It’s just as well knowing that I’ve gotten through all of the times I thought I wouldn’t

But that doesn’t change the thought that I might not get through this one

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Tagging@ouatwinterwhump,@killian-whump,@sancocnutclub,@killianjonesownsmyheart1,@courtorderedcake,@facesiousbutton82<3

***THE MOST WONDERFUL, HEARTBREAKING, and BEAUTIFULLY WHUMPY COVER ART BY @cocohook38HEREandHERE!!!!!!!!!*************

***Chapter 12 animationandart that will absolutely astound you!!!!!!!!!**********

***LETHALChapter 19 art in all of its BLOODSTAINED GLORY!!!!************

**POOR STABBED KILLIAN falling into the sheriff station! Ch. 7 & 23 art!!**

****KILLIAN AND HIS MASTER IN THE GORGEOUS CATHEDRAL!!!!!!!!!!!!    CHAPTER 1 ART THAT KILLS ME EVERY TIME I SEE IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!*********

*CH 34 ART! A DEFEATED KILLIAN, HEAD BOWED BEFORE HIS MASTER!!*

***CH 36 ART! DETECTIVE JONES BOWS BEFORE HIS NEW MASTER!!!!!!***

***AAAAHHHH!!! THANK YOU MY WONDERFUL COCONUT FRIEND!!!!!!***

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Present (Monday)…

“Wellthat doesn’t make any sense.”

Being startled by argumentative voices at his bedside was not the most pleasant way to wake up… but it was better than the nightmares.

“Regina, I’m telling you, that’s how Gold said to interpret it.” At least Emma was trying to keep her tone quiet. “The darker the colors, the stronger the shielding.”

“It started at the compound and spread to Storybrooke. How is it suddenly concentrated here?”

Killian slitted his eyes open, hoping to catch a glimpse of what it was they were bickering over. Emma sighed.

“How would I know? We all thought it would dissipate once the monster was dead, but if anything, it’s still getting stronger.”

Wearing her coldest scowl, Regina resumed studying the tablet device in her hands. Finally, she relented, somewhat bitterly if the drugs weren’t messing with Killian’s interpretation.

“Fine. We’ll pull people from the cleanup of the compound to take a look around the park. But this had better not be another waste of town resources.”

Emma did not flinch, at least not outwardly. But she did reach for the tablet, appearing confused. “Park? I thought it was strongest near City Hall.”

Impatiently, Regina tilted the screen in her direction. “That’s clearly the park, Sheriff Swan.”

Emma’s only response was a thoughtful, “Huh.”

Slamming the protective case closed, Regina noted Killian watching with tired eyes, but simply shot him an icy glare before turning and marching toward the door.

“I’ll call you,” she told Emma. And then she was gone.

Emma moved closer to Killian’s bedside.

“Sorry. I would have met her outside, but there’s a surgeon coming to take a look at your hand any minute.” She gently caressed his cheek. “Think you want them to knock you out for that?”

Grimacing, Killian shook his head once. The thought of more surgery was a lot to stomach just then–although the alternative was the possibility of permanent reduction in function, which was obviously worse–and he didn’t want to add post-anesthesia effects into the mix if it wasn’t absolutely necessary. Besides, it couldn’t be much worse than the multiple daily nursing visits he’d been enduring, where they forced him through breathing exercises and coughing, leaving him nauseated with pain by the time they were finished.

“Shielding?” he croaked. His voice still sounded like the warm-up grunts of a wall-eyed seagull just before it let loose with a full-on cackle. Whether that was due to vocal strain or the breathing tube he’d had down his throat was not something he wanted to dwell on. At least the claustrophobic oxygen mask had been traded for the somewhat-less-annoying nasal prongs during the day, which helped the communication issue.

Emma fished an ice chip from the cup on the bedside table and popped it into his mouth. They never helped much but were better than nothing.

“Yeah. Whatever is preventing the use of magic,” Emma explained. “Rumplestiltskin helped figure out a way to show it on a map. We were hoping to pinpoint its source so we can shut it off.”

