#the pain disorder is hard too but this sleep shit has been My Entire Life

[watermelinoe]

i think circadian rhythm disorders should count as a disability

[danielxricciardo]

Can you do one with Max, with 46 and 55 from angst list?

Summary: You are suffering from depression and Max tries to be by your side

Warnings: angst, swearing, mentions of suicide, depression

Word count: 3.6k+

46. “I’ll leave, and the world will move on. I just wish I could see it. See how much better everything is when I’m gone.”

55. “You’re good at finding things. Find me a reason to stay.”

Depression feels like a lot of things.

It feels like sadness, which is what everyone will tell you. It's a pretty common thread.

"I'm worthless."

"Everyone thinks I'm a horrible burden."

So on and so forth.

Everyone in the world is happy but you, and in the end, you are a worthless piece of shit that doesn't belong in this otherwise glorious and happy place. The sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and you are lying there on your bed in the same unlaundered pair of pajamas, wondering why you are even allowed to keep living any longer. Some meteor strikes or lightning bolts should be reserved for people like you because you are taking up space and oxygen and food and other resources that real, happy, productive people need.

It feels like emptiness. You have all these possibilities and none of them seem interesting. You could do some art, or play some music, but that just doesn't feel right. There's no joy in it. You could have sex with your significant other, but you can't muster up the desire. You could play video games, or read a book. But what's the point? There's no real benefit to all of it but passing the time. You could get up and make lunch. But no, you're not that hungry, and if you close your eyes, time will pass a little faster. You can lie there. That works. It doesn't require active effort to do something fruitless. Everything is as empty and fruitless as lying and staring out your window at the clouds and the shifting shadows of tree branches, and so why do anything else?

It feels like fatigue. Standing up out of your bed requires the same amount of bodily effort as climbing several flights of stairs. Managing to get dressed and walk outside is like running a race. Heaven helps you if you try to go to the store or a friend's house -- that may as well be on the other side of the continent. Every step is heavy. Every muscle motion requires ten times the work it used to. Exercise becomes difficult, and control over your body expires quickly. You become clumsier, so heavy lifting is right out. You daze out randomly, daydreaming, even dozing, so biking or running is hard. You feel most at home when you are entirely relaxed, so you lie down...and don't get up again until something like your bladder compels you.

It feels like a loss of control. You have no idea why your brain and body are doing this. You don't want to feel sad. Nobody wants to feel shitty and tired and empty all the time. People will look at you and say, "It's like you don't want to get better." Those people are idiots. You truly, deeply, from the bottom of your soul, have no idea why this has happened or what to do. It's not logical. It makes no sense. You woke up like this, or it crept in overtime or something like that. It's like a fog, a force of nature that sweeps in, occludes everything, and there's not one thing you can do about it from where you stand. Trying feels like taking a paper fan outside and trying to blow away the morning mist. Someone has tied puppet strings to your brain and is playing this hideous dance with it, and you don't have the scissors to cut them away. The dance doesn't make sense; it's arbitrary and rhythmless. If you had any sort of reasoning behind it, you could take control. But you don't.

It feels like desperation. You can't find a way out. You lie there at night, keening into your pillow like a wounded animal, making all sorts of noises that no human being should be able to make. You claw and scratch at the sheets, or at yourself, as the pain wrings itself out through bodily expression. The tears won't stop. You don't know why. All you know is that it hurts, it really and truly hurts, and you think if it goes on any longer, you're going to die. Right there. Bleed out on the floor. So you grab up your phone, and you call someone at 4 AM, and you beg them to please just make it stop. You bury yourself in books and movies because at least then you can imagine something else than yourself. You read nonstop. You have to have your fix. It's like an addiction, no, more like a life support machine. Otherworlds, fantasies of happiness, and real experiences that aren't your horrible existence become the iron lung keeping air flowing in and out. You are alive because you can stop thinking for a while. Your friends come over to comfort you. Their stories keep you sane and well, like dialysis for all the toxins in you. Your mind has failed at being independent, and now it relies on a thousand little machines to keep itself running. You rely on one machine until another comes to save you. You read books until your friends come by. You stretch out your time with friends until you have to bury yourself in a movie again just to keep the thought of real-life away.

It feels like untamed anger. Your friends can't keep this up forever. You fall further and further, and you eventually start dropping commitments. You have become That Person, the flake that everyone knows will back out. People start getting annoyed at you, annoyed at how they have to spend so much time just keeping you afloat, annoyed at how often you're causing them trouble by constantly disappearing and backing out of appointments, and so on. Your workplace gets annoyed at your lack of productivity. And then you can't take it anymore, and you want to scream at them, grab them by the throat and shake them because IT'S NOT YOUR FAULT! You start having twisted fantasies, the ones where you walk up to that person who keeps telling you he can't do this anymore, you're just too unreliable, putting a gun to your head and pulling the trigger. Just to make him know, for once, that FUCK HIM, your problems are REAL, DAMMIT, REAL, and he better FUCKING RESPECT that. And when you're gone, he'll fall to his knees and cry, and he'll say, he wishes he had understood, that he didn't mean to be so unkind, and the scar on his heart from his own failure will remain fresh and knotted for eternity. And then you shake yourself out of the daydream, and you wonder why you have turned into such a horrible person, someone who even considers ending their own life just to spite another human being. Then it creeps back in, the knowledge that the world is getting fed up with you...and the cycle begins again. You start thriving off these daydreams, because at the very least if you can't be happy, you can throw caution to the wind and get the petty, oddly satisfying revenge buried under all those layers of morality that are becoming worn and flaking away. It's just a fantasy, right? And it helps pass the time...

It feels like forever. You have forgotten what it's like to truly be joyful. You can imagine it, but it's not really you in those thoughts. This is who you are. This is your life. This is you.

It feels like you have only one thing truly under your power: your existence. You cannot choose what life throws at you. Your brain and body have betrayed you. Your friends have worn away, and you've fled from your job and any commitments you have.

It feels empowering. You can jump whenever you want.

But he accepted you the way you are. He never reproached you for negatively influencing his mentality or life, even though you knew he felt it too. He always listened to you, he was with you even at 2 in the morning when you were crying on the bathroom floor with your knees to your chest, and you knew it wasn't right. It wasn't right for him to go through, basically, what you were going through. But no matter how much you told him you could do it without his help, Max was coming back more insistently than ever.

He came up with the idea to start therapy. "You have to find out why you feel this way. Go at least once, see how it is, if you don't like it or feel that it doesn't help you, you will give up, okay?" That was a year and a half ago.

The psychologist gave you a diagnosis from the first session: Major Depressive Disorder. Sure you knew what the three words meant, but you didn't know what it meant to have a label on your condition.

"A major depressive disorder is characterized by one or more of these depressive episodes. the diagnosis of major depressive disorder requires depressed mood or anhedonia which is the loss of interest in pleasure and five or more signs or symptoms for the SIGECAPS mnemonic for a 2-week period. (SIGECAPS) Sleep Disturbance, loss of Interest, feeling Guilty, feeling fatigued and low in Energy, having decreased Concentration, decreased or increased Appetite and been agitated and slow and having Suicidal ideation."

It sounds incredible to you. Suicidal thoughts? Not everyone has a thought, somewhere, behind their mind 'What if I disappeared?'

You were prescribed Prozac and Zoloft and it helped. You weren't always sad anymore, you could go to the races with Max and support him as a normal girlfriend does. You apologized to my friends who tried to help me and whose lives you made impossible and you managed to get back to work, from home anyway. Sure, you still had moments when you felt like you weren't 100% yourself but not like before. You did therapy twice a week and the psychologist was happy with your evolution.

But being the stupid ass that you are, you stopped taking the medication. You took the last pill on Friday. Because you were fine. You felt ok, everyone around you told you you were better, you were doing amazing, so you were cured, right? Or so you thought. Saturday was normal. Sunday was not. Your mood and energy were very low. You woke up at like 2 in the afternoon. That is not unusual for you. You’re used to it. You were sad. You were exhausted. You knew that feeling like this was “no excuse” so you tried to force yourself to do it anyway. Typical of your life. You feel like you had already taken so much off work because of the triple-header, you were for three weeks attached to the hips with Max.

The only thing you thought of was dying. And that terrified you. And Max senses something was wrong. But he didn't want to tell something and ending up being wrong and you being upset by his misinterpretation. But, yes, he sensed that you were becoming your old self.

"Hey, babe," he snapped you out of your daydreaming. A tragic one, where you were finally at peace and Max was crying for you. You were on the verge of crying yourself at the mere image of Max in your head. But you pushed it far from your mind, somewhere in a dark corner for you to find it at an appropriate time to fantasize about your dying. "How about we go to a picnic? It's sunny outside."

Yes, the wheater was amazing. It was finally summer and you could go outside and spend some time with Max. But your brain literally is tricking you into thinking you don't deserve to enjoy the sunny day. Why? You don't have an answer.

"I'm not really in the mood, Max. Sorry."

You are not in the mood. That was his affirmation. You are not ok.

"You feeling good?"

"Yeah. Just tired I guess."

"But you just woke up."

You shrugged. He was right. You just woke up, so why do you feel like you were carrying a ton of bricks on your shoulders? You couldn't walk. You almost felt like 18 months ago. And that is when it hit you. And Max, at the same time.

"Still taking your meds, I hope."

Silence. Your mind was like overcrowded and you couldn’t take it anymore. You grabbed your head and pulled your hair because you wanted it to stop. You were thinking that you didn’t know what to think. You didn’t know how to think. You didn’t know how you felt. You were like anxious-depressed-angry-miserable-irritable all in one. Your head was spinning with thoughts. Thoughts were talking over thoughts. So fast that you couldn’t even make out one complete sentence. It was just too much for you to handle. You just wanted someone to kill you.

Max came to you and he hugged you so hard you thought he could crush your bones right there and then. You calmed down eventually. But now you were embarrassed. Because Max saw you, again, at your lowest. Because you promised you'll get better, and for a while, you were better, but now you are fucked and back into square one. All those money on therapy and your pills, for what? For you to stop taking them because you thought you were feeling better? Well, you definitely were not ok, nor you'll be. So, yeah, being fucked sounded good.

Max brought you the medicine and a glass of water. Taking the pills again? For what? The pills only fuel the feeling that everything is fine and that you are a normal person. Nothing was good and you were not a normal person.

But you took the pills. And you looked Max in the eyes and you wanted to die. He seemed crushed. He was sad, devastated, maybe angry but definitely disappointed. In you. Because maybe you don't realize this, but while you were doing good, he was doing great. He knew you could be on your own so he stopped worrying that much, and that could also be seen in his driving. He was winning more races, he was at his best and now he was at his lowest. Because you were at your lowest; co-dependency and shit.

"I'm sorry, baby. I thought I was doing well enough to stop taking the meds," you say in a broken voice but the tears are yet to appear. He stroked your hair and kissed you on your forehead.

"You should have told me. You don't have to go thru this alone. I am here."

"Yeah, you are here. But you don't have to be!" you snapped. Irritability, one thing your depression came with. "I am just a burden for you. And no, this does not come from the fact I stopped taking my pills. You took care of me like I was a child, and, fuck it, you don't deserve this."

"Stop talking like this, alright? If I would suffer from depression you would have done the same thing. You would have taken care of me. Or am I wrong?"

"You are not wrong. To be honest, I don't think I would be here if it wasn't for you, but I don't want you to be. It's obvious that I would never get better. This is me. I am fucked in the head, half wishing I was dead and I am just bringing you down."

"Don't tell me this is a fucking break up, Y/N." he narrows his brows and looks at your features to make sure you were being serious.

“I’ll leave, and the world will move on. I just wish I could see it. See how much better everything is when I’m gone.”

"What the fuck are you talking about? Is this a break-up or a suicidal vocal note?"

You broke down. Crying can be cathartic and healthy, but if it goes on too long it can lock your body in a feeling of despair. Even if your mind works through the problem that caused the crying, because your body is still feeling the physical effects it will cause your mind to revert to the negative state. It's not sadness. It's dread and paralysis. You had a certain feeling of emptiness and purposelessness.

“You’re good at finding things. Find me a reason to stay,” you say between sobs.

"You want me to find you a reason to stay alive or to stay in this relationship? To be frank, I can name a thousand reasons, but it all depends on you."

Max hugs you from behind and you lay your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat that was stronger than ever. You allowed yourself to inhale Max's scent, a soothing scent you could get drunk on.

"I want to believe you love me. I mean, I love you and I consider you the love of my life, you know? We are so young and I know it doesn't feel like it, but I promise you, I'm gonna marry you someday, even if right now you don't think you're gonna make it till tomorrow. So, yeah, this is reason number one," he said and pressed a kiss to your cheek. "This is not the worst you have been through in life. Remember where you were 18 months ago; you had no idea what was wrong with you. Now you know and you know you can be better. I know you get sick of those pills, but maybe, in the future, you won't need them. Isn't that exciting? This was reason number two," he said and pressed another kiss to your cheek. He was going to do that every time he would give you a reason. "Have you been to all the beautiful places around the world? Sure, you came to a few Grand Prix, but you never saw Great Ocean Road in Australia, you know Daniel promised he would take us there someday. You never saw Pamukkale in Turkey or Japan in Cherry Blossom season or the Blue Lagoon in Iceland. There are many places you need to visit, baby. So, yeah, this was reason number three. I don't know if you want me to continue but I can give you one more reason. Reason number four. Do it for you, baby. You deserve to live and be happy. I know you can be happy and I promise you I will do my best to help you. You just have to take it one step at a time. You just have to let me in. Let me help you, baby."

You turn around, facing him now. You loved him, with all of your heart. You love him for who he is. You love him because he literally came into your life as your lifeline. You love him because he helped you crawl up the deep bottomless abyss of depression. You love him because he had the patience and the audacity to bear with your depression, anxiety, and panic attacks, your phobias, your mood swings, your temperamental and short-tempered nature, your overthinking, your being overprotectiveness, and possessiveness. You love him because never once he thought of giving up on you in your hard times. You love him because he stands by you like a rock of unwavering support and he’s someone you can fall back on. You love him because he listens to you talking non-stop about your past, your pains, your fears, and your losses without complaining even once. You love him because he rediscovered you and helped you find yourself again when you were lost in darkness. You love him because he filled you with confidence and hope and strength and belief and determination. You love him because he believes you are the best when you set your mind on something and no one can stop you from achieving your goals. You love him because he is protective, caring, understanding, loving, and easy to be with while never being too suffocating or taking up your space. You love him because sooner or later he does everything you ask of him and does with his whole attention. You love him because whatever endeavor he engages in, he likes to give his 100% and hates doing half-hearted things. You love him because he can decode the nuances in your voice and judge your mood just perfectly. You love him because he read you like an open book and he can hear your silence. You love him because he never doubts your loyalty, your intentions, your hard work, and your million issues. You love him because no matter how busy he might get he never forgets that you are waiting for his message or his call. You love him because he keeps you in his priorities. You love him because he gave you a passion you never knew you had. You love him because he very strongly believes that you deserve the best of everything. You love him because he is empathic, kind, magnanimous, thoughtful, and down to Earth. You love him because he has eyes for no one but you. You love him because he wants to see you healthy, wealthy, prosperous, famous and he wants you to hold back at nothing, for no one, he wants you to be a Go-Getter. And most importantly you love him because no one ever loved you like he did.

"I will let you in," you say and you kiss him hard. "I'm sorry for the scene I caused."

"Don't be. It happens."

[creatingnikki]

What 2020 has taught me

1. Those things that seem like content for sci fi or pure fiction are actually things that can happen. To the entire world. Like a pandemic. And to you. Like a seizure.

2. Everyone is sad. Everyone is struggling. In different ways and in different measures. Makes no one special. But you still get to feel sad for yourself and be compassionate towards others. But it's also okay to draw boundaries because you're everyone too. Remember, not special? You're sad and trying to deal with it too.

3. Every job you have will not add value to your life. It will not teach you new things or give you people you'll want to stay in touch with. Sometimes some jobs will only be a season of your life. Even if the season lasts for over a year. It's okay.

4. You know how you thought picking a college and picking a major and picking your first job and picking a specific industry were all the career decisions you had to make? Yeah, no. It's never a one time thing. You could have a job as a marketing strategist for two years and then want nothing to do with it. And then you'll have to make another decision and work towards it. So I'd like to call it moves. It's like chess. You always have to make a move. And it always has to be strategic, yes. But the truth is in your 20s it probably won't. Even if you try. And as long as you're trying, you'll be fine.

5. You may have different sorts of friends like the one you only talk to about kdrama with or the one you met when you went book shopping alone and the friendship is all about books really. That's normal. But irrespective of why and how you became friends with them, if you consider them a friend then there has to be this basic sense of care, respect and empathy for each other. I don't care what people want to say. If you're faced with the worst trauma of your life, the least your friends can do is check up on you regularly. On text. And if they don't even do that then guess what? They aren't friends. They are acquaintances. Social media and quick promises make everyone seem like your friend. But they are not. They are just nice people who will be nice to you for specific periods and then wander away like you are a speck of dust floating in their journey.

6. You speak a lot and write and you express yourself and you’re emotionally mature but oh my god. You still hold in so much. You’ve known that at a subconscious level and over the last year people - experts - have told you that. You have also realized that you make your pain and sadness about pettier things because dealing with them, admitting about them, sharing that with your friends, is easier. You do that so that you don’t have to deal with the real stuff. Because it’s so damn painful. And you don’t know how to do it. Yet. Acknowledging is the first step anyway right? I know you’re confused about how exactly to let go of all this pain and sadness and feel lighter, and you know that talking to people really isn’t the solution, but I also know you’re smart enough to figure it out. 

7. Talking about being smart...you know you’re different than others. Better. Special. Smarter. None of these are the right words. And you never voiced this out until this year because you knew it would make you come across as narcissistic. Some would say it’s because you’re an INFJ. But my mother once said that this may be the first time we are consciously living life but our souls are old and so our instinct and the things we know but can’t explain are because this isn’t the first time for our souls. The connections we feel with certain people, the reason we are so different from our siblings who grew up in the exact same environment with the exact same opportunities, our sense of right and wrong...it’s all because our souls learn and grow with each time and that’s why we are who we are. I think that’s probably how I can explain what I have always felt. That I am living in a different universe than everybody but I have to pretend to be in this one and dumb my emotions and thoughts down. Maybe that’s because my soul has lived through thousands of years while most around me are living their 100th life. Or maybe I’m just narcissistic, who knows?

8. You shift between talking in first person and second person but that’s because that’s how you think in your head and talk to yourself and live your life. You ask yourself things and you accuse yourself of things and you apologize to yourself and you comfort yourself. I think that seeps into your writing and the changing of the voices. 

9. You always genuinely thought that you’d not be afraid of dying. And then what happened this October proved you shockingly wrong. I know it’s not so much being afraid of dying but the unbearable pain of knowing what that would mean to your family. So you have to be more prudent and less reckless with your life and the choices you make. 

10. Regret is not something that plagued you but this year the realisation and pain of giving away your favourite books from your own personal collection to people you care about as a show of affection and them turning out to be ass holes or losers has hit you so hard. So, yes. No more of that shit. I really fucking want my copy of The Perks Of Being A Wallflower back. UGH. With the childhood picture of me inside it! 

11. Sleeping at 5 am in the morning stops being fun or romanticised when you realise just how much harm it does to your body and mind. Literally every single disease and disorder can be traced back to a shitty fucking sleep schedule. It’s not just the hours you sleep but also the quality of sleep and the time you sleep at. So yes sleeping for 8 hours is healthy but not if that 8 hours is from 5 am to 12 pm. ‘Not a morning person’ is just another construct of capitalism and you don’t realise how many industries profit from having you believe that and staying up late or all night. Entertainment. Food. Alcohol. Pharma. Biologically and naturally you are a bloody morning person. And you don’t need 3 cups of coffee to begin your day or your phone notifications to get you to open your eyes and brain to wake up. 

12. Sometimes you really have to stop taking people so seriously. I know the idea of treating people as casual friends or entertainment makes you want to fight that concept but you know what? Some people like Pineapple are ever only going to be good for that. No matter how much they ‘grow and change’. So keep them in the background for whenever you want some entertainment or drama. But please don’t clear up your busy schedule to meet them or send them gifts on their birthday. 

