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darksiders-scenarios · 4 years

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Welcome back love, I would love you see your take on yandere horsemen (which honestly sounds like the most terrifying thing ever).

Thank you <3 I tried my best, it was indeed a challenge to write therefore I don’t think they’ve come out as terrifying as should be expected xD Forgive the broken english, as always!

Trigger warning.

Death

His obsession became cemented after his sacrifice. His consciousness broke, shred by shred along with the last vestiges of his sanity crumbling to meld with the churning ragefire of the Well of Souls. Amidst the sea of chaos, souls flaring around and pouring inside him, only yours shone the brightest from afar, like a sacred star. He felt your emotional loss, your pain, your despair, your love for him, unrestrained and pure - like the sweetest wine, like the most refreshing breeze, like the- the- he... he couldn't explain the sheer intensity of his euphoria at that moment. He chased it, seeking it, grasping it by the fingertips until the very end. In his last moments of mortality, he knew then what he had been missing his entire life. And he would not make that same mistake upon his rebirth.

You are revered as the saviour of humanity, a symbol of hope. Monuments are erected in your honour. You are the centre of attention. Attention. Attention. Attention.

Of course, this “misunderstanding” is not your fault. However, you are human, therefore you are not without flaws. You can be stolen from him. Harsh tremors rack Death’s body. You can love another. He forces back the bile that rises in this throat.

He pines for your flesh, for your attention. You always catch him staring at you with something akin to rapture.

Death casts himself as the saviour - reminding you that it is through him that your people are restored. Your survivor's guilt drives you to submit to his directives, which in turn fuels his sense of supremacy.

He makes flattering statements in exaggerated terms, an emotional bribe to win your favours, or he makes subtle veiled hostile jokes at your insecurities to solidify his power over you.

He seals away your memories of your relationships with your loved ones so that you will devote all your attention to him and him alone.

Dust stalks your every move without your notice, monitoring your actions and relaying back to his master; who you've been seen in the company of, who makes you smile, who makes you sad, who looks at you in that way.

Nothing gets past Death’s attention.

His fantasies twist and evolve, and every time they leave him breathless with hope. He dreams of a race cowed into obedience, or a world wiped clean of said race until you are the only one that remains, for him.

For now, he settles on wiping clean of anyone that poses a threat to their sacred relationship. Torturing his victims in ways that transcend human concept; every torture more horrific than its predecessor, never giving his victims an explanation when they wake up horrified, chained in a dungeon.

They know exactly what they are being punished for.

After he’s had his way with them, Death would let his essence skim against the naked vulnerability of their souls, a pseudo-gentle brush, as though a long lost friend reaching to them, ensuring the dimmest flicker of hope is present, before clawing it apart into nothingness. Their agonies are sublime.

Finally, Death impales their naked, dismembered bodies on poles around the city, as though a grotesque art exhibition, but more importantly, as a warning.

Everything gets past your attention.

War

Shackled for a century, isolated from his siblings, powerless when his name was being slandered across creation and helpless when his honour was being brutally tarnished... But you have always stood by his side, unwavering in your loyalty and adamantly professing his innocence at every wake and turn. War found his sanctuary in you, his home and solace. His obsession rose to the fore and he clings to you as his emotional crutch, snarling at anyone who dares show a minute interest in you. You will not be stolen from him. He will not be abandoned anymore, betrayed anymore. You are his saviour, and he will protect you for as long as he lives.

Something stirs within him whenever you look at him, his entire core bristling with excitement; from your smiles, from your touches, from… you.

He stares at you for an unbearably long time when you are sleeping or showering, soaking in the sight of you in undisguised pleasure.

Soon he isolates you from your family and is extremely controlling of your social circle. Whenever he sees you in the company of another, War glares at you in warning, aiming a silent threat in your direction.

He has delusions of your infidelity and he is often questioning and directly accusing you of the act. He becomes highly aggressive and hostile when you challenge him on the validity of his narratives.

Until you become so worn out by the constant attacks and coercion and you attempt to retaliate, to make him see the error of his ways.

This leads War to tripling his attacks in the hopes that intimidation will beat you into submission. Can’t you see that he is trying to protect you? Can’t you see the Creator cares nothing for you, for being the reason for your plight? Can’t you see that you need him? Can’t you see how much he loves you?

War is trembling with rage and he focuses his wrath onto his victims, throwing withering glares at their backs.

War gives into the carnal urge and soon enough the air is saturated in burning flesh, blood and fear.

He feels a surge of adrenaline rush and his palpitating heartbeats as his victims sob in desperation beneath his oppressive bulk, having beaten to the point of worthlessness.

He flays the skins of their faces once he's done with them, adding them to the collection of leathery mementos on his shoulder guards, inwardly smirking as he recalls Strife's quip.

Then he gifts you with the brutalised corpses, to torture at your own leisure as a show of care and affection.

He loves you.

So much.

Can’t you see?

Strife

You... listened. Never once cowering in fear or cringing in disgust. You listened and listened, and listened, never once interrupting him as he poured his heart out through wavering voice and hitched breaths. When he finished, he looked at you. You smiled softly, lovingly. And just like that, the burden that had been crushing Strife all these millennia lifted a great deal in the time it took to blink. He immediately choked on a sob, the irresistible urge to break and cry in front of you. You listened to his confession and you never judged him. A confession that even War will never know, despite Strife's “promise”. He was never a religious being, although, in that moment, Strife swore that he's found his saint in you.

He dwells on your words every moment of his breathing existence, his mind conjuring up elaborate eccentric fantasies about you. You are flawless.

He never stops yearning for your attention, his heart whining for your heady proximity, his mind drowning in delicious ecstasy. He will do everything to keep you. His love. His life.

His.

Excessive hoarding of your "leftovers": the sand in your shoes, your shredded, discarded clothes, the broken tooth that got knocked out during a fight, clumps of your hair, clipped nails, that piece of charred flesh from that time- everything preserved in his miniature portable shrine.

His lips murmuring prayers of gratitude.

He utilises love bombing and makes extravagant displays of affection.

Strife has a deep-seated fear of rejection and ruminates over any perceived slights and is highly sensitive to criticism. If he is challenged, Strife threatens abandonment or… more extremely, suicide.

Nothing pisses him off more than you hanging out with your friends when your attention should be devoted to him. Why can't you understand how selfish you’re being?

He jokingly refers to himself as your stalker to them.

And goes as far as to manipulate your potential interests, drugging and kidnapping them. Brutality and savagery flow in the Nephilim veins, yet Strife prefers the more tactical method. You would prefer that.

It merely takes his practiced flirtatious smiles to get his victims head over heels for him. Humans are stupidly predictable. He'd let things escalate from there until he is pinning them down naked and wanton and utterly vulnerable. He feels nothing but revulsion in its purest form at the sensation of skin against skin. Moments later, he would remove his blood-slicked hand from their throat, staring into their eyes as they stare unblinkingly back at his.

He hates humans because humans have no idea how lucky they are.

He sinks into a deep depression when you withdraw from him, tired of his abuse, and he engages in frequent bouts of self-flagellation.

His mind keeps dwelling on you. On your words. Your smile. Your-

Strife cries out in sheer grief and gratitude, screaming himself hoarse and fatigued, a primal cry of desperation, a plea for your mercy.

Fury

Her attachment to you deepened profoundly after the loss of her beloved Rampage. The onslaught of emotions overwhelmed her, consumed by her desire for revenge until she was barely clinging to sanity by a hair's breadth. She remembers the uncontrollable shiver that ran through her when you brushed loose locks from her wet cheeks with your gentle fingers, the withdrawal making her knees almost give away. Your unique ability to see past the obvious, and patiently supporting her through her grief. You became her light. And she will ensure that you will never be extinguished.

She watches you with barely suppressed adoration and longing. Almost all her waking moments are spent fantasising about you.

She is excessively focused on you and everything that you're doing: who you're talking to, how your day is going, what you need, your reactions to her.

A sliver of your skin is enough to make her head spin and she adopts voyeuristic tendencies; you are unsuspecting when she is spying on you in the shower or when you are undressing. When she is caught, she disguises it as merely accidental.

She jerks into wakefulness, shaking controllably from ecstasy.

She is insanely jealous of potential romantic suitors or competition for you, even if it is imaginary. She is hellbent on getting rid of them out of your life.

The belief that mortals are equally lustful of you stems from the poisonous roots of envy.

A single teardrop is enough for a whole city to burn under Fury’s wrath.

She strategically isolates you from your family, limiting your interactions with your friends and the wider community through weaponising drama by spreading false rumors.

She constantly deploys demagoguery tactics to establish an authoritarian position in your relationship.

Once you tried to escape and Fury reacted in a blind panic; the next thing she knew, you were slumped halfway off the chair, unconscious. She watched you for a very long time, unable to contain the hot desire coiling in her stomach. You were so beautiful.

When you came to, you had a collar grafted directly around your neck – a blatant symbol of Fury's ownership of you.

You gave in. Besides, who could you turn to?

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onwardintolight · 4 years

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Han x Leia, ESB, Trip to Bespin, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff

Summary: ESB from Leia's POV. A journey from despair to hope, a blossoming, an opening to vulnerability and love.

Warnings: Deals with some heavy themes, incl. working through trauma, depression, self-harm, attempted sexual assault. Each chapter will be individually warned.

Note: I’m currently in the process of reposting the first nine chapters here in full, since when I first wrote this fic, I only shared links to the chapters on AO3 and FFN. I will try to post at least weekly. In the meantime, if you’d prefer to binge-read it, the entire fic is posted in full on AO3 and FFN.

Part: Masterlist | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | Epilogue

~~~

Warnings for Chapter 24: Brief reference to the torture and attempted sexual assault that occurred in Chapter 19

Author’s note from 1/2020: An important disclaimer: As I wrote this fic, I strove to make it canon-compliant—at least compliant with the canon that existed at the time. Now that I'm posting this, however, a few things have changed; notably, we've seen the release of the first issue of the new line of Star Wars comics set after ESB. While I haven't had a chance to read it yet, I'm pretty sure it diverges from what I've written in my final two chapters, and I have no desire to change any of what I've written to fit it. I know most of you don't even care about canon—this IS fanfiction after all—but I just wanted to give you and all future readers a heads up anyway!

One last thing: Several of you have asked me if I'm planning on writing a Leia-focused fic like this one about ROTJ. First of all, I'm super flattered that you'd like more! Tbh though I don't really see myself writing it as another big multichapter; however, I would really like to do a few shorter fics about it. So keep an eye out for those! That being said, things can always change. If I discover that there's an arc I really want to tell through the whole story, I may find myself in over my head again ;)

~~~

The Kaliida Nebula was about six hours away, not counting the brief stops they’d have to make every few hours to switch hyperlanes. Lando had once again joined Chewbacca at the Falcon’s helm; they had both insisted in no uncertain terms that Luke and Leia get some rest, promising they’d comm if they needed anything. She was tired enough not to argue.

