#i still hate spanish unfortunately high school traumatized me :')

[jcmorgenstern]

oh hell yes! do 9 for jonathan/simon (vampire kink! vampire kink! vampire kink!)?

9. Bloodplay. hooo boy well. that sure happened. in spades. @elektra-natchioss​ it finally happened.

Vague setup for plot: set in COLS, Simon goes in place of Clary because the Mark of Cain can blow anyone who messes with him to shit, Jace is out on an ~errand~ when Simon realizes he forgot to pack blood. Sebastian has an idea.

“No,” said Simon. “No, no, no—that’s Spanish for no, by the way—no, and no. Absolutely not. Categorically in no universe will that ever happen, and I say that taking into account the multiverse and string theory or whatever. Seriously, no freaking way.”

Clary’s weird demon brother sighed, kicking up his (unfairly) long legs onto the fancy glass coffee table. He wore his shoes indoors, which Simon’s upbringing in his mother’s and grandmother’s home could hardly begin to fathom. Still, the aforementioned shoes were also fancy and the pointed-toe kind that made his legs look even longer, especially in those slimming dress pants. Had Simon mentioned that was unfair? “Be my guest, starve yourself to death. I hear the last throes of death by blood starvation are the best—rattles, shakes, uncontrollable thirst for blood. Maybe you could even hold out until my angel brother returns and attack him like a wild animal. Would make a very good home video.”

He held up his phone, a slim black iPhone X, then put it down on the coffee table and relaxed back into the black leather couch with a distinctly superior air, bringing his glass of wine to his lips (Simon was starting to think he had a serious day-drinking problem). Simon stayed mutinously silent for a few moments, occasionally breaking his deliberate lack of eye contact to shoot a glare Sebastian’s way, then finally broke down when the silence—and Sebastian’s all-too-knowing gaze on his back—was too much.

“Fine, say I believe you and there’s really no blood donation places I can get blood at—which I really don’t, by the way. How can I know your blood won’t like…hurt me, or something? Maybe you just injected holy water, or something.” Simon wasn’t sure what the Mark of Cain’s policy on ingested poisons is—would he projectile shoot venom Sebastian’s way if he was poisoned? If so, he was definitely going to have to avoid that one. It sounded very traumatic. Unfortunately, the Mark didn’t really come with a user’s manual.

Sebastian looked bored, fingering the stem of his wine glass. Simon had to wonder if he’d been to the School For Really Pale Villains, or if it was a genuine affectation. “As I told you before, this is a very old, very Catholic district of Paris. The Jesuits slaughtered the vampires living here, destroying all but the lowest underbelly of vampire society. You won’t find any donated blood anywhere in the city, I’m afraid.” He took another slow, measured sip of wine. “As for my blood, you’ve already drank it. Surely a few sips more can’t hurt.”

“Yeah, and it tasted like shit. No offense,” Simon added quickly. Telling someone their blood tasted bad had to be rude, right? Especially when the bloodletting altercation in question…hadn’t exactly been pleasant. Still, it had tasted like battery acid, harsh and acrid, burning at Simon’s tongue. Definitely worse than the medication Simon had to take when he was eight, which up until that point he’d thought was the worst tasting thing in the world.

Sebastian lips turned down into a bemused smile, and before he even opened his mouth Simon knew he was being patronized. “You really don’t know? Blood only tastes like what it carries—hormones, vitamins, nutrients, toxins. Taking a bite out of someone in battle when the stress and aggression is high is going to be much different than biting in bed when…” His eyebrows raised, suggestively. “Well, you know.”

Simon did not, in fact, know this, mostly because he’d never fed on a live human (except that one time. and that other time. and okay it kind of happened a lot but always not his fault). Still, it made sense, even if the source was dubious. Moreover, he was curious how Sebastian knew so much about vampire feeding. Maybe he had a vampire friend. “Really?”

“Mmm hmm.” Sebastian was clearly enjoying telling him things he didn’t know, stretching out on the sofa like a very self-satisfied (and skinny) white cat sunbathing. “Come on, just a little sip. Maybe it’ll last you until Jace is back, and we can take the apartment anywhere your delicate little conscience wants to eat.”

