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surveys-at-your-service · 3 years

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Survey #422

“i will not become a figure of my mistakes / i will not become the mask that is not my face”

Have you ever been told you were a good writer? I've been told that's one of my "gifts." What do you put on your baked potatoes? Butter, American cheese, and bacon bits. Gooood shit. What are you listening to? I'm re-watching Gab Smolders play Parasite Eve. Love that game to bits, and I really enjoy how she has a legitimate appreciation for it despite its age. It's so great watching her fall in love with a game she knew nothing about. Did you ever have braces? Yes. Are you afraid of flying? I acknowledge the risks of it, but I don't really actively fear it. Are you short? No; I'm your average height for an American woman of my age. Have you ever used a fire extinguisher? No. Would you want your future children to date someone like you as a teenager? I was a fine teenager, so sure. Are you unhappy at the moment? That's quite the understatement. When’s the last time you got in trouble with your parents? *shrug* How many children do you want? None. It's funny though, I had a dream last night that I gave birth to a daughter I of course named Alessandra. Have you ever watched Keeping Up With The Kardashians? No. Do you have any career ideas in mind? I have no desire to talk about this right now. Do you have any gay friends? Yeah. Are you gay yourself? I'm bi. Are you doing anything this weekend? Of course I'm not. But that's a surprise to nobody. How many brothers do you have? One. Do you like Mexican food? Only very few things. What’s your best friend’s pet’s name(s)? Oh man. Some are family pets more than hers, but regardless, there's Buster, Beasley, Winter, Martha, Crowley, Little Dot, Jane Marie, Doris, Raisha, and a bunch of other fish. Did you go to work today? I don’t have a job. .-. How old are you? How old do you act? 25. I think mentally I'm capable of acting older, but as far as "being an adult" goes, taking care of mature responsibilities, I'm a child. What size shoe do you wear? I... haven't worn anything but flipflops in so long that I barely know. I want to say an 8? 7 1/2 depending on the shoe? Are there any spiders in your room right now? I dunno. What was your favorite class during your sophomore year of high school? Art, for sure. Who’s your favorite Disney character? Probably Dory. Are there any framed pictures of you in your house? With my sisters, yes. Do you wear bandanas in your hair? No. Have you ever been on a blind date? No, not interested. Do you need to shave? My legs look like a gorilla's. My armpits, slightly. I shave them every time I shower, so I'll shave them soon. Are you wearing makeup right now? No. I never do nowadays. Do you know anyone named Laura? Not off the top of my head. Do you have any exercise equipment in your home? A few things. How many living grandparents do you still have? None. What are your plans for the rest of the day? Nothing, really. I hope I read today, though. I haven't the past couple days and I refuse to totally lose my habit of it again. How many times have you been sick this year? None. What colour is your toothbrush? White. Do you have a favourite author? No. How long do you usually take in the shower? Barely even 10 minutes. I do nooot understand how some people take so long. Clean yourself, get out. Like I get it if you're shaving or doing "extra" stuff besides washing your hair and body, but generally, how???? Have you ever worked in an office? No, but as I prepare to job search again, that's what I'm aiming for, I guess. It sounds like something I (including my legs, given I'd be sitting) could possibly handle. But yeah, you need experience in absolutely everything nowadays to get any job, it seems. Have you ever stayed in a hotel without your parents or older relatives? Yes. Have you ever kissed anyone under the mistletoe? I actually don't think I have. What’s your go-to activity when you’re bored? Watch YouTube. Who was the last person you texted? The lady who works in my psychiatrist's office to verify my next appointment date. Do you see yourself married in the next five years? Probably not, really. How long does it take you to get ready to go out? Barely over five minutes, or less, depending on what I have to do. Do you own any clothes you wouldn’t wear in front of your mother? No. Have you changed much this year? I haven't changed at all. And that's not a good thing. Is there a girl that you truly hate? A corner of my mind says yes. Even though I have no right to. Do you have any candles in your room? No, but I do have a wax warmer. Have you ever had to dial 911 before? A couple times for Mom. What’s something in your past that you’ll always remember? I'm almost certain even dementia couldn't take away my memory of the breakup. Did you have a good birthday this year? Yeah, it was good. How many people have told you they were in love with you? Two. Do you find smoking unattractive? Yes. How slowly or quickly would you say you eat? I eat way too fast, but I literally can't figure out how to change it. I try to slow down, but it just... doesn't stick. It's so engrained in me as a habit. Do you remember how you felt on 9/11? I was too young to remember this. What do you think of people who always wear make-up? You go for it, you look great. What’s a smell that absolutely makes you gag? Severely decaying roadkill is very high on the list. Is there a smell that gives you headaches? Gasoline. What about one that reminds you of the past? Play-Doh, for one. Childhood things like that. Also like those really fruity lip glosses, etc. What’s your least favorite thing about summer? The fucking heat and humidity. What’s your least favorite thing about the holiday season? The knowledge I don't have the money to buy like anyone presents. Especially my niece and nephew. Mom helps me buy something for them, but still... I feel like such a bad aunt that I can't do it myself. Other than yourself, who knows you the best? Whoever reads these, probably, ha ha. Do you have any embarrassing qualities and, if so, what are they? I'm just awkward in general. What’s one complaint that you have about school? Common Core. It's awful. What do you do while you’re on campus but not in class? I would just go to the library and do stuff on my laptop. Do you know anyone who has Autism/Asperger’s syndrome? Yes. It's questionable that I myself may have high-functioning autism. Has anyone of the same sex ever hit on you? Yeah. Are you open to a same-sex relationship and why or why not? Yes, because I'm bisexual. Have you ever dressed like or worn clothing belonging to the opposite sex? I would wear Jason's pj pants sometimes. Have you ever found yourself to be ugly? I've always believed I'm ugly. Have you read the Twilight series and do you like it or dislike it? I never read the series or watched the movies. Have you been on any type of online messengers today? I've used Discord to message Sara. What is your state’s minimum wage? $7.25 an hour. Disgusting. Do you own a tablet of any kind? No. If you eat eggs, how do you eat them? I only enjoy scrambled eggs or omelettes. When you’re upset, do you vent to people or do you keep to yourself? Nowadays, I tend to keep it to myself or vent through surveys. Have you ever watched a meteor shower? No, but I would love to. Do you like Slim Jims? OH MY GOD YESSSSSSSSSS. I want one now. What’s your opinion on the color turquoise? I think it's very pretty. Have you ever been in a castle? Only the Disney World one. When you were little, did you ever play with Play-Doh? Of course! I loved doing that. Would you rather write a mystery or love story? Hm... probably a love story. Are you afraid of getting shots? Kind of. I just hate the feeling of the medicine being injected, and long needles puncturing skin makes me want to squirm a bit. Needles in general though, I'm not afraid of. Would you ever run away and get married with no notifications to your family? Uh, no. I'm close with my immediate family and would want them to know. Have you ever wanted to vlog? Noooo. My life is so very boring, not to mention I would feel WAY too awkward. Who was the last person who unexpectedly texted you? No one unexpectedly texts me. Have you ever voluntarily read the Bible? Some of it. Have you ever thought that your life was so bad you wanted to give up? Many times. Do thunder & storms scare you? Actually, since I started having recurring tornado nightmares, I started to sort of fear them again. What are two foods you think only taste good with whipped cream? I hate whipped cream. If you eat it, what is your favorite way to eat beef? Cheeseburgers. Are you insecure about your height? What made you think this way? No. Did your last significant other have a huge temper? No. Would you ever think about doing porn? NOOOOOOOOO, even if I was in good shape. Would you ever cheat on someone if they cheated on you? No. That's not going to fix anything. Do you like getting jewelry or do you not wear any? I don't mind it, but I don't really wear it. When you were in high school did you ever have bomb threats? Once or twice. He was a... troubled kid. Did/Do you get school cancellations because of snow? Oh yes. My area flips shit if there's even a risk of like an inch of snow. Who knows ALL of your secrets? Nobody. Do you eat dinner with your family every night? No. Have you ever thought about what it would be like to have a baby right now? No, not really. That would be fucking awful. There's no way I'd be able to raise it. Have you used Limewire before? Back in the day. Are you/Were you in a band? If so, what was your band name? No. Have you ever tried cocaine or heroin? No thanks. Do you own any shirts with a peace symbol on it? No. I'd wear one, though. Have you ever dyed your hair light auburn? No. Ever had ice cream dots? Dippin' Dots? Yes. Do you have your national flag hanging up anywhere outside your house? No. Would you ever go to Japan? I'd like to. Have you ever been in a choir? When I was a kid in Catholic school, yes. What did you eat for breakfast today? Honey Nut Cheerios. When is the next time you’ll be up on stage? Preferably never.

#survey #surveys #random questions #lyrics: ''disguise'' by motionless in white

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overheardatthecontinental · 3 years

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Talk Chapter 4

AO3

In which Helen fights for control from her kidnappers and John is met with deadends.

(The action will pick up in the next chapter

Waking up in a cell is a little easier the second time around Helen discovers.

She wakes up, freezing again, on the floor. Not that there was any other place to be. The cell was still empty.

The guards were different when she woke up but she barely paid them any attention. Instead, she managed to crawl to the little stall in the corner of her cell. Indeed, she was grateful to find a bathroom. The contents of her stomach were emptied into the small toilet and she wondered, idly, if it was the sedative that made her feel so.

She wished there was a window, or any other sort of indication of what time it was. What day it was.

Was it still Saturday? She wasn’t sure.

She wondered if it was Sunday and what would happen tomorrow morning when clients started arriving at her office to find it locked and empty?

Priorities, she tells herself.

No, she wasn’t worried about a few people missing their appointments. Not when her hands were still bound together and her throat burned from the acid of her vomit.

They’d live.

And so would she.

John was coming, she knows. It may take him some time to find her. Helen was certain she was hidden somewhere that wouldn’t be easy for him to find. But she was also positive that John wouldn’t stop until she was safe.

That brought her some comfort.

But even with that knowledge, she wasn’t going to stop trying to get herself out of the mess.

She tries to engage the new guards in conversation, but they kept their mouths shut. Probably warned by DeLuca, she thinks.

Still, one of them disappears upstairs and returns with a tv dinner that he slides through the bars to her, along with a bottle of water. They undo the bindings at her wrists but refuse to give her silverware. While she can only imagine what other uses John would find for a spoon or a fork, she wouldn’t know what the fuck to do with a utensil in a fight.

At least DeLuca isn’t planning on starving her. That was a plus. Especially since John would kill him either way.

She closes her eyes.

John was probably a wreck. He didn’t do well with things being out of his control and his emotional regulation skills were lacking.

This, she thinks, is really going to stunt the progress she’s made with him. Months of building up to him addressing his issues with self-esteem and his own feelings of self-hatred, only to have her kidnapped by his enemies.

It would take months more to work through the blame he was going to feel and probably years before he could even start to forgive himself.

The guards change not long after she wakes up. The new guards are told: “She’s been fed. Mostly quiet. DeLuca says not to interact with her.”

They listen. They ignore her attempts at small talk and don’t even look at her. The only moment of interaction comes when they hand her another meal a few hours later with a gruff, “Here.”

She falls asleep again after she eats. It’s almost too cold to sleep but she manages, blaming the exhaustion on the sedatives.

When she wakes up again, the guards have changed.

Nick, the man who had sedated her is back, along with someone new. The kid is younger than Nick. She’d place him in his early twenties at best. His face was still a little soft around the edges and the scarring from acne hadn’t found its way to clearing up just yet.

“Morning, boys.” She says, “Or is it night?”

“It’s two pm.”

“Hey!” Nick says, “DeLuca said not to talk to her.”

“What harm will talking do?” The new kid asks, looking over at Helen with a naïve sort of interest.

Nick shrugs, “Guess she’s some sort of psychiatrist.”

Wrong, Helen thinks, but doesn’t comment.

“She got inside DeLuca’s head yesterday. Kinda eerie, to be honest. Started spouting all this stuff about his parents and I guess it was true, because DeLuca was pissed. Bastard still hasn’t come back.”

Helen resists the urge to smirk at that.

“Why didn’t he just kill her? What’s she in for?”

Helen perks up a bit. She knew, obviously, that she was here as leverage or bait or something altogether nefarious to entrap John. But the more she could figure out about the details, the better off she would be.

“You ever hear of John Wick?” Nick asks, shuffling the deck of cards.

“Heard of him?” The poor kid almost sounds excited, “The man’s a fucking legend! I heard he killed three guys who started shit-talking him in the bar with a fucking pencil!”

Helen hadn’t heard that little tidbit, but she wasn’t surprised. John’s versatility was arguably his greatest strength. It made sense that it converted to weapons.

Nick hums, “Yep. And that’s his girl.” He throws a thumb in her direction.

The kid’s head flies over, staring at Helen in shock. She gives him a finger wave and the kid looks back to Nick, “That’s the boogeyman’s girl?”

Nick nods and starts to toss out the cards, “DeLuca’s been talking about getting a jump on the Camorra ever since he took over the Syndicate. Can’t help but wonder if this is his ploy.”

John had referenced the Camorra before, a number of times, but she couldn’t recall him ever mentioning the Syndicate. Nevertheless, she now had a name to put to the organization and its face that held her captive.

“But, it’s the boogeyman! You don’t mess with the boogeyman!”

“Sound advice,” Helen pipes in, “I suggest you relay the message to DeLuca before he gets you all killed.”

The kid pales and Nick shakes his head, “Don’t listen to her, Frankie.”

But Frankie was already listening. She just needed one in. “He’s probably right. I wouldn’t want to spend your last hours on this Earth in fear. Play your game.” Helen tries her best to give her a sweet smile. “Have fun with your time.”

“Hours?” he echoes.

“I mean, maybe you’ll get lucky. You might have a few days before John finds this place and razes it to the ground.”

“Disengage, Frankie.” Nick warns but even he looks uneasy.

John had mentioned his reputation a few times, but this was the first time that Helen had ever seen it in action. She knew John was not one for dramatizing but still, it was a little strange to see grown men becoming uneasy at the very mention of his name.

Frankie lowers his voice but she can still hear him echoing in the empty basement. “Look, man, you know I’m all in for the cause but I don’t know if I want to be involved in this.” He shoots Helen a glance, “I don’t want the Boogeyman coming after me.”

She almost felt sorry for the kid. Rationally, she could probably justify his actions. Write it off as a kid looking for a place to fit in, a world to survive in. He was mousy and largely unintimidating. The idea of mafiaso protection probably appealed to him, gave him space to live. But, she acknowledges, it’s harder to feel bad for someone who is keeping you locked in a cage.

“It’s a little late for that, Frankie. You and Nick are already involved.”

Nick shifts uncomfortably at the use of his name. Good, she thinks. She wants him to be anxious. She wants them both to afraid of what was to come.

Poor Frankie hadn’t even been here five minutes, she thinks, and he was already ready to bolt. She had a foot in the door, now she just had to hold her ground and push through.

“Look,” Helen offers him a small smile, “You seem like a good kid. Single mom?”

His eyes widen and he nods. “How did you know?”

An educated guess, but she doesn’t elaborate. “You did whatever you had to do to help her. How many siblings you got?”

“Don’t—” Nick tries but it’s too late.

“Two.”

“Still in school?”

Again, he nods.

“Good.” Helen says, “I hope they won’t have to drop out when you aren’t around. It’s hard for kids who drop out to catch back up. Sometimes you never do. Right, Nick?”

Nick tenses immediately.

She hums and closes her eyes, leaning her head back against the wall.

“Nick, man—”

“She’s just getting into your head. Let it go.”

Helen huffs a small laugh at that.

“I don’t know. How’d she know about my mom? And me dropping out? I didn’t say anything that—”

“It’s all just lucky guesswork. Calm down.”

If her eyes were open, she would have rolled them. “Guesswork, huh?” She glances up. It’s not much, she thinks, but it’s an opening, “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to make a little wager about that?”

“Not a chance.” Nick is quick to say but she can see the curiosity behind them. It’s reflected in Frankie who, with less experience and far less intelligence is quick to ask, “What kind of wager?”

Nick shoots him a glare but doesn’t cut her off.

“I’ll read you. Both of you. I’ll analyze your lives based on what I’ve already seen of you. And, if I’m wrong, on either of you, I’ll shut up. I won’t say anything for the rest of the night.”

“And if you’re right?” Nick asks.

“I get a phone call.”

“Not a chance.” Okay. She expected that. She could compromise.

“A text, then. I’ll keep it short. No more than a minute.”

“DeLuca would kill us.” Frankie says, shaking his head.

“DeLuca doesn’t have cameras here.” She gestures around, “And I wouldn’t be worried about DeLuca killing you when John’s out there looking for me.” She pauses, “I’ll sweeten the pot. Win or lose, I’ll ask John not to kill you.”

She’s met with silence as Frankie looks to Nick to take the lead.

Nick looks indecisive and she takes that into account. She watches the way he glances towards his phone. He’s considering it.

“You’re both part of this.” Helen leans forward, “DeLuca is arrogant enough to think he can get out of this without backlash. You’ve got to know that won’t be the case. John will hunt him down to the ends of the Earth, along with anyone else who played a part in this. Your only shot of making it through this alive is for me to interfere.”

She watches him swallow. Nick isn’t stupid. He’s probably the smartest of all the kidnappers she met but, Christ, he is lost.

John was like that, once.

Desperate for a way out, unable to find one.

“Will he listen to you?” Nick asks finally, “If you ask him to spare us, will he listen?”

She can’t make the promise. Truth be told, she’s never seen John truly angry at anyone other than himself. She doesn’t know how this is going to go.

“I am the only chance at stopping him.” She says finally. Not a promise or a guarantee. The honest truth, if ever there was one.

“Either way, win or lose?” Nick pushes.

“I give you my word.”

The moment lasts an eternity as she holds Nick’s gaze.

“I won’t give you a minute. You can’t touch the phone. You tell me the number, I type in the message. You get to send one word.”

“Three.”

He considers it, then he nods and she breathes easy.

“Start with Frankie.” He says and there comes that guard again. Keeping himself safe. Protecting his secrets.

She suspects but she isn’t entirely sure.

Frankie is an easier read, anyway. He wears his heart on his sleeve.

Nick’s reactions to what she says to Frankie will give her everything she needs.

Helen exhales and looks to the younger boy.

