#self-harm tw

[cffeine]

(mentions of self-harm)

whenever it was painfully apparent dazai was about to relapse, mori and chuuya would have a discussion and within the hour dazai and chuuya would be on an undercover mission that requires the both of their full attention

#bungou stray dogs #bungo stray dogs #bsd #dazai osamu #bsd dazai #nakahara chuuya #bsd chuuya #dazai x chuuya #soukoku #skk #self-harm tw #mori ougai #bsd mori

[teaboot]

I try not to be too shy about having had a history of self-harm because I believe one of my greatest obstacles in my recovery was the isolation which grew from shame. It's an embarrassing and vulnerable topic, and I feel that if anyone in my social circle had felt safe enough to tell me about their experience first, I may not have taken so long to reach out and get better. It's a serious topic that is close to my heart.

With all that said and out of the way I absolutely intend to make fun of myself about it

#Self-harm #Self-harm tw #TMI

[demonbarbers]

thinking so many thoughts about sweeney and johanna today… the way josh!sweeney and maria!jo mirror each other with their psychically. the same twitchy hands. the same slouched posture. coping with stress by hitting their head with the palm of their hands. picking at their cuticles. my dad and i were exactly alike my dad and i were nothing alike etc etc

#2023 revival #sweeney todd #johanna barker #.txt #self-harm tw

[mentalhealth-selfshipping]

Your f/o isn't disgusted by your self-harm scars. Sure, they wish you never felt the need to do these things to yourself, but they're not going to resent that part of you. If you think they'd be revolted to touch or even look at you, you're sorely mistaken.

They also support you through whatever you may wish to do with your scarring, whether it be cover-up tattoos, scar removal treatment, or nothing at all. They want you to do whatever makes you feel the best.

#type: positivity #about: self harm #about: self image #imagine your f/o #f/o imagines #f/o imagine #self harm tw #tw self harm #tw selfharm #selfharm tw #tw self-harm #self-harm tw

[greenisnotyourcolour]

Phoenix and Miles discussing what they didn’t talk about before - Miles’ year after aa1 (dialogue takes place in 7 yg)

#narumitsu #ace attorney #suicide attempt tw #self-harm tw

[adrift-in-thyme]

Whumptober Day 8: Outnumbered

Read on Ao3

- Time/Malon

- Summary: when Time ends up in a battle he can’t win he dons the Fierce Deity mask — a choice with grim consequences

CW for blood and injury, a character losing an eye, possession, self-harm, and vomiting

——————————-

Link stumbles for what must be the hundredth time in the last few moments. His steps are unsteady, his body weary. The room spins like the water of the Great Bay Temple. If he stops moving for even a moment he is certain he will be swept up in its nauseating current.

The screams of monsters ring in his ears, deafening, skull-splitting. It has been a long time since he battled so many.

…if there ever was a time when he had.

A lizalfo swings its dagger dangerously close to his head. Gritting his teeth, Link fells it with a thrust of his gilded sword. But ten more replace it, all crowding around him, battering his body with weapons and claws and teeth. His armor feels about as effective as his regular tunic now. Each blow beats upon him like those of an iron knuckle’s ax.

A particularly wide swing of a dodongo tail trips him up. He nearly falls, catches himself, retreats a bit.

Another step backward, another step closer to the wall.

His heart pounds so loudly he can hear it over the ruckus surrounding him. Sweat runs down his face in rivulets. It has long since soaked his hair and tunic.

He spares a glance toward the ceiling, vaguely wishing he could see the sky through it.

How long has he been in here?

Easy. Simple. That was what Zelda had dubbed this mission. What they had both believed it would be. After all, monsters seldom flood Dodongo Cavern like they did in the days of Ganondorf. And though the Gorons are normally averse to asking for help, they make an exception when it comes to him. They hadn’t warned him of any great threat either.

There had been no reason for suspicion, no need to suspect something dreadful awaited him in here.

All of these monsters…it is as though they appeared out of the air solely to face him.

Link pulls a spin attack, sending some of his assailants flying. He weaves Din’s fire into the tail end of it and the screeches reach a fever pitch before promptly dying out. But the powerful spell hardly makes a dent. If anything, it makes things worse.

He straightens, breathing hard, and squints into the gloom before him. There, standing atop the charred remains of the monsters he has just vanquished stands an iron knuckle.

Desperation cleaves through him at the same time the beast breaks into a run. It shoves aside the monsters crowding around it as though they are weightless. The sound of its clanking armor echoes in his ears and seems to shake the cavern.

With a grunt of exertion, he forces himself forward to meet it. Exhaustion drags at him, his limbs are heavy and numb, his breath comes in haggard gasps. But he keeps going anyway, slicing at the monsters that leap at him.

He has to make it out of here alive. He has to. Malon is waiting for him. She had made him promise to return. And the Hero of Time has never broken a promise.

Especially not to someone he loves.

The iron knuckle brings its ax down in a sweeping motion, cleaving through the air and sending monsters flying. With shaking hands, Link brings up his shield to block.

…it goes flying.

The sound of it hitting the cave wall reverberates in his aching head. His breath catches in his throat.

He throws himself sideways just as the ax comes back around. He can feel the wind as it rushes past him. But he hardly has time to celebrate his victory. Though his quick maneuver keeps his head on his shoulders, it also sends him right into the midst of the other monsters. And before he can react, one leaps for him, weapon held high.

Pain explodes across his face with nauseating force. He stumbles, back hitting the wall with a resounding thud, sword clattering to the ground. Pressing a hand to his eye, he screams.

They close in on him with sadistic eagerness, sensing weakness. But their forms are hazy and indistinct. His fear of them seems very far away now, replaced by a terror of another sort.

Blood streams hot and fast down his face. A throbbing burn grips his eye.

…or the place where his eye once was.

Another blow sends him to his knees (though he can’t help but think he would have ended up there anyway). He falls, choking on blood and bile. The room tilts and he slumps against the wall, trying to breathe.

The pain is endless, pounding behind his eye sockets, streaking through every part of him. And he knows, even through the agonizing haze, he knows he is not going to make it out of here. Not now, wounded as he is.

Link grits his teeth and plunges his bloodied fingers into his pouch. The item he needs is not difficult to locate. After all, he would know the feel of this mask anywhere. It is impossible to forget.

Even so, he pauses for a moment to gaze down at it. The vision in his remaining eye is hopelessly blurred by pain and blood and sweat, but he can still make out the familiar crimson markings. They stir up an all too familiar dread.

He closes his eye, grip tightening on the worn wood.

The iron knuckle is charging again. He can hear its footsteps echoing, even over the screams of the monsters that surround him.

Go on, comes the familiar voice, soft but strong. You know you have no other choice. Put on the mask, little one. Allow me to save you.

Link drags in a haggard breath, fighting to remain afloat on an ocean of agony. Slowly, he lifts the mask to his face.

Forgive me, Malon.

It latches onto him in a searing blur of red-hot light and breath-taking pain. He screams, shrill and panicked and anguished, as control over his own body and mind are snatched away. He can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t feel anything beyond pain, so much pain…

Then, abruptly, something shifts, and there is only darkness.

Be calm, little one. I will protect you.

