Cortisol

by TamiyaGuy

Exhaustion

I’ve been staring at the knife in my hand for the past ten minutes. Normally its blade would already be stained by now.

Not stained red as you might think – that only happens if you make another cut close to where you’re already bleeding, or if you hold the knife in the wound for long enough for the blood flow to start. No, normally it’s this faint, almost greasy stain that smears over the cutting edge. Whether it’s fragments of skin or plasma or something else entirely, I don’t even know. I don’t want to know.

But the blade’s still clean. Instead of physical sensation, it’s thoughts that suffuse me instead. Of this morning, of yesterday afternoon, of what went well, what went wrong, what simply went. Of the mistakes I definitely made, could have made, probably didn’t but that won’t stop the ‘what-if’s and the rumination. All jumbled together in this tempestuous mess that’s making me unable to tear my eyes away from this stupid, destructive little temptation.

I know it’ll help, is the worst part. At least temporarily. Will clear that fog, that haze, for a few hours, a few days even. But I hesitate, instead turning my thoughts to Wallflower.

What would she be thinking right now? Is she in the same place as me, dwelling on countless minutia, perceived mistakes that I’ve completely forgotten about by now? What would she feel if she was still here? Shame? Disappointment? Understanding, the kind that neither of us wish we felt?

Or maybe she’d feel the exact same way I’m feeling right now. ‘Conflicted’, for want of a better word.

Or maybe she’s just having a pleasant evening after enjoying a hearty bowl of soup. Not presuming that someone else is feeling the same way she is in the vain hope of explaining away some nebulous cloud of self-destructive thoughts.

My weary gaze travels over to my other arm as it rests on my leg, palm-up. It settles on the spot just below the wrist, and I clench my hand briefly, watching as the tendons tense and flex beneath the skin. It starts to make me feel sick.

That’s good. If I feel sick because I’m terrified of damaging something important, it means I’m less likely to cut.

Or cut there, at the very least. Your thighs are already scarred to hell, so why not just-

Don’t think about that. Focus on that sick feeling, let it keep you grounded, because it’s better than anything else right now.

Really? Better than that shameful, horrible feeling of complete relaxation, of letting out all that tension when you-

Especially that.

And suddenly, through the faint nausea that comes from being made acutely aware of exactly how one’s own body functions, I wonder why the hell I’m here. Not even in the pseudo-philosophical sense of pondering some grand meaning to existence, but why I’m here, right now, in the living room, mesmerised by the light glinting off a blade that for some reason I’m still staring at.

Why the temptation is still there.

Because today went well. It went really well, in fact. Even with the ever-niggling suspicion that it was all a show for the sake of politeness, it’s hard not to realise that Wallflower and I made a connection that I don’t think either of us thought was possible. Over such a messed-up topic, we found something to take comfort in, something worth laughing about.

And yet, through so many missteps. So many trip-ups. So many times you tried to take something hopeful and drag it by the hair back down to your level.

I don’t realise I've been smiling until it’s wiped back off my face. A train of rumination releases its brakes, and slowly it gathers momentum – reminders, recollection, repulsion. At the cowardice, the inappropriate humour – hell, the very first words I spoke to her were about the worst ones anyone could possibly have picked. Making her feel responsible for the disaster I caused at the café, and responding to that by…

I never even apologised to her.

I completely blew up at Wallflower, near as dammit sent her into a panic attack, and I couldn’t even be bothered to eke out so much as a ‘sorry’.

Seems like I answered my own question, then. I think it was better left rhetorical.

And so I’m back here, dwelling on what I screwed up, what pain I could’ve caused, how things could’ve gone differently.

My grip on the knife’s handle tightens, just barely.

‘How things could’ve gone differently’. Now that’s a thought that takes me back a long time.

Not just a different time, though, but a different place, a different world. A different goal, a different mentor… but the same failures.

For a moment, the whole façade threatens to come crashing down. What others have told me, what I’ve told myself, the very person I’d hoped I’d turned into. But give me half an excuse and I repeat history: Charge into battle, get mad when it doesn’t work out, then flee like a coward, filled with the urge to tear something apart. Be it myself, or Wallflower, or Princess Twilight, or…

Sometimes it really does seem like nothing ever changes. Not in a way that matters.

The cutting edge rests against the skin, a light pressure making the flesh deform inwards slightly. All it would take is the slightest movement in either direction. A momentary slip, deliberate or accidental, to succumb to that temptation. It wouldn’t even be that big a deal – the stained bandage from yesterday needs changing anyway, and it’s concealing an ugly, gaping wound that no doubt is going to leave a hideous scab in a few days. What’s another couple of cracks on something that’s already mangled beyond repair?

