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pokemoncryptids · 4 months

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//Off screen post- End of gengar arc! Please head the tw's in the tags

[Tari drops the phone as the door bursts open, revealing possessed delta floating a couple of inches off the ground, dark purple smog surronding it. It wears a smile that doesn't fit it's face, its limbs limp. ]

"Get- the fuck away- I swear to suicune-"

[She winces- a saying she'd picked up from Delta. Her heart pumping was the only thing she could hear.]

"Just- get out of it-!"

[It's smile widens, too big, eyes flashing purple instead of green, slowing moving towards her.]

"Why do you care? This is just some cheap psychic- the cheapest one you could find. How about this? By the end of tonight- you'll both be dead- together!"

[Silent tears start to run down Tari's face, she moves without thinking- throwing a pokeball, releasing a mightyena, which begins to approach the possessed Delta- growling, Charging up for a move. Tari chokes on her breath, desperately attempting to stall.]

"What do you want with me? Why now? Why now- did my mother give this curse to me?"

[The mightyena strikes, just as Delta lunges forwards, the move misses it. Tari feels the breath knocked out of her chest ]

"Don't you fucking talk about your mother-"

[Tari winces, before stilling at the Mightyena in the corner of her eye.]

"So- it was her-"

[She manages, barely able to breathe.]

"YOU RUINED HER-"

[The mightyena from the side, using a move Tari couldn't recognise against the gengar which knocks Delta off Tari and singes it's clothes, leaving a deep wound on its stomach. Tari gasp for air, getting up, Delta continues.]

"My girl was supposed to be a laywer, not get pregnant at 15. I begged her to get rid of you- You ruined her- she was supposed to do something with her life and YOU FUCKED IT ALL UP."

[Tari feels her blood freeze in place, once again uncomfortably aware of her heart, still beating.]

"Grandad...?"

"You're a pathetic child that she should've fucking aborted when she had the chance, it's not too late though."

[The mightyena growls, lunging at its owner, while Tari scrambles back, finding herself amongst Delta's things- useless, useless, useless- clense tags ???. A purple pokeball with an eye on it- fuck- okay. The mightyena screams- an awful sound that rings in her ears. Taking a deep breath, she steps forward, mustering everything left in her.]

"Kill me then. Stop fucking threatening me."

[She watches as the gengar drags deltas body across the floor, dropping the mightyena, its body still, unmoving.]

"No need to say anything with this puppet, it's served its purpose wonderfully, no life force left in it, may as well be a meat hackey sack."

[After those words, delta fell to the floor like a ragdoll, a gengar rising out of it. Tari didn't hesitate, giving a rough overarm throw of the clense tags and strange looking pokeball.]

"..."

[The Haunt ball bounced across the floor, the ghost barely had time to look down before it was sucked in. It wobbled, once, twice, thrice, before going still.]

"...... Oh my god. "

#tw violence #tw blood mention #tw death mention #tw family issues #tw family trauma #tw family abuse #tw pokemon harm #delta ?#Tari ^^#irl pokemon #irl pkmn #pkmn blog #pkmn rp #pokeblogging #pokemedia #pokeblog rp #pkmn irl #pokemon irl

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goodluckclove · 15 days

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The Archivist no. 1 - Control

so fuck it i'm trying this anyway. here's a long-form, but ultimately singular piece i wrote trying to process the singular Terrible Event of my upbringing. if unaliving stuff is triggering for you now you shouldn't read this.

i'm not going to do this that often because it's nice to work things out in my head but holy shit this was weird to come back to. if someone finds it relatable in that oh hey your shit sucked too and you survived huh?? way i'll get into it again at a later time.

otherwise uh. yeah. enjoy? legit though read the tags before you do this i don't want anyone freaking out.

The Archivist no. 1 – Control

Mom wasn’t sleeping much in the nights before she killed herself. It wasn’t unusual given her rampant insomnia. Dad would pass out in the bedroom, and I would come out of my room at the end of the hall tin the middle of the night and find her watching bad crime dramas and reading the news on her iPad. I didn’t sleep much back then either, I guess.

