#it's not “have a mental breakdown” it's “become inconsolably hysterical”

[lemonisntreal]

BLINKY BLINKY BLINKY BLINKY BLINKY BLINKY BLINKY BLI

[justasparkwritings]

Wake Up Call

Pairing: Kim Namjoon x Reader (but really you can lift out Namjoon and put anyone there)

Genre: Slice of Life / Angst 

Rating: PG-13 

Warnings: Swearing maybe 1 time, Discussion of police brutality/murder, Discussion of the trauma black and brown people are enduring, Discussion of the Chauvin verdict, Discussion of lives lost due to being black 

Word Count: 1.3K

Summary: It’s a bad omen whenever I call Namjoon in the morning. 

Note: This is heavy. This hurt to write. This hurts to read back. This is my reality. This is not me using police brutality to amass a following or gain notoriety or become anything other than what I am. This is meant for me to process, and for anyone of color who might be feeling the same thing as I am. This is meant as a way for me to process, as are so many of my other stories. This is my grief. 

          Namjoon knows that whenever I call in the middle of the night, or first thing in the morning, something is wrong. He couldn’t call it beginners luck, or intuition. Rather a series of events that had resulted in a pattern of behavior from me, his beloved. A call in the morning meant something had gone wrong between me waking up and returning home from work. A call in the morning meant I am a volcano of emotions, either crying, laughing, or both, distraught or exhausted, anxious or depressed. It means that across the globe, working on Pacific Time, something nearly catastrophic had occurred.

           A call in the morning, unless previously scheduled, has always been a bad omen.

           The first time I called him in the morning, my period was late. Like late late, to which he reminded me I had switched birth controls and that could’ve been the problem, it was.

           The second time, I was having a slight mental breakdown. I’d been sick for months with a variety of ailments, was worked to the bone and crumbling at my desk.

           The third time, Atatiana Jefferson was murdered by police in her home after a neighbor called a non-emergency number to report that her door was open.

           The fourth time, Ahmaud Arbery was murdered by two white men while on a run.

           The fifth time, Breonna Taylor was murdered in her bed while sleeping.

           The sixth time, George Floyd was murdered by police in broad daylight, crying out for his mother stating the simple fact that he couldn’t breathe.

           The seventh time, I was in hysterics, sobbing relentlessly into the receiver. I couldn’t handle it, I couldn’t handle another protest in tear gas, I couldn’t handle my kin fearing for their lives, I couldn’t handle the thought that my niece would have to sit through the talk. I couldn’t handle the idea that Namjoon and I would have to sit with our children, go over the rules and procedures for interacting with authority, prepare ourselves day after day that they could not come home. That no money or wealth would protect them if their eyes were shaped like his, their nose wide like mine. 

           What could he do? What could he say? He and the rest of Bangtan could throw as much money at various organizations as they could, watching ARMY meet it, raise it, push others to donate.

           But what did that do, other than show the world these black lives were worth more in death than life? That we’re worth nothing unless we’re imprisoned or in the ground? What did it do to fix the system, to abolish the inherent nature of police, originally created to patrol slaves? What did it do to protect black and brown bodies, to ensure their safety, to demand their lives be worth more alive?

          Nothing. It did nothing.

          He had gotten mad at me, why wasn’t I grateful that ARMY came through? Why wasn’t I glad that Bangtan had seen the news and wanted to help? Why couldn’t that be enough for what they could do in Seoul, sidelined by a pandemic?

          He didn’t get it.

          The eighth time, I had been in a minor incident and had to interact with the police. I had called my father to my side, a decision that could’ve easily resulted in his death. I called Namjoon shaking, how had I managed to have a successful interaction with the very people who could’ve tossed my father down, knee on his neck, and ended him? Had he driven the Tesla on purpose? Had he rolled up cautiously, in an appropriate August outfit, wallet and identification in his hand, not hidden or masked, to avoid any miscommunication? What was worse, had he done all of this without thinking?

          The ninth time I called him, a group of Asian women had been targeted and murdered by a white man. I was calm, I was put together. Namjoon wasn’t. He was inconsolable, he didn’t feel safe, he wasn’t accepting that this could be the reality if we split time in the states and Korea. How could our children be safe if this could happen, what if our daughter was at a nail salon? What if his mother or sister were? What would happen to him, to our future children, if they had eyes like him and a nose like mine? Would they be targeted for having the name Kim? Would their Americanness protect them?

