#a psych ward patient. i’ve been through that already i don’t need it at home. i hate this so much i wish i was never born and never alive | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

maluminspace · 4 years

Text

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

Pairings: Platonic Ashton Irwin/Calum Hood/Luke Hemmings/Michael Clifford/Reader

Word Count: 4.1k

Requested: anon

Please could you write something with the boys helping the reader after a suicide attempt

Trigger Warnings: sucide attempt, references to cutting wrists, feelings of hopelessness, depression, anxiety

A/N: I am aware that the subjects of depression and suicide are very serious and delicate. I would never write something like this lightly. I was asked by an anonymous follower to write this because they wanted a part of their story to be told. It’s for that reason that I wanted to write this. I have realised recently that there are a whole bunch of people in this fandom who don’t feel they can relate to the biggest part of fanfic out there for one reason or another. Some can’t relate to most stories because of their gender identification (or lack thereof) or their sexual orientation, which I have taken a big step in addressing recently. Other people, however, can’t relate due to other reasons. I wanted to give all those people, especially the brave person that approached me for this, something to show that they are not alone. I realise that there are plenty of triggering things in this and I urge you to only read it if you feel like you can. If you want to reblog it, please do so with all of the necessary trigger warnings. As I’ve said before, fanfic was probably originally meant as a fun escape, something meant to be lighthearted. However I feel like it can be very valuable in giving people alternative fiction to read,where they feel a little more seen and hopefully less alone. Once again I ask you all to proceed with caution, the last thing I want is to trigger anyone. I’ve tried to keep references to the actual attempt to a very minimum. This is meant to concentrate on the recovery aspect. I’d like to end this note by sending my love and support to everyone who can relate to this any way.

Thank you to @mermaidcashton for editing for me <3

***

Running a fingertip over the fading scars on your wrist, you listen to the general day-to-day noises beyond your little room on the psych ward for the last time.

It’s kind of hard to believe that you’ll be leaving here in a few minutes, hoping never to return again. You’re pretty sure that you won’t need to. The lovely staff here have done their job, now it’s time for you to take your recovery to the next level.

Of course you’re nervous. On some level you’ve been partly dreading this day. Going home to the place where it happened isn’t going to be easy and you know that. It’s not going to do you any good to worry about that now, though. It’s better to focus on the positives, instead. Luckily there is a lot of those. Firstly, you have every right to feel very proud of yourself. You’ve completed your sixty days here and made an amazing start on your road to recovery. Secondly, you’re being rewarded by returning home to your four favourite people in the whole world. They were downstairs right now, signing you out at reception, just waiting to take you back to the cozy little house you all shared. Thirdly, you get to sleep in your own bed tonight! Something you’ve been looking forward to almost as much as the millions of hugs you’re about to get from your four best friends.

“Are you ready dear.”

Your nurse’s kind voice breaks through your thoughts and pulls your attention to the door of the tiny bedroom that had been your home for the last two months. You immediately drop your hands to your sides, looking almost guilty at having been rubbing your scars, albeit subconsciously.

“Your friends are here to take you home.” The nurse smiles kindly, gesturing towards the corridor behind her.

You return her friendly gesture, scooping up your backpack before allowing your nurse to lead you down to reception. The hallway is fairly quiet. You can hear the muffled sound of your fellow patients chatting away to each other in one of the large communal areas as you pass it.

As you leave the ward, your nurse explains that you’ll be given a weekly appointment with a therapist that you’ll continue to see for as long as necessary. That thought eases your worries a little, knowing that you’ll still have that element of professional support.

When you reach the reception area, all of the nerves and apprehension you’ve been harbouring temporarily melt away as you lay eyes on your four best friends. They already have the rest of your possessions and it finally seems real; you’re going home.

The four ridiculously tall men are gathered near the desk, talking quietly. They’ve visited you every single week since you’d been admitted to hospital, however they somehow look different out here and it brings a bright smile to your face. The biggest difference from their weekly visits is that they’re all together this time. Usually they take it turns to come and see you so that you have at least one person there at every visiting session. That’s all over now, you get to see all four of them every single day from now on, which is something you will never take for granted again.

As the four men are deep in conversation, you have time to thank your nurse and say goodbye to her before you make your way over to them.

“I hope you boys aren’t gossiping about me.” You tease, grinning excitedly as you finally allow yourself to believe that you’ll be leaving with them in a minute or so.

All four of them look over at you with exactly the expression you’d pictured on each of their faces.

Luke and Michael immediately break into the biggest, most beaming smiles you can ever remember seeing on their handsome faces. Ashton’s smile is a little more muted and apprehensive, he’s always been the worrier and you expect nothing less of him. Calum on the other hand doesn’t smile at all, he hangs back as the other three rush to engulf you in a hug. It’s not because he’s not happy or excited to see you, he’s just always been the quiet one. He knows that today has the potential to really overwhelm you, so staying true to his character, he patiently awaits his turn.

As you savour being engulfed by the other three, you motion for Calum to join in. “This is a group hug moment, Cal…” you reassure him before Ashton reaches over to pull him into the huddle. He doesn’t take much convincing, he muscles into the hug between Ashton and Luke, resting his forehead against yours before placing a soft kiss to it. The others shower you with pecks to your cheeks and head, as well, friendly little gestures that let you know just how much you’ve been missed.

It feels as though time stands still for while. As much as you enjoy being suspended in that moment, you’ve been in this place long enough. “Are we going to stand here all day or are you lot actually going to take me home?” You ask, a nervous giggle escaping you.

“Of course we’re taking you home, Tiny!” Ashton replies softly. “We just needed that group hug. It’s been a while since all five of us were in the same place at the same time.”

The use of your fond nickname melts away a few more of your nerves about leaving the psych ward. You’ve always loved being the shortest in your friendship group and the name ‘Tiny’ was one of the main reasons why. “Well I hope you’ve stocked up the house with all the food and stuff we need for the weekend because I want at least a forty eight hour cuddle fest.”

“This is why you’ve always been my favourite friend!” Michael exclaims, his emerald eyes brimming with fondness. “You understand the importance of cuddling which is why I am claiming the spot next to you on the sofa! We’ll make a duvet nest and make Luke wait on us hand and foot.” He smirks at the tallest man as he backs away from the huddle.

“Why me?!” Luke protests, “I love cuddles as much as you do!”

Michael scoffs as he takes your backpack and heads across the lobby towards the exit. “Whatever you say, breadstick.”

Luke heads off after Michael, his face set in a defiant expression as he begins to protest.

“I’m so sorry you had to come back to this,Tiny.” Calum mumbles as he slings an arm around your shoulders. “As you can tell, those two idiots haven’t changed a bit. They’re still as ridiculous as ever.”

“Good.” You reply. “I’d have been disappointed if they weren’t.”

Just as Calum begins to lead you towards the door, Ashton stops you both, gesturing towards the reception desk. “Before you resume your role as our much needed peace keeper, you need to sign out and get your appointment for next week.” He looks almost apologetic, like he’s scared of ruining your happy moment.

You offer him an understanding smile before stepping over to the desk. The friendly receptionist hands you a clipboard with a form attached before indicating the box you need to sign in. You scribble your signature and take the little slip of paper that informs you of the date and time of your therapy appointment for the following week. After thanking the lady once more you rejoin Ashton and Calum, allowing them to lead you outside.

As you step through the automatic your doors your heart threatens to burst out of your chest. You’re not sure whether that’s more because you’re nervous or excited, it’s most likely a mixture of both.

Little things that you’d taken for granted before coming here suddenly seem incredibly significant. The sound of the gravel crunching beneath your shoes, the distant rumble of traffic on the main road, passers by smiling at you out of friendly courtesy instead of sympathy and the feeling that you can literally go anywhere you please right now. It’s all a bit overwhelming but Calum and Ashton are a comforting presence beside you, grounding you but remaining silent as though they just instinctively know what you need.

Luke and Michael are standing beside the familiar beat-up old SUV, still bickering until the moment they notice you walking towards them. “Your carriage awaits!” Luke grins, “I’m sitting next to you in the back, that’s non-negotiable!”

“Of course!” You smile, taking one last glance at the hospital over your shoulder. “It’s always you me and Mike in the back, it’s the dads’ job to drive us around, isn’t it?”

“We’re only the designated drivers because the rest of you can’t be trusted behind the wheel!” Ashton chuckles, “Luke drives like a grandpa and Michael thinks he’s fucking Baby Driver.”

You couldn’t argue with that statement and it seems that Luke and Michael can’t either as they don’t even try to protest. The youngest friend traits round to the other side of the car whilst Michael holds the nearest car door open for you. “It’s good to have you back,Tiny.” He smiles, ruffling your hair as you duck your head to climb into the backseat.

To avoid getting too sappy, something very easily done around your best friends, particularly Michael, you opt for a light response. “It’s good to be back, as long as you’ve all left my room well alone whilst I’ve been gone.”

Your friends exchange mischievous glances and you’re immediately suspicious. “It’s almost exactly as you left it.” Luke smirks as he plugs in your seatbelt for you.

“Almost?” You question warily, “what have you dorks done?”

“Wow we almost made it five minutes before before you insulted us, I’m impressed.” Michael giggles as he shuffles onto the seat beside you and fastens his own seatbelt.

The blonde’s words prove to be an impressive distraction, successfully leading into a full blown discussion on who throws the most insults at the other four. By the time everyone is securely belted, you’ve completely forgotten about the hint that something’s been changed in your beloved bedroom.

“Everyone ready, then?” Ashton asks, although his soft hazel eyes meet yours in the rear-view mirror and you know that the question is specifically for you.

You dip your head in a clear nod, you’ve never more ready to return home.

Your eldest friend smiles at you understandingly as he starts the car.

Part of you wants to take one last look at the hospital as Ashton pulls out of the parking space. You resist the urge, though, settling for watching the imposing building’s reflection disappear from the rear-view mirror as your friend drives out of the parking lot and onto the road.

The five of you remain silent for a while as Calum leans forward in the front passenger seat to put on the radio. The familiar songs make the atmosphere a bit less tense. Not that it’s uncomfortable at all, it’s just obvious that your friends aren’t entirely sure what they should do now. They want to be there for you but it’s not always clear how to do that in the best way. It’s understandable of course, how are they supposed to know exactly what you need from them if you don’t talk to them. That’s one of the things you’ve been learning to do; to open up. As you try to think of a way to open up a relaxed conversation, you subconsciously begin to scratch at the scars on your wrists again. The raised lines over your veins are proof that you are healing both on the inside and the outside. It’s not good for you to pick at them, you know that, it’s just a bad habit that you can’t seem to shake yet.

Without saying a single word, Michael reaches for your hand, gently intertwining his fingers with yours and bringing your hand to rest on the seat between the two you, safely enclosed in his. Luke does the same with your other hand, both boys offering you a soft smile before returning their attention to the street on either side of the car. The caring gestures mean more to you than you’ll ever be able to express and you’re more determined than ever to make something of the second chance you’ve been given at life.

You give yourself a moment to process how lucky you are to have such a stable support network. These four men might be huge idiots at times but they’re the best friends anyone could ever hope of having. You allow the warmth from Michael and Luke on either side of you to calm your mind a bit before settling on a topic to hopefully get a conversation flowing. “So have you got any new gossip since the last time you came to visit?” You ask, looking at each man in turn. “Has Kevin from number 63 stopped bragging about his new Jag yet?”

Ashton huffs indignantly as the other three start laughing. The eldest friend has never really gotten on all that well this particular neighbor and always gets very wound up by his many annoying habits. Of course, you and your other three housemates like to tease him about it relentlessly.

“That fucking dick…” Ashton huffs. “If I have to hear about how fast that stupid car can go one more time, I swear I’m gonna key it!”

“As you can see…” Calum smirks, twisting in his seat to look back at you. “Ashton’s attempts at making friends with all of our neighbours is going really well.”

Obviously trying to keep his strong feelings about this matter at an acceptable level, Ashton tightens his grip on the steering wheel. “It’s only him that I have a problem with, his wife is really nice…”

“Yeah we know you like Jillian, Ash…” Michael teases. “We’ve all seen you take a sneaky look at her ass when she walks past our house in those tiny shorts she likes to wear…”

Ashton’s ears and cheeks immediately turn crimson as he tries to deny the allegation.

You laugh freely, pleased that your plan has started work. Luckily the Kevin and Jillian discussion leads on to other gossip and general chit-chat that ends up passing the time easily and before you know it, Ashton is pulling into the gravel driveway in front of the house the five of you share.

Without really meaning to, you tighten your grip on Michael’s and Luke’s hand, having held them contentedly for the whole journey. As excited as you are to be home, a flurry of butterflies take up residency in your tummy as you look up at the house where it all happened almost three months ago. Unfortunately this house will always hold those terrible memories but you’re determined to fill it with new, much happier ones now.

“You okay,Tiny?” Michael asks, his tone quiet and caring. “Do you need a minute before we head inside?”

You shake your head, knowing that thinking too long will only heighten your anxiety. “No, I’m good…” You confirm, finally letting go of your friends’ hands so that they can get out of the car.

“We’ve got so many surprises for you, by the way.” Ashton announces as he unclips his seatbelt. “Including a fridge and freezer full of all of your favourite food!”

“Does that include buttery popcorn?” You ask hopefully, shuffling along the back seat now that Luke’s stepped out onto the driveway.

Calum scoffs, turning back to look at you fully from the front seat. “That was the very first thing on our ‘welcome home’ shopping list for you.”

Your heart is so full of love for your friends in that moment that it almost brings tears to your eyes. “You really are the best.” You mumble offering Calum a watery smile before climbing out of the car.

“If you’re that excited about the popcorn then you’re gonna lose your shit when you see what else we’ve done!” Luke beams. Wrapping an arm around your shoulders as the others grab your things and lock up the car.

Michael runs past you, slinging your backpack over his shoulder. “He’s right, but you have to close your eyes before we go inside!”

Even Calum and Ashton, the most mature and sensible of your friends, are acting kind of giddy with excitement as they sidle past to open the front door.

“Do I really have to close my eyes?” You pout, “you know I’m clumsy, what if I fall?”

“We’ll never let that happen, Tiny.” Ashton reassures you. “Now close your eyes and we’ll lead you in, okay?”

Of course you trust them, but you feel a little bit silly as you close your eyes. The unmistakable sound of the key turning in the lock and the front door swinging open, signal that you can walk forward, Luke and Calum both lead you into the house, telling you when to take the one step up into the hallway.

You’re utterly confused as to what this huge surprise is, but you wait until you hear the front door being closed behind you before you ask if you can open your eyes yet.

It’s another couple of seconds, during which you hear your friends scurrying around, before Calum finally says “Okay!” the smile in his voice is obvious and you find yourself opening your eyes even quicker just to get a glimpse of it.

Sure enough, all four of your friends are looking back at you with beaming grins. Calum’s and Ashton’s cheeks dimple adorably, Michael’s eyes are scrunched in the corners the way they always do when he smiles particularly enthusiastically and Luke’s lips are curved prettily in that ‘model’ smile he always does.

For a moment, you’re so focused on how much you love these dorks, that you don’t realise that your first surprise is actually all around you. You gasp when you notice that the hallway has been repainted and the tired old side table has been replaced with a rather ornate new one.

“You always said that grey would be a nice colour in here.” Ashton mutters, stroking the back of his neck nervously. “Do you like it?”

Nodding, you traipse over to the side table to find a bunch of pictures perched on it. Happy tears spring to your eyes when you take in all the happy memories that they represent; the trip you all took to the beach a couple of years ago, the barbeque you held last summer where Ashton burnt the halloumi and Michael wouldn’t speak to him for the rest of the night and the first selfie that the five of you took on the first day you all moved in together.

“I chose those frames.” Michael announces proudly, placing a hand on your shoulder, “They look nice, don’t they?”

“Perfect.” You confirm, your voice sounding thick over the lump in your throat.

“There’s so much more to show you, though!” Luke interjects, taking your hand and leading you through to the kitchen. “We didn’t change too much in here because we know you love it the way it is, but we did get buy some new mugs…” He gestures to where five mugs are sitting on the counter near the sink, each one with a big gold letter on, the first letter of each of your names.

“They have our star signs on the back, too!” Ashton adds excitably. “You know I’m a sucker for that stuff.” He picks up the nearest mug which happens to be his own and proudly shows the cancer constellation on the back of it in the same shiny gold as the ‘A’ emblazoned on the front.

You take it from him to get a closer look. “They’re so nice!” You exclaim before placing it back down next to the rest.

“Yeah, perfect for these…” Michael grins, opening a cupboard to reveal a whole shelf of different flavour tea, coffee and hot chocolate.

Giggling at the sweet gesture you give each of them a quick hug. “You’re all the best, you know?”

“You haven’t even seen the best parts yet.” Ashton shrugs, “Come look at the sitting room!”

You follow him back through the hallway and into the living room, grinning at the pretty new sofa they’ve squeezed into the cozy room.

“It’s a corner sofa, so we can all fit on it!” Luke squeals, “no more fighting over has to sit alone in the arm chair.”

There’s no denying that all of your buddies have put in a lot of effort to freshen up the house ready for your arrival today. A shiny ‘Welcome Home!’ banner has been hung on the fireplace and on one side of the fancy new sofa, there’s a neat pile of blankets, duvets and pillows ready for the nest that you’ll inevitably be making very soon.

“You’ve all gone to so much trouble.” You sniffle. “You’ll never know how grateful I am.”

“Nothing’s any trouble when it’s for you, Tiny..” Calum smiles softly.

It’s only then that you realise he’s been very quiet up ‘til now. “Is everything okay, Cal?” You ask, touching his arm gently. “You look anxious.”

Calum nods but his expression remains slightly tense. “I just… Well I hope you like the last part of this surprise, that’s all.”

“I’m sure I’ll love it!” You reassure him. “Where is it?”

“Upstairs.” He replies anxiously, gesturing back out into the hallway.

You feel a knot of dread tighten in your stomach as you hear Michael and Luke scurry up the stairs ahead of you. Judging by the nervous glances that Calum and Ashton share, you have a feeling that this part of the surprise is going to be somehow directly linked to what happened last time you were up there and part of you doesn’t want to know what it is.

“It’s okay, Tiny.” Ashton reassures you. “It’s a nice surprise, I promise.”

There’s no reason to doubt your friends now, they’ve done so much to help you so far that it’s obvious they’re just trying to make today special and so far they’ve succeeded. As you allow them to lead you up the stairs, you notice that pretty new paintings and a few other photographs have appeared on the walls.

“Ashton painted those.” Michael beams, shooting your eldest friend a proud glance. “We told him they were too good to keep stuffed down the side of his bed!”

