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hellpupp · 1 year

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if i could convince all my friends, loved ones, and acquaintances to listen to One(1) piece of media that was formative for me, it would be Juno Steel and the Monster's Reflection parts 1-3.

it won't hit as hard without the context of the series up until that point, but it's still such a profound exploration of generational trauma, cycles of abuse, PTSD, and the ways we can understand the ones who hurt us as being complex individuals with a rich interior life. it even touches on how our memories are reshaped (sometimes even completely overwritten or erased) by the trauma we associate with them.

it forces us to grapple with the fact that most abusers aren't 2D cartoon villains who hurt others Because They're Evil- they usually had reasons for their behavior, but it does NOT try to say the existence of an explanation for their behavior absolves them of responsibility for it, nor does it try to say you have to forgive them.

i once saw someone tear the episodes to shreds bc they "humanized an abuser" and i've never seen someone look so directly at the point of a story & somehow completely miss it.

i've listened to the entire 3 part story probably 6 or more times, at least, and it's deeply emotionally impactful every time. it's been hugely cathartic.

anyway, if reading this makes you want to give the episodes a listen, here's a link:

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

PLEASE take the time to read over the content warnings.

if you'd like a very brief summary of the most important previous plot points the episodes touch on, so that you have a better understanding of the circumstances, check below the cut:

early in the series, the titular character, Juno Steel, reveals that he had an identical twin brother (named Benzaiten) who died many years ago.

juno almost never brings up his mother, but it's clear that they had a VERY bad relationship. it's implied early on that she may have tried to kill juno, once, & that she was somehow involved in benten's death. juno also blames himself for ben's death.

juno struggles with severe depression, low self-worth, and persistent passive suicidal ideation. he tends to self-sabotage his relationships, and attaches most of his self-worth to his ability to stop crime & Catch The Bad Guys. the likely reasons for this are revealed here.

in a previous season, in order to keep it out of the hands of a dangerous criminal, juno took an experimental drug which caused him to grow an organ that an extinct alien race once used to communicate telepathically. he overtaxes the organ, causing it to rupture inside of his body. because it had attached to his optical nerve, the rupture also destroyed his eye.

juno's main employer in this arc, ramses o'flaherty, "generously" supplied him with a highly advanced, experimental prototype cybernetic eye, called the "Theia Spectrum." it comes with an AI which can help juno do all sorts of neat stuff- he later finds out it also allows ramses to see whatever he sees, and to override juno's nervous system if he does something ramses doesn't want him to.

the eye can't be removed through conventional surgical methods, due to the fact that it's become closely entwined with his own nervous system. in the previous episode, juno has finished a job for a different employer (buddy aurinko), in exchange for being taken to a clinic that supposedly has methods to remove this kind of prosthetic safely. the first episode of Monster's Reflection opens on juno's arrival to the secret clinic, alongside the escort buddy has sent with him ("big guy")

#tpp #juno steel #the monster's reflection #if you're in a place to handle the TWs pleeeeease listen to these i promise it's SO fucking good #i weirdly associate these episodes w/ christmas bc i listened to them on a long plane ride home for xmas with my family one year

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misspickman · 9 months

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curious about all of them but ESPECIALLY theory: existence is a mirror 👀

oh ive been wrestling with this one for a while and probably will continue to, its a tim's mental issues fic bc ive seen a lot of stuff about him being depressed/passively or actively suicidal but none of it really sat right with me so im trying to figure out how i think this would manifest with the character, but its tim and hes difficult. much to think about. so unfortunately this wip is a mess and im not working on it actively bc its so hard to get the vibes right and its frustrating. anyway heres a bit

“Don't you have anything better to do,” Leslie asks—complains—as she digs out a bullet out of his shoulder on a beautiful Friday night, “than run around clobbering people all night?”

“Crime doesn't sleep.”

“No, but you should. And you are not the only one for this job, are you?” she points out. Rightfully. Tim still feels unnecessarily defensive and just barely stops himself from trying to prove to her how needed he is out there, actually. “You're too young for this to be the only thing you do.”

That takes him aback. This is the sort of conversation that Leslie usually unleashes on Bruce. It feels… painfully unearned to be getting it in his place.

He doesn't want to be a part of this discussion. He'll leave that to Bruce, Leslie and Alfred to ponder over, and he can go back to his work as soon as Leslie's done wrapping up his shoulder. The only reason he's here and not doing it in front of his bathroom mirror anyway is because Helena decided to play protective and basically dumped him in front of Leslie's door, and would not let him leave even if he tried.

It's really not that serious. It's just a shoulder.

“With all due respect, Leslie—”

“Tim,” she cuts him off, taking none of it, “with all due respect, you are twenty one and sitting in my clinic with a bullet wound on a Friday night. And I know you're out there every night. Do you even socialize?”

Tim bristles. It's embarrassing, and makes him feel just as young as she's treating him. “That's none of your business.”

It doesn't feel good, being rude to Leslie, but it's an instinctive reaction. Tim is well sick and tired of people trying to tell him how to live his life.

He thinks back on his last attempt to talk to a person his age who isn't involved in any of his vigilante life. He even likes Buzz, he wouldn't mind reconnecting with him, which is what he assumes the sudden invitation was about, but there's nothing like a miserable social interaction where you can't think of a single non-incriminating thing to say to drive home just how unadjusted you are to having a civilian life.

It had been easier before, back when he had dad and Dana to keep happy with lies, and was basically forced to keep a normal life. Scratch that, it wasn't easier; he agonized over keeping secrets every waking second, he kept two messy lives and never seemed to make enough time for either of them, but it did mean he had some semblance of a normal life. He hadn't thought of it that way back then, but he can see it now. There's none of that left.

Now, he has more than enough time to dedicate himself to being Red Robin instead of Tim Drake. He thinks he's been doing a pretty good job of it—except, nobody else seems to share his opinion.

“You'll run yourself ragged until there's nothing left but the cowl,” she says, and Tim has an inkling that this is far from the first time she's said those words.

(title from this poem bc u know. vibes)

#if i ever do post it its probably gonna be in chapters i already have an outline for all of them #and many like. smaller bits written #but im trying to not be very on the nose about it and its turning out so hard. alas #thank you<3 #ask

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catharticdevice · 3 years

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maybe life is not for everyone

I’ve been meaning to translate these jumbled mess of thoughts into coherent sentences. Just to see them from a distance. I don’t know why I think it matters—it really doesn’t. But here we are.

Come on in, everyone. Welcome to my version of a ✨spiraling free fall ✨

I’m okay, by the way—I think? If we share some commonality in terms of how we define okay, it really is not that serious. My suicidal thoughts have all been passive and my brain hasn’t lost its chemical capacity to perform my role as a functioning adult. In all honesty, I’m a bit wary of using the word depression; it’s such a blanket term that’s too intimately linked with the clinical branch of depression. The more nuanced lower end of the spectrum gets slided onto the back burner, because it’s not pressing—which is a perfectly sound logic. Given that none of my symptoms directly point to major/clinical depression, I’m more inclined to stay away from it altogether. My episodes are never debilitating to the extent that I ignore hygiene or fail to keep my job. So it feels stupid to be open about my minor inconveniences. I’d much rather invalidate my own mental struggle before someone can say to my face “You’re just faking it for attention—”

You know how people sometimes say “I haven’t been feeling myself lately,” More often than not, it indicates a varying degree of emotional disturbances—be it gloomy, anxious, in despair, discontent, bitter, or what have you. You recognize what your normal behavior looks like and you get a sense when it deviates off the course. In contrast, I can’t really tell if my low-spirited nature is just a part of a temporary mental distress or is it actually me. It has been my default state for as long as I can remember that it successfully assimilated into my personality traits. So much so that if I were to say “I haven’t been feeling like myself lately,” it would mean a good thing.

I learned to make peace with the way life works; how to navigate through the challenges while keeping my head above water. The secret is to give up all your hopes and be okay with not thriving. Life is not actually that bad when you feel apathetic. I’ve fully embraced my apathy and made it my home—very comfy here, 10/10 would recommend. Because who the fuck got time to do some thriving? Also, why must we thrive as humans? Why is that a necessity? Who decided that? Why can’t we just survive? How is it not enough to survive?

Not quite sure what else there even is to life that makes me willingly choose it every single day. But surviving has to be enough for now. I am not putting any more effort into this bullshit.

Anyway, that’s the baseline. That’s what my good day looks like. Lukewarm, with a hint of melancholy. Now, on to the good stuff—

Every time something drives me over the edge, my go-to coping mechanism has always been limited to safe non-lethal strategies, which include social withdrawal (textbook self-sabotaging behavior) and restrictive food intake (an effort to regain some sense of control apparently). It wasn’t until recently that my brain got a bit more creative and incorporated suicidal ideation into the mix. Whenever I only have my thoughts to keep me company, it’s incredibly easy to spiral into a self-destructive existential conundrum. Although the problematic eating behavior has now also progressed into a more frequent pattern. Anxiety is no longer needed to spur the action. I just need a win sometimes. And running on two cups of coffee and nothing else all day is the most instantaneous way to earn a sense of accomplishment. (PSA: I don’t recommend it though. It’s ok for me and me only, it really is not good for you, kids.)

I wonder, why has nobody told you that as you get older, cutting your life short is becoming a more and more interesting option? It really feels like I’ve maxed out on my lifetime serotonin quota—it’s all spent. I’m done. At this point I’m not even living anymore; I’m just wasting everybody’s time. The thought of having to endure 20-30 more years of this fucking non-consensual existence is such a nightmare. (Actually, with the rapidly accelerating climate change and billionaires continuing to play gods, 30 years is probably too generous.)

When it comes to the subject of suicide, some people’s prevention approach is to say stuff like “...think about how that makes your loved ones feel,” or “There’s so many things you’re going to miss out on,” First of all, let’s think about how I feel, ok. This is about me—focus up! Secondly, I don’t know where you got your biology lesson from, but you actually don’t have to worry about missing anything if you don’t wake up tomorrow. Because when you’re flatlined, your neurons stop firing. Ergo you can’t think, you can’t feel—so you wouldn’t have any function left to miss anything. Win-win.

I’ve been told countless times that it’s temporary; that there will come a time when I won’t feel this way anymore. But man...when you’re swimming across any large, deep body of water and then around mid way you’re slowly feeling your energy level is plummeting below zero, we all know how that’s gonna end. There’s no way you would ever be able to make it to the shore. Even if it’s only a few feet ahead of you. There’s nothing you can do except to let the water take you in.

I’ve been enjoying looking into how body donation works lately. Interesting hobby—quite niche if I do say so myself. Unfortunately Science Care does not currently operate where I live. Also, in Mass you have to sign a consent paper that’s called Instrument of Anatomical Gift. But there has to be two witnesses. Urgh...! Ideally, I’d like my heart to stop beating at the exact place where they would actually store the bodies before they’re being used. Dying in my apartment room doesn’t really appeal to me. I don’t want to create a hassle where somebody has to schlep my body around. Can you imagine being dead and still be a burden to someone? Also, where do people buy body bags? I wonder if they do like a prime 2-day delivery. In the event of a demise-causing-amount-of blood spurting out of my person, I wouldn’t want to leave a mess for someone to clean up—that would be rude. It should be much cleaner and easier to manage if everything is contained within a cadaver bag.

...

Ok, you know what, never mind—too many things to be mindful of. Fuck. I can’t believe being too polite is the only thing keeping me from actually executing any plans. Nope. Let’s be honest, you’re just a wimp, Sash. One day, maybe.

Again, let me reiterate: I am A-OK. I assure you, you’ll still see me being miserable and think about dying tomorrow and the day after. But other than that, everything’s fine.

Peace out, homies.

#suicide tw #ed tw

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anxiously-going · 3 years

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I need to think out loud here a moment so just ignore me.

Yesterday afternoon was...not the best. I didn’t feel bad necessarily, or weepy or particularly sad, but was I was very...contemplative, shall we say, on the idea of death. Which I found irritating to a certain degree because up to that point the symptoms, to put it clinically, I was experiencing were lining up with PMDD symptoms. I seemed ovulate, then experienced two low weeks, then my period was supposed to come and three days in everything would pick back up. Now. Everything did seem to pick back up, but my period week itself was about five days late.