He had a point. Surely a little sip couldn’t hurt when Simon had already chugged a fair bit of it, (never mind that was basically frat boy logic). Also, he was really freaking hungry. His stomach didn’t rumble anymore—which was good, because as a living human stomach Simon’s stomach tended to embarrass him by making loud noises at the most inopportune moments—but if it did, it would be rumbling now. Also, the mental image of throwing himself at Jace the second he opened the door was too humiliating to bear. Surely he’d make fun of Simon forever and a half.

“But what about Jace?” Simon asked. “Won’t he, like, start gushing blood too, what with the—” Simon bit down on the words creepy demon ritual bond and added, hurriedly, “Twinning thing.”

Sebastian gave a bored shrug. “He should feel a pinch when you bite, but not much more. We don’t share all our papercuts, you know. Just major injuries, or life-threatening ones. Besides, my blood replenishes faster than his does. He won’t notice a thing.”

“Fine. One sip.” Simon felt like he was giving in way too fast, but he’d always been bad at pretending to be above these things. Awkwardly, he took a stuttering step towards the couch, then faltered. Sebastian gave him a smug look and moved over so that the couch cushion he’d been on previously was free, patting it with a pale hand. Simon sat, trying not to let his apprehension show (and failing). He looked at Sebastian’s hand, trying his best to keep his fangs from snapping out at the sight of the tiny little veins pulsing in his wrist. “Um, should I—or—?”

Sebastian looked amused, pulling open his collar. Simon could feel the heat and smell of him rolling off him in waves, the fresh pulse of life just under the surface. Since when did he freaking talk that way, anyway? ‘Fresh pulse of life?’ Get a grip, Lewis. You’re not in Twilight erotica. Simon forced his thoughts away from Twilight erotica and back to Sebastian, who was now uncomfortably yet tantalizingly close. Simon could make out every single one of his extremely long, translucent lashes. His nose was weirdly sculpted, like he’d had plastic surgery. The thought of Clary’s weird demon brother having plastic surgery was too much and he snorted, just a little.

Sebastian looked annoyed. “Is there something funny?”

“Um, nothing,” Simon assured him, very quickly. “So, um, wrist or arm or…?”

“Don’t be silly.” The superior tone was back as quickly as Sebastian’s face had flashed its annoyance. “Blood fresh from the heart has more nutrients. Everyone knows that.” He moored his wine glass on the table and pulled back his collar, exposing the long, pale column of his neck. His voice was weirdly soft and his gaze unusually intense when he said, “This will sate you most.”

“Oh,” said Simon. Sate was definitely a normal word that normal people used in normal situations. “Right, yeah, um, totally not weird at all. Gotcha.” He rubbed his hands together, warming them up, then very very carefully put out a hand and laid it uncomfortably on Sebastian’s shoulder. It was warm, and deceptively thin, almost delicate. If he hadn’t seen Sebastian pick up Jace like he’d weighed nothing, he wouldn’t have thought him much stronger than himself—pre vampire glow-up.

Sebastian rolled his eyes and leaned in so that his pulse was just against Simon’s lips, so close Simon could feel his heartbeat against his mouth. It was a weird, electric feeling, and Simon found himself marveling at its slow, steady beat, like a metronome. (His own heart, for the record, was fluttering at breakneck speeds against his ribcage). His fangs slid out, a lot less painfully than usual, and Simon bit down, tentatively.

A sigh passed Sebastian’s lips and salty sweetness exploded into Simon’s mouth, like a kick to the face. He bit down, harder, savoring the blood rushing into his mouth. There was an edge to it that hadn’t been in Jace’s, like the strong sharpness of vodka, mixed with a strange undercurrent Simon couldn’t place, but it tasted good, nothing like the harsh metallic taste of before. He drank and drank, but it seemed no matter how much he got it still tasted so good, nothing like the microwaved bagged stuff he got at the Hunter’s Moon.