But the knife doesn’t move a single millimetre.

Because somehow, all the setbacks from the past two days, all the awkwardness, all the failures, bring with them a strange reassurance of their own.

I can’t even figure out why. Is it the sense of connection? The feeling that I’m not alone? A strange, self-pitying, rather pathetic thought, since I was never alone in the first place. After all, Twilight knows. Rainbow cares. But Wallflower? Wallflower understands.

Was it the perseverance? The fact that through screw-up after screw-up, Wallflower kept trying. We both did. Either through a simple gesture of kindness or defusal through humour or just gritting our teeth, neither of us cut our losses when it would’ve been so easy to.

Or is it simple pain empathy? The subtle itch in my arm that always flared up when I saw the scar tissue, and the matter-of-fact conclusion that I’d be cold and dead before I just ignored Wallflower’s struggle, for better or worse.

Does it even matter?

Slowly, carefully, I lift the blade clear of my forearm, making sure not to slide it horizontally in the process. A thin line of blanched skin is left in its wake, and it quickly fades to a healthy amber, uniform with the rest of the unmarked skin. Like nothing had happened at all.

It’s a quiet breath that I let out of my nose, an almost imperceptible unfurrowing of my brow, but it feels like the first movement I’ve made, the first noise I’ve heard for hours. The apartment’s quiet at this point in the night, neither peaceful nor dead. Just still. Pensive. Waiting for a release that never came.

But the blade of the knife flips closed with a snap, and with a trembling resolve I decide to leave that particular release unsatisfied. At least for this evening.

The soft clack of metal on glass echoes throughout my living room with a certain finality to it. There’s still that horrible tenseness in my shoulders, that coiled spring inside my stomach, but even then I let out a breath I hadn’t realised I’d been holding.

It’s probably too late in the evening, anyway. Just one of the lessons I wish I’d never had to learn: Cutting while tired is a bad idea.

I almost laugh. Of all the justifications, the one that comes to mind is ‘it’s getting a bit late’.

Whatever excuse I can take, I guess.

It’s a bizarre feeling, starting to put away my supplies without a bandage around my arm to show for it. The thought hits me as I’m carrying the gauze and tape back to the medicine cabinet, instinctively holding my arm up at an awkward angle while shuffling across the room. Normally it’d help prevent blood from dripping down onto the floor and staining everything, but without having to be constantly mindful of bumping an open wound against stuff I can’t help but pause to admire the utterly ridiculous pose I’m striking.

I put my arm back down, resting it against my side. Somehow, holding the medical supplies in my other hand, it feels unnatural. Like I’m using the wrong personality for a particular social situation.

But I continue anyway, and by the third trip to return the tissues to the bedside table, it feels like any other evening. Any normal evening. Any evening where I haven’t spent the last hour lost in my own stupid head, desperate to do something horrible.

Spent the last hour wasting time and not even bothering to go through with it in the end.

Spent the last hour overcoming the urge, I very quickly correct myself. It’s not cowardice that I didn’t go through with it, it’s strength that I didn’t succumb to the temptation.

Maybe the next time this happens, I’ll say that and actually believe it.

Coming back to a clean coffee table, untainted by drying red stains and crumpled tissues, it feels almost strange. Some subconscious part of my brain knows how an evening like this is supposed to go; knows what is supposed to happen, what the consequences are, and how to deal with those consequences. Now that it hasn’t happened, now that the plan’s gone awry, it doesn’t quite know what to do.

Twenty minutes spent staring at something that you know is going to happen, and then it just… doesn’t. There’s no fanfare, no congratulations, no reward, because why would there be? Why should I be feeling proud for doing something that everyone else manages on their own with no problem at all?

My mind wanders, once again, to that flash of purple on green.

But it’s not in shame. It’s not in fear. Instead, it’s with the kind of quiet realisation that can only come about when there’s nothing left to focus on but your own thoughts. When you stop, take a step back, take the same broken logic that you’ve applied to yourself for years, and try to apply it to someone else. And even though you’ve known all along that it’s broken logic, that you shouldn’t be tarring yourself with that brush, somehow thinking of tarring someone else with it exposes the whole self-destructive lie for what it is.

Because I know, here and now, that it’ll be a cold day in Hell before I tell Wallflower that overcoming that urge is nothing to be proud of.

