ill do something better next time

8

7 days of TeniPuri

Day 1: Favorite character - Mizuki Hajime

Negan reacting to you being seriously ill would include

Originally posted by jdmfanfiction

• Him feeling like he’s losing ground as he’d find out how bad your illness is and directly having a flashback to everything that happened to Lucille

• Him at first being stuck somewhere between panicking and just feeling numb while the only thought on his mind is that he can’t lose someone this way again

• Him promising, even swearing to himself that he won’t do the same mistakes again and will stay from the very beginning by your side doesn’t matter how fucked up he feels

• Him just trying to give as many tasks as he can to Simon or other Saviors to have all the time to be there for you

• Him having his Doctor caring for you and having his men search for all the medicine you need

• Him trying his very best to stay strong for you even though it drives him nuts to see you that way and he even catches himself tearing up from time to time

• Him trying to crack some jokes with you just to desperately try to get himself and you a bit distracted

• Him telling you that you’re a fighter, that you’ll beat this shit and that he’s gonna do everything to help you 

• Him not allowing himself to think about the worst case as well as angrily stopping you when you carefully try to mention what could happen and forbidding you to ever think about it again

• Him finding himself waking up from nightmares just to immediately check if you’re alright

• Him not being able to fall asleep again for a while and just watching you sleep while trying to get rid of his thoughts

• Him making sure that you know how much he loves you and that you’re the most important person in his life he would also do anything for

• Him acting tensed around others and having a hard time to concentrate

• Him getting you everything he knows you enjoy to lighten up your day and to just make you forget about the illness for a bit

• Him carrying you around whenever you need to see something else than just your room and need to catch some fresh air and your legs are too weak to carry you

• Him cursing uncountable times about your illness while just wishing nothing more than that you’ll get better again

• Him sometimes being outrun by his memories and just slipping under the blankets next to you, taking you into his arms and just holding you as tight as he can to calm himself down

• Him feeling from time to time that helpless and desperate that he’s close to freaking out and just wants to go out and bash walkers heads to mash but controlling himself for your sake and rather spending this time with you

• Him seeing that you’re also staying strong for him and extremely hate to see him suffer too

• Him refusing to leave your side even if you’re the one who tells him to take a break and just go for a walk

• Him being extremely happy about any little improvement of your health and just having more hope that you will beat the illness while knowing that he’s gonna help you to reach that goal no matter what


@dasani-saraai @myrabbitholetoneverland @jeffreydeanneganstrash @negans-network @sweetwittlebosco

2

warm down drawing of welkin and derek. i really needed to get something solid, clean, and cute out of my system..

small talk about being a professional artist w/ mental illness:

there are times where you have to admit defeat. maybe you got ten things done, but you forgot to reply to that one email and that person gets irked. you have to find the right way to apologize because as a professional, esp. when you’re looking for work, you have to be SO careful with everything you say. ‘my work got away from me’ sounds like ‘this person can’t keep track of things’. ‘i was overwhelmed’ sounds like ‘this person can’t handle multiple projects at once, they’re not a good fit’. ‘i forgot’ sounds like, well, you forgot.

so sometimes there’s nothing more you can do except apologize and try better next time. pick yourself up, dust yourself off. but there’s also something to be said for the other side too.

we are, above all else, human. artists, even professional ones. make mistakes. we forgot. we get overwhelmed. this doesn’t mean we’re not a good fit. this doesn’t mean we can’t make great work or keep track of things. sometimes, just sometimes, too many things are happening at once and our brains short out. mentally ill or not, it happens. we are trying out best. i am trying my best.

anyways, this is part advice part me seeking advice, i guess. hang in there, friends.

Camila Cabello: "Our Dreams Were Bigger Than Our Fears

Beautifully written by Camila herself 👍

——

A bus. The yellow lighting of the gas station against the dark hours of midnight. Fast asleep. Silence. My head slumped over my mom’s shoulder. Her voice timid and hesitant as she stumbled through a sentence in English at the cash register. A Winnie the Pooh journal. These are the things I remember when I think of when my mom and I immigrated to America.

I was almost 7 at the time, born in Havana, Cuba. My papá is puro Mexicano and we lived back and forth between the heat of Havana and the concrete jungle of Mexico City. I didn’t realize it then, but, boy, does it hit me now. I realize how scary it must have been for them. For my mom to leave the streets of Havana where our neighbors were our friends, where we gathered every holiday to eat pork and my grandma’s rice and beans, to not hear the malecón and the heartbeat of her city pulsing with every crash of the wave. For my Dad to leave behind his four brothers and sisters, the memory of his parents, the street vendors selling the elotes con mayonesa that I would beg him to get in the mornings before school, the best friends he’d grown up with … everything. To decide to start from the ground up.