So I’m not really sure I can count that anyway, but whatever. Yesterday afternoon, I knew things were getting bad and I knew my mom was planning on meeting up with some ladies for a hike today. Given my...ponderings Thursday afternoon, I decided I would make myself go on the hike.

I didn’t want to, I really didn’t. I wanted to stay home and lie on my futon all day. Between that and basically being passively suicidal on the drive home Thursday, I decided I needed to go. It would be healthier for me to go than it would be to holed up in my room all day.

So I went. We should up at the meet up point this morning and then came the Question: “How did your mom get you to come?”

Now my mom knew I had a rough week with some anxiety stuff and when I hesitated she jumped in for me making a joke about not wanting to do laundry and how I was avoiding that.

But when I hesitated, It was because I had this moment where it struck me that I couldn’t just answer with “I’m trying to fight through a depressive episode.”

That’s what it was. That would have been the honest answer, but I couldn’t say that because it’s just not a thing that’s done.

My parents know that I have struggles with anxiety, but I have never actually spoken to anyone irl about the types of thoughts I was having on Thursday. When I think about it in my head, it’s not really a big deal, it’s just “Oh, yeah, I was kinda preoccupied with the idea of death the other day, no big deal.”

And I think part of it is like...if I don’t say it out loud then I can pretend like it isn’t a big deal.

But it kind of is.

But in my head it’s just a thing. So much so that when I was why I came on a hike I almost answered that I came to stave of the depression and suicidal ideation.

But I don’t want to say it out loud.

#screaming into the void #don't mind me #nobody freak out over my next tags i'm really ok #tw depression #tw suicidal discussion

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comrade-meow · 3 years

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The term ‘gender identity’ was coined by psychologist and researcher, Dr. John Money, founder of the first gender clinic at John Hopkins Hospital in 1966. ‘Gender identity’ first appeared in print on November 21st 1966, in the press release announcing the creation of the clinic. Money would go on to develop his theory of gender by experimenting on young children.

Money recruited the parents of David Reimer to a twin study research project at the newly-founded clinic and inextricably linked the concept of gender identity to the case. Born in 1965, David, then named Bruce, and his identical brother Brian were test cases in an experiment designed to see if a boy could be brought up successfully as a girl after surgical alteration. Money’s hypothesis was termed ‘gender neutrality’. Bruce had suffered burns to his penis during a circumcision that went wrong. Money persuaded the parents to fully alter Bruce’s genitals at the age of two, removing testes and fashioning the artificial appearance of a vulva. Bruce was then renamed ‘Brenda’. Money reassured the parents that this measure was in the best interests of Brenda and that his theory of ‘gender neutrality’ would be proven correct. Money had, according to John Hopkins Hospital, solved an ethical dilemma, and so had an ethically sound basis to study how Brenda would proceed. Twin Studies are regarded as the gold standard within psychology and psychiatry and so these children appeared to Money to be the perfect experimental subjects on which to ground his ideas.

Money required that during childhood Brenda and her family visit John Hopkins to observe how the treatment progressed. This process of treatment included interviews to see if the parents were ‘girling’ Brenda correctly (enforcing femininity) and how the now supposedly differently sexed twins interacted. Brenda (David) and his twin brother Brian as adults reported that during part of this ‘treatment’ both were sexually abused by Money, who made the pair ‘role play’ heterosexual intercourse, inspected their genitals, and took photographs. Money denied these allegations, but also justified these coerced acts as, ‘childhood sexual rehearsal play’ which he considered important for a ‘healthy adult gender identity’, What is evidenced in transcribed interviews documenting Money’s interaction with the twins was that they were made to describe the difference between their genitals, repeat that these sexual differences made one a boy and one a girl and were encouraged to deliberate why Brenda fought less at school than Brian (“because I’m a girl”, Brenda is heard saying, to Money’s confirmation, “you’re a girl!”) It is very clear here that regressive gender roles became mixed with Money’s invention of gender identity.

Despite Money’s sexual liberalism and unorthodoxy regarding homosexuality, he and other researchers at John Hopkins did not consider reinforcement of strict binarism in relation to the sexes as damaging or illegitimate. For years Money wrote about the case as ‘John/Joan’ (instead of real names Bruce/Brenda), depicting the apparent success of gender identity development to support arguments for the feasibility of sexual reassignment. In contrast, Reimer decades later described how he urinated through a hole in his abdomen due to botched urological interventions by doctors.

Around the period of adolescence Brenda [David] was given oestrogen to induce breast development as part of early female puberty. Clinical notes show that shortly afterwards Brenda [David] rejected Money’s recommendations of surgery to create a vagina. From the age of thirteen Brenda began no longer to identify as a girl, reporting feelings of suicidal depression. At age fourteen, Brenda’s father told him about the sex reassignment process. Brenda shortly after took the name David and began living as a boy. In early adulthood David underwent treatment to reverse sex reassignment, including testosterone injections, a double mastectomy, and phalloplasty operations.

Throughout this period Money continued to publish on the experiment as a success, despite it being known by him that Brenda, originally Bruce, was now living as David. Only when Reimer opened his life to academic Milton Diamond did the devastating outcome of Money’s experiment become public knowledge and his research was exposed as fraudulent. Reimer committed suicide in 2004 at the age of 38. Leading gender theorist Judith Butler wrote shortly after David took his own life, ‘It is unclear whether it was his gender that was the problem, or the ‘treatment’ that brought about an ‘enduring suffering for him’, as if it were a riddle or great mystery.

The scarce amount of academic literature utilising the work of Money today might seem to indicate the widespread rejection of his methods, but the impact of these grievous scientific errors, if we can term medical violence against children under the name of science, remains paramount in informing contemporary accounts of gender identity. This is most obvious in the status of the Charing Cross Gender Identity Clinic (GIC), the largest, most renowned Gender Identity Clinic in the UK. The Charing Cross GIC from 1994 has employed Money’s colleague, Dr. Richard Green as its Director of Research. This appointment came only seven years after Green published, The ‘Sissy Boy Syndrome’ and the Development of Homosexuality. Green is important not just because of his direct link to Money, but also because he was the sole colleague to publicly defend Money. Green claimed in a BBC interview that:

“With the benefit of hindsight, based on what we knew at the time about how you become male or female or boy or girl, with the advantage of hindsight knowing the difficulties to say the least of creating a penis surgically, the decision that John Money made at the time was the correct one. And I would have made the same one at that time.”

What the failed Reimer experiment and subsequent ‘hindsight’ amounted to was a conclusion that gender identity is not simply socially constructed, but also innate. The dominant position within psychology is that sexual difference is mapped onto the brain. For over two decades a myriad of neurological research has emerged from the Western psychological establishment arguing that male and female brains are ‘differently wired’. This research has been heavily promoted in mainstream media, but equally heavily challenged by feminist authors like Cordelia Fine.

How did we get from there to here?

Gender identity, a construct created in the United States, has crossed the pond and gone global. American cultural imperialism is hardly a new phenomenon, but how exactly did gender identity come to appear on so many campuses in the United Kingdom within the last decade? The consensus around gender identity inside the humanities, emanating primarily from U.S campuses, has been established over the last three decades mainly by Queer Theorists who sought to outflank structuralist accounts of gender, that positioned gender as part of a wider system of social relations that maintain capitalist patriarchy. That systemic approach has been sidelined in favour of concepts like ‘performativity’ and gender as an essentialist quality emanating from ‘inside’ us, something that we are born with.

The emergence of the idea of gender as essential and internal is not a new one. The regressive belief in male and female souls has existed for centuries, often expressed through notions of the sexed male or female brain. It is this notion that feminist Mary Wollstonecraft addressed in her book A Vindication of the Rights of Women (1792) stating, ‘There is no female mind. The brain is not an organ of sex. May as well speak of a female liver’. Even Freud a century ago, wrote against the arguments of the sexologists, challenging the idea of a feminine or masculine brain in his Three Essays on Sexuality (1905).

Unfortunately, these ideas continue to dominate mainstream discourse. Gender as an element existing in the brain, or as an innate essence has been taken up and promoted by youth advocacy groups like Gendered Intelligence. For example, Gendered Intelligence organised events around the ‘Trans soul’ entitled The Corpse Project. It may seem surprising that today it is still necessary to dispute the concept of sexed brains or gendered souls, or to argue against dualist claims of the mind or brain as separate from the body, but we have in our arsenal as Marxists a key theoretical tradition, namely; historical materialism.

When Marx famously wrote in 1852, ‘Men [ed: and presumably women!] make their own history, but they do not make it as they please; they do not make it under self-selected circumstances, but under circumstances existing already, given and transmitted from the past’ he pointed towards a wider understanding of how the already established social world determines us as subjects within it through social conditions. This is exactly complimentary with the materialist understanding that gender is ‘socially constructed’ – that gender as a system of social relations and norms is socially contouring, creating a web in which we sit and constituting us as gendered subjects (a Marxist understanding considers ‘ideology’ as the key method of this). We, as subjects, do not determine the world around us purely as individuals.

If gender is the system of norms that underpin the social relations and sexual politics between men and women under capitalist patriarchy i.e women’s role within the home and the associated qualities of femininity, such as passivity, the suitability to the private world of the domestic sphere, coupled with the conception of men as embodying masculine traits, such as being outgoing and suited to the public world of work. We can see why it is so important for the existing social order to naturalise and reify these codes of behavior. Women’s subordination must be secured in order to sexually and socially reproduce our societies. Men’s domination must be established to help secure women’s subservience.

The contemporary version of gender ideology with its reliance on femininity and masculinity (women’s subordination and men’s dominance) as inescapable points of reference to understand ourselves, and society, is simply a rearrangement of the building blocks required to accept patriarchy as it exists today.

That men who identify with feminine dress or feminine beauty practices can be considered women only re-establishes the idea women are feminine. Women, as adult human females, have no natural predisposition towards ideological gender norms and radical politics should reject any imposition of the acceptance of femininity as anything other than a social construct designed to secure women’s subjugation. Similarly, masculinity, attributed to men, constructing men, underpins male domination as the natural order.

When women reject femininity and submissiveness, instead seeking power for ourselves, or even engaging in traditionally male activities such as sports, we are sometimes called ‘men’ or ‘mannish’ — as if only men can dominate and structure their environments. Of course, within patriarchy, that is precisely the norm; but we are meant to think of it as natural, rather than merely normative. Gender is needed in order to maintain the social order of male domination and female subjugation.

The best that we, as Marxists can do, is to be truly gender non-conforming by rejecting ‘gender’ entirely.

#Anglo.txt

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theselfcaresocialworker · 4 years

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Intro P2

I wish I could tell you that I have always been good at self-care, have always managed symptoms of burnout gracefully and have been fine in a general sense. To say that would be lying and would further perpetuate the myth that therapists have their shit together. The journey that got me to where I am started way way back, but just for shits and giggles let’s go back to summer 2020.

It was June 2020 (which isn’t that far from when I wrote this in August 2020 and edited it in September). This was in the “middle” of the COVID-19 pandemic, I had been working from home for 3 months. I was in the most healthy and happy relationship of my life. I had a few awesome close friends. I was making good money, had time off (that I seldom took). I was in therapy and had worked through a fair bit of my own trauma. I had hobbies. I had a career I was objectively good at. I was knowledgeable, well read, and had good experience. All before I turned 30. I was also depressed, anxious, often triggered, down on myself, exhausted, passively suicidal, physically unwell… I dreaded doing anything related to my job. Worst of all, and I hate to say this, I didn’t care about my clients… I honestly couldn’t care anymore. The fucks to give were all gone, the proverbial well had dried out months ago. I felt helpless and hopeless about clients, about humanity. But... I was a strong social worker, and I just kept going, day to day, doing everything over and over and over. And over...