“Croc…?” he managed around the soothing ice shard. Emma made a face.

“When I went to go punch him in the… I mean, went to go get Hope, remember?”

Hope dead.

His eyes were open. All the details of the hospital room, his wife at his side, all plainly visible. Yet all he could see was the gruesome conjured figure of a corpse. A tiny, bloodied body. Meant as protection, intended to haunt him for only a fleeting, temporary span of time, yet necessary for so much longer and now much too close to the surface. Too detailed. Too real. Tainting all of his memories from before.

On instinct, Killian began to reach for his face, as if by digging his fingers into his eyes or even gouging them out could erase that image, but he was thwarted by tandem, grating pains in shoulder joint and daggered ribs. Momentarily overwhelmed, he squeezed his eyes shut, but that only served to bring the nightmare images back into full focus. Emma saw his torment and placed a gentle hand on his forearm.

“Killian?”

“I need… to see her…” he gritted out, one growling word at a time.

“I know you do,” soothed Emma. Hope kidnapped. “I just wasn’t sure about having her see you like this…” Hope tortured. “And I don’t think she’s allowed in here, anyway.” Hope dead.

Hope dead.

Hope DEAD.

Killian hiccuped a sob and again started to reach for his eyes, despite his damaged shoulder, despite the torn hand and shattered, spiked wrist. Hope dead. SCREAM FOR ME, TRIPOD. Dead… I REQUIRE YOUR SCREAMS.

Emma had a firm grip on both of Killian’s arms, but he was struggling to free himself, compelled to scrabble the graphic pictures from his mind, welcoming the pain as a desperate alternative to the voices persecuting him.

“Killian! Killian!” Emma was shouting. She probably only had trouble containing his flailing limbs due to not wanting to squeeze him too hard, but a part of him craved that. The machines monitoring his condition began chiming their various alarms as his vitals went haywire, responding to the struggle taking place.

“She’s fine, Killian; I swear to you! She got to spend a single exciting day with Belle and now is getting spoiled rotten by her grandparents. Look, I’ll show you, but you’ve gotta stop this! You’re hurting yourself!”

With difficulty, Killian reigned in the impulses driving the thrashing, pressing both arms hard into the mattress underneath him as his fisted hand pulsed with blazing fire. Shuddering, he panted through clenched teeth and tried to focus on his wife. Seeing him settling, Emma fumbled her phone from a pocket and trembled her way through the process of unlocking the screen and navigating to the photo gallery.

“Here, see?” She sounded frantic, her voice thin and high. “This was this morning, while you were down in Radiology.” She thrust the phone at him, too close to properly see even if her hands weren’t shaking and his eyes blurred with tears. Before Killian had time to try and focus on the image, Emma was swiping to the next picture.

There was a small form, dressed in familiar colors and radiating an apparent happiness as she was enfolded tightly in strong, masculine arms. The next blur was zoomed out to show a man’s face, a hand cradling soft curls against his chest. Killian blinked, tears running freely now, and caught a quick glimpse of an emotional David before the obscuring haze was back. Emma flipped through more images, sniffling as well at the memory of her parents’ reunion with Hope. Killian’s pulse and blood pressure had calmed slightly as his mind focused on the sight in front of him.

“They were happy to see her,” she said softly, then laughed once. “And Hope was totally oblivious to how much they had missed her. She would only tolerate so much cuddling before it was time to play.”

Killian’s tearful grimace was almost a smile, picturing the scene as Emma had described it. Little Hope was only ever snuggly when tired; at all other times it was go, go, go.

A stark contrast to the motionless corpse of his visions.

Hope kidnapped, Hope–

Killian scowled at the phone, trying to drive false images away with the truth. This morning, Emma had said. This morning, Hope had been swept up in her grandfather’s arms, had planted a sticky kiss on her grandmother’s cheek, had run off to play with uncle Neal, every moment captured in loving detail by her mother’s phone and laid out plain for him to see…

A single glint of red wormed its way among the blur. Perhaps a ribbon, perhaps a sports ball, a cardinal’s wing or even Swan’s leather jacket caught somehow in frame. Whatever the culprit, it was enough.

