ok so something i’ve been thinking about recently. just because the dog that bit me was predominantly a pit bull does NOT by any means mean that all pit bulls are bad dogs. she was abused by her previous owners and my being attacked and all of the legal and medical stuff that came after it was her current owners fault because they didn’t follow the rules my parents had set regarding their dog.
that being said, is the face of a pit bull the face of my trauma around that particular topic? yes. am i super jumpy around large dogs even 8 years later? yes. but just because i have ptsd about that breed does not immediately demonize the rest of the breed. thank you for coming to my ted talk.
I really hate how the town decided everything I decided to do with my body/self was suddenly affecting them. But, not when I was abused and so much other shit? Okay then!
The blonde hadn’t expected to fall asleep, she had been working on her blueprints out on a cafe table and seeing as though she hadn’t been sleeping much since Tartarus really, her eye lids welcomed the thought of closing them for a moment to rest, and that’s when the nightmare came in. She was blind again, Calypso’s curse taking hold, she needed to see what was going on to defend herself, needed to be in Percy’s arms so that she was aware that one thing was real, but before she can question where he went, she hears him screaming her name before he’s suddenly silenced and she whips her head up from the table, screaming loudly, her hands still clearly shaking and her heart practically beating outside of her chest. “Oh gods, I’m awake..I’m definitely awake now.“ Annabeth mumbles as she buries her face in her hands. @woodshorestarters
I did something bad…
Why do I have to fuck up everything that’s important to me?
yesterday morning as a joke and to test whether or not my dog would save me, my dad pinned me down and pretended to spit on me, knowing I would actually be grossed and try to escape… but anyways that wasn’t the bad part, I was fine during all that but today I looked at my arm and my dad had my arm so tight he left bruises where his fingers were and it triggered the fuck out of me. again, my dad did not hurt me and we wrestle and hit each other playfully a lot, it’s the bruises themselves that made me sick. i instantly got flashbacks of my ex bf leaving bruises on my other arm and man I’ve been having flashbacks and nightmares and shit constantly, this is the month this shit happened the most. I don’t really speak to anyone about this stuff due to shame and I feel weak and like it’s my fault. but idk I needed to vent about this bruise thing
For Lucille ;
Periodically, Lucille’s anxiety would spike like this, tipped over the edge by an absent prescription or alcohol, but her anxiety had been at bay since her husband had returned home - but that had all come crashing down now that their foodstocks were running short: “fuckin’ Hilltop, that fuckin’ piece of shit Gregory!” She’s slinging steel knifes across the room as she speaks, each one slamming into the corkboard with an ear-drum bursting thud. “All I fuckin’ ask is that they give us half’a their produce, once a month, and we’ll protect ‘em in return. I just…” And it’s the sound of the thudding that triggers something in her subconscious, a connection made in her circuits, and it slams into her with force that winds her.
“Fuckin’-…” Thunk… thunk… thunk… It’s the sound of the MRI machine, humming away, the magnets thumping as her husband is scanned up and down, sitting inside the white tube like he’s some kind of science experiment rather than a cancer patient, and she can see the the state of his lungs on the scans over the radiologist’s shoulder. The chemo hasn’t worked, the radio hasn’t taken efffect, and it’s metatisticed. “Shit,” the disorientation. the nausea and the shock has her on her knees, and her blood runs cold in her veins. She’s blinking rapidly, trying to ground herself, to restore reality to its former shape, to rationalise what she’s seeing, and her hands are clammy to the touch. “Shit, shit, shit,” and she’s clawing at the floor like she’s trying to hold on
Far From Home Chapter 7
Chapter Warnings: Voyeurism mentioned, PTSD, Implied Psychological Abuse
Overlord, Sunder, Froid
Other Tags: Unrequited love, Canon Divergent, Alternate Universe, Reader Insert, Gender Neutral Pronouns, Xeno, Swearing, Kidnapping, Violence, Minor Character Death, Blood, Gore, Threats of Violence, Stockholm Syndrome, Implied Abuse
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Froid was jolted awake by the sound of the door sliding open and heavy footsteps entering the room. He’s quite annoyed, as he had just managed to drift off into recharge, but remains laying there while bringing his attention up to the mech standing in front of the cage.