She takes in the clothes, the demeanor. The way he sits, the little bit of excitement in his eyes that proved just how naïve he was. How in over his head he was.

“We’ve established the single mom. You’re the oldest. Different dad’s all around. Your mom’s a dreamer. She kept hoping that each guy would be different. They’d care. They’d stay. But they never did.

“You get that from her,” Helen softens her voice, “that tendency to daydream. It keeps you going on the bad days, but it also keeps you stuck. What do consequences matter when everything will be okay in the end, right?

“But you were smart. You did shit in school, but you were quick to pick things up and acing tests made up for the fact you probably never did you homework. But your siblings do. You prioritized their work above yours, made sure they did well. Because it was too late for you, even then, wasn’t it?”

Frankie’s mouth opens but she keeps going.

“Three boys,” That much is a guess but the subtle intake of breath from Frankie tells her she’s right, “Three growing boys need food. And clothes. Mom was running herself to the ground to keep going. So, you stepped up. Because you’re the oldest, and because you love your mom. And, partly, because she and your brothers are all you have.”

Frankie looks like he’s going to pass out at any minute but it’s Nick she’s watching, out of the corner of her eye.

Nick’s leg is shaking, bouncing with nervous energy and he’s staring at his phone, as if it’s the only thing in the world giving him strength.

She’s willing to stake everything that whatever his lock screen shows is his reason to get up each and every morning.

Turning her attention back to Frankie, she continues, “So you wound up here. It’s local and Italian, so it could be worse in your mother’s eyes. It doesn’t stop her from worrying, though.

“But you have your uses. You’re not street smart like the rest of these guys here, but just clever enough that you see things they don’t. Finding patterns and solving puzzles. It makes up for the fact you’re shit in a fight and you probably can’t even shoot straight.”

Frankie’s face breaks into a huge grin, “Holy shit! That was dead on! How did you do that?” He leaves his chair and comes to sit on the ground outside her cell. “I didn’t know psychologists did that.”

Her face softens, “Most don’t. Technically, we’re supposed to avoid making assumptions but, after a while, you learn to pick up on little things.”

Nick narrows his eyes, “Still seems like guess work to me. The fact we’re both dropouts isn’t written on our faces. You guessed based on the fact we’re involved in Syndicate.”

“It gave me an indication of your socioeconomic status,” she admits, “But, in Frankie’s case, it was the oldest brother, single mother combination that made me go in that direction. I used to do quite a bit of family therapy. There are roles that often come up in enmeshed families,” she explains, looking back at Frankie, “things like enablers who allow everything to happen, or scapegoats, who get blamed for everything.”

Helen tries to watch Nick’s reaction to the scapegoat. And sure enough, he stares at his locked screen.

“What am I?” Frankie asks.

“The Hero.” His chest puffs up at the label, “You try to fix everything, even the things that can’t ever be put back together. Which is how I knew you dropped out to help your mom. It’s what you do.”

“And Nick?” He asks, gesturing back to where Nick sat at the table.

Curious, but tense. Disbelieving, but with a hint of worry.

He had the most to lose from this expenditure.

“Nick,” she says softly, “was the scapegoat. And that’s a difficult place to be because you can do everything right but it doesn’t matter. I imagine you got in trouble a lot as a kid, didn’t you, Nick? You didn’t follow the expectations lined out for you. In your parent’s eyes, you made the wrong choices. Had the wrong friends. Played with the wrong toys.”

“There are no wrong toys.” Frankie says, tilting his head in confusion.

“You’re right.” Helen replies, not looking away from Nick, who is now tapping his fingers on the table in an attempt to appease the nervous energy. “But there were in your parent’s eyes. So you tried to appease them, to do everything right. Just how they wanted but you had already made your bed and they never quite got over it.”

Helen has to close her eyes at the flash of pain she sees in Nick’s eyes.

And she’s careful with her phrasing because she won’t be the one to bring it into the open, even if she needs to communicate to him that she knows his deepest secret. The one he pretends doesn’t exist.

“I’ll admit, I am unsure of what happened. But they found out. Maybe you told them, or they saw something they shouldn’t have, but they found out.”

“Stop.”

“They found out, and you lost everything.”

Nick’s hand reaches for his phone and his fist tightens around it, like a lifeline.

“I don’t understand.” Frankie says, looking between them.

Helen ignores him. “You didn’t have a choice but to leave school. You had to support yourself. Take care of yourself. And you found this place. The Syndicate. A family in its own right and they took you in. But this time, you were more careful. You didn’t let it show.”

“Stop!” Nick shouts and Helen does. His face is red, his chest rising and falling.

Helen swallows but stares Nick down until he brings is eyes to meet hers. “There is nothing wrong with you, Nick.”

“You don’t know shit.”

“I don’t know the pain of what you’ve been through. Your experience is your own. But I know what it’s like to be afraid and to feel trapped. And I know that nothing is going to change until you learn to accept who you are.”

Nick closes his eyes and rubs them.

And Frankie, bless his stupid fucking heart, looks back to Nick in a kind of understanding. “Oh.” He says and he looks to Helen and then again to his comrade, “Dude, I know how this place can be, but if it helps, I don’t care one way or the other. My middle brother is gay.”

Nick winces at the word and looks past Frankie to Helen.

“What gave it away?” He asks, voice heavy with emotion.

“Nothing that anyone else will pick up on.” She eases his worries, “I’ve been a therapist for nearly fifteen years. I know what to look for.”

Nick looks to Frankie, “You can’t fucking t—”

“I won’t say anything.” Frankie is quick to jump in. “I see how the world treats Gio and he’s only in high school.”

“The world can be a cruel place. As humans, we tend to have a hard time distinguishing what is perceived as normal and what is perceived as right. But we all have a responsibility to challenge those beliefs and I am sorry that your parents couldn’t do that for you.”

“I wasn’t a bad kid.” Nick mutters.

“Of course, you weren’t.”

“I just wanted my parents to love me.”

“Some parents aren’t made to be parents. And the fact they couldn’t get over their narrow world view has nothing to do with you.”

“I can’t come out.”

“You don’t have to.” Helen tells him, “You can live the rest of your life pretending to be someone you’re not. Half the world does, anyway. But I can guarantee you that hiding who you are isn’t going to do anything to protect your kid.”

Nick’s eyes widen and he looks to Helen in shock.

“You have a kid? How did that even happen?” Frankie asks.

“Tequila.”

“We’ve all been there.” Helen mutters, lifting her water bottle in a silent salute. “The guys start asking too many questions about why you never date, never have a girlfriend. They start teasing at the truth and you go out and find somebody. Anybody. And things happen, because things always do. And the next thing you know, you’re trapped in another web of lies. It’s easier to play along than to find a way out and, eventually, that web of lies starts to feel like home. And right now, it’s fine. But webs will always begin to unravel. I’d suggest you do it on your own terms rather than watch your world implode.”

Nick shivers, “You really need to stop.”

“Sorry. It’s hard to shut off, sometimes.”

“I can see why DeLuca sedated you.” He mutters and grabs his phone, “A deal is a deal. What’s the number?”

Helen tries not to look to relieved as Nick brings up a new text message. She recites John’s number, forever thankful that she memorized it. Just in case.

He types it in and shakes his head, “I take it this is Wick’s direct line?”

She nods, “Yes.”

Nick exhales, “I’m really fucking glad our shift is almost done. What do you want to say?”

Three words, she muses. They had agreed on three words.

She didn’t know if he already knew where she was, or who had her. Helen didn’t want to waste her one shot giving John information he already had but, she liked to think if he knew where she was, he would already be here.

“DeLuca of Syndicate.” She decides and hopes against hope that it is enough.

….

Dead ends.

After more than a day of searching, John had only been met with dead ends and more questions.

Winston was right. The answer to who would want to destroy the Camorra was apparently everybody. Which meant the only other factor they had to go on was by means.

Who had the resources to stalk and evade John Wick?

Again, the answer was more substantial than he knew what to do with.

They all had money. Especially, the higher up the food chain they went.

While Winston had been able to clear the highest-ranking officials of the High Table, there were still hundreds of smaller echelons to eliminate.

It hadn’t been going well.

John had limited the search to the Camorra’s immediate allies and their top adversaries, local and foreign. Winston was running it now but John could tell he wasn’t hopeful.

It had never occurred to John just how far the Underworld went. Aside from the major players, there were crime families and gangs that all held some sort of stake in his world. And New York was the fucking capital of it all. Anyone and everyone had ties to the city.

The Technician was still there, in his room. He had used the twin bed to catch a few hours of sleep while they waited for the phone to be activated and John had kept vigil. He watched the phone, waiting for any sort of call or message that wasn’t going to come. He watched the computer, hoping that something would pop up.

“I’m sorry. There’s nothing, Mister Wick. If this guy had a modicum of common sense, he would have ditched her original phone and just taken the SIM card. He’ll probably keep the phone off until he intends to use it. Might even be removing the card and only using that when he needs it. Until it’s turned on, we can’t do anything.”

It had taken every ounce of self-control John had not to smash the Technician’s computer. To break the table the way he had done the chair.

He wanted to break something. Needed to see, and hear, and feel something smash apart. Something else had to break before he did.

Thirty-six hours.

It had been thirty-six hours since he had gotten the phone call and he was still no closer to finding Helen.

His stomach churned.

He’d never had trouble eating before or after a mission before. Nothing rattled him. Not blood, or entrails, or the crack of breaking bones. He could see brain matter spattered along a floor and go for a cheeseburger right after.

But this uncertainty, the not knowing… it was killing him.

Had she eaten?

There was a frost over the weekend. Was she someplace warm?

Was she scared?

Did she know he was coming?

He hears the door open and jumps to his feet, heading to the main room. The Technician was hunched over the laptop, needlessly running security cameras and traffic footage near Helen’s home.

John feared it wouldn’t be enough.

A table full of weapons brought by the Sommelier is prepped near the door that Winston is walking through.

He has a bag ready in case Winston is unable to find anything. In case he has to go after the D’Antonio’s.

Winston shakes his head at John, almost in defeat.

“We need to reframe our parameters.” The Manager says, “It’s still too broad.”

John leans against the table. He hadn’t been expecting much but anything would be better than the constant attempts to narrow their search.

What was he missing? What was he leaving out?

What if he went too narrow and ended up missing Helen?

“Have you slept, Jonathan?”

It’s the third time they’ve had this conversation.

He’s tried. But he can’t. Every time he closes his eyes, he can see Helen, bound and passed out on the cold floor.

He can’t remember how many coffee’s he had but it’s keeping him going.

“I suppose I should be grateful you’ve showered.” Winston says, obviously still disapproving. “Still, you won’t be any good to her if you’re strung out on caffeine.”

“I’ve tried, Winston. I just…” He trails off.

This is your fault. You should have protected her better. You should never have showed weakness. Should never have gone to her house. To her office. Should never have brought your fucked-up life into her safe one.

He runs a hand through his hair.

The sitting, the waiting, the hoping is doing absolutely nothing.

He has to fix this.

“I can’t wait any longer, Winston.” John shakes his head, “I’m going after Lorenzo.”

Winston responds in kind, “Don’t be stupid, Jonathan.”

“I can’t sit here doing nothing. If I kill the D’Antonio’s, this is over. She’ll be released.”

“You’re banking on an unknown enemy being honest.”

It was true, but what else was there to go on?

“He has no reason to keep her once they’re dead.”

“That you know of. This could just be the beginning of his plan.” Winston keeps arguing.

“It’s all ifs right now!” John can feel the anger brimming within him, “But it’s all I have! And Helen… she’s tough but she has her limits.”

Winston frowns, “Well, perhaps you should have thought of that before you became involved with her.”

“You think I don’t know that! I know that this is my fault but I will get her out of this. I gave you time, I gave the Technician a chance.”

“My time isn’t up.”

“You have a handful of hours and no fucking leads.”

“Um, Mister Wick…” The Technician pipes up, turning around in his seat.

“Then help me narrow down what I should be looking for. You know I can’t just let you go off to kill a member of the High Table.”

“You won’t be able to stop me.”

“Mister Wick!” The Technician shouts and both John and Winston turn to look at him, “You, um, sorry. But you just got a text from an unknown number.”

He holds up the phone and John takes it.

A New York number, that he doesn’t recognize, but opens all the same. The message is short, deliberate.

The miracle he’s been praying for.

DeLuca of Syndicate.

#john wick #helen wick #john wick talk #john x helen wick #helen x john wick #otp: your best friend #bamf!Helen Wick #bamf helen wick #slight dumbass john wick #john wick fanfiction #john wick fanfic

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brokenfoetus · 4 years

Text

...Real Talk for a Moment....

This is gonna be a long rant post, so by all means... quickly scroll past. Parts may even be a tad emo feels for some folks for one reason or another... There’s no shame in skipping for reals. A lot of days I can’t bother to read anything too in depth... anyway... HERE goes.... While I absolutely love art, and performance, and surreal awkward characterization of myself I call “THE END”. I also value truth, and being understood. My blog here started more as a journal for me to vent, and place to post music and art for me to look at in order to try and just relax during a very difficult point in my life. Every now and then I like to stop and ground myself and post in a sense about the actual me. There’s frankly not anything magical here, everyone has a story and their experiences and struggles we all do no matter who you are. I suppose like I said, I just like to be understood where I am coming from typically can only be slightly grasped like anyone. Even if you agree with views and relate to feelings, things become clearer with details.... hence my rants. I get it out of my system and state my perspectives all at once and anyone who happens to be curious gets to read it. Maybe gets to relate and frankly that tends to help us sometimes. It helps people realize they’re not alone in their situations. Anyway.... I was born a tiny premature gremlin on the east coast of the U.S. I was raised a devout Catholic boy. At age 11 I was diagnosed with the chronic illness Diabetes. when the symptoms started my mother called doctors concerned. We had to wait a full month for my appointment. It was rough. Some people don’t know of the disease, but most people generally are aware. It typically doesn’t seem all too dramatic to most since people think of it as old grandma and grandpa taking their pills and measuring their food. When you’re talking juvenile onset diabetes it’s different... severity can vary. but, I caught some sort of virus, with flu like symptoms... I was very very sick for a week or two. Once it passed, I was okay but slowly started feeling gross in other ways. By the time we got to see Doctors it was too late, and the damage done to my pancreas made it so it created pretty much no insulin. The only theory Doctors had at the time was the virus freaked out my auto-immune system so it made my body attack itself. It seemed that my white blood cells had attacked my pancreas. I was 11, so... I didn’t know what diabetes was. I asked my doctor if there was a cure, and he explained that there was no cure. My little boy brain after feeling so awful for a month and a half assumed I was going to die. I burst into tears as I was very very afraid. My Doctor quickly explained I wasn’t going to die like I had assumed and that it can be treated. It doesn’t seem so scary most the time when you realize it can be treated. The thing is the hormone insulin can be quite dangerous, as low blood sugars are actually very much more dangerous than high blood sugars. Insulin allows glucose in the blood to travel into cells to basically use as fuel. without it sugar levels rise in the blood stream, and the body starts rapidly breaking down fat cells to use as fuel. Now, that happens normal some anyway usually after eating. Just not rapidly.... when it does, the fuel it breaks down creates ketones which can make the blood toxic... by making it acidic.... Like I don’t really think... there’s any way I can describe what high blood sugar feels like... or what it feels like when your blood starts to become acidic.... I can’t... but... minor low blood sugar attacks can happen to anyone just by skipping lunch or forgetting to eat... and those suck... bad ones... well... they feel like you’re dying. Not to be melodramatic about it all... but that’s all I can say to explain it... it just feels like you’re dying. Probably because you sort of are..... The brain runs on glucose so when the levels get too low... your brain panics and tries to save itself and alert you. It’s not fun. It’s been many years since I had anything dangerous or serious in terms of low blood sugars but, a couple times in my life when I wasn’t doing very well emotionally and mentally I wasn’t paying attention or being careful with my insulin dosages and how much I was eating. I’ve had 3 grand mal seizures in my life when I was younger.... it’s hard to explain the experience... in mine... I don’t know.... It was like not existing at all, there was nothing. I woke to pain, I couldn’t see or hear it just hurt. Everything hurt head to toe. Then I could hear myself saying it hurt, then I could hear the people around me, and then I could see the people around me. Then I knew what had happened. I felt a bit guilty for scaring my loved ones so much. That honestly made me more upset than the pain. The reason I spell all this out... is my life has mostly been surrounded by fear. I’ve been aware of my mortality and trying to avoid dying on a daily basis since I was a very young boy. The strange thing I suppose.... is after a while... you just get sick of being afraid.... you kind of stop being scared and just get angry... I was a shy timid nervous little dude.... I’ve had long long times where... I’ve felt worthless, I’ve hated myself, felt I didn’t deserve happiness, or love. I’ve let people use me, without standing up for myself. I’ve let people be toxic and cruel, while excusing their behavior. While at the same time condemning myself for any tiny mistake I may have made in any way. I’ve made myself a martyr in personal relationships, sacrificing myself and my feelings. I’ve frankly... done a whole bunch of fucked up things turned inward. The nice thing I suppose, is I don’t do that anymore.... I still make mistakes, and I like to take responsibility for them and make amends or fix them. You can get used to some really fucked up things. Especially when struggling with self worth. I used to think I was useless and undeserving. Today... I’m well aware I’m a PRETTEH PRETTEH GOFF BOI.... I have long time close friends who love me just as much as I do them. I have a wonderful beautiful lovely lady who has my heart and soul whom I want to spend every moment I possibly can with until my bones are dust. Who helped me a great deal over the past couple years or so. Helped me with myself and helped me believe in myself again. Just by being my friend and supporting me while I continue to be the eccentric artist asshole I am. and I have Scrambles... THE MOST CUTEST BLACK KITTEH KAT EVAR. I feel rather lucky to have all I do. I appreciate what I have very very much. I’ve been dealing with Diabetes since I was 11... and had been dealing with Severe Major Depression symptoms since my early 20s. over the past five years I finally started getting help, Turns out I don’t just have diabetes.... I have adhd and some kind of sleep disorder. we’ve been calling it narcolepsy but it’s hard to say exactly, it could be hypersomnia which is a super fancy way of saying I’m fucking always exhausted 24/7 which is pretty accurate. That is usually caused by narcolepsy or something else but... who knows... still trying to figure that part out. I have discovered though that, being fucking exhausted non stop for 20 years will make you very depressed. Sometimes depression makes you tired, and sometimes being tired makes you depressed. When I was a young lad, I gave myself one single life goal.... That was to finish an electro industrial album and play some live shows. I dunno, to some that might not be a big deal.... I never said it had to be “good” after all. But, when I was at a low point dealing with my stuffs, trying to take care of myself... I honestly spent most my days sleeping. I was awake maybe 4 hours a day. Things felt very hopeless, that learned hopelessness made me believe things were pretty much pointless. I would shrug... and talk to my psychiatrist about my suffering in a manner that people talk about the weather. I didn’t even care anymore it was happening. It was “oh well... is what it is.” Until I got angry, it was a good thing I was so frustrated.... because it meant I finally gave a shit again. I wanted to get better and I wanted it to hurry the fuck up. Anyway... I’m just rambling and ranting because I was thinking back a lot after doing a sleep study... probably the first in a series of them. I don’t have apnea so I mean... that’s good. I also got to see what some of my brainwaves look like... I also apparently wake up after dreaming some a lot... I also apparently yelled in the middle of the night hahaha. So back to the whole life goal thing.....my long time friend, who introduced me to shitloads of music and bands and has always been close through good and bad times. Was saying how he knew it was something I’ve always wanted to do, so he wants to help me. He’s starting to help me plan the performance and then later will help me setup my shows and come with me to what will be really awkward and silly first couple gigs I play. An open mic night will be particularly hilarious to me, since instead of hearing shitty rock song covers, it will be an insane goth punk dude screaming distorted vocals to weird electro noises haha. It’s taken a long time to get shit finally going... but... it’s getting there... it’s still going to take a lot more work... on both me and the music. I have countless things I have to do, but I’m just happy I finally got angry enough to scream fuck it... and go for it... I love a lot of various kinds of work. I don’t really fit there very well though. Now that the sleep disorder stuff has become worse over time... it’s not really possible anyway. That’s okay though, since now I’m just doing what I’m actually good at. Eccentric artist asshole has always been my key features. xD So, here’s some photos of me before and during my sleep lab and random enjoyable crap I suppose... and my general mood. It’s been a while.... -The End-

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#Me #Personal #Random #Pointless #Update #THE END

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rikumorimachisgirl · 5 years

Note

Hi! Supposing MC and her boyfriend are trying to get pregnant. How do you think each of them (if they are her boyfriend), is going to react when she says she wants to do the deed right at that time?