Sometimes I would sit with her for a while, but the shows didn’t interest me much. Mostly I’d make a joke and continue to the kitchen to grab a snack before going back to my bedroom to keep on writing. I was almost sixteen years old and I had completed two novels that stood, unread, on an elephant’s graveyard of abandoned projects. So it goes.

Near the end of summer I came down with some sort of head cold. I woke up in the middle of the night, feverish and frustrated, and went out into the hall to see if Mom would be awake.

Time flickers and I’m lying on the couch with my head in her lap. She’s stroking my hair. She’s telling me that in the morning we’re going to go out in the mall and she’s going to buy me new pants. I don’t know why she told me that. I don’t know if it was a lie. She solved a lot of problems by shopping for clothes, so it sounded like something she would say. Mom even insisted in a voice that hung quiet in the dark that we would go to Macy’s, a rarity when she only ever bought my wardrobe from Goodwill.

I believed her then because I was a child and I loved my mother. I was sick and I loved my mother. I was looking forward to her buying me new pants.

Did she know then? I don’t know. She’s had two rounds of electroshock therapy since then, so the memory has been thoroughly wiped from her brain. It’s just gone. That moment exists solely in my own recollection, which is barely better than it never existing to begin with.

Later that morning she left saying she had some errands to run. I didn’t think much of it at the time. I had no way to, really, being that they had me on nine hundred milligrams of Seroquel at the time – one hundred more than the recommended dose for an adult man. The mornings left me in a sticky daze and I usually wasn’t able to gain any lucidity until a few hours after I woke up.

Once that happened I felt a little stirred by the circumstances. Mom had errands? What errands? She didn’t do the grocery shopping, she had my brother and I make that trip every week. She didn’t have a job or friends to meet. More than that, her agoraphobia crippled her at times and made leaving the house for anything a feat. But no, she just let for errands and told me that as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

I told myself it was fine.

When I texted her a few hours later she didn’t respond. I called her after that and she didn’t answer. I think I called her a few times.

She didn’t come home at all that day. I remember feeling the dread clinging tight to the top of my rib cage like something toxic just about to drip. It was a feeling I didn’t know how to communicate, and in retrospect I know now that it is a deeply-rooted instinct from my childhood. The warped insight that tells me that, when Mom leaves under mysterious circumstances, or when she leaves after you make her made – she’s going out to drink.

But that couldn’t be it. Mom was sober now and proud of it. She marked her sobriety date as Cino de Mayo and laughed every year at the irony. Mom was sober now. Things were different.

Dad came home from work and I was lingering in the living room, standing guard like an anxious animal. My older brothers were in their bedroom, on their laptops, no knowledge of the panic I was feeling.

Dad greeted me and asked where Mom was. In a voice that mimicked neutrality I said that she left to run errands. He took that with a nod and went to the backyard. I don’t know why he did that – he wasn’t smoking anymore, but by this point he might’ve been using e-cigarettes. Or maybe he was just enjoying the evening air. I just know I was sitting inside the house, very aware that the only other adult I knew was outside, and my mind was racing.

Do I tell him? Should I tell him?

Eventually I opened the sliding glass door and stood in the kitchen until I drew his attention. In my imagination he sees the look on my face and knows that something is wrong. I don’t know if this is true.

“You have to look for Mom,” I said.

He did. No questions asked. I didn’t linger over that at the moment, but thinking now I know that must mean that he understood what was happening. He wasn’t surprised.

Mom had no intention of taking me to Macy’s.

I don’t know what I did while he was driving around looking for her. I don’t really have a clear playback of finding out what happened. The extent of my trauma has severely limited what I am able to remember, and for this specific part of my life what I know happened now is influenced heavily by the many times my Dad recounted it to me.

A few years later he took me for ice cream and we sat in the parking lot to eat it, staring out at a night bathed in orange streetlamp haze. At one point he put his cup on the dashboard and pointed.

“You see that motel?” He said, drawing my attention to a nondescript line of buildings. “That’s where I found her.”

He recognized her car in the parking lot. The manager didn’t want to tell him what room she was in, (“I bet he was worried I’d catch her in an affair,” he’d remark darkly) but I imagine he explained the situation and got the help he needed. Apparently they found Mom after she took all of our medication. Well, I don’t know if it was all our medication. I just know that she had taken my psych drugs, as well as my dad’s and her own, and decided to mix them with a six pack of beer.

