A bit o' this and that

jordisstigander

abd-illustrates

October is ADHD awareness month! 🎉

The memory issues ADHD causes are some of the scarier and more frustrating parts of living with it - so here’s a set of reaction doodles that all my fellow ADHD peeps are welcome to use whenever anybody decides to comment on your forgetfulness ^

floralflowerpower

ADHD nukes your working memory.

If it isn’t part of a hyperfixation its hard to store the details. 😅💕

cowardlycopycat

It gets especially bad for routine things, because you can’t tell if your memory of doing the thing was from today or yesterday or last week, and that can lead to some dangerous situations such as, say, skipping/overdosing on medication. I have to write down the date when I take my meds in the morning because the first time my memory messed up my medication I was terrified, I had to go with risking skipping because risking overdosing can get real bad real fast

floralflowerpower

OMG the medication thing I do that all the time.

I actually risk overdosing because I can’t drive behind the wheel without my medication.

My zone outs are more akin to black outs.

Like I’ll completely zone out and not only not remember what I did but there will be a complete time skip between when I first zoned out and when I came back to reality.

And sometimes I’ll do weird shit on auto pilot during these.

Like I once stuck a bag of lettuce in my bed, had no memory of it.

Went to sleep and my foot touched something wet and I flipped the fuck out till I realized it was lettuce.

I dont experience that when I take my ADHD meds.

The memory thing really messes with you.

random-shit-writing

HOLY SHIT THAT’S WHAT IT’S CALLED MY WORKING MEMORY IS SHIT I JUST THOUGHT I WAS STUPID IM CRYING 😭😭

floralflowerpower

Okay this is my second attempt writeing this because I accidentally reblogged it to the ectoberhaunt blog and had to delete it.

But no you are not stupid.

Your brain is wired diffrent.

ADHD is a disorder of the frontal lobe.

It affects all of these listed areas.

It’s not just “not being able to focus or being too hyper”.

It’s also a dopamine deficiency.

You can’t make tonic dopmine.

In laymen’s terms.

You can only get dopmine in short spurts by doing certain things.

This is why so many people ADHD struggle with Addictive personalities and turn to drugs or alcohol to self-medicate.

Which is bad.

This is what dopmine does.

Source.

And being fucking understimated is horrid.

You ever feel so board and so empty and helpless that you’d rather die?

That’s a classic symptom.

That’s why people with ADHD are 5 times more likely to kill themselves.

Source.

THIS is why ADHD awareness month is important.

It broke my heart that so many people with ADHD reblogged my posts not even realizing we have a month.

You deserve to understand you have a disorder that drastically impacts your life.

You deserve access to medication, and good doctors, and good resources, and managment skills.

You deserve to understand that you have probably been horribly abused or gas lit by the people in your life that dont understand your struggle because they never stopped to try too.

You deserve to understand that you are not stupid.

You were never stupid.

rynnay

lest we forget the mysterious concept of Delayed Gratification and how that’s Not A Thing for ADHD

Delayed Gratification is not stimulating now therefor we will be hard pressed to work toward it. Exercise for healthier bodies? too long, don’t care. Work now, paid when you’re done? too long, don’t care. Work first, play later? No, play now, work & regret later. Do x for y minutes and then you do z as a reward? Too long, don’t care, also I can just do z now? who’s gonna stop me, me?

notemily

Honestly it was a revelation when I found out that ADHD brains just DON’T GIVE THE SAME REWARDS for doing things. Like you mean I’m not just lazy and being like this to make people’s lives harder? My brain actually works differently? It’s depressing to know that I will basically always have a brain that is jonesing for a dopamine fix, but it’s also incredibly validating.