Dimly, he could feel Sebastian shift against him—without any urgency. Simon groaned internally, the way he did when he didn’t want to get out of bed. If Sebastian wanted him to stop, he’d stop, but he really didn’t want to.

A languid sound vibrated in his chest and belatedly Simon realized Sebastian had made it. Something between a sigh and a groan, a sound of–pleasure? Was he enjoying this? A curtain of fog lifted, Simon’s mind spinning out. He felt Sebastian’s hand bump his knee and—

“Holy shit are you—are you touching yourself?!” Simon could hear his own voice scale an octave as he jerked back, and hated it. So much for magical vampire ‘no voice cracks.’ “What the hell, dude?”

Sebastian smiled, in the least comforting display of human emotion known to man. His blood was trailing down his neck in dark, tantalizing rivulets, seeping into the crisp white of his dress shirt. No blood, not even arterial blood, was this dark. His gaze was waaay too intense and his voice shockingly husky when he said, “Please, daylighter. Don’t tell me no one has given you a full-course meal before.”

“Um,” said Simon. Apart from full-on admitting to Clary’s (weird) older brother that he was a virgin at 19 (awesome!) and hadn’t really done anything except one very unfortunate makeout session behind a shed when he was 15, he didn’t see any way out of his ignorance. Hadn’t Sebastian said something about physiology affecting how blood tastes? “No offense, dude, but usually when you’re like, eating a steak or whatever, you really hope it isn’t jacking it at the same time, you know?”

There was a ‘beating meat’ joke in there somewhere, but Simon didn’t trust his current presence of mind enough to find it.

Sebastian seemed unaffected by his protestations. “You’re not eating, you’re feeding—on a living, voluntary participant. A performance of two parts, if you will.” He leaned in, and Simon had to pull back at the smell of blood to keep from clamping onto his neck like a very handsome, dashing leech. He traced a finger down Simon’s chin, pulling back his fingertip with a droplet of his own blood. He sucked at the tip of his finger, and Simon’s stomach did a strange little flip he did not want to think about. “So if you don’t mind, you keep to performing your part, and I’ll perform mine.”

A large part of Simon’s brain was screaming to lick up the blood dribbling perilously close to Sebastian’s chest—when had his shirt come that far undone?—so he avoided that no-doubt perilous outcome and ducked in and bit down again, grabbing at Sebastian’s back for better purchase. Fresh blood welled in his mouth, the flavor more complex—notes of sweetness mixed with hints of bitterness. Simon did his best to ignore that Sebastian had hiked one leg up to the couch and was teasing his inner thigh with long fingers–probably good for piano playing, some remote part of him thought. His pulse had picked up, though still steady, beating out a slightly more staccato tempo, though his breath felt unsteady as it brushed hot against Simon’s cheek.

He really hoped Jace didn’t come back right then and find Simon with a mouthful of Sebastian’s blood, and Sebastian with his legs…like that. Simon was quite sure he’d die of embarrassment on the spot, Mark of Cain get fucked. He could just imagine Jace’s smirk right now. “My blood wasn’t enough for you, Lewis?” he’d say, probably flexing. “Really, I’m insulted. Also how come I didn’t get this treatment, too? Is there something you need to tell me about our relationship?”

Simon wasn’t at all sure what Clary saw in him, but he had also been pretty sure he wasn’t going to gorge himself on Sebastian’s blood, either, and that had been just about two minutes ago. Maybe Jace would grow on him. Some day. Even though he was technically dead, Simon wasn’t holding his breath.

Dimly, Simon could feel Sebastian shifting around him, and himself pressing into him. He could feel Sebastian’s heartbeat in his own chest, the sensation unnervingly familiar and unfamiliar at the same time, the rush of blood under his skin. Sebastian’s breath was coming fast and sharp, his pulse swift and sending sharp sparks of sweetness into his blood. Simon could feel that he was breathing hard with him, even if there was nowhere for the oxygen in his lungs to go, his whole body throbbing with the heady power of Sebastian’s blood. Far from sating him, the blood had awakened a deep hunger in him, like standing on the precipice hanging over a very long, dark drop.

