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#mental health issues
angeart · 2 days
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One day. One day i need to write about Grian who's having a bit too much of a heartache and everything's a bit too much and he's too tired. Curled up on the cold ground sobbing against the floor at 2 am, unable to get himself two rooms over to the bed.
Then maybe Scar can come in. And scoop him up into a hug. And be gentle and patient and reassuring.
You know? Maybe that.
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kiindr · 1 year
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friendly reminders:
you don't have to be productive every day
you are worthy even if all you did today was get out of bed
there are people out there who care about you
your existence makes a difference
if something bothers you, then it bothers you. no one has the right to tell you otherwise
you are allowed to take up space
there is no 'right way' to grieve
you cannot put a time limit on emotions
your likes and interests are valid and they matter
it's okay to take your time in doing things. not everyone can do everything at the same pace
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girljournal · 4 months
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sending love to anyone who is dealing with mental health issues ♡
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I think the thing that we hate most about social media is that every time a new tragedy happens, we have to update our filters to block it out, or we will be bombarded by waves of it, multiple times a day, for weeks on end when we are just trying to enjoy our fun fandom leisure time.
We don't want to be bombarded by terrible news and tragedy porn every time we open our feed. How do people live like this? No wonder everyone is so fucking depressed nowdays. we had to LEAVE twitter entirely years ago because there was no way to block the latest world tragedy from appearing on the sidebar of the site.
We have serious anxiety. We have CPTSD. We cannot be constantly bombarded with reminders of how terrible and cruel the world is with absolutely no way for us to take action against it.
It's maddening.
No listen to me, it is literally maddening.
It is driving you mad. Existing in a world where your fun leisure time activity is constantly broken into with reminders about the horrible tragedies in the world and how you are somehow personally responsible if you don't make other people aware of what is happening is literally driving you mad.
Listen to me.
You need spaces that are comfortable for you.
You need spaces that are calm.
You need a place to participate in leisure time activities that is not constantly bombarded by horror.
We cannot all continue like this.
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positivelypositive · 7 months
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🌻
in the moments...
...when the negativity talks louder inside your mind than your thoughts and it gets difficult to ground yourself, you're still you.
don't hate that version of yourself. even if it feels like you're doing it to yourself on purpose. you're not a bad person.
you're a person who's struggling and that's all. give yourself as much kindness as you can and if the most that you can do is be less harsh on yourself, that's okay too.
your empathy is best used on yourself. you deserve that support too ✨
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mediumgayitalian · 14 days
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At around half past one, Nico gets a Feeling.
He gets feelings a lot. Nothing he can quantify, just something telling him that something is up, somethings wrong. Or something’s about to be. At this point, he’s learned to trust his intuition, based purely on the number of times it has saved his life; a number he’s long since given up counting. (He’s only ignored his gut feelings three times in his life: when Bianca went on her quest, when his father promised not to hurt Percy before the Titan War, and when he went looking for the Doors. He has learned his lesson.)
So when something at the bottom of his stomach tells him to get up, to check things out — he does.
He knows it could be nothing. (The last time he had a Feeling, it turned out that he had placed a book precariously on the edge of his desk, and it had been about to fall. Not exactly world-saving stuff.) But regardless, he steps out of bed, shoves his feet into his shoes, and creeps out of his cabin.
Camp is kind of beautiful at night.
There’s an eerie calmness to it without so many human disasters running about, and the quiet reflects that. All Nico can really hear is the hooting of owls in the distance, the chittering of nocturnal animals and monsters alike, the distant screeches of curfew harpies, and the pleasant crashing of the waves. The air is clean, when he inhales, and he takes the time to hold it in his lungs for a bit, imagining the sweet breath is healing his burned lungs, turning the scar tissue back to something flexible and normal. Whether or not it actually works, he doesn’t know, but it feels nice.
Under the light of the brightly shining new moon and billions of stars, he starts his patrol. Around his own cabin first — there’s nothing, as he expected, the warning doesn’t seem overwhelming like threats tend to be — and then he makes his way around the circuit, checking behind gardens and shrines and inside braziers. He hums quietly as he walks, something preppy and bright the Apollo kids have been hollering for days, and waves to Lady Hestia, sword heavy at his waist.
“Come sit,” she calls, patting the seat next to her.
