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#tw mental illness
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Once I learn how to stop being me it’s over for y’all
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borderlinebaby420 · 8 months
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interact if you have ever been abandoned, judged, or disliked due to your mental illness. trying to see something
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queerly-autistic · 1 month
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The episode is called 'Red Flags', and the entire through-line of the episode (and the episode before) is Ed displaying the absolutely textbook suicide warning signs.
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I'm particularly impressed that they so heavily featured that sudden sense of calm and happiness; where Ed is suddenly smiley and at peace to the point where some crewmembers are wondering if he's 'better' now, but it's actually a huge red flag that he's made the decision to die. Because that's a warning sign that most people would misread - would assume it's a good thing - unless they've had specific training/experience on what to look out for.
I'll say it again: the gay pirate romcom explores mental illness and suicidality with greater depth, and understanding, and realism, than the majority of serious dramas I've watched in my life.
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heich0e · 4 months
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suguru's throat feels tight.
not in the nice way—like when someone pays you a compliment you aren't expecting, or you're given a thoughtful gift.
his airway is a vice; sticky and closing in on itself like a boobytrap in those terrible action movies that satoru always makes him watch, where the walls are slowly crushing inwards on the hero, leaving no obvious way to escape.
his face feels hot—too hot for the meagre amount of alcohol he's had to drink that evening. hot enough that he's sure his cheeks are flushed a vicious red. he looks down at his hands, still wrapped around the half-drained drink between them, and when he pulls one away from the circumference of the glass he sees the way his fingers tremble, moved by a force only he can feel.
he sets his cup down on whatever surface is within reach and looks for the nearest exit.
the bar is crowded, and every body that jostles him on his odyssey to the door makes him feel even more sick to his stomach—makes him acutely, and uncomfortably aware of just how many people are jammed into such a confined space. with every step he takes towards the fire exit (the one which at this point he just has to pray isn't connected to some kind of alarm) it seems to be growing further away, like his steps are a paradox he's trapped in.
finally, finally, his hands press down against the push bar of the door, and cold winter air hits his burning cheeks like a slap.
he's on his knees retching into the grimy snowbank that lines the back alley before the door has even fully swung closed.
"oh, wow,—"
suguru can barely hear you over the sound of his pulse in his ears. it was too noisy in the bar to make it out this clearly, lost in the thrum of the bass-heavy music and the spiral of his thoughts, but now it's unmistakable. it pounds in his head, under his tongue, trapped in the walls of his throat.
he lifts his head, his eyes bleary from the tears his exertion had sprung to them, and he sees a figure a few paces away from him with a cigarette lifted to their lips.
he blinks hard, willing the world to come back into focus. as it does (painfully slowly,) he can see you better. the first thing he can clearly make out is the oversized jacket you have wrapped around your frame (big enough that it can't possibly be your own.) his eyes flicker next to the bare legs that peek out from underneath it, and trail all the way up to the lines of your face as you watch him. but it's your eyes that make him falter for a moment: curious but strangely impassive at the same time.
"—rough night?" you ask, but you make no move to come any closer to him.
he's grateful for at least that small mercy, he can't help but think.
"sorry," he chokes out, spitting into the sludgy grey snowbank one last time just to try and get the terrible taste out of his mouth. he stands unsteadily, his hands braced against the brick wall of the bar to keep himself balanced. "i didn't even drink that much."
he's not sure why he feels the need to say it, or make any effort to save face when you've just seen him at what's surely one of the lowest points of his life. you're a stranger, after all. what does it matter, anyway?
you hum a bit, taking another drag from your cigarette. the sound is halfhearted, and it upsets him unjustly.
"i really didn't," he insists, wiping at his mouth with the back of his knuckles and turning to you properly. "i-i'm on these new meds and they've got me all fucked up."
your eyes widen a bit, and he watches the way the smoke slips out of your lips—painted a rich, ruby colour for the evening.
"no shit?" you ask him. "you shouldn't be out partying if you're sick, y'know. alcohol can really fuck up scripts."
"i'm not sick," he replies quickly. too quickly. too ardently to possibly be true. and the silence that follows is too heavy for such a cold, still night. he looks away, fixing his eyes on the road at the end of the alley.
"oh," you drag out the word, an understanding lilt in your tone. "those kinda meds."
suguru glances back to you.
"so," you take a step towards him, and it sets his teeth on edge. "what's your poison of choice then? paroxetine? fluvoxamine? good ol' fashioned escitalopram?"
suguru's head is still spinning from the liquor, but his pulse has died down a bit. now his mouth feels uncomfortably dry.
you keep going.
"are you taking it neat or did they give you a little chaser with it too for a bit more"—you make a little flourishing gesture with your hand—"oomph."
you're right in front of him now. close enough that the smell of your cigarette has finally reached him. suguru can't help but eye it covetously, longing for the pack in his own coat pocket, left somewhere in the bar. you follow his eyes and laugh a little, holding the half-smoked cigarette out to him. it has a lipstick mark on the filter, but he takes it anyway.
he sucks in a greedy, needy inhale.
the rush of nicotine hits him right away, comforting and familiar. his exhale feels almost rapturous.
he takes another little puff, then extends the cigarette back out to you.
"don't worry about it,"—you wave the gesture off—"you can keep that one on account of the whole... y'know..." your eyes flicker down to the snowbank where geto had just been retching.
oh, right.
"thanks," he mumbles appreciatively, wasting no time before he takes another drag.
the two of you stand side by side in the dingy alley while geto finishes off your cigarette. he crushes it under the heel of his boot, grinding it down into the cracked asphalt, once it's done.