Immediately after the jump to hyperspace, Luke had sat frozen, staring out the viewport into the whirling star tunnels. He’d glanced at her when she offered him a hand, looking for all the universe as if she were his only tether away from the maw. Silently, he’d let her help him back to the crew quarters, and once more she shakily attached the fluids line and pulled a blanket over him.

He was gazing up at her again, now, eyes wide and hollow. “Leia,” he whispered.

Tenderly, she brushed the hair from his forehead and reached down to clasp his remaining hand, squeezing it. She perched on the edge of his bunk. “I’m here,” she said softly. “You’re safe now.” Slowly, his eyelids began to flutter, and he drifted off into a fitful sleep.

She sat there for a long time, weariness bleeding into her bones, listening as his breathing grew deeper. Finally, when she was fairly certain her movement would not wake him, she slipped her hand carefully out of his, turned out the light, and walked over to her bunk, curling up on top of it without bothering to remove the blanket.

The pillow smelled like Han.

She thought of him laying there next to her, his fingers tangled in her hair. She thought of the hungry kisses she had never wanted to end. She thought of easy laughter and healing tears, of potent words and new openings.

She thought of the bed on Cloud City, and how they’d never have the chance now to find out if she’d regret it. She thought of his rending screams, of coils and needles and agonizing pain. Of Captain Orffa’s leers, her ripped shirt, his broken neck as he lay on the other side of the room. Of Vader’s hated mask, cold and merciless. Of throbbing rage. Of helpless grief.

Of finally saying “I love you.” Of the one she loved, turned to stone and torn away.

All the emotions she’d been trying to hold at bay rushed in. Her defenses crumpled, and the first tears came in like a flood, violent and inevitable. Burying her face in the pillow to muffle the sound, she wept, her body shaking with sobs. She wept until every breath came as a gasp; until she could no longer imagine what it was to not be weeping. She wept for Han, and for Alderaan, and for every loss in between. For a galaxy full of loss, cracked all the way through with the cruelty of it.

Long after her tears ran dry, she lay there, face still buried in the pillow—Han’s pillow—breathing in the scent of him. She wasn’t ready to let him go.

She wouldn’t let him go.

She would find him, somehow.

Slowly, exhaustion crept up on her, disarming her resistance just as her tears had done earlier. She gave into it with a mild sense of relief, letting her eyes close.

I don’t regret it, she thought as she began to drift off. Sleepy astonishment at the realization gave way to the certainty that she had always known this, somehow, despite her fears. I don’t regret loving him. Not one bit. As much as this hurt—and oh, how it hurt—she would gladly love him and lose him again.

Then sleep took her, carrying her far away into blessed nothingness.

~~~

She was woken up what felt like minutes later by the chime of her comm.

Lando’s voice was on the other end. “We’ve stopped at Terminus,” he said. “We need you up here to watch for Imperials while we search the ship for homing beacons. We’ve got her pretty well hidden behind a moon, but it’s a race against time until they find us.”

Trying to keep any bitterness out of her voice, she gave her consent and stumbled groggily toward the cockpit. Lando gave her a look when she arrived—she must have looked like hell, with red-rimmed eyes and smeared makeup—but to his credit he didn’t say anything, only giving her a nod on the way out. Chewie was already gone. She moved to sit in the co-pilot’s seat, but changed her mind halfway there, instead opting for the captain’s. Curling her legs beneath her, she leaned back into it, smelling its faded leather and a hint of old cologne. She scanned the starfield carefully, glancing at the sensor displays afterward for any signs she might have missed. There was nothing; only stars. On the other side of the moon, she knew, the sky would be filled with ships of all kinds. Terminus was a busy world; she hoped that, as such, it would distract the Empire long enough that they wouldn’t find the Falcon.

She shifted in her seat, anxious. Finding the homing beacon would likely take Chewie and Lando awhile—they had to suit up to examine the hull, after all—but she wished they would hurry and be done with it. Normally, this would have been made a much easier exercise by simply scanning the hull via the ship’s sensors, but the Empire had certainly disabled that function. Or rather, they probably just hadn’t bothered to fix it—it was, after all, one of the sensor systems that had been damaged during their escape from Hoth.

The minutes ticked by. Fifteen minutes passed, then half an hour. A light freighter moved into view. She stiffened, then relaxed again as it jumped to hyperspace moments later.

Forty-five minutes. Her eyelids drooped; she pinched her arm to stay awake.

Finally, she heard the door open behind her, and Chewie came in with a roar. «We found it,» he said. He was triumphant, but his voice was laced with sorrow. She knew enough of him now to hear it. She caught his gaze, and he sat down next to her. For a minute, they looked out on the emptiness together. «You should go back to bed, Little Princess,» he finally said, his voice gentle.

“You sure you don’t need sleep?” she whispered.

«I will,» he said, «but I have strength left to spare, and I was not hurt as badly as you. Go sleep.» She nodded and got up just as Lando came through the door. She didn’t look at him as they exchanged places. Hazily, she walked back to the crew quarters, fell in her bunk, and was once more lost in unconsciousness.

~~~

Leia’s eyes flickered open. How long had her comm been beeping? Yawning, she sat up, flipping on the light over her bunk, and froze as all the memories of the previous day flooded back in. The deep ache in her chest nearly knocked her over, and she fought off the urge to lay back down and forget everything again.

Luke. She had to make sure he was okay. She glanced over towards the other side of the room; there he lay, as still as a stone. Alarmed, she leapt out of bed and lurched over to check on him. His chest rose and fell, and she sighed in relief. He was in a deep sleep. That was good.

Feeling her heartbeat calm again, she sat back down on her bunk and answered her comlink. “Yes?” she croaked, her voice hoarse.

“Just wanted to let you know we’ve arrived at the Kaliida Nebula,” said Lando. “Whenever you’re able, I’ll let you take over and see if you can reach that contact of yours. Could use a little shut-eye myself.”

“Of course,” she said curtly. “I’ll be right there.”

When she arrived, Chewie was once again nowhere in sight. She felt a pang in her chest, thinking of his grief. At least, she thought, he was getting some sleep, too.

Lando nodded awkwardly to her as they switched places again and left without a word. For a minute, she stared at the glowing pink clouds outside the viewport. She knew he’d be just a comm away, but still, she was nervous. The nebula could be perilous. From time to time, it was home to migrating neebray mantas, which could do some serious damage to ships. Moreover, if the Empire had somehow found out about this checkpoint—

She felt her throat constricting and her heart pounding, and she stopped the thought short. Yes, the Empire had caught up with them a few too many times recently—she had good reason to be fearful of that. But she should be wary, not paranoid. This was the best chance they had to make contact with the Alliance. Straightening, she set a Rebel-coded message to broadcast at intervals to the surrounding parts of the nebula, then she took the Falcon on a leisurely tour through the cloud tunnels.

An hour later, she had a reply. It was also in Alliance code, and it gave her coordinates to meet nearby. She tensed. The Empire could have cracked that code since she was gone, they could have found out about this location, they could have—

She forced herself to breathe slowly. “Chewie,” she said into the comlink, “I’m making contact. I may need backup if it’s not who I think it is.”

The Wookiee yawned, but he didn’t hesitate. «I’m coming,» he said.

Soon both he and Lando joined her again in the cockpit. She felt bad that they’d only had an hour of sleep, but she supposed there was nothing to be done.

Well, mostly bad. She didn’t feel all that bad about Lando. As far as she was concerned, he could suffer. He sat behind her, keeping watch as she and Chewie maneuvered the ship to the meeting point.

Finally, the clouds in front of them parted, revealing an X-wing.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me!” the pilot whooped upon seeing their ship. “I was starting to think I’d never see that hunk of junk again! Is the princess there?”

Leia breathed a sigh of relief. “Hi, Wedge,” she said, transmitting the codes to confirm it was her.

“Good to hear your voice, Princess,” he said. “High command’s been going out of their minds. They figured if you survived, you’d make your way here. Lucky you found me now; they were beginning to think it was a lost cause. We probably wouldn’t have been patrolling out here much longer.”

“Thanks for waiting,” she said.

“Where’s ol’ Han?”

All the words seemed to dry up in her mouth, and she sat silent for a moment. “He’s gone,” she said finally, her voice quiet. Chewie let out a mournful wail.

She heard Wedge exhale. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice full of genuine grief. “Sending you the jump coordinates now.”

Within a few minutes, they’d left the bright clouds of the Kaliida Nebula behind and were headed home. It wasn’t truly home, of course—Home was Alderaan, and that was gone forever. These days, though, the Alliance had become the only home she could claim to have. But whatever familiarity it offered, it would be empty without Han.

“Hey,” Lando said from behind her, startling her. She didn’t turn around. “Chewie ’n I have been talking and…” he faltered for a moment, then he went on. “…We’re gonna find Han and bring him back. We’ll leave for Tatooine as soon as we can get fueled and ready.”

She leaned back in her seat. “You got a plan?”

Chewie responded. «We have some ideas, yes, but we wanted to talk with you and Luke and hear yours, too.»

Leia nodded slowly. “We’ll discuss it when we get there, after the briefings. I don’t want to put too much strain on Luke before then. He doesn’t even know what happened yet.”

“Sure thing,” said Lando.

She clenched her teeth to avoid telling him to shut up. Instead, she shifted her focus outside, watching the whirlwind starlight.

Somewhere out there, Han was trapped, but alive. And somehow, they would find him and bring him home.

A warmth grew inside her chest; the fire of hope.

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winchester-ofthe-lord · 5 years

Text

A Quiet Mind

Pairing: Castiel x Dean Winchester

Warnings: dark thoughts/depression, Dean is emotionally constipated af, does that count as a warning?

Additional tags: depressed Castiel, human Castiel, first kiss, idiots in love

Word Count: 2.8k

Challenge: Destiel Fresh Hits

Prompt: quiet

Summary: Castiel was sitting on the roof of the bunker and looked up at the starry night sky. He’d been sitting there for at least three or four hours now, maybe more. A single tear trickled down his cheek, across his jaw, over his chin, and dropped onto the back of his own hand. It’s such a secret place, the land of tears…

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Castiel was sitting on the roof of the bunker and looked up at the starry night sky. He’d been sitting there for at least three or four hours now, maybe more. Who knew how much time had actually passed since he got up there.

A cool waft of air waved by every once in a while, leaving the skin on his arms prickle with goosebumps, sending painfully tingling shivers through his entire body.

He could hear the rustling of trees around him, the faint static noise from far away cars driving on the highway close to the bunker every now and then, crickets chittering in the distance. Yet, it felt as if he was the only being left on earth. Loneliness seeped into his very core.

The cold had numbed his legs to the point where he didn’t feel, didn’t even care about it anymore. Only his fingers were aching, throbbing against the breeze as he clenched his fists into his numb thighs.

A single tear trickled down his cheek, across his jaw, over his chin, and dropped onto the back of his own hand. It’s such a secret place, the land of tears…

He felt comfortable in the darkness. It’s soothing and painful at once, pulling him into the void of nothingness, emptiness, blackness, inside and out. Castiel was nothing surrounded by nothing. A tiny, irrelevant, unimportant speck in the middle of futility.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

That’s it. That’s what he was doing now. Every day. For the rest of his pathetic human lifetime. Breathing. Existing.

