People who love you shouldn't make you feel ashamed of your interests and hobbies. What you enjoy is wonderful, even if it's uncommon, complicated, stereotypical, etc. Please keep sharing your lovely energy with the world.

(personal, detailed description of a traumatic experience, alters)

I talked about having an alter that prevents all anger I feel towards an abuser, in order to protect me, because they believe this abuser would kill me if I ever showed any anger towards them. I've been working on this and realized there was an event where this alter player a major role.

I don't remember how old I was, but I had to be a bit over 18, when this happened. There was a hostile atmosphere in the house, and I could feel it in the air, that father came home angry and was looking for a target. So, I made myself scarce, went outside and out of sight. However just a few minutes later, I heard my youngest sibling screaming.

Without thinking, I raced to them, found him attacking my sibling, and punched him in the face as hard as I could. He switched targets and attacked me instead, which was the point of it. Me punching him in the face did absolutely nothing to him, as he was both bigger and stronger, but I didn't care, I was enraged he would dare to attack my sibling, I would fight him to death. But, I couldn't.

He punched me back harder, and I fell to the floor, but I got up, raised my fist, and then froze. He was watching me in both rage and expectation, he was waiting for me to attack so he could return it double, but I couldn't do much more at that point, than hit him on the shoulder, at which he hit me in the head, and I fell down and couldn't get up.

I was paralyzed on the floor. I twitched and struggled to move, but I couldn't, something was keeping me completely immobile. The self hatred I felt was overwhelming. I wanted to fight him, I wanted to do as much damage as possible to him, I wanted him to pay for laying a hand on my sibling, I wanted him to know it would not be without consequences, I wanted to fight him to death. But instead, I was weakly lying on the floor, too weak to even move, terror sinking down into my bones, when I didn't want to be scared, I wanted to attack!

He left me lying on the floor without a second glance. Teenager lying motionless on the floor is not a good target. I lied there for a few minutes, unable to move, then somehow, I managed to crawl a few meters, my room was just around a corner, I was shaking badly with effort it took to just close the door, and then I fell back to the floor, and lied there paralyzed, for 6 hours.

Lying on the floor for 6 hours, hurts. I tried to at least switch positions a few times, but every small movement would end up in hyperventilation and loss of ability to breathe. I was filled both with self hatred for being this weak, this scared and this helpless, and terror that someone in the house was going to barge into my room, and realize that I cannot move, cannot do anything to defend myself, and then they'd kill me. I was praying that nobody finds me, nobody realizes just how vulnerable and open to attack I am at the moment, because if they did, I wouldn't be able to stop them. I was enraged with myself, and would have done anything just to be able to move, and fight, but it was all in vain, I couldn't move at all. At that point I already had ptsd and I knew what was going on was going to create a whole new trauma and I already tried to suppress it, pretend it wasn't happening, as if I could somehow will myself not to get affected by this. I was right too, from that moment on, I would become frozen in those moments, lying on the floor, without being able to do anything, waiting to see if I would be killed.

During the long 6 hours, I had time to think quite a bit, and I realized at one point, that this wasn't normal. It wasn't normal for me to be lying on the floor waiting to be killed, when I was in the house with my family, place where I should have been the safest. It would have been more normal for someone to be concerned that I can't move. I was scared that I would never be able to move again, and was contemplating how I would probably spend the rest of my life there on the floor, and how that would go for me.

My protective alter started joking around with me in order to ease my thoughts, which took me out of my trepidation. Nobody found me, nobody checked on me. After any event of violence towards me, my entire family would immediately shun me, to show that I was wrong, to show that they were all standing with the father, and absolutely detested me because it was my fault this violence occurred, and I had to be avoided, shamed, and ignored, until I somehow made it up to all of them. And in this case, it was extremely hard to argue against it; I did punch him in the face. There was no defense for me whatsoever and I knew it, this was very much provoked violence, he could have killed me and it would have been my fault for attacking him first. I know now, that it was fairly predictable what I would do, because I often put my body between him and my siblings, in order to protect them. If he attacked them, I would come running. He was almost summoning me. You know why he attacked my sibling? They didn't close a door. It wasn't a door that particularly needed to be closed. It was an excuse.

