#self hate cw
being kin is a game and i'm losing
56 notes · View notes
plural culture is feeling like a monster bc youre bipolar and plural and pretty much any potrayal of those you can find is being completely demonized ontop of people making insensitive jokes about them so ur just like well shit
26 notes · View notes
Fictive culture is being the most hated character in your source and not really being able to say anything when someone disses you because yeah... I hate myself too, buddy
15 notes · View notes
I don’t understand why there are so many people who only sympathize with Rena’s father and don’t see how his reactions affected her.
15 notes · View notes
i love the rpc positivity blogs so much & love watching my friends get all this love they deserve but dang ever just looked at those and “wow i never get these kind of messages” or whatever cause you’re the background friend or the second rate friend
4 notes · View notes
a wild MCU starter because @knowseverythingaboutyou saw the other one on the dash and also wanted pain lmao
It’s another sleepless night, and Clint Barton is hanging together by some combination of thread and scotch tape. It’s not promising. He can’t help himself — every time he closes his eyes, she is there, devastatingly beautiful, limbs askew, blood like a halo around her head. He hears her laugh in the wind and jolts from a daydream, heart pounding. He feels the touch of her hands on his back and shudders. She is not there, he knows, and yet she has been so much a part of him for so long that she is everywhere. There is no escape.
He loves her. He loves her unendingly, loves her because the possibility of it being in past tense is completely null. He will love her until the day he dies, and even beyond, and wear the weight of her like a scarf that is too heavy and too warm. He deserves worse. He let her die.
The battle is won and yet there is no relief. So many people rejoice, reunited with the people that they love, and she — she — remains dead. Clint drinks himself into a stupor. He hates this, he hates himself for this, but there is no denying it. He let her die.
He could not keep the one person he loves most in the world alive.
It is three in the morning when Clint jolts from where he’d just started nodding off against the machinery. Steve has returned, briefcase empty, stones returned, but he is alone. Natasha’s soul is free, yes, but she remains as dead as when the archer had left her, and there is nothing to be done. Clint looks at Steve for a long and helpless moment, nods, and puts the case away in SHIELD’s lockers. He goes home.
There is no such thing as home without her. There is nowhere to go to find peace. He runs and runs and runs in the hope that exhaustion will do him in, and finds himself at Maria’s door. He must look a mess, dark circles under his eyes, sweat dripping off him from the twelve mile run, hands shaking uncharacteristically. He knocks and waits for it to open, and tries not to say the first words that pop into his head when he sees Maria’s face. He fails.
“Please,” he hears himself begging distantly, “please kill me.”
7 notes · View notes
I'm cas coded in that I love dean but I'm dean coded in that I hate myself 😔😔
12 notes · View notes
“The hell within me scorches and laughs as I commit many a sin. I am but a time bomb with no knowledge of time, as such a martyr to death. I know not why I exist, nor the purpose until my time is up.”
The only difference between me and that analogy is that the bomb is innocent. It never lit itself, but as for me, I light my own fuse. I wrap my own chains, set myself in a prison of my own making. And as soon as the bomb explodes, the chains unravel, the doors are found unlocked;
That is when my reign over my mind ends.
That is when fact and fiction get jumbled, where emotions run loose like a new fawn, where everything becomes one and one thing equals none. That is when calamity and clarity collide and show their true face. Siblings in a maskless dance, never one without the other. As if to mock my inability to distinguish one from the other as they weave their melody around me, tightening strings and sharp chords aimed at me as a conductor plays me as a marionette amongst the actors of tragedy. I am but a vessel for those cruel twins, they twist my life and torture me as they daintily cut the ties I make, as they change the lighting on the audience of my peers; revealing their true forms to me as they gather to feast on my heart. I grow restless and trustless as the revel in my pain.
I am in pain. Life gave naught but pain to me like a generous gift. But who am I to question? The siblings gave me the foresight upon wrongful souls, a gift that will haunt me to my grave. In a world where peace and trust are naught; in a world where evil is nigh; in a world where I cannot co-exist but I have to anyhow? innocence and joy are conspicuous and fleeting, as corruption and distaste are permanent and and welcomed.