@melnchly / PLOTTED STARTER ( for madge )
he can’t breathe. he can’t move on his own either. he doesn’t expect this, and he’s not sure why he doesn’t now. they’re reviewing high-ranking peacekeepers for fitness and conduct in the new law enforcement of panem; of course he will come for review. he looks at gale and madge, miffed and stressed like many of the captains and commanders who come here, and it makes everything worse because it’s clear he doesn’t recognize gale at all. when thread sits down across from them at the table, the room is small and close, and gale’s expression doesn’t change. but he doesn’t breathe, and he barely blinks. commander thread doesn’t quite seem confused, but he certainly doesn’t seem like he completely understands, gaze shifting from the silent boy to the girl at his side. gale sees his lips move, but he can’t hear what he says. he can’t hear … anything. nothing but his heartbeat, wild and erratic in his ears while his vision tightens and blurs around the edges all at once.
All I want is to feel loved…
closed starter for @jedimusings ( ezra & tara )
it starts with three deep breaths in the morning. one to ensure she’s woken up completely through a gasp of terror, the second to try and catch her breath, the third to know that she was alive, that she wasn’t dead, that she was breathing again. the morning routine continues with a shower that’s smoldering - refusing to go in unless the bathroom had completely fogged and her reflection was a hazy blur. heat was better than the cold, but each temperature stung her body regardless. but now – she was fine. the day had started, she had her flask hidden on her for the anxious moments where she swore that she needed to distract her mind. but the day was still young and the night horrors wouldn’t come for hours. her fingers curl around her tea, pouring in the bourbon with it and her eyes cast upwards.
“it’s five o’clock somewhere,” tara reasons as she offers the flask out. he looks old enough, older than her at least. and her eyes narrow on him, curiosity sparking. possibly legal, meaning that maybe he could be a friend - or even a supplier.
I’m proud to show this. It’s sexual abuse awareness month. And this is all my things showing awareness. We, as survivors, have gone through hell, but we will get through this! We all have different stories but we can’t compare. Everyone who has gone through rape, abuse, assault, or molestation…..it is NOT your fault. I don’t care if you were 2, 8, or 31…..it was the perpetrator’s fault!! My abuser was my brother-in-law. I am not proud of what he did to me. But I am proud what it has made me today. Yes I still have my days. My days of flashbacks. Depression. Anxiety. PTSD. Suicidal thoughts. Intrusive thoughts. But I know that I can get through this. I know God will get me through this time. I am only in the beginning stage of my healing journey and it’s tremendously hard!! But through this time, it’s going to make me a survivor. No matter what we went through, it doesn’t define who we are. No matter what our mental health does to us, it doesn’t define who we are. You are a survivor. I want to be a court advocate or a detective when I am older. I want to help the people who are going through abuse, or the people who have. I will always believe victims no matter what.
fruity headcanon prompts | accepting
🍎 : how stable is my muse’s mental health? have they been diagnosed with any mental illnesses and / or conditions? do they have any undiagnosed mental illnesses and / or conditions? do they or should they attend therapy?
Yeah, definitely not stable. My study tag is ‘most well-adjusted luthor’ but…he’s not actually well adjusted, he just much looks it when you put him next to Lex, Lena, Lillian, etc. Nowhere near as bad as them. He has nothing diagnosed, but an form of ptsd is is likely present. He functions okay fine day-to-day, but has habits and thought processes that are clear results of trauma, and can be triggered rather easily, often resulting in ( misdirected ) anger. He does not attend therapy, but he definitely should. seriously, someone give baby a good therapist.