Something cold and stifling, familiar and oddly calming blankets him. Link’s grip begins to slip. But he doesn’t plummet. Not yet. By some blessing he holds on.

Even through the drifting haze he can feel his body moving. He knows when a monster is felled by the Deity’s mighty blade, or when his failing limbs take another step. Though the agony and horror are distant, he knows that they are there. And he grasps onto them like a lifeline.

Because that is what they are. Without them, he will fall completely. The Deity’s embrace, though painful at first, is too comfortable, too placid and mindless not to draw him in.

Rest little one, he murmurs, against a backdrop of screaming monsters. You are safe.

Link would believe him if he didn’t know better. If he hadn’t nearly lost himself so many times before.

When the last monster falls he fights to surface from the deep.

Release me, he orders, even as the cold and dark begin to tighten around him like bonds of iron. You have done your job.

I cannot release you now.

Link tries to inhale but his chest feels heavy, his throat tight, and he comes up short. Fear begins working its way in through the numbness.

I want to go home. Let go, Deity. Now.

Why? You are safe with me. You are strong.

Link’s grip slips further. All he can see, all he can feel is black — smothering and frigid. It numbs the agony, chips away at the terror. He could, given time, become comfortable in it. He could grow accustomed to being nothing more than a shadow in his own body, without feeling or thought, without control.

Without pain.

No.

If he gives in now he will be here forever, caged in an inescapable prison. He will never work beside Zelda again to protect the land they love. He will never ride Epona across the rolling hills of Hyrule Field, or play his ocarina with the Skull Kid and his friends. If Navi ever chooses to return, he will not be there to greet her.

And Malon. Beautiful, sweet, fiery Malon. He will never see her again.

Slowly, he begins to lift his hand. It trembles with exertion and exhaustion. And despite his desperate need to escape, it is heavy, reluctant. Some treacherous part of him yearns to stay, as it always does. It yearns to be free. But what freedom is there in a cage?

NO.

It is not his voice that utters the word this time. No, though it is his mouth that forms it. The voice is firm like a father’s, but icy as the winds of Snowhead.

The invisible bonds tighten. He chokes. His fingers freeze, mere inches from his chin.

Little one, you are not thinking correctly. Your pain blinds you to the truth.

You think that you can go on without using me. Do not think that I did not hear what you swore to Malon. But how can you protect her without donning my mask? Look upon yourself.

For a split second, Link sees his reflection as though staring in the mirror – ashen skin and an eye bright with feverish light; blonde hair streaked with crimson and plastered to his cheeks and forehead with sweat; right eyelid sealed closed with drying blood and marred by an angry gash.

You cannot even protect yourself.

You are weak without me. Powerless.

The words propel past his defenses to pierce his very soul. For a moment, and only a moment, Link hesitates.

Listen to me, little one, the Deity rumbles, his voice encompassing Link and pulling him downward. You know you need me.

No, I don’t, he grits out, even as his eye begins to slide closed, his body to go limp. He feels oddly lightheaded, yet heavy. Perhaps, if he surrenders he will be able to breathe again. Perhaps, if he releases his grip now he can rest.

No? Why then, have you worn my mask for seven days?

If he could still draw in air, it would catch in his throat.

Seven days. Seven–

He had thought it had only been one.

How far had he truly fallen to be so unaware? How close had he come – is he even now – to being the Deity’s prisoner? As trapped as the Skull Kid was in Majora’s clutches.

Horror grips him tighter than the Deity ever could, forcing him out of the unfeeling oblivion and toward the dazzling light of day. Link forces himself to grasp the edge of the mask.

Little one, do not be unwise. Remember. All actions have consequences.

He grits his teeth, steels himself, and pulls. It feels as though he is tearing off his own skin. A strangled cry erupts from him, only growing louder and more shrill as the right side of his face begins to burn. The sheer intensity of it nearly makes him black out and for a terrifying second his fingers slip. But through pure desperation, he holds on.

“Come back to me fairy boy,” Malon murmurs, calloused hands cupping his face. “You hear? Be the hero you’ve gotta be, but come back.” A teasing smile lifts her lips. “After all, I need someone to help me manage the cuccos.”

He chuckles. “Is that all you need me for?”

Laughing, she gives him a quick kiss. “Of course not. I need you to feed the horses too.”

The mask comes off in a screaming streak of molten agony. Link crumples.

The right side of his face is all burning, aching pain. Stars dot his vision on the left, broken only by the grayish-red of the blood that coats every part of him. Shoving himself to his knees, he pitches forward and vomits bile.

He dropped his sword at some point, he realizes dimly as he holds himself up on shaking arms. It lies before him, mighty blade reflecting the rocky walls. And when his vision clears for a moment, he can just make out his own reflection wavering upon it.

He looks much the same as he did when the Deity had shown him his state – bloodied and wounded and much too pale. But…there is something there that wasn’t before.

Link inhales sharply, hand flying up to touch the right side of his face. Markings have seared themselves into the flesh there – stripes of crimson, a crown of royal blue. And the eye he had thought he had lost is open despite the gash he knows is still there. It glows in the darkness — white, pupiless, and demonic.

A cry breaks free before he can stop it. Viciously, he digs his fingernails into his face, tearing and scratching. New blood runs down in rivulets and furious red marks mar his flesh. Yet, still he rips himself apart.

Maybe this is a mask too. Maybe if he pulls hard enough, it will slide off revealing his true face underneath.

But his efforts are for nought. The markings remain. And at last, he stops, dropping his hand to his side.

For a long, terrible moment, he gazes at himself. Then, he leans forward and vomits once more.

——————

He doesn’t truly know how he makes it back to the ranch. Likely by the same desperate stubbornness that made him fight the Deity and has guided him through all the hardships of his long life. But however he makes the agonizing journey, it no longer matters once he reaches that familiar path.

He can see their home through his fading vision and make out the familiar form of Malon. She stands on the porch, hair waving softly like a flame dancing with the wind, hands clasped before her chest. Beneath the serene glow of a new moon, she looks almost ethereal.

His aching limbs scream as he breaks into a run.

She meets him halfway through.

“Link!” she cries, tears welling in her eyes, horror on her face. She cups his face, gently, paying no heed to the blood, sweat, and vomit. “Oh, Link, what happened?”

He drags in a breath. “I fought the Deity.”

Terrible comprehension enters her expression.

“Fairy boy,” she breathes. And something about the way she says it goes straight to his heart.

With an anguished sob, he collapses into her waiting arms.

