#depression mention
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Sam in early S8 is wild, he's like "but could a depressed person do this" and then almost dies
#Supernatural#S8#Shit post#Sam Winchester#Depression mention#*eats organic to feel better and repressed all his emotions*#Things are upsetting TO YOU I'm ok tho 😘#And then two episodes later he's crying over Galahad#Spn
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Some dark stuff and angst time. Writing this more for myself.
This should be obvious but this isn't a post for romanticizing this crap. I'm just writing this for self comfort and venting. If it bothers ya, you can simply just not interact with it, block, ignore.
Warnings: Mention of the reader dealing with depression, suicidal thoughts, mentions of past suicide attempts, self harm / harming, etc. Proceed with caution.
It was depressing but oddly poetic Grim thought. The mortal with the brightest soul that was of life, ironically enough, was part of a mortal who often wished to die.
Countless times he witnessed your suicide attempts, your failures on succeeding or going through with it. Your break downs and spiral into darkness and mental breaks from your own mind attacking you.
He only was waiting for the day it'll finally happen, and to have that bright soul that bothered him, but oddly enough pulled him too, reaped once and for all.
Though as years went on, and the longer you lived on than you should of. Which astonished from the way you lived, and barely survived. He had to soon enough take matters into his own hands.
However the moment he made contact with you, he felt that pull grow stronger. He started to see things more about you that he wished he didn't.
The sunshine before him, you, put on a strong face, a smile, a mask. So convincing in fact, even he often forgot the darkness and demons that troubled you.
But as time went on, and the more you opened up. The more mask started to crack, break and crumble before him.
It was like flickers, but he could see the emptiness, the hopelessness in your eyes.
It bothered him. Upset him. But he tried to focus on the job at hand. Which was reaping your soul...
Until one day he couldn't help but just focus on your care and wellbeing.
Once again, you tried to put on that forced fake yet convincing smile...but this time it wasn't working. He could see the tiredness in your eyes, the smile not reaching those eyes. As well the exhaustion visible even from your soul...
The light in you was dimming again, and he couldn't stand it.
💀 "Sunshine...Did you sleep at all?"
🌻 "...Yeah, a bit...Couldn't really sleep well again though..."
💀 "...I see..."
💀 "...Did you eat?"
🌻 "...A little."
💀 "What did you eat?"
🌻 "...Nothing much. Just crackers...I really don't feel hungry today to be honest."
💀 "...Did you go out to get some sunlight? Some air? Also did you drink any water?"
🌻 "I don't like going out much now...and yeah...I think?"
💀 "..."
🌻 "....."
💀 "What are you thinking about right now?"
🌻 "..."
💀 "...Sunshine?"
🌻 "...Can we end this call now? I'm suddenly feeling tired again and--"
💀 "No. I'm not letting you go until you tell me what's wrong."
🌻 "Why do you care?...You want me dead right? To have my soul? Just leave me alone and maybe you'll finally get it sooner than you think."
💀 "Sunshine, I--You don't--That's it. I'm going over there right now."
🌻 "What? Why? You don't hav--"
Before you could say anything else, he dropped the call and didn't text back no matter how much you sent messages. Suddenly you felt like you screwed up again, that you might of made him angry, or hate you truly now.
The dark thoughts started to flood back in at a intensity now, you just wanted to escape from it all. So you searched around in your drawers, looking for anything sharp again to help but before you could grab anything. A knocking was heard at your window.
You looked up to see Casper with a serious yet worried expression on his face.
💀 "Open the window, Sunshine. Let me in."
🌻 "..."
You did as you were told, and let the Grim Reaper in.
Before you could get a word out, he grabbed you and pulled you in for a tight hug. At first you stiffen at his touch and hold, you weren't used to this...and you wanted to push him away, but same time didn't.
💀 "It's okay, Sunshine...I'm right here now. You don't have to go through this all alone...You don't have to act strong around me. I promise, I won't leave you. I won't hate you. I won't let you suffer alone anymore. It's okay."
It took a moment for you to finally relax in his hold, and you were nervous to hug him back. But after a slow but struggling attempt to fight against your own body and mind, you finally did. And for once, even though his touch was cold...You felt warmth, love and safety from a embrace again...
#a date with death#a date with death casper#a date with death grim#grim x mc#grim x reader#grim x y/n#grim x you#casper x mc#casper x reader#casper x y/n#casper x you#suicide mention#depression mention#deciding to share this finally because it's constantly on my mind lol
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hello all, this blog is on hiatus until I get my depression under control. I know I know, "how much energy does it take to copy a line a day??" more energy than I have apparently!
#depression mention#not falsettos#I'll be okay I promise. this *has* happened before and I'll be back#thank you folks who's been here for the ride & are still occasionally peeking in
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Marks and Rec: Misc #2532
Ah. Well then. (Dialogue from aly__dixon on twitter.)
#septic egos#chase brody#dr schneepelstien#henrik von schneeplestein#jacksepticeye#incorrect quotes#marks and rec misc#source: twitter#depression mention
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How to do Magic Without Motivation
The first half of this is an explanation and an anecdote, to skip straight to the advice, read under the "~~~~".
I'm reading a book called Feeling Great by Dr. David Burns* and in it, he asks the reader, "What do you think comes first, motivation or action?"
The logical answer is "motivation" right? But that's not it, often times even a simple action can help you get the motivation needed to get the job done. If you wait until you are motivated to do it, you may never get it done. So don't wait, just get started on it. Alternatively, do something. It doesn't even need to be related to what you need to do, just getting up and starting on something can help build your motivation.
For example, my partner is struggling with his mental health right now and often forgets to take care of his part of the house chores. I also struggle with mental health making it hard to get chores done, so I understand where he's coming from. Instead of getting mad or snapping at him, I started asking him to help me by taking 15 minutes to clean the apartment.
We talk about what tasks need to get done and go into it knowing that if the task doesn't get finished that's fine, once the 15 minutes is done we can either call it there or finish the task. But after that 15 minutes is up the obligation of the task is no longer a problem, because we've done what we set out to do. Even if we don't finish we still walk away from the unfinished chore with a sense of accomplishment and we can move on to doing other things.