With a couple hundred dollars, the clothes on our backs, no family in the United States, and no clue of what was going to happen next, that’s exactly what we did. Like my mom said, “I don’t know where I’m going, but I can’t stay here.” And that was enough.

Why were we packing up our stuff? Why was my grandma hugging me tighter than usual? Where were we going? “We’re going to Disney World!” That’s what my Mom told me when we were crossing the border. She packed a little backpack with my Winnie the Pooh journal and my doll, and we crossed the border from Mexico to the US, seeing my Dad become an ant in the distance as he stayed behind.

Just Disney World. Whenever I have to make a decision now and I’m afraid, my mom always reminds me of that day. “That day, I knew if I thought about it, fear would make me turn back. That’s why when you’re afraid, you force yourself to jump. You don’t think, you just jump,” she says to me.

After she sat down with the immigration officer in a tiny office, we and a bunch of people from other countries with similar hopes were placed in rooms with tiny beds in them, a hotel full of these rooms. It was me and my mom and two other families in a little room waiting for somebody to come in and let us know if we were going to be granted permission to enter the US or be sent back. Some people spent days there, some spent weeks in agonizing anxiety over what the answer would be. Meanwhile, I was wondering when the heck we were going to get to Disney. We were there only a day when we finally got the news. The room bursted with joy, everybody around me clapping and hugging and screaming and crying! And me yelling out “Yay! We’re all going to Disney!” Little did I know.

Little me and my mamá ended up on a Greyhound bus to Miami that took 36 hours — that’s where I have my most vivid memories. Other stuff I vaguely remember and know from stories my parents told me years after. But I remember writing in my Winnie the Pooh journal a lot on that bus ride.

We got to Miami and moved into my grandpa’s colleague’s house who later became my godmother. My mom was a very good architect in Cuba, but when she came to America none of the degrees she earned in Cuba counted, so to make enough to keep us fed and put me into school she began stacking shoes in Marshalls and going to school at night to take courses in English, all while taking me to and from school and helping me with my homework all by herself, alone in a strange country. I can’t imagine how frustrating it must have been for her to have worked her whole life in architecture and then have it all erased when she came here.

One day, as if God was listening, two elderly Cuban women were conversing with her and told her: “Oye, tu estás muy bonita para trabajar en Marshalls. Where are you from?” My mom told her the story of how she was Cuban and she was actually an architect. You wouldn’t believe it, but the two Cuban women said they had a brother who worked in architecture and needed someone who worked in Autocad, a complicated architectural computer program. They asked her: “Do you know Autocad?” Internally, my mom was like “Autocad? What the hell is Autocad? We use pencil and paper where I’m from.” But to the ladies, she said: “Autocad? Of course. Yes, of course. I can do that.” She learned how to use the program in a week and made enough to move us out of my godmother’s house and into an apartment.

She learned fast because she literally had to in order to survive. Immigrants have one thing in common: Hunger. I don’t mean it literally, although that’s true too, but metaphorically. The hunger to do the impossible because you have no choice, because you came too damn far, because you’ve known what struggling is, and you’re not going to take an opportunity for granted. The hunger and ability to win above people with better circumstances than you simply because you want it badly enough.

Long story short, my papá came over from Mexico a year and a half later — I had a little calendar in my room counting down the days — because he couldn’t stand being away from us. He went through such hardship to cross the Mexican border and had it harder than my mom and I did, literally risking his life for his family to physically make it here. When he first came to the US, he started off washing cars in front of Dolphin Mall in the blistering Miami heat. But we kept moving on up … with the Latin community in Miami, helping each other up as we did it. Slowly and slowly my parents kept working and climbing and ended up forming a construction company together named after my sister and I. They always pushed me to focus on my studies because the whole reason we came here was so my sister and I could have better opportunities in life than they did. They said: “Money comes and goes, but your education, lo que tienes aquí (and they would point to my head while saying that), nobody can ever take that away from you.” They let me know that in order to go a good college I had to get a scholarship, so I worked as hard as I could. However — plot twist! — that didn’t quite go the way we thought it would.