#whumptober 2023 #no.8 #outnumbered #self-harm tw #blood tw #injury tw #possession #vomiting tw #linkeduniverse #fic #trin writes #lu time #fierce deity #lu malon #angst #whump

[ashintheairlikesnow]

ash beloved, as a prince of woe and misfortune (a fibromyalgia haver) can i request some jameson on a bad pain day

the current vibe is 'i need to pee but my legs are fucking screaming and i havent even moved them yet and my shoes feel too tight because all my peripheral joints are getting inflamed' and i feel Terrible bc i used to be able to just ,, do stuff and now i cannot because of the evil 'You Have Pain And Doctors Don't Know Why' Disorder™

i am not sure whether i want to revel in shared misery or schadenfreude but i am sure i want to see a guy in pain

Anon, my gift to you and my sympathies for your Whole Body:

CW: Chronic pain, self-harm (brief, self-hitting), self-loathing, aftermath of whump, recovering whumpee

-

"You pushed yourself too hard, that's all." Nat tries for soothing, but when she puts a hand out to touch his shoulder, Jameson shoots her a furious glare and she carefully shifts it back again. "Right. Okay. You have to take things slow, honey, your legs-"

"-are goddamn fucking useless, yeah, I get it. I got it." Jameson's rasping voice is thinned to little more than a whisper as he hunches over himself, sitting sideways on the couch with his legs out on the cushions bent at the knees, refusing to straighten. He slams a fist down on his thigh just to feel a bloom of new pain that's is brighter and new compared to the eternal goddamn throbbing of the old. It's... nice. He tries it again on the other side.

Jesus, how fucked up is this? That this is what helps?

"Hey, hey now," Nat says, and before he can do it again she takes his wrist in her cool hands and holds his arm steady. "Not your best idea. I didn't call any part of you useless, that isn't what I said, honey."

"I wanted to walk to the goddamn gas station." Jameson glares at her hands, but he holds still under her deft, gentle touch. He doesn't pull away, or hit anything, he just... sits here, his knees shifting and muscles twitching in a pointless attempt to escape what's inside of them, what's as much a part of him as his own breath in his lungs now. "It's less than two miles. Less than two! I used to-... to run, on the treadmills in training, for fucking five miles, ten miles, no fucking sweat. My handlers told me I had a record for going so fast. I could run for fucking days on end, if I had to! Now..."

He groans, dropping back against the arm of the couch, even angrier when hot tears burn against his eyelids, trying to force their way out.

"Jameson-"

"Now... I can't even fucking walk."

"You do have the crutches, and the chair you can use, I know the sidewalk runs all the way past the gas station-"

"I wanted to fucking walk, Nat! I felt really good this morning! This shit didn't start up until I was putting on my fucking clothes! I shouldn't have fucking needed the goddamn fucking crutches or the stupid fucking chair!"

He grabs almost sightlessly for the crutch leaning against the couch, has it in his hand, and pulls his arm back to throw it.

"I hate this fucking shit!"

Nat's hand closes back around his wrist, and this time her grip is like iron, and Jameson feels his rage wither when he meets her steady hazel eyes.

"Jameson. You are not going to throw that."

Nat rarely uses this voice. Not with him. But now she does, firm and even stern, brooking no appeal. If she wasn't Nat, that voice would be an impossible turn-on. He'd be on his knees, not that he could do that without screaming any longer. He'd be begging her for... anything.

If she was Nanda...

No one's ever going to be Nanda. Not ever again. He pushes down the sharp, if finally slightly faded, spike of pain.

Nat refuses to let him look away this time. "Listen to me. That crutch is a tool, not a weapon. It was a gift, and it is a gift for you. It lets you go places you could not go before. Just like the chair. So if you break it, it's broken, and you lose that tool. Please, honey, don't cost yourself something that helps by getting angry at it for being needed."

"I didn't need it, before," He whispers, and she takes the crutch away from him, laying it down on the floor. He lets her do it. "Even when I was on the run. I didn't need this shit until I started getting better, and it feels like I'm just getting worse."

She nods, and holds his hands in her own. The ache in his fingers fades a little when they warm to each other. "Your body is incredible," She says, voice low. When he scoffs, she shakes her head, smiling. "Come on, let me finish. You survived two people who tried to kill you."

"Technically five people have tried to kill me."

"Five?" Nat looks, briefly, so baffled that Jameson nearly laughs. "You've only mention the two-"

"Those were the two where I killed them first," He says, voice low. "I don't even feel bad about it."

"I know. And I'm not asking you to feel bad. I've done some things in my life I'm not proud of, too, but it kept this safehouse together and I don't regret it for a second."

"What... what did you do?"

"We're not talking about me. I'm saying that you lived when other people died. You have survived more than any other runaway I've ever met. Your body carried you through it. It kept you alive. It kept you moving, kept carrying your weight when it wanted to give out because you hadn't given up fighting. Now, it doesn't have to carry you so far anymore. Your body knows you're safe, that you have people here who care about you, so it's hurting like hell because it hasn't allowed itself to hurt as much as it needed to for a long, long time. Your body carried every bad thing that ever happened to you, and I for one am grateful for it, because it got you here to us. Look at you."

Jameson shifts, trying to move his legs so he can face her. They protest with a scream that he has to grind his teeth against, but he manages to get both feet flat on the floor. "Look at me?"

"Yeah. Look at you. You're alive, honey." She smiles, hands on either side of his face, and he finds himself - reluctantly - smiling back. "You're alive and you wake up every day and sometimes the days are good, and sometimes they're not-"

"Like today. Today sucks."

She laughs, short and soft, and he loves her so much it is physically painful, the way that you love a mother, or a sister. "Yeah, okay. I'll give you that. But today is just one day, and you've got more comin'. Maybe tomorrow you can walk to the store, or maybe you'll need the crutches or the chair, but you know what? You'll still get there, if you want to, because you are the most stubborn son of a gun on earth and if you want those awful taquitos, I know you'll find a way."

Jameson's smile shifts. Incredulous, he asks, "Did... you just say 'son of a gun'?"

"Oh, shut up. I grew up in a family where that was just about the worst thing any of us could say without serious punishment. Sometimes that stuff still comes out." She pokes him in the nose, watching him wrinkle it in response.

There's a pause.

Then he clears his throat.

"It wasn't, uh, it wasn't taquitos." He discovers he's mumbling, flushing a little.

"Oh. Doughnuts, then?"

"No, not those, either, just... it's stupid. But Vince, uh, the other day he made this stupid fucking joke about Red Bull, so..."

"So..." She blinks, eyebrows furrowing. "You were... going to buy him a Red Bull?"

"I was... gonna buy about fifty and put them in his bed."

Nat just stares at him, blinking, as seconds stretch slowly out. "You were... you were going to-"

"Buy like... fifty Red Bulls and put them in his bed, uh, cover them in his fucking blankets and like arrange them like a person, and then... you know... It, uh, makes better sense in context."

"How could it possibly? You know what, doesn't matter. Here's what we'll do. You get those crutches on your arms, and i'll drive you to the gas station, and we will... we will get you your... fifteen Red Bulls."

"Fifty."

"Oh, my God. Where do you even get that much money?"

"... Vince gave me money."

"You're using his own money to prank him?"

"It's not like he fucking needs it!"

"You know what? I'm going to stop asking questions when the answers only give me new questions to ask." She pats his arm, and he takes the opportunity to brusquely throw an arm around her and crush her tightly to him in a hug. "Jameson-"

"Thanks," He mutters, then pushes her back and away so he can clumsily get on his feet. His knees nearly buckle, but when he throws his hand out Nat is holding the crutch, and he slots his arm into the cuff that fits just below his elbow. Nat has to hand him the other one, and help him with his shoes, and the whole time his legs ache like someone is slowly sawing them off with a nail file, but he stays standing.

He wants to play this stupid fucking prank on Vincent fucking Shield, and he can already tell it's the only thing he'll be able to do today and even that's only with Nat's help.

