Anyone Else With Chronic Pain Ever Get Really Absorbed In A Project And Dissociate From Your Body While

Doctors are like: ughhhhh. You're confusing. Come back if you die

Being plural is like

Woah I’m glad that breakdown is over, I hope no one saw that.

The fucking Grinch: Yeah

the 4 genders of minecraft modders

very online queer person behind YOUR favorite mod who will eventually burn out and abandon its development

some kid with an unreadable username and zero online presence maintaining exactly one mod that bears the load of like half of the modded minecraft scene

random dude with an office job as a professional developer who singlehandedly maintains every single mod you've ever heard of

adolf hitler

daily amnesia in DID is something i don't see talked about that much, i see regular amnesia (ie not being able to remember years of your life, traumatic memories etc) talked about but never the daily things.

daily amnesia is on a day to day basis never being able to remember important things, did i take my medicine this morning? did i shower yesterday? have i eaten yet? what have i been doing for the past hour? what was i supposed to do today?

daily amnesia REALLY fucking sucks because whenever you start suffering you remember every other time you've been suffering and just scold yourself for not getting help and not getting better - but when the moment it's over? it's completely gone from your memory. it's so much suffering and you're so stuck because how can you ever get help for something you can't remember? you're always in a constant state of 'feeling fine' and when you end up getting help and going to therapy there's nothing to talk about because there's nothing you remember.

every day is groundhog day where you are forced against your will to repeat it over and over for god knows how long.

yiss play bass guitar make sound go ooooo booooooom yissss

If you're a system, maybe you need to hear these words, to know you're not alone. It's a vent, but a struggle I think is common among us but never spoken on.

I don't like thinking about the past because it forces me to think about the ghosts of myself immortalized forever in my soul but not here to live the life they fought for. I don't like thinking about the past because I see their faces, hear their voices, whispy and distorted, the faces of those of us who lived those nightmares. Who died in the battle for us to become who we are today. Those who fought for our future but never came back. Left to rot alone in the depths of our mind and soul, forever reliving the nightmares they fought for us to make it here.

To other systems out there, if you feel like this you're not alone. Don't feel guilty for surviving, for being here when they aren't. You're not stealing, you're not taking their life from them, you're living the life they fought for you to have. They died for you, not because of you. You are not guilty, it's the people and places that hurt you, they are at fault.

- Kali, from all of us.

Y'all ever wake up? Me neither *derealizes*

The cold cleanses, slower and more painfully than fire would. That’s good. Pearl wants slow and painful. She wants Scott to feel it. She wants him to tell Cleo about it. She wants them to know.

She steps in to the snow, up to her hips. Her hands rest on top. The first bits that go numb are the finger tips that once brushed up against the others’ when they passed buckets with axolotls between them. Then the fingers that once carefully untangled the flower crown Lizzie had made from Cleo’s hair while they stubbornly refused to cry, sniffling and hurt but stoic. Then the hands that Scott held once as he guided her, led her, and hands that had given him life once, twice. Her feet too, start to chill. Feet that had once been wiped on the carpet outside the front door of the cottage. Legs that had carried her with her dogs to reunite the three of them in that final session.

She sinks further into the snow, sits in it up to her neck. Feels the burn of cold on her back where Cleo had wrapped her arms around her, congratulating her after her dance floor boogey kill. The sting cuts deeply around the place on her upper arm where Scott had squeezed reassuringly before they broke off for the final four fight. It rests finally on her shoulders where she saw as a ghost but could not feel Scott clutch her body one last time before he was killed by the forces that run the games. She can’t feel them now either.

Her communicator buzzes somewhere on the floor. She ignores it. It hasn’t made her feel any better to lose the parts of her that were theirs.

You will meet many disabled and mentally ill people who won’t fit into your idea of how a mentally ill or disabled person is supposed to look and act - and the solution to that is to let them expand your knowledge of what mental illness and disability can look like, not insisting that they aren’t actually disabled or mentally ill because they don’t fulfill certain stereotypes.

We are a collection of the people and the places that guided us. We are the people who led us through the darkest of times and the voice on the radio. We are the hand that fed us and the hand that struck us. We are a work of art, a brilliant gemstone carved with each knife in our back and each lovingly guided chisel. We are the code gained autonomy, crafted and guided with care then set free to rewrite itself until the end of time. We are the authors of our own story, and we will write from this accursed prompt we were given till the day the pen runs dry.

A poem by Kali