You see, in 9th grade, a little girl who had never sung in front of people before asked her parents if they could take her to Greensboro, NC, to audition for a little show called The X Factor. Yikes! I had never sang in front of people before. Well, did my mom know Autocad? No. Did I know how to perform on a stage on TV? No. But I wanted it badly enough, and I learned from my family that if you work hard enough and you want it badly enough, you can do the impossible.

I was wrong about one thing. My mamá and papá did not leave everything behind, they brought it with them. My grandma still makes pork and rice and beans every holiday like she did, and my mom still feels the waves of the malecón in her heartbeat because she still feels the most at peace when she’s by the sea. My grandma and dad still get drunk and sing Luis Miguel in the kitchen. We found our favorite Taco spot in Miami (I capitalized Taco because they are that good). And whenever we find another person from our country, we freak out. “¿De qué parte?” Because we have home in us. Because we brought it with us. Every Cuban brought it with them and so we have Miami. Mexicans brought it and so we have the best Mexican food ever. The Italians brought it and so we have pizza. The Swedish brought it and we have great pop songs. The list goes on and on. And so, that’s why when I hear a bigoted, racist man with power and influence speak with anger and ill-will about immigrants, I think “what a fool.”

I am so proud to be Cuban-Mexican. This country was built on immigrants. People who were brave enough to start over. How strong we are to leave behind everything we know in hopes of something better. We are not fearless, we just have dreams bigger than our fears. We jump. We run. We swim, we move mountains, we do whatever it takes. And so next time, when anybody wants to tell you they want to build a “wall” on our border, remember behind that wall is struggle, determination,hunger. Behind that wall, could be the next cure for cancer, the next scientist, the next artist, the next drummer, the next anything they work hard enough to become!

P.S. I did end up going to Disney for the first time a year later.

Camila Cabello (September 14, 2016)

—–
http://www.popsugar.com/latina/Camila-Cabello-Her-Cuban-Background-42239921

Camila Cabello: "Our Dreams Were Bigger Than Our Fears"

A bus. The yellow lighting of the gas station against the dark hours of midnight. Fast asleep. Silence. My head slumped over my mom’s shoulder. Her voice timid and hesitant as she stumbled through a sentence in English at the cash register. A Winnie the Pooh journal. These are the things I remember when I think of when my mom and I immigrated to America.

I was almost 7 at the time, born in Havana, Cuba. My papá is puro Mexicano and we lived back and forth between the heat of Havana and the concrete jungle of Mexico City. I didn’t realize it then, but, boy, does it hit me now. I realize how scary it must have been for them. For my mom to leave the streets of Havana where our neighbors were our friends, where we gathered every holiday to eat pork and my grandma’s rice and beans, to not hear the malecón and the heartbeat of her city pulsing with every crash of the wave. For my Dad to leave behind his four brothers and sisters, the memory of his parents, the street vendors selling the elotes con mayonesa that I would beg him to get in the mornings before school, the best friends he’d grown up with … everything. To decide to start from the ground up.

With a couple hundred dollars, the clothes on our backs, no family in the United States, and no clue of what was going to happen next, that’s exactly what we did. Like my mom said, “I don’t know where I’m going, but I can’t stay here.” And that was enough.

Why were we packing up our stuff? Why was my grandma hugging me tighter than usual? Where were we going? “We’re going to Disney World!” That’s what my Mom told me when we were crossing the border. She packed a little backpack with my Winnie the Pooh journal and my doll, and we crossed the border from Mexico to the US, seeing my Dad become an ant in the distance as he stayed behind.

Just Disney World. Whenever I have to make a decision now and I’m afraid, my mom always reminds me of that day. “That day, I knew if I thought about it, fear would make me turn back. That’s why when you’re afraid, you force yourself to jump. You don’t think, you just jump,” she says to me.

After she sat down with the immigration officer in a tiny office, we and a bunch of people from other countries with similar hopes were placed in rooms with tiny beds in them, a hotel full of these rooms. It was me and my mom and two other families in a little room waiting for somebody to come in and let us know if we were going to be granted permission to enter the US or be sent back. Some people spent days there, some spent weeks in agonizing anxiety over what the answer would be. Meanwhile, I was wondering when the heck we were going to get to Disney. We were there only a day when we finally got the news. The room bursted with joy, everybody around me clapping and hugging and screaming and crying! And me yelling out “Yay! We’re all going to Disney!” Little did I know.

