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zeldasnotes · 5 months

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CHIRON IN THE HOUSES ⚷

What your placement makes me think of

CHIRON IN THE 1ST HOUSE: Afraid of being seen as weak, people commenting on your appearance, hiding behind makeup, forcing a tough phacade, extreme competetiveness, surrounding yourself with tough people, comfortable in a small pond so that you can be the big fish, projecting your selfhate onto others, picking other peoples appearance apart, picking your own appearance apart, acting arrogant as a coping mechanism, analyzing, forcing confidence, body dysmorphia, being seen as a target, afraid to go places alone, having a unique feature people comment on.

CHIRON IN THE 2ND HOUSE: Poor kid in a rich kids school, growing up poor, growing up in a family with no money or the opposite growing up in a rich family where money is everything, childhood messed up your moral compass, low self worth, body image issues, not feeling at home in your own body, being used for money, born in the wrong body, growing up in a single parent household, possessive, afraid of loss, experiencing a lot of loss, greediness or completely rejecting the material, not taking care of yourself properly, afraid of change, afraid of never finding stability.

CHIRON IN THE 3RD HOUSE: Bullying during early school years, being compared to a sibling, having a lisp, stuttering, difficulty with expressing yourself, passive aggressive, asthma, communication issues, feeling unwelcomed in your neighbourhood, issues with cousins, speech therapy, having a twin, having a sibling you are expected to ”live up to”, feeling afraid to talk, strong need to be seen as intelligent, outsmarting people, feeling insecure about your social skills.

CHIRON IN THE 4TH HOUSE: Being the black sheep, suppressed childhood memories, feeling rejected by a family member, being the family scape goat, walking on eggshells at home, extremely intuitive, afraid of people being angry or irritated with you, a mother with bpd, a narcissistic mother, generational trauma, trying to heal your mother, a family of broken women, emotionally unavailable parents, constantly hearing parents fighting, having to pick sides between family members, feeling stuck at home, issues renting or buying a home, having to constantly move.

CHIRON IN THE 5TH HOUSE: Experiencing mom/dad shaming, shamed for having kids later in life, shamed for having kids too young, shamed for not wanting kids, teen dad/mom, strong need to be creative or rejecting your creativity, custody battle, having to co-parent with someone you dislike, baby trapped, growing up too fast, ashamed of having fun, afraid of expressing yourself, inability to just let got and have fun, insecure about your style or art, not getting along with your own child, using your pain as entertainment or art, feeling a need to constantly perform.

CHIRON IN THE 6TH HOUSE: Hard time with routines, door dash addict, inability to take care of yourself, obsession with routines, overworking or inability to find work,a job that drains you, a need to constantly be of service, constantly getting sick, your needs being ignored growing up, working with healing others, being overly criticized by a parent, workoutschedules, bad experiences with pets, dieting, hypochondriac, never feeling clean enough, growing up in dirty surroundings, among hoarders.

CHIRON IN THE 7TH HOUSE: Feeling like there is a wall between you and others, fear of rejection, early experiences with rejection, rejected by your first love, no social life, afraid of never finding ”the one”, early experiences with betrayal, people pleasing, ”you havent met anyone yet?”, getting into your first relationship later in life, attracted to wounded people, trying to save bad people, scared of being left for someone else, trying to be perfect, obeying to be liked, connections with others ending badly.

CHIRON IN THE 8TH HOUSE: Afraid of opening up, experiencing constant loss, afraid of loss of power, growing up around someone who asserted power over them, a wound surrounding sex and intimacy, being left out when it comes to inheritance, afraid of not being in control, people trying to control you, freaked out at the thought of ”doing it”, a bad or traumatizing first time, ”doing it” as a selfharm method to take back control after trauma, having to take money in the form of donations, external help, scholarships bc of your family being low income, ashamed of having to take money from others.

CHIRON IN THE 9TH HOUSE: No faith, painful memories from school, the only kid with your cultural background in the whole school, feeling no hope, being forced to convert to another religion, afraid of traveling, never been out of the country you were born in, changing schools, afraid to go to school, bullying in school, not feeling accepted by your inlaws, not feeling free, feeling stuck where you grew up, feeling like you have no roots, being mixed race and not feeling at home with any side.

CHIRON IN THE 10TH HOUSE: Being a part of a family with a bad reputation and therefore being born with a bad rep, being forced into a career, not getting the recognition you deserve for your work, scandals becoming public knowledge, people still talking about that thing you did years ago, being known for something painful, an absent father, not being able to live up to who your father wants you to be, seeking validation from the public, afraid of public humiliation, being slandered.

CHIRON IN THE 11TH HOUSE: Struggling to fit in, prefering to hang out one on one instead of a group, being left out or blamed by a group, toxic friendships, wanting to save the world, misunderstood, deep understanding of the unspoken undercurrentsin group settings, uncomfortable in a group setting, bullying on social media, being exposed online, lack of hope, feeling that nobody gets you, not belonging to any group, strong need to contribute to society, powerstruggles with a stepparent, evil stepmom or evil stepkid kinda energy.

CHIRON IN THE 12TH HOUSE: Absorbing other peoples energy, living in solitude, sleep disorders, the people you least expected turning out to be an enemy, feeling a need to please the collective unconscious, hypersensive to your surroundings, feelings loneliness no matter how many people are around, feeling like you belong in the underworld, repressed memories, zoning out, constantly sensing emotional undercurrents, pushing things under the rugs, medication, bad experiences with addicts, psychic attacks.

CHIRON ASPECTING INNER PLANETS:

SUN/CHIRON: A fragile ego, inflated ego, absent father, putting on a false persona, defensive, acting arrogant when you feel insecure, a dad who left, deep understanding of why people do what they do, not knowing how to express yourself, identity issues, having a healing energy, trying to help everyone.

MOON/CHIRON: Extreme sensitivity, hiding your sensitivity, trying to find parental love in a partner, being shamed for your sensitivity, betrayal from women in the family, emotional scars, seeing through anyone, a bitchy mother, surrounded by bitches, having triggers you cant explain, rejecting and suppressing your emotions, nurturing issues, ”with women comes pain”.

MERCURY/CHIRON: Healing or wounding people with your words, verbally undressing people so that they feel as naked as you, penetrating people to the core, therapist, harsh criticism, wordplay, saying the thing everyone thinks but doesnt say, constantly putting your foot in your mouth, peoples words cut you like knives, you cut back.

VENUS/CHIRON: Extreme fear of rejection, connecting women with pain, female rivalry, low self esteem, attracted to wounded people, plastic surgery, wanting to look perfect, people pleasing to be loved, feeling unworthy of love, ”the bar is in hell” being treated like shit and accepting it bc you love them, feeling ugly no matter how much people tell you youre beautiful, betrayal by women, brutal rejection from a love interest that affected your self esteem deeply.

MARS/CHIRON: Suppressing anger, turning the anger inward or overcompensating by being overly aggressive, surrounded by aggressive men, surrounded by toxic masculinity, feeling uncomfortable around men, afraid of anger, extreme anger from men, feeling like you are not ”man enough”, the dark side of being a man, shamed for your sexuality, rejecting your mascuiline side or acting overly masculine.

#astro notes #astrology #astro observations #astronotes #chiron 1st house #venus conjunct chiron #sun conjunct chiron #chiron

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audreycritter · 10 months

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every time i see a post talking about how alfred pennyworth failed bruce for not getting him into therapy as a kid i want to scream.

it did not exist. the idea that children could have PTSD was just starting to be discussed in the late 80s/early 90s at the FRINGE of child psychology, and then trauma therapy even for adults spent an unhelpful 2ish decades dominated by forced-conversation talk therapy. that's a thing that is detrimental to trauma recovery, because if someone doesn't feel safe or in control of the dialogue about their trauma and is repeatedly asked to describe their trauma when they're uneasy, it COMPOUNDS TRAUMA AND FEELINGS OF DANGER.

when bruce was a kid, even the best psychs available would have had training that taught them kids bounce back, that kids don't respond to or handle trauma the way adults do, and that any behaviors post-trauma were almost certainly unrelated mental illness.

i see this esp in fandom circles but a gentle reminder that therapy even when it's good doesn't fix everything. even if bruce had HAD access to good childhood PTSD therapy, he would still have grief, he would still potentially be socially awkward or withdrawn, he might have still decided to be Batman because it's a comic book where being a vigilante isn't as wild as it is irl.

therapy requires honesty, readiness, safety, sound application of theory, an accurate picture of life outside the therapy room (self-reporting is often flawed!), consistency, and more! it can help but it doesn't erase trauma or grief. it's dismissive of the history of trauma therapy to say an adult "should have" had a kid in a therapy approach that didn't exist, and it's dismissive of the actual work of therapy to act like therapy would have made everything ideal. bruce isn't going to be a normal, well-adjusted adult because his parents were murdered in front of him. he could be happy! he could have coping skills! but honestly it would be weirder if he didn't wrestle with residual trauma and grief throughout his life.

and maybe this is just because i love Batman, and love specifically Batman as a symbol/figure of hope and sacrifice and the belief that every life matters, but I don't think the worst ending here is Bruce deciding to give up a lot of his time, energy, and health to work in Gotham AND then choose to parent a traumatized child and actively meet his needs. like you think the alternative is that Alfred is a better parent by getting him into non-existent therapy and then he stays comfortably wealthy at home and is just another rich dude? that's the ideal version? the one who can't help Dick Grayson because Dick Grayson wants to run away and murder a man?

anyway tl;dr alfred should have flaws, yes, but there's a big gap between "flawed human parental figure" and "man who massively failed Bruce in multiple ways, one of which was not putting him in therapy."

