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krakenartificer · 11 months

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Notes on therapist selection

(From someone who is getting a good grade in Having a Therapist, something that is both normal to want and possible to achieve)

Some friends were discussing their work to find a therapist today, and I noticed some unspoken assumptions that can sometimes get in the way of finding someone who's a good fit for your recovery needs, especially around deciding what specializations to look for when no one covers the full range of your crazy. So a list of things to think about that -- as always -- may or may not be useful to anyone except me.

1) On overlapping specializations Anyone who specializes in ADHD or Autism will also have experience dealing with trauma, because every school system I've ever encountered has been traumatizing for NDs. They may or may not call it trauma in their own minds, but they know how to handle "a bad thing happened in my past and it's fucking up my present" problems.

Likewise, everyone who specializes in trauma has experience with anxiety. PTSD was, until 2013, classified as an anxiety disorder. DSM-V puts it in its own category for presumably good reasons, but everyone with PTSD has anxiety (or close enough that you can't specialize in trauma without knowing how to deal with anxiety).

That said ... 2) On picking your therapist based on vibes

Vibes are really more important than specialization. Specialization is important if, like, you have one (1) specific problem and you are looking for a solution for that problem. Like, if your life is fine except that you have ADHD and the executive dysfunction is causing you to be unable to write English essays, then you definitely want an ADHD specialist. But if your opening session is going to be

Therapist: So what brings you in? Me: Well! -straightens lapels- -pulls out easel- -pulls out prepared presentation notes- I have a list

Therapist: So what brings you in? What changes are you looking to make? Me: This -gestures- Therapist: You just pointed to all of you Me: Yes.

then any generic psychologist is as good as any other. You got shit in your head and you gotta detangle it and it's all snarled together anyway, so it's a lot more important that you find someone who you're willing to be working with for years.

3) On finding "the one"

Odds are really really good that you're gonna have more than one therapist in your recovery arc. I did 2 years with one who specialized in psychological impacts on physical health, and it did so. much. for me, and I don't regret it for a moment, but also ... I reached a point where that wasn't the specialization I needed anymore, and also the shit in my head I needed to deal with was the kind of shit that (for trauma reasons) I couldn't talk about to someone in that therapist's demographic. So I left that practice, and found my current therapist.

My current therapist is great, and I'm really glad I'm working with him, but it's entirely possible that he's not going to be able to sort out this entire mess. We may reach a point where his specialties of relationships and adhd are not my bottlenecks any more, and he doesn't really have the tools he needs to handle what my next bottleneck is, and I'll go find someone else who can meet my needs at that time. This is normal and expected, and it's entirely fine to plan on it by (for example) deciding that you want a specialist in this thing right now, and you'll go find a specialist in this other thing later.

4) On Shopping

It's entirely reasonable to have more than one therapist this week. You are in no way expected or required to pick a single therapist based off of some profile pictures, a bio on the website, and a phone call, and then you're stuck with them forever. It is normal and understood that you will set up appointments with half a dozen therapists, and then pick two (or three) to do another session with, before settling into a single choice. Or don't! If you like two therapists for different reasons, and you'd rather work with them simultaneously instead of serially, then feel free to schedule with twice as many therapists, half as often. This ain't a wedding; you don't have to restrict yourself to only one.

Narrow down your choices as quickly as you want to based on your anxiety about not having a decision, based on your executive dysfunction and inability to track multiple things, based on how you feel about each one ... but don't narrow them down to one just because you think that's "the rules", somehow.

5) On Being Abrasive

If you know, upfront, what some of your dealbreakers are, just straight-up say that as you're scheduling the appointment or in the first session. My last therapist became a problem for me because she expressed empathy in a way that was too similar to the way my abuser used weaponized politeness to deny me boundaries; I couldn't talk to her about my violations because her demeanor was too similar to the person who violated me. So when I first talked to my current therapist, I told him, "I need someone who, if they think I'm full of shit, will say 'I think you're full of shit.'" He replied "One of my other clients calls me 'Deadpool'." I said, "Perfect. Let's give it a shot."

So if you really care that someone will let you schedule appointments online, or will never touch your wrist, or will treat your "disorder" as a neurodivergence to be accommodated rather than a problem to be solved, then say so. The sooner you both know that, the better: if you have particular needs, they need to know that now; and if they're not willing to meet your needs, YOU need to know that now.