Did someone specify it was beer at some point after that? I don’t know why I would know that. I also don’t know why I would assume it was that over any other type of alcohol.

My Mom took my medication to end her life.

It didn’t work, though. Dad told me later that she died for a little over a minute.

I told them I was worried about taking more Seroquel than both of them put together and they promised me it was very hard to overdose on Seroquel.

Was she counting on that? Or did she forget?

I never liked anything at Macy’s.

At some point I found out that Mom was stable and in the hospital. She was in a coma. In my head I have a memory of standing at the kitchen counter and watching my father call Kaiser to get a new supply of all of our medication. He wrote them all down, every name and their proper dosage. I listen to him speak kindly to the pharmacist on the other end of the line.

“The thing is,” he explains, “we packed to come home from vacation, and our luggage got lost on the flight…”

Inside myself is a vacancy so haunted that ghosts are too afraid to dwell there.

Dad ends up sleeping on the couch. He does not want to sleep in an empty bed. He tells me that he will leave in the morning to go back to the hospital, but he just wants to get a little bit of rest. Once he closes his eyes I slide a quilt above his sleeping body and put on a Jim Gaffigan stand-up special that I only process every third word of.

I don’t know where my brothers are in this memory. I am not thinking about that when it is happening. I’m thinking of my father, and my mother, and how if I didn’t tell my father to look for her he might’ve waited and ended up too late.

Years later I will learn that my father never told my brothers, or my older sister who lived on her own, that Mom tried to kill herself. I can’t bring myself to say tried – she succeeded, and was only brought back by the marvels of medicine. While I am thinking of my mother’s death none of them have any idea what is happening.

I am the one that told my siblings how our mother died for a moment years prior. We learn at the same time that they had no idea. When I ask my father why I was the only one he told about her death and not them, he told me that I agreed they shouldn’t find out.

When did this happen? I was fifteen years old and I have no knowledge of this conversation. Was I there? Or was only my body present and he decided that was enough.

Mom wakes up after three days. My sister joins my brothers and myself and we drive to the hospital to visit her. I can’t imagine what I am feeling. Maybe everything, maybe nothing. I remember riding up the elevator and going down the hall, and then my brain skips again and I am standing at my mother’s hospital bed.

She looks sick and she looks the same. There are tubes. I think she’s probably sedated. She is my mother and I love her and she took all of my medication to try and kill herself.

“Why did you do it?” I ask her, voice soft. I am trying very hard not to cry.

Mom smiles. I don’t know if this is true. She smiles as if doesn’t realize that she didn’t stay dead. When she speaks her voice wavers, faint and weakened.

“I didn’t feel – like I had control,” she pauses to catch her breath. “So I did this...and now I do!”

She is pleased like a child presenting an interesting leaf. My mother is proud of what she was able to accomplish. In some part of my brain that hasn’t fully learned how to speak up enough to defend itself, I absorb the knowledge that she has told me something that will ruin me time and time again for the rest of my life.

All of that is gone now. Mom doesn’t remember, and Dad has decided that it is our job to make sure she never has to.

I wonder if he heard what she said to his child. If he is able to process the deep, permanent damage his wife has done in two simple statements. A sympathetic part of me says that I wouldn’t know what to do in his shoes either, but is that true? I’m not sure.

Pull the child aside in the hallway of the hospital. Take them by the shoulders and lean in close so you have a semblance of privacy.

She is sick, I would say. She is unwell and she is lying. When she is like this, you do not have a mother.

Most of the time I do not have a mother.

When I am in the psych ward after my own suicide attempt my parents are the only ones I allow to visit me. I love my parents and my mother sometimes offers to take me to Macy’s. My Dad crafts little notes like cootie catchers written in red ink. I peel tangerines from the bowl in the cafeteria while they tell me what the dog is doing. He does not treat me like I am sick. Perhaps he considers me more suitable for survival.

I wonder if Mom does what Dad did to me in the parking lot with the ice cream. Does she press her palms into the sheets of her bed and think this is where my child came and told me they tried to drown themselves.