13. If you don’t have the fruit juice or green juice within half an hour of making it then you are losing out on its most optimum health benefits. Or when you remove the white stringy stuff from oranges. That’s where all the actual nutrients are.

14. I am privileged and so are most of the people I interact with. The global pandemic has been hell for a lot of people around the world. Health wise. Financially. Losing people they care about. But I was blessed enough to be safe at home and have a job that I could smoothly do from home and not have a pay cut or 4-hour long Zoom meetings. So honestly when my friends tell me 2020 has been bad I have to stop and ask them why? Yes, the crippling uncertainty and anxiety is not something that can be undermined. But most people I know had very great positive life-changing milestones this year like moving away to another country for college or taking their first solo trip or getting married. So I have to ask them. Because I am not going to agree that everybody’s 2020 and pandemic narrative is the same. 

15. Money gets spent really quickly. When I left my job earlier this year because of personal issues, I thought I had enough savings to last me a year. Full disclosure - I mean to last my personal expenses because I live with my parents. But it didn’t even last me 3 months. And so to use money wisely and buy things that provide utility than instant gratification is something to follow. Also buying one pair of really expensive but quality shoes is better than buying 5 pairs of affordable but low quality shoes that will have a very short life and force you to buy more. I know that higher price doesn’t always mean better quality but sometimes it does. And as an adult now I want to do the whole quality > quantity thing even with things and not just people. 

16. Everyone in their 20s went through a crisis of what they should do with their lives and their careers and it’s not unique to the 21st century and the challenges of today. Whether it was Vincent Van Gogh in the 19th century or Sylvia Plath in the 20th, every single person, as brilliant as them went through the torture of making these decisions and living with their consequences. You may think I picked wrong examples for they both killed themselves but you know what? They were the people who really want to live more than anyone. They knew what life meant. And maybe if mental health help was more accessible back then their lives would be longer and more peaceful. 

17. Telling people everything is overrated. You don’t have to talk about every single thing that’s on your mind or that’s going on in your life. The good and the bad and the mediocre. You have to be mindful about how much of yourself you’re giving away. 

18. Re-watch Suits when people at work feel intimidating because the confidence + negotiation tactics that they show can actually work irl cos at the end of the day no matter in what position you’re dealing with people who have emotions and fears and insecurities and desires. You understand how to leverage that nobody can get the better of you. 

19. You belong to yourself. No matter how much you love someone or how much they have done for you or how much you owe them - you belong to yourself. You can’t live your life for someone else. Everyone belongs to themselves first. No relationship, no promise, no circumstance should make you feel like you have to give up your life and make it all about them. If and when the time comes to die for them, go ahead. Take a bullet. Donate that kidney. Write them in your will. But live your life for yourself. And let them live theirs. 

20. Twenty three was a challenging year. When it started you claimed the age 23 sounds boring and insignificant. Guess it proved you wrong. It hurt so much now. But that only means you’ll look back on it later and see how it added so much wisdom and resilience to your being. It doesn’t mean that it makes all the bad things that happened to you okay. Or that you should be grateful to them. Fuck no. It means that you should be kinder to yourself because at the end of the day, your mind and body find it in themselves to deal with whatever is thrown their way. They have your back. It’s time you learn to sit straight. 

[lynxitid]

May 28, 2022 - Written 3:15 PM

~ Got home from my second CT scan, this time with contrast, ‘bout an hour ago. Went well. Didn’t really have any negative reaction to the contrast; just some slight problems with pain & heat. Nothin’ too crazy.

~ The trip to the hospital was a pain though. My dad doesn’t understand mental or physical health. He certainly doesn’t understand mine. That comes off like some edgy teen, but anyways.

~ So tired of havin’ to deal with people; in both a general sense & a personal sense. Tired of this “family”, tired of school, tired of online stuff, tired of people I interact with, tired of my health, & just tired of myself. I’m not suicidal anymore, I’m just exhausted. Which ironically enough, makes it sound like I am. I have no intentions of suicide, & I won’t any time soon. I’m just tired of everythin’ life throws my way. Been dealt a shit hand of cards, since way before I was 18. I just turned 18 this March, & life just proceeds to hit me like a truck. To be fair, again, it’s been doin’ that for many many years now; it just hits in different ways as well, now that I’m 18. So there’s that.

~ Had my first pelvic exam yesterday (May 27, 2022). Surprised I didn’t push it off more. Wanted to, especially with my trauma & all; but we were able to somehow manage it. Came home super exhausted, & ended up a little out of it & upset/exhausted, hours later. Ended up just tryin’ to sleep it off. Worked decently enough, I suppose; considerin’ woke up in a decent enough mood to go to our other appointment today. We thought that the exam would’ve made it too hard to go to our CT scan. For roughly a week or two after our first appointment (with the new gyno), we ended up havin’ a bit of an episode, dissociated a lot, & essentially shut everyone out. So we thought that it would’ve gone the same with this second gyno appointment. So I guess we’re proud of ourselves.

~ If anyone is readin’ these logs & is confused ‘bout the formattin’, let me explain. These logs will most likely be formatted with both singular & plural acknowledgments. (We, Me, I, Us, Etc.) We won’t go into much detail, as it is pretty upsettin’ & confusin’ to talk ‘bout; but very long story short, we might have some form of a dissociative disorder. Not entirely sure, as we are currently in the process of seein’ a psychiatrist. As well as talkin’ to a therapist. To clarify as to why we use both as well, again, without much detail; I (lynx) am fine with usin’ singular acknowledgments, but the headspace members like to also use plural acknowledgments, so they can be recognized as well. Again, our headspace & our problems with this all is very confusin’ & upsettin’; so chances are we won’t be goin’ into much further details. I just type what is bein’ thought in the current moments; thus why we switch off as well. Also, we tend to use a LOT of commas & semicolons. So apologies if it’s too much.

~ Been talkin’ to my current therapist for probably 2 years, maybe?? I can’t remember. Our memory was already bad, but it has since gotten extremely worse over this past year. It’s bad. It’s both long & short term. Anyways, besides our points. We’ve been in therapy since 7th grade; so probably ‘bout 5 or so years?? I’m not good with math, so pardon me. She’s (my therapist) is pretty great. She’s been the best therapist I’ve had, probably??

~ Been dealin’ with way too many problems lately (which will probably be discussed in further logs). It’s been a lot to handle. Life was already hard, but these past couple years have been absolute hell for me. I’d like just an hour of ACTUAL peace. We’re so exhausted, both physically & mentally.

~ Would like to type WAY more, & explain more; as we have a lot to say. But unfortunately, we’re too exhausted right now. Gotta love mental illness, shit health, & chronic fatigue. /s

~ Chances are that there is spellin’ & grammatical errors. We don’t care at this point. We don’t feel like rereadin’ this log; so we probably won’t make too many edits to it. If there’s any confusion, we can clear it up. I’m just exhausted right now; not entirely sure if Imma make these logs once daily, once every other day, once a week, or if I’ll even possibly post multiple some days. We’ll see. My brain is pretty foggy right now; writin’ more probably isn’t the best idea. So yeah. We’re done for now. Hopefully this doesn’t come off as too much of a nonsensical mess. 

~ Signin’ Off,

Lynx

[spooky-draws-stuff]

Robbie woke up in his bed. He stretched out his arms before kicking away the sheets. Standing up, he walked out of his room and into the kitchen. Robbie didn't have a job of his own, he couldn't get hired anywhere.

Schneep was cooking hashbrown potatoes on the stove. The coffee maker made a gentle hum, and there were two mugs next to it. Schneep's house was neat and tidy. He kept a cabinet filled with whiskey and coffee grounds. The cream and sugar were in a separate place near the coffee maker on the counter top.

The pantry was stalked with lots of ingredients for cooking, Schneep kept a fair amount of fruits and vegetables in his house, including chicken and fish in the freezer. After Schneep finished cooking the hashbrowns, he put some on a plate for himself. He poured Robbie a glass of water, and then brought over the two coffee mugs. The one filled with whiskey was his, and the sugary cream one belonged to Robbie.

Schneep drank his coffee in silence and ate his breakfast. When Schneep was finished eating he spoke. "I'm sorry for being too hard on you. You're like a kid, and I don't understand kids. I understand your mentality is different from your body's age, it's part of your condition. I just need you to tell me what's going on with you. I can't help you if you don't talk to me. I'm worried about you."

Robbie put down his mug. He spoke softly, muttering at first before speaking clearly. "Why worry...About me...? I'm just lazy...A thing to care for...So much work....Do you even try anymore....?" Robbie buried his head under his arms hiding.

"Don't...Don't say that to me..." Schneep's voice quivered. He held his mug close to him. "I'm not a failure...I can't be..." he thought to himself.

Robbie tapped his fingers on the table. His voice was mopey and dull. "Why don't you talk to me anymore...Why can't I eat...Like you...I want to eat like you. I want to, I want to, let me eat like you."

Tears formed in Robbie's eyes.

Schneep sighed deeply, trying to hold himself together. "Until I find a cure to change your digestive system, I will keep looking. Your body rejects things because it cannot process normal food."

Schneep explained.

Robbie put his hands over his face, and shook his legs. "I can't be a monster...I don't like eating organs from people...I want to be human like you....I hate myself..." he stuttered and paused awkwardly between sentences, tears gushing out of his eyes as he started screaming. "MY BRAIN IS SO FUCKED UP AND YOU DON'T EVEN TRY TO HELP ME! YOU BUY ME SHIT AND IT ISN'T WORKING!!" Robbie moved his hands away from his face and stood up, running away to his room. He slammed the door and hopped onto his bed, hiding under the blankets.

Schneep walked somberly to the living room. He pulled out his phone and dialed Jackie's number. "Hello? Oh hey doc, how's it going?" Jbm's usual cheery voice echoed from the phone. Schneep sat down. "I don't know how to help Robbie anymore. I know his species of zombies are malnourished and their bodies age foward too quickly. I understand he needs vitamins, so I buy him those. He can drink things and not get sick, but can become very ill with normal food. I steal organ donations from the hospital to feed him."

"Anti scares him by bringing Rob corpses. I know he's just trying to help in his own messed up way." "You know I look at Robbie and all I see is an adult, and then I forget in his mind he's still a teenager with different feelings on the inside. He can't even go outside without people staring, so he just plays with a plastic cube and hums to himself because he's scared. He's terrified Jackie, and I don't know how to prepare him for the real world."

" I've never raised kids before." I scanned his brain yesterday. He has a moderate depression disorder and is developing generalized anxiety. I bought him new meds recently, and this morning he started crying and screaming and I feel like I'm failing him. I'm doctor dammit, and I can't even help my friend. What do I do?"

"Ok watch it there buddy. Calm down, I got this. Tell him how you really feel, hug him. Let them know you care about them on an emotional level. I think it's great you buy him watercolors and toys, and he gets to taste great things like pizza before spitting it out. You gotta understand though, there's more to helping someone then just meeting their physical needs. You need to help him mentally, spend time together. Talk more often. I know your busy but your work at the hospital is running you down." "Have you considered a vacation?"

Jackie always had good advice since he learned how to help chase through his depression, along with his own personal issues.

"Will you talk to him for me? Please?" Schneep sipped some whiskey from his coffee mug.

Robbie's phone made noise. Robbie, who was lying down under the sheets on his bed answered calmly but with a sad tone.

"ugh...Who....Is....This?" he questioned.

"Hi there. It's me your friend!" "Listen, I wanted to tell you something important."

Jbm was interrupted. "Friends? I don't have....Any...Friends...." Jbm made a frustrated noise. "That's not true! I'm your friend silly! And I'll always be there for you!" "Listen to me please...I know you're having a hard time right now but Schneep really cares about you and is trying his best to help you feel better. If he didn't care about you he wouldn't have bought you cool stuff like video games, comic books and pizza! He wouldn't have given you a watercolor art set for your birthday, or taken you to the park were your favorite type of butterflies live!" "I know what it's like to be depressed. To be scared out of my mind. To have scars, to be in pain. Your life doesn't have to be that way. What matters right now is that you're here, and you're alive. Who the fuck cares what other people think?!" "So what if you have communication issues? Don't let that stop you from chasing your dreams!"

Jbm took a break to breathe. Robbie is crying but he's smiling hugging a pillow.

"YOU ARE THE MOST WONDERFUL PERSON I HAVE EVER MET IN MY ENTIRE LIFE! YOU ARE SO AWESOME TO HANG OUT WITH AND IF YOU DON'T START TAKING CARE OF YOURSELF RIGHT NOW I'M GOING TO KICK YOUR FUCKING DOOR DOWN, DRAG YOU OUT OF BED AND TAKE YOU OUT FOR A WALK. DRINK THAT WATER! GET THAT SLEEP!" Jbm shouted from over the phone.

"Thank you..." Robbie stuttered before hanging up. He smiled holding the phone in his hands. He turned on the Tv to his favorite show and grabbed a bag of gummy bears. He may not have been able to eat it, but at least he could taste it.

[pellelavellan-a]

So I need a rant (it's under the cut so you all don't have to see if you don't want to)

Okay so today at work (starbs) I expressed that I don't like working with this one guy that works there cause he 1.) does not listen to me when I talk to him about actual work things and 2.) I always feel like he thinks he is smarter than everyone else so he mansplains/sounds like he is talking down to me and others all the time. The girl I was working with was like "yeah I get that but he is neurodivergent so idk" He has autism. So I told her "okay well so do I. Also if I say he can't help saying fucked up stuff (belittling my former college major, 9/11 jokes, making fun of wiccans and witchcraft practitioners right after I mentioned going to a metaphysical shop and how cool the people working there were, etc) or his occasionally just not great behavior I'm assuming he isn't intelligent enough to know right from wrong and that's entirely unfair because he just has autism he's not stupid."

So anyways after I mention I am adhd so saying "well they're neurodivergent is not really an excuse for bad behavior" she tells me sometimes she wonders if she has adhd cause she sees loads of tiktoks of people with adhd and it is so relatable.

And like okay

That kinda stuff like, it makes me salty. Like sure there's some tiktoks about having adhd that are actually funny or can be relatable if you do have adhd but they're also kinda like problematic at the same time cause a lot of them just paint adhd as being high energy, forgetful/ditzy, quirky, crackhead energy, etc. And it is frustrating cause it causes a lot of people who might just have a more eclectic or eccentric personality to think they have a mental disorder that is so much more than just lack of focus and crackhead energy.

I was only diagnosed with adhd within the last year but after being to the doctors and tested had found out that I had probably had it since childhood and was never diagnosed. Being adhd affected my life in so many different ways and when I look back on my life growing up in school and shit I often wonder what things would have been different if my parents had just taken me in instead of telling me to just try harder, focus, punish me for being lazy, etc.

I only finally got a diagnosis because it was so hard for to do my work for college because I could not study, manage time, remember to do assignments, hold my attention for long enough to do things. I tended to hyperfixate on all the wrong things. Bite off huge projects and get too overwhelmed to finish them. Personal hobbies wise it was hard for me to hold down one hobby and ones I did really like (like drawing) I did not have the attention span or the patience to really take extra time to do because I felt paralyzed doing it and had to finish a piece in one sitting cause I did not get time management.

adhd isn't fun to have like people on tiktok always act like it is. I often feel like there are so many things I could be doing or could have done already if I did not have adhd. You also get depression, anxiety, you tend to think everyone hates you for no reason (rejection sensitive dysphoria), you can't do basic tasks at times, time management is hard as fuck, disassociating? fun. Sitting still, sorry nope. You're tired all the time. Sleep schedule is fucked. Body pains...so fun. Can't stop talkig, fidgeting, forgetting shit. The list of things that come with adhd goes on and on and on and on as I'm sure anyone here who also has adhd knows. I always feel like I am dramatic, oversensitive, dumb, the list goes on.

And it really frustrates me sometimes because I feel like adhd is so heavily downplayed cause people think it is just being hyper and having a shortened attention span but it's just not. And while yes tiktokers making neurodivergent content can be good and a useful resource to some it shouldn't be used as a means of deciding if you have said mental disorder. Adhd isn't fun or quirky or relatable content it actually fuckin sucks and it's really annoying how often people glamorize it and downplay it.

[stonertransdad]

Life Update since I hadn't been on here in forever

The pandemic was/is wild! Lockdowns started literally around the time we were going to the fertility specialist to get her pregnant. I lost my job to COVID in March shortly before we did the procedure, but we decided there's never really a good time to have a kid. Why not during a global pandemic when one of us in unemployed? (BTW, I don't recommend having a kid during a pandemic. Not being able to go to all of the appointments and having to sit in the parking lot was brutal.)

Let's talk about May friends...it was rough. (TW for mention of suicide btw. I'll post a gif where it's safe to start again if you wanna skip over it.)

So May 1st is the anniversary of my father's suicide. It had been 4 years. I found his body and since he wasn't married, I had to handle his affairs and arrange his funeral. May 1st, 2020 my wife and I had a Zoom game night with our friends and I got drunk because everyone was drinking (except my wife because she was pregnant). After our game night at like 2am, I had a psychotic break. I threatened to kill myself numerous times. My wife tried to talk me down, but eventually called the cops to take me. I thank her for that because looking back, that was the moment I knew something needed to change. I was convinced the cops were gonna kill me because I'm a trans dude in rural West Texas. I legit took the phone out of my wife's hand, hung up on 911, and yeeted her phone across the backyard and tried to hop the fence. Eventually the cops came and talked me down. They took me to the hospital an hour away in handcuffs (for their protection I did nothing wrong). They took me to the religious hospital that I was born in. So when they looked up my info by my name and date of birth from my driver's license (I only changed my middle name) literally all my paperwork and my bracelet had my deadname and wrong gender despite all of my legal stuff saying male with my new middle name. I mentioned it to them and they didn't care. They misgendered me the entire time I was there. I had hit my head hella hard on the bath tub when my wife was trying to snap me out of it, did the hospital even check me for concussion? Nope. I had punched so many things and my hand and wrist were swollen and discolored. Did they check out my hand and wrist? Nope. I was there for over 10 hours before I was able to convince them I was okay and that it was just the alcohol. Did I mention during that 10 hours I was literally out in the hall on a gurney with no mask and this was when COVID was running rampant in Texas (the first time)? I heard people die that night. I had nothing to distract me because they took away all of my personal items and clothes. My wife picked me up and we went home and I have been sober ever since. It's not the first psychotic break I've had with alcohol in my system. Alcohol just doesn't agree with me, but I'm finding new things to replace it with.

TW has been lifted...it's safe now.

A couple of weeks after that I began teletherapy because I had been on the same mood stabilizer and anti-depressant for almost a decade. The more I thought about it, the more it made sense that I felt like it hadn't been working for at least a year. This is a reminder to check in with your doctor if you feel like your meds aren't working. You may just need a different dose or a new med. There's no shame in that. I bounced around on various medications trying to find the right combo, some side effects scarier than others, but we got there. Before this, I had been diagnosed with ADHD, Major Depressive Disorder, Borderline Personality Disorder, and Generalized Anxiety Disorder. My therapist threw out my Borderline diagnosis and said it was CPTSD instead, which made sense.

Fast forward to December because my wife was pregnant, I was unemployed still, and we did absolutely fuck-all because the global panini was still raging.

Our son was born on December 3, 2020. He weighed 5lbs 9oz and scared the ever loving shit out of us. He wasn't breathing when he was born so they called NICU in ASAP. I'm freaking out because I can hear and see what's going on while my wife was asking if he was okay as they put her guts back in place to sew her up. 5 or so minutes pass and a nurse asks if I want her to take some pictures. I'm like is he okay, he still hasn't cried. She's like "oh yeah, he's chillin." This goon was being held by a nurse and was just looking around not crying or anything. Chillest baby ever (he still is btw). I held him next to my wife's head until it was time to go back to the room. Little dude did have to spend 4 nights in the NICU because he couldn't keep his sugars or temperature regulated, but he was healthy otherwise. He's now 4 months old and is starting to sit up on his own a little bit and he's OBSESSED with standing. He's still a little guy, but very healthy and growing like a weed. He saves my life daily.