You nod in agreement. Each picture is beautiful in it’s own right, all of them colourful and expressive, just like Ashton himself.

Once you reach the top of the stairs you fully expect to be led to your room, presuming that the final part of the surprise is that they’ve redecorated your room or something. Therefore, you’re utterly shocked and confused when your friends lead you towards Calum’s room.

“Okay, so you’re going to have to use your imagination a little bit.” Calum explains, “We’d have loved to have finished it for you, but… Well, we needed you to be here to finish it with us really.”

Your confusion grows as Ashton pushes open the door. To your bewilderment, All of Calum’s furniture and possessions are gone. The room is entirely empty besides a bed, which you immediately recognise as your own.

“We didn’t want to move all of your stuff without your permission, but we thought you’d like this room better than your old one.” Calum clarifies. “It has this big window and we know how much you’ve always wanted a window seat, Ashton says he can build one for you.”

“Calum…” You gasp, tears spilling over on to your cheeks. “I can’t take your room, this is… you love having the big room!”

Michael scoffs as he rushes over to wrap you in a hug. “Don’t worry about him, he gets to share with me until we can move him into your old room. Although, he’ll probably stay there forever because, we all know he’s the clingy one.”

You laugh at the way the blonde lowers his voice like he’s telling you a secret. “I think you’ll find that’s you.” You giggle, squeezing him tightly.

Michael fakes being offended as he pulls away from you so that you can take a look at your new room properly.

“Maybe we can take a trip into town in the next few days, pick out some paint and furniture… We can have this all set up for you within a week or two if we get to work soon.” Calum suggests.

You perch on the end of your bed feeling totally lost for words as you glance around your new spacious room. “That sounds great but I’m gonna need at least a thousand hugs first, you guys are too much.”

One by one each of your friend’s surround you, Calum and Michael on either side of you, Ashton and Luke crouching down in front of you.

“We thought this would help you to have a nice fresh new start.” Luke smiles softly. “Plus you’re closer to my room now so it’ll be way easier for me to sneak in and watch trashy movies with you when these losers are all asleep.”

It’s obvious that there’s a bunch of reasons why your friends have done this, but it’s very clear that the overriding one is love. They love you unconditionally and the feeling is entirely mutual.

Tag list: @clffrd @byxthexway @afuckingunicornn @painkillerash @moonchildsblack @calumbbyyy @h0tsos @loveroflrh @sexgodashton @megz1985 @myfalsedevotion @aulxna @honeyedlashton @tea4sykes @ghostofmashton @fairyintheglass @cashworthy @cashtonasfuck @opheliaaurora23 @5sosnsfw @wildmichaelflower @myloverboyash @loverofcashton @irwinkitten @cxddlyash @wildmalumflower @cashtonasff5sos @iovehemmings @kindawannacryx @pinkbubbles-and-bigtroubles @celticclifford @5-secondsofcolor

#5sos #5 seconds of summer #ot4 #platonic ot4 #tw: past suicide attempt #tw: suicide #tw: wrist cutting #tw: self harm #5sos blurb #5sos fic #michael clifford #calum hood #luke hemmings #ashton irwin #my writing

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coldasyou · 4 years

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Hi, Penny! If you don't mind my asking, what was the process to get hospitalized like? My mental illness has been so bad lately and I just feel so unsafe and hopeless and like I can't do anything and I really think I could benefit from being in a safe space where I actively get help for my recovery. But I don't know what professionals I need to talk to and I don't know how to tell my mom and I don't know which goes first?

I’m happy to answer any questions! I was really scared about the unknown but it ended up helping a lot.

First, I’d research what type of inpatient programs are near you. For me, I had the option of going to a psych hospital that was part of a university hospital and a privately owned treatment center. I went to the former bc they had a unit just for young adults and it was closer to home, although my insurance covered both types. Some hospital systems don’t have separate psych hospitals and so they keep psych patients in the ER, on a specific floor, or in the general hospital. Try to make sure if you’re going to a local hospital that have a separate psych hospital; the care tends to be better bc it’s the sole focus of the hospital and you’ll have access to doctors who specialize in those issues.

Once you have found a place to go I’d tell your mother and explain why you feel like you need to be hospitalized. I’m 20 so idk how this will work if you’re under 18, but if you are your mom will probably play a bigger part in everything. Look at how the hospital you pick does intake process. The private hospital I looked at has you call ahead and then come into an intake interview and then will decide if you need to be hospitalized. If you did, they had a bed available already. Larger hospitals tend to be a lot more busy and don’t always have beds available so you may have to wait.

The hospital I went to made me go through the ER like every other patient and from what I’ve read going to the ER is the best way to get somewhere safe quickly. You get treated like someone coming in for any other injury or illness; they take blood, temperature, blood pressure, ect. A lot of this is going to depend on how quickly the ER can take you in; I was very lucky, they had a nurse to evaluate me immediately so I was never in the waiting room, then I was moved to the psych section of the ER, and by midnight of that day I was moved to the psych hospital. However it can take as much as three days waiting in the ER before they have a bed for you so be aware of that. You can’t have your phone for privacy reasons, but the place I went had individual beds separated by walls and one curtain, a TV for each room that plays basic cable, a phone you can use to call anyone you want, and food whenever you request it. Try to come in around 10 am-3 pm since there’s likely going to be more staff available then and you won’t have to wait long before even being checked in.

While you’re in the ER, they have either a psychiatrist, a social worker, or a nurse practitioner interview you. I think it’s usually in person but bc of COVID I did it over skype. They ask a lot of questions that if you’ve ever been to therapy you know; do you feeling like hurting yourself or others, what medications are you on, what are you struggling with ect. If they determine you need to be hospitalized (and they will basically no matter what if you have plans or thoughts to commit suicide) you just wait until a bed is available for you in the psych ward/hospital.

This is pretty specific to my experience so if you have a therapist I would recommend talking to them first just bc they’ll know what local treatment options you have and how to get into one. If you feel like you can safely tell your mom, I’d tell her after talking to the therapist. I hope this helped some and lmk if you have any more questions!

#suicide //#hospitalization //#anonymous #answered

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transgenderteensurvivalguide · 5 years

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As a person who has psychotic disorders, seeing that it may cause complications with Top surgery makes me want to straight up lie lie lie about it all the way until after the surgery is already done and over. There’s no way in hell im going on medications for it either. So if they don’t know I have it, there won’t be a problem right?

Lee says:

Being diagnosed with a psychotic disorder doesn’t mean that you can’t get top surgery, but it does mean it can be a bit harder to get. I’m saying this from personal experience as someone who had top surgery with psychosis.

However, I still don’t think you should lie about experiencing psychosis because that means you’re blocking yourself from getting treatment that could help you.

—–

[The WPATH guidelines say:

“When patients with gender dysphoria are also diagnosed with severe psychiatric disorders and impaired reality testing (e.g., psychotic episodes, bipolar disorder, dissociative identity disorder, borderline personality disorder), an effort must be made to improve these conditions with psychotropic medications and/or psychotherapy before surgery is contemplated.

Reevaluation by a mental health professional qualified to assess and manage psychotic conditions should be conducted prior to surgery, describing the patient’s mental status and readiness for surgery. It is preferable that this mental health professional be familiar with the patient. No surgery should be performed while a patient is actively psychotic.”

/End quote from WPATH guidelines]

—–

If you think that there’s no way that you will have a period where you aren’t actively psychotic, thus blocking your access to surgery, and you don’t think that your life/health will be in danger by not disclosing the psychosis to your treatment provider then it’s your decision if you think you should minimize it during your therapy sessions when you’re trying to get your WPATH letter.

I really disagree with that part of the WPATH standards and I think they’re an unnecessary barrier towards accessing the treatment that you need, both medical transitioning and mental health care.

But you don’t know that it’s impossible to control your psychosis because you haven’t tried medication yet. I wouldn’t lie about not having psychosis until you’ve tried all avenues of treatment because there’s a possibility that you will be able to manage your symptoms and then you can get top surgery with the added bonus of being a bit more stable.

I had the same struggle when I was trying to get my top surgery letter. I didn’t want to tell my treatment team about my symptoms because it meant getting the letter would be harder, but I also couldn’t move forward in my mental health recovery if I lied and pretended that I wasn’t struggling with the things that I was.

The WPATH guidelines don’t say that you can’t get top surgery unless you no longer have a psychotic disorder- they say an effort has to be made to control the symptoms with therapy and/or meds first, and once your symptoms are managed then you can move forward.

Treatment doesn’t necessarily mean that you don’t have the disorder anymore, it means you’ve tried to minimize the symptoms and then learn how to cope with what’s left. When I had top surgery, I was still diagnosed with a psychotic disorder, and I still am of course.

It’s one thing if you’ve been on different combinations of meds for a while and that hasn’t helped and therapy hasn’t helped, but this isn’t the case for you. I honestly wouldn’t feel comfortable telling you that you should lie to your therapist and not tell them you have psychosis when it’s possible that telling them might help you be able to cope with it.

I was in an ugly loop even if you ignore the way my psychotic disorder diagnosis played into it because I felt like I wouldn’t be able to reduce my dysphoria-induced depression unless I could get surgery, but I couldn’t get surgery until I could reduce my depression (my treatment team need me to be able to do certain things like eat every day, shower weekly, etc). I had a rough recovery (intensive outpatient for 6 months, 2 weeks hospitalized in the psych ward, and increasing doses of antipsychotics) but eventually I was able to get top surgery.

That doesn’t mean that suddenly I was “Cured” of my disorder- I’ll probably have to cope with some symptoms all my life. But I am doing much better now, and if I hadn’t been in intensive outpatient or on medication, I probably wouldn’t have gotten better. It can be scary to move from individual therapy to any higher level of treatment, but sometimes it is necessary.

Again, the WPATH guidelines really suck. And you shouldn’t have to choose between disclosing your mental health issues so you can get treatment and top surgery. But it’s also important to give treatment a chance so you can have both!

You should talk to your mental health providers, but if they recommend starting medication then I personally think you should do it. There’s a lot of stigma around taking antipsychotics, but they do help a lot of people and I really think you need to give them a chance first.

Helpful links:

Getting a therapist and being in therapy as a trans teen

How can I help myself?

Coping with paranoid thoughts

How to deal with paranoia when you’re home alone

Court case thought challenge (worksheet)

5 aspects model (prompts)

ABC for paranoia

Paranoia self-help

Personal recovery plan

How to deal with paranoia

How to handle hallucinations

Coping with hallucinations and delusions

Self-care

Help with paranoia

An affirming help guide for living with schizophrenia

Living through the fog of a psychotic break

What to do about paranoia

How I’ve learned to cope with the voices in my head

Resources for psychotic people

Disorganized thinking

Coping with schizophrenia

Hallucination and Delusion Resources

Reality journal

Ideas for coping with psychosis

What is schizophrenia?

Mental health medications overview (more)

Starting psychiatric medication

A comic on starting psych meds

Things that you want to know about psychiatric medication

Taking pills when you struggle to do so

Remembering to take your medication

Medicated and mighty (more)

And again, it’s possible to have a psychotic disorder diagnosis and still get surgery! I got top surgery, a hysterectomy, and I’m getting phalloplasty next year. And I’m officially diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder, and take antipsychotics.

You can see my top surgery letter here. I redacted all the bits about my psychotic disorder when I uploaded it, but now I’m going to disclose because I feel like someone has to. It isn’t anything that we should be ashamed of. I still take antipsychotics twice a day. Here I am standing in front of ya with my morning dose of antipsychotics and my evening dose of antipsychotics! #MedicatedAndMighty

[Image one: Mod Lee is standing without a shirt holding two different bottles of antipsychotics in front of their chest which has faded top surgery scars.]

[Image two: There are three pill bottles on a dresser. All three are Quetiapine, the generic of the antipsychotic Seroquel, and are prescribed to Lee. Each is a different dose- one bottle has 200 mg extended release, one has 300 mg extended release, and one has 100 mg immediate/normal release.]

#Lee says #top surgery #psychosis #psychotic #medication #scopophobia #Anonymous #transgenderteensurvivalguide #trans #transgender

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autisticbyaccident · 4 years

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Listen I’m kinda psyched.

So my mom found an Erb’s palsey specialist in Houston, which is a hell of a drive but still in state.

Well I’ve been having issues with my arm/hand lately. It’s begun to shake and the muscles jump and twitch, it also falls asleep easily, which really just makes my arm feel like there’s a nice breeze across it since the tingling changes to feeling cold in my head. My hand has also been a major problem. My thumb, pointer, and middle finger all lock up so badly I have to manually bend them with my other hand to make them work again, especially my pointer finger. As the weather changes it’s getting worse. My hand also aches, but in this strange numbed way only other EP babes will understand. It’s bothersome and a bit worrying, but I really think that’s on me.

See the last time I saw a doctor about my hand was when I was 12/13ish and began to feel something, a sort of dull ache, the same as now. They basically threw their hands up and said “idk man, you’re fat and you’re growing? Growing pains? Maybe that’s it? Whatevs, I’m not touching it” because my arm is already so much more useful and mobile than any of my doctors ever dreamed it would be when I was an infant. So the doctors I visited didn’t want to touch my arm and risk making it worse.

Well since then I’ve dealt with a lot of mental health issues and I’ve just mutilated my arm beyond belief. My arm and my hand especially are very scarred, the skin is just now beginning to soften and fade, but what I’ve done will always be visible.

There are three injuries in particular I think are to blame for the worst of my issues.

1. When I was 15 I cut the bottom knuckle on my pointer finger so deeply that when I spread the wound apart and moved my finger, I could see something white inside moving around. I now believe that was my own tendon. I sewed the wound shut with white thread when someone at school saw and tried to tell a teacher. I flushed the wound with alcohol regularly but didn’t bandage it. It was winter and my mom was busy so I was able to keep my hand hidden until it was just a normal cut again, which took a long time. I believe this is the reason my pointer finger locks up and doubt there’s anything to do for it.

2. On my 16th birthday my mom and I got in an argument. I don’t remember what about, but I went to my room. I felt the need to cut so I took my scissors and intended to stab myself just enough to draw blood. But in my anger I ended up stabbing through my hand, I remember the skin of my palm being distended, though I didn’t feel it. I tried to stop the bleeding but it was too much and I panicked once I began to feel dizzy. I told my mom and we went to the er. It took a lot of begging and bargaining to keep from being sent back to the mental ward. The stab was in the center of the back of my hand, between the middle and pointer finger tendons. I think this one is why my middle finger locks up.

3. Finally, the lighthearted one. When I was 18 I went to go see a movie with my mom. I had to go to the bathroom but was so anxious to not miss my favorite part I tripped on my way out. My hand felt odd (by which I mean I felt it at all). 6 weeks later I was getting ice cream with my dad and realized I could bend my thumb to the side enough to touch the pad of my thumb to my pinky knuckle. (Try it, you shouldn’t be able to) and my dad almost screamed. He insisted my thumb was broken and got me a brace on the way home. As it turns out, he was right, I’d broken a tiny little bone during my fall and didn’t notice because it didn’t hurt. I was in a cast for 3 months.

So anyway, I don’t think there’s anything this doctor could do for me, though he does seem to treat adults with EP. I doubt he’d be willing to risk a surgery, I have a feeling he’ll just tell me to do physically therapy again, and in turn they’ll tell me that if I lost weight my arm would be lighter and easier to move. (Fair enough I guess? I honestly don’t know) but at the least I’d like to talk to a doctor who may be able to tell me a little more about my arm/disability and what to expect from the future. I’d like to know if I’ll degenerate further or meet with any other health issues due to my EP.

(I’d also like to say I’ve been mostly self harm free for years. I had a small relapse where I gave myself a cut that was so small it barely bled, but i immediately knew it wasn’t going to make me feel better and stopped. It’s a habit and an addiction and there’s hope to stop. It gets better, it gets easier to find new outlets. Be patient with yourself, be kind.)

#erbs palsy #brachial plexus injury #bpi #tw self harm #tw mutilation #tw wounds #tw: mental health #healing #growing

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a-heart-of-kyber · 5 years

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My dog is very much watching me very closely in a “You aren’t allowed to leave me again.” way and I feel bad about it, but he also feels softer than I remember which is stupid because I was only gone for 4 days.

Which ummmmmm yeah if anyone was curious as to where I’ve been....thanks tumblr for becoming my diary.

Trigger Warning: Suicide

TW: Suicide

So, Monday night my dad and I got into another extreme argument because I am becoming extremely (and very clearly) incapable of handling...him and the way he is and by that I mean his emotional/verbal/psychological abuse and thus this argument resulted in once again me commenting “I just want to fucking kill myself.” because idk if you know but I’ve been treated for suicidal thoughts and depression before so this shit isn’t new.

What’s new is my dad saying, “Why don’t you just do it already?!”

So...not to be topped apparently, I very pissed off went to go take some pills because clearly the why to get through to someone like me is to present a challenge. Eventually...the pills were removed from me which once again resulted in me getting more screamed at and then my dad saying to never talk to him again and me and my mom went to stay with my sister.

Which turned into me going to the ER because my mother asked me too.

Now...I’m not saying this can’t help other people, but the entire resulting situation did not help me other then getting me away from my dad for a few days...which I could’ve done at my sister’s.

Spent 21 straight hours being babysat in the ER with barely any word from anyone about anything. Wearing paper and listening to people screaming. Being told after I did everything voluntarily that if I left I would be arrested until I was driven to a facility 2hrs away by a constable.

Yep...spent 3 days in a psych ward. Lets not discuss intake.

I wanted to leave as soon as I got there. All of the staff was more or less in agreement that I didn’t belong there. Half the techs/nurses thought I was a social worker and were very confused.

Do you want to know what it’s like being hit on continuously by a vulgar/violent ex military man who forced himself onto another one of the women there just hours earlier? It’s not fun I can fucking tell you that much. Idk how I’ll handle being told my eyes are pretty in the future tbh. “Can I stare at you because your eyes are the prettiest I’ve ever seen? I love you because you read. Can I have your name/address/phone number/email address? (I’m going to ask you this repeatedly! While I intermittently attempt to start verbal and physical fights. So like...try not to be scared over not giving me this info and annoying me or anything and also don’t think about me potentially stalking you in the future!) Take my hand. Touch me. Dance with me.”

The others were fine and some were nice and everyone was just trying to get better, but I spent 2 nights thinking this guy was somehow going to break into my room.

The psychiatrist didn’t force me onto any medications because he thinks I just need to learn how to handle stressful situations. But also he thinks I should maybe take something, but my thoughts on that as ‘I’m going to wait til I’m away from the guy who very clearly could sexually assault me thanks.’ All of the other patients were just like “It’s a miracle you’re attempting this without medication.”