So I've also started doing this for other areas of my life. I decide the tasks that need to get done and I set a timer; usually, I use the Pomodoro method but sometimes I just use a single timer.
I do this in witchcraft too. That's one of the things that inspired me to start weekly witchy questions and witchy assignments.
~~~~~
More than once I've gotten an ask that says the person has a hard time feeling motivated to actually do any witchcraft even though they do want to do it, it's hard to actually do it. So try this next time:
Decide what you want to do, be it divination, a spell, reading, researching, etc. then set aside an amount of time that feels reasonable. Typically 10, 15, or 20 minutes are a good place to start.
Don't bite off more than you can chew!
Get out of the mindset of "well other witches can do XYZ for hours at a time" or "I should be able to do XYZ easily for 45 minutes straight"!! It's better that you start out with a short amount of time for a simple task that way you don't overwhelm yourself. Besides, you shouldn't be basing what you do on what other witches do. Look to others for inspiration not competition!!!
Pick a simple activity and a short amount of time. Don't try to motivate yourself to get up and do it, just get up and get started. If you try to justify to yourself why you should be motivated or why this task needs to be done and so on, you'll only burn yourself out before you started.
*I've just started on this book but so far I'm elated. It's a self-help book for depression and anxiety and even has a "cliff notes" section at the beginning. The author writes in a casual way that doesn't feel stiff or like he's talking down to the reader--something I've struggled with in these types of books before. There's a reason it's so highly rated. If you're struggling with depression and/or anxiety, read the book with me and let me know what you think.
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Hallo, can I get the skeles with an s/o that does not have a very healthy lifestyle? they don't usually leave the house, watch tv/play videogames for hours, don't have a balanced diet and are generally lazy, could be due to depression and really bad self esteem issues.... I know most of them probably wouldn't want an s/o like that but damn, I just wanna live the dream bro 😓 also.. you're pretty cool
Hey, don't put yourself down like that! There's someone for you, I promise!
Mafiatale Sans: Oh that's a mood for sure. He knows how it feels to only want to laze around because it doesn't feel like anything is worth moving. However, he also knows that it's not good for you. Though he definitely will indulge in shitty eating and lazing around, he'll drag you around on some of his errands and little adventures. Not only that, but he'll also take a leaf out of Papyrus's book and encourage you to feel better!
Mafiatale Papyrus: Papyrus has dealt with Sans's nonsense his whole life, he knows how to help! He'll gently encourage you to get up and eat a vegetable every now and then. If you don't feel like getting out of bed, never fear! He'll scoop you out of bed and carry you until you feel better!
Mafiaswap Sans (Lucky): Even if Lucky doesn't understand the feeling, he knows his brother feels the same as you most of the time. So he'll do what he does with Slim: be there for you whenever you need him! He won't try to force you to feel better, that's never going to work. But he'll definitely get you out of the house more, help you make friends and build a support system! But he can definitely be persuaded into staying in bed with you sometimes, turning a depressed morning into a wonderful cuddle session!
Mafiaswap Papyrus (Slim): Oof, that hits too close to home for him. If you tell him how much you don't like your lifestyle, he'll realize that he's maybe a bad echo chamber for you. He'll do his best to change himself for you! He'll "coincidentally" be going out for a walk (no matter how much it shocks Lucky) when you have free time, and encourage you to come with him, buy better food, and maybe even try to get you to talk to a therapist! Until you do, he's always there for you, honey.
Mafiafell Sans (Butch): Yikes, he may not be the best guy to help with this. He definitely has the same habits, but he'll want to help in any way he can. He might help you find a counselor or therapist of some kind, maybe even go to one himself. Stars knows he needs one. If you don't want to though, he'll definitely help with the self esteem. He thinks you're the cutest lil thing in the world, and he's gonna let you know it!
Mafiafell Papyrus (Noir): Though he may not be the most gentle or understanding, Noir will certainly do his best! He loves you, and a few less than healthy habits aren't going to change that! He exercises every morning, and though you may not want to, he'll certainly try to drag you out for a walk in the mornings. Exercise is good for human's health, he thinks, maybe this is a start?
Mafiaswapfell Sans (Scar): Ah, his time has come. He knows all too well what depression looks like, he saw it all the time Underground. He'll instantly see that you need help when you never go outside, laying in bed and losing track of time. If you let him, he'll help you make a schedule that gets you interacting with people more, getting you out of the house, and eating better. If you don't, though, that's okay too. He wants you to be happy more than anything, and if being a listening ear is what you need, that's what he'll be. Even if he doesn't have ears.
Mafiaswapfell Papyrus (Hound): He knows all too well what depression and low self esteem feels like. Even though he doesn't know how to help very much, all he can do is offer his love. Your love helped him, so hopefully his love can help you! He'll tell you how much he loves you, bad habits and all, and help you see the beauty of life. If he can do that, hopefully it will help you!
#my garbage#writing#sans#papyrus#depression mention#sans x reader#papyrus x reader#undertale#undertale imagines#mafiatale#mafiaswap#mafiafell#mafiaswapfell
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An odd question for the whump community
I was feeling a depressive episode again, so I kinda took a step back from whump for a few days. Hence why I disappeared for a bit. I noticed that whenever I'm not depressed or feeling good, I'm ready to whump the shit out of my OCs and favorite characters. But when I feel down, upset, etc, I go for fluff and good feeling things.
Has anyone done this too? I heard it's kinda the reverse for some, but I'm curious if others do the same as I do too.
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life kind of sucks right now (more like for years now) so i'll give a reminder to anyone who can relate.
your f/os will understand when you can't write or make content of them. it doesn't matter the reason, they want you to relax. take that break if you need it. they don't want you to feel like you "should" be doing things that will just drain you more. these "should" statements can zap what enjoyment you had with self shipping out of you. speaking from experience. a few days, weeks, months, years, they don't care. they'll wait for you if it means you are happier for taking a break.
#self ship positivity#self ship reminder#depression mention#selfship positivity#self ship community#selfship community#self ship#f/o community#f/o positivity#this is for myself but hey why not share it#someone else might want to read this#owo writes
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Genuine question, what’s wrong with the DSM?
