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#self harm cw

Snapetober Day 17: Touch-starved

Sometimes Severus just wants to be hit.

After a long week of being surrounded by vindictive, empty-headed children, the ever-present buzz of his occlumency spreads to his fingertips and settles itself sickeningly just beneath his skin. He stares dumbly at the pile of papers on his desk and realizes that he’s crumpled somebody’s essay in his hand. It was probably worthless anyway, he tells himself as he stumbles away from the desk to pace the small room. Severus’s lungs feel like they’re about to collapse in on themselves from a crushing sense of alienation. The layers of thoughts and cloth and coldness that he’s pulled between himself and other people begin to suffocate him. He reaches mechanically for another cigarette but ends up crushing it between numb fingers. Instead of the intended curse, a low keening sound escapes his throat, and a familiar wave of self-loathing washes over him. Suddenly Severus can’t bear being in his dungeon, being in the castle, being so fucking utterly alone for one moment longer.

He grabs his winter cloak and stalks through the grounds until he reaches the edge of the apparition wards. The stinging cold feels good on his skin, but the gently swirling snow muffles everything in a way that only increases his mounting sense of panic. He spins in his heel and is greeted by the grounding sounds of traffic and raucous laughter.

Severus hasn’t been to this particular dingy London pub in months, but the smell of it is as familiar as any of his other usual haunts. He takes a deep breath of the stale air and slips unnoticed to a seat in a shadowed corner. Sometimes he buys a pint and nurses it without drinking, eyeing potential targets and savoring the thrill of anticipation uncoiling in his gut. This time he doesn’t bother though, just chooses a group of men who look like they wouldn’t take kindly to being insulted.

He waits for them to finish their drinks, eyes roaming over broad shoulders and rough, scarred knuckles. His body craves the familiarity of violence, he’s shaking with desire for it. He feels as if he won’t be able to breathe until the wind is knocked out of him. His skin is a disgusting, alien thing that won’t feel real until somebody splits it open. He would do it himself but he doesn’t think he’d be able to stop and it wouldn’t feel the same anyway. It has to be someone else.

It feels good not to censor himself as he follows them outside and hurls verbal abuse at them, slipping easily into a Mancunian accent.

It feels even better when they hurt him for it.

Severus lays in the snow afterward, bleeding sluggishly and shaking with adrenaline. Those precious minutes before the cold and the pain really settle in and a new wave of despair rolls over him are the only times when he doesn’t want to die.

Half an hour later he is back at Hogwarts, appearing unruffled and unscathed. Filch greets him deferentially, but he can feel two pairs of suspicious eyes boring into his back as he starts down the staircase to the dungeons. He straightens his spine and decides to fix his ribs before the faculty meeting tomorrow. It would not do to arouse suspicion, even if allowing Severus this little vice is the least Albus can do.

Severus slips back into his office and locks the door behind him with a sigh. His head feels clear for the first time in a week, but he also knows he won’t get any sleep for a while in this state. He lights a cigarette and eases himself into his chair, then reaches for a crumbled paper. Might as well finish grading the 4th-years’ essays. 

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o man YEAH. extremely angsty and delicious!!! i was actually gonna write some drabble-y thing as an answer to this cause my thoughts would be expressed much better like that but i really just haven’t had the energy for it so here are a few stray thoughts…

( also side note, ‘he sang about the stars’ by theinfamouswordsmith on ao3 has a really great portrayal of this moment and kinda sounds like Exactly the angsty deliciousness u are talking abt)

- it’s canon that lwj buys the alcohol on his way back from checking the burial mounds after wwx’s death and finding a-yuan so like… he literally brings home a sickly infant and then proceeds to go and get black out drunk?? he is SUCH a mess here (understandably)

- mhm yeah the image of lxc and lwj both struggling for the branding iron is such a huge contrast to the perfectly composed and lan-ish twin jades

- and more specifically i’m thinkin about how like. lwj acting far more childish when he’s drunk and lxc naturally employing the methods he used on lwj when they were children and lwj was being stubborn/throwing a tantrum/etc. and lxc still failing to stop lwj from branding himself after using those methods would hit lxc especially hard because so much of his identity and sense of goodness ties in with being a good older brother to lwj

- and also that failure as a reminder that they are no longer children and both they and their relationship have changed so much since then (and that their relationship is imo at its weakest at this point). they’re fighting over an object like children do except lwj is drunk and grief stricken and trying to permanently harm himself as some awful elegy to the man he lost and lxc is desperately and unsuccessfully trying to stop him

- because of How Lwj Is with alcohol it’s safe to assume that only lxc remembers this. i’m sure lxc told him he got drunk and branded himself and lxc tried to stop him but lxc is the only one who actually remembers it. like, the horror in realising that lwj wants to mutilate himself, the panic and desperation in the struggle for the iron, the sound that leaves lwj and the smell of burning when he does brand himself? all in lxc’s head and only lxc’s head forever. ow!