Maybe...at a different time or a different person this all could’ve been more helpful, but I’m mostly just angry and waiting for actual therapy for my depression/anxiety.

Also...back home. We’ll see how that goes I guess.

#this is dumb and private #why am i posting it?#to vent maybe #idek anymore #long post

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lightsburnbrite · 4 years

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The Devil is in the Details: Part 10

@i-want--to--believe

Leon sat on the bench in front of his locker once he had changed back into his street clothes. It was an intense training and the mood was generally sour but it gave him time to think. Karina was right, she had been true to form for as long as he had known her, and it was never an issue for him before. Leon even remembered laughing because she’d been getting dressed for work in this pantsuit that looked so classy but had what sounded like tribal drums banging on in the background. Then there was the time she was wearing some band t-shirt with a scribbly, illegible text on it while bopping along to Cro and Samy Deluxe. The more that he thought about it, the more he realized that was one of the things he loved most about her, there was no way to pigeonhole Karina.

Making sure that he had at least a bit of privacy, he got his phone out to call her. It didn’t surprise Leon that it went to voicemail, he waited for the tone and then started his message.

“Hey Mausi. I’m so, so sorry. I was out of line this morning and you are completely right. Sometimes your sense of humor can be above me and I just was overreacting. I love you so much and I know I’ve got a lot more apologizing to do when I get home. We’ve got a meeting to go to but I’ll be back right after that. Love you.”

With a sigh, Leon hung up and then waited as patiently as he could before the team was released. When he pulled into his parking space and saw Karina’s car, he smiled.

“Hey Maus! I’m home!” He put his bag down by the door, his keys on the counter. “Where are you, babe?”

When there was no response, he assumed that Karina had taken Elsa out on a walk. Leon made his way to the bedroom but stopped short when he saw Elsa sprawled across their bed.

“Hey, pup.” He gave Elsa a pat on the head. “Where’s your Mama?”

Walking over to his side of the bed, Leon saw a small pink post-it note that wasn’t there this morning.

Thought you could use a break from me. -K

Leon held the note in his hand for a moment before placing it back down on the nightstand, smoothing the top so it stuck. He looked around for a minute to see if he could figure out where she had gone. Her suitcase was still in the closet so maybe she wasn’t planning on being gone for long. It made the most sense for her to go to the big house, she even had clothes there. As much as he didn’t like it, he’d giver her a day or two and then he’d drop by to see if she was ready to come home. Still, he thought he should call her again to set the record straight.

Again, it went to voicemail.

“I got your note, Maus. I don’t need a break from you, I want you to come home. But if you need some time away, I get it. I just…please come home as soon as you’re ready. Can you call me back? I just really need to hear your voice. Ok. I love you.”

Sitting down on the bed, Leon stared out of the door that led to the balcony. He had spent almost every night for the past two years with Karina. They rarely fought and when they did it never lasted more than an hour or so before they had forgiven each other. He felt entirely lost without her.

Leon was beyond relieved when their once open practice was changed to a private one. He never turned down fans for autographs or selfies but not having to do it today meant he wouldn’t need to hang around any longer than he needed to. Practice for the next day had been canceled as well and while he’d normally put in some extra time, he really just needed to get to Berchtesgaden.

Sitting and waiting for the automatic gate to open, Leon realized he was holding his breath. Letting out a great sigh, he drummed the steering wheel impatiently as the metal seemed to creep along on its track. Finally, he parked and let himself in the side entrance. He had started up the stairs to their bedroom when he heard Olga call out to him.

“Herr Goretzka, what a pleasant surprise!” Olga was smiling and he could tell that she was indeed happy to see him. “I was not expecting you, otherwise I would have had lunch ready. Is Miss Ekaterina expected to be joining you?”

His heart sank. “She’s not here already?”

When Olga only looked puzzled in response, Leon nodded as if she was right to do so. “We had an argument and she walked out saying she was giving me a break from her. I don’t know where she went, I was really hoping to find her here.”

“I’m sorry. I have not seen her.” She offered a sympathetic head tilt. “Perhaps she is with her parents?”

Leon nodded again. “I had thought about that also. I’ll give them and her brother a call. Maybe they can help.”

Olga insisted that she make Leon some lunch before he left but soon Leon was on his way back to Munich.

***

Karina ran a shower with the water as hot as she could stand. She scrubbed her skin pink as she tried to figure out what she needed to do. She needed to think, but she couldn’t do that here, not now anyway. Her mind went back to how much she enjoyed roaming the streets along the Amsterdam canals and suddenly it clicked for Karina that she wanted to replicate that feeling.

After drying her hair, she grabbed her backpack, made sure her laptop and phone chargers were in there and packed a few sets of clothes plus her passport and set off for the train station.

Without a real itinerary, Karina made a list in her mind of where she wanted to visit and decided on Berlin, that was the first train leaving. Of course, flying would be quicker, but the train ride would give her a chance to figure out her next step. Leon had apparently decided that he did not like who she was and for Karina, the only two logical options seemed to be change or leave. The only problem was she didn’t like either of those options.

She spent the next week and a half, riding the train from Munich to Berlin to Amsterdam to Paris, checking in and out of hotels and spending her days in museums and galleries. She had gone through and deleted every single post off her instagram and now it was filled with clips of her view from the train and anything that caught her eye. She had heard Leon’s many messages but wasn’t ready to talk to him. Instead, she hoped the posts brought him some comfort accompanied by a short text; I’m doing some traveling. Be home soon.

By the time Karina made it to Paris, she felt like she was ready to go home. It seemed somehow fitting that the Louvre would be her last stop on this impromptu European art tour. She was thankful that the crowd was small on a Wednesday evening and that the piece she most wanted to see had been practically ignored by those more interested in seeing the Mona Lisa.

Sitting on the floor, Karina gazed up and admired the detail etched into the marble of Psyche Revived by Cupid’s Kiss. The sculpture was meant to be viewed from all angles but Karina found that she preferred what she saw while seated. The piece itself was beautiful on its own but knowing the story that the artist based his work on - the trials that Psyche went through, Cupid eventually warding off his vengeful mother somehow made it more significant. She figured that Leon had accepted her posts as proof of life and decided to offer this image as a clandestine message that she was thinking of him. The last few rays of sunlight seemingly embracing Cupid and Psyche led her to add The Sounds’ Sail into the Sun as a soundtrack to the story. Shadows stretched out across the Louvre’s floor as the singer crooned on:

We sail into the sun

Golden rays are shining down on me

They set my soul on fire

And let it burn free

I’m trying to believe

I’m trying to belong

I’d do it all again

I’d do it all for you

Karina timed it so that she would get home while Leon was at practice. She didn’t have much to unpack, but she did have things to sort out. She stood in front of her closet with Amy Dune’s Cool Girl monologue running through her head. Cool girl never gets angry at her man. She only smiles in a chagrin, loving manner and then presents her mouth for fucking.

***

As soon as Leon walked in, he realized that Karina had come home.

“Maus?” He called out. “Mausi, I-”

Karina walked out to meet him but held up her hand. “Before you say anything, can I just speak for a minute?”

“Yeah,” Leon wanted desperately to grab Karina and pull her against him, he wanted to hold on to her so she couldn’t run away again, but he refrained. “Of course.”

“I love you. I’ve been in love with you for as long as I can remember.” Karina felt her words catch in her throat but she willed herself to go on. “But I also love me. It took me a long time to learn to love myself and part of that was realizing that I am enough. I have never been anything but myself whenever I am around you and I will not change myself to better suit anyone. Even you. I’m sorry.”

Leon took Karina’s hand in is and smiled. “You are absolutely right and you have no reason to be sorry.”

“But you were so mad at me.�� Karina pulled away slightly but then stopped herself, she didn’t want to seem too distant but she was definitely not ready to lower her guard. “I still don’t understand what I did.”

“You didn’t do anything.” He offered a sheepish shrug. “I guess the whole thing with the detective freaked me out and then Jörg said something about getting you under control. I don’t know why I flipped out on you and I’m so sorry that I did. Can you forgive me?”

Karina stood there for a moment but didn’t really have an answer. “I’m not sure yet.”

“Ok, I can work with that.” Giving her hands a brief squeeze, Leon gently let go.

Suddenly, Karina found that she couldn’t keep eye contact with him and moved her gaze to his feet.

“Karina, I meant it when I said I asked you to marry me because I couldn’t imagine my life without you.” Leon walked to the kitchen to get a glass of water. “That includes your terrible taste in music, extracurricular activities, whatever tattoos you might feel like getting, and whoever your friends are.”

With a laugh, she gave a slight nod, but Leon continued.

“I will give you as much space as you need to figure things out. I can sleep on the couch-”

She shook her head now. “I don’t want you to sleep on the couch. I couldn’t stand being away from you but I thought you didn’t like me, that you didn’t want me.”

As soon as Karina took a step towards him, Leon quickly moved to embrace her. “Do you know why I always picked on you whenever I was around?”

“Because I was small and annoying like a little mouse?” She spoke into his chest.

“Ok,” Leon laughed now. “I know that’s what I said but boys are stupid so that was the only way I knew how to show you that I liked you.”

Karina stood back and raised an eyebrow.

With a smile, Leon kissed her forehead. “Honestly? I’ve been in love with you for as long as I can remember too.”

#leon goretzka #The Devil is in the Details

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angryhausfrau-writes · 3 years

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You Can’t Cross the Same River Twice - Chapter 16

"Sorry you're being subjected to Maine in February - it's not exactly at its best under four feet of snow."

Steve grins. "At least I'll know what I'm getting into."

Hawkeye is heading up to Crabapple Cove with Steve Newsome to see if he wants to take over the family practice. And maybe it's not primarily a social call, but after weeks of dining with debutantes, Hawkeye is looking forward to seeing his dad - and the rest of Crabapple Cove, which will inevitably drop in once word of a stranger in town goes around. After all, even the most avid gossip in town is refreshingly down-to-earth compared to Boston high society.

Hawkeye smiles back. "I'll make sure to do a thorough job of introducing you to Crabapple Cove's myriad delights. Including some very lovely young ladies who would be delighted at a handsome young doctor moving into town."

"Hawkeye Pierce, matchmaker - I never would have guessed." Then Steve pauses. "I really do appreciate you showing me around. And letting me kind of take your place in your dad's practice. Are you sure you're ok with this?"

Hawkeye moves closer to Steve, hoping for a little privacy for what he's about to disclose. The lady on the opposite bench has been eying them since they left Boston.

"I don't know what Sidney told you about me, if anything. But I spent a couple of weeks at the Tokyo funny farm at the end of the war. I'd witnessed something pretty terrible and it shook me. Bad. Though I didn't realize that for a while - not till Sidney helped me figure it out. And while I was locked up in that little room - and later, while I was being literally shipped home - I had a lot of time to think about who I was and what I wanted to do once I was back home."

"I know the feeling," Steve says wryly. His own experience in a psych ward is one of the reasons Hawkeye is willing to tell him all of this. He can understand.

"I couldn't go home, Steve. I'd changed so much, but everyone there - people who'd known me since I was a kid - wouldn't be able to understand that. They'd want me to be the Hawkeye they knew from before. And I just can't be him anymore." Then Hawkeye grins. "So really, you're doing me a favor here, if you accept. Not to mention, you'll hopefully distract the hordes of women who keep trying to marry me."

Steve laughs. "What a difficult life you must lead - Crabapple Cove's most eligible bachelor."

Hawkeye's dad picks them up from the train station and drives them to his office in the center of town. Steve is grateful because, as vicious as Chicago winters can get, they don't usually involve this much snow. And it's nice to get a look at the town he might end up living in.

Crabapple Cove is a far cry from anything he's used to, but Steve thinks it has a certain charm. And about as much peace and quiet as he could ask for without moving to Antarctica. Hopefully he'll be able to sleep through the night here.

Dr. Pierce's practice impresses Steve. The office is small but well organized and scrupulously clean. Even at Tokyo, Steve doesn't think he's seen an OR so spotless.

When he says as much to Dr. Pierce, he just laughs and says, "This here's practically a floor model. Only a few thousand miles on her. And, knock on wood, it'll never have to see much more than a tonsillectomy."

That sounds pretty nice to Steve after so much meatball surgery. He raps his knuckles on the door frame. "I suppose Hawkeye already mentioned this, but I'm at a general practice now, so I can't say that's a disappointment."

Dr. Pierce nods. "Seems like all Korea managed to do was talk people out of being surgeons. Not that I can blame you for wanting a less exciting career."

Steve laughs. "I've had about as much excitement as I care to, courtesy of the front lines. I'm looking forward to a few decades of treating the common cold."

"Well, you've come to the right place, then. We have a few farming or boating accidents every year, but it's largely births, deaths, and routine ailments."

Then Dr. Pierce strides into the front lobby where Hawkeye is lounging sideways in a chair, reading Good Housekeeping.

"Tell you what, Steve, how about you take the lead on any cases that come in here today. Might help you get a better feel for the place. He flips open an appointment book on the receptionist's desk. "Looks like we've got a couple of general physicals, an unidentified cough, and whoever else wanders in - I'm sure your presence here will be a draw in of itself."

"That sounds fine to me," Steve says.

If he's going to stay here, he may as well start getting to know his patients. And it will probably give him some insight into working with Dr. Pierce as well. Steve's first impression of the man is genial good humor - with a sense of mischief underneath. It's fairly clear where Hawkeye got his sense of humor.

Speaking of Hawkeye, "Do you mind waiting while I take a shift here, Hawkeye? You can introduce me to anyone who doesn't show up to the office afterwards."

"Sounds fine to me, Steve. It'll give me a chance to catch up on all the local news." Hawkeye grins at the receptionist. "Gloria here is better informed about the goings on in Crabapple Cove than the paper."

With that settled, Steve falls into the familiar routine of treating patients. While some of the older folks seem a little unsure at being treated by a young whipper-snapper, Dr. Pierce's presence in the exam room convinces them to give him a chance. And Steve thinks he does well enough to prove his ability. He won't be run out of town, at least.

And apparently the news of a mysterious stranger in town has spread because the office is inundated with gawkers and look-sees. Many of whom happen to be single young ladies. And Hawkeye appears committed to playing matchmaker because he gives Steve a discrete rundown of all the women he even glances twice at.

Dr. Pierce must notice as well, because he asks, "Looking at a career change to marriage broker, Hawkeye?"

Hawkeye laughs. "This is all Charles's fault. He has me helping him find a wife - some sort of rich person inheritance deal."

"And is he, uh, aware of why you might not be the best person to help with that?" Hawkeye's dad appears to be holding back a laugh.

"My terminal bachelorhood was brought up, yes. But he's not asking for introductions, just wants me to make sure the future Mrs. Emerson Winchester III isn't an outright bigot. Plus, I got to be friends with Charles's sister Honoria out of the deal, so it's worth rubbing elbows with a bunch of snobs."

Steve laughs. "I can't even begin to imagine what Charles's sister is like."

"Well, she's got more hair, for one thing. She's actually something of a revolutionary, if you can believe that. Hosts a kind of salon for artists and philosophers and those sorts of people. Still too posh for little old me, but it means she's a good conversationalist, at least."

"Strange to think of a Winchester as a revolutionary," Steve comments idly. "To hear Charles talk, you'd think they'd all sprung fully formed from a safe deposit box rather than a normal birth. Still, I appreciate you putting your newfound skills at meddling to good use - I may even remember a few of the hordes I was introduced to."

Hawkeye laughs. "Yeah, pretty much the whole town made it out to see you - I won't even need to introduce you around now. And you held up well under the deluge. I'll make you up a review packet if you decide to stay."

"I think that's up to Dr. Pierce," Steve says. "But from what I've seen, this is pretty much exactly where I'm looking to end up."

"Well, I'm more than ready to hire you, Steve," Dr. Pierce claps a hand on his shoulder. "You're obviously qualified - and I think young Ms. Baxter would murder me if I didn't offer you the position."

Steve looks quizzically at Hawkeye.

"He means Millie," Hawkeye stage whispers. "The brunette with the freckles."

Dr. Pierce continues on, as if he hadn't been interrupted by his son. "We can hash out all the details later, but it's been a long day - how about some dinner?"

So they head back to the Pierce house and it's about what Steve pictured when he thought of Maine - small and wooden and painted a dark gray. The house is set among tall pines and surrounded by heaping drifts of snow. Behind the house, Steve can see the flat gray ocean where it crashes in white peaks against the craggy rocks. It's not a particularly inviting image, if he's being honest.

But the inside of the house is warm and cozy. They sit at a worn kitchen table and eat a hearty stew that warms Steve right down to his socks. And the evening whiles away with laughter and stories and cards. This. This is the kind of life Steve wants. Quiet, peaceful, and full of laughter.

Steve goes to bed in Hawkeye's old room - and isn't that just a hoot, getting that glimpse into Hawkeye's childhood - and Steve feels like he can rest here, in this house, in this little town in Maine.

Steve's gone up to bed already, but Hawkeye stays up, wanting a chance to catch up with his dad. They see each other infrequently enough that Hawkeye treasures every hour - letters and phone calls just aren't the same.

They sit by the fireplace in the darkened living room and Hawkeye talks about how things are at the clinic and how his friends are doing and about the knitting group he's joined - along with an anti-war protest group that he doesn't tell his dad about, not wanting to worry him, having already talked Charles into posting bail if necessary. Hawkeye's taken Sidney's advice about extending his social circle and it has helped him feel a little more connected to the people around him.

Hawkeye's dad listens attentively to all of it. But it seems like there's something on his mind. Hawkeye's content to sit in warm silence till his dad's ready to talk, but it's not long before he speaks up.

"Are you happy, Hawkeye?"

All this stuff with Steve must have made his dad a little unsure. After all, the parallels between the two of them are pretty obvious. Even if they're moving in opposite directions to find a new life.

"Yeah, Dad, I'm happy. I won't lie, the holidays were a little rough - just due to all the pressure and expectation around them, I think. But Sidney and I talked a little - just talked, he gives good non-psychiatric advice too - and that helped a lot. But I'm... I'm where I want to be, surrounded by a lot of the people I want to be around. And away from a lot of the people I don't want to be around - namely the United States Army."

Hawkeye's dad nods consideringly. "And John. Is John happy?"

"Yeah, Dad, Trapper's happy too."

"Good. That's good." A pause. "I was so worried about you, Hawkeye, you and all your friends you used to write me about. Comes of being a parent, I suppose. You never lose that fear that something will happen to your child and - and you won't be able to protect them. And there you were, across an ocean and smack dab in the middle of a war zone.

Then the war was over and you were coming home - after three years of worry, you were coming back to me. Safe and sound.

