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#skin condition
moved-to-piersgender · 10 months
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i hope everyone with acne, eczema, vitiligo, psoriasis, dermatitis, dermatillomania, and skin conditions have a good day today
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No, but you know what’s a stab in the heart? All those Skin Condition-Having Caranthir Headcanons existed at the same time as Maedhros’ recovery from Thangorodrim.
Like, Caranthir has had to deal with the Looks from these elves since birth. He is well aware of the difference in how he is treated compared to his ruggedly handsome or sharply beautiful brothers. He knows.
Maedhros does not know. None of his cousins really know.
Except, now Maedhros does.
He is scarred and disfigured, abominable by all beauty standards. Maedhros is no longer “normal-looking” and so now he gets the Looks. He is noticing this.
Fingon is also noticing this. He is angry and betrayed about it. Fingon is fucking seething.
All the finweans notice at some point during Maedhros’ recovery but they all think the elves will get used to it, and that it’ll get better with time.
And here comes Caranthir, in his long-sleeved outfit, and he says “I’m sorry. It doesn’t get better.”
Cue several realizations, Fingon and Celegorm each breaking a chair, and Maedhros feeling Emotions because That’s His Baby Brother Damn It.
They get it now, as much as anyone not Caranthir or Maedhros can get it.
Anyway, I saw a post by @mascula-sappho about Maedhros and ableism connecting to his reputation as a monster and had Thoughts, Angst Thoughts.
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lemurzsquad · 1 month
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Hand Sanitizer
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Pairing: Sakusa x gn!reader (platonic or romantic, up to interpretation)
Summary: You and Sakusa hate each other with a passion, and it's almost always a disagreement over hand sanitizer. So when you leave to wash your hands and don't come back, Sakusa learns why exactly you avoid using it so adamantly.
A/N: Okay so this fic. Hooooo boy. This fic. I've been wanting to write it for a while and finally have. It started as a "Reasons why I'm pretty sure Sakusa would hate me irl" and turned into this.
So I have a skin condition known as aquagenic wrinkling of the palms (or AWP), which affects my hands when they come in contact with water, which is what this fic is about. I never hear about this condition anywhere, and it's very lonely sometimes, and there's no real treatment for it (from what I've seen). So this is essentially a vent where I take my skin condition seriously for once instead of just making water allergy jokes to cope lol
(More info about AWP here)
Word count: 3898
cw: skin condition (non-graphic descriptions and discussion) (AWP - please read above), hurt/comfort, angst, crying, enemies to friends...?, emotionally constipated apologies from Sakusa, hand sanitizer is evil /j, vent, not proofread because I just wanted to get this done and posted to do literally anything else, (please lmk if I should tag anything else)
(Disclaimer: I am not a doctor, and everything written here is purely from my own experiences and observations. If you would like to learn more, please do your own research; this is not designed to be informative. It's purely for myself and for awareness.)
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You and Sakusa had never gotten along.
You were certain you knew when it started, having been completely oblivious of one another up until that point.
It was when you were both first years in high school, and there happened to be a lizard in the classroom. You, upon seeing it, immediately proceeded to pick it up and ask the teacher to let you put it outside, to which they agreed.
You came back to the classroom, dusting off your hands, when a curly-haired boy took it upon himself to comment, “Go use some hand sanitizer, would you?”
You squinted at him, partly confused as to why he was talking to you and how you had never noticed he sat there before. “No thanks,” you answered, “I'd rather just wash my hands.”
“I don't think just washing your hands would be enough,” he rebutted with a sharp look behind his bangs. “You probably don't even know how to properly wash your hands.”
“Well, too bad! I'm not using hand sanitizer!” You were starting to get annoyed, crossing your arms.
Somehow, that seemed to make him even more disgusted, possibly at the thought that you were spreading whatever it was on your hands onto your clothes now, too.