          No. It wouldn’t. It couldn’t.

          I asked if he wanted to donate to help.

          He nearly hung up, anger seething in his deepest register.  

          How dare I suggest that money could help?

          I had thrown it back at him, and he whimpered. He buckled under the weight of his naivete. It’s one thing to copy black culture and make your fame off the commodification of our bodies. It’s another to watch the blatant racism and sexism we face on the regular basis so blatantly attack your own kind.

          He understood.

          The tenth time I called, Daunte Wright had just been murdered by police for having an air freshner in his review mirror. He had been murdered under the guise of the officer mistaking his own gun for a taser. He was 20.

          The eleventh time, 13 year old Adam Toledo had been gunned down for following the police’s directions. Even when complying, our very existence is a threat.

          The twelfth time I called, justice for George Floyd had been served. But I had to wonder, and I asked Namjoon, where was ARMY? Where were their fans? Was this not a moment, a tiny victory, for all minority groups held captive by their abusers? Were we not working towards ending the systems that allowed the white man who murdered eight women, six of Asian descent in Atlanta, the same? Did we not suffer slavery and bondage by the people who will claim this as a monumental step instead of a jury doing their fucking job? How could people who stood by him, who stood by people of his heritage, not stand for those who are bleeding in the street in their own country?

          Again, he didn’t know.

          He didn’t say anything to assuage my fears, to throw money at it, to give any answer other than to tell me he’s sorry. He’s sorry he can’t fix it or do anything about it, sorry he’s beholden to his company and their latest merger and can’t say anything. Sorry he can only understand a fraction of what I endure in this country, in my body. He was sorry.

          I don’t know when I’ll call him in the morning again, the next time a verdict will let a murderer off the hook or will send a guilty man to jail. I don’t know the next time a black or brown person will be murdered by remorseless cops. Or the next time a gunman, with a legal weapon, will murder women because it’s easier to blame them than deal with your own traumas. I don’t know when that moment will come.

          But I do know that in the United States, almost 1,000 people are murdered each year by police. That black people are 2x as likely as white people to be the victims, and black people age 25-34 are the highest risk to be murdered. I do know that the murderers of Tamir Rice, Trayvon Martin, Mike Brown, Sandra Bland, Atatiana Jefferson and countless others whose names we do not know, are walking around this country, not guilty.

          I know that I will always be afraid.

          I know that when I call Namjoon again, in the morning, or afternoon or middle of the night, he will answer. He will listen. He will love me and protect me as much as his money can buy.

           I do know that these brothers and sisters murders are not in vain. Rest in power. 

[nicostolemybones]

The Doctor Is Not In

Tw: mental breakdown. implied/referenced: medical emergencies, ptsd, disordered eating, self harm, contamination ocd, paranoia, and delusions

Today was not a normal day in the infirmary. Anyone at the doors asking for Will was being met with a very angry Nico harshly growling at them to fuck off. Sure, severe injuries and breakdowns really had to be dealt with, but Nico demanded they be taken to Chiron or Apollo. Because behind the infirmary walls you could hear inconsolable screams, unsettling the campers- the doctor was calm, clinical. 

Nico made his way in, where Will was pacing like a caged animal, pulling his hair so hard a few strands came out, and Will kept hitting the walls and smacking his head and throwing stuff to the floor.

He wasn't okay.

He wasn't okay and it pissed Nico off because there shouldn't be a reason for Will to ever be like this. Will should not be in dire need of psychiatric help. Will should have been outside playing sports or indoors playing fortnite or studying subjects he was interested in or doing literally anything other than being a doctor. 

Because at this point? They were fifteen. Fifteen years old. And Will? On a daily basis, Will was exposed to medical emergencies that leave seasoned hospital workers with ptsd. Will was having to spend all his free time studying way beyond his age and overusing his powers, doing surgeries that required a team of specialists by himself. No anaesth- aneeth- whatever the putting you to sleep with drugs and making sure you don't die people were, no nurses, no actual experts. No cardiologists, radiologists, obstetricians, gynaecologists, midwives, oncologists, anaesthetists- that was the word- but Nico's point was:

Will was a literal fucking child dealing with injuries that would take a whole team of specialists literal decades of their life to be prepared for. Doctors who had been qualified since before Will was even born would not be qualified enough to do what Will was expected to do alone. 