2 notes · View notes
i’m sorry, kanna. i’m sorry. i should’ve protected you. you never should’ve met me. you should’ve been with your sister. all i did was hurt you. why did you like me? i manipulated you. i singled you out. why did you trust me? why did you still want to believe in me? i’m not worth believing in. i’m sorry, kanna. i wish i would’ve been the one to die. i’m so sorry. i’m so sorry. i’m so sorry. i’m a terrible brother. it wasn’t worth it. i think about you all the time. i’m a worthless adult. i’m an even worse big brother. i just want to see you happy. away. away from me. i’m sorry, kanna. wherever you are, maybe we’ll meet again one day….i doubt it. i’m not going to wherever you are. i think a part of me knows that. good.
- shin tsukimi
hhhhhhh im so FUCKING STUPID i HATE IT I HATE HATE HATE IT i have so many ideas and i THINK that i have FINALLY HAD A GOOD ONE but it’s all STUPID im STUPID every fucking thought i have in my brain is FUCKING STUPID AS ALL HELL I HAVE NOTHING IN MY BRAIN BUT FUCKERY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
3 notes · View notes
i am nothing but a burden upon those i love
1 note · View note
Me: I hate my life.
Me, tiredly: I hate all my other lives too.
21 notes · View notes
(Kokichi Ouma, NDRV3) I'm so tired, honestly. I used to lock myself up tight with the fantasy that someone would come along and pick me apart piece by piece, reveal the insides I kept so deeply hidden that even I wouldn't acknowledge them. But now, desperation has filled me so much that I've practically handed people the key and still, nothing. No one cares to look past the lies. All I want is for someone to pull me apart and see me for who I really am. Maybe it's selfish but I want someone to recongize how much I sacrificed without me practically begging them or spelling it out first. I miss being seen, but allowing myself to be seen plainly would go against everything I'd built myself up for. What's wrong with me? Will I never have someone who wants me the way I desire? Probably not. -🌘
4 notes · View notes
dear past me ! 😚
dear past me,
look, i know you hate yourself right now, but trust me, it’ll get better. you’ll have ups and downs, but never ever give up on yourself. you’ll have friends that come and go, experience some things you’d think you’d never see, but remember that it all winds down to who you are. keep going and please drink more water oml
send me a dear ___ ask!
1 note · View note
why do i feel so anxious? i just got out of a slump? ah no its because of my pathetic ass is anticipating doing homework, god forbid. i fucking hate myself
1 note · View note
Headcanon - Clint Barton
@wxldchxld asked: For Clint: 🍇 (also are there any situations where he would talk about his own past willingly either because he's close to someone or because it might help him relate/empathize with someone).
meme: fruity headcanons
🍇 : how would my muse describe their childhood? how much has it impacted the person they are now, or will become as an adult? around what age did they or will they start to mature, and why? do they wish to go back to their days as a child, or have they embraced adulthood?
The interesting thing about this question is that it’s asking how Clint would describe his childhood, and his answer would be to shrug and say “Meh, it was shit, you know how it is. I got to go be part of the circus though, so that was cool at least?” And of course this is the most drastic oversimplification of things and absolutely downplays everything this man has been through. For those who don’t know it, I’ll give a roundup of the actual shitshow that was his youth below. MASSIVE trigger warnings ahead for those who doesn’t block the tags, fyi.
- Clint Barton is born to Harold and Edith Barton, the younger sibling of Barney. Harold is an alcoholic and an abuser and Edith is a shrinking flower, thoroughly a battered and timid woman. Barney has learned well from his father, and while he takes the brunt of Harold’s abuse, he also takes the anger of that out on Clint. Their relationship is messy, and Clint receives very little love from anyone out in rural Iowa.
- Harold drives while drunk and kills himself and Edith in a car crash. Clint and Barney are shifted from one children’s home to another, one foster family to the next. This solidifies Clint’s feeling of being unwanted, because nobody wants to keep them.
- Clint and Barney see the circus in town and run away to join Carson Carnival (under the direction of the Swordsman and Trickshot). They’re stuck doing menial tasks but Clint quickly takes to the bow and arrow under the tutelage of Trickshot and becomes a star attraction for them. This is the happiest he’s ever been, and Barney is resentful.
- Clint finds out that the Swordsman has been embezzling money from the circus and committing crime in the cities they’ve visited, and as the good-hearted soul he is, wants to confront them. Swordsman decides that Clint has heard and seen too much, and threatens him to keep his mouth shut, chasing him up onto the high wire and then cutting the rope. Clint sustains massive injuries. During this time, Barney decides that he’s leaving the circus and tells Clint to meet him at the bus in the morning if he wants to go. Clint, limping on a crutch with his broken leg, misses the bus and the brothers both believe the other abandoned them. The resentment deepens.