Hello! This ask had me imagining so many different scenarios, but stuck with this one. I've had such a busy Sunday and wanted to end the day on a light note, so let's get on with the reaction of these four gorgeous guys. I hope this lives up to your expectations…

Victor

When you first brought up the idea of having a baby, the twenty-eight-year-old CEO thought it was such an easy task, even Goldman could do it - NOT THAT HE WILL EVER LET HIM… but six months and sixty various Kamasutra positions later, you were still not pregnant. Each month you'd get your period, he felt less and less confident that his swimmers were not competent enough.

You consult a specialist and were given a kit to use to test when your fertility was at its peak. The specialist said that you need to do the deed within 24 hours before you ovulate because that increases the chances of getting pregnant. Easy right? Except, you've got irregular cycles.

Victor waits patiently for your call, day in and day out, all while maintaining a good diet, staying hydrated, working out (for more stamina), and reading up articles on the best position to get your girl pregnant (or something to that effect) in various Men's Health magazine.

Since you hadn't given him "The Call", he decided to bury himself at work, randomly auditing his company's account receivables against expenditures. He's gone through tons of ledgers and reports since he came to work that day, he hadn't noticed he had fallen asleep on his desk. Then at exactly one in the morning, he woke up to the sound of his mobile ringing. He picked it up and saw 50 missed calls and 100 messages all coming from you. Flustered, he called you back right away.

"It's about time you called, Victor. Do you know you kept me waiting for so long? Where were you? " you didn't bother concealing your anger the moment you heard him on the other line.

"You're getting braver, " he would reply, sounding slightly annoyed at having been told off right after waking up. "That's quite a mouth you have on you."

"My mouth would have been ON you if you'd picked up sooner. My test shows I'm fertile and that we've got another 18 hours to get busy or we try again next month. You've got ten minutes to get here."

Victor straightens up as soon as you ended the call. He phones a sleepy Goldman and orders him to cancel his appointments that day, adding, "don't call me, I'll call you."

And he freezes time to get to your place and spend what seemed like an endless 18 hours completing all the positions in the Kamasutra, in the hopes that one of them will get you pregnant.

A month later, you test positive and he's changed his reading material from Men's Health to Parenting weekly.

Lucien

It was a warm and sunny Saturday morning when you had visited his apartment armed with his favorite cream puffs and his favorite tea. The neuroscientist almost choked on the cream puff you lovingly made for him when you told him you wanted to have a baby together, but immediately recovered and processed your emotions. In the end, he agreed to do this the right way - complete with menstrual charts, an eating plan, and a list of vitamins and supplements you need to take to get your body ready to carry his baby for the next nine months.

Every month, during your fertile window, he'd turn his apartment into a spa of sorts to help you relax - he'd give you a massage, and make sweet and gentle love to you the whole night through. Unfortunately, after six months of trying, he hasn't succeeded in his quest to get you pregnant, and he starts doubting himself.

After consulting with a specialist (and your lover actually went through all the tests he needed to take), it was clear that you were both perfectly healthy. His colleague, a psychiatrist, advised you both to spice up your sex life.

Lucien was working on a medical journal entry supporting the study that the brain is wired to procrastinate and hasn't been home in the last three days. You were down to your last twenty-four hours before ovulation, and you desperately needed to get laid. Fast. Taking matters into your own hands, you visited him in his research center and saw him typing like a madman on his laptop, with a few cans of energy drink on his desk.

He looked up the moment you stepped in, and you locked eyes briefly. "What are you doing here?"

"It's late and you haven't been home in three days, Lucien, " you said, pouting. When he explained that it shouldn't bother you by now since there had been times in the past that he hasn't gone home, you held up your hand to silence him and said, "We've got less than 24 hours to get pregnant. Are you up to the challenge or not?"

Your words sank in immediately, and you see his eyes flicker and turn dark. Downing his energy drink, he tossed the empty can aside and stalked you like a predator locking down his prey.

That evening, you did the deed in every possible surface in his office, and you were so loud, he knew he had to bribe the guard the next day not to spill the beans. After all, that night was an exception, you were never gonna fuck in his lab again.

A month later, you came to him straight from your doctor's appointment and showed him the ultrasound picture of your little bean. And on that very day, he made a mental note to bribe the guard again, because there was no way in hell he wasn't going to keep his hands off you.

Kiro

You were chilling out with Kiro at the studio just before his new album launched when you both started talking about the future. When you said you wanted to start a family early, the blond superstar was more than happy to comply. Too happy in fact, that he insisted you start trying right at that very instant - inside the soundproof studio, with an unlocked door separating you both from Savin and his staff.

Since Kiro had to go on his worldwide album tour, your plans had been put on hold. He was more disappointed than you were when you got your period the following month.

He wanted to start a family so badly, he went behind your back and spoke with Anna about the possibility of you taking a brief vacation to join him on the Japan leg of his tour. Having gotten the necessary approvals, he flies you to Tokyo and you arrive an hour before his concert.

Not having seen you in weeks, he corners you backstage and leads you to his dressing room. "I missed you, Miss Chips, " he said as he peppered you with kisses.

"I missed you too, " you replied.

"Is that all you have to say to me after not seeing you for weeks?"

You smiled at him and whispered, "I'm fertile." To which he responded smugly, "That's great… because I'm horny. But we gotta keep it quiet in here or they'll hear."

While his concert front act was performing and the audience were having fun banging their heads to the music, your twenty-two-year-old boyfriend was busy banging you against the wall.

He performed exceptionally well that night (in his concert and in private), and a month and a half later, he penned a new song dedicated to your baby.

Gavin

Gavin had just arrived at his place after a long day when he saw you pacing back and forth in his living room. When he asked you what was wrong, you fidget nervously and tell him that you had actually been thinking a lot about having a baby. Immediately, the Police Officer stared at you with his jaw hanging and it took him several minutes to process what you had just said. You were so scared he would reject your idea, but all that was going through his mind was the excitement of fucking you bare and how Minor would react if he gave him the boxes of condoms he kept in his apartment.

Gavin's missions kept him away most of the time. The two of you would have quickies in between missions, but of course, those weren't enough to get you pregnant. As you track your fertile window month over month, you start to see a correlation between your ovulation and depression especially when Gavin wasn't around during those days.

As expected, Gavin had been sent on a mission again, five days before your ovulation, and you once again get into a state of depression. You were down to your last twenty-four hours of being fertile, and your boyfriend was nowhere near you. Sighing, you tell yourself this was just not meant to be and that perhaps you should just break up. Lo and behold, your phone rings and you see Gavin's name on the screen.

"Hey, babe. You don't sound too good. Are you okay?" He would ask.

"No, I'm not, " you would respond and add, "You said you wanted to have a family with me but you're always away. For the past six months, you've been missing in action when my fertile window opens. Like today, for instance - today's my most fertile day, and you're not here. I don't think I can do this anymore. I want to break up -"

You were cut short by the sound of the glass in the window shattering. And there, inside your apartment, among the shards of glass, stood your boyfriend in full uniform. The sight made you lose your breath because he was so hot.

"Gavin -"

He walked towards you with a purpose and each step he took made your heart best faster and faster. "I'm sorry about the glass, I'll replace that later, " he said. "But right now, I need to convince you not to break up with me and I've got twenty-four hours to give you what you want."

A lamp, a few vases, and a couple of plates joined the shards of glass of the floor in the wake of your passionate reunion. A month later, he requested to take some time off duty to spoil you and what he hopes would be a little version of you, growing inside you.

(I hope these made sense... These were visuals I used to come up with each hc)

#anon asks #answered #mr love queen's choice #mr love queens choice fic #mr love headcanon #mr love lucien #mr love kiro #mr love gavin #mr love victor #mlqc headcannon #mlqc fic #mlqc kiro #mlqc gavin #mlqc victor #mlqc lucien

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loquaciousquark · 5 years

Text

Hey, all, I’m probably not going to be around much for a few months aside from queues & TM posts.

Work stress has taken over my life in a way it never has before. A very long story short, my closest coworker (both friend-wise and workload-wise) took another job that began at the end of April. While she knew from November she was going to take this job, she did not inform administration until the very final contractual required moment of 30 days out. This means there has been no chance for admin to be looking for long-term qualified candidates to replace her position, since to get hired on at the school even on a temporary faculty basis takes about six-eight weeks.

(She told me about this job in November, but made me promise at the time not to tell anyone because she was going to tell them soon. Then, as schedules were being planned out for this summer and her time was being allotted under the assumption she would be there, she deliberately said nothing and made me answer the emails so she wouldn’t be “lying.” I have known this hell has been coming for me for five months and haven’t been able to do anything about it because I gave her my word.)

In addition, while not her fault, three other administrative support employees and two other faculty members have left/will be leaving in less than a month as well. One employee’s family member died unexpectedly, one employee was grossly incompetent (although I can’t remember the last time we actually fired someone for that), and the other faculty members are leaving for really good jobs elsewhere. Just very unfortunate timing that means we are all spread excruciatingly thin for now.

This all comes at a time where I am actively beginning that Service Director position for the primary care clinic on top of everything else. This position, while I think a great fit for me, what else I teach in the school, and how I plan/organize/relate to the students, has come at a terrible time because it in and of itself is a massive amount of work, especially getting it off the ground. If I’m going to implement all these new policies and changes I’ve been dreaming of for years, I need to do it at the beginning of my tenure--to try and keep everything going the way it has been and change later once everything calms down would be infinitely more work at that time & have a bunch more pushback from both the students and the faculty I now lead as part of this clinic, many of which have decades of seniority on me.

I’m doing the work of two-and-a-half full-time faculty right now. I do still really love this job, but right now I can’t handle it.

I’m grinding my teeth at night and clenching my jaw during the day. My dentist suddenly wants me to get a bite plate when before a few months ago, I’d never ground my teeth in my life. I’m getting excruciating stress/tension headaches almost every other day from how tight every muscle of my face and neck is. I’ve gained over ten pounds in the last two months from eating like crap because anything that requires more than two steps of prep is mentally, physically, and emotionally impossible, which has the added effect of making me want to cry every time I look in a mirror and see my stomach so far away from my mental “normal,” because I was already seven pounds or so more than I wanted to be. I’m only getting three or four hours of sleep a night despite melatonin because my mind is just reciting checklist after checklist of things I need to do to keep all my sudden responsibilities on track.

I saw my psychiatrist today (which in and of itself was overwhelming--I thought until I was leaving for the appointment that today was my annual physical, and it wasn’t until I was checking the auto-filled address that I realized it was in the wrong building for that. Turns out I’d independently scheduled both the psych follow-up & the physical within a few days of each other, and I’d missed the text appointment reminders for the physical because the psych ones were more recent. I have never straight up no-showed an appointment in my life before this.)

I only had about thirty minutes with her, but part of the problem is that I haven’t taken my meds regularly in over a month because even such a little thing was too difficult. I’m going to try to start back on that, but...

I told her it doesn’t feel like I’m trying to keep plates spinning in the air. It feels like I have them all under control at the moment, they’re just excruciatingly heavy. The only way I’ve been handling this sudden pressure of doing basically two and a half jobs with no margin for error in any of them is being ruthlessly, relentlessly organized. Which is fine, except that I can feel how that changes my personality when I have to go so hard and regimented, and I hate how it feels to have both no margin and no grace.

I had a student the other day email me about a flight she booked for a Memorial Day vacation at 6pm on a Friday, not thinking about how clinic does not always end on the dot at 5pm. We (both students and faculty) are required to stay until the patient’s exam is complete. Sometimes that’s at five. Sometimes that’s at 6:30. On rare occasions I’ve stayed until 9pm in clinical care because that’s what was needed at the time for that patient.

She wanted to get out of clinic with an excused absence. We require three weeks’ minimum notice because when a student leaves without coverage, we have to reschedule all the patients they were meant to see. Her schedule was fully booked, and I had to say no, because right now I have nothing left to try to find an alternative for her. I hate saying no to students, especially when it’s something I truly could help them solve with some investment on my part, but right now--I’m sorry, but I can’t. Why on earth did you schedule a flight for 6pm on a day you have clinic until 5, especially when the airport is a 20-minute drive from the school even without traffic? I can’t fix this for you, not right now. You have to show up to clinic or find your own coverage. I don’t care how you do it, but someone has to be there, and I don’t have anything left in me to help you figure out how to do it.

My mom listens to a guy who sometimes talks about how you have to have a margin in your life to manage your stress. A margin in your work helps you enjoy your leisure time; if you don’t have that margin, even scheduled play feels stressful because you have work playing through your head the whole time.

I’m out of margin. I’m ten feet over the line in every direction I’m so out of margin, and I am constantly being asked by students and other faculty, “How are you doing now that the person who you shared 90% of your work life with is gone? Who’s going to help take over [year-long highly-intensive Methods course] now that Dr. So-and-So is gone? Who’s going to help you teach it since we all know what a gigantic course it is and how it’s always required two people to run full-time, and now you’re down to one who’s also taken on a bunch of other responsibilities at the exact same time?”

and they’re laughing when they say it. and i’m laughing when i tell them the truth, which is “no one.” and we all laugh together and inside my head i am ripping apart under the pressure.

Even if they hire someone by August, it’s not going to mean any relief until September due to onboarding, and even then it won’t be what I really need. This woman I worked with and I had both taught this course together for years, and before that we’d both taken it as students. We knew how it ran inside and out. We knew what the responsibilities were. We had the workload divided evenly and didn’t have to consult over every decision that was made--it just got done. Even if they do hire someone at lightning speed, I still have to train them. I have to show them where the group drive is on the faculty intranet. I have to teach them how it’s organized. I have to show them how to upload quizzes and how to grade them and how to edit the Excel practical documents and the timeframe we expect the grades back and why our grading standards are the way they are and what to say to guest graders and guest lab instructors and show them where the file folders are kept and where the .docx’s are kept and the way things are sorted and how the tests are written and how to extensively edit a PDF file and give them the contact information for faculty IT support (which still ends up being me half the time) and the manual printer and the woman who orders office supplies and the woman who orders clinical equipment and the man who orders building maintenance supplies and when you go to one and not the other and how electronic testing works and how to grade it and how to upload a document with all the specific little requirements the program wants to make sure it imports correctly and how to deal with the errors this program will inevitably throw back because it’s niche software for a niche school and that means it’ll never be user friendly.

It took me almost two years to really feel comfortable being co-coursemaster for this course because it is so unbelievably massive. Even if they hire someone by August, I still won’t have a full-time coursemaster pulling their weight until 2021.

The other metaphor I used with my psychiatrist is that I’m holding on to a cliff’s edge with my fingertips. Right now, I’ve got a pretty decent grip, but that doesn’t change the fact that if you put another pound on my back it might pull me right off the rock.

I don’t see practical relief coming any time soon. “What can we do to help? We want you to know you are very supported right now. You let us know what you need.” What can you do? Hire someone tomorrow who already knows how our computer system works, who can troubleshoot their own IT, who can look at a list of tasks that need to happen to get this Methods course fully ready every single semester of every single year and do them without any handholding from me. Hire someone with as much attention to detail as I’ve had to have because it’s the right way to do the damn job. Hire someone I won’t have to clean up after because to them “the cart in the closet” is the same thing as “the specific place on the labeled closet shelf where the equipment belongs.”

I’m clenching my teeth so hard they’re hurting, so I guess I have to stop. If you see me in-game somewhere, believe me, it’s not because I’ve caught up. It’s because I haven’t and I can’t bear thinking about how much I still have to do.

#quark rambles #optometry /#kindly refrain from reblogging

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rewrite-the-wrongs · 4 years

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introductions / howdy, pardner

My first short story was about a fishboy and his human best friend. They battled a mutant piranha (whose name I think may have been Mutant Piranha, such was the monumental daring of my creative endeavor) and his army, who were out to destroy a mountain that held a whole planet together. The boys won singlehandedly, because scale was apparently a bit of a mystery to me.