"how'd you know?" he asks after a few more moments of silence. the cold is starting to get to him now—registering in a way that didn't when he first made it outside. the chill bites at his cheeks and his nose, stinging in its frigidity.
"know what?" you feign coyness, tilting your head a little to the side. he sees a flicker of something behind your eyes again that slips through the facade of composure—something mirthful, and maybe a little mean.
he swallows, and tastes tobacco on his tongue. "about the anti-depressants."
you laugh a bit to yourself, but the sound is strained like you're almost trying to bite it back. "don't take this the wrong way, but you just sort of look like the type."
he looks at you—really looks at you—then.
you're pretty.
he supposes he recognized that already, even if he didn't process it properly at the time. your lips look soft, your eyes draw him in, and in any other circumstance he thinks you might have been the type of girl he sidled up alongside in a bar just like the one he just fled and tried to start a conversation with.
but these aren't any other circumstances. you just watched him puke his guts up in a filthy alley and then guessed his SSRI prescription like the world's worst game show. and to make matters worse, his dick hasn't even been working right lately since he started these new pills.
as though life wasn't already cruel enough.
the fire exit flies open again, and all attention turns to it.
"there you are," shoko is standing in the doorway, half-in and half-out of the bar, cringing against the cool evening air. she frowns in suguru's direction. "we've been looking everywhere for you."
suguru watches as she ducks her head back through the doorway, but whatever she calls over her shoulder is lost to the music that's bleeding out into the alley from inside the bar. gojo appears behind her in an instant, his displeased expression brightening immediately upon seeing his friend. he pushes his sunglasses up atop his head, his white hair pinned back underneath them.
"suguru!" he cheers. "we lost you."
"i was just getting some air," suguru smiles blithely, in the way that he's perfected.
gojo shoulders his way out the door towards suguru, dragging him back towards the door with an arm slung around his neck. shoko's eyes flicker over to you.
"oh, hey," she says, nodding in greeting.
"shoko-senpai," you return her greeting politely.
"are you coming back in too?" she asks.
gojo and geto both pause in the doorway, turning to glance back at you.
"no, i'm heading home," you say with an easy smile, not unlike the expression geto had just shown. "you three have a nice night."
"get home safe," she calls after you, a lilt of curiosity in her tone. you lift a hand over your shoulder as you walk away, waggling your fingers in a lazy wave.
"who was that?" gojo asks as the door swings shut behind shoko. he leans in front of suguru so his voice can be heard over the loud music.
"she's a junior in my department at school," shoko explains, "don't you recognize her?"
gojo purses his lips as he contemplates it and then shakes his head definitively. it's not unusual for satoru not to recognize someone, especially a pre-med student instead of a physics student like himself, but suguru is a bit surprised that he can't recall meeting you previously.
satoru tugs suguru's arm back towards the thick of the crowd, and he braces himself for the oncoming barrage of stimulation. he freezes just before he takes his first step, whipping back around to the door.
"what's wrong?" satoru asks him, leaning over his shoulder. he's got his sunglasses on again, and now suguru can't through the lenses in the dim light of the bar, but he knows satoru well enough to picture the wide-eyed look of curiosity that must be behind them.
suguru's brow pinches in a bewildered furrow.
"was she wearing my coat?"
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macfrog · 4 months
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walking through fire | one shot
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just something that's been on my mind the last few weeks. i hope that you're all ok going into this difficult time of year. and if there's any part of this, big or small, that you find yourself resonating with - there will always be a warm, cozy chair in my inbox/dms, free for you to come sit, hang; we can talk about everything or nothing at all. love you guys. 🤍
pairing: joel miller x fem!reader
summary: you’re neck-deep in a bout of seasonal depression. your boyfriend suggests an autumnal walk. (better than most healthcare systems offer amarite)
warnings: quite literally about depression & anxiety so please read at your own discretion. established relationship, fluffy soft!joel takes care of his girl, implied suicidal thoughts, use of medication to treat depression/anxiety, feelings of worthlessness/burdening, but hope! in the end! a wee sliver of hope!
word count: 2.7k
main masterlist | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 🖤
November turns on itself all too quickly.
Your body feels like lead, sinking deep into the mattress. Like a broken, rusted shipwreck at the bottom of the ocean; your hand lying limp above the bedsheets like a sailor’s last attempt at reaching over the waves for help.
Joel opened the blinds today. Nuzzled into you, the scruff of his beard sharp on your numb skin, and then stood up and slowly unveiled the glaring light of white cloud. You shrunk further into the bed, your hot breath suffocating you under the sheets. Inhaling and exhaling, breathing in your own rotten air.
He pushes the door open and shuffles across to the bed. Your sea dips when he lowers into it, two arms slipping around your waist like a lifebuoy. He pulls you into his chest; his warm body melting the ice of your bones.
“Hey,” he whispers, and drags his nose across your cheek. He kisses your temple, combs his fingers through your hair. Dabs his thumb along your bottom lip and then says again, “Hey, darlin’. You awake?”
Your eyes flutter open, only enough to see the blurry shape of him; the strong curve of his shoulder, the binary of dark cotton and pale skin.
“Hi, baby. How you feelin’ this mornin’?”
The words catch on the dry cliff of your throat, dangling for a few seconds like panicking climbers, before plummeting into the abyss. You settle for an incoherent mumbling, a vibration on your lips that Joel understands through the pad of his thumb.
“Yeah,” he sniffs, “not so good, huh? That’s okay. You know how much I love you?”
And that peels your eyes open a fraction more. Only enough to sharpen the image of him, to find the dark pools of his eyes and the way the flame in them flickers as he says it.