#rant #therapy #history #batman

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autball · 1 month

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A child is having outbursts at school, or at home, or wherever else, on a pretty regular basis. And at some point, someone suggests that they need to learn better coping skills.

They suggest therapy, or maybe there’s even a special program at school. Because yes, better coping skills/self-regulation skills/frustration tolerance really would solve everything, wouldn’t it?

Well those are fine skills to have, to be sure, but more often than not, it’s not what that child (or adult) needs most. What they really need is someone to figure out what’s stressing them out so much and then do something about THAT.

Because it’s not actually weird to be distressed over distressing things. Maybe *you* don’t understand what’s so distressing about school or the grocery store or that new person in the house, but that doesn’t mean *their* distress isn’t legit.

People reeaalllly like to suggest better coping skills for autistic, ADHD, and otherwise ND folks. (Since we already have a diagnosis, it’s that much easier to locate the problem in US.) And what they’re really saying with this an awful lot of the time is, “Can you please stop being so distressed by distressing things because it’s making a lot of work for us and we’re not about to change anything for you.”

So before you put someone in some sort of therapy that will teach them that they’re wrong to be upset about the things that upset them and how to get better at pretending to be okay, maybe consider that you might be expecting them to “cope” with more than they can reasonably be expected to.

#autism #autistic #actually autistic #autistic problems #autistic experiences #adhd #audhd #pda autism #pathological demand avoidance #neurodivergence #coping skills

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chuuyascumsock · 6 months

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I am NOT a Sadist (I am) || Minors DNI

Summary; Sorry, not sorry. I love when there’s hurt feelings with emotional make-up sex :)

Tags; Chuuya Nakahara/Reader, Afab reader, Angst, Mentions Of Depression, Hurt/Comfort, I Totally Projected My Poor Communication Skills Onto The MC, Also Self Sabotaging, But She Gets Better I Swear, I Project A Lot Actually Lmao, Sounds Kind Of Like An Unhealthy Relationship At First But They Fix It, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, They Do Hurt Each Other’s Feelings A Little, Obviously There’s Crying, Pet Names (Baby, Doll, Sweetheart, Sweet Girl, etc.), Mention Of Phone Sex, Handjob, Fingering, Emotional Sex, Make-Up Sex, Creampie, Lowkey Breeding Kink If You Squint, Actually Pretty Vanilla For Once, Pussy Is Chuuya’s Therapy, Classic Missionary, Missionary Accomplished, Why Does No One Talk About Chuuya Going On His Overseas Trips And Leaving His S/O For Months At A Time, I Feel Like It’s Such A Good Angst Idea, My Longest Oneshot Yet Btw At A 5k Wordcount.

The honeymoon phase of your relationship with Chuuya ended quicker than you had anticipated. It felt like a slap in the face in all honesty, unexpecting of what you were really getting into as a normal civilian. Being married to an executive of the port mafia had its many upsides, yet no one really seemed to talk about the downsides and struggles of the mental toll that weighed on your conscience that came with the title as Chuuya’s wife.

Chuuya had always been there when you needed him, and you were grateful that even with his rough exterior and conflict with opening up emotionally he could empathize with your varying issues and emotional outbursts. You tried not to be emotionally high maintenance for the sake of Chuuya already having so much on his plate, and things had seemed to be going well for the time being.

Until he went away for his first overseas trip during your marriage.

It was normal for Chuuya to take overseas trips while you were dating, some lasting a few days to a few weeks at most and during those times you often texted him throughout the day about how much you missed him before calling later on when he was lying exhausted in a hotel room to talk about how both of your days had gone. Of course, it had often led to phone sex, ending with the camera angled against a pillow while your fingers worked in and out of your neglected, needy pussy– your face buried into his pillow and smothering your senses with what was left of his presence in your apartment. And Chuuya would stroke his throbbing length at the sight with languid motions, thumb swiping over his leaking tip as he murmured through the speaker about how he wished he could be there to feel you split open on his cock and fill you up with his cum. And every time he came back from his trips, your relationship seemingly grew stronger from the distance, spending all his free time with you whenever he got the chance.

And then Mori sent him away on a half year mission to Europe and everything seemed to go to shit.

It was different when you had been dating as it was for a few days to some weeks at most, but a six-month excursion made your throat clench and your heart ache with saudade. You tried to keep a positive mindset, yet it was harder as each day had passed and Chuuya grew too tired from the days’ events to even call anymore. Messages on his side grew shorter and dull by the end of the third month, only sending a small good morning and good night text with the occasional ‘I love you’.

Instead of bringing it up or attempting to fix it, you felt a sense of hopelessness and withdrew from him as well, not wanting to burden him with your spamming messages or feelings that could hinder him while dealing with an important mission. You spent the next three months stewing in a depressive state, loneliness eating away at you as you went day to day going to your job and coming back to an empty apartment. You stopped going out with your friends, stopped bothering to take care of yourself– completely ruining your sleeping and eating schedule in the process– leaving you with dark bags under your eyes and slightly paler looking complexion. You had grown so comfortable in Chuuya’s love and had no idea how to handle the situation you were in, fearing of saying something that would upset him.

When Chuuya had come back, he hadn’t noticed the change in your behavior– too tired himself to see the toll his absence had taken on you. But to you, your straining relationship was apparent, and it only fueled your depression as Chuuya spent less time with you when he got back home than he used to when you were dating. He was either working on other missions given by Mori within the area or spent his free time sleeping. You barely felt as if you were married anymore, your relationship seeming more like roommates who rarely ever interacted every passing day.

Your deteriorating mental health was beginning to wear your mind and patience thin, leading to a series of outbursts and fights between the two of you. You’d snap at him with an antagonizing start, and he’d finish with a frustrating end, either leaving to cool off or going to sleep on the couch. You could tell it was getting to him because he confronted you one day after he had mentioned that Mori was thinking about sending him on another grueling months-long overseas mission in America and you gave him the cold shoulder, closing yourself off from him.

“What the hell has been your problem lately, huh? You’ve been acting shitty for the last few weeks and it’s really starting to get on my nerves,” He gripes, crossing his arms over his chest defensively as he leans against the kitchen counter.

“I don’t have a problem, you’re the one starting things,” You tiredly glare at the words in your novel, wanting to read and forget everything falling apart around you, but it’s hard when Chuuya persists.

Chuuya scoffs, “Bullshit, you have this nasty attitude and it's been bothering the hell out of me– so what the hell is your problem?” He repeats, his eyes burning holes into the side of your apathetic expression from across the room.

“Good thing you won’t have to deal with it for long, huh?” You respond flatly, avoiding his question once again. You and Chuuya have always had an issue with things like this due to him being blunt when he was upset about something while you tended to dance around it and drawl the problem on longer than it had to be than if you were to talk about your problems from the start.

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?” His jaw sets, teeth clenching behind his scowl, “You know it annoys the hell out of me when you say cryptic shit like that— answer my question.” Chuuya’s temper was something no one enjoyed testing and you once feared setting him off, but now you couldn’t find it in you to care whether he blew up on you or not.

“Shouldn’t you be getting ready for your next mission?” You’re metaphorically poking more than just a bear at this point; this is an entire fucking lion you’re sticking your hand into the mouth of– waiting for it to rip you apart.

Chuuya’s steps are heavy as he approaches you with a stern glare, “I’m not leaving until you tell me, I’m tired of these games, [name].”

His words make you snort bitterly as you mock, “Yeah, okay– like you’re not just Mori’s lapdog– at his every beck and call.” You know he’d leave the minute Mori sent a text or called asking where he was.

