just like the old days ..
That feeling of being truely ALONE even when you are surrounded by people is some scary shit!
Chronic pain problems •
Chronic pain problems •
hey, life is getting a bit hard for me nowadays. where do i even start? i’ll just put some bullet points when they come to mind.
some things to remind myself
*my parents dont support me in my passion for art
*my parents dont let me grow
*my family dont support me in my mental health
*my family forces me in situations im not comfortable with
*my family treats me like some circus clown
*my family dont accept neurodivergence
*my family wont admit they are abusive
*my family and the community dont see me as a person because i have mental illness/disorders
*undiagnosed mental illnesses/disorders (mostly because it’s too “embarrassing” for them)
*my mom values how people think of her rather than her family’s mental health
*she really thinks staying is good for the kids
*self harm thoughts/ideation
*violent intrusive thoughts
*mental health stigma
*considering running away
*lacking social skills
*fuckin having a mental breakdown every time theres a minor inconvenience
*^the same applies to other family members
*therapy is like finding a unicorn
*i dont know any of the basic shit: cooking, how to travel, filing important papers
people just dont care
im running out of reasons
Just because you feel a certain way doesn’t mean you have to act on that feeling or necessarily enjoy that feeling.
He stood among the wreckage, sullied, tattered white cloak hanging off him. Around him, the dessert sand swirled, stirring up the masses of sand and swirling the smoky wreckage.
That’s all it was now. Wreckage.
Their orders were to destroy absolutely everything. They’d received word of insurgents in this neighborhood, and the order to attack at night, and to leave nothing standing.
He was the Flame Alchemist- the go-to bulldozer, the hammer they needed when they wanted to absolutely shatter everything. Flames had a tendency to do that, really- to destroy everything.
He strode through the ashes and cinder, eyes looking half-dead upon the wreckage. No survivors. That’d been his order.
Looking at the demolished dwellings- only charred beams and bits of curtains and cloth remaining- he was sure he’d done it. The smell of burnt flesh was evidence enough.
He was tired. So, so tired. He could feel the sand in his mouth, in his hair- gritty, tasting like dirt. That was more than these people felt- these people didn’t feel anything anymore.
He heard something scuffle and stopped, gloved hand immediately rising, ready to snap. Had something actually survived his flames?
More shifting in the wreckage- his heart started to beat faster. The military side of him screamed at him to snap now, finish the job, and carry out orders. The human side of him wanted to see if the survivor was an insurgent before deciding their fate.
A whimper- more scuffling…
“Mommy?” the hoarse voice sounded barely above a whisper.
But that single word took away any breath that’d been remaining in Mustang’s lungs.
He watched as the horribly burned child clawed it’s way from the wreckage- a good part of his face and lower body burnt black, hair still smoking…
Another whimper, as little hands dug through the soot and ashes.
“Mommy? Mommy, where are you!?”
He’d already seen the charred corpse laying in the other room, and something within him broke as his heart sank…
He stepped forward wordlessly.
The child froze, seeing him, before they were screaming hysterically. The shattered pieces of his heart, broken glass as they were, were grinded into dust at the noise.
“Mommy! Mommy!” he was walking closer to the child now, as they tried to crawl away from him.
“Soldiers are coming Mommy! Mommy, they’re going to kill me!”
He bent down and picked the child up. The child- a boy, he thought, judging by the voice, froze in his hold, before struggling, kicking, for one moment, two…
He ignored the squirming, however, and after a few moments, the child succumbed to exhaustion and pain and went limp, becoming dead weight in his arms.
It was for the best, really- this was the child of insurgents, terrified of soldiers- of him, really. And it made it so no one was awake to notice his shaking shoulders, or the wetness on his cheeks.
He brought the kid back to camp, gave him to the medics, and went to his tent without a word.
He memorized every crease and stitch on the drab military green tarp of his tent and laid there for hours, thinking of nothing. His mind was dull static.
Hughes came to try to talk to him, tried to force him to eat- he said nothing, ignored the food, and wondered about the boy in the medic’s tent.
It was two days later when Hughes finally managed to coax him out of his tent with the promise of a beer.
He stepped outside onto the scorched earth, feeling the hot dessert wind kiss him as the sand swirled around his boots.
He looked up, only to see a small form covered in a sheet being carried from the Medic’s tent. He lost the ability to breathe.
Hughes stopped talking, frowning, before he recoiled, seeing what he saw- he’d seen him come into camp with the boy a few days ago.
Somehow, Roy ended up on his knees, vomiting. Hughes laid a hand on his shoulder, concerned, and said something that faded into the background.
As he finished retching, he looked up, only to get a glimpse of the body of the child beneath the sheet- and of a lock of charred, blond hair.