“Love you so much,” he whispers. The tiny fire thaws the very bottom of your heart, even if only enough to keep the blood pushing heavily through your veins.
Your eyes close over again, and you take his shirt in two weak fists, pulling yourself into his body. Your head fits in the crook of his arm, burying into his side.
“You feel like leavin’ the house today?” he asks, voice sweet and earnest. “Just for a little while? We could go for a walk, could go for a drive. Just you ‘n me, sweet girl.”
You shake your head, your eyes prickling from the sincerity of his question. The guilt beginning to creep its way over your shoulders.
“No? You don’t wanna?” He lifts his head, staring out at the view from the window. “’s a nice day out. Cold, but it’s dry, ‘n the leaves are all orange and yellow, just like you like. Not even for a half hour?”
That same guilt – sneering, bullying – pokes a sharp-clawed finger in your ribs until you answer him. “Tired,” you mumble, screwing your eyes shut until you see the sudden, violent assault of stars in your vision.
“I know you’re tired, baby,” Joel says, stroking your back. “But it might do you a little good to get some fresh air. And you’d be with me, and we can come back home whenever you decide.”
Your fear and shame seem to cower beneath his words; melted by the soft timbre of his voice. They retreat inward, burrowing deep between the cage of your ribs, twisting and mangling around your pale bones.
“We can come back whenever?” you whisper, defying their threats.
“Whenever, darlin’. Promise.”
You surrender yourself, letting him take you in his arms and carry you over to your closet, where he sets you down gently. Keeping an arm around your waist, Joel waits patiently as you pick an outfit, and then helps drape it over your frame. You feel more statue than human – solid substance rather than plush flesh. Cold and brittle; the tender touch and lively glow drained from your skin the same way it drains so quickly of energy.
You’ve been fighting for years. Months and months and months of one step at a time and just keep going. Being told you’re more than what’s going on in your brain, being told not to let it become you. But there are days when you stand before the mirror, and you don’t recognize the figure staring back at you. The dark tunnels in place of eyes, the thin line of her lips.
There are days you can see the marks on your skin from how tight your anxiety and depression bind you; wrapping like ivy around your body until there’s nothing left of you to see through the dark green leaves. Just a haggard, shapeless thing. A skeleton too tired to carry the weight of yourself; a heart too weary to beat in time.
There once existed a time you had smiled, even laughed – you know it, you have the lines scored deep into your cheeks to prove it. Sometimes they ache when you think about it, like even they miss the feeling. Joel knows it, too – you sense it whenever he tells some dumb joke, sense that he’s searching your face for the slightest lift, the slightest dip of a dimple. And it fucking kills you, when you realize you have nothing sincere or true to offer him. No swollen cheeks, no flash of teeth. At best, a heavier exhale pushed from your nostrils.
It all feels so long ago, that lighter, fresher, happier you. It feels so far from your clutches. Like you’re drifting further and further from the surface, disappearing into the murky depths of your own mind.
The doctors, the articles, the fucking motivational posts on Instagram all say the same. Keep fighting it. Confront your illness. Prove it wrong. But you’re so fucking tired of fighting. Fighting it the entire drive to work, your heart threatening to burst; fighting it every conversation you have, your façade slowly cracking. Swallowing the panic like you swallow the medication; both of them sticking in your throat and refusing to go down.
There is no fighting it. There is no overcoming through confrontation. If you broke your leg, shattered every bone to dust, would they say the same? You gotta walk on it straight away to make it strong again. You don’t think so.
Joel doesn’t seem to think so, either. Joel, with a heart of molten gold, ready at every turn to let it pour onto your skin and paint it the color of sunlight when you can’t do it yourself. Joel, with his strong arms and wide reach, bundling you up over the top of all that foul ivy and snapping its thick stems with just his fingers.
Joel, who will sit at the edge of your bed and watch you take your meds; kiss your forehead and squeeze you tight when you show him your empty mouth. Joel, who will hold you in the dead of night and tell you stupid stories about his brother when they were kids, rubbing your back and chasing the dark ghosts from your mind.
Joel, who still sees something in you – whether he’s imagining it or not – and decides each day that it’s worth protecting. Worth saving. You’re worth saving, even on the days you don’t believe it yourself.
He drives for ten minutes, a little out of the suburbs and into a thicket of fire-colored leaves and solid, frozen ground. Fall sinks its teeth deep into the roots of the earth, drying up the bloom of summer and replacing it with something harder, something tougher. Nature is dying in the November breeze – the amber leaves painted the color of the trees’ blood as they fight a losing battle against the shifting of time. You feel yourself decaying with it: a drawn-out, painful surrender to the bleak days and dark nights.
Joel keeps his hand on your thigh the entire ride; you keep your fingers intertwined with his. The fluttering in your chest gets quicker and quicker, spreads its wings wider the further you feel from home. Your mouth dries up, forcing you to swallow after every third breath. But his hand stays there, planted on you like the root of an ancient tree: never shifting, no matter how strong the wind throws punches.
A shaky breath falls from your lips when he slows to a halt, the truck parked by a long wooden gate. He cuts the engine and turns to you, squeezing your leg lightly.
“We’re just gonna walk down there,” he nods out the window, “and back again. As slow as you like, ‘n we turn back when?”
“Whenever I want,” you whisper, nodding.
“Whenever you want, darlin’. Just say the word, alright? Sound good?”
You nod, blinking away the strain of tears across your vision. Your knee bounces, the metal buckles on your boots clinking in the footwell.
Joel rubs his thumb against your cheek. Lifts your free hand and places a delicate kiss to your knuckles. “I am so proud of you,” he mumbles against them, like scoring it into the bone.