This was the second grade. My teacher--who held me every day as I cried for weeks, confused and miserable and stranded in the throes of my parents’ divorce--understood before I did that I create to a ploddingly slow and steady drumbeat. A sentence is always so much more in my head than I’m able to let out, at first; I have to pore over it again and again, fleshing and flourishing (and often correcting) it, the same way I often have to reread paragraphs or pages or whole books to truly capture their meaning. In a word processor, this back-and-forth is as easily said as it is done; on double-wide ruled paper with dashed-line handwriting guides, the task is magnitudes more time-consuming, especially for somebody as messy as I am. So, while nearly everybody else played at recess on the sandlot and the jungle gym around us, a select few stragglers laid our reading folders on our laps and finished our stories.

My villain, that dastardly Mutant Piranha, found himself in prison at the story’s close. Awaiting trial, I guess; I never ventured that far ahead, seeing the big fishy bastard for a coward. “When no one was looking, he stabbed himself.” That’s the last line, stuck in my memory, not for its own sake, but for my poor teacher’s horrified face as she read my final draft there on the playground.

A mom volunteered to type up the class’ stories and get them printed and bound. For years afterward I reread that collection, always proud to have written the second-longest piece therein. I felt the weight of the pages, inhaled the tiny but acrid breeze that came from rapidly leafing through them. Knew it was a whole smattering of worlds inside, that one of those worlds was wholly mine, and I had the power to show it to people however I wished. Yes, I thought, I want this.

I’ve been introduced to writing many times over, by many people. Don’t get me wrong--I nightowled the first several chapters to many half-baked novel concepts all through my youth. But teachers have a way of showing a thing to you from new angles.

The first person to impact me as such was a high school teacher who was essentially given carte-blanche to construct a creative writing workshop in the English curriculum. The first semester was structured--you practiced poems, short fiction, humor and essay writing, drama, the gamut. Every semester after, the carte-blanche was passed on: A single assignment due a week, each a single draft of a poem or a minimum of two pages’ worth of prose. Forty-five minutes a day to work, and of course free time at home. By the time I graduated, I’d finagled my schedule such that I was spending two periods a day in the computer lab, and several hours after school every day working the literary arts magazine before I went home to get the rest of my homework out of the way and write some more..

My next big influence came in the form of a pair of writers who taught fiction at my university, a married couple. One had me print stories and literally, physically cut them up section-by-section as a method of reworking chronologies. Told me stories happened like engines or clocks or programs--pieces that meshed differently depending on how they were put together, rules that held each other in place. The other showed boundless confidence in me, listened happily to some older students who recommended I be brought on board for a national arts mag. They both encouraged me toward grad school, but toward the end of my junior year I began to stumble, and by senior year I was, to be frank, a drunken asshole. Time I could be bothered to set aside for writing began to dwindle. I limped through the editorship with the help of my extremely talented, utterly more-than-worthy successor--and come to think of it, I’ve never truly thanked her. Maybe I’ll send her that message, now that I’m feeling more myself.

On feeling more myself:

That drunken rage was brought on by a myriad list of factors, the primary ones being 1) I am the child of recovering alcoholics, and our inherited family trauma runs deep, 2) An assault that will likely be mentioned no further from hereon in, as I have reached a solid level of catharsis about it, 3) Some toxic-ass relationship issues, and 4) I was a massive egg and had no idea (or, really, I had some idea, just not the language or understanding or even the proper empathy to eloquently and effectively explore it).

I had a recent relapse with drinking, technically--a mimosa at Christmas breakfast at my partner’s parents’ home--but I’m not honestly sure I can call it a legitimate relapse. I’m not in any official self-help group, I’ve never engaged in the twelve steps or a professional rehabilitation. I had a very wonderful therapist for a few years but reached a point at which I could not pay her any longer and we parted ways--I miss her dearly, as she truly became my friend and confidante; she was the first person I came out to, and very well-equipped to handle it, lucky for me--but I’m still on behavioral medication. That tiny smidgen of alcohol pushed my antidepressants right out of my brain, and I became terribly anxious and angry and sad all at once, and briefly lashed out during a conversation with my partner behind closed doors. Not nearly the lashing out I’ve released in the now-distant past--more on that maybe-never, but who knows, as I am obviously a chronic over-sharer.

Frankly, I don’t deserve my partner. She endured my past abuses, told me to my face I had to be better, and found it in herself to wait for me to grow. She’s endlessly and tirelessly supportive of me. She sat with me to help me maintain the nerve to start this blog tonight. I came out to her as a trans woman just under a year ago, now, and I’m happier than ever, and we communicate better than ever. Our relationship is, bar-none, the healthiest and stablest and happiest I’ve ever been in.

So, naturally, I apologized fairly quickly at Christmas, and continuing where I’d left off at two and a half years, decided I’m still solid without booze.

If we’re all being honest, though (and I’m doing my best to be one hundred percent honest, here, though I will absolutely be censoring names because no shit), I still smoke way too much fuckin’ weed. High as balls, right now. 420 blaze it, all day erryday, bruh. That self-medicated ADHD life. I should be on Adderall and not antidepressants, probably, but it’s been a while since an appointment and psychiatrists are expensive, so I’m at where I’m at for now. Sativas help a lot. It helps with the dysphoria, too.

I don’t have a legal diagnosis for gender dysphoria, but tell that to my extreme urge to both be in and have a vagina. I’m making little changes--my hair, an outfit at a time, no longer policing how I walk or run or how much emphasis I put on S sounds. If I manage to come out to my parents sometime soon--and it feels like that moment is closer every day--maybe I’ll tell y’all my real, full chosen name. For right now, call me Easy.

Anyhow. My goals here are pretty simple:

1) Share words, both those by people I like/admire/sometimes know! and occasionally words I’ve made that I like. See the above screenshot from my notes app. Steal some words if you want, but if you manage to make money off some of mine, holler at ya gurl’s Venmo, yeah?

2) Discuss words, how they work, and how we create them, use them, engage with them, and ultimately make art of them. I am not a professional linguist, but I went to undergrad for creative writing, so, hey, I’ll have opinions and do my best to back them up with ideas from people smarter than I am.

3) Books! Read them, revisit them, quote them, talk about them, sometimes maybe even review them, if I’m feeling particularly bold. No writer can exist in a vacuum, and any writer who insists they don’t like to read is either a) dyslexic and prefers audiobooks or b) in serious need of switching to a communications major (no shade, but also definitely a little shade @corporate journalism).

5) I added this last, but I feel it’s less important than 4 and does not deserve bookend status, and I am verbose but incredibly lazy, so here I am, fucking with the system. Anyway: Art! Music! Video games! I fucking love them. I’ll talk about them, sometimes, too. Maybe I’ll finally do some of the ekphrastic work I’ve felt rattling around in my brain for a while now. Jade Cocoon 2′s Water Wormhole Forest, looking right the fuck at you.

6) Ah, shit, I did it again. Oh well. Last-but-not-last: This is obviously, in some ways, a diary, or a massive personal essay. I will sometimes discuss people, places, or experiences that have informed my work just the same as other people’s art has.

4) Be an unabashed and open Trans woman. TERFs, transphobes, ill-informed biological essentialists not permitted. Come at me and my girldick and prepare to be dunked on and subsequently shown the door via a swift and painful steel-toed kick in the ass. Everybody who doesn’t suck, if I screw up on any matter of socio-ethics or respect for diversity, please feel free to correct me.

Punk’s dead, but we’re a generation of motherfucking necromancers. Be gay, do crime, fight the patriarchy, and fart when you gotta. May the Great Old Ones select you to ascend to a higher plane and learn the terrible truths of existence.

Much love--

Easy

#writers #writing #creative writing #trans #trans woman #fuck TERFs #writing about writing #writer #my writing #diary

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we-will-all-be-stories · 5 years

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weli have like three followers and like i dont actually expect anyone to see this i just want to rant and since i dont really have many friends i dont realy know who to tell.

my mothers really pissing me off for reasons that honestly i shouldnt have to be dealing with.

a few weeks ago my parents finally took me to a real psychiatrist, after 2 years of therapy and month in a mental hospital. it was set to be a three hour appointment for an official evaluation and diagnosis of my anxiety and depression and whatever the fuck else is wrong with me (which i dont understand since ive already been diagnosed by two prior therapists, the ER psych ward psychiatrist, and my psychiatrist at the mental hospital i was at, i dont see the need for anouther diagnosis of the same issues). okay, cool, whatever, obviously i’m panicking, not from the actual topic but just talking to someone in general (also my parents never leave the room b/c they think that i’ll just sit there and go non verbal, or as they believe, choose not to talk despite the fact that i have s.a.d. and was selectively mute growing up - i have non verbal episodes, it happens). well, essentially, i actually have no clue what happened in the room b/c after five minutes, the psychiatrist decided that i wasnt useful and i was too anxious to be productive and was sent out of the room. i sat in the waiting room for two hours continuosly calling and texting my mom to let me back on the room while i had a panic attack in the waiting room and slowly fell into a sensory overload from all the noises because the office is in a child pediatrics building and children are fucking loud. after two hours i’m left back into the room where the doctor tells me my diagnosis, my parents pay, and we leave.

i wasnt even present for my own evaluation. i get that he’s trained, but my parents no shit about how i feel, theres no way they can tell him. and furthermore, yeah, i’m anxious, but thats not the only thing i live with, yet its the only thing anyone will offer me help for.

im used to being sent out of rooms. people dont have enough pacience and ust assume i can control this. i was sent out of the room during my 504 accomadation meeting at school too, you know, the “you’re child tried to kill themself, heres an extra day for classwork hope it helps” meeting.

but heres the problem now. i have sensory issues to the point that putting on a pair of socks sends me into a panic b.c of the seams - a “bad touch” makes me break down crying - a flickering light burns my eyes - someone coughing feels like someone sceaming in my ear drums. and no matter what i tell my parentsm they dont understand how bad it is.

apparently they mentioned it to the doctor, whose response was to get me an asd evaluation. okay, sure. its not like my old therapist hadnt been telling my mom to get my evaluated for asd and sesory proccessing dosorder, its not like my father works with psychiatrists who work with autistic kids everyday who has been telling my dad to get me evaluated.

so finally my mom emailed my school counsler about the evaluation. she said that the school doesnt have the resources to do so.

okay

i went to my moms office to print out my essay, and she had her email open to my section. (she organizes her email by topic, she has a group of emails under my name). im a bitch and decided to look at the emails. she emailed my school saying that she is “sure i dont have autsim” but that my doctor is making her ask about an evauation.

the school wrote back saying that refuse to test me because that would require an iep rather than just a 504. the school psychiatrist essentially refuses to test students “simply for a diagnosis” and that my education and grades must be severely impacted by my issues. listen, no one gets a psych evaluation simply for a diagnosis. you literally cannot get the help you need w/out a diagnosis. mental health affects you in all aspects of your life, not just school. so many students cannot go to therapists or psychiatrists and rely on school resources. furthermore, my education is impacted by my issues - how can i get work done when the loud classroom make me want to scream? but the school and my parents dont know this, yet refuse to let me advocate for myself.

no one wants to have a certain diagnosis, you need it to get help. my psychiatrist has said he is 99% i have asd, however he cannot give me a diagnosis, and my school refuses to test me because i’m “too good a student” and i’m slowly dying.

also im not a good student. i have an e in math, a d in government, i failed engineering bc the class was so god damn loud and anxiety creating. my education is impaacted.

when it comes down to it, to be honest, so much of this has to do with the stigma regarding mental health in general, and especially regarding autism. people are so scared to have an autsitic kid - i’m 15 years old, if you can love me w/out the diagnosis, you can love me with it. i’m the same kid. My mother grew up with an autistic brother yet she still wouldnt want an autistic child. schools assume that an autistic student cant be functioning without special classes and a helper and a bunch of accomadations - some people need that, others don’t. it doesnt matter b/c everyone is entitled to the resources neccessary to thrive, and everyine should be treated fairly.

im a kid who grew up non verbal, ive had social skills drilled into my head by therapists bc i apparently “didnt have them”. up until this year i had good grades, i flew under the radar and suffered, and when i finally reach out for help, everyone is refusing it because they think i’ve already gotten enough.

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defenselesswriter · 6 years

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The Wrong Side of Reality Chapter 21

here’s chapter one with links to every other chapter. can find on ao3 here. if you want writing and chapter updates follow the tag #the wrong side of realityon my blog. thanks

Stiles didn’t quite expect things to change so quickly, but there is one thing that definitely changed. Everyone in the pack touches him more. It’s a hand on his shoulder, a couple seconds longer of a hug, and a head on his shoulder when he’s sitting on the couch. It’s all very comforting and platonic.

Except Derek. Derek’s touching is definitely not platonic, and he touches Stiles a lot more than anyone else. He kisses Stiles more and leaves his hand on Stiles’ neck for a few minutes at a time. Derek nuzzles into his neck, too. It’s... difficult for Stiles. Not that he doesn’t love it because he most certainly does, but it’s hard to, um, stay... focused around Derek now. And knowing that everyone can smell if he’s turned on by Derek? That doesn’t help anything.

Fortunately, Derek is still a little distant at school as in they don’t do a lot of PDA. As soon as they’re back at either of their houses, though, it’s fair game. Especially if there are no parents around.

“God,” Stiles groans as Derek comes up behind him and lightly scrapes his teeth over Stiles’ neck. “I gotta focus on this essay, Der.”

“But you smell like other people,” Derek mumbles in his neck. “I don’t like it.”

Despite what Stiles just said, he still leans his head back up against Derek’s chest and lets him kiss and nibble and nuzzle his neck. Mainly because it feels so good. He didn’t know his neck would be that sensitive, yet here he is.

After a few minutes, Derek pulls back and goes to sit on Stiles’ bed. “You smell better now,” he says.

“Oh good,” Stiles responds, sounding a little breathless, but he’s ignoring that. “Now can I work on my math homework?”

“Sure,” Derek says.

“How nice of you,” Stile mumbles, staring down at his notebook and trying to get his breathing back to normal.

“When is your appointment with the psychiatrist?” Derek asks.

Stiles thumps his head on his desk partly because Derek distracted him again, and partly because he doesn’t want to talk about this. “Thursday,” he answers quietly.

Derek hums, but doesn’t actually respond, so Stiles goes back to his homework that’s due tomorrow, so he really needs to focus.

Except there’s the fact that Derek is on his bed. Just sitting on his bed, watching him, and Stiles knows how good it would feel if he just sat in Derek’s lap and kissed him. It would be much better than homework that’s for sure. It’s hard to think about equations and solving them when Derek is right there.

“I need a reward system,” Stiles sighs. He spins in his chair to look at Derek. “If I finish this within an hour, can I give you a blowjob?”

Derek’s eyebrows raise in shock, but he nods. “Y-y-yeah, that’s cool with me.”

“Cool. Now be quiet for the next hour and stop being distracting.”

“How am I supposed to do that?” Derek asks.

Stiles shrugs. “Not my problem right now. You figure it out.”

Derek stands up and walks out of the room, and that works pretty well actually. Stiles finishes his homework in forty-five minutes and immediately calls for Derek to come back up once he’s done.

**************

“You’re having trouble focusing?” the psychiatrist, Dr. Morrell asks. “Is that correct?”

Stiles nods. “But it’s not just that. I keep forgetting things like the word for an object or to go to the store or to even brush my teeth. It’s getting really hard to find where I set things even when I’ve set them in the same places for years.”

“You value your routine?” she asks, tilting her head slightly, her long, dark hair falling over one shoulder.

“I guess?” Stiles says, scratching the back of his neck. He sighs in frustration. “I feel like I have no control over my brain anymore.”

“Is control something you must have?” she asks.

He’s getting real tired of her asking so many questions, but he answers them because he wants to get to the bottom of this. His primary doctor suggested a psychiatrist since the CT came back clear.

“It’s not something I need really. It’s more of something that I’d like because I feel like I have zero self control.”

She nods and writes something down on the clipboard on her lap. She tucks her hair behind her ears and then looks back up to Stiles. “How long have you been experiencing this?” she asks.

Stiles thinks about it for a moment. “It’s become a bigger problem lately, but thinking about it, it’s been years. I can’t remember a time that I’ve had self control.”

“Okay,” she says, writing something else down. “Do you blurt a lot in class?”

It’s a very specific question, but Stiles answers honestly. “Yeah.”

“Do you have a hard time being patient?” she asks. “For example, is it hard to wait your turn in lines?”

He shrugs. “I just end up fidgeting a lot and checking my phone every five seconds.”

“What were you like in a classroom as a kid?” she asks.

“These are really specific questions,” he points out. “Do you have a diagnosis in mind?”

She smiles softly. “You’re very observant. I have a theory, but I’d like to continue to get more information from you before I confirm or deny it.”

And well, that’s fair. “I was a troublemaker honestly. I still am actually. It’s hard to sit still for that long and listen. I’ve gotten to the point where I doodle in my notebook or take really extensive, color coordinated notes. That helps me focus.”

“Can you go into more detail please?”

He sighs, leaning back in the chair as he stares at the blue covers over the lights that make it seem a little more calming in the office. “I always got in trouble for interrupting,” he finally says. “As I said before. I blurt out the answers. I fidget too much. I have to get up and move around, and that got me in more trouble. Eventually, I learned that if I just ask to go to the bathroom even if I don’t have to go, that helps. Walking around the halls for a couple minutes helps.”

As he talks, Dr. Morrell writes on her clipboard. When he’s done, she looks up thoughtfully. “How do you do socially?” she asks.

“Socially?” Stiles repeats. “Uh, like I have a boyfriend and a best friend and a few good friends, but I don’t do much socializing outside of that.”

“Why not?” she asks.

“I feel like I’m really annoying to talk to. I go on tangents a lot like the other day I was talking to my best friend, Scott, and we were discussing lacrosse strategies and I somehow ended up on the topic of male circumcision. I’m not sure how.”

She nods and taps her pen on her clipboard once. “You seem very controlled right now,” she comments. “You do not feel comfortable, do you?”

He shrugs. “It’s not like you’re doing anything to make me uncomfortable. I’m just not good in new settings.”

She hums and looks to the side for a moment as she thinks. “I’d like to go down another line of questioning if that’s okay with you.”

“Sure, go ahead.” Might as well get his money’s worth by using the full hour given.