(You will not, of course, always know your dealbreakers upfront. When I picked my first therapist, my primary problem was hip pain, and I didn't know it was PTSD. It was through her help that I realized that (a) I had trauma and (b) she was way too like my abuser for me to treat PTSD with her. This was not a failure. This was a massive success, because learning that was what allowed me to find someone who could help me (see point #3). It's fine if you don't know, right now, what you need -- that's part of why vibes are so important (see point #2). But whatever information you can give them, it is helpful to do so, and (despite what people in your past have implied) it is not rude, it is beneficial and desired.

6 - not advice, just a reminder

You are beautiful and brave and strong and I am so proud of you for fighting through all the shit -- both internal and external -- to get yourself help. No one ever talks about how hard it is to get to the point where you schedule that first meeting with that first therapist, and I want you to know that it is painful, it is challenging, and you're not lazy or stupid or whatever other lie your brain is telling you.

#therapy #how to life #how to recovery #long post #recovery #trauma cw #abuse cw #mental illness cw #gpoy #PTSD cw

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lilyoffandoms · 3 months

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Time & Again (Blades)

A gift for @saibug1022 from @oh-so-youre-a-nerd (art exchange) featuring Salem’s MC, Asterin. Implied or referenced relationships: Asterin x Tyril; Asterin x Mal; Asterin x Aerin; Tyril x Mal. (So yes, that ask was from Thia but on my behalf hehe).

Warnings & A/N: This fic deals with canon compliant kindnapping, torture, and trauma. It also features medical torture and experimentation, compliant with this fic by Salem. ~3200 words

[Huge thanks to my proof-readers. Any mistakes are mine not their’s. There is only so much you can get me to edit haha.]

A bright, unnatural light overhead.

Thick, suffocating shadows blotting out the room.

Gleaming scalpels and saws reflecting that light into the shadows where it is consumed. Along with what little hope he may have clung to.

There is only that familiar all-consuming dread.

They are only snatches of memories, glimpses really, he can’t call them anything else. Nightmares maybe? For those bits of memory, visions, reality - he doesn’t know - what he does know is they are the only things to fill his waking dreams and haunt his sleepless nights.

He wants to close his eyes to escape but she waits for him on the other side. There is no escape and yet he succumbs to sleep where he is met with exactly what he feared he would find. What he always finds.

He’s not sure what is real and what blanks his mind is simply filling in to try and cope with the trauma. But he knows one thing-

She stands over him.

That’s how it always starts. Her over his prone, scared and beaten body.

At first she simply looks him over, taking notes here and there in the eerie quiet of the laboratory. Weeks, days, hours later - he doesn’t know - her examinations turn to poking and prodding. Measurements taken and written down in the margins of a parchment she keeps referring back to.

The feeling of emptiness is all that fills him.

He is alone.

So very alone.

The feeling that comes next - weeks, days, hours later - drowns out that emptiness. That dread is replaced by a deeper, more excruciating one.

The pain is all that fills him.

He is reminded he is not alone.

So very much not alone.

He jerks awake in the warm night of the Deadwood. It’s as dark as his memories. He watches Mal stoke the fire before Tyril throws another branch on.

“Do you think he remembers more than he’s telling us?” Mal whispers as Tyril takes a seat beside him on the cooling ground and wraps his arms around the rogue.

Asterin closes his eyes again and listens.

“You believe he would keep vital information from us?”

“No. No. Not like that sort. He said he was experimented on but doesn’t remember much,” Mal trails off as Tyril nods his head in understanding.

“It is possible.”

“Why won’t he talk to us about it?”

“He will when he is ready. Until then, we wait and offer what support we can.”

“Maybe I should go talk to him?”

She stands over him.

He’s back on that cold, metal table. He watches as she picks up a blunt ended scissors. He feels the cold metal on his skin as she slips it around the hem of his shirt and works her way up.

It is an out of place sound in so quiet a room. The tear of threads and the rhythmic click of the blades meeting as they get closer and closer to his neck.

He holds desperately still, not a single breath taken until she slips his tunic open and sets the scissors aside.

Weeks, days, hours later, who can say, his eyes fall closed and he reminds himself to breathe.

Breathe.