The two of you threw jabs back and forth until the teacher separated you, which you were both happy to oblige. The animosity between you never seemed to quite dissipate even as the year went on and you became second years. You almost felt bad for the misunderstanding, knowing it was entirely your own fault, but how were you supposed to explain to this random kid that you couldn't use hand sanitizer even if you wanted to? At least, in your head you couldn't.
At some point, you and Sakusa became something of enemies within your class—renowned ones, at that. People would often ask the both of you why you hated each other so much, but your answers were vague at best.
“He's just so pretentious,” you said once.
“They're just so obstinate,” he said once.
And thus, an impasse stretched between you. You hadn't even learned his name until months after your first encounter, too bitter to really care.
Despite the efforts you both went through to avoid being within the presence of the other, you somehow still ended up nearby. Maybe it was your teachers attempting to make you get along—maybe it was the universe laughing in your face.
Throughout that entire time, you still faithfully avoided hand sanitizer like the plague. The one time the nearest bathroom was out of order for a little while and you couldn't wash your hands, you used as little of the accursed substance as you could. Whatever microscopically thin layer that coated your hands there was, you shook it off almost violently, simultaneously disgusted by the feeling of something on your skin and afraid of what it might do.
The disapproving look Sakusa gave you when he saw that was palpable.
At some point, you hated each other mostly out of principle. You'd both kept it up this long—it would be weird to suddenly just let it go since your flimsy justifications seemed enough until now. To admit that you were being unreasonable would be worse than getting along, you separately reasoned.
So when you were paired up for a project, you couldn't help but grimace. Sakusa was the first to go up to the teacher about it.
“I can't work with them,” you heard him say. For once, you agreed with him.
The teacher, however, dismissed his concerns with a wave, saying, “In life, you don't get to pick who you work with. Sometimes you'll have to try to put aside your differences to get your work done.”
It sounded stupid to you, like some half-hearted excuse so they wouldn't have to rearrange seating or partners. But it's not like you had any place to argue, so you resigned to just sucking it up.
Instead of working together, you both divvied up tasks as quickly as possible and did what you assigned yourselves—separately.
All was going well; you ignored each other and worked on the project silently. Despite other groups discussing their plans and the room being filled with chatter, your share corner was dead silent save the sound of pen on paper.
Which didn't last long when suddenly the tip of your pen snapped off. The now open ink tube spilled onto your hands, and when you tried to minimize the damage, it only got worse. By the time you dropped the pen onto your open notebook, raising your hands in surrender, they were absolutely coated in black splotches. A sense of defeat washed over you as you watched your words get covered and your paper stained in ebony.
Taking a moment to glance at your already ruined hands, you just resigned to picking up the pen and throwing it out. It was your favorite pen, which was unfortunate. It couldn't be helped, you told yourself.
Sakusa had noticed you flailing about your desk, silently judging you for the clumsy mess you made when you should have just thrown out the pen the second it broke to avoid the noir crime scene that now covered you and your area. He scowled knowing you would now have to redo whatever you had written for the project.
It was nearing the end of school, the class you were currently in being the final one of the day. You approached the teacher's table and asked if you could go wash your hands. They checked the clock to see about twenty minutes left before replying, “Make it quick.”
You walked past Sakusa's desk on your way to the door. He made the snide remark, “You could get the ink off really well with hand sanitizer.”
It took everything in you not to snap back at him, but you just hurried past, careful not to touch anything on the way out.
Sakusa knew he would never understand you. From the moment you met, you stubbornly refused what seemed to be basic courses of action. Touch something dirty? Use hand sanitizer. Eating? Wash your hands before and after to keep from touching anything.
The couple of times he had seen you wash your hands, it was very brief, and you seemed to avoid using the air dryer, opting for paper towels that were arguably undoing whatever progress you made in washing your hands.
At the same time, you avoided any task that would require you to touch dust or water. You always asked to sweep or clean windows, so much so that everyone just ended up giving you those tasks to get you to stop asking. If you did get something on your hands, you immediately wiped or shook it off, seemingly disgusted. You would even briefly run it under water just to dry it on your clothes so they weren't wet. It seemed there were things worse than water if you were willing to rinse them off.