By the time they get back from one single errand he'll need more painkillers and a nap just to recover enough to finish putting the energy drinks into Vince's bed. Then maybe another nap after that.

But it's what he wants to do.

Fuck it.

If he only gets one thing to work on this shitty day, it might as well be the most bafflingly confusing thing he's ever done.

Plus, Nat always plays Jameson's playlist when she drives him in her car. So that's one good thing.

-

#jameson bb #whump #chronic pain tw #aftermath of whump #recovering whumpee #escaped whumpee #caretaker and whumpee #self-harm tw #brief but still worth the tag I think #bbu #box boy universe #box boy #box boy whump #writing

[irondad-defensesquad]

To be yourself is all that you can do

Also posted on AO3!

TRIGGER WARNINGS - self-harm (not explicit), past temporary character death, anxiety attacks, and grief/mourning.

DO NOT SHIP PETER AND TONY. P/ROSHIP DNI.

--

Someone falls to pieces, sleeping all alone Someone kills the pain, spinning in the silence She finally drifts away Someone gets excited in a chapel yard, catches a bouquet Another lays a dozen white roses on a grave Yeah, and to be yourself is all that you can do Hey, to be yourself is all that you can do - Be Yourself, Audioslave

Peter forgets where he is, until he hears a little girl’s concerned voice.

“Petey, did you get hurt?”

That’s when he realizes he hasn’t covered his arms under his sleeves, and Morgan is seeing all the ugly cuts filling his skin. Peter also goes cold when he remembers that Tony and Pepper are home, though they don’t seem to pay attention. They’re bantering in the kitchen. In fact, they were all cooking together when Peter lied that he was tired so he would go to the couch. Tony could always read him like an open book, but he was having a good time with his family, and Peter at least didn’t ruin it.

So, Peter went to the bathroom. And then he went to the couch, silent as a rock.

But now the worst outcome has come true. Peter has tainted Morgan’s innocence. How is he going to explain it to her? She’s so young to know about self-harm and how little sense it makes.

“I’ll get Daddy-!” Morgan is about to jump out of the couch to run to the kitchen and he’s going to ruin Tony’s happiness–

“No! I-I mean-!” Peter lets out, thankfully not too loudly. “It’s fine, I swear.” The cuts still burn a little, wearing the knit sweater Tony got him is quite itchy. “I have super healing, remember? They’ll be gone soon.”

If anything, they’re not healing properly.

Morgan can probably tell.

“Do you need ice? Band-aids?” She suggests. “You’ll need a lot of them though…”

“I-It’s okay, Mo. I can handle it.”

Peter gulps, glancing at the kitchen. He can hear Neil Young playing. It’s not like the AC/DC Tony would blast in the workshop… Peter might miss it, but this little life he built here with Pepper and their daughter is nice.

“Just promise me you won’t tell your parents, okay?” Peter asks (begs). He knows it’s unfair to do this to Morgan after what she has just seen. “I don’t want them to freak out or anything.”

She doesn’t look as shocked anymore but she looks very sad for him.

“Okay,” Morgan replies simply. Meaning it.

Peter doesn’t know why Morgan isn’t asking anything. She doesn’t question where the cuts come from. She doesn’t ask why Peter did this to himself. She doesn’t get mad. She doesn’t cry.

Instead…

Morgan wraps her small arms around Peter’s neck. That makes the boy’s eyes tear up, but he has to swallow them for now.

“There, there,” Morgan pats his back. That action makes him snort. She’s imitating Baymax, since they watched Big Hero 6 the other day.

“T-Thanks.”

Morgan really does love him. He’s her “super big brother”.

Then she lets go and smiles at him. Morgan is so cute. Peter would’ve squeezed her but his arms hurt and he doesn’t want to hurt her, too.

Suddenly, her eyes sparkle.

“You wait here!” Morgan says, suddenly sprinting away.

It seems like she’s running upstairs.

Peter frowns, trying to figure out what she’s up to. At the same time, he sees his cuts again, glaring at them. He feels so stupid for relapsing, but he had such an awful night of sleep and he needed to distract himself, he couldn’t have an anxiety attack when everyone else wants to have fun–

Morgan has returned with a fuzzy blanket that she probably got from Peter’s room, as well as a little stuffed bunny that she gave him.

“Here! Now you’re warm and you’re not alone!” Morgan says proudly.

Peter laughs, rather broken. He hugs his bunny. “Aww, thank you.”

“Now one last thing!” The girl runs again, but she goes to the kitchen instead.

Morgan is likely looking for something as she runs all over the kitchen to get specific things. She’s even panting at this point.

“Whoa there, speedy, what’s all the rush for?” Tony questions, teasingly.

“I need choco milk!”

“Nice try, young lady, dinner will be ready in less than five minutes,” Pepper points out. She must be crossing her arms, even if she’s not too serious, either.

“No, it’s an emergency! Petey is sad, so he needs choco milk so he doesn’t feel so sad anymore!”

Oh f…

Okay. Okay, at the very least Morgan didn’t tell them Peter is hurt.

And is it really her fault? Morgan just wants to help. And she’s doing the right thing getting the adults, too. No child should be forced to take care of a teenager who can’t handle his own brain.

Anyway, the happy environment is definitely over. Peter can sense the tension coming from Pepper and Tony. They might even be looking at each other to figure out what to do next.

Peter stays quiet.

“Hey, Morguna,” Tony resumes his sweet dad tone, “how about you and Mom get Peter a really nice book while I make the choco milk?”

“Yeah! Story for Petey!” Morgan loves the idea.

Two people leave the kitchen. “I’ll be back, Petey!” Morgan reassures from afar.

With the mother and daughter upstairs, the floor seems awfully silent. Save for the music.

Peter can also hear Tony sighing to himself.

He hates that.

The man seems to handle both the chocolate milk and dinner. Peter knows his mentor is going to confront him soon, and his heart is beating faster. And the teen knows he can’t run to the restroom again.

Peter spends so long overthinking that when the steps are coming towards him, he hides in the blanket to pretend he’s not there. Wow, he used to do this so much as a kid. Especially when he was sad and Uncle Ben would come and find him…

“... Hello, strange lump. I’m looking for my teenager who could use some chocolate milk right now,” Tony jokes. “Can you get him for me?”

Peter pretends he didn’t feel warm when Tony called him his teenager.

Gulping again, the boy comes out.

“Um, hi.”

“Hey, kid. Brought you milk.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

As Tony hands him the cup, he’s actually cupping both of Peter’s hands, too. Tony is kneeling down in front of him. Peter doesn’t dare look up.

“What happened?” Tony whispers.

“I dunno. I had a bad night.” Peter is not completely lying.

“Nightmare?”

The teen shakes his head. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Oh, Pete, you can let me know when you can’t sleep.”

The gentle reminder, without a hint of annoyance, certainly won’t help Peter hide his tears. He looks down, staring at his hidden lower arms.

“It was stupid and… I didn’t want you to know.”

Peter doesn’t want to see Tony’s sad face. He doesn’t want to be reminded of someone who looked out for him that bore the same expression. The sadness of unconditional love, despite all of Peter’s mistakes.

“Hey,” Tony calls, “look at me.”

The teenager almost shakes his head, knowing it would be rude.