One day I had a client crying on the phone all I could think was, “Jesus. Fucking. Christ. You’re sad, I get it. Join the club, life sucks. Just shut up and do something about it.” I paused, disgusted, scared and frustrated with myself, “What the hell is wrong with me?! That’s not how I am supposed to think about this! I am not that person; I am supposed to care! Why don’t I care?!” Since I was in the middle of the session, I had to contain that all and pull my shit together and finish the appointment. Once it was done and I hung up the phone, I stared into space and tried to process what was happening to me. It felt like I started to wake up to what was happening to me; I started to see that I was beginning to make mistakes and only just catching them before it turned into a big deal. I wasn’t offering my best services. I was on autopilot.

I did what any good social worker does, I talked to my clinical supervisor. I told them bluntly and with vulnerability, what was happening and how I felt. I was very honest and open, hoping for some validation, some empathy, care. What I got was a “lecture” about what I already knew. They regurgitated everything I had already read and researched, but not even in an educated way or with any thoroughness. It was almost offensive how poorly it was delivered.

Anyways. There I was feeling all the things, not getting much, if any, help with them. Knowing that I had to do something, I worked on why I must have been feeling that way, how it had happened, what had gotten me to that point. I read articles and books, talked to my colleagues and friends. I knew in theory how to work on my symptoms, and what to do. I still have this treatment plan in my head (like I said, I am writing this awfully close to when this all happened, so I am not indeed out of the proverbial woods just yet). I just couldn’t do it. No one had ever taught me how to do the internal work I would need to do as a therapist, no one had told me what to expect internally. I realized I had gone into this work, eyes closed tight and here I was seeing the reality of this work, what it had done to me, and what I had done to myself several years in. I started clearly seeing the wear and tear it has had on my psyche, my emotions, on me as a person.

Let’s take a few steps back. To be clear. How I got to this point was not completely the fault of “the field”. Like I alluded to earlier, I have my own baggage and trauma which has heavily influenced what makes me, me. This has also played a big role in WHY I chose this work.

The following section is from a personal journal entry in December 2019.

It has always been my job to help others. Even as a young child I was a natural at making myself small, having fewer needs, being independent in order to be less of a burden. I learned that in order to earn my keep, be worthy of anything, I needed to do something for someone. What came naturally as a deeply sensitive person was helping, listening, and feeling for others. I got so good at it that I made a career out of it.

I learned so many basic counseling and social work skills within the first ten years of life that when I finally got into graduate school I was made in the shade. I was a natural, it came easily. I think the assumption is that when a grown adult goes into a graduate program, they have a more or less well-rounded, healthy set of skills upon which to build. I didn’t have that, this was a huge issue moving forward. I knew how to handle living with this set of skills on a small scale, with friends and family. NOT as a professional. The problem was that I was not well balanced or well-rounded as a person and I was so good at “social working” that I just jumped in eager to help, to fill a purpose. I didn’t have a whole other set of skills that are needed in the field like setting boundaries, self-advocacy, self-care, etc. that are expected when you are an adult.

What happened was that I jumped into this disaster of human misery thinking that I was made in the shade, I have been doing this my whole life, but had no protective gear. It’s a whole different ball game to provide mental health care full time for 8 or more hours a day; it's nothing like being the friend everyone talks to. You are in a fucking ecological disaster. Some people have protective gear, they have the boundaries, they can advocate for themselves, they have a healthy sense of self or whatever. But there I was without boots, a jacket, or whatever else you might fucking need in a god damn disaster zone. Of course I got infections in the cuts one will inevitably get, of course I was coming home covered in goop and never really being able to get it all out from my hair and under my fingernails. I never learned otherwise, and no one prepared me.

I started realizing going to and graduating from school was like I had researched and learned about everything I could about some sort of ecological, environmental disaster (think BP oil spill, Chernobyl, poisonous lakes). I knew about the local and global ecosystem, I learned about the plants, the animals, I learned about why it was a travesty. I was ready to go into the disaster zone to make a difference. However, nowhere in my education did someone adequately impress upon me the absolute necessity for practical tools like waders, gloves, a hat, sunscreen, bug spray; anything to protect me from the very real hazards of the job in the disaster. School gave me shovels, trowels, clippers, hoses, tools to work on the problem, and they probably

assumed I already had a jacket, boots, wader, gloves, and goggles and further assumed that work places provided sunscreen, bug spray, maybe even a hat. Looking back now, at the beginning it’s like I was wearing a tank top, shorts, canvas tennis shoes and maybe a wind breaker, in a fucking poisonous lake.

Other’s told me to take care of myself, make me a priority, saying, “You can’t pour from an empty cup”. But I didn’t see many other people doing it either. I was arrogant, I thought I was strong enough to not need it. Only weak people need gloves and goggles. I thought if I just cared and cared and worked and worked to help, to fix people, the swamp would clear.

*woosh, pan camera back to Summer 2020* There I was, wounded, sick, malnourished (whatever metaphor you want to put here) and I had to get out. I started to wake up in this seemingly never-ending series of ecological disasters, not caring that people were crying and struggling, and all I could think about was that they just needed to get the fuck over it. I was lost so far in the polluted lake with no real exit strategy. I had not planned for this. I had placed a bet on myself that I could hack it, that I would be fine. The only way was for me to get out—a med evac. I had to *gasp* take a leave of absence.

...

There are so many things that got me to that point. Some are system wide; some are part of the system of where I work. Some are from my own internal workings, negative core beliefs, negative thinking patterns, faulty assumptions. Some of the things existed before I started this work and weirdly make me good at this.

I don’t know how much of me sharing my story of lack of adequate self-care, of what my burn out was/is like helps anyone. I guess I am just hoping it makes it real for someone so that they avoid the mistakes I made. I guess it comes down to me wanting to go back and fix myself; if I can prevent what happened to me in someone else, then it feels like I heal myself. This is fundamentally flawed and part of why I have such bad burn out. Also, I don’t want to be one of those people that says, “Don’t do what I did” or worse, “Do as I say not as I do” so I avoided saying anything. But this is also part of my burn out—being afraid to say anything, being afraid of my own voice, denying that I even have one at all, not believing that I have anything valuable to say at all. I also know, a lot of what I have to say is said by countless other people in what may be more eloquent ways. But I come back to the point…I have a voice, maybe someone would benefit from hearing it.

This is as much for myself as it is for other people. I want to live a life I am proud of, one that I don’t need a vacation from, one where I am genuine, authentic and real; so I am learning to use my voice even when it feels awkward. I am learning to use my voice to stand up for myself and others even when what I think and feel is invalidated by people in power.

...

I know that what I am about to talk about is something you already know, and I know you will say to yourself, “Yeah, I know. I will.” And you might think, “That won’t be a problem for me.” But it will. Maybe you will be able to do some self-reflection about it quickly afterwards, hopefully before the full throws of burn out grab you, you make a change.

I wish I had known early on that you absolutely cannot care for others in a healthy, sustainable way if you do not take care of yourself first, if you do not have clearly defined internal and external boundaries that you regularly enforce and that are supported by those around you. I know you know this. We tell others this all the time. But us therapists/counselors/social workers have a nasty habit (not everyone, but I have yet to encounter a mental health provider that doesn’t or hasn’t struggled with this at some point…I have a lot of thoughts about this to discuss later) of giving sound advice and suggestions and somehow thinking we don’t have to follow it. It's classic, it really is.

We all experience stress, exposure to the everyday hazards of this work differently. My experience will not be yours. All I know is that what I have been through is unremarkably common, and yet, I feel like it is not shared as widely and as thoroughly as I believe it should. Ignoring not only the issue of burnout, but the lack of adequate education about it and self-care, we put ourselves, our clients, and the field in jeopardy. It is irresponsible, reckless, arrogant and short sighted.

As far as an answer to “Now what Sara? What are we supposed to do?” I have no real satisfying, thoughtful, profound answer. What I do now is this:

Journal entry from December 2019

The funny thing is that when things get bad, I know there isn’t anything anyone can say or do to make it any better. There isn’t always anything you can do or say to yourself that makes it better. Sometimes, all that can be done is to sit through it however you can despite how excruciating it can be. Sometimes, just knowing you aren’t alone and that someone has been there or knowing that someone somewhere cares even just a little makes all the difference.

If I can be that person, that voice for someone somewhere, I will have done my job. I know what it is like to be there, in the trenches of your mind with thoughts like bombs and feelings like mustard gas trying to kill you. It’s exhausting and excruciating fighting with and within yourself every day. I suppose in war, part of what might make things more tolerable is having your comrades, your platoon mates or whatever, there fighting with you; knowing you aren’t in that hell alone. Dealing with mental illness, trauma, oppression, with life, is no less of a significant widespread battle. How awful is it that we all feel incredibly alone even when everyone is fighting the same or similar battle?” We are all fighting something, and hearing someone say, “Hey! Yeah, me too! How do you fight off the suicidal thoughts at work??” can make all the difference.

#self-care #burnout #socialwork #socialworker #introduction

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godblooded · 4 years

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harvey tinkle/the human cheat code notes (with a side of cassie kennedy):

harvey discovered she was incapable of dying when she got hit by a train (passively leaning forward until she careened off the edge) and then woke up two weeks later in a hospital not splatter all over the tracks.

yes, it was definitely sort of passive suicidal ideation. she’s been clinically depressed since childhood and she feels she’s purposeless.

new york is overrun with low key supers who no one can do anything about because suddenly, like, dude robbed a bank by stopping time and then from there it just got worse.

her best friend (harvey uses the term ‘friend’ loosely. she’s a little rough. and by that i mean a lot rough) is Cassie Kennedy, a super strength user of titanium heights who was adopted by a powerful business owner as a power move to make him more approachable.

he’s actually a fantastic dad who tries to keep cassie out of the spotlight. this ceases to be possible when her dad’s spotlight makes it impossible for her to just be a teenager. her powers activate at 16, when a boy she liked declined a date for the second time because he didn’t want to deal with how erratic it was seeing someone constantly watched and have to forgo having fun because of her restrictions.

her response is the frustrated teenage cell phone throw— except it leaves several large holes and collapses the structure of a building. this was cassie’s first experience with her powers, and from there for years it would be a coverup to be sure it never came out that she had abilities.

okay now that we’ve talked about cass— harvey is basically useless in all forms besides being a human shield. she’s like 5’4” and little and her vision is like in the 700s. she literally can only take hits. and she knows how to throw knives. kind of. it’s not even very impressive.

before this incident, harvey was living in a basic boring apartment as a receptionist at a modeling agency. she hated it. her boss seemed nice enough, and he cared hugely about her. or seemed to.

sucks to suck, her boss is a super and he’s a complete fuckhead from canada whose power is the ability to draw anything and create it physically. he was kicked out of the country and run out of his small town when a bunch of parents found out he’d been planning to utilize his abilities to experiment on their children (his cover job had been teaching). he’s evaded arrest and is extremely dangerous. the skin he is wearing is drawn on as well, and acts as a falsity so no one knows he’s a crackpot from canada who tried to splice shit together with notebook paper.

harvey’s parents, john and joanne tinkle, have both suffered gambling addictions throughout harvey’s life. when she got her first paid internship, they stole her paychecks. she never said anything. she didn’t see the point. they’d already done it when she worked for pocket change at burger king. she’s currently estranged from them. her childhood was a strange blur of casinos and living much too close to atlantic city .

harvey was so named because they’d never thought up a name for a girl, and seemed convinced that harvey could be a unisex name. harv’s somehow grown into it.

harvey feels pain from whatever wounds or injuries she’s sustained, but there’s a specific chemical in her brain that dulls it, and a specific part of her brain that works overtime to allow the invincibility. blow her head off and hit that spot in her brain, it’s the only way to kill her. otherwise she’s known to stab herself through the hand, shoot herself in the chest, etc.

she and cassie founded a private school for supers, since the growing population did not take kindly to them and gave them no solace. harvey has shit-all to do with it. it’s cassie’s vision. harvs is the person who teaches a class where kids learn to use their powers by wailing on her. frequently, it’s less difficult for harvey and more terrifying that she can’t die for the student body. that’s a little traumatizing.

cassie actively participates in supporting supers as being seen the same as all others, even if they had to stop a scheme to blow up the president because of harvey’s ex boss.