You fill your cheeks, flattening your lips together, and he pulls on his door handle.
Five paces from the car, you realize how cold it is. The bitter air snaps at your cheeks, drags the salty tears from your eyes. Joel quickly fixes the collar of your jacket and pulls your scarf over your face.
“You bring gloves?” he asks.
Your head shakes in response.
“Here.” He fishes in the pockets of his tan jacket for a dark brown pair, flicking his fingers for you to hold your quivering hands out. He slips them on, all too big for you, and then knots his fingers through yours and leads you on down the sloping backroad.
Bordered by tall trees on either side, you feel secluded and hidden from the rest of the world. It fills you with equal parts comfort and terror: nobody else is here. No one can see your vacant eyes, the wet stain of fallen tears on your cheeks. Not the vice grip you have on your boyfriend or the weak quiver of your voice.
And at the same time: nobody else is here. No people, no sign of life. Just an isolated track, the looming trees overhead, the squelch of muck and the bite of fall for company.
Joel matches your pace, strolling along by your side with your arm through his and his hand resting on top of yours. He catches your glances over your shoulder, sees the jittery movements of your head as you scan the scene around you, and pats the back of your hand tenderly.
“Take a deep breath for me.”
You fill your lungs with a chilly gulp of air, pushing it back out again as steadily as you can.
“And again.”
You repeat the exercise, your chest swelling against your buttoned up coat.
“You’re doin’ great,” he says, looking down at you. “You feelin’ okay?”
“I’m – Yeah, I’m just…” you twist back to search for the wooden gate, “…can’t see the truck anymore.”
“’s right there, promise ya. You wanna go back?”
He pauses, and your boots scuff to a halt on the stony terrain. You chew the inside of your cheek, eyebrows arching to release more tears from between your lashes. “No,” you breathe, “I wanna try to go further.”
“Then let’s try to go further. Yeah?”
You nod, setting off when you realize he’s waiting for you to take the lead.
The fields on either side of you are strung with a thick blanket of mist from one end to the other, masking the trees at the opposite side and obscuring the line between earth and sky. Your body close to Joel’s, your heartbeat attempting to match the steady pace of his, you feel safe, protected. The promise that you can call it a day whenever your body begins to weigh too much, whenever your lungs begin to falter.
Somewhere between the thinning of the hedgerows, another slanted, shabby gate materializes. Its crisscross panels and worn wooden posts separating you from the first company in your twenty-minute walk.
“Joel,” you call, loosening your grip on his arm and wandering over to the long, dewy grass towards a chestnut horse, a sliver of white fur diving deep between her eyes.
She slowly thumps over, huge hooves sinking deep into the soft dirt. Her long tail swishing, navy rug wrapped around her midriff. She docks at the gate, puffing a heavy breath – hot, thick clouds shooting from each nostril.
“Hi,” you say quietly, lifting a floppy-gloved hand for her to sniff. “Joel?” you say again, glancing down at her swollen belly, the low droop of the rug. “I think she might be pregnant.”
She tosses her head up, ears flicking, and nuzzles into the soft material of Joel’s glove. You feel her wrinkled muzzle, the strong, solid bridge of her nose. She blinks slowly; huge, deep brown eyes twinkling in the late-morning light, and you swear she’s trying to communicate something to you.
“Hey, girl,” Joel says, running a careful hand down her mane.
The horse sighs serenely, eyes flitting between the two of you. Her nostrils flare gently, light brown lashes fluttering. You tilt your head, stroking her and letting her teeth graze the sleeve of your jacket. Her bulky head turns to-and-fro, glancing up and down the trail you’re stood on, contently waiting for the passage of time. Enjoying her view from the misty field before it all changes again.
Unexpected and unwelcome, the absence of compression in your chest suddenly makes itself known. Dread spills into your lungs, thick like tar. You turn on your heel and cast Joel one fleeting glance.
He catches it, and without missing a beat, asks, “You ready to go?”
“Yeah,” you say. “Is that okay?”
“’s more ‘n okay, baby. You did so good today. Didn’t she?” he asks the horse, who huffs another hot breath. Joel tosses a thumb towards her. “See?”
You step back over to the animal, now preparing to wander back on home, and give her one last tender stroke. She blinks twice, tosses her head a final time, and her broad body turns, thudding off back up the slope.
As he links your arms again, Joel blinks down at you, the corners of his mouth slowly lifting.
“What?” you ask, shyly.
“Look at you,” he says, nudging your shoulder with a glint in his eye. “You’re smilin’.”
Autumn flashes by as Joel drives you home – ginger and bronze and honey and cinnamon blurring into one as you pass them by. You settle back against the headrest, moving with the sway of the truck, your tired fingers tracing blind shapes on Joel’s palm.
Nature is burning. Perhaps dying is too harsh a term. Burning in preparation for the winter, when it will lay dormant and restful. Quiet, save for the crunch of snow beneath your feet. Bland, save for the sparkle of frost on your windowpanes. The droplets of beauty laced through, the little reminders that not all has been lost.
I am burning right now, the earth says, but wait until you see what I can become.
The days will turn to night. The sun will tear the sky to tatters, set the whole thing fucking ablaze, go down in a battle stained in red and orange and deep, dark blue – and she will still return, spilling golden all over the horizon. She always does.
The clouds will cover overhead, dampening the color on earth. The blues will fade to gray, the yellows will undoubtedly pale. And then the sky will clear, when it is ready; the clouds will break in two to let a ribbon of cerulean burst through.