Simon felt dizzy with it, chasing the sparks of sweetness, Sebastian’s soft sighs falling away into the addictive heat and richness of his blood. That undercurrent of bitterness was back, but instead of being gross it was incredible, a completeness and complexity that made his chest full and warm like a shot of vodka. (Raiding his mom’s liquor cabinet with Clary when they were kids had been a horrible idea). Greedily, Simon bit down harder and Sebastian groaned, his back arching—

Dazzling sweetness fizzled against his tongue, jolting him with an incredible rush. Sunlight sang in his veins, like the first time he’d felt the heat of sun’s touch on his skin after he thought he’d never see it again. Fireworks popped behind his eyelids as he gasped, wholly overwhelmed, against Sebastian’s neck. Sebastian’s taut spine went soft beneath him, his whole body pliable as clay, and Simon was unable to rid himself of the nagging thought that this was what jacking off furtively in the shower felt like, only like twenty times better.

Tentatively, Simon opened his eyes. Sebastian smiled up at him, looking very self-satisfied. He was slumped against the back of the couch, which Simon had pushed him up against. His eyes, normally inky-black and whippet-sharp, were looking soft, a bit hazy—probably with blood loss. Not for the first time, Simon was arrested by the the unnatural whiteness of his hair, like bleached bones. (Simon only knew what bleached bones looked like because he and Clary had once found one on the beach. They had both been very dissappointed to know it was not, in fact, a human bone, but a chicken’s). 

Then his gaze turned to Sebastian’s neck and chest and Simon yelped, nearly jerking backwards off the couch; only his vampire reflexes caught him from what would have been a very ungainly and embarrassing demise. Sebastian’s chest was slicked and smeared with blood, all the way to his stomach, his shirt soaked through with spreading darkness. Simon’s own shirt—an Ironman shirt he’d gotten off TeeSpring—was wet and sticky with blood. “Eww,” Simon whispered, pulling the wet shirt away from his skin. It flopped back onto his chest when he let it go, wet and now cold. “Ewwwww.”

“Don’t worry, you’re hardly the world’s first messy eater.” Sebastian’s voice was a bit slurred, his movements slightly sluggish when he reached for his wine glass and drained it off in a single gulp. He smiled, the way one might smile at a particularly lush piece of cheesecake at the Cheesecake Factory. “Feeling better?”

“Um, yeah, thanks.” Simon muttered, a bit shamefaced. Had he gotten blood on the couch? Could you even get blood out of leather? He was quite sure that was a question shadowhunters asked themselves all the time. “Sorry if I, uh, got carried away, or whatever.”

Sebastian gave an abrupt little laugh, turning his gaze up towards the ceiling. “Believe me, I like carried away.”

Simon was silent a moment, trying to formulate the question in his mind. Hey dude, not in the weird way, but did you orgasm and did I…taste it? Again, not in the weird way. “How….how did you do that?”

Sebastian’s lips pulled down into a droll smile, his head lolling Simon’s way on the couch cushion. “My, it really was your first time, wasn’t it?” Before Simon could blush and trip over himself to stammer out a million words, he added, “Perhaps I’ve been a bit dishonest. I’ve frequented many bleeder dens and, ah, perfected the technique.”

Simon knew what bleeder dens were, even if he’d never been to one. Great way to get tetanus, Jace had told him. Also very gross, very Count Dracula. Wouldn’t recommend. He could imagine Sebastian fitting right in, though. So, like a vampire sex club? Clay had asked, and Isabelle had laughed. Exactly like that. “The technique?”

“Orgasm makes the blood incredibly sweet,” Sebastian explained, as if Simon were an idiot. He gave a pointed look downward. “Though I must say you seem to have enjoyed it more than most.”