But it was still that one avoidance that came between you: the hand sanitizer. It was practically the same as water, and it dried quickly. Even if it was comparable to washing your hands, it was still much more convenient in most scenarios. Yet you continued to adamantly refuse to ever use it. At some point you declared, “I would rather die,” when he had tried to squeeze some on your hand, earning him his wrist grabbed and pushed away. 
He just didn't understand.
So when he found you sobbing in front of the stairs, opening your hands and clenching them closed into loose fists repeatedly, he was beyond confused.
You hadn't come back to class after leaving to wash the remnants of your broken pen, so the teacher decided it was your project partner, Sakusa, who should find you and return the belongings you left behind. He went over to your open notebook that remained just where you left it and noted the handful of words that were still visible. 
Sakusa folded the cover over, enclosing the now dried puddle of ink. The remainder of your things he scooped into his arms, leaving the room once the halls had cleared a significant amount. As much as he wanted to just leave your things and go to volleyball practice, he figured it would end poorly.
Plus, what could possibly have kept you out of class for so long that you would have left everything behind? There was no way it had taken that long to get most of the ink off of your skin, so either you had just skipped the last bit of school or something happened. Since you hadn't taken your wallet with you with your IDs (he checked your bag when he put the notebook back inside, sure that it was completely dry), he reasoned it was probably the latter.
“Tsk.” They would have been able to get it off with hand sanitizer, he thought, brows furrowed. This is such a waste of time.
Sakusa wandered through the halls when he didn't find you by the bathrooms. He was starting to think it was a lost cause trying to return your bag; he even had to text his cousin to tell him why he would be late. It wasn't until he got to a particularly empty hallway did he hear something.
Quietly, in a dark alcove with a set of stairs leading up, a figure was huddled against a wall. Their tears were soft but anguished, stifled because it was in the environment of school. Sakusa had tried to ignore them until he realized it was you.
You held your palms up just past your knees that were pressed against your chest. You opened and closed your hands, a fresh cascade of tears painting your cheeks as you choked back a sob. You pressed—with more pressure than could have been painful—your thumb into the center of your other palm, nails digging into the back of your hand. You set your closed eyes on your knees with the hope that it might stop the water that leaked from them.
Sakusa, with great caution, approached your hunched figure. He didn't want to, he really didn't. You were the person he probably hated the most at his school, but somehow he knew he'd seem like an awful person if he didn't at least give your belongings to you directly—he wouldn't give you the satisfaction of another thing to hold over his head.
And yet those thoughts went to the back of his mind when he crouched down in front of you. His mask and curly hair obscured his focused expression as he tried to study your current state. The moment you seemed to hear him there, you held your breath and repressed your already quiet cries.
When Sakusa got close, you buried yourself further in to hide your face behind your knees and clenched your hands even more.
He frowned and something in his chest tightened. His brows furrowed deeper over his eyes and he huffed. He saw your nails digging into the skin on the backs of your hands.
“That's going to leave a mark if you keep doing that.” It came out more biting than he had meant it, but he was being serious.
It was then that you could no longer hold back your sobs, almost choking on your own tears. The grip you had of your hands softened and unlinked; instead, you lightly shook them apart from each other. Sakusa had to take a moment to process, but it almost seemed like there was something wrong with them. 
He just wanted to get you to stop crying so he could give you your bag. As much as he hated the gesture, he asked, “What's wrong with your hands?”
You curled your lips in to bite down on them, fighting back hiccups. With your eyes tightly screwed shut, you upturned your palms.
The sight alone made Sakusa's eyebrows fly up in shock. 
He didn't mean to, but he grabbed your wrist to get a better look. Ignoring the ink stains that faintly persisted, there were pale, patchy splotches in the center of your palm and on the side edges of your fingers; there were even some tiny pale rings on the periphery of the bigger splotches. But underneath that, the skin seemed as if it had soaked in water for hours or maybe even days. Not only were there dozens of deep crevice lines trailing from the tips of all of your fingers to their bases but the lines on your palms were more prominent, surrounded by profound, dense wrinkles that spanned the entire surface.