But you got hurt over there. All you boys did, you and John and Steve - Tommy. And there was nothing I could have done to prevent it, nothing I can do to fix it now. So I'm glad to hear that you've been able to mend things for yourselves."

Hawkeye leans forward to look his dad in the eye. "You've helped me more than I can say - both when I was over there and now that I'm back home. And you helped Trapper too, when he thought I was dead. And you're helping Steve right now." Hawkeye pauses. "I don't know that there's any fixing how I or Steve or Trapper got hurt. We're never going to be who we were before - but that doesn't mean that we can't be happy in who we are now."

"I love you, Ben, however you are."

"I love you too, Dad."

They fall back into a comfortable silence, Hawkeye enjoying the warmth of the fire and the familiarity of sitting here like this. He and his dad used to while away a lot of winter evenings in front of the fire, reading or listening to the radio or talking. But it's late, and Hawkeye is suddenly very tired, so he heads up to bed before too long.

#mash #piercintyre #fanfic archive #you can't cross the same river twice #chapter 16

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survivingthejungle · 7 years

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never fade away, part vi

i cant tell you how many times i’ve re-written this just to have it all be deleted again. too many times.

i have a bad sunburn and it huuuuuuuurts like a mf.

let’s get this show on the road.

_____________________________________________

You knew, deep in the back of your mind, that no matter how smoothly your life had been going since you got home, something would eventually come along to mess it all up again. To reference an overused quote, “Nothing gold can stay.” You were indescribably happy every time you hung out with friends at a party or went for a car ride. You’d all sometimes even go exploring in old abandoned warehouses and take pictures. Such is the life of a high schooler on summer break. This, for you, was the calm before the storm.

Every once in a while, you’d wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, adrenaline rushing through your veins, heart pumping out of your chest. The copper-haired teenage psychopath who held you captive for weeks still had yet to make his way out of your nightmares. Sometimes, in the few seconds after you shot up from bed, you were paralyzed with the fear that he might be hiding in the dark corners of your room, and that he was going to kidnap you again- or worse. But your eyes would adjust and you would see that it was just you, the gentle humming of the fan in your room, and your dog sleeping soundly at your side; you would snuggle into the 10-month-old Australian Shepherd tightly and fall right back asleep.

You had gotten the dog, named Sadie, not long after the incident. Being a herding breed, she was very protective-a quality your parents valued (as they trusted she would grow into your personal guard dog, of sorts). She had a few months of being trained by a professional under her belt before your family adopted her, so she was not completely clueless on how to protect and alert you to danger if she sensed it. Your mother felt much more at ease knowing that you were being watched after, especially after you had flat-out refused to stay home and lay low for a while (“I’m not going to hide for the rest of my life mother. I’m not going to let the possibility of danger keep me from living my life. I’m not afraid of what’s out there.”)

You’d gotten in the habit of taking Sadie on walks, which is what you were doing the day the walls of your calm, normal life shattered once more. One decision to take a shortcut down an empty alley had changed the rest of your day. Sadie’s ears perked up and she stopped dead in her tracks before turning around and barking furiously. You whipped around suddenly and were met with the image of a small, greasy man with a smile that made you uneasy, and a tall man in a police uniform with a bloody bandage wrapped around his entire face and… copper hair. There was a chance it wasn’t the boy you guessed that it was, because come on, he was dead!- but you weren’t willing to take that chance. You sprinted off in the opposite direction as fast as your legs would carry you, Sadie as your side, seemingly trying to guide you to safety.

(Excerpt from a conversation you never heard: “Oh-oh my God! It’s her! I never imagined it would be this easy-!”

“Who? What are you talking about? Who’s ‘her’?”

“Going into the alley! Right there with the dog! That’s (y/n)! The two of you were meant to be together! See, we- the cult, that is- we tried to get her to join, since she’d been your… well, your… well, we couldn’t ever get her to tell us about your relationship. We all just assumed she was your girlfriend- after all, you had kept her with you for a few weeks, you seemed pretty possesive, too- but she wouldn’t ever talk to us… We all just guessed she was traumatized after watching you… die… Although-“

“Hey man, shut up. Tell me the rest of the story when we get back… Help me grab her, would you?”)

What you weren’t expecting in this unrealistic, nightmarish experience was actually making it safely to the next street over and finding help.

It didn’t happen, either.

There was suddenly a strong grip around your stomach, effectively lifting you off the ground, leaving you kicking and screaming for help. A cold, pallid hand left your side to roughly grab your face and hold it still. You were staring directly into the eyes of the bandaged and bloodied face, and you were terrified beyond words. “Hm,” he said in a croaky, gravelly voice you almost were familiar with, “You do look pretty familiar… Oh! Of course! I remember you now! Hey, how ya been-” His half-hearted greeting was cut short by Sadie gnawing on his left calf. (“Good girl”, you thought.) “Ow!” He rolled his eyes and tried to get a hold of his gun and shoot her, but before he could aim it, you were wildly pulling his arm away from her.

“NO! STOP!” You screamed, at the top of your lungs. “SADIE, RUN!” You half expected her to not move a muscle, because this was not a movie, and she probably didn’t even know that command, but to your surprise and relief, she bolted in the other direction. “LET ME GO!” You continued to shout, “GET OFF ME! STOP IT! G-” You were muffled by his hand covering your mouth.

“Chill out, would ya? God, the one person I wasn’t planning on killing tonight, and THIS is the thanks I get.” You were being thrown into the backseat of the car at this point, followed by the one who had carried you there. “You know where we’re going,” he noted to the other man, and shoved him in the driver’s seat. You, of course, were already clawing at the other door to get it to open, not a clue in the world as to what your plan would be if you really got out. “Jeez, would you- Would you stop that? Do you /want/ me to drug you?”

“NO! Let me OUT! GOD! I am not about to be kidnapped AGAIN by the same ginger freak! YOU SHOULD BE DEAD! WHAT THE FUCK! Get AWAY from me! LET ME GO! Get AWAY from me! YOU RUINED MY LIFE, YOU ABSOLUTE FUCKING NARCISSIST!” He said nothing in response, only grabbed a hold of both of your hands, and started tying them together using a wad of fresh gauze tape rolled up and laying on the floor. You figured that was the same thing he had used to bandage his face as well.

“Not that I’m against it or anything, but unless you want me to gag you as well, I’d suggest shutting the hell up. ‘Kay babe?”

You just sharply nodded, and shrunk away from him and as close to the door as possible. Sinking into the backseat of the car, you looked out through the window and were met with the view of an industrial park. “Hey, uh…” Jerome started, directing his words towards the gross little man driving. “What’s her name again?”

“(y/n),” the man offered.

“Right, (y/n), uh… What have you been up to since I died?”

You were absolutely incredulous. “Are… Are you joking with me right now? Is this a joke? Dude seriously?” He nodded. “Oh my God. Well if you NEED to know, I was in a psych ward for 6 weeks after I finally escaped because I had “severe mental trauma”, my body rejected solid foods for 9 days because YOU refused to feed me anything other than apple sauce and yogurt, and I had 3 different psychology professors fighting over who got to use me in their next case study. I also had to catch up on 4 weeks worth of school on my OWN time because the American public school system is shit, and no one at school talked to me for 2 weeks because they all thought you might have fucking brainwashed me. My life was JUST starting to go back to normal! I got my driver’s license-“

He seemed to be interested in this. “You had a birthday? You’re sixteen now?” You nodded. “Wow. That’s really a shame. Can’t believe I missed my girl’s birthday.”

“Fuck off. I’m not your anything.”

“Don’t worry. You’ll come around eventually.” His face (or, rather, lack thereof) lit up in a split second as he turned to you. “Ooh! I got an idea,” he grinned as the stolen police car you were in stopped in front of an abandoned warehouse. "Y'ever been to a carnival?”

“What? No,” you replied. He and his greasy friend both got out of the car before he walked over to your side, open the door, and pulled you out by your bicep.

"Don’t even think about runnin’, babe. That won’t end well.”

_________________________________________

there will be another update on the way soon. i forgot how much i love writing??? wtf???? i know this isn’t very good and im sorry for making you wait so long for such shitty writing but please be patient w me and i’ll have better stuff on the way.

in the mean time i’ve missed you all how have you been??

in the other meantime no worries to my other request i’m working on them

lastly please, as always, do not hesitate to send me a request if u want me to write anything!!! i love u all my friends also if ur in the usa, please have a fun and SAFE (!!!) fourth of july tomorrow. goodnight friendos catch u on the flippity flip

#jerome #jerome valeska #jerome gotham #jerome valeska imagine #jerome valeska x reader #gotham #gotham on fox #gotham imagine #gotham x reader #cameron monaghan imagine #cameron monaghan x reader #cameron monaghan

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mothergwendoline-blog · 5 years

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Disclaimer: This blog contains discussion of suicide and depression. If this makes you feel unsafe, please leave.

The Greatest Act of Kindness

So I made it back into the psych ward. The funny thing about talking to emergency psychiatric services is that they’re often wrong when it comes to environmentalism. Which is hardly their fault, but it makes for difficult conversation when they ask why I want to kill myself. I tell them the planet is dying. They tell me;

“But you don’t have to worry about that! Good people are working hard to protect the planet. And even if they weren’t, human civilization won’t end for hundreds of years!”

This is heroically naïve. So I correct them politely. I tell them that young people like me can’t expect to live until old age, that the world will see two billion climate refugees by the end of the century, that the ice caps and permafrost are melting, the seas are rising, heatwaves ravage arable land, fresh water is running out, plastic fills the oceans, insects are facing their Armageddon already, the Arctic is literally on fire, the Clathrate Gun has likely already been fired, we’re in the middle of an extinction event and, to put it bluntly, we’re all going to die. Then I get told to go to the hospital.

I presume I’m admitted primarily for suicidal ideation as opposed to apocalyptic visions but to me they are inextricably linked. I want to die primarily because the world is ending but all emergency services hear is “suicidal”. I wonder how many other calls are made due to climate grief and if I have any siblings near me in the death throes of despair. The world is overpopulated, I contribute nothing to actively benefiting the planet and halting climate change, I may as well be dead.

So on Wednesday around midday a staff member from the psychiatric ward paid a visit to my home and picked me up to be voluntarily admitted and watched so I can’t kill myself. I have a bedroom to myself, everyone here does. It’s actually reasonably large, warm, cozy and the bed is big enough for someone as tall and fat as me. I’m not allowed to vape in the patio or garden, the smoking area is a dirty little patch of concrete out the front with three deck chairs. The other patients here are quiet and all as sullen as I am for the most part. I get checked on every hour to make sure I haven’t made an attempt on my life and we get notified when food is served. The food is not vegetarian but I am too depressed to care. I wonder about the other patients and check my privilege. For although my family is poor, I have a roof over my head, clothes on my back, three meals a day and basic hygiene. Do the other patients have this at home? My guess is some of them don’t from the things I can hear. For them, the psych ward must be almost enjoyable.

Because I’m voluntary, I’m not placed in the secure ward and I’m allowed to leave during the day which is essential for maintaining my exercise regime. Wednesday is my rest day but otherwise I have maintained regular exercise and intermittent fasting. Thankfully, I have not gained weight. I haven’t lost weight but I’ve managed to maintain a balance, which is fairly normal for the first few weeks of concentrated diet and exercise.

I don’t know if I feel any better; not really for the most part. But I have people watching over me making sure I can’t do anything. It’s petty little solace but I am determined to reach my goals before I kill myself on the footsteps of government. That’s the sole reason I admitted myself. Not to prevent suicide entirely but to postpone it. Of course, this I cannot reveal to psychiatric services or they may commit me.

In the meanwhile I have little to do and am driven mad with boredom. There are no activities in this house, I occupy myself solely with writing. I have little peace other than words in this place, my blog and my stories. Hospital time moves slower than usual days outside. I feel itchy with restlessness but as it is I am already living life an hour at a time, trying to make it through the minutes without planning to kill myself. I want to drag my fat fatigued body into one of the bathrooms, lock the door and lay myself down on the linoleum and slit my wrists open under the shower and watch the blood go down the drain. That was how I did it the last two times I attempted, it’s a peaceful and humbling way to go.

I do not know when I will be discharged from the psychiatric ward, perhaps in a week’s time they say. My medication will be checked but as it is I’m already on a powerful dose of anti-psychotics and anti-depressants. I am being enrolled in a group therapy service and first need to be assessed to see whether I am suitable for group therapy.

The nurses on the psychiatric ward differ greatly from the incredibly helpful and homely to the jaded and bitter drones just working a paycheck. I’m told that whenever I feel suicidal I must go to the nurses, talk to them and try have a conversation about my troubles. “They are trained professionals” my counselor told me. So today when I saw an article about the arctic wildfires and heatwaves in the Northern hemisphere and fell into a deep depressive anxiety, I did what I was told and sought out help.

“Have you taken your PRN meds?”

“Yes” I say.

“What usually helps when you are in a state like this?”

“Talking to people about my fears”

“What else?”

“Nothing” I answer truthfully.

I’m told to take some more PRN and sit in the lounge and try distract myself with writing. So much for professional therapy. I hate it in the lounge, the other patients only ever watch the most mind numbing dribble on TV. Friends, The Chase, The Simpsons (the bad new episodes, not the golden years), other game shows, and the news. I hate the news. I can’t stand it. It sickens me and hits something deep and existential in my brain. Seeing the flashing play-by-play repeats of global horrors drives me insane.

It’s gotten to the stage where I no longer know what a healthy environment and lifestyle is to me anymore. Whenever they discharge me, what will I occupy myself with other than diet, exercise and seeking employment to fund transition? These are all worthy goals but they are not purpose or belonging, and where to belong is harder still to discern. And I know whatever menial employment I find myself in will hardly suffice either. Writing is all I have. It is my world.

I think what makes my life so draining and complicated is that I know suicide is my inevitability, so it is hard to think of any future or purpose other than death. Whenever I take my medication, go to therapy or get admitted to the psych ward, I only see it as postponing the inevitable. I know I’m going to kill myself in about five years’ time and I know where I’ll do it. In the meanwhile, everything I do feels like idle busywork passing the time. My life is an ethereal state of prolonged palliative care, only I am the only one who knows I’m terminally ill. But it doesn’t feel like an illness and I wonder whether it is. I feel calm, collected and certain. The planet and society are sick, not me, I am merely a symptom of a broken world. When humans rape and pillage nature so brutally and selfishly as they have done, what can be expected but for people such as myself to seek escape? To me, suicide is the greatest act of kindness I can show myself.

Mother Gwendoline

#Apocalypse #Climate change suicide #Climatechangesuicide #Environment #Environmentalism #Fitness #Hospital #LGBT #LGBTQ #Lifestyle #Medication #Psych ward #Psychiatry #psychology #Suicide #Trans #Trans woman #Transgender #weight loss

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understandingchaoss · 7 years

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My Time in the Psych Ward

Throughout the years during my struggle with mental illness, I always told myself that I would never end up in a psychiatric hospital. I had friends who came home with horrific stories, and I’d read countless articles on how awful the experience can be. I was prideful, and swore that I wouldn’t ever get to that point. I didn’t think ending up in one was something that would help me. I don’t think I’ve been anymore wrong about anything in my entire life.

I have been evaluated by a crisis clinician from Tuolumne County several times. The first time was an awful experience, and I probably should have ended up in a psychiatric facility, but the clinician didn’t believe anything I told her. The second time was during a severe panic attack, and I wasn’t exactly a danger to myself. The third time, was actually just recently.

On May 2, 2017 I was taken to the emergency room for yet another evaluation. This time was different though. I woke up that day, and swore I had reached “the void.” The void is something I picture as nothing. Literally just nothing. It looks almost like a dark room that is never ending and I spend all of my time running around it, trying to find my way out. I felt this overwhelming feeling of pure nothingness. I was suicidal once, for a long period of time. I remember feeling like I had no purpose to live for, and there was nothing else left in this life for me. This time was different. I think about death a lot, but never about the actual dying part. Last week, I woke up, and just flat out wanted to die. I had reached the void, felt completely numb, felt absolutely nothing, and was done with this life. I have known for a long time that I have purpose. I learned that I had purpose in this life not long after I got through my suicidal stage. There are countless things in this life that give me purpose. It wasn’t that I wanted to die because I didn’t feel like I had a purpose. I wanted to die because I was so sick and beyond tired of dealing with the pain, guilt, chasing the light out in the distance that I couldn’t seem to reach, and the never ending feeling of sadness. For the last year or so, the thought that has constantly been in the back of my mind is, “What if I never get better? What happens if I have to live this life feeling like this until the day I die from old age or natural causes?” That wasn’t something I could deal with. I thought that death now sounded like a better idea than continuing this fight for - approximately - the next 60 years. So I came up with a plan.

It was Tuesday. I had my weekly appointment with my counselor. I was going to shut up about how I was feeling and pretend nothing was out of the ordinary. I was going to head to work for my normal Tuesday shift, then head home and do the deed. Overdosing sounded like a good idea to me. Because typically, if you survive, there’s a high chance you experience severe brain damage. So I figured that even if I survived, I wouldn’t be in the right state of mind for the rest of my life to understand the concept of mental illness. If I was going to survive, I would have rather ended up a living vegetable than fight mental illness.

The issue is that I couldn’t lie to my counselor. I couldn’t pretend nothing was wrong. She’s known me since the day I was born; she’d probably be able to see right through me anyway. I knew I needed help. So I just came out and told her. I mostly just admitted it on impulse. She followed protocol, and we made some phone calls to my psychiatrist and my insurance carrier. Everyone we talked to advised us to either call 911, or take me to the nearest emergency room. We bypassed 911 and went straight to the emergency room. I called a dear friend of mine who I knew would be right there with me. She met us there, because my counselor couldn’t sit there all day with me, which I understood. I waited several hours before I was able to talk to someone from behavioral health. I was terrified, because the chances of her being just like the first woman I talked to in 2012 were pretty high. She couldn’t have been more compassionate, understanding, and sympathetic. She took 3 pages of notes and wrote some of my answers down word for word. I have Kaiser, and the nearest facility is over an hour away. She said that instead of sending me to their emergency room and taking the chances of someone from the neighboring county not putting me on a 51/50 (an involuntary 72 hour psychiatric hold), she was going to place me under a 51/50 herself; that way, they couldn’t NOT do anything. I waited a total of 10 hours for Kaiser to let our emergency room here where they were going to send me. I knew I was going to a mental hospital. I knew I was getting sent away. That thought was terrifying, because you never know for how long. Plus, everyone was probably going to think I was psycho after all of this. Eventually, I got word that I was being sent to Sacramento. I was to be transported in a cage car because I was considered a threat.

