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#ptsd tw


  • Name: Liam Blackwood.
  • Gender/Pronouns: Cis Male . Her/Him.
  • Date of Birth: August 1st, 1989.
  • Age: 28 years old.
  • Hometown: Redwood Bay, Oregon.
  • Length of time in Redwood Bay: Returned two years ago.
  • Neighborhood: Meadowlark Hills.
  • Occupation: Detective.
  • Faceclaim: Chris Wood.

BIOGRAPHY (trigger warnings: war, death, PTSD)

Liam was born on a warm summers morning in small town Redwood Bay, the eldest of two Blackwood Siblings. Their childhood was a good one, their parents inserting the drive for success in each at a young age. Sure Liam loved his parents, but as he got older each interaction began to feel more like a business deal than it did a simple conversation between family. The eldest never resented them for their parenting, but he despised they way they expected he would follow in their footsteps. The male didn’t seem to have any trouble making friends throughout his high-school years, his laid back attitude and quick witted mind meant he slipped right in, and he did his best to ensure his grades were at the very least adequate in the eyes of his parents.

Post high-school; unsure of his place in the world exactly what he wanted to be, Despite having been accepted into law school at Harvard, Liam ignored the pressure exuded from his parents by instead enlisting in the army, where he spent the next several years working his way up though the military and into the special forces with the 75th Ranger Regiment. They were the elite of the elite. And though his new found career put pressure on his family bond, given he was often so far away from his parents and sister, the Ranger did his best to return home to visit the family between tours as often as he could. Whether it was because of the element of risk his job came with or the fact he would be the first person to take a bullet for another -though he would never voice it nor admit such a feat- Liam appreciated that no matter the risk and despite not having followed the path that had been paved for him, they were proud. At the end of the day he was doing what he loved, he had found a place where he belonged, a brotherhood. However his world as he knew it would all come crashing down around him over a few long days.

It was supposed to be just another mission. Instructions were to infiltrate rebel forces under the cover of darkness, eliminate if necessary and extract the hostages (a pair of American journalists). As per usual the alpha company were fluent and efficient in their methods, the brotherhood moving almost as one as they went about their mission. With the hostages safe and sound after a few long hours, the party made haste to their extraction point. But as they boarded the aircraft a group of rebel soldiers appeared from the surrounding buildings, bullets spraying from all directions. Crawford, whom was the company 2IC and Liam’s long-time best friend, was the first to leap into action, motioning for the team to get aboard as he held them off as best he could. Everything simply happened too fast. Liam being the stubborn Sargent he was, refused to leave one of his men behind and the next thing he knew, he was being thrown on the ground and dragged back to the aircraft.

His memories from that day are still hazy, from the concussion he received on impact; but he does know if it hadn’t been for Crawford’s sacrifice he wouldn’t have walked away from the scene with nothing but partial deafness in one ear. Consequentially Liam was granted two weeks leave bereavement to process the whole event. The Ranger returned home immediately, only he now felt like a stranger amoungst his own, how was he possibly able to explain the magnitude of the situation to civilians. Sure he knew they would listen and try their best to understand but he wished not to burden them with his pain. Instead he made light work of keeping busy, before distraught and lost he returned to the military for a final year.

As he struggled to come to grips with the death of his best friend, his anger spiraled out of control, and he began landing himself in anything from fight clubs to general bar brawls in the search for a release. With his behavior out of control his superiors offered him an ultimatum, either be given the boot or take an honorable discharge on the condition he sort his head out and return in a few years’ time if the force was still for him. Deciding the latter was the only option; Liam packed his bags and returned home. The past year had been an absolute whirlwind and the eldest Blackwood was nothing short of both physically and emotionally exhausted.  

It wasn’t until one of his past colleagues and long term friend contacted him about an opening in the local investigations unit that he actually found his sense of purpose again. For someone that was accustomed to living out of a backpack, the sudden change would take some time to get used to. It wasn’t long however before Liam adapted to the situation and even began to enjoy his new role within the police force. This was where he most comfortable in his own skin, right in the thick of it, not playing house and working some nine to five job.

The ex-soldier remains a shadow of his former somewhat happy, self, choosing to hide behind his sarcastic demeanor and quick wit. Little does everyone know of the weight he carries upon his shoulders. Liam holds honesty, loyalty and honor and if anyone was to ever break his trust it would be near impossible to gain it back. Despite having not been back in town for a little over two years he chooses to close himself off to possibility of making new connections. Because with friendships and feelings come commitment and time, two things of which given his job, he may not always be able to maintain. No one outside of his psychologist is aware of the demons that plague his nightmares, yet Liam refuses to admit nor accept that he suffers from PTSD. Stubborn to the core the soldier would rather lock away the memories of those he has lost along the way than talk about them ever again.


+ adroit, perceptive, selfless.

- impetuous, blunt, withdrawn.

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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.

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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​​

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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

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Lucille & [ scare ] Your muse witnesses mine having a panic attack, flashback, or hallucination. (Lucille head of Saviors au)

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

Painful Prompts. Warnings for: injuries, blood, mental health, drug mentions, medical language. | accepting.

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Far From Home Chapter 7

Chapter Warnings: Voyeurism mentioned, PTSD, Implied Psychological Abuse

Characters: 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

Words: 2,151

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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.

Keep reading

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@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. 

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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. 

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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… is NOT your fault. I don’t care if you were 2, 8, or 31… 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.

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馃崕 !

fruity headcanon prompts | accepting

🍎  :    how stable is my muses 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. 

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Wyatt & 29: force my muse to stay awake

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.


f*ck with my muse send a number, get a drabble. caution: blood, torture, lots of violence. | accepting.

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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.

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“ i’m doing my best. ” (Bucky to Connie)

  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.  

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It had been a long time since she had woken up to find Wyatt flailing, covered in a cold sweat. The telltale signs were all there, his PTSD flaring. She knew what the trigger had been; finding someone on their property earlier today. She reached out, soothing her hands over his back, knowing he could very well pull away. Whatever he needed in that moment, she would give him. Sometimes that was comfort, sometimes that was space. She waited to see what it was, never taking anything personally.

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.”

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