- The circus keeps Clint on for a little while longer before he leaves and seeks out other work. He tries his hand as a security guard and shoots an intruder with an arrow only to realize that it’s Barney, who had been hired by Trickshot to continue their crime spree. When he tries to take his brother to the hospital, Trickshot intervenes and shoots Clint full of arrows, pinning him to a tree and leaving him there to die. How Clint manages to get them to a hospital is a mystery, but he’s not letting the only remaining person in his family die...
The point is that his childhood and adolescence is messed up. His young adult life is messed up. Arguably everything up to his being an Avenger is a downright disaster, and yet he still comes out of all of it with his good heart intact. He has a metric ton of trauma, of course, and his mental health issues are not all caused by that but a good chunk of them are. His emotional stability is compromised, his self-worth is shattered, and even his memory of that time period is partially repressed. His maturity, then, is equally impacted by these things. In some ways, he’s never gotten a chance to be a child, and plays into his childishness and immaturity simply because he can. He’s ridiculously easy to please, and though he often hides it, even people simply thinking of him and remembering things he likes is enough to make him emotional. He clings to people who give him attention and affection the way a child would, or pulls away from them in order to not seem clingy even though he’d like to be. Sometimes, he wants to be an integral part of the world, a valued member of the team, a person who is loved, and sometimes he simply doesn’t want to exist. Some days, he’d prefer death.
No matter what, Clint would never want to revisit his childhood. However, having had the experience, he’s ten times as defensive of children. He unofficially adopts young people who are struggling because he understands their situation. He is terrified that if he actually became a father, he’d be like his own (even though he’s a hundred times more compassionate), but as a mentor he can be more of the cool uncle and therefore not constrained by the same responsibilities and expectations, so he does a lot of that instead. He’ll never fully embrace adulthood, but he can’t be a child anymore either, because the idea of being a child is full of such terrible memories.
He reveals the full extent of his childhood trauma to absolutely nobody. Even Natasha, his best friend, only knows bits and pieces, and that’s from being the person who’s been closest to him for decades. Occasionally he’ll mention something here or there as if it’s nothing, especially if he’s empathizing with someone’s struggles, but on the whole, he keeps it well buried. He’s most likely to admit to the situation with his father (though even then the extent of the abuse is likely to be downplayed), and least likely to say anything about having his mentor (his only other parental figure) turn on him and try to kill him. Overall, though, he’s likely to keep his mouth shut and play the whole thing off as if it’s nothing at all.
4 notes · View notes
little writing thing. has author. warnings: self hate, self harm, blood, suicidal thoughts and tendencies, depression
It’s not fair. Why don’t they like me? What did I do? I’m terrible. Terrible person. They hate me. Why do they hate me? I didn’t do anything! I didn’t do anything anything anything at all! It’s not fair. I want a family. I want to be there. I want want want I should stop wanting so goddamn much. Wanting is all you’re good for. Wanting. No wonder they hate you. They have good reason to. Selfish. Selfish asshole. You’re selfish. And you wonder why they hate you?
His breathing was quick, he was curled up in a cold corner of his study, hands in his hair and holding onto it, the pressure on his scalp reminding him he was real.
He was drowning in his thoughts, and there was nothing he could do about it. It just wasn’t fair.
You’re unstable. Don’t you realize that? You’re a selfish, arrogant asshole. You’re mean and overly confident and cocky. No one likes your presence. You’re annoying with how you talk and hold yourself. You’re fucking useless. Writing stupid stories. Why don’t you burn them like you burn yourself? It’d be better. You’re worthless just like those pieces of paper.
Tears were running down his cheeks, and he didn’t try and hold back the sobs building up in his chest. He hated it. He hated all of it. He hated himself most of all though. Why did it have to be like this? Why did he have to be like this? Why couldn’t he just be good?
Why don’t they like me? What can I do to make them like me? I just want to fit in. I just want. I want too much. That’s the problem. You want too damn much. You want and want and want, and what do you give? Jackshit is what you give. Nothing. You’re a useless waste of space. You’d be better off dead.
He sobbed, eyes barely open as he cried. His cabin was so cold. He hadn’t bothered with a fire -he rarely did. He deserved it. He deserved to be freezing. He deserved the pain of the freezing cold.
He pushed himself up, stumbling as he dragged himself through the cold. All windows were open, the biting cold blowing inside and through every open door. He had done this a million times. Collapsing in the bathroom as soon as he had grabbed the razor blade, pressing it as hard as he could into his skin, dragging it through, again and again, watching the blood through tears.