The leaves will fall to the ground and feed the soil; new ones will sprout from buds left in their wake. The ground will thaw, will soften again in time to welcome the push of daisies and burst of heather. The horse will foal, the birds will sing to their babies, the buzz of insects will irritate your ears; the rivers will gush and the trees will sway and you will be okay again.
You will be okay again.
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nemugyo · 5 months
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alienbycomics · 7 months
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For those who (like me) struggle with their mental health, I imagined my inner demons as monsters! ⚠️TW: discussion of mental illness, gender dysphoria⚠️
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yawnderu · 2 months
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Lamb of God — Nikto x Medic!Reader | Part I
Shot, stabbed, beaten... Mikhail has been through hell countless times, yet no amount of training or experience from years in Spetsnaz could ever prepare him for what Victor Zakhaev did to him. 8 missing nails, multiple new wounds on his already scarred body, and a face so disfigured he could no longer recognize himself— not only was his body broken, but so was his psyche.
His first visit was with the medics, wounds in desperate need of cleaning even with infection starting to set in most of them, the chemical burns on his face already blistering and itching despite being scolded by the medic multiple times for scratching himself. He was a difficult patient to say the least— not wanting anyone to touch his injuries or even look at him, only accepting treatment from the only person who dared confront him.
“'Stop that.” Your request comes in a sharp tone, not wanting him to itch his blistering injuries and make the scarring worse than what you knew it would be. A mumbled ''don't tell me what to do'' makes its way to your ears, though you decide to ignore it when he puts his hands way, adhesive bandages decorating his fingers where the nails had been ripped off.
“Sit up for me.” The man is an aggressive dog that defends himself with fangs bared, yet he somehow listens to your commands— even when he scoffs or grumbles before finally doing what you ask. Your gloved hand goes to his chin as you examine the red skin on his face, noting it was washed when he was first rescued, no residue of the acid left. He mumbles something and you raise an eyebrow, waiting for him to repeat himself.
“Is it gross?” His deep voice asks, accent even rougher with the raw emotion he's feeling. He knows for a fact it's gross, he saw it himself— he has blisters covering over half of his face, still remembering the acid dripping down his face from Zakhaev simply wanting to cause him pain.
“I've seen worse— at least you still have a face.” Being a medic for the military allowed you to see both human cruelty, and the extends injuries could go. You've seen multiple soldiers missing their face, skin pulled and bones poking out of their bodies— Mikhail's injuries aren't the worst you've seen, not even close.
“Your nose doesn't look too weird either, even when I was told it was broken. Your eyes still work, all your limbs are still attached... you'll recover from everything in no time.” You try to keep a positive attitude despite the way his baby blue eyes are staring holes into your head, pupils looking tiny despite the dim light in the room.
“I'm mostly worried about what's going on here.” You tap his head softly and he doesn't take long on pushing your hand away softly, a small smile making way to your lips when you notice how he avoids eye contact for a second before he's back to staring at you. You stare back for a while, trying to decipher what he's feeling before going to grab a cloth, filling a small bucket with cold water and making your way back to him.
“This might hurt a little bit, let me know if you want me to stop and we can take a break.” He looks down at the bucket of water and the cloth you're dipping in, squeezing the excess water as you wait for his approval. He gives you a nod in affirmation, flinching slightly as the cold cloth makes contact with his face. It doesn't hurt as much as he imagined— if anything, it feels almost soothing, the previous ache and itchiness disappearing even if only for a very short while.
“Заканчивай быстрее с этой хернëй.” He mutters under his breath despite how good it actually feels on his injuries, not wanting to get any pity from you.
“Be patient.” It almost feels like he's getting scolded by his nana, faint memories of the old woman cleaning his scrapped knees come to mind, holding onto them to try and stop the bad thoughts from flooding his damaged brain.
“Mikhail.” Your soft voice slowly brings him back to reality, feeling an odd sensation all over his face. His hand goes up to feel his cheeks, only now realizing that you already dressed his wounds. He looks utterly confused, not even remembering you getting gauze, everything happening too suddenly. Now that he thinks about it, he doesn't remember most of the heli flight back home, too busy thinking about... what was he even thinking about?
“Mikhail.” You repeat, one of your gloved hands going to his shoulder in attempts to make him look at you. He's still staring blankly at the floor, just as he has been doing for the past 20 minutes, not responding to his own name.
“Quiet, I hear enough voices.” He brushes you off, finally getting up from the medical bed and quickly leaving your office despite the small limp from the beatings he took for days.
He hears voices? His next stop will have to be with the provided psychiatrist once his body recovers a little bit to test if he's still fit to be part of Spetsnaz, leaving your heart filled with worry until you move onto the next patient, making a mental note to check on him later.
A/N: Mikhail is Nikto's name in this fic, the person he used to be before turning into Никто.
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foxyinny · 6 months
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Depression knew me before I knew depression.
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tobias-hankel · 8 months
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I love how Spencer gets defensive of mentally ill unsubs. Just imagine how many comments he probably got about his mom growing up. That was the 80s and 90s - people were less aware of mental illness, made fun of it more, and people loved to talk.
I wonder if he always stuck up for her or if he couldn't. If he knew he shouldn't snap back at the neighborhood boys that were twice his size or the teacher that talked about things she didn't know about. I wonder if people made comments like that about Diana. Saying oh it's too bad what happened to poor Diana. She is too ill to work and her husband left her... She was so sweet too. And Spencer knows she is still sweet - that she can be sweet when she is lucid enough to remember who he is, when she reads to him and calls him Crash - even though she might never know that she is the reason he is bruised.
I like to think that Spencer stood up for her but he might also be too smart for that. He would have to shoulder those comments about his mom. He would go home and cry into his pillow because the world was hating on the only person he had left for something she can't control. But then Spencer gets himself into the FBI, gets a badge and a gun and a score of degrees, and he never has to listen to another negative comment about his mom - or anyone with mental illness.
