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dreamingamongthestars · 4 months

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Let's leave the phrase "letting the 'intrusive thoughts' win" in 2023. Yet another online attempt to appropriate and incorrectly define symptoms experienced by those with OCD and suicidal thoughts. Wanting to do something silly for fun (which is called an IMPULSIVE THOUGHT) is nowhere near the harrowing, real ordeals experienced by people with severe, debilitating mental illness.

This awful trend is "I'm so OCD" all over again and misinforms ppl with undiagnosed OCD/suicidal thoughts as well as the general public. People with real intrusive thoughts will spend their lives hiding in shame and being bullied due to the misunderstanding of what they really are. Lives are ruined by intrusive thoughts and the lack of awareness and empathy surrounding them. Do your research and pls be kind

#im so done with this shit #leave ur ableist slogans behind #unfortunately most ppl just hear it from the meme and dont even know what they really are....this is the power of misinformation #actually ocd #depression #tw suicidal thoughts #tw intrusive thoughts #intrusive thoughts #actually depressed #tiktok #ocd #obsessive compulsive disorder #actually disabled #disability rights #hermie's rants

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deathswife · 8 months

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i hate when people tell me "it's just anxiety, it's only anxiety, you can past through this, you can do that, it's JUST anxiety and nothing more" like it is common to live scared of everything, like it is something everyone goes through, like it isn't something debilitating. no, you don't spend your whole life dissociating because your anxiety won't let you live. no, you don't almost throw up everytime someone tells you they need to talk to you. no, your body doesn't hurt and weight more when you're on the verge of a breakdown. no, your head doesn't hurt when other people are mad because you think it's your fault. no, you don't have stomacal problems every damn time anxiety hits. no, you don't have a weak body because your brain won't let you take care of because afraid that you will in fact die if you do. no, you don't wake up and sleep with a lump in the throat because you're always feeling something's wrong. it's not JUST anxiety. i wish i didn't had to live like this, like this constant battle, this constant fight or freeze, this constant hipervigilance. it's not only anxiety. if it was, i could live well.

#generalized anxiety disorder #actually anxious #actually cptsd #cptsd #dissociative disorder #depression barbie #actually depressed #anxiety memes

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narcvampp · 3 months

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` I don't give a fuck 'cuz I'm a millionare! `

INTRODUCTION POST

Nonhuman nightmare(godkin, vampkin, and therian)

HEAVILY disordered; Npd. Bpd. Hpd. Autism. Did. Ptsd

Memory loss. Psychosis. Depression

Anxiety. Suspected bipolar. Aspd traits. Hypersexual. Paraphile(Anti-contact, have multiple.)

'Obsessive love disorder' . StPD . + more

Proudly 'claimed' /ij, but in all seriousness, do not try to engage in a "friendship" unless we do so first. Our guard dog bites.

Taken² + dating someone in my thoughts tbh

Minor. MDNI blogs can int, but we also do not check blogs before we int/follow back.

CW for some of our posts; we will post/rb shit about drugs, possible sexual content, violence, and ocassionally triggering topics(e.g., self harm, sa)

All of our names + pronouns.

No DNI, block us if we fit yours, we'll block you if we want. However, some of our stances are; anti-endo(of all breeds), anti-transid/radqueer/whatever you call yourselves, anti-contact paraphile for harming or non consenting actions.(e.g., acting on pedophilia or zoophilia)

Tags for posts; #vamp diary - all basic posts, #vamp sillies - responding to asks, #utterly insane - vent posts, #millionare - reblogs, #bf posting - wes asks/posts, #fiancé posting - posts abt fiancé, #holy spirit - The Chosen One™️ aks/posts, #coffinshipping brainrot - exactly whar ir sounds like.

If you have any questions, our asks are open.

(Div creds @/mmadeinheavenn)

14+ npd centered srv

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joyflameball · 10 months

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Happy disability pride month to anyone with depression. You have a disability too- the constant fatigue, exhaustion, not being able to get out of bed, emptiness, all of that, it's all part of this disability. Just because it's not a physical disability doesn't mean it's not a disability. I know it's easy to feel like it's not, but it is, and you aren't stealing valor by saying that. People don't normally feel exhausted all the time. People don't normally feel unable to get out of bed, or do stuff they love doing.

You're disabled too, you deserve a seat at the table.