And he does, until that very breath is stolen from his lungs as he opens his eyes and finds her watching him. Her gaze is steady, cold, empty. Her face is the same mask until the smallest of grins tugs at her lips and her gaze turns bright and a unearthly fire lights her eyes in wicked mockery of his fear.

He jolts to the surface and sucks in a deep, cleansing breath of air as he swims through the murky water to the shoreline, crowded thick with all manner of lush, verdant life.

“Asterin!”

The cry greets him before he sees two sets of boots wade into the water to help pull him to shore. He waits, bent over, for his heart to calm down as Imtura stands beside him, on guard and at the ready. Tyril kneels down beside him in the mud and tilts his face up.

“Are you okay, Asterin?”

It’s a soft question.

He shakes his head, and the bad memories from him, and stands up as Mal calls out.

“Where’s Nia?”

She stands over him.

She picks up a needle and plunges it unceremoniously into his arm. He grits his teeth as she digs around until she finds a vein. She works methodically to attach a tube to it and he can only watch in horror as his blood drains from his body.

“It will help,” she says cooly.

“With what? Dying?” he quips.

“With what is to come next for you Realm-Walker.”

Her all-too-pleased grin is the last thing he sees before his body protects him and he passes out.

Weeks, days, hours later, he is awake and wishes he was not. The light is far too bright for his eyes and his mind swims as he struggles to move his head and regain his bearings.

Everything hurts and he is alone.

So very alone.

And yet he knows she’s there.

Not so very alone.

He can hear the quill scrap across the parchment, her gentle breathing, the lower murmur of many voices somewhere in the distance. Even the obsessive silence is loud.

She looks up as he groans at the pain his movements cost him and scowls at him before turning her attention back to her notes.

He starts as his hand falls on his shoulder.

“It’s okay, Asterin. Breathe.“

He turns slowly to face the person speaking to him, a part of him fearing the face won’t match the voice. But he finds he can breathe when that unsure smirk greets him.

“Aerin?”

“I’m right here.”

He shakes the already fleeting feelings of dread that cling to him but he can’t shake that all-consuming, bone-numbing fear he seems to carry with him now wherever he goes. He can’t shake the memory of her cold, calculating eyes, or the chill that runs down his spine upon remembering her smile.

mmm

The people of Riverbend draw his attention back and he smiles the same smile he has practiced since returning to this realm. What was it? Weeks, days, hours ago?

He doesn’t remember that much, only happiness. Bliss found them tucked between sheets as smooth, unscathed hands ran up his back. Stars, relief, sanctuary until it was torn from him in a few words, hastily scrawled on a piece of paper abandoned. Like him.

She stands over him.

It was as if he was no longer in his body but floating above it as he watches her hesitate but a moment before making the first incision starting near the left shoulder and working down to the end of the breastbone. He watches as she methodically repeats that same incision from his right shoulder before continuing down from the sternum, around his navel, until she pulls the scalpel from him and sets it aside.

He watches in horrified fascination as she moves aside tubes and casts another spell over him lulling him deeper into the strange inbetween world he’s found himself in.

The inbetween?

No, that can’t be right. The Watcher would be here then. No, this is some other-worldly space that is meant just for him. A trap just for his mind. Another trick she has played on him to confuse his already rapidly fraying sense of reality.

He turns back to the scene before him. It is a deeper cut than it feels, he thinks to himself.

She peels his skin back, as nonchalantly as if she were peeling an orange, and takes notes before reaching for a bone saw.

He reaches for her, desperate to stop what he knows will happen, but his hands reach blindly and fall through her as if she were not there.

She smiles knowingly and looks up to meet his eyes, seemingly knowing his consciousness is still there even as his body lays trapped, asleep.

Asleep. I’m only asleep, he reasons. But he knows that’s not true. That was a conversation from another time. Not now.

“It won’t hurt,” she says, bringing him back to the now, or then, or will be. Hells, he’s not even sure anymore.

He looks at her through tear-stained eyes.

“Why?” she asks as if reading his mind. “Because I’m curious.”

The widening grin is maddening and chills him to his core as he closes his eyes and listens to the sound of metal sawing through bone in the vast emptiness of the Shadow realm.

He is thrust back into another world as a dull humming sounds from copper pipes above them.

“We need to find a way out of here.”

He looks around wildly. Desperately trying to gain a hint as to where they are. He feels like he’s reeling, falling into some endless abyss until warm brown eyes meet his.