Nico does.
“Haven’t seen you out at night in a while.”
He hums, toneless this time, leaning back on his hands and mirroring her gaze at the sky.
“Been sleeping, for once.”
“I’m glad.”
He smiles, knowing that she means it. He watches out of the corner of his eye as she picks up his sword, sliding it from his belt loop, and uses it to stoke the flames. She doesn’t seem afraid of it, or wary. To her it’s just a stick of metal. It’s nice.
“You have you been, my Lady?”
She pokes at the embers a few more times, scooping a few to balance at the tip of the blade for a while. It glows with the heat, and he knows he’ll have to sharpen it tomorrow, but he doesn’t mind. Maybe he can do it while Will is in the archery range. It’ll give him an excuse to be at the armoury at the same time, anyway.
“I’ve been well.” She breathes deeply, small smile pulling at her face. “It’s calmer, and more people wave to me. I like it.”
“Good.”
She dismisses him a few minutes later, sending him off with a promise to chat again soon. She doesn’t need to worry about him promising — he makes a point to sit with her at least once a week — but it’s nice to know someone wants his company, so he appreciates it. He leaves with a wave, walking towards the eastern half of the cabins.
Nothing’s amiss. He can hear campers snoring, and see the odd reading light. Malcolm catches his eye as he walks past the Athena cabin and winks, sending a cheeky salute when he sees the sword held loosely in his hands. So far, everything seems fine. He’s beginning to think the Feeling might have simply been about Lady Hestia, so he decides to do one last check around the Big House and then head back.
Of course, that’s where the issue is.
The infirmary lights are always on. They’re dimmer in the night, more of a glow than anything, but there’s an extra brightness streaming out from the windows, and when Nico peeks inside, he sees Will, standing with his back turned at the nurse’s station.
He takes a moment to check his strength, making sure he has the energy for it — dinner last night was pho and he had three bowls, he most definitely does — and sinks into the shadows by the door. He materializes back in the little alcove by the bandage & wraps cabinet, lurking silently while he blinks the dizziness away.
The first thing he registers is soft singing.
He’s facing Will, now, and can see the glow coming from his hands, enveloping a bowl of some kind. He has both hands coated in some dusky pink substance, massaging and gently pounding it against the sides of the bowl, working it through with great care. As his voice gets higher, the glow gets brighter, fading as he dips lower. He sings something about hills and meadows and the breeze, about wing-song, about the sound of flower stems bending in the wind. For a while Nico stands, listening to the melodious ancient Greek, swaying with every pitch and hold. It’s captivating.
Will is almost haunting when he heals.
There’s a divinity in him — in all of them — but he glows when he sings. Not just his hands, and sometimes his head if he puts enough power in his words, but there’s an almost shimmer to the air around him, a shining warp. His skin gets clearer, and his hair goes more metallic, almost, like spun gold rather than blonde. His freckles make his skin into an inverse replica of the night sky, dark specks surrounded by bright empty between them. His long fingers pluck through bright strands of light like a harpist strums their chords; lightly, carefully, skillfully; like a braider weaves their hair. There’s an undeniable age to his magic, a practice that’s visibly replicated millions of times over thousands of years, as if every healer who has come before him links their arms with his, breathes their strength in his lungs. Sometimes, when he does something truly unbelievable, amazingly beyond reason, he flickers — his orange camp shirt fades into a white chiton, or long robes, or a white coat, or a blue tunic. Watching him heal is like watching the sunrise — breathtaking and unique, every time, but powerful in its cyclic archaism.
It takes Nico a long time to realise Will is swaying.
Snapped out of his trance, he begins to notice Will’s long, slow blinks, the unsteady way he stands, the weight he has leaned on the counter. Even his face looks plainly exhausted under the glow, face pillow-creased and eyes bruised, hair mussed, limbs leaden. Footsteps as silent as he can manage, Nico creeps over to the schedule posted by the door, scanning through the scrawled pen ink.
He curses quietly. Will is not supposed to be awake.
There are really only three people who can work the infirmary to its fully capacity, barring Chiron. Kayla, Austin, and Will are the only ones who can magically heal, as much as the volunteers are imperative, so when the camp is in full swing one of them must be stationed at all times. That’s how Will sets it up. A bit of a waste of time, he acknowledges, but Nico knows he has memorized every time a camper who should have been saved. He carries far too much guilt to ever let it happen again, as inconvenient as his rules may be.