And if anyone else tried to say that to her? I think I’d kick their teeth in.

“Hm.”

The sound echoes throughout the apartment as I come back to reality. I’m not sure how long I’ve been standing in the lounge like an idiot, but I don’t particularly care – I didn’t have anything planned anyway. I still don’t quite know what I should be doing, but at the very least I’m now able to default back to my normal routine and wind up the day.

Which, in some bitter twist of irony, starts off with replacing the dressing from yesterday’s cut.

But somehow, the act isn’t imbued with the sense of shame that it normally is. Instead, it’s a necessity from a past slip-up, not a reminder of a disgusting failure. A seldom act of self-care and not some pitiful attempt at damage control. Even as I peel the medical tape off and wince at the sharp stinging sensation that tears through my arm, it’s bizarrely, perversely uplifting to know that it’s still the right thing to do.

The context may have changed, but the act itself is as well-practised as ever. Remove the gauze and wash the wound under clean water. Replace the dressing with a clean pad, replace the bandage, replace the medical tape. It’s become autonomous by now, simply a skill learned through experience, and it’s not easy to push back against the pang of guilt that comes from reminding myself of exactly how I gained that experience.

Then it’s done. Wound bandaged, dried blood washed off, with nothing to show for it except a neat square of gauze on my forearm.

But it no longer feels like I’m hiding my shame. It’s just the next step towards healing.

I still look at the used first aid supplies with a scowl, though, cramming them deep into the bottom of the wastepaper basket. Some vain hope that they’ll be forgotten by proximity, even as the injury warms my arm up uncomfortably and makes it impossible to truly ignore. I wonder if I’ll forget about them once the sensation subsides, or in an hour, or a day, or a week. I wonder if I even want to, or if I need that constant reminder so that I don’t forget what I’ve done. I wonder if that would just make the whole thing worse and that what I actually need to do is stop letting this dumb thought live rent-free in my head. Of course, I won’t.

But does it even matter?

One thing’s for sure, though: It takes longer than it takes for me to trudge to the bathroom, grab my toothbrush, and wrap things up for the day. An odd feeling of something close to – but never quite reaching – normalcy, some switch flicked in my brain labelled ‘reset to defaults’, and I carry the feeling with me to my bedroom, until I finally drop my head, exhausted, onto a pillow.

My breath comes out of my nose in short, sharp puffs, just above a jaw that I only now realise is still clenched. And time ticks on, as it so often does in the darkness and stillness of an empty apartment at midnight, agonisingly slowly.

Eventually, consciousness simply stops being worth the effort.

As I finally start drifting off to sleep, I don’t have a smile on my face. I’m still just as tense and restless as before, mind still circling around, worrying about countless stupid minutia that I know it’s pointless to worry about now but that sure as hell won’t stop me from worrying. That urge, that terrifying logic, is still there and I hate it even more than what it’s caused. I’m not happy. I’m not proud.

But I’m not drifting off to sleep with another new bandage on my arm. I’m not drifting off to sleep feeling the stinging warmth of a fresh wound that’s as sickening as it is soothing. I’m not worrying about rubbing my arm against something while I sleep and waking up to red-stained bedsheets.

And maybe that’s a start.

Comments

[The Sleepless Beholder]

Having read the other two previous stories just for understanding this one, it makes me happy that this is the first truly positive ending they have.

Sunset's right. It's a start. A very important start. And even if she falls back at some moment or other, she has to remember this first start. That first moment when she saw a bit of clarity through the fog of depression and self-loathing. That she recognized the lies she had told herself over and over.

Great job here.

[Scampy]

And if anyone else tried to say that to her? I think I’d kick their teeth in.

“Hm.”

This is excellent lesbian foreshadowing and if you deny it I will send an army of cats to poop on your pillow.

AHEM.

I remember the first time I had the urge to hurt myself, put the razor to my skin, then pulled it away minutes later without doing anything. This chapter perfectly captures the intensely confusing and self-contradictory feelings I had that night.

I wasn't proud. I wasn't happy. I didn't feel good about myself or feel like I was better or that I ever would be. But I felt something, something small and fragile and precious that I knew, even if I couldn't identify it, that I had to acknowledge it was real. That little seed of self-worth took years to finally bloom into something sturdy, and even then I cut it down to size more than a few times. But the seed was always there, and as long as I acknowledged that, I never felt like I'd given up on myself.