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THAT DUDE I HATE JUST SIGNED UP TO OBSERVE MY TEACHING. And of course, this means I’ll observe his teaching. And like, have to read an entire page of his dumb, stupid, idiot thoughts about my teaching.

This is not to say that an observation wouldn’t benefit me. It super would. I am not convinced I am that great of a teacher, and I could super use the help. But this dude. This dude likes Nietzche. and Joyce. Like, what am I gonna learn from someone who actually likes Joyce?

Deep breath. This will be fine. What’s the worst that could happen? All his advice is terrible and I ignore it? Oh, no, what a nightmare.

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i hate not having spotify premium cause i could be like, cutting or crying and listening to music, and then ill get the gay fanta and beef jerky ad.

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A routine. They washed fingerprint riddled arms. Twin-scarred chest carried a purple flower in their sterum.

Slowly, they inch the knob to the left. The pink appears before the pain really registered. They forced thrice-scarred scalp beneath the spray. Felt cleaner like this. They always felt cleaner.

Their legs ached. Cheek still throbbed hours later. Control was limited. Pain was nearly constant. But this was a pain they could control.

Instinct had them jump away, deep breaths filled adrenaline-lungs. The sweat and steam were humid and dizzying. Shallow breaths, a frustrated grimace.

Hand, wrist, arm, shoulder, back. Slowly forced themselves back under the spray. A deep breath and they took a half step back, tilted their head. Plunged their scalp under the spray again.

Everything else faded. Everything stung. A uniform and mind-clouding burn. Washed, scrubbed. Grey pearls of sunburnt skin peeled away.

Finally it became too much even for them. They turned the shower off. Stood there sucking in steam for a few moments.

The burn faded and the ache returned. The nagging weight of betrayal didn’t.

They gently wrapped the towel around their waist and gently brushed their hair.






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gifdsf goddddamn it i wasnt supposed to go for the arms anymore D: adhgj what was i thinking ‘oh it’ll only be small ones. it’ll be.. juste one…’ no it fucken won’t bitch!!!!!!! yeet haw

:( now i feel guilty about that which is prob the worst dangerous feeling to have rn oof oof oofff……. oh man! “just stop” lmao!

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Something to be said about progress

I don’t know if there’s really a point to this post; sometimes I think it’s just nice to… write this stuff down. This is gonna get a little heavy.

Two years ago, I was in 11th grade, 16, in public school. I was doing, honestly, horribly studies-wise, failing almost every class and staying home sick at least one day a week. I could rarely get up the energy to get out of bed, hardly ate, hardly spoke to anyone. I hurt myself. I contemplated suicide. It was horrible.

Except I didn’t seek help. I didn’t think I needed to- I’d lived in this state of perpetual pain for almost seven years to that point. I’d accepted that I was never going to pass my classes, resigned to my horrible self-esteem, and assumed the world would be better off without me.

Now, by that point, I’d received a diagnosis for ADHD, though nothing was being done about it. I was uneducated on my own disability, and often beat myself up over even having it in the first place. I knew I was born with it, that I couldn’t control it. That didn’t stop me. I assumed I was useless.

Two years ago, I tried to kill myself.

I was quickly taken to a mental health facility, was set up with counseling and doctors. I was pushed around, didn’t know what exactly to do, just rolled with it. I started therapy. I was diagnosed with depression and anxiety, something I was entirely unsurprised to hear. I dropped out of public school and moved to online schooling.

Progress was slow.

Hardly six months later I was expelled from the online school I was attending due to not “attending” school for so many days. I got a job, and barely a month later was fired for a similar reason. I stayed home, constantly, and only had a single friend to talk to.

I got better. I got worse.