“Asterin?” Mal asks.

The dwarvish dungeons well beneath the subterranean city of Zaradun. He breathes. He’s here, not there. That is something at least.

“I got an idea. You with me, kit?”

He doesn’t remember that much, a tight swallow and a slight nod is all he is capable of until chapped lips meet his and he melts into the kiss. Bliss found them wrapped in each others arms. Nimble fingers teasing the fabric of his shirt. Warmth, relief, sanctuary until it was torn from him.

She stands over him.

Beating heart cupped in one hand as she moves the left lobe of his lung further to the side with the heart, to look deeper into the gapping cavity that is - was - his chest.

Huh, there is not as much blood as he would have expected.

“I stemmed the flow,” she says not looking up from her examination and probing deeper.

“What?”

“There is not much blood because I stemmed the flow. Makes it easier for me.”

He looks at her, she is almost giddy with excitement. It’s such a stark contrast to his own emotion. He looks back to his prone body, strapped to the table. Deathly still.

This isn’t real.

“If you say so,” she chuckles and tucks his heart back in place before turning to a scribe sitting in the corner.

“Chest contains the usual. The heart is within normal size for his species and in typical condition for an elf of his age. Lungs are supple and a healthy pink. Nothing of note in the upper cavity.”

She pauses and glances back at him.

“Moving on to the lower abdominal cavity.”

His wide eyes watch her every move.

“What are you looking f-“

“Whatever I please,” she says and looks down on his body as she brushes a stray hair back from his face with a bloody hand. He feels his blood on his scars as she traces one and then another near his eye. It’s warm still, slick. He can smell iron in the air.

He shouldn’t feel it but he does. He knows it’s real and he flinches as she caresses his cheek.

“No!”

His scream draws all their attention to him as they sit at a tiny, scared table. They all look up from their meager dinner plates to him.

“Asterin?”

He’s pale and shaking. He can feel it.

“I’m fine. There is nothing wrong with me,” he mumbles as he brushes Tyril’s hand from his arm and stares daggers into the violet eyes across the table from him.

“Dinvalir,” Tyril leans in and whispers, “that is not true.”

The creature of his nightmares stares back at him with a playful smile on her face.

“I can assure you there is nothing wrong with him. I checked. Thoroughly,,” she says in Tyril’s direction but her gaze remains fixed on Asterin.

“And just what does that mean?” Mal’s hard voice asks.

He narrows his eyes at Valax as he jumps up. Chair legs scrapping harshly against the floor and making Asterin flinch.

“Let’s just eat,” Asterin cuts off any further conversation.

He doesn’t remember that much, only Tyril’s firm, yet gentle, voice in his ear. Bliss found them in their own world of whispered comforts for a moment. Calmness, relief, sanctuary until it was torn from him.

She stands over him.

He’s sputtering on the bank of a river, coughing up water. The rain a deluge around them, watering long dead trees and parched ground. The sky, darker than is natural, adds to the oppressive nature of the realm.

“You saved me?”

It’s half statement, half question, and he is utterly and entirely confused.

“Your light-realm witch made sure I could do no other,” Valax crosses her arms.

“Of course.”

He would thank her but the pain that radiates from his chest stops him from such foolish behavior. After all, the water he is coughing up is from lungs she held, while the bones she cut from his body shield the heart she could have crushed in her hands.

She deserves no such kindness from him for she has shown him none.

“If you are quite through, we should find shelter,” she states and is walking away from him before he can respond.

He stands reluctantly and thinks over his nonexistent options. He does not want to follow her but neither of them have a choice right now. His body screams at him to run but she will find him. She is bound to him.

His worst nightmare, ever present, made hauntingly real. If he thought he could escape it - escape her - before, well he sure as hells can’t escape it now. Nia saw to that.

Does Nia even realize what she has done? Does she understand the re-lived pain she is inflicting on him by binding him to his kidnapper, his torturer. Logically he knows Nia was only trying to protect him, protect them all, but he can barely breathe with the thought of Valax, much less the reality of what he is subjected to now.

The cave is cold but dry and higher than any flash flooding could reach. He follows her in and stands warily off to the side, near enough the entrance to escape if she should turn on him.

“We should build a fire.”

“I suppose you should,” he states, aiming for her nonchalant coolness.