You deserve the pain. You deserve to be treated like this. You’re nothing. Nothing. You should be dead, but you’re too much of a pussy to kill yourself. This only lets everyone know how pathetic you are. Fucking useless. Can’t even kill yourself right, no, you can only make yourself hurt for a bit.
His arm was throbbing. It was still decorated in red cuts from the day before, and the day before that, and the numerous days before that. Everyday he broke down, he couldn’t take these feelings, and everyday he added more and more cuts to his arm, until he couldn’t see his skin anymore, and he picked the other arm.
More and more, he watched the blood run down his skin, sobs quietly rocking his body. He hit his head back against the wall, thunking it against the hard tiles over and over, until he was dizzy and couldn’t hold the razor blade in his bloody fingers anymore.
He just wanted to be with the others. He just wanted to be part of their family. He just wanted to be liked. He just wanted friends. He just wanted someone to care. He just wanted, and wanted, and wanted.
I shouldn’t want anything. I have so much, and all I am is ungrateful. There’s no reason I should want anything more than what I have. It’s fine. I’m fine. I don’t need other people. i don’t need anyone. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine.
You’re fragile, you’re insignificant, you’re never enough. You don’t matter. Stop crying. Stop being a crybaby. You’re far too sensitive. Stop crying.
He tried, he tried so hard to stop, but he couldn’t. He was cold, the tears on his face felt freezing while his cheeks were incredibly hot. His arm was throbbing as blood dripped to the ground, soaked into his jeans.
“I’m sorry...”, he whimpered to no one. No one would hear. No one would see. No one would care. No one cared about his tears, no one cared about the endless days he just laid in bed, not eating, not moving, not doing anything. No one cared when he drowned himself in work, neglected eating and sleeping for days on ends, until he couldn’t keep his eyes open, until his stomach felt like it was eating itself, until he couldn’t stand without collapsing from the lack of sleep and food.
He was alone, and none of the others would ever care. None of them liked him. None had ever. He wasn’t welcome. He wasn’t wanted. He didn’t know why. He’d never done anything to them. He was just hated without reason. It didn’t matter if there were new ones, they’d hate him too. Everyone did. Everyone hated him. It didn’t matter if they never saw him, never knew who he was.
He supposed no one would want to like someone as broken as him anyways. It was his own fault anyways. He must’ve done something to make them hate him. He was a terrible person. It was good they hated him. No one should care about him.
It was fine.
He was fine.
48 notes · View notes
[ day 8 of the moonlit writing challenge: candy ]
this one time we were in this tiny town in iowa and everyone was out exploring and stuff and alice was going to go buy chocolate and then i was just kind of alone in the hotel room? and i dunno i just kind of felt like i had to do something because looking in the mirror felt mad fucked up and so i thought about it for a long time and i remembered i did magic once that fixed a stain in this t shirt i had and so i figured that if my t shirt could be repaired by my magic why couldnt my face aha. i didnt end up going through with it, alice got back with her chocolate before i could, but i think about that a lot. like the fact that i almost tried to fix my face with my magic, that obviously isnt an appropriate use of my powers, but i guess i just really wanted it all to kinda go away
i dunno its stupid to think that i should be a certain way or look a certain way to be normal because obviously having a scar is perfectly fine and normal for people to have
2 notes · View notes
depressive episodes are great
i know this is depression talking
but i dont feel like ever writing host or author again
im no good with them. theres so many people that write them better. than can make a good bastard host, make good stories. make a lovable asshole
i cant even write angst. i cant write sad. i cant write anything interesting.
fucking hell i cant even write anything thats not an au
its fucking pathetic
maybe ill drop all my fics
i dont feel like writing anyways
who gives a fuck? its not like anyone reads it
i wouldnt know at least
fuckers wouldnt even notice if i stopped writing shit
who gives a fuck
no one is who
no one who gives enough of a fuck to speak up at least
i hate myself
i hate my inability to write
i hate being unoriginal
i hate having no ideas
i hate not being creative
i hate myself
why even write
no one gives a fuck
no one wants to read my bullshit
i cant even write my favorite genres
i fucking hate writing fluff and its all the stupid fucking shit i can write anymore
i hate myself
i hate myself
i hate being alive and i hate being me
i want to curl up on the floor and die sobbing
not having anyone to talk to fucking sucks ass as well
i have nothing to talk about myself but guess what
no one has anything to say to me either
let them talk with each other i dont give a fuck
i know im worthless anyways
1 note · View note