Two months ago, I stopped talking to that one friend, realizing her treatment of me was actually abusive. I beat myself up for that, thinking, “That’s the second time that’s happened to me. Is there something wrong with me?” because, yes, that was the second time I’d had a “friend” like that.

I’m approaching my second-year anniversary of starting therapy. I haven’t tried to kill myself in almost a year. I haven’t thought about killing myself in more than three months, which is, most likely, a record I haven’t had since sixth grade.

And, for the first time in my life, I feel okay.

Not quite good, but okay, which in my book is honestly amazing. I’m unemployed, I still haven’t finished school. But I don’t tell myself I’m useless anymore. I’ve accepted my disability, accepted my limitations, stopped hurting myself over that.

For the first time since I was a child, I’m eating proper meals every day. I make sandwiches, with lunch meat. I haven’t done that since elementary. It might seem small, but to me that’s monumental. I cook spaghetti, I bake cinnamon rolls. I cook. And I eat meals with my mother, which I haven’t done in almost five years.

For the first time since I was a child, I’m getting out of bed every day. I’m showering every day, I’m brushing my teeth. I’m actually brushing my teeth! I haven’t done that daily since I was ten! I take walks. I get dressed. I don’t wear nothing but pyjamas constantly, I don’t sleep in my jeans. I don’t lay in bed all day, which is something I legitimately used to do.

For the first time in my life, I’m afraid to die. That sound like it should be negative. But for the first fucking time I’m afraid to harm myself, I’m afraid to leave the world before the age of 30. I’ve never had that before. There was a time in my life where I legitimately thought I wouldn’t make it past 14. I was 12 when I thought that. I want to live now. I’ve never properly had that before.

And, for the first time in my life, I have some semblance of confidence. I’m still anxious, I’m still a mess half the time. But I’m confident in my skills. I’ve never had that before. I was gaslit for so long into thinking I was terrible at everything that feeling like I’m good at what I do is magical. I trust my singing voice. I trust my writing. I trust myself.

This isn’t totally meant to get traction, to be seen by others. This is mostly just a note to myself, so that any time I have a relapse I can look at this and consider how far I’ve come. But I think it could be a nice note for anyone who thinks it’s impossible to get better. You can. It takes time. But you can be okay. I’m okay right now, which is something I haven’t been able to truthfully say in so long I couldn’t put a number to it if I tried. I could get worse, I could relapse. But I can recover. If I did it once, I can remember how to again.

So… yeah. There’s something to be said about progress.

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Word Count:  [650]

You are tired.

You have been here for - oh, it’s hard to say. “Here” as in “around,” rather than “here” as in your current predicament, of course, not that you’re sure on that, either. You know, it’s almost funny. No one ever said immortal meant you would heal quickly from injury.

Or, even, at all.

So, you’re contemplating your options. You’re stuck, in a cave, with your leg pinned under a large rock.

Keep reading

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((Previously… CW for mind control/hypnosis, forced self-harm.))

Ivan wakes up exhausted on the couch, and he groans around a dehydrated tongue, squeezing his eyes tight against the sun flooding his face. Everything’s in pain–but especially his head and… wrist.

What’s wrong with his wrist? Forcing his body to wake up more, he raises his arm. Too heavy. He opens his eyes, squinting to see a crude cast wrapped up to the middle of his hand.

It’s broken. Why is it broken? He doesn’t remember even leaving home last night. God, he needs coffee. Water would be better, but coffee first. Then hospital.

He’ll wonder about what happened when he feels more human again.

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This is the first alter we meet (aside from Deebee) in Deebee’s Inner Diary. Meet Mae! She’s a persecutor alter. She holds a lot of memories that Deebee can’t remember. Mae loves Halloween as you can see with her outfit. She also loves teas and cats. Mae struggles to express her emotions to the point that it stresses her out and exhausts her.

Persecutors are often misconstrued as “evil alters”. People who newly discovered their alters are often told by others that these alters are “monsters”, or they need to be “suppressed” or “removed”.

Remember, alters are altered states of self in Dissociative Identity Disorder. It’s impossible to remove alters… And persecutors need support. If they’re harming themselves or others, then the action needs to be talked about and worked on, and not smothered where it could boil over and become something uncontrollable.

If someone tells you how to make alters “go away”, or calls them subhuman in any way, run. That person is not good for you.

Not every persecutor becomes a protector in the end. Again, this is based on my experiences with my persecutor(s). Mileage varies from system to system.

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