His eyes darted around your hand for a few moments just trying to comprehend what he was looking at. It looked unnatural—it looked painful. And when he met your gaze, he saw unidentifiable emotions flash across it. Was it shame? Regret? He couldn't be sure aside from the blood that seemed to drain from your face.
You tried to pull your hand away, but Sakusa wouldn't let go. His eyes never left yours, searching for some kind of answer. When he couldn't find it there, he asked, “What happened?” It was soft, calm, and even, enough to make you tear up a little again.
The second time you tugged, he released your wrist. You pushed your thumb into your palm again, looking away. Hiding your hands away in the space between your stomach and where your legs were still tucked against your torso, you sniffled a few times and tried to even out your breathing.
“I-It's normal… it just h-happens when I-I touch water…” You stuttered and mumbled between hiccups.
“That is not normal,” Sakusa said a little too quickly and curtly, realizing it probably would have made it seem like he was berating you.
With another sniffle, you said, “It's a– it's a skin condition.” You started to scratch your palms partly out of stress and partly out of the persistent stinging. “It reacts to water i-if I touch it for too long.”
His eyebrows knitted in concern. “Was that from washing your hands then?”
You gave a small nod, still avoiding his gaze. “I couldn't get the ink off and ended up w-washing them for too long…”
“You could have just used hand sanitizer,” he said genuinely. For the moment, he almost forgot he was supposed to hate you, more focused on being worried than anything.
Your answer was your head shaking rather fervently. “No, I can't.” You lowered to set your forehead against your knees again. “Well, actually, I don't know. I-It just scares me and I don't want to r-risk any more pain than I already have. I haven't h-had good experiences with it…”
“What did hand sanitizer ever do to you?” It came out snarkier than Sakusa had meant. He slowly lowered himself to sit with his legs crossed in front of you, your bag still next to him.
You let out a heavy breath. “I was a dumb kid in elementary,” you started. “I had an obsession with scented hand sanitizer for probably a few months. I used it multiple times a day, and even though I don't know for sure if it's related, my hands got worse after that year I think. Only after that did I finally go to the doctor to get it diagnosed after my mom did a ton of research. I agreed to avoid hand sanitizer from then on. I just don't want to risk being in more pain…”
You both went silent.
“Oh…” It was all that left Sakusa's lips. A sudden wave of guilt crashed into him. All of the times he had berated you for not using hand sanitizer and all of his snide, rude, annoyed remarks resurfaced in his conscience. He felt terrible. He felt bad. Someone was hurting and all he did was throw lighter fluid on their problems—for months—and it seemed there was finally a spark to set it all ablaze. The thought that he started it all made it worse.
“Stop with whatever weird look you have on your face.” You squinted at him and his downturned, scrunched face. You'd calmed down enough to be making quips, it would appear. “It's not like I can do anything about it.” You shrugged, half-hearted.
He searched your face again for any sign of emotion aside from blank resignation, but he couldn't find anything. “Is there no treatment?”
You shrunk down further into your huddle, not vocally answering, but the answer was still clear.
Something about the whole situation made his heart hurt; it made him upset, he realized. “So what, you just have to avoid water?”
The nod of your head to the side looked pathetic as you avoided his eyes. After several seconds of silence, you said, “I used to love swimming. It's not like I can't, it's just… it hurts and it makes me feel gross. I don't even like the beach anymore because if I go in the water and get my hands wet, there's no real place to dry them off.” You laughed humorlessly. “It's stupid. You'd think I would get more used to it and get over it as I got older, but it just made me more upset. Why me? Why did I have to get stuck with a condition that's rare and isn't really bad enough for people to care enough to find a treatment? At least, it feels that way…
“I know it's awful, but I sometimes wonder, ‘Why didn't I get stuck with something worse? Then I might have a way to treat it. Then people might care.’”