Knowing he’ll just regret avoiding Tony, too.

The man is smiling.

“I love you, Peter. Pepper and Morgan love you, too. We’re here for you through anything, including your lows,” Tony tells him.

With that, he kisses Peter’s forehead without a second thought.

Tony has always been affectionate, but now, it’s like he’s opened himself more. That likely has to do with Morgan.

Everything has changed so much…

“Now, I just want you to get warm and get ready for a story,” the man breaks him out of his trance. “Does that sound good?”

“Of course, Mr. Stark.”

Soon, Morgan and Pepper are back with quite a handful of books.

“Whoa, that’s a lot you got there,” Tony comments.

“I didn’t know what to pick! There are so many good ones! Maybe Petey can tell us which one he likes the most,” Morgan suggests.

“Okay, you kids settle down now. You leave the stories to the pros.”

Pepper rolls her eyes. “I’m obviously the pro here.”

Morgan joins Peter on the couch, snuggling against him, the two protected by the blanket. Tony and Pepper sit on the floor, all the books lying around. They show Peter some of them. Of course, the one about the spider that couldn’t web attracts him.

The spider could stick to the walls like any other spider, but she couldn’t make any of the beautiful webs. She felt lonely and alienated. Eventually she finds a group of spiders that have other “flaws” that accept her the way she is.

Tony and Pepper will make silly voices together. Morgan always laughs or gives snarky comments like her parents do. Peter doesn’t really say much, but he feels his body relaxing more and more.

They don’t read all the books, mostly because they still have to eat dinner which has gotten cold. They reheat it and eat together. Peter can feel their eyes on him but he can’t blame them. Other than that, it’s pretty calm.

Morgan is tired after doing everything to make Peter feel better, so she goes to bed rather early (even if she tries to convince them otherwise). Once Pepper and Tony tuck her in, Peter shows up. Morgan is already with her eyes closed, breathing in and out…

Peter grins, kissing her forehead.

“Thanks, Morgan. You’re my hero, too.”

“You’re welcome, Petey-pie…” the girl says sleepily.

Peter smooths her hair gently, soon turning off the lamp for her.

When he leaves, he can tell Pepper and Tony were watching them.

The two plus Peter hang around in the living room. The adults are talking more. Peter is actually in the middle of them, like he’s their kid, too.

Sometimes they ask him stuff to include him. Peter might unintentionally make funny comments every now and then. Pepper laughs out loud, mostly because Peter is just telling her an embarrassing thing Tony did years ago. The man’s look of betrayal makes it all the funnier.

Peter faintly hears Harvest Moon by Neil Young in the background.

The whole time, the spider-teen tries not to scratch his arms and likely tear them apart again. It must mean that his wounds still haven’t healed. And he feels like he can’t just leave to go to the restroom again. Peter is really bad at hiding things and Tony is more than familiar with it.

Millions of “what-ifs” race in a loop inside Peter’s head, which has him not realize the snapping fingers in front of him.

“... hello? Peter?” Tony calls him.

“Oh? Hey. Hi. Sorry. I totally spaced out right now.”

“You’ve been scratching your arm for a bit… Is the sweater bothering you?”

“No! No, it’s just a tic.”

Tony and Pepper eye each other again. Peter wishes he could hide in the blanket lump and never, ever come out again.

“I’m, uhhhh… going to get some water,” the boy panics, leaving the couch even though he doesn’t want to. But he does need a glass of water.

Neil Young is the main thing he hears in the kitchen. Peter, however, can tell the adults in the living room are whispering to themselves. He tries to distract himself with his phone; there aren’t new messages from Aunt May or Ned. They’re both out of town, the former is with her friends she hasn’t seen in five years, and Ned is spending time with his family as he should. Peter doesn’t know about MJ since she doesn’t often open up about her personal life.

Maybe some part of him wants to run away right now. Literally right now. He can do that. But Tony and Pepper are going to look for him. Morgan is going to blame herself because she can’t heal Peter’s wounds – the mental and the physical.

Peter finishes the water in one swallow, nearly choking. Thankfully, that doesn’t happen.

Thus, he returns to the living room. Pepper is standing up while Tony remains on the couch. She sees Peter and smiles.

“I’m going to bed,” she announces. “You two don’t stay up too late, alright?”

“I would never,” Tony jokes.

Peter smiles nervously.

Pepper approaches him and gently kisses his head.

“Good night, honey.”

Honey…

“Hey, don’t I get a kiss, too?” Tony whines.

Pepper rolls her eyes but she kisses her husband, too.

“Um, good night, Pepper,” Peter waves awkwardly and she waves back.

Finally, she’s going upstairs, leaving Tony and Peter on their own.

“So kid, wanna spend some ‘us’ time now?” The hero wonders.

Peter, for some reason, cannot answer right away.

He knows that if he goes to bed, he won’t be able to sleep.

But he doesn’t want Tony to know about his arms.

He has no way out.

“... you okay?” Tony softens his voice a lot more.

“Y-Yeah, yeah, I’m fine, Mr. Stark.”

“Hey now, I don’t bite.”

“I-I know.”

Tony is trying to be that jokey man from before, but his worry only grows. Peter knows that Tony is not going to bed anytime soon BECAUSE of Peter. He’ll stay there forever. And ever.

For once, the boy returns to the couch, but this time he sits on the other corner of the couch, away from Tony. He’s hugging himself as a pathetic form of comfort. And he knows that’s only going to hurt Tony further. Why is Peter like this?

Regardless, the man is stretching an arm, inviting Peter to come closer.

The latter wants to cry.

“Kid?” Tony urges. “What do you need right now?”

Peter gulps. “I-I…”

He can’t hide the sniff.

“I dunno. B-But I don’t want to go to bed,” he replies. “I-I don’t want to go home, either.” I don’t want to be alone. I don’t want to be alone again.

“It’s alright, buddy. You can stay here.”

“I-I feel like I’m getting in the way.”

“You aren’t.”

“It’s like I don’t belong here, Mr. Stark.”

These last words feel like a stab to the heart.

“I’ve been away for five years and- and when I come back, suddenly I find out you have a daughter and you’re not living upstate anymore, and our workshop is gone, and there isn’t hard rock playing in the house… a-and it’s not like this life you built here is bad , it’s just… I wasn’t here for all of it. And you look so happy, Mr. Stark. You have an actual family. And I’m just… here.”

Peter’s vision is blurring.

“... you miss the life we had, right?” Tony whispers.

The teenager nods, trying to contain his sobs.

“Like the nights I spent at the Compound… the movies we watched together… that awesome, open view… all those big rooms… Happy, Rhodey, even Vision who didn’t always show up… When we built stuff together and we had all the bots with us, and when we couldn’t sleep we would just stargaze…” the more Peter talks, the more he breaks. “But now? Everything’s changed. A-And they’re not bad changes! ‘Cause this place here is nice, I-I love Morgan, I love Pepper, but it’s not the same and I feel like I–”

Tony has slowly scooted closer, still not touching Peter.

“... I came back wrong. I… I’m still the same sixteen-year-old from before, but somehow I’m not. You still grew up without me and it doesn’t feel right.”

The man is completely silent, but Peter can tell he’s listening, and every word that comes out of the boy must be killing him inside.