So after being unemployed for over 9 months, I started a new job working in a call center. I absolutely hate talking on the phone. It gives me anxiety and throws me into panic attacks, but I had been putting out hundreds of job applications since I lost my last job and this was the first offer I got. I wasn't really in a position to turn it down since my unemployment had ran out 2 months prior. It was 2 months of training, then we'd be on our own. I got thru the training and thought I could handle it...until they started putting us on live calls with someone helping us if we got stuck. My mental health hit the lowest point it had in a few years and my wife was terrified she was going to lose me. She convinced me to quit on February 28th (not because I didn't want to, but because I'm a stubborn ass who felt guilty). My meds got tweaked a little bit more dosage wise during this mess.

Starting about mid-February, I was experiencing severe shakiness, tremors, and spasms. I've always been a shaky person and never really thought too much about it, but at some points I could barely feed myself, or get a drink, or hold my son. On March 7th, I tried to make an appointment with my doctor about the weird symptoms I was experiencing, but she was out of town and her next opening wasn't until the 31st. My body said that won't work and my wife rushed me to the ER on the 9th...I had begun having seizures that day. I had no previous history of seizures. Got to the ER and had a seizure literally as I was walking thru the door, so they rushed me straight back. They took some blood and that was literally it. No MRI. No CT. They pumped me full of Ativan and said it was just a panic attack and to go home and chill.

Spoiler Alert: It wasn't just anxiety. I was having 20+ seizures a day. On the 10th, my wife rushed me to a different hospital...the good hospital over an hour away. First we had to drop off our gremlin with my mom to make things a little easier. Yet again, I had a seizure as I walked in the door and was taken back immediately. I don't really remember much because they kept pumping me full of Ativan and morphine because I had been in excruciating pain from the number of seizures I'd had. I do remember them doing a CT pretty quickly after I got there. Then they weren't happy with the results of the CT, so they took me to get an MRI, which showed possible signs of Multiple Sclerosis (but I didn't find that out until AFTER the notes showed up in my patient portal after being home a few days, so I raised hell...more on that later.) They did a 24 hour EEG on me and it showed nothing abnormal. Also, EEG glue is a bitch on your hair and scalp. After looking at everything and given my previous mental health history, they diagnosed me with Psychogenic Non-Epileptic Seizures, or PNES. It is a subset of Functional Neurologic Disorder, or FND. I couldn't walk well anymore and had to use a walker when I was discharged. I was in the hospital for 3 days.

When I had my follow-up appointment on the 23rd, I asked why the possibility of MS was never mentioned to me since it was very clearly in the notes. The doctor didn't have an explanation. He called in a referral to neurology so I could get a 2nd MRI to confirm MS and marked it as high priority. He also didn't take my pain seriously. My pain levels had been at a 5 or higher every single minute since they took me off of the morphine in the hospital. He told me to keep taking prescription strength doses of ibuprofen and Tylenol, which I had been. I let him know I had been and it didn't even take the edge off the pain. He ignored me. Leading up to this appointment, I had also added urinary incontinence to my growing list of symptoms and was forced to wear diapers so I didn't have to do laundry all the time. The doctor also took me off my ADHD meds because they were lowering my seizure threshold. He also took me off of my sleeping meds and nightmare meds for the same reason I'm assuming.

I kept my appointment on the 31st with my primary doctor because she's been my doctor for 5 years now and I knew she'd take my pain seriously. She did. She immediately wrote me prescriptions for a muscle relaxer and Tylenol 4. She also told me that my referral had been rejected by neuro. She said my case wasn't a good one for what she called a "wallet biopsy" and the doctors in neurology could be real assholes. She immediately sent the referral to other locations to get an approval. I am still waiting on that despite it being marked as high priority. She wrote me a prescription for a wheelchair because we both agreed my wheelchair was not enough for particular days.

Yesterday my wheelchair was finally ready for pickup, so my wife drove me to go get it. I'm still unable to drive due to my seizures and my tremors and twitches as it's predominantly in my legs and arms. I am an ambulatory wheelchair user now. Some days I can go short distances without my walker, some days I can't go without my walker, some days I can't even get out of bed, and some days I will be using my wheelchair. Don't judge a book by its cover, not all disabilities are visible. I have managed to keep my daily seizure count down in single digits and have even had a few seizure free days. They are still incredibly taxing on my body. I feel like I can't ever replenish my spoons fast enough to keep up with anything in my life.

So all in all, life has been chaotic. We are moving from Texas to New Mexico in the next few weeks, which should be interesting considering I can't overdo it without throwing myself into seizures. We will be closer to my mother-in-law so she can help us with our son and I can start resting a bit more on the more difficult days. Being a stay-at-home dad with an invisible illness has been one of the most challenging things I've done in my life, but I wouldn't change it for the world.

Sorry this is so long. I just wanted to update my followers since it's been over a year since I posted before a few days ago.

[sage-nebula]

((do NOT reblog))

Lately I’ve been thinking that I have Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. I’ve been tired—like, extremely so—for . . . maybe a year now? If not longer. It feels like it settled in shortly after I started my new job back in March of 2019, so in that case it’d be more like a year and nine months, but it’s hard to say for sure. I thought for a long time that it was because of my new job, because I have to wake up early in the morning for it and my delayed sleep phase disorder means that I’m running on a lower than average hours of sleep each night during the week. But lately I think it’s more than that.

See, the thing is, it doesn’t matter how much sleep I get. Even if I get the suggested nine hours a night, I’m still dozing off a little after waking up, like a couple hours later. Even if I get twelve, thirteen, or fourteen hours of sleep in a night, sure enough I’ll be dozing off again a few hours after waking up. I have no energy to do anything on the weekends. Even if I get the aforementioned thirteen hours of sleep Friday going into Saturday, on Saturday I still feel so drained that doing a load of laundry leaves me feeling completely wiped out. This causes mess to pile up in my house, because I just don’t have the energy to get it done, because I only start to feel normal by Sunday night (and even then it’s like barely normal) but then the work week starts again. I had a four day weekend this weekend thanks to the Christmas holiday, and I spent both Thursday and Friday with no energy to do anything at all. Even when I didn’t feel sleepy, I felt so drained of energy that just laying there felt like the most that I could do. Today I’ve felt a bit better, but still recuperating. Tomorrow, my last day off, is the only day I think I’ll have the energy to actually do stuff and get my house in order. But then the work week starts again, and so does the cycle anew.

And the thing is, this isn’t normal. I didn’t used to be like this. Even when I was only getting like five hours of sleep a night, I’d just need a day or so of rest and then I’d be back at 100%. But now it’s like I’m slow charging, and it’s never enough because I don’t have time for it to be enough. One or two days of sustained activity is enough so that my body wants to shut down for like a week. And it’s not sustainable! It’s very hard to live like this! I can’t keep my house clean or do basically anything else because I feel so drained. This is also why I haven’t written anything of substance in so long; even though writing isn’t a physical activity (aside from the physical activity of typing), it still takes energy, and that’s energy that I just haven’t had. My battery is constantly in the red, yellow at best, and I don’t know what to do about it.

About four or five months ago, when I told my doctor about this, he gave me Antidepressant #2 in an effort to help it. That seemed to work for like, a day or two . . . then I went right back to falling asleep at my desk at work no matter how much I slept the night before. I recently asked him to up the dosage to see if that would help, and he agreed*, but then I discovered that upping the dosage gives me tinnitus, and people on the internet say that after they kept using it despite the tinnitus it got to the point where the tinnitus never went away even after they stopped the medication, so. I’ve decided to stop taking that one and I’m going to try to wean myself off it. I’ll talk to him about that on Monday.

(*He said that he didn’t think that it would help and suggested that I exercise to get more energy instead. Of course, the fatal flaw of that plan is that I don’t have the energy needed to exercise in the first place. Plus, my legs are such shit that even things like jump rope cause my right ankle and left shin to be fucked up for days afterward. He suggested I try yoga, since that’s a low impact exercise, and I’ve got myself a mat to give it a shot, but I don’t have much optimism about it making much of a difference.)

I looked up Chronic Fatigue Syndrome online and it honestly does sound like it fits. I’m constantly exhausted, I have daily headaches (which could be down to my genetics since I do have genetic migraines but still), I often have muscle pain in various parts of my body, etc. But at the same time I’m not sure if it’s actually that or if I’m just overreacting. Like I don’t know what the threshold is, or if I’m like, I don’t know . . . what if I’m just lazy? I don’t think I am, because there are things I genuinely wish I could do that I just don’t have the energy to do. I wish I could take my dog on hikes and long walks. Pre-pandemic, I wanted to do things like go to the art museum or the science center or the zoo. I’d like to do rock climbing, provided my legs could handle that, and so on. But even before the pandemic, I never had the energy on the weekends to actually go out and do those things. I’d want to! But then I’d feel so dead that I couldn’t even get out of bed before late afternoon / evening, much less actually go out to do things. Don’t get me wrong, I do take my dog on short walks at least once a day, usually multiple times a day, because I’d never neglect her needs like that. But it’s not the same as being able to take her out to a trail and explore new areas that would surely be more interesting to her nose than just our neighborhood.

So I don’t think I’m lazy, because I want to do these things, and even smaller things, like I wish that my house could be clean and that I could make all these interior decorating renovations to it, but I just don’t have the energy. But I still don’t know if it’s actually bad enough to be considered Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. I still don’t know if I’m overreacting. What if this is a level of exhaustion that everyone has, but unlike me they can push through it? What if this is just part of Being Thirty and I’m just too weak to handle it? It’s like how I didn’t know if the pain I felt during my period was normal or not, and I still don’t actually. My gyno gave me the birth control implant to drive my periods down just because I asked for it, she didn’t actually diagnose me with any illness like endometriosis or anything like that. Sure, it felt like machetes were being shoved up into me every month to the point where I’d become incapacitated and sometimes even cry out in pain and sometimes even throw up due to how bad it was, but it could be that way for everyone, right? Maybe that’s just how it feels to have the lining of your uterus shred itself because it’s mad you didn’t get pregnant that month. How am I supposed to know?

There’s no real point to this post. It’s more that I just wanted to get my thoughts down somewhere. I don’t even know where to go from here, really. I don’t think my doctor takes me seriously enough to look into a diagnosis like this, but also I’ve never had luck finding a doctor that does take me seriously and I don’t really know where to start looking. To be fair, I do have an anxiety disorder and so I grant that my mind does find jumping to the Worst Case Scenario to be an easy one, but also the last doctor I had literally would not listen to me describe my breathing problems to her without dismissing me entirely, so. It’s been rough. Of course, even if I did get a diagnosis, it’s not like there’s a treatment, and definitely not a cure. So even if I do have CFS, what can be done about it? It’s not like knowing will solve the issues that it causes in my life. 

I don’t know. There’s no point to this. It just really sucks to be fucking physically exhausted all of the goddamn time, especially since sleep does little to help it and I hate sleeping anyway since I have nightmares at least 75% of the time, if not 85%. (It honestly feels more like 85%. Maybe even 90%. It’s very rare that I wake up having not had at least one or two bad dreams that night.) I just want to have energy. I don’t know what that’s so much to ask of my body.

But anyway, DO NOT reblog this, or I’ll just delete it so the cut leads nowhere anyway and also block you, thank you,

[marculees]

Epilepsy Awareness Month💜

I recently seen this post by @interstellix  who made great points about epilepsy for Epilepsy Awareness Month. It sums it up really well so I suggest you give it a read and reblog! Its nice to find another photosensitive here too because we’re such a small group within the epilepsy community. I deal with anxiety on top of my epilepsy and while they aren’t always related to each other, I don’t hear enough about the day-to-day worries of epileptics. Things that seem completely normal or fine to some people can be dangerous for me, which is why stuff like giving trigger warnings are much appreciated. But often, non-epileptics don’t know about what its like to actually live with epilepsy - not just having seizures. I want to add on some of my own experiences with a funky clickbait title, below the cut. Anyone who reads this all is a star and ily⭐️

10 Things Non-Epileptics Don’t Get (Yet)

1. That moment in movies when the character wakes up and a bunch of faces are gawking down at the camera uncomfortably. Always have someone to stay with the person having a seizure. But out of care for both that person and the people around, its best to get everyone else away. No one enjoys watching someone have a seizure - it’s scary and knowing you can’t stop it can ignite feelings of guilt or panic. For the person having the seizure, its embarrassing - they aren’t even conscious of what’s happening and for all they can remember, they were minding their own business and now they’re waking up and barely able to move their body without wincing in pain.

*TW: BODY FLUIDS* I’ve literally puked, shit and pissed myself all at the same time unconsciously in front of a room of people. I’m lucky these people were my family but it doesn’t make it any less embarrassing or upsetting knowing that everyone there saw me in such a state. A fear I had growing up was having a seizure in front of my class and the students making comments about it, thinking it was funny. In today’s age, filming seizures is something to worry about too because of how easily it can be shared to others online. Even if you aren’t an arsehole like that, try to be as respectful as possible and get everyone else to evacuate the room. At most, have three people to stay there: one person to stay close and time the seizure, one person to move furniture away and find something soft to lay under the epileptic’s head, and one person for crowd control who is keeping everyone else out and reassuring them all it’s okay.

Whatever you do, don’t make the epileptic feel bad for having a seizure. They can’t control it. Afterwards, comfort them and let them know its all over and you’ll stay with them until they feel better (unless they say they would rather be alone). Most of the time, the epileptic will be so tired and sore after their seizure that they’ll fall asleep. Let them; they need it. I’ve woken up on a couch, in my bed, the back of an ambulance or in a hospital bed and sometimes I was laying there for half an hour, sometimes a whole day. Knowing someone was there is relieving. Knowing everyone was there is shaming and it doesn’t make you feel any better when they’re all in your face afterwards too. Don’t be the camera crew.

2. Travelling alone is either a dream or everyday reality for a lot of people, but its a no-go for some of us. I was raised in a very overprotective household and still today, I don’t have a lot of freedom. Driving is usually one of the first bits of independence you get, but not for me. I’ve had seizures while out travelling because of the SUN. The sunlight flickering through trees, railings or bouncing off surfaces have triggered seizures in me where my family have had to pull over. The thought of being the one driving in such a scenario is terrifying to me, my loved ones and everyone else on the road. Driving is such a normalised thing for people my age that I’m embarrassed to bring up my own case unless someone specifically asks.

Then you have public transport. The sunlight issue is also here but this time, you’re with a bunch of strangers (see Point 1 again). Something my mum drilled into my head since I was younger was that if I ever got public transport by myself, then I could have a seizure and someone would film it and another person would rob me (and then you wonder why I have an anxiety disorder). I got my first bus by myself when I was 19 and for something so mundane to most people, it was like a little adventure to me. My mum didn’t approve but she complained about having to drive me everywhere too. While its fun to get the bus into town every now and then though, it becomes a bigger issue when travelling is a daily requirement and you aren’t able/allowed to drive yourself.

Free public transport doesn’t always include those with epilepsy, depending on which country you live in. What do you do when an employer asks if you can drive? What do you do if you have committments to go to and no one is around to drive or come with you? Or you need to explain why you’re going out, every single time, because someone else has to decide whether its worth the risk. Sunny roadtrips? Want to be a pilot? That last one isn’t a joke, by the way! I used to get a coach/private bus to college and if it was sunny, I’d pull the curtain over, wear my sunglasses and try to nonchalantly cover one eye to help. You can’t really get a curtain while driving your own car though and driving one-handed is not cool, its irresponsible.

3. Staying up all night talking with someone you love isn’t as romantic as we’d like it to be. All-nighters, i.e. lack of sleep, are a huge trigger for many epileptics. I wasn’t allowed to go to sleepovers with friends as a kid until I was 13, and at that sleepover I ended up having a seizure in the middle of the night after waking up to use the bathroom. Not to flex, but I had a seizure on the toilet. Where’s the weirdest place anyone else has had a seizure?. As a result of that, I was put back on medication after being told I was growing out of my seizures and had been med-free for one whole year. I’d love to stay up with a loved one and spend the night talking or watching movies, but I think a seizure would be more of a killjoy than going to bed early.

3. Unless you’re the paparazzi, camera flashes won’t give photosensitive epileptics seizures. Its a small gesture and I do appreciate it, but don’t worry - one small flash from a camera will not send my brain into override. Just don’t be taking photos from 5 different phones at the same time for more than one pic. Standing and waiting for people to take a photo all at the same time is awkward already because you don’t know who to look at, what to do with your hands, if you should change pose, smile or not, etc. Just take one flash photo and be done, or don’t use the flash at all if you don’t need to. Ring lights are a common thing now, by the way and I love them? Bye-bye camera flash!

I don’t blame anyone for having these types of concerns though. The only time you’re probably warned about flashing lights is when you’re about to watch a news report or awards show where there will be paparazzi and performances will be aired. Concerts are another thing that can be risky depending on the genre, size of the venue, whether its indoors or outdoors (if you’re like me and enjoy EDM music, you’ll have a very low chance of actually attending or watching anything live fdkslbjfdhb). Those things we avoid. But you taking a photo with a once-off flash will be okay, don’t worry. Seizures aren’t triggered by a single flash, but rather multiple flashes in a short period of time. They’re called Hertz and that shit hertz when its between 3-30 flashes per second. Also, fuck strobes, the Incredibles 2, Into The Spiderverse and any other movie that uses these for unnecessary effect.

4. Not everyone is diagnosed with epilepsy in their childhood and though some might grow out of it as they get older, not everyone will. I thought I had been growing out of it on two occasions (see point 3 again and point 9). Some people only get diagnosed with epilepsy later into their life. If you’re diagnosed while young, its easier to adjust your life because you’re growing up with it as your norm and its something you’ve just learned to live with. But for some people, they suddenly have to change their entire routine that they’ve established since they became an adult. Be sympathetic to those with epilepsy in their adult years, especially those who only got a diagnosis. Its not just a disability for children.

5. There are different types of seizures and one that’s commonly misunderstood is the partial seizure. These types of seizures have been mistaken for people being drunk or high (i.e. slurred speech, difficulty standing up or walking in a straight line, etc.), which has led them to getting kicked out of venues for something they have no control over. Swimming pools seem to be a common place for these bans, as well as gyms. Sometimes, these people are still somewhat aware they are having a seizure but cannot control them, which is really scary to think about. I don’t have them myself but I cannot imagine how frustrating they must be to not be taken seriously and instead as someone being high or intoxicated and then being punished for that. Alcohol is usually avoided as it can trigger seizures but when these seizures happen at social events, people can get the wrong idea. If you know someone who has these types of seizures, keep an eye on them if you’re out together. We’re usually only allowed one pint and hardly anyone gets that drunk after just one, so be aware that its likely they aren’t actually hammered but having a seizure instead.

6. Nobody likes being overworked but school, college, jobs and sport can very hard on us. Unless you’ve had a seizure, your teacher or boss probably won’t extend a deadline for you. The latter might even fire you. Chronic fatigue isn’t taken seriously. School is one big memory test in most countries, but for those with aura seizures, their ‘spacing out’ can affect how information they are actually taking in. Side-effects of meds can also make concentration and memory tough, and I hate how forgetful I can be because then I feel like I’m unreliable even though I push myself to give 110% anyway. Some activities like sports and physical education can be more draining than they would be for the average person, and sometimes I’d have to sit out during these activities because I felt an aura coming on after overexerting myself. I wish I could sit out having multiple assignments and group projects due in the same week, but college doesn’t work that way. I wish I could tell employers that I might not have that presentation done by the end of the day, but that wouldn’t go down too good either.

If you know someone who takes longer to complete tasks that might seem simple to you, ask yourself if you’ve ever considered they might have epilepsy or another chronic illness or disability. Don’t assume they’re lazy if they need to take an extra day or two to complete their final essay or have to stop their beep test earlier than the rest of the class. I didn’t know a good average for the beep test was 8-9, because no one ever told me. I pushed myself to 16 because I was scared people would think I was lazy and that I was dropping out to be with the other girls who agreed beforehand. I then ended up having an aura that almost slipped into a full seizure. I also almost had a seizure an hour before my religion exam in my Junior Cert at school. My mum even insisted I stay home and miss my State exam because of it. I still went though, took a bathroom break because I had another aura, and finished with an ‘A’ but had it been a different day, I might not have been so lucky. Its about knowing yourself and your limits, but we aren’t always informed that they should exist and then you end up doing stupid things like me that could hurt you. Likewise, its important to be understanding that not everyone can work at the same pace as you. It doesn’t make the quality of our work any less even if we need more time or energy to do it.