“When you say you can’t sit still, what is going through your head during those times?”

He looks down and notices his knee bouncing. “Uh, nothing. It’s just so automatic.” He looks back up at her, and Dr. Morrell is staring intently at him.

“What does fidgeting help you accomplish?” she asks.

He shrugs. “I just feel like something is buzzing under my skin and the only way to make it stop is to move, do something, anything.”

“When talking to people you’re not comfortable with, how do you feel?”

Stiles takes stock of how he’s feeling right now. “My heart...it’s faster and I feel like my hands are sweaty.” He shakes his head, trying to get his thoughts to line up. “There’s this fear that I’m going to say the wrong thing. I can feel it in my stomach almost like I’m gonna throw up.”

“How well do you sleep?” she asks.

He snorts. “I get maybe five hours if I’m lucky a night. There’s just so much swimming through my head. I can’t get it to shut up enough to fall asleep.”

“Would you say that you get anxiety often?”

“Anxiety?” Stiles asks, raising his eyebrows. “Uh, I don’t know. How do I know if I’m feeling anxious?”

“The sweaty hands, the fear of saying the wrong thing, and the thoughts swimming. How often does that happen?”

He chews on his bottom lip as he thinks of the answer. “Every day probably. It’s worse in public like at school or in a store.”

She nods and goes back to writing. She writes for long enough that Stiles starts to fidget again.

“What is your theory?” he asks. “Anxiety?”

Dr. Morrell looks back up and smiles softly, nodding once. “I was also thinking possibly ADHD. Our session is almost up, but I’d really like to see you again to get a deeper understanding before I treat you for anything. Will that be okay with you?”

“If you treat me for these things and they don’t get better, what then?” he asks.

“Then we talk more to see if I missed something. But if I do treat you and it gets better then I’m right.” She spins in her chair and gets onto her computer. “I’m going to print out some articles about anxiety and ADHD for you. Feel free to do your own research about it. We can talk about it next time.”

“Oh, great. Homework.”

She laughs once, still staring at the screen. “This isn’t for a grade. I won’t be mad or disappointed if you come to the next session and haven’t done any research. It’s okay if you don’t. Just a suggestion.”

He nods and taps his fingers on the arm on the chair until her printer is done. She grabs the papers and hands them to him before walking him to the front desk where he makes another appointment for the next week.

“Have a good day,” she says with a smile before walking away.

Stiles grips the articles she gave him the whole way to his car. He didn’t notice his hands were shaking until the papers started making noise. Once he’s in his car, he takes a deep breath to calm himself then drives straight to the Hale house.

#sterek #eternalsterek #eternal sterek #hs au #high school au #the wrong side of reality #chapter twenty one #mandi writes fanfic #i know this chapter sucks okay #i'm sorry

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stimtoybox · 7 years

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What exactly does stim and stimming mean?

I’m going to assume that you want a community-authored answer that goes beyond that offered by a Google search for the word “stimming”, since my first result is a reasonably decent, if extremely minimal, 101 explanation.

“Stim”, as an adjective modifying nouns like “toys” or “tools” or “things” or a verb as in “I stim”, is just the linguistic offshoot from “stimming”. (“Stimmy” is also a common colloquial adjective often used to emphasise the quality or degree to which something works as a tool for stimming.) It’s language of the community, in the sense that you’re more likely to find these words adopted and used in non-medical, ND-community spaces by autistics and people with ADHD, anxiety or many other diagnoses/labels under the neurodiversity umbrella.

A general definition is that stimming is a way of using some form of sensory input to self-regulate and aid functioning or survival.

I’d argue that all people stim to some degree, and most people know it better as fidgeting, but it occurs to an extent that is pathologised by the medical profession (to the extent of being part of diagnostic criteria or commonly associated with that diagnosis) in people who have a greater need for that self-regulation–usually people with mental illnesses, developmental disabilities or other neurodiverse diagnoses or disabilities. It’s very often repetitive input, and often used for long periods of time. (Speaking as an autistic, I find repetitive movements very soothing; it also mirrors my tendency to use repetition in language as communication.) While it can be the main or dominant activity on its own, it’s often done in combination with another activity (squishing playdough while watching TV, for example, or using a Fidget Cube on the train).

By this I mean: someone who doodles on a notepad while talking on the phone is not very different to someone who chews on a chew pendant while sitting in class or twisting a Tangle in a psychiatric appointment, to the extent that I don’t see much logic in trying to separate these things.

However, doodling on a notepad while talking on the phone is generally categorised as an acceptable behaviour, while my using a Tangle to survive talking to my psychiatrist is categorised as an abnormal behaviour, one indicative of disorder or disability. Someone who is not somewhere under the broad umbrella of neurodiversity or disability can generally keep their stimming to forms, times and ways that are accepted by mainstream society; those of us who are under that umbrella either cannot do this or have been forced into suppressing our natural need to stim in order to try and make our behaviour socially acceptable (something that makes it harder for us to function). Many of us have endured often traumatising experiences when others try to make us stop our natural stimming, either physically or mentally–I’ve been grabbed and held still by my parents so I can’t rock from side to side while talking, as one example. The self-regulation that helps me be more comfortable while doing the uncomfortable thing of verbal communication has resulted in people physically denying me both the right to move freely and the right to consent to being touched.

The behaviours aren’t that different, but one is deemed normal if performed in the limited, socially-appropriate ways; the other, not performed in those ways, is pathologised by the medical profession and can result in verbal, emotional and physical abuse by people trying to force us to behave like NTs/allistics.

“Self-regulation” can mean a lot of different things, depending on the needs of the stimmer. Some stimmers stim to direct an excess of energy. Some stimmers stim because a pleasant sensory sensation helps distract us from a world full of intolerable sensory or emotional sensations and/or experiences. Some stimmers stim because holding still is equivalent to a form of torture, yet modern Western society expects children and adults to attain a certain level of stillness in many activities. Some stimmers stim because it aids in concentration or focus. Some stimmers stim just because the stim feels good. Some stimmers stim and can’t quite put words to why they do it. Some of us flat-out need it, and some of us can (or have been forced to learn how to) live without it but find it helpful when used.

Stimming itself is quite an individual thing, to the extent that the cause, result and experience differ between stimmers. It can be input delivered by movement, weight/pressure, touch/texture, smell, sight, taste, sound, or various combinations of some or all those things. I stim, generally, because I need to move and because I often need a distraction from sensory and emotional things I cannot otherwise easily survive; it helps relax me, it helps direct some of this energy, it helps distract me, and it helps me feel a little more comfortable. I like touch/texture stims that offer movement, so I tend toward toys like Tangle Jrs, squishies, spinners and marble mazes. I also like music with good beat and rhythm that invites movement, which is why I listen to a lot of European melodic metal. Every stimmer will have their own likes and dislikes–I don’t like pressure save in very specific circumstances, and flickering visual and light-up toys are dangerous for me.

“Stims” as a reference to the things we do can mean anything that’s stimmy (offering stimulation): rocking from side to side, flapping hands, twisting a Tangle, listening to the same song on repeat for five hours, watching a sand-cutting video. They’re often roughly categorised into “visual stims”, “bodily stims” and “toys”, but there’s massive overlap between these categories.

There are some stims, often stims we’ve picked up through not having free access to toys or stimming, that are less healthy in the sense that they can cause harm to ourselves or others. This can be anything from skin picking to hair pulling to banging a body part against a wall/desk to throwing items. Some of us find sharper sensations, like pain, to be quite stimmy. (I’ve spent years picking at my cuticles just for the pain of pulling at them; it’s a sensation I really like.) I don’t want to call any stim bad, since the reason for doing that stim isn’t a bad one, and developing less-healthy stims in a world where we often can’t stim easily is not our fault. (For example, picking at my cuticles is far more a socially acceptable stim than is rocking, because it’s less obvious, even though rocking causes me no harm and picking absolutely does.) Many of us work on finding replacement or redirection stims, which can be incredibly difficult if you can’t find a safer stim that offers the same sensation. Conversely, many of us also have behaviours that aren’t exactly stims but we also seek to redirect with a toy.

Stimming, in ND spaces (especially autistic spaces), is also an increasing part of our culture and communication. Stimming can often be an expression or language (happy flapping is the most well-known concept of this) but it’s also become something quite specific to who we are and how we interact with the world.

In short: stimming is a form of providing sensory input for a variety of reasons that help us (most often disabled people) better experience or survive either our disabilities or the pressures a world not designed for us. Stim toys are one way (but a fun and awesome way, I think most will agree) of providing that input, and they’re what we talk about on this blog.

Does this help?

- Mod K.A.

#ask #text #not a toy #off topic #mod chatter #discussion post #stimming discussion #neurodiversity discussion #mod K.A.#submission #europeanonmyshoezs0nblog #long post #very long post #actuallyautistic #BFRB discussion #self injurious behaviour discussion #ableism discussion

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samtheflamingomain · 7 years

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SAD and other awful things

We’ve all heard of SAD, Seasonal Adjustment Disorder. Many people have this affliction separate from any other mental illness, but many more, those with depression, anxiety, bipolar, etc. experience the added baggage of SAD. I’m one of those souls.

This is going to be a long, pointless, personal ramble, so feel free to ignore me here.

Anyway, the last month or so has been weird for me. Actually, I need to go back to September.

I started saving up for my boyfriend coming to visit, knowing I’d lose a week of work at the end of October. So I worked nearly double what I would’ve liked, saved, and went on a nice trip.

Then, as soon as I was supposed to go back to work, I got a horrible case of strep throat. That put me out of commission for another solid week.

I worked the Sunday, so that fell into the pay period, and I got a paycheck of 50$.

The next week, one of my coworkers was having and recovering from preventative surgery (she’s fine). She works a lot, so I had to take a lot more hours than I would’ve liked to cover her. In fact, I broke my record at 35 hours. I worked 6 days that week.

Then, the clocks went back. Though I have a normal amount of hours this week, with the time change and the temperature drop, and still recovering from the entirety of the last two months, I’m stressed as all hell. When I leave work at 4pm, it’s dark out, and it feels like 10pm, and I want to sleep immediately. When I start at 4, it feels like the day is already over because, again, it’s fucking dark.

There’s a few more factors that have been fucking me up lately. I have my top surgery appointment with CAMH next week, I have very little money and will get very, VERY little money from ODSP at the end of the month because I made so much money in October. (They deduct half of what you made.) This is very inconvenient because I missed a paycheck this month already. I’ll be fine come next Friday, but when my ODSP comes in, I might be strapped.

And finally, the icing on this shit-glazed cake: my sleeping pills do nothing anymore.

I’ve been on industrial-strength tranquilizing sleeping pills for about four years now. I have somatic fatigue (like Chronic Fatigue Syndrome but related to my mental illness) and so I’m in a state of constant fatigue all day every day. This makes it hard for my brain to realize that midnight is sleeping time.

So lately, when I’m not drinking myself to sleep, I’ll lie awake for upwards of five hours before falling asleep - if I even do. Two nights the past two weeks, I stayed awake all night unable to sleep, just thinking and generally feeling awake (as much as I can given my fatigue levels).

My psychiatrist has nothing for me. He can’t increase the dose any higher or give me a new pill because they’re all in the same class. Imagine you start drinking vodka and initially two shots makes you drunk. If you drink every day, however, soon it will take 10 or 20 to make you feel buzzed at all. But switching alcohols won’t fix the tolerance you’ve built. Same with sleeping pills; it’s like switching from vodka to gin.

I’ve never slept well. I can sleep for a long time and I don’t wake up in the night, but for 90% of my life, I’ve lied awake for at least a few hours before managing to sleep. Sleeping pills fixed that for a long time. They make you stop thinking.

So now I’m at the point where I can’t stop thinking and there’s nothing I can do about it.

This is really fucking me up, especially because of work. I didn’t sleep at all Wednesday night, had to work at 10am the next day, and then passed out at 9pm and slept through my alarm, waking up five minutes before work.

I’m going to request that I be put back on night shifts because I simply can’t keep working all morning and afternoon without sleep. My manager is kind of an idiot who doesn’t listen to the needs of her workers, so it might take a while for her to get it that I’m just not reliable enough to work mornings.

I’ve been prescribed a new antidepressant, my first tricyclic, so I’m hopeful that that will help. Also, fewer work hours and (hopefully) getting approved for surgery on Tuesday.

I’ve been desperately hanging on for seven months - CAMH wants me to prove I can be “stable enough” for them to give me the green light for surgery. That means no rehab, no hospital, and no homelessness. I’ve fit that bill since April, but I can’t fit it forever.

Once I’m approved, they can’t take it back, though. So as soon as the appointment is made with the surgeon, I’m going to rehab. I know I’ve said this a thousand times, but I mean it, and I always have. It’s just never been a good time, especially considering I don’t want to fuck up my chance for surgery.

But between all the things I bitched about above, I know I need it. The cravings are getting worse as the sky gets darker and the wind gets colder. I tried to stop with the help of my therapist, but it’s been 9 months that I’ve been an alcoholic, and we’ve run out of ideas.

Again, I just need to make it till Tuesday, get approved, then I can fall apart. But till then, I’ve been coasting along, desperately holding onto this appointment as a deterrent to being admitted. I know I need it, but I need surgery more. And I can’t wait another six months for approval like I’ve been doing for the last six years.

If I don’t get approved, I don’t know what I’ll do. It’s a slim chance, but it’s happened eight times now already. But this time, despite everything, I know I’m more stable, and hopefully, stable enough for CAMH.

This concludes this personal bitchfest that nobody cares about. Just needed to get it all on paper for my own sanity, I suppose.

Stay Greater, Flamingos.

#sam #top surgery #sad #depression #dst #rehab #sleep #alcoholism #mental illness

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princesscas · 7 years

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Okay so if you don’t know already, I love Doctor!Cas in destiel fics SO MUCH. Like I don’t even need to read the fic if it has doctor!cas in it, i’m already there XD.

So here’s a list of the best/my favorite destiel fics with Doctor!Cas in them. I’ll update this from time to time when I find more fics :) (I track the doctor!cas tag on ao3 lol) All of these are AU and complete!

Tagging: @deanscolette, @lostboycas, @seraphmisha, @rebmathegisher <3

❤ = my fav’s | If you come across this ficrec later on and find a dead link, just ask for a download link bc I have em all saved!

* = New fic recently added!

❤ Ignore the Butterflies: Best Friend Advice from Dean Winchester - Words: 114,980 - “Dean likes his doctor, but his doctor doesn’t like him.Accidental friendship ensues, heartwarming bonding type moments occur, and oops!friends become best!friends.But best friends aren’t supposed to feel the way Dean feels about Castiel. He knows this. So he ignores all the things that he can’t help feeling. When he sits and watches a movie with his best friend or when they are arguing about which method of coffee brewing is best, he pointedly doesn’t look at his friends lips, or the adorable way he tilts his head when he doesn’t understand.Dean ignores his feelings.That’s the way he knows how to keep his best friend.Just ignore the butterflies.”

We Are Such Stuff - Words: 62,017 - “Dean and Sam are apparently captured by a djinn, but, while their mutual fantasy world gives Sam the life he'd always wanted, Dean finds himself in a world fueled by desires he'd yet to let himself admit. Faced with his unspoken feelings for Castiel, Dean may be unable to resist temptation.”

❤ Good Things Do Happen – Dr. Sexy Edition - Words: 110,526 - “Dean has hit rock-bottom when he wakes up from a coma after causing an accident while driving drunk. He doesn’t see that it's rock-bottom, though. He believes he's still in free-fall because the darkness that has killed John Winchester and has almost claimed Dean’s life, too, is all he can see. But then Dr. Novak steps into his life, a guiding light in Dean’s darkest hour, and no one can blame him if he notices just how attractive the doctor is. If it only weren’t for the problem that he’s falling hard for this man, which will most certainly lead to a broken heart and more whiskey. Because that’s what happens when a washed up drunk like Dean Winchester falls for a doctor who is sexier than Dr. Sexy. Or isn’t it? Then there are also Dr. Novak’s brother Gabriel, who isn’t ashamed of watching Dr. Sexy, and Balthazar, who has a tendency to blurt out the most inappropriate comments at the most inopportune times. And of course don't forget the issue of family. Because Sammy is in Stanford and better off without Dean. And Dean is happy for him, he really is, but that doesn’t mean that it doesn’t still hurt. Or that it doesn’t have to be dealt with if Dean really wants to take up the fight and heal.“

❤ Any Little Heartbreak - Words: 76,897 - “Dean Winchester knows everything there is to know about the human heart.Well.Anatomically speaking.”

❤ Unfold Your Love - Words: 35,467 - “This is the story of how a cop and an ER doc meet and fall in love.”

Salvation - Words: 99,719 - “Dean is an honorably discharged marine who lives in celibacy because celibacy is better than the alternative.Castiel is a well renowned doctor who has suffered through enough death for a lifetime.Before all this, Dean and Castiel were "the real thing", according to everyone around them. Then life happened and they were screwed out of everything.Now, ten years later, Dean and Cas see each other again and they have to face everything holding them apart.”

Heartburn - Words: 51,941 - “Dean Winchester, a certified Burn RN, is one of the most dedicated employees the St. Devic Hospital has and today is no different. But when his patient expectantly goes into cardiac arrest and needs to be transferred to the heart hospital floor under the care of one Doctor Novak, Dean can’t help but feel his patient isn’t the only one who’s going to have to get his heart under control.”

Nothing to Moan About - Words: 12,431 - “Doctors Dean and Castiel don't get along, before tragedy forces mostly Castiel to reevaluate.”

❤ Dean Goes to the Doctor - Words: 21,491 - “When Dean wakes up one morning feeling like he swallowed razor blades and his skin is on fire he figures he'd deal with it, but when he coughs up blood he makes the reluctant decision to head in to see his doctor, except his doctor has retired. The new doctor that has taken over his practice is the one and only Castiel Novak, and Dean finds the new doctor more interesting than he wants to, and somehow this doctor gets Dean to come in again. Shortly after meeting the new doctor he gets injured on the job and lands himself in the hospital in need of surgery. The handsome doctor comes to see him and sweet fluffiness ensues.”