After 6 hours of lying on the floor motionless, I managed to shakily climb into my bed, where I fell unconscious almost immediately. I have no memories of anything that happened for the next month.

So why did I paralyze? I thought it was out of terror. Because this man did torture me, hit me, and almost kill me on multiple occasions. He was eager to kill me, and I could feel his murder intentions while fighting him. But I was also done, I didn't care if he killed me anymore. I was going in to fight him to death, I wanted to hurt him as much as possible even if it ended in my death. I think, that's why I paralyzed. If I had gotten up and punched him as hard as I could again, he would probably feel it was enough of an excuse to be able to kill me and get away with it. After all, I was coming at him, right? You can kill someone smaller and weaker if they keep attacking you, or so it felt inside of my head, since I was living in a world where that was normal, where attacking meant you are going to be killed and it was going to be your fault.

My small protective alter wasn't going to have me dead for anything. Even if I had wanted it. Paralyzed on the floor for 6 hours, hating myself to the extreme, feeling ashamed, weak, terrified, incapable of even any self defense, was still preferable than death to them. They were on a mission to protect my life and anything I experienced as a consequence was not that important to them. So they kept me paralyzed for as long as I was in any way capable of retaliating and attacking back. As long as I was angry and reckless, I needed to be stopped. Life needed to be preserved.

But for me, being reduced to that paralyzed self hating state was so traumatic, I ended up frozen in those moments, for a very long time, I think it took me over 10 years to get free of that. Whenever I would close my eyes, I would still be on that floor, unable to move and waiting to be killed. I think it triggered another past situation where I was also paralyzed, unable to run, and waiting to be killed, that was something that happened to me multiple times. So whatever else I was doing, a part of me was just waiting to be murdered and I couldn't relax or feel any relief, for a very long time. Thus my frustration with the alter, everyone knows torture is worse than death, and waiting to be killed is worse than death, except, for this very small alter who is determined to keep me alive consequences be damned.

Anyway, I don't regret what I did, in that situation I know I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I didn't protect my sibling, even if I suffered for it extensively. My heart broke over and over when I realized my siblings thought that I was actually the rightful target for the violence and deserved it all. Even if they had to keep that belief up in order to be sure it 'couldn't happen to them' and 'it was only happening to me because I deserved it, and they were different so they were safe'. I don't care for their point of view anymore because in that point of view, I exist to absorb violence and don't have a point of view at all. I don't need to look at myself from such a perspective, nobody deserves that.

Writing this down makes things a bit easier for me, because I do often wonder why am I so different and messed up, but then when I'm seeing what happened to me, and what the circumstances of my survival were, like, yeah, of course, I would be weird and messed up if this was my normal, what can you expect? As someone who had to spend 10 years frozen in trauma of waiting to be killed by a family member, and got dehumanized by siblings who I was saving, what am I supposed to be like? I'm supposed to be okay about it all? I don't think so. If my world was that empty and glum it kinda makes sense I'm also very empty and glum. I don't have the warmth and love stored in me from years of being safe and protected and loved, I have experiences of being torn apart for fun, for entertainment, and then being seen as not human once I was experiencing pain. I'm not going to morph into a regular person after that, I'm going to be wary, fearful, untrusting, desperate for safety, as anyone would be.

Little one shot I made a while back :) I'm supposed to be learning about viscosity in Chemistry right now but I'm tiredddd

Buster Moon sighed as he placed himself on the couch. It was three in the morning, and this was something of a ritual by now. He struggled to keep his eyes open, yet was far too awake to close them.

His little paws clung to a cup of steaming tea, where a teabag bobbed up and down at the surface. He made it for the smell more than anything. He hated himself for his trauma, and for the trouble it caused. He was always so anxious and jumpy, and it made it hard to get anything done.

Rosita and the others noticed, of course. It was hard to miss. But he hated to see the worried stares of his friends. He hated to know he was hurting them. And yet still when they inquired about his wellbeing, the lie that escaped his mouth was impulsive, and he could never even think before it slipped out.