Chuuya’s face contorts in mild surprise and slight hurt at your words, not expecting you to stoop so low as to refer to him as a lapdog for Mori. “I really don’t know why the fuck you’re acting like this, but it’s seriously pissin’ me off. Can you just tell me what I supposedly did wrong to make you treat me like this? Because last time I checked, I didn’t fuckin’ do anything,” His statement was ironic in the sense that him not doing anything was the problem.

Your nostrils flare with a deep exhale in spiteful amusement, though nothing was amusing about it, because you knew you were going to regret everything you said after the fight was over.

“Of course, you didn’t,” There’s clear sarcasm in your tone, your hands now messing with the pages of your novel mindlessly.

“Why won’t you just talk to me!? I can’t read your mind– how can I fix a problem when you won’t tell me what I did wrong?” He starts to raise his voice in frustration. You can see his fists clenching from the corners of your eyes.

You only remove yourself further emotionally by shutting down completely. It was common for you to go completely non-verbal in any argument, the stress of the conflict physically affecting you in ways that kept you from speaking– like your throat tightening and tongue growing heavy in your mouth. This was another issue between you and Chuuya as he was the type to raise his voice whilst arguing to make himself and his feelings known, the complete opposite of yourself.

An inkling of doubt buries in your chest as you begin to think that maybe you’re not as compatible with Chuuya as you thought you were.

Chuuya notices your silence and he feels his impatience growing, his foot starting to tap against the floor with agitation as his hands fall to rest on his hips, “God dammit, [name], can you just tell me? I’m not in the mood to play detective and try to figure out why you’re playing your fucking games, I have shit to do.”

You find it in you to respond, though it’s weak and filled with animosity, “You always have shit to do.”

An exasperated sigh leaves Chuuya as he stands in front of you, “Is that what this is about? Because I have work? A job? Believe it or not, the mafia isn’t as lenient as to give me a day off, sweetheart,” He says sarcastically, throwing his hands up for emphasis. “Sorry that I have to serve an organization that will literally have my head if god forbid, I even thought about leaving!”

“You don’t even spend time with me anymore when you do have time off,” You rasp, your eyes set on the crumbling pages underneath your fingertips.

“I’m exhausted because I’m constantly working my ass off! Sorry that I can’t do fuck whatever and whenever like you can! Unlike you, I actually work for the things I want instead of sitting around and waiting for it to just fall into my lap!” Your brows furrow at his words, knowing it’s utter bullshit. But it still gets under your skin.

You could easily quit your job and live off of the makings of what Chuuya has— he’s even offered the idea before— but you wanted to keep a sense of independence and to continue to be productive instead of a burden that burns cash. Your conclusion is that it was to get back at your lapdog comment.

“And you know what? You have nothing to fuckin’ complain about because you get everything you want. Are you just bored? Is that why you’re starting shit? Or is it those friends of yours filling your head with bullshit?” He leans over to your eye level, his hands resting above his knees for support with a firm stare into the side of your face as you refuse to make eye contact with him.

You were over this. All of it. You were tired of the tension, the fighting, feeling the way you were.

Which led the next words to slip out from your mouth without a second thought, “I want a break.”

Chuuya’s scowl quickly shifted to a look of pure bewilderment, to immense hurt and slight panic, then to anger, “A break? You can’t just take a break whenever something doesn’t go your way, that’s not how this works.”

“I don’t care, I want a break,” It’s getting difficult to talk again as you feel your eyes begin to water.

“Look me in the eyes and tell me that,” He demands, almost hesitantly.

It takes minutes for you to finally look into his piercing gray eyes without crying and repeat your words, “I want a break.”

His body straightens and he brings a hand to rub at his eyes, his other hand on his hip. He seems disappointed and a whole lot of other emotions, but mostly frustrated at this whole ordeal. There’s a deafening silence before he drags his hand down his face and lets it fall to his side, “You want a break? Fine, I’ll tell Mori I’m going on the mission then and be gone by tomorrow morning— you’ll get your break.” He then storms off to finish getting ready for work, leaving you to sit alone on the couch, regretting everything that just happened.

And even when you still have the chance to stop him from walking out the door and just talk to him, you don’t. Instead, you stare down at the ring on your finger numbly, listening to his heavy footfalls as they move towards the front door and then the slamming that follows when he leaves.

You soon break down crying after, feeling as if you’ve lost everything. You know you could easily fix it with a simple text of wanting to talk things out, but the self-sabotaging nature in you refused to move a muscle. You cry for hours until your body grows exhausted, and you fall asleep on the couch in a tangled mess of some throw blankets and decorative pillows.

Hours later, Chuuya enters your shared apartment quietly, taking his hat off as he runs a hand through his hair. He’s tired just as much as you are with how things are going in your relationship, and he doesn’t know what to do. He’s lost and trying so desperately to figure out how to fix it, but he can’t when you won’t tell him what the problem is. He knows you struggle deep down with telling others about how you feel, and it makes him feel hopeless at times when you won’t even tell him how you feel.

His eyes trail over the living room before they fall on you and the blankets your body is buried under, your sleeping face peeking through. Chuuya takes light steps over to the couch before crouching in front of you and taking off one of his gloves, his hand slowly reaching out to move a few baby hairs away from your face. His eyes soften when he rubs away the tear stains on your cheeks with his thumb.

There’s a small ache in his chest from the events and words exchanged earlier, feeling a growing tightness in his throat. He didn’t mean it when he said those things and he knows you didn’t mean what you said. But that doesn’t mean they didn’t hurt any less.

He begins to feel guilt weighing on his consciousness. He replays all your expressions and words in his mind and starts to think about your reaction to the whole reason the fight started in the first place. It takes a few moments of him silently sitting next to the couch and caressing your face mindlessly until he finally realizes what’s been wrong the whole time.

When you wake up hours later, you’re no longer on the couch, but placed comfortably in your bed. You rub the crust from your eyes and feel a heavy weight in your chest like a bag of stones when the spot next to you is void of Chuuya. ‘He actually left,’ You thought, but you knew you had no one to blame but yourself— even if you had hoped that he would stay. Now fully awake, you slip out of bed sluggishly and shuffle out your bedroom.

A faint voice from the living room catches your attention and you notice that it’s the TV. There’s a small spark of hope that flickers in your stomach as you slowly creep into the living room. Relief settles in your heart to see the back of Chuuya’s head peeking from the couch. You make your way around the couch timidly until you’re in Chuuya’s sights. He stares tiredly at the TV before he sees you move into his view from the corner of his eye and looks over to you.

“I… thought you were going to go on the mission…” You whisper, anxiously twisting and fidgeting with the end of your oversized shirt that slightly hangs off your shoulders.

“I had Mori get someone else to do it,” Chuuya responds quietly, his eyes traveling your figure from top to bottom before propping an arm on the backrest of the couch as a silent invitation for you to sit next to him.

As soon as you sit next to him, his arm shifts until his callous hand rests on the nape of your neck, rubbing at your skin in a soothing manner. He pulls you into his side after a few moments and turns his face slightly to press a soft kiss against your hairline.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been around,” He starts off, sincere in each word as he continues, “Why didn’t you say anything?” It sounds almost rhetorical because you know he knows why on a surface level, but he doesn’t know why.

You’re silent for a bit before hesitantly answering, “I didn’t want to stress you out by making you feel like you had to constantly tend to me.”

“You’re my wife, not a burden. No matter how stressed out I am, I don’t want you to ever think that you can’t come to me with your feelings or just to bother me. I know I was gone for a long time, and I shouldn’t’ve become as distant as I had, but–” He sighs out in exasperation, “–Baby, you’ve gotta communicate with me. I don’t wanna fight like this and worry about our marriage. I want us to work out– I need us to work out because…” Chuuya trails off before moving his body to turn towards you and tilt your chin up with his other hand to look you in the eyes.

“I need you, [name]. You’re my person. Okay?”

Your chest throbs and aches at his words as his slate gray eyes flicker over your face and then meet your now watering eyes, “You’re my person too, Chuuya. I’m sorry…” You croak out through quivering lips and break down into tears, leaning forward to bury your face into his chest. “M’sorry– didn’t mean anything I said last night– won’t do it again,” You stumble over your words through muffled sobs.

Chuuya moves his hand from your chin to hold the back of your head, pressing you into his chest as he kisses the top of your head, “I know you didn’t, sweetheart. I didn’t mean what I said either. You know I love you, right?”

You nod, your small sobs and hiccups muted by his loose tank top as you hug your arms around his torso to pull him to you as close as possible, “I love you too…”

He pulls you back reluctantly from your embrace and cups your face in his hands, wiping away your tears with his thumbs, “I promise that I’ll make an effort to be a better husband, I don’t want you to feel like that ever again. I shouldn’t have neglected you like that and made you feel like you couldn’t talk to me. That’s the last thing that I want.”