“You guys look so happy together, and with me here… I dunno, I feel like I’m ruining everything.”

“Peter…”

“... I ruined Morgan specifically.”

Tony frowns. “What do you mean?”

Peter freezes and swallows. Now he has to tell the truth.

“Mr. Stark, I… I did… I did something stupid. Something really stupid. The thing is, what happened last night… is that suddenly this dread will fill my gut and it’s like I’m”– he knows it’ll be awful to say –“I’m going to turn into dust at any moment.”

Tony’s tension rises even if he doesn’t say anything.

“And I usually just distract myself, and I can’t sleep anymore because what if I never wake up again?” Peter argues. “But then it happened again in the kitchen when you guys were having fun, and I rushed to the restroom before you noticed and I…”

He sighs deeply, clutching his own arm.

When he pulls up his sleeve, the cuts still look ugly. They don’t look any more healed. The sweater is probably making it worse.

Sensing the horror coming from Tony, Peter cries harder.

“M-Morgan saw this! She saw all of this, and I was so stupid, she’s just a child, she wasn’t supposed to know. S-She didn’t ask any questions but I know she probably wondered why I did this. She just wanted to make me feel better. And she can’t, and it’s not her fault. But what if she blames herself? I even told her to keep this a secret from you. I shouldn’t have done that. I shouldn’t have done this in the first place. I’m so sorry, Mr. Stark.”

As Peter sobs, quiet enough so Morgan and Pepper won’t hear it upstairs, he can sense Tony leaning closer. What is he going to do?

“... It’s not healing,” Tony observes.

“I-I don’t know why. It should’ve healed by now.”

“Hey, I can help my way. You don’t have to force yourself to feel pain.”

“B-But I did this to myself–”

“You don’t deserve it. You’re suffering, Pete. You did it because it made sense at that moment. But even if it wasn’t the best choice… you don’t have to beat yourself up for it.”

How is Tony not angry with him?

While he looks broken, he’s also determined.

“Alright, follow me, kid.”

Tony stands up and heads to the kitchen. He tells Peter to sit on a chair as he likely grabs a first-aid kit. He takes a piece of cotton and likely applies salina.

“You let me know if it burns, okay? I’ll do it slowly.”

Peter may wince, but it’s quite familiar. He used to get hurt pretty often as a kid. Guess that hasn’t changed since.

“After this, you should change into something more comfortable. That sweater isn’t doing good for you.”

“I didn’t want to take it off because you made it.”

“I’m not going to get mad over a sweater, kid. If it’s bothering you, then you don’t have to keep wearing it.”

While saying all of this, Tony’s entire focus is on his arms.

Peter realizes something and tears up again. Some tears might fall.

“Does it hurt?” His mentor asks, concerned he might be making things worse.

“N-No, no, it’s just… I-I don’t remember the last time… we had this.”

I don’t remember the last time you took care of me like this.

Definitely five years ago. Those late nights where Peter came from a bad patrol and Tony had to treat him, along with the doctors he trusted to help Peter. But most of those nights, it was just mentor and mentee, both trying not to mess up but still messing up, and yet learning better.

Peter feels so childish for this. It’s like he hasn’t had parental affection in forever.

Tony chuckles sadly. “Yeah, me neither.”

He looks mournful.

Peter tries to be quiet.

“... I missed this, too.”

The teen looks at Tony, finally.

“I mean, obviously I don’t like that you’re hurt, it’s mostly… I do this all the time with Morgan. I would never trade her or this life here for anything. But in the back of my head… I miss our workshop too, buddy. I miss our sleepovers. Everything seemed so simple back then, right? And all these years, I always had you in my mind. When we bought this cabin… I made sure to have an extra room. Not a mere guest room, but a place for you.”

Tony has stopped treating Peter’s cuts for now, as they’re sharing a meaningful gaze.

“My family… Pepper, Morgan, Rhodey, and Happy were all here. But you weren’t. It never felt complete to me. To any of us, honestly. I didn’t want you to be forgotten. That’s why I told Morgan all about you. We still celebrated your past birthdays. I hoped you’d be here again so we could be together again.”

The hero’s eyes are filled with water.

“I’m glad you’re here with us, Pete. But I understand how you feel. You haven’t had the time to mourn what you lost. You just suddenly returned and all that life you knew was gone.”

Peter tenses. “I-I hope I’m not being ungrateful or anything–”

“No, you’re not. You’re right to feel sad.”

Tony stares at him for a while, until he resumes his job. Peter just watches him in the meantime, looking more exhausted. The boy replays all the things he said…

Somewhere in the back of his head, Peter always had the impression Tony didn’t miss him and would’ve probably been okay without him. And he only welcomed Peter again because Tony didn’t want to ignore him. Or he did it out of pity.

Now, Peter feels stupid for even feeling this way.

After drying his arms with the cotton, Tony seems to apply some ointment onto the injuries, slowly massaging Peter’s arms. Not a word is shared between them.

When the man is over, he sighs in relief.

“You should let them breathe now,” Tony tells him. “If they don’t get better in the morning, we’ll figure something out.”

Peter looks at the cuts, which are still red. At the very least, they’re not burning and itching like before.

“Thanks…” he mumbles.

“You want me to get you another sweater?”

“N-No, no… I'm not cold.”

Peter takes off the one he’s currently wearing, revealing an old t-shirt beneath. The kind that has science puns.

Tony takes the knit sweater for him, folding it neatly. Following that, he puts away the first-aid kit. Peter waits in the chair. Later, they return to the couch. This time, Peter is glued to Tony. The music has been lowered but it’s still there.

The teen, however, wants to cry again.

He knows he can’t change the past and that he has to accept it at one point. But it didn’t have to be this painful. There wasn’t any point. And while he may be with Tony now, Peter will never know if something will separate them again. He doesn’t want to deal with that again.

He can’t stop thinking about it.

Tony, of course, notices. With his arm wrapped around Peter, he rubs the latter’s up and down.

“It’s okay, buddy. You can let it out.”

That way, he cries what is still repressed inside him. Tony allows him, making sure Peter doesn’t cry alone.

Eventually, Peter is lying his head on Tony’s lap, the latter smoothing the former’s hair. Peter has relaxed significantly, though knowing that anxiety is going to bite him back later. In fact, he’s already wondering what time it is. He assumes it must be late.

Tony senses it. “It’s alright, kid. No rush.”

“You should go to bed…”

“I’m not sleepy. Are you?”

“Not really. There’s too much in my head.”

“Same here.”

Peter doesn’t want to be selfish and take Tony down with him, but he figures that’s not true. Tony Stark can do whatever he wants.

“You want to stay like this?” The man asks. “Or maybe we could watch something. Your choice.”

“Hmm… maybe.”

Tony snorts as Peter melts in the touch.

“You really needed this, huh?”

“Yeah…”

Peter faintly hears a remote and the TV speaking at a lower volume. He supposes Tony turned off the music for good. Some goofy cartoon might be airing judging by the noises. Tony switches channels for a bit. Meanwhile, he keeps running his fingers through Peter’s curls, not losing any concentration.

If he’s not mistaken, Tony might have put Finding Nemo. Which they already watched years ago. And it’s right on the scene where Marlin finds the only remaining egg from the barracuda attack.