Spencer might not have always been able to protect his mom, but he sure as shit isn't going to let anyone bad mouth her now.
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rinhaler · 2 months
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In The World My Demons Cultivate
“Why do you miss me?” he breathes again, your voice hitches at the thought of explaining yourself so intimately. So desperately. You won’t be able to stop him from judging you or mocking you for being so weak, and still, you do as he asks.
✧˖*°࿐: 18+ only, no minors.    ✧. ┊ ghost!toji fushiguro x f!reader
Genre: angst Notes: cried so much writing this oof Warnings: 18+, fem!reader, no smut, dead character (obviously), mental heatlh struggles, suicide ideation, grief/loss, drug abuse, pet names. Words: 3k
Does it ever stop?
“No, not really,” he answers.
You look up, seeing a familiar face, a familiar scar. One that you haven’t seen for a long, long time. It makes you laugh. You’re giggling like a little girl as you look at him. And he’s looking at you, too. A missing memory that you’ve blotted out every single day for as long as you can remember.
How old were you?
How old are you?
It doesn’t matter, you suppose. In the grand scheme of things nothing really matters to you or anyone else. You don’t matter and no one else does, either. You’re just another set of lungs tarring them with filth at the end of the day.
You quit, you did.
You really tried to quit.
But it’s the only thing that makes you stop thinking about your miserable fucking life for a few hours until you pass out and have to live it all over again. Everyday is the same. How do people live like this every single day until they die?
How do people pretend they aren’t suffering when they are?
They are.
You are.
“Can you read my mind, Toji?” you laugh.
He nods. And he notes how your eyes instantly flutter closed when he places a hand on your bare shoulder. It’s been too long since you’ve been touched.
Held.
Loved.
He knows you better than you know yourself. He’s always been like that. You’ve never been able to keep a secret because he’ll get it out of you one way or another. You’ll crack under the pressure of a stare so intense it could turn mere rock to diamonds, the power of glorious green eyes over your fragile mind.
That or you’ll tell him of your own volition.
Does he really possess the power to read your mind? Is that why you love him, so unequivocally? Through all of your faults, he’s here. Through all of his, you love him, still.
You smile.
“I wish I was dead.” you grin, but his face is stoic.
“You said that out loud.” he hisses. You mewl, and it’s gentle, as he runs his fingers through messy, unwashed hair. You’re like a cat, eyes closed and purring for him as you rest your head on his thigh. “Don’t joke about dyin’, sweetheart.”
You didn’t think he’d come, no matter how hard you wished for it. You hadn’t thought he’d show up just for you. And yet, here he is, with his back pressed against your headboard and a deep rumble in his lungs with every heavy intake of exhausted breath.
Like it’s hard.
Hard to breathe or hard to be with you, you don’t know. You don’t want to know, either. He’s here, that’s all that matters now. Things feel good again, normal.
“When did you get here?” you wonder, your voice is barely above a whisper as you speak. Eyes still closed so delicately; he can see the way your eyes are trying to explore your bedroom despite them being shut. He likes that about you, that your mind can never switch off.
But he hates it, too.
He’s not alone in that.
“I’ve been here the whole time, baby.”
Did you forget? Have you misremembered because you’re so fucking stoned? It’s possible, but unlikely. And still, you don’t question it. The warmth of his hand on the crown of your head, the pudgy but sturdy flesh of his thighs beneath your cheek are enough.
You don’t need answers, not now.
The blue light from your laptop flickers and blinds you as the same trailer that Netflix has been repeating for hours now continues to loop and loop. It should be driving you mad, but it isn’t. It’s inaudible to you, especially now.
A heartbeat fills your ears and ricochets between the four walls of your bedroom. The vociferous beating might deafen you if you don’t clear your mind of it, if you don’t speak you might succumb to the burden of it.
“I’ve missed you.” you whimper.
His hand freezes, tongue drying in his mouth before turning into sand he’ll surely choke on. He swallows, and it’s loud. A cartoonish gulp as he hears the sorrow in your words, a meek cry for help that you wouldn’t dare admit to. You couldn’t do that to him, not really, not right now.
“I know.” he sighs.
“I’m so…” you start, your voice fading away as you contemplate keeping your words to yourself. He isn’t the type to care, is he? He hasn’t missed you, anyway. Or at least he didn’t say it, which, to you, surmounts to the same conclusion.
You aren’t missed, not by him.
Neither of you speak, but his fingers resume soothing your scalp. He won’t say he’s missed you. He won’t tell you anything you want to hear; he isn’t like that.
Could it be that he can’t, rather than won’t? It’s trite, burrowing your head between each word and letter he’s spoken and hasn’t spoken. Searching for some double meaning in the words he chooses instead of just some meaning.
Any meaning.
What does it mean to find purpose or reason at a time like this?
It won’t help and it won’t change things. You’ve long accepted that things don’t change for the better. They change, things certainly change. But not for the better. Or maybe they do, for other people.
Not you.
Never you.
“You’re so loud.” he mutters, prompting you to roll over to face him. He looks down at you, it isn’t patronising. It’s generic, which might be worse. There’s no feeling with him, in him, from him. At least if he was patronising you he’d feel something for you.
He’s felt nothing for so long.
You wonder if he ever felt something for you.
“I didn’t say anything.” you tell him.
He does nothing except poke his index finger into your exposed temple, and for some reason, it urges you to smile for him. It’s been so long since you smiled because you wanted to, not because you were forced out of sheer obligation.