He gasped as though breaking the surface of water, surging forward to a sitting position- the bed sheets pooled at his waist, he was drenched in a cold sweat, and he paused, feeling heat and nausea overwhelm him for a moment.
He’d felt this before. This was a familiar hell.
He closed his eyes, breathing deeply as he struggled to control himself. It took him three minutes to get himself to a reasonable state, and even then, panic still infringed on the corners of his mind. Still, it was manageable- he’s only succumb to irrational fear if he let it overwhelm him. He could control himself, his feelings…
Ishval. He hadn’t had a nightmare like that in a long, long time. He’d had that dream before- but something had been different this time. He remembered that ishvalan boy- his hair had been black. He’d etched every feature of the poor child’s face into his mind a thousand iterations of the same nightmare ago. Something had been different. This time the boy had been… blond?
He whirled, eyes widening as they frantically searched through the darkness for the object of his nightmare, of the thing that’d been different than whenever he’d dreamt it before.
His eyes frantically searched the darkness, roving wrinkled sheets and foraging through the darkness to land on a small lump in the blankets- a childish form huddled among the sheets, very well burrowed beneath the sheets, and, peering out from within the burrow of linen, a few strands of golden hair.
He sagged onto the mattress, feeling dizzy with relief.
Still, he couldn’t quite believe it, and slowly, he edged over to the side of the bed, enveloping the boy in his arms and pulling the sleeping form close to his chest.
Every movement painfully slow, every action deliberate- as though the boy were paper mache, and, if handled too roughly, he’d fall apart in his arms.
He gathered the small body against his own, pressed the chest- so small- he’d never really contemplated how small Edward was when compared to his own broad chest- against his own. He could feel the hummingbird thrum of the boy’s heartbeat against his own, feel the slight wind of the boy’s breathing on his cheek, letting him know that Edward was, in fact, still with him.
He held onto the sleeping boy for longer than he cared to admit all the same, until his hands stopped shaking.
Finally, once he had dragged himself out of his own private hell, he realized, with some surprise, he hadn’t drank. Normally after a nightmare like that, he drank scotch until he passed out.
Then again, as he looked down at the small form in his arms, he remembered he couldn’t check out now. People were depending on him.
He sighed, gaze softening, and, in a rare moment of tenderness, tucked Ed’s blond crown of hair beneath his chin and held the boy close, finally letting sleep pull him under.
Please Review! :)
Right now, I’m actually in a good mood. I was feeling drained earlier then I got a text from a person I’ve been wanting to talk to. But I want my happiness to not be cuz someone texted me. I’m trying to get better but I can’t with my bad thoughts.
Genuinely how do people make it in life, how do you take on all those responsibilities by yourself and make sure you keep on top of things.
It feels like you have to get into a relationship to ease the pressure but I don’t want to get into a relationship for that reason.
I feel like I’ll either end up dead or incarcerated because the expectations society have of me are overwhelming and suffocating.
so um lol i told my mother about some of the Mental Issues™️ and she um cried? have to remember not to just forgive her bc i feel bad she did some fucked up shit
시간을 쪼개고 또 쪼개고~누군가에게 존버의 힘이 되길 바라며~
이번 자살방지 챌린지로 정신건강과 체력단련의 긍정메세지로 전환되었으면 좋겠습니다
저는 사람들이 자살 하도록 유도하는 PTSD(외상 후스트레스 장애)불안 및 우울증과 같은 것에 대한인식을 높이기 위해 25일 동안 25개 푸시 업을 수행 하도록 행운의 사나이 대박성현 박성현리더님께 지명 되었습니다.
가능한한 많은 분들께 다가 가고 이렇게 함으로써 정신질환으로 고통받는 모든 사람에 대한 인식을 제고 할 수 있기를 바랍니다.
당신은 혼자가 아니며 우리는 당신을 위해 여기 있습니다.
규칙은 간단 합니다.
*지명되면 25일은 다음날부터 시작됩니다.
*매일 무릎을 꿇어야 하더라도 25번의 팔 굽혀펴기를 자신을 기록합니다.
*매일 다른 사람을 지명해야 합니다.
다음에 제가 지명 할 사람은
전직약사 행복전도사 이희윤스폰서님 입니다.
수락 및 게시를 하는 데 24시간이 있습니다.
#자살예방 #PTSD #팔굽혀펴기
#pushupchallenge #챌린지 #유사나강석호01071878888
지목 대상 : 백은희리더님
This afternoon is my sixth & final scheduled pain management therapy session.