during that bout, harvey sustained serious injury to her eyes. maxime, one who’d turned on them as they enlisted his help as a new super, threw an energized brick right at her face in the dark. harvey’s reaction was to throw a knife at it and, unfortunately, this time she hit her mark. the brick dust and damage, plus her increased healing factor, sealed the debris in and essentially gave her a sped-up corneal abrasion. most of the time she has to wear sunglasses, as she’s intensely sensitive to light and develops double vision as the day goes on.

harvey is the most apathetic fuck you’ve ever met. what she does, as a super, she does solely for the purpose of belief that cassie has the potential to make something of herself and of this repulsive world she can barely stand. she just knows without her cassie won’t operate— they’ve seen some real shit together, and up until those moments in time cass was extremely sheltered.

harvey qualifies as a hipster but only because her shit’s all old stuff found in thrift shops. she’s spent her life in new york. she doesn’t give a fuck about couture and if she can get it for four bucks, she will.

she reads a lot of nonfiction and autobiographies. her favorites are the ones where she goes ‘well that’s some bullshit’ out loud. she has a low key interest in conspiracy theories. talk the jfk assassination to her.

pretty much asexual as hell, though not sex repulsed. just not interested on a personal level. as for romantic interest— this is kind of a building on in it thing because harvey’s emotionally blank but extremely sarcastic.

her ‘costume’ is a denim jacket, a domino mask, a pair of black leggings, black boots, and a t-shirt with the symbol for pi on it. why? well, pi goes on forever. so. what? it’s a pun. it’s a math pun. fuck off, i can’t die.

cassie prefers to go without a secret identity and a costume, the more outspoken one whose public identity stands out as a voice. harvey’s is because it means no one can recognize her on the street. if she had to sign an autograph or take a selfie she’d gag.

harv’s in her late 20s and cassie is in her mid 20s. cassie is absolutely the kindest, happiest, most excitable, diplomatic person and harvey is her gloomy shadow inputting useful suggestions while paying more or less no attention to anyone but cassie. and it took her months to tolerate cassie to begin with.

harvey’s interested in women and by that i mean ‘’’’’interested’’’’’ it’s such a liberal way to put it.

are you picking up what i’m putting down: tl;dr harvey annemarie tinkle cannot die, works at a school for supers, and has never given a shit about... anything in her life. she just lets others give shits for her.

#headcanon. harvey tinkle.#headcanon. cassie kennedy.#suicidal ideation /#passive suicidal ideation /#death mention /#eye trauma /#gore /#injury /

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omegas-spaghettios · 4 years

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Dear A,

I do my best to not be a vindictive person. I have had a history of being vindictive to multiple people, and it's never ended well for anybody involved. But there are a lot of things you do that hurt me, even though you can't know why. That's why I'm writing here, to get my words out there without harming you.

I know you moved here within the last couple years and you are struggling to make friends, and I think you are a genuinely nice person. I've done all I can to talk to you and ask about your interests, and i agonized at Wal-Mart trying to find you the perfect gift. This isn't to guilt you, i happily chose to do all of that. And I believe your company is fun. I wouldn't really search it out much, but when I have it in the group it has mostly been pleasant.

Until recently.

Let me tell you some things I have gone through, A. I have grown up in LDS Utah as a closeted Bisexual. I have been through hell, and I know I have had it easier than a lot of LGBTQ+ people in that religion. Since 8th grade I have consistently had depression and anxiety, clinically diagnosed, with therapy and meds and everything due to living here, the social hatred is incredibly intense. During that time up till now, just finished 11th, I have also had multiple self harm and suicidal stretches. This isn't asking for pity, most kids my age unfortunately have had to go through this. This isn't new.

I started dating a mormon girl 10th grade year. It was good for a long while, but starting 11th year it got bad. She had awful anger management issues, and was incredibly vindictive. Not to mention that she guilted me into supressing my problems so I can help hers. For months I endured passive aggression and my own repression and fights and anger because I truly loved her. But last month I decided enough was enough. I cut it off. I am not of the LDS faith anymore, and that was a major part of the decision as she still is, but that wasn't really why.

Not to mention the hallucinations. For the last year I have had infrequent hallicunations of Wendigo's, i'm sure you know what those are, as well as paranoia. Just yesterday I got diagnosed with anxiety and depression induced psychosis. I took my meds for the first time today for the hallucinations and begin therapy Monday.

The point is, add all of this together with what has been happening in the world and the stress of me being asthmatic when a respiratory disease is running rampant, and i believe you can see why I am struggling. I have turned to our friend group of 7, A, to finally talk to my peers in healthy ways about my struggles and not face my ex's wrath. I'm really struggling and for once I feel like I have a good support network, one I only kind of get at home.

So why am I upset and hurt? Well, a lot things. A, I know you believe in witchcraft and paganism and that creepypastas like Slenderman and Jeff the Killer are real. Personally, I think it's not real in the slightest as it can't be empirically proven, but that isn't why I'm upset in these scenarios. I think your beliefs are a bit ridiculous, but I respect everyone's beliefs. You do you. It is how you have used your beliefs to inadvertently harm me.

I came out to the group as Bisexual. The deal is, 4 of the 6 of you gals all knew already. You didn't. The ones who already knew came out in support, and you were silent. No harm done, really. Felt kind of off, but oh well, I don't really care. You weren't vindictive and haven't been about it. The issue is, you came out as a witch to your parents and gave us the play by play expecting our comfort. The comfort you never afforded me. I still gave it, i remember the hell I went through when I came out as Bi to my parents and you shouldn't go through that alone. But it hurts, knowing it's one sided.

But that isn't all. Your parents wouldn't let you use a dating app, so you came to the group chat and said we needed to find you a boyfriend. That's my my place, find your own damn boyfriend. I am fresh out of an awful relationship and now a single Bisexual. Even if I wanted to think about anyone's relationships much less my own, do you think i would set you up with people I think were interesting? And not try to date them myself? But I was polite and told her the truth: I only talked to that friend group and one other person. A couple of others also respectfully declined to find you one. Then you had the fucking audacity to send in the chat a picture of you scowling and leaving at that. Not an emoji, no words, a picture of your actual face in pure disgust. That's when I got angry. How dare you demand I find you somebody. How dare you be that lazy and demand me, in my fucking disaster state, to do it for you.

Well then, let's address the mental issues I have. It isn't your fault, I want you to know. And any one of these instances is excusable, but together I don't think it is. I had a full on panic attack sitting two feet away from you and another friend, let's call her E. My paranoia was shooting through the roof, i felt like I was about to be killed and I couldn't breathe. E kept giving me concerned looks and mouthing if I was okay, in which I gave many half hearted thumbs up. She knew it was bullshit, but guess why she didn't say anything? Because you, A, were running off about how Slenderman is stalking you. You even said that paranoia and fear means he is around. Not that you believe that, that it is FACT. It was incredibly dehumanizing of you to tell me what I was experiencing in that exact moment was because some 2000's fictional monster was around. I didn't say anything, granted because I physically couldn't, but it's not your fault. But everyone I have ever met will tell you I wear my heart on my sleeve. So how you could sit next to me, who was silent and fighting tears and quietly trying to gasp for air and was shaking and was being quiet as to not bother you (thanks, ex), you ignored me. Not only that, you dehumanized the very reaction I was having. That really hurt, A. Unintentional or not, it hurt.

Not to mention when I made a meme of my full name on Kermit jumping off a cliff to commit suicide, I made that very clear in the meme. I posted it in the group chat. I know that is not a good way to reach out, but I haven't reached out to anyone in months, so it's better than I have in a long time. A, you just said "yeah" and moved on to some asinine topic. Others tried to bring it up but you steamrolled overthem with your rocks or Jeff the Killer or something. A very clear cry on my behalf for help, and you said "yeah". Thank you.

Then this morning. Last night I woke up around 1 AM absolutely panicked. Not able to breath, shaking, world spinning, sweats, everything. Like I was dropped right in the middle of my worst panic attack ever. I was sure SOMETHING was about to kill me. It took hours to feel safe, and i haven't slept since 1 AM. I posted in the chat that I couldn't sleep and needed to talk to somebody. It was late, but I needed somebody. I was vague, but I don't want to drop that i am psychotic in the middle of a group chat. Then you woke up around 9 and said "oh, I can't sleep most nights so I get your pain. I felt really sick last night and threw up." I don't mean to diminish your experiences, A. I don't know how hard it is for you. But I went through hell last night without any of my friends in the chat, I eventually got ahold of my sister. Then you have the audacity to come to me and say "I get it. I was ill last night, so I get it." Again, it could have been miserable for you. But you just ignored my cries for help AGAIN, and you tossed my pain out of view so you could go on about yourself AGAIN.

I've done so much to make you feel welcome. I wouldn't choose you as a friend, but you are in the group and as such have worked to make you feel like part of it. But you don't care about me. At least, it doesn't seem like you do. I have made it very clear multiple times that I am not okay (did I mention the time I posted things in that chat about me experiencing hallucinations and you didn't say a damn thing?) and you don't care.

I write this out here because you don't know what I'm going through, so I can't hold it all against you I guess. But with how dismissive you are I don't trust you with it. We will be nothing more than superficial friends, if that. I typed this out, so I'm going to take a deep breath and move on, I'll be civil and jovial with you. But you have hurt me deeply, and thus have lost my trust.

- Bryan

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noahsenpai · 4 years

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i just need to vent here for a quick sec. (tw: gender dysphoria)

if i’m being honest, dysphoria is probably the worst pain i’ve ever felt in my life. when i was younger, i accidentally stubbed my toe on a corner of a wall that had a nail sticking out of it, but you know what, dysphoria trumps that by at least a thousandfold. arguably, dysphoria is probably worse than the weight of every depressive episode i’ve ever gone through combined. possibly plus that and the severe anxiety i went through after the traumatizing car crash i was in last february as well.

don’t even get me started when it comes to my family. it’s frustrating, you know??? probably beyond frustrating, but i’m struggling for words right now bc i’m shaking. i struggle for 4+ years of depression COMPLETELY on my own without talking about it with my parents, and then when shit finally hits the fan and goes past the breaking point i’m finally taken to a therapist and a psychiatrist. however, when i tackle something as it is first presenting itself to me, and when i share my feelings after it hasn’t even been a year of juggling the thoughts accompanying this particular issue (gender dysphoria specifically), i’m pushed into a corner and forced to suck it up and basically deal with it on my own. i’m dismissed. my problems are dismissed. each day that goes by when my parents deadname or misgender me the less tolerant i get to it, and the less i care about the fact that it’s a new thing for them. as of right now that tolerance is thinner than a single strand of hair, if possible. i just wish they would listen to me. it’s fucking frustrating. it sucks major fucking balls, dude. the worst part is i don’t know what my next step is. do i share some resources about trans youth and studies on how transitioning DRASTICALLY decreases the suicidality of trans people or just throw together a research document of all these findings? do i ask them if i can see a person who specializes in gender? or do i just say fuck it and go to a clinic once i go back to school or even sometime before without consulting with them first?? I JUST DON’T KNOW ANYMORE. AND WHEN I DON’T KNOW ANYMORE I START LOSING HOPE AND IT’S WHEN THE BIG BAD DEPRESSION SWITCH IS FLIPPED ALL THE WAY ON. WHEN PEOPLE LOSE HOPE, THEY LOSE THE WILL TO LIVE. AND I AM UNFORTUNATELY GOING DOWN THAT SLIDE WITH EVERY PASSING DAY.

i felt so fucking good at school. i felt so fucking validated. i felt like myself. and to be thrown back into this household with people who do NOT validate me and who do NOT see me for who i really am is the biggest fucking shitshow i’ve ever had to experience firsthand. all my trans friends are validated by their families, and their families are validating towards me, except for my fucking ass at my fucking house. you know that passive eye roll that’s kinda just a gesture at surface level but it speaks a thousand words about what a person is feeling? that’s the kind of thing that (specifically) my mom does whenever i bring up my thoughts about my gender or any new updates on my trans friends’ lives that i feel is necessary to share with my parents. actions speak louder than words, right? this small one sure as hell does. it makes me want to shut the fuck up and not talk about anything anymore.

anyways it’s almost 2 am and i should probably go to sleep instead of disturbing all you lovely folks with this stupid ass vent but you know what? it feels like no ears are open to listen. i’m sorry if i sound overly angry as well, because damn it, i am. i am SO angry. there’s a time when you can’t hold back anymore, y’know? that’s now. anyways i sincerely love each and every single one of you guys and if you read this entire thing i love you even more. okay i’ll stop rambling now and y’all can get back to sleeping/eating/gaming/whatever you do at this time of night.