I wish we could call it by a name that’s more accurate to what it’s like to have the disorder, rather than being named after two of the things that annoy our parents and teachers about it, but maybe someday.

kittenwiskers

fizzy-dog

i love cats

you have long cat (serval)

ear cat (sand cat)

small evil cat (black footed cat)

spherical cat (pallas cat)

cat who probably watches makeup tutorials on youtube (caracal)

very round cat (leopardus guigna)

water cat (fishing cat)

cat with socks (leopardus colocolo)

grayscale cat (geoffroy’s cat)

and let’s not forget revolver cat (ocelot)

im-fairly-whitty

🎶These are a few of my favorite things 🎶

slusheeduck

Don’t forget Snek Cat (Clouded Leopard)

crystallinecrow

@bunjywunjy

LOOK, TEETHY FUR BOIS

bunjywunjy

IMPORTANT ALLEGED CATS

Are You 100% Sure This Isn’t A Lemur (flat-headed cat)

That’s A Fucking Stoat (Jaguarundi)

Foot Fetish (canadian lynx)

(OK I’M SORRY FOR THAT ONE BUT JESUS JUST LOOK AT IT.)

and I move that my favorite, spherical cat, should be renamed Redonkasaurus Rex immediately (pallas cat)

starlightdragon

@turbotasstic

jack-the-lion

Now this is the kind of content I signed up for. XD

pinchtheprincess

If you don’t reblog this, why are you even on Tumblr?

glyndarling

I wish to pet all of them. Even if they bite me, I will pet anyway.

mirrorada

Humans had to breed dogs into strange freaky versions of them selves.

Cats did it by sheer will and mountains of hate.

dogg

money dog is back….. reblog for even better luck than before

defy-sing-beginnings

feministism

a-crossroads-demon

reblog to delete all incest shipping

remanedur

yo okay wait how come nobody made this post. why is op nonexistent

apple-a-la-mode

god made this post

jordisstigander

sixpenceee

A compilation of gothic/Victorian style homes.

chelseamourning

I could cry 😍

just-shower-thoughts

Taco trucks would make a lot more money if they drove around like ice cream trucks blasting mariachi music

caffeinewitchcraft

Doing a test

habaeuscorpus

Reblog this if you would buy a book with an LGBTQ main character, whose sexuality was not the primary focus of the novel

If you would not, reblog this.

caffeinewitchcraft

roachpatrol

Here’s a story about changelings:

Mary was a beautiful baby, sweet and affectionate, but by the time she’s three she’s turned difficult and strange, with fey moods and a stubborn mouth that screams and bites but never says mama. But her mother’s well-used to hard work with little thanks, and when the village gossips wag their tongues she just shrugs, and pulls her difficult child away from their precious, perfect blossoms, before the bites draw blood. Mary’s mother doesn’t drown her in a bucket of saltwater, and she doesn’t take up the silver knife the wife of the village priest leaves out for her one Sunday brunch.

She gives her daughter yarn, instead, and instead of a rowan stake through her inhuman heart she gives her a child’s first loom, oak and ash. She lets her vicious, uncooperative fairy daughter entertain herself with games of her own devising, in as much peace and comfort as either of them can manage.

Mary grows up strangely, as a strange child would, learning everything in all the wrong order, and biting a great deal more than she should. But she also learns to weave, and takes to it with a grand passion. Soon enough she knows more than her mother–which isn’t all that much–and is striking out into unknown territory, turning out odd new knots and weaves, patterns as complex as spiderwebs and spellrings.

“Aren’t you clever,” her mother says, of her work, and leaves her to her wool and flax and whatnot. Mary’s not biting anymore, and she smiles more than she frowns, and that’s about as much, her mother figures, as anyone should hope for from their child.

Mary still cries sometimes, when the other girls reject her for her strange graces, her odd slow way of talking, her restless reaching fluttering hands that have learned to spin but never to settle. The other girls call her freak, witchblood, hobgoblin.

“I don’t remember girls being quite so stupid when I was that age,” her mother says, brushing Mary’s hair smooth and steady like they’ve both learned to enjoy, smooth as a skein of silk. “Time was, you knew not to insult anyone you might need to flatter later. ‘Specially when you don’t know if they’re going to grow wings or horns or whatnot. Serve ‘em all right if you ever figure out curses.”

