#internalised ableism tw
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what is an angel, without a god?
a being made to serve, to spread the dominion and will of their god. more an arm than a servant, yet awake and aware, the beloved right hands of their divinity. to be an angel is to be bathed in more holy adoration than mere mortals could ever understand.
tommy knows this. he sees it in philza’s eyes, whenever he talks about his mistress, his goddess, his wife, his other half. how he smiles when the wind caresses him, like the mere act of existence is a loving embrace. he smiles often and easily, and the name kristin always seems to be on his tongue, resting there and radiating a warmth that animates him. tommy’s not sure he’s ever seen phil without the confidence that knowing you are fulfilling your duties by existing, the joy of knowing ones purpose and accepting it fully. he didn’t have to figure out shit. he was made to serve kristin, and that purpose was something he’d never question.
it was never so easy, for tommy.
he had no creator to speak of but the cold cruel hand of man, after all. he never knew that all encompassing divine light, any sense of purpose, just white walls and bright lights and needles and pain. whatever purpose that they had, trying to create life in such a manner, was a mystery to him. all he knew was that it hurt and it was cold and he’d ran as soon as his little legs could carry him.
and there was an emptiness, there. some hole in tommy’s soul he could feel rotting away at the rest of him. he was made to serve, yet he had no one to turn to. he was a tool without purpose, created by amateurs, fundamentally flawed to the point of uselessness. his wings tiny and malformed, ugly and twisted under the thick layer of glossy black feathers. his halo was more like a void than a light, a thin circle of nothing that shattered easily and barely even emitted a soft orange flickering glow. an useless prototype, taking up space.
he’d tried to fill that hole in so many ways. he’d took up the worship of church prime with fervour, praying desperately maybe the gods would take pity upon him and take him in, and even though of course that didn’t happen having a divine will to follow soothed him, left him able to calm his racing mind with ritual and obedience. he’d made friends, and resolved himself into carrying out their will too, because they were better than any stupid god and they deserved that much, but apparently that was ““fucking creepy”” so he resolved to doing it just a little bit, in ways he could use to quell the sickening emptiness enough without driving away all he had.
(and of course, he wasn’t some fucking pussy. the rules of man and mortals meant nothing to him. he wasn’t some simpering little sidekick, ready to fucking kneel at the feet of anyone who’d listen. but of course, neither was phil. he was independent and strong, like tommy was, but he was also whole in a way he wasn’t. he fulfilled a purpose.)
and- as much as he hated to admit it- the taste he’d had of finally being like that? being a servant to a divine will? it was so fucking hard to resist.
some part of him couldn’t help but acknowledge dream as his god. not in reverence, only in fact. after all, an angel crafted by human hands should naturally serve a god crafted by one, too. and there was a satisfaction in that- letting himself play along with the childish whims of the man who ruined his life. it felt like he was breathing for the first time after being shoved underwater, and despite how much he fucking hated every second of being dream’s little social experiment in exile, he also longed for that feeling again, more than anything. he’d never felt more free than when he wasn’t his own person.
it was so very tempting to give into that. be miserable but be whole. be a free prisoner. and in the ways dream looked at him like wilbur did, admiration and amusement and annoyance all at once, he could learn to live with that. he could play pretend, like dream played pretend that he was anything more than a sad sad man looking for anything to prevent his loneliness.
but tommy had other people to protect than himself. the decision was easy, then. he almost didn’t have to choose it. he felt both comforted and revolted by the idea. was that why he was made? some cheap follower designed with an inbuilt need to be helpful just to avoid trouble? did he have no purpose other than to be a follower? did that make dream right?
no. no, he couldn’t be because he hurt tubbo and if he’d been forced to not be able to choose anything he’d at least sure as fuck choose who’d do it for him, even if it was his last act of spite. he’d spit in the face of who he was, even if it hurt, even if it made everything so much harder.
he lived in the little rebellions, little acts of defiance no one but him would notice. they meant more than the loud anger- that came easy to him. but the subtle revolts, those merely internal, were his proudest battles, and if he didn’t fight them every day what was the point? there wasn’t any, if he didn’t make his own. and he’d carve that out with his dying breaths if he had to.