Little me and my mamá ended up on a Greyhound bus to Miami that took 36 hours — that’s where I have my most vivid memories. Other stuff I vaguely remember and know from stories my parents told me years after. But I remember writing in my Winnie the Pooh journal a lot on that bus ride.

We got to Miami and moved into my grandpa’s colleague’s house who later became my godmother. My mom was a very good architect in Cuba, but when she came to America none of the degrees she earned in Cuba counted, so to make enough to keep us fed and put me into school she began stacking shoes in Marshalls and going to school at night to take courses in English, all while taking me to and from school and helping me with my homework all by herself, alone in a strange country. I can’t imagine how frustrating it must have been for her to have worked her whole life in architecture and then have it all erased when she came here.

One day, as if God was listening, two elderly Cuban women were conversing with her and told her: “Oye, tu estás muy bonita para trabajar en Marshalls. Where are you from?” My mom told her the story of how she was Cuban and she was actually an architect. You wouldn’t believe it, but the two Cuban women said they had a brother who worked in architecture and needed someone who worked in Autocad, a complicated architectural computer program. They asked her: “Do you know Autocad?” Internally, my mom was like “Autocad? What the hell is Autocad? We use pencil and paper where I’m from.” But to the ladies, she said: “Autocad? Of course. Yes, of course. I can do that.” She learned how to use the program in a week and made enough to move us out of my godmother’s house and into an apartment.

She learned fast because she literally had to in order to survive. Immigrants have one thing in common: Hunger. I don’t mean it literally, although that’s true too, but metaphorically. The hunger to do the impossible because you have no choice, because you came too damn far, because you’ve known what struggling is, and you’re not going to take an opportunity for granted. The hunger and ability to win above people with better circumstances than you simply because you want it badly enough.

Long story short, my papá came over from Mexico a year and a half later — I had a little calendar in my room counting down the days — because he couldn’t stand being away from us. He went through such hardship to cross the Mexican border and had it harder than my mom and I did, literally risking his life for his family to physically make it here. When he first came to the US, he started off washing cars in front of Dolphin Mall in the blistering Miami heat. But we kept moving on up … with the Latin community in Miami, helping each other up as we did it. Slowly and slowly my parents kept working and climbing and ended up forming a construction company together named after my sister and I. They always pushed me to focus on my studies because the whole reason we came here was so my sister and I could have better opportunities in life than they did. They said: “Money comes and goes, but your education, lo que tienes aquí (and they would point to my head while saying that), nobody can ever take that away from you.” They let me know that in order to go a good college I had to get a scholarship, so I worked as hard as I could. However — plot twist! — that didn’t quite go the way we thought it would.

You see, in 9th grade, a little girl who had never sung in front of people before asked her parents if they could take her to Greensboro, NC, to audition for a little show called The X Factor. Yikes! I had never sang in front of people before. Well, did my mom know Autocad? No. Did I know how to perform on a stage on TV? No. But I wanted it badly enough, and I learned from my family that if you work hard enough and you want it badly enough, you can do the impossible.

I was wrong about one thing. My mamá and papá did not leave everything behind, they brought it with them. My grandma still makes pork and rice and beans every holiday like she did, and my mom still feels the waves of the malecón in her heartbeat because she still feels the most at peace when she’s by the sea. My grandma and dad still get drunk and sing Luis Miguel in the kitchen. We found our favorite Taco spot in Miami (I capitalized Taco because they are that good). And whenever we find another person from our country, we freak out. “¿De qué parte?” Because we have home in us. Because we brought it with us. Every Cuban brought it with them and so we have Miami. Mexicans brought it and so we have the best Mexican food ever. The Italians brought it and so we have pizza. The Swedish brought it and we have great pop songs. The list goes on and on. And so, that’s why when I hear a bigoted, racist man with power and influence speak with anger and ill-will about immigrants, I think “what a fool.”

I am so proud to be Cuban-Mexican. This country was built on immigrants. People who were brave enough to start over. How strong we are to leave behind everything we know in hopes of something better. We are not fearless, we just have dreams bigger than our fears. We jump. We run. We swim, we move mountains, we do whatever it takes. And so next time, when anybody wants to tell you they want to build a “wall” on our border, remember behind that wall is struggle, determination, hunger. Behind that wall, could be the next cure for cancer, the next scientist, the next artist, the next drummer, the next anything they work hard enough to become!