❤ ❤ Finding His Voice (TRIGGER WARNING: This fic does mention TW/Rape, and Torture, so beware) - Words: 60k - “Castiel had seen many patients come and go in his years as a psychiatrist, but none of them were quite like Dean Winchester. The background story that came along with the silent,surly patient horrified even him, and as he struggled to get Dean to accept and trust him, the damaged man proved to be brighter and more beautiful than anyone could ever have imagined.“ (This fic has been taken down but there’s a download link in the post I linked. Its a good one and one of my fav’s)

❤ Your Very Own Doctor Sexy - Words: 51,294 - “It's an easy and average life for Dean Winchester. He worked hard, helped Sam and Ruby through law school while helping Bobby expand his garage. There isn't much to want until a car crash changes Dean down to the very core of who he thought he was. Working closely with the Novak brothers, all doctors, changes his life in a way he can't account for.”

❤ What I Need - Words: 46,998 - “A joking phrase commonly heard between a surgeon and his tech is "Give me what I need, not what I ask for." Dr. Novak and his tech Dean will soon learn the impact this phrase has on life outside the operating room.”

By and By - Words: 3,492 - “Not sleeping for around 72 hours is the worst thing you can ever do- but when there's a hot doctor willing to save your ass then maybe it's the best thing you can do.----“And you’re not even supposed to be awake until five more hours.” the man muttered, flipping through a clipboard.“Well,” Dean sighed, “i’m up now so you can let me out.”“You may discharge yourself if you please. But I don’t think that’s smart of you.”Dean frowned tensed, “And who are you to be telling me what’s smart or not?”The man walked further into the light, “I am Castiel and I am your doctor.”

Chicken Soup for the Soul - Words: 2,991 - “Dean is normally exceptionally healthy so when he gets sick for the first time since he was really little, it catches him completely off guard. Good thing he has a loving, wonderful husband willing to do whatever it takes to make him feel better.”

❤ Kiss of Almost Death - Words: 2,322 - “Cas was bored during the lull of his shift at the ER. The last person he'd expect to see come through the sliding doors was his fiance fighting for his life.”

Help Me Down - Words: 8,383 - “Dean Winchester suffers from depression and has taken a recent turn for the worse. When he calls to make an appointment with his doctor, he finds out his doctor has retired and a new doctor has taken his place at the office. Dean expects a routine in-and-out appointment. He doesn't expect the new doctor to be so...perfect.”

For My Own - Words: 3,776 - “Five times Castiel regrets dating a movie star, and one time Dean proves him wrong.”

* Happy World Naked Gardening Day - Words: 5,470 - “Dean's backyard is his happy place. It's where he likes to sit with a beer and listen to baseball games on his radio in the spring and summer, while watching the wildlife that abounds on his property. It's also where he likes to observe his gorgeous new neighbor. He hasn't had an opportunity to say hello, until that first Saturday in May, when a series of unfortunate events puts a very naked Castiel right next to him. And what is he to think about that? Especially when said neighbor is even hotter up close, and proves to be a flirt? Flirt back, of course!”