She glares at him and time stretches into eternity. He won’t give her the pleasure of looking away from her no matter what nightmares he sees fresh in the depths of her dangerous eyes. She relents before his resolve crumples and soon enough a fire is lit before them. Small but enough to keep them warm.

She sits down beside it and watches him over the flames.

“You should rest. I’ll keep first watch.”

His laugh is a bitter thing echoing off the high walls.

“I don’t think so.”

“Don’t be a fool. I require little sleep. You do.”

“Did my vivisection tell you that?”

He could almost fool himself into believing there is a flash of regret in her eyes but then again, fire plays dangerous tricks with those that believe it’s warmth will not burn.

“Your mortality does,” she murmurs into the flames.

He watches her a moment longer before settling down on the opposite side of the fire. Leary but exhausted enough to not care.

They watch each other for weeks, days, hours, he’s not sure. But they simply sit there for what could be eternity or mere seconds.

“Don’t look at me like that!” he finally snaps.

He doesn’t like what he sees with her eyes lit by and within from fire. There is something primordial, predatory, primal in the dark emptiness there.

“Like what?” she demands in turn.

“Like there is more you haven’t cut from me, more you haven’t discovered.”

“You think I’ve not exhausted all my options with you, day-walker?” she spits.

He feeezes a moment at her words, her tone, the shifting of her shoulders as if she is only barely holding herself back from ripping into him anew.

“I don’t care. Just don’t look at me like that.”

“What would you have me look at? There is not much here beside you and me.”

“Look at the fire then.”

“Fine,” she says and does as she was told.

Weeks, days, hours later he finds his eyes drooping with the weight of too many sleepless nights. Running from a demon that he can’t fight. A demon that now lies in wait, biding its precious time, before him.

“Talk to me,” he says.

“What.”

“You heard me.”

“What would you have me talk about?”

“I don’t care.”

He listens to her voice, asking occasional questions to keep her talking. She asks questions of her own which he answers cautiously.

He just needs to stay awake or at the very least know where she is by the sound of her voice. He cannot risk sleep with her here.

Keep her talking but don’t give anything away. Keep her talking but don’t give anything away. Keep her talking but don’t….

She stands over him.

“Seems there was more to discover about you after all,” she smirks.

He’s on his feet before she can move and he’s backed away from her, realizing too late that he is trapped between her standing in the mouth of the cave and the wall behind his back.

She watches him look around wildly for a moment before he has his sword in hand. She rolls her eyes at him and turns away.

“I hear your friends.”

“You do?”

The tip of his sword drops slightly until she takes a step towards him and he levels it at her in warning as he strains to listen.

Sure enough, he hears the telltale sounds of Mal and Tyril bickering and Imtura egging them on while Nia yells at them to shut up.

He smiles and gestures for Valax to continue on out of their shelter.

The earth is just as parched as it was the day before. Smooth dried mud cakes the ground and is already splitting, cracking, peeling away from the ground. There is no smell of fresh rain, only decay. It is nearly enough to break him until hope springs in his heart at the sight of them.

Soon he is wrapped in Mal and Tyril’s arms and he can’t help the choked sob that escapes him as he sinks into their embrace. He takes a deep breath. He is warm and safe.

“You came,” he whispers.

Joy leaps in his heart as they cling to him tighter in answer.

“You came for me.”

She stands over him.

“There is nothing here!” she fumes.

It’s a shout of disappointment. Anger. Frustration.

“Princess?” the scribe asks.

“Lower cavity shows nothing unusual. All organs are accounted for, healthy and normal. Nothing to explain,” she glances down, “him.”

He blinks a few times until she is in focus. He’s on his back on the same hard metal table. A bright, unnatural light hangs overhead.

The same thick, suffocating shadows blotting out the surrounding room.

She continues to look down at him, into his glazed over eyes, as she closes him back up.

The needle she uses to sew him up reflects the light into the shadows where it is consumed. Along with what little hope he may have been clinging to.

There is only that familiar all-consuming dread.

“I will learn your secrets. You will beg to tell me them before the end.”

How long has it been? Weeks, days, hours - he doesn’t know any more. Doesn’t know if he ever did.

But he’s alone.

So very alone.

And no one came for him.

#playchoices #choices blades #choices bolas #blades of light and shadow #content warnings #blood cw #medical experimentation cw #kidnapping cw #torture cw #trauma cw #art exchange #my drabble

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