P.S. I did end up going to Disney for the first time a year later. [source]

anonymous asked:

I've hurt people and I feel so guilty. Am a bad person?

Hello sweetheart. No, you aren’t a bad person.


Hurting people is sometimes unavoidable. We are agents in the world, and we affect things, for good or ill. Like break ups. It’s no good to stay in a relationship that isn’t rewarding, but someone almost always gets hurt. Or maybe when someone says something without thinking, or use a word they didn’t understand the full ramifications of. We can hurt people without meaning to all the time.


A very smart person once told me that a person who worries about whether or not they are a bad person is usually a good person.


A good person tries to make things right. A good person tries to minimise the hurt where they can. A good person vows to do better next time. Most importantly, a good person is someone who wants to be and do good.


Hurting people is sometimes inevitable. What matters, what determines what sort of person you are, is what you do afterwards.


I believe in you.


Calming Manatee

break

Apparently I have an exam of the subject I am most screwed in like least tomorrow, and I missed the two classes with the exam’s subject, so here’s a fic I wrote this afternoon instead of studying.

Contains depression.


His name was Nico di Angelo. He was 19 years old. He was a student at New York University. His dad was called Hades and he had two sisters. He had friends who cared about him (Reyna and Jason, for example). He had a boyfriend. He had depression and took medication. He liked… he wanted…

Next question.

He didn’t like loud noises or college. He didn’t like the concerning early joy of morning people (with one outstanding exception). He didn’t like himself–

Oh. No, no. Bad direction. Let’s change the course.

He–

(When would this end? When, when? He just wanted a date so he could mark it in a calendar and wait for time to do this job. Why was he… this? Why was his brain sick? He didn’t think it was very fair.

Well, many things weren’t fair. So, in the end, it made some sort of absurd sense that he had the shitty mental illness, he guessed.

Maybe he had done something bad in another life. Killed someone. Mistreated someone who needed him. And this life was his redeeming path.

Which was great, because when his mental illness acted up he could hardly do anything, let alone something bad. Ha!

The next life better give him a yacht and an endless vacation.)

“Babe? …Neeks? Neeks.” His boyfriend had been poking his arm. “You there? What are you doing?” 

Wallowing in self-pity and the pain of being here when he didn’t want to be and imagining how easier things would be if he was dead.

Nico puffed his cheeks out, closed his eyes, and didn’t answer.

“Ah.” Will mumbled. Nico silently agreed.

The worst part about it when he was like this was that nothing was the better option. Being alone was dangerous and sometimes it wasn’t what he wanted, while he never wanted other people to be forced to put up with this shit too.

“You took all your medication today?”

Nico nodded.

“Okay. Have you eaten anything?”

Nico shook his head, briefly wanting to make a face. He really didn’t want to eat anything right now. Open his mouth, chew, swallow. Taste nothing. Be more tired later.

Will didn’t ask whether there was anything he’d liked to eat.

In fact, his boyfriend didn’t say anything for a while.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” He asked at last.

Was there?

Nico couldn’t think of anything, so he shook his head.

“Okay.” Will said.

Then there was a sound of something being thrown on the floor, near the couch Nico was lying on. A zipper being opened, and the spiral of a notebook being dragged along it as it was taken out of the bag. Pens scattering on the floor. Will mumbling something under his breath. 

Nico focused on the sounds, even as Will tried to be as quiet as possible.

He – thankfully – must have fallen asleep not so long after that. When he woke up, the room was much darker, no sunlight to create long shadows he could follow with his eyes. The – lack of – color in the walls dimmed to a quiet gray that he thought he liked, for some reason.

Will was still there, and Nico could barely see the dark wood of the floor around him, seeing as it was covered with opened thick books, papers, the laptop Will always had with him, currently showing a skeleton and the names of its bones.

Nico vaguely hoped Will wouldn’t have to memorize all those names. Poor boyfriend.

Said boyfriend was lying on the floor, one hand above his chest, holding a small piece of paper, and mouth slightly opened. His snoring wasn’t too loud.

Nico kind of wanted to take a picture of that so he could look at it when he was in a shitty mood.

But he didn’t remember where his phone was (it probably had no battery anyway), and didn’t feel like looking for it.

Thank goodness his boyfriend’s phone was right there near the couch.

He extended his arm and got it, then managed to record a small video of his boyfriend nearly drooling over his papers, snoring in high definition sound.

Future good mood: guaranteed.