#sorry in an angelinnit mood#c!tommy#my writing#my headcanons#a little bit of c!prime#religious themes tw#dehumanisation tw#internalised ableism tw#human experimentation tw#abuse tw#i like exploring non human mindsets can u tell :3
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video games r fun escapism but also as a physically disabled person sometimes they're so... harrowing. for reasons that feel so silly when i express them out loud. like i was playing bg3 earlier and - yeah, sure, nobody irl goes on these massive adventures to save the world, i have yet to meet anybody who could cast magic missile or has murdered a bog witch, but like. every so often my character will do something super mundane like Crouching To Sneak or Climbing or Getting Back Up Easily After Falling Over and i get this bitter feeling in my chest because those are normal human activities that people can do and i still struggle with all of them. i love it and it's so much fun and i really can't fault anybody for my own jealous grumblings, yknow, but sometimes it's just... a bit of a bleak reminder that i will never be "normal"
#on the bright side: i reacted to that horrible feeling by writing a bunch of shitty disability headcanons w my bf#which made me feel a little better#they just like me fr#og#vent#internalised ableism tw
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| HC- Touma |
Due to the severe injuries Touma sustained during his escape from the Shogunate soldiers, he struggles with long term health complications to this day. Bouts of chest pains, wheezing and fluid in lungs plague him whenever he over-exerts himself or if it's just another 'bad pain day'. Using his Vision poses a significant risk as he possesses a cryo one.
As such, Touma bears a grudge against those of the Shogunate and will become tense whenever he spots them. He feels his complications now hinder his quality of life and tends to think of himself as burdensome to his travel partners. But this does not stop him from trying to do what he can to shoulder some of the weight.
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11. how comfortable is your muse with their appearance and their body?
he doesn't think he's ugly, nor particularly good-looking but is verging on comfortable with his overall appearance. daniel is ( and has been for some time, really ) working on body neutrality ; just being at peace with himself. it's come as a shock to him that the closest he's been to this goal has been post-accident because his self-esteem in that regard was at its lowest in the immediate aftermath of his accident. after all, scars and the loss of a limb are huge things to wrap your head around. part of daniel thinks the move in the right direction might stem from a degree of appreciation and awe knowing what his body has been through and the fact that he's come out the other side.
he wears a prosthetic so it's not necessarily immediately obvious that he's disabled, but daniel's still battling insecurities and trying to rid himself of those kinds of thoughts. tends to wear slightly baggier trousers than he ever did to make the difference in appearance less obvious. his gait is uneven as he still tends to avoid sharing his weight equally and it gets worse if he's in pain. he finds himself embarrassed or frustrated with this more often than he'd like.
#( meme answers. )#i have ThoughtsTM#body image tw#injury tw#internalised ableism tw#just to be safe
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“I can save you. You need only ask.“ del @ dutch 👀
tw: manic episodes (mentioned), medical abuse (implied), forced institutionalisation (implied), dissociation, hallucinations, internalised ableism
"no," he tells the phantom-thing in the corner of his eye, over and over. bursts of colour that hurt his eyes and he's lying on a bedroll somewhere cold, can't remember where, and he's... that figure hurts to look at, to be near. he sits up in the dark, talking with his hands as much as his mouth. head hurts and he's saying more words tonight than he's said in years. "no, see, hosea's comin' for me, he said... and when he gets here--he's gonna explain everything. he's gonna get me home."
when he comes back to himself, the bright phantom is gone. he thinks he was dreaming. must have been, to see colours like that. must have been, to think he was all the way back there, out of his mind for no reason he could see, with hosea and bessie worried sick about him and all of them knowing they couldn't take him to a doctor, couldn't, knowing what would happen. knowing what he was. there were some close calls in those days. dutch's head ain't ever been screwed on too tight. he knows. they all knew.
they all knew and they still... judged him, in the end. didn't they.
did they? did you?
it takes until his cheeks are cold and frozen-over with tears for him to realise he's crying, but after that he stops real quick. sits there in the cold and dark, still thinking about the old days, his head still hurting. everything else hurting alongside it.