The soundtrack for this movie is nice.

As well as Marlin’s reassurances and Tony’s presence.

Those two aren’t too different from each other, honestly.

Peter doesn’t actually see the movie now, but he hears the whole plot. He remembers it well.

His eyes are closed.

It’s only the movie, Peter and Tony.

It’s just them again.

Even if everything else has changed… that at least hasn’t.

Peter is home.

He finally feels home.

When he wakes up again, he realizes Tony has lied them both down on the couch. And the man is snoring.

Honestly, as loud as it is, Peter doesn’t mind it.

He just falls asleep once more.

Eventually, Morgan joins them, lying on top of Peter.

Pepper might take pictures.

And Tony complains he’s being crushed.

Peter’s cuts have gotten better. They haven’t quite disappeared, but they’re not red anymore.

As he eats breakfast with Tony, Pepper, and Morgan… Peter realizes he’ll be okay. And sometimes he won’t be okay. But he’ll get through.

#lotus speaks #irondad #ironfam #fics #my fics #self-harm tw #self harm tw #sh tw #death mention tw #grief tw #anxiety attack tw #vent fic #suicide mention tw #(in the song lyrics)

[666news-and-horoscopes]

#helluva boss #vivziepop #the onion #loona #loona helluva boss #helluva boss loona #image edit #seeing stars #self-harm / #/ self-harm #// self-harm #self-harm // #tw self-harm #self-harm tw #cw self-harm #self-harm cw #lesser queue of solomon

[anti-ao3]

okay, sorry to hammer on the topic of bullying, but the whole "bully with a sad backstory" belief is extremely harmful to victims/survivors.

idk where it started, but firstly, i do think that school shootings influence this belief. everyone always says that school shooters have been bullied and/or abused at home, which might be true sometimes. but that isn't the root of the problem. the root is white supremacy. it's lack of gun control. because if all victims of bullying became school shooters, then where are all the marginalized groups, like black kids, disabled kids, women, lgbt+ kids etc.? if anything, though, they would probably be demonized. since most school shooters are white, then you'll see them being treated like poor little guys on the internet. i'm talking mainly about the usa, but here in brazil, where i live, we also have school shootings and we learn that the shooters were part of neonazi communities online.

fiction does reinforce this, to the dickheads who think "fiction doesn't affect reality". there are too many bully characters to possibly mention here. but most of them have something in common, they're abused and/or neglected at home, or maybe they're also bullied. but trust me, that is very uncommon in real life. i only had ONE bully who was also mistreated. all my other bullies were privileged, rich kids that just loved making my existence unbearable. and again, many of the victims of bullying i knew, including myself, weren't white, or they were disabled and/or fat. before anyone says it, yes, i'm very aware that bullies learn from their parents and families. but that doesn't always mean they're ABUSED, too. if anything, their families probably encourage their kids being an asshole to minorities.

the reason i'm saying all of this is that bullying is not treated seriously at all. i've been dismissed and ignored several times when i tried to open up about my bullying, including to my school and actual therapists. ppl often tell me it wasn't "that bad" or i'm exaggerating, and it was just "kids being kids" or "boys being boys". or worse, they'll tell me that i have to acknowledge that maybe my bullies/abusers had a tragic backstory too, and i have to forgive them. which is absolute bullshit.

bullying ruined my life. on top of my abusive household, i've become insecure, terrified of social interactions, of group assignments, of presentations, parties and so on. i'm always expecting everyone to hate me. i keep thinking everyone is looking at me and laughing at me behind my back. basically, i've become paranoid. i can't trust anyone. and that probably explains why i seriously hate bully characters and the way society treats bullies overall. i actually remember making a post about bullying on tumblr, and some idiot tried to make it about the bullies and how "they're victims, too".

maybe i'm being too unfair or too harsh because of my personal experience, but i feel very unwelcome in fandoms where bully characters are beloved. nobody thinks my trauma with bullying is valid. society tells me it's not actually abusive or traumatic. no matter how many lives we lose to bullying, nobody cares. and to be reminded of that when i want to interact with a media i like is so daunting.

#i'm sorry for the long post i hope this makes sense #lotus.txt #bullying tw #shootings tw #suicide tw #self-harm tw #self harm tw #sh tw #long post #personal

[side-b-bumblebi]

Sometimes I feel like I'm walking on eggshells around other people's religious trauma and I don't know if they'd do the same for me.

I try to avoid anything that will upset them, try to avoid Christianity entirely if it makes them feel better, but they still feel more than happy to mock religious people, especially Christians, around me knowing that I am one.

Do they think it was a walk in the park having people speculate on whether or not LGBT people were going to hell for years? Do they think I enjoyed laying awake at night fighting tears because I thought my friends would hate me if they knew?

It's true, I've had an easier time than some. My mom used to have outdated ideas about LGBT stuff, but she's taken the time to educate herself. Maybe they resent that they didn't have that or something.

But... is it fair that I should face the brunt of that? Maybe I said stupid things to them before, BUT I WAS A CHILD. They gave me issues about my neurodivergent traits as a little girl that I'm still working through, but I've forgiven them, surely they can forgive me too? We were just kids who didn't know any better.

And I think they have forgiven me. They know I was young and they know they said some pretty dumb stuff when they were young too.

Yet why do they still treat me like I'm the one who hurt them? Why do they try so little to see me differently when I'm always trying so hard for them? Even silently praying before a meal or making a comment about some persecuted Christians in another country (keywords in another country) or something as tiny as wearing a cross necklace quickly gets me snide comments.

They remind me they have religious trauma. Okay. That is entirely fair and they should ask me to respect that. I've bent over backwards to respect that. But... I haven't seen an ounce of respect in return. I told them that it made me upset when they did these things because Christianity has been one of the few things that has helped me to stem my tendencies towards self-harm.

And they mocked me for it...

I'm trying so hard not to resent them and be bitter. I love them so much. We've been so close for years, I don't know what I would do without these people. But I don't feel like I can be myself around them. I'm starting to feel so very suffocated around them.

I just want to be me. I'm okay with being delicate and gentle if that's what they need. I just wish they'd do the same for me...

I have church wounds too... everyone thinks I don't, they think I'm Little Miss Perfect who's never had a problem. But I've struggled horribly with religious anxiety. I used to lie awake at night thinking about hell, terrified I would go there.

It's taken years for me to get to the point where I can really say I love God and not that I'm needlessly afraid of Him. I want to celebrate that, I want to shout it from the rooftops. And I want help on the days I stumble backwards. But they won't be happy for me. They only see what they want to see. They only see Little Miss Perfect. And even if they could get past that, they'd still think I was stupid for not just giving up on Christianity all together.

I'm so very sad right now. I don't know if I'll ever find people who love me for me sometimes...

#then i remind myself of my comminity on here... that helps #it's just so hard sometimes #self-harm tw #religious trauma tw #side b catholic #side b christian #side b lgbt #side b bisexual #catholicism #queer catholic #queer christian

[oneeyedoctogod]

It’s been once month since you’re gone. Dead. Reduced to nothing but ashes and memories.

Grieving is weird.