Night shift, though, is a need-be basis. If the infirmary is as empty as it is right now, then there truly is no need to keep one of the three of them awake outside their circadian rhythm, staring at nothing. Instead, they take shifts in the on-call room — asleep, but prepared should anything go wrong, should a monster chase a new camper at an odd hour. It’s Will’s turn for on-call. It’s two in the morning. He should be asleep.
And, yet.
Nico recognizes the look in his eyes. There’s a — frailty, to them, a deep-seated, animalistic fear, one he recognises from the hours after his own night terrors. A single-minded panic that cannot be unseated in any logical way, cannot be comforted with any gentle hands.
Nico handles his fear with slashing swords and bruised knuckles. Will, he knows, handles his fear with obsessive, endless preparation.
Knowing full well nothing is going to drag him away from his focus bar actual cardiac arrest, Nico walks right by him. Will doesn’t move. He settles behind him in the old, creaky leather office chair, curling his legs under him and resting his head on the soft arm. He watches Will, watches the almost machine-like movement to his kneading arms, and falls back asleep to his humming.
———
“…Nico?”
He wakes up warm and a little cramped, in the same position he fell asleep. Sun is streaming on from the many issues, blocked from burning his eyes by Will’s hunched frame, facing towards him now, hands and shoulders shaking with equal violence.
“What time is it?”
His voice is croaky and wrecked from hours of singing. Nico is willing to bet his throat is burned as badly as his hands, cooked from non-stop, sun-borne glowing. The divinity that had emanated from him before has abandoned him and he looks young, lost.
“Early,” Nico says softly. He unfolds himself from the chair, stretching slightly — gods, he is going to ache today — and wraps a slow, careful hand around Will’s wrists. “Probably around six, if I have to guess.”
“I don’t remember waking up.”
“That’s okay.”
“I’m tired.”
“That’s okay.”
His breathing is heavy, laboured.
“I don’t —”
Nico squeezes gently. “It’s okay, Will.”
Will swallows and says nothing.
“Come on.”
Carefully, letting Will’s stiff joints set the pace, Nico guides him out of the infirmary. The sun shines brighter as soon as he steps outside, but he doesn’t seem to notice bar a tiny, almost imperceptible flinch at the change in lighting. Nico switches from holding his wrists to laying a hand on the small of his back, half-worried he’s going to fall over.
Luckily, he makes it to the Apollo Cabin upright, although the stairs take them a while. The hinges of the old screen door creak as Nico pushes it open, and he sees both Kayla and Austin, up and dressed, jump.
“…Will?” Kayla asks softly, eyebrows creased in concern. She walks over to him when he doesn’t answer, frozen still, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You okay?”
Will leans — almost hesitantly — into the touch. The same blankness from before clouds his eyes, although this time there’s less of the fear.
“Hey.” Nico walks over to stand in front of him, waiting patiently for him to meet his eyes. In the minutes it takes, he hears Austin pad over, standing opposite to Kayla, hands clenching and unclenching like he can’t decide what to do with them. “You think you can sleep?”
Will doesn’t answer verbally, but drifts after a moment to his bed. Nico follows, helping him out of his shoes and shirt. After a beat of hesitation, Austin hurries over, turning down Will’s sheets and helping him crawl in. Soft guitar music begins to play, and when Nico looks over Kayla is fiddling with the CD player, turning the dials carefully. Without much fanfare, Will’s eyes flutter closed, and his breathing slows to something deep and even. His twitching fingers still.
“I don’t think today’s an activity day,” Nico murmurs. “I checked up on him a while after midnight; he’d been at it for hours. He didn’t stop ‘til sunrise.”
Kayla rubs harshly at her eyes. “Fuck.”
“He’ll be okay,” Austin whispers. He runs a gentle knuckle over Will’s forehead, then turns his careful, imploring gaze to Nico. “You kept an eye on him?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you.”
Nico inclines his head. “Had a feeling.”
“I don’t know what to do,” Kayla admits. “He was —” She trails off, staring at something in the left half of the cabin — the empty half. “He was like this after the Titan War, too. I think he spoke maybe two words for the entirety of September.”