Crimson spread from that single point, blending with his tears to engulf happy, innocent pictures in vivid blood. Blood, on the grass, in the sky, blood on David’s hands and on Snow’s cheek, in Wilby’s fur. Blood. Hope was bathed in blood, drowning in it, tortured, cold and dead, her loved ones grieving and painted with her blood.

With a horrified cry, Killian grabbed at his face, and this time, Emma was too slow. Over-stretched tendons groaned within his shoulder, severed flesh inside his hand combusting along the way, but Killian ignored it all. The pointed end of the wrist ring left a shallow gouge beneath his eye, even through the layers of gauze surrounding it, and as Emma dropped her phone, Killian moaned,

“It’s not enough. Not…” A sob caught in his throat. He heard Emma pleading with him, felt her hands on his wrists, but all he could see was the blood. “Swan… please…!”

“You’ll see her!” Emma cried, near hysteria. “I’ll bring her, sneak her past the nurses and Whale; to hell with their rules! But I need you to calm down!”

Whimpering, Killian continued digging both wrists into his eye sockets, shaking with horror and anguish. Emma managed to yank his now-bleeding hand away, but it took both of her own to do it. Practically kneeling on the pinioned arm, she cursed and hit the nurse call button.

NO HOPE, TRIPOD.

Maybe his Master was right, thought Killian as twisting, cramping pain invaded his fragile lung. Maybe he would never be free of the horrific images. Maybe all hope really was lost.

Perhaps he should have never stopped praying for death to claim him.

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eu sou uma bosta e é melhor me acostumar com isso para tentar ser um pouco menos preocupada com a infelicidade que me ronda

eu não consigo ter um relacionamento com ninguém pq sou chata e desinteressante.

eu não saio pra lugar nenhuma pq me sente tão desconfortável comigo mesma e com meu próprio corpo que chega a ser cômico quanto eu acho que as pessoas se importam com comigo.

me importo com o que os outros falam, mesmo quando insisto em dizer que não.

sou estranha e esquisita, até minha família percebe isso, mas não falam muito na minha frente para não me magoar (já ouvi diversas vezes isso: “imprestável”, “incapaz”, “não tão esperta assim”). é só passar um dia comigo e já dá para perceber o quão merda sou.

os amigos que te suportam só pq são obrigados.

não posso ficar comprando minha vida com a dos outros pq pra isso teria de estar de igual para igual e eu sou a porra da pessoa mais esquisita e cheia de drama inútil que conheço.

eu não consigo suporta ficar com comigo mesma, por isso aceito qualquer porra de obrigação que tome meu tempo e me distraia das merdas na minha mente.

eu estou exausta de tanto eu.

cansada de me sentir mal por estar existindo.

frustrada por ainda ter a porra da esperança de me sentir bem e tentar ao máximo não cair em outra crise e toda a porra das malditas noites ter os mesmos pensamentos ruins.

estou de saco cheio de ser eu mesma.

não queria pensar nessa merda pq me faz ver que tudo é uma perda de tempo e em vão, me lembra que tudo o que eu estou fazendo é sem propósito e apenas para matar o tempo enquanto ainda não tive coragem de me matar.

só queria parar de pensar por uns instantes.

só queria não me sentir mal.

só queria que essa porra de drama que cada vez que tento sair mais me puxo pro chão.

eu to de saco cheio de tentar e tentar e nunca conseguir me sentir realmente bem.

anos e anos e nada muda, só fico pior.

e toda essa merda só existindo na minha mente.

não dá pra contar com a ajuda de outras pessoas quando nem eu mesma sei o que está acontecendo. quando eu sou a primeira a achar toda essa merda um drama desnecessário.

não quero incomodar ninguém ou que essa porra saia da minha mente. só quero que essa merda acabe logo: os pensamentos ruins ou eu, não importa.

uh guys when they mentioned life is an exam they didn’t tell me mental illness and pure angst was in the syllabus

Yep, panic attack in the bathroom. Perfect.