#ic.#ic: dutch#ohsunshine#ohsunshine: delirium#[ dont fucking ask me. ]#[ my hc is that he almost got forcibly institutionalised during a really bad manic swing as a young man#and only hosea (and likely bessie) managed to keep him out of it somehow. not sure how! but they did. ]#[ (that or he was in but they got him out) ]#mania tw#hallucinations tw#forced institutionalisation tw#medical abuse tw#internalised ableism tw
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@middener / @inquistior . dance + hover for abel from hal . seduction . accepting
( DANCE ) leaning in closer while they are slow dancing with mine.
( HOVER ) hovering their lips over mine’s.
It was perhaps the awful familiarity of it that made that moment far heavier than expected.
Like moving with drenched clothes and armour, a rock falling down just above your head as you slowly sink further and further down. It had not been Abel’s intention. Seating outside in one of the many balconies of the Winter Palace, he had sought it as a way to keep away from the crowd that had so quickly returned to normal while his own heart still raced. The adrenaline of the attack still clinging to his blood and body, refusing to let go completely.
The dull pain at his knee and leg far sharper and stronger than it had been earlier in the night when he had last spoken to the Inquisitor. Instead of the needling deep pain that shot across his body, a pain that had become familiar to him to the point of living in the back of his mind, it was instead sharp blades that serrated the side of his bone. Worse perhaps was the fact that he had been unable to do his duty, unable to protect the Empress.
And they all danced.
They all continued dancing, as if nothing had happened. As if a part of their nation had not been robbed in front of their eyes. As if the blood of their royal family had not been spilled in those same stones they now partied in.
The fact that Gaspard had always been the rightful heir did nothing to wash the bitter taste on his tongue. Did nothing to alleviate the guilt and the failure that had lead to this. The fact that he had been fighting for Gaspard before becoming this way did not bring relief.
And despite it all, when Hawln had walked out to that same balcony, he still felt himself falling into the same steps that he had known once. Perhaps it was the sound of the piano coming from within the ballroom that had felt it right that he should ask Hawln to dance. A skeletal and ghostly image of what they had once done in a place that had embraced them both in what felt like a dream to Abel. It had felt like the right thing to do, in the moment, with the adrenaline and the golden light kissing Hawln’s hair and soft eyes.
Abel had never been a graceful dancer. His mother had always said that he should have the prowess to but his soul could not follow. The rhythm of his soul would not keep pace with any song but the thud of his own heart. His mother did have a way with words. Now as they swayed he felt like he was sinking.
A reminder that he could not keep pace with the world, with the music or with his own heart.
It was a macabre, distortion of a memory that he loved dearly with a man that could barely recognise him. He feels Hawln rest against his own body and lets the warm wash over him even as his body feels like freezing. Were he to find the right words he was sure that Hawln would know what it was, better than Abel. The tightness at his heart and lungs. A prickle of tears at the edge of his eyes that would not be allowed to persist. A deep sadness that feels distant as if he stood beneath a large body of water. The weight was certainly felt even if he felt himself descending further and further into that void.
Hawl’s lips are warm and for a moment Abel cannot find himself between memory and the present. The Inquisitor and the farmer that he had met. The soldier and the invalid. He felt cold. Mind raced, keeping himself grounded in the present and standing, dancing as best he could. Half watching from the distance and only barely feeling that he wanted this.
And he wanted this.
Gloved hands raised to Hawln’s shoulders, gripping him briefly and keeping him in place. A step, half hobbled, back, but keeping balance. He wanted this, but not like this. Not like this, not under this weight, not with his leg like that, not with his mind so far away. There is a scream within the tightness of his chest, in the heavy and restless heartbeat in his ears, in the slight curve of his eyebrows and briefly confused eyes that flood with comprehension.
And pity.
Abel inhales sharply, steeling himself and yet feeling as exposed as before. Still sinking and soon alone for he would return to his duties and to the lights within. And that would be good. They had had their time, had they not? Their moment in the sun. The Inquisitor had plenty of other things that would keep his mind busy, his heart full. And Abel refused to be an anchor as he seemed to soar.