Nico almost can’t imagine it. The very thought of it makes something twinge in his chest, clench in his stomach.
“We’ll figure it out.” He nods, to convince himself as much as Kayla and Austin, who look to him with way more trust than he deserves. “We won’t let it — it won’t get that bad. We’ll help, and if we can’t figure it out we’ll get help. It won’t be as hard as last time.”
It won’t be as hard as last time because there won’t be twelve shrouds, Nico doesn’t say, but he doesn’t need to. Both Kayla and Austin nod, looking at their sleeping brother with firm resolution.
“This time, we’ll be there.”
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fictionalgirlfrend · 2 years
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poetryofmuses · 9 months
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I don't know why I fell for you, it was probably my iron deficiency.
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[ Source: EPATH Conference 2019. ]
Apparently being a regular teenager is a disorder requiring medical treatment and the removal of body parts. Not only are you "trans" if you don't fit a 1950s Barbie/G.I. Joe stereotype, you're "trans" if you don't fit a 1950s "golly, gee" soda shoppe "Leave It To Beaver" stereotype.
This is the same tactic psychics use to tell you your fortune, and astrologers use to convince you that distant stars reflect your personality. It's called the Forer Effect, or Barnum Effect.
To really drive home the cult programming, any time you're feeling better, that's how you know you've gotten worse.
For political and ideological reasons - for example, one presenter actually claims that children are being "misdiagnosed" as autistic when they're actually trans - they've flipped the symptom and the cause.
This is more accurate:
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Philza comes with his evidence backpack, and Cellbit wants the ground to swallow him whole. Too much, its too much, he can't-
"Is now a bad time?" Philza asks, concerned but voice still light. "I can come back Friday?"
"No," Cellbit sighs. "No, I guess... Just..."
He waves a hand in a direction, and hopes Philza can make some sense of it.
"..." Philza doesn't move. "You alright mate? You seem a bit... off?"
"I'm just tired," Cellbit replies. "I just..."
Does he say, does he not? Philza has been one of his few defenders on this island, trusting him even when there's been nothing to trust, thinking on his wavelength and beside him.
He has to, doesn't he?
Cellbit can't make this sort of decision and tell anyone.
"I'm stepping down," Cellbit says. "From investigating. Cucurucho... I'm not working for the Federation, but I can't keep working against them either. Can we just... I'm sorry, I'm sorry I can't be what you need me to be."
"You're not? But-" Philza's brow furrows, and Cellbit fears the yelling he heard in the maze.
He didn't hear the words, but he heard the tone; he knows he is too exhausted to survive that.
"Please, Philza," he says. "Let it rest. The Federation, the Order... I have no part in them any more. Good luck. I hope you find what you're looking for someday."
There is a long pause and Cellbit thinks, maybe, that the silence is worse than the yelling could ever have been.
"Alright," Philza's voice is gentle as he deflates. "Alright... I understand."
Cellbit expects that to be that, watching Philza put the evidence bag away. It stings more than he thought it would, but even that struggles to bring him strength through the haze. He has failed Philza - failed everyone - in giving up. So of course he is now turned away. He knows he's only wanted for what he can give, why did he expect different?
But then the bag is gone, and Philza is still there. He reaches out, takes one of Cellbit's hands, and cradles it in his own. Calloused hands are soft and gentle, and Cellbit understands why so many on the island call him father.
It doesn't feel as teasing any more.
"Are you safe?" Philza asks. "Cucurucho isn't going to come down on your ass, is he?"
He is. Cellbit cannot answer - he just wants to sleep.
But maybe none is needed, because Philza's grip tightens a little, before thumbs start to smooth over Cellbit's knuckles.
"Fuck," Philza says, then he breathes. "Alright. We've got you, King. If anything happens, I'll be there as soon as I can. Don't worry about that dumbass bear, okay? No matter what there are people here who love you, and we will save you."
Cellbit closes his eyes, and nods, and tries to be strong again. He opens his mouth, and-
"None of that," Philza interrupts. "I do it because I want to. Now, when's Roier coming to bed? I don't really want to leave you alone right now, mate."
There's something in Philza's tone, but Cellbit doesn't care to interpret it. Instead he shrugs, "not sure. But really, I'll be fine. I just need to rest."