“I’m gonna do better too, promise,” You sniffle, trying to hold back from anymore tears falling down your face, “Wanna be better for you.”

“I wanna be better for you too, doll,” He murmurs before his face grows closer to yours to place a soft, innocent kiss against your lips.

Your hands come to clasp over his own that cup your face and your eyes lull into his fond gaze, “I missed you,” You whisper with longing.

“I missed you too, baby. It killed me not being able to wake up next to you every morning n’see your pretty face,” He exhales gently, kissing you again.

Your heart stutters at his words and you reciprocate the kiss, refusing to pull away as quickly as before. When your lashes flutter open, you lean your face into his touch, “I need you, Chuuya,” And it’s clear to him that it wasn’t meant in just an innocent manner.

“Yeah? Missed me that much, sweet girl?” His nose nudges against yours affectionately before capturing your lips into a sensual kiss. Feeling his lips smother against yours and the ring on his finger to remind you of his undying love and devotion to you only encourages the simmering heat in your chest and lower stomach. And when he mumbles a muffled, “C’mere,” against your lips, you’re quick to climb into his lap and thread a hand into his ginger hair. He hums in amusement at your eagerness and moves his lips to trail pecks along your jaw and down your throat, “Always were so needy f’me and I fuckin’ love it– love everything about you, doll.” He groans under his breath, hands heavily groping at any part of your plush body to keep you against him.

“Only for you, it’s always been you,” You breathe out with a shaky exhale and Chuuya is unable to hide the small whimper that escapes the back of his throat.

“Fuck, it’s always been you too, doll. I love you so much it hurts,” He pulls you back down into a desperate and hungry open-mouthed kiss, his tongue seeking out until his muscle is entangling with yours.

Your face flushes with warmth as you mold your lips against his feverishly, head tilting to deepen the kiss until you’re both panting for air into each other’s mouths, “Please…” You plead, squirming in his lap.

“I know, babydoll, I feel it too,” Chuuya groans quietly, feeling your thinly clothed pussy skim over the bulge in his gym shorts. “Wanna take this slow though, need to feel all of you, okay?” His hands cup the bottom of your thighs as he moves off the couch to stand up, your lips not parting for even a second as he makes his way to your bedroom and over to the bed. When his shins bump against the bottom frame of the bed, he leans over to lay you down on the mattress gently, lips leaving yours to move back down the expanse of your neck. You shiver, fingers messily tangling into his locks of hair whilst your other hand finds its way in between your bodies to run your hand over his erection. “F-Fuck,” Chuuya breathes out against the skin of your throat, hips jerking forward into your touch. “God, it’s been so long, I almost came,” He admits with embarrassment before latching onto a small patch of your skin to suckle at, pressing kisses to the spot occasionally.

“Baby, please— wanna touch you so bad,” Was all you had to whine before he slips his baggy gym shorts off to reveal his stiff, throbbing cock. Your hand wraps around him, thumb pressing to his leaking slit to swipe at the precum dribbling out to spread it along his length with a few pumps of your hand. There’s a quiet “schlick” each time your wrist flicks to draw your hand back up to his angry mushroom tip before moving back down to the base of his shaft.

Chuuya is unashamed when he lets out airy moans against your neck that’s now littered with his love marks, “Shit, you’re s’fuckin’ good, baby— just like that.” His right hand finds its way under your large shirt to grab at your underwear and pull at it until it tears off you.

“Chuuya,” You whine in complaint, watching him toss the now torn fabric onto the floor, “I liked those.”

“S’okay, I’ll get you more, sweetheart, promise,” His teeth dig into his bottom lip as he slips his middle and ring finger through your folds to spread your glistening sex open. “Look at how fucking wet you are, you like jerkin’ me off that much, pretty girl?” He groans, eyes glued to your hole clenching around nothing.

You bury your face into the crook of his neck timidly as your hand pumping around his cock falters slightly from the way he talks, “C-Chuuya…”

Chuuya chuckles before softly moaning into the side of your head, face nuzzling affectionately into your hair, “C’mon, doll, don’t be shy, look at how your sweet little cunt takes my fingers.”

Flustered, you peek from his neck to watch his digits dip into your arousal, dragging them up to circle over your clit a few times and then slipping down to sink into your pulsing walls. Whilst his fingers weren’t considered long, they have you twitching from pleasure with how thick they are. “Feels good,” You slur out as your hand squeezes around the base of his cock.

“Yeah? You love it when I stretch this pussy out with my fat fingers, huh?” He sucks in a short breath as he tries not to come right then and there in your hand as he fingers his digits in and out of your squelching pussy. “My sweet girl likes having her hole stuffed by her husband, hm,” His fingers work faster in and out of your cunt as he angles his thumb to draw rough circles into your needy clit.

Your grip and stroking around his length only continues to falter as your thighs spasm softly, “M’gonna come— fuck— Chuu, noo, no, no…” You squirm, your other hand tugs his hair.

“What’s wrong, doll?” Chuuya’s fingers slow to a stop, causing you to whimper from the ebbing buildup of your orgasm. He’s the same as you when he feels your hand come to a stop around his shaft.

“Wanna come on your cock,” You mumble into him, “Want you to fill me up with your cum.”

Chuuya feels his heart thrum in his throat wildly as he hears you speak before making quick work of your shirt and his tank top until you're both as bare as you were when you were brought into the world. “Yeah? Need me to fill your cute pussy up until my cum is spilling outta ya?” He hovers over you between your spread thighs as he hooks your legs over his hips.

“Just wanna feel you close to me,” You admit with a sweet and quiet voice, your legs drawing him in until his throbbing cock is rubbing between your pussy lips with his tip nudging at your puffy clit.

His eyes widen barely before softening, his movements becoming less erratic and eager as he leans down to place a gentle kiss against your lips. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head, doll, m’gonna take care of ya like I always do.” He whispers, his right hand moving to guide the tip of his cock against the entrance of your core. Much like his fingers, his thick length bullies into your warm pussy slowly, stretching and splitting you open on his cock. “Fuuuuck, baby, you take me so well. Can’t get enough of seeing you stretch open on me.”

Your legs tighten around him as you feel his hips press against yours until his balls are flush with your ass, “You’re s’big— it hurts every time, but it hurts good,” A small whimper leaves you as your hands grip at the bedsheets.

When Chuuya pulls away, he watches his cock twitch from the loss of warmth your tight hole provided before seeing it stretch you back open to fill you. “God, I’ll never get over you,” He hisses through his teeth, pistoning his cock in and out of you at an agonizing pace, “Your pussy was made for me.”

Chuuya’s gaze isn’t on where your bodies connect for long before he’s back to hovering over you, pinning your hands above your head. They’re placed palm up on top of one another before being locked in place with his left hand interlocking your fingers. The action makes your heart tighten with affection as well as your fingers when you squeeze his hand. The subtle noise of metal clinking from your wedding bands only makes your heart swell with pure unadulterated love for him further. Your eyes start to water again from the overwhelming emotions and love you feel for him.

He squeezes your hand back in comfort, eyes studying your teary face, “You’re so fucking beautiful, you know that, doll?” He says out of nowhere, “M’so lucky to have you.”

You clench around him as you stare back through blurry eyes back into his focused ones, moaning from the way his tip kisses at your g-spot with each thrust. “Mm— Lucky to have you too— you’re so good to me, Chuu,” You mewl out, feeling your stomach twist and coil with intensity.

“Want you to come for me, please, baby— wanna make you come,” Chuuya’s words grow more pitchy and airier as he reaches his right hand down to rub at your throbbing clit with vigor.

“A-Ah, fuck—“ Your body arches, hips erratically bucking into his, “C-Coming..! Shit, s’too much.” You sob, tears slipping down your temples and into the mattress. Your cries are soon silenced by Chuuya’s lips swallowing your noises in a passionate, yet sloppy kiss. You muffle incoherently against his lips, but he knows it’s a repeated line of I love you’s as your nails dig into the back of his hand and you cream around his length.

As your walls spasm around his twitching cock, a guttural groan leaves his throat and he spills his hot, viscous cum deep into your starving pussy until it’s leaking out of your tight hole and down his balls. “Atta girl…” He murmurs through pants, kissing your sweaty forehead lovingly.

“I love you,” You repeat gently one last time as you both relish in the softness of your afterglow.

“I love you too,” Chuuya sighs with a ghost of a smile on his face as he admires you underneath him, hand coming down from your hands to wipe away your stray tears, “Promise me you won’t go anywhere, doll? Cause I’ve still got years of loving you left to go.”