7. Side-effects aren’t always in the short-term. My own meds are advised to not be taken long-term as they weaken my bones over time. I’m 21 now and I’ve been on meds since I was 8. I wanted to reduce my dosage and eventually become med-free last year but the neurologist told me I still had brain activity and needed to stick with them. In fact, they almost ended up prescribing me more even after I had told them I was five years seizure-free. Why? See point 9. I’m lucky though because I’ve only been on one type of med. Some people can take years to find what works and their neurologists will prescribe them all sorts and leave them with awful side effects. Only last year I was chatting with a woman whose meds had caused sudden depression and fits of anger in her after she had been diagnosed and given her prescriptions. She eventually got brain surgery instead.

8. If you have a uterus and/or want to have children, do your research and a LOT of it. Birth control is usually a tough decision to make and often times, it can feel like you have no choice. Its so important to check with multiple neurologists and doctors which form of birth control is the best for you with your medication, because even the slightest new introduction to your meds box can have unpleasant side-effects. With the current medication I’m on, I can’t take the pill unless I want to increase my current dosage of meds as the pairing cancel each other and make me more vulnerable to seizures and other side-effects. I’m not pregnant and yet I have to take daily folic acid supplements because my meds cancel that out too. Every month or two, I will faint or almost faint on the first day of my period and I’m more vulnerable to having a seizure during that time. If I ever want to give birth, my children can possibly inherit my condition or be stuck taking care of me when I should be caring for them. I wouldn’t wish that upon anyone.

This is not to say that people with epilepsy can’t have fulfilling sex lives or raise families. But we just do it at a greater risk that even some neurologists aren’t aware of. I had to tell my neurologist last year why I didn’t want to go on the pill because HE didn’t know it interacted negatively with my meds. I’ve known women who were prescribed the pill or meds BY A PROFESSIONAL that interacted negatively with each other and gave them seizures as a result. It takes ‘find the right method for you’ to a whole new level. If your partner has epilepsy, its so important to discuss birth control and take their condition into consideration. I hear men telling their girlfriends to go on the pill so that they don’t have to use a condom, which is really selfish for a start and also disregards other forms of birth control. Do your research but let them and their own trusted neurologist decide which form is best. You should still be using a condom to protect yourselves anyway! And if you and your epileptic partner decide you would like to have children, do the same process and make sure that they are in a safe position to do so.

9. *TW: DEATH* Threatening (even ‘jokingly’) to trigger a seizure in someone is playing with that person’s life. SUDEP (Sudden Unexpected Death in Epilepsy) affects roughly 1 in 1000 people each year. Even if that person doesn’t die after their seizure, you may have just broken a record they set for days, months or YEARS without a seizure. You just revoked their driving license and they weren’t even behind a wheel. You just prescribed them new doses of medication without any years of medical school.

Growing up, I had countless incidences where classmates would joke about making me have a seizure. If the teacher left the room for anything, the first thing they would do is run up to the lightswitch and fuck around with it. In secondary school, I stopped using the bathroom at lunch because one of the girls thought it was funny to deliberately flick the lights on and off anytime I was inside. She would snicker and call out to me while I was in the stall, asking if it could make me have a seizure. Even after saying yes, she continued to do it. If I did end up having a seizure in that bathroom, god knows what could have happened. I had a seizure in a bathroom before and was lucky I only hurt my jaw as my head slammed against the wall. Others aren’t so lucky. Injuries from seizures can be brutal, just like OP said. Yeah, you might not kill them by triggering a seizure, but what injuries do they have to deal with after?

Imagine playing a game for years and you spent ages collecting all the items, defeating every boss and proudly showing off the trophies you won. Now imagine someone suddenly pulls the cord as you’re playing; your game freezes, the screen shuts to black and when you try to frantically start it up again and see where you had remembered to last save, it says your data is corrupted and deletes everything without your permission. It doesn’t matter where or when you saved. You have to start your progress all over again. You can try memorise the strategies from before but the game switches things up and suddenly you’re hit with a difficulty spike out of nowhere. The person who joked around and pulled the plug doesn’t have to do anything. And if they wanted to, they could do the same thing again and again. Don’t be that person. Be their Player 2 and help them. If they need to go into a dungeon but they’re scared to be alone, offer to cover their back. If their health is low, find them a safe spot and let them heal. The same goes for appointments and seizures. Its not a multiplayer game by default and while they can power through solo, that doesn’t mean they don’t need help if they’re ever stuck.

10. To end on a more positive note, there are lots of successful people out who have/had epilepsy and you probably never even knew. Cameron Boyce’s passing brought attention to SUDEP and celebrities with epilepsy but did you also know about these people and their own cases and seizures?

Prince

Elton John

Lewis Carroll

Danny Glover

Lil Wayne

Neil Young

Hugo Weaving

Charles Dickens

Julius Caesar

Vincent Van Gogh

Theodore Roosevelt

Adam Horovitz

Susan Boyle

Rick Harrison (the Pawn Stars guy!)

And some who are not confirmed (due to medical practices of the time) but are suggested as a result of numerous seizures:

Leonardo da Vinci

Michelangelo

Edgar Allen Poe

Agatha Christie

Socrates

Napoleon Bonaparte

Aristotle

Alexander the Great

Epileptics are humans, normal people just like you. And like you, they’re capable of great things too. If you think about making a crude comment to someone with epilepsy, think about these people and ask yourself if you would say the same things to them. 

If you read all of this, comment with a ⭐️ and please reblog to spread awareness. Whenever we talk about epilepsy, we start and stop the conversation at seizures. Its good to bring awareness to the other things too because its something that affects every part of our lives. Its an invisible disability but that doesn’t mean we are hidden from the disability community and discussion!

[sadsapphicslut]

chapter one - original story (i havent come up with a title yet lol)

okay so here it is!! if anyone actually reads this i love u :) please leave feedback if u have any!! 

TWs:

death, drugs, medication, mental illness, references to sex, swearing, alcohol

wordcount: 8.2k

(also i dont think anyone will but im paranoid of people stealing my writing so obligatory dont copy/post to another site or steal my work in any other ways etc)

There were five of us; 4 boys and me. In hindsight I realize from the outside our group probably seemed a little predatory, but it was never really like that. For the most part they were like brothers to me. Of course, being the only girl in a small and isolated club of mainly older boys, things were bound to happen. We were in high school and it was summer, can you blame me? Regardless, however much I loved them, it was not quite in the way my father always assumed or my mother always warned (during our uncomfortable monthly visitations before I managed to get rid of her for good).

The months everything went down, which I often referred to only as ‘The Worst Summer of My Life’, (quite melodramatically but not without reason) were somehow still full of the best moments of my life. Moments I often find myself wishing I could repeat, as nothing has or will ever come close to the way I felt, sitting amongst my boys day after day, somehow light as the warm July breeze that blew past us. My entire body weightless, as non-existent as the time that passed us by. Despite the depression I’d found myself plunged into during the days after my only brother’s death, I truly believe I will never again be as happy as I was then. Laughter seemed to flow freely from our mouths, smiles plastered onto our faces no matter the circumstances, content to just exist. I don’t think I can ever forget the day it was raining so hard the entire city was flooded, but we walked around uptown well past the point of being absolutely drenched, our clothes dripping so heavily the security guard denied us entry into the public library. Something about that day made me feel so free, like we were invisible. Completely apathetic to the whims of the real world, somehow existing only in our twisted minds and intertwined fantasies.

Maybe if I’d had my head screwed on a little tighter, or if we’d met under different circumstances, it wouldn’t have ended the way it did. I used to go down that line of thought every night before succumbing to a fitful but heavy sleep (under the direct affect of 25mg of Quetiapine, working to counteract my Concerta and Lexapro). Those types of irrational thoughts were ones my therapist deemed as my habit for rumination. In regard to the death of my brother she called it ‘bargaining’, one of the stages of grief. I never liked it when she spoke about those stages as I’ve always felt them to be wrong. Maybe because I never quite moved on to the final one, no matter how many years pass. ‘Acceptance’, coined as the “Re-entrance to reality”. Maybe it’s different since I was never really grounded to reality in the first place. I still wake up some mornings, thinking I’ve heard his voice in the other room, ready to beguile me with tales from his day of retail work. Other times I swear I’ve walked past him on the street. Some people may relate to my experiences, with reasonings of ghosts, angels, apparitions, or insanity, among many other causes for the apparent viewing of a loved one long gone to the other side. I never shared these beliefs, but I am not one to deny. Rather, I always take these instances as an omen. A warning. I have come to this conclusion not without evidence, at least circumstantial, given the many occasions over the years – and especially that summer – where I found my hypothesis to be true. All I can say is that I am glad I’ve never been met with the same chimerical visions of my mother; one can only hope that is because she ended up where she belonged. Maybe I’ll see her there, though I hope at the very least they could keep us in separate rooms of Hell if the situation does arise.

From what I know of the others now, which is admittedly not much – majorly due to my own neglect, as opposed to theirs – they share the same prescription for rose-coloured glasses as I. We always were too engrossed with our own romanticization of nostalgia and sentiment that it clouded our view. I often think this was one of the reasons we seemed to fit so well together. Not quite like puzzle pieces, too self-absorbed to hold a candle to that analogy, more like complimentary colours. I wish it could’ve stayed the way it was. We did try, and I never found myself able to fully disentangle myself from James, nor he could to I, but for most of us we could recognize an ending when one arises. I used to find myself using the word tragedy a lot while reminiscing, but I no longer think that word is appropriate. Fate is a more fitting term in my opinion, regardless of if one believes in it or not. “(A)n inevitable and often adverse outcome, condition, or end,” as reported by Merriam Webster. I don’t think there’s a word in the entire English language more accurate in describing how everything ended up; and if there is, I am yet to find it.

  Chapter One

A Dead Brother

          I have tried to erase the day my brother died from my memory so many times I lost count decades ago. I still find the image seeping into my unconsciousness quite dreadfully on the nights I neglect to take my pills and catch myself waking up with a steady flow of tears that dampen my pillow along with the drool that always seems to pour from my sleeping mouth. The dread that pools in my stomach sometimes being heavy enough for me to lose my lunch. I frequently wonder how people managed to reassure me that it wasn’t my fault; the most painful lie I’ve ever been told and one that seemed to stream from people’s mouths as easily as the mini sandwiches laid in the living room of my brother’s wake were stuffed in. The worst part about being told it wasn’t my fault was how obviously one could tell they didn’t believe what they were saying either. His death was my fault; a fact so uncontestable I wanted to kill myself every time I was reminded of it.

           My therapist often tried to remind me that even if his death was “partially” (she always used the word partially, refusing to acknowledge the truth that his death was entirely my fault) my fault, there was nothing I could’ve done to prevent it. This was another lie I despised being told. There were a million ways I could have prevented his death or saved his life and yet, here we are, with him dead and me wishing everyday that I won’t wake up tomorrow. “Begonia,” she’d tell me – she was the only person who called me by my full name, I usually went by Nia, but a nickname felt too personal and I didn’t like her very much – “You mustn’t keep torturing yourself with these scenarios. He’s dead, and there is nothing you can do to change that. I am starting to wonder if you are going to let yourself move on. This isn’t healthy.” That was a line she liked to use a lot, “this isn’t healthy”. As if anything I do is.

           Barb, my therapist that is, liked to go over the details of my brother’s death a lot. She often called it a ‘trigger’, which is why she always seemed to want me to talk about it. “Trauma is a horrible thing, Begonia, and you must learn to move past it, process it. I can see you still haven’t managed to do that on your own, and that’s what I’m here for, to help you move on.” Barb was big on the idea of  “moving past trauma” and “learning to cope”, she often sounded like a broken record of a motivational speech. I found myself comparing her to school guidance councillors without realizing it, they were about equally as helpful (read: not helpful) in my opinion.

           Sometimes I blame my inability to forget and “move past” my brother’s death on the way Barb constantly brought it up and made me go through it. I never quite understood how that part of my therapy was supposed to help me. I asked her once, what good was it doing rehashing the worst day of my life?

           “Well, Begonia,” I hated the way she said my name, always so condescending and sour, like even the idea of me questioning her in any way was as impolite as shitting on her desk.

“You have to understand that I only want to help you. You seem to be unable to process your traumas on your own, which is why we need to go through these things. As you are aware, this PTSD,” she always left strange pauses after each letter, her slow tone grinding on my ears, “you have acquired has left you unable to function normally in daily life. I want you to get to a place where you can have a normal life (Ha!) and cope without these meetings. It’s what your brother would’ve wanted.” Barb liked to tell me what my brother would have wanted at least once every session. Putting aside the fact she knew next to nothing about him aside from the intimate details on how he died, I always thought it was an inappropriate thing to say as a psychologist specializing in grief counselling. It never particularly bothered me, I was reasonable enough to realize she was just trying to comfort me, but I never liked the phrase. “What your brother would’ve wanted.” What he would’ve wanted was to not die but we’re past that, aren’t we Barb, as you so often enjoyed telling me.  

I have always been quite averse to my diagnoses, ADHD at 14, Persistent Depressive Disorder at 15, PTSD at 16, issues with alcohol and drugs that landed me in rehab more than once. I’ve been on a concoction of different medications since I was 13, even before I was diagnosed with anything officially. Sertraline, Lexapro, Prozac, Ritalin, Concerta, Adderall, Quetiapine, Ambien, Zopiclone, a healthy mix of off brand and branded medications. Sleeping pills, antidepressants, stimulants. I can’t remember a time before monthly trips to the drug store and side effect surveys that I’m not sure if I ever told the truth on. It’s a wonder that people didn’t see a slew of addiction issues coming from a mile away.

I think I’ve always had the most contention with my PTSD diagnosis though, I hate it because I know it’s undeniably true. I wish it wasn’t because maybe that’d mean my brother was still alive, but he isn’t. And I’m left traumatized and bereaved. Sometimes it feels like it hurt me more than it ever did my mother or father. Maybe it did. I should feel selfish for saying that, but I can’t, because they didn’t have to look at him while the life left his body, praying to God for the ability to turn back time. See the moment his eyes glazed over, knowing I’d never get to hear his obnoxious laugh, or make fun of his dumb face ever again.

  ❈

             “Ray, hey listen I need you to come pick me up.”

It was a cool evening in May, the end of spring brought with it the promise of summer and the air had the familiar aroma of daffodils and petrichor. I had decided to go to a party with my friend Faun, my dad having been out at his girlfriend’s place for the weekend and me having nothing better to do. I wasn’t one for partying, but I did like to get high, so I usually just hung around with the rest of the potheads and pill junkies until someone dragged me home or I fell asleep. That night Don, a friend of a friend of a friend, had brought coke and E and we were all determined to get as fucked up as possible. Faun only ended up doing one line before running into a bedroom with some guy whose name started with an M – was it Martin or Marvin? Maybe it was Mickey – and left me sitting on the couch beside a girl who was about 1 more shot of vodka away from passing out.

I had fully intended on doing some coke, but the E seemed to be hitting harder than I was used to. I was sure my Ritalin had worn off by then but maybe I was wrong. As I stood up to get a glass of water I nearly fell over and decided to sit back down. Turning to face Don, I tapped him on the shoulder trying to get his attention.

“What was in that molly?” I was vaguely aware of the way my words were slurring, but I felt weirdly energized. I was aware my heart was beating a little too fast, but I couldn’t concentrate on anything. I knew what ecstasy felt like, this was not nearly my first time doing it, but I felt really wrong.

           “Don!” He turned to look at me and I felt uneasy. His eyes looked a little crazed – not that out of the ordinary but given the circumstances I was worried – “What the fuck did you give me?” It felt like I’d done 5 lines of coke in the last 2 minutes and I knew that E had been spiked.

           Don’s face had an unmistakable expression of guilt written on it as he leaned down and whispered in my ear, his voice shaking, “I think it was cut with meth.” Fuck. My stomach dropped. I have to get out of here. I quickly shot up from the musty couch I was sat on, carefully holding onto Don’s shoulder so I didn’t fall, my legs still feeling unsteady. I opened my phone; the screen was too bright, and I had a hard time maneuvering it as I attempted to exit the house. Clicking the green Messages icon, I sent a text to Faun – e ws cut w meth im lesving – with shaky hands and burst out the door into the fresh air. I clicked my brother’s contact and pressed call.

           It rang four times before he picked up.

           “Nia? Why are you calling me it’s like 1am?” I could tell from the smooth tone of his voice he’d been drinking. He didn’t very often but he had an appreciation for cocktails and enjoyed getting buzzed now and then. He still was a year from being legal to drink but his friends we’re all 19 and 20 and bought alcohol for him. I found him fun when he got drunk, becoming talkative and giggly, but right now I wished so badly for him to be sober.

           “Ray, hey listen I need you to come pick me up.” I was slurring, my voice a bit too pitchy to pass as anything but high. I knew he didn’t like it when I did this, but he never ratted me out. Sometimes I wish he did, maybe I never would’ve been able to go to that party in the first place.

           I could hear a door shutting on his end, I assumed he was going into a different room. “What’s wrong?” My skin was bubbling with anxiety at the prospect of having to tell him what I did.

           “Fuck, uh… I did something stupid. I’m at Emily Goguen’s, y’know up in Champlain Heights. Please pick me up.” I rarely used the word please.

“Nia, what the fuck did you do?” I almost started crying but I found my eyes to be bone dry.

“Please don’t yell.”

“Okay, really, tell me what is going on or I won’t come get you.”

“I accidentally took meth.”

“You what? What the fuck, Nia! Fuck this I’m on my way and I’m fucking telling Dad.” I cringed but I knew he was going to before I even called. The pit in my stomach grew deeper as the buzzing of my skin grew stronger. I could feel myself getting higher, everything was so clear and standing around was making me grow restless. Ray huffed on the phone and I heard him entering his car.

His tone was softer the next time he spoke. “I’ll be there in 5, just stay put, please. Do you want me to stay on the call or can I hang up?”

I felt like a child, which I was really, only 16 at the time, a whole life ahead of me. Still, I was grateful for the way he spoke to me, reminiscent of being 6 and getting a scrapped knee after falling off my pink Razor scooter. The high made me edgy, and my voice was sharp to my ears, “No, you can hang up.” I heard the click to indicate he’d done just that, and started pushing my cuticles as I waited, the task somehow greatly interesting me, and I did not realize until later I had managed to pick off all of the skin around my pointer and middle fingernails during the five-minute wait.

 Ray pulled up exactly five minutes later in his ugly, blue 2011 Ford Fiesta he’d gotten the year prior after passing his driving test. What I wouldn’t do now to smell the inside of that car once again, a distinct attar of pineapple car freshener and Old Spice deodorant mixed with stale black tea, faintly present due to his ever-growing collection of empty paper cups from various different fast foods and coffee shops.

I stumbled into the car, feeling the strong impulse to clean the space, but attempting to push it down. From the passenger side overhead mirror I could see my blown pupils and sweaty forehead, pieces of my copper red hair sticking to my face. My freckles were showing through my concealer that had mostly worn off and I wanted to cover them back up. My skin was pale from winter (and probably the drugs in my system) but my cheeks were flushed like I was drunk. My high cheekbones made my face look gaunt in the lighting, but my face was wide which balanced it out, so I didn’t look completely skeletal. Ray was looking at me, the worry apparent in his eyes, but his face was flushed as well, and I could tell he’d been drinking a bit too much to drive. I had my license as well, but it was clear I was in no condition to take over on that front, so I didn’t bother saying anything. I wish I had. There’s a lot of things I wish. I wish I hadn’t gone to that party; I wish I hadn’t taken that E; I wish I called someone else; I wish I waited it out at Emily’s; I wish I walked home; I wish I took a cab; I wish I waited for Faun; I wish I wish I wish I wish I wish.

“Are you okay?” He didn’t take his eyes off me as I shut the mirror in front of me.

“Yeah, yeah I’ll be fine. Please just take me home.”

“Is Dad there?”

“No.”

“Maybe I should take you to Mom’s.”

“No!” I’d moved out of my mom’s completely just over 6 months ago, barely seeing her once a month. It was one of the best decisions I’d ever made. She never liked me much anyways, the feeling was entirely mutual. Ray seemed to have a close bond with her for some reason despite how she treated him like shit. I never called him out though, he no longer lived with her, so I didn’t really care what their relationship was as long as she wasn’t hurting him. She did treat him significantly better than me, however, so I figured maybe he managed to forgive her the way I never could.