Castiel looked up at the sky again, teeth clenched so hard it hurt, more acidic tears burning in his eyes, but not leaving them. It was pointless anyway.

He used to be an angel. An actual angel. Wings and all. Closing his eyes, he tried to concentrate. Focus the way he had hundreds of thousands of times before, in a vain attempt to find at least a minuscule, barely there remnant of his grace somewhere inside of him. But it was futile, aimless. It was gone. And so was his last flicker of hope.

Irretrievably.

He used to be an angel. And now, now he was nothing.

Where he felt a connection to his Host, his family, for the billions of years of his existence; where he heard their voices, sensed their presence, even across various planes of reality, through the veils of universes; where he listened to prayers, able to perceive everything the world had to offer, now there was just...nothing. Nothing in a sea of nothingness. And Castiel in the midst of it.

He swallowed the suffocating lump in his throat and took another deep breath, let his head nod forward, burying his face in his hands. His fingers dug painfully into his own skin, scratching, tearing at it, but the numbness didn’t let him feel anything. Didn’t let him feel real anymore. He wasn’t even sure if it really was the coldness, or if the last piece of life inside him had died eventually.

Another shudder rushed through his body. He was a shivering, trembling, empty vessel, shaken by biting cold and despair, slumped down into itself, infinitely small on the roof of the massive underground building beneath him. Why was he even still alive?

The deafening silence was disrupted by the creaking of a solid steel door behind him, followed by the thumping of heavy boots and a relieved, out of breath, “Thank God, Cas, here you are.”

Castiel didn’t react. Didn’t look up at the other man standing above him now, didn’t even bother wiping away his tears. He kept staring blankly in front of him, into the darkness, at nothing. An inward stare, roaming the mirrored void of the vast blackness around him.

“Dammit Cas, I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” the man above him griped in between ragged pants, “I was worried, man! You- You can’t just run off and disappear for hours and- you can’t do that, Cas!” There was anger in his voice alongside deep concern.

Once again, Castiel didn’t react. Was still staring dead ahead, still silently trembling, still just breathing.

“Cas!”

He didn’t move. Couldn’t move. Maybe he just didn’t try hard enough. He never did. That’s why everything he ever did, everything he ever touched, had always been destined to fail eventually.

“Cas?” This time the other man’s voice was a lot softer, timid almost. Anxious. The man crouched down next to Castiel, his next words a low hum in Cas’ ears, spoken with so much solicitude it all but hurt, “Cas... what’s wrong?”

He still couldn’t move. He still didn’t try hard enough.

Castiel’s vision was getting blurry again and another tear slowly burned its way across the cold skin of his face against his will. He shut his eyes as more tears welled up.

He felt a strong hand grab his shoulder, its warmth seeping through the thin fabric of his shirt, slowly fighting against the torpid numbness as the grip tightened. The hand shook his shoulder, apparently trying to evoke some kind of reaction from him, something, anything. But he was just tired. Numb. Empty.

“Dammit Cas, talk to me,” the man whispered. He sounded hopeless, almost desperate now. “Please.”

He heard the words, the commiseration in the other man’s voice. But he couldn’t even open his eyes. Let alone stop his silent tears. How was he supposed to talk to this kind-hearted man who cared so genuinely about him? How was he supposed to put in words what tore him apart, how everything inside him was just shattered pieces of the man- of the angel he used to be, and how sorry he felt for being so goddamn useless? How was he supposed to apologize for being a burden to the brothers? How should he-

His train of thought broke off the second he felt the gentle but steady touch of a warm palm on his jaw, cupping his cheek and carefully turning his face to the side. He still didn’t dare open his eyes as a careful thumb stroked the wetness from his skin.

“Cas, look at me,” the man breathed.

Castiel gritted his teeth, swallowed thickly, took a deep breath and exhaled sharply through his nose. It wasn’t easy not to start sobbing, but he managed to stay quiet as he slowly opened his eyes. He kept his gaze aimed at the floor, but the hand lifted his chin, until Castiel couldn’t help but look into his favorite shade of green.

“God, you’re freezing cold.” The warm hands stopped touching his shoulder and his face, leaving him exposed to the night air, and even colder than before. It was only for a few short moments, however, as the other man wrapped a warmed jacket around Cas’ shoulders before he took his face into both hands this time. “Cas, whatever you’re thinking right now? It’s not true. It’s wrong, okay?”

One of the man’s thumbs wiped below Castiel’s eye again, “Cas, you can’t just sit here and freeze to death. You’re shaking. You’re not impervious to coldness anymore, you have to take care of yourself, okay? You’re not-”

“An angel anymore,” Cas interrupted him with a breathless growl, “I know that, Dean.” He huffed through his nose once more, sniffed through his tears, “I know that I’m not- that I can’t-” He couldn’t find the words, didn’t know how to explain any of his feelings. He took another deep breath, “It’s so... quiet in my head, Dean. It’s so quiet and I don’t- I’m... alone now, don’t you understand that?” He lowered his eyes and turned his face away from Dean, away from the warm touch of his hands. “I’m alone and I lost everything. I lost myself. I’m an empty shell. Not useful for you anymore.”

“Is that what this is about? Not being useful for me ‘n Sam? Goddammit, Cas-” Dean forced Cas to look at him again by taking his face back into his hands, a lot more vigorous and determined than the first time- “Stop limiting yourself to unimportant things! It was never about your angel powers. Yes, they were helpful at times, but it was never about that! And you’re not alone for fucks sake.”

Dean shut his eyes and clenched his jaw, “Cas, you’re not alone. I may not understand what it feels like to be cut off from the Host or whatever. Or what it’s like to be an angel. But I do know what it’s like to be human, to not hear prayers and voices all the time, and it’s not that bad, okay?” His eyes found Cas’ again, “A quiet mind is a good thing, Cas, believe me. There’s worse things than being human. Stop feeling sorry for yourself and start to accept that you don’t need to be an angel to be useful or needed or-”

“I’m not needed, Dean,” Castiel spoke up. He was almost yelling the words in Dean’s face. “I’m not needed,” he repeated quietly, barely louder than the cold wind rustling in the trees.

“But you are, don’t you-” Dean shook his head, looked back at Cas. He licked over his bottom lip and stroked tenderly over Castiel’s cheekbone, “Cas, I do need you. Not your combat skills, not angel radio, not your powers. I need you!”

Castiel huffed a humorless laugh, “What would you need me for? I’m nothing but a burden.”

“You really think that, don’t you?”

“Because it is true.”

Dean just glowered at Cas, eyebrows knitted in a deep frown. “It’s not. But can we please go back inside and talk there, it’s really fucking cold out here.”

Castiel shuffled out of the jacket and handed it back to Dean, “Here.”

Dean didn’t take the jacket though. He didn’t stop glaring at Cas. “Why are you punishing yourself?”

“I’m not. Go back inside, Dean. You don’t need to be here.” Castiel pressed the jacket against Dean’s chest, trying to make him take it.

“You don’t need to be here either, Cas. Please come with me, you really need to warm up,” Dean said and pushed himself up from the cold floor of the roof, ignoring the jacket. Instead, he held a hand out for Cas.

His limbs were a dead, numb weight attached to his exhausted body, and refused move the way he wanted. If Dean hadn’t caught him after pulling him up, Castiel would’ve simply slumped down again.

But Dean didn’t let go of Cas afterwards. Even after several minutes passed, he was still holding onto Cas, arms tightly wrapped around him, the jacket uncomfortably pressed between them.

“I need you, Cas,” Dean breathed into Castiel’s ear. It was so quiet he almost didn’t hear it. “I need you, because-”

Castiel could hear Dean swallow thickly, but he didn’t continue. It felt good to be enveloped in the arms of the man he’d loved for so long he didn’t even remember how it felt to not be in love. But it was painful, too. He knew Dean would never feel the same way for him, would never see him as more than a brother.

That was the other reason why his life as a human bothered him so much. Having his grace as a barrier to shield his own feelings made it easier to blank out his love for Dean. Or at least blank out the pain of his love being unrequited. But now? Now he felt everything, felt the twinge in his heart, the nauseating twist in his stomach, the neverending ache of not being whole.

The longer they were standing in the cold night, the more painful it felt to hug Dean. To experience how it could feel to actually be with him was tormenting, because it’s easier to never know how good it could be, than to know and always miss it.

But he didn’t want to let go either. If he was already standing there, he might as well savor every moment of it.

And then Dean loosened his grip around Cas.

But he didn’t step away. Several seconds ticked by agonizingly slow.

“Cas, I-” Dean started hesitantly and looked into Cas’ eyes again, “I don’t know how to tell you- how to make you believe that you’re so much more than an angel, or a simple human for that matter. You’re so much more than that, Cas. You’re- everything.” He brought his hands up to Cas’ face again and whispered, “Why can’t you see that?”

“Dean-” What was he even going to say? No? You’re terribly wrong? I’m nothing? I’m useless and I don’t deserve these words? He gulped the lump in his throat down, tried to get more space between himself and the man that made it hard to think straight when being that close, but Dean didn’t let him.

Green eyes full of sorrow and sympathy stared into Castiel’s soul, seemingly baring every single one of his thoughts and emotions as Dean opened his mouth again, “Why can’t you see that I-” he pressed his eyes shut- “how much you mean to me?”

Castiel felt sick. He knew, no matter how much he meant to Dean, he’d never love him. Not the way Castiel loved Dean. He wanted to run, wanted to scream, wanted to dissolve into nothingness.

“I can’t lose you, Cas.”

He closed his eyes, couldn’t look at Dean anymore. At the pained expression in his eyes. It hurt too much.

Castiel’s legs were still numb up to the thighs, and the wind was still howling relentlessly in the treetops. Even though he couldn’t see it, he knew Dean must’ve been freezing too, shaking just as much as the trees around them and as Castiel himself. Why didn’t he just leave? Maybe- maybe if Cas just waited long enough, Dean would eventually go back inside. Maybe if he stood there long enough, he’d simply disappear one day. Eaten by the empty void in- and outside of him, forgotten by everyone Castiel ever cared about.

He’d just have to wait long enough.

“Did you hear that?” Dean asked through clenched teeth, voice trembling from the cold, or maybe his emotions, who knew?

Castiel blinked his eyes open. What should he have heard? He squinted at Dean, at least he attempted to, but his face was as numb as the rest of his body.

“I said I can’t lose you, Cas” Dean repeated, “Do you understand that? I can’t lose you.” He looked as if he’d just realized something himself. He was still frowning when he cupped Cas’ jaw once more.

Before Castiel knew what was happening, he felt the warm press of soft lips against his own. It was a chaste, gentle touch and it didn’t last long enough. He didn’t know if that really happened. It could’ve been just his imagination playing tricks.

The two men stared at each other, sharing their breath for several heartbeats in silence, both slightly shivering.

“Cas, I’m-” Dean started and scrubbed a hand over his face- “No. You know what? I’m not sorry.”

How could Dean say that? He didn’t love Cas, he didn’t want this, didn’t want them to be... more. He’d made that clear more than once.