#chuuya x reader #chuuya nakahara x reader #chuuya smut #chuuya nakahara smut #bsd x reader #bsd smut #devious dambi smuts

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thebibliosphere · 2 years

Text

"But you're so successful without it."

Content warning: This post contains mentions of suicidal ideation.

I got a message earlier tonight that I'm not going to post, but I did ask the person involved if I could talk about what we subsequently ended up talking about in DMs because I feel it's important.

Basically, it was along the lines of "My kid got diagnosed with ADHD and really wants to try meds. I know from reading your blog that correct treatment for ADHD can be really beneficial, but I just don't think she's severe enough to need them."

The message then went on to ask me, as someone who is unmedicated with ADHD, for some tricks and tips on how to be successful without medication because clearly, look how well I'm doing without them. I mean, look at my blog, look at my book(s)! Surely if I can do all that without ADHD meds, other people can too. Surely there's a trick. A skill. Something you can learn if you just try hard enough...

This is not the first time I have received a message like this. In fact, I probably get about 2-5 messages like this a week.

Usually from other people who also have ADHD/suspect ADHD but don't want medication because they don't think they need it/don't want to need it, and yet can't figure out why they're struggling so much, and ask me how do I do the thing(s) and cope so well and get so much done, etc., etc.

So I'm going to tell you what I told this person tonight in case it helps someone. Yes, I have ADHD. No, I am not medicated due to severe health complications, and yes, I get a lot done. From the outside, I am sure it looks incredibly productive and successful. But I'm going to let you in on what that success feels like.

It feels like dying.

It feels like my brain is on fire; every nerve in my body scraped raw; every part of me wired and exposed to the noise of the world. There is no quiet; there is no calm. And even when my brain does fall silent, it's another kind of death. The inside of my head is sludge, flowing uphill like treacle, weighing me down, pulling me under in the riptide of my inability to focus. I can see what needs to be done, I can see it so clearly, yet sometimes it's like I don't control my own body. Not enough dopamine. Not enough brain chemicals for the message I'm screaming in my head to make my limbs do the simplest of tasks. Like, feed myself. Take a shower. Answer that email. Text my friends back. Go to bed when I'm tired. Write a best-selling novel...

A novel that almost killed me and not because of my other ailments, but because of my unmedicated ADHD.

I didn't realize it at the time, but I was already operating at critical mass when I went into final rewrites/edits. Every coping mechanism I had fell apart. Like training wheels falling off a tricycle, leaving me to wobble unsteadily until the main wheels fell off, swiftly followed by the handlebars until all that was left was me peddling frantically trying to keep my balance and not getting anywhere. I didn't realize it then, but I was heading towards a complete mental collapse. And even when I dragged myself across the finish line with the above and beyond help provided by my friends and editors, I was so burned out I couldn't enjoy my success. Worse, my success made me suicidal.

It took me until very recently, almost two years later, to be able to read Phangs without feeling suicidal. My brain associated it with the trauma of experiencing complete ADHD burnout but having to complete a monumental task anyway.

I had to go into intensive therapy to recover. I am still in intensive therapy for it.

It took me even longer after that to be able to sit down and write without harming myself. I still struggle with it, and I tell you this in all honest sincerity in the hope it makes you realize what it costs me to be "successful" and unmedicated.

And this wasn't the first time I've had to deal with this, either.

I struggled all through high school, all through college, all through every career job I ever had, knowing there was something wrong, but not quite being able to put my finger on it because hey, I still got stuff done, so it couldn't be that bad, right? Surely everyone went through life feeling this way? Right?

...right?

It wasn't until I got my ADHD diagnosis as an adult that I realized what was happening. Why I struggled so much. Why life was so hard. In many ways, it was like the sun coming up. An internal dawning of realization and acceptance, but also rage.

So much rage.

Rage at how much I'd had to struggle because no one noticed because I was quiet and undisruptive. Rage at a system that forced me to learn in ways that were not intuitive to my brain. To always being told, "doesn't apply herself" while it felt like I was clawing my brain apart trying to do what people wanted from me. To a work-life balance, that rewards all the things that make ADHD actively worse. Rage. So much rage it hurts. And to top it all off, I can't be medicated for it. I finally know what's different, I finally know why my world feels raw and turned inside out, and I can't take any of the medications that might help me.

Do you know how angry I wake up every day that there is a possible solution just within my grasp, but my health conditions prevent me from trying them? Do you know how much it hurts? How much I grieve for the person I could be if I was able to have help beyond therapy and coaching? How much happier I could be...

Not productive. Not successful. Happy.

So ask yourself, what do you want more? A child who has to go through all of this and resents you for prolonging their suffering? Who winds up hating themselves by internalizing the false concept that if they just try hard enough, they can do whatever they set their mind to.

Or do you want to help them?

Or if this is you, why are you afraid to help yourself?

Please, don't use me as an example to harm yourself or others. Yes, I am successful without medication. But the toll is high. Too high.

Rid yourself of the idea that you need to suffer more to be allowed help. You don't. They don't. No one does.

#adhd #adult adhd #actually adhd #chronic health tag #suicide mention #suicidal ideation #long post #mental health #I am not for you to bludgeon other people with #kindly desist

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trans-axolotl · 1 year

Note

hi! What is peer respite?

hi anon! I love talking about peer respite :D

Peer respite is a community-based alternative to psych wards. They offer 24/7 short term crisis stabilization-usually for around a week to 2 weeks. Unlike psych wards, they are completely voluntary and all the staff are people with experience with mental health/extreme states/being in the mental health system. Staff are extensively trained in peer support and mental health first aid, and oftentimes staff members will have other degrees in mental health or healthcare related fields. Usually, peer respite is in a house and it is a homelike environment where you can leave at any time, can have visitors, can have your phone, and can bring comfort items and preferred activities. At peer respites, there are no restraints used, no strip searches, and no solitary confinement.

Each peer respite is a little different, but I can tell you about one that my friend works at who is a social worker with lived experience of psychosis! When people decide to come to the peer respite, they usually make a plan for how they want their stay there to look like. Peer support workers will lead optional life skills/coping skills groups throughout the week, as well as other group activities for anyone who wants to participate. There is self-advocacy education, crisis planning options, and art wellness activities. Everyone is assigned a personal support worker who they can go to any time they need a check in or one-on-one support. Staff and guests work together to cook meals, and the entire stay is free of cost.

Since peer respite is an alternative to the psychiatric systems, most peer respites do not provide traditional therapy or psychiatric medications. Most peer respites will work with you to set up outpatient therapy services if you're interested, and I know a lot of people who continue to see the outpatient providers that they already have throughout their stay at peer respite.

A lot of people who go to peer respite have really positive experiences, and there's been several studies done looking at the outcome of crisis stays at peer respite. A lot of people speak positively about the homelike environment, being able to get emotional and crisis support without the fear of institutionalization, and being able to have autonomy about what your days look like, what choices you make, and what healing looks like to you. Some people stay at peer respite and are still able to go to school or work for the week while knowing that they have a safer environment to go back to.

Peer respite is not a perfect solution for everyone's experience of crisis. If you need a longer term stay, are looking for immediate clinical therapy, are someone who is searching for immediate medication support, or who needs immediate physical medical care--peer respite might not be able to meet your needs. Each peer respite house is going to be different, have different staff and visitors, and different policies, and some people might just not feel comfortable in a particular peer respite house. It's shitty and I hope this changes, but some peer respite houses are inaccessible, will have policies around drug use that might prevent people from staying, or have policies that prevent people who are homeless from staying. So, peer respite definitely isn't a perfect solution or something that can meet everyone's crisis needs, but is a really cool option that I hope continues to become available in more states.

Here's a directory with links to peer respites in the US, and here's research done about peer respite!

#peer respite #antipsych #asks #mad pride #mad liberation #disability justice #alternatives to psych wards

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baby-yongbok · 7 months

Text

Grief

Felix × Fem!Reader

Genre: Angst, kinda heavy, I'll say that it's heavy to be safe.

Word Count: 1,233

Summary: You had to find a way to numb the pain after losing your best friend, but hurting your boyfriend wasn't part of the plan.

Warnings: Mentions of drinking, Heavy Themes of Grief, Themes of toxic Coping skills, Yelling, Cursing.

A/N: it's grieving season for me so here's an attempt to let my feeling out ✨️enjoy✨️ this doesn't seem dark to me but I don't think like everyone else, please pay attention to the tags. + I'm uploading from my phone, so I'm sorry if anything looks stupid 🙃

✨️Masterlist✨️

The doorknob twisted and turned vigorously as you fought with your keys. Your senses were off, but who's wouldn't be after taking as many shots as you have tonight.