“Okay, but I’m staying with you until Dad gets home. I’m not gonna lie to him about this shit. Fucking meth, Nia? Seriously?”

“It was in the molly.” He sighed and started driving.

 My brain felt like it was filled with butterflies, or ants, some kind of movement that was itching at my skull. The paper cups scattered around were making me anxious and I needed to clean his car. I began picking at my nails again, but I needed to pick up those cups, you see. I turned around and started gathering the ones Ray had discarded in the back, filling up an empty plastic bag from Best Buy. I was fully switched around in my seat, nearly crawling into the backseat to reach the trash my brother had left. I felt him tap my side, I looked over at him and he started to scold me.

“Nia, stop that will you, you’re distracting me.” But I needed to finish gathering the cups. The car was dirty, and my skin was itching, the traffic lights burning my skin. I was elated and I didn’t want to listen to him, he was just trying to get in my way. I continued to lean over, not registering the swerve of the car as he looked over at me.

“Nia – ”

He turned over to push me back into my seat, his eyes leaving the road for no more than a few seconds. This time I felt the swerve as we broke into the next lane.

 This is where I have a hard time piecing together what happened. From what I was told, we ended up running directly into a 2015 Dodge Ram 2500. In case you understandably have a lack of knowledge when it comes to cars, that is a very large, sturdy, and expensive pickup truck which I would probably consider the last vehicle you’d want to charge headfirst into while going 70km per hour. I don’t recall the actual incident of hitting the truck, whether that be from the drugs, the position I was in, or hitting my head on the roof of the car, I don’t know. What I do know is that when I woke up, we were in a ditch on the side of the road, with the car flipped upside down, and my entire body was screaming at me to Get Out!

I felt blood oozing sluggishly from my head and noted some indistinct pain in my right wrist where it had scraped something pretty badly and gotten twisted, but I otherwise felt alright. I couldn’t tell if the cloudiness in my head was from a concussion or the earlier events of the night, but I figured it was probably good I was awake, regardless of how dazed I seemed.

I turned my head to the left and was greeted by a view I will never be able to forget, it having been branded to the insides of my eyelids, scorched in my mind. Ray, with his left arm twisted in spectacular fashion, reminding me of Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, after Lockhart spells away Harry’s bones. My brother had always been squeamish with broken bones and I hoped he wasn’t aware of how his limb looked at the moment. His head was bleeding quite profusely, and I was alarmed despite how many times I’d heard in movies that headwounds bleed a lot. His eyelids were fluttering, irises appearing glassy and unfocussed. And then I saw it. A piece of glass was stuck in the left side of his neck. The windshield apparently had broken with the impact and my brother was lucky enough to get a piece lodged right in his trachea. It was thick, bright red blood –  that I could’ve sworn was sparkling in my current inebriated perspective – was gushing out the side, so heavy I could smell it, taste it, in the air. I was frozen once I realized.

Do something, do something! Put pressure on it! Call 9-1-1! My mind was screaming at me, but it was all I could do to sit and watch the blood stain his clothes. He was wearing the corduroy jacket I’d gotten him for his birthday and a white button up, the red seeped into them until it was as if they’d always been that colour. My voice was caught in my throat, but I managed to push some sound past.

“Ray?” It was weaker than a whisper but in the silence that seemed to envelope us in that car, completely independent of the outside world and sirens that could surely be heard from blocks away, I knew he would be able to hear me.

He looked up, eyes focussing slightly on me, and a tear slipped down his face, only it went the wrong way since we were still upside down. He mouthed the words “I love you”. We never said that to each other. As close as we were, our relationship had always been more comparable to that of a best friend than sibling. We weren’t overly affectionate, never hugged or said I love you, hung out for enjoyment rather than as a punishment. Most people didn’t know we were brother and sister until we pointed it out, we never really looked alike and were absent of the traditional distaste and rivalry usually present between siblings. I knew, as he looked me in the eyes and said those words, this would be the last time I’d ever see him outside of a morgue.

I sat in my seat next to him with dry eyes, wishing desperately I could cry, needing to express the feeling of utter horror and despondency that completely overtook my body and mind, but I couldn’t. Barb told me time and time again that I was in shock, there was nothing I could’ve done, but I will never be able to believe that. I still remember the moment the final tear slipped down his face. He smiled at me, pain evident in his eyes. His entire body was covered in the metallic smelling red, and I wanted to vomit. I wish I could say the crash had sobered me, but it didn’t, not really. I was still entirely in a daze as I saw his muscles relax, smiling falling from his face, eyes not quite rolling back all the way but enough to give me nightmares for the next 20 years. The life had been absorbed from his body, leaving a heavy shell. I was told afterwards this all happened within the span of 10 minutes, but it felt like years. By the time the first responders had appeared I was an old woman. Grayed hair, and arthritic bones. Mourning for the brother I’d lost oh so many years ago, when I was just a girl. I think in a way I died in that car with him, I never was really the same. But who would be? Best friend and confidant, older brother, idol, dying in front of your eyes as you do nothing, knowing for the rest of your life that his death is – was – your fault. Knowing you could’ve done something, anything really, to prevent his untimely loss of life before the paramedics arrived. If I’d been the same after that night I would have to be much more disturbed than I ever thought.

I sat in that car beside Ray’s corpse for 3 more minutes before I heard the sirens closing in around us – me. I thought I might pass out, either from the toll of what I’d just witnessed or from my concussion, but I remained upright, probably from the adrenaline. I couldn’t move so I just waited, and hoped I’d die too before anyone reached the scene. It would be much preferrable to any other outcome I could think of at the time. I could vaguely register the pain in my wrist, but I felt so numb I’m sure you could’ve shot me in the foot and I wouldn’t have blinked.

A young fireman named Walter ended up getting me out of the car. The door was smashed and stuck which meant I’d been trapped in there either way. I was happy I hadn’t bothered trying to escape as I'm terribly claustrophobic and finding out I couldn’t would have thrown me into a proper panic attack. The fireman was incredibly nice, saying reassuring things the entire time they were opening the door with the “Jaws of Life”. I ended up seeing him again in the hospital actually, or at least that’s what my father told me. He wanted to check in on me and left me some hydrangeas in a vase. I always preferred chrysanthemums but I'm not that picky when it comes to a floral arrangement.

After the door was busted open I was carried out by Walter. I was shaking and apparently babbling nonsense but in my head I was trying to tell them to save Ray. I wasn’t really aware of all that much, completely blind to the crowd of spectators that had rudely gathered to witness the violence – wasn’t it supposed to be taboo to stop at a car crash? Wondering vaguely about what happened and wishing you could get a better look as you drive past the scene.  My head wound had made me a bit incompetent and the meth in my system was really not helping the entire situation.

I was laid on a gurney and rolled onto an ambulance. I don’t remember much about the ride; the sirens, the bright lights, a paramedic named Alice who spoke softly, smoothing out my hair while the other put an oxygen mask on my face (which I wasn’t entirely cognizant enough to question though now I'm not really sure why they did it) and splinted my wrist. Alice asked me if I was on drugs and I nodded but was unable to speak when she asked me what ( I would find this a common occurrence after the accident, my voice seemingly stolen alongside Ray’s). She just nodded and said something to the other ME that I didn’t quite pick up. She asked if I could tell her my name and I shook my head. She must’ve noticed the iPhone in my pocket and grabbed it, turning to the medical ID page.

“Is your name Begonia?” I nodded, though the name sounded foreign on my ears. I liked the way Alice said it though, she had a light Spanish accent and a matronly tone that made me feel safe. I wondered if she had kids of her own; she looked young, but my own mother had me at 19 so who could say? She told me her name after complimenting mine. “Begonia is a beautiful name; I love the flowers. I’m Alice, okay? We’re gonna make sure you’re alright and take you to the hospital.” Her voice was sweet like syrup and I became sleepy as she spoke.

“No honey, you can’t fall asleep yet. Just stay awake a little bit longer and I promise you they’ll let you sleep at the hospital.”

  I don’t remember anything of the rest of the ride to the hospital. I was dropped off at the Emergency Room at the Regional, head still too foggy to allow me to recall anything before I was sitting in a white bed, in a white room, with white sheets and a light blue hospital gown on. It was morning and my father was sitting at the end of my bed in an uncomfortable plastic chair, his eyes bloodshot and moist. He’d very obviously been crying for a long time and my chest panged with guilt. I reached up to feel my head and realized there was a cast on my wrist. With my other hand I touched the cotton that covered my forehead, wincing when I felt the sting of what had to be stitches in a nasty gash. I would spend the next 5 years of my life with a variety of diverse haircuts that attempted to hide the ugly scar that served as a reminder of the worst night of my life. Even now it is still extremely obvious, but I can’t be bothered to try and hide it, I so rarely look in the mirror that it wouldn’t matter if my skin turned blue.

My dad hadn’t looked up, so I attempted to gain his attention but once again found my voice failing me. I tapped on the bed a few times before he seemed to realize and face me.

“Nia… how are you feeling?” His voice was raspy and thin. He reeked of cigarettes and stale coffee, though this wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. I remained silent as he looked at me, searching my face for something I'm not sure he found.

“Nia, I, I'm not sure how to say this to you.” Here it comes. Almost worse than watching my brother die, the confirmation. “Ray, he’s, well dead.” I saw my father’s eyes begin to tear up again as I stared straight ahead. I couldn’t feel the sobs that racked my body, nor the hot tears streaming from my eyes. I saw my dad start to move closer but sit back down when I flinched. Of course, I knew my brother was dead; I had front row seats to watching the event happen, but somehow I still didn’t believe it until the words left my father’s mouth. According to my dad, who many years later described to me how eery the whole event was, my sobs were completely silent, and I was entirely unaware of everything happening around me. This dissociation lasted the first few days after the accident, and the entirety of my hospital stay. Leaving the blissful gap in my memory I have now.

Barb told me this was my mind’s way of coping with the tragedy and stress of what happened. I was honestly just happy I had an excuse to skip some of the dreadful retelling she forced upon me.

 ❈

             The funeral was of course a depressing and solemn event. I was still yet to speak and found myself thankful for the way people gave up on trying to get me to communicate. I dressed in a black skirt with a black short sleeved button up. A dark coat thrown around my shoulders as the cast on my right hand was too big to fit through the sleeve. I looked terrible, barely a week out of hospital before I watched Ray sink into the ground. The wound on my forehead was still quite nasty, though it looked better than it did before. I tried to cover it up with my hair but was unsuccessful. I got bangs soon after.

           The matter was very traditional, taking place in a church even though none of our family was really religious. It was only the second time I'd ever been in a church, the first having been for my cousin Julie’s wedding when I was four years old. I don’t remember anything of it aside from the material of my dress itching at my neck and making me rather miserable. Of course, not nearly as miserable as I was the day of the funeral, sitting in a pew at the front of the church, listening to a priest claiming Ray would’ve wanted us to celebrate his life. I knew this not to be true; Ray was extremely dramatic and would’ve cherished the thought of everyone he’d ever spoken to moping around for weeks after his death, beside themselves with grief. He sometimes referred to himself as “Romeo” after having been broken up with by another girl he was supposedly in love with, stating he better just stab himself in the heart now if he couldn’t have her. On the rare occasion he broke up with a girlfriend, he’d lounge around, eating ice cream, pretending to not be upset and comparing his cold heart to that of Richard VIII. The concept of him being any different over his death was almost comical; Ray was nothing if not predictable.

           I sat beside my father, who sat beside my mother (it was an extremely awkward arrangement that neither I nor my father cared for) and seemed to have the idea that I could evaporate if I thought hard enough about it. Unfortunately, I did not evaporate, or even come close to it, instead finding myself exactly where I'd been the whole time. I mostly tuned out the service, only really paying attention when my father and Ray’s best friend, Jake spoke. I managed to escape the duty of having to speak that day thanks to my fragile mental state and mutism. Though I'm sure I would’ve been forced all the same if I had been able to talk in any capacity, regardless of where my head was at.

           Faun was sitting in the pew behind me, feeling quite guilty about the whole ordeal. Or friendship dissolved soon after, I think she blamed herself for taking me to the party. It didn’t bother me too much though; we were never the closest and I sometimes thought her to be extremely annoying. An endless stream of shitty boyfriends that she only acquired so she could further repress her sexuality. When we were 14 we kissed at a sleepover and she admitted she was in love with me. I felt bad for not returning the feeling and our relationship had been on rocky territory ever since. I don’t understand how she thought she was in love with me since she barely knew anything about me, but either way she never brought it up again and soon after the monsoon of boytoys had begun.

           My brother’s friends and ex-girlfriends also attended the event. I didn’t approach any of them, far too scared they’d blame me for the death of their friend. One of them, Alex, went up to me to say how sorry he was about everything that happened. He was crying quite heavily (I later found out he was the friend Ray had been drinking with and the second last person to see him alive) and I could smell alcohol on his breath. I stood there while he spoke, telling me about how great my brother was as if I was wholly unaware. Body waving side to side as he stood with his hand on the wall beside me. He offered me some bronze liquid in a flask, and I obliged, savouring the burning sensation that followed in my throat. Alex’s voice was steady and deep, reminding me of my father’s. I’m not sure how long we stood there, him spinning a fantastic web of anecdotes and stories about my brother, some entirely new to my ears. We passed the beverage back and fourth until it was empty. My head felt lighter and heavier somehow simultaneously, and I found it much easier to listen to Alex talk. Later he tried to kiss me in my bedroom during the wake. His mouth was sour, and his tongue seemed too big for his mouth. I wondered how he was able to talk so much without it getting in the way.

             We moved in procession to the cemetery after the service. The grass was a vibrant green colour, and I didn’t understand how the world kept turning after Ray’s death, for mine stopped the moment his heart failed to beat. The sky was a lovely shade of cyan-blue, with clouds so perfect they seemed animated. Pink carnations were planted near the outskirts of the yard and I could smell spring in the air; a heavy, floral aroma that never failed to comfort me. I thought it should be raining, it felt inappropriate that the weather refused to match my despair. My mind wandered as we approached the empty grave and I considered what it would be like if Ray was here beside me. He’d probably be making jokes, telling me to lighten up for a minute or my face would get stuck that way. He’d mock my silence, saying how I never managed to shut up for a minute before but suddenly I'm as proper as a nun. I'd smile, ruffling his hair to piss him off and try to refrain from laughing aloud. The absence of him only felt stronger as I imagined this scenario, so I shoved it out of my head.

           The casket was lowered into the ground, my father was a pallbearer and I often think about how he must’ve felt carrying his son’s body before watching him being buried. My mother sobbed loudly which annoyed me, it felt a bit exaggerated. I had a few tears falling from my eyes but mostly, I just felt numb. Incredibly and absolutely empty inside. To onlookers it may have seemed as though we weren’t very close, my reaction being similar to that of his ex-girlfriends’. However, this didn’t account for the loss of my voice, or the broken state I was in mentally. Maybe it was better that my reaction was rather dulled. It meant people didn’t feel the need to approach me as they did my mother. Less concerned given she was the one playing up her emotions to the point of embarrassment. My father cried, more than I but far less than my mother. He didn’t cry very often – I'd actually only seen it once prior to the whole event – and I figured he probably needed it. At this point I felt as though I'd shed enough tears to last a lifetime so Ray wouldn’t mind if I was a bit subdued in comparison. He never was a crier anyways.

           As I sprinkled soil onto his casket I imagined he was right beside me, watching, ready to criticize as usual. The dirt stained my hand, clutching the sweat and turning my skin a muddy brown colour. As I wiped the dirt on my jacket I could hear him nagging about how I better go wash my hands, what was I, a six-year-old? He was in denial about me growing up and took every chance to remind me I was still just a kid. Not that he had much on me, but I enjoyed it. I never was one to shy away from attention; at least not before. Little quirks and inside jokes between us were always some of my favourite things, the type of humour you could only get from living with someone your whole life. No matter how much his memory will fade there are some things I can’t let myself forget. His mocking tone when he’d make fun of me is one of those things. If I ever managed to let go of that sound then I must be dead as well.

           The sun beat down on my back, my skin burning in my black clothes. I wasn’t sweating yet, but most of the men around were – suit jackets aren’t exactly known for their breathability. My nose was dry and aching red, sore from how much I'd been wiping it the last couple days. Still the sweet seeping tinge of flowers and spring managed to crawl into my nose, settling underneath my skin, the buzzing from before had returned, I could feel my heartbeat loudly in my throat and had the desperate urge to just run. Instead, I just followed the rest of the party, sitting down in the passenger seat of my dad’s car. The silence that settled over us was uncomfortable and stale. He turned on the radio, Led Zeppelin filled the air around us, thankfully relieving some of the tension. I felt in my left pocket for one of the carnations I’d picked from a nearby grave earlier. The flower had begun to wilt, heat taking effect on its delicate composition. When I got home I put it in between the pages of my oldest copy of Romeo and Juliet. Ray would have found it funny if he was around to see.

The drive to my mother’s house was short and minimally awkward. We sat in silence – aside from the music – only because there was no alternative. My hand remained clutched around the dying flower in my pocket as we left the car and entered the home. Other people had already arrived, clustered in the living room, picking at tiny ham sandwiches and various desserts my mother had undoubtedly stress-baked the day before. I wasn’t hungry so I sat as far away from the food and people as humanely possible while staying in the living room, not wishing to hear my mother’s scolding about how I need to socialize more. Eventually I managed to slip away into my old bedroom, where Alex was sitting on my bed drinking a mickey of Smirnoff I assumed he swiped from my mother’s freezer. He offered it to me, and I accepted, the weird repetitive déjà vu like act, mirroring earlier and making the whole day feel like somewhat of a dream.

When I went over this part with Barb she always felt the need to emphasize that it wasn’t a dream. I knew this, obviously, which I told her every time, but she was inclined to disbelief when it came to my denial over my brother’s death. “Begonia, you must realize he’s gone. Dwelling is helping nobody, especially not you. This isn’t a healthy mindset for you to have. Always comparing living to your dreams. I want you to tell me you understand this isn’t just some dream you can wake up from.” The first time she said that to me I was thrust into a bout of wordlessness, as it struck a bit too close to home. The next time she brought it up I just told her of course, though even now I still cannot say I fully understand. How can I when all of my assumptions have been constantly disproven time and time again. How can I ever say this isn’t a dream when I'm not even sure I'm real? James always tries to reassure me, “Bee, I'm telling you, if you can feel this beat, the pulse in your wrist, your neck, your chest, you are alive,” he’ll say while pressing my hand to my wrist, but we both know it isn’t that simple.

Me and Alex made out for a few minutes until I managed to excuse myself. He was a bad kisser and tasted disgusting. I left him sitting on my old bed while I went downstairs to find my dad. He was sitting at the counter with a can of root beer, blank expression sat upon his face. When his eyes met mine he sighed, grabbing his keys out of his pocket. It was obvious neither of us wanted to be here, for numerous reasons, so we left. And if the radio stayed off as we drove home we didn’t acknowledge the silence that time. In my hand was the crumpled carnation, and for some reason it made my chest hurt. A deep ache of dread. I could feel my heartbeat, hear it over the drum of the car engine, and I crushed the flower further. I was careful not to rip it though, as if that was crossing some kind of invisible line my mind had set for me. My fingers felt waxy when I finally let go.

Back home, I opened the copy of Romeo and Juliet. I retrieved the deteriorating plant from my pocket and placed it in the center. Closing the book, I stacked it under a few dictionaries, a magazine under it so it was trapped on either side. I sat down in front of it and cried. Not the huge gasping sobs my mother seemed to fancy, nor the quiet weeping of my father. No, I cried the tears of a child who just found out their grandparents died, the soft uncomprehending grief that overcame them as they first learned what death really meant. How long forever was. My legs pulled up to my chest, hands loosely hung around knees, unable to clasp together because of my cast. I closed my eyes and I swear I could hear the sound of Ray sighing behind me, but when I opened my eyes I was alone. I went to bed, earlier than I ever had in my life, still believing it was a dream and I'd wake up like Alice after her adventures in Wonderland. But when I awoke, I was met with the slow, oozing perdure of my reality. The one which I could not wake up from, and the one where my brother was dead.

[eyesaremosaics]

“When I look at you, oh, I don’t know what’s real.”