Castiel swallowed dryly and tried to gather his thoughts, tried to find the words he was looking for, the words he wanted to tell Dean. But whatever words his mind came up with, they weren’t what he really needed to say.

So instead of looking for words he might never find, he raised the hand that wasn’t still holding Dean’s jacket to the other man’s face. He wanted this. And if this was the only moment he’d get, then he wanted to at least experience it for the fullest.

He couldn’t really feel the scruff under his palm, his fingers were far too numb by now, but what he could feel were Dean’s pliant lips as they met his own again.

He could also feel Dean’s hands on his neck and in his hair, sliding down to his waist to pull him closer. He could feel Dean’s chest against his own, his heart pounding in his ribcage. And he could feel Dean’s tongue licking at the seam of his lips.

He felt, as well as heard the deep hum vibrating through his entire body when Dean moaned contentedly into Castiel’s mouth, not knowing where Dean’s tongue ended and Cas’ begun.

And there it was, something changed, Castiel’s mind wasn’t empty, wasn’t quiet anymore. Dean’s ragged breathing echoed through his head when they broke their kiss to get some air, his pleased moans filled the empty nothingness as their tongues met again.

When Castiel heard Dean breathe his name with a concerned undertone, he noticed the wetness on his own cheeks. He blinked his eyes open to see a worried, uneasy expression on Dean’s face.

“I-” Castiel traced a finger along Dean’s jaw, down to his shoulder and all the way to his hand that was gripping Cas’ waist to hold him close. He wrapped his fingers around Dean’s wrist and pulled his hand away from his body, causing Dean’s expression to falter for the brief moment it took Cas to intertwine their fingers. “I think I’d like to go back inside now,” he said, “It’s really cold out here and you’re not even wearing a jacket.”

special thanks to @cr-noble-writes <3 you helped me a lot, and sorry for all my whining and rambling and ranting

Taglist: @demoninflannel @leatherandapplepies @cross-roads-blues @casbeanwrites @thefandomforme @petrichoravellichor

let me know if you want to be added to/removed from this list :)

#Destiel fanfic #dean winchester #castiel #first kiss #my fic

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albinokittens300 · 5 years

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Drabble #5- Jacob x Bunty (by a group of people, so not through asks)

A/N- I have no defense. Not going to name anyone, but you all know who you are who encouraged/requested this. It is actually a little idea I have for some time, Jacob x Bunty becoming a thing in the event Jacob can’t forgive Queenie. Please do not read if you ship Jaqueenie and would rather not see this! It is perfectly fine :).

“...And this is Jacob. He’ll be staying for a bit, too. Jacob, this is my assistant Bunty.”

She nods and smiles politely, and he does too. Offering his hand, Jacob tried to be more positive self despite how truly numb he felt. Bunty takes it and tries to give him a smile. No one had told her the entire story of what happened in Paris, only that there were great losses. It was plain to see everyone was clearly greatly affected and hurting.

She hoped some kindness didn’t make things worse, even if it couldn’t truly help. And it seemed too. When Jacob finally truly meets her eyes, the smile he was putting before almost seems to reach his eyes. Almost seem to genuine. Not quite, but it is something. A far cry from the depressive nothingness that his brown eyes had held seconds before.

Jacob sees her grin and is relieved. Seeing someone without pain written on their face reminds him that there is something to fight for. Snapped him out of the complete state of despair they all were in, at least for a second. By merely being reminded happiness did exist, still.

“Nice to meet you, Bunty.” He says.

“You aswell, Jacob.” She responds before following Newt to the basement.

#i apologize #but it also was going to happen eventually #me writing something ship wise for Bunty with ether Jacob or Abernathy XD #Enjoy! Those of you who read XD #Jacob x Bunty #jacob kowalski #Bunty #AJ Writes #Drabbles

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xsoldier · 5 years

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Neural Repository: Consciousness Stream on Self Pain

You always see the faves of the depressed people who've killed themselves, and they're smiling and happy. That's likely because tendencies of hyperaltruistic behaviour get exacerbated when there's an extreme lack of dopamine. People become disproportionately more likely to take more harm upon themselves than inflict it upon others. But they're not always that way. Some people are just genuinely cheerful and love putting out happiness into the world.

I know I was.

What most of you don't know is that it's the one year anniversary of the first time in my life that I can remember deeply and wholly wanting with my entire being to not exist. To be done & gone. To will myself into nothingness. To disconnect my conscious self, and just let my body be a stand-in until I could return. To freeze myself in stasis and come back to life later. Or just die since none of those other things are actually options. It wasn't for months still that I'd actually experience the helplessness that lead me to knowing exactly how I'd terminate my life, or experience the emotional roulette rollercoaster of not doing so (about 6 separate times now) purely through the luck of circumstance of brain chemistry in the moment.

Suicide is very much a crime of passion against self. Opting out, and unsubscribing from the flow of the every day that you just can't handle anymore. It's harder when you've very carefully thought through everything and still come to the same answer. I wasn't surprised when Dana killed herself. She was about the only human whose absolute desperation and inability to escape the moments of self were like a reflection of my every day. She dealt with depression and I didn't, and I learned a lot from her. I was so annoyed when she died, because it filled me with an imperative purpose that I had to fill, and it meant that that option wasn't available for me. I talked everyone through it that I could, I spoke about her death, and I never even received a farewell or details about why. The reason that I always spoke so definitively despite that is that just about my only skillset is recognizing patterns of human emotion, and it was like staring in a mirror.

I've probably aged a decade in the last year. You can be around people all the time, but that doesn't overcome the pervasive sense of exclusion and loneliness that becomes all-consuming from where we need it most. We work long hours, because taking time off makes things worse, as the only sense of belonging and purpose is the small refreshing breath of being useful when you're drowning in an ocean of complete despair. Drowning people don't LOOK like they're drowning. They don't yell, or splash, or cry out for help. They just struggle a little differently, and then sink.

I don't remember what happiness is. That's not to say that I haven't BEEN happy and had wonderful experiences over the last year, it's just that every moment sense, instead of experiencing bad moments, life has become a series of the good moments merely being momentary distractions from the deep and inextricable sensation of the endless chasm of the complete and utter abyssal void that is what remains of me. The deepest, most delicate, sensitive, and vulnerable part of myself was utterly disintegrated and my happiest and most confident self is obliterated as being less than worthless. The start of my descent was the limb-shattering drop to rock bottom, followed my months of clawing through bedrock with shattered fingernails splitting to the bone. The only constant sensation of being buried in the scalding frozen blackness, slowly suffocating within the claustrophobic emptiness of being absolutely abandoned.

I know people cared about me. I know people care about me. None of that even scratched the surface of this place. They were a glowing distraction that faded, just making every moment more and more desperate. It's like sleep paralysis, where even as soon as you know what's happening, and every moment just gets worse. It doesn't matter that you understand it, or that you know what it is and how it works. It gets worse. Loneliness is the health equivalent to smoking 15 cigarettes A DAY. Our brain experiences the social pain of abandonment the same way that we process the physical pain of being HIT. You want to escape it and what's worse — you don't want help. You don't want pity. That hyperaltruistic trigger means that even causing someone a fraction of the inconvenience that the every day pain causes you actually makes you feel WORSE not better. You are a constant net negative on literally every. single. interaction. for yourself, but it's smaller when you just let it happen. Once you start talking about it, it ends up echoing like a scream that shreds your vocal chords to pieces in seconds and adrenaline and desperation are literally the only things you have in your veins.

Each day, you recognize yourself less. You end up yearning for the worst days you can remember, because it feels like a comforting familiarity. You don't yearn for good times, because you literally can't remember what they feel like. They're a distraction, not root cause analysis. Anything that isn't digging at the core of the issue is extraneous and worthless, and nothing else consumes your thoughts. It latches on to your basic survival instincts for food & shelter, it encompasses the entirety of your need for social inclusion. The idea of self-growth and healthy focus without meeting those other two things first literally doesn't exist, because your brain is CERTAIN that you are moments from death during every agonizingly hour-long second that you experience that state.

As serotonin drops your general harm aversion for others and self drops at the same rate. It doesn't make a dent in the hyperaltruistic behaviour meant to secure you a tribal in-group to help ensure your survival. Eventually you're a net negative on ANY given scenario, and you don't want to try with another group. You enter a state of apathy and learned helplessness. Every response to attempts at improving elicits a dysfunctional response, so there's no telling what actions or behaviours net a known outcome. The momentary improvements are eclipsed by the shattering insecurities and inability to do anything positive. I'd been sleeping with a weighted blanket for months to prevent the crippling anxiety, and my medication hyper expresses my need to take action on things met with an insurmountable apathy as a roadblock to all basic needs. I start to experience panic attacks to positive stimuli because I'm so used to dysfunctional response that I'm ACTUALLY afraid of feeling good, because the drop I experience afterwards is so far down. Every one of the brightest and most positive moments I've felt has been suffocated, and the darkest moments I've felt were the brightest. My friend murdering herself kept me alive, because it gave me a purpose. My friend who I saw 5 days a week for the last 5 years being DEAD was the moment that made me feel the most hopeful about myself in the last year. Knowing that I feel that makes me feel even worse. I've almost murdered myself 6 times this year — I didn't though. That's just circumstantial luck and brain chemistry because I'm existentially horrified of injury, hospitalization, or being in a mental ward. Deep down, I can't do it without a guarantee that I won't be certain that I'm gone and experience as little pain as possible in doing so… and that just hasn't happened yet.

It's part of why I left America and all of the resources I had behind. It's infinitely harder for me to kill myself here. I knew that the moment that suicidal thoughts were replaced with panic about my extant plans for self termination being derailed in my new surroundings. Again — it's a crime of passion against self. It has a lot to override to put you there, but I felt it was necessary to call out that I've spent a year with this as my constant daily "normal" and being very used to overwhelming thoughts of suicide and being well-beyond the most utter insignificance as my day-to-day, and it was necessary to time-stamp those thoughts.

Don't ever feel bad if you did or didn't reach out to a friend you lost to suicide. It's a very weird beast, and there's no telling how it's going to manifest. If we all had an "off" button on our arms, every person would have used it at some point, and the things that hold us back or let us make one vary greatly from person to person. I don't want to be remembered as someone who was happy to combat and offset all this pain and sadness. I just want people to know that I was that kind of person when I WAS actually full of joy and happiness, too. I used to be really great, and I'm still trying my damnedest to make the world a brighter place inspire of myself, and inspire of the fact that you're not in it anymore either. I miss you @acrid Every fuckin' day. Even when I hate myself. I really try to remember the best of both of us, and put it up on display for everyone to see, because maybe somehow I'll find myself again some day, too.

#personal

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malicejudged-a · 5 years

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META ; Nemo and his Mental Health

A part of my portrayal for Nemo takes his mental health into consideration. I could make this about how he’s insane and how he interacts with that but it’s not gonna be about that. Because yes, he acknowledges and states that’s he’s crazy but I personally believe his insanity is a separate issue entirely. This post is about how his life, or afterlife, is affected by his PTSD and Depression.

WARNING: I DISCUSS SUICIDE AND SUICIDAL IDEATION IN THIS POST. PROCEED WITH CAUTION.

