct a backup plan in the face of a threat. Moments after I was officially terminated, texts and emails went out. The idea of not knowing where my next paycheque would come from and how much it would be, having lost the place I strolled into everyday with a sense of purpose and not knowing when and where I’d have that again was simply not an option.

My head went down, I narrowed focus and the efforts resulted in… enough. I’m living. Which wasn’t and isn’t the hope for life. Unstable stagnancy is deeply uncomfortable.

So, generally speaking, things are not great. 

I lost my humbly secure job. A place I comfortably could’ve lived and died if I’d prioritized everything other than work and my sort of crippling ambition. This effectively led me down the path of questioning every decision I’ve made past the age of 16. First and foremost, choosing radio. An industry that was at it’s peak in the 1930’s and on the decline ever since was perhaps not the most lucrative or secure of career choices. 

My romantic life developed far enough to remind me that often times I am a crusty, avoidant crustacean human and suddenly all those popular tweets about my deep emotional inabilities and intimacy issues seemed, well, not that funny.

I decided I probably shouldn’t drink. I don’t have a drinking problem but I do have a problem with drinking. Namely, waking with no memory, my legs shaking and my stomach clenched so tightly I could sense my body wanted to flee - itself, mostly. And let’s not forget the part where I get fighty and mean.  

When shit hit the fan and then shot off the blades into the face of life in my early twenties, it wasn’t my fault. To be clear, mental health is a no fault area. I was always predisposed to depression, mental illness is genetic. I had no control over that. But there were plenty of variables, extenuating circumstances if you will, that I also had no control over but sure as fuck could and did blame other people for.

This is not the same thing. 

This is a moment where it is necessary to discern illness from circumstance and living from coping. 

Like I said, bullshit is cyclical. And it this point, it’s pretty much just my own bullshit on repeat, forever and ever amen. At twenty or twenty three, when the circumstances weren’t my fault, it also felt like my reactions weren’t my fault. I was floundering, I didn’t know better. I learned some hard lessons about how I cope and handle things. I learned that I didn’t really like the person I was when I was figuring out how to survive myself and life. 

I was unkind, a lot. 

I hated the way that felt, I hated the way it affected my relationships and decided to learn from it.

Except, I didn’t learn. I said, great, noted. Dashed a nice little ~fini!~ at the end of that chapter, closed er’ on up and bypassed the bookshelf for the dusty box in the corner labelled, “garage sale.” Because surely no one would need to read that again! 

And then a few weeks ago when I had a breakthrough in counselling, I dug that chapter back up and allowed myself a few days of surprise. Bitch, you been done knew the WHOLE time. This isn’t news, this isn’t shocking. This is the part of you that developed somewhere along the way and it didn’t work and you didn’t like it but! But. It was comfortable. So you gave it a few years and then when things fell out of control again, let it settle back in all warm and snuggly.

You know what they say. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, I guess I need to financially prioritize a CBT therapist. 

So here I am, again. 

Only this time feels deeply, deeply different. Because it’s not the first. 

I sat down with a friend to tell her how I was feeling. How much I felt like I needed and wanted to change my default settings. 

I need a factory restore. 

“I think you’re being hard on yourself.”

No, no, I have grace for myself! I actually have a lot of understanding. I’m parenting myself through this which includes showing myself love while I also discipline.

“I just feel like maybe you were doing the best you knew how.”

Well, I mean, sure? Sometimes? But there were moments where I knew I was saying or doing the wrong thing, where I was even challenged by someone else but I wasn’t challenging myself, you know?

“Well maybe that’s just who you are?”

Right… but this is also who I am? And we do actually have a say in that, you know? Like how I evolved from throwing toddler tantrums on the grocery store floor? I could actually just keep doing that, no one is stopping me, but I don’t.

“I think you’re being self deprecating and that is not healthy.” 

Since when is self identifying a problem self deprecation? 

“Oh, don’t be so hard on yourself.”

… but change is hard? 

I appreciate that people want to protect me from myself or from bad feeling or whatever they perceive that all to be. More often than not, I think they, we, you, I, we’re all just trying to protect ourselves. But it’s not helpful. Pretending that everything is fine and that we’re fine and adopting an overarching, “I am perfect as I am, namas-fucking-te” mantra isn’t actually helpful.