These lyrics echo softly around the room. Dark, enveloping as these times may be, our love for each other just grows stronger. I feel very grateful that I finally found my person. How good it feels to finally be wanted by someone I feel equally as strong for. A rare anomaly.

It hasn’t been easy though. Falling in this kind of love at this point in time. It’s almost as if the universe said: “—well... you got a lot of shit coming, so here, we will throw you this bone but that’s all you get.”

We sit and build gundams together, play Pokémon, magic the gathering, watch adult swim cartoons all day everyday, we both sleep with our favorite stuffed animals, and they sit right on our bed. Our apartment is coming along beautifully. We co-created the space effortlessly. I am so stoked to have a kitchen I can cook in. I’m always cooking or baking something.

My GI issues have gotten better (thankfully) it was truly awful not being able to eat anything. I’ve got my diet down to a science now. I will be sharing recipies periodically for those who are interested. Finally able to start my Etsy store selling vintage. Beautiful Art Deco apartment, room full of plants... we just decorated our Christmas tree last week. Had two people over, it was nice to visit with friends and cook dinner for my guests. I feel so comfortable and at ease here.

My new web series is going to start filming soon. There is a fundraiser on the 21st. I will post links soon as I have them. Got a tripod and light ring for my phone so I can start making more behind the scenes videos for my IG. Need to be proactive. Did make appointments with all my different doctors though. Haven’t worked the last few weeks because the family I work for hot covid. Luckily I had no contact with them, and at first it was nice having time off, but now I’m a little bored I guess. I think I needed this time off though. The universe gave me what I desperately needed. I was really burnt out from working so many hours. Having my entire industry disappear over night... it’s been a hard year for everyone, actors are no exception. Though I have been fortunate to have ongoing projects. I had three acting gigs in 2020, which is more than any of my colleagues... I should be counting my blessings.

2019 was hard. Losing one of my oldest and dearest friends, then watching his mom almost die of a heart attack right in front of me and all Michael’s friends on thanksgiving. Yeah. Traumatic. But nothing could have prepared me for 2020. Between losing my career, meeting the love of my life and then watching their mental health deteriorate from stress. His dad almost dying, my step fathers suicide, covid, isolation from all friends and family, being overworked with virtually no life of my own. Yury getting jumped, rushing him to the ER with his head split open in two different places. No luck finding a place because of our credit. Being diagnosed with GERD, unable to eat anything without being in excruciating pain. Had to give up alcohol and drugs completely, along with coffee, chocolate, gluten, garlic, tomato, onion and anything fried. I lived off lentil soup for six months. Constant panic attacks, being doubled over in pain, clutching my stomach crying constantly. My throat burned from stomach acid. Horrible side effects from the drugs I had to take to keep my acid levels low. Dizzy, heart palpitations, fainting. Panic disorder triggered by reflux. Unable to eat, lost 15 lbs because of this—not in a healthy way. Had to go in for endoscopy, had a biopsy taken of the pollups in my stomach. Luckily no cancer. Have to go to the gynecologist to get checked, dr. Thinks I may not be able to have children, freaking out about that. We’ll see tomorrow... feeling very nervous. My eye sight has gotten significantly worse. I may need surgery for detached retinas. Freaking out about that too. Sigh.

Let’s pull back. I am grateful that I am still being paid even though out of work due to covid, grateful for the sweet, handsome, wonderful man in my life. Every day I thank the universe for him. My family is all healthy and okay. My friends too. I have an ongoing acting project. I just bought a new camera, going to start my YouTube channel. Open my Etsy store. I am grateful for this time off for self reflection and self care. I really needed it.

That’s plenty for now. This was just one long run on sentence, but I felt the need to purge all these thoughts swirling inside my head. Also wanted to explain what had been occupying me the last few months, and why my presence on tumblr has dwindled. I’m still here for you guys though. I promise to get back in the saddle with new and interesting material for you to peruse. Just been a lot.

[xellshun]

Feeding The Beast

I stand firm when supporting one of my favorite quotes: Evil is never born, it is created. All things were once good in the beginning, even Satan.

With the developement of my disorder and my descent into becoming a sociopath came many dark traits that I’ve used countless times to calm my urges and impulses. Most of them are fairly common among those with ASPD. But one quality has always stood above all the others.

My desire to victimize as many women as possible.

This post will focus on this trait rather than HOW it came to be but I will share a little bit of my past just to give you a general idea of it’s origins.

Over the course of the last 7 years I went through 3 very traumatic relationships. But before I did, I was a very kind hearted, ambitious, compassionate person with a huge dream of some day finding the love of my life, building a family, and living out the same fairy tale ending that my parents and their parents had before them. I had this perfect image of how my love life would work out and I based it off of what I watched my family build as I grew up. I grew up with a very close, caring, and loving family. So going into adulthood that’s just how I thought things were supposed to be.

I didn’t realize how fucking wrong I truly was and I was no where near prepared for the 7 year long nightmare I was about to go through...

The first of the three stages was when I lost my first true love - the mother of my beloved son. Not only did I loose her along with all my hopes and dreams of having that fairy tale ending. But I lost her while she was still pregnant with my son... So along with the initial pain, my first experience of pregnancy and my introduction to being a father were stripped from me and left me in a state of mind that pushed me into making my FIRST step down the dark I would eventually get lost in. She was what I would eventually call “The First Heartache”

The second stage happened with my next serious girlfriend. She would not only be my second love but would also end up being the girl who would eventually become extremely abusive. Physically, emotionally, mentally - she tortured me. She ultimately become what I called “The Abuser”

At this point, my disorder was born and rapidly growing. Coupled with emotional distress and a newly developed addiction to drugs and alcohol, my next relationship would only escalate the problems. She was a drinker, a drug user, and eventually a cheater. Her betrayal lead me down a path filled with an unending urge to stay intoxicated to cure the pain. And even though I should have left both her and the last girl, I didn’t. I was constantly trying to fill the void in my heart left by the first girl. But this third girl was no better than the last. She eventually became what I called “The Drunk Cheater”

By this point, my son was 5 years old. My relationship with him and my family was greatly damaged. I had come off my ADHD medication, struggled to stay employed, struggled with money, wrecked and totaled my vehicle, got into trouble with the law, did time in jail, struggled on and off with addiction to both drugs and alcohol, lost many of my friends... And above all else...

I lost myself...

And I forgot the feeling of remorse... Of empathy... And love...

The person I became and am now is the total opposite of who and what I was 7 years ago. Me then and me now wouldn’t even recognize each other if they met...

And thus, the sociopath was born... And within the dark pit of inhumane emotions, impulses, and urges.. The strongest one was my unending thirst for revenge...

And with that, the player mentality became supreme. And with it every aspect of my life would shift, change, and become centered around an unending cycle of chasing women. It started out as me just having fun and enjoying the single life and eventually evolved to what I do now.

So what do I do? For starters, I supress the monster underneath, I go out and I hunt women. I will often create several dating profiles, all of which with the same pictures, the same information about myself, and it has quickly turned into a game of seeing how many women I can sleep with in the shortest amount of time.

People would probably tell me “You sound like every other typical asshole player.” And it’s partially true, but in my mind I am a hunter. But I don’t hunt with the goal to kill (or hurt these women). I hunt with the goal of capturing and retaining them. I go out with my sociopathic mask, looking friendly, nice, and emotional. I play the part of a good honest man who just wants to settle down. For each individual girl I would learn her, everything about her, I would research her and read her like a book. I would figure out exactly what she wants and needs in a partner and I’d become that to the best of my ability. Once they are lured in I deceieve and manipulate every situation. Slowly and pateintly I shift the mood and create a large amount of sexual tension. I never come off as the creep, I never make them uncomfortable, and I always wait for THEM to make the first move. Why? Because it makes me feel powerful. And when we finally reach the point of having sex the sexual side of my sociopathic tendencies comes out. You see, I don’t care about finishing. It’s not what I look forward to and I don’t need to finish to be happy. The only thing that matters is HER pleasure. In those moments of intercourse I do everything in my physical ability to fuck them in every way they fantasize about. The porn star comes out and my one and only goal is to fuck them to the point where they are physically sore and trembling from orgasms. I want them to have issues walking the next day, I want to rearange their insides, and turn their intestines into soup. It almost never fails and this newly found dark skill has increased my body count from a pathetic 5 (my son’s mom) to a body count of 52 as of this last weekend.

But do I stop there and leave them in the dust? Hell no! I keep them around, I drag them around, and am constantly looking for new targets daily. I keep them around for many reasons - sex, money, drugs, alcohol, transportation, parties, new friends... And some times I’ll keep them around and create friendships with them so I always have someone to talk to or hang out with.

This way I am never bored and can always feed whatever hunger comes into my darkened heart...

I have done so many messed up things. Slept with more than one girl in a single day, slept with a new girl every day of the week, fucked a girl and then fucked her best friend. I’ve made women cheat on their boyfriends and then turned around and hung out with their boyfriends. I’ve made wives cheat on their poor unknowing husbands. Some would find out and their wives would leave them for me. Others would simply ask me to never mention it. Do I respect their wishes? Of course! Like I said. I never purposely treat any of these women poorly. I do this so that I can retain my image as a good and normal man. But more often than not, it’s the sex that makes them come back. I can’t tell you how many girls I’ve dicked down. I’ve been with all kinds of girls. Blondes, redheads, burnettes, thick girls, thin girls, small boobs, huge boobs, some who could be porn stars, some who were covered in tattoos and peircings, some were cam girls, some were strippers, some were partiers, drinkers, some were moms, some were church girls, some were younger, some were older... I think the only type of girl I have yet to be with is an Asian... Gunna have to change that...

I’ve been all over the place too. I can’t go to ANY surrounding town from where I live without knowing a girl I’ve fucked there. It’s hard enough when I’m out running errands too, can’t go fucking anywhere without the chance of seeing one of my victims.

All in all, it’s the thrill of the chase, it’s the thrill of knowing what lurks beneath the mask while they remain clueless, it’s the feeling of being so cold and heartless yet have the ability to bring them so many emotions I can’t feel, it’s about giving them the best sex of their lives, it’s about the satisfaction of leashing them along like pets, it’s about POWER and CONTROL. The two fucking things I had so little of when this all started during those 3 toxic and traumatizing relationships.

And in the deepest, darkest corners of my sick mind... In these many moments of deception and manipulation... I trick myself into believing that these poor girls I victimize are my exes.. In an attempt to feel some type or form of revenge to dowse the neverending burning fires of PURE HATRED that have turned my entire world into a place of devastation that is now just as dark as my heart...

For me, women as a whole, are my newly developed drug addiction. When I see them, I don’t see people, I see prey that I can use for whatever benefit I see fit. And if those benefits run out I simply take them to the slaughter house and use them one last time. Rejection doesn’t faze me either. If a single sheep manages to escape my fenced in prison it doesn’t bother me, the herde always consists of between 10-20 women at all times. It’s as easy as a simple hunting trip, which I honestly enjoy. After all, it’s always good to get out every once in a while.

This is what my life has turned into. A never ending sickening cycle of trying to fill in the void within my heart that they left behind those years ago. But in the end that ONE thing that can fill this whole is the one thing I avoid the most - Love...

Yes, my therapist knows about all of this. It’s great because my therapist is a female so it’s nice to be able to share my stories and brag to a girl who’s job is to help me. She probably thinks I’m a fucking piece of shit and I don’t blame her. But she’s a professional and has to help people like me.

We’ve discussed goals throughout therapy on ways for me to relearn the feelings of empathy, remorse, love, and so on... It’s one of many goals and this is the one I have the most trouble with... Part of me wants to change and go back to being normal. But the other part of me wants to keep doing what I do best because it’s just so much damn fun.

So will this part of me ever change? I think so. I hope so. The only other times I went from being a total man whore to a faithful loving man was every time a girl would come into my life who was strong enough to snap me out of dark ways... So far it’s only happened twice. My body count is at 52 and going up more quickly than ever. I’ve spoken to thousands of women, met hundreds, recieved thousands of numbers, thousands of X rated pictures and videos of these women, I’ve had sex thousands of times, and it’s getting to the point where these women just seem to blur together...

There’s little hope of finding a girl strong enough to pull me from the darkness this time. And honestly, I’m okay with it. I am at a point where the darkness is comforting and feels like home...

So this time around.. Not only does she need to be strong enough to pull me out... She needs to be brave enough to venture into a world of total darkness...

[mollydollyjournals]

Monday 25th January; 156lbs

I didn't check my body composition today. I just stepped on the scales and left my phone in my bedroom, which means it doesn't send info to the app. So I know that I weigh a little less than the other day, but still way too much.

Toilet tmi again. Im still really constipated and it's actually just fucking painful. The biggest issue is it's not that I haven't been eating. I always try to eat reasonably high fiber (compared to my caloric intake anyway - 8-9g fiber a day isn't much for a normal 2000kcal diet, but it is for 800kcal) and if I need more then I have some particularly high fiber stuff like pulses. Fruit and veg is a good way to go. It's been 3-4 days now so I actually have been eating a bit more to try to make it happen, including higher fiber, but still nothing. I took some stimulant lax last night and still nothing. Had yogurt and coffee and still nothing.

I have this pain in my abdomen too. I suspected some internal bleeding last week or the week before so I'm sure something is up. Just I don't know what I should do about it. I don't want to go back to the doctor and ask them to investigate something else again. I think after my liver scan and blood tests came up fine they'll think I'm lying or exaggerating. I just don't know what's wrong with me. Is it an impaction? Do I have something constructing my intestines? An ulcer? I have really bad acid reflux too. It's like my digestive system is too full and it's just not emptying. My waist feels huge. It makes me actually scared to eat for physical reasons, because if it's not stimulating my gut to move like it should be, then all I'm doing is putting more pressure on my insides.

I'm currently drinking some osmotic lax, which is all I can do. It's what you're supposed to do for impaction. I bought it specifically because I've had these problems before and you're not meant to take stimulant lax, and sometimes it'll resolve itself but it can still be painful and also it'll take longer. Osmotic lax doesn't work fast though - you have to give it a few days. During those few days I'm just reabsorbing waste matter from my intestines. Its disgusting and unhealthy. And when it finally does work, I might have the opposite problem. In the past I've been reluctant to take lax for this because I've had instances where it acted kind of like...a plug. That once it's passed, everything else goes way too fast after it. Sorry that's gross. I guess if anyone wanted more motivation to eat properly it's so your digestive system doesn't get fucked up like this. I noticed a lot of mucus not long ago so maybe the regular mucus layer got stripped and hasn't replenished. Idk.

Other than that there is family drama happening with my brother who is currently in a psych ward and my stupid mother who thinks the sun shines directly out of his anus. My entire life she's treated him like her precious baby and I've just been secondary. Maybe because she associated him with my older brother who died. Who fucking knows. But they're stressing me the fuck out and pissing me off. I keep telling her what to do and what not to do, which I get from trying to properly research his conditions and others similar and from having dealt with her when she was in a psychotic episode, and she just doesn't. She thinks if she just talks nice and loves him enough he'll get better. As if that isn't the whole reason he's a spoiled piece of shit who thought he could take all the drugs with no consequences. This probably sounds very hypocritical from an alcoholic who has trouble not drinking even after physical health problems, but there's much more to it in my brother's case that I cba to go into.

The worst part is she gives him all the attention and understanding that I want and haven't had. I've spent the last few days feeling especially lonely and invisible. I've been talking about it a bit on social media and only a couple of friends responded. Hb came up to my room and saw me crying and basically acted like an awkward dad. Bf hasn't acknowledged much of what I've posted and we still haven't spoken directly. If not for those few friends I might have done something drastic. I don't know. I need to know if I'm actually liked loved and cared for. Missed at all. Lockdown has fucked with it so much and I already had trouble with it. I feel like I need to do something big to get attention. I could just be honest about my feeling like I want to kill myself and see who responds. But I've spoken about it before and people just kind of 'haha same' if that. I don't know if they realise that I'm genuinely close to doing something, or just don't care.

I do have borderline personality disorder and I'm so aware of the stigma. I don't want to be manipulative or abusive. I want people to want to be around me, not because I forced them. I'm so scared of being needy or annoying or overbearing or anything like that. And then if I do say something, I'm already feeling really bad and struggling a lot, so for it to be ignored hurts so much. That's why I end up drinking. I already have trouble seeing my friends post about their struggles and get so much support and love offered, when I get barely any. One of my best friends also has BPD but also everyone loves her. She has a successful small business doing what she loves, if I go anywhere with her strangers stop her and compliment her or ask to take her photo but pretend I don't exist or give me a passing smile. It's not that I don't think she deserves those things or love and support. It's just that I want it too. She's one of the few people who's reached out to me recently and I really appreciate it. I guess she knows how it feels. I just wish I wasn't so jealous.

So for my brother to start saying stuff in the family group chat and my mum to just start fawning over him and all that? Just the extra salt I really didn't need in my wounds. For one thing, I told her not to play into how he is because he'll feed off the drama. I know this because of who he is, that he really is an attention seeker, and that all 3 of us have a tendency to get caught up in things. My brother and I inherit our cluster B personality traits from her. I told her not to get into it and remain impartial. She didn't. I even messaged her and my dad separately and told them that I called the hospital and asked them to check on my brother, but she hasn't given me so much as a thank you.

She's up early for work and I sleep on Mars time, so my dad is still asleep. He'll probably say something when he gets up in a few hours. It all feels backwards. He was so abusive to me growing up. He was unnecessarily strict and horrible to me all the time and kicked me out and disowned me regularly. He tore down my entire sense of self and called me stupid and made sure I realised that if I wasn't doing well it was my own fault and I wasn't trying hard enough. But now he keeps a level head and we reconnected after years of not talking because my brother and mum both had a psychotic episode at the same time a few years ago. I hated him so much but now his approval and support is worth the most. But it's the same problem again - he seems to genuinely realise now that his overly authoritarian parenting was wrong. It's just how it is in a lot of African cultures, and his father was especially abusive, so he wasn't well equipped. He's doing things differently with my younger half brother. But why couldn't it have been me? Why didn't I get to have a nice dad who acknowledges his humanity? My half brother deserves it, but why couldn't I have that while I was growing up too?

It just makes me feel really abandoned. In every situation, there's always someone else who gets what I want, and I don't. I hate my brother so much. I feel like it'd be better if he was dead. But then my mum would spiral, and I'm not really that cold, so I phoned the hospital to talk to them and get them to check on him. Phone calls make me so nervous. I was shaking. Before the call, while I made the call, and for a long time afterwards. I didn't even get acknowledged.

I want a drink.

[hookedontaronfics]

Honky Dancer - Chapter 9

Chapter title: Recovery and Reconciliation Read the previous installments here: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3  | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 Rating: M Pairing: Taron x OC Warnings: Mentions of an eating disorder, medical drama, subtle mentions of sex A/N: I know you all have been waiting to know the outcome of what happened after the cliffhanger I left with you last chapter. I truly apologize it took me so long to put this together, and I hope it lives up to all of your expectations. There’s not a lot of action in this, but there are a lot of emotions, so I hope you hang on for the ride. When things get dark, the people we love truly are the lights we keep fighting for. Always remember to be someone else’s light; it may save their life. X

Soft sheets, but not soft enough. Maybe the industrial-produced kind. A quiet whooshing noise. Dim light. The smell of antiseptic hanging heavy in the dry, static-filled air. When I first assumed consciousness, it hurt to open my eyes, so these were my first impressions of the world around me, from what I could sense. But while I could try to analyze the stimuli around me, I had very little sensation coming from my own body, and that concerned me more than anything. Of course, I was probably on strong painkillers, but the absence of pain made me feel no longer grounded. Instead, I just felt drained and lethargic, like it would take far too much effort to even lift my arm.

Where was I? What had happened? I fought through the mental fog clouding my thoughts as I tried to remember. We were filming, on set, of that I was certain. Flashes of dancing played behind my still-closed eyelids. I remembered how hot it felt that day, the shimmers of heat bending the air. I didn’t feel well, but I’d pushed through like the stubborn fool I was. I had… fainted? Collapsed? Given up? I wasn’t sure entirely, but now here I was, prone in a hospital bed and not sure what was going to happen next.

I groaned slightly and felt the need to move suddenly, shifting uncomfortably, slowly becoming more aware of the weight of tubes and wires snaking across my body. A low moan escaped me and then a voice asked “Juliette?”