I could go into depth about why I think Nemo has what he was but that might make this a tad long, so I’ll simply say that Nemo exhibits such symptoms of PTSD such as guilt (he most likely blames himself for what happened to Artina and his parents), mistrust (he gets his “business partners” by blackmailing and coercion. He is never genuine), irritability and hostility, and self-destructive behavior (see: the end result of his genocide plans). He also exhibits symptoms of Depression such as hopelessness, apathy (see: if he doesn’t hate you he just won’t care about you), agitation (see: his anger at the Kazamatsuri’s family reunion, and his anger at the mere mention of Artina’s name by those he hates), and thoughts of suicide (see: we’re coming back to this one. Oh boy).

So, Nemo most likely has them. First, I’ll explain why Nemo seems to act like a constantly cheery bastard if he has such heavy thoughts and serious issues. And the answer to that question is simple. He lies.

Nemo is very good at putting up a facade, and he’s very good at lying and hiding his true intentions. It’s to be expected of a man who’s had four hundred years to work on the art of manipulation and also had four hundred years to work on trying to suppress his issues deep down inside of himself so that they won’t interfere with his goal. There’s also the fact that in the game we only see him when he has something to focus on and people to put a show on for.

Also, just because Nemo has these very serious problems doesn’t mean he’s always constantly obviously depressed.

But, with that point out of the way, how is Nemo affected by his PTSD and Depression? Well. For the short answer, his mental health is very much affected and he’s only holding himself together by focusing on his genocide plans. For the long answer...

Nemo does not like himself. In fact, I will outright say the man loathes himself completely and utterly. But if he hates himself, why does he act like such a smug asshole then? Easy. He’s faking it, like I mentioned before. Nemo is an asshole and can certainly act smug and smarmy and drunk on his own confidence, and he does have confidence in his abilities. But when it comes to himself as a person, he has major self-loathing.

Throughout mainly Episode 8, Nemo says a lot of things about humans! A lot of things that can be applied to himself. See, for example:

This exact chain of events is essentially what happened to Nemo. He regretted his actions. He fell into despair while in prison, and then he began his path on the destruction of both humanity and himself.

The things he says against humans are genuine. He genuinely believes these things about humans and rages against them for it, but... despite what he says to Fenrich about how he’s not human anymore and that he discarded his humanity and his old identity to be Judge Nemo, deep down, it’s likely Nemo still considers himself a human. And he hates himself all the more because of it.

His mental health issues most likely exacerbate this problem. His Depression feeds into his cycle of “rage against humans, see those same flaws in yourself, rage against yourself and wallow in hatred”, and the more ugly symptoms of his PTSD most likely become another thing that he can pick himself apart for.

Also, keeping in mind his immeasurable guilt over thinking he’s the reason Artina died, this line gets... sad. He believes all humans can do nothing except hurt their loved ones, and despite his claims otherwise, Nemo considers himself a human. And since humans can do nothing but hurt their loved ones, and Nemo believes he’s the one who hurt his own loved ones with his mere existence...

There’s also this line from Fenrich which I’ll say definitely helps my case for Nemo having a self-loathing problem.

His actions being invalidated makes sense but his very existence? Fenrich is able to almost connect with Nemo while he’s possessed by Fear the Great and he is fairly good at reading people and their emotions, so I’ll say this deduction has a fairly good chance of being accurate.

So this means that Nemo puts absolutely no worth in his existence beyond enacting revenge. His existence is worthless if he’s not working to destroy humanity. Most likely, his genocide plans are the only thing holding him together.

But now, let’s discuss Nemo and suicide. Namely, the fact that Nemo is deeply suicidal. For starters, have a 100% canon line.

Reminder: 100% canon line. It’s stated right there that during his imprisonment Nemo wanted to end his life. This can be interpreted as just wanting to die rather than spill any national secrets but considering other aspects of Nemo’s character and the horrific trauma he had already experienced...

And this suicidal ideation didn’t just go away after he stopped being the soldier. In fact, I would argue that all of his plans for humanity’s destruction somehow ends in Nemo vanishing. See, this scene:

It’s an innocuous scene, and it is probably also Nemo just screwing with Valvatorez because that’s something he just likes to do. But it’s odd that he would avoid answering the question and that he would answer it in such a vague way. Considering the fact that he believes his only purpose in life is to kill all of humanity, wouldn’t that mean the very accomplishing of his goal means he would invalidate his own existence?

But here’s the real kicker. The moment where Nemo goes from “maybe he’s suicidal” to actively suicidal. After The Hades Party has him acknowledge Artina’s existence inside Fear the Great, Nemo’s dialogue starts to become... worrying. He begins to speak and act like a suicidal person, saying that there’s nothing he can do to make anything better, that he’s too far gone, that it’s better that he just vanishes forever, and the fact that he’s attempting to throw himself into Limbo.

Limbo is described as complete nothingness. Where his soul would either rot forever or where Nemo would just... vanish. It can be debated but I personally believe that Nemo decided that since he failed as the judge, he failed long ago as the soldier, and he upset Artina, the only person he loves, the only option left for him was to vanish. To essentially commit suicide the only way a ghost could.

On a side note: it’s interesting to note how quickly Nemo’s mood falls when he no longer has something to focus on. He goes from his usual cheery bastard self, to the not-quite-there raging mess being used by Fear the Great, and when his goals of destroying humanity are destroyed by Artina’s mere presence he...deflates. He gives up. He stops pretending and lets his deep sadness and depression show through. The only coping mechanism Nemo ever developed was to throw himself into a long-running game to destroy all of humanity, all the while knowing at the end of it he was going to have nothing left and would find a way to vanish.

So, with the fact that Nemo has had suicidal thoughts before, most likely entertains the thought of ending his genocide plans a bit early, and tends to have major depressive thoughts when his mind isn’t focused on something (thoughts that inevitably lead to suicide), this line takes on a whole new meaning. Nemo thought he not only should, but deserved to die for the fact that he was unable to prevent his life being ruined and the various other tragedies that happened to him and those he loved.

In his eyes, the innocent lives of his parents and Artina were forsaken, and the life of the one who ruined them and condemned them forever, Nemo himself, was extended. When he should have died.

TL;DR: Nemo has PTSD and Depression. They affect his mental state greatly and either are the cause of it or greatly exacerbate his self-loathing and suicidal tendencies.

#⟨ ♢ OOC. ↪ crear becomes nemo on main. ♢ ⟩#⟨ ♢ HEADCANON. ↪ and in that moment i was reborn. ♢ ⟩#⟨ ♢ META. ↪ humans are rotten! ; despicable! (and so am i…) ♢ ⟩#suicide tw #suicidal ideation tw #( ask to tag )#HI HELLO THIS IS A GIGANTIC META #i think. my sense of scale may be off #anyway i crawl back into my cave

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mydearestreaderfanfics · 6 years

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My Anchor (Shiro x Reader) Vent Fic!

Warnings: venting, breakdown, implied depression

Word Count: 608

Prompt/Request: Not a request, honestly, I just needed to vent and this is what came from that. I wasn't sure whether or not to post it since it's short and more for me than anything, but I figured someone might like it.

Summary: Reader is having a pretty bad depressiive episode. Shiro is there to help. Kind of ambiguous ending.

Author: Mod Alex

#voltron #shiro x reader #fanfictions #takashi shirogane #venting #breakdown #implied depression #mod alex

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paganchristian · 3 years

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Underneath the pier, on the white sand beaches where I once lived nearby. A place where sharks dwell. No swimming within a certain distance, because of that reason, the sharks coming after the fish attracted by the fishermen on the pier. This also reminds me of the torii gates of Shinto shrines, which torii gates mark the entrance to Shinto shrines, the gate from the mundane into the spiritual realms. This looks like a slanted, swaying or knocked off balance path of torii gates, many doorway after doorway. In the torii gates where there are many in a trail, the ones further along are said to lead to higher spiritual levels or something like that, and I think there are three levels. Putting all these images together it makes me think of a crooked path to spirituality, where sharks roam, and an initiation that is dangerous and foolish, because of the slantedness of the pillars and the sharks. Then I think, of the left-hand path when I think of a crooked path to spirit, but though that is often conceived of as being harmful and selfish in Western spiritual paths or paganism, and such, with Hinduism, it is not thought of as being harmful so much as just taboo, and using unconventional, sometimes stigmatized ways to reach higher states. It is thought that some peoples’ nature requires them to use the left-hand path because they can’t abide or follow the same path that the sattvic, more peaceful practices of other Hindu sects require. The left-hand path is not about really hurting anyone or being totally self-centered in every way. It still considers morals, compassion, and things like that. But it’s taboo in a few ways that general mainstream Hinduism avoids. In the dark you can find answers, in the shadow like the ouroboros, eating its own tail, becoming a self-regulating, self-feeding system in and of oneself, by integrating the dark, the confusion, the limits and weaknesses, problems and biases of oneself and of life in this world, ... as oneself where you meet the world, the life and world where we have to live and you have to be you living in this world.

The path I can’t walk that my family, my husband and religions ask me to walk, or can I swim and can I transcend instead, float, above, find the way out by flipping the whole thing upside down, seeing outside the paradigm. These are thoughts that come to my mind now. If people can’t let me find them, because they put themselves too beyond my reach or my ability to ever reach, then I don’t have to make my life about reaching them. My husband might demand more than I can give, try to take more than is fair, control more than is right, stifle what is good, fail to appreciate my gifts, silence my reality, make me fake my whole reality because I can’t speak it but not only that I can’t even feel it. The things I need to do to live when I am just being myself lead to his anger and attack and control. So even if I don’t tell him about it, the way it makes me feel makes me have to act in certain ways to deal with my feelings, my worries, my confusions, questions, and needs, but when I try to just act in those ways, even trying the best I can to keep it all out of his sight, it causes me to have to act in ways that end up triggering his attack, his control, his strangling away of my life, my mind, my voice, my self-expression. He demands for me to give him things that I can’t give him if I’m to be true to my own reality, because it takes more than I can muster up, however I try. I have to revolve my life around fakeness to give him what he wants. But it’s not so much that he’s incredibly wrong and bad and extreme, but more than I’m incredibly abnormal and can’t give and can’t conform and can’t fake it and can’t hide things and can’t hold back in the ways that others do, ... And this extends into my relationships with my family, my relationships with religions, my relationships with society, and culture, too. I have tried to change myself, heal myself, give myself therapy or seek that outside of myself in the available forms, follow spiritual and self-help paths and positivity and natural healing and meditation and hobbies and new age things and whatever, so many things, I have tried so much and it’s helped me so much but still I can’t help but be what others can’t even stand to be around, and what many others would try to distort, contort me into a shrunken person, a distortion, a shadow, a pale fog of who I might have ever been, ... People like my husband would try. They would engage me in endless hateful verbal abuse and severe crazy-making, manipulative abuse, to truly make me feel I’m losing my mind, my heart, every shred of energy, dignity, hope, joy, meaning, and sense in my world. Narcissistic, sociopathic-seeming abuse and manipulation. He seems far worse than the average covert manipulator, because from what I’ve read the others’ tricks are more clearly visible to me, but his tricks are very devious indeed, impossible to argue against, hateful and trickier than any examples I’ve seen given in books and websites about manipulative abuse. He is extremely intelligent, but it seems that this part of his personality is operating at some kind of subconscious or altered state of consciousness. It makes no sense, but it’s highly intelligent. He is capable of seeming like a totally different person, caring, considerate, loving, responsible, normal in every way, mostly, but when this side of him comes up, it’s like a monster has been unleashed, and like he’s lost his mind entirely. Before I had my daughter, for many years, he was so abusive in this way. It really started getting bad a few years after we married. And he was this way for so much of the time then that it left me paralyzed and despairing, miserable, lost, totally out of touch with myself, my deep inner true self. Hiding from him, hiding who I was, to stay a bit safer, but I still was not safe and was totally miserable. Now it’s much better but remnants of this kind of abuse still linger enough to stifle my true self, sometimes, somewhat. Yet I know that the world would not let my true self exist either, because it doesn’t fit in the world, either, and so it would die, not always from abuse, but often from neglect, from mockery, a much milder form of abuse than narcissistic, entrapped abuse in an abusive marriage, but still mockery, yes if you want to call that abuse, or worse than mockery but still, the kind of cruelty that you can escape because you’re not married to the person. And the world gives me abandonment and neglect and mockery and scorn and attacks and complete misunderstanding, and being completely ignored at best, in my deeper self, oftentimes. I can’t live this way because my social needs, my needs for supporting myself, for work that I can tolerate, without becoming depressed or physically ill with my many sensitivities, those needs aren’t met nor even seen as valid by this world. Religions, society, culture, my family member, my marriage, all say I’m not acceptable, not worthy, not wanted, have to follow rules I can’t follow, can’t be who I am because it’s hated and untolerated. But I’m not some horrible person, it’s just that I have fragile, subtle, delicate needs that the world is not willing or ready to make a place for. So there is a witch-hunt, demonizing things and people who are really harmless and good, and this is something that happens sometimes when you’re too far outside the norms of culture, norms, society or typical human nature either.