#noah rambles #tw: dysphoria

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sage-nebula · 5 years

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You used to be suicidal, but no longer are? That's really interesting. A lot of heavily depressed people (like me) never lose their death wish. Did you find a medication that works really well for you or something?

I did, but while the medicine has worked wonders and I wouldn’t trade it for anything, it isn’t just the medicine that helped me recover as much as I have. It was a necessary part of the process, but it didn’t work along.

I’ve spent most of my life being what I called “passively suicidal.” What this means is that I had thoughts every single day about how I should kill myself, how I would be better off dead, et cetera. This was on top of many other thoughts about how worthless I was, how ugly I was, how stupid I was, how no one liked me, and so on and so forth. Bear in mind that there were times when I was actively suicidal; I had everything ready to go and in my hands once when I was fifteen, and if not for my platonic soulmate catching my eyes right at the most pivotal moment I would have done it. But most of the time I was passively suicidal, and nothing seemed able to shake it. Even when I was attending therapy, while I knew what I was supposed to be doing to recover, I couldn’t bring myself to follow through for any given length of time. It just wasn’t enough, but at the time I was too scared of what medication could do to me (due to stories about how the wrong medication can worsen depression, and me fearing that it could turn my passive suicidal ideation active) to take it.

Last year, however, I saw Queer Eye: More Than a Makeover on Netflix. I’d seen others in the queer community talking positively about this show, and as a result of that and having nothing else to watch at the time, I decided to watch it. I am not joking when I say that Queer Eye---and more specifically the Fab 5 themselves---changed and saved my life. When the Fab 5 meet the nominated heroes and help them, they’re not just helping them dress better or take better care of their skin or whatever. That’s part of it, but the reason why that’s part of it is because they’re helping them improve their self-confidence, their self-love. The Fab 5 are all about self-care, self-love, self-acceptance, positivity, joy, and life. That’s not to say that everything is sunshine and flowers; they know firsthand how difficult life can be (Antoni himself suffers from severe depression and I think was an addict in the past), but they see beauty in all those they help, and want to help those very same people see the beauty in themselves. In the first episode of the first season, they help a man named Tom who keeps saying “you can’t fix ugly” in reference to himself. That’s something that I always said about myself. I’d accepted that I was ugly and that was just a fact of life. But the Fab 5 refused to let Tom believe that, and seeing that they saw the beauty in him, inside and out, and that they showed him ways to bring it out . . . seeing all the love they showered him with, that made me wonder if they’d react the same way to meeting me. It made me want to try the things they suggested, to give myself the love and care they’d want me to.

That said, I still have clinically diagnosed severe chronic depression, an anxiety disorder, and C-PTSD. So even though I wanted to try those things, actually putting it into practice was difficult. About a month or so after I watched their show, I had a panic attack that lasted for a week and a half straight. I am not exaggerating. Mentally I was not worried or anxious about anything, but my body went into panic mode and would not stop. From the time I woke up until the time I finally fell asleep I was having constant heart palpitations, hyperventilation, I couldn’t eat anything because my throat closed up every time I tried (I lost seven pounds during that week and a half) . . . it was hell. My suicidal ideation truly became active during this time because I thought that dying would be better than living in a state of constant panic. I started fantasizing about throwing myself in front of trains. But I knew that the Fab 5 would not want me to do that. I knew they would encourage me to seek help, so that I could live my best life. So knowing that even if the medicine messed me up more and I ended up killing myself it would just mean I was meeting the same fate either way, I scheduled an appointment with my doctor to see if I could get some medicine that would shut the physiological panic reactions off.

And it worked.

It worked wonders. I’ve had to adjust a couple of times since then, but taking an SSRI seriously helped change my life for the better. It took some time for my body to adjust; the first couple weeks were basically like spinning a roulette wheel every morning to see what side effect I’d be dealing with that day, and that wasn’t fun. But it did turn off the panic reactions, and it gave me enough of my energy and personality back to the point where I was finally, finally able to put the cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT) techniques that my therapist had taught me into proper practice. And that’s the final, very important piece of my recovery process.

Basically how it works is, your brain basically has its own internal cache. When you have the same thoughts over and over, these thoughts create neural pathways in your brain to make them more easily accessible. So when you think over and over and over again that you want to die, or that you hate yourself, or that you’re worthless or ugly, those thoughts get worn into your brain, and thus can pop up far more easily, as intrusive thoughts. Cognitive behavioral therapy is therapy designed to re-train and re-wire your brain. Whenever you have those negative thoughts, you have to counter them with a positive one. You have to do this over, and over, and over again, to wear those new habits into your brain and stamp out the old ones. It takes a long time, and a lot of hard work; every now and then, even a year later, I still have negative intrusive thoughts pop up sometimes. But I immediately smack them down with a positive one, and that has helped. Plus, sometimes it genuinely does so much to lift my mood. Like last summer, when I made a mistake at an airport that resulted in me going through some pretty stressful stuff, all to realize I’d done all of that for no reason, my immediate thought was, “I’m going to kill myself.” But as soon as I said that I said, “No, no I’m not, I’m going to buy myself a hot chocolate instead.” Then I went to one of the many Starbucks in the airport and did just that, and you know what? I felt so much better. Sure I had cried a bit before I got that hot chocolate, but once I showed myself that kindness, I felt so much better so much more quickly than I would have had I just left it at the “I’m going to kill myself” thought. It really did help.

Recovery is a very long process, and I don’t think it ever truly ends, particularly since mental illnesses are incurable and severe trauma is something that really sticks with you. But although recovery is a long journey, and though it’s certainly hard, it’s not impossible. I know there are people who think there will never be a light at the end of the tunnel; I’ve had someone very close to me take his own life just last year. But there is a light, there is a life worth living. Some of us have to fight harder to see it than others, which sucks, but so long as you stay determined and keep striving for it, you can get there. Your life will be so much better if you do.

So my advice to you is:

Watch Queer Eye, and internalize what the Fab 5 teach;

Talk to your doctor to see if there’s medication that’s right for you (I’ve heard you may have to try a few different ones to get to the right one; my getting it right on the first try was me being very lucky)

Practice cognitive behavioral therapy techniques, and see a therapist to help you if needed

It’s never too late to begin the recovery process for real. I was twenty-eight when I started. But in the grand scheme of things twenty-eight is still pretty young, I think, and even if it’s not, there’s still so much more life that’s better lived with an active desire to live it, rather than just living in a pit all the time.

It’s hard, but you can do it. I believe in you, and I truly wish you the best.

#suicide cw--//--#suicidal ideation cw---///--#recovery #Anonymous

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alivinghopes · 3 years

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Emotional Numbness

Weekly Discussion

At some point or another we’ve all heard these words before:

“Suck it up princess!” “Be a man!” “Stop being a cry-baby,” “Get over it,” “Stop being so sensitive,” “Get thicker skin!”

While these words were likely spoken without consciously intending us long-term harm, they nevertheless point to a common and undeniably tragic truth in our society: that expressing your emotions is a sign of weakness, rather than strength.

If you were born into an emotionally repressed culture that valued the “masculine” ideals of efficiency and logic, it is likely that you struggle with some level of emotional numbness.

If you were born into a family that shunned any form of strong emotional expression, it is even more likely that emotional numbing is an issue for you.

And if you experienced an extremely traumatic life event that was simply too overwhelming for you to handle (from which you haven’t recovered), I can almost guarantee that you suffer from emotional numbness.

So how does emotional numbness impact virtually every part of our life? And what advice can I share with you after going through my own struggle with this issue? Keep reading and you’ll find out.

What is Emotional Numbness?

Emotional numbness is a defense mechanism employed by the mind to avoid intense and overwhelming emotions such as fear, hatred, jealousy, and grief. When you go emotionally numb, you lose the ability to feel and experience your emotions on a psychological and emotional level. In this sense, emotional numbness is often clinically connected with dissociation, which is the disconnection from one’s memories, identity, environment, body, or senses.

What Causes Emotional Numbness?

As with most issues, emotional numbness goes back to childhood and the way we were raised by our parents. Being abused by our parents physically, emotionally, sexually, psychologically, or spiritually can contribute towards our inability to self-regulate emotions, which results in emotional numbness. Feeling alienated or disconnected from one or both of our parents, or family at large, can also contribute towards emotional numbness. Being punished whether directly or indirectly for expressing our emotions in childhood also creates emotional numbness.

Numbing our emotions may also start after a severely traumatic experience, such as witnessing acts of violence, being assaulted, experiencing rape, suffering intense loss, or anything that we didn’t have the capacity to psychologically and emotionally handle in the moment. For this reason, emotional numbness is often a symptom of PTSD and various anxiety disorders.

Emotional numbness is also influenced by our culture and wider social circles, particularly those that emphasize being stoic, rational, and emotionally invulnerable (e.g., British, Chinese, American, Russian).

The Danger of Emotional Numbness

If you even have the slightest inkling that you might be emotionally numb, it’s time to listen up. Emotional numbness is not a small character flaw or minor area of self-growth to improve in – it is a serious problem which needs to be addressed immediately.

Speaking from experience, emotional numbness has formed the root of many issues I have faced (and still continue to face) in my life. Due to my upbringing in an emotionally stunted, dogmatically religious family whom I felt disconnected from for the majority of my life, I never learned how to handle strong emotions. I was punished verbally, emotionally or physically anytime I expressed strong emotions, and freethinking or any form of dissent was rejected, resulting in being ostracized.

The combination of having a British father and a mother who was traumatized by her own emotionally unstable mother – on top of an oppressive fundamentalist religion – led to grooming me as a stoic and “stable” person who was taught that expressing emotions was not only bad but shameful.

As you can see, sometimes there are numerous factors at play that may contribute to your inability to regulate intense emotions, and therefore resort to unconsciously numbing them. In my case, I learned that strong emotions = punishment in one form or another, and so I learned that they were dangerous to experience.

The danger of disconnecting from your emotions is that it can lead to a host of mental, emotional, physical, and spiritual issues. Such issues may include dysfunctional coping mechanisms (obsessive compulsions), mild to severe depression, spiritual emptiness, inability to enjoy life, inability to form close and fulfilling relationships, disconnection from inner self, confusion, irritability, fatigue, addictions, chronic illnesses, and somatic illnesses (illnesses produced by the mind). In extreme cases (and I’m talking about situations where emotional contact is nil), emotional numbness can lead to acts of cruelty.

Why is it ‘the Secret Illness’?

I call emotional numbness the secret illness because it is so pervasive in our society, and so socially acceptable, that it often flies underneath the radar. In a society that largely doesn’t know how to handle strong emotions in healthy ways, being stoic and “level-headed” is valued – yet this very same calm and collected facade often conceals unhealthy detachment from one’s feelings. Thus, emotional numbness is a secret illness because so many of us struggle with it, yet don’t even realize that we have it until chronic issues start emerging.

13 Signs You’re Struggling With Emotional Numbness

Emotional detachment is not always a bad thing. It comes in handy when you need to maintain boundaries, avoid undesired energy overload from others, and even help others in crisis situations. But emotional detachment turns into its unhealthy twin (emotional numbness) when it becomes an automatic inner defense mechanism. “What’s so great about feeling strong emotions?” you might ask. The answer is that without feeling our emotions, we don’t have the capacity to live and learn from them or experience the beauty and depth of life.