I instantly popped my eyes open, the room a wash of white. I knew that voice, of course, but it wasn’t the one I’d been hoping to hear. “How are you feeling?” Markus asked concernedly.

“I’m stuck in a hospital bed, Markus. How do you think I feel? Like shit,” I said bitterly.

“Of course. Dumb question,” he said, not even blinking at my tone.

“Why are you even here?” I asked, staring at some point on the wall above his head. “And where is Taron?” I asked softly, despite myself.

“Your lover has been here already, but he couldn’t stay. He had obligations beyond you. He brought your phone and purse, they’re over there,” Markus sighed, running a hand through his hair. “But what happened to you, it concerns me too,” he said, not unkindly.

“Concerns you? Like you give a rat’s arse about me,” I said, angry at him, and angry at myself too. Angry at the world, really, but for what I couldn’t even define.

“It...affects me. Alright? I had a fucking personal stake in this whether I wanted it or not,” he said, his voice a bit choked up.

“What are you going on about, Markus?” I asked.

“The baby. Our baby. You … lost it,” he said, and I instantly felt my blood run cold.

“What?” I asked, struggling to sit up. 

“When they brought you to the hospital, you were dehydrated, and malnourished, and miscarrying. You lost the baby.”

No, no, it couldn’t be true. It couldn’t be real. I was still pregnant, I had to be.

“You didn’t take care of yourself, so you caused this. You killed our child,” he continued, his words turning sharp, ruthless, cutting deep. The pain that blossomed through me, no drug could touch.

“No,” I whispered, horrified at this new reality. A reality I wished I hadn’t woken up to. I felt sick to my stomach, hitting the call button for the nurse, certain I was going to puke in my own lap. The tears threatened at the corners of my eyes, but I refused to cry in front of Markus. He didn’t deserve my tears.

“You didn’t even care. You wanted me to get an abortion. How is this different? Why are you using this to hurt me?” I said, gasping for air, feeling like my lungs were seizing up in my chest.

“Oh, Juliette, it’s just simply what you deserve,” he said, those steely eyes of his as closed off as a mask. He delighted in my pain, a pain I couldn’t escape. I slowly smoothed my hands over my stomach, my hip bones protruding prominently, feeling empty in a way I had never known, not even in my darkest moments before.

“No,” I said again, feeling the grief compounding in my chest. I hadn’t known I was pregnant for very long, but that didn’t matter. The bond had been instant, the hope for this baby immense. I was its mother and now I had nothing - I would never hear its cry, I would never be able to nurse it, I would never sing it lullabies in the 3 a.m. dusk. There wouldn’t be belly laughs and first words, rounds of patty-cake and jars of baby food. There wouldn’t be tiny fingers and tiny toes to kiss, the sweet smell of milk breath, the discovery of new things. And I wouldn’t be able to experience those moments with Taron either. I felt a pang so deeply in my soul for him, an ache, a longing for him just to hold me in that moment. But there was distance between us now, and I didn’t know how he would respond to all of this either.

A nurse with a kind face and brown hair pulled tight in a ponytail swept into the room after knocking. “Glad to see you’re awake,” she smiled brightly at me, but I couldn’t return it. She seemed to notice my distress right away. “Oh honey, let’s make sure you’re more comfortable,” she said, checking all of the med levels on the IV machine before checking my vitals and sitting with me as I fought off the urge to puke, clutching a bucket to my chest. Markus was silent through all of this, scrolling through his phone like he hadn’t just caused me this torment.

“I’ll see if I can get the doctor in here shortly to talk to you. You’ve had a rough go of it but we’re going to get you back to normal, sweetie, I promise,” the nurse said kindly. While I tried to appreciate her kindness to me, it was hard to pull myself out of the depressive pit I was sinking into. I could feel the wave of hopelessness clutching at the edges of my psyche.

“Markus, could you leave me alone for a while? I need to rest,” I made sure to say in front of the nurse, hoping this would mean he’d have no choice but to leave.

“I can sit right here while you sleep,” he said, almost smugly, but that just made the panic rise in my chest. I could not be left alone with this man again.

“No, please, just go,” I said, clutching hard at the blankets.

“Perhaps it would be best if we give Juliette some space,” the nurse said, reading my distress and emphasizing the last word. She stood up and looked expectantly at Markus, who sighed and stood up himself after a beat of awkward silence, shoving his hands deep in his pockets.

“Good luck with everything,“ was all he said before striding out, and I felt both relief and also more alone than ever.

“Do we need to put a security alert out for him?” the nurse asked sympathetically, but I shook my head.

“Not necessary. He won’t be back. He’s my ex and, it ended painfully,” I said, wiping at my eyes quickly.

“He doesn’t seem like a very kind man,” the nurse observed. “You’re better off without him, honey.” After promising, again, to get a doctor in to visit me as quickly as she could and making sure I was otherwise comfortable, she left me with my thoughts, which were veering toward a dangerous place.

I finally had the space to let out the tears, crying so hard I knew I was leaving snot all over my pillow, but I didn’t have the capacity to care at the moment. Fat, hot tears rolled down my cheeks, unbidden, though I tried to keep the sobs that wracked my body as silent as possible. I could now place a finger on that empty feeling in my body; I was no longer pregnant, and I couldn’t hide from that harsh truth. The abyss of pain yawned wide in my chest, beckoning me into its darkness. I didn’t feel I had much to live for, and maybe non-existence would be better than this pain.

But then there was Taron, and if I had anything to keep fighting for, it was him. I couldn’t leave things the way they had been. I couldn’t allow my mess of a life to ruin his. This wasn’t how things should be. I sniffled slightly, trying to calm myself down. I’d spent my tears already, and now my head was throbbing and my chest hurt and my nose was congested, and I really didn’t feel any better. I saw a box of tissues on the nearby bedside table and grabbed one, wiping away my tears, my fingers brushing against a tube taped to the side of my face. I followed it to my nose, and realized, with a sickening shock, that I had been fitted with a nasogastric feeding tube; they were forcing nutrients into my starved body, and for some reason that made me angry. Who’s right was it to decide that?

But, rationally, that’s what had landed me in the hospital in the first place. That’s what had cost me my baby in the first place. They were trying to save my life, but was it worth it? That question would haunt me for a while.

I managed to doze off for a bit, exhausted by my emotions and my depleted body, but my sleep was restless, my dreams troubled. I woke to a very different presence in the room. “Taron.” I could barely make my voice work, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes already just to see him there.

He looked tired - no, exhausted, his hair a mess, probably stuck under a bald cap and wig all day, but there was only concern in his expression. Concern for me, but I’m not sure I deserved it. “Hey, I’m here now,” he said softly, reaching over and gently taking my hand in his, careful of the IV lines.

“Are you sure that you want to be?” I asked hesitantly, and Taron’s brow wrinkled like I was being ridiculous.

“Of course, why would I be anywhere else?” he asked softly, sweetly brushing my hair out of my face, his fingers coming to rest under my chin. “Seeing you fall put some things in perspective. I don’t want to hold onto my anger any more. So those things that happened before, they don’t matter to me.”

“But they should, Taron. They should. I lied to you, about a lot of things. I was scared, yes, but that doesn’t excuse it,” I replied weakly.

“And I’ve forgiven you, and it’s as simple as that. People say they forgive each other all the time but it’s not real if you still hold a grudge, if you still hold it against them. Real forgiveness takes trust and courage. All I know is that losing you isn’t an option for me. So first, we focus on your recovery. Then, we can work on the rest of it. Okay?” he said gently. I found it hard to meet his beautiful peridot gaze.

“But… You shouldn’t be with a baby killer, you’re too good for that,” I said resentfully.

“What?” he asked, genuinely confused.

“I lost the baby. Markus said it was all my fault,” I whispered.

“Markus doesn’t know shit,” Taron replied instantly. “We both know he’s an idiot, and he doesn’t know the situation at all, so don’t you dare believe a word he says. I spoke with the doctor myself. The baby had a genetic defect, Juliette. It was never going to survive. Maybe the malnourishment contributed to this all happening at the same time, but love, it wasn’t meant to survive. You didn’t do this, okay? It’s sad, and it’s awful, and we’re going to mourn it, but please don’t take on that guilt as yours. It’s not,” he whispered, his eyes growing watery too. He paused to wipe quickly at his eyes. “I had hopes for this too, you know. I was excited for what could be, for us. I’m not going to let you feel alone in this. The baby is gone, yes, but you are still here, and you are what I have to focus on. I need you to get better.”

“I just don’t know if I can,” I said, closing my eyes and sighing heavily.

“What, get better?” he asked, knitting his brows together again.

“Move forward. I’m not strong enough. I’m not sure I deserve anything more.”

“Hey,” he said, “that’s not true. You’re one of the strongest people I know, next to maybe my mam,” he added with a cute laugh. “I’m sure right now it doesn’t feel that way, but I know you. I see you. It’s going to take time and it’s going to take as many steps back as you take forward, but you can move forward, and you do deserve to be happy again. It’s painful now, yes, but not impossible. You have so much to look forward to still. You have me.”

I opened my eyes again and gazed at him for a moment, feelings tumbling and crashing through me, the depression and grief clashing with the hope and love I felt for Taron. That was definitely something I think we took for granted in life; that emotions weren’t simple, black or white. They didn’t come to us one at a time, perfectly lined up so we could deal with each one in its time. No, life was much more complex than that, and oftentimes we were battered in a sea of emotion, in a constant battle of contradiction. How did anyone ever figure themselves out?

“One day at a time, Juliette. I just need you to fight for you right now,” he continued after watching me wrestle with my inner turmoil.

I nodded and closed my eyes again. “Just so tired,” I murmured softly.

“You should sleep. I’ll be right here,” he said, pulling the blankets up around me again. I couldn’t help but smile over his tenderness, something he still wished to bestow upon me despite everything we’d been through. I felt myself slowly sliding toward sleep again, and gratefully surrendered. 

I wasn’t asleep for long, though, as a doctor arrived finally to advise me of my condition. He explained some of the obvious, corroborating what Taron had told me about my miscarriage, and also some of the less obvious problems, the dehydration and malnutrition that had caused my collapse and an acute kidney infection resulting from it, which I was now on heavy antibiotics for, and a concussion from hitting my head on the concrete road. My bloodwork levels were incredibly out of sync, and my body had been crashing hard when they rushed me into the ER, which was likely why I felt like shit now, lethargic and headachey and exhausted. I was also assigned a therapist, whom I was going to have to have consultations with over acute anorexia nervosa and depression. In other words, I was a complete and utter mess.

But somehow even worse than all of that was the fact that I’d managed to sprain my ankle too when I’d fallen. My leg was bound in a heavy plastic boot, which I discovered when I hastily yanked the covers back. I gasped and shook my head in disbelief; this directly threatened my livelihood and I didn’t know how I was going to cope.

I tried to not have a meltdown in front of the doctor and nurse and Taron, but I could feel it clawing at my brain. I grabbed my phone to try and distract myself, surprised by the many text messages from other dancers and my friends who knew what had happened, at least. I tried to respond to those as best I could after the doctor and nurse had excused themselves. I had several voice messages from Zayn and my mother, and I realized I needed to let them know I was going to be okay. The production, of course, had already contacted them, as was protocol in an emergency situation. But to hear from me would probably be good.

Just as I was dialing my mum’s number, though, a knock came on the door and she popped her head in. “Mum!” I nearly cried, struggling to sit up and nearly getting knocked back into the pillows by her embrace.

“Juliette, my darling, darling girl,” she said into my hair, running her fingers through it before holding me out at arms length and looking at me. “Don’t you ever, ever do that to me again. You scared me half to death. I had no idea you were so sick,” she said, tears running down her face. “Why didn’t you talk to me, honey? I could have helped you, I could have…” she said, her words cut off by her sobs.

“Oh god, mum,” I said, also tearing up and trying to hug her again. “Mum, I’m fine. I’m going to be okay. I promise,” I said, my voice breaking slightly.

“I know, honey. But I feel like I should have seen it. I should have noticed you were hurting,” she said, sitting on the edge of the bed, careful of my leg, which was resting on a pillow now.

“Mum, I hid it from everyone that ever loved me. I’m still sick, you know... in here,” I said, pointing at my head. “But I have people in my life worth fighting for, and I know that. Clara, you … Taron…” I smiled over at him, caught up in the emotion I saw there in his face. “It’ll be alright,” I whispered softly, finally laying back into the pillows, already worn out but happy to have my mum there.

We talked quietly for a while, and I’m pretty sure I went in and out of sleep, at least until the nurse came back to check my vitals and suggested I should eat something. I had no desire to eat but knew this was a major test I needed to get over if I was ever to get this damnable tube out of my nose. So I would have to pretend until it was no longer pretend, until my brain didn’t see food as the enemy. I ordered something off the menu that sounded remotely palatable, but when it arrived even the smell made me want to throw up.

Still, with my mum and Taron there to support me, I picked up the applesauce and slowly peeled back the lid. “You can do this, Juliette. You need to do this,” Taron said, watching me carefully, a supportive hand on my knee. My hand shook slightly as I picked up the spoon and dipped it into the applesauce, staring at it for probably uncomfortably long before finally putting the bite of applesauce in my mouth. It tasted okay, and my stomach even gave a small rumble, realizing, even if my brain didn’t, that I hadn’t eaten in over 24 hours.

I managed to swallow that first bite, and then it was like something inside my brain snapped, and I wolfed down the rest of the applesauce without another thought. I was hungry, absolutely starving, and no matter how much I worried about calories and being fat, I couldn’t deny the almost-nauseous pain in my stomach any longer. Soon after that applesauce, I dug into the other food on the tray, eating greedily and not seeing the looks my mum and Taron were exchanging, words being said without a voice.

“I need to pee,” I finally spoke up, pushing the food tray away from me.

“I’ll call the nurse,” my mum said, reaching for the button.

“No, I’ve got it,” I grumbled slightly, peeling off the covers and awkwardly swinging my legs over the side of the bed.

“I think we should get some help, babe,” Taron said hesitantly, instantly going to support me, as I was a bit precarious on the edge of the bed. A wave of dizziness passed over me, likely a result of my concussion, but I wasn’t willing to let that win.

“I have to try,” I said, gripping the bed railing tightly and slowly lowering my feet to the ground, the boot making a clunk on the cold tiled floor. I winced slightly, aware that my ass, clad in a massive pair of mesh granny panties to absorb the blood from my miscarriage, was open to the world in the starchy hospital gown, but my bladder was insistent. My mum carefully unplugged the IV from the wall so we could wheel the tower into the bathroom, and I carefully shifted my weight into my feet. Despite the support the boot gave, a sharp crack of pain ran up my leg, making me cry out and reach for whatever was nearby; thankfully, that was Taron, and he kept me from falling to the floor.

“I think we should have waited for help,” he said, as he clutched me tightly to his chest, helping me hobble to the bathroom before I had an accident on the floor. I had to admit he was probably right, as I sat there on the toilet, groaning silently as I relieved myself. Taron leaned in the doorway, his soft, caring, gentle eyes taking me in. He wanted to fix this all for me, I knew, but he couldn’t.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do, if I can’t dance,” I whispered softly, blinking in the harsh fluorescent light of the bathroom. “I’ll lose Rocketman, and my classes at the Academy, and then what am I? I’ve defined my life by dance.”

“I think right now is not the time to worry about the what ifs to come. You have a road of recovery ahead of you, and you are more important than any career. Besides that, most of the major dance numbers are already done, and you if you focus all of your energy on getting better, maybe you’ll be back in time for Bennie. But regardless of that, the most important thing is you right now. Your career can, and will, wait for you. You’re more than just a dancer to me, you know,” he said with a small smile. “You’re my girl, and I love you.”

His words hit me straight in the chest, and I cried for what felt like the 80th time that day. There I was, sobbing into a wad of tissue paper, goosebumps on my arms because it was cold, propped on the toilet and losing it over everything; it was not my finest moment, but no one was there to make me feel guilty over it either.

My mum had ended up calling the nurse, and she’d brought some crutches for me too, because I wasn’t supposed to put any weight on my leg for a while. After I managed to get myself sorted out, I hobbled back to the bed, and gratefully crawled in, exhausted by even just going to the bathroom. I really had done myself in, and it saddened me. I didn’t want to need help doing even basic things; I wanted to tell myself to get over it, to stop being so weak, but my body didn’t have a choice. I’d abused it, and now I was paying the price.

My head had started to throb by now, and my body ached everywhere. I was due for more painkillers, though, so the nurse changed out my IV bags so I could rest a little easier. She suggested my company give me time to rest, but I didn’t want Taron or my mum to leave just yet.

I asked after Troy, but my mom reassured me that my dog was with Madison and would be just fine. She had also contacted the Academy to let them know of my situation, and they had been nothing but concerned and understanding, which gave me a little bit of relief. Another knock on the door turned out to be Zayn, holding a bouquet of flowers, and Clara, who instantly ran over to me and launched herself into the bed. “Mummy!” she squealed as she flounced down beside me.

“Clara, be careful!” my mum chided, but I was happy to pull my daughter into my arms and hug her tightly.

“Oh, my Clara Bean,” I said, kissing her on the top of her head and smelling the sweet fragrance of the strawberry shampoo still lingering in her hair.

“We came as soon as we could,” Zayn said, setting the vase on the bedside table and kissing me lightly on the forehead.

“Thank you, those are beautiful,” I smiled.

“How are you feeling?” he asked quietly.

“Not great at the moment, but I’ll be okay,” I replied, watching as Zayn and Taron shook hands and greeted each other with pats on the shoulder. Zayn really had come a long way in just the past few months, I had to give him that.

We talked for a bit but the heavy arm of sleep was beckoning to me like a warm, cozy blanket, and I couldn’t fight it off any longer. I’m sure at some point they all figured out I had dropped off, and the next time I woke up, it was quite late and I was alone in the dark room. There was a note on the bedside table for me, scribbled in Taron’s handwriting, promising he’d stop by in the morning before going to set; I couldn’t begrudge him wanting to shower and actually get a good night’s sleep. My body was on fire, but I hesitated to hit the call button, figuring this pain was a sort of penance to be paid for all the wrong I’d done in my life.

I wasn’t a bad person, no, I didn’t believe that. Deep down, I’d always had good intentions. I loved the people around me, but when you’re a broken person, the way you love is broken too. And I knew Taron saw that, and understood that, even more than me. He was patient and kind in ways I didn’t deserve, but he gave that to me anyways. The only way I could begin to make amends, to try and fix the pain I’d caused him, was to try and love him the best I could. And that started with me, with fixing myself. I decided, then and there, that no matter how painful it would be, I would let the therapist dig deep, deeper than I’d ever let myself go, into the places I’d long ago sewn shut, the things I’d tried to forget. If I was ever going to heal, I needed to discover how deep the wounds were, and forgive every single person in my life that had caused that pain, and apologize to the little girl I was who lost her innocence long ago.

I slept fitfully for a while, waking up from troubled dreams, dreams full of memories of my father before he left, when he was drunk all the time and shouting and breaking things, scaring my mum and me, the times I hid in the bathroom cabinets, clutching my stuffed patchwork bunny until my mum would tearfully come find me, long after dad had passed out on the couch.

I’m pretty sure the nurse gave me more painkillers at some point in the night, because I woke from a deep, dreamless sleep the next morning to Taron’s sweet kisses peppering my face. “Morning, love,” he said with that adorable boyish grin of his. I smiled, happy at least to see him freshly showered and awake. I still felt exhausted, but that was probably how it would be for a while, until I recovered some more.

“G’morning,” I murmured softly, trying to shake the sleep out of my eyes. I had a dull headache but otherwise felt a little better than the day before. I had no idea when I’d be able to leave; there were more tests to be done before being discharged would even be considered. I giggled when Taron barged his way onto the bed, scooting me over gently, ever-careful of my tubes and wires. He cradled me in his arms, and I was all too happy to lay my head on his chest, hearing his heart beating.

“I think this might be against hospital protocol,” I said, actually laughing.

“Fuck the protocol. I’ve got this hot babe in my arms, so I think I might need treated too, for heatstroke,” he smirked.

“What? That doesn’t even make sense, T!” I giggled, but he didn’t care if it was stupid, he was just happy to see me smiling and laughing again. I was even hungry in the morning, so I ordered eggs and fresh fruit and Taron sat with me while I ate, finishing off my toast when I didn’t touch it.