*Sexiest Man Alive - Words: 24,017 - “Cas' struggles at dating actor Dean Winchester, as told through fights and longing, phone calls and memories.”

~~~

SO YE, that’s how many i’ve got on the list as of right now. Plus I have like 3 or 4 on my read later list that I gotta read lol.

#destiel #doctor!cas #destiel fanfiction #deanscolette #seraphmisha #princesscasfam #destielhurtsnet #my fic rec #i didnt even realize i read this many doc!cas fics #i know i've read more than this lol

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derangedroyalfae · 5 years

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Dear family (a “coming out” letter about my transition journey)

Since I could remember, when my child brain could grasp the concept of going to these events for myself, I wanted to wear a tuxedo to my prom and to my wedding.

It might have started shortly before puberty hit, but I had a huge phase right up until my sophomore or junior year of high school where I detested anything that was girly: ruffles, lace, frills, PINK, reds, skirts, dresses. Don’t get me wrong, I still hate pink, but the other things eventually grew on me when I saw what potential they had. I desperately wanted to wear boy uniforms more than the girl ones when I began private school, but knew I had to settle.

I remember as a child wanting to play with the boys, I wanted to be their friend and even had a good year and half where I was, but when I lost them to my bully, I thought I could settle for the girls. Something strangely didn’t click when I saw things from a different perspective. We could confide in each other because our parts were physically the same, but I had a hard time seeing eye-to-eye. I suppose the same could be said about boys as well.

I never knew there were words for it or even a possibility outside of cartoons and anime, but my own stories began to fill up with diverse characters in regards to sexuality and gender long before I had a grasp of my own. “This character can be either gender, sometimes they’re both.” “This character doesn’t have a gender.” Don’t get me started on when I began to create characters representing different aspects of myself and how diverse those people were whilst still baring resemblance to me.

I never knew. I was too young to slap on a label or knew labels existed and pertained to me. I never knew I had a lot of thoughts that most “little girls” actually didn’t have, especially in private and in my dreams. And whilst I’ll be the first to say: “clothes know no gender,” I can admit that I never knew what they could do to help me feel more like myself in regards to such a topic. I knew I had a hard time feeling content in the role I was playing, but never knew how to say it or if I should. There has ALWAYS been a dual aspect to me, I’ve always loved dual aspects: black and white, angel and demon, half and half, sweet and sour, hyper and mature, sweet and headstrong, masculine and feminine, etc and so-on.

One day, somewhere around early to midway 2015, during my freshman year of college, I turned to research on the topic of gender. I hadn’t been meaning to look for myself, it was purely for my books and curiosity, but I dare say, lines had began to form around dots. At this point and time, I was well aware and accepting to the idea of transgender people, but hadn’t truly suspected that I could fall under such a category. But then I saw that there was more than the binary of male and female, be you trans or cis. Non-binary. Genderqueer. Genderfluid. Agender (though I knew about this one in high school). There was a whole realm of possibilities, and I felt myself, for once, belonging. I didn’t know anyone else who was one of these, but I clearly wasn’t alone in this identity or it wouldn’t exist. I didn’t instantly slap that patch on, however, and I certainly wasn’t sure about going public with it right away. But I had at least one person I confided in, and they, in turn, confided in me about their own gender dysphoria. If you haven’t figured it out, I am talking about my dear friend, Jewel. I also did tell at least one of my sisters and another member of the family.

Jewel and I, on the other hand, did go into great detail with each other when we talked about what we could possibly want from physical transitioning. It wasn’t enough to just slap on a label and dress the part. No. That was not just for me, it’d be for everyone else to see the spectacle. The aspects and changes I wanted to do to my body, those were undoubtedly for me. No one else would see or be affected by them, save for my future partner. I immediately said that my uterus had to go. Hysterectomy has been a tab on my phone since my freshman year along side a penile implant. I looked up the different ways it could be done, and if I did indeed want to have bottom surgery, I knew what my options were. I don’t hate being female, I don’t even dislike being female, but it was never about that. It’s not like that. I just never felt like I truly was one and that I could never be happy tying to fit in that role.

Before the semester was up, I freely and openly identified as gender fluid and was fairly certain where I wanted to go from there. It was time for a test run. I even changed my gender and pronouns on Facebook and other social media (and they’ve remained constant these past five years). I would wear and buy men’s clothes more frequently (as no one would buy them for me and now I was capable of doing it myself) and even would bind my chest and pack a sock where a penis ought to be. I would take snippets of my hair and turn it into facial hair, applying it on with spirit gum and trying to look as accurately as I could. I even came up with a masculine name in the next semester. But it had to be perfect and constructed like ~Maiden~ was. I wanted to still keep my middle name, so I had to be a male Fae. ~Names~ my list consisted of Irish boy names translating over to lord or king. Eventually I realized how perfect ~Li'l King~ was and I owned my place as the “Little King of the Fairies.” How perfect. I was short for a girl and now even shorter of a boy, so little king I was. Since we were living in the North County, most people were generally pretty accepting and chill about it all, especially my peers and classmates. But I never knew how to come out to my family. I reminded myself this was a test run, so perhaps I didn’t really need to say until things got serious. I was worried of being looked down upon and being seen as trying to be trendy or complicated. I wasn’t trying to be special or different, I was just trying to be me. I didn’t know how to explain what I was going through and how I felt, so I felt silence was better. I didn’t know if the older generation would get it, especially when I hear them talk about it on the radio of how they see us. How easy it’s always been to come out about my sexuality, but my gender? Now that was mortifying for seem reason.

Five years passed, and I never felt wrong or wavering about my identity. I felt more sure of it by the day. I did the research off and on and talked to those who had been doing much better with their lives once they started transition and could finally be themselves both physically and mentally.

So come August 2018, I decided I was ready to start hormone replacement therapy (HRT). I was tired of applying a beard, I wanted to grow one. I was tired of forcing down my voice and accidentally squeaking to my normal range, I wanted a drop. I was tired of constantly having people look at my face and see me as a female when I clearly wasn’t dressed like one or wanted to be seen as one. When I read that T (testosterone) could negatively affect my cholesterol, I got back on vitamins and tried to maintain it once again. On September 13, 2018 I made an appointment with my primary care, ready to tell her the news. I was told by my fellow trans friends that all they did was go to their primary, tell them they were ready for HRT, got handed a consent form, got their labs done, and voila! I fasted and took a 3hr bus ride from one city to another, paid my $30 copay, brought with me HRT consent forms, and poured out my feelings to this doctor, thinking she was the one person who could help me here. What a joke. “There’s nothing in your files stating you’ve felt this way.” Well, yes, but that’s because I wanted to stop being depressed before I went and did something “drastic.” I’ve waited five years, surely this can’t be seen as an impulse. “Go talk to your psychiatrist.” That’s it? I paid $30, took public transport for 3hrs for a car trip that was less than half an hour, starved myself this morning FOR THAT? I was actually so incredibly crushed. She pretty much told me that she didn’t know what she was doing so I was on my own defenses. She was willing to sign off on referrals, but it would be my responsibility to send them her way. ALRIGHT. Fine. I can do that.

That same day, I made my psychiatry appointment (though my psychiatrist was on maternity leave so it would be my substitute) and messaged my doctor:

“I have made an appointment with my psychiatrist for this Monday and been looking into the Endocrinologist with Sutter Health and my insurance in general. I've also been looking at my options for what kind of medical testosterone I'd prefer using, such as AndroGel or Androderm. I just thought I would update you on that and will have my psychiatrist send you any and all possible information as soon as possible regarding this.

I also wanted to make sure that you were aware that at the moment I am only interested in the hormone part of sex reassignment and not anything to do with any surgical procedures. I am only looking into Hormone Replacement Therapy and have been for at least five years now.

Thank you for your time toady, I hope to talk to you or an Endocrinologist about this in the near future.”

In case you didn’t know, you ONLY need to talk to a psychiatrist in regards to surgery, not hormones.

Looking back on the rest of my journey, it feels like a joke that I honestly thought I could trust her to help me. I went to the psychiatrist as I was instructed, and when she took me into her office and noticed the book I was reading “Trans Minds Trans Bodies” she immediately recognized it and told me what a good book it was - there was a glimmer of hope. She asked me the standard questions you’re supposed to when diagnosing someone with gender dysphoria, and of course, o get the label. She felt as though her hands were just a bit tied, as she was not my actual psychiatrist, but she was determined to help me. She looked up the closest hospitals and facilities (all in the North County, go figure) that could help me and wrote down lists of contacts. Immediately she grabbed consent forms for sharing my information and told me that I could contact her for further help.

I sent this new info to my doctor, hoping she’d follow through with making those referrals as she said she would. I found an endocrinologist at the hospital ma was committed to (you all remember that place, right?) that specialized in HRT who was the closest to us. It was part of Sutter Health so I immediately jumped at the chance to make an appointment with her. How was I to get there aside train, however? Hummingbird and Kitty has my back, both of them putting in a request for the day off. My appointment was made for a Friday on the 30th of November. I told myself this was my fallback, however. I discovered that a North county university offered video and phone appointments, so I wouldn’t even need to go there. I could still get my labs done here and they could send me the prescription. They even took our insurance. All I needed was my primary to refer me.

But she wasn’t the one contacting me anyone. Every time I tried to message her, it was an office staff who responded, saying that my “request was received, and requires review” from her. I even called my insurance to see if anything was happening in regards to the referrals being sent in. “You need to contact you medical group.” Alright??? So then this baloney of back-and-forth tug-o-war with our insurance and medical group began. “Submit your request to this number” but somehow was the same number I had given them. I was completely out of it for what the hell was going on half the time. It was loops and circles and mazes. Why was it so hard for specifically me?

I even made an appointment with my actual psychiatrist when she came back from maternity leave and asked if she could give me the prescription. She said that she sadly couldn’t, but would do whatever it took to help. She gave me a consent form for sharing information and her business card to give to the endocrinologist. I gave the information for the hospital and the specialist and we went from there.

I eventually let go the frustration of the North county university, I at least had my November appointment. Well, a week before it was supposed to be, they called me up to push it back another week, so December 7 was the new day. Fortunately, Hummingbird and Kitty could still make it. However, the day or two before, the medical group called and told me “insurance isn’t going to cover this since it’s not the same medical group.” What? But Sutter Health??? “Your Sutter G, this is Sutter E. I’m sorry, you’ll have to pay $150.” FINE. It was a small price to pay to be myself. Whatever it took, is take it.

It felt a shame that the three of us make our way to the North County for just one little appointment that wouldn’t even be half an hour, so I made plans to meet up with my old friends, Jewel and Usdi, and let them meet my two newer partners.

On Thanksgiving, I came out to any friends and classmates that I want to be officially known as ~Li'l King~ (in fact, I had began introducing myself that way to strangers). I’ve also comes to terms that I want to legally change my name to ~Maiden~-~Li'l King~ Shea Rodenborn, but want to go by ~Li'l King~. Time for a double life. I love ~Maiden~ and the Maiden of the Fairies too much to let go of it, it’s a part of my identity. But I truly have come to a point where I hate being called ~Maiden~ and it actually makes me feel depressed. Even being called aunt is tearing at me. Every time I refer to myself as ~Maiden~, aunt, she, her, miss, I feel my skin crawl. I just have such a huge disconnect and it tugs at my heartstrings in a painful way. I know, it’s hard to get it and can easily be seen as something that was planted in my head, but how can it be when it feels so sincere?

And so, the week after thanksgiving, I went to spend the night at the girls’ place on Thursday so we could leave as soon as possible Friday morning. We made our way out and I was more than beyond ready once again. I knew this doctor wouldn’t try to slight me, but I was nervous since almost everything had been on my own. Whenever chaos hit, I was alone and the only witness. I didn’t want that again. So as a precaution, I asked my girlfriends to sit in with me at the appointment. This endocrinologist gave me the olive branch I was so desperately seeking out. She didn’t have any issues with prescribing me HRT, especially after going through the procedure of diagnosing me with gender dysphoria again. She informed me on everything that could happen with getting on testosterone, the risks, the procedures, the symptoms, but it was all stiff I knew at that point in time. I told her I wanted to try androderm first and my second choice was androgel, since I wasn’t found of the idea of having to put a shot in my butt once a week (the butt part wasn’t what bothered me, it was having to get shots). “I’ll have to see you again in three months.” But I don’t think I can afford to come back if I have to pay $150 again (I hopefully would have my license in March). I began to meekly tell her of the storm I had faced with insurance and my medical group, even if how I called up my insurance the day before to find out one specific insurance and the other weren’t the same thing. “But I’m honestly the closest specialist to you, they HAVE to cover it.” Tell them that. They saw I was looking for an endocrinologist. They don’t have a section for specialist in transgender hormone replacement therapy. She saw the pain and frustration in my eyes, just how beyond done I was, and said that she’d take care of contacting my insurance for me. She sent me on my way and requested for me to do a blood test, which I got done the next day in a nearby city.

I had checked my medication list and androderm was officially on it. I hadn’t remember the last time I felt so elated. Maybe a well later, I received a letter from the insurance saying that they’re denying Androderm because I should try Androgel first. My endocrinologist was immediately on top of this and let me know that she would send in the request for Androgel. So on December 14th the pharmacy called me to let me know it was ready, and on the 15th picked up my first bottle/pump of liquid testosterone. On December 16th (which can now be known as my Transiversary), I slabbed on my first dosage of andorgel.

Spring 2019 semester, I submitted a form to have my name changed with the school so I appear as ~Li'l King~ to the teachers and faculty.

I’m still me. I’m less upset about being me, but I’m still me. This isn’t a bad thing, and it was never to hurt anyone. I always hide my “he/him” pronoun badge whenever I see you guys because I didn’t want to confuse you. I know it was secretive and behind people’s back, but it’s because I know how much of a pushover I am. I know how easily I cave in and feel guilty over the most trivial of things. I didn’t know how anyone would react, and I didn’t know if anyone would try to stop me. Tell me it isn’t something I should focus on. And so, it felt less like betrayal if I just didn’t tell you guys as opposed to telling you guys, you guys saying not to do it, and then me doing it anyway. But it really shouldn’t even be in the same playing field with such thoughts. How can something that’s not truly harmful to my physical well being but salvation to my mental well being be seen as betrayal to anyone else. I guess, I was scared of betraying myself too. Though, if we’re being honest, at the end of the day I also didn’t want to be bombarded with questions. I was hoping I could just tell you and you’d accept, no more to be said.

I know I’m the youngest, I’m often seen as immature and uneducated, and maybe you’re all right in seeing me that way. But I want you all to know: THIS WAS NOT AN IMPULSE. This wasn’t something I did to be “hip” and be down with the times. No one else could have convinced me to do this. I’ve never met a transgendered person who would wish this upon anyone and try to convince someone they’re trans. I WOULDN’T WISH THIS ON ANYONE. I wouldn’t wish being queer of sexuality or gender on anyone because it’s harder than you think. There’s nothing fun or trendy about this. It’s not cute or happy fun times. I am honestly living my life in fear of being hurt for being myself, especially since I live in East County instead of the North County. But I’ve come to terms that I’d rather die being myself than have to live a messy lie where I wouldn’t feel like I was even alive, so I’d rather die. I’d try to change, I’d try to be like everyone else: but it doesn’t work that way. Please understand, that I this isn’t what you hear about on the radio. This is real and true and ME.

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mysclerosis-blog · 7 years

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The Story So Far

Hi, I'm Jacob. A lot of people call me Fent/Fenty, I'm 24 and I have relapsing multiple sclerosis.

That's all I can think about a lot of the time; that and I see most of my life through the scope of MS. I'm new to this, you see. I was only diagnosed in January after more than a year of trying to find out what was actually going on with me.

I've never been a stranger to fatigue, due to being diagnosed with chronic fatigue syndrome at 12 years old. On top of that I've had experiences with sciatica causing nerve pain and reduced sensation through my legs and especially feet. It wasn't until I'd developed a tremor in my right hand and a lack of coordination in my my limbs in November 2015 that I had any idea something was wrong. I've always been a drummer for as long as I can remember and at the start of my symptoms fresh off the back of a music degree (contemporary world jazz music, to be exact) with first class honours. Not for much longer. Not in the same way at least. Around this time I met my love, Jessica. She lives 300 miles away but I have a car and since we met online a few months ago we've fallen deeply in love. Throughout all of what's happened through my journey with multiple sclerosis so far, she's been so patient and understanding that even in my fearful attempts to show her how hopeless my future is or whatever feeble thing I've been telling myself, she's stuck by me and shone a light on me that is honestly about the only thing that's kept me hanging on at times. Enough mush for now though, on with the story...

The uncertainty of when or if my tremor and coordination problems were going to return shook my confidence, already having lost a lot of my skills. Since then I've barely played, and I've not written a piece of music since either, being more disenchanted with music than I thought I could ever be. More on this later though.

I opted not to go to have a referral to a neurologist right away, thinking it would just go away. Over the coming months a whole load of other interesting things happened though, including intermittent (and PAINFUL, let me tell you) cramping of all of the muscles on my righthand side, often making me fall to the floor on my side until it passed. The symptom I notice most, though, is the reduced sensation in my feet and up my legs. Having mistaken this for another, very persistent, sciatica flare-up, I was stretching very frequently and noticing no real improvements. Even my chiropractor said she couldn't find a single knot or tight muscle in my back. On July 9th it will be a whole year since I had complete and uninterrupted sensation in my feet. Happy anniversary...

Fast-forwarding to when I finally saw a neurologist in September 2016, he couldn't see much wrong with me and took my symptoms to be an exaggeration of my natural essential tremor, caused by my underlying health (my degree and life events around the time had really worn me out) and said there was a very minimal chance it could be something more sinister and if I wanted, he could run some tests. Yes please!

In November I had an MRI and a blood test done, the results of which were published around Christmas. There was a long wait to actually be told the results by my neurologist, but in the meantime I'd had an appointment with a psychiatrist who had actually seen my MRI results and told me (erroneously) that I probably had Wilson's disease - a super rare disease affecting copper metabolism that can cause neurological symptoms. Great, I thought. I can get treated for that, get this copper out of my brain and be back to my normal self in no time, right? Well, as I found out almost a month later, and I can't stress this enough; hell fucking no. On the plus side, I now have a few minutes of conversation to fill with facts about Wilson's disease if it ever comes up in conversation... which I'm not expecting to happen any time particularly soon... Anyway, my GP had printed off the radiologist's report on my MRI scan, which didn't have a diagnosis, but described what the images showed. Now, I'm the sort that will research things I don't understand, particularly when it comes to psychology and biology. Doctors probably hate me. Regardless, in amongst the jargon like "T2 weighted" and "FLAIR", whatever they meant, and wherever the areas of the brain were whose names I couldn't remember for you if you wanted me to, I spotted a word I'd never seen before. Demyelination.

D e m y e l i n a t i o n.

That doesn't sound like copper to me, and it doesn't sound like the telltale characteristic sign of copper deposits in the brain á la Wilson's. And google shows no results for "Wilson's disease demyelination" (Remember i said that doctors probably hate me?). Well, googling demyelination tells that the most common demyelinating disease is multiple sclerosis. Right, okay... That thought can stay buried deep then...

And it did. Maybe it was one of the other demyelinating diseases. Maybe it was something easily fixed. Maybe it wasn't that. Maybe it was something. I'd take a medical anomaly, anything, at this point. But in my head I think I knew. I went to the neurologist's office for my followup appointment January 16th 2017, and then this all became a little bit real. And then a lot real. I'd heard of multiple sclerosis. I had no idea what it really was. I has no idea about it at all really except a small amount I'd read the weeks previous. But there are some sentences you expect to never apply to you that all of a sudden do.

"I have multiple sclerosis", I would say out loud, almost with a smirk, trying to tell myself. Trying to make myself believe it. But I couldn't. Not yet. The only real positive I've heard today is that the MRI I'd had in 2014 to check for ear canal obstructions was clear, so it's less than two years I've had this. But still, it's hard to focus on a small victory such as that when, still, "I have multiple sclerosis" isn't a lie anymore.

And so begins the dissociation. And the reading. So much reading, so much information, so many different opinions and 'cures' and fixes and treatments and advice and research and studies. But I'm convinced I'm going to be the first person with this disease that completely beats it. For a few weeks. And here comes a relapse.

I'm not so bulletproof now. I can barely walk without tripping over my feet and my legs are spasming ridiculously. I need help to walk and my left hand is so slow and cramped up. I can barely feel anything from 6 inches above my belly button and my nerves HURT. What luck that I'm meeting my MS specialist consultant neurologist this week though. Some oral steroids (first prize for 'worst taste on earth', congratulations methylprednisolone!) have me sorted out and somewhat bulletproof again, but the reality is starting to set in now. My consultant has given me the names of two treatments to research; Tysabri and Lemtrada. Yay, more reading. Cos I haven't had enough existential crisis by this point.

Next come the lows, lower than many of the lows I've experienced before in what I wouldn't describe as an easy life. Those stories are for a different day, perhaps a different blog, I haven't quite decided yet. Getting to grips with this disease and the uncertainty of every day is an interesting task; rarely a boring one and never an easy one. I feel like I could spend a week or so of solid typing of my negative feelings and setbacks but I won't. Not yet...

Anyway, moving swiftly to the present day. It's June 30th. It's 6:00 in the morning and as usual, I haven't slept. My preordered copy of the PS4 remastered version of the Crash Bandicoot trilogy (a hugely important part of my youth, and in the present day) is set to arrive in a few hours. I'm typing on the laptop I bought to make my five days receiving Lemrada next month more palatable. I now own a trumpet and an acoustic guitar and have about 1/4 of a drum kit set up. I'm somewhat motivated to get back into music; writing, recording, playing and the time away from it all has changed the way I think of myself as a musician. I'm actually getting excited about music again. Jessica and I are still together and every day she gives me inspiration to keep living, and for her and our future together I hold on until the end of the day each day. Sometimes barely but I haven't failed at that yet so that's something to take pride in. Time will tell where else the river will take me; piss knows I had no idea it would take me where I've already been so I've stopped expecting the scenic route by now. Life still feels like a bit like being on an unfamiliar planet, and one I'm not quite fully welcome on at times, but in amongst my fears for the future, both near and far, there's a glimmer of hope.

#multiple sclerosis #relapsing remitting #ms #rrms #lemtrada #chronic illness #fatigue #paraesthesia #disability #my story

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not-tryin-2-have-a-debate · 7 years

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i want to keep my original long draft for an essay abotu my Psych Ward Expirience somewhere so i’m post it here under readmore bc its super long

When most people hear the phrase “Psych Ward,” they think of settings in horror movies. They picture 1800’s sanatoriums, dark and crumbling asylums full of dangerous murderers. I don’t know if hollywood or a general societal ignorance towards mental disorders should be blamed more for that, but living with a serious mental illness is one of those things that “outsiders” never really seem to understand. That misunderstanding extends to treatment as well.

Therapy comes in many shapes and sizes, different types and intensities. There are different amounts of work expected from the patient, different ways the therapist can try to work through their issues, but the biggest range of differences is probably in the environments these sessions can take place in. One-on-One appointments with a therapist, Group therapy that meets once or twice a week, specific support groups, and anger management classes are all things that we in the business would call “outpatient” treatment. Some programs are dubbed as “intensive outpatient” or “semi-inpatient” programs, for when they want to hospitalize someone but aren’t allowed to for whatever reason (usually because they can’t pay for it, or the family in charge of their affairs won’t allow it, or they're actually a good and understanding doctor that sees the problem with taking a mother away from her job and kids from three days to three months depending on the program.)

Group homes, halfway houses, and stays in mental hospitals would all be on the “inpatient” or residential side of things. Some places are specifically “Crisis Hospitals,” a place where suicidal patients go for one or two days until they aren’t considered an active threat to themselves anymore. Depending on the hospital and how much they actually care, the patient may run out the clock of their stay and can sent to a different center or dropped back into society while still in the middle of their crisis. Every psychiatric hospital has protocol for patients on suicide watch and many have specific rooms for it, open cubbies in a big long hall with no doors or front walls, so the staff can be watching you at all times.

When someone’s in treatment for any mental issues extending beyond mild depression or anxiety, being hospitalized is a kind of vague threat always looming on the horizon. If they say something a little too dark, or they fly off the handle a little too often, the question comes up asking if they’re in need of more ‘intense’ care.

Most patients that have been around a while know how to quickly deflect a nervous doctor. We get told our own horror stories; tales of prisons with heavily medicated inmates, friends recounting abuse from their nurses, being locked up in a place that claimed to help them but in actuality just held their lives/times for ransom until they stopped complaining.

I’m asked about my safety every time I see my psychiatrist. I sit in Brian’s office once every three or four weeks and discuss how much of a failure I am at pretending to be a human being. Every time, near the end, he looks me in the eye with an uncomfortable grimace and asks me how safe I feel. We both know it's a strange and impossible question. I could say no for so many different reasons. Realistically I will probably hurt myself before our next appointment. There will definitely be at least a few times I think of dying, go over the details in my head. I could point to my paranoia, or my childhood, and tell him I haven’t felt safe in a long, long time. But he knows all of that, and he knows my honest answer, and we both know that him asking how safe I currently feel is just secret code for whether or not I want to be sent to a hospital. So I shrug and tell him I’ll be just fine.

I guess I was having a pretty rough time at fourteen. I say “I guess” because I can’t remember most of it, but what I do remember wasn’t particularly any worse than two years before or the year after. It was mainly just that when I was fourteen, people were noticing more, and feeling more guilty, and I was saying some wrong things at the wrong times.