[OP refers to the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, which I mentioned being unpopular among mental health professionals.] Disclaimer: I'm not a psychiatrist, I'm not a therapist, and I'm not trained in counseling. I'm a social psychology researcher. If a therapist contradicts me, listen to the therapist.
The problem with the DSM as I understand it: a lot of counselors/ psychiatrists/ etc. want to move away from a category- and source-based diagnostic system, toward a symptom-based treatment system. For example, think about Pepto Bismol: you feel nauseous, you chew pink tablets, it ends your nausea. It doesn't matter if your nausea is indigestion or seasickness or lactose intolerance. You match a treatment (pink bismuth) to a symptom (nausea) and don't waste time or money on diagnosis unless that treatment proves ineffective.
A large percent of counselors etc. would like to take the same approach to mental health. So we'd be researching treatments for nightmares (neurofeedback? MDMA?) in the long-term, and giving clients treatments for nightmares (meditation! Ambien!) in the short-term. All without worrying too much about whether the nightmares are caused by General Anxiety Disorder or a phobia or Seasonal Affective Disorder. There are many strengths to that approach.
Only, see, there's this big purple dinosaur holding us back.
[Image ID: Hardcover copy of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, Fifth Edition, DSM-5, American Psychiatric Association; the title is white text on a purple background.]
So if everyone who uses the DSM also hates the DSM, why does it still exist and why do we keep buying it every time a $100 text revision gets published? Two reasons, in order of importance:
Insurance
Communication
Insurance is, I kid you not, the DSM's #1 reason for existence. American insurance companies won't cover treatment unless it's for a diagnosed illness, and so therapists put diagnosed illnesses on what they'd often be more comfortable describing as "bro, this dude is hella distressed and I'm trying to help undistress him." Note the word American on the cover; other countries have other manuals, and no other country's counselors are as chained to theirs as we are to ours. This means that the DSM helps — yay, affordable therapy! It means the DSM hurts — sets of symptoms get grouped artificially, spectra get split into categories, and diagnosis happens way too early in the therapeutic process.
Another comparison to unmental health: I don't have carpal tunnel syndrome, but my insurance provider thinks I do. I only announce that I don't because I haven't told you who I am or where I live. (If the insurance companies find us... Well, we just won't let them find us. The thing you should know is everyone is getting screwed by health insurance. Yeah, even you.) I have wrist pain and tingling. It has the wrong antecedents for carpal tunnel, and it has weird manifestations — pressure on the base of my thumb causes pain in my pinky — but my OT wrote down "Carpal Tunnel" on the forms because the alternative was a $500+ round of diagnostic scans. No one cares whether my median nerve is inflamed or not; occupational therapy still looks like "try this stretch, that stretch, this brace, that brace, and these activity changes; keep whichever combination makes the pain and tingling go away."
This kind of thing also happens in mental health all the time. Many therapists don't care — and neither should you — if your serotonin levels are low; if you're miserable and an SSRI prevents the misery, take the dang SSRI. If your mother was harshly critical and now you feel panic at any hint of criticism, it doesn't matter whether that better fits C-PTSD or NPD; it matters whether you cope with soothing self-talk or if you cope with alcohol. Put something from the DSM on the forms, and focus on finding which stretches (breathing exercises) make the tingling (panic) go away.
Communication is the biggest strength of the DSM. It means that clients can benefit from labels ("I'm not lazy, I'm ADHD") and consistent standards of treatment can be applied across different clients in different states. The DSM has huge lists of things like "if your client shows memory problems, be sure to check for alcohol abuse" or "if they have self-harm, make sure it's non-suicidal before you do anything else" that are tremendously helpful. It can help therapists who encounter a set of behaviors they've never seen before to go "client is rigid, rule-bound, and lacks insight... huh, looks like I'd better refer them to an OCPD specialist." (It's also the source of a lot of toxic misinformation on social media when symptom lists get taken out of context without that all-important differential diagnosis information, but I digress.)
However, diagnosis should never be the beginning point for therapy — it's impossible to know your client's mind without first building trust and transference — but reliance on the DSM for insurance often forces it to be. Diagnosis should never be the end point for therapy — knowing your perceptions don't match others' because of Bipolar I won't stop you hearing the dang hallucinations — but home use of the DSM often acts that way. Categorical diagnosis is limiting if your therapist is primarily interested in how depressed you are but the Beck Depression Inventory uses an absolute cutoff point for "depressed" or "non-depressed." Categorical diagnosis is useless if over 50% of people diagnosed with a depression are later diagnosed with an anxiety disorder, and vice versa. So it's an imperfect book that does a lot of things well and a few things badly, and many of its heaviest users would argue that it shouldn't exist at all.
For further reading, I recommend The Body Keeps the Score by Bessel van der Kolk. I don't agree with all the axes he grinds or all the ways he grinds them, but he's got decades of psychiatry experience and is (I hope) predicting the next paradigm shift in mental health.
For instance, van der Kolk argues that it doesn't matter if at intake your client has long blond hair and is named Linda, only to show up the next time with no hair and the name Gerald, only to come next time with short red hair and the name Taylor. The therapist should only be asking "how does the client feel about these changes?" and "what are these changes doing for the client?" If Linda can't remember what Gerald did, then focus on the terrible memory gaps that alter identities create. If Taylor became Gerald to try and please you, then focus on teaching mindfulness and self-compassion. If this is a happily genderqueer person, then figure out why they're seeking help and don't worry about the appearance changes. If this is someone who thinks in absolutes and regards their personality as constantly changing, then work on teaching them to see the world and themself with moral complexity. It doesn't matter whether Dissociative Identity Disorder exists or not; just ask your client what they need and how you can help, then go from there.
Anyway, the DSM is an imperfect solution to a complex problem, and a lot of mental health practitioners view it as a relic of a more paternalizing era. No one has come up with a really good solution for how to remove and replace it, so for now it's the least-bad option.