What’s the harm in me saying I have been shitty? That I have acted poorly? That I have neglected to be better when there was clearly a different option? That I wasn’t honestly showing myself to people when I could’ve or allowing them space in me?

That it’s… not nice? That just like the joke about my sister not being dead, it’s not comfortable to listen to? It’s true and it is compassionate to view yourself as a whole, to know yourself and think I actually do like myself and this life enough to want to be better.

Just like what is coined the unfortunate evening of Velour and Ambulances or the depression diagnosis or life being turned on it’s head by a plague sent from hell, once it was deeply painful and then it wasn’t. None of this is precious. Being a shitty person sometimes isn’t a rare affliction. You’ve been shitty before, you’ll do it again, I’ll do it again, hey, you might even be shitty right now! Isn’t that something? 

Things are not great right now. They’ve been not great tens of times before. Only this time it isn’t taking me 2 to 4 years to talk and laugh about it. Because this is a muscle, the shit muscle and it’s exercised. It’s buff. 

And you know what? Things could be worse. They could even get worse now! I’m hoping they don’t but they certainly could, and in the thick of it, we’ll always have that glimmering possibility to hold onto. 

[mercuryislove]

don't worry but like..... i forgot how good it feels to hurt myself lmao (lamenting my anguish online)

#healthy coping mechanisms? never heard of em

[cornflowercanine]

oh hey fantroll bio things

ft. the only fantrolls i’ve written bios for thus far just thought id put em in one post for the sake of Cleanliness and Convenience, maybe if i do the ones for irxayi and zerumi ill make a post for them as well

Your name is MERXEN PREIYO and you are a little over SEVEN SWEEPS, last time you checked. 

Your interests include drawing, messing with strangers on trollian, and lazing around in trees, but most importantly, COLORS. You have an obsession with colors, and, therefore, blood colors, bordering on FETISHISTIC to the degree you can and will WOUND STRANGERS just to stare at the BRILLIANT HUES they contain. You live deep in a FOREST, in a treehive where NOBODY can find you, because otherwise you'd get CULLED NEAR INSTANTLY for SEVERAL reasons.

You live with your moirail NURSE and your neglectful lusus, a leopard who you are BOTH mildly scared of. But enough about that. Although you do spend most of your days in your hive/nearby forestry as it is IMPERATIVE to your SURVIVAL, you spend a good amount of time in various CLUBS/ALLEYWAYS/the like.   Your goal when in these places is only one of two things ultimately: SEX or WOUNDING SOMEONE for the sake of seeing that sweet, sweet BLOOD. Though you usually can't guarantee it will stay merely a few wounds, you suppress any GUILT with FAYGO* and MORE SEX. 

Your chumhandle/trolltag is chromaticPussy and you write in a way that  i s  m o r e  s p r e a d  a p a r t  t h a n  m o s t  p e o p l e ' s .  t h o u g h  w H E  N  U P S E T  O  R  CAU G H T  O F  F G U A   R  D   W IT H  A N  Y T H I N G  , Y  O U  T E N D   T   O   B E   A   B  I T   M O  R E  ME SS Y   W I   T H  T H   E  S P A   C   I  N G  .

(*because faygo is..troll alcohol........right..............)

Your name is LYAXIE BYAONN and you are a tad over 7 SWEEPS. 

Your interests include FIRE DANCING, PARKOUR, and GIRLS. Holy shit do you love GIRLS. And although you would gladly spend an entire day engaging in EXPLICIT ACTIVITIES with said girls, the majority of the time you are simply being NOMADIC, often PARKOURING from place to place. However, you greatly prefer to AVOID COLD AREAS, as you do not handle them well for SEVERAL REASONS. Something you have practiced as long as you can remember is FIRE DANCING. Although you can fire dance with a variety of equipment, your favorite is a LONG CHAIN with a GLASS bottle-like thing on the end, stuffed with something HIGHLY FLAMMABLE, so that when it hits something, it will EXPLODE in a SHARP, FIREY PLUME. 