You glanced up to judge Sakusa's reaction, instantly regretting spilling your feelings and questioning why you did. Tears threatened to flood over again and spill from your eyes. You felt helpless; not only from your condition but also from being stared down by the person you were certain despised you more than anyone. You were giving him more ammo to be disgusted and to detest you, too.
But you couldn't find his face. His ebony bangs hung down like a curtain and his mask further obscured your view, his downturned line of sight completely blocked out.
When the silence was beginning to crawl around on your skin and became almost deafening, you took in a sharp breath and held it for a moment before breathing out a tiny apology. “Sorry… you don't wanna hear about this…”
“No.”
“...No? No… what?”
“No…” 
Sakusa was struggling to get out the right words. How does he say sorry to you in a way that you might actually believe? How does he tell you that you're allowed to be upset, that you can talk about it? How does he make you understand that it's okay?
And how is he supposed to get you to believe it when it's coming from him?
His voice sounded almost angry but not at you—it was for you. “You can be upset,” he said between gritted teeth, hands clenched into tight fists. “No one deserves to have to live everyday avoiding something so common just to not be in pain. And no one deserves to have some jerk constantly making light of it even if they don't know.”
The way your eyes widened and water dripped down your cheeks in sudden streams said it all. “Oh…” was all you could muster before you completely broke down. No one you had ever told about your condition had seemed to fully grasp how much you were hurting inside, how every day was a struggle to avoid reminding yourself of how awful your hands were, how even looking at your own hands sometimes made you ashamed and loathing of yourself. It was a constant reminder that there would always be something wrong with you; you would always be broken, and there was no way to fix it.
Sakusa let you cry with the renewed emotional rush. He remained firmly planted where he sat, not moving an inch. He was not going anywhere.
And he didn't, even as your sobbing slowed to quiet sniffles and wiping mostly dried tears. It took a while before you finally muttered, “Thank you… No one's ever said that to me before…”
“Well, they should.” His words were curt but lacked any sharpness to them.
When you looked up to meet his eyes, he turned them away from you. Hesitantly, he uttered, “Look, I can't promise you that we'll get along, but I can assure you I'll try not to bother you anymore. No more stupid hand sanitizer comments anymore, either.” It was the only peace offering he could make for a chance to pave a path towards making amends.
You let out a breath through your nose that was close to a laugh before hiccuping, “Next thing you know, you'll be telling me we'll work on our group project together.”
“Don't push it,” he answered, quickly and humorlessly. It only made you laugh, although he couldn't comprehend why.
“It's getting late,” Sakusa tried to divert. “You should head home.”
You reached for your phone, and the little numbers on the screen confirmed his statement. Suddenly, a flash of panic crossed your face. “I don't have my bag,” you state frantically, “or any of my stuff.”
It was then that Sakusa held up the original object of his search for you, gently lowering it to the ground. “The teacher told me to bring it to you since you never came back.”
Relief washed over you in a calming rush, and you finally seemed to relax. You pulled your knees away from your chest and sat with your legs crossed. Confirming that everything was in your bag, an immensely relieved sigh left your lips in a gust.
“Thank you.” Your gaze was earnest, trying to convey just how much you meant your words to make sure it sunk in.
Sakusa just grumbled, “Whatever.” He was back to his usual self despite how he stumbled embarrassingly when he got up and realized his legs had gone numb. He reluctantly offered up his hand to help you stand, but you only looked at it for a moment, mouth pressed into a line, before you got to your feet on your own.
He pretended he hadn't tried to assist you, instead pivoting on his heels and shoving his hands in his pockets with a slouched posture. Without another word exchanged, you both headed towards the school's entrance.
The air fell into a comfortable quiet until then. When you did reach the entrance, however, you both stopped in your tracks. You turned to Sakusa, giving him a soft smile and a small wave, and headed down the street. Only when you turned the corner, out of sight, did he head back towards the volleyball gym. He was so horribly beyond late that it was almost laughable.
But he didn't care, knowing it meant someone was there in that very moment for you when you needed it most. So what if he also started to mend whatever nonexistent relationship was there in the process? What mattered was that someone told you that it was okay.