#dsm#dsm 5#psychology#psychological research#therapy#counseling#mental health#diagnostic and statistical manual of mental disorders#psychiatry#diagnosis#long post#(almost) nothing to do with animorphs#depression mention#ptsd mention#suicide mention#american politics#to be 100% clear: I *do not know enough* to have an opinion about whether or not Dissociative Identity Disorder exists#i only know that some very expert people have argued for it *and* that some very expert people have argued against it#and that all these very expert people absolutely agree on listening to the client howsoever the client chooses to identify#more research is needed#I reiterate: I AM NOT A THERAPIST AND NONE OF THIS IS MEANT AS MENTAL HEALTH ADVICE
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The right way to care (1).
Summary: a little brother takes care of a depressed big sibling.
Word count: ~600.
Lazy Saturday. No will to get out of the bed. Maybe the head was filled with some plans a long ago but not right now. Everything except staring at the ceiling seems exhausting. Being alive by now seems a miracle. But is it actually? Doesn't matter, airheads can't think.
"Hey, sib. Ya 'kay?" the little brother asks, leaning on the doorframe. He's pretty long for his 16 and it's hard to say that he's younger one. He received no response but didn't left. Instead, he sighed heavily and got closer to the bed. Mattress bend under his weight, his arms wrapped around tired body. His hot steady breath tickled the nape of the neck. "Hey, wanna eat? I can fry ya some potatoes. With nice sauce," his long thin fingers brushed against sibling's cheek. "No? Don't be picky. Ya needa eat or ya will turn into a.. hmmm.. a raisin. A little, shrinked raisin, ya hear me?"
No response, tho.
He sighs once more. "I wish ya felt better now, I swear... I wanna my sib back. My dear elder sib who enjoys my barely edible cooking. By the way, I got better at it, so.. maybe ya will give some potatoes a try?.." No response again. It's like talking to a dead. "M'kay, big grumpy. But keep in mind that I won't let you to starve to the death, hear me? I'll force-feed ya if I have to."
He snuggles closer, brushing his nose against sibling's cheek. "When ya used a bathroom last time? Ya know ya needa go pee-pee time to time, right?" His words are met with a sour groan. He understood everything by this simple reaction. "Woah, woah, yeah, c'mon. Ya needa this for sure."
Unhappy groans and whines never saved anyone from being dragged by limbs down the bed. "C'mon, cooperate!" he says, grunting. Once he finally managed to drag the dead-inside body to the bathroom another problem raised — when you pee your bottoms should be down. And the only person that wanted sibling's shorts and underwear down is their little brother who's hands were tagging those down already. "Ouch! Don't slap, I'm helping! I'm helping, ya airhead! C'mon, just your underwear down, I'm not even looking. Do you see me looking? Me neither."
It takes some time to relax in such tense position. But eventually the peeing is done and underwear is on again. "So, was it worth struggling? Huh?" the brother sounds stern but softens just in a moment. "M'kay, let's go back to yer cave, sib."
It's much more lovely in "a cave" than anywhere else. In the soft bed. But nausea from endless laying starts to go up to the throat.. But it's secondary.
"If you stay the same undead by the evening I'll be forced to give you a bath," the brother reminds casually. Well.. maybe there is some problems with lack of movements. Just slightly. Maybe it worth to get up once and wash without any help. The brother was persistent last time, no way something may change his mind.
"Ya make me feel lazy.. I don't wanna leave ya, I gotta make sure ya okay." His hand makes slow circles on sibling's tummy. It's almost magical how everything about him screams that he's the elder one here. Just somehow. "Ya won't kick me out, right? Yeah, of course. Ya have no energy for that. That's why ya trapped with me, sib," he chuckles softly. "Wanna share some sweet dreams?.. Yeah, let's just.. get more comfy here."
He softly takes the tired body in his arms, his embrace is like a safe pillow fort. Nothing can get through this. "Sleep well, sib. You need some good rest," he whispered gently.
#yandere#yandere writing#yandere brother#little brother#yandere f/o#fauxcest#shipcest#soft yandere#depression mention#counselor writes
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Let's say Marcus might become his old self if he was given the right cocktail of antidepressants (or say, Aro stumbles upon the right kind of vampire healer), would Aro try to cure Marcus or would he prefer to keep zombie Marcus ? (Out of fear lucid Marcus may figure out the truth and kill him or leave the Volturi).
Would this be a scenario where Aro would consider recruiting Alice (at least temporarily?).
I think what Aro would want doesn't really matter, because Marcus would still have to consent to it. As it is, Aro did think he'd found this vampire: Corin creates a feeling of contentment, makes the dark clouds go away so to speak, but for all that Aro seems to have wanted Marcus to try, Marcus refused to go near the woman.
To Marcus, retaining autonomy of himself and knowing that his mind is integritous is more important than feeling happy.
Considering how Corin is addictive, and Marcus would exchange the fog of depression with a drugged haze, I can't blame him.
As for the antidepression vampire, I think the concept of a vampire whose gift reorganizes your brain chemistry and forces changes that would otherwise only be possible through intensive therapy, would sound too much like the vampire changes who Marcus is in a more fundamental way than simply cutting out the depression part of his brain for Marcus to go near them. Aro, for that matter, would be given pause as well.
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Hi!I love your fics so much and I saw your request things and thought maybe you could do Donnacha or Henry with an upset stomach that pushes them to the edge? Like they have to go go go all day long and it makes them like super overwhelmed but it ends all fluffy with the other character comforting them with belly rubs or a hot shower or smth?? Only do this if you want ofc!! Just a an idea! Ok bye!!
I was so sure that this hadn't been in my inbox for too long, but then I realised my original draft is named 'henry sickfic june' lmao thank you for the lovely request and for your patience, anon 🖤
CW: anxiety, depression, bad self talk, chronic pain, job interview scenario, death mention, emeto, stomach noises, platonic caretaking, belly rubs.
Word Count: 4,000+
___
Henry woke up feeling far too rested.
Not a good sign.
Even before he’d untangled his thoughts from the hazy dream he’d been having – the details were already retreating, but he was certain that Orlando Bloom had been somewhat involved – he knew in his bones that he had slept through his alarms.
Cold spikes of adrenaline flipped him onto his back, joints protesting, so he could reach for his phone and his glasses. He pressed the glasses to his face and read the time on the screen. The taste of bile crept into his dry mouth.
