✅

Kinda want to make this into a book where all their disorders are kind of severe and it explores everyone's mental illnesses. Like Pete suffers depression and suicidal tendencies, Patrick with low self-esteem, Andy with PTSD maybe? Like something about his dad? Joe with his OCD, Mikey and Gerard with drug problems, not sure about Frank, maybe anxiety? Also not sure about Ray. Brendon would have ADHD, Ryan would probably be healing from abuse from his alcoholic dad (not PTSD, though), not sure about Jon or Spencer or Dallon. Idk. Tyler with depression. Josh with anxiety. Something like that.

•••

---Patrick Stump---
--Gender Dysphoria, Low Self-Esteem, Anxiety--

A day in a world where everybody pretends they know who you are is shit. Especially when you're nothing like what they make you out to be. Twenty years like that? Hell. Because Patricia? Who the fuck is he? Patricia Rose Stumph, bright pink baby shower, long blond hair, and baby blue eyes that captured even the gayest of men. He was a tomboy since birth and his parents hated it. Then again, Patricia kind of hated them right back. For giving him the girliest of dresses for the first day at school. For bringing him gifts of bright pink and baby blue. He just wanted to be one of the boys. He knew he wasn't a "she" from birth, no matter how much his parents pressed Barbie dolls and lipstick on him.

He isn't a girl. He will never be a girl. Because twenty goddamn years later, people around him still see him as that goddamn girl. A tomboy, sure, but they sure as hell don't see him as a "him" like he wants so desperately. And it hurts. Goddamn it hurts.

Patricia-no-Patrick never grew used to it. He never has and he never will and he knows that. And transgender? God, he hates that term. Because, yeah, sure. He's transgender but he would never want to go by that god forbidden term. He wants to be seen as a normal dude. Not a dude with a vagina and bumps on his chest, not a dude who, at birth, was showered with bright pink and balloons that seemed to scream "It's a girl!"

It was never a girl.

But still, somehow nobody knows.

He's never really... told anyone. His anxiety's always been too bad, every time he's gotten close to texting out those words to someone close to him, he's found himself bending over a toilet and retching out of stress alone only moments later. He's terrified of the transphobia, terrified of how other people will see him. He's terrified that they'll hear, but they won't listen. He'll say it, they'll "understand" and then they'll go right back to calling Patrick, Patricia. He's not Patricia. He never fucking has been.

These thoughts have kept him up too late for too many nights and... god, it just fucks with him. He's spent too many days staring up at the ceiling, frozen solid in fear as those voices taunt him.

"God, you're pathetic."

"You'll never be a real boy."

"Will you ever just learn to be normal?"

"Pete doesn't care about you."

"Girl, she, daughter, woman, her, tranny."

And he's tried. He really fucking has. Listening to music late at night and just... trying to be okay with what he's become. With what he is to other people. To Pete, to Andy, to Joe. To all his best friends and for some reason, for some-fucking-reason. He just can't bring himself to tell. He can't let those poisonous words to fall from his lips because he knows if they do, it could mean the end of everything. It could be the end of his friendships, of staying in that goddamned closet. He feels safe there even though all the "she's" and "Patricia's" bother him. He feels like he can't be hurt in there.

So, for twenty years straight, he's spent his time as this... this tomboy. Long hair because he can't bring himself to cut it, jeans, shirts, and jackets that cover his goddamn boobs. He's so terribly tired of keeping himself hidden under all these layers but it's gotten bad. So fucking bad. There are days when all he can do is scratch at his arms until they bleed because maybe if he digs under the skin, they'll finally see how he really is on the inside. And maybe if he covers himself up, nobody will notice his boobs and nobody will call him a "she" and maybe for once in his life, he'll be accepted. Just like he wants to be. Just like he's always dreamt.

He knows everything he does is unhealthy, but he's never needed a counselor. So he must be okay. Maybe, just maybe, everything is okay.

Maybe it would be easier to believe if he hadn't cried himself to sleep last night.

---Pete Wentz---
--Depression, Anxiety, Bipolar Disorder, Suicidal Tendencies--

Pete isn't okay. And this isn't a new development. He's had too many counselors, too many breakdowns, too many days where he just sat in bed and watched the ceiling because he couldn't bring himself to move. Too many days where he's been too goddamn sad for no goddamn reason. He's not entirely sure who the hell he blames anymore. He used to blame the world for being too hard, but he knows that isn't right. The world isn't to blame. After that, he blamed himself for it all, but he can't help it. It couldn't be his fault.