He hated having to leave me but I didn’t mind so much, just grateful that he wanted to be there with me at all. “Go on, go be Elton and be great at it,” I smiled. “You know where I’ll be,” I smiled as he left a sticky jam kiss on my cheek.

“Of course. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” And with a wave, he was gone, but I didn’t have very much time to be bored. After posting something to social media and responding to more texts and chat messages, I had another steady stream of visitors, Leah and Pietre and Dennis included, and several other dancers I had come to call friends. I was touched by the outpouring of love and support. My mum visited again, grateful to see me in better spirits than the day before. And of course Madison came, bringing a massive bouquet that was so large it took up an entire corner of the room and perfumed the air with its floral fragrance.

“You’re ridiculous,” I said, but couldn’t help but laugh. She painted my nails while chatting about all the drama I was missing at the Academy, and if I closed my eyes I could very nearly pretend we were just sitting on my couch with wine and containers of Chinese takeout spread out before us. It made me feel normal, and not just like the “sick girl.” She even made me promise that I’d get better or she’d kick my ballerina ass, and I was grateful she didn’t pity me because pity wouldn’t get me through this.

So between visits and further medical tests, mostly to rule out any other issues, the day passed on quickly, and I received some good news by the evening. The doctor determined that come morning I could be sent home, where they were certain I’d be more comfortable, with one caveat; I had to keep the feeding tube for a few more weeks at best, until I could prove I was no longer a danger to myself. But I had been clear to the therapist that I was aware of my shortcomings, the control issues and painful past, the things that drove me to try and control my food intake in the first place. I wanted to get better, and that was crucial; you couldn’t make someone change if they were unwilling to do so. And I genuinely wanted to do better, even if trying to convince myself that my worth was more than my waistline would be an uphill battle.

Taron, of course, did his best to convince me I should hole up in his house with him, where he could keep a closer eye on me, and I didn’t have the energy to argue. So the following morning, after being instructed on how to prepare the feeding pump and bags, and getting me back into my real clothes, I happily signed the papers for dismissal. There would of course be follow-ups and therapist appointments, but this small step in my recovery was important. My mum had promised to keep an eye on my house for a while, and after stopping by to collect more clothes and toiletries and my phone charger and anything else that might be useful, Taron got me settled in on his couch with free reign of his Netflix. It wasn’t a bad arrangement, and I felt much better after I finally got a proper bath, with only a little help from Taron getting in and out of the tub with my bum leg.

While he was away filming, I decided I wasn’t just going to be this invalid in need of his total care, so after hobbling to the kitchen and snooping around in his fridge, I decided to make a curry for when he came home. It took a while to figure out a rhythm with the crutches, but eventually I had a skillet full of lean beef and green curry simmering away and a pot of rice steaming too. I’d just set out bowls and a basket of naan bread on the table when Taron came home again, surprised, of course, by my surprise.

“What is this, babe! You didn’t have to. I’m supposed to spoil you, you know,” he grinned.

“I dunno, I wanted to,” I said as he wrapped his arms around my waist and kissed me gently. “You didn’t have to do any of this for me. You don’t have to earn your way back into my good graces,” he said, gently tipping my face up to look at him.

“I want to give back. I feel like all I do is take and take, and all I’ve done is manage to hurt you. I want this to be an equal relationship,” I tried to explain.

“I don’t think you take and take from me and give nothing back. You make me happy, Juliette. You make me laugh. You support what I do, and you believe in me. You’re not here for my money or good looks,” he said sweetly.

“Well…maybe the good looks,” I teased lightly, making him chuckle.

“Giving back to me doesn’t have to be tangible goods. I don’t operate in black and white like that. You give back simply by being perfectly imperfect you.”

“Yeah, but you are perfectly perfect, so I feel inadequate all the time.”

“What? I’m not perfect. God… I have my flaws. I’ve been jealous, and angry, and bitter over things. I’ve been distant and cold to you too. I drink too much and don’t get enough sleep and sometimes let my house go to shit. I’m not perfect, I just try. I make the effort. It’s high time you had someone in your life making that effort for you.”

“You say such sweet things to me,” I replied softly, somehow struggling to comprehend he was saying these words to me.

“Well I mean them, so get used to it. You need to get used to being happy. Now, shall we eat this curry before it gets cold?”

“Yeah, of course,” I said lightly, both of us tucking into our bowls. I even managed to eat a few strips of naan, and considered it a victory; a small one, but life had to be lived by the small victories sometimes. We finished our food, had a lazy evening cuddling on the couch with a film we didn’t spend much time actually watching, and rather than waking me after I unintentionally dozed off, Taron carried me to bed.

Or at least I assumed that’s what happened, because I woke up some time in the night, needing to use the bathroom, Taron snoring softly next to me. As I watched him sleep, his chest rising and falling in the darkness, shadows shifting over his face, I realized how much I had truly missed him. How much I needed him. How much I wanted him.

An uncomfortable throbbing need woke up in my groin and I groaned slightly. My body could be a real asshole sometimes. I made myself get out of bed to prevent myself from waking Taron from his slumber, though I’m quite certain he probably wouldn’t have minded if I chose to have my way with him. I also just wasn’t in any shape to have sex at the moment, still bleeding and sore down there anyway. At least I wasn’t totally dead inside, I thought ruefully as I strapped myself back into my boot and stomped as quietly as I could to the bathroom, cringing every time the boot scraped over the wooden floor. I didn’t have to sleep in the thing, but I really couldn’t walk without it at the moment either.

After taking care of my needs I stared at myself in the mirror, at my pale face and rumpled hair and dull eyes, and sighed. I had no idea how Taron still found me attractive at all. But I could be that girl again, if I worked hard enough at it.

I returned to the bed and when I laid back down Taron rolled over and nuzzled into my neck. “Where’d you go?” he murmured, kissing my neck sweetly.

“I had to pee,” I laughed, shrugging at how easy it was to just announce that.

“Well, I hope it was a good trip then,” he giggled, sleep still thick in his voice.

“Um, yeah, it was adequate,” I joked back, running my fingers through his soft, fluffy hair. The movie had yet to hack his hair up but I knew that was coming very soon.

“Glad my facilities are up to your standards,” he snickered back. “God I love you,” he added, his breath hot on my neck and not helping the state of my arousal.

“I know,” I smiled, as he continued to kiss my neck, his fingers slowly working their way under my camisole, caressing the skin of my stomach. “I can’t, you know, not yet,” I whispered, and he sighed softly, light spilling in from between the blind slats reflecting in the deep orbs of his eyes.

“You should get some sleep,” he said, withdrawing his hand and making me sigh shakily.

“I want you, I just, my body,” I tried to explain, not very well, squeezing my eyes shut.

“It’s okay,” he grinned, kissing the tip of my nose cutely. “I know,” he said in return, pulling the blankets around me and humming softly as he settled in to fall asleep once more, his arm draped sweetly over me.

This was what I wanted the rest of my life to look like, this moment, a beautiful man beside me who stole my breath away, who didn’t judge me for my failings, who adored me and loved me with a love so pure I didn’t always know how to carry it. If there was anything to fight for, I knew it was a future with him.

Will Juliette continue to fight for herself, and for a future with Taron? Or will she let ghosts of her past haunt her? Keep reading to find out - Chapter 10, Coming Soon!

[hobohumanitarian6]

This is a long post so please be warned!!! I need to get some things off my chest....

⚠️ TRIGGER WARNING POSSIBLE⚠️

Feedback to this post is open-ended. You cannot offend me and will not be blocked.

⭐ So here's the thing: one of my late grandmother's friends just posted that her 29 year old son died in his sleep with seemingly no explanation. This really shook me I guess. For one, I used to hang out with this kid during the summers a lot. My specific memories are very vague, but deep in my consciousness I know that I have called him friend in the past. For another, many things lately have been prompting me to ask the difficult questions ie

Why in the fuck am I here?

What's the meaning of it all?

When is my life going to get better?

How do I prepare myself for better things?

Am I blocking me or is something else blocking me?

What am I doing wrong that the universe doesn't think I'm ready for a new chapter?

Am I really with the right person?

What about the afterlife?

Am I going to be silenced or speak out?

What if I can't do some of things I want/dreamed of?

What is going to satisfy me if my future doesn't go as planned?

⭐ I've been doing quite a bit of soul searching through all of this, established the framework of the person I want to be and

BAM! 🧱 💥 🏃🏻‍♀️

Straight into a fucking. Brick. Wall.

⭐ I am in one of the worst continental states in the US (by even statistic) and before all of the shutdown and pandemic began, I had plans to be relocated with my new job, a place to call home & reunited with family by June 1st. Clearly that didn't happen....

⭐ I am spending $900 a month for a 250 ft² motel room just so I am not out on the streets.

Homelessness. Can we talk about that for a second? People getting arrested for being out past curfew because they don't have a place to go, put in jail because they're in the way, not tested or treated for the virus because they generally have no insurance, giving people loads of food stamps so the emergency assistance funding is broke-

600 dollars of groceries is a lot if you have a fridge, freezer, microwave, oven, toaster, etc not if you have to buy your food from overpriced convenience stores and gas stations and fresh food from grocery stores that 70% of the price is for the packaging it comes with!!

Soup kitchens closing because they don't want to risk contamination. Who's feeding those without a hot meal? Do they realize malnourishment is the quickest way to get sick with any pathogen!?

Shelters closed because of overpopulation. Domestic violence homes turning battered women and children away because there's too scarce of resources and funding. Yet people care about big corporations going bankrupt? Please tell me what the difference is between a goddamn human fucking life and a couple lawsuits because you didn't know how to prepare for an ever-changing economy.

Thank the universe i am sheltered with minimal resources to take care of myself and I have a steady job due to an enormous company's "chance on a down-in-the-dumps contractor." This job I have held steadily for a year despite chronic health issues has been the best thing to happen to me by far in a long time. I am definitely not by any means complaining about my job or that I even have life necessities right now. Several million don't have that.

⭐ The problem with this state is there are no resources for a person who's struggling to make an honest living. I lost my apartment two years ago because I had to take a medical leave of absence at my job then, got behind on rent and was evicted without a chance to catch up. The power was cut three nights before I had to leave, and I owe a deposit on the electric company to get any type of service back in my name. The realty company who owns the apartment complex will not allow a payment plan without a fraction of the principle paid down, so therefore I cannot apply for private or realty housing and I have been on the waiting list for federal housing assistance for 3 years without a single word. I also had my bank card stolen with my ID when I was trying to catch a bus to work a few weeks after that so whoever it was made small purchases that my bank applied interest and late charges to so that is also standing in debt. Thank universe my current employer allows direct deposit to a savings account at a bad credit institution or I'd be royally fucked.

⭐ Before I made the hard decision to doll out almost a G a month just for a room, I tried sleeping in my pickup. I even took the effort to pallet it for a platform bed & make benches to live in free campgrounds, cemeteries, truck stops, boonie dead ends, and behind abandoned buildings. I had a 12V converter that I connected to a rice cooker and made a tin can stove to grill small portions of meat on a single-egg mini skillet. I kept getting chased off by rangers, cops, annoying people trying to do crack and not get their lives better, and eventually violently detained for "suspicious activity" - I was thrown on the ground, put in handcuffs, patted down by a male officer with no female present, searched my vehicle without consent & written a citation: this was 2 am, I had a campsite reservation, I was clearly sleeping & my vehicle was current. The officers did not give me their name or numbers so I could not make a report.

⭐ I have chronic health issues - hip dysplasia & hyper mobility (not severe enough to be EDS), anemia, rexhia (NOT PRO ANYTHING), pre diabetes, H.S, BPD, PTSD, endometriosis & chronic migraines. I have filed time and time and time again for medical assistance but have always been denied. Every time I try to see a doctor, they claim I have this-or-that infection caused by this-or-that disorder, sent to an overpriced pharmacy with illness-irritating antibiotics that just keep me in an unending cycle of flares and barely-managable pain. Do not let anyone privileged or wealthy confuse you - you are not treated the same if you don't have coverage. Sorry to say but it is indeed a fact.

⭐ With this job I work 40-50 hours a week, eat as healthy as I can on a dime sized budget, and cover all my expenses. Yet I cannot move forward in this state on to better things. I want so badly to have a family, to go to college, etc but I cannot do this with living month to month someplace that isn't even my own.

⭐ The emotional affect this has had on me is tremendous. I am embarrassed of my situation, and never allow any guests in fear they'd judge me. I never take any photographs, which is heartbreaking because it has been one of my long-time hobbies. I am extremely guarded and I lie about small details to protect myself. I have severe trust issues and I always hold a dagger at my waist because I have to assume any minute you'll pull out a Glock.

⭐ Naturally I am an empath and this has brought me more compassion and understanding than I ever thought possible. The police brutality against people of color and racism in socio-economic programs truly breaks my heart because as a white female and all the struggles and discrimination I've endured, I can only begin to understand it's 1000x harder for people of color especially. I stand behind your protests 100%. I beseech you, go fight for what you deserve! I will be begging higher powers for your protection indefinitely!

⭐ I have gained a new perspective on non-profit organizations and volunteer work. Some are truly amazing and their stories move people to tears; others are truly wicked stealing from the poor, embezzling cash flow for their own vanities. Please please please research the charity you are interested in thoroughly before getting involved. Volunteer work will always be appreciated- and will teach you many invaluable lessons. If you help these organizations and need help yourself: respect yourself, hold yourself high, and ask for the assistance. They will generally be more inclined to help. If you are turned away, try not to be bitter. Administrators only do as they see fit.

⭐ That's another thing - bitterness. This has been the most vile and roughest character default I've ever had to battle with myself. When you've been through the shit and you can't see the sewer (sts) it's so easy to stay in the dumps. It's so easy to feel entitled because you've clawed your way to the top. It's easy to feel angry with everyone because it's you vs the system. It's so fucking easy to give up completely and stop trying and just lay down and die. It's easy to step in front of a two ton bus, oncoming freight train, taking the entire package of extra strength Excedrin not because you have a migraine, but just not to feel a thing, go completely numb for one single second. It's easy to go down to the head shop and get a nickel bag of weed to chill and get a 5$ pizza and forget you have responsibilities.

IT'S SO FUCKING TOUGH MAN

⭐ Growing up strictly religious, I tend to shy away from Christianity or other "preachy religion" now. I hate having Jesus shoved down my throat at a service before a hot meal on a Tuesday night and the "speaker" automatically assuming I need to stop smoking crack and going to jail and get my life back on track and God will bless me when I'm in the 46% who has never been to county and hold a job while trying to get back on my feet.

ADDICTION IS NOT POVERTY GUYS

I still support people who go to church and speak in tongues if that satisfies them. I still support people who are strictly vegetarian and make a pilgrimage to the mecca if that satisfies them. I still support people who have 7 two week long feasts a year for something that happened 4000 years ago if that satisfies them. I still support people who believe in baptisms for the dead and not drinking coffee if that satisfies them. I still support people who call Jesus the Nazarene and believe that Lucifer the Dark Lord will prevail if that satisfies them. I still support people who call down the power of the moon into their plant babies and give thanks to the triple goddess if that satisfies them. I support religion or practices of all kinds.

I believe I was meant to be tolerant and be good to others. That this life will give back what you put in. That there is a higher power that governs all and it is up to you to determine just what that is to you. Not to tell people what is wrong with their lives just based on your personal story.

⭐ During this pandemic, I have done a lot of soul searching. Journaling, listening to podcasts, listening to seminars on values I'd never know existed, trying to discover who I am. This journey has included empathy training, reiki, yoga, somatic movement, feldenkrais methods, and astral meditation. I just have a list of these questions I'd like answered or given suggestions to:

What do you believe is the meaning of life? Is there any philosophers, speakers, teachers, theologians, writers, musicians etc that can help answer this?

What is your definition of religion in it's rawest form?

Do you know of any resources I may not have thought of?

Is there any criticism you can give good or bad?

Am I focused on one thing and neglecting another?

Do you have any further opinions on the topics listed above?

Do you have a suggestion of the next right step?

Do you have ideas on how I can help with the aforementioned problems?

How do I stop feeling like I'm wasting my time?

How do I find contentment in everything should I die tomorrow?

What is your opinion of the afterlife?

How do you find happiness in the midst of bullshit?

What did a friend/relative/mentor tell you when you were going through an existential crisis?

Have you felt trapped too? Due to the covid or otherwise?

Any curse words, songs, books, movies, etc of use?

🌸🌸I sincerely appreciate any feedback 🌸🌸

[full-course-identity]

What are your thoughts on Jeremy and addiction to drugs? I really enjoy your character interpretations.

oooo, lemme see; here’s some scattered birdbrain seeds:

so i fully admit the reason i go after this angle specifically (similarly to the psychosis one) is because of personal and familial experience. my entire family has been in varying degrees of addiction to the whole chemical spectrum out there, and as such i tend to like to toy with the idea in fandom anyway. but!

depending on the jeremy (will r is more neurotic but Doing Bad Things tm, but will c is more... feral), he’s either shocked about rich’s whole HIIHAVEAMAGICPILLTHATCANFIXALLYOURSHIT schtick, or he’s, like, mildly terrified

but he doesn’t... i mean. he doesn’t go No, not in the albums. he’s a little suspicious on will c’s end i think, but i get the impression from all of them that like...

... it wouldn’t be hard to convince him. he almost certainly smokes weed--THAT ISN’T ME SAYING WEED’S A GATEWAY--with michael, so he’s already cautiously willing to break the law, and isn’t exactly unfamiliar with something that alters his mood.

not just that, but, i mean. if he was willing to drop hard cash on the dream of a pill that had could fix him... if rich was a drug dealer and was like “hey this’ll make you chill the fuck out, gimme 50 bucks”... it’s not a stretch to say he might?

so, knowing that he’d try--that doesn’t prove he’d get addicted. some people don’t have the right genetics or mental illnesses or physical pain for it. they don’t tell you this pretty much anywhere, usually, but a lot of people actually try hard drugs once or twice. only a portion of them turn around and become substance dependent.

so. does jeremy have the right concoction of stress and dna and other life unpleasantries?

yeah. he does. of course he does. look at him. he’s full of anxiety. his mother left him and he’s very clearly taking care of his father. when that’s taken into account, it makes his willingness to jump on a supposed magic pill (hah, literally) quite telling.

for as memey as you could make the idea, be more chill literally does work incredibly well as a drugs metaphor. i’m not subscribing to that view of the story as a whole, but that’s part of why i feel so comfortable about exploring this with the main character himself

(it can also work as a psychosis metaphor too tbqh, but that’s a little more complicated)

of note: this is JUST his time in high school. while you be able to argue “he only gets better from here! :D” in my experience (of which i have a lot) that’s not how it happened. 

this was my same complaint with the DEH ending (that’s not a dig at DEH fans! i just have... complicated, irrelevant feelings about it); chances are, while teenage years might be the most desperate and potentially the most dangerous (super quick to tip into suicidal thoughts), you go through another big mental health crash around 18-21, and, depending on accessibility to GOOD resources, your only options might be your own survival instincts... and the thing about hard drugs? the reason most people relapse? yeah--being drugged up is better than being dead. depression and anxiety kill. your brain needs a break or a boost. heroin or coke or whatever the fuck else can do that for some people.

you add that to a bunch of disorders where you’re basically 75% likely or some shit to develop an addiction annnnnd...

anyway if i go off my normal “jeremy is clinically hypersexual, like, the actual condition” then he basically already one addiction. if he sleeps around, esp if he sucks it up and goes to parties or night clubs, he’ll very quickly learn the euphoria that initially comes with party drugs and being high while having sex and how amazing self-medication can be after years of struggling to breathe through daily panic attacks.

not to mention, psychosis? seems to really encourage drug use. just not the wrong ones (some people with psychosis literally can’t stand so much as the smell of weed it makes them feel so awful and/or angry and/or exceptionally paranoid... sometimes it depends on the strain, tho).

on top of all this: the squip incident is Trauma. i... don’t see it as Trauma-traumatic for anyone but him and rich, but for them, it was a big deal. and whaaaaaat do traumatized people do to cope? yeah, it certainly ain’t pickin daisies.

but. all this to say: jeremy queere has bad coping mechanisms