Although you never really say it, you are in CONSTANT DENIAL of your OWN EMOTIONS. After your lusus DIED in an accident, your first instinct was to RUN as FAST as you could, and it's why you're still so nomadic TO THIS DAY. When the time comes that you cannot deny your emotions anymore, you are very UNSTABLE and CHAOTIC, usually by the end of these times you have COUNTLESS BURN MARKS all over your body. But aside from that, you are a rather INDEPENDENT and STRONG person. 

Your trolltag is aegeanEmber and you don’t type în any way too extraVagant

basically theyre both thots, have never heard of a healthy coping mechanism in their lives, and both HELLA GAY

oh ALSO idk if that’s gonna be lyaxie’s final quirk lmAO i just, ,, ,,pulled it out of my ass, ,, ,,,bc they needed one,,,,, ,,,,, , ,,

#clove rambles #fantrolls #homestuck

[kincringeemporium]

*evil snickering*

oh boy. we have not just a bendy, but a dabbing bendy in front of yet another bullshit mogai flag. 

even just this picture is a fucking gold mine of ‘what the fuck is wrong with you’. 

-”davis”, definitely a masculine name - but then “trans girl” 

-xe and it pronouns. no thanks. 

-wait. trans girl. he pronouns? where the fuck is the truth? 

-clearly “alicesexual kathromantic” is a joke. but let’s see what else we can find...

-you are not a trans girl if you are okay with he/him and it pronouns. kill me. 

-usually i don’t comment on nb lesbian/nb girl labels, because i’m not really informed enough to do that and i leave it for delta, but... if you are agender... that’s it. you’re genderless. you can’t be genderless and have a gender at the same time. 

-i wonder how many of those illnesses you actually have 

-what the fuck!? if you’re okay with he pronouns, then why can’t people call you “masculine words”? 

-why is it so goddamn hard for people to use they/them? unless you’re dyslexic or an english learner, what’s so hard about it? 

-how in the actual fuck is this not discourse?? 

-okay, okay. addicts deserve rights. addicts deserve help. they are people with an illness. but adding “even if they aren’t working to recover” screams of anti-recovery, pro-self-dx, and the like. 

-”kill ‘em all”? uh? how about we do not advocate for killing people? (i am in no way saying that child abusers deserve to live free or to be forgiven no matter what. in my opinion, they deserve to live a life of regret for what they’ve done. but moving on.) 

-jeez. a few times, i had to check and make sure i wasn’t actually screenshotting the alice blog again. 

-as i said before: prostitution is dangerous. it’s dirty. from a moral standpoint, it’s gross. people in that situation need help to get out. 

-terfs are transmisogynists and disgusting: yeah! 

-truscum are transphobes: unyeah! 

-pronouns are fucking gendered, you absolute crusty fucking dickhole 

-i have never heard of doe/stag, but seems to me that the point was to create an alternative to butch/femme that, you know... pan and bi women can use. so why are you shitting on it? 

-and this isn’t even all of their “beliefs” page...

-pretty sure sapphic includes feminine nb people, not completely neutral nb people... but whatever, i guess? 

-”nor are you oppressed for them”. okay. no matter what i think of these identities, i’m sick of people implying that the way gays & lesbians are oppressed is the only way to be oppressed. there are different fucking forms of oppression, you titbag. 

-what the fuck is syscourse 

-list of things in here with which i agree: coping mechanisms aren’t automatically healthy, the neurodiverse community on here is shit, and endogenic systems are bullshit. 

-you ruined it with “self dx is good uwu” 

-now i wonder how many of your illnesses are self dxed 

this post is so goddamn long that i’ll break it into two parts. jfc. i mean... it’s honestly kind of amazing when people have so much terrible shit on their blogs that i have to make multiple-part posts on them. 

-k 

#AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA #cringe #kin cringe #byf cringe #self dx #self dx cringe #kin #fictionkin #part 1 #mogai cringe

[aeonouji]

TIPWF 3

Summary: Ky vents his frustration in an unhealthy way when people aren’t watching.

Pairing: Sol Badguy/Ky Kiske

Rating: Mature

Warnings: bruising oneself/self harm

Chapter One: Realization of Why

I needed to vent. So, sorry if this isn’t my usual romantic smut

The kid had some issues. Since he was a brat in the Holy Order to now, as the King of goddamn Illyria. His messiah complex turned into a martyr complex, then toned itself down into a self-deprecation. Sol was there every step of the way. He’d watched Ky stand tall amongst men who had half the bravery he did, and a fraction of the selflessness Ky had in his little finger. He’d seen Ky have the role of puppet king thrust upon him.