After that, it was God. God gave him these stupid emotions. God gave him his stupid life and he hated that. But eventually, he found himself too numb to blame it on God and all the weight went to his parents. But does it really matter? The damage is done and can't be changed and he can't fix it. He doesn't know whether or not he's eaten in the past week, he doesn't remember if it's Tuesday or Saturday. He doesn't know what time it is and most importantly, he really fucking wants to die. He's wanted to for nine years now.

It all started back when he was 13 or so, when he found himself getting extremely nervous in public situations. He wasn't sure what made it happen, and it was a slow growth but his parents noticed, and they took him into the doctor where he was diagnosed with moderate anxiety (that's changed, though, now he has severe anxiety) and he started going into counseling. Counseling just made it worse, though. Because he was different, he wasn't like the other kids and at 14 years old, he found himself slowly getting sadder and sadder. He was 15 when he first attempted suicide.

He went to the top of a roof downtown, the tallest he could find that he could get access to. Nobody noticed, and nobody cared and it was fucking depressing. So he went to the edge of that building and he stared down at the slow traffic, and he watched the world go around him. And he was so terribly depressed that the world could go around like that and be so fucking oblivious. It made him want to change it, it made him want to pull everyone's eyes away for just one moment to notice everything. To notice him. He screamed up there at the birds and the clouds. He screamed at God and he cursed him out until all he had left were tears and scars.

And after all that, he still couldn't bring himself to do it.

Pete went home that night, afraid and damaged.

Three years later, he was diagnosed with depression, and another year after, bipolar disorder. Which brings him here. 19 years old and living in his room in his parents' house while he tries to figure out his life. Trying to find a college and a job and trying to get money. In all reality, though, he just can't bring himself to get out of bed. The doctors said he just needs more meds and counseling, he greatly disagrees but he knows he can't escape them.

Anyways, now he spends most of his time fantasizing his death and watching the world pass by around him. Some days are worse than others and on a low like this, he's barely surviving. This is one of his worse yet and he's terrified that he's getting worse. That he'll somehow sink impossibly deeper into this hell and that he'll somehow find himself inches from death once again. His parents don't watch him closely anymore and he's afraid that they, frankly, don't care. He wouldn't be surprised. They haven't cared about him sincerely in years because they just don't understand.

Pete isn't trying to be one of those edgy emo kids with the self-harm and the black hair but they just... they don't seem to understand that he isn't hungry half the time and he doesn't want to go outside. He just wants to sit and stare at the ceiling and listen to Adam's Song by Blink-182 while the cars outside pass by.

He just wants to die.

Is that too much to ask?

---Joe Trohman---
--Severe OCD--
---Andy Hurley---
--PTSD--

Andy and Joe have been together for five years, balancing out the obsessions and compulsions with flashbacks and nightmares. Telling each other it'll be okay when in all honesty, it's anything but okay. Promising they'll do better next time when next time is still untold. It's a habit of theirs that they've managed to keep up for a year now. And somehow, it keeps them both sane when the world is falling apart around them. Flashbacks don't always balance out obsessions, but sometimes that's okay. They'll figure it out.

Joe grew up in an extremely religious, slightly abusive family. It wasn't near as bad as it could have been, thank god, but they wouldn't pass off the occasional beating here and there. If Joe got one bible verse wrong, it meant five lashes to his wrists from his father. And if he fucked up when he was alone, he would punish himself. It was engraved into his brain. Christianity is the right way. Christianity is the only way.

He memorized the seven deadly sins, the fifty-four actions prohibited by the Old Testament and the four actions in the New Testament and the ten commandments. He's read the bible exactly twenty-two times front to back and he went to church every day. It turned him into anything but a normal kid. He felt dirty at every little thing he did, constantly checking the bible and making sure he hadn't broken any rules. He was terrified of going to hell, of being a dirty sinner and of disappointing his parents.

They were constantly onto him, making sure his room was clean, making sure he had read at least a chapter of the bible a day and reciting bible verses. He went to private school, he never cussed, he always showed respect, he always forgave. He was the perfect example of a good Christian boy. But for some reason, it was never enough. And it became an obsession for him to keep his room clean, to make sure his bible was tidy, to make sure the number six was never ever put into his life. He never stopped on a page six, he never put up six shirts in a row, he never turned on and off his light six times a day. He couldn't. And it became a habit. Because if he didn't do it, the devil would come for him and he would burn in the fires of hell. He couldn't let that happen.

And he didn't.

That is, until he met Anthony.