That’s why you don’t mind, or rather, prefer being home with nothing but Netflix trailers playing on continuous loop for hours and hours on end while you get so high you scare yourself stupid until you pass out.
It’s a disgusting habit that you can’t rid yourself of.
It’s your only comfort. Your only solace from how downright devastating and pathetic your wretched life truly is.
Nobody expects anything of you when you’re home alone.
“You think too loud,” he starts, the force of his pointed finger becomes deeper but soon leaves completely. Your skin feels colder, right after. Like losing an extra layer of clothing despite being in a warm enough room, you miss the feeling regardless. “You gotta stop.”
You shake your head, closing your eyes again.
“I can’t help it, there’s too much to think about.” you breathe.
The thought of him disappearing into the night never to be seen again, it horrifies you, and it’s at the forefront of your mind. He’s been gone for so long now, you’re sure. He lied, though you aren’t surprised in the least. He’s always been a liar that still possess the ability to have you hanging on his every word.
If you talk, you’re scared he’ll leave. Though he can hear your thoughts, or so he claims.
Again, he’s a liar. If that were true he would have left by now. If he knew how pathetic and desperate your reeling mind sounded he’d have run off and done exactly what you’re worried about him doing.
“You’re so hurt up here, baby,” he tells you, words hushed and secretive as he strokes his thumb across your forehead like you’re precious. Like you’re brittle enough to turn to dust if he applies too much strain. “Aren’t you?”
A sob leaves your throat, and you want the world to swallow you up right then. Tears begin to pour from watery eyes and soak into the material of his trousers before you even think about answering. You do, though. Because you want to, not because he’s making you. You nod, an uncomfortable beat of sniffling silence goes by before you utter a word.
“I wasn’t j-joking.” you start, “I don’t want to be here.” your voice cracks as you speak, the notion of your words and the burden on them weigh down on you enough to make you dizzy and sickly.
He shushes you, not because he wants you to stop talking, but he wants you to stop working yourself up into a nauseated stupor.
“Why?”
“Because I miss you, Toji.” you sit upright, your temperature feels like it drops below freezing when you part from him fully. He pulls you backwards, into his arms before you’re both lying side by side. His chin rests atop your head while you play with your hair, too choked up to say another word.
He doesn’t say it back, again.
But maybe him holding you like this is his way of saying it.
“I don’t know what you mean.” he tells you. His voice is quiet as he speaks into your hair, but you hear him clear enough. You want to argue, but you can’t. The room spins and it feels like you’re floating. Everything mirrors over what feels like hours. Furniture isn’t where you remember it being and you don’t feel like you’re in the right body anymore.
Is he here with you?
You feel a squeeze.
You don’t know what’s happening, anymore.
Those hours that passed were barely a minute. His face is nuzzled into the juncture between your neck and shoulder, and his breath is mystifying against your skin. Every huff is like ice and you feel the way your skin clusters and rises in uneven bumps as it tries to preserve any remaining warmth lingering through your body.
“You can tell me, without telling me.” he explains, though you don’t really follow. His arms tighten around you again before releasing you slightly, slowly, enough for you to wriggle around in his hold if you choose to. You don’t. You’re completely still, digesting his words. “I’ll hear you, no matter what.”
“I don’t know what to say, Toji… I, I really don’t.”
“Why do you miss me?” he breathes again, your voice hitches at the thought of explaining yourself so intimately. So desperately. You won’t be able to stop him from judging you or mocking you for being so weak, and still, you do as he asks.
Not because he told you to, no. You’d do it anyway. You do it every single day when given the opportunity to dwell. All he can do is hold you as buckle under the lofty ideals and pressurizing weight of your spoiled existence.
I miss how I felt with you. I miss how life felt worth living each day because there was so much to do with you. Nothing felt impossible, everything is impossible, now. Even small things that are simple for others, aren’t for me. Things felt new and exciting, I’m too tired of everything now. Food seemed more appetizing with you, everything tastes worse now.
Things are meant to get better, easier. People say that but I feel the same as I always have. It fluctuates, there are ebbs and flows but ultimately I’m always going to be sad. My skin feels worse and my body doesn’t belong to me anymore. I don’t want to be in it, I don’t want to be attached to the skin and bones that are meant to be mine. They aren’t. They were never meant to be mine. I’m wasting the oxygen in my lungs, I’m rotting.
Everyday is the same.
I only rot and wither.
I’m lonely and unsatisfied. Nothing makes me happy because I don’t have you. No lover will compare. No meal will stave away the starving pangs I feel in my stomach. No drink will be cold enough to quench my thirst in the beastly summers and none will be hot enough to warm my bones in the bitter winter.
I’m wholly unsatisfied.
People do great things. Not me. I don’t doubt people would miss me if I died, but I don’t really care. It’s selfish, but I’m tired. I’m exhausted. I miss you, I miss you more than I’d ever be missed. I mourn your life, a life that isn’t mine, more than I will ever mourn my own. Every breath I take feels like a theft. I’m stealing the air and lung capacity of someone greater than myself, someone worthy.
I’m worthless.
I speak sentences no one cares about, not like you do. No one will ever care about me like you do, and you don’t even miss me. I wouldn’t, either, I suppose. Any words I say, poetry I write, canvas I paint, is worthless. I am a burden in people’s eyes, my creations aren’t worth viewing, my point of view isn’t worth seeing, I’m worthless.
I am worthless, Toji.
Do you think I am? Maybe if things were different, maybe if I didn’t miss you so much, I wouldn’t feel like this. I wouldn’t feel burdened by a life lost and squandered that I will never be able to know the way I so desperately crave. It’s my fault, I know. I love you and I want you back but I’ve lost you forever.