Simon had the urge to yank off the Seelie ring, lest Clary somehow hear any part of this conversation. It occurred to him he should have done that ages ago, like maybe before the messy blood orgy for two started. How did those things even work, anyway? Yet another thing that didn’t come with an operator’s manual.(Simon was a very firm believer in reading the manual. Clary, by contrast, preferred to play board games without reading the rules).“Oh, um, that’s weird—”

“Don’t worry, I enjoyed it too.” Sebastian leaned in, pressing a paralyzingly light kiss to Simon’s cheek. His hand went automatically to the spot, even as his soul recoiled in horror. Clary had not actually stipulated don’t make out with my evil demon brother, but Simon was pretty sure that was on the unspoken list of friend rules. like maybe at the very top, highlighted in neon, and flashing with a few sirens going off.

He also really kind of wanted to make out with Clary’s evil demon brother. The thought made him despair.

“I’m going to take a shower,” Sebastian told him with a lingering look, standing up with impressive grace for someone who was currently wearing a whole lot of his own blood as a fashion statement. “I suggest you change your shirt, lest my brother return and think you’ve taken to cannibalism. Maybe rest an hour or so, and then I’ll be ready again.” To Simon’s raised eyebrows and wide eyes, he said, with a glimmer of a dark wink, “The femoral artery is a real treat, for both of us. You’ll love it, I promise.”

[gaiatheorist]

What have I ‘got’?

Brain damage, or ‘Acquired Brain Injuries’, depending who I’m speaking to, my ability so say, and spell ‘subarachnoid haemorrhage’ appears to be working against me, in the UK’s labyrinthine and convoluted disability benefit system, though.

I have a task on my desk, it’s a self-set task, and I don’t want to do it, but my Welfare Rights Advocate is proving himself unreliable. He’s supposed to be ‘supporting’ me with my PIP tribunal, but he’s evasive, untrustworthy, and a little bit patronising. I have a note of all the times he’s said he was going to do something, and then not done it, frustrating for me, because I’m out of my depth with the tribunal evidence. (I’m not, I’m fully conversant with the majority of the 300+ pages on my desk, most of it being the evidence I submitted in the first place. I’ve typed-up the notes I took contesting the speculation, omissions, and, shall we say ‘mis-recorded results’ from ATOS/DWP, so the Advocate can read them. I’ve also tidied up the bits I’d put in ranty capital letters, and toned down the swearing.) 

The task. When I was referred to Workplace Well-being, about a year ago, my Union Representative asked me to ‘write a list of all my difficulties’ to take with me. ‘Other’ people love a good list, don’t they? (’Othering’, there, watch yourself.) I didn’t want to ‘write a list’, mainly because I hate reflecting on all of the things ‘wrong’ with me, but also because loads of paper with just ‘things’ noted on them in a random order serve no functional purpose. The rep will have seen it as a memory aid, in case I forgot something, my functional/working memory does let me down on a regular basis, there are work-around strategies for that. I wrote the list, because I was very mindful of the need to follow instructions, but the original nurse who assessed me (before transferring my case to a doctor, who told me “This case should never have been assessed by a nurse, it’s far too complex.”) didn’t look at it. No reflection on her procedural-practice, there, she asked me questions, and I was able to answer most of them. The Union Rep was frustrated with me when she saw the nurse’s report, and asked me if I’d ‘really’ explained my difficulties. Well, Union Rep, yes, I did, that’s why the nurse is recommending that I’m ‘unfit’ for a minimum of 12 weeks, and need a full functional/cognitive assessment via Neurology. (Honestly, am I the only one who can read? Still haven’t had the functional assessment, either.) That was the start of the task, and I need to re-do it.

I was going to go list-style again, but break it into Physical/Intellectual/Emotional/Social categories. (Yes, I did support GCSE Health and Social Care lessons, about a million years ago.) Breaking my ‘list’ into categories gives me an element of control, I only have to focus on one ‘bit at a time, it reduces the risk of me becoming overwhelmed at having to think of all of it, all at once. Again. I’ve spent almost three years trying not to reflect too much on which bits of me no longer function properly, and the adaptations I’ve absorbed/normalised to keep myself, and others safe, now the PIP-system is making me do precisely that. A ‘list’ of all-that-ails-me still serves no purpose, it would be like the world’s worst shopping list, “Constant headaches, light aversion, sporadic tics and tremors, mood swings, sleep disturbance, have we any milk left, inattention.” It would just be a load of words, on some paper, the Advocate boldly stated that he’d write my ‘witness statement’ for me, I think he meant ‘impact statement’, but I’m not having a man who uses multiple consecutive punctuation marks in text-messages writing anything ‘for’ me. He doesn’t live in this state, I do. 