Way to go Laura, you really screwed up this time.

I arrived at 2am. I was told I could not wear my bra unless they cut my wire out. I was told I had to take off my ring and rubber bracelet. I was told I could not wear any clothing that had strings or wire. Why? Because all of those things are considered a possible weapon for self-harm, or harming another person in a psychiatric facility. I was told my entire body had to be inspected so that they could monitor any cuts or bruises that I may pick at, or create on my body. I was told I would have to surrender anything and everything in my possession with the exception of paperback books, and my clothing that met their standards. They gave me time to write down a few phone numbers so that I could make phone calls to those closest to me during my stay. Other than that, I would have zero contact with the outside world.

I slept approximately two hours that night.

I woke up to discover that being in a place like that was not going to be what I expected.

I was considered a threat to myself and those around me. I didn’t think about what the consequences were going to be. With the exception of the doors to each room for the patients and the doors to the room where we had group therapy, each door was locked and could only be opened with a device that had a chip in it to be scanned on a scanner that the nurses and doctors had. There was absolutely no way for me to escape even if I wanted to. With the exception of attending two 20 minute group therapy sessions a day, I figured I’d be sleeping, because what else was there going to be for me to do?

I found out that my psychiatrist - who I would be seeing later that day - would give me a red band. That red band allowed me to go to the cafeteria to eat three meals a day and to go outside into the courtyard, where the only thing I could see from the outside world, was a small portion of blue sky. I take mental health medications twice a day on my own time. So twice a day, I had to line up and wait for someone to dispense them to me. The pills were put into a small cup and I was given a little thing of water. I was stared at by the nurse while I tipped the pills into my mouth. I was to show her that I had indeed swallowed them. I was supervised 24/7. Literally. They did room checks every 15 minutes including while we slept. Our doors to our rooms were to be left open so that they could come in to make sure we hadn’t harmed or killed ourselves. I didn’t really see how that was possible.

Everything was considered a weapon to cause personal harm or harm to others. The pillows and mattresses were made impossible to suffocate yourself with. There were no curtains, curtain rods, or lamps. The beds were connected to the walls. The chairs were impossible to pick up, because there was no opening underneath. Every single chair was completely covered at the bottom with nothing on the sides to pick it up by, and there were weights in the bottom of each one. It made it so difficult to even slide 5 feet across the floor. There were no toilet paper holders; just a perfect hole in the wall for the roll to sit in. There were no handles in the shower to control the temperature because they can be easily removed to cause harm. The water temperature was one of those ‘you get what you get.’ I couldn’t use pens. If I wanted one, I had to use what was only the inside of one, where the ink sits. The plastic from the outside of the pen could be used for harm if broken. The flimsy pen was impossible to write with, so I stuck with markers. Any and all everyday objects suddenly became a weapon, and I learned how much I take for granted each day real quick.

Way to go Laura.

I tried to distract myself by reading. The group therapy sessions killed a little time throughout the day. The three meals a day and short time outside twice a day also killed a little time. But for some reason, one day felt like an eternity.

I gained an incredible amount of sympathy for those who suffer from other mental illnesses that I don’t. Not that I didn’t already have sympathy for them before. But this experience opened my eyes. The facility I was in had at least four units - that I knew of. Three of them were adult units, and one was for adolescents. People were sorted in the units based on their level of insanity/psychoticness. I was thankfully put in the “lower unit.” Meaning that I was considered high-functioning, experienced minimal hallucinations, and was not considered a severe threat like those in the other two units were. The other units held people who lashed out, and would often get physical or become verbally abusive with the staff as a result of their medications, hallucinations, etc. I met a lot of people that were just like me in my unit. We sat and had normal, functioning conversations. I got to share my story and listen to other stories that inspired me. There were a few people who I thought belonged in the other two adult units, but I wasn’t the one making the judgement. During our three meals of the day, all the units came together, and that was where I got to experience what most would consider the stereotypical psychiatric facility patient. To me, schizophrenia almost seems as if the person is possessed. The adults in the other two units were clearly schizophrenic, and that was the first time I had dealt with it first-hand.

For some reason, people seem to think that those are the kinds of people that belong in these kinds of facilities. That thought breaks my heart into pieces. It breaks for the people who are just like me who experience the stigma behind it all. One of the nurses explained that he preferred our unit because we were high-functioning. Part of me is proud to be high-functioning. I like being able to - for the most part - act and live like an everyday, normal person. The issue with being high-functioning is that when situations like this happen, I am stigmatized, judged, and often pushed aside. No more than 2 people from my job have seemed genuinely concerned. That concept doesn’t bother me. What bothers me is that I feel like they haven’t been genuinely concerned because I never seemed that bad. I haven’t shown any signs in the months leading up to this event that something has been very wrong inside of my head. I fear incredible judgement once I return to work, because instead of being concerned, I feel like they are going to just think I’m flat out “psycho” and won’t want to associate with me.

The movies and the books make psych wards out to be these awful, demonic places that either brainwash people, make their situations worse, or medicate them so much that they aren’t even in touch with reality.

I am here to tell you that these facilities are not like that. Sure, you always have the few oddballs, but from what I experienced, my high-functioning unit was nothing like that, and I wish people would understand that all we want is help.

It’s so difficult for me to express to someone that something isn’t okay; that I’m sad or even kind of want to die. The part of me that doesn’t want to die is why I reached out for help instead of following through with my plan and I got help. I surround myself on social media with people just like me, and I have gotten an overwhelming amount of love, support, prayers, and compassion. I have received so many messages full of hope and kind words letting me know how proud they are of me for allowing myself to admit that I needed or wanted help. I hope and I pray that the people I got to meet during this experience received the same kinds of messages.

At first, I wasn’t going to write about this experience. I didn’t want to admit to the world that I ended up in a place that so many people deem as unhealthy for mental health patients more than they deem it a safe haven. I still fear judgement and stigma; this entire situation is going to permanently alter my life, both good and bad. But if I keep quiet about this, how many other people just like me feel exactly the same way and keep quiet themselves? Someone has to talk about the nasty parts of mental illness; someone has to talk about this kind of stuff. If I don’t, who will? Instead of allowing the judgement and stigma to knock me down, I will allow this situation to be something positive.

If I’m being honest, part of me feels worse about being home. Part of me feels like I shouldn’t have come home. But the psychiatrist himself told me there wasn’t much he could do for me. I am better off here, surrounded by the people who love me, instead of talking to them on a phone with a cord only three inches long so I can’t choke myself. I am better off here surrounded by the few people who haven’t judged me for ending up in such a place.

The thought of knowing that I’ve ended up in a psychiatric facility breaks my own heart. But I am so proud of myself for telling someone of my plan instead of carrying through with it. I am so proud of myself for going to such a place - even if it was against my will - and receiving the care and help that I so desperately needed, even if it wasn’t much of either.

The following is an excerpt from several journal entries I made during my 72 hours in the psychiatric unit.

I met two sweet girls. They have been my safe haven in this place. They are just like me. But most of all, they are strong; I see so much strength in them. I admire them, and I will never forget them. One girl in particular alarmed me at first. She doesn’t speak, and she doesn’t sit still. During my first group session, I heard someone laughing behind me. I wondered why anyone would be laughing during a time like this. Come to find out, she isn’t like the rest of us. She spends no more than 30 seconds in her room, which is at the very end of the hall, just next to mine. I can hear her laughing in there, and she flushes the toilet much more often than she must be able to actually use it. She walks out of her room after 30 seconds, still laughing, and walks all the way down the hall and into the day room where we have group. She sits there for no more than 30 seconds, laughs, and then heads back to her room to do it all over again. I can’t help but wonder what the voices must be saying that seems to be so funny.

I met a sweet nurse this morning. She sounded Jamaican, and had the cutest accent. I spent the morning crying uncontrollably in my room. She happened to walk by and see me in my bed with tears flowing. She came in and asked why I was there. I told her, and her reaction was to tell me how beautiful and strong I was. She said that I need to wake up every single morning and tell myself how cute I am and how loved I am; so that maybe I can get better. I spoke to Kat this morning. She said she was proud of me, and wanted to hear how I was doing.

The woman who administers meds saw me crying uncontrollably this morning. She was very sweet and gave me my medication that I take for anxiety, and told me that they were going to take very good care of me. The woman who leads group has a comforting peace about her. She puts me at ease. Steven called today. He sounded worried, and wanted to know why I hadn’t said anything to him. My heart broke knowing that I hadn’t told him, but he understood, and we both cried. Emily called and told me that she was proud of me for not trying to do this all by myself; that she was proud of me for getting the help that I needed. They check on us every 15 minutes, which I thought was strange at first. But now I understand. I don’t like that I have to leave my door open all of the time, because the lights in the hallway are so bright.

Emma called this morning. She asked lots of questions, and told me she missed me. It was good to hear her voice. Juanita called this morning too. She wanted me to know how much she loved me. She said Laura (my step-sister) wanted me to know how proud she was of me for admitting that I needed help. Mama calls a lot, and I know she’s worried. I hope she knows that I’m safe here. I miss her. And her cooking.

There are no toilet paper holders, and there are no trash bags. My room has a blue wall, and the rest are tan. There are pretty shelves for me to put my things on. There’s a big, beautiful window looking outside. But there’s a film over it so that I can’t see out of it, and that makes me sad. The phone is like a payphone, and the cord is no more than 3 inches long.

I’m sad that I’m here. I’m sad that I let it get to this point. But everyone has told me how proud they are of me for getting help and taking it seriously.

The psychiatrist said there isn’t much he can do for me, because I know where I am and I’m not utterly confused about what’s going on. He said he’ll keep me for a few days and wants me to take plenty of time to think about things. He said I need to think of things that I can change in my life; otherwise, nothing is going to get better. I feel like I have too much time to think. He told me that as a child or teenager, you are designed to learn how to deal with life-stressors. Because I endured trauma during the most important time in my life for my brain to be developing, I did not learn how to deal with the same stressors that others learn how to deal with properly. I missed that part entirely and now I have to fight extra hard to catch up to everyone else. The dietitian came to speak to me about my eating disorder, which is something I wasn’t expecting. She was nice and wanted to help.

I’m lonely here. I’m sad that no one has come to visit me, and I go home today.

If you or someone you know needs support right now, call the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255, or text START to 741-741

#understandingchaos #guys #I have gotten so much positive feedback on facebook #that I actually feel a little overwhelmed by it #but people are taking the time to read things like this #and that means we're destroying the stigma #man is therapy tough or what

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allyinthekeyofx · 7 years

Text

Dreamcatcher - Chapters 6 & 7

Prologue & Chapter 1 Chapters 2 & 3 Chapters 4 & 5

St Mary’s Hospital. May 4th 1999 1:07am Visitor’s room.

“You look tired.”

Scully raised her arms wearily and stretched them above her head, wincing at the audible cracking sound that came from deep within her shoulders.

“I’m fine,” she offered by way of reassurance. “Just been a long day, that’s all…”

As if to contradict her words, she trailed off as the end of the sentence was swallowed up by a yawn that she just couldn’t suppress.

Mulder grinned across at her.

“Want some caffeine, Agent Scully? You look like you could use some.”

“No, it’s OK.”

She got to her feet.

“I’ll get it. I could use the walk. Baseball lessons aside, my muscles are still protesting from too much inactivity. I’ll see if I can find anything out while I’m gone.”

On leaving the relative peace and quiet of the room, Scully was surprised to see the corridor beyond teeming with activity. She had spent a lot of time around hospitals, both as a doctor and as a patient, and in her experience even hospitals quietened sometimes.

Not so here apparently.

But then, she reminded herself, it was a small hospital, probably serving an area far bigger than its capabilities. Thankfully, though, its lack of facilities hadn’t seemed to detract from the care given to little Gina Robik when she was brought through to the ER. She had been assessed, treated and found a bed up in the children’s ward within an hour.

But then again, maybe the presence of two FBI Agents had speeded up the process somewhat, Scully reflected. Or maybe it was simply because it was such an unusual case.

By the time the ambulance had arrived at Brackenhurst, Gina had lapsed into what Scully could only guess was some kind of catatonic shock. In the space of ten minutes, the child’s breathing had become shallow, her pulse rate sluggish and despite everyone’s best efforts, she had remained totally unresponsive to external stimuli, although her eyes had remained open in an expression of pronounced fear.

Scully had never seen anything like it before, although in medical school she had read about cases of so-called waking comas, where the mind shuts down to avoid facing up to events beyond its normal rational capabilities.

Usually, though, a clear cause could be found, especially in children. She’d read about children who had witnessed the death of a parent withdraw into themselves, shutting out the world around them until some inner voice told them it was okay to come out again.

Tangible, explainable reasons.

Scully frowned.

What was Gina’s reason?

What had she seen in that room that would cause her to close down like this? Obviously it was tied in with the disappearance of Felicia Slabbert, but Mulder had ordered a thorough search of the building; forensics teams had been called in, their investigation centering around the area where Gina had been found. Their best efforts, though, had revealed nothing aside from the obvious - that Felicia Slabbert was gone.

There was no evidence of any kind to suggest that a third party had been involved, and Scully knew that her partner had already ruled out any misplaced kidnapping theories.

But if not kidnapping, then what?

The child had seen something, of that there was no doubt, but until the girl decided to join them back in the real world, Scully suspected that the answers would remain just out of their reach. It was anyone’s guess how long that might take. Hours, days, months, years even. There was just no way of knowing.

Deep in thought, Scully didn’t notice the figure coming toward her until it was too late, and before she could stop her forward momentum, they collided.

“Shit!”

She recognized the voice as belonging to the young doctor who had ministered to Gina hours before. He had been harried then. Now he seemed on the verge of hysteria.

Scully understood only too well the pressures heaped upon medical professionals and she didn’t even flinch at his choice of greeting. Besides, she had collided with the man after all.

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

She held out her hand in apology.

“Special Agent Dana Scully. You met my partner earlier, I believe.”

Recognition washed over the man’s features, softening them slightly.

“Yes, Agent Scully. I remember. You and your partner brought the little girl in, right? I’m sorry for seeming a little brusque. It’s been kinda crazy here tonight.”

Scully waved away his apologies.

“It’s fine, really. I understand how busy you must be. But since you’re here, can you tell me, is there any change?”

He shook his head.

“I wish I could give you some good news Agent Scully, but no. I’ve just been up there, in fact. I’ve seen this kind of thing before. Only thing we can do is keep her as comfortable as possible and hope that she’ll come out of it. We’ve called her parents - they’ll be here tomorrow - often just the sound of familiar voices can help break through the barriers. For now, though, the best thing we can do is allow her to rest. She’s finally sleeping. I don’t expect her to wake before morning.”

He cocked his head on one side, contemplating the woman before him.

“Speaking of which, you look like you could use some yourself.”

“Excuse me?”

“Some sleep. To be perfectly honest, if I’d realized you were still here I’d have had one of the nurses send you home hours ago. But like I said, it’s been kinda crazy. Best thing you could do would be to go check into a motel somewhere and call us in the morning. I have numbers for a couple of decent places if you need them.”

Scully summoned up a tired smile, recognizing that he was just being polite. That he had better things to do than make small talk with her about local motels.

“No. Thank you. It’s fine. My partner has it all arranged already. But I do think I’ll take your advice. You have our numbers, right?”

He nodded curtly.

“Of course. I’ll ensure someone calls you if there’s the slightest change. Goodnight, Agent Scully.”

She watched as he continued down the hallway, his white coat billowing behind him until he was swallowed up by the dozens of other medical personnel and patients milling around the enclosed space. It suddenly felt too hot, and for a second everything seemed to turn liquid as she swayed slightly on her feet, the figures before her seeming to meld into one as they blurred and tumbled together. Clutching blindly at a convenient vending machine, Scully opened and closed her eyes rapidly, blinking until her vision returned to normal.

God, I must be tired.

Time to collect her partner and call it a night.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

CHAPTER SEVEN

Eeazy Sleep Motel. Cleveland Ohio. May 4th 1999 1:52am

They spent the journey back from the hospital in silence and Mulder suspected that their lack of communication had less to do with tiredness and everything to do with the perplexing nature of the case.

Certainly he had spent the drive formulating and dismissing several different theories as to what had happened earlier that evening.

And truthfully, he had no clue because, after all, he hadn’t been christened with the nickname Spooky for nothing and it was rare for him to be completely stumped by a case.

Usually he could rely on intuition to guide him through the tangled web that so often made up an X-File. Tonight though, this same intuition had all but deserted him.

A slight movement beside him, caught in the corner of his eye, prompted him to twist his head toward his partner.

Shit, she looks tired.

It had been a long day for them both, sure, but aside from when she had been sick, he couldn’t remember seeing her look so exhausted before. Her face was pale, lit by the ghostly glow emanating from the illuminated dashboard, and the carefully applied make-up of the morning had all but disappeared. It leant her a vulnerable, almost childlike air. It also allowed him to see the dark shadows underneath her eyes. Shadows that contrasted sharply against the creamy, white skin.

It worried him more than he would ever admit. This case, horrific as it already was, would be doubly hard for her to deal with in light of the lingering wounds she carried close to her heart. She never told him as such, but it wasn’t hard for him to appreciate that she was still grieving for Emily.

They never talked about it. He wasn’t sure that she talked with anyone. It wasn’t Scully’s way to admit need. Not about anything. And certainly not to him.

He had caught her unawares once though in the office they shared, the memory of the way she looked imprinted forever on his psyche.

He had left for the day, needing to gather some information pertaining to a case they were working on. Mind elsewhere, he had reached his car only to discover that he had left his keys atop the desk where he had casually tossed them earlier in the day. Cursing softly he had made his way quickly back to the office, only to freeze in the half open doorway when he saw her. Her back was to him, shoulders shaking as she sobbed silently. She was holding a photograph in her hand, tracing her finger over its surface.

Mulder hadn’t been able to make out the picture upon it.

He hadn’t needed to.

Emily.

Scully’s daughter. Known for such a short time before she was taken from her, but long enough for Scully to love her.

Long enough for her to mourn her passing.

Ignoring the need that ached within him to enter the office and take her in his arms, knowing that it wasn’t what she wanted, he had pivoted and walked away, out of the building and straight to the nearest bar. He hadn’t moved until the bartender had begun to pointedly sweep the floor around his feet, signalling that it was time for Mulder to get the hell out so he could close up for the night.

And now, looking across at her, he prayed that she wasn’t reliving past horrors.

“You okay, Scully?

He watched as she rubbed a hand across her face, attempting to bring herself back to alertness.

"I’m fine. I’m just hoping you have some insight into all this, Mulder, because I sure as hell don’t.”