Here are some of the most significant signs of emotional numbness that you should look out for:

Inability to express strong negative or positive emotions

Inability to “fully participate” in life (i.e., feeling like you’re a passive observer)

Feeling that life is like a dream (a sense unreality)

Living on autopilot

Lack of interest in activities others find enjoyable

Feeling distant from others

The tendency to withdraw from friends and family members

Emotions are only felt in the body as sensations, but not by the mind (or else are completely muted in the body and show up only as illness)

Dislike of people who express strong emotions (both positive and negative)

Not feeling anything in situations that would usually generate strong emotion

Panic or terror when strong emotions eventually breakthrough

Feeling empty inside

Physical and emotional numbness or “flatness”

In extreme circumstances (such as in PTSD sufferers), emotional numbness may even influence the desire to commit suicide. If you are considering suicide, please seek out support immediately.

How to Overcome Emotional Numbness?

Like any psychological defense mechanism, emotional numbing can be complex to deal with, and often requires support from a trained professional such as a therapist.

If you feel that emotional numbness is significantly impairing your life, please do an act of self-compassion and seek out support either locally or online (there are even free counselling services online).

For the time being, here are some helpful practices which I have personally found to increase my ability to feel, cope with, and express strong emotions:

Anchor yourself to your body. As mentioned above, emotional numbing is connected to dissociation (mental disconnection from one part of yourself). In my case, whenever I experience strong emotions, my automatic response is to either (a) only feel the emotions in my body, not my mind, or (b) to have a complete meltdown. In both cases, one of the best self-soothing mechanisms I’ve learned is to anchor myself to my body through mindfulness and physical contact. Similar to what a mother does with her child, I tightly but gently hold one area of my body – usually my hand or stomach. This method helps me to feel contained and grounded in my body. I also recommend using shapewear or a pressure vest to help you in extremely emotionally turbulent periods to anchor yourself to your body (here is a good example of shapewear). Shapewear is used by women and men to keep “love handles” and other body parts slim and defined. For our purposes, shapewear is like a hug to the body that will help you feel safe and ‘held together.’ Pressure vests are a little more expensive and they are used by people with sensory integration disorders (such as autism) to relax.

Deep breathing. Whether used alone or in conjunction with the above-mentioned technique, deep breathing is a simple and easy way to help you mindfully move through whatever you’re experiencing. This practice is particularly useful when intense feelings such as fear or rage break through. There are many books out there that talk about the importance of deep breathing (such as this one), and there are many online tutorials with breathing techniques. I recommend sticking to something simple, something you don’t have to think about too much, and something that doesn’t feel forced. The point of deep breathing isn’t to follow someone else’s technique perfectly, it is to use your breath (in whatever way suits you), to calm your mind and body. Also, I recommend breathing slowly, deeply, and softly instead of forcing deep breaths (which can increase anxiety) – let your breath be natural. Read more about how to relax using deep breathing.

Keep a journal of sad thoughts. I realize this suggestion may sound a tad bit melancholic, but it’s a practice worthy of your time and effort, particularly if you’re wanting to feel and express your emotions. Journaling is also a powerful form of shadow work (a way to express what you would usually suppress). In a physical journal or online diary, spend five to ten minutes every day writing down something which triggers even the slightest pang of sadness in you. For example, you might write down a memory of your dog who died, an issue in the world, something someone said to you, a scene from a movie, a daily struggle or virtually anything that is upsetting (or what you imagine would be upsetting). Creating a sad thoughts diary has two main benefits. One, it helps you express your emotions, even if in an indirect way at first. And two, it acts as a catalyst for feeling and letting out your emotions, particularly when you need momentum (I’ll elaborate more on this soon). Always try to finish your sad thought journaling with something uplifting, like reading the uplifting news subreddit, spending time with someone you love, playing with a pet, or watching something entertaining on YouTube or Netflix.

Catharsis (let it all out, baby!). When emotionally numbing ourselves becomes our default defense mechanism, we tend to have a huge amount of suppressed emotion lying just beneath our conscious awareness. In order to safely and effectively express your suppressed emotions, try some form of catharsis. Catharsis may involve screaming into or punching a pillow, using your sad thoughts journal (mentioned above) to stimulate sadness and crying, intense emotional-fuelled exercise, impassioned dancing, or dynamic meditation. Regular catharsis should be a must on your journey. Without regularly ‘letting it all out,’ you run the risk of experiencing the repercussions of festering emotions (i.e., depression, emptiness, chronic illness, etc.).

Yoga and self-massage. Yoga is a well-known way of helping to clear and balance your energy. Not only that, but yoga often has a way of releasing emotions stored in the body. I recommend doing slow and gentle forms of yoga such as Hatha yoga for at least ten minutes a day. Remember, the goal isn’t to become some Instagram-perfect yoga star; it is to connect with your body, mind, and heart. The truth is that our unexpressed and repressed emotions are often stored within our bodies. I like to think of our bodies as being reflections of our unconscious mind: they are maps that help us to figure out what we are keeping locked away, and what unresolved issues we need to face. In my article about chronic muscle tension, I list the nine types of emotions trapped in different areas of the body. In order to release these emotions, I regularly use something called the ‘Acuball’ to introduce fresh blood flow and energy into these tense areas. I like the Acuball because it gives me a deep tissue massage, while also helping me to stay grounded in my body, relax, and release pent-up stress. (You can get the Acuball here).

Creatively express your feelings (or lack thereof). Write a song, doodle in a journal, paint a picture, create a collage, find some way of expressing what emotion you last felt. If you struggle to feel anything at all, express that artistically. Grab those greys and blacks and turn that damn page into your own work of art. Pay attention to how you feel afterward. Does even the slightest feeling of satisfaction enter you? Journal about these emotions.

Take care of your inner child. As it was your child self that likely copped the trauma that caused you to default to emotional numbing, take care of this part of you. Practice inner child work and find ways of comforting and nurturing this vulnerable place within you. You may even like to create empowering affirmations for your inner child to help him or her access emotions. For example, you might repeat to yourself when you are in a difficult circumstance, “It is OK for me to feel,” “It is safe for me to feel sad,” “My anger is valid,” “Being vulnerable is being strong,” and so forth.

Dedicate space and time to feeling. In our busy lives, it is very easy to numb and distract ourselves with social media, the TV, shopping, food, social commitments, and other things that constantly cause us to look outside. Looking inside is much harder and requires far more self-discipline, hence why most people don’t do it. If you are serious about overcoming your emotional numbness, you will need to dedicate space and time to all of the activities I have mentioned in this article. If you struggle with self-discipline, I recommend making yourself externally accountable by joining a meditation group or other practice to help you turn inwards. Please don’t skip this step, it is imperative that you spend time exploring your inner self, and in particular, what you are repressing and why.

ㅤ

Emotional Numbness Q&A

Here are some commonly asked questions about emotional numbness. Hopefully they’ll answer any remaining concerns or thoughts you may have about this topic:

What causes emotional detachment?

The simple answer is trauma. Usually, emotional detachment (or numbness) can be linked to early childhood experiences such as being abused mentally, emotionally, sexually, or physically. However, not everyone who experiences emotional detachment had tough childhoods. Sometimes, other traumatizing experiences later in life can trigger emotional detachment as a protective mechanism (such as divorce, job loss, rape, illnesses, war, etc.).

Can numbness be a sign of anxiety?

Yes, emotional numbness can mask intense feelings of anxiety – it’s the mind’s way of protecting itself from being flooded by overwhelming emotions. Numbness is a primal reaction to fear and is also known as the freeze response. There are three main reactions to anxiety-provoking situations that we have: fight, flight, and freeze.

How to fix emotional numbness?

To fix, or rather regain the ability to feel again, it’s important to be gentle with yourself. Try reconnecting with your body, practicing deep breathing, doing some catharsis, journaling, and creating a safe environment for yourself. Seeking out professional support is usually crucial, as emotional numbness is usually a major sign of a traumatized nervous system. To regulate your nervous system, you need a safe holding environment, which a professional therapist/counsellor can provide.

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olgagarmash · 3 years

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You’ve probably heard that the coronavirus pandemic triggered a worldwide mental-health crisis. This narrative took hold almost as quickly as the virus itself. In the spring of 2020, article after article—even an op-ed by one of us—warned of a looming psychological epidemic. As clinical scientists and research psychologists have pointed out, the coronavirus pandemic has created many conditions that might lead to psychological distress: sudden, widespread disruptions to people’s livelihoods and social connections; millions bereaved; and the most vulnerable subjected to long-lasting hardship. A global collapse in well-being has seemed inevitable.

We joined a mental-health task force, commissioned by The Lancet, in order to quantify the pandemic’s psychological effects. When we reviewed the best available data, we saw that some groups—including people facing financial stress—have experienced substantial, life-changing suffering. However, looking at the global population on the whole, we were surprised not to find the prolonged misery we had expected.

We combed through close to 1,000 studies that examined hundreds of thousands of people from nearly 100 countries. This research measured many variables related to mental health—including anxiety, depression, and deaths by suicide—as well as life satisfaction. We focused on two complementary types of evidence: surveys that examined comparable groups of people before and during the pandemic and studies tracking the same individuals over time. Neither type of study is perfect, but when the same conclusions emerged from both sets of evidence, we gained confidence that we were seeing something real.

Early in the pandemic, our team observed in these studies what the media was reporting: Average levels of anxiety and depression—as well as broader psychological distress—climbed dramatically, as did the number of people experiencing clinically significant forms of these conditions. For example, in both the U.S. and Norway, reports of depression rose three-fold during March and April of 2020 compared with averages collected in previous years. And in a study of more than 50,000 people across the United Kingdom, 27 percent showed clinically significant levels of distress early in the pandemic, compared with 19 percent before the pandemic.

Read: This is not a normal mental-health disaster

But as spring turned to summer, something remarkable happened: Average levels of depression, anxiety, and distress began to fall. Some data sets even suggested that overall psychological distress returned to near-pre-pandemic levels by early summer 2020. We share what we learned in a paper that is forthcoming in Perspective on Psychological Science.

We kept digging into the data to account for any anomalies. For example, some of the data sets came disproportionately from wealthy countries, so we expanded our geographic lens. We also considered that even if the pandemic didn’t produce intense, long-term distress, it might have undercut people’s overall life satisfaction. So, members from our team examined the largest data set available on that topic, from the Gallup World Poll. This survey asks people to evaluate their life on a 10-point scale, with 10 being the best possible life and zero being the worst. Representative samples of people from most of the world’s countries answer this question every year, allowing us to compare results from 2020 with preceding years. Looking at the world as a whole, we saw no trace of a decline in life satisfaction: People in 2020 rated their lives at 5.75 on average, identical to the average in previous years.

We also wondered if the surveys weren’t reaching the people who were struggling the most. If you’re barely holding things together, you might not answer calls from a researcher. However, real-time data from official government sources in 21 countries showed no detectable increase in instances of suicide from April to July 2020, relative to previous years; in fact, suicide rates actually declined slightly within some countries, including the U.S. For example, California expected to see 1,429 deaths by suicide during this period, based on data from prior years; instead, 1,280 occurred.

We were surprised by how well many people weathered the pandemic’s psychological challenges. In order to make sense of these patterns, we looked back to a classic psychology finding: People are more resilient than they themselves realize. We imagine that negative life events—losing a job or a romantic partner—will be devastating for months or years. When people actually experience these losses, however, their misery tends to fade far faster than they imagined it would.

The capacity to withstand difficult events also applies to traumas such as living through war or sustaining serious injury. These incidents can produce considerable anguish, and we don’t want to minimize the pain that so many suffer. But study after study demonstrates that a majority of survivors either bounce back quickly or never show a substantial decline in mental health.

Human beings possess what some researchers call a psychological immune system, a host of cognitive abilities that enable us to make the best of even the worst situation. For example, after breaking up with a romantic partner, people may focus on the ex’s annoying habits or relish their newfound free time.

Lucy McBride: By now, burnout is a given

The pandemic has been a test of the global psychological immune system, which appears more robust than we would have guessed. When familiar sources of enjoyment evaporated in the spring of 2020, people got creative. They participated in drive-by birthday parties, mutual-assistance groups, virtual cocktail evenings with old friends, and nightly cheers for health-care workers. Some people got really good at baking. Many found a way to reweave their social tapestry. Indeed, across multiple large data sets, levels of loneliness showed only a modest increase, with 13.8 percent of adults in the U.S. reporting always or often feeling lonely in April 2020, compared with 11 percent in spring 2018.