That's what this story is about, more than anything, I think. Learning not to give up on yourself, because you can't bring yourself to give up on someone else. Caring about someone else is so much easier than caring about yourself, but the two don't have to be mutually exclusive. After all, we're all just someone else to someone else. Caring about someone else is still caring for someone, and that's enough to start.

Being strong enough to care about yourself doesn't always feel like strong. It's a not towering, immutable sense of self-worth, but it's not the opposite of that either. It's something in the middle, something that takes nurturing and resilience to see it grow, but it has so much potential to change Sunset's life, and Wally's life after that, and then they are going to wind up together and get married or you will suffer the monumental consequences of your sins.

Anyway. Good story. It reminds me of where I've been and makes me all the more grateful and proud of where I am now.
media.discordapp.net/attachments/692239896773001217/1050948367582248990/Screenshot_20221209-173329_I_Am_Sober.jpg
🙏💞

[Boltstrike58]

It's kinda interesting how the thing that finally helped Sunset break through the fog was the fact that she met someone who has similar problems, the fact that she isn't the only one like this, rather than somebody empathizing.

[KwirkyJ]

"But I've learned so much! I can feel the Force something outside of self-inflicted Clarity*!"
"But you cannot control it. This is a delicate time for you."
* - 'Clarity' as a euphemism, naturally

This is a solid installment in your series -- it shows us the beginning to moving forward and some reasons why and how. Good work.

[TamiyaGuy]

11445383
Wow. Thanks so much for reading the previous entries to get the whole story, that's really thoughtful. I tried to make this at least accessible to those who haven't, but naturally, there'll be a lot of finer detail and context missing in that case.

"Positive" ending is a nice way of putting it, because one of my goals for Cortisol was specifically "don't give it a happy ending". And I hope you didn't find it happy in the traditional sense, but... yeah, you're right - positive. Hopeful.

Thanks for the comment.

[TamiyaGuy]

11445544
It's nice to hear that you picked up on that. One of the things I find myself doing a lot in fanfics is breaking down a cliché I've seen all too often - that dramatically (and often forcibly) confronting someone about self-harm is a fantastic way of helping and then everyone was friends and everything was better.

I guess this time, I tried to break apart that cliché in a positive way, by potentially showing that 'help' can come from, as you mentioned, true empathy instead of confrontation or surface-level sympathy. Thanks.

[TamiyaGuy]

11445597
Okay, welp I think I'm gonna have to steal "ｃｌａｒｉｔｙ" for my own degenerate uses, thanks for that!

And thanks for your comment as well, particularly that it's as much about the why as it is the fact that Sunset, as you mentioned, is beginning to move forward.

[TamiyaGuy]

11445404

This is excellent lesbian foreshadowing

Hahaaa, man, trust you to take the one part of the story that could possibly be interpreted in that way and bring it to its insane fanatic natural and logical conclusion, bloody fantastic

…I think I need an ‘ahem’ of my own now.

So first off, I must apologise for taking so long to reply. I actually had to build myself up to respond because this is honestly one of the most meaningful things that anyone’s ever commented on something of mine. Beyond just the thoughtful and thought-provoking comment, it means a lot because I see a lot of myself in those first two (serious) paragraphs, and it means a lot to hear it from someone else’s perspective. Kudos for having the bravery to confront and share it.

This chapter perfectly captures the intensely confusing and self-contradictory feelings I had that night.

It’s a pretty thin veil that the section you’re talking about is basically me projecting hard enough to show off PowerPoint slides. So on that note, even through the self-imposed stigma, the discomfort, the feeling that I ‘should’ve’ felt like overcoming the urge was a victory, the sense of shame and failure that I would still go to bed stressed and worn out… your reassurance that I wasn’t alone in those feelings – and that somehow I managed to put them into words that you could relate to – is genuinely, deeply uplifting in a way that surface-level positivity can’t reach.

And I think ‘not giving up on yourself’ is a great interpretation, a great way of summing up the series. Of (slowly, and with great difficulty) learning to embrace and work with the often conflicting and self-demeaning feelings that come with struggles of self-worth and self-harm. Of recognising that progress is still progress, even and especially when it doesn’t feel like it.

Of course, because this is me, I had to throw a few curveballs in there as well, try to smack down some of the clichés when a story includes someone who, sarcastic quotes, ‘helps’. It was honestly pretty fun, and at times almost felt like a reversal of the standard Sad Sunset/Sad Wallflower interaction.

That’s a hard-hitting thought, about caring about someone else. Because you’re spot-on about it being easier, and you’re spot-on about how it can boost one’s own self-esteem in turn, when managed well with adequate self-care. You nailed it in your own comment: It’s enough to start.