The changes have been deep & are ongoing; the thing that I have been thinking consistently from the first session is, “why, why, why did it take so long to get this therapy put into practice”
wml; looking forward to greater experience of the outside world, also kind of daunted by the prospect (in These Troubling Times)
This was taken during my #mentalbreakdown a few years ago and it amazes me that I survived that period. I was just on complete auto pilot. I had no control over my emotions l or my body or mind, I was trapped on the inside watching someone else destroy my life. People who dont have any form of mental illness get it, they never understand, they just pull away and dont want to deal with our “drama” as they call it. They make out we just want attention or sympathy when all we really want is for someone to stop and listen. Its heartbreaking to me that in the end I had to save myself . I had to fight the person controlling my body and mind.
I still don’t know how I did it but I survived. I will say however that not everyone makes it out alive.
Please #stopandlisten you could change that person’s life. Stoo acting like your life is picture perfect because it isn’t.
#mentalhealth #mentalhealthmatters #mentalhealthawareness #preop #transgender #mtf #dumbarton #glasgow #paisley #photography #erskine #inchinnan #renfrewshire #scottish #scotland #photograph #transition #transisbeautiful #thisiswhattranslookslike #transformation #beforeandafter #TheOfficialMelindaG #melinda1693 #therealmelindag #melindacampbell #lgbt #ptsd
is it rlly that hard for y'all to conceptualize that something being a “coping mechanism” doesn’t make it smth okay to do or good for you like doing meth is literally a coping mechanism but it’s yknow generally considered a bad one but basically I’m sick of seeing “some people?????? do xyz???? to cope???????????” as both a joke and an actual cop out like
shut up about how smothering and harassing ur partner wkth suicide threats is how u cope with ur fear of abandonment like that makes it okay
shut up with ur shitty jokes acting like shit like idk speeding or discourse starting aren’t legitimately maladaptive coping mechanisms and ways of seeking control and thrill in life
and while we’re at it shut up with ur “it’s not that deep” shit coz every time I see that fucking “some ppl drink soda to cope” post I wanna scream because yes sugar and caffeine are used to self sooth and self medicate so literally yes some people drink soda to cope
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder;
Tonight seems like a good night for a discussion on a topic that I ,from personal experience, know a lot about.
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder effect many people around the world. From sexual assualts, rape, molestation, natural disasters, domestic violence and the acts of war, are only a few of the leading causes of PTSD.
I know what you’re thinking, “this is an odd topic for a tumblr post”. I as many others might relate to the topic all to well. We all are suffering in one way or another having to face the paranoid nights and stomach churning days that grow closer and closer to the time we wished we were dead.
Have you ever thought about giving marijuana a try? Yes, I know. Another stoner telling people to smoke weed. Although many will pass up the opportunity or often times be scared away due to the wrong strain causing the anxiety inside them to be suffocating until they are screaming on the bathroom floor.
It’s changed my life. As most teenagers I smoked marijuana in high school, most to deal with the traumatic events that happened in my day to day life. Being raped repeatedly by guys at school, abuse from them and abuse from an alcoholic father. I was looking for a way to numb myself back then.
Now, I’m battling the left over scars and chronic illness that has suffocated me since I can’t even remember when. I have now begun to suffer gastrointestinal issues that cause a lot of discomfort and at times dehydration from vomiting. I’ve been turned away by many doctors due to this pandemic, so I did the one thing I knew might help. I began to smoke weed again. I have been able to eat without throwing up after every meal, and I feel hungry instead of the never ending nausea, my anxiety comes in smaller waves and I can finally lay down at night falling asleep immediately.
I may not be the best person to talk to, I don’t always have the right words or often have the best nights myself but if anyone can relate to the rambling I’ve been doing. Please give marijuana a thought and do research before trying it. Different strains will help, Blue Dream has and always will be my go to strain. It helps me out the most.
There are so many things I wish to say.
I wish I could express my wishes to my childhood “friends”. How I wished for them to love me as I loved them.
How I wished for my mother to not sexualize my body when she spoke avout my fashion.
How I wished mother wouldn’t criticize my interests, though she knew I finally fit in with a group of friends.
Oh? Were those friends not to your standards, mother?
Was my choice inadequate once again, mother?
Shall I run from friends again mother and reinvent my soul again for new friends? Shall I become a new person you’d approve of, mother?
Shall I go to college for you, mother?
You don’t approve of music?
I will be brave and betray you mother.
I will become a musician, mother.
Oh? You’ve slept with my sister’s 17 year old boyfriend, mother?
Oh — you raped him?
He asked? Doesn’t matter. Rape is rape.
You are the monster. Not me.
Thanks for telling me to kill myself.
Thanks for making myself into a shell of my former self.
Thanks to you, mother, I have no strength to continue.
Thank you for making me a pig. A monster. A fiend.
No one will love me now.
Are you happy?
All I feel is shame.