And Sakusa was okay with that. Being late to practice wasn't nearly as pressing as his long overdue apologies. What could be more important than that?
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Do not copy and/or repost!! Any likes or reblogs are appreciated, though! (c) 2024 LemurzSquad
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neuroticboyfriend · 1 year
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hi people with skin conditions (scars included). you do not have to hide. i know how scary the idea of someone seeing your skin is. you don't want to be judged, and that is entirely understandable. at the same time, we deserve better than to treat ourselves unkindly - let alone based on the views of people who don't have our best interest in mind.
so, i want you to know you're allowed to exist in your body and show it - just as it is right now. you can wear what you want. you can get that haircut. you can do or not do your makeup however you want. it's your body, and your life. you're allowed to live it, no matter what anyone else says.
and if you hide because you're afraid for your safety: please know you are also allowed to do what you need to protect yourself. and i hope one day you're able to be safe enough to embrace your appearance and be free from hiding. but until then, have patience with yourself. you deserve that much.
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fallenstarcat · 2 months
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im autistic and have albinism / am albino ❌
assigned AA battery at birth ✔️
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the-rest-is-silenc3 · 3 months
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i hate that it’s seen as ok for people to make fun of skin conditions
this includes skin conditions that are caused/exacerbated by poor hygiene btw
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frankenfawn · 3 months
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LAGOONA WITH ECZEMA!!!!!!!!!!!(( shes just like me fr))
lagoona's skin canonically gets very dry when she's out of the water for a long time! i hc that even with all the moisturizer she uses, she scratches a lot because it gets so itchy 😔 but that doesnt get her down, she's still out there serving lurks while embracing her freaky flaw :)!!
i partially referenced this official art !
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not-spiders · 7 months
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skin conditions are super fucking hot actually. like fuck the beauty industry we are SO beautiful dude
sincerely, someone with perioral dermatitis and rosacea who is fucking sick of being told i’m supposed to want to get rid of them for any reasons other than physical comfort. fuck you, this is my face. get the hell used to it.
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caintooth · 1 year
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shout out to my fellow bitches with skin conditions in impossible to hide places! my psoriasis forms around my eyebrows and beneath my nostrils. doesn’t stop me from being cool and sexy
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vintergatnn · 6 months
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i wish more positivity/neutrality for skin conditions
i wish shame and embarrassment didnt hold me back from making it myself
i wish i didnt feel so ugly because of my skin condition
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apollotronica · 3 months
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eczema
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riordanness · 5 months
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would’ve, could’ve, should’ve - tmr!newt
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0.6K wordcount
warnings: blood mentions, panic attack mentions, skin condition
requested: no
a/n: excerpt from a much longer fic i’ve been working on during my severe mental and physical health challenges over the course of this year. it’s a little something i mostly wrote for myself to cope, but i thought i’d share a little with you guys, cos it’s nice (??) to have people understand what you’re going through, and tbh i’m kinda proud of how this little piece turned out
Now that the initial shock and panic of arriving here, in the place they call The Glade, is slowly starting to wear off, the pain is taking up most of my attention. Even now, my arms are almost unbearable. The pain is tantalising me, taunting me. Cry, it seems to tell me. Break down in front of all these boys and sob.
I blink, suddenly unsteady on my own feet. “I–I’m gonna go,” I announce, not talking to anyone in particular, and stumble towards the Homestead. I manage to get myself to my room, before my legs give way beneath me and I crumple to the ground, leaning against the wall for support.
My head falls between my knees, and one, heartbroken sob shudders through me, shaking my entire being. The red-hot fire on my skin spreads to my chest, to my tears, to my head. I am distraught, trapped inside this ring of flames, burning me alive, from the inside out.
I’m aching, every bone, every muscle crying out in agony, screaming at me to grant them relief. I can only cry harder, wishing with every ounce of my being that I was able to grant that request.
The hot, itchy ants begin crawling, through the flames, and all over me, smothering me with their little, persistent stomps. I’m choking. Unable to breathe beneath all the itching and the pain.