Thanks again for the comments throughout this, and you should be damn proud of where you are now. I’m proud of you as well.

[The Sleepless Beholder]

11470847
Yeah, I didn't want to say a 'happy ending' because I know this isn't the happy ending, but the first step on the long road to one.

Mine was secluding myself for a week and painfully convincing that voice in my head that I shouldn't be angry for failing to live up to others' expectations of me. And that was after a full year of mental health care.

There's never an easy solution to things like this, and that's what makes these first steps so important. Even if they don't seem like it. Even if they feel like the opposite.

And I'm glad you're showing it with these stories.

Thank you.

[TamiyaGuy]

11470878

I know this isn't the happy ending, but the first step on the long road to one.

What a wonderful way of putting it, that is just poetry. I might have to steal that for myself, actually.

You're bang-on about there not being an easy solution, and honestly I appreciate you mentioning it - basically the main reason I even started this series was in an attempt to convey that message (as well as the shameless projection, of course).

So thank you, and it's good to hear that you were able to convince that little niggling voice of your inherent self-worth; I've no doubt it was achieved through your own grit and determination. I've no doubt that there have been times when it's tried its damndest to pull you back down again, too, but... well, you put it perfectly.

You took the first step.

[Wishesshecouldwritegood]

11505779
Yes, thank you so much for this absolutely necessary thing in my life. Despite it, of course, being not the positive topic one would expect is necessary to feel better, this 3 fic trio ended up ending on a happy note, unlike having a worse ending. So, that’s good!

[Wishesshecouldwritegood]

Preamble: long note with tw about suicidal ideation and starving.
I just came back to this story (this newer one, the ending of the 3 story series). It’s only been a few months, but a lot has changed and stayed the same. And although I’m sure no one cares cuz I’m just self-projecting (makes me think of Sunset here), I just want to give my thoughts now that I’m in a….slightly better mindset? Last year I was in the worst suicidal situation I had ever experienced. I kept delaying eating and starving myself as a form of self harm because, what I am at least grateful for, is I was too grossed out at cutting to have that be my outlet. This feels weird, like a weight has left my shoulders and I can breathe easier now that I’ve said this to someone other than my aunt (can’t get a therapist, parents, is all I need to say. not that that always helps.) My thoughts are still the same, if a little less and different, but I’m just grateful I got over that period. Who knows, I might relapse in my self-hate once school starts again, but maybe it’ll be better. Thank you, TamiyaGuy for these stories, they’ve been very important to me. And I love how this ended.

[TamiyaGuy]

11652811
Hey, just wanted to respond to this a bit more meaningfully than normal because I think it's a massive step to take to be able to put thoughts like this into words - good on you and thank you for sharing. I'm sorry that things were really crappy for you those few months ago, and it's good to hear you're doing slightly better now.

And honestly? Thank you for your comments, both this one and the ones from earlier. I don't know if it's a desire for petty validation, but comments like yours carry a whole lot more weight when they come from someone who's experienced that kind of depressive mindset. It sucks that it's happened, but there's a weird kind of unity-through-suffering going on. Maybe, I don't know.

I won't offer fake platitudes that it'll always get better and everything will be sunshine and rainbows all the time. I mean, not only has that not been my personal experience, but it'd kind of go against the message of these stories as well, huh? :P But I would like to say that the steps you took to work through your suicidal thoughts is something to be proud of, and I hope that you are proud of it.

So thanks again for your comment. It's amazing to hear that these little vent-pieces-disguised-as-stories have been important to you over this time, and I hope you don't forget that it was you who put in the work to get where you are now. Take care, and be well.

[Wishesshecouldwritegood]