She probably doesn’t. I don’t think she remembers anymore.

I don’t think about the night Mom killed herself as often as I used to, and when I do I don’t really feel anything anymore. As I heal I’ve been warned that things might emerge, and that time might actually make the memory more vivid instead of distant. I don’t know what to say to this. When the possibility emerges I just tell myself that all of that is gone now. It isn’t real.

By this time next year my parents will have no way to find me. I’ve taken control my own way – not through death, but by cutting them off entirely. Whether that is something they understand, or even remember, is not my problem anymore.

#writing #writeblr #writing community #writers on tumblr #queer writers #actually writing #creative writing #memoir #non fiction #tw sui attempt #tw sui vent #tw family trauma #tw family abuse #tw family death #tw family problems #tw childhood trauma #archivist

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queeresthellhound · 9 months

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My mother always loved Jesus more than she loved me

And my mother hears me say I was drafted into a holy war I never wanted to be in

Expected to ostracize myself with joy because if the other children hated me it’s because they were Satanic

And sees nothing wrong with it except that I defected.

And she reads the essay I wrote in the third grade before I even knew where babies came from

Saying that if I were president abortion would be illegal everywhere

Because I had been groomed to be a Christian Nationalist ready to ruin lives for the lord

And thinks not that it is horrific a child of not even 12 would write that but rather how horrific it is I do not believe it anymore.

My mother always loved Jesus more than she loved me

And if she was called to do as Abraham, and if I was called to become her Isaac she would have done it

And on the long walk home she would have told me that it was god’s will and that he had a plan that’s bigger than all of us

And at one time I would have believed everything she said on the long journey home, nodding my head silently

Because if she loved Jesus more than me, he must know something that I don’t.

And when my very life was saved by EMTs and doctors and nurses and so many others

Who worked their asses off to make sure my mother’s only begotten son would not be lost

My mother thought of a different only begotten son, the son of John 3:16

And when I survived she praised him for saving her wayward, rebellious child who had hardened his heart to her precious Jesus

Instead of the sinful humans who did all of the work.

And when I had finally gotten up the courage to sit on her bed, bawling my eyes out, a river spring up from the spot I occupied

Telling her that her darling Jesus made a mistake, that I was a mistake,

She decided that god had not made a mistake but that my sinful existence was a part of his holy plan

And then days later shoved me back in the closet with the force of a summer thunderstorm

Because the mouthpieces of Jesus decided that I could not decide for myself what a life of joy looked like

And after all she always loved Jesus more than me.

And my mother still thinks that I will come back to the flock

Despite the fact that I have a crisis every time I step in a church

Despite the fact I see myself as chewed gum, licked cupcakes, dirty duct tape for being alive

Despite the fact that at lectures which remind me of sermons I feel trapped behind a window in my brain

Despite the fact that her church would vote me out of existence tomorrow if given the choice

Despite the fact that her church friend’s “love” for me is predicated on me coming back to their cult

Because my mother has always loved her abusive, manipulative, absentee, deadbeat son Jesus more than the son standing right in front of her

Because Jesus can be anyone and anything she needs him to be

And I can only ever be a goat standing in a flock of sheep, hoping no one ever looks close enough to notice the differences.

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heartswrath · 11 months

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this is how i disappear by my chemical romance / succession 4x10

#succession s4 #succession finale #tw abuse #tw family abuse #idk just in case #roman roy #kendall roy #ivy.txt

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anti-endo-haven · 20 days

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TW: Shitty family, abuse, self harm mention and violence

I fucking HATE the body's family

The dad is abusive and an asshole. You close a door just a bit too loud and you're angry. You don't notice you've missed something in the task he asked you and now you (apparently) only think about video games. You also get yelled at at least once, twice if you're lucky(/sar) and if you really messed up that day it can be more. Big fight? Get hit behind the head. (No wonder why tubbo hits us on the head and do other types of self-harm almost every time we get yelled at)

The grandma #1 is dangerously and toxicly sarcastic. You talk about your special interests? "I'm sure your mom is SOOOO interested about *special interest*" You show her art your proud of? "You should put more effort into that/I don't see what's so great about it"

The grandma #2 is homophobic and toxic towards the dad and the mom.