“I want to go back,” Mary says. “I want to go home, to where I came from, where there’s people like me. If I’m a fairy’s child I should be in fairyland, and no one would call me a freak.”

“Aye, well, I’d miss you though,” her mother says. “And I expect there’s stupid folk everywhere, even in fairyland. Cruel folk, too. You just have to make the best of things where you are, being my child instead.”

Mary learns to read well enough, in between the weaving, especially when her mother tracks down the traveling booktraders and comes home with slim, precious manuals on dyes and stains and mordants, on pigments and patterns, diagrams too arcane for her own eyes but which make her daughter’s eyes shine.

“We need an herb garden,” her daughter says, hands busy, flipping from page to page, pulling on her hair, twisting in her skirt, itching for a project. “Yarrow, and madder, and woad and weld…”

“Well, start digging,” her mother says. “Won’t do you a harm to get out of the house now’n then.”

Mary doesn’t like dirt but she’s learned determination well enough from her mother. She digs and digs, and plants what she’s given, and the first year doesn’t turn out so well but the second’s better, and by the third a cauldron’s always simmering something over the fire, and Mary’s taking in orders from girls five years older or more, turning out vivid bolts and spools and skeins of red and gold and blue, restless fingers dancing like they’ve summoned down the rainbow. Her mother figures she probably has.

“Just as well you never got the hang of curses,” she says, admiring her bright new skirts. “I like this sort of trick a lot better.”

Mary smiles, rocking back and forth on her heels, fingers already fluttering to find the next project.

She finally grows up tall and fair, if a bit stooped and squinty, and time and age seem to calm her unhappy mouth about as well as it does for human children. Word gets around she never lies or breaks a bargain, and if the first seems odd for a fairy’s child then the second one seems fit enough. The undyed stacks of taken orders grow taller, the dyed lots of filled orders grow brighter, the loom in the corner for Mary’s own creations grows stranger and more complex. Mary’s hands callus just like her mother’s, become as strong and tough and smooth as the oak and ash of her needles and frames, though they never fall still.

“Do you ever wonder what your real daughter would be like?” the priest’s wife asks, once.

Mary’s mother snorts. “She wouldn’t be worth a damn at weaving,” she says. “Lord knows I never was. No, I’ll keep what I’ve been given and thank the givers kindly. It was a fair enough trade for me. Good day, ma’am.”

Mary brings her mother sweet chamomile tea, that night, and a warm shawl in all the colors of a garden, and a hairbrush. In the morning, the priest’s son comes round, with payment for his mother’s pretty new dress and a shy smile just for Mary. He thinks her hair is nice, and her hands are even nicer, vibrant in their strength and skill and endless motion.

They all live happily ever after.

Here’s another story:

Keep reading

caffeinewitchcraft

the-knights-who-say-book

When the sorcerer found the dragon, it was attacking a grape.

This was only possible because the dragon was not much larger than a grape itself, but she still had to do a double take to be sure the object it was fighting with such animosity was in fact inanimate.

She crouched so that her eyes were level with the top of the table and squinted at it. The dragon sank its tiny fangs into the grape’s skin and gave a great tug, succeeding only in throwing it and the grape into a backwards tumble. The tiny green reptile rolled to a stop with its whole body wrapped around the grape and shook its head ferociously, managing to pull its teeth out but also launching the grape across the table. It gave a mighty roar of anger (about as loud as a human clearing their throat) and stalked after it, tail swishing dangerously.

“Do you need help?” she offered.

The dragon froze mid-prowl and whipped its head around to look at her, looking so offended she almost apologized for asking.

“I mean, I could peel it for you, if that’s the problem.” She wasn’t sure it was getting the message. One could never tell how much human language these little creatures picked up by hanging around the magic labs. Some understood only such essentials as “scat!” or “oh fuck, that sure did just explode”, while others could hold entire conversations — if they deigned to interact.