He didn’t answer her. He didn’t know what to say.

“Mulder?” she persisted.

He shrugged.

“The truth, Scully? I don’t have a clue. Three missing girls. One who turns up looking like she’s been thrown into a Cuisinart? A school that looks like it fell off the pages of Country Life magazine full of kids who make Stephen Hawking look ignorant? You tell me. Maybe I’m losing my touch.”

Scully absorbed his words, struck suddenly by the defeat she heard in them. It wasn’t like him. She was accustomed to hearing any number of outlandish theories spill from his lips. And although she saw it as her purpose in life to balance out those same theories with the voice of reason, she also knew that she relied on him to make sense out of the things they encountered.

More than he would ever know.

“What about this? You were going to explain it to me.”

Mulder flicked his eyes away from the road and, for a second, settled them on the intricately woven framework of thread, beads and feathers.

“It’s called a dreamcatcher. There are several Native American legends as to its purpose. I thought maybe it meant something. Now I’m not so sure.”

Scully waited for him to continue, but after long seconds had passed uncomfortably between them, she delved a little deeper.

“Care to share or do I have to guess?”

Mulder sighed, the sound reaching her across the vast distance that seemed to separate them. She’d seen this before, seen her partner withdraw into himself when in the grip of a difficult case.

The fact that she understood it, though, didn’t necessarily mean she accepted it.

“It’s a kind of good luck charm. Meant to protect its owner against bad dreams. Sort of a preventative measure…it’s an age-old story. Passed through one generation to another…”

He trailed off as the lights of the motel came into view, and Scully waited until he’d piloted the car to a halt in front of the office before speaking again.

“I’d like to hear it.”

Mulder froze, his hand halfway to the door release.

“Hear what?”

“The legend.”

“Of the Dreamcatcher?”

He sounded so incredulous that Scully almost laughed out loud.

“That surprises you? C'mon Mulder, you’ve spent the last six years filling my head with alien abduction stories, prehistoric lake monsters, all manner of mutants and freaks of nature, and you’re surprised that I would want to hear a simple Native American folk tale?”

Mulder gazed at her, as though trying to figure out whether she was sincere or not.

Her asking to hear one of his outlandish tales was such an un-Scully-like thing to do that for a few moments he was literally rocked backwards. Ever conscious, though, that she might just be humouring him, he offered her one last get-out.

“It’s late. You sure you want to hear it? It could wait till morning.”

Scully smiled back at him softly.

“Call it a bedtime story then.”

Mulder laughed in response as the moment lightened perceptibly for both of them.

“Ahhhhh, Scully, if you only knew how many times I’ve waited for you to say that…”

XXXX

Thirty minutes later Scully regarded her partner from behind the over-sized Styrofoam cup of steaming hot chocolate, which he had magically produced from behind his back.

He had, he’d informed her, taken a quick side trip across the street to the all- night diner - because, he proclaimed, solemnly enough to make her laugh - that no bedtime story was complete without chocolate and marshmallows.

It had made Scully feel like she was six years old again, evoking as it did sweet childhood memories of her mother coming into the bedroom she had shared with Melissa and sitting with them in the warmth of the room, as they listened wide-eyed to the stories she had told from her own childhood.

It seemed like only yesterday.

A thousand childhood memories that she herself had hoped one day to share with her own daughter. Memories now that would remain forever locked in her heart, to wither and die with her when the time came.

There would be no one to share them with.

Not now and not ever.

They had both showered and changed for bed. She in comfortable satin pajamas, Mulder in cutoff sweats and an old T- shirt. There had maybe been a time, way back in the beginnings of their partnership, where Scully might have felt self-conscious to be seen by the man before her dressed so casually. Not anymore though. Now, sharing time and space with him before he retreated to his own room for the night had become almost commonplace. A way to allow the tensions of the day to flow from them before succumbing to sleep.

The Dreamcatcher lay at the bottom of the bed.

Scully had allowed herself to properly examine it while Mulder had jogged across to the diner to fetch hot chocolate. The intricate patterns had captured her imagination, and she had found herself tracing a finger along its edge, closing her eyes, drifting off.

She had to admit that something about it had piqued her curiosity, aroused a need within her to fully understand what it stood for.

So she waited for Mulder to begin, once again closing her eyes as his words swirled around the small room.

He spoke softly, from his position across from her, seated on the small, ratty sofa while she lay half lying, half sitting on the bed, almost like a father recounting a fairy tale to a small, sleepy child.

“Throughout history, nearly every person and culture has placed importance on the meanings of their dreams. Dreams are still a powerful force in many people’s lives, particularly because of the meanings that can be found in them. I have a half dozen X-Files that speak of just such phenomena, Scully. How dreams can affect our lives, our relationships, our everyday actions. How by listening to and understanding what our dreams are telling us we can shape our very destiny.”

He paused, and Scully was pretty sure he was sipping at his own hot chocolate, maybe getting his thoughts in order so as to tell the story in the way it was meant to be told.

“To the people of the Ojibway tribe, night visions, or dreams, were so important that children were not given a name until a person designated as the namer of that child had a dream of what name should be given. The namer would bestow a gift upon the child, a charm woven to look like a spider’s web. Hung from a loop above the baby’s cradle, the Dreamcatcher was believed to catch any bad dreams floating in the air, ensnaring them like a spider’s web traps an insect. It was believed that only good dreams could pass through the hole in the centre of the web, sliding down the feather at the bottom to fall into the baby’s head. The bad dreams couldn’t navigate the web, and would hang there, suspended until the first rays of morning sunlight burned them away.”

Scully opened her eyes and regarded her partner through hooded lids.

“Sounds like something you could use. Do you think they work? The Dreamcatchers I mean?”

Mulder shrugged.

“Maybe. If nothing else, you yourself know how powerful the act of suggestion can be. Call it superstition if you will…..good magic………whatever. I think if the user believes it will protect their dreams, then it will. Much like the modern day version of a placebo. Believe in something strongly enough and it becomes a kind of truth.”

He was silent then, dropping his eyes from hers, and something inside Scully cracked as she read his expression.

Mulder had spent most of his life desperately wanting to believe.

Steadfastly refusing to give up the belief, even in the face of ridicule, that he would one day be reunited with his sister. It was a hope he clung to as if for life itself.

His own version of a Dreamcatcher and just as elusive.

“Mulder…”

He shook his head wearily and rose to his feet.

“It’s late. You’re tired and we have an early start. I should let you sleep.”

Don’t go.

“What?”

He stopped in his tracks as though struck. Had she just said what he thought she’d said? He hadn’t heard her exactly, or at least not in any traditional sense. But her words had reached him as surely as if she had whispered them directly in his ear.

“Stay. Please.”

She looked as confused as he did, as though she didn’t know how to proceed.

Sitting up in the oversize bed, she looked suddenly vulnerable, unsure of herself, of what was real. But her expression cleared again, the confusion replaced with a kind of peaceful clarity. The same expression he had seen fleetingly cross her face that night at the park, and without hesitation, he headed toward the bed, waiting as she scooted across to make space for him to join her.

His heart beat painfully as she reached out to him. Allowing him to snake an arm around her so that her body rested against him softly.

“Tell me the rest of the story, Mulder.”

And so he began again, losing himself in long-ago tales of Indian women who could transform themselves magically into spiders, spinning webs to protect their fellow clansmen.

Of children protected for all eternity beneath the webs, sleeping peacefully beneath their silken strands as women bestowed upon them gifts of peace and tranquillity to carry them into dreams.

And long before he was finished, he felt Scully relax even further against him as she, too, was transported into gentle slumber.

Her breathing was deep, peaceful as she rested against him, and for a few minutes he luxuriated in the feel of her, watching over her as she slept, trying to make the agonizing decision whether to stay or go.

Finally, he carefully planted a kiss on her brow, feeling the heat of her skin against his own lips, before reluctantly disentangling her limbs from him and laying her gently against the pillows.

His movements were such that she didn’t stir, not even when he reached down and smoothed a few strands of the rich, titian hair from where it rested against her porcelain skin.

Sweet dreams, Scully.

Continued Chapter Eight

#dreamcatcher #my fic

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samtheflamingomain · 7 years

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It's been about two and a half months since I was kicked out. I've told the story of how and why that happened, but since then I haven't posted much if anything.

A lot of it is because I've been incredibly busy and stressed, homeless and in the hospital. But it's been a week since I finally got settled. I've had a bad cold but I've also had a bad case of emotional numbness.

I've desperately needed to do some writing to process everything that's happened in the last few months but haven't felt like I could. I still don't, but it's time to give it a try.

After I was kicked out I spent two weeks living in a shitty run-down motel next to a strip club. I was confronted by pimps on my second day and was nearly arrested twice, but for some ungodly reason, looking back on the last 2.5 months, that's when I was happiest.

I kind of understand why; I'd been duped and brainwashed by my abusive parents my entire life and now I was seeing the light. I was frantically searching for a place to live before I ran out of time at the motel, but I found one, and that only amplified my happiness. Now I was going to get out on my own and truly start my life.

Only that didn't happen. What I thought was a "shared accommodations" apartment was actually classified as a boarding house because the landlord lived there and shared the kitchen with the boarders. Legally, I had no right to keep my cat there.

I informed my ex-mother of this fact and she threatened to throw out all my stuff, get rid of my cat, and cut off my phone service. In tears, I ran to the police station where they called my birthgivers to tell them they had to keep my stuff and cat until I found a place to keep them.

So round two of looking for a place to live had begun. It took longer this time but I eventually found two girls who were looking for a third roommate. We meshed well and they'd let me move in on April 1st.

I still had more than two weeks of having not much to do though; kind of where I'm at now but with better excuses: I didn't have my cat, most of my art supplies, or any money. I also knew that I desperately needed to be on different meds.

Let me interlude briefly here to explain in monotonous detail my med situation: in the past, I've been diagnosed with depression. I've since been diagnosed with bipolar and recently re-diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder. They're diagnostically very similar, so this distinction doesn't mean much in practice. I'm the kind of mentally ill where they do their best to treat the symptoms without worrying much about the label. Because my symptoms fulfill the requirements of almost every mental illness, and I'm not exaggerating.

There's also another diagnosis that's somewhat difficult to explain and impossible to treat medically: Reactive Attachment Disorder. I've written about it in the past so I won't bore you again, but basically it means my parents didn't parent right and as a result I don't love them and never did. When diagnosed in children, the treatment is taking the child from the abusive parents. Which I would've loved. I spent my entire childhood waiting for my parents to divorce, wishing I was an orphan, even wishing I'd wake up or come home and they'd be dead.

When it goes unnoticed till adulthood, the only thing that treats this attachment disorder is cutting ties with the parents and a metric fucktonne of therapy.

A bit of a tangent: has anyone read Sybil? I know a lot of people from my high school did because it was required reading for a popular course. It's about the titular character's child abuse manifesting itself as "multiple personalities" or dissociative identity disorder. In it, Sybil has a therapist that she sees almost every day. I remember thinking many things at the time of reading it, but two stand out: "Sybil's childhood was nothing compared to mine" and "I wish I could afford to see a therapist every day, lord knows I need it."

Anyway, back to my meds: I still need something for anxiety, something for sleep, and something for a symptom called mood lability: emotional disregulation. For me, this comes as a result of never learning about emotions or controlling them. Until I was 20, I had never even understood that thoughts are seperate from emotions. All I knew about controlling my emotions was that I should be able to do so at the drop of a hat, less my parents scream at me till I puked from crying so hard.

But you can't control your emotions, only how you react to and express them. So I learned as a young child how to do that, and the best way was to lie. I'm probably the best liar I know with the exception of my ex-father, who is a literal sociopath. I'm not. I feel guilt when I lie, but it became a necessary way of coping with my parents.

ANYWAY, back AGAIN to my meds. Mood lability is common in bipolar and schizoaffective and is treated by a mood stabilizer. In the past, psychiatrists would usually encounter me during a depressive phase, mark me as depressed, and put me on an antidepressant. I've been on every single SSR/NI and none have done a single damn thing. In 2015 I was referred to rTMS brain stimulation. I did it a year later. And at the end, I was manic, and diagnosed with bipolar.

Unfortunately, my psychiatrist didn't listen to the psychiatrist running the rTMS who rediagnosed me, and continued to ignore my pleas to put me on a mood stabilizer. After another 6 months of re-trying all the SSRIs I'd already tried, he referred me to ECT, a last-resort treatment that can cause permanent memory loss. That's when I begged my doctor to get me a new psychiatrist.

He did. Same drugs, same attitude, same bullshit.

I saw him the day before I was kicked out. He did nothing. I tried to kill myself twice the following week but the hospital wouldn't admit me because I was homeless. I came in a third time psychotic. They sent me home to lay in bed hallucinating and sobbing for 8 hours till I passed out. I saw the psychiatrist again, and I told him that I'd been kicked out and homeless and he told me, more or less, to save it for my therapist, he only dispensed drugs.

This brings us back to mid-March when I'd just gotten a place to live starting April first. Knowing the hospital wouldn't admit me, knowing the psychiatrist wouldn't change my meds, and knowing I couldn't deal with the insanely rapid-fire mood cycling I was going through, I slowly deterriorated mentally, only getting worse when my ex-mother told me she'd had a heart attack. That's when I saw a way out: to kill my ex-father.

He was the cause of all this. At first I lamented the idea that I'd caused her heart-attack, but if anything, he did. He's the one who cheated on her and he's the reason she kicked me out. He's the reason I'm a liar and an asshole and a generally awful person. Because I had to be those things to survive living with him. More than a few times, I've been afraid that he'd kill me in a bout of uncontrollable anger. He deserved it.

But I knew it was fucking insane. I wouldn't go to prison, so I knew I'd have to kill myself after doing it. But I also knew I wouldn't do it. I went back to the hospital for the forth time in a month.

Thankfully, because they give more of a shit about my waste-of-space ex-father's life than my own, threatening to kill someone gets you a bed on the psych ward much faster than threatening to kill yourself. Once I knew I was momentarily safe and that I'd likely walk out with new meds and a new psychiatrist, I felt instantly better. I was only there 4 days. I quickly came to the conclusion that it would actually be more merciful for me to kill him than to let him live out the rest of his short lifespan.

(He's got a degenerative disease called ankylosing spondalitis. Since age 25, his vertebrae have been slowly, painfully fusing together to form one giant spine bone. He won’t make it to 65. He can't bend his back and some days he can barely walk it's so painful. I'm glad.)

It takes a certain kind of person to enjoy someone else's pain, but I know I'm not evil because of it. I still pity my ex-mother because she's going to have to be in emotional pain for the rest of her life and I will never, ever forgive her for chosing him over me. I don't enjoy thinking about anyone else in pain except him. Because he truly, truly deserves it.

I was prescribed a mood stabilizer on March 20th, got a new psychiatrist for March 31st, and a new sleeping pill on that same date. I moved the next day and couldn't fill the prescription until I moved, then the pharmacy said they'd have to order my new sleeping pill. So, on April 2nd, just a day after moving in, I went to the wine store, bought a bottle of 20% fortified wine, drank it in 2 hours, found rope in the garage and tried to hang myself.

One of the roommates heard my desperate pleas for death to envelope me, came in and pulled me down. When she went for her phone, I went for my razor and cut my arm wide open.

I was taken to the hospital by ambulance and sewn up, but left to suffer a psychotic episode in the waiting area for 4 hours till I passed out. I was there for over 15 hours, given no pain meds, no food, and none of my regular medication. I didn't even have my phone or wallet on me. The psychiatrist released me the next morning. I was only able to get back "home" thanks to a friendly patient giving me some money for the bus.

I got back at noon and the roommates were very cold. I get it, I really do. It can't be easy to have to call an ambulance for someone you just let move in. But that's partially why I did it: they barely knew me, so they wouldn't be as affected by it as they would if they'd gotten to know me first.

I immediately tried to sleep with my new sleeping pill. As I was drifting off, the landlord barges in and says I have to leave, immediately, and find a new place for May 1st. Just hours after being released from the hospital. I tried to explain to him that I just needed to sleep and I'd be okay. He said, and I quote, "You need help. You need to be in the hospital 24/7."

Well actually, asshat, if that were the case, I would've still been at the hospital. I told him I had nowhere to go. He said "find somewhere." So I said goodbye to my cat, whom I'd just gotten back after a month and a half of not seeing him, and went to stay at a youth homeless shelter while I looked for a new place to live. They changed the locks and said that if I wanted to get something I had to call and ask the landlord first and he'd let me in, maybe, if he felt like it.

I talked to a lawyer the next day. Since the landlord's daughter is one of the tenants, I was, again, not covered by the Landlord and Tenant Act, meaning he could kick me out for any reason at any time - but he did need to give me at least a week's notice or give me my rent back. I wanted to stay at the house till I found a new place, but he refused. He (illegally) withheld my rent until I moved out. Thankfully I found a place almost immediately, signed a lease with my name on it, and was able to move in on the 15th.

Unfortunately, many, MANY things went wrong between the 3rd when I left and the 15th when I moved in to the place I'm at now.

On the 5th, my bike seat was stolen. I replaced it. On the 6th, my entire bike was stolen. The police said I might as well forget about it; bikes are low on their priority list and are almost never found.

On the 7th, I woke up in the shelter to a phone-shaped hole in my belongings. I reported it stolen and the shelter said I'd have to wait several days (which turned into several weeks) before they'd do anything about it. They just installed new cameras, the only person authorized to view the cameras was on vacation, the police could only do something if they had the camera footage.

But I thought of something. It was an iPhone, so I went into the Cloud and clicked "Find My iPhone". Unfortunately, "Sam's iPhone" couldn't be located. Fortunately, this was because it had turned into "Jessy's iPhone". And it was at Bleams and Strausberg.

Showing this to the shelter workers was proof enough to get him kicked out of the shelter, but not enough to get my phone back. I know it's long gone by now, along with my SIM card and over 400 pictures of my cat growing up, but I'm still pressing charges, because the first day I spent without so much as a way to tell time was one of the worst days of my life and I almost killed myself several times. It wasn’t just a phone, it was the only thing I had to keep in contact with people who made me feel safe.

I somehow managed to make it another week and hire movers for the 15th. I needed to pack so I set up an "appointment" with my "landlord" to go back to my "house" to pack my stuff. The movers also needed to do an "estimate" so I set that up for the same date.

Now we get to the part where I fucking hate religion. We live in a SECULAR society whose workings are still controlled by ancient pagan rituals. That is to say, I had unknowingly planned to move on the Easter weekend. That meant several things: the movers called me back to cancel 3 days before the move, I had to hire last-minute movers that cost twice as much, and my landlord, a devout Catholic, was pissed.