Finally, you manage to find the right key and you're hoisted inside by your own body weight. You giggle at yourself as you stumble into the dark living room. The sound of your thick converse against the hardwood echoing off the walls. You shut the door a lot harder than you meant to, earning another giggle to fall from your lips.

"Are you going to keep doing this?" You jump at the sound of your boyfriend's smooth voice. Looking around with your blurry vision until your eyes landed on Felix sitting in the arm chair across from you. His voice is relatively calm, angry but calm.

"What?" You asked, plopping down on the couch and slipping your sneakers off. Before he can answer you're pulling yourself back up and stumbling your way over to the kitchen.

"You know what, going out and getting drunk. Drowning out your consciousness every night." Felix follows you, his hands stuffed in his pockets as he watches you closely. His eyes look sad but you're too inebriated to comment.

"It's fine. It's fun." You slur slightly as you try your best to extend yourself, standing on your toes to reach the top shelf of the cabinet. Felix watches you as you try to reach a bottle of red wine, a very expensive bottle that you both agreed to save for special occasions. Felix runs his hands over his face before he walks over to you. You smile at him thinking that he's going to help you. He leans forward, aggressively reaching up and slamming the cabinet shut, sobering you up a bit.

"What the fuck, Felix." You jump at the sound and push his shoulder. He glares down at you.

"I need you to stop this. This isn't the right way to deal with grief, me and the guys are here for you. We can find a good therapist, there are resources out there."

"Therapy doesn't fucking bring her back." You yell, eyes wide with anger. You've been working hard to get the feelings to go away. You've been going out nearly every night, drinking and trying to live your best life even though your partner in crime since Pre-school is gone. Felix nods, taking a deep breath to level his emotions.

"I understand that but this isn't healthy and -" A loud scoff leaves your lips, you shake your head as your anger rises.

"I don't need a fucking lecture. You have no idea what it's like to lose your best friend." Those were the words that made Felix snap, his vision went dark. Everything that he had been holding back for weeks poured out in an instant.

"The hell I do, I've been watching you, my best friend, practically kill herself with alcohol for an entire month. I can't do this shit anymore, Y/n. I'm trying, I'm trying so hard to be there for you but you just aren't there anymore. You're not even willing to look in the damn mirror and see that you're falling apart. Do you think she'd be proud of this shit?"

Felix's deep voice bounced off of the walls and echoed through your head. He's never yelled at you before, this is the first time that he's used the deep tone of his voice towards you in an act of anger. Such an intense one at that. You stand there wide eyed and teary as Felix runs his hands through his hair, pacing a bit as more anger creeps up his throat. His loud deep voice ringing through your ears again.

"Nothing that I do seems to fucking matter, I've called therapists, I've tried to get you to go. I tried at home management. I tried giving you your space. Chan tells me not to hover, Hyunjin tells me to be open minded, Changbin tells me to guide you in the right direction but all that you want is the fucking alcohol. I've stayed up night after night worrying about you. I've cried during practices, I've cried on the phone with my sister, I've cried so fucking much because I'm losing you. You're standing right in front of me but I don't know who you are."

"Felix - " You take a step towards him, reaching for him but he takes a step back, shaking his head and cutting you off.

"No I can't, I don't want to hear it. I know that you're hurting, I understand that but I can't ignore my own pain anymore." Felix leans against the counter, hands in his hair as he slides down onto the floor.

"I quit, Y/n. I can't take it, I can't watch you kill yourself." His voice is softer now. He's sitting on the cool kitchen tile, knees to his heaving chest.

Tears fall from your eyes as you watch him. The weight of the moment is crashing down on you and you can't help but to crash with it. You can feel it all creeping up on you, the pain that you fought so violently to avoid is doubled. You were so focused on the person that you'd lost that you ended up pushing away the person that you still have. Dealing with grief is hard, it's earth shattering and painful but adding to the pain doesn't help. All of the drinks that you've had up until this point aren't worth the sight in front of you. It isn't worth hearing your boyfriend scream at the top of his lungs. It isn't worth seeing your boyfriend break right in front of you.

You double over, sobbing into your hands as you take it all in. You stop fighting the pain, falling to your knees. Mumbled apologies fall from your mouth as you try your best to explain but none of it makes sense. You want to give him an explanation, you want to be vulnerable for the first time in the last month since you lost your best friend. You want to hug her, Felix, yourself.

Felix would usually comfort you, but not tonight. Tonight he's decided to save himself. Tears decorate his freckled cheeks as he pulls himself from the floor, he looks over at you for a second too long muttering a small 'I'm sorry' before reluctantly leaving the kitchen and slowly climbing the stairs. You listen as he shuts one of the upstairs doors and the tears fall faster, sobbing harder into your hands.

Is it too late? Did you drive him away? You can't lose him too, you can't take that. You hug yourself tight, trying your best to feel some type of warmth, some type of comfort but it isn't enough. Your breath catches in your throat as everything plays over in your head. You feel heavy with pressure, you're a balloon that's slipped from a child's hands into the sky. You can feel yourself drifting away until you hit the atmosphere and suddenly, you pop.

Screams fill the quiet space around you. Your throat burns as you let it all out, every word you didn't get to say to your best friend, every tear that you refused to cry, all of it comes tumbling out in a raw display of pain. Grief in its purest form.

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copperbadge · 6 months

Text

lightwit

I love your mindfulness posts. I personally hate the concept of mindfulness with a passion because to me that's just normal being human and using your effing brain properly, but as an educator I have had to accept the fact that manymany people do not in fact have much self awareness and actually do benefit from this mumbojumbo. So, I am so glad I am not the only one struggling out here. 😜

I hope it's okay if I pop this into its own post because it actually gets at something I'm contending with. So, in order to get my research lined up and my thoughts in a row for therapy I turned all this research into a powerpoint called "Doing A Stupid Powerpoint For My Stupid Mental Health". And one of the slides in it is titled "Mindfulness: Petition To Rename It".

Mindfulness, as a term, is uselessly broad; it's such a bad way to identify a category of treatment/behavior that there appears to be an entire subgenre of scientific papers that work to create a framework of what Mindfulness actually is -- I read at least three papers, all published in the last ten years, that are like "What is Mindfulness in a useful sense?" and all of them had different answers. And because Mindfulness is now a buzzword, if you're researching it then you're likely to run into everything from scholarly articles to pop journalism to clickbait, to both harmless and genuinely dangerous peddlers of quack science. And sometimes the quack scientists are also publishing scholarly articles where they've just been p-hacking.

So I'm inclined to agree that mindfulness is mostly nonsense, but that's a problem with the term, not what falls underneath it. There are therapeutic modes that call themselves mindfulness that actually are rooted in real science. I think these should probably have a new name, like Therapeutic Awareness or something, but it'd just get co-opted back into the woo, I have a feeling.

So there's a lot of nonsense, but the goal of being present in the moment and self-aware isn't an idle one; there's an increasing body of knowledge suggesting that it's a foundational skill for emotional regulation and healthy coping. The scholarship goes way beyond "mindfulness arises from Buddhist practice" which if I have to read one more time I'm gonna throw stuff. Clinical testing is looking at things like physiological responses to mindfulness behaviors that have nothing to do with what's going on in your conscious mind. There's some woo surrounding "Coherent Breathing" and I don't trust the foremost proponent of it as far as I can throw him, but he didn't invent it, and testing shows that people trained in and practicing Coherent Breathing have better focus and can, to an extent, lower the level of stress hormone in their body. "Positive affect" (happy emotions) didn't rise, but "Negative affect" (sadness, anger, stress etc) was lowered.

A lot of what's being studied on a clinical level involves us as humans somehow activating shit in our nervous system that we have no conscious control over, the same way we develop muscle memory by doing a task repeatedly. That has measurable value for the issues I'm trying to solve, but it's not universally applicable, which is another reason so much of mindfulness comes across as junk science, because it tries to tell us that it's a cure-all when it isn't.

But there's reason to believe that if you can reroute your nervous system when you're starting to become upset, you can short-circuit maladaptive reactions and prevent it from causing a spiral or an over-reaction or similar, and some practices called mindfulness can train for that. And that's my goal, so I'm willing to rummage in the garbage for the gold.

#lightwit #sam has adhd #not yet fired from therapy

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amica-aenigmata-naboo · 3 months

Text

Shrink

Astarion x Y/N - Drabble - 800 WC

Masterlist

Warnings: I AM NOT A THERAPIST TAKE EVERYTHING I HAVE TO SAY WITH A GRAIN OF FUCKING SALT, therapy, trauma, analysis, isekai, flufffffffffffffffff

------------------------------

“What did you say your job was?” Astarion asked as he looked at you from across the tent.

