Ive Only Just Started To Bind (3 Days At This Point With A Day Of Not Binding) But Ive Read And Watched

I’ve only just started to bind (3 days at this point with a day of not binding) but I’ve read and watched a lot of tips about binding. I‘ve heard you have to ease yourself into wearing the binder since your body isn’t used to it yet, and that you shouldn’t bind 24/7. You should only bind for a maximum of 8-10 hours per day (taking a break once and a while) and only wear it 5 out of 7 days of the week.

When you need a break from binding I would recommend a soft sports bra in addition to baggy shirts and thick sweaters/hoodies to try and help ease dysphoria. Shirts with large images printed on the front tend to be a bit stiffer, so to speak, so they can help smooth out your chest a bit more. I personally have a Sherpa lined XL hoodie that’s helped me out a lot.

Honestly I wanna do a thread where people who bind reblog and add a tip for these who wants to bind/are starting to bind. Sharing is caring and binding can be very scary, regardless of your gender or for why you wanna bind.

Have an advice from me: Don’t bind with ace bandages. It’s surely cheap and does the work, but you’re just gonna badly harm yourself and damage your ribcage! I recommend a binder or a sport bra. Waaaay safer.

Little flooper I almost forgot about

Look

I jolt awake, looking at my unfamiliar surroundings. It looks like some sort of mining tunnel carved into dark grey slate, lit with dim candles about every ten feet. I scramble to my feet and realize I’m wearing a thin white night gown (that I have never seen before) that down a few inches past my knees, and no shoes.

“It doesn’t even have sleeves” I thought, disconcerted. I’m shivering uncontrollably as I walk up to one of the candles casting it’s feeble light, the cold seeping up through my feet. I take the candle and continue along the ruff floor, looking for an exit. The hallway feels like it continues forever, and despite the candles, I can never quite see what’s ahead. After some walking, I come to an intersection with three branches. I choose the one on the left, hoping to find the edge of where ever I was to find my bearings. 

The path takes a sharp turn to the right and I figure it must lead back to the center path, so I keep going. Only the path continues past where the original center hall must be. I can’t say why exactly, but this makes me uncomfortable, so I turn around and go back down the path, suddenly needing to see the center path curve or come to a dead end. Walking back now, the path curves to my newly oriented right, the opposite direction it was curving when I first walked down. This can’t be right. I press forward, my feet starting to sting on the cold floor. I come to another branch, this one with two choices going in the opposite direction. None of this makes sense. The one going right might lead back to the start, I guess.

Turn after turn blur into each other as I wander through spatially impossible corridors, unable to find an exit. As my feet go from excruciatingly painful to uncomfortably numb, I notice the candles on the walls have started to get further and further apart. If I stop I can just barely pick up a faint scratching sound. It sends shivers up my spine. I press forward, casting aside my burned down candle for a new one from the wall. The candles stretch to fifteen feet, twenty, thirty, until the next candle is nothing but a faint speck flickering, barely able to beat back the pressing darkness. As the darkness grows, the scratching grows steadily louder and more frequent, increasing my already climbing heart rate. I hasten my pace, wanting to keep as much distance as possible between me and whatever is making that noise. It was now loud enough to be noticed, but I still can’t place the sound. The ever distant candle is looming ahead of me, and no matter how far I go it doesn’t seem to get closer. I’m nearly running now, desperately trying to get closer to the candle, but unable to go any faster as I shakily hold my hand in front of the dimming candle to keep it from going out completely. The last thing I want is to be left in the dark with whatever is making that noise, distorted and echoing across the stone. That noise which had become loud enough recognize; it was the sound of a dog’s nails on a hard surface. But that wasn’t quite right, it conveyed so much more than that. It was the sound of a rabid dog prowling down the barely lit hall, it’s pace barely above a trot, fighting against every fiber of it’s being screaming for it to run full speed down the hall and tear into my soft and supple throat. Fighting so that I could stew in my fear, feeling it’s presence looming behind me, and taste that much sweeter when it took the kill.

I can’t help but let out a whimper as I sprint down the hallway, the candle sputtering but thankfully staying lit. The scratching is nearly upon me now, yet the candle is no closer. My foot catches and stops suddenly and I sprawl forward. I land hard on my knees. Pain shoots up my legs as I can feel my kneecaps shift backward down my shin. The candle clatters from my hand as I brace for impact, ripping away the skin from the heels of my hands. As I scramble to my feet I realize the noise has stopped, though I don’t think that’s a good sign. I try to stand but the pain bites through my knees and sends me back to the floor. Desperate, I crawl for my fallen candle, casting a pitiful circle on the floor a few feet in front of me.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s rude not to make eye contact? Look at me!” an inhuman voice snarled. I wanted to jump at the sound, to start running again, but I found I was unable. Instead I slowly climbed to my knees, ignoring the horrific pain, and stood to face it.

It looked like a walking corpse. It stood propped on two huge paws, its overgrown nails twisting into the stone. Its black skin was covered in sparse patches of sickly grey fur, and barely hung on to its hunched frame. It split apart in places along its animalistic limbs to reveal raw red muscle. It was worse along his freakishly long fingers tipped with blackened talons, and on the thing this creature called a head. Skin crusted in scales of oil, dirt, and more dead skin practically melted away to reveal a sallow and boney snout, adorned with yellowed teeth framed in black and decaying gums. Everything about it seemed tinged with a hue of a grotesque green, as though it was a symbol of how rotted it was inside and out; everything except its eyes. His eyes were his most striking feature. They were set deep into his face, his eyelids scarcely obscuring them; an inviting shade of a pale gold, intricately laced with tones of copper and umber, his soft pupils floating in a pool of pure warmth. His eyes speak of memories where time slips away and leaves only the emotions of the moment, the unbridled joy of childhood, unburdened by the harshness of life. They speak of sunlight washing over your face on a cold autumn afternoon, bringing the warmth back into your cheeks. They pull you in, beckoning like an old friend come to catch you up on everything that’s happened while they were away. You barely feel a smile tug at the corner of your lips as you opened your arms and closed your eyes.

(I keep meaning to write new stuff, but I just polish and rewrite old stuff and then like it enough to post it :P)

Doodle that turned out better than expected

Aptly ‘named face of nightmares’ in my files

Southern Comfort (2001)

A beautiful scene featuring transgender man Robert Eades and his transgender girlfriend Lola.