Right, it’s not going to be a list, it’s going to be a table, ‘Issue’, ‘Impact’ and ‘Adaptations/Strategies’, broken down into the ‘PIES’ categories, for ease of reading by other people. Yes, I ‘could’ potentially be shooting myself in the foot, here, because the adaptations/strategies I’m using mean that I ‘can’ complete the majority of the ‘descriptor activities’. Eventually. That’s what’s REALLY wrong with the PIP-system, apart from it being operated by shady individuals only interested in finding a way to refuse claims, in my experience. I didn’t tick the ‘unable to’ box for any of the descriptors, and I’m smirking now, about my ‘traits consistent with Autism’, I won’t lie, and it doesn’t matter how many times DWP/ATOS ask me the same question (not even bothering to change the phrasing, amateurs.) they will get the same answer, because this is my life. DWP/ATOS are using a one-size-fits-all template for EVERY disability claim, it’s the same form for every applicant/disability/condition, and it’s heavily skewed towards physical capabilities. ATOS/DWP are effectively banging a hamster through the star-shaped hole on a Fisher Price shape-sorter, certain tabloids and media sources are shouting at the hamster to stop being lazy, and run, and then the ‘assessor’ gives the shape-sorter a good kick, and ticks the ‘able to move 20m’ box. If you’re not paraplegic, or in a coma, you’re not disabled-enough for this system, ‘making work pay’, and all that, ‘we’ must be capable of something. (Side-smirk, because the ‘work related activity’ scheme in my area is run by Serco, do we think I’d suit a security-guard uniform?)

I spent 6 hours last weekend line-by-line picking through the ‘evidence’ DWP/ATOS might-intend to submit to the tribunal. I say ‘might’, because they’re asking the panel to dismiss my case unheard, SUPERB scare-tactic there. Some people would give up at that point, unfortunately for DWP, I’m not one of them. I say ‘evidence’ because most of the ATOS-end of it is speculation and opinion, there is literally no reference made to the medical evidence I submitted until now, when I’m effectively taking them to court. Process that, they’ve had a huge pile of medical evidence from me twice now, and they make no reference at all to it, focusing instead on my ability to ‘bend forward at the waist and reach mid-shin with both hands.’ The last nurse-practitioner that ‘assessed’ me has recorded results for a ‘test’ she didn’t do, and very-much ‘mis-recorded’ some of her other ‘informal observations.’ My functional memory fluctuates, but my stress/crisis recall is phenomenal, my A-level ‘General Studies’ exam paper had an article from a Spanish newspaper about foxes, the only question I couldn’t answer on my GCSE Maths paper was the spider-diagram one, when I was 11, my primary school teacher made the whole class copy from a reading book as a punishment. “A Dog So Small, by Phillipa Pearce. The tapping on the window woke him, fast asleep, and then wide awake, because of the tapping. Perhaps the pigeon always woke this early, he was usually tapping when the boys awoke. That was usually much later, with the smell of breakfast...” Put me under ‘test conditions’, or in a stressful/crisis situation, and my recall will be utterly flawless, I’m buggered if I can remember what I went into Tesco for, though.

My ridiculous memory aside, I have nearly 5000 words of annotation/points of contention with the ATOS/DWP evidence/reports, it’s possible that I’ve typed more words than the ‘assessors’ and ‘decision makers’, AND all of mine are spelled properly, even the really big ones. (Irritability, classic symptom of frontal lobe brain injuries, I get the “Can’t people READ/WRITE?” anger very frequently.) A couple of pages in, the boss decision-maker has recorded “has mental health issues” before even mentioning the brain injuries. I’ll leave out the side-rage at the lower-level decision-maker recording “she is not depression.” on another page, no, dear I’m not depression, but I am about to make your life less pleasant. 