"I'll bet," Philza looks almost heartbroken as he says it. "Let's get you somewhere safe, then. You good to warp to my place? Phil and Missa?"
"Why?" Cellbit manages to ask as he takes out his warpstone.
"I'm not going to ask you to show me your bedroom, Cellbit. I can make choices about my privacy, not yours."
It sounds so obvious like that, but it's not quite the question he meant. Still, Cellbit just follows along. It's easier, far easier, to just get whatever this is over with so he can get home and to his bed.
He warps and, as soon as he arrives, Philza takes his hand again. He's led to the hatch, and down - "be careful on the ladder" Philza reminds him - to the children's room. Then, not content to leave him there, Philza takes him to the right, through another two security doors - its not hidden, but its certainly protected - to a room all in orange. Around the walls are photographs, and there's an enchantment table in the centre, but Cellbit does not really think of that.
"This is Chayanne's room," Philza smiles sadly as he says it. "But, I'm sure he won't mind. Here, if we just-"
Cellbit tries to make a response, to compliment it, to offer condolences, but instead he is led to the side of the stairs, and then beneath them. Tucked away there, in the dim, behind five security doors and still hidden, is a heap of mattresses, covered in blankets and pillows and even the odd bean bag.
"Get yourself comfortable," Philza pushes him a little towards the pile. "I just need to adjust the doors. Make sure Roier can get in, and Felps. Pretty sure Fit just lets Pac and Mike in anyway. And Forever," Philza's breath hitches very slightly, almost inaudibly. "has access anyway."
Philza hurries off, and Cellbit remains where he was left. He doesn't need the mothering, he is sure, but- But maybe it is nice, to not have to think.
He thinks so much, for everyone, what's wrong with this?
Soon enough Philza is back, carrying two bowls of something.
"I've let Roier know where you are, and Felps as I saw he was awake," Philza says as he passes over a bowl. "I know I ain't your family, but hopefully... Anyway, Chayanne made these before he vanished, always was a better cook than me. Just heated it through - I'm sure he wouldn't have minded it being shared."
"Are you sure?" Cellbit asks. "This is your son's? I'm not-"
"Eat," Philza is a little more pushy this time, even as he sits on the mattresses himself. "You're family, if you want to be. A bit extended, but aren't we all? Forever is my family and he's also yours, and that makes us family too. By some definition, anyway."
"Oh," it's said so simply, and Cellbit has no mind for a puzzle right now. Instead he takes the bowl of soup, and he drinks it.
They eat in silence and, once done, Philza tucks both of the bowls away. Cellbit is nudged again towards the mattresses as Philza cleans up, placing his hat and his coat beside the nest.
Great, ruined wings shudder a little to escape their hole, and despite the feather growth over them Cellbit can see the scars still deep in the flesh, the unevenness where muscle has been ripped away, how they shake with the effort of holding themselves up.
He feels like he needs to do something, to have some response to seeing such fantastic wings laid low - or perhaps to the trust shown to him in their display - but he's just...
He's just tired.
Philza is a little unsteady as he, too, comes into the nest. He shifts the pillows and the blankets and opens his arms and Cellbit- Cellbit can't.
He can't be being offered this, he barely knows Philza, he can't be trusted this much, not when people so much closer to him don't. It feels like a lie, a kind one at that.
"Come on Cellbit," Philza says. "I don't have all night; some of us sleep at reasonable hours, you know?"
"It's not unreasonable," Cellbit manages to retort, even as he gives in.
Stone crumbles to the wave, in time; Cellbit pulls off his outer layers, and slowly climbs into the nest.
Crawls into Philza's arms.
The arms close around him, and ruined wings hide him from sight.
"There we go," Philza whispers. "You've done well, more than enough. Just rest now, mate; I'll keep things ticking over in the meantime."
Cellbit doesn't want things to stay 'ticking over', he just wants them to end. Part of him knows he doesn't really, that he'll want those things later, if only because Cucurucho /will/ betray him, and Forever still isn't home, and its only with them carrying on that anyone he loves will be safe.
Philza runs a hand through his hair; Cellbit's thoughts still.
It's a little while before either of them speaks. To his own surprise Cellbit is the one to do so, with another childish feeling question, another "why?"