I scratch roughly at the skin of my wrists and forearms, my nails digging into myself, drawing blood. But still, the itching is unbearable. My nails drag again, again and again, each time harsher than the last.
I don’t know exactly how long I stay like this, crunched into a ball, trying to disappear from this narrative I’m forced into.
I have no memories, but it is obvious this condition (of sorts), is a long term thing. I wonder briefly, in between the pain, how long it has been. How many days, months, years have I been fighting it? Is it even a fight? Or just an endless battle of no hope, and no happiness.
I wonder if it’s the cause of my being here. Maybe I got so fed up and exhausted of this pain and this whole damn thing that I just chose to be sent here. But what would that do? I’m still in pain, obviously. Nothing would have changed regardless of my skin. I dismiss the idea, the wonder still strong in my mind. I was burning with curiosity as to why or how or when or where.
I sigh, long and deep, drawing my knees impossibly closer to my chest, as if squeezing myself tightly into a ball will somehow keep out the pain. Maybe the fire ants can’t get in if I block them out.
The thought of those fiery, itching ants does it for me. My mind collapses. I shake, my sobs violent but deadly quiet. My head hurts, my throat is tightening up in a hot ball of tears, my chest feels like it’s been wrapped in cling wrap way too tightly.
There’s nothing but me.
Me, and the pain, and the tears, and the fire.
Nothing else matters. I don’t have room for it to matter. I’m all full, my space for love and life and joy and laughter taken up by a wretched pain. A chronic condition.
Nothing matters.
Nothing.
At.
All.
Finally, someone finds me. My door squeaks slightly as it’s pushed open, and a boy steps inside. My tears blur my vision, so the figure is hard to make out at first. I brush angrily at the tears, hating to be found like this.
“Hey, hey.” It’s Newt’s voice, soft and gentle. “Hey, you’re okay. You’re okay.”
He gathers me hesitantly into his arms, awkwardly hushing my cries. “It’s okay, you’re okay,” he keeps saying, keeping his voice steady. Eventually, I calm down, wiping the last of my tears away. My breathing is still shaky, though, and my voice trembles when I pull myself away from Newt.
“Thank you,” I say. “Um, I–I’m sorry you had to see that.” I might not remember my old self, or my past, but I was uncomfortable with him seeing me like this. It made me feel vulnerable, too open. I instinctively close myself off from Newt, physically shifting away from him, as I stare at the roughly built wooden floor.
“Are you alright?”
I hesitate, then I slowly shake my head, still avoiding looking at him. It feels wrong for someone to have seen me like that. Seen me looking that weak and pathetic. Crying my eyes out on the floor just because of a little bit of pain.
Well, a lot of pain, but how can you possibly explain that to someone?
“Do you want me to stay?” Newt asks, his tone still gentle and reassuring.
I shake my head again, a lot more firmly this time. “I’m okay. Thanks, but I’ll be okay.”
Newt gets to his feet, but still crouches beside me for a second, lingering.
“I’m fine.” It comes out harsher than I mean it to.
“Alright, okay.” He straightens, lets out a tiny sigh I don’t think I’m supposed to hear, and leaves, quietly shutting the door behind him.
I don’t move from the floor for a while, exactly how long I have no way to tell. The sunlight slowly dims, eventually leaving me in darkness. Still, I remain curled into a ball on the floor, my head aching dully, and my heart aching even worse.
I feel terrible for snapping at Newt like I did, but then I remember the feeling of crying in his arms, feeling stripped bare, my true self laid out for him to see. The memory makes me shiver for some reason.
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shurpart · 3 months
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Varanya Pure Black Seed Even-Toning Facial Potion
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Reveal an Even-Toned, Brightened and Illuminated Complexion with this VEGAN Nigella Sativa Ayurvedic Skin Specialist, made specially to brighten and even-tone complexion! 