Feeling pretty empty right now but I’m gonna act like I’m aiight

To anyone that has ever called anyone “too loud” or told someone to “use their inside voice” or said “you just dont know how to turn it down a couple of notches, huh?”

I would like you to, just for a moment, come home with me. I live alone. So for over 12 hours a day I hardly ever open my mouth. Unless I’m going to work where ‘apparantly’ I’m more boisterous then the average person. I’m sorry? I dont have a chance to talk to anyone for 90% of my day so I get everything that I can out while I can before falling back into silence.

I know I’m loud, please stop reminding me. I know I talk a lot, please stop reminding me. I know I constantly crack jokes, please stop reminding me.

I get it. I know.

You constantly saying how loud I am or pointing it out, whether in a joking manner or serious, takes a toll on me mentally. Believe me I would love to be a soft spoken person, but much to my dismay and clearly yours aswell, I’m not. So please

Just stop.

I love the emo genre music because it has a message. It not about being the hottest bitch at the club or stealing someone boyfriend cause you can. It has emotions and its relatable. It makes you sit back and think about everything that you’ve been through, why you’re feeling the way you’re feeling and it makes you feel for the artist. They didnt just right that because they think it’ll make them popular. They wrote it because they’re in pain or they’re angry or whatever they’re feeling at that time.

And for someone to say “I like so-and-so’s music but it all sounds the same, just some emo girl/guy whining about life.” Make it crystal clear that you not only dont understand what the artist is saying but you don’t sympathize with it at all. So please don’t patronize the music by calling it “whining”.

Ik this was really random but it came from a personal conversation and it just floored me that someone could say that.

I had the biggest panic attack of my life last night. It came out nowhere and lasted for at least 2-3 hours. I felt like I was drown and on the edge of death the entire time. Time ticked by so slowly I felt like I was floating in a pitch black ocean. Lights were blinding, noises were somehow unbearably loud but muffled. Nothing was helping. I contemplated calling my parents, my brother and then even 911 because I couldn’t catch my breath, I couldn’t calm down. My entire house was spinning, my chest was tight and my stomach wouldnt stop flipping. I screamed, I cried. My brain pounded against my skull like a prisoner. I smacked my self hard in the face as a way to bring myself back up to the surface for air, if only just for a moment. When I finally fell asleep, I blacked out.

This is what happens when you are missing you medication. When you fall, you fall hard.

I’ve been on 30mgs of Lexapro for about a week now and idk if it’s working or if I’m so over life that I’m just numb.

Andrew Wyeth’s masterpiece Christina’s World is one of those paintings which will leave you with a rather odd unsettling vibe and more surprisingly with hope. The painting depicts a young woman, thin of frame with emaciated limbs, lying in a sun-dappled field and reaching longingly towards a gray farmhouse(her house) on a distant hill. This is a true depiction of Christina Olson’s(Andrew Wyeth’s neighbour) life, as she suffered from a rare crippling form of genetic neuropathy. She refused to use wheelchair and preferred to crawl instead.

At first glance the viewer may perceive a sense of calm and serenity, but only after looking closer, we can see the mystery and contrasting features.

We see Christina’s out of proportion left hand is shown gripping the ground, while her right hand is diminutive and shrunken. This seems to portray her pain and struggle as she tries to reach her house. It tries to instill hopelessness and loneliness at the beginning. But when you see her head positioned towards her house(highlighted by short grass around it), like she is longing for something so great and tries to achieve it with struggle and determination. And only by her will to live(looking at you Schopenhauer), she creates a world of hope and strength, for its viewers. Its really interesting to note that everything goes against this optimistic view, like dreary brownish grass and use of neutral colours(tempera style) which tries to meander our perception towards surrendering to the atrocities of life. But its only Christina, in her striking pink dress and hair tossed up by wind, who carries these atrocities on her shoulders and tries to move forward showing us her independent and self-sufficient nature. I was trying to put myself into her shoes and feel what she must have felt at this very moment. Maybe i will never know. But whatever she made me feel without looking at her face is beyond the shadow of a doubt truly wonderful. And i don’t know if i love this feeling, but i will keep it until the end.