#cassie rambles #disability #depression #actually depressed #disability month #this post is mostly for me because. it's hard for me to say i'm disabled even though a) i have adhd b) i have depression #both of which are disabilities #i guess it's because depression is seen as the ''being sad'' disorder #which no the fuck it isn't and if you think that's all it is you don't know shit about it #the way i describe it is. feeling like a weighted blanket #not in a good way either. feeling heavy and tired and unable to move without a lot of effort #easier comparison is feeling like you're weighed down by a bunch of sandbags #and like your mind is slower #it's just. constantly feeling exhausted. all the time #it sucks #mental disability

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mentalhealthmantis · 5 months

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For those struggling with depression…

I see you. I know how hard this can be to deal with. You probably feel empty, sad, exhausted, lacking any energy or joy.

Please remember that you can be gentle with yourself during this time.

If you’re struggling with feeling suicidal, please know that there are people in your life that love you, even if it’s a person you only met once. I also want you to know that there is a God that loves you too, and all you need to do to receive that love is reach out to Him and accept Him as your Savior.

If you haven’t gotten out of bed all day, that’s okay. Maybe try getting up if you can or at least moving to a different position or stretching.

If you haven’t cleaned yourself in some time and don’t have the energy to shower or bathe, try splashing some water on your face or disinfecting your hands with sanitizer.

Above all, just be kind to yourself. Thats all you need to do. Remember that you are loved. God bless.

#depression #actually depressed #tw sui implied #suicide mention tw #sui ment tw #sui mention #you are loved #reminders #mental health

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bipolarmango · 4 months

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Things I should talk in therapy:

- I want to unalive myself

- I feel I'm a waste of human space

- There's no reason to be alive

Things I talk in therapy:

- I feel like I'm a bit socially awkward

#therapy #tw depression #depression #actually depressed #actually mentally ill #bipolar 2 #bipolar #tw sui vent #tw sui talk #tw sui ideation

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amandacanwrite · 5 months

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Summoning Serotonin by Amanda Cessor

Content Warnings|| Heavy themes around depression, loneliness, failure. Mentions of suicide. Please let me know if there are any I missed. Summary|| A desperate human summons a demon in the hopes that they can trade their soul away for a neurotypical brain and a break from their depression. A/n|| I very intentionally wrote this story without anything that identifies the narrator's gender. Please imagine who you see fit there, whether that be you or someone else.

Genre: Contemporary, Paranormal

So, I’ve decided to sell my soul to a demon.

I know what you’re thinking, that seems a little extreme, but, hear me out.

I have spent so much time, money and energy trying to fix myself. I’ve tried and tried and tried to rid myself of my myriad of mental illnesses, only to watch my life fall apart around me again and again and again.

At this point, I’m either going to sell my soul or off myself. Either way, I wind up burning in Hell. I might as well make the most of the years I have left on this dumpy planet before I spend eternity swimming in a lake of fire.

So, here I sit — on a Friday — that way I have the weekend to enjoy my newfound neurotypical brain. Who knows, maybe I’ll even take a shower.

Big plans, you know?

Honestly, I’m really surprised by how little is required to summon a lord of night? A little sulfur, some graveyard dirt, a few black candles, and a couple drops of my blood. Considering the state of things, it isn’t hard to part with.

I start by drawing a pentagram in chalk on a clearing I’ve made in the clutter and mess on my coffee table, using my sleeve to buff out a coffee ring on the cheap furniture. I place a black candle on one corner for fire, graveyard dirt on another to symbolize earth, sulfur on another for the element of air, a glass of red wine on yet another corner for water. Finally, at the very top, I prick my finger and smear a fat glob of blood to link the spell to me and to represent the fifth element of the soul.

“Hear me, O, knights of Hell,” I say, my voice warbling with my own embarrassment. “Rise from your fiery pit and heed my call!”

This is all the ritual said to say, but once done, I only catch the faint whiff of the sulfur and watch as black wax trickles down onto my already-ruined coffee table. I run a hand through my oily hair and sigh. I’m stupid to think this would work. I’m stupid for even trying it.

I’m about to head back to bed and sleep the day away when the doorbell rings. I jump at the sound — I have visitors so infrequently that I have long forgotten what it even sounded like.

