#unwellness

Thinking about unwellness, studying it, dwelling in it, has radically transformed my approaches to everything I do. And if unwellness is structural, then so must be care. Self-care is an individual solution to an individual problem, completely divorced from a social context. We need structures of care that address the actual forces that make life feel unbearable. (via ‘We are all unwell’: a scholar’s radical approach to health | The Guardian)

Saying: " even Kim lost weight and reduced her bbl lol" as if its community service

Most were never concerned about the body image or health of the women getting BBLs, they just thought it looked ugly and those women are stupid. Never victims of beauty standards. Women with extreme boob jobs can be victims, even if there's mockery, but BBLs...you dumb hoes should know better.

Tom Voze X Reader Cute caring prompt

!TW: Injury detail (mention of cut/scratch and broken arm), mention of mental episodes (not detailed), mention of vomit (not detailed), throwing up (not particularly detailed), mention of feeling faint (not extremely detailed), mention of feeling nauseous (not extremely detailed), mention of someone being run over (not particularly detailed), implied headache (not particularly detailed)!

This is a different adaptation of this character

You were examining the small cut on Tom’s chest that you’d given him during one of your episodes, a pained expression on your face; you couldn’t believe you’d hurt him. Tom frowned when he noticed the small tears in your eyes, and he lifted his hand to your cheek to distract your attention. You let your glistening eyes meet his greyish blue ones, and you would soon be trapped by them, unable to look away from them. “It’s just a scratch,” he stated, “and it wasn’t even your fault - accidents like these happen, Y/n.” You nodded gravely, before you buried your face into his chest; you couldn’t stop blaming yourself, even though you had no control over yourself when it happened. “You’ll feel better after your bath,” he assured, and you nodded, forcing a smile up at him.

♑︎𖣴

Tom expressed concern when he heard you crying in the living room; he’d just come in from the garden after he’d done some birdwatching like he’d normally do in the morning. “Y/n?” Tom slowly opened the door after gently knocking, and he frowned when he noticed you curled up on the floor with vomit close to where you were lying.

“I threw up,” you whined, “I - I tried to get to the toilet, but I felt faint and-”

“It’s okay, Y/n,” he interrupted gently, crouching down beside you. You whimpered, feeling nauseous again, and you tried to get up, but you found that you couldn’t bring yourself to stand up. “Mrs Moranne!” Tom called, noticing that you looked like you were going to throw up again. As soon as she entered the room, Tom instructed for her to get a bucket for you, and she rushed back out again. Mrs. Moranne gave the bucket to him as soon as she’d retrieved it and returned to the room, and Tom quickly set it down in front of you. You wouldn’t waste any time as you began to throw up again, crying as you did. Tom tried to soothe you as much as he could, rubbing your back and stroking your hair. “Shh, it’s okay,” he cooed as you sobbed, “get everything out.” Once you felt as if you were done, Tom gently eased the bucket away from you. “You should get some rest, Y/n,” he advised, and you nodded your head gravely in response.

“Will you carry me up to bed?” You requested, hopeful. “I - I still feel too weak to move,” you claimed, and he smiled warmly down at you, before he nodded, carefully picking you up and carrying you upstairs to bed.

♑︎𖣴

Tom had been away for a couple of days, and when he got back home, he was greeted at the door by you running up to him and throwing your arms around him. Tom chuckled, wrapping his arms around you. “Why do you always hug me like you haven’t seen me for a year?” Tom inquired, genuinely curious.

You would be embarrassed, burying your face into his black blazer. “I’m just glad to have you back home safe,” you answered, your voice barely audible.

“Of course I’m back home safe, Y/n,” he responded, holding you at arm’s length so his eyes could meet your’s, “why wouldn’t I be?”

You shrugged, lowering your gaze slightly. “I just - I got scared when I heard that a woman had been run over in town,” you admitted, “I was worried that - that the same thing would happen to you-”

Tom shook his head, placing his hand on your shoulder. “That’ll never happen to me, Y/n,” he promised, “don’t ever worry about that happening to me, okay?” You nodded, before you pulled him into another hug, and he returned it to comfort you. Tom would be concerned when he heard you whimper quietly, and he tilted his head partially at you. “Are you okay, Y/n?” Tom inquired, gently placing his hand on your cheek.

“My head hurts,” you murmured, and he frowned, his eyes full of concern for you.

“You should go and have a lie down,” he suggested, and you nodded, turning around as he guided and supported you up the stairs, as last time you had broken your arm when you fell down them.

~~~~~

Tonsillitis. Fuuuuuuuuck.

I got the Ton-ssssss-ilitus

Condition for children. old enough to smoke a ciguar, not old enough to know better.