But he wasn’t cruel and heartless, so after a couple of minutes of convincing himself to do it, he stood up, involving himself in the blanket he’d brought, and walked to the man on the floor.

He poked him until he woke up with a start.

“What? Neeks? Everything alright? What– Oh.” He mumbled when he saw the mess of the floor.

“Let’s go to bed.” Nico mumbled. He vaguely noticed the taste in his mouth was bad and that he didn’t smell great either.

“But I have to learn Latin.”

Will, what?

“Nap.” Nico insisted, and Will looked conflicted for about two seconds before his shoulders slumped and he nodded, rubbing his face.

“Alright.” 

His boyfriend stood up. The piece of paper he’d been holding fell, and it took a moment in which they both just stared at it before Will crouched down and got it.

“Oh! Right.” Will said with renewed excitement. “Neeks, look what I learned. See this paper in my hands–”

He made a gesture too fast for Nico to completely follow – his mind was still hazy – but the paper seemed to disappear from his hands for a moment, before Will pretended to take it from behind Nico’s ear.

Nico blinked at him.

“Ta-da! I’m a magician now!” Will beamed. “Now please open it?”

Nico didn’t really want to – he wanted to be asleep; things didn’t hurt when he was asleep. But this seemed to be important to Will, for whatever reason, so he took the paper.

And opened it.

You are awesome and worth it and I love you! =D – Your bff bf’, it said.

Below the words, two hearts had been drawn holding hands – one painted with blue ink, the other seemingly blank, empty.

Truth be told, the words made the corner of his lips lift a little, but the smile on Will’s face was what made his entire being warmer, brighter.

“I thought BFF boyfriend was particularly clever.” Will informed him.

“You’re a genius.” Nico murmured. “Now come down here, please. You sappy Houdini.”

Will leaned down to kiss him – too fast, since the idiot felt the need to pull back and say, “This is my favorite nickname ever, by the way”.

Nico gave him a pointed look and stuck his tongue out at him.

“I’m offended. And there I thought you loved me. Hmpf!” Will acted upset for a second, crossing his arms and everything. Then he dropped his act and his smile became softer, more attentive. “Okay, enough of being dorks. Sleep?”

“Sleep.” Nico agreed, and they both walked silently toward his room, the only sound being that of the blanket being dragged through the floor. Will’s hand was warm in his, and Nico held the paper close to his chest.

anonymous asked:

Natan college au (teacher-student). Lucifer as the teacher, Natalie as the student Ohohohohoho~

Asked twice so you shall receive!

Lucifer never questioned his teaching methods. He was harsh, maybe even cruel, and it wasn’t a secret. He was the professor that was hated by students he never even had. The one that assigned novel length papers on public holidays and subtracted marks for spelling on an in class essay. The one that would break your straight A streak just for the sake of it. The Devil they called him, and he owned the title like a badge of honor.

Lucifer never questioned his teaching methods. Not even when he made the blonde in his History of Religion lecture cry in front of everyone. It wasn’t his fault that she failed the purposely vague and directionless assignment he had given. Not even when the students vandalized his car with satirical satanic symbols and slurs. Not even when the Dean, his brother, begged him to straighten out his act, with threats of being fired interlaced with pathetic pleas to “not force him to make this decision”. 

Lucifer never questioned his teaching methods. Not until a flushed, furious, fiery redhead he had never seen in any of his lectures came storming in well after class one evening, slurring out an angry, intoxicated rant in his direction. “I came here to be mad at you for making Kristi cry, but now that I’m here all I see is a sad, bitter old man who probably just needs something better to do than being terrible all the time.” Her words stuck to his skin like burs. Next time he saw her was in his office, behind a locked door, her ill-mannered mouth silenced with his hungry lips as he hiked her up onto his desk. “You said I needed something better to do,” he muttered, smirking when she bit back a breathy laugh.

So I’ve made it clear in the past why I think Supernatural is important–it’s a sandbox for dealing with important IRL issues like abuse and its aftereffects, or abusive personality types.

I just started season 7 (yeah, yeah, I’m slow), and now we can add a new category to the list: Mental illness.

When Sam comes back from Hell, he has pretty much PTSD with a side of hallucinations. That’s not actually strange in the slightest, especially given that the traumatic event lasted for over a hundred years. PTSD is a weird, weird beast, because when the psyche is injured, it can do strange things. Add in the supernatural component, and let’s be honest, I’d have been surprised if he weren’t all kinds of screwy.