For so long, I expected the breakdown. I was waiting for it, wary, both because of the way grief is portrayed in media and because of my own history.

It’s like when you’re outside in the winter. You feel the cold creeping in, seeping into your clothes, your fingers, your nose, your ears, your lungs. And it’s bearable at first; There’s some sun around you, protecting you. Not much wind. And you have your clothes, keeping you warm.

I felt almost okay, like I could go on. I felt strong and thought oh, this isn’t so bad? Maybe I can keep going. Maybe I’m weird in that way too and I’ll cope better than I thought.

It comes all the same. The sun goes down and night replaces it; your clothes can’t protect all of you; the wind picks up.

And I realized, ah, I’m standing on a lake covered in ice, and the ice is creaking and breaking and soon enough, I will fall in the lake and then nothing will protect me anymore.

(Is it still drowning if you’re the one holding your breath?)

I’m so tired. It’s that kind of tired that’s like a blanket over your brain, your head, your every single thought.

It whispers at night, my brain.

It lies and cajoles and tells me: are you even worth it? Why are you still here when your dad isn’t? Why did it take him and not you? Why are you still here?

Is it really worth it, to keep going?

I know those thoughts, I’ve had them on and off for, gods, 17 years by now. I can fight them off, for now. Took two pills to keep the breakdown at bay and another to sleep at night.

Two months ago, I was thinking boy am I glad to have survived. I wish so fucking hard it was still true. In my best moments, I know it is. I know my brain is lying, that the intrusive thoughts, and the self-harm and the suicidal ideation, that all of that is because I’m sick and grieving and that it’s going to get better. It did, once, twice, again and again and again.

(What’s that tumblr post again? Hope isn’t nice, it’s getting up again, blood on her knuckles, spitting out a tooth and getting ready for another round? Something like that. I don’t know how true it is, but I sure am bleeding for it.)

But I still look at my arms and want to (did) carve them up, I want to take a shard of glass and slit my throat, I want to go the train station or to the highest building in town, or a bridge or wherever else and jump. I want to swallow all my pills in one go and never wake up again. I want to slap myself and tear out my hair and — I want it all to stop. The pain, the grief, my whole goddamn existence.

I’m so tired.

You know what the worst part of it all is? It’s not the guilt, though that’s fairly high on the list too — that terrible, terrible guilt that’s eating at me because here fucking we go again, I’m going to worry all my loved ones, I’m going to be a burden again, I should just keep smiling and pretending everything is alright even if it’s not because at some point, any point, it’s going to become too much. I’m going to become too much.

(I remember my mother at twelve years old, telling me can’t you smile for once? Yet the guilt isn’t the worst part.

The worst part is that I can’t talk to you about it. I can’t call you or message you. I can’t tell you: “hey my therapist asked me how I felt about going back on meds again.” “hey I wonder if I’ll be hospitalized again and for how long this time.” “hey will I ever be okay?”

(I was right when I said mom would be back to her usual shenanigans) (I wish you were still here so I could bitch to you about it; I’m sure you would have a lot of things to say about her behavior) (I’m still shaking with rage, I want to scream so bad, I want to cut all contact with her and never have to see her again and I can’t and it kills me) (I remember you telling me that once, in a fit of rage, she broke your favorite camera. An expensive one and that you held dear.) (If I tell her what I think of her, what’s to stop her from doing the same to the rest of your stuff? What’s to stop her from leaving me to deal with everything alone? I depend on her so much, I need her and I hate, hate, hate, hate it)

It’s been a month and even if I know you’d hate it, I still wish death had taken me instead of you. I’m sorry.

But that’s easy to say. And you wouldn’t want that. So I keep seeing friends and talking and taking the meds and seeing a thousand doctors and maybe I’ll have to go back to the hospital but whatever it takes. You would want me to live so that’s what I’m going to do. One painful step at a time.

Two months ago I thought boy, am I glad to have survived.

So let’s try to get to that again.

#my writing #death tw #self-harm tw #suicide mention

[mentalhealth-selfshipping]

If your f/o catches you self-harming, during the act or right after, they're not gonna put on a show of "please stop, for me?" They know that's not gonna work, and it might actually make you more upset.

Instead, they'll ask if they can help you get cleaned up, if you need them to get anything. They'll help with the patchwork or go to fetch bandages with little delay. If you (or they) need space, they sit in another room while you both calm down and process. If you wanna talk afterwards, they're there to listen.

They know that they can't force you to stop. In the end, it's your choice if you want any help or not, but they'll be right there if, or when, you decide you want it. They'll talk with you and help you any time you come to them.

Bit nervous about posting this one but I wanted to reflect my own experiences.

#type: imagine #for: depression #about: self harm #about: aid #imagine your f/o #f/o imagines #f/o imagine #self harm tw #selfharm tw #tw selfharm #tw self harm #tw self-harm #self-harm tw

[georgierre]

tfw when u have to go through 1000 laps of jeddah

#f1 #formula 1 #george russell #my art #blood tw #scopophobia tw #self-harm tw #horror

[screencappleby]

Possession (1981), dir.  Andrzej Żuławski

#possession 1981 #Andrzej Żuławski #80s horror #blood // #self-harm tw #body horror

[justiceburst]

goro grew up in poverty with a mother who genuinely loved him but didn't necessarily treat him well.

he was smart and his mom was honest, perhaps too honest, so by the time he was nine, he knew the story of his conception and birth, he knew who his father was, he knew that his mother had been practically disowned by her family over it, that his existence upturned her entire life. that no matter how much she loved him, she didn't want him, society didn't want him, he was and would always be seen as worthless, and, ultimately, that he wasn't enough.

he decided at a very young age that he wanted to help his mom and take care of her as much as he could, and took on much heavier responsibilities than a child his age should have, and as a result, he never really was able to be a kid or grow up properly. so as a teenager and even into adulthood, he's very immature, especially on an emotional level.

(his life after his mom died did not help with this, as he was stripped of any emotional support and affection while forced to be even more independent, and eventually entered into a state of constant paranoia and vigilance when working for shido.)

(he also feels like he failed his mother, his guilt over her death to the point of almost considering it his first murder. he was supposed to take care of her, to make her happy, but she still killed herself. because his existence was a curse. because, above all else, he's worthless.)

the shame, from both his upbringing and status as an illegitimate child, is deeply internalized and shapes his interactions with other people and the world at large more than almost anything else. he's extremely sensitive to embarrassment and humiliation, though constant attempts to prove himself superior make him more vulnerable to failure, which breaks his perfect self-image and triggers intense feelings of shame that he just cannot cope with.

when he feels like this, he'll engage in self-destructive behaviors, including self-harm (on his thighs so they won't be seen; he's always, always conscious of his image), bouts of restrictive eating, and intentional destruction of his belongings as he feels he doesn't "deserve" them. this is followed by even more shame and embarrassment.

#justice || akechi #justice || headcanons #self-harm tw #restrictive eating tw #suicide tw #i realized i haven't actually posted as many headcanons as i kind of thought i did??? #the shame thing is such a core aspect of his character in my portrayal but i hadn't gone into detail yet??? #anyway. it's BAD. #i have so much to say about his and his thought processes and how his mind works but i think this is all i have in me tonight #i'll talk more later i need to talk about him more