“Oh, fuck.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face. He hadn’t shaved in ages, and his stubble was just short of a full-fledged beard at this rate. He’d intended to shave this morning, before sitting down to do a remote job interview that had been scheduled for one hour and forty-three minutes ago.
Well. The company may as well have received written confirmation that he was no longer interested.
Woops.
He supposed he could call them up now and apologise for running late, and maybe they’d give him another shot –
Henry’s stomach instantly turned at the idea, and he had to swallow very measuredly to avoid choking on a mouthful of bile.
He had another interview lined up for later that afternoon, in case interview number one fell flat. Which it technically hadn’t. Now everything depended on the second – only – interview, a thought that had his stomach twisting again as soon as he had it. He almost regretted that he hadn’t managed to sleep through that appointment, too; at least then it would have been out of his hands.
Henry hauled himself out of bed, grabbed his cane, and headed down the hallway for a quick, lukewarm shower. He thought about his day as he worked the grease out of his hair and the sheet-marks out of his face; his failure to make his first meeting of the day clawed at him, clinging to his skin despite the running water. As much as he’d been dreading the human interaction, he needed work – for the sense of purpose as much as the financial compensation.
But... mostly the financial compensation.
Digging through his clothes, he realised that the first thing he’d needed to do that morning was stick a bundle of his laundry into the washer-dryer, so he would have a decent shirt to wear for his interviews. Well, interview singular now. He dragged his laundry basket to the kitchen and filled the machine. His hip and back started aching with the effort of crouching, and head spun with urgency, frustration, and the overall unpleasantness of waking up to instant panic. His hair – now long enough to lick the neckline of his sweater – dripped cold water into his clothes.
Alright. The dry cycle would be finished a measly fifteen minutes before he’d need a shirt. He’d really needed to wake up with that first alarm, but... it was fine. This was fine.
While the washing machine hummed to life and water trickled into the drum, Henry gingerly righted himself, fingers working into the tension in his hip. Tears stabbed at the backs of his eyeballs and his jaws sat tense, but there was no sense in letting the pain steal his focus when he had things to be doing.
He eyed the cupboards and considered dragging something out for a breakfast/lunch hybrid, but he felt his stomach do a queasy little backflip at the thought.
He slinked back to his room, his heart thumping like he’d run a marathon, and lowered himself into his desk chair.
___
Henry tried tapping around on Reddit to kill the time, but the constraints of both his laundry and his upcoming interview made it impossible for him to get absorbed in anything other than watching the time. His eyes skimmed over words and paragraphs without really taking anything in, and what little information his brain did let in only made him confused and angry. His mind was locked up tight, sealing itself up in fear of forgetting what he was supposed to do later.
He typed the name of the company he’d be interviewing with later into a search engine. Maybe if he convinced himself he was being productive, his brain would give him a break.
Light stabbed his eyes and Henry almost physically recoiled when their website appeared on-screen. No wonder they were looking to hire a web designer. The thing looked like it’d been created by a thirteen-year-old in 2004, despite the fact that the About Us portion stated that the company had been established in 2016.
Henry was ready to click away from the site again – any longer in front of that wall of neon yellow and headers written in Bradley Hand, and he’d trigger a migraine – when a twinge of hunger sent his stomach into a spiraling churn.
“Oh, great, now you’re hungry,” Henry murmured, gliding a hand over his belly.
As indignant as he was about having to move, he was a little grateful to be given a task. He pulled himself out of the desk chair with a resigned sigh. After making himself a milky cup of coffee and a sandwich, using the last slice of cheese in the fridge, he hobbled over to the living room couch.
He thought about turning the TV on, but the remote was out of immediate reach, so that decision was made for him. He ate in silence.
He took a few bites of his sandwich that didn’t really taste... like anything. He hadn’t had anything to drink, since he’d woken late and in such a panic; maybe it was his dry mouth that was stopping his taste buds from doing their job. He took his coffee mug firmly by the handle and gulped down a few mouthfuls, stopping when the bitterness clung to the back of his throat. Not his best move, he thought with a shudder. He managed a few more bites and, unable to force himself to eat the crusts when his appetite was already so poor, called it there.
___
Henry’s belly roiled. He could feel a panicky sheen of sweat gathering under his clothes. and his voice trembled throughout the meeting, It was so hard to sort through his dizzy thoughts that he struggled to answer the most basic of questions; what were his qualifications, what previous work was he the proudest of, what had he struggled with in the past and how had he overcome that struggle.
“Thank you for allowing me to get to know you, Mr. Wilde,” the interviewer said now, smiling at him through the screen. “Your qualifications and experience are probably the most outstanding of all of our candidates so far. But I am just curious; what it is that interested you about this particular project?”
Henry swallowed thickly. Despite this very immediate emergency situation, all he could think about was how Lucy would have passed away from second-hand embarrassment if she ever found out that the extent of his research on this company hadn’t gone beyond a brief skim of their website.
He mumbled something about potential, even though all he could think about was the potential of him taking a nap directly after this interview ended. To his left, his bed lay beneath the armfuls of clothing that he’d moved out of his webcam’s line of sight, yet it seemed to peer out at him with a warm, tempting gaze. He could call it a day here, and hope she’d hire him based on his credentials alone.
A warm, sickly belch crawled up his throat. He managed to stifle and muffle it, but his fist jerked towards his lips out of instinct, his cheeks puffing out slightly. The air settled back into his stomach with an acidic slosh, and he eyed his interviewer carefully.
“Excuse me, sorry,” he mumbled.
She blinked, regarding him with a hint of distaste, but moved along. “So, if we were to hire you for this project, where would you begin?”
Henry cleared his throat, removing his fist. He was becoming irritated now; it felt as though she were tricking him into giving her instructions for whatever sap she hired, be it him or somebody else. But sometimes, you just had to jump through hoops to get ahead. Or stay afloat.
“Well...” He cleared his throat. “I think I would begin by implementing some basic changes to the optics of the company’s home page. It’s the first impression of your company that many customers will get, so I feel it’s important to provide a good visual impact.”
“Visual.” The interviewer – shame curdled in Henry’s gut as he realised he’d already forgotten her name – raised an eyebrow. “This project doesn’t concern any graphic work.”