Despite him being the reason I was moving, he didn't want me to move till "sometime next week". I told him I'd be moving into my new place on the 15th and if that meant sleeping on the floor, that'd be because of him. I would not spend another night at the homeless shelter when I didn't have to. After a lot of yelling at me and the movers for not showing up TWICE, I finally got my shit moved out of the old place, got my rent back, and got moved into the new place by 11pm on the 15th. I had scheduled the movers for 9am, so I'd been up since 7.

I thought I'd be manic again as I always am when I move houses, but it was actually just profound repression. I slept in till 10am then spent 15 hours straight unpacking and decorating because I didn't want to face whatever I'd be feeling if I stopped.

But eventually I ran out of things to unpack and walls to decorate. That's when the depression starting sinking in and I started trying everything I could to distract myself. I have a massive backlog of Youtube videos I've been working my way through for six months, a bunch of video games I got for Christmas I haven't played yet, and a shitload of errands to do. So I filled my days with those.

I got a new phone, but it didn't make me feel much better because my best friend, who’d just finished school, was just as unresponsive as he was during school. I then spent 4 days with a terrible cold, unable to do anything but watch TV and sleep, and now, it's been a week that I've been here, and I'm more miserable than ever.

A lot of it is because I'm constantly reminded of what happened the last time I was home alone for weeks on end: I tried to kill myself. And that was when I still had a family.

I know I'm infinitely better off without them; I've always tried to live by the immortally wise words of Robin Williams: "It is better to be alone than to be around those who make you feel alone." It's the reason I got rid of my sister, my cousins, even many people I once considered friends: they made me feel alone.

But that doesn't change the fact that I am, ultimately, alone now. Yes, I have a lot of friends and acquaintances on my side, a good psychiatrist for once, and my amazing therapist. But I don't have any family. I have so little family that I had to reach across the globe to a host family I stayed with in France to take another surname.

I've never felt the ever-elusive feeling of homesickness. I've missed my room, my bed, and my pets, but I've never missed my parents. I still don't. I guess that's partially why this is so hard.

I spent my entire life thoroughly enjoying every single second I could get away from them. Ever since I could remember I was counting down the years till I could move out. When I finally did, I became more depressed than ever, culminating, as I mentioned, in a suicide attempt. I hated the hospital so much that I agreed to leave on the condition that I live with my parents again. I never intended to stay more than a month or so, but it ended up being a year.

I spent that year distracting myself and making things feel like they did before I left, because that's what I considered safe. I'd never actually felt safe at home, just safe from change.

Which brings me back to the point I was making about homesickness: I've never felt it because I've never felt at home anywhere. Home is supposed to be a place where you aren't afraid to exist, where you aren't walking on eggshells when you do anything. Home is supposed to be safe from everything. And because I was raised to believe that I'm truly a bad person at my core, I never felt safe from that feeling. And that feeling came from the places and people I was told were "home".

But they weren't. The closest thing to "home" I've ever felt was in fact the sleazy motel on Victoria Street. Despite the dirty dealings going on just walls away and the shady characters I encountered, I felt safe. It was the first place that I lived by myself without needing to explain myself. Let me, ironically, explain myself.

One of the running themes throughout my life has been explaining myself. As a child, I learned that I had to have a reason for doing or feeling anything, and I had to have that reason at the ready when prompted for it. If I wanted to do something and I didn't know the reason why, I either didn't do it, or I invented a reason. Thus how my incredible talent of lying came to be cultivated.

One of the best ways I'm able to articulate and exemplify this feeling of "needing a reason to feel" is via this anecdote: when I was 13 and my parents discovered I was cutting myself, they screamed at me to tell them why I was doing it and wouldn't stop until I gave them a reason. At the time, I didn't know the reason. So I made one up, one that they said was, and I quote, "not good enough". All my life I'd been terrified of hearing that my reasons weren't good enough. Because that meant that I couldn't control everything, that I couldn't lie my way out of anything I did. This was the first time I found myself caught in a lie and the only reason was because I didn't know the truth myself.

I remember the intense feeling of needing a reason in that moment very well. Not wanting to ever feel that again, and still not knowing the "reason" I was depressed, I learned not to tell my parents anything because I feared that no "reason" would ever be "good enough" for them.

Even when I wasn't living with them, it was still ingrained in my mind that everything, every action, every feeling, every thought, required a reason to be. I came up with a million reasons for my depression, but none of them were ever "good enough" - I was going based on what I imagined my parents would say in response to whatever "reason" I had.

Eventually, I was so depressed for so long that they decided it was an actual illness that I couldn't control, that had no reason besides genetics, and that had no treatment besides pills. But that seemed like a contradiction to me: all my life they'd demanded reasons for everything, and now they decided that this one thing was an exception?

It took many years for me to even entertain the possibility that my parents were part of the "reason" for my mental illness. I knew that mental illness was a combination of nature and nurture, but for most of my life I assumed I was on the far end of the spectrum towards "just nature". Now I know the opposite is true.

Once I started becoming aware that they were a huge part of my problem, they started blaming me more and more for absolutely everything. When I was in the hospital in September, the first thing they did when I came home was yell at me to try harder, telling me that I was the reason I wasn't getting better. It took this much happening for me to realize just how deluded they are into believing they never did anything wrong.

The moment of clarity for me was the day I was kicked out. I had spent the night researching and pulling up dozens of webpages about cheaters and liars to prove that my "father" was a lying sack of shit who had cheated on my "mother". I brought my computer upstairs to slowly walk her through the evidence, leading her to the conclusion that he did it and he's lying about it. The first webpage was about gaslighting. She was so far up her own ass, so far in denial that she said, and I quote, "I don't even believe 'gaslighting' is a thing, I bet the ‘doctor’ cited in this isn’t even real." As someone who's been gaslit their entire life and knows it, I realized I would never get through to her if she couldn't even agree on basic terms and concepts.

Then, over the next few weeks, it dawned on me that I never would've gotten through to myself if I hadn't tried getting through to her. I never would've believed she'd be so far in denial until I saw it with my own eyes. I never would've believed she'd chose him over me until it happened.

That's why, after a week of homelessness following 22 years of being chained to their incredibly flawed reasoning about my depression, the shitty motel was like home to me. I did whatever I wanted and didn't ask myself why every step of the way. I felt whatever I felt and didn't need a reason; or, rather, I finally had one that was "good enough" - my parents were and always will be abusive monsters. I and every therapist I've ever talked to agreed on this. I knew it intellectually, but I never believed it, just like my parents never believed I had a "good enough reason" to be depressed.

I guess now that I know I do, I can dust myself off and call it a day. I'd solved the puzzle 20 years in the making of why I've never been happy. But it's not enough to actually make me happy. Because, as I've finally realized in the writing of this monstrosity that reasons aren't enough. They never have been. I've been raised to think that once I found the truth to something, everything would fall into place. But like I've known all my life but never believed, knowing the truth isn't enough to stop it being so.

I honestly didn't know where I was going with this or what would come of it, if anything. But I'm pleasantly surprised. I needed to write some-5000 words to understand that I've lived my entire life obsessed with finding truth without realizing that truth isn't the be-all-end-all of living. Important for many disciplines, of course, but not necessary to justify feelings.

I think now that I understand why I was so happy at the motel I can try and fill in the gaps here. I can try applying the notion of not needing to reason out everything I do and feel. Because, after all, that's what I was doing there, and that's what made the motel the safest and happiest "home" I've ever had. And I need to continue that pattern if I want this new place to become a safe and happy home.

I know nobody has stuck with me throughout this insanely lengthy rambling; it's pretty specific and not worth much to anyone but myself. So for the first time, I say this to myself: Stay Greater, Flamingo.

#sam #depression #bipolar #homelessness #suicide tw #abuse tw #reactive attachment disorder #family

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emulateharry · 7 years

Text

story of my life

Chapter 14

I could never do this without @niallandharrymakemestrong and @melissas173.

WARNING: This one is pretty intense toward the end.

Harry was sat in the kitchen worriedly picking at his bottom lip as his mum made him tea and toast. After finding the box and the note, he had called Anne first. He was usually so good in a crisis, always knowing what needed to be done and taking the actions necessary to fix whatever the problem was. Not today. He was having trouble making decisions. He couldn’t concentrate. All he could think about was finding Kacey. “Here, sweetheart, drink your tea. Then you can start calling around. She has to be somewhere and we will find her.” His mum patted his arm gently. But she wasn’t and he couldn’t. He had spent an hour and a half on the phone. He called her assistant, Shelby. She hadn’t heard from her in a week. He called her manager, Alex. Same result. He called her friend Nikki, the make-up artist. She told him about the clash on the set and how Geoff had molested her on camera. Harry almost broke the phone he was squeezing so tightly. He was not a violent man but if Geoff Adams had been within his reach at that moment he would have beaten him to a pulp. It made him nauseated to think that she was dealing with all of this while he was partying in the tropics. His desperation to find her had grown with each phone call.

He had decided to drive over to her flat in Belsize Park. Pulling out of his gate, he turned right and drove towards the park. He did not see the schoolgirl waiting at the bus stop though she waved at him. Pulling onto Kacey’s street he saw that her bright yellow mini was parked in her spot. Hopeful, he rang the bell. Getting no answer, he let himself in with his key. She was not there and, apparently, had not been for a while. On the short drive back to his house, he called his assistant, Jenny, to enlist her help. By the time he arrived home, she had already contacted all the local hospitals and determined that Kacey was not a patient at any of them. Harry remembered her flat in Henley on the Thames and he called Mrs. Crutchley. The feisty little woman said that she hadn’t seen Kacey in months and made him promise to bring her by for a visit because she missed her. Then a thought struck him. Would she have gone home? To America? It was a daunting thought; the USA was enormous. If he couldn’t find her in England, he sure as hell wouldn’t be able to find her in the US. He didn’t want to call her father because he didn’t want to worry him needlessly and he also didn’t want to explain his behavior just yet. If Kacey had talked to anyone, she would have talked to Laura. He mentally kicked himself for not thinking of her sooner. He went to the spare room and grabbed Kacey’s iPhone from the box. He scrolled through until he found the number he wanted and pressed call. The voice that answered was decidedly chilly. “Well, well, well. Look who’s calling. Get tired of the little reality TV slut already? My, my, aren’t you fickle.” Laura had never been one to mince words. “Hello Laura, is she there? Can I speak to her? Please?” He tried not to sound desperate. “No, she’s not here. No, I would not tell you if she was. No, I won’t give her a message if I do see her. Jackass.” “Please, Laura. You’ve talked to her, haven’t you? Is she okay?” He was practically begging but he didn’t care. “No, she’s not okay. What the fuck Styles? Why would you do that to her? What did she ever do to you?” “I just need to talk to her, to hear her voice.” “I’d say you’ve done enough already, don’t you think? Just stay the hell away from her,” Laura’s voice was rising in volume. “Please, Laura. I know I messed up. Please let me talk to her,” he pleaded. “Are you deaf as well as monumentally stupid? She. Is. Not. Here. Now go screw your little Kardashian and leave both of us alone.” The call ended. He tried calling back but it was rejected. With no idea where else she would have gone and at a loss about what to do next, Harry reluctantly dialed Jeff’s number. * Kacey lay curled up on the chaise by the fireplace in her room, a furry blanket wrapped around her, staring into the flames. The occasional hiss and pop of the log was the only sound in the room. The house wasn’t particularly cold but she could not get warm. A cold mug of tea and plate of cookies sat untouched on the table next to her. She was exhausted but sleep didn’t seem to help. Since the internet blew up on New Year’s Day with the pictures and video of Harry and Kendall, life had been surreal. The initial frenzy of anger had given her the clarity to pack her things and make the appropriate arrangements. Once that was spent, the grief had crushed her. She could barely function. She was having a hard time breathing, as if a small elephant were sitting on her chest. At Heathrow, preparing to board her flight to the US, she had felt wrapped in a lethargy so thick she could scarcely move. She had slept the entire flight and staggered off the plane in Boston only just making her connecting flight home. Laura had picked her up at the airport and they hadn’t spoken during the short drive to the house. Once at home, Kacey had cried herself out, with Laura holding her and stroking her hair. Now, four days later, she sat in the warm room feeling chilled and empty. She didn’t even look up when Laura walked into the room. “Hey Honey, let me fix you something to eat. Soup? Pizza? Macaroni and cheese? You love mac and cheese.” ‘I’m not hungry,’ Kacey replied quietly. “Not hungry for MY mac and cheese? Kacey, when was the last time you ate? You’ve not had anything since you got here,” Laura’s concern was evident. ‘I can’t eat Laur. Every time I try, I throw up. I’m tired of throwing up.” “Well then how about a banana? Some toast? You have to eat something,” Laura said firmly. ‘I’m not even hungry anymore,’ Kacey replied weakly. “Aw Hell no. Kassidy Day you eat something right this minute or I will haul your ass to the emergency room so fast your head will spin,” the exasperation causing her to yell. “Jiminy! Okay! I’ll try some toast. Cripes MOM.” “Yeah, well somebody has to mother you.” Laura kissed the top of her head. “While I’m making toast go get a shower because you, my dear friend, are somewhat less than fresh.” That one earned her a small smile. “Oh, all right. I will take my stinky self to the bathroom. I love you Laur.” “I love you too. Now get moving. We’ll need to air out the whole house soon…” Kacey let out a small giggle and walked into the huge master bath. Seeing the Jacuzzi, she decided against a shower. She started filling the tub with hot water and went to look for some bubbles. Under the sink she found a bright pink bottle. Mr. Bubble. Perfect. Turning on the jets, the pink liquid exploded into giant mounds of suds. She climbed in and sank down into the hot, roiling water and was swallowed by the white foam. “Kace, are you still in he---oh my God! Was there an explosion at the bubble factory?” Kacey’s giggle floated out from the froth. “I guess I got a little carried away.” “I’ll say! It’s like the Blob! It’s taking over the whole room!” “You and your horror movies. Next thing you’ll be telling me that Michael Myers is hidden in here somewhere. Or that other one, what’s his name? Freddy Krampus.” “Kreuger.” “Whatever.” “Well, Little Miss Condescension, it is a perfectly legitimate entertainment genre. Maybe you just need to branch out from Jane Austen adaptations and romantic comedies.” “I like Jane Austen movies. They always work out so neatly. Unlike my life.” Kacey choked down a small sob. “Kace...” “Oh Laura, what’s wrong with me? I don’t understand. Why can’t I ever be enough? I know I’m no supermodel but I’m not completely hideous. I try so hard. What am I saying? I’m such an idiot. I wasn’t even enough for my own mother to stay. How could I possibly have thought I was enough for Harry?” “Stop that. Your mother was mentally ill and you know it. It had nothing to do with you, you were practically a baby. Men are stupid. You are more than enough. And Harry seemed pretty upset when I talked to hi---“ “What???! You talked to him? When?” “He called the other day. He was looking for you. I told him you weren’t here, which technically wasn’t a lie because you were out at the mailbox talking to the neighbors. I basically told him to go fuck himself and then I hung up.” Tears that she didn’t know she had slipped down Kacey’s cheeks. “I miss him so much. Oh Laur, I just want to wake up from this nightmare and have him hold me and tell me it’s all going to be okay. But it’s not going to be okay, is it? I’ve lost him. I love him. I actually thought he loved me. Why couldn’t he love me too? I am so stupid. I just don’t think I can do this. I don’t think I want to do this.” “This is NOT your fault. You CAN do this. You are the strongest person I know. You are smart, gorgeous, funny and talented and you WILL survive this. If you even pretend to think of hurting yourself I will drag you to the nearest psych ward and buckle you into the straitjacket myself. Now eat your cold toast or else.” Kacey sniffed and wiped her eyes. Reaching for a piece of toast she replied “Yes ma’am.” * Harry was beside himself with worry. He was unable to sleep. He barely ate—he couldn’t taste the food anyway. Anne was concerned but nothing she did could soothe him. When he couldn’t find Kacey he had called Jeff. Jeff had hired a private investigator to look for her while Harry had filed a missing person’s report with the police. It had been ten days and the only thing he had learned was that her passport showed that she had left London on January 3rd on a flight to Boston. The investigator had a colleague in the US keeping an eye on her house but, though Laura went in and out, Kacey had not been seen. It was 7am on Thursday morning and Harry was sitting in his kitchen while Anne was making him breakfast. Gemma had stopped by on her way to work and he looked up as she walked in. Her face was serious and, in lieu of greeting, she held out her phone to him. Harry glanced down to see a video paused on YouTube. He looked at her, confused. She tapped play and put her arm around him as the video began. Jimmy Fallon was looking onto the camera from the desk on his set. “And now we have a very special musical guest tonight. For the first time anywhere, Ms. Kacey Day!” The camera panned to the musical stage and Kacey was standing alone at a microphone. Harry’s eyes were wide as he paused the video to look at her. She was very thin, the hollows of her cheeks pronounced and her dress, her favorite pink one, was hanging loosely. Despite the makeup he could see the circles under her eyes. He touched the screen gently with his finger, stroking her face. Pressing play once more, he saw her smile slightly and say “The moral of this story is: never make a bet with Fallon.” Jimmy and the audience laughed and the band began to play a slow song. Harry’s eyes grew wide as he recognized it.