But that was only part. Hawln would understand, he had always understood when words failed him. His hands hold Hawln’s shoulders strongly, blue eyes focus on his for a breathless second, two. Left hand briefly touches the side of his perfectly shaved face. He feels so unbelievably warm against the stark light from within.
He takes another step back, hand reaching to his aid, helping in carrying the weight as he sat back down.
#middener#inquistior#abel de clair ( muses )#raven received ( meme replies )#( anyway I had forgotten how painful it was to write abel )#internalised ableism tw#( I made it sad whoops )
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i try to be chill and unbothered about it but fuck i wish i wasnt autistic, i dont usually, im fine with it i've come to terms with it already, its fine, but god its so hard never knowing whats going on around me. are you mad at me? are you tired? are you sick? have you finally had enough of putting up with me? it just makes everything so much harder. im sorry, i hate it. i cant even blame my father, i hate me too.
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every so often I'm reminded of things I can't cope with that Normal People Can. (like the way the music I'm listening to splits between headphones in stereo, I can't deal with listening to it other than through computer speakers.) I cannot and likely never will be able to cope with a great many things. rightly or wrongly, when I remember these things it's easier to rationalise to myself why I should die.
#personal#tw suicide#puddleglum hours#internalised ableism? absolutely. good? no. fact? yes#am i sadposting more bc this burn hurts like the very devil tonight despite it being nine days since i did it? why yes#have i been consciously keeping the sadposting off here recently because i don't want people to overreact and call the police on me again?#also yes!#we're doing brilliantly babes <3
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I feel like I’m an ugly burden bc I’m disabled and require assistance to live and I need mobility aid
♿️anon
.
#anon#anon confession#anonymous#disability#disabled#disabled community#confession#ableism#ableist language cw#tw ableist language#internalised ableism#beauty standards#body posititivity#bopo#body positive
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Whumptober Day 2: Insomnia and Crying to Sleep.
Canon compliant. In exile, Tommy's insomnia is bad enough to the point he’s severely sleep deprived. Initially angry at Tommy's inability to do much, Dream softens when Tommy starts crying. Warnings for sleep deprivation, delusions and hallucinations (both from insomnia and a long lasting psychotic disorder), religious delusions/hallucinations, religious guilt, some graphic (hallucinated) violence, abuse, self hatred, self victim blaming, and some internalised ableism.
ao3 link
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The sun rose from outside the Tnret, painfully bright even with the canvas dulling the overwhelming light. Birds chirped a cheerful warning, a cue that Dream would arrive soon.
Dream, who would blow up everything Tommy had made the past day. Dream, who’d expect him to put in the hard effort to get it back and would, undoubtedly, punish him for failure.
Tommy wasn’t being lazy- that wasn’t the issue. If he was being a fucking leech, Dream would have every right to beat him half to death and tell him how much of a fuck-up and a failure he was, who no one would ever tolerate. And Tommy had accepted the truth now- that he was such a horrible brat that even Tubbo hated him, and Dream, saintly as he was, was the only person who’d ever want to be his friend ever again if he didn’t shape up.
No, Tommy wasn’t being a self-pitying, obnoxious nuisance. The thing was, he hadn’t slept properly in a week. He’d had a handful of minutes, a blissful hour, maybe, of course. You couldn’t stay up that long without a few grasps at unconsciousness without dying, and the universe wasn’t merciful enough to allow Tommy that. And he’d- he’d tried so hard to be good despite seeing shit and feeling like he was gonna vomit and his head being all hurty as fuck. He did everything Dream said like a good kid would.
But he’d just crashed completely once Dream had gone last night. Woozily, he’d managed to limp back to his bed before collapsing straight onto the floor, but after that, he just… couldn’t move an inch. The bed suffocated him, but when he closed his eyes to sleep, he felt phantom hands nipping at his skin, heard voices indistinguishable but loud, saw colours dancing in front of him with such a bright intensity he couldn’t keep his eyes shut. What little sleep he’d been able to snatch from Life’s cruel grasp had been awoken by horrific visages, loud screams that came from nowhere, agony like a sword through the chest.