But these broad trends and averages shouldn’t erase the real struggles—immense pain, overwhelming loss, financial hardships—that so many people have faced over the past 17 months. For example, that 2.8 percent increase in the number of Americans reporting loneliness last spring represents 7 million people. Like so many aspects of the pandemic, the coronavirus’s mental-health toll was not distributed evenly. Early on, some segments of the population—including women and parents of young children—exhibited an especially pronounced increase in overall psychological distress. As the pandemic progressed, lasting mental-health challenges disproportionately affected people who were facing financial issues, individuals who got sick with COVID-19, and those who had been struggling with physical and mental-health disorders prior to the pandemic. The resilience of the population as a whole does not relieve leaders of their responsibility to provide tangible support and access to mental-health services to those people who have endured the most intense distress and who are at the greatest ongoing risk.

But the astonishing resilience that most people have exhibited in the face of the sudden changes brought on by the pandemic holds its own lessons. We learned that people can handle temporary changes to their lifestyle—such as working from home, giving up travel, or even going into isolation—better than some policy makers seemed to assume.

As we look ahead to the world’s next great challenges—including a future pandemic—we need to remember this hard-won lesson: Human beings are not passive victims of change but active stewards of our own well-being. This knowledge should empower us to make the disruptive changes our societies may require, even as we support the individuals and communities that have been hit hardest.

via Wealth Health

#IFTTT #Wealth Health

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lukeccrain · 6 years

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»running to stand still

chapter: 1/? word count: 2.9 k pairing: stanlon side pairings: reddie (probably more to come) rating: T, language, mention of violence, self harm, suicide ao3 version: here summary: who knew they made you go to therapy after you try to kill yourself?

tag list: @slaytherin @eddie-kaspbraked @billbenbev

Stan Uris did not want to get out of bed.

Of course, he had woken up in this same predicament every morning for the last year. But today, he didn’t want to get out of bed more than usual. In the light that filtered through his half-closed blinds, Stan could make out the calendar that hung above his desk. The month of October was marked by a green-headed tanager perched delicately on a branch, head cocked slightly as if to ask, “what’s the problem, Stan?”

The problem, Stan thought miserably, is that I have to get out of bed and see the concern on my roommates’ face as I head to therapy.

He could already envision Eddie’s mouth twisting before finally settling into a toothless smile, eyebrows knitted in concern. He would splutter before offering Stan a yogurt cup, or toast, or some other breakfast food he wouldn’t accept. He would try to maintain eye contact, but his gaze would slowly descend until it rested on his forearms. Stan always wore long sleeves, but they both knew what marred the skin beneath.

Richie, on the other hand, would greet him too loudly, gesticulate too wildly, and look him in the eye too rarely. To an acquaintance, their interactions would appear to be nothing out of the ordinary. Richie’s jokes were always airy and casual, but the tightness that clipped each word betrayed his true feelings. Stan was one of Richie’s best friends, but he was also a stranger that Richie wasn’t quite comfortable being himself in front of.

Overall, the prospect of facing Eddie and Richie this morning was perhaps just as debilitating as therapy.

The green-headed tanager stared back at Stan with blank, black eyes. “Well, Stan. What did you expect after a stunt like that?”

Fuck you, bird.

Stan pushed the duvet aside and brushed a quick hand through his curls. His fingers caught on the knots that had formed no doubt due to all the tossing and turning he had done during the night. He grimaced slightly before forcing himself to roll out of bed and stumble into his on-suite bathroom. As he brushed his teeth, Stan listened to the dull thumping of footsteps and the clattering of pans above him. Every now and again, an easy laugh would disrupt the sound of kitchen puttering. While the sound of his roommates’ domesticity had at one point elicited feelings of comfort in Stan, it was now a source of anxiety. The low hum of conversation caused the ever-present knots that lived in Stan’s stomach to tighten.

Once he had showered, combed his hair, and dressed (a long-sleeved eggshell button-up and slacks), Stan grabbed his keys and began the ascent up the basement stairs.

He had moved into the basement of Eddie and Richie’s cramped, 1970s townhouse after Patty had left him. They had insisted that he wasn’t intruding, and Stan had insisted it was only going to be for a month or two, tops. “Don’t worry Stannie,” Richie had smirked, “we knew it was only a matter of time before Pat came to her senses. Stay as long as you need.”

That had been nearly two years ago. Eddie and Richie had never griped or even asked when Stan had intended on moving out, not even passively. In fact, they actually enjoyed having Stan as their live-in third wheel. He was tidy and quiet, and was willing to clean the bathroom; a task that had been a source of constant bickering for Eddie and Richie before Stan had moved in. He had been a model roommate up until the oday when Eddie had found him in the tub of the upstairs bathroom. After that, Stan’s friends had been a little bit warier of his lodging. He couldn’t blame them.

“Morning,” Stan greeted as he emerged into the narrow kitchen. Eddie swiveled his head to greet him over his shoulder from his position in front of the stove. His lips curved upwards, but his eyebrows furrowed. “Hey, Stan,” he hesitated for a moment, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled for words. Finally, he settled on: “How’re you feeling about today?”

Before Stan could offer any sort of response, Richie had slapped his hand against the kitchen table, making the plate of waffles perched in front of him shudder. “He’s probably feeling great, Eds! He’s about to re-enact a real-life porno.” Richie spun his fork between his fingers, wriggling his eyebrows as he looked over the top of his glasses in mock seduction. “And how does this make you feel, Mr. Uris?” Stan rolled his eyes, swatting the side of Richie’s head lightly as he squeezed between the two boys, and towards the front door. “Beep, beep, Rich.”

As he pulled on his jacket, Stan pretended not to notice the look that was exchanged between the two. “You’re not gonna have breakfast? I made waffles,” Eddie questioned in a voice that was probably supposed to come off as breezy and casual. “Yeah, they’re kosher…whatever the fuck that means,” Richie added, but he stared down at his own plate as he spoke. For a fleeting moment, Stan wanted to scream at him to just fucking look him in the eye, but the urge dissipated just as quickly as it had arisen.

“I’m not really hungry. Probably the meds.” Eddie bit his lip, quiet for a moment. Stan had a hand rested on the doorknob, but knew that the conversation wasn’t quite over. He was almost certain that Eddie had spent nights researching SSRIs and tricyclics, and the difference between the two. He would know every single side-effect, and how to tell when the dosage needed to be upped. All of Eddie’s research was poised on the tip of his tongue- Stan could see it struggling to escape. But Eddie swallowed it, put on the same timid smile, and gestured towards the fridge with his spatula.

“Fair enough. Do you wanna take a yogurt cup for later? Richie picked up Oikos, and I think there’s some key lime left.”

And so, Stan had left that morning with a cup of Greek yogurt that he knew he wouldn’t eat in his jacket pocket, and Richie and Eddie’s worried eyes burning into the back of his scalp.

Stan’s appointment was downtown, a fifteen-minute drive that came and went much too quickly for his liking. He had always enjoyed driving, as it had given him some menial task to focus on instead of the spin-cycle of thoughts that tumbled fervently through his head. He had needed that reprieve this morning, and for a moment he thought wistfully of Patty’s luxury apartment that sat at the edge of the city in a neighbourhood that was too new to have garnered any sort of name for itself. From there, it would’ve taken Stan an extra forty-five minutes of driving. He fantasized about those forty-five minutes as he parked the car in the near-empty lot, and trudged into 1435 Cotswold Avenue.

The lobby was what was to be expected from any walk-in clinic; plastic chairs in an assortment of unappealing tans and burgundies lined up against the walls, a variety of out-of-date People and Good Housekeeping magazines fanned out across a glass coffee table, and a handful of eclectic clients with eyes desperate to look anywhere but at another person. It was exactly what Stan had expected.

He approached the counter, and was greeted by a plump middle-aged woman. She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose once he neared. She offered a polite smile, and Stan noticed that she had bright pink lipstick on her right incisor. “May I help you?” “Uh, yeah. I have an appointment with Dr. Morgan for ten.”

Stan focused on the pamphlets for seasonal depression and borderline personality disorder as the receptionist typed something into her computer. The models stared back at him with blank eyes and big, cheesy grins. “Stanley Uris?” He gave up on his staring contest with the pamphlets and met her expectant gaze. He nodded once, which prompted her to type furiously once more.

“Right, well you’re right on time! Dr. Morgan’s nine o’clock cancelled, so you should be able to walk right in.” Stan mustered a grateful smile, though something in his stomach churned as he followed the woman across the waiting room and towards a long, carpeted hallway. Stan counted three doors before they stopped in front of one that had DR. K. MORGAN engraved into a silver plaque. The receptionist knocked twice before opening the door enough to poke her head in.

“Dr. Morgan, your ten o’clock is here.”

There was a mumbled response that Stan couldn’t quite make out before the receptionist pushed the door open and stepped aside. She smiled happily as he passed, and he offered her a soft, breathless thank you.

The woman sitting behind the desk was young, perhaps mid-thirties. Her blonde hair was pulled into a ponytail, and she surveyed Stan with warm blue eyes as he tentatively made his way into her office. Dr. Morgan stood to greet him, and held out her right hand.

“You must be Stanley. I’m Dr. Morgan.” Her voice was soft with cordial; a feature that no doubt came with dealing with suicidal individuals for a living. It wasn’t unpleasant. Stan reached across her desk and pumped her hand up and down twice. “Nice to meet you. Stan’s fine.”

She nodded with a smile, and gestured him towards two overstuffed armchairs by the window. “Okay, Stan. Did you wanna take a seat?”

No, I want to leave, Stan thought despondently as he obliged. It wasn’t that he had anything against therapy; he wanted nothing more than to walk out cured of any negative thought or compulsion that had ever possessed him. However, the issue was that he believed himself to be entirely beyond the sort of help that Dr. Morgan could offer. Stan prided himself as a logician; someone who held rationality above all. What his rational mind was telling him was that there was no possible way things were going to get better. He had crunched the numbers, done the research and played with the algorithms, and the unfortunate result was that there was no way to crawl out of this pessimistic hole he seemed to find himself in. Really, the only reason he even made the appointment in the first place was to ease Eddie’s anxiety, not his own.

Dr. Morgan lowered herself down into the armchair opposing him, crossed one leg over the other, and balanced a clipboard on top of her thigh. There was a black pen poised in her left hand, ready to write down the Tragic Story of Stanley Uris. Stan quickly swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat.

“Okay, Stan, I’d like to begin by just asking you a couple of questions about yourself. How old are you?”

These were the types of questions that Stan had no problem answering: age, occupation, where he lived and who he lived with, had he ever seen a therapist before (twenty-three, university student, 2174 Osler Avenue in a basement suite, two roommates, Eddie and Richie, a counselor once or twice in high school…). They were easy and semantic, and he rattled them off like he was reciting numerals from his calculator in a maths class. He felt at ease for the first time since he walked in the door.

“Okay, good. And why are you here today?”

The confidence that Stan had garnered suddenly dissipated from underneath him.

“P-pardon me?”

Dr. Morgan, who had been scribbling furiously before this, lifted her ballpoint pen from the paper and peered up at him with a lopsided smile.

“Well, most people don’t just wake up in the morning and suddenly decide they’re going to try therapy. Usually there’s something that spurs them, you know? What was that spurring moment for you?”

Stan felt the words bubble and catch in his throat. He had never said it out loud; he’d never had to. Everyone knew what had happened, and everyone worried about him, but nobody wanted to say why. This was especially true for Stan. He stared back at Dr. Morgan for a moment, frozen, before clearing his throat, forcing the words to detach themselves from the back of his mouth.

“I tried to kill myself.”

Dr. Morgan began writing once more, her eyes focused on her notes as she asked, “how?”

“I, uh…I slit my wrists in the bathtub.”