When he said he was fine, he never meant it at heart. But oh, how he wished he did! It hurt him to know that his words dampened the spirits of those he cared about. He was aware that not a single on of the troupe believed Buster was 'fine,' or anything of the sort, for that matter.

He wanted to tell them how much he was hurting, but his thoughts would not allow it. Most of the time, his pain presented itself in the form of a tight feeling in his chest, nightmares, and little flashbacks. Sometimes these flashbacks were just little flickers, fissures in the present reality, but he couldn't ignore them.

He couldn't help the stab of fear when the face of a friend, a warm and loving figure, was suddenly replaced with the face of those who wished him harm. Sometimes that face was Jimmy Crystal, sometimes it was Angus Chrome, and other times it was Norma Hawkins - as the freshest trauma in his mind.

And these faces plagued his nightmares. He couldn't control it - despite his fervent wishes - but they did. And the fact that Buster was becoming increasingly phlegmatic plagued the dreams of his friends. No, his family.

Buster was slowly forcing himself to appear emotionless. He didn't even realize it himself. And when he wasn't, the happiness and charisma he put on display were just that: a display.

But wanted to apologize. So why couldn't he? He had the capability, of courze. Maybe he just didn't have the heart, as much as it pained his to say.

He sipped at the tea, looking down at it and watching the little swirls in the liquid drift apart and together in the surface, a paper-thin barrier. He closed his eyes for a brief second and breathed in the scent deeply, taking it in.

Maybe he should tell somebody. But how? He knew that the moment they said something, his mouth would only spill lies. He was disgusted with himself. Is this all he was? A charlatan and a negating runaway?

That. That's what he was doing. He was running away from his problems. He sniffed, looking up and out his office window. He could see the odd car driving by, headlights illuminating the streets and the darker corners of his room. A few street lamps flickered dimly, the light just enough the draw his eyes, and he saw an animal walk down the sidewalks once or twice.

And he had to wonder now as he tilted his gaze to look at what little of the night sky he could see through the window: would he be like this forever?

He felt like all he did anymore was chase the approve of others, trying to find some way to, what, confirm that his own self was valid? Why did he need a random stranger to validate him? Ash had told him so many times, as had the others, that he didn't need strangers to tell him he was good enough, he just had to believe it himself.

And that is where it all went wrong. He didn't. And so he took desperate measure after desperate measure to try and fix some part of himself that he couldn't even recognize.

First he flooded the theater, then he lied and got him and his family incoorporated with Crystal, then with Angus Chrome, and again with Norma Hawkins. It felt a god-awful Groundhog Day at this point.

And each of his mistakes came back to haunt him. He would have been willing to do anything to escape his problems at this point, but instead he just wallowed in his sadness.

As another flash passed before his eyes, a milisecond of Norma's talons, he made up his mind. He opened up his laptop, clicked Ash's email, and finally said something.

"Can I talk to you?"

Anyway anon hate isn't that bad having no less than 15 blogs receive anon hate about me however???

I'm not into the choking thing Anymore it's a red flag

Y’all I got to witness my emotional amnesia take over in real time! Here’s the story:

So I was very almost a victim of a bank phishing call last week. I actually had my friend with me and he was also taken in by it. Luckily for whatever reason my money couldn’t go through to them (🙏🏻) and so they just hung up. That was where we truly realised what had just happened.

Anyway that’s not really the important bit, this is;

So I was crying and shaking so badly I almost dropped my phone several times and my friend was shocked and quiet. After a bit the amnesia took hold and my crying stopped immediately (but this isn’t where I noticed it because this happens to me all the time) it just appeared outwardly that I’d simply calmed down.

A bit of time passes before we feel able to discuss it properly, then my friend started to get stressed and angry about what had happened, he was all kinds of frustrated that he’d helped to almost get me scammed.

I was just like “yeah wow that was a rough situation” completely flat and unbothered as if I hadn’t almost lost £300. This is like 20 minutes after I was juddering so bad my cat left the settee next to me.

My friend was saying “why aren’t you angry about this?? How are you so unbothered by it?” And that’s when I realised holy-shit I really feel nothing for this! I fully still remembered the crying and the shaking, but it was as if I was recalling something that had happened to my mum rather than myself.