And it wasn’t like he wasn’t used to seeing shit. It was normal, he reckoned- he’d been dealing with it since he was little, and no one told him you weren’t meant to do it, so everyone must do it- and so it was his responsibility to deal with. But his exhausted state made it so hard to tell what was real and what wasn’t anymore.
Prime, he would be in so much trouble. He wasn’t sure of much, but that he was sure of. Dream would have his hide if he just flopped around all day and could barely recall his own fucking name.
He was barely even startled when he heard a “Tommy?”. Usually, he didn’t hear shit; that was fucking weird, but he’d started doing so about a day into his insomnia nightmare experience, and it was strange how quick you got used to that shit. He just buried his head deeper into the pillow, the scratchy, dried blood feeling like ants digging into his cheeks and through his bones. He could have sworn he heard them digging into him, too, puncturing flesh.
That was as real, and as fake, as the sound of Dream calling his name.
The canvas sliding open made a kaleidoscope of painfully bright colours cover Tommy’s vision: blue-yellow and pink-green, and other shades that didn’t exist. He groaned, the words straining against his throat- he couldn’t remember the last time he drank, and he felt like devils were poking at his tongue when he tried to make even the tiniest of noises. Dimly, he thought it might have been a punishment from the Gods, for not honouring the Primes enough.
The figure that entered he vaguely recognised as Dream, yet seemed more like a divine servant, sent to punish him for his sins, the way the light refracted on him leaving a halo, the air humming around him with the faintest sound of church bells. Tommy couldn’t help but stare, unable to focus on the words out of his mouth and instead on the shifting lights obscuring Dream’s mask from view. Like it was too sacred for Tommy to see, censored from a sinner’s eyes.
Prayers formed in Tommy’s throat, malformed and scratchy. The holy words came out distorted in his mouth, the energy it took to say them enough he couldn’t keep his eyes open. It took such an effort to try he didn’t even see the slap coming.
His cheek stung, as if impacted by holy flame, and Tommy yelped, his own voice sounding harsh and heretical. He could barely tell the location of the impact, his whole body aching, as he tried to listen. He was a good follower, and he’d do as Dream taught, or as much of it as he could remember through the confusing hazy fog of his mind.
“Tommy.” Dream’s voice was a low growl. “Are you trying to hide from me?”
Tommy took a slow blink, unsure of what Dream was even talking about. “I- I, the Primes, didn’t I pray? Did- was it wrong? What was the- what? I’m sorry.”
“Tommy, what the fuck are you talking about?” Dream shook his head, iridescent shine through his hair making him harder and harder to look at. “I- are you screwing around? Tommy, do you want a punishment?”
“I- it’s been, there’s been, it’s all been digging in, y’know?” Tommy could not communicate the depths of his damnation, and it became clear to him as he spoke that that was the cause. “I’m sorry, the light, the- the things in my skin and shit, it’s been- I haven’t prayed, haven’t slept, it’s been- are you here to send me away? I don’t…” He trailed off a frustrated huff, tears pricking at his eyes.
Tommy wasn’t sure if the noise following was an amused chuckle or the bells of the Primes. “Tommy, how much sleep have you gotten?”
“Um, like, two hours over the past week, I think? I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have- I’m just so, I’m just so tired, I can’t even- I’m sorry, I’m-“Tommy cut himself off with a sob, one he wasn’t sure if it came from frustration, sadness, or fear. Maybe it was all of them. Maybe it was love.
“Well, then. No wonder you’re like this.” There was a softness to Dream’s voice like an aura of light, and being unworthy in that presence made Tommy cry harder, so confused and feeling sick with himself. “Aww, you don’t have to cry. You’re not in trouble for being unable to sleep or whatever. You should have just told me.”
A gentle hand ran through his hair, lifting him into sitting as the other wiped away his tears as much as possible- a fruitless task, since Tommy was still wailing, but wasn’t that what toiling for the Gods and the Primes was, really? The touch felt like it was draining Tommy’s sin away, taking away the weight that left him awake and leaving him floating in his own brain, finally able to sleep after the tears broke through.