Maybe I could make or find a life or patch a life together in which I can have what I need, a safe place to be, to be well, to be myself, for my mental and physical health needs, and personality and self-expression needs, and spiritual self and soul and the needs for my psyche, my self-exploration, the drives I can’t let go of to find answers and meaning and self-expression, absolutely compelled to do these things, so life better find a place for me or I might just not make it.

But when there are too many things trying to make me take care of them all at once, and there is no way to move because I’m crowded in on all sides by others shoving and pushing, holding me down, forcing me along in directions I didn’t need or want to go, or holding me in place, unable to move where i need to go to get done what I need to do, or even trampling me over in the rush to do what they need or want to do but what I need and want to do are left rotting in the dust of nothingness. There is no room. All the hopes that sooner or later the peaceful harmony of life with my daughter, of homeschool, and housework, and arts and crafts and of my spiritual path and of nature, and whatever else, these little things that help me hold on for another day and try to find what I may as realizations rise up when and if they do and how they do if I can hold on to them before they sink down under the murkiness once more and are drowned again. All that which is supposed to let me just make it, maybe it will become trampled too in time. Sometimes there is not enough relief, enough peace or hope, love or joy or meaning, not enough of any of that to have faith, to feel anything worth feeling, or to do anything worth doing, or know anything worth knowing, and not enough to believe in anything worth what feels like it is worth believing in at all. And I’ve been there before.

And so I can’t help but feel like I need to vent about this, I need to say it like it is. I need to admit the full array of slowness, stagnation, completely covered in nothingness, drowned, unconsciousness and going crazy, forgetting who I am, losing my heart, that seems to get lowered down over me, choking out my life and mind and heart, against my will, powerless, and I don’t have to lessen the pain of that reality, by pretending it’s not how it is, not as bad, not as potentially hopeless. I know that it might be hopeful too, but it’s not the guarantee people try to make it out to be.

There often will be this extremely compromised state I am put into where the best thing I can have or do or be or try or even dream about trying, the very best I could hope or aim for is still horribly much lower than what anyone is willing to accept as tolerable, acceptable and valid. Religions, moral systems, cultural norms, advice, friendship and family, marriage, whatever, none of these things accept a place for me and role for me where I am able to exit just as I am. Where I’m able to be who I really am, take my time, process things as I need, go so slowly as I need, be stuck however long I need, focus on the earthy things if I need (like religions say not to), get down to that earthy level and the survival issues like the root chakra, and that analytical level like the third chakra, and the sacral chakra, childhood issue and inner child, and sensuality and pleasure, creativity and happiness. And the dreamy, surreal and otherworldly, ungrounded self too, the whatever chakra that would be. lol And the throat chakra, the self-expression, my uniqueness. And my heart chakra, my need for love, for interaction, relationship, in the ways I need, the kind of love I need, not just this totally selfless love, but an interactive love that meets the needs of my personality and passions and preferences and a really compatible kind of fulfilling love. And sexuality, to need to have that part of my identity fulfilled in a way that is healthy and loving for me, when the world seems to not have the kind of romantic relationship I would need that I can see, but only much misleading, much use and abuse and much mistaken feeling of love which leads to wrongness, hurt and use and abandonment. Finding my romantic and sexual needs met safely and happily only by spirit and astral love, because all human love in that way feels extremely using and hurtful and unpleasant, totally not enjoyable to me at all, the opposite of that, disgusting. So I’m totally traumatized in that way after all I’ve seen and learned of people and relationships, but I still have to be a wife to my husband and his expectations, demands, and anyway, .. the world doesn’t have what I need, but only seems to want to use and twist me into something I can’t be, am not, choke the very life out of me, and then throw me away. Or to throw me away before all the abuse, for the less damaging ones. But throw me away, either with living decay, thrown away, desecrated, a living death, though not literally thrown away or actual literal abandonment.

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da-life-of-electra-heart · 7 years

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I wished people did know that depression isn’t an equivalent for sadness and that there is no such a thing as romantic or poetic about it. Being depressed and being sad are two entirely different pairs of shoes. Being depressed can of course lead to feeling sad but it’s by far not the most central emotion you’ll be going through. What about despair? Solitude? Anxiety? Emptiness? Self-hatred? Insecurity? Overwhelming? Isolation? Dissociation? Helplessness? Shame? Hopelessness? And intoxicating, suffocating fear? Have you never heard of those? There are so many words to define depression with, please don’t you ever use sadness again. Not only is it a terribly misplaced understatement, it simply isn’t true. I do NOT just feel sad, you hear me? Never. Depression interfers with your way of thinking, your way of looking at things and your way of interacting with others. It drastically lowers your self-esteem and messes with your whole personality, causing you to eventually be so confused that you don’t even know who you are anymore. It’s like you constantly feel that something’s missing, you remember the person you used to be before depression kicked in but there’s just no way to grab her by her hand and pull her back in. You see how things are supposed to be, you know how you’re supposed to think, to feel but you just can’t because it’s way out of your control and that’s driving you insane. You constantly feel misplaced, like you just weren’t made for this trivial world of ours. Thinking of your future scares the hell out of you because you don’t know If you will have one. Should you..have one? Sometimes you feel every emotion you’re going through a little bit too hard. Sadness turns into utter despair, anger and annoyance into burning rage and you feel like If there’s no way of letting these emotions out, you’re gonna blow up and scatter them pieces of yourself all over your bedroom floor. Other days, however, are just a blurry mess filled with dull nothingness. You don’t even feel a single damn thing and there you are, lying on your bed like a corpse, blankly staring at the ceiling for three hours straight. It’s moments like these that almost make you wish you could have all your pain and desperation back, just so that you could feel anything at all, no matter how bad it might be. Being torn apart by agony’s still not a quarter as bad as that paralyzing emptiness, feeling like a lifeless shell. Sometimes you’re desperately in need of being around your favourite people, some quality time and a good talk with one of your closest friends. A tight hug and a soft voice that asures you of those things you can’t seem to tell yourself (“It’s okay, you’re gonna be fine.”) In the other hand, sometimes you just wanna lock yourself up in your bedroom and not see anybody for days or two weeks straight because every social interaction exhausts the hell out of you and you hate everything and everybody for no particular reason. Suffering from depression doesn’t mean your some sort of cliché-emo who loves graveyards and loathes daylight. Depressed people aren’t lazy, they don’t think negatively by choice and they don’t intentionally throw their lifes away. Dealing with depression each and every day actually requires and enormous amount of bravery and strength. The most basical activities like getting out of bed in the morning, regularly brushing your teeth or having a shower become incredibly hard from time to time. Don’t even get me started on the shitloads of power it takes to go to work or join social gatherings. It’s when you made it through another day, another month, another year that slowly you begin to realize that you’re capable of making it through fucking anything. You might see me as a weak, broken, little girl, you might roll your eyes at me for always causing the people in my surroundings trouble and not being able to just “snap out of it”. You think that I simply don’t wanna be happy and that I don’t see how lucky I am for the circumstances I’ve been blessed with. You think you need to tell me that “other people have it worse”, you really think that I don’t know this, right? Right. But you are so damn wrong. The most frustrating thing about depression is that it ain’t something anyone’s able to grab or see. If you get hit by a car or fall down a stairs and break your leg as a consequence, people see your injuries. Therefore they come running, offering you their support, acknowledging the pain you’re going through. Depression, by all means, is just as bad as any physical injury but as it’s invisible, people don’t acknowledge it as the serious, very much real mental illness it is. That means, that If I wanna be taken seriously I theoretically have to jump in front of a car or throw myself down a stairway first. “Maybe then they’ll notice, maybe then they’ll care.” As ridiculous this might sound to you, it gets even more ridiculous when I admit that there have been times when I actually considered doing a thing like that, just so that I’d get the support and the acknowledgement I was desparately in need of. Now, that’s straight up mad. Our society needs to start opening its eyes and seeing mental illnesses as what they truly are; injuries that are just as real as a broken arm or a gun shot wound. That you don’t see them doesn’t mean that they don’t exist and don’t need to be taken seriously. And please, for god’s sake, lose the idea of depression just being some sort of a constant sadness. It’s so much more complex than that.