“I’m a therapist… or I was at least.” you smiled at him and shrugged.

“And what exactly do you do?” he asked, looking up from his book.

“I listen to people tell me about their lives and help them navigate their feelings and/or trauma, learn coping skills… all sorts of stuff.” you said as you played with sparks between your fingers, entertaining yourself.

“So you listen to people whinge?” he said, raising an eyebrow at you, an unimpressed look on his face.

“Not exactly. People certainly did complain to me about stuff, but the point of therapy is to heal.” you said, smiling softly at him.

“And you think people can do all that through talking?” he asked.

“Absolutely. Talking is how you get everything out. Action comes second.” you nodded at him.

“So what can you tell me about me, mighty therapist?” you could see the mischievous glint in his eye but you also saw a genuine, almost nervous look.

“You really want me to “shrink” you?” you asked him, letting the sparks dissipate from your hands, scooching closer to him.

He nodded at you with a small smirk.

“Alright… well… you are a deeply mistrusting person, you see everyone around you as a threat, and I think deep down you are scared and in pain and just want to be loved and cherished and protected. I won’t try to completely define you or your experiences because I have only scratched the surface of 200 years of your life… but I look forward to being with you and helping you when you want me to.” you struggled to get your answer out, not wanting to overwhelm him or get too deep without properly analyzing him.

Astarion hummed at you, leaning in to kiss you. You kissed him back before leaning back, eyes wide. You looked at him with a bit of confusion, most people not exactly loving when they are mentally looked over at a moment's notice. You searched his eyes for any sign of discomfort, yet found none.

“I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to offend in any way…” you said, quickly trying to cover yourself and your words.

“Darling, if I didn’t want to hear it, I wouldn’t have asked.” he smiled at you, gently caressing your cheek.

You nodded, kissing his palm. “So… what do people usually tell you during therapy?” he asked, pulling you into him so you laid together. He played with your hair as you played with your sparks again.

“Whatever they want, it is a judgment free zone.” you shrugged.

“Everyone must be in therapy,” Astarion said “it sounds like something everyone could use.”

You laughed rather loudly, Astarion looked down at you with confusion. “Sorry love… it’s just… not everyone believes therapy to be helpful. And for them it may not be, but a lot of people just don’t give it a chance.” you tried to explain.

Astarion let out a hum, “Did you like your job?”

You smiled “It was rewarding, but also had its not so great moments… like every job I suppose.”

“Did you work hard to become a therapist?” he asked, trying to gauge the schooling you received to do such a fascinating job.

“I went to university for eight years getting multiple different degrees and licenses so yeah… I worked pretty hard.” you chuckled, remembering all the blood, sweat, and tears that went into your life's work.

Astarion stole a spark from your hand, making it dance between his fingers before it fizzled out. “Do you miss it?” he whispered.

“I have a new job now.” you said quickly.

“What's that?” Astarion asked as he continued to steal your sparks.

“Adventure! Slay enemies, eat cake, love, lust, cry, celebrate…. All of it. And best of all, I get to be with you while I do it. I wouldn’t trade it for the world.” you said as you leaned up and kissed him, wiping out any and all negativity in Astarion.

He kissed you back, “Well… Let’s hope you have time for your favorite patient from time to time.” he smiled, leaning his forehead against yours.

You smiled, “For you? Hmmmmm, it’ll cost you…”

“Oh? Cost what?” He kissed your cheeks.

“A kiss.” you blushed.

“Just the one? Darling, don’t cheapen yourself.” he smirked before kissing you deeply, you were sure there were sparks circling your head because you felt dizzy when he pulled away.

You pulled him back to your lips by his collar, “As many kisses as I want?” you questioned before kissing him softly.

“That’s a bit more economically sound, in my humble opinion.” he smiled before kissing you and pulling you on top of him.

----------------------------

Naboo's Note:

This is such a dumpster fire of a fic. I work in mental health and idk this just came to me but I kinda fucking hate it so who knows how long this will be up. AGAIN - I am not a therapist or counselor so if my analysis of Astarion isn't to your liking please remember this came straight out of my sleep deprived dome at 3 AM after working a double. A little grace if you please. Thank you all for the likes, comments, reblogs, and requests. TTYLXOXO!!!!!!!

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writingoneout · 11 months

Text

Untilted Katamari Reflections

Preamble:

Content considerations for the following include:

Parental abuse

Bigotry

Worldly anxiety

You're welcome back another day if that's too much right now.

It’s fall of 2015.

You and your virgin college friends drink shitty cocktails called the “Slutty Will Rodgers.” They’re just Pepsi rawdogged with indeterminate amounts of grenadine and Captain Morgan. When you bought the mixers a Wal-Mart stocker yodeled “OOOOoOoooOH, maKIN sOMe DRINKS?!?!” and you knew it was time to leave.

We Love Katamari is on the Telly. It’s a sweet, trippy game you first bought to cope with high school. On Dark Fridays at 1am, when your inbox was barren and your balls were full, you’d drive to the empty gym downtown and sprint six miles. Then you’d come home and replay the firefly level until you fell asleep with your pug.

Your college friends are bad at the game, so they pass the controller. You’re playing the underwater stage. A spaceman falls in the pond of people gunk and stacked crabs. It’s going really well if you’re honest. You point to the screen and say “this’ll be Florida if Trump wins.” See Fig. 1.

Figure 1: Rick Desantis has big plans for Disney.

Your friends don’t reply because they soon won’t be virgins and their tongues battle each other’s. It’s a different game they play, one with fuzzier rules, but greater industry respect. You wish the campus gym was open 24/7.

. . .

Your skills as the prince are not inherent. You first meet him in 2005, when your dyspraxic hands can barely tie a shoe. Your parents catch you lose shit for the Toonami review of Me and My Katamari. They buy it for Christmas, hoping to steady your nerves while your father’s in therapy.

Dr. Flam is a Neo-Freudian hitched to your mom’s guy, Dr. Flim. She’s deep in your dad’s dream journal and makes him watch movies like Cool Hand Luke to really reign in his ego. He gets the DVDs from the Netflix site, then through the mail. As a family you watch your dad’s therapy films and reruns of Inyuasha.

In the waiting room you barely navigate the sticky ball through Namco Bandai’s Satoshi Kon parade. See Fig. 2. You’ve only seen adults express anger verbally, so when you mess up you grunt a lot and let out those Leopold Butters Stotch swears like “crap,” “shoot,” and “gosh darn.” You’re not particularly self-aware, so you probably just say “god fucking damn it” a few times and don’t remember. Years later you realize there was probably a secretary behind the glass watching you do all this.

Figure 2: Bwahbwahwabhbawahbwaaaaah.

Sometimes there’s a girl in the room with you, just around your age. She’s stuck while Dr. Flim teaches her mom about what dream snakes mean for her fear of male puberty. That's what he did for your mom, anyway.

You think the waiting-room stranger is cute, but you won’t admit you like girls yet, especially not to yourself. To cope with the cognitive dissonance, you do your weird shit louder while refusing to make eye contact with her. If you get real stressed you crank up the main menu track and yell “ahhhhh that’s so relaxing” while the “nah nah nah nahs” play through your headphones.

At one point the girl stands against a wall and stares at you with her arms crossed. You bet she thinks you’re cool, but she’s probably just annoyed and hopes you’ll notice, or maybe just ask if she’s OK. It’s probably good you don’t talk with her. You might ask something stupid, like if she's seen the roach corpse in the stairwell. It’s been there for a year straight, isn’t that crazy?

For better and worse, you power through your little game alone. Every time you lose the King of All Cosmos beats, shoots, and belittles you. See Fig. 3. It reminds you of when your own dad shattered your Harry Potter wand over the kitchen counter because you dropped a mini pizza.

Figure 3: The King of All Cosmos offers little constructive advice, all things considered.

You fail quite frequently. Eventually you drop the game because it’s getting stressful and you have the power to relieve yourself of the situation—not the Freudian lobby, just your fake dad.

II.

It’s 2012. PlayStation Network uploads The Prince’s primeval outing: Katamari Damacy. Within, Padre Cosmotic flaps his gums over too much hooch then slams his dump truck ass through the better part of our solar system. He dislodges every recognized constellation and even the moon itself.

Cosmos sends Prince to Earth—the last brick left in the shitstorm—to make slop of our planet and bodies. With the slop space itself will be made anew. The Good Son does as he's told, and every living entity experiences euphoric ego death within the bulbous heaven of the Katamari.