This one looked like it was deciding whether she was worthy. Finally, it sniffed daintily and flicked its tail, scales clacking together. “Little monster is my prey, and you can’t have it. Found it first. Will devour it!”

“Oh, sure,” she agreed. “But you know it’s a grape, right?”

This was the wrong thing to say. It glared at her and then bounded away to the other end of the table, where it slithered up to the grape and pounced on it.

Grape and dragon promptly rolled off the edge of the table.

The sorcerer quickly went around to that side, alarmed that it would be stepped on. The labs were bustling with shoppers stopping by to watch demonstrations this time of day, and a small dragon wouldn’t be easily visible on the blue and green tiled floor.

“Horrible! Dirty!” The tiny dragon was screeching at the top of its lungs, holding onto its prey for dear life. It would have been hard to hear anyway, with all the noise of the labs, but with the sorcerer’s diminished hearing it took several seconds to locate the screaming creature.

She scanned the pattern of the tiles for it and sighed. “Oh, hold on, we mopped this morning.” She cupped her hands around it and deposited it into her skirt pocket, an indignity the dragon endured only with more screaming.

“An outrage! Put me down!”

“Shh,” she advised. Lab workers were strongly discouraged from bringing creatures into the back rooms, which was where she was heading, picking her way through the crowded front lab.

“Fuck pockets!” her pocket responded.

“Oh, you can curse. Wonderful.”

The dragon seemed to take this as an actual compliment. “Am multitalented. Can also compose poetry.”

“Really? Can I hear some?”

“No. For dragon ears only.” It sounded viciously pleased to hold this over her head. The bulge in her pocket rearranged itself, and she thought it might be trying to gnaw on the grape.

She felt herself smiling even as she tried to squash her mouth into a straight line. She liked this little bad-tempered thing, even though its spiky feet were digging into her thigh.

In the much quieter kitchen of the back rooms behind the lab, she transferred the wriggling, scaly handful from her pocket to the table. The dragon hissed out a few more insults as it got up and straightened itself out, but its jaw fell open when it finally took in its surroundings. She’d set it down next to the fruit bowl.

“There you go. Food mountain.”

The dragon’s shock didn’t last long. Abandoning the grape, it scraped and scrabbled its way up the side of the bowl and from there onto an apple, its claws leaving tiny puncture marks as it hiked to the top of the arrangement. “Food mountain!” It repeated, its gleeful crowing much clearer and almost sing-song without having to compete with the noise of the crowd.

She watched it turn in a circle, surveying the feast. “But… cannot eat it all,” it observed after a while, crestfallen. “Human-sized. Big shame.”

“Don’t you have nest-mates who can help you with it?” she asked. She had assumed not, from the way it had apparently been foraging for food on its own, but she needed to be sure she’d found a loner.

“No nest. No mates. No nest-mates. You’re rude.” It flopped down ungracefully, wings spread out flat on the apple like it was trying to hug the entire much-larger fruit.

She gave it a moment to be dramatic, and then offered it the grape, minus the peel. “You seem to have a good grasp on human-speak.”

It grabbed the grape without so much as a thank you. “Yes. Have composed poetry in both Dragonese and Humanese. Not for humans to hear, though.” Bragging cheered it up a little.

“You mentioned. I can’t hear very well, anyway.” She pulled up a stool and sat down. “Actually, I’ve been looking for a helper.”

“An assistant,” it said, apparently showing off its Humanese. “An attendant. An aid.”

She watched it bury its snout in the grape, juice dribbling down onto the apple it sat on. “Yes. A hearing aid. How would you feel about having a job?”

It smiled craftily. “Would feel positively, if job comes with chocolate chips.”

“It could,” she said, grinning. She had some friends who employed bird-sized dragons as messengers, but this was the first time she’d heard of one negotiating its salary for itself. “It certainly could. What’s your name?”

“Peep,” said Peep. “It is self-explanatory.”

“Don’t worry, I got it.”

Peep expressed its doubt that humans ever got anything, but she thought the tiny, prickly creature might be warming up to her.