For Wyatt ;
Disorientation, that is the primary sensation he feels, an unreal sense of space, shape and surroundings, depersonalising, de-realizing, dissociating, as though viewing the self from a third-person perspective, somehow removed from his physical form, and yet, the stiffness of his joins, the throbbing of his head, and the soreness of his eyes is vivid. The stimulants he’s ingested have induced a sort of hysteria, paranoia, and his heart feels like it might bust out of his ribcage and writhe on the dusty floor on the metal cell. His heartrate is rapid, his thoughts are racing, and he’s restless with the need to sleep: anything to restore order to his body and to his mind, anything to make sense of his warped surroundings.
“Please,” he begs, wrestling with his own anatomy, his will manipulated by his captors, and is own biology bent out of shape. “Please, let me rest,” and as though the pills they’ve forced down his throat aren’t enough, he’s being subjected to Mozart’s complete canon of work; scores that drag for hours, and blend into the next, bleeding from suite into symphony, a surreal soundscape which spurs him into madness. Lying on his side, he stares out at the shapeless silhouettes of his captors, and blinks at them, hoping the bright spots and colours will fade with time.
Someone Save Me from the Night
Ah, yes. So about that other piece. You know, Hans and Azuna. I did this one immediately after that one, designed to perfectly overlay with the other.
Because this one is the more upsetting companion piece to the other, showing Hans alone, on the worst day of his life. Right in the middle of the war.
Hold Me Through the Storm
A little story behind this, which was actually done as a surprise gift for @maskedmuses, these two are our OCs, Hans and Azuna.
Hans is a former combat medic, and he’s been through a war or two. He suffers from some serious PTSD issues. Azuna has her own PTSD, but you’ll have to ask Snowy about that. Anyway, the point of this one, was to be an expressive piece to show their deep love despite the fact that they are both broken people.
They are broken, but they help each other feel whole.
❝ i know you are. ❞ her voice softens as she sinks into the chair across from him. leaning forward, she props her elbows on knees raised by her bare feet on tiptoe. everything weighed on her now, a heavy mass that she can’t stand. ❝ but we can’t… i can’t keep doing this. ❞ being pushed away only to be tugged back again, she can’t stand it. ( not again ) her heart shattered under the weight, the stress, only for him to come his senses and allow her back into his life. ❝ i’m not a ball, bucky. there’s only so many times you can throw me before i break. ❞ the worst is she understands; perhaps that’s why she’s kept coming back. the war in his mind, tearing it apart bit by bit, how it shatters what he might have once been, she knows. so many of her friends have it, her own mind teetering on the edge of the abyss at times herself. it’s a terrible thing, ptsd. it can barely touch or utterly consume the life of those it latches onto. that’s why she hasn’t given up, not yet. how could she leave him for something out of his control? ( but she can, perhaps she must )
❝ you have to decide if you want me to stay. ❞
There were perks to ranching with a medical professional, and the close-quarters, twenty-four hour care was but one facet of that: it was rare that Wyatt came by a bump or a scrape he couldn’t minister to himself with a tube of savlon and a segment of cotton gauze, prior to Olivia’s enrolment in the cult, he’d made himself handy by swatting up with some old military manuals and taught himself a spot of emergency medicine, but his slap-dash care couldn’t compare to her honed hand. This was his hour of need, not a broken bone or a dislocated joint, or even a laceration: just the pure panic of a vivid recollection, his time under Jacob’s thumb recurring in vibrant shades of red and black.
“Fuck, shit, fuck,” he lurched awake and kicked off the covers, grabbing at his hip in search of a firearm, disorientated and drenched in sweat, and he felt nauseatingly vulnerable as no weapon cane to hand. It was a mad dash for the nightstand, and frantic hands grabbed and groped around the the darkness, trying to make sense of his surroundings, and it wasn’t until he realised he was wielding the alarm clock with every intention of punting it across the room that he finally came to. “Shi-i-i-i-it,” he strung the word out long and returned the clock to its rightful place with a huff, sinking back into the bedsheets with a breathless groan. “Shit, Liv, I’m so sorry.”