As a Real Gamer Teen you lose a lot less in this one. You really go in and fix Fake Dad’s mistakes, no problem at all. This is why a year ago you hailed “gaming journalism” as your calling. You write clean and play tight; should keep the lights on. It’s the most concrete idea you’ve had since 7th grade when you outlined a YA novel called Tooth Pocket. Even you didn’t think Scholastic would buy that one, though. It was just too hot for the book fair.

One day you’re cranking through FFVI and your real dad swings by, mad you're young. He grills your ass and says “I bet you can’t even tell me the biggest thing happening right now.” It’s some real “What’s a gallon of milk cost?” shit, he could mean anything.

Surprisingly, you can’t think of a good answer. You and your friends are actually pretty informed because John Stewart is still at the desk and y’all chime in every day. See Fig. 4. You also spend hours each week tearing through MSN slideshows in your Graphic Design class because the Photoshop takes five minutes. You’ve seen a staggering amount of the Syrian civil war.

Figure 4: Sometimes in Snapchat you draw glasses on your cat to make him look like Mitch McConnel. You wouldn't do that without this guy.

Still, you’re a little stumped. It’s the middle of a phenomenon native to moralist presidencies known as "a slow news week.” You actually ran out of war shit the other day and clicked through some slides about Pakistani wrestlers. The seniors who offered you Jack Daniels in the Whataburger lot saw it and laughed. They thought you were peeping dong in class. You really weren’t, but they didn’t believe you. They graduate certain you were bricked up in the Dell Lab over big guys in spandex.

“I don’t know,” you tell your dad.

He throws his hands behind his head, hard, like an orangutan chucking logs at a poacher.

“It’s the fucking carbon tax,” he yells. This comes as a surprise, you think, because that shit is last month’s news. It really didn’t go anywhere.

“Do you not pay attention because you don’t give a shit, or are you just a nihilist and think you can’t do anything?” You can tell in his eyes he thinks there’s a real answer. “Seriously, which is it?

You don’t remember what you said. You probably just stammered until he walked off.

A month later he picks you up from marching band. Your phone is dead, so he had to wait twenty minutes longer than anticipated while you found his car. He punches the rearview mirror until the windshield cracks then screams of how your birth kept him from New England.

III.

It’s 2016. A rockin’ MILF in the Psych department gets you really into Hamilton. See Fig. 5. Every day you wake up on the grind and blast “You Aaron Burr, sir?” through your shitty 7-11 cans. While cramming foreign language Quizlets and McGraw Hill Online you do this thing called “Hafilton.” It’s where rock up to “Nonstop” and quit listening just before Hamilton decides what he will stop is being a good husband.

Figure 5: Like Kojima, you know "MILF" is a mindset, not a factual inquiry.

It’s 2018. Your grades are notably better and you’ve snuck into the honors program. Like Hamilton himself, you really flourished at 19 and thought about running for office. You immediately abandoned this idea after remembering your allergy to recordings of your image or voice.

You cohabit with the Psych MILF, and she offers some advice: she’s really had her boots on the ground with this whole “clinical psych thing” and honestly, respectfully, she loves you, but dear God it might not be your scene. It’s taken a real toll on her and the friends, and she can’t imagine you going through that shit.

At 1am in your living room you boot up DOOM (2016) and listen through some Hamilton. Angelica is thirsty on main when you remember that you, yourself, could be a lawyer. You don’t have to run for Congress to fight the establishment. There’s just the common law, and it’s right there. You can just get your grubby little hands in that shit and work your magic.

. . .

It’s the last semester of undergrad. Your Western Thought professor says Hamilton wasn’t really a huge deal and really James Madison shat out the big parts of our faction-proof empire. Yes, there was, in fact, a civil war, but the caplock rifle worked it out. After the Federalist papers he has you read the Bill of Rights but no Supreme Court cases. There’s a lot of talk on negative liberties.

Just before finals, the learned doctor says your generation only has two things to worry about: the climate and the poverty. Yeah they’re big, he says, but they’re just two things. You’re crafty kids, smart as the framers, even.

. . .

The state decides law school is your jam and lets you come inside.

There’s the negative liberties but you actually read Supreme Court opinions when the big boys aren’t shaking fists for Valley Forge. They have you listen to Hamilton for context. You feel dirty. An LRW professor puts on the “I’m Just a Bill” video and your sectionmate with Ivy degrees gets really, really mad.

. . .

The Federalist Society has a comfy presence at your law school. Along with Big Oil they sling out free pizza to every Little Scalia with a rumbly tum tum.

On your way to class you hear what the pizza boys feel. They hate Europeans, those social democrats with the rotten armories and clumpy cash. The Euros, they think, give too much wiggle room for the mentally ill, and by that they mean they mean gay people and probably just women overall.

There are more than two things to fix, you think.

. . .

The pandemic hits. You and some pals start a Google Doc to stay afloat. It barely works. In the Zoom review for the property final your professor catches multiple people crying. "You don't have to be here," he tells them, “there are other jobs.”

. . .

A year passes. You’re in a niche public interest class you do all right with. The professor looks you and thirty-five others dead in the eye and says how sorry he is that law school is traumatic. You shed a single tear in your little window. You're pretty in the shit and haven’t worn pants to class in months.

Then public interest prof takes a big, big drag from his long, fat spliff. He spins his desk chair and baseball cap at the same time, never letting go of the joint.

“Hey,” he says. “It’s not your fault, really, but the world is fucked. It’s time to fix what your parents did.”

The next week he gives a practice exam where the best solution is to sell an old lady’s house to Nestlé.

IV.

It’s 2022. After throwing your whole gooch at it, you fail the bar exam.

You fall back hard into exercise. When you’re not slamming Barbri you’re at the gym binging curls and cranking the Chainsaw Man soundtrack. One night on the way to squats you finally hear “Black Parade.” Just like you, Mr. Gerry Wayland is stuck between global disrepair and the desire to write Funny Little Books.

You just started an FLB yourself, actually. It’s spin on a Story Break episode you love. In your version there’s a fucked up civil war horse that moves like a spider and is covered in bugs. Rich people kill the planet then the horse gets lost in space. It’s compelling, you promise. There’s body horror and pirates dressed like Gorton’s Fisherman. See Fig. 6 It’s about the horrors of the contemporary world state. It’ll be fun.

Figure 6: An untapped horror icon. Imagine blood contrasting that yellow.

Big problem, though: you remember rich people love hiking. There’s no grass on Mars, not that good shit anyway. Would they really fuck all of it?

You edit. In the last few years, the real breathless ones, the oligarchs cash their tab. A cartel, they think, could really muscle those stragglers, the tragically common. There’s one city left with both breathable air and refugees. They level it. The few survivors are spread amongst the stars, so their loves and languages may die.

. . .

It’s the middle of Bar Prep Round 2. You and the patient MILF see Hadestown in the Big City.

There’s a juke joint on stage flanked by devil trombones. A sad little guy slinks in from the janitor’s closet. His name is Orpheus and, just like you, he’s a sad, short writer who likes a lady so much it comes out weird. He has a vision, he says, for a little ditty. It’s compelling, he promises, and shit’s gonna change. His love is functional and realized, worth the investment of a hardened woman displaced by capital’s torture. She believes him.

You cry because you know where this goes.

It’s just a single tear.

Don’t worry.

Nobody sees.

. . .

There’s this game you like, by some corporate anarchists who hate themselves. They’re Scandinavian, from the spot in Tallin where you stopped for a cruise. Every gift shop there had swastikas and gas masks leftover from the bloody years.

In the game is a liberal yacht MILF. She thinks you’re stupid but someone’s helping with your gun, so you’ve got that on her. And yet, she pins you, re your whole writing thing. See Fig. 7.

Figure 7: She sucked, but it still hurt when she left.

Your favorite Supreme Court podcast says the ocean’s last hope is other countries. But those countries’ people cry to the Disco game, and their ministers also bought The End of History. You meet them on the subreddit. You're all geeked out, waiting for the tide.

. . .

It’s the era of desert cradles. God thinks you’re disgusting, so he sends his better kids with a memo: the flood was too much work on his end, it’s time for something different.

“Just keep walking,” he says.

Your skin bares his figure. So do the corpses. You little birds among billions, gassed out and screaming, move to clean.

It’s 2023.

We Love Katamari is up on the PlayStation store. You sit with the cats and mow down some crabs. You don’t need it so much these days, but it’s nice.

There’s a Bar card in your wallet, just below your gym tag. There are two interviews in your Google Calendar. Good stuff might happen, hopefully soon. You crawl into bed and wrap an arm around your wife’s rib cage.

Everything matters and nothing is safe.

You are loved enough to sleep.

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