The big half brother isn't toxic per say, but he knows how bad our dad is, he lived with him since he was 6. And he's a social worker. Like damn do something fucker.

The mom isn't that bad but when she yells at us 9 times out of 10 we split.

The big half sister is the only actually fine person

(all uncles are homophobic to different levels)

(all cousins are fine(?))

Anyways I genuinely would punch grandma #1 (who lives with us) and stab and kill the dad.

I seem calm because I had time to calm down but I am still super pissed at all of them -Mangle (Anger holder) from 🌈🎥

Valid reasons to be pissed. I hope things can get better or you’re able to get away from them soon. Sorry for a short response. Proud of you, though.

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wxrmeaterz · 22 days

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Okay fuck it I really need to vent about this

TW // Familial abuse , child abuse , RAMCOA mentions , child neglect , brief mention of sex trafficking , medical neglect

What really fucks me off about not just our sister but the body's mother is that our mother made sure our sister got therapy for the fact she was abusing us (this is a good thing, abusers need therapy), she never once considered therapy for us.

Depsite the fact we were actively being abused to the point of our sister almost being kicked out because of how severe it got- I mean we're talking RAMCOA

Our mother doesn't know the extent of it, she doesn't know our sister aided in us being sex trafficked or that it was literal RAMCOA she put us through, but she knew it was bad enough to warrant nearly kicking her out of the house

But to care SO MUCH about our abusive older sister and have so much less care for us

She wonders how I can say I had a bad childhood. WHAT DO YOU MEAN

YOU WATCHED HALF OF THE ABUSE WE WERE PUT THROUGH AND NEGLECTED US

She spent so much energy medically caring for our sister when she got ill, but when it came to us she gaslit and neglected us

I fucking despise that wretched woman

I am sparing many details for safety of course.

#tw ramcoa #tw medical neglect #tw child abuse #tw sex trafficking #venting on main #vent post #tw vent #tw family abuse #endos dni #actually did #polyfrag did #tw child neglect

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autisticflapper · 4 months

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PSA: Never treat your siblings or children in ways that you would not be okay with a spouse/romantic partner treating them. You do not get a special license to be cruel to someone just because you share their DNA and/or knew them since they were a baby.

#mine #tw toxic family #tw family abuse #tribalism

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queerpossums · 4 months

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my new year’s resolution is to keep lowering my (abusive) parents’ expectations so that by the time the spring 2025 fafsa rolls out i can file as an independent. i’ve made so much progress this year, i can only hope that by this point next year they realize how much they fucked up or they piss off.

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diagonal-queen · 1 year

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(TWs in tags)

quick update! recently i'd been thinking that i'd been doing better mentally, having less intrusive thoughts and feeling depressed less often. unfortunately i don't think i'm actually getting better, it's just that my family were all very civil to me while i had covid, and then they went away on a trip, leaving me alone for a while. now that they're back and i'm better, i've come to find that i still very much do want to kill myself. please bear with me; my writing/meme posts may become more sparse as i deal with work and my home life. thank you x

#dia's daydreams #tw vent #tw rant #tw suicide #tw suicidality #tw abuse #tw covid #tw intrusive thoughts #tw suicidal thoughts #tw family abuse #tw mother issues #tw depression #dw i'll still be here to interact with people and that lol #i don't wanna leave tumblr entirely #i might go insane without it

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seriously-really-soft · 2 years

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Tonight i’m crying thinking about someone taking care of child me or maybe as i am now too. I’m thinking of crewel from twst, specifically. How he’d come to care for mc as a father figure and how he learns of mc’s past through little pieces before getting the whole picture. Where he learns of the familial abuse mc has had to live with and how their relationship with their bio parents is just so complicated, how they never really felt loved by them. And mc dealing with the trauma of it in their everyday lives. Just,,,,,crewel cradling those pieces of you and nurturing them and showing them care, the real love of a parent. Like yeah, i cant ever get childhood back nor will the excruciating emotional pain over what i go through with my bio family ever just quickly wash away. But at least there’s a parent figure cherishing who you were, who you are, who you’ll be. Someone you can trust your baby photos with and who’ll actually feel love towards the child you were, someone that aches over your experiences and genuinely wants you as their child.