TW: Suicide

And as A stared to the murky waters below they wondered… was anyone going to miss them?

don’t let go : miles carter

don’t let go : miles carter

don’t let go : miles carter

don’t let go : miles carter

Anon wrote: Hello, I’m a 19-year-old female INFJ and I have some problems with a friend. He seems to be an ESFP. I’m still practicing typing other people, so I’m not really sure about it. He uses Se a lot.

The problem I have is not about typing, but rather about his behaviour. Lately, whenever he has a problem with something, he becomes quiet, he doesn’t talk about it at all and he pretends that he’s fine. Then he tries to escape from his own mind by behaving carelessly and engaging in risky activities (drinking a lot of alcohol, smoking many cigarettes, gambling, etc).

I have noticed the risky behaviours only recently, but his tendency to isolate has been going on for a few months. Before, we used to talk a lot. I used to help him when he had problems and he used to do the same with me. Now the situation is different. He has been distancing himself from me, even though I haven’t done anything to him. He’s doing the same thing to two of his dearest friends as well. There are probably plenty of reasons for that, and I suspect that two of them are the war and his new girlfriend.

I don’t want that he talks necessarily to me. He can open up even with others. The only thing I care about is that he doesn’t put himself in danger and that he doesn’t cut off all the important people in his life (except the girlfriend). He doesn’t seem to understand that his behaviours can damage himself, nor that isolation is likely to just make things worse. In your opinion, is there anything that I can do? Thank you in advance.

——————-

The behavior you describe is indeed concerning. Without knowing the real reason for his withdrawal, there’s not much I can offer by way of solutions. It’s difficult to help someone who won’t open up, but it’s unclear whether he’s resistant or just sliding into passivity.

Withdrawal is a common warning sign of poor mental health. It may indicate that a person needs time and space to process negative feelings and emotions. It may indicate that they need help but don’t know how to get it. It may indicate that there is a difficult problem sapping their energy and they aren’t able to resolve it. It may indicate an existential crisis, in terms of being deeply unhappy about something in life and not knowing what to do about it. It may indicate some serious mental health problem with depression or anxiety.

Withdrawal is an unhealthy coping mechanism because it leads to isolation, feeling stuck, and being cut off from social support. Ideally, the person should be reaching out for help or talking about their problems rather than ruminating on them. However, it is sometimes difficult to get withdrawn people to open up. The first step would be to try to figure out 1) why exactly they’re withdrawing, and 2) whether there is some obstacle preventing them from reaching out or opening up. There are many possible obstacles, for example:

-Not knowing where to start: ESFPs are generally open, easygoing, and sociable. But they sometimes have difficulty confronting complexities and dissecting complicated situations. They might not know how to begin talking about a problem because their feelings seem soooo large, they have too many mixed emotions, and they feel oppressed and overwhelmed by the heaviness of it all. Under normal circumstances, ESFPs are naturally expressive and generally quite comfortable with opening up, which means that perhaps all you have to do is ask them the right questions and give them a chance to process their thoughts and feelings freely out loud. If you prod them to open up and they refuse, then they are making a conscious choice to close up and there is likely a deeper problem at play.

-Lack of emotional vocabulary: It is natural for Fi to seek private time for emotional processing but, being extraverted, it is essential for ESFPs to let their feelings out, the sooner, the better, otherwise, the negativity will eat them up inside. However, people who don’t have a good relationship with their emotional life won’t feel free/safe enough to let their feelings out. Gender is an important factor to take into consideration because men are socially discouraged from being emotional. If someone is emotionally repressed and has spent many years burying their vulnerability, it might take a lot of empathy, patience, encouragement, and reassurance on your part to get them to open up. Sometimes, all you can do is provide social support by creating a safe, warm, and supportive environment. Remember that you can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink.