So we have a character who, for entirely logical reasons no matter how you look at it, is having a breakdown. Hallucinations, freakouts, whole nine yards.

SUPERNATURAL DOES NOT GIVE YOU ANYTHING EVEN REMOTELY DESCRIBING A GOOD WAY TO HANDLE IT.

Let’s start this tragedy of errors by looking at the first part: Sam wakes up, stabs Cas, and is brought back home.

First problem, and this was a problem with the detox: IF YOU DO NOT KNOW WHAT YOU ARE DOING AND CANNOT REACH A MEDICAL PROFESSIONAL, YOU FUCKING GOOGLE THAT SHIT. You look up what needs to be done, you read what people have to say both as caretakers and as patients, and you try to help.

No one did that. Bobby and Dean put not only Sam’s life at risk, but his mental health, and this is the second time. And they should, 100%, know better. There are some areas where I cut everyone on SPN slack, because they don’t know better and don’t know how to figure out how to know better, but this is not one of them. They flat-out fucked up.

Their next genius move was when Dean, upon hearing that Sam had hidden his mental illness to protect Dean, got angry at Sam for it. It was certainly a stupid-ass move, I won’t deny that. But this was just flat-out not the time to get angry. It was the time to say ‘okay, that was stupid, don’t do it again’, and move on. Why? Because when Dean got angry, Sam was left not only revealing something humiliating, intimately personal, and traumatic, but fighting his own fight-or-flight response, because PTSD is your brain applying traumatic memories to the wrong situation, and the animal part of his brain could not distinguish 'this person is annoyed with me for logical reasons’ from 'Lucifer is going to torture me’. You can see how Sam is sitting like a child being scolded, humiliated and afraid. This is not what anyone wants, and it is wrong.

Now, assuming that Dean and Bobby are the total morons they are and don’t know what they’re doing, they went to make another mistake: They did not ask Sam what he thought he could or couldn’t do. They did not ask Sam how he felt. They just locked him in the house. With guns.

I am a huge proponent of 'if your mental illness tells you to hurt yourself or others, do not handle anything even remotely weapon-like’. I also recognize that, with things like PTSD, that’s not always a reasonable stance–Sam was using the guns to reassure himself, for example. But that should have been part of a conversation. There needed to be a conversation to be sure Sam was safe and relatively happy. They needed to figure out how to help Sam tell reality from delusion.

They did none of that.

Mental illness, like any other illness, does not go away on its own. Sam got lucky and either confronted it or had a mania episode that helped (my headcanon is that he’s mildly bipolar due to canon times when he’s acted classically manic\bipolar angry), but that isn’t the norm. If your friend can’t tell reality from delusion, you need to ask them what helps and give them as much of it as you can.

And this leads up to Dean's special moment of genius.

Now, self-harming can act to ground people. It obviously worked against Hallucifer. THIS IS NOT A BEHAVIOR TO TEACH TO MENTALLY ILL PEOPLE.And I do say 'teach’ because Sam was not self-harming before Dean pressed that cut. It is not good for anyone, it is an unhealthy coping mechanism, and even a cup of St. John’s Wort tea every day would have better long-term results.

However, after this, as I said, Sam got lucky\got better. He was still 'checking out’ occasionally (and I’d like to note that just zoning out? It’s not a symptom of mental illness. It’s a symptom of neuroatypicality, entirely normal, and actually very restful. I do it myself), but overall, he was able to tell reality from delusion.

Sam had his own little moment of genius there and decided to run off.

If you’re mentally ill, please, please do not do this. Let people know where you’re going. If they have a reasonable concern you aren’t in the driver’s seat, it might be annoying, but a reasonable concern is a good thing, because otherwise you’re going to end up on the news as the person who randomly drove their car over a bridge or something. Your friends mean well, and a few hours of annoying conversations are better than missing something that could get you killed.

Dean was entirely right (you’ll never hear me say that again) to be worried that Sam was listening to his hallucinations. He was a total moron for sawing his own cast off, and I’m amazed that he still has a leg, but Bobby should have gone after Sam to check on him and tell him not to do that again.

Dean then decided that was one too many miracles for one day and punched Sam in the face.

During what could have been a medical emergency.

When he didn’t know what was happening, whether Sam was injured or not, or anything else.