11654480
Thank you so so much for responding. You didn’t even have to go this in-depth as a response. But I’m constantly reminded of how everything isn’t complete shit because the people on this site that I’ve talked with care so much. I know how crappy it is when ppl fake these comments, but, and I know you’re not doubting me, I genuinely felt, and somewhat still feel this way. I’ve always seeked emotional and existential validation too much (because I’ve never really been allowed to express my emotions, stifled when everyone around you does the same and you learned that. Why I relate to Rainbow in kinda an unhealthy way because she didn’t publicly show her emotions. Maybe I imprinted on that,) when really I need to get that from myself and my own belief in my abilities….I’m working on that. It’s kinda scary to see how the next year will be (junior year is supposedly to be hell anyway, I just made it worse b/c I’m going through the most pre-inflicted time-consuming stress ball of SAT practice) cuz this summer is already filled with so much work that’s making we wonder why I did this to myself, cuz half of this is me being the masochist I am with self-hate I still harbor, hopefully less so, and the other half is people-pleasing (with the tiniest smidgen that I want to do.) But I’d like to think that now that I’m out of a toxic environment from previous years, after going through what I am right now, the never-ending stress and fear things will rebound, the fact that I completely jumped back to how I used to be means I have changed for the better. Somewhat. Maybe it’ll get better and I’ll have better experiences in the future. But, like I’m wayyy too used to doing, I’m rambling. I want to get to a point that I don’t ramble meaninglessly to strangers on the internet and my friends, but when they’re the only people you can talk to cuz family doesn’t understand…it’s become a habit I need to fix. And I’m sorry to whomever I’ve subjected it to, because it isn’t fair to them. You didn’t even have to come back to comment, but it means so much. Yeah, thanks for acknowledging that sometimes everything isn’t always gonna turn out fine, because that’s something the well-meaning people in my life have too high standards for.

A full length-essay response with confusing grammar and paranetheses later: Ok, gonna cut off my train wreck of venting 2.0. What I’m really trying to say (for the 3rd time ) is that thanks for caring (laughs self-deprecatingly) and I hope all of us, through whatever the cosmos decides to throw at us, can pick ourselves back up, even if we fall more than we’d like to. I wish you the best, especially because you ALSO decided to dedicate time in your life to process thoughts and turn them into words, as you said I did, for a random stranger on the internet. If people online can care (I wonder how many times I’ve said that), I think I have more belief in myself than I started out with.

Edit: revisited this fic and will revisit IF (I hope it’s an if and never a when) I start spiraling again. Almost 2 months later and I have thankfully gotten better significantly. My feelings of self-worth still shouldn’t be tied to my productivity, but in the society we live in currently….easier said than done. I did better on my SAT, so at least I’m not dying there. School workload is in full swing, but I’m not….drowning like I was the past two years in all senses of the word. So, thanks for these fics, on a genuinely “feeling slightly better” note than before. Life will always be difficult, but if I look at it just a little less cynically, I think I’ll be able to deal with it just a little easier.

[Incandesca]

It's funny, how reading words can feel like gazing into a mirror.

Thank you for this series, that I randomly stumbled upon tonight because I have a terrible sense of when I should sleep. Wish this had more views.

[TamiyaGuy]

11739246
Thank you for your comment - for what it's worth, comments like these are worth a million views on a counter to me, so genuinely thanks.

It's nice to hear that that the story resonates. By the same token, I guess I'm sorry that it resonates, and I'm sorry that you've been through experiences that make this kind of shameless projectey angst depressive inner narrative hit.

Gotta say as well that I'm absolutely a fan of your work. Give Me Anything But Blue was a fantastic, melancholic slow-burn while Cooling Embers has cemented itself in my "get off your arse and read this" list after reading its prequel. Keep up the good stuff!

[Incandesca]

11740579
Oh, wow, haha. Thank you so much. <3

I actually haven't worked on Embers since mid-July, but between reading this and another recent comment on the story, you've sparked me to finally pick it back up again. So thanks for that as well~ You'll certainly have to let me know what you think when you get the chance to read it.

[Excylis]

Just finished reading this little trilogy and honestly... wow. I don't know, it just felt so real. Probably the best depiction I've ever read of how it really feels. I couldn't help but get sucked into Sunset, it was all too familiar. Especially hits home how it feels like nopony else 'gets it' - which is why it's so nice to have stories like this. When Sunset tells Wallflower she isn't alone, I felt that... Like she's telling the reader, too. Overall excellent. I'd love to see more from you.

[TamiyaGuy]

11804652
Dreadfully sorry it took me so long to get to this! And wow, that really is high praise, and it means a hell of a lot to hear. Thank you.

People not 'getting it', or being willfully blind to it, is an interesting kind of juxtaposition to me. Because SH has a heavy stigma behind it, as does depression in general, but it's almost as though it's earned its stigma. Parts of any mental health condition, after all, can be uncomfortable to acknowledge.

It's one of the reasons (aside from shameless projection) that I wrote this, to be honest - just to try and get across that these topics, beyond being uncomfortable and hidden, are complicated, even messy to actually approach.

And if you enjoyed this little trilogy, I'd highly recommend Scampy's Untitled Angst series that inspired a lot of the narrative here. Thanks again.