He saw the way his lips curled into a sad smile as he requested Sol take Sin and raise him. The way he clutched at his trembling hand. A loving father giving his child away without the child having a proper childhood. Sol saw how the corner of his lips shook. In short, Ky had been through the ringer and welcomed it with smiles.

Not once had he ever heard Ky complain in front of people. He only confided in Sol. Even then, those moments of weakness Ky had were limited to wishing for the war to end, or the safety of his comrades. He’d never seen the kid burst into selfishness. No emotional outburst, no complaints, he just smiled and nodded. The kid was an angel in disguise. Much to Sol’s distaste.

That opinion changed today.

Ky wasn’t outwardly venting because he had a coping mechanism. From behind a pillar in the garden Ky enjoyed, Sol watched Ky. He glanced around his surroundings, he rested the Magnolia Eclair beside him as he tucked one knee up to his chest. His teeth gnawing on the inside of his lip. He balled his dominant hand into a fist. Then, whack.

Ky struck his thigh with his fist. He struck it over and over in the exact same spot. His face contorts into a pained frustration. It couldn’t be from the hitting. The body is always sure to not harm itself in excess. He didn’t hiss in pain or anything. He just hit the same spot over and over. This wasn’t healthy. Sol just knew from the way Ky took his hits. He knew that this was something Ky did daily. He wanted to stop the kid. Instead, he watched as Ky struck his leg with as much force as he could. “You might as well come out.” He called from his spot.

Sol stepped out from where he hid. Ky turned to see his visitor, but refused to meet his eyes. His shoulders were tense and his posture showed he was pretending to play innocent. Like Sol didn’t just catch him hurting himself. Like, everything about My was normal and not damaged in some way. “You surprised me while I was drifting off.”

He smiles as if he was caught doing something innocent. His fist still clenched shut and making his knuckles white. He was tense, and the kid was probably upset with himself for getting caught. It takes Sol a moment to process. The disconnect between his views of Ky and how messed up the years have made him. Stress and worry probably piled up after the years. And, the kid thought the only way to vent was to hurt himself. Sol isn’t sure to what extent, but it’s farther than Sol can bear to watch.

You’re in love with the kid, that’s why you care, even after he had a kid, got hitched and carried on, you still care Freddy. You’re waiting for him to return feelings he can’t.

The thought sits in his mind. It’s not wrong. It’s not right either. He didn’t have feelings for him. Not for this pompous little shit who hasn’t grown up. Not for how he’s determined for peace. He didn’t have any fucking feelings for a kid who’d sacrifice himself if it put a smile on some poor sap’s face. Not, not for a kid who would die happily for a kingdom. He wasn’t falling for him. Sol blinks back into the reality.

“How long?”

“Pardon?” Ky blinks back, feigning confusion. His smile gone, replaced with a small frown. His lips purse into a thin line. Blue eyes averting from Sol’s stare. He’s putting on airs. He knew the kid long enough to read him like a book. Or, be literate in his body language. Ky finally meets his eyes.

Sol grabs at his wrist. His strength overpowering Ky’s by a large amount. Brute force never was the kid’s specialty. By instinct, Ky claws at his hand to let his wrist go. His nails dig into Sol’s skin slightly. He tugs at his wrist to pull Ky to somewhere private. He wasn’t sure how long the kid’s been doing this, but it had to stop before something worse happened.

They walked down empty linoleum halls towards Ky’s study. His protests fell on deaf ears as Sol turned the knob and kicked the door open. Ky drags behind him. Once Ky is fully in the room, Sol pins him to the door. Hands on both of Ky’s sides to keep him from escaping. He wasn’t going to get out of this.

“Drop ‘em.”

“H-huh?”

“You bruised yourself somewhere not visible on purpose.” Ky opens his mouth, ready to deny the claim. But then, he closes his mouth. The words obviously escape him. It’s because he knows Sol is right.

#solky #TIPWF

[mercuryislove]

i loooooove destroying my relationships and isolating myself

#healthy coping mechanisms? never heard of em