As Tommy drifted off in the arms of the Primes, he vaguely heard a soft “I should do this more often, really.” The words only sounded like hymns in his head, a promise that his holy status had been restored and he was once again in the Primes light.
What was he without that, after all?
#My writing#ailesswhumptober#c!primeboys#dream smp#sleep deprivation tw#religious delusions tw#religious guilt tw#abuse tw#self hatred tw#victim blaming tw#internalised ableism tw
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hi its uhhhhh research to i think i have bpd pipeline person here. idk how else to identify myself because i dont feel comfortable making myself public.
ive been intending to do more research into bpd but its like. hard and not because its hard to find resources, i found stuff on youtube, but its hard to sit down and watch it because its not entertaining enough to put my full attention on, so my mind was wandering and then i wasnt taking in information. and i dont know what to do sob. i only actually watched one video bc i know that other videos are going to be boring to me and that im not going to take in information bc i cant focus.
it was a video about what it was like living w quiet bpd and from the little i remember i was like “yep. sounds like me.” (even tho for the most part i literally cannot remember the video) and when i look at the 9 symptoms, theres 4 i can confidently say i experience, and 4 others that are a maybe, but my memory is shit so i can’t accurately tell by myself which of those symptoms i actually experience.
everytime i think abt having bpd i get upset, but i cant tell if its coming from the root of ableism(?) that me being upset about having disorders usually comes from (wanting to be “normal”) or if its coming from the root of ableism that was people with bpd/npd are inherently bad
i also think i have a favourite person. by think i mean putting the pieces together from other people talking about their favourite people from asks you answer made me realize “oh so thats why im so infatuated by this person and it’s not just being closer to them than my other friends”
Hey! I also find it incredibly difficult to sit through informative videos, so you're not alone there. There's also the issue of "am I going to sit through this entire video just to figure out that it's rooted in ableism" that stops me from getting through them. I prefer written stuff!
When it comes to the internalised ableism (also completely valid, that's not just a personality disorder issue), it could very well be a combination of both. Not only does this mean you're not "normal" anymore, but the disorder that's causing it is something that is often considered inherently bad. That can be a scary realisation to make.
I feel like i've said this before, but you don't need to rush into it. You could be struggling so much with doing research and absorbing information on the subject because your brain has yet to accept that it's okay. This can take time, and the best thing you can do if that's the case is to take a step back from the overwhelming amount of information there is to take in and work on breaking that pattern of thinking, however hard it may be.
Try positive affirmations with yourself. If you happen to recognise a particular kind of behaviour that stems from your BPD, acknowledge that, tell yourself that it's okay and move on. Think about what you'd say to another person who was struggling with the things you're experiencing. Just be kind to yourself.
Don't force yourself to do something that you're not ready for. In the end, it will only make you resent the possibility of having BPD even more and that is far less constructive.
I hope this helps, but also please don't fret if it doesn't or hesitate to tell me that i'm just rambling for no reason/you're not looking for advice. I won't be offended /gen /nm /lh
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"You don't have to apologize," Hazeem assures Touma. Blaming someone for their illness would be ridiculous. "Rely on me more, Touma. We're friends, after all." And Touma was his... former employer as well, so there was that.
Hazeem makes sure he'll not drop his friend once he's on his back and after gathering their stuff, he starts to make way towards the direction he assumes their to be temporary shelter was located. "Try rest a little. I'll let you know when we're there, or if there's trouble." Compared to the desert, the ground was uneven with rocks and roots and paths. Hazeem walked slow and steady to not jostle Touma too much.
"I just...don't want to hold you back from doing the things you want to do," Touma confessed quietly. That would be the last thing he'd ever want to do to Hazeem. "I've already accepted the fact that I will not be able to recover from this sickness. And I can live with that. But I do not want it to become something you have to bear too."
For his part, Touma hangs on and tries not to jostle his companion for fear of destabilising his balance.
"Though it seems like you're bearing all this weight just fine."
The cryo user tries to lighten the mood with a joke.
After a while, he settles down with a soft sigh.
"Thank you, Hazeem. I'll carry you back someday, just you wait."