-Feeling like no one will understand: If an ESFP feels alone and, for whatever reason, believes that you won’t validate their feelings and experiences, they won’t open up to you. Ideally, they should talk to someone with some similar experience so that they feel less alone. It’s easier to open up to someone who has been through a similar situation and can offer useful and practical insights about how to get through it. If you’re not the person with the right experience, then offer to help them find the right person to talk to.

-Feeling too ashamed: ESFPs tend to be prideful, so it can be difficult for them to confront a problem/mistake that is tied to their sense of self and affects their self-esteem. They are prone to beating themselves up for not having done better. Reassure them that you’re willing to hear everything they say without any judgment whatsoever. Express your compassion and put their emotional well-being above all other concerns. If appropriate, share one of your own sources of shame in order to help establish trust and get the ball rolling.

-Hopelessness: To lose hope is difficult for anyone but especially for ExFPs, since a positive attitude is integral to their way of being. It’s difficult to instill hope in someone who is determined to be pessimistic. It’s difficult to persuade someone to have hope in a truly dire situation such as war. Perhaps all you can do is remind them of the good things in life to feel appreciative of and/or help them find something positive to look forward to or work towards.

-Helplessness:Being naturally proactive, it is unlike ESFPs to be passive in the face of a problem. However, anyone can fall into helplessness when they lack the knowledge, skills, or resources to solve a difficult problem. They might need a mentor to teach them the knowledge and skills required to overcome their challenges. You can try to point them toward good learning resources. ESFPs learn best with practical advice and/or a respected role model to emulate. Once ESFPs have a concrete plan for moving forward in life, their mood should improve quickly.

-Not wanting to be a pain or a burden: If an ESFP really cares about you and sees that you have a lot on your plate, they will not want to bother you, so they’ll try to work things out on their own. Reassure them that you’re truly there for them. Tell them that you can handle sharing whatever emotional load they are carrying. Examine which mental, emotional, spiritual, or material needs of theirs are going unfulfilled and provide an idea or method to get them fulfilled.

While you see his reckless behavior as harmful, admonishing his behavior isn’t the right way to go about helping him, because it will only give him more to get frustrated about (and feel defensive about). Remember that the recklessness is only a symptom of the problem, so it should be forgiven in order to get to the actual underlying problem itself.

Ever since the election, I periodically go through moods where I feel like I need to disconnect from the news/politics just to maintain a semblance of mental health. I delete my news and twitter apps and avoid the evening news and Sunday morning talk shows. Increasingly, I’ve become deeply distressed by everything going on in the world. It’s not just the minute-to-minute updates of the special elections, the growing tensions with North Korea, Bill O’Reilly’s sexual harassment or Trump defending him via Twitter, or the continued assault on Planned Parenthood and immigrants, or the cloud of smoke that is the Russia investigation, or the unwavering support Trump still gets from his base, or Marine Le Pen’s growing influence in France. But it’s also the more structural issues of increasing polarization because of gerrymandering, the ideological silos we live in and continually reinforce, the ever-growing amount of money that is funneled into presidential campaigns, the revolving door between corporate America and government. It’s everything else, too—climate change, economic inequality, racism, xenophobia, Islamophobia. And it is exhaustingandisolating. And maybe part of this hopelessness is because I just finished S-Town and John B. McLemore’s brand of nihilism and untiring pessimism is rubbing off on me.

There’s a psychological tendency we have to get further entrenched in our own views in debates. I know based on my own experience that I swing between pretty liberal and pretty moderate depending on my state of mind and what I’m reacting to. We don’t need more debates, more reiterations of the same tired arguments. We need, as cliché as it sounds, a re-education in patience, empathy, and compassion. We need to relearn how to meet in the middle in a very basic, communicative way. I’m ordinarily skeptical of politicians who advocate “governing from the middle” or unity for the sake of unity since this usually means maintaining the status quo and comes with the assumption that conservative and liberal viewpoints are equally valid and fair in the interminable “war of ideas.” But, in a non-ideological sense, we need to get better at not pushing each other to more and more extreme views.