“Has mental health issues.” is what triggered this pile of waffle, that, and REALLY not wanting to start the PIES-table thing. ‘Has mental health issues’ is what ATOS/DWP will likely use as their ‘get out of jail’ card, because when someone has mental health issues, the go-to option is medication, whack enough Prozac in us, and we eventually stop complaining about stuff, don’t we? Do I have ‘mental health issues’? Probably. Do I have any active diagnosis of a mental health condition requiring medication? No. I don’t know if they’re referring to my PTSD, or speculating based on my presentation at assessment. If they try to suggest that I am suffering from depression, I have medical evidence from two different doctors that I’m not, and the idiot who typed ‘is not depression’ onto the forms has undermined that ‘argument’ before it starts.

I was relatively functional within the parameters of my PTSD, actually, no, I was hyper-functional in many areas, which is why I was so very good at some parts of a career I no longer have. That hyper-functionality is hard-wired, but my brain is now re-wired, there are tangles of wires sealing up two aneurysms, and a third one just sitting there lurking in a ‘risky’ position on my Choroidal artery, if that one blows, it’s ‘Goodnight, Vienna.’ I’m still incredibly high-functioning, but only for part of the day, my brain effectively does a whole day’s work by lunch-time, because I over-process everything, I can’t ‘not’ do that. The over-processing causes my evidenced-damaged brain to tire more easily than a fully functioning one, by late afternoon, I can feel the fogginess starting to creep in, and I’m next-to-useless in the evening. My long-suffering son has observed his highly intelligent, incredibly articulate mother descend into cognitive fatigue, and sit in this armchair dribbling like an imbecile, and falling asleep. That’s our ‘normal’ now, when he’s back from university, and it shouldn’t have to be, I can’t imagine how traumatic it must be for him watching me ‘slip’ every evening, after being in the ambulance with me while the haemorrhage and hydrocephalus were crushing my brain. 

In a weird way, the PTSD over-processing has probably kept me alive. I’m constantly assessing for threats and risks. Constantly. It’s not as linear-simple as applying the cause-trauma to everyday situations, ‘that’ is never going to happen again, for reasons I’m not going to explain here. Constantly, and everything, it was exhausting enough before the additional layer of trauma added by the near miss with the chap with the scythe. CBT won’t unpick it, because if I don’t-assess everything I potentially place myself or others at risk of harm. EMDR can’t do anything to ‘desensitise’ my threat-perception that I haven’t already done myself. The doctors have never found a combination of drugs that balanced me properly, the hyper-vigilance is just a ‘thing’, background noise that was bearable before my brain injuries, it’s exhausting ‘now’, but threat-checking keeps me safe. (I will EXPLODE if DWP/ATOS try to label it ‘generalised anxiety.’)

If they’re not going with the PTSD (funnily enough, I don’t actually have a formal diagnosis, I slipped the term to my GP once, and he agreed, it just sort of ‘stuck’ after that.) it might be the ‘Depression?’ recorded on my initial discharge-notes from hospital after the haemorrhage. (Very irritable face, it’s the same as all of my other faces, you learn how to poker-face quite quickly when you realise that your first impulse on just about anything could land you with a criminal record.) When I was admitted to hospital, the medics asked the ex about my previous medical history, I imagine the kid might have replied “Have you looked in your sock drawer?” if his mother hadn’t been dying in front of him. The ex was useless on anything that wasn’t motorbikes, 1980s synthesiser music, or asking for more toast, the sock-drawer was a running joke between the kid and I, due to the number of times the ex would stand on the upstairs landing, and shout downstairs “Have I got any clean socks?” instead of looking in the bastard sock-drawer. Sock-rage, I haven’t had to deal with that for a very long time, there was some sort of force-field around the laundry basket, meaning he couldn’t put ANYTHING in it. All of his clothes, whether they were the clean ones I’d folded and put on his side of the bed, to encourage him to put them away himself, and stop asking me “Have you seen my Kraftwerk T-shirt?”, or the absolutely minging-filthy work clothes he’d wear for weeks on end, ended up on the floor at his side of the bed. The socks were even worse, he’d come home from work, take his socks off, and leave them in the living room. I stopped collecting them after a while, because I had enough ‘else’ to do without picking up after a grown man. Sock-rant over, the ex told the medic “I think she’s got depression, but I don’t know if she’s on anything for it.” If they’d asked him about motorbikes, or what order to put fillings in sandwiches, he’d have known that. 