If you are so angry that you will injure someone you love, you need to go away until you’re calm. Flat-out. This goes triple in a medical emergency, and yes, someone hallucinating and wandering off counts. You do not, ever, hit someone; you especially do not hit someone for doing something that may well have been beyond their control. Dean may have found Sam working a job; that doesn’t mean Sam was okay. He needed to verify that with Sam before considering Sam all right, because only Sam knew what was going on in his head.

And then he killed Amy and lied to Sam about it after promising he would not lie to Sam.

So yeah. Season 7 is about mental illness, and as someone with a mental illness, I’d like you to take this away from it:

This is a Do Not Do This Shit manual. Please do exactly the opposite of everything here. Thank you.

life-of-a-fandom-addict  asked:

Body swap! Cherik please and thank you!!! :)

Whether it was truly magic or “sufficiently advanced technology,” as the saying went—or whether the two concepts were synonymous, as Thor kept insisting—the outcome was the same. When he and Erik both reached for the artifact, pulsing gently in the dark chamber, their fingers brushed the bright stone and each other simultaneously. And Charles felt a disorienting jolt, not quite painful but certainly not pleasant, all the way down to his toes.

His toes.

He was standing, he realized, and they had to have entered an astral plane or something, a dream world or—

The words died on his lips as he turned, wobbly on unaccustomed legs, and saw—himself instead of Erik, still in his wheelchair, looking up at him with wide confused eyes. With a voice utterly familiar in tone and accent despite its all-wrong source, he said, “Charles, what’s happening? Why can’t I feel my legs?”

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3

I was bored and I dunno what I did. I just “winged it ” so to speak. I wanted to do something similar to like when hell starts taking over and Lucifers face just crumbles away .The problem was i only had purple and not so similiar contacts so I did something along that way but a bit different hahaha . Still looks pretty cool to me . *

Originally posted by thanknog

Le Pari Olympique || Lukas and Matthew

Lukas had stocked his fridge full of beers and was totally ready to watch the Olympics with Matthew. He wasn’t much of a sports jock and he’d actually never been all too interested in the Olympics, but Matthew seemed to like it and it was an excuse for the Canadian to come over to Lukas’s flat. Actually, the only reason why Lukas was even remotely interested in the Olympics this year was because of that Japanese ice skater Yuzuru Hanya (and Kiku should be damn proud to have that man in his country). Nevertheless, Lukas felt he was going to enjoy watching the Olympics with Matthew.

Pacing around his flat, cooking some pancakes while he waited for Matthew, Lukas realized he’d not had a smoke in days (and Will was concerned as to whether Lukas was ill or something, because the last time Lukas stopped smoking, he’d come down with a high fever that nearly killed him). Lukas felt he didn’t need to smoke right now–later he’d feel the itch to smoke, but right now, he just wanted to spoon with Matthew on his couch (because Lukas actually didn’t have a bed, or a bedroom, because he slept on a cot next to the couch but–hey! It was a place to sleep! Who needed a bed?) Suddenly he thought it would’ve been a better idea to do this shindig at Matthew’s flat.

You and Your Heart.3

Pairing: Alec Hardy x Hannah Baxter

Rating: teen and up

Part 1 Part 2  Ao3 FF.net

Author’s note: Bonus points if you can guess the movie that inspired the end of this chapter. Also, check out the pretty graphic the lovely August rain did for me.

ETA: Part 4  Part 5

Previously:

Alec’s ex called him and Bambi called Hannah for her birthday which made her realize how little she wants to go back to London.

 He studies her face, brows knit together. He gently swipes a strand of hair off her forehead, tucking it behind her ear and he’s got to stop doing tender things like that because her heart can’t take much more.

“I’m fine.”

He blinks slowly and nods. They move on to another subject when he suggests they go out somewhere nice to celebrate her birthday. She agrees immediately, she just needs to shower and change first. She’s halfway up the stairs when she hears Alec call her name. She looks back down. He’s leaning against the banister, clutching his hands.

“S’like you said before about burdening people with your problems…you can, you know, burden me.”

He grimaces at his own poor choice of words and seems relieved when she smiles.

“Same here.”

 * * *

 “Come on Baxter! I’m hungry,” Alec shouts from the other side of her bedroom door.

Hannah walks out.

 “Nude or taupe?”

She holds up two pairs of high-heels in front of his eyes. He pulls a face, his expression somewhere between confusion and annoyance.

“Urgh, you’re useless.”

“I’ll remember that next time you want to ask me another question about police work.”

She notices he’s wearing that moss green oxford they saw in a shop window last week. The one she said he would look good in. She was right.

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