Catastrophe bloomed amidst the existing unease in Henry’s belly. He could let himself off the hook for not knowing the company inside-out, but not knowing the details of the position he was applying for was a whole other level of unpreparedness. The Lucy in his head was slapping her forehead and shaking her head, disowning him.
“But you’ve intrigued me,” the interviewer said. “What optics are you referring to?”
If you want my input, hire me, Henry wanted to snap at her.
“Well, there are some scenarios where websites such as your current one would lend a certain retrospective, nostalgic charm,” Henry said, adjusting his glasses with a shaky hand, “but since I have no reason to believe that this was the intention here, the current website makes your company appear out of touch, and the previous designer seem like an incompetent amateur.”
With a deep nod of her head, the interviewer looked down at the notepad she’d been clutching since the call had begun. She tucked a nonexistent strand of stray hair behind her ear. “The previous designer was my deceased partner.”
Henry’s throat froze over.
“But I thank you for your feedback on her competence, Mr. Wilde, or... lack thereof, as it would seem.” Her eyes widened as she jotted something down. Her sudden lack of eye contact seemed intentional. “That’s all I need from you right now.”
Henry fidgeted in his desk chair. He’d done such a great job of not fidgeting until that point. An apology danced on the tip of his tongue, but all that came out when he opened his mouth was, “Alright.”
“Thank you for your time.” The interviewer didn’t even off a ‘we’ll be in touch’ before she ended the video call and vanished from his screen.
Henry sat back in his chair, flung his glasses across his keyboard, and groaned loudly into his palms. When the groan didn’t seem like enough, he allowed himself something a little closer to a scream – why not? He was home alone, and the downstairs lot had been unoccupied ever since they’d moved in.
The sound turned over painfully in his throat and made his eyes water. His insides felt like they were shrinking under the weight of failure, uselessness, despair, and hopelessness, and his shoulders crumpled inwards until his head was resting on the edge of his desk.
It felt like forever before a sob finally tore loose, and with it came the sickly belch he’d swallowed on the video call, only this time, it came with interest. His stomach was churning wildly, feeling full to the brim with acidic mush.
Jesus Christ, he hadn’t even said sorry for his remark, or thanked the interviewer for taking the time to speak with him –
Vision blurry, Henry’s hands scrambled to find the metal bin he usually filled with sticky notes and chocolate wrappers and noodle cups. He shifted his chair forward in the search, jamming one of the wheels against his own foot. He yanked the bin into his lap as his stomach muscles imploded.
No, he thought, tossing the bin back to the floor. Puking in his bin would mean washing it later, and Henry didn’t trust his energy levels to be up for an extra task after all of this.
He gripped the edge of his desk, flinching to his feet and setting his stationery holders rattling. His hip seized up as he straightened, and if that wasn’t bad enough, a spike of tension pierced his temples. He staggered into the hallway and towards the bathroom, and, mercifully, made it to the toilet bowl before his stomach could really get going.
The pressure at the base of his oesophagus felt like too much laundry being pushed into a washing machine drum at one time. It took far too long for him to retch up even the tiniest splatter of burning-hot bile; the liquid ejected from his stomach probably amounted to less than the liquid he’d squeezed out of his eyes.
Still, his body seemed satisfied with that for now. The nausea retreated, leaving only that stubborn pain in his belly and the matching pain left behind by the clenching in his throat.
He sank to the floor, knuckles pale and jutting as he gripped the toilet seat with both hands. He forced up a burp that was pressing at the base of his ribs, grimacing and desperate for relief, but it only brought that hot, heavy feeling back. His stomach burbled. His hip ached. His goosebump-ridden body shuddered. His heart curdled into a lump of despair that sat at the back of his throat.
He belched again, and this time, up came his sandwich.
___
“Henry, it’s Flatmate Friday,” Donnacha called through the door, as drily as he might have said that it was raining outside.
Henry groaned quietly into his pillow. Flatmate Friday generally involved pizza delivery and a nostalgic movie or two, while three people sat crushed together on the couch and the fourth either took up residence on the floor or on a dining chair.
“Hen, you alive in there?” Donnacha asked. “More importantly, are you decent?”
Knowing he wouldn’t be able to convince Donnacha not to come into his room, Henry gave in to the inevitable. He tugged the duvet out of the way of his mouth and called out, “Yes.”
“Look,” Donnacha sighed as he breezed into the room. His eyes lingered on the mess of clothing that lay between the door and the bed, but only for a few seconds. “I know Lucy brought you your slices last week, but I don’t agree with that! I’m sorry if it sounds harsh, or whatever, but the point of Flatmate Fridays is... you know. Hanging out with your flatmates on a Friday. If I can be civil with Payton in the spirit of Flatmate Friday, then you can at least manage the ten paces it takes from here to the couch...”
There was a brief flash of silence.
“Jesus, Hen,” Donnacha said softly. Ha shimmied around the clothes mountain. His weight tipped one side of the mattress, creating a slope that pulled Henry’s legs towards the warmth of Donnacha’s back. “What’s going on? Bad day?”
Henry shrugged.
“Those... those new meds messing you up?” There was a soft, sympathetic melody to Donnacha’s voice now. He wove his fingertips into the fluffy mess of Henry’s hair.
The gesture took him so much by surprise that tears sprang to Henry’s eyes, almost as uncontrollably as vomit.
“Hen,” Donnacha exclaimed in a whisper, as though Henry had done something outrageous by tearing up. “What’s up? This is scary. Please tell me.”
“I... fucked up so many times today,” Henry said numbly. It all felt so... inconsequential now that he was trying to summarise it for someone who wasn’t there. Someone who didn’t share his headspace. Someone who could smile and shrug and tell him to try again another day.
Someone who, sweet as he was, didn’t understand.
“What do you mean?” The sympathetic edge left Donnacha’s voice, leaving only disbelief. Genuine disbelief that Henry could have fucked anything up because Henry was older, Henry was smarter, Henry never left the apartment so when would he even have the opportunity to fuck anything up?
“I-I woke up feeling like shit, and then I missed one job interview, and I really... really wanted that one.” He hadn’t admitted it to himself earlier, but now it hit him like a rock to the gut, that the interview he’d missed had meant so much more to him than the other one. “A-and then, I spectacularly fucked up the second one –”
“It can’t have been that bad.”