So, ‘Depression?’ is recorded on my discharge-notes. I REALLY upset the nurse who’d recorded it, in a twist of fate, she was my assigned nurse after the second round of surgery. I was mad at the ex, I wasn’t angry with her, but, at the shift-handover she described me as ‘strange, controlling and manipulative.’ I’m not manipulative, am I?  

I probably ‘should’ be depressed, but my medical notes state I’m not, so, what have I ‘got’? (I’m putting that in quotation marks because it was the ex’s retarded terminology, a person may ‘have’, or ‘suffer from’ depression, they haven’t ‘got’ it.) What I have is a combination of brain injuries, and some maladaptive coping mechanisms. I have ‘had’ historical mental health issues, and I’m awaiting a neuro-psych assessment to see which diagnostic criteria I fit this time. I have multiple traits consistent with Autism, but I’d always assumed they were due to the traumatic/developmental/attachment issues, rather than an organic cause. Thinking back of myself as a child, yes, I would have ticked most of the boxes for an AS diagnosis. I have traits consistent with Oppositional Defiant  Disorder, which is a relatively new addition to the DSM-5, but sits neatly around my tendencies to generally be a Terrible Bastard. My sick-notes were all generic ‘stress related disorder’, because we don’t say ‘nervous breakdown’ any more. Elements of my disability fit the profiles for Chronic Fatigue Syndrome and Fibromyalgia, two of my nieces have disability-awards for fatigue, and they don’t have chunks of metal in their brains. I’m not neurotic, or a hypochondriac, which is a good thing, because the veritable telephone-directory of side-effects from brain trauma would have a ‘worrier’ setting up camp in A&E, there hasn’t been a single day since February 2015 where I haven’t been dealing with one side-issue or another. I probably ‘should’ be more anxious about my health than I am, but that way lies ruin, I assess myself every day, and ‘work with the tools I have’. 

Enough of this now, or I’ll use up all of my functional eye-time, and end up having an argument with myself about doing the impact statement ‘tomorrow.’ The PIP system is very flawed, it’s not in the least bit fit-for-purpose, and I need to ensure that my evidence is reasoned, accountable, and coherent. I am a very complex case, but my ability to articulate that is working against me, because the system ‘sees’ me when I’m lucid, not when I’m trying to put both of my socks on the same foot, or finding a meal from several days ago in the microwave. Throw into the equation that Universal Credit is also fundamentally flawed, and it’s fairly obvious why I’m having more wobbly/off days recently. My work-coach has cut me down to 10 hours per week of actively seeking employment, because she’s seen my health deteriorate during this PIP process. That’s all well and good, but I’m on a knife-edge financially, if, despite her doing what she can to reduce my ‘claimant commitment’, the computer system decides to invite me to apply for an unsuitable job, I’m at risk of sanctions. Poverty-porn, I have no heating, I’m sitting here in four jumpers, shopping once a fortnight, and eating once a day. I’m not asking for champagne and caviar, I’m asking for a disability benefit that would allow me to work part-time, because I’m not fully functional full-time.

What do I have? A pile of horrible paperwork, an unreliable advocate, and unemployment benefit that doesn’t cover my basic outgoings. What am I? I’m tenacious, resilient, determined, intelligent, articulate, reasoned, accountable, honest, and bloody exhausted from jumping through DWP’s various hoops.