He isn't a dirty sinner and he told himself that, even when Anthony came around. The bible stated it over and over again. "Men committed shameful acts with other men, and recieved in themselves the due penalty for their error," and, "Neither the sexually immoral nor idolaters nor adulterers nor men who have sex with men nor thieves nor the greedy nor drunkards nor slanderers nor swindlers will inherit the kingdom of God," and, "If a man has sexual relations with a man as one does with a woman, both of them have done what is detestable. They are to be put to death; their blood will be on their own heads." It's sinful, it's dirty, but... Anthony.

Joe found himself lusting for his friend, wanting to be closer, wanting to kiss those flushed lips and wanting to touch that dark skin. But, alas, he found himself shamed in these thoughts. He prayed and begged and cried for God to make them go away but God was never there. But God just seemed to... leave. As if to say Joe had to face his own challenges. As if to say he needed to cleanse himself.

He brunette tried so hard to leave Anthony's side but soon enough, he found his friend lusting for him right back. And one night, it all went to shit.

Anthony performed oral sex on Joe, and all thoughts of sin. All thoughts of temptation and of cleanliness and of being that good Christian boy he was always supposed to be left his mind. And in its place was Anthony. It was all Anthony. Things were never the same after that. Joe was never the same after that. Because he had been touched by a man, he was bound for hell. He was bound to burn. And never again did he talk to Anthony. And never again did he let himself lust for another man. Because it was dirty. Because it was disgusting. And even now, several years later, he still feels filthy. He's still a dirty sinner. And he can't bring himself from that.

Not even when Andy came along.

Andy grew up with his mother and his father at his side in a small school with good grades. He didn't have any siblings but that was okay. He was happy either way.

His dad was his best friend, he always had been. Andy told his father everything, from his school to the bullies to the hard questions. He told his father about his friends' jokes and they had a close hobby of drumming. If Andy had to choose a favorite activity, it would always be drumming. Nothing would ever make him feel better than the waves of the snare and the bass and the crash cymbal roaring through his ears. Nothing ever sent his blood rushing to his heart harder and faster than drumming. He loved music, he adored it. From Green Day to David Bowie to Nirvana. He could never get enough and his father always taught him the best techniques.

They had sort of a special relationship, and Andy loved his father more than anything. He wouldn't let the man out of his sight for more than six hours before he began to get worried. It was when Andy was 15 that his father finally left him. And the red head still relives the memory, still has fresh scars. Not on his skin, but his mind. And it pains him to relive those memories.

It started and ended on the same day. Andy was learning how to drive. Or... he had learned. He just hadn't exactly had a bunch of practice.

His father was right there beside him, giving him instructions on how to make his way through four-way stops. How to not get into a crash and how to hold the steering wheel just right so you don't sway to one side. They were passing through a green light when it happened.

The impact killed Andy's father instantly.

Andy spun out of control, crashing into a hedge head on as the airbag rushed into action but it was already too late. The windshield had shattered and deep inside his father's head, he saw a shard of the reflective material poking out, splattered in blood and gore.

Andy had screamed for his dad, had pulled the glass out but deep down inside, he knew it was too late.

9-1-1 came and loaded his father on a stretcher. They told him over and over again that the chances were slim, and that Andy was extremely lucky to have survived. He didn't care, though. He needed his father alive, not himself.

His dad was dead, it was declared the next day, and the night after, Andy suffered from nightmares. A month later, flashbacks. And finally, he was diagnosed with PTSD.

Not even Joe could take away the flashabcks.

They met five years after Anthony and four years after Andy's father. Joe was reluctant but Andy tried his best to pull Joe away from all those sinful things he grew up with. Their relationship is hard, so very hard from Joe's constant fussing about how dirty their bedroom is to the days where Andy lashes out on his boyfriend. They manage to stick together, though, because in the end, they love each other. They always have and they always will.

And nothing can tear them apart.

---Gerard Way---
--Schizophrenia, Cocaine and Alcohol Addiction--
---Mikey Way---
--Borderline Personality Disorder, Cocaine and Alcohol Addiction--
---Frank Iero---
--Severe Anxiety, Bulimia--

Gerard and Mikey have sort of a Folie a Deux to them. Much different than anything Pete or Patrick or Andy or Joe experienced because they suffered through their trauma together and therefore, they've learned to cope together. Through drugs and sex and alcohol. They go to the same club every week or day or whenever they need it. They snort lines in the bathroom and drink until they can't walk straight, and then they'll pick up the first guys or girls they see.