Varanya Pure Black Even-Toning Facial Potion
Ayurveda’s Triple-Black Brightening Specialist for Skin that lacks luster and brilliance 
This Facial Potion made up of the iconic Black Seed-Trio: Black Seed Oil (Nigella Sativa), Black Cumin Seed and Black Sesame Seed, all three known in Ayurveda for their clarifying and brightening effects on skin!  
Improve your skin’s natural complexion and bid adieu to the look of uneven spots or blemishes to flaunt a more even-toned appearance
Tighten the look of large pores without the appearance of dark, oily spots 
Proffer upon your skin a matte-finish – neither too dry nor too oily, and the brightness of a million stars!
Best suited for oily or combination skin types – BUT – when mixed with iYURA’s intensely moisturizing oils, dry and aging skin get ALL of Nigella Sativa’s benefits too, and more! 
The Black Seed Trio boosts skin’s ability to fight stressors from both inside and outside
Even works as an excellent cleansing oil due to Nigella Sativa’s deep-cleansing properties. All you need are a few drops to wipe off that excess makeup!
A multi-use, agile face oil for cleansing, purifying, brightening and even-toning!
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hordemama · 1 year
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More Space Rabbit Morphs!!
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I hope this is a better example for your question @drawingsphopho !
Albinism usually expresses itself as hairlessness(which includes whiskers and much of the ears) and underdeveloped and/or weak eyes. This rabbit, however, retained a medium length shag coat from a parent! This is pretty rare, but considering the random toss up of genes rabbits pass down, it's not unheard of to see genes "cancel eachother out".
TRUE Melanism is pretty rare. Instead, most dark rabbits are a sleek dark brown. Because of this, not many individuals express patterns or differing exoskeleton colors. Seems to be the darker the color the more suppressed the patterns!
Mosaic genes (like chimerism), piebaldism, and vitiligo are surprisingly common among space rabbits! This is most likely due to their high birth rate and common reproductive issues. They can even develop similar looking discoloration and age spots as they shed old, strained, or damaged carapaces. These are common in athletes and other such hard physical work. Kind of like metal as hell permanent bruises! The individual pictured has splotches similar to blaschko lines in humans that trace the shapes of the exoskeleton.
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weirdbrainweirdbody · 8 months
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Why I hate how dandruff is presented
You've all seen the jokes- old man with dandruff, shaking his head and a cloud of snow falls down, dandruff just being there for a laugh... It's never treated as anything serious, ever. It's just a joke! And just a joke about old men at that.
I'm 17 years old. I've had dandruff since I was at least 11. I've been made fun of all that time for the white flakes that are a constant on my head.
I just saw dandruff as a joke, too.
At most, it was just my scalp being a bit dry, so it needed a moisturising shampoo.
Yeah.... Turns out I have scalp psoriasis. I'm in near constant pain, which gets worse whenever I'm ill or stressed, because psoriasis is an autoimmune disease. My immune system is attacking my own skin. It's gotten to the point where shampoo doesn't help. I'm just in pain, always. I'll have a doctor's appointment where we can discuss options soon hopefully.
It's painful enough that I end up with scabbing all over my scalp from scratching. I pull my hands away and my nails are bloody from repeatedly picking and itching the scabs.
So no, not just a funny joke.
When I mentioned how painful it was to my friend, (only referring to it as dandruff rather than psoriasis) he said "I didn't realise dandruff could be painful!". In fact, several conditions that can cause dandruff have the fact that they're itchy or sore in their their symptoms list- eczema, dermatitis, and of course psoriasis.
And yet people just see dandruff as a joke. Even now, I feel anxious writing this- I feel like someone's gonna read this and think 'why are they getting so serious about dandruff? Lighten up!'
Sure, for some people it's not painful. Just flaky. But even then, they can experience the same social issues I did- I still remember a pair of kids seeing my large white skin flakes on my dark hair and exclaiming that I had nits (lice for Americans), and running away shouting at me. I hate that it's treated as a joke, or stigmatised, and seen as just an old man thing.
It's an actually serious issue for so many people. Why isn't it treated as such?
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