What I have now, my miserable little life, is what I will have forever. A true burden, a hinderance, a stain. I can’t do it anymore, I can’t. How am I expected to live a life I’m so depressed by for the sake of others. So I don’t make my family or friends sad. It’s selfish, I’m selfish, I’m finding it hard to care as each day passes.
I’d rather be with you, now.
Things don’t get better, I won’t get better.
I know my thoughts are loud, my thoughts are exhausting and it’s hard to hear or think clearly like this. But if I’m with you, it’ll stop.
I don’t want to miss you anymore.
I don’t want to be lonely anymore.
No one loves me the way I need to be loved; but I don’t know how to ask for it.
You sit bolt upright, breathless before running to the bathroom. You’re panting and your mouth feels warm and icky from the taste of swallowed tears. Though your face still shines under the bathroom light from them. You don’t have a glass, you bend over and drink water directly from the tap as you try and regain your composure.
He’s staring at you from his spot on the bed as you gasp and devour each droplet you can. It coats your tongue and bulges through your throat as you take heartier gulps than you had any business taking.
But soon enough, you’re back in his arms as you try and calm yourself down. You’re always tired, but now, after that, you’re exhausted. You wonder if he really did hear you or if he lied to you. It doesn’t matter you suppose. There’s nothing you can do to make him miss you too. There’s nothing you can do to force him back to you.
He’s gone.
For good.
“Why are you still here?” he asks you. Your eyes open, only a little, wondering if you heard him right. “If you were serious, if you weren’t joking, why?”
“… I’m scared,” you admit. “I wasn���t joking… but I am scared. And I know… I know people love me, I know people care about me. It doesn’t feel like enough, it never has and I don’t think it ever will. But… it’s something.”
“Why are you scared?” he continues.
“I— I don’t think things will get better.” you confess. “But what if… they do?”
You don’t see the way he smiles when he hears you speak. When he hears that resilience in your words. You’re hurting, you’re struggling. And still you’re here. You’re trying, your fighting. You’re hoping.
Things might not get better. But what if they do?
One day you might remember why your favourite foods are your favourite foods again. The TV shows and films you love might feel warm and familiar again. There could be someone, anyone, waiting to find you so you can share these things with them, too.
Things could change.
People might listen to your thoughts and care about them. The words you write might matter to someone. The paintings you create might be worlds people fantasize living in as they hang on their walls.
Someone might love you the way you need to be loved, without you knowing how to ask for that brand of love.
Toji misses you, he mourns you, too. But you understand, now. He doesn’t want to hold you back anymore. He doesn’t want you to keep suffering because of him. Because you miss him.
So, you’ll always miss him, there won’t be a day you won’t think about him.
But if there’s a chance, however small, that things might change, he wants you to take it.
“Goodnight, baby.” he hums. “… Princess? I’m proud. I'm proud of you.”
It warms your body to hear him say it. It’s a little embarrassing, but you can’t bring yourself to care. It’s words, maybe it’s lip service, but you made someone proud. And you sleep peacefully with that knowledge.
Daybreaks through the window, bright and invasive enough to break you from your sleep. You fell asleep above the covers, you aren’t being held anymore. There’s no noise in your apartment, there’s no signs of life besides your own beating heart.
Maybe it was like that the whole time.
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© 2024 rinhaler
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unstableshadowgirl · 2 years
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killemwithkawaii · 2 months
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Dear depressed/ executive dysfunction-having/ etc. selfshipper,
Your f/o wants you to shower. 
No, not because they think you're gross or smelly, but because they know you'll feel at least a little bit better once you're clean. 
They won't judge you if its been longer than you'd like to admit since you last bathed.
They won't show revulsion when they see how unkempt your nails or hair or skin has become as a result of inadvertent neglect. 
They won't shame you or think less of you for having difficulty with doing what 'should' be a basic, simple act of self-care. Your [f/o] understands that sometimes, 'easy' things can become difficult, for one or many reasons. They love you, and all they want is for you to be comfortable and healthy. A good shower will help you with both those things. 
If [f/o]s gentle encourgement isn't enough to get you to tackle the task on your own, they're glad to help as much as you need them to- they'll turn on the water to your preferred temperature, help you undress, hold your hand to keep you steady when you step over the lip of the tub, wash your hair for you, gently scrub down wherever you're comfortable with them touching, make sure all the soap is rinsed off, gently dry you off with a fresh, soft towel, and help you get dressed in clean, sensory-friendly clothes....
"... there we go, [y/n].... it was hard at first, but it wasn't so bad once you got in, right? ... Good, I'm happy to hear that... You look like you're feeling better already..." 🚿💕
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queerly-autistic · 1 month
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The thing that gets me the most about this scene is that Stede doesn't rescue Ed. Not in the traditional sense. He doesn't grab him. He doesn't pull him out of the water. Heck, he doesn't even lead him out of the water.
No, what he actually does is just be with Ed, exactly where Ed is. And that's the most powerful thing he could do.
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And, crucially, Ed is still underwater. Stede's presence hasn't changed the fact that he's underwater. But the difference is that the weight has stopped pulling him further down, and, most importantly, he's no longer drowning.
I've talked about how much I love the way that this show explores mental health, and this is just a shining example of that. Stede's love for Ed, and his unwavering supportive presence beside him, doesn't fix his mental illness. It doesn't pull him out of the water.
But, fuck me, does having that love and support make it all feel a bit more survivable.
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I must remain sick or else I have no purpose in this world. I must get worse or it was all for “attention”
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artemis-pendragon · 1 year
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I am a creature of habits and none of them are very good
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