"Because I trust you," Philza replies. "And if I trust you, I care about you. If I trust you, you are my flock, and it fucking sucks right now, but we take care of each other. You're alive? That's /all/ I need from you, mate, just for you to stay alive."
Cellbit wishes it was that simple, he really does.
"If I'm here, your house isn't safe," he tries to reason, unsure why he's even fighting it now.
Philza holds him a little tighter, "if my flock safe, what's the point of a house? I'd take you to the real nest, but human lungs don't like being that high for long."
Real nest? Cellbit didn't think Philza had a secret base. It's a better kept secret than most on the server, it seems. To even know it exists, and presumably in the sky...
The idea is crushed by exhaustion, and apathy, and a desperate, desperate need to sleep.
Fingers brush in his hair once more.
"I've got you," Philza says. "Get some rest, mate; nobody will hurt you here."
And if they do, Cellbit has no doubt Philza's scythe will find its way into their eyes.
He curls up, presses his head to Philza's chest, and desperately tries to sleep.
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welcome2theinternet · 4 months
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Here's a fun idea. Don't comment on what people eat or if they're losing/gaining weight. Doesn't matter if you thought it was a compliment. You don't know why that may be happening. Some people lose weight when they're anxious or depressed (or of course suffering from an eating disorder). You may have meant well but it can be triggering or upsetting
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dreamdolldiary · 6 months
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a very very important reminder to myself and anyone who can relate:
whenever i'm going through a very low depressive episode after being high function, autopilot mode of constant studying, working, simply on top of everything for a while, i always think to myself:
but why can't i be like that again? why can't i be like everyone else who just goes to work? people have bills to pay and here i am skipping out on work and studying while everyone else is just "sucking it up and going" i thought my future mattered? does it not?
well honey, it does. your future does matter. but also the present matters as well so taking the time to care for yourself is 100% as important.
and guess what? you are not like everyone else. not even everyone else is like everyone else. being severely depressed and having it interfere with your work and school life is an effect of being disabled. it is a disability. it's not like you're making the conscious choice to be depressed and skip out on the important things in life. stop beating yourself up for being disabled. for being ill. for struggling with your illnesses.
i know it's hard to accept the typical "it's not your fault, you're okay" advice but sometimes it helps to remember that what you struggle with is a disability/illness and that dealing with it in anyway you do (unable to get our of bed, not being able to go to work or school) is not voluntary and it takes away some of the blame and guilty you carry.
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kiindr · 9 months
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gentle reminder that you will see better days.
i know that it might seem a bit far-fetched at the moment because it's hard to think about things outside of your misery when you're going through something, but trust me. your future self will thank you for sticking through this.
there's going to be better times and you're going to be around to see it <3
follow my instagram for more posts like this!

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xxdreamersdesirexx · 28 days
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from @\marthamydear
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[IMAGE ID: a snippet of a donation post where the term for an internet pay site has been censored out to avoid being caught by people's filters. end image id]
YOU SHOULD NOT DO THIS.
I don't care how in need you may be, that is irrelevant.
--When you deliberately refuse to tag your posts looking for donations to get around people's filters
--when you deliberately censor the words in your posts to get around people's filters
You are acting in an inconsiderate, borderline abusive manner.
You are deliberately emotionally blackmailing and violating the boundaries of people who are trying to avoid donation posts for their own mental health.
Those of us with anxiety, high empathy, moral OCD, CPTSD, "people pleasing" personalities, and backgrounds of abuse can be seriously harmed and triggered (LEGITIMATELY triggered) by posts looking for donations.
Forcing your posts onto the dashboards of people who have tried to block material that can seriously emotionally fatigue and harm them is fucking asshole behavior.
When you do this you are deliberately emotionally blackmailing vulnerable people who have nothing to give and no way to help you.
You are triggering abuse victims and the mentally ill.
You are deliberately violating other people's boundaries in the hope that you can guilt trip them into giving you money when you trigger them.
Please for the love of fuck, have some consideration for other people!
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positivelypositive · 7 months
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🍄
making choices...
...is not always easy.
if you've made a choice that helps you manage a mental health issue better then don't think of it as running from your problems.
because the choice you made must have come with its own set of struggles. it's simply a matter of picking the struggles you want in life.
don't beat yourself up for wanting to accommodate yourself. you deserve it ✨
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