i REALLY need to find a way to stress/regret-free express some of my inner thoughts and feelings to other people because the weight of having so much stuff i keep to myself makes me feel horrendous. saying the thoughts/feelings to nobody, e.g. in my diary or on a new blog, does not work. i’ve tried. i’m not confident enough to vlog about deep personal things and i can’t write blog posts because i can’t really condense my thoughts into such a small space of writing and i worry about it not making sense and people i know IRL finding them, and i don’t like doing it on tumblr because i just feel lame and always immediately want to delete the posts, i feel highly uncomfortable talking to strangers online, especially about personal things, i can’t do it on twitter because family follow me on there and if i act too sad on there then readers will not want to follow me anymore, i don’t like telling stuff to my family because they always find a way to turn it around and make my bad feelings feel like they’re entirely my fault, i don’t like talking about sad stuff to my friends very often because although i’m very lucky to have friends who are willing to listen it actually sort of makes me more stressed lumping my stress onto them, and i don’t think that i would get along with therapy at all in any scenario from what i have heard about people’s experiences with therapy
What is it exactly that pierces the sound of blood rushing in his ears? Is it the repetition? They’ve asked this question several times now, each more worried than before. Until Vanitas could no longer drown out their concern with his ragged breathing. He looks up at his visitor, eyes red rimmed and glistening. His chest heaves from exertion. Fruitless attempts to separate himself from the barrage of sensation plaguing his insides.
“What did you do?” It’s only a whisper, but its all the response needs. Those blue eyes look every inch as guilty as Vanitas is outraged. There’s some shuffling from foot to foot while they presumably decide the least idiotic way to respond. After some awkward shifting, the space next to him is occupied. A hand, gentle and most likely warm, reaches out to console him.
“Don’t touch me!” Vanitas swings wide, striking the hand with a slap of skin on his glove. “What did you do!?” He cries again. His voice is too throaty and cracks. The other one sighs. Pitying hand now resting in its partner’s palm. Fingers flex and curl and twist and would they stop fidgeting..
“I turned them off.”
His eyes open. He raises his head, only just becoming aware that he’d hung his head between his knees. He’d also been gripping at the roots of his hair. Several strands fall to the ground when his fists unclench.
“You need to learn.”
Vanitas gawks at the interruption. He searches for some aid in formulating a response to his unasked question. It makes so much sense his head hurts. Instead of the usual crawling and scratching beneath his skin that came with these episodes, this time nothing resulted. No matter how hard he focused or pushed or willed these revolting feelings away they remained trapped. Inside. Here they did the most damage. Out there they had less control. He could shove anything particularly nasty outward where it oozed from between the ridges of his suit. Relief was merely a thought and jab of his blade away.
But not now. His monstrosities weren’t forming. Despite the admittance that they’d been disabled he tried again, only to nearly retch from the strain.
He should be grateful. He’d always hated them. He hated the way they moved. The cowardly ones were skittish and the brash ones were too dumb to walk straight. He hated what they represented. Emoting too strongly meant a litter of creatures came scurrying out of him when things got too intense. And now he hated their absence. He hated how much he needed them.
His self appointed therapist figures now’s a good time to speak.
“Crying is a good thing. Do you feel any better?”
Vanitas releases a breath he’d been holding to try and halt his tears. His exhale is rife with tremors. His weakness turns his stomach.
I’m moving out tomorrow–leaving the nest, peacing out, whatever you wanna fucking call it–but I’ve had 2 major moves in the past month + this & I still haven’t been the least bit affected by it even though everyone around me has been crying constantly.
// im imagining RJ sick & someone like ( reluctantly ) taking care of him… like maybe they don’t like him that much or something but they’re still taking care of him anyway and SOMEHOW at some point they end up cuddling, like RJ is quite literally on top of them curled up like a goddamn cat and then the next day ( bc they end up sleeping like that ), RJ just kind of presses a soft little kiss to their lips and says “thanks for doing this for me” and they’re probably like “shit i dont want to get sick!!” but at the same time it’s…. lowkey changing their view of RJ. until, y’know, he says something shitty again once he’s feeling better and like his old self again.
a braided feeling, just inside the front of my ribcage. the threads of it are the color of coal when it’s dying and red, the texture a gloppy sort of molten iron. the rest of me is warm, that same red-orange color spread through me vaguely. my head is light gray-blue, the same breathy texture as the red-orange in the rest of me. when i breathe or move, it shifts, the blue retreating up or spreading down, the red-orange growing or fading around it.
I love when you start making a bunch of posts about something its cute to see you be so expressive and passionate
ahhh thank you! i was getting a little worried because i know i have been talking about oc’s and a story of mine a lot today (and then suddenly i just reblogged a cluster of overwatch?? so im not sure exactly what incident specifically you mean) but i tend to be like that with everything tbh im glad you enjoy it!