Depression

#mental health #mental illness #mental disorder #anxiety #depression #darkness #clichés #the truth #society #writing #spilled ink #paper #poetry #personal #wake up

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versatilepoetry · 4 years

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Wake Me Up Only If

Wake me up only if; the light of the Omnipotent Sun glimmered; with brilliantly untamed flamboyance outside, Wake me up only if; uninhibited torrents of impregnable love; pelted with indefatigable frenzy; from fathomless sky, Wake me up only if; all horrendously manipulative ugliness; metamorphosed into a planet of perpetually priceless mankind, Wake me up only if; heinous crime wholesomely ceased to exist on the trajectory of this planet; the innocuous were no more subjected to tyrannical malice, Wake me up only if; inexplicably traumatized agony; miraculously metamorphosed into a festoon of; charismatically jubilant smiles, Wake me up only if; the Moonbeams showered their pristine seduction upon the periphery of this bedraggled earth; without the slightest iota of adulterated prejudice, Wake me up only if; an unfathomable festoon of poignant roses; ubiquitously disseminated the scent of graciously voluptuous timelessness; to every cranny of this bountifully everlasting Universe, Wake me up only if; rhapsodic cisterns of spell binding wind; euphorically swiped all horrifically disgruntled gloom; perpetuated all lugubriously languid with the profound ebullience to lead life, Wake me up only if; majestic rivulets of oneness oozed harmoniously; handsomely blending with the eternal fabric of symbiotically supreme living kind, Wake me up only if; the soil outside ravishingly sprouted with the fruits of magical creation; the chapter of invincible existence; enchantingly proliferated at every space inundated with ominous grief, Wake me up only if; the stars radiantly twinkled in exuberantly princely unison; ingratiatingly placating the souls of one and all truculently bereaved; alike, Wake me up only if; marvelously titillating beauty unveiled on every step that I transgressed; making me entirely oblivious to the diabolical vagaries; of this savagely commercial planet, Wake me up only if; all morbidly sullen depression; scintillatingly transformed into a perennially bestowing entrenchment; of blissful smiles, Wake me up only if; rainbows of magnificently regale prosperity insatiably lingered on every contour of this colossal planet; enshrouding every element of disparagingly despairing existence with the rays of; gloriously ecstatic freedom, Wake me up only if; the irrefutably sacred spirit of perseverance; prevailed unflinchingly; across even the most laggard heart on this fathomless planet, Wake me up only if; the unequivocally unassailable mantra of truth reigned unshakably supreme; with the corpse of hideously nonchalant lies; disappearing forever into the mists of worthless nothingness, Wake me up only if; waves of unconquerably patriotic freedom compassionately encircled the earth from all sides; with every organism profusely exercising its right of; tirelessly benign existence, Wake me up only if; all mercilessly satanic bloodshed refrains to happen forever; with every orphaned child amiably cuddling once again; in the lap of its sacrosanct mother, Wake me up only if; every entity listened to nothing else; but the impeccably beautiful voice of his; undefeatably pious conscience, Wake me up only if; a river of enthrallingly vibrant melody flowed outside my bedroom window; when every dawn greeted me wonderfully with the Omniscient scent of; ever pervading humanity, Wake me up only if; every passionately palpitating heart on this aristocratically fascinating Universe; bonded with threads of immortally unending love, Most importantly O! Almighty Lord; wake me up only if; you had the power to wake up my beloved from the realms of surreally ethereal heaven; so that we embarked upon our mission to wake up all those disastrously decaying; flooding our each night with so much love; that we always remained awake forever and ever and ever.

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dwellingoninsomnia-blog · 6 years

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Into the Pit

Awake since 6am, I drove my roommate to his job and came back home barely awake off of 3 hours of sleep. I fucked around on my computer until 10 before I got bored. Bored of editing movies, creating video games, writing my fiction novel, drawing a comic, writing a guitar song, and listening to whatever music I have on my computer. I like to believe I have a nice diversity to my numerous hobbies, but then I sometimes wonder why I have so many. Most people I know have a couple, maybe three at most. It is at times like these, when all forms of distraction and creative expression have lost their fleeting appeal, that I sit. I stare at the wall feeling empty. Without my job, my hobbies, or my friends and family around I'm just...here. When I was a teenager I woke up one day depressed, so I distracted myself with my novel. After an hour that got boring and meaningless, so I went to my garage to play some videogames. After an hour, that got boring and meaningless. So I played some guitar and rocked the fuck out for an hour. That too got boring within an hour. I repeated the same cycle of those three outlets until mid-afternoon until I stopped and questioned myself. I asked why I was distracting myself with this shallow expressions. What was I distracting myself from? Loneliness? Boredom? Existence? The answer to that question I still find myself unable to answer as for the first time in years I am thrown right back into that feeling. That emptiness. The nothingness that exists without distractions. As I sit here before 11am, staring at the wall waiting until my roommate is off work at 5, I wonder the same thing I wondered back then? What is this feeling? I've been bored plenty of times in my life like everyone else, but this is more despair than boredom. More emptiness than an unending pit with no bottom. When I am completely, totally alone - this hits me. Otherwise, I am constantly and unforgivingly distracted by my friends, family, hobbies, dreams and goals, or responsibilities.

Back then, after I had this experience as a teenager, of course the only escape from this feeling seemed to be suicide. While I already couldn't care less about living, suicide is a last resort to this. Back then, I got into self-harm and locked myself in my room with the blinds drawn and the door locked. I sat there so many years ago in the darkness of my room and just thought. I stared at the wall for months. A hollow shell of a person, that experience I later reflected on while taking a psychology class: without others, who are we really?

Psychology and biology both seem to agree that humans are social creatures. We form packs, villages, and civilizations. Our entire modern lives are lived as a certain image we present to the world not only for us, but also for that world itself. I am such-and-such as far as my personality traits because the personality is simply how an individual reacts to its environment. Without an environment, what is there left in oneself? Without reaction to stimuli, there is just this emptiness. I crawled out of that dark bedroom years ago feeling like I overcame something, but here I am right back in that pit. Same pit, different era of my life. I have to admit, as painful as it is feeling this way, it kinda makes me laugh at how close by this mind state is at all times. It's always there just right behind every social interaction, every creative expression, every outlet of mental energy, and every thought itself. It's the greatest joke of our species.

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sarinasloan-blog · 7 years

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Sobriety is it’s own Disease