“I insulted the interviewer’s dead partner.”
Donnacha’s lips hovered apart, wordless. Yeah, that’s what I thought, Henry wanted to spit.
“And then I-I completely shut down for the rest of the day... I’m behind on my current deadlines –”
“Hey, it’s okay,” Donnacha said.
He didn’t even realise he’d started heaving with sobs until he felt Donnacha’s hands trying to still his shuddering shoulders. He leaned into his arms, the mattress rolling his legs and his torso closer to Donnacha’s weight as the larger boy edged a little closer.
“And you’ve just been lying here all by yourself? Why didn’t you call out to any of us when we got home?”
A small, bitter voice in Henry’s head wanted to snap, Why didn’t any of you think to check on me? but he knew that was unfair. Most days, he was fine, but still didn’t like having his flatmates entering his personal space without an invitation.
“Why didn’t you tell me... tell us you had interviews this week?” Donnacha wondered. His eyes darted across Henry’s face, as though he thought he had a better chance of finding an answer in his pores and his eyeballs than of getting an answer verbally. “You don’t need to keep all this shit to yourself.”
Henry shrugged. He honestly wasn’t sure. Part of him had wanted to avoid Career Guidance Lucy and her sporadic seminars on interview skills. Part of him had dreaded the inevitable words of encouragement that Donnacha and Payton would no doubt have offered him, making it feel like an even bigger deal, an even more profound failure, when he didn’t get the jobs. He’d wanted to secure a new gig in secret, and mention it casually to his flatmates after the fact.
Anything else was just asking for too much attention, building up too many expectations...
A weak gurgle broke the silence, and Henry instinctively covered his stomach with his palm. Donnacha’s eyes followed the movement. A second later, there was a deeper sound, a hollow grumble that Henry felt tickle at the back of his throat.
“Have you eaten today?”
“Yes. I’m not hungry,” he added, already knowing that Donnacha was going to suggest, once again, that he join the others for pizza and Flatmate Friday. It was just unfortunate that his belly decided to rumble for a third time.
“Somehow, I think you're lying to me.”
“No - you don’t get it,” Henry sighed. Noting that Donnacha had left the door ajar and that Lucy was just down the hallway in the living area, he lowered his voice and leaned a little closer to Donnacha’s shoulder. “After my second interview... my only interview, in the end,” Henry growled, kicking his past self yet again, “I felt so sick to my stomach that I threw up my lunch.”
Donnacha looked positively wounded with sympathy. Henry wondered how the hell he managed it.
“Hen...” Donnacha’s hand pushed gently into Henry’s hair again.
It was all Henry could do not to whimper and melt into the touch. He settled for letting his eyes flutter shut. He didn’t deserve the tingling pleasure that was flowing from Donnacha’s fingertips into his skull, softening the sparking, frayed edges of his nerves.
“I’ll bring you your slices, if you want them.”
Henry shook his head. He might have been trembling with emotion now, rather than nausea, but he still didn’t feel up to putting anything in his stomach.
“I’ll bring mine, too. We can hang out in here, watch our own movie.”
“No,” he choked out, pulling away from Donnacha’s hand and resting his head on the pillow again.
“Just give me one minute.” Donnacha didn’t hesitate another second before getting up from the bed and tackling the obstacle course that was Henry’s bedroom floor one more time.
Henry buried his face in his pillow, part of him hoping that Donnacha would somehow change his mind while he was out there and not come back. Part of him felt extremely cold and hollow at the thought of him changing his mind and not coming back.
These feelings were confusing. Henry didn’t like it when feelings were confusing. Maybe that was what prompted him to groan in displeasure when Donnacha returned, carrying a plate laden with at least five slices of pepperoni pizza. The smell made Henry’s stomach growl with hunger that felt a lot like nausea, or... nausea that felt a lot like hunger.
“You can’t be in here,” Henry muttered as Donnacha leaned over the mess to prop the plate on the edge of Henry’s desk.
“Ah, ah,” Donnacha sang, darting from the room again. This time, he came back with his laptop, which he propped on Henry’s desk chair – after removing a few pairs of underwear that had been tossed onto it. “What were you saying?”
Henry sighed and pushed himself up onto his side. That spike of agony still trailed from the outside of his eye socket to the centre of his brain. He couldn’t allow his mind to drift anywhere near the memories of the day without feeling the shame turn over in his belly. But he had to admit, Donnacha’s presence was a lot like a hot cup of tea on a chilly day.
“It’s Flatmate Friday.” Henry waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the living area. “Flatmate bonding and whatnot.”
“You’re my flatmate, too,” Donnacha pointed out. He looked away from his laptop and glanced about the room, no doubt analysing the mixture of washed and unwashed laundry littering the floor. “And I have a feeling I’ve... we’ve all been neglecting you a little bit.”
Henry’s empty, knotted stomach attempted to do a little flip. “You sound like Lu.”
Looking slightly pleased with himself, Donnacha gave a shrug. “Maybe she’s a good influence on me. Only Fools and Horses?”
“Sure.” Henry didn’t particularly care for the 80s sitcom, but it always seemed to draw a chuckle or two out of Donnacha.
Donnacha positioned himself at the lower half of Henry’s bed, one leg crossed under the opposite knee while his foot trailed off the side. It was a long way for him to reach to grab a slice of pizza from the place, but he did so heroically with only a tiny exhalation of strain. Henry took his pillow and pressed it to the back wall, forcing himself to sit upright even though it made his head spin and his bones feel like jelly.
After five minutes of staring numbly at the laptop screen and listening to Donnacha chew not one but two slices of pizza, the spinning and the weakness started to pass, and the shifting in Henry’s stomach felt less like a natural disaster waiting to happen and more like an empty plea for sustenance. He gingerly reached for a slice of the pizza, and was oddly relieved when Donnacha didn’t make a big deal out of it; he just leaned around Henry and grabbed a third slice for himself.
A few bites in, and Henry’s mind started to wander. Sleeping in, not feeling motivated enough, insulting the work of a dead person, lazily forgetting social etiquette –
The spices in the pepperoni and the tanginess of the tomato sauce drained away until the next bite of pizza felt like a mouthful of cardboard.