@mangher
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IN OTHER NEWS. GUESS WHO’S GETTING A WHEELCHAIR
#holy shit????????#i. did not think this was gonna happen#im trying not to let internalised ableism win out about this because it would help! i know it would help!#disability#my post#caps tw#also the stipulation was that i had to go to therapy (reasons unrelated to the wheelchair) which is a little funny
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'adhd is a superpower!! it's not a disability!!' like shut up!!! sure, i wouldn't be the same person without it because it has shown me what good things i've done with it. but it IS a disability!!! it is a disability!! do you know how many things i don't get done and the meltdowns i have??? and i didn't go through school being bullied for undiagnosed neurodivergent traits to be told 'it's not disabling!!'. i sure had enough of a bad time in education without getting constant shit for being too emotional or daydreamy or interrupting or not being aware of social cues or not getting sarcasm or being super passionate about interests that often lasted like, a week or so. do you know much grief i would've saved in later life if that was even one aspect of my trauma that didn't make everything so fucking difficult???
#often i forget just how terrible i was made to feel for years for a lot of things#especially when it's a passing conversation or joke#because one day something triggers it all and i just start crying#fuck all those people that ever hurt me#yes even those fucking boys at school#i internalised so much self-blame growing up and getting older because of freaks like them#vent#rant#ableism tw#bullying tw#abuse tw#neurodivergence#personal#mental illness
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now that i got my autism diagnosis i feel like i can finally grieve the life i will never have
i can grieve the fact that i will never, ever ever be like other people. I'm always going to be different, there's no changing who i am. and who i am is fundamentally incompatible with the society I'm in.
i can grieve that one sliver of "hope" i was actually allistic. "maybe if i tried hard enough i could be like them"... but now i know I can't. I won't. it's simply not possible.
i can grieve but i can also forgive myself, forgive myself for everything and forgive my body for trying to live in a world not made for it.
#internalised ableism#actually autistic#kawa.txt#tw mentally ill#actually traumatized#actually abused
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I’m writing an ADHD Zuko fic and this is one of my favourite scene (also the angstiest)
TW for: Child Abuse, physical abuse, ableism, internalised ableism
In the intimacy of his room, Zuko admitted to himself that he didn’t know how to handle it.
The way he could see himself reflected in Sokka and the envy twisting his stomach at how natural the boy was. He was all the things Zuko was never allowed to be. It was obvious he’d never been reprimanded for the way he fidgeted; obvious that no one had ever put a burning palm to his arm so he would focus. He was painstakingly comfortable with being himself everywhere he went.
Zuko didn’t want these things to hurt him. He didn’t want all the things he’d been told he couldn’t be, but he’d never been able to snuff out that flame. Even if he had learned to hide it, he knew. He knew the way he sometimes slipped away just to realize he couldn’t remember half of the conversation. He knew the way he bent his toes and bit his tongue so no one would see the energy burning in his veins. He knew whatever it was, wasn’t gone, and he’d since long stopped hoping he would grow out of it like his mother used to say.
And Sokka just did it.
Alone in the dark, he allowed himself to feel angry at Sokka. The corner of his eyes prickled, and he closed his fists tighter. He could let himself rage, but he couldn’t cry (that, too, he’d unlearnt under burning hands).
He’d let go of that anger with training the next morning. Or maybe he could throw some things around and burn a blanket or two right now. It wouldn’t be the first time.
It was supposed to be a good night. They had fun, and it had gone so surprisingly well until the music had stopped and then…
(Though he lived with it at every moment, it wasn’t often he let himself really think about it. Agni, he just wanted to be normal. He just wanted to be good. A good son, a good nephew, a good Prince, a good brother. A good… friend, maybe. And he knew you couldn’t be like he was and be good both. It was one or the other; it had never really been a choice at all, had it?
Sokka did it effortlessly, but Sokka wasn’t Fire Nation.)
#i didn’t know I had that in me tbh#WIP#discovering feeling through writing#adhd zuko#adhd Sokka#internalised ableism#TW child abuse#tw ableism#atla#Zuko#fanfic#fanfiction#ao3#fanfiction writer#adhd
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