I stand up and go to the door, peeking through the grimy, smudged peephole. Outside of my door, I see a vaguely person-shaped blob. I figure it’s a neighbor that’s come to complain about the smell of rotten eggs. I unlock the door and open it, finding a smartly dressed man with black hair.

And … horns?

Oh.

“You called a demon?” he asks.

“Uhh …”

“May I come in?”

“Yeah, of course.” I scramble as I step out of the way.

He lets himself in and strides to my sofa where he sits and wrinkles his nose at the lingering odor of the sulfur I had used to call him. Then again, I haven’t been able to clean the apartment in the last two months. So, maybe he’s reacting to that.

I shift between my feet awkwardly, and he pats the seat next to him, beckoning me over.

I come sit with him, and he snaps his fingers, producing a manila folder with my name on it. He opens it. A pen materializes and drops into his hand, and he jots something down.

I can’t see what he’s writing.

“Alright, so why did you summon me today?” he asks.

“Uhm — I was hoping to make a trade.”

“Mhm — and what are your proposed terms?”

“My soul? For uh —” I sputter, “a properly functioning brain and ample neurotransmitters?”

He lifts his head and looks at me, his eyes scanning from my greasy hair to my stained T-shirt to the sweatpants I never bother to wash.

“I’m not sure if you’re aware, but Hell is rather overpopulated right now,” he says as he sets my file off to the side. “We aren’t really trading for souls unless the soul in question is rather remarkable.”

I stare at him for a solid fifteen seconds.

“Are you telling me,” I say, “that I’m such a mess that I can’t even trade my soul away for some peace?”

“I’m telling you,” he responds, “that between all the politicians, the billionaires, and the mega-corporate CEOs, we don’t have much space for anyone else. And, to be quite honest with you, your soul is worth more than a trade for mental health.”

I let out a laugh. It sounds unhinged.

“Well, I guess I’ll see you when I work up the gumption to end it,” I retort.

“Unlikely, we don’t take suicides anymore either.”

He scans my apartment again and then looks at me.

“You’re not in treatment.”

It’s not a question.

“What’s the point if it can’t fix my broken brain chemistry?”

“It isn’t about fixing you, there’s nothing to fix.”

“I can’t get out of bed before one in the afternoon. I haven’t showered in five days. I have no friends, and I can’t keep a tidy home. How can you say there’s nothing to fix?”

“Those are just symptoms of an illness.”

“Yes — the illness I’d liked to cure,” I say. “I just want to be normal.”

“What is normal? Who’s to say that I grant you the cure for your depression, your anxiety, and your ADHD and you don’t later wind up with some other problem down the line that you can’t control? Illnesses just require a little management.”

“I don’t want to manage it. I want to cure it. I can’t be happy until I fix it.”

My tone is getting more and more angry. Tears burn my eyes. The demon sighs and looks around my apartment again. He stands and begins to gather garbage in his hands. Empty instant noodle cups, candy wrappers, soda cans.

“Do you know anyone with diabetes?” he asks.

“What does that have to do with anything?” I ask.

He goes into my kitchen and grabs a trash bag and starts filling it with garbage. Anything he can find.

“You don’t see diabetics giving up on life because their bodies can no longer process sugar the way everyone else’s can. They take medicine, they find alternative sweeteners, they learn how to work around their malfunctioning pancreas.”

I watch as he continues to clean my apartment, waving his hand like he’s Mary Poppins and levitating a stack of my books onto my bookshelf. I wince as he opens my blinds and my windows. A breeze flows into the room and I realize just how stuffy it’s been lately.

“Why should your mental health be treated any differently?” he continues.

“Diabetes doesn’t ruin friendships?” I say, almost annoyed with the comparison.

“Says who? Alcohol metabolizes as sugar. What if your friends only like to drink and party? What do you do when you can’t drink anymore?” he points out.

“Those don’t sound like very healthy friends," I say.

As soon as the words tumble out of my mouth, he sets me with a deadpan look. One perfect brow arched as if to say you’re proving my point, you idiot.

“Losing friends because of your mental health is more of a reflection of those friends, not you," he tells me, just incase I can't put it together myself..

“But, I get so clingy and needy. I lose my mind with people.”

“Because you’re not in treatment. Those things get better when you go to therapy and start taking medication for your poorly functioning synapses. You learn tools to regulate your emotions, and you find people who understand you when you can’t regulate.”

