#bad coping methods

Roman kept swiping through tumblr, bouncing between his friend’s blog, that one ask blog, that blog for that au he loved, his eyes flicking up to his notifications every few seconds. Oh, that was nice- nothing. That was a cool headcanon -maybe that was-? Oh, no, that was just a like. Oh, they posted another story, nice, he’d have to read that in a bit- anything? No. Still nothing.

Scroll, read, look. Scroll, like, look. Scroll, like and reblog, look.

To his anger and embarrassment, Roman could feel tears starting to well up in his eyes. He held his breath for a long moment, willing the tears away without a second thought.

He hated how irrational this was. He probably had just caught them at the wrong moment! He had posted a lot of stuff at the same time as that drawing, it probably had just gotten buried! They probably had just not seen it! So what if it hadn’t gotten any kind of attention like his previous drawings had? So what if there wasn’t even a single like? It didn’t matter! He was fine!

He turned the volume up on his music, his finger swiping a bit more forcefully across the screen as he swept through his feed. He- He just felt so- So useless. He felt pointless. He’d been really really really proud of that piece. And it was the right time for people to be seeing his stuff as he posted it. And he’d seen people liking and reblogging other stuff on his blog. And- oh! Another notification! Maybe...?

He quickly checked it, only for something sour and heavy to settle in his chest. The beginnings of a forced smile started to creep up his face subconsciously. They’d- they’d reblogged that piece that he’d just reblogged. The one that was so much- better than his was. That… that was fine! He was fine!

He swiped over to his notifications again. They- there was still- nothing. No one had liked it, no responses to it… not even something hateful. He- he was fine. He just. He just really hated being ignored...

Tears started to spill down his face in a rush, a few aborted sobs pressing against his chest painfully as he cried, a familiar, horrible grin making its mark on his face.

He was fine! It’s not like he hadn’t been ignored before! He’d just- continue like nothing had happened! He just had to- to wipe away the tears- smile through the pain- and everything would be fine! People didn’t like it when he cried, anyways! They hated it! They’d told him that so many times before, so why didn’t he just. Listen! For once!

After the arrests, he tries to move on, eventually. Once he’s learnt to breathe around what feels like a gaping hole in his chest. There’s never been a shortage of people to choose from, even with his reputation of being insane, but none of them even come close to filling the void that seems to follow him around. They’re always either too something; too dull, too quiet, too soft. He’s not built for soft, has never been the kind of person satisfied with normal and unremarkable. The thrill, the pain, that’s what he wanted, and he knows that none of them can give that to him. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It was only meant to be a one time thing, just a night, and then he was falling too far too fast, unable to claw himself back up when it all came crashing down. He would have followed Ronnie to the ends of the earth if he’d only asked, and instead, he’s been told to stay away, that there’s nothing left for him with either of them anymore. He can’t even be mad about it. It was only ever going to end like this, leaving him feeling like he’s going to break open at the edges.

“Are you okay?”

Ada’s voice is soft, careful, like she’s afraid of saying the wrong thing and he’ll break into pieces. Maybe he will, it certainly feels like it. Everything seems harder these days. Just getting himself up out of bed is a struggle, the desire to just sink into the blankets and block everything out almost overwhelmingly strong. His dad always warned him that he loved too much and gave too much of himself away, that it would come back and haunt him one day. He hadn’t quite believed it, it was just the worries of a parent, wasn’t it? Except not, it feels like there’s nothing of him left.

“Teddy, you can’t keep doing this,” his father says, but he doesn’t know what else to do except force a smile, tell everyone that he’s okay, he’s fine. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to do, so he doesn’t do anything. The house is quiet during the days, when everyone is gone, except they’ve started leaving someone behind to watch him like he’s a child. He feels their careful eyes on him when he comes out of his room, wondering if today is going to be the day that he shatters. The bruises on his arms and the scratches on his back fade eventually, just like the scent of cigar smoke and whiskey on his clothes, his memories of heavy hands on his hips and dangerous, knowing smiles. What does he have, when he forgets everything?

“Eat something, please.”

For their benefit, he empties half the plate that they put in front of him, but it’s tasteless, when it doesn’t taste like bitter ash, clinging to his tongue thickly and refusing to wash away when he gulps down glasses of water. He hides the bottles of rum in his room, pretends that he’s not sitting up at night, drinking himself into numbness because he can’t handle anything without the buffer of haziness over his senses. Pill bottles fill the drawers beside his bed, half empty and covered in fingerprints, the only way he falls asleep anymore. Sometimes he wakes up and forgets that he’s alone, reaches out for a body that isn’t there, won’t be there ever again. He’s never been the type to cry, but he cries then, stuffing his hand in his mouth so no one hears him while the hot tears roll down his face.

“I’m okay, dad, don’t worry.”

It’ll kill him, eventually, he knows. Either the drink, or the pills, or some combination of the two. Maybe from the scratches that he gives himself as best he can, running over the ones that Ronnie had left behind, the last time they’d been together, determined never to lose them. He’s losing his mind, he can feel it drifting away piece by piece, washed away by every bottle of rum he drinks alone, and can’t gather the strength to stop. He’s not like the rest of his family, he doesn’t have their strength, the resolution to keep going when everything goes to hell.

“What am I supposed to do?” He whispers, to an empty room, to a person that can’t hear him, and breaks just a little more.

"It doesn't really make any sense that I feel inferior to people I don't believe are more successful than me :("

Mmm... wha could I possibly do about it? Maybe start working on myse-

STOP BEING BETTER THAN THEM

But that doesn't-

If you're not more successful than them it does make sense for you to feel inferior, wouldn't you agree?

Yes, but-

Sshhh you know I'm right

But-

I know it’s bad... I know, but my brain won’t change

Whenever somebody I know/have heard of dies, my brain has apparently decided that ignoring it and just pretending that they’re still alive is the best idea 😖😕🤷🏻🙄