And mental health issues? Will was expected to deal with them too. And it wasn't like it was the occasional anxious camper or the occasional bout of depression. No, Will was dealing with regular overdoses, self mutilation, severely disordered eating, psychosis, dissociative disorders, mood disorders, personality disorders- things that psychiatrists with a PhD were sometimes genuinely unqualified to help with. And Will? Will hadn't even reached middle school before he was working in the infirmary and wouldn't have even graduated middle school by the time he was head medic. Will hadn't seen the inside of a classroom since he was seven. 

Will was a fucking child.

Nico was mad enough that he was an undertaker himself so young, but this? The sheer amount that Will was expected to handle was too much. Being a combat medic? Expected to endanger his life on a battlefield defenseless to treat horrifying wounds no person should ever have to see let alone a child-

Yeah, Nico was fucking livid.

Because Will was having some kind of breakdown or episode from it all. And he shouldn't be because he should never have had to do this. 

Nico had to watch Will completely hysterical and nonsensical, watching him completely falling apart. Nico was the one who had been watching this brewing, had been listening to Will late at night, watching to him becoming paranoid and delusional, flashbacks and night terrors, jumpy, watching him losing sleep, afraid he'd die if he went to sleep, watching Will's odd behaviours spiral into obsessive rituals, watched him wash his hands until they were bleeding, shaking and crying because he was so scared of the germs, had watched Will develop an unhealthy obsession with pure healthy foods to the point that he would have a panic attack at the sight of fatty foods, obsessed with exercise to the point Nico would find him doing sit ups in the dead of night, spine all bruised, and now beginning to lose weight, panicking about that too to the point Will would sit calculating everything that went in or out of his body in an attempt to not lose weight, because by Will's flawed logic, as long as he didn't lose weight his diet wasn't dangerous or disordered.

Will wasn't well. He was traumatised and he had been allowed to spiral this bad, allowed to develop serious disorders, because as long as Will was functional enough to play doctor, nobody truly cared how much it hurt him.

All this responsibility had made Will ill.

Will was not supposed to be a doctor. He was a child. He wouldn't be the doctor now. Will was the patient. The inpatient, in urgent need of psychiatric help, having some kind of breakdown that Nico didn't know enough about to be able to help. 

Nico was in and out- he didn't want to leave Will alone but Austin and Kayla were there too and somebody had called his mama who was on her way and Nico had to make sure he had Will's belongings for his stay. 

His favourite blanket, the soft knitted blue one way too small and threadbare patched up with darker yarn that he'd had since a baby, knitted by his grandma. His small dinosaur plush, buried under his blankets, that Nico knew Will couldn't sleep without. His favourite hoodie- the pastel blue one with the clouds at the top, his favourite cozy yellow cable knit jumper, his favourite grey sweatpants, the cozy dog onesie he liked to sleep in when he was sad. The picture of Will and his mom when Will was seven. The one of him and Nico embracing in the rain. The small box Nico had never seen the contents of that he knew Will kept his dearest memories in. His diary, which Will had shared with Nico, his Frisbee, his favourite trophy from school- the one for his running. Nico's aviator jacket- it was big on Nico so it was the only thing of his that Will could really steal and be comfortable in- it grounded Will when Nico couldn't be there in person to help. And finally, Will's essentials, like his toothbrush and various creams and gels. 

On his way back, Nico's mood switched quickly from sentimental back to anger as people were gossiping ungratefully about the lazy sunshine boy who couldn't possibly be sad and was just faking for attention. Nico had seen too many scars to believe that, hidden beneath the long sleeves of the white shirt Will wore beneath his scrubs, the ones on the tops of his thighs and his stomach and chest and anywhere he could reach. 

Nico returned to Will, who was distraught, begging, because he didn't want to be in hospital anymore. He just wanted to go home. But he needed urgent treatment, he needed it now, and it broke Nico's heart.

Because Will should never have been a doctor, should never have lived the circumstances that lead to him being in this state.

So Nico placed the sign on the front of the infirmary doors, heart heavy with concern. 

'The doctor is not in.'