Henry chewed painfully leaning over to place the half-eaten slice back at the edge of the plate. Chewing was an ordeal almost as unpleasant as that afternoon’s bout of dry-heaving, which he had no desire to repeat.
He brushed the crumbs from his fingers onto the plaid fabric of his pyjamas pants, making a note to change them before bed, and sank back against the pillow. Dough and cheese and sauce sloshed around in his stomach, and he started to lift a hand to rub at it, but a large, protective one made it there first.
Donnacha didn’t even look away from the screen as he rubbed his hand back and forth. “Doing okay?”
“I think so,” Henry murmured, flinching as his stomach squelched under Donnacha’s palm and then began to settle into a gentler churning motion. He wondered if Donnacha had any idea the effect he was having.
And then Donnacha laughed out loud at an on-screen joke that Henry just didn’t get, and Henry had to fight just to keep his eye-rolling subtle.
#Lucyverse Henry#emeto#emeto sickfic#sickfic#hurt comfort#hurt and comfort#anxiety mention#anxiety induced sickness#depression mention#bad mental health mention#hurt comfort fic#platonic caretaking
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Elsa: Five years ago, I was a fucking mess.
Elsa: Now, I’m a fucking mess but with at peace with it and with a cooler fashion sense.
#frozen 2#elsa#incorrect frozen quotes#source: tumblr#elsa go to therapy challenge#depression mention
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#mental health memes#mental health#mental health matters#mental health awareness#depression#relationships#depression quotes#depression memes#depression mention
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the 3 states of Rev as a sim
Original Revenant - Unself-aware, 100% Plato's cave. Believes he is living a regular life as Kaleb Cross.
Self-Aware Revenant - The man who used to be Kaleb Cross realizes and recalls that he has been dead for a few hundred years and turned into a virtually immortal simulacrum revenant of that man. Due to this, he develops effectual Depression as a result.
Revenant Reborn - Self-aware (currently), but not entirely in control of his actions. Effectively put on a leash, but worst of all, now even more aware of the cage his own body has become to his mind.
@daralamalice posted a really good question on X Twitter about what Rev's talking to himself in the lobby was about. I mentioned that I think it's his fractured programming, fluctuating between earlier versions of him between 2 and 3 since he is still self-aware. However, his actions have been taken over by an outside operator. This leaves him helpless but to listen to older versions of his programming in a similar, but more disjointed, fashion than Ash and Leigh.
(the links go to wikipedia)
#revenant apex legends#apex legends#apex revenant#apex legends revenant#apex headcanons#revenant headcanons#simulacrum problems#depression mention#season 18 resurrection#season 18 apex#kill code
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Today was soooo stressful.
There were also moments of non stress.
Went birding with my old people. My friend X is one of the first people I met when I moved out here and spouse refers to him as "yo boy," a recognition of high friendship status in our household. Probably the most outgoing and friendly among the birding crowd around here. He's in his 80s now and started having in the past few years what the doctors diagnosed as seizures. He's on anti-seizure meds and he's losing sight in one of his eyes. He says his memory (mostly in the recall of facts) isn't what it used to be. He wonders if he's getting dementia but that hasn't been diagnosed and I kind of think (not a medical diagnosis) it's more likely to be depression. He's been pretty glum lately, really is not adapting well to the changes in his body and feels very limited by them, it doesn't feel like he can engage in most of his hobbies anymore. He can't drive anymore either because of his vision, his wife taxes him most places. He mostly goes birding for the social aspect, though he does seem to enjoy the easy finds like the larger water birds. (His vision issues make looking through binoculars hit or miss and he has given up on wearing his hearing aids when birding.) He said he recently went into the doctors for a rash, took one of those wellness surveys during the intake, and the first thing the doctor wanted to talk about was not about the rash but whether or not he had any guns in his house. (He doesn't.) He tells me he's not suicidal and doesn't have a suicide plan, but over the past few months he's expressed more than once that maybe he would be okay with dying already. I listen, and then he tells me a terrible birding joke.
He does get excited over the number of songbirds and ducks we see today. I am pretty happy with our sightings too. Canvasbacks!
I run some errands and on the way back in a 40 mile an hour zone with nowhere to pull off, my car starts acting wild. First thing I notice is that the defroster stops working. Then the radio cuts out. That I noticed that the brake light is on, even though the emergency brake is definitely not engaged (I check). I have forgotten where the switch for the hazard light is. The hand on the speedometer is waving wildly between 0 and 40 mph, even though I'm going at a steady speed. I find the hazard light switch, hit it, but nothing happens. I reach an intersection and turn onto a smaller road, but the power steering isn't working so it's a bit of a task, especially when the steering wheel momentarily freezes up completely in the middle of the turn. The car is moving but there's definitely some miscommunications going on between the gas pedal and the engine. I am on a less busy (but still busy) street, my goal is to get down far enough so that somebody turning right around the corner doesn't just hit my car, park in the right lane (there are two lanes in each direction) and turn on the hazards. BUT WAIT THE HAZARDS AREN'T WORKING. So I just keep going and hope I can pull into the next side street. I reach a side street, pull sideways into it. The side street goes uphill and the car does not have enough power to make a complete right turn or to go up that hill, so basically I am parked across one of the lanes. Fortunately it is a dead end street into a shishi residential neighborhood, and it's the middle of the day, so no one is trying to go in or out of it. Call my spouse who doesn't answer, call again, no answer, police officer stops and wants to help push the car to a safer place but that's a no-go. She also mentions that I probably should not sit in the car in case it gets sideswiped. (Oh yeah whoops.) Tow truck shows up after about 10 minutes, and it turns out that this really was a good street to pull into, because I only see one vehicle going in or out the entire time I'm waiting, and it has no issues going around my car.
Well, survived that! The car is back at the apartment along with the groceries that were in the trunk, but it's not going to run until we get it towed *again* to the repair place.
If only the alternator (we're assuming that's the problem) had waited two more months to crap out, because we'll be living in the city by then and could feasibly just not have a car at all. That won't work in the meantime though. Sigh.
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