The words hung in the air for a moment, heavy with the weight of all that had that transpired after that one day. Stan felt an icy feeling well in his chest, and he watched his therapist continue to write without a moment’s hesitation. Once she had finished, she leaned back in her chair to survey him. She wasn’t smiling anymore, but her eyes conveyed something akin to compassion.

“Right, okay…and what compelled you to do that?”

The answered seemed pretty obvious to Stan.

“I didn’t want to live anymore.”

“Well, sometimes people will attempt suicide for other reasons, sometimes as a cry for help. Did you tell someone, or leave a note?”

Stan shook his head, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

“No…my roommate found me.”

Dr. Morgan’s eyebrows furrowed, and she tapped her pen twice against her lips.

“You said earlier that you lived in the basement. Did you do it in that bathroom?”

“No, the upstairs one.”

Stan didn’t understand why it mattered which bathroom he tried to kill himself in, but apparently it was important because Dr. Morgan was scribbling again. He was tempted to lean forward and catch a glimpse of her scrawlings. Before he could do so, however, Dr. Morgan had set down her pen and crossed her arms on top of her clipboard.

“Well, Stan, here’s what I’m thinking. The upstairs bathroom is your roommates’, right? If you really didn’t want anyone to find you, I think you would’ve slit your wrists in the bathroom in the basement; that’s your own personal space, and no one would have any reason to go in there until he realized you were missing, and that wouldn’t be for at least a day. Do you think it’s possible that you did it upstairs because you wanted to be found?”

Stan thought about the question, mulling it over in his head. Did he want Eddie to find him, arms opened from the top of his wrists to the crook of his elbows? Eddie hated blood, and apparently there had been quite a lot that day. Stan felt bad that he had probably scarred him for life. He had only wanted to hurt himself, not Eddie and Richie.

“No, I wanted to die in the sunlight. There’s no windows in the downstairs bathroom, but there’s one above the tub upstairs.”

His answer was steely, but a knowing smile played at Dr. Morgan’s lips. It trigged a spasm of annoyance in Stan. Who was she to question the motives behind his suicide attempt? There was no crying for help about it- Stan Uris had really and truly wanted to die that day. Sometimes, he still did.

“That’s fair. But can you do me a favour, and just consider that idea between now and our next session?”

He nodded, but was trying to cram the notion into the depths of his subconscious at that same moment.

The remainder of the session was spent talking about his depression, family history and how he was feeling on his medication. Dr. Morgan had stopped probing, and didn’t mention his suicide attempt again. Since she was a professional, Stan assumed that she could tell when she had crossed a line with a patient. Still, he knew that the topic was probably going to come up again next week, and so the anxiousness that had emerged did not wane.

At eleven, Dr. Morgan stood and tucked her notes underneath her arm.

“Okay, Stan. I think that this was a very promising first session. Should I expect you the same time next week?”

Stan nodded meekly as he raised himself from the armchair. He quickly shrugged into his jacket in an attempt to ward off the complete feeling of vulnerability. Dr. Morgan held her hand out once more, and smiled as he grasped it.

“And, Stan…will you please think about what we talked about today? Even if you don’t think it’s true at all?”

Stan mumbled some sort of affirmation, before fumbling with the doorknob and retreating out of her office. He felt like his ears had been stuffed with cotton, and his throat was raw as if he had been swallowing sandpaper all morning. He knew what Dr. Morgan had said wasn’t true, but it still bothered him.

“Hey, man. You okay?”

Stan’s eyes flicked upward and he pursed his lips. A black boy, about the same age as he was, looked up at him from behind the receptionist’s desk. He looked concerned, but not in the same way that Eddie or Richie did; not like he was a piece of fine china that was about to splinter at any moment, but like he was a genuine person who appeared to be upset. The boy’s lips curved into a smile, his eyebrows raised.

“Yeah…f-fine,” Stan finally spluttered, his hands retreating into his jacket pockets. The fingers on his right wrapped around the yogurt cup and squeezed instinctively. The man’s grin grew.

“Alright, just making sure. See you next week, then!”

Stan managed to reciprocate a gentle smile of his own as he shouldered the door to the building open.

Yeah, I guess you will.

#fsjdhdfdkjsdf #IM REALLY NERVOUS #i havent written a proper fic in fucking years #hopefully you guys like it??#stanlon #stan uris #mike hanlon #stanley uris #it (movie)#it (2017)#stephen king's it #my writing #fic: rtss #tw: self harm #tw: sucide mention

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yoursummerfrost · 7 years

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sidogosidhgjkv hi it’s OFC day for @omgcpwomenfest so I wanted to introduce everyone to Shani, a character I created for the fic I’m publishing this weekend but will probably appear in future stories too! Have some random headcanons that are sort of AU-flexible and don’t always apply (notably, in future stories Shani might be poly but in her original story she’s monogamous).

Feel free to send me asks or message me about Shani! I love her so much! Going under the cut bc it got long af.

Shanelle “Shani” Grady-Troy

Shani is a Black woman who grew up in Long Island and loves sports

Her favorite is baseball because she used to play it with her dad

She played softball for a while but she was pretty solidly mediocre and gave it up

She has a lot of hangups about achievement and struggles to find something she enjoys worthwhile if she isn’t fantastic at it

Softball was never going to get her a college scholarship but her grades could so she put everything she had into those

She also likes hockey, but she prefers women’s hockey to men’s and she chirps Jeff and Kent about it constantly

As for men’s teams, though, she likes the Mets and the Islanders the most, and psuedo-begrudgingly cheers for whatever team Jeff is playing for at the time

She and Kent bond over their love for the Mets because Kent grew up in Brooklyn. One time Jeff mentions how A-rod seems pretty chill and he nearly doesn’t survive the combined assault

As the name implies, she’s married to Kent’s mysterious teammate, Jeff Troy

They met in like 2005 in New York, when Troy still played for the Rangers

But they didn’t get married until 2010

Shani rejected Troy’s first proposal because she was still in school

If you asked her what she thinks about fighting in the NHL she’d condemn it loudly and whole-heartedly

But she’s secretly kinda into it

She shares exactly one (1) secret with Eric R. Bittle more on their relationship later and it’s this and only bc he admits he’s into it first

She likes fussing over Jeff when he comes home with bruises and shit

It makes her feel like the heroine in a superhero movie

Shani is a Nurse Practitioner who works in the ER

She’s a badass and she sees a counselor on a semi-regular basis because the ER is rough and it takes its toll whether you’re a badass or not

She’s unapologetic about the fact she has a therapist

She’s also unapologetically bisexual and it took her a long time to get there but she will Take No Shit about it now

When things started getting serious with Jeff some of her queer friends gave her a hard time

She felt like she was betraying her queerness by dating a dude and betraying her Blackness by dating a white dude

But she had other friends in the community who were more supportive and she realized that she wasn’t the one erasing herself

She ends up staying with Jeff and most of her friends apologized for their bierasure when she stood up for herself

Jeff identifies as straight but is definitely the Overly Invested Ally stereotype and usually has a Bi Awakening at some point, but until then this conversation happens a lot:

Shani: the Straights are at it again

Jeff: but babe I’m straight

Shani: I know and I love you anyway

Shani being openly bisexual is one of the reasons Jeff (and her, by extension) is the first person Kent comes out to in Vegas

Shani likes plans

Jeff has zero plans. He jokes that his wife has enough plans for the both of them. Shani is unironically pleased by this truth

Shani has plans for situations in the ER, for every vacation their family will ever take, for emergencies with their children

She also has a plan for when her fiance’s favorite rookie shows up at their door suicidal at 3 am because God forbid they’re unprepared for that one again

Shani will always love plans but she’s learning to be a little more flexible

In universes where they’re poly she’s in charge of scheduling and making sure everyone has comfy boundaries etc

Her relationship with Kent fluctuates based on the circumstances but she’s always super protective of him and platonically affectionate

They have the cutest cheek kisses and cuddle sessions

In ‘verses where Jeff and Kent are dating, Shani and Kent still don’t have a sexual relationship it’s just not Them

They probably try it once like

They’ll be snuggling on the couch and a little tipsy from some wine with dinner and just look at each other. And they lean in and kiss, and when they pull away they just look at each other and go “Nahh” and go back to chirping Jeff for his terrible fashion sense

She’s very aware of the fact that her husband is Gone on her and has been since they met, and she’s super secure in their relationship

Jeff is worried when he starts getting closer to Kent at first and he always asks Shani if she’s okay with stuff

Jeff: Um. Hi babe. Would it be okay if I cuddled with Kent sometimes? He just seems so lonely sometimes and–

Shani: Kent Parson is a Sad Boy who deserves to be swaddled with affection at literally all times and I would be disappointed if you didn’t want to cuddle him.

Jeff: ….so yes?

Shani: Yes thank you for asking

She worries about Kent sometimes though especially if Jeff hasn’t had his Bisexual Awakening yet

Kent is definitely lowkey crushing on Jeff and she doesn’t want Kent to get hurt

It can get a little manipulative when Kent’s mental illnesses aren’t being well controlled and Shani struggles with being sensitive to it without letting her and Jeff be taken advantage of

Shani doesn’t like Bitty at first

She has a fundamental mistrust of White Southern Boys who are too polite and nice all the time

Kent: Eric Bittle is a ray of sunshine who’s never done anything wrong in his entire life

Shani: Seems Fake But Okay

It’s not that she doesn’t think Bitty’s a good person it’s just that she likes people who say what they mean and Bitty Does Not Do That

She can’t tell when he’s being genuine because everything is hidden behind 72.5 layers of passive-aggression and pettiness and southern charm

It’s unsettling just say how you feel god dammit

Jeff kindly tries to remind her that Kent Parson only says what he means an approximate 45.32% of the time

she ignores him entirely

Also she can tell Kent is 3000% in love with Bitty and if he breaks Kent’s heart Shani will destroy him

She doesn’t really come around until she realizes how genuinely happy Bitty makes Kent and that he’s in this for the long haul like Kent is

They’re never best friends but they can get along just fine

Shani doesn’t like Jack either but she kind of does

Jack is like the opposite of Bitty in that Shani likes him as a person but has a hard time forgiving what he did to Kent

Jeff kindly tries to remind her that Kent was also a certifiable asshole to Jack on multiple occasions

she ignores him entirely

She has a devastating sense of humor that basically just involves dragging everyone she loves at all times

She’s also super nosy and can and will find out everything about your life

She doesn’t gossip about Important things though

She will absolutely tell the story about the time Kent burned a pot of spaghetti and set off their fire alarm at literally every opportunity but she will take his sexuality to her fucking grave

Has no problems spending Jeff’s money and letting him spoil her but also would never give up her career

It’s not like she thinks something would happen between them but she’s also not stupid and she knows no one thinks their marriage will end in a nasty divorce or–

she doesn’t like to think about the other terrible way marriages can end but she’s prepared for it, is the thing

So she wants to have a career she can support herself and the kids with if she needs to

She also genuinely likes being a nurse even if it runs her into the ground

This is like the one thing she and Bitty bond over

How do you be your own person and feel successful when your partner is literally a millionaire?

Speaking of kids Shani and Jeff have two children and she loves them endlessly

She suffered from a pretty awful bout of postpartum depression after the birth of their first child and went to therapy (outside of her normal counseling) for it

She still carries a lot of shame for that even though she’s trying to forgive herself and accept that it wasn’t her fault

When she was pregnant with her second kid she was terrified she’d go through it again

She almost didn’t want to conceive again and they talked about adoption instead but in the end she decided to get pregnant

She wasn’t clinically depressed after the second pregnancy but didn’t feel great, either

She’s iffy on having a third kid anyway but she’ll definitely adopt this time if they do

She just doesn’t like being pregnant or the aftermath of pregnancy

She’d rather skip forward to the blowing raspberries on tummies and changing diapers parts

This got like really long lmao and I still feel like I said way less than I meant to?? Seriously come chat w me about her if you want she’s great.

#can't learn to leave #omgcpwomenfest #suicidal mention #original character #original female character #original poc character #depression mention #postpartum depression mention #Shani Grady-Troy #I wrote a ficlet

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