He tosses a dishrag at me and starts doing my mountain of dishes. I stand up and join him at the sink and a quiet falls between us as we work away at the stinking pile. I put them away as I dry them. When the pile is nearly done, I finally ask him.

“Why are you doing this?”

He looks at me before looking back to the dish he’s rinsing.

“You’re in a bad way. You just need a little stepping stone. A clean flat is a good start. Then, maybe after a long shower, we’ll call some doctors and schedule you an appointment so you can get the treatment you need,” he says. “If you don’t feel better after getting the help you need, I’ll take your soul. But you better think of something more fun to trade for than curing your depression. Give me a challenge, for God’s sake.”

I laugh first.

And then I cry.

The kind of crying that seems endless — streams and streams of tears that seem to come from some bottomless reservoir. He pats my back, and I feel catharsis for the first time in months. Maybe even years.

Is this what it’s like when someone understands you? When someone can see your pain and can speak directly to it?

“I can’t believe I had to summon a demon to get something so small as help cleaning my apartment and scheduling a doctor’s appointment,” I say.

“I bet there are people around you that would have been happy to help you — I bet you struggle with asking.”

“It’s hard,” I say through hitching tears. “I’m so ashamed.”

He nods and offers me a black handkerchief; I take it and wipe the wetness from my face.

“It gets easier once you get the help you need. Medication, therapy — those are stepping stones too. And once you’re well enough to do these basic care tasks, then you can tackle finding friends that care about you, curating goals and dreams you want to accomplish,” he says. “Living is a lot easier when you have something to live for.”

I have no idea how he reads me to filth, but I appreciate it.

“Now into the shower with you — I’ll get the flat cleaned in the meanwhile," he says with doting fussiness.

When the demon is ready to leave about four hours later, my apartment is spotless. It smells like peaches (he gave me some scented candles), and I have both a therapy and psychiatrist appointment booked for the following week. It has been a long time since I felt hopeful. For once, I see light at the end of the tunnel.

When he stands to leave, I don’t want him to go. He seems to sense this because he sighs and looks at me.

“I’m afraid I can’t stay, but you know where to find me. I’m your caseworker now, so if you have need something — and I do mean desperately need —” He holds out his hand, and I watch curiously as a wisp of black smoke spins there, faster and faster, thicker and thicker, until it solidifies into a band of black stone, “use this. Spin it on your left index finger three times counterclockwise, and I’ll come to your aid.”

He holds it between his elegant fingers and drops it into my hand. I slide it onto my index finger, and it fits perfectly. Made just for me.

“How do I repay you for everything?” I ask.

“The sulfur and blood will do. I’ll check in after a few months and see how you’re faring,” he says.

I nod and smile at him. “Thank you, again, for everything.”

His lips curve slightly in an enigmatic smile.

And, then, he is gone.

____________________________________________________

I hope you enjoyed this little short story. It's one that is very near and dear to my heart and represents conversations I've had with heartbroken friends and also, myself. Sometimes things are hard and we need a helping hand. If you are thinking of harming yourself, please call or text 988 (if in the US) or find your local crisis hotline here.

Tagging a few people who stated interest in reading this: @carrotsinnovember @whateverwarrior @lightningsrikes @a-crystallen-author @jessicagailwrites @artbyeloquent @csdarkfantasy @dyrewrites @dru-reads-writeblr

(PS I'm blown away that of you were excited for this little story, I really hope you liked it and that it didn't disappoint.)

#writing community #writers on tumblr #writing #authors #my writing #writeblr #romantasy #short story #mental health #actually depressed #actually adhd #actually mentally ill #short #demon #friendly demon #uplifting stories

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k1tty-b0t77 · 11 months

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For all of those without a father, or ones being abused, neglected, etc, I'm so fucking sorry. You don't deserve that. Take care of yourself today. Fuck what he wants today. Today is your day, I've decided. Eat something yummy, take a shower, take a walk, watch something funny or comforting. You deserve it for putting up with that shit. I love you and happy You Day.

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yourlocalnpd · 1 year

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adults really make teenagers go to school 35 hours per week, continue schoolwork at home, keep house, babysit for free, and then work in food + retail for minimum wage, but they're surprised that teens are depressed and stay up late?

#depression #actually depressed #mdd #major depressive disorder #bipolor #mood disorder #yummy mental exhaustion

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