#twst #tw toxic family #tw family abuse #twst headcanons #twst crewel #twisted wonderland crewel #twisted wonderland headcanons #twst reader insert #twst reactions #the kind of night that makes me really wish somebody actually loved me #also #personal

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traumatizedjaguar · 6 months

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You're not supposed to be strong. You were supposed to be safe as a kid.

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prayantis · 1 year

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Midnight Freedom

Manhunt oc au writing!

Elise hissed at medicine soaked rag. “Oh shut up!” The younger sibling ordered. “It’ll get infected if you keep this up you know.”

“Yeah yeah I know Vel. Sorry.” She still thought about the events leading up to the scuffed-up face and black eye. Who thought a bear could be so violent? A mama bear at that.

Veltun finished and placed colorful bandaids on her scuffed-up parts. The black eye remained untouched further. “Okay, I’ve done all I could.” The younger one returned the bandaid box to the aid kit and shut it. “Just-“ Veltun sighed.

“Just try to avoid Mom for the rest of the night, alright?” He tried to speak in a gentle happy tone, but with the subject matter, it still came out depressing. Elise just nodded and stood up from the bed. Absently making her way to the door as she had done time and time again. She was just so,

Tired.

Her face ached. She wanted to cry when she thought back to the events. Why? Why did she want to cry? People get hit all the time, and they don't bitch about it. Why did her heart ache for a strike her mother had given her?

She knew what she had to do. She's always known.

The only thing stopping her was family. But, she couldn't save them. Two kids and a young woman might tug at the heartstrings of people. Might make the police actually look into the case instead of being on their asses.

But no one would give a fuck if a Latina went missing.

Elise went into her room, and sat on her bed, thinking. Could she just leave them all? Leave her siblings behind? Let them take the abuse? It was a tough decision. But she made her choice.

She was saving herself.

Grabbing an old sports duffle bag, she stuffed whatever could fit in it, clothes, bandaids, money she saved up, ids, whatever.

She done it all in a swift motion, only stopping to go to another part of her room. Elise stopped at her dresser, the top held up a framed picture of them.

Her, when she was thirteen with glasses still, Veltun when he was six, and little Winnito who was held up by Elise as he was barely a year old. All smiles.

She wanted to take it. Oh god, did she want that damn photo. But Elise knew if she had, it'd convince her not to leave. To stay and take the punches. Stay and take the abuse. She swallowed hard, taking the frame from the top of the dresser. She gripped it tightly to her chest.

Then

She let it fall to the ground, glass shattering around her, her eyes welled up before Elise quickly wiped them away.

Elise shut the door, leaving her home, she fought not to look back for a final time. The thought of seeing Veltun or Winnito at the window, it made her nauseous. But she did look back. Meeting the gaze of mom.

Mom blankly stared at her. Her costume head made it impossible to see what she was thinking, or even what she was feeling. That happy-go-lucky smile plastered onto the head sickened Elise. Elise opened her mouth to say something but mom beat her to it.

"If you leave, you can't come back."

Elise gulped. Looking towards the ground, oh god, could she really do this? Yes. Yes, she could.

Bringing her now angered face to face, Mom. "Well," she spoke with a twinge of anger, "Good thing I'm not coming back."

"This is your home. Estas pendeja?"

"Yeah guess I am." She retorted. It felt great. She ran off feeling like million bucks. Freedom was just at a bus stop. She could taste it. It tasted sweet.

Elise scanned the buses going out to the cities, she hadn't thought this yet, and she landed on a far enough away city.

Carcer City

It wasn't any New York City, but it'd get the job done. She'd try to find some work there. Couldn't be too hard. Boarding the bus, it was quite empty. Guess no one wanted to go. Only some guys in black hoods and one big guy in a Hawaiian shirt were there.

She breathed for the first time in forever. A true breath, not one of pain, sadness, or stress. But a real genuine breath of freedom. Elise stared out the window as the bus started. Watching the buildings fly away, she hoped her disappearance wouldn't upset the kiddos too much.

She couldn't wait to spend a night without worrying about her mother in the morning.

This City was gonna change her whole life.

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