I've never heard this song before, but the last time I heard it I was dying. It's "The Air That I Breathe" by The Hollies, and it makes me want to drink again. The video is a series of rocket failures from NASA, do you ever think about rockets? All that raw, bottled potential. Too much so, that they literally explode if they are unable to launch. I am a failed rocket. This is my implosion. The text is rising and gold. Launch take 2, prepare for ascention. Ten... 10... for new beginnings... Nine... 9... for comfort in the past... Eight... 8... for bindings and rules... Seven... 7... for freedom... Six... 6... for building momentum... Five... 5... for building climax... Four... 4... for stability... Three... 3... for rest... Two... 2... for pressure... One... 1... for hope without action... prayer... Simultanious goosebumps and sweat, I am sitting in a literal state of oxymoron. This is my implosion. Sometimes I have dreams where I am a stranger. I see myself and I get uncomfortable. I don't want to be this. This isn't who I am. My body is a cage and I've swallowed the key. I'm grown accustomed to bottling my feelings and pouring them into a glass. Duhka... or Dhuka... the pain of life. The pain of wanting. When I'm depressed, my suicidal tendencies pass. I want to feel more again. I'm hooked on this feeling. I'm high on believing. Sometimes, I'm so happy, I want to die. If I feel like I can fly, why not give it a shot? Fly. Soar. Like the rocket I truly am. Let all the bottled potential I've found at the bottom of my glass and take off. I've been told that I have synesthesia. I see colour where there isn't any. Everything is associated with another feeling, another depth. What an irony. It's almost sick. Some people describe depression as the colour being drained from life. Yet. All this colour. What more do I need? I don't want to romanticize the fact that my brain's neural paths have been crossed. It's distracting. I'm listening to The Hollies, and this kaleidoscope of colours invade my vision. It's almost on another layer. Not even vision. Something more than that. I see colours in my dreams. Scientists say it's impossible. Though I do. I'm not special. Shades that they don't make here, not on this plane. Art seems flat without them. No words can define them. I have a hard time coming to terms with chaos. Entropy, if you will. Some say, "Fate leads the willing - and drags along the reluctant." I don't believe in fate, but if I did I'd try to be more willing. I wish I had apathy. I'm trying to paddle in this sea and I'm being taken away from the shore. If I were a pessimist, I'd never be angry. I'm an idealistic optimist and it's killing me inside. Do I have a boat, or am I swimming? If I'm paddling without a boat, isn't that drowning? I'm drowning. I learned in swim classes, that if you're stranded in the sea - huddle close. But... It's the hedgehog's dilemma, isn't it? The closer I get, the more it hurts. Why don't I just lay on my back. Drift away. I am bouyant. I am soaring. I am three feet above my head. Hello, 17 - are you there? Hi! Is the future bright? Yes, I've always been a liar. Hello 12, are you there? Hiya - are you making computer games? Kind of. Hello 8, are you there? Hello! Have they found any more dinosaurs? You have no idea. 28, are you there? Can you hear me? Am I going to be okay? Please. Am I going to be okay? I have wings, they can't cling to me now. Spread my wings. Ascend. All I need is the air that I breathe, and to love you. All I need is the air that I breathe, and to love you. All I need is the air that I breathe... How about some Radiohead? When I listen... I get this fear. Radiohead - Nude. They waited so long to play this song. They didn't think they could do it justice. So they waited. Now it's so imperfect and real. The demon tells me I have too much blood. I know your tricks, demon. Don't get any big ideas, they're not going to happen. How did I live so long without a song to place to this feeling? I am a baby again. I am on my back. When they exit the door, will they ever return? That's the despair I feel. The despair of not knowing. Maybe that's why I collect knowledge. The fear of the unknown. I can't feel my face. I can't feel my fingers. Everything is vibrating. I am cold, but not on the outside. The pit needs to be fed, and it's not hunger. It's my second stomach. The one that always aches. The marble organ that keeps me tied to the Earth. What if I drained it? It's empty, but oh so heavy. The lack of. It's heavy. Nothingness. Has a weight all of it's own. In my dreams, I can't walk. I'm too weak. There are always masks. I have to choose. I have so many, walls and walls of masks. When I take them all off, all of the layers, I have nothing behind them. Then I wake up. If I wear camoflage to not be seen, why not just wear nothing? For me to be nude is for me to be invisible. How did they all turn out so well-adjusted? He's an acclaimed photogpraher. She's a personal trainer. He's upper management. She's a mother of three, with a degree in social psychology. They aren't who they used to be. The ones capable of so much pain. So much hurt. Why did you hate me? What did I do? Please tell me. I can fix it. I can fix it. I want my baby back. I miss her deeply. You don't understand. She would be six now. She'd be in grade one this fall. I wonder what words she'd mispronounce. Or the lies that she'd tell me so I'd love her more. That's why I'm such a liar sometimes. I want to have that love, too. I don't know how to earn it on my own. So I lie. Thank god I lost my scholarship. I wouldn't be able to finish school like this, anyways. It would have hit at a horrible time. What if I'm only sick because of what I lost? If only I knew. You've gone off the rails, he sings. Train's don't function without rails. I guess that's what fate is. But I'm not a train. I'm a rocket. I'm on the platform. They've finished the countdown. I'm burning up inside. It's so cold, though. A cold burn. I wonder if such a thing exists. I Google'd it, it's called frostbite. I have internal frostbite, I guess. I think it's serious. They might have to amputate. When I went to grab his whiskey, there was a card left leaning against the bottle. "The Last Hope" I put it back down. Walked away. I don't mess with hope, I leave it for later when I might need it. There'll be something missing, he sings. I hate when people tell me I'm strong for quitting. If only they knew. How much I think I want it. How much I know I need it. They wouldn't think so for long. I'm addicted to a feeling that numbs all others. I'm addicted to nothingness. It's the closest a coward like me could ever get to touching death. I tried to die before, and I failed. I failed at a true attempt of failure, does that make me a winner? Or just a double failure? It's dark in here. So I close my eyes. I see lights. Brilliant and bright. Flashing and spinning. Blinding. White. I collect nostalgia. For a time when I didn't even exist. What little nostaliga I've kept of myself. Are like a memento of who I used to be. The part of me that's died. My wings are growing and I'm ascending higher. Though I am only still three feet above my head. Remember the Matrix? When Neo sees his internal self? Mine, she has curly brown hair and wears a white dress. Nothing like me. But she's the closest to 'me' I have. This 'me', I speak of, isn't the person I am right now. I don't know how to explain it. It's a feeling. Like I haven't grown into myself yet. Like that even makes any sense. I use my daugher's name to live a life she didn't have. Is that sick? I don't know. I feel as though I surrendered mine the night I woke up in the hospital. I no longer fear shame or failure, and just 'do' things. All sorts of things. Hobbies, skills, talents. 'I' was scared of it, but that's not who 'I' am anymore. Hard to describe. I was born in the hospital. And then I was born in the hospital a couple decades later. So these memories, they aren't really mine. Though they define me and limit my actions. Out of respect for the dead. To remember them. If I forget myself, will I ever have existed? What if everyone forgets? Do the people who hurt me remember me like how I remember them? Or are they happy, free, innocent? What if they were only trying to help me? My tongue is swollen. My mouth is dry. My fingers are pins and needles. Amber, what is your favourite hobby? I like to play videogames. Why is that? I get to escape. I can be something other than myself. I do things I would never be able to do. Amber, why do you want to make games? Playing them isn't enough. I want to make my own experiences. Amber, there's a word for that. It's called living. I want to live, then. But I'm too scared. I'm too scared to live. But I'm too scared to die. I'm just scared. Of everything. Of everyone. And it hurts. And I don't know how to stop. I'm scared of feeling things. So I do whatever I can to not. Then, I get scared of the emptiness. Of not feeling anything. So I remember my pain so I'm not alone. Pain is comfortable. Because it's always there for me. And I have abandonment issues towards happiness. Because it always leaves me. Always. What if pain is just the absence of happiness? It's not though. It's tangible. It's real. Sometimes, too much happiness is painful to me. It's the nothingness that's the real pain. Someone could hold me, or someone could hit me. Or someone could leave me alone entirely. Being left alone hurts more than being hit. Because it's harder for someone to hold me. I just let myself get hit. Because at least it's something, right? That is how I describe my childhood. As an adult, no one hits me. I get held. But it feels foreign, alien, strange. Because I'm not used to it. It's almost like I miss being hurt. Because it's comfortable. Sometimes I won't go to sleep, because I'm scared of my dreams. I'm scared to leave the comfort of living in peace. Yet, when I wake up - I fall back to sleep. Because my dreams are another escape. I don't know what I want. I don't know who I am. I seek out knowledge about the world around us. Because my biggest fear is ignorance. I am ignorant to who I am. I have no emotional intelligence. I am the most ignorant person I know. He's singing 'How to Disappear Completely' now. That there, that's not me. I know. I know that feeling. I'm on the outside. Who am I looking at? Is this how everyone else sees me? I don't know them. I don't like them. I've been told, that most people don't like me because they don't know me. I'm scared to let people get to know me, though. Because in my experience, I like people just fine until I get to know them. And then I don't anymore. I'm not here, I'm not here. This isn't happening. In a little while, I'll be gone. Why did I listen to it? The angel who gave me these wings? She freed me from the demons that clung to my back. In return. I feel like I might die. I'm scared that I'm not more concerned. Like, what if I want this to happen? I don't want to die. Not yet. I just don't want to deal with the feelings of living. I'm such a coward. I'm stuck in the middle. The only action is inaction. Maybe if I do nothing, it will all go away. Leave me alone. Yet. I don't want to be alone. I'm scared of being alone. Yet the others hurt too much. I'm lost, I don't know. I don't know what to do. I need help. But that requires letting someone in. And I'm too scared. I'm too anxious to reach out. I am sitting in the middle of my fear. It's enveloping me. It's bitter and cold. Yet on the outside, I'm sweating. Nobody knows this. I act too silly. I make faces. Change my voice. Hide it. Maybe if I hide it. I'll lose it. And it will go away forever. I miss the family I never had. I had a chance to be a part of a family once. And I ran away because I didn't think I deserved it. It was weird and alien, it didn't feel right. Anything that isn't pain to me feels awkward and forced. Insincere. Here's 'The Hollies' again. If I could make a wish, I think I'd pass. Can't think of anything I need. I'm fearful of the void that I place myself in. My mind is over stimulated. There are too many colours. Too many sounds. But silence? No. Darkness? I can't. I'm not fit for this world. I've built a cocoon in my home. I don't like to leave. The outside is too dangerous. I could die. But. Isn't that what I want? I don't know what it feels like. If it feels more than nothing. I don't want to try it. I'm scared of the world. It's too small. I could get noticed. Then what? It's making me claustrophobic. I'm floating. Three feet above her head. My eyes aren't focusing correctly, I really have to aim to read this text. Are they my eyes? Or are they hers? I don't feel like her. I'm something else. What am I? When I'm not inside of her, what am I? This isn't a tanglible, real being. Yet I am here. Hello? Hello! Just making sure. I'm not alone. I have a request. Please. Bring me peace. I wish I could cry. I wish I could release this. It's all pent up, bottled, I feel like it's too big for my body. Like if I cut myself open. Maybe it would come out. My body is terrifying. Our skin is so thin. Our bones, so fragile. Our blood, just the right consistency and chemical state. There's a difference between being tired and being relaxed. I'm too tired to relax. But there's all this energy. When I was a child, I lived up in the mountains. Everyday, I would play on the cliffside. I would dig my hands into the soil, and feed off the energy of the Earth. I would give her mine, and in exchange receive hers. Ofcourse, I was just playing in my imagination. But ever since I left that place. I haven't felt balanced. I miss those cliffs. Looking down to the lake. Standing at the edge. And feeling like I had more control over my life than anyone or anything else. And walking away, feeling refreshed. In control. Powerful. I told nobody of the transaction I made with the Earth. Or the cushion of air between me and the lake below. That respect and understanding. I have never mirrored with another human being. I came across a baby mouse there once. Their mother had been devoured by a snake. And their eyes hadn't yet opened. Just knowing. That there was nothing I could do. If I left them, they would die. If I tried to help, they would die sooner. If I wanted to put them out of their misery, it would be cruel. But to let them live in suffering, would be worse. I walked away. I think about how cold and afraid they must have felt. All alone. Maybe that's why I feel this way. No closure. Is this the way other people feel about me? If they get close enough to help, I bite and their fingers to leave me alone. Let me suffer alone. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I don't mean to. I just don't know how. I let him in because he knows. He understands this pain. This lack of feeling. I'm a horrible person. For feeling as though I'm lucky. To have someone else that hurts as much as I do, too. Isn't that what empathy is for? If I fix this hurt in him, if that's even possible. I'd be alone again. I'm such a coward. I'm selfish. Maybe that's why I hurt like this. I deserve it. You know, that actually makes me feel better. This is oddly cathartic. I am a rocket on the platform. And my crew is floating in space. Sometimes I think about the jumpers from the World Trade Center. The couple that held hands. Or the man that leapt alone. I wonder what their dreams were. If they ever wanted to skydive. But were too scared before. Maybe it was their last ditch effort at a dream. And it makes me calm inside. I remember flying into New York City. Looking down on Manhattan. The patch of Central Park. And thinking to myself: "This is what they saw before they perished." And for a moment. I feel connected. Like I'm not alone. I remember grade three, in Mrs. McKay's class. Having her sit us down and explain war to us. All the teachers watching the news, and crying. It was the first time I've ever seen my mother cry. I remember when the second plane hit. I don't know why I think about it so much. I went to the memorial at ground zero. I listened to all of the phone recordings. Walked down a hall of photographs. I couldn't cry. I wanted to cry. I had selfish intentions. I just wanted to feel something. And I thought I could if I went there. When it happened, I couldn't even cry. I like to think it's because I was a child and couldn't phathom what it meant. But when tragedy hits in the modern day. I still have a hard time crying. It's not that I don't have empathy, I try really hard. I try to think about what I'd feel like if I were there. If it were happening to me. And I get flooded with a warm calm. Like everything is going to be okay. Because it will all be over soon. And it won't be up to me. I've been doing this for four hours. I'm still above my head. I remember english class. I used to write these long-winded essays. I'd get really into it. And the words would just flow from my fingers. They'd tell me that I was passionate, and had a strong sense of justice. I wonder if I'm still passionate. Passionately feeling rage. Rage against what I'm too scared to take control over. This is my fault. I'm to blame. I know how to cry. I'm going to try to, right now. I'm thinking about the past I never had. I'm thinking about the scholarship I lost. I'm thinking about the child who didn't make it. I'm thinking about being a good mother. I'm thinking about University. I'm thinking about being a contributing member of society. I am a leech. I don't want to be. I want to make people feel things. A sense of belonging. Maybe if I express my pain, someone else will relate. And they won't be so alone. Maybe if I share this. Someone else will feel happiness. That they aren't me. I didn't cry, by the way. I used to. When I used to believe I still had a chance. People used to think so highly of me. That I had so much potential. Someone who would be destined for great things. Then I grew up. What were my real dreams? Not the dreams that the adults around me pushed onto me. Projected what they lost. Onto a child. Who doesn't know any better than to listen. Maybe that's why I'm so disappointed. Or am I disappointing? I was supposed to be so much. Looking back now, I would have never lived up to what everyone thought I would be. It was too much. It was unrealistic. And I broke under the pressure. All I want to do is make games. And I do. I'm doing what 8, what 12, and what 17 me wanted to do. Maybe I should make a game about dinosaurs. 8 me would really like that. Don't be sad, Amber. You're doing what you wanted to do. It doesn't matter that you let them down. They let themselves down, first. That's why they pushed their torches onto you. It wasn't your burden to bear. Thank you. I needed to hear that. I wonder if there's a field hockey team in town. Maybe I should look that up. And join in the summer. I was good at that. What else do I want to do? It's hard to think about. I'm used to just doing what I thought other people wanted me to do. I just wanted to make them happy. Maybe if I do what they want me to do, I can show them how to do it for themselves. Then I will truly be free. I've typed more that 4000 words today. What else do I want to do? I like this. Writing. I don't know what 'this' is called, it has no coherent sentence structure and doesn't tell a story. It's not poetic. Or beautiful. But it makes me feel at ease. The tingling in my fingers has run up into my arms. And my nose is numb. My legs are shaking. But I feel at ease. Like everything is going to be okay. And whatever happens, happens. It's not entirely up to me. I am soaring. The rocket has taken off. I am ascending. I am three feet above my head. Peace came upon me, and it makes me weak. So sleep, silent angel, go to sleep.

#alcoholism #psychosis #recovering #hope

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