First time I’ve actually noticed it happen so fast.

Pretty cool.

Kinda weird.

Very thankful!

Living with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) can be an arduous journey. Still, individuals can effectively manage their symptoms with the right tools and support—the psychiatric rehabilitation program offers an array of services tailored to assist individuals on their path to recovery.

The Lines Between Real and Unreal in Fictional Worlds

I’ve been interested in the idea of what’s real and not real inside a fictional world. There are some stories where the main character has dissociative identity disorder—books like Fight Club or Piranesi—where the lines between real and unreal are blurred. As readers, we don’t know what is ‘real’ within the world, and what is a figment of the fictional narrator’s imagination. In these titles,…

View On WordPress

PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder) and sleep disorders are closely correlated, meaning they often occur together. The experience of trauma can significantly disrupt sleep patterns and quality, while sleep problems can also worsen the symptoms of PTSD.

dont get me wrong cuz I DO appreciate Larian continuing to work on the game and trying to fix issues etc but like. mr Larian PLEASE stop responding to fan feedback. Theres like 2 million people playing this game ofc some of them will say character x should be nicer or cuter or do a little dance but that doesnt mean u gotta do it. you dont gotta call neil newbon or whoever up like come to the studio we need to rerecord everything bc a person on reddit said theyd like it better. You’ve worked on these characters for over 4 years and you are allowed to stand by your creation. None of what I said applies to Wyll’s underdevelopment btw but you all know that

You will never have it all figured out. That can be an uncomfortable truth to accept, but remember that the goal is not to be prepared for everything. It is simply to be capable of responding healthily to the unexpected.

Neurodivergent people are never undiagnosed. We are misdiagnosed. Our symptoms don't go unnoticed, and people will always attribute them to some sort of cause. They'll just attribute them to personality and blame the individual for their symptoms.

For example. My autism is not undiagnosed, it's been misdiagnosed as "too sensitive," "awkward," "rude," "obsessive," and "too intense." My brother's adhd wasn't undiagnosed, it was misdiagnosed as "lazy," "impulsive," "annoying," and "can't seem to get any work done."

Growing up without a diagnosis is growing up believing that you are to blame for your differentness. Your symptoms are a personality flaw. You are diagnosed by everyone around you as "weird."

Edit: Some people have pointed out that I'm using the word misdiagnosis here rather loosely. I'm aware that it isn't quite correct definitionally, and I don't mean to say that medical misdiagnosis and the type of social misattribution I'm talking about are identical--just that they are related phenomena, and neurodivergent people are often victims of one or both. There isn't an exact term for what I'm talking about here, so I used the closest one I knew of. Terminology is important and some words need to be used with precision to retain their influence. At the same time, sometimes meanings change, and bending words to fit new circumstances is a natural way that language evolves. I'm not sure which situation this falls under, so while I don't want to change my post (not even sure what to change it to), I thought I'd edit and add clarification. Additional feedback on this is welcome.

I want to think they were friends

personally would really enjoy a dr who episode where the whirlwind single-episode romance (a la the girl in the fireplace) is between the companion and a historical figure instead of the doctor. And while the short-lived love story should be beautiful in its own right I think there should also be a moment of realization at the inevitable tragic end where the companion is like oh this is what love is like for you all the time.

Eddie starts a live-stream in the kitchen and then immediately leaves the room because he forgot half the shit he needed in his studio. Meanwhile, Steve and Dustin are coming in from the backyard. They’re bickering about the injury Steve got.

Steve: It’s a splinter. I don’t care that your mom is a nurse, I don’t need her to drive to Chicago to remove it. This is just like with-

Dustin: Oh my god, if we would’ve called my mom then than maybe your nose wouldn’t look like that and you wouldn’t have spent the whole night at the hospital getting Miss Byers’ plate removed from your skull with Hopper.

Steve: Dude, what were you planning on telling her? The house was torn to shit and we put a dead dog in the fridge.

Eddie, standing in the doorway: …What the fuck?

Dustin:

Steve:

Dustin: It was for science

Steve, at the same time: It was dead when we found it