Gerard's woken up several times and immediately needed Mikey by his side because his headache blasts so badly and the sheets reek of vomit. Other days, though, Mikey's the one crawling back to Gerard with tears in his eyes, disassociating and unable to think straight because everything feels like a dream and he can't find his way back to reality. They've always been there for each other, though, since the beginning. Gerard's spent too many nights holding a crying Mikey close and promising him it'll be okay to just abandon his brother. And Mikey's seen things in Gerard he would never tell another soul. Gerard's hallucinations, the voices in his head, the general fear of it taking his brother away. Nobody knows. Nobody has to know.

Nobody has to know anything about them. After all the only person close to them anymore is Frank who, thank god, never messes with Gerard. His anxiety's always too bad. He's always afraid he'll bother his boyfriend. The first day Gerard snapped at Frank, the shorter had spent the rest of the evening on the couch trying not to puke. He disappointed Gerard and he promised himself he never would. He's enough of a burden as it is. Gerard goes through enough as it is. He doesn't need someone else dragging him down.

So Frank spends his days working from home, wondering where Gerard always is and trying his best to trust the "I'm still at work's" and the, "I had to stay late today's" that he gets through text every night. He tries his best not to think different when in all reality, Gerard is out getting drunk and smoking crack and sleeping with other guys who aren't Frank. He tries his best to just be okay. To try not to let his distorted body image get to him. He tries not to think too much about whether or not Gerard even loves him. He's tried to starve himself before but it's never really worked out for him. So he resorted to binging and purging and trying to look okay. Trying not to make Gerard worry.

Gerard never notices. Mikey never cares. Frank notices too much, cares too much. It's always been that way. It's never any different. Ever since Gerard and Frank met three years ago, it's been like this. Ever since they met in that stupid bar, ever since Gerard gave him the best sex he'd ever received, and ever since he first "fell in love" with that greasy haired boy, he's never been the same. And now he's stuck. And he never sees him anymore. And he pretends not to notice the alcohol on Gerard's breath when he comes home.

Maybe they were just having a party. Maybe it's not what he thinks.

It's okay. Everything is okay.

Honest.

---Ryan Ross---
--Emotional, Physical, Verbal, and Sexual Abuse--
---Dallon Weekes---
--Sadistic Personality Disorder, Tyrannical Sadist--
---Brendon Urie---
--Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder--

Ryan Ross has never known what it's like to not be afraid of the people he loves. He's never known real love, from a parent or a boyfriend. He's never known what it's like to not have to obey orders and to do as he pleases. To leave the house when he wants, to not be violated. He's never known what it's like to just be himself and not be judged. But he's never had that and some days he's afraid he never will.

His mother passed when he was young from cancer. His father was devastated, and so was Ryan. They each found their own ways to cope. He found music, his father found alcohol. It was maybe a month after the funeral when his dad first came home drunk. He had cussed Ryan out about being such a useless piece of shit and Ryan, being the fifteen year old he was, screamed right back. His father slapped him. Hard. It wasn't a slap for punishment, it was for satisfaction. And that seriously threw Ryan off.

Ever since that night, his dad has drank excessively. He beats Ryan sometimes, tells him how pathetic he is, tells him that he wouldn't be such a drunk fuck if Ryan would be a better kid. He's blamed Ryan for things he's never done before. He's put all the blame on his son and it's honestly kind of depressing. So much physical abuse and so much emotional pain. He tries not to think too hard on it. But he usually does anyway. He's gotten too many black eyes not to think about it.

It was about seven months ago when he met Dallon Weekes. And his dad greatly disproved, but he wouldn't leave Dallon. So they had to be together in secret. Only out to close friends. They loved each other, they really did. Ryan absolutely adored his boyfriend and his boyfriend always loved him right back.

It didn't last for long, though. Soon enough, on one late night, Dallon forced himself onto Ryan.

Ryan knew he didn't want to. He said no over and over again. He was twenty years old for fuck's sake. He should have been able to stop Dallon. But he couldn't.

He couldn't even leave him when he should have.

Ryan didn't tell anyone for a while. He was ashamed, dirty, disgusting and he knew everyone knew it. But eventually he gave in and he talked to his good friend, Brendon. He has severe ADHD but Ryan's learned how to help him through it. He knows how to make him focus, even if it's just for a moment.

He told Brendon about what Dallon did to him and about how disgusting he felt. Brendon told him to get away from him, but Ryan couldn't. He couldn't. And now?

Well, Ryan's had to deal with it for a good seven months.

Nobody wants what they have, but sometimes, it's all for the best.

Sometimes, life's just unfair like that.