“I don’t ever ask you where you’ve been And I don’t feel the need to know who you’re with I can’t even think straight, but I can tell That you were just with her And I’ll still be a fool I’m a fool for you”

Kacey’s voice was clear and mournful and she looked directly into the camera---she was singing to him. Harry only realized that he was crying when the first tear hit the screen. As she got to the chorus, he could see tears welling in her eyes. Her voice had a slight tremor as she sang

“Just a little bit of your heart, just a little bit of your heart Just a little bit of your heart is all I want Just a little bit of your heart, just a little bit of your heart Just a little bit is all I’m asking for”

When she got to the bridge she changed the words slightly, her voice breaking as she looked directly into the camera and sang:

“I know I’m not your only, but at least I was one I heard a little love is better than none Oh babe”

She got to the final chorus the tears flowing unheeded and the last line was almost lost to a sob. Before the final notes faded Kacey turned and walked off the stage. There was silence in the studio. Harry stopped the video. Gemma hugged him tightly. “Was this last night?” he asked hopeful. “Maybe I can catch her! Jeff’s in LA, he can go find her and—“ “I called Jeff as soon as I saw this. She went straight to LAX after walking off the set. He doesn’t know where she went from there,” Gemma said quietly. * “Kacey please don’t go back there yet; just stay here a little bit longer,” Laura implored. “Laura, I need to go back to get my laptop. I don’t know what I was thinking to not bring it. My outlines are all on there, some pieces that I need are on there,” Kacey explained. “I’ll call Harry and have him ship it to me and then we’ll sit down and I will teach you to use the cloud.” “I don’t trust the cloud. People get hacked all the time. I don’t want anyone to steal my ideas, they are all I have!” Kacey said more forcefully than she intended. She softened her tone and said “I’ll be okay. I’ll just slip in while he is doing James’ show and get my computer and the rest of my clothes. It’ll be quick and then I’ll come back home. Who knows, maybe I’ll stay in America now. There’s nothing for me in England anymore.” * Kacey had waited until 345 to go to Harry’s house to retrieve the rest of her things. He was out doing his first solo interview on James’ special series of shows for Sky TV. She knew that he would be gone until at least 6, later if he and James went to dinner, so she should have plenty of time to get her things without encountering him. She hoped he hadn’t changed the security codes. She also hoped that he had no female company waiting for him to return. She parked her mini across the street from his house grabbing her keys but locking her purse in the car. She had brought a duffel bag to pack the rest of her clothes in and she held that in her hand as she waited for the traffic to clear so that she could cross the street. Stopping at the security door, she entered the passcode and held her breath. The lock released and she opened the door and walked through. She gave the door a little push to close it and moved to the French doors, inputting the security code to unlock them. Again the lock released and she had just pulled the door open when she heard a noise behind her. Turning around, she heard a shout and felt a blinding pain in her forehead. Kacey put her hand to her head as she staggered backwards through the doors into the dining room. She stumbled and would have fallen but she grabbed the wall and then the chair. She didn’t know what had happened. Blood was running down her face and there was a roaring in her ears. She was reaching up to touch her forehead again when she felt another sharp pain in her shoulder. Her arm fell limp against her side. She tried to raise it but the pain caused her to cry out. She was disoriented and did not have enough time to register the fist that hit her cheek. The force of the blow spun her and she lost her balance, falling to the floor. She was trying to get her bearings when all the breath left her body in a huff as a foot stomped down on her abdomen. She could not breathe, the spasm in her diaphragm not allowing her to inhale. More sharp pains as she heard her ribs crack from several kicks. She was doubled over in a fetal position trying to pull air into her lungs, too stunned to be afraid. Her adrenaline kicked in sending an override to the muscles and she was at last able to draw a breath. The roaring in her ears had lessened and she could hear a female voice yelling at her. Her head was lifted as someone grabbed her hair and pulled. She was being dragged through the house. The adrenaline coursing through her hit her brain and sharpened her focus. She could hear some of the words floating down to her; ‘You’re not good enough for him’, ‘He deserves better’, ‘He’s been so sad’. Oh no! She’s talking about Harry. She’s a fan! And she’s inside the house! As more words registered she realized that this female was going to wait for Harry. And she grasped that the girl was going to kill her. Terror ripped through her. NO! She didn’t want to die. Kacey’s head hit the floor as the girl let go of her hair. She tried to roll away from her but was stopped by a searing pain in her abdomen. She saw the girl drawing her hand back, a bloody knife in her grasp. Trying to breathe through the pain, she felt another sharp blow to her thigh. She was just able to make out movement and threw her arm up to block another strike, screaming as the knife slashed her skin. The knife, slick with Kacey’s blood, slipped from the girl’s grasp and fell to the floor. Enraged, she grabbed her injured arm and shoulder yanked her up; Kacey almost passed out from the pain. They were in the middle of the lounge, Kacey barely able to stand when the girl delivered another punch to her face. Kacey fell at the edge of the couch landing on the damaged shoulder and screamed once again. She lay there while the girl ranted above her. Kacey could feel the blood flowing out of her at an alarming rate but the pain was fading. She could see darkness at the edge of her field of vision but she fought it; she had to get help. She had to get help for Harry. He was going to walk in and find her like this and he would not see the girl waiting for him. In his panic he would not say the right things and she would attack him too. Kacey could not let that happen; as long as she lived she would protect him. An image formed in Kacey’s mind of the panic button under the table next to the sofa. Using her good arm she began inching towards it, her progress slow but steady. Blood was running down her face and it was beginning to swell making it difficult to see, but she kept going. Too soon the girl noticed her movement and shrieked at her. Grabbing the knife she brandished it in front of Kacey’s face then, with a particularly vicious grin, sliced her cheek open. “Now he’ll never want you,” she proclaimed with satisfaction. Kacey barely felt it—she was going into shock. Her attacker got down on her knees and raised the knife above her head, ready for the big finish. Kacey knew she had one last chance, if she missed then she would die before she could summon help. The girl leaned closer and Kacey struck with all her might, the heel of her palm connecting with the girl’s nose. Kacey heard the crack as the cartilage broke and the girl fell backwards, unconscious. A small sob escaped her lips, and she breathed a word of thanks. The darkness was creeping in as she reached out and her fingers found the button. She pressed it just as her vision went black, her last thought was of Harry.

#soml14 #Harry and Kacey #Harry

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snickerl · 7 years

Text

Elixir Vitae

AU XF fanfic set around the time of IWTB.

A/N: English is not my first language and I’m doing this without a beta reader, so please be kind and overlook language and grammar mistakes.

I simply had to post something today. Posting always makes me feel good, receiving friendly feedback even more. And since tomorrow is going to be a shit day, I need to enlighten today with starting a new story….

Chapter I

Her auburn hair is the first thing I see of her. It’s not done the usual way. It’s not neatly blow-dried in an effort to get rid of the frizz but has obviously been neglected. It falls oddly onto her shoulders in untamed curls, but it reflects the light of the afternoon sun as it always does when she sits on our porch with a cup of tea after a tough day, watching the sun go down.

I instantly know it’s her.

Her hair is quite a bit longer since the last time I saw her about three months ago before she had once again been taken from me. This time by a psychopath we’d been chasing together, not by alien colonists, nor by a bunch of governmental conspirators.

I’d been asked by the FBI to help out with my profiling skills to hunt down a serial killer and, of course, I had to drag her into the case with me. She’d been working as a doctor in the children’s ward at the local hospital close to where we’d settled down. She’d put the FBI behind her for good, hell, why hadn’t I let her? Well, I know the answer to that question: I simply didn’t know how to work on a case alone anymore, without discussing it with her and seeking her advice. And, as was expected, she had given me the final hint I needed to put the pieces of the puzzle together and identify the guy. I still don’t understand how I could’ve been so blind and not see that the killer had turned the tables and had started stalking me. It hadn’t even occurred to me that he might change the favorited target he’d been pursuing until then - brunette, rather plump women - to a petite, slender redhead. I, acclaimed profiler Spooky Mulder, had overlooked that taking away the person I simply couldn’t live without, might be the killer’s next move to react against me.

One day, when I came home, I found the kitchen devastated with no sign of Scully whatsoever. Even a mind not as capable of profiling as mine would’ve been able to tell that a battle had taken place. There were shards of glass and china on the kitchen floor, drawers had been pulled out where she must’ve looked for some kind of weapon to use on her attacker. The forensic team found a kitchen knife underneath the coffee table covered in blood that wasn’t hers. Scully wouldn’t give in just like that, of course, she’d fought for her life. Two chairs in the living room had been knocked over and the pillows that are always sitting in an orderly fashion on the couch, carefully arranged by Scully herself, had been scattered on the floor, one of them with blood stains that turned out to be hers later on.

I’ve been looking for her in every corner of this goddamn country ever since, had turned every stone, had looked into in every hole and on top of every mountain, with no trace whatsoever leading to her. I followed every lead, no matter how lukewarm it was. Skinner told me to leave it to him and his team, and I knew he’d move heaven and hell to find his former agent, he’d always had a soft spot for her, but I just couldn’t sit at home by the phone twiddling my thumbs when in the meanwhile my Scully was held hostage by an unhinged psychopath known for the brutal way he abused women.

And then, finally, after three months in which I ceased to feel alive myself, driven by my fears and sense of foreboding, I received a phone call last night from a place called Pratt & Miller Neuropsychiatric Clinic, Philadelphia, PA.

“Agent Mulder, a woman has been checked into our facility who might be the one you’re looking for,” a friendly female voice told me.

I took the first plane out of Des Moines, where I’d talked to an inmate who claimed to have shared a cell with the killer years ago but had turned out to be a copycat seeking for attention. The call saved him from experiencing my fist in his face for having wasted my precious time.

So I’m standing in the clinic head’s office now, following the man’s index finger which is pointing outside in the direction to where a woman is sitting on a white wooden bench, her back turned toward us. One short glimpse at her from behind is enough for me to recognize her. Her hair, her stature, the way she’s sitting there with her elbows propped up on her thighs, is all Scully.

She’s alive!

Thank God, she’s alive!

“We don’t have really good news for you about her current condition, though, Agent Mulder. She has total amnesia. She doesn’t recall anything, not her name, her age, her residence, her profession, how she got to the place where she was found,” Doctor Pratt, one of the two name givers of this institution, tells me.

“Drop the Agent, please. I’m here as her husband, not as her co-worker,” I say.

How can he say that this is no good news? It’s the best news I can think of!

I’ve got her back in one piece. For whatever reason, the mad man who abducted her chose not to kill her like he killed all his other victims. Maybe she was just not his type after all. Instead, he abandoned her in a parking lot of a grocery store in a rural village at night, dressed in nothing but a thin shirt and sweat pants. That’s what the police report says. She was found in the morning by the first employees arriving to open up the store. She was sitting on a bench, disoriented and mute, so they called the police and an ambulance. She was brought into a hospital, stayed for two days, then the physician in charge committed her to the psychiatric institution of doctors Pratt and Miller.

“How long has she been here?” I ask.

How many days of seeing her have I already missed?

“For ten days now. It took the police that long to check all the missing person reports.”

“Will she get better?”

“Difficult to say as we don’t know what exactly caused the amnesia. An external impact, like a hit on the head, for example, could be an explanation, or an accident, maybe a drug. Amnesia can also be triggered by a mental trauma, when a person has seen or experienced things the psyche cannot cope with, so it shuts the memory down for protection.”

I groan. It causes me physical pain just to think about what that psychopath might have done to her.

“She might regain her memory tomorrow but it might also take a year,” Doctor Pratt continues. “She might remember everything all at once or piece by piece at one step a time.”

“Is it also possible she’ll never get it back?”

“I’m afraid complete permanent amnesia is a possibility, yes. I’m sorry that I don’t have better news for you, Mr. Mulder.”

“Is she hurt otherwise?”

“No, we haven’t found a single scratch or bruise. No broken limbs, no internal injuries. Not even a lump on her head. She was hypothermic when she was found, but not physically harmed.”

“This man, the one who kidnapped her, he…he’s a brutal rapist.”

I hold my breath.

“She was checked through thoroughly at the hospital before she came here and there were no signs she’d been raped. Of course, we cannot really tell for the entire time she was under this man’s control. There is a somewhat fresh small scar on her upper arm which might have been from a stab with a knife but other than that, physically she’s perfectly healthy. All we’re worried about is her memory.”

Throughout the entire conversation with Doctor Pratt, my eyes are glued to her back as she’s sitting on a bench outside in the sun. She lives. That’s the most important thing. I don’t care if she remembers me, recognizes me, recalls what we are to each other. At least not for now. She lives. That’s what I prayed for, and my prayers have been answered.

After I’ve listened to all of Doctor Pratt’s deliberations of Scully’s state of health, of her prognosis and the things I’m supposed to be doing to help her and the things I’m not, I have to see her. I cannot wait any longer, so I excuse myself and am walking toward her now, closing the gap between us with every hesitant step. I’m thrilled but also terrified, for I don’t know what to expect.

“Excuse me,” I address her gently in order not to startle her. I point to the spot next to her on the bench. “Is this seat taken?”

She turns her head and looks at me and my heart skips a beat.

Oh my, there’s not the slightest hint of recognition in her beautiful, bottomless, blue eyes. She looks at me as if I were a total stranger, but she smiles and my knees threaten to buckle.

“Uh, no,” she answers, “have a seat.”

I sit next to her, not as close as I want to but close enough for me to feel her proximity. It’s so hard not to pull her into an embrace, kiss her, ask her where she’s been, and tell her I love her.

I’m a bit sobered when I realize she doesn’t really take note of me sitting with her on this bench. She stares at something in the distance, her face expressionless, her body absolutely still. I try to figure out what she’s looking at. Is it the birch tree? Or the little white pavilion by the pond? Is it the sky she’s looking at, scattered clouds drifting by?

“Are you a patient or a visitor?” I try to start a conversation.

She turns her head once again and looks at me. Jesus, how I feared to never see that lovely face again.

“A patient. You?”

“Visitor.”

“I see.”

“My name is Mulder, Fox Mulder.”

“Nice to meet you, Fox.”

Oh my God, how strange that sounds. She’s called me Fox maybe three times for all the years we’ve been together. If I needed one more proof that she doesn’t know who I am, it would be her calling me Fox.

“And yours?”

I bite my tongue when I see how discomforting my question is for her.

You’re an idiot, Mulder! What did Doctor Pratt tell you? Don’t upset her! And the first thing you do is upsetting her.

She focusses on whatever she focussed on before, squints, then clears her throat.

“Kelly…they call me Kelly. As a matter of fact, I don’t know my name.” She looks at me again, apologetically shrugging her shoulders. “Amnesia.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well, there’s reason to hope for the memory to come back. Who are you visiting?”

She obviously doesn’t want to talk about it any further.

“My…wife,” I answer, and the answer burns a hole into my heart.

“What’s her name?” she asks me, and it’s hard to accept the seriousness in her voice. She really doesn’t have a clue who she is.

I’ve been bold enough to hope that my mere presence would awaken some memories. As if it were impossible to forget me, as if what we’ve had was powerful enough to be a wonder weapon against hard pathological facts.

What we HAVE! Mulder, would you not talk about her as if your time was up! She’s sitting right in front of you!

She’s alive, her beautiful body unharmed. How often have I seen her bruised, scratched, beaten up, intoxicated, stabbed, shot?

“Dana, her name is Dana,” I finally answer her question.

“Nice name,” she says, displaying no remembrance at all. “Do you have kids?”

Oh no!

If there’s one thing I don’t want her to remember it’s the grief and pain connected to the loss of her child. But what can I do? I have to answer her question and I remember Doctor Pratt’s instruction not to tell any lies.

“A son.”

“What’s his name?”

Don’t, Scully! Please, don’t!

“William.”

I can hardly voice his name.

She stiffens for a moment, frowning. She looks at me, and I can read from her face that the sound of her son’s name does something to her. It seems to ring a bell deep inside her.

“William,” she murmurs. “Will-iam.”

She lets the two syllables slowly roll off her tongue.

“Is something wrong, Kelly?”

Speaking out the name feels awkward, although I called her so many fake names when we were on the run: Sandra, Melanie, Trish, Jennifer, Claudia… Never Kelly, though.

“I don’t know. The name…William…it sounds familiar somehow, but I can’t pinpoint it. Never mind.”

She shakes her head as if to get rid of whatever it was that prompted that kind of reaction from her.

“So, your name is Fox. Are you cunning and sly like a fox, always trying to trick others and getting away with it?”

The corners of her mouth rise in a slightly teasing smile.

“Where did you get this from?” I ask.

“Isn’t that how the fox is portrayed in fables, legends, fairy tales, myths?”

I am surprised.

“You remember what the fox is portrayed in literature but you don’t remember your own name?”

“Personal memories are saved at one part of the brain and general knowledge at another. It seems that my brain is affected where the personal memory lies. Heavily affected.”

She speaks in this no-nonsense fashion to me, mechanically reciting medical facts like she’s done hundreds of times before. I’m so familiar with this scientific tone of voice that it soothes my aching heart for a moment before I realize how cruel it is to see that brilliant brain of hers cut off of the most basic information we all share as human beings, our ability to know who we are.

“Did the doctors tell you that?”

“Actually, now that you’re asking…no, they didn’t.” She frowns. “I…simply seem to know.” She looks at me with a puzzled expression on her face. “How’s that possible?”

“You might be a medical doctor yourself,” I can’t keep myself from telling her although Doctor Pratt warned me not to talk her into anything, but this is just too obvious. Science-Scully is in there.

She tilts her head. “Maybe.” She sighs again, “if only I knew.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t intend to upset you,” I tell her, and Doctor Pratt.

“You’re not upsetting me. Actually, I enjoy talking to someone else but my psychiatrist.”

“The pleasure is all mine.”

“Won’t Dana be upset when she finds out you’ve been spending time with another woman instead of being at her bedside?”

“Who?”

“Dana, your wife? You told me you were visiting your wife,” she explains to me so matter-of-factly that the hair stands up at the back of my neck.

I AM visiting my wife, I want to cry out, I’m sitting right in front of her! But, of course, I can’t. It might push her down to an even deeper state of oblivion Doctor Pratt told me. It might scare her, confuse her, overwhelm her.

“Uh, Dana, my wife. Right,” I answer instead. “Uh, no, she’s getting a treatment right now.” I glance at my watch. “Which is about to be finished in a few minutes, I’m afraid.”

On the one hand, I want to sit here with her forever, on the other, I fear this conversation might get out of hand.

“You better go and pick her up. Take her for a stroll through the park. It’s a wonderful afternoon.” She closes her eyes and inhales deeply. “I love the spring. Nature is coming back to life, the greens are so intense, the air is crisp, and the sunlight is so bright and clear.”

I know you do, I almost whisper.

If I could, I would take her hand and lead her to the park for an afternoon stroll around the pond. She would feed the duck, her hair would shine as hauntingly beautiful as the foliage in the fall, we would walk arm in arm, and share a kiss every now and then.

Oh, how I want to take her for a walk just now!

“Goodbye, Fox,” she says holding her hand out for me to shake.

“Maybe we can continue this some other time?” I propose and take her hand, electrified by the sensation of her tiny hand in mine. I had already feared I wouldn’t be able to touch her ever again.

“Maybe. I’ll be here for quite some time, I suppose.” She smiles at me, weakly, but she smiles. “Go see your wife, Fox. I bet she’s waiting for you.”

I hate to let her go. I hate to return to my motel room without her, to leave her behind believing nobody knows who she is.

It’s been a start, though. We can work on this. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, I’ll be back and I will make sure we run into each other again. And the day after tomorrow, and the day after that. I will come here day after day as long as it takes to get her back completely, not only her body but also her mind.

“Take care…Kelly,” I say, and speaking out the name leaves a bitter taste on my tongue.

“Goodbye, Fox. It was nice meeting you.” She throws me a non-committal smile.

Nice. It might have been nice for you, it was exhilarating for me.

And heart-breaking.

to be continued

#xf fanfic #angst #mulder and scully

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