I’d already been in regular therapy for years; I’d been through one group until my therapist got transferred and an “intensive outpatient therapy plan” after that. Every two weeks or so one of my parents would dig me out of bed and drive me to the one small therapy office in my town. I would wait for at least forty minutes past my appointment and then be called back to see the nurse, Mellisa. (Her name was spelled with two L’s and one S; I know about that because she would get very upset with the other staff for spelling it wrong.) Every time I went to that office, Mellisa would have me take a pregnancy test, no matter how many things about me made its results obvious, because when you’re a kid medical professionals will never trust a single word out of your mouth: especially if you’re crazy. My mother and I would go and sit in an uncomfortably warm room waiting for my psychiatrist go come online. I would study the boring, mass-produced ocean painting on the wall, finding anything to look towards but my mother. My psychiatrist at the time was an attractive nigerian man that I was only ever introduced to as Dr.O; one time I asked Mellisa what his full name was, because I felt disrespectful not knowing it, but she’d brushed it off as too hard to even try pronouncing. Dr.O lived somewhere else in the state and would see me for our appointments through a computer monitor, setup on a cheap wooden coffee table across from some chairs. My parents always complained about having to drive all the way to the office just to have a skype call; I always just wondered why they bothered setting up the fancy room, since you could hear what everyone was saying through the walls anyway. Dr.O mainly saw older patients and I could tell that he usually thought I was being overdramatic. I would keep my head down, trying my best to speak up so he could hear me through the microphone on the table (and often being chided by him and my mother to move closer to it when he still couldn’t hear me.) I would stay silent as my mother talked the whole time, giving half of the story with none of the context. I would stiffly and awkwardly be made to stand up and show a man on a screen the words carved into my arms, motion to where the cuts went on my legs. I would look at noe one and try not to think of the mostly-screamed “lecture” that was waiting for me once we were done there, where both of my parents sat me on my bed and stood there with crossed arms, telling me they weren’t angry, they were just frustrated, telling me they just didn’t understand why I did these things to myself. They didn’t understand why I couldn’t just come talk to them.

Dr.O decided once, while my mom was in the middle of telling him her version of what I was going through, that I needed to be hospitalized. I snapped back to attention, stopped picking at the scabs on my arm, asked what I did. I barely remember what the real reasoning was: something about how I was already suicidal and they were going to take me off my anti-depressants which were making me more depressed on top of causing me to gain weight, and I would probably feel even more suicidal when I was in the withdrawal from those so I needed to be monitored, or something. That’s a series of events that I’ve gone through about five or six times with five or six different drugs, and that one (paxil, for anyone wondering) wasn’t the first. I’m still not sure why that time it was any different...maybe those reasons were an excuse for some kind of psychic doctor vibe he was getting from me. My mother was, of course, completely furious for all the wrong reasons. I was calmly sent out of the room to wait with Mellisa while she screamed, asking if he was really about to lock up a fourteen year old girl with a bunch of “violent drug addicts” because I was having “some issues adjusting.” When I was younger my mother would often refer to my ‘adjustment issues’--i was never sure what it was I was trying to adjust to.

My mother called my father and I thought to myself that this was a really bad way to make me not want to die. He entered the building crying and confused, probably having only been told a vague three word explanation by my mother, leaning down at me chair, caressing my face like I was dying or like we would never see each other again. For all I knew, we wouldn’t; for all the information I’d been given, I was about to be shipped off somewhere for life. We spent probably another hour in that office, me sitting in my chair, watching everyone else argue and talk and come and go and give me weird looks for split seconds and then continue on talking about me like they’d already sent me to the terrifying gate of hell that a mental hospital apparently was. Mellisa tried to comfort me and pointed out that I was crying. She put a hand on my shoulder and I accidentally, involuntarily, blurted out for her not to touch me. My mouth says a lot of things I don’t want it to. That’s one of the times I’ve most regretted it. I was eventually told I would go home, pack my things, and drive to the hospital that night. That had set my mother off again right when she’d started to calm down-- “Tonight!?” she’d barked at Mellisa. “We can’t even wait til tomorrow?!” Imagine what a dinner that would’ve been. I assume I did as I was told. I remember packing the stuffed animal my internet boyfriend had hot-glued together for me, and a (paperback) Robert Louis Stevenson novel that I was trying to read and pretending I understood more than half of. You aren’t allowed to take a whole list of things with you to the hospital; anything that could possibly be considered dangerous to you or to anyone else is prohibited. No shoes with laces or pants with drawstrings. No mirror, hair brushes, toothbrushes, or soaps either, because the hospital would supply those. At one point I bitterly argued with a nurse that I could shove a sock in my mouth a choke on it if I really wanted to, and she threatened to take all my socks away. I decided to stay quiet on the realization I had that if I got really desperate I could just try to bite off my own tongue. The drive was two hours long and completely silent. My mother spent the first twenty minutes determined to squeeze as much as she could out of the time we had left til arrival, but I was in a confused haze and she was tired from screaming at doctors...or tired from dealing with her defective daughter. She tried to comfort me, assuring me that this would be good for me, that maybe this hospital would straighten some things out and set me on the road to true recovery after all this time spent struggling. I looked at the moonless sky outside and chose not to tell her that she had finally admitted something was wrong with me. It was almost midnight when we actually reached the hospital; we passed it once on accident since we could barely make out the sign. My body was working on its own again at this point. I took mechnical steps, looking straight ahead, hand held in my mother’s because she needed the comfort.

The sterile white walls and fluorescent lights in the front lobby were blinding coming in from the night. I squinted at the woman who came up to meet us, shook my dad’s hand, my mom’s, glanced at me for maybe half of a second. A man named Jesus took and searched my things while we were guided into a more traditional room for this setting, corporate representations of calming moods. Light blue or green walls, wicker and tweed furniture, mass-produced ocean paintings. I focussed on how much I hated paintings of the beach while my parents filled out forms, until the woman finally turned her attention to me. I was comforted and assured, again, that this would be good for me, and then assured that they legally weren’t allowed to use electro-shock therapy. I was told I would do regular groups and that the security wouldn’t use force unless I posed a violent threat. She explained expressive therapy to me, as if I’d never heard of art, while I signed a form saying I consented to being medically sedated if need be. I asked how they would sedate people. She asked if I was afraid of needles.

After signing my name a hundred times, with one of my parents signing after each, it was time for us to say our goodbyes. I’m sure I cried, but I can’t honestly say I remember.

Jesus reappeared without my belongings, telling me before I could ask that they were waiting on my new bed. He led me about three steps out of the conference room to a set of wooden double-doors, like the entrance to a school cafeteria. “This is the Ad Ward…’Ad’ stands for ‘Adolescent.’” he told me, shuffling out an ID card to unlock the doors. He quickly ushered me through and it the first door on the left before I could nothing anything other than a hardwood floor. Jesus handed me a paper hospital gown I never noticed him holding and instructed me to put in on, pointing at the spot on the floor on the small empty room where I should put my clothes. He said a woman would come in shortly to search them and me and then took his swift exit before I could ask any questions. I did as I was told as quickly as possible, nervously trying to make out the muffled voices right outside the door. The second I’d put my clothes in their neatly folded line the head nurse came into the room, making good on Jesus’s word. She went down the line of clothed I had made her, picking up and shaking out every part of my outfit without saying a word. When she was satisfied with them, she turned to me. For those of you that have never been strip searched, please know that it is every bit as strange and mortifying as you would expect, and that no matter how many times you’ve been through it, it’s going to stay just as weird. As my mostly-naked fourteen year old self squatted and coughed before the eyes of a stern older woman with a clipboard, I wondered again how this place was supposed to make life seem worth living. After that, and her metal detector being set off by my braces, I was regifted my clothes (but not my shoes) and handed off to my last stop for the night before bed. I finally got a good look at the Royal Oak Hospital Adolescent Ward: one long hallway with a nurses station near the exit, an elevator, and a long line of almost closed doors. A younger nurse took me into one of them, again completely different from the others I’d been in, and sat me down on an expensive medical equipment looking chair. The girl’s name was Rebecca, she told me sweetly, in the first actual human conversation I’d had in hours. She tried at mostly one-sided small talk with me and she gave me some kind of vaccination or shot. I remember being told it was just a precaution, but I can’t remember what it actually was. The second she was done with the mysterious syringe, though, Rebecca turned on me, bringing out a clipboard and a volley of emotionless questioned that seemed routine to her, but invasive and a little nerve-wracking to me. Asking if I ok with having a roommate or if they had to move my stuff to a different bed was one thing, but at the time I was tired and scared and every question after seemed to strike just the right nerve. She got about halfway down her sheet and asked, casually, what my sexuality was, before I started sobbing. She went back to the good Rebecca and sent me off to bed. We could finish the questions tomorrow. I wouldn’t get to really get a look at my new room and roommate until the morning, as all the other patients on ward were already asleep (or were pretending to be). I slid into the bed, noting the plastic covering on the mattress and the starched, motel room feel of the blanket. Jesus peaked in the doorway to tell me it needed to stay open at night and that he and another man would keep watch on the hall. He said if I couldn’t sleep I was allowed to come sit out there and talk with them; there was usually at least one kid that took advantage of that at some point in the night. I thanked him but chose to stay where I was, holding my handmade stuffed animal so tight it hurt my wrists and staring at the cracked door. I listened to Jesus and the other man talking quietly for hours until I finally passed out. I finally drifted off some time after Jesus lamented about how little time he was getting with his daughter after his divorce. Morning Routine in the hospital was as follows: wake up at 8 a.m. and line up in the hallway for Checks. Roll was taken and an always different nurse that didn’t know our names would check our blood pressure, temperature, and pulse. People who took meds in the morning were given their pills and some water in two small paper cups, and David, the nurse that later became my favorite, would ask everyone who they wanted to call on the phone that day. (Phone time was allowed during a break after lunch; we could only ask to call people on an approved list of phone numbers written during admission.) Then, and only then, were we allowed to cram into the one elevator that led from the ward to the basement, and eat breakfast in the cafeteria. After that our daily routine mainly consisted of therapy, one-on-one conversations with a psychiatrist, and school, if it was a weekday. My first morning I was greeted with a great enthusiasm by the eight other kids on the ward. Most of them were older than me by a year or two and I was quickly taken under their collective wing as a newbie. My roommate introduced herself (I’ll call her L) and wasted no time in getting to the stereotypical “what are you in for” conversation. Since my answer was pretty much a vague shrug she made up the difference, telling me a fabulous story embellished highly in her favor about how she punched her school’s superintendent in the face and was given the option of juvie or the hospital. We agreed that it was stupid of the school to give her that choice.

L loved to see how far she could cross the line before she got in trouble, but in the middle of testing people’s limits she would get angry and fly off the handle. She bragged to me that by the time I got there she had been restrained twice and medically sedated the second time. Eventually I had to change rooms when she started an altercation with Jesus and had to and was put on restrictions. There’s an immediate air of understanding and camaraderie between patients on a ward, even between people that kind of hate each other on a personal level. I think it makes perfect sense given the environment, and the fact that in a short time there everyone is going to learn a lot of deep and personal things about everyone else. I remember most of the kids I met there well: M was a small blond and the youngest on the ward at thirteen. He was extremely proud that he was old enough to belong with the teenagers. He was one of the most adamantly alive people I have ever met. He was very upfront about the fact that he had anger issues. I think I was the only one there who didn’t.

G is a girl that I think about very often, fondly and worriedly. She was such a genuine and lovely person, a heavy and pretty girl with long curly hair that was always smiling and talked with her hands. I worry about her because I was never able to contact her once i was out of the hospital; she didn’t give anyone contact information because she wasn’t sure where exactly she was going to end up after her stay there. Knowing what i did learn from her about her family...I still worry about her. But i also worry that trying to look her up now would be weird, but also only make me sad no matter what i found, even the best answers would feel bittersweet. I think that for now i prefer to just remember G fondly as a very dear friend i only got to spend a precious little amount of time with. R was nice but was also the most actively angry about being there, and none of us could blame him. From what he told us (looking back on it now I’m still not sure which side was truthful) his parents had forced him into his stay after blowing an argument completely out of proportion. R as I gravitated towards each other magically, drawn by our innate ability to Tell. from my experience there were always two or three kids on the ward or in the group who aren’t straight, and we would always find each other and group together as quickly as possible. D was the third or the two or three gay kids. I was told she made advances at me but I don’t remember noticing any of them. She really liked naruto and would tell me dramatic stories that I knew were mostly lies but listened to anyways because we were friends. J was a surprise in a lot of ways. He showed up very suddenly and had the staff scrambling. He was tall and wide and older than most of us, with gauged ears and angry eyes. I feel guilty for the amount of time I spent compulsively strategizing self-defense plans against him before we got to know each other. J had been in juvenile detention before coming to the ward as a way to ease his transition back out into the “real world.” The only person I didn’t really get along with was K, but I wasn’t the only one; she sat on the ‘normal people’ side of the social rift and didn’t particularly want anything to do with the rest of the group. Her choice. The rest I don’t remember by name anymore; the teenage mother who got transferred to a different hospital, a boy who would not talk talk about anything other than weed every time I heard him speak. A quiet boy who’s name started with a D and had a nurse communicate things for him.

The usual length of a stay at Royal Oaks was around a week, so people were usually coming and going every other day, making a rotating list of patients for David complained about because it complicated his job and phone call cataloguing. L left on day four, the weed guy the night before her. We vaguely celebrated when someone was left; we could have done more, but it would have meant celebrating almost every night, and jesus didn’t have enough change for the vending machine. We would say our goodbyes before we went to sleep, and part ways at breakfast. The new kids would be greeted with stories of who they replaced, and would be taken under our collective wing, and the cycle would continue. I never personally got to see them, but there was a ward for Adults somewhere on our floor and one for “Pre-Ads” (children under the age of thirteen) downstairs, with the classroom, cafeteria, and ET room. The full layout of the Ad Ward wasn’t much more complicated than what I had observed the night before; one mysterious room was the “Lounge,” a baby blue nightmare where we spent free time, and another was a shower--yes, the whole room, that was it. A twelve-by-twelve cube of brown tile from floor to ceiling, with a small drain in the middle of the floor and a sad faucet with the water pressure of slow falling tears on one wall. About a foot in from the door there was a haphazardly installed shower curtain, and right below the faucet was a wall-hanging soap dispenser, like same kind you find in most public bathrooms. I’d heard of 2-in-1 shampoo and conditioner before, but never All-in-1 general showering goo. Every other room in the hall was a bedroom, and most of them looked identical. Blue walls, two beds set in wooden box frames, and a strange storage-shelf-table-sink hybrid on the other wall. Each room also had a small closet with a toilet in it (two of the rooms had actual bathrooms with their own, normal shower, but most of us weren’t as lucky.) Bathroom doors weren’t allowed to be closed unless they were actively being used. We could only close the door to our room if we were changing clothes, or “with permission,” which meant we could only close the door when we were changing clothes. We were each given a plastic basket of toiletries with our name on it, given it us from a locked space in the nurse’s station after break and before we went to sleep. At some point in the afternoon we would each be called away separately to go meet with a psychiatrist for a bit; a rotating door of short indian men that usually didn’t introduce themselves. The psychiatrists were nice but impersonal, concerned but not well-informed about your situation, fitting with the general theme the hospital seemed to have going. Once one of them took me outside to have our talk, in a little fenced in area with a basketball hoop but not enough room to really try playing with it. I don’t remember anything we talked about other than how I was feeling, how I felt about the hospital, same old thing again and again.

Every night after dinner, two patients that behaved well were allowed to order 1 soda and 1 candy bar from a vending machine outside our reach in the ward. I got a twix and a coke on my first full day, and all the other kids were simultaneously very jealous and proud. The art therapy room was, like all walls in my world at that point, blue, but now with past patient’s art hung up and painted onto them all over, which was a welcome change. Art therapy only involved making art about three of the times that I went. Other times We’d have another group therapy session, or try and fail miserably to play ping pong, or be forced to watch the movie “Freedom Writers” and then talk about our feelings on it. My feelings were that it was a bad film with a nice idea.

The hospital had a Classroom right beside the cafeteria that the ad and pre-ad patients had to attend for three hours every school day. We went separately; the wards weren’t allowed to mix, especially after it turned out that a girl on our ward was the cousin of a kid on the pre-ad. Every week a new sweet older lady would be our teacher, a good samaritan volunteering her time to the hospital. Most of us were old enough that we would just work on our own homework from our school; i was lucky enough that my high school didn’t want to work with the hospital at all, and was unwilling to give me any assignments but the one’s I had brought with me. When I finished those halfway through the first day of class I was given general middle school level work packets and left to my own devices. When i finished those i started trying to help the others, usually M with his science worksheets, or I would spend as long as possible with one of the medical student interns going over a graded french test. I told G how to pronounce her name with a french accent, and she excited told every member of staff about her new name for the rest of the day.

The food, unless you were on suicide watch or “Finger Foods.” Finger Foods was the general terms for when someone had their privileges taken away after an outburst or trying to hurt themselves. You could only use crayons to write, couldn’t handle any sharp objects, were out of the running for a night time candy bar, and obviously, good only eat food with your hands in the cafeteria. Suicide watch Included all the rules of being on Finger Foods but with an added element of direct surveillance at all times; there were some people on suicide watch who were still allowed to be rewarded or participate in activities with supervision, because the restrictions were meant more for their protection than as a punishment. For my first two days at every meal a bulimic girl on my ward would be light-heartedly threatened with a feeding tube if she didn't eat. She and the nurses all seemed to think it was funny, so i just accepted it. At one point we were promised a pizza for our good behavior. We never received that pizza. I’m bitter about that to this day.

Group therapy came in two flavors: there was actual group therapy where we would do therapy, but in a group, and then there was what group normally meant, which was “a nurse is going to come talk about some topic no one cares about for a while.” riveting topics covered in our sessions included personal hygiene and the importance of not doing drugs if you don’t already do drugs, which half of us did. Actual group required more emotional effort but at least I wasn’t going to be bored to tears by the end of the hour. The ward’s main therapist was a nice guy that happened to look exactly like sigmund freud. He also happened to not enjoy it very much when i blurted out that he looked like sigmund freud. We were told multiple times a day by various nurses that shoes were a privilege and you would earn back your shows after you showed staff you were deserving of them. I never saw a single person earn their shoes, and not for lack of trying. This was a problem because if a single person on the ward was without their shoes, we weren’t allowed to have time outside. Every time I’ve ever recounted this to someone they’ve seen the Immediate flaw in this system, but it apparently slid past all members of staff on a daily basis, despite continued incredulous whining from a dozen barefoot teenagers.On the fourth or fifth day, I was whisked off with no explanation to get an EEG (a test where they part sticker attached to wired attached to a machine on your head and listen to the electricity in your brain.) i was never told the results on that test or why i was getting it done. The lady washed my hair afterwards, which maybe up for the fact that i had to miss breakfast but didn’t make up for the strip searches before and after i left the building. At the very least it made G jealous i’d gotten to wash myself with anything other than the suspicious shower goo.

At some point i started routinely being woken up about a half-hour before everyone else to a nurse that would take my blood pressure. Then i would lay there, tired and confused, until we all had to wake up and get in taken as a group anyways. I asked about this every time they did it and was never given an answer as to why this was necessary. Honestly I think they might have just been messing with me.

We were supposed to refrain from asking for personal information about each other, and told that if we wrote down another patient's email or phone number whatever it was written on would be thrown away if found. Obviously we all worked around this; one girl secretly wrote names on her stomach an hour before she was processed for release, another kid wrote phone numbers in code. For me it was as simple as just remembering people’s last names so I could find them on facebook.

The hospital existed in a kind of twilight zone half in and half out of reality, where a crisis would occur every other hour but in the between times we were all bored to tears. Surrounded by such an intense atmosphere, staff trying to force an understanding of our lives being in our own hands, and we would just sit there, nodding our hands and coloring with our crayons. In a way the hospital was a sanctuary; no family to get into screaming matches with, no classmates to end up in a fist fight with. An environment meant to be scrubbed clean of all the stressors of day to day life. Visiting hours happened twice a week; kids with visitors would go down into the cafeteria while everyone else hung around in the lounge. Usually it was just me and M waiting down there for our families; the visits were always entirely uncomfortable. My parents wanted to be sure I was being treated right, and held my hand with a guilty sadness that I didn’t really want to acknowledge. Free time didn’t offer very many options. We would play cards and coloring mandalas printed out on copy paper. I finished coloring about six of the things before a decided it would no longer be a helpful part of my mental healing journey. Our card game of choice was called “BS,” initially because it was the only game everyone who wanted to play cards seemed to know. BS became a highlight of our day, because of M. The hospital had a lot of rules about how to conduct yourself. We weren’t supposed to yell, run around, or touch each other unnecessarily. We also weren’t supposed to curse. The name of the card game “BS” is short for “Bullshit.” the rules of the game are very simple--cards are passed out and someone decides to go first. In turns, everyone goes around, putting some cards face down on the pile and announcing what value those cards supposed were (someone put down two cards and says they had two jacks, etc.). Multiple cards have to be on the same value, if you think someone is lying, putting down more cards than they had to win faster, you point to them and call out that you think they’re lying. The challenged player turns over their cards, and depending on if they were telling the truth or not one of the players in penalized. Usually the thing you yell out when you challenge someone is “Bullshit,” but we weren’t allowed to say that and were told to call it something else. M thought that this was a personal affront to him and everything that he stood for as a person. Every single free time, two or three times a day, we got into the routine of playing this card game solely to see this scene play out. We would start out normally and do as we were told, politely pointing out lies. M wouldn’t say anything. We’d go on for as long as we could, before someone would make an obvious play, putting down three jacks after someone else put two or saying they had five aces. Then, ecstatic, M would heave air into his lungs, jumping up and pointing at the other player and yelling as loudly as he could: “BULLSHIT!!”

He stopped being scolded for it around the fifth time because most of the staff thought it was hilarious. We’d stop playing the game immediately after that, our point achieved, all of us having got what we came there for. We sat in the hall and shared stories about when each of us had lost our virginity, or the first time we’d been punched in the face. He giggled at Jared as he mimicked grasping at his bleeding nose. The nurses didn’t seem to find it as funny. There was a general, noticeable disconnect between us and them, even the nurses we all likes the most. Not really because of age, or because they were on the job. It was a feeling of disconnecting, not quite meshing with normal people, that all of us already went through life with separately-- and here, where we had community, that only intensified. For many of us this was the first time that our abnormalities had really been accepted and even admired by others. Being with the other kids in my ward was a time i felt freest, even in our restricted and controlled environment. None of them cares if i’d twitch and fidget, none of them minded my shiness or were caught off guard by the things I’d say. While the nurses would squint at me suspiciously if i repeated that they said or spiralled into babbling from our conversations, my new friends had all accepted these things by the third time they came around. I was allowed to express myself and allowed to not be able to, and it felt effortless to return the favor, because who was i to judge. Little outbursts, conversations that trailed off into blank stares, people needing to go walk around or cry or smack their seat five times before they sat on it, these things were all easy to look past. It was hard, however, not to notice the trouble staff still saw with them, and not to turn on them a bit for that. My friends accepted that i spoke weird, while the nurses would roll their eyes if i stammered. G would nod understandingly when I confided in her about the past while staff would react uncomfortably, their only help in offering to make police reports i didn’t want made. If I told the others i felt like hurting myself, they would show sympathy and talk with me about it; the one time I told a nurse i was “having urges,” like we were supposed to, I was put on finger foods. This tension culminated in one particular group session. A thin older woman replaced our usual freud impersonator, loitering outside to chat with the nurses as long as possible before having to deal with us. We whispered to each other; no one had met or before, or seen her around the building. That was probably a bad sign. She told us to call her Olivia, I think. Olivia was the worst therapist I have ever seen in action, and that should be frightening. She commanded direct eye contact between her and the patient speaking, and that no one else speak until directly spoken to (interruptions are one thing, but discussion is just about the entire point of doing therapy in a group.) She gave us all a question she assumed would be simple enough for our tiny broken minds. “What do you think is keeping you here?” I started echoing the hard way she said “What” and clamped my mouth shut as soon as possible. Usually I could keep the parrot in my head around doctors, with some effort; being open with my impulses around the others made it hard to start shutting up again. She took my weird reflex as volunteering to go first, and looked to me expectantly. Its honestly the most stupid and annoying question you will ever be asked in a therapy setting. I never heard it asked in a tone other than condescending, and it's never failed to be ignorant; ‘Why do you think you’re here?’ is therapist code for ‘why are you messing up your life, and can you convince me it isn’t on purpose?’ I had a routine for this question that seemed to be shared with the others; attempt to answer honestly, listing all the things in and out of your control, your life and environment and symptoms, the fact that you are a complex human being with feelings and a past. Then, try not to sigh at your doctor and list some rehearsed line about how you guess you’re just a disrespectful child acting out for attention. I ran through it as quickly as possible, feeling restless and trying not to avert my eyes from hers or change my position too much as she would impatiently observe every movement. Usually I’d have something in my hands to funnel my stress into, but this had to be the one time I forgot to take one of my hoarded stress toys from the pile in my room. Three more kids went after me, in the same routine, with varying degrees of sass. Then Olivia set her eyes on G. The rest of us shared a silent realization and looked to each other with worry, straightening up, thinking up ways to deflect Olivia onto something else. It was too late when G shrunk, laughing nervously and not meeting the womans eyes. G’s home situation was truly heartbreaking to hear retold. I love and respect her too much to retell the details of it here, but Olivia spent what seemed like unending years of punishment pulling this story out of the girl, giving us a demeaning hush if we objected. It was surreal and we didn’t know what to do, stuck in a room with one authority figure under threat and tranquilizers, watching the friend we all openly adored the most be forced to recount such a cruel thing in such complete detail. Obviously she was crying, most of us were too. J sat alone on a couch beside Olivia’s, hands in fists, and I focussed on my fear for him instead of my fear of him. I was sitting beside G, being shushed at every concerned whine that forced its way out, unable to think of an escape plan because I couldn’t turn off my ears. It was when she reached a specific point of the story, G cut herself off and let out a sob and my hand automatically went to her shoulder. Olivia barked out, in the coldest tone I think I have ever heard, “No Touching.” The room exploded, every one of us reacting at the same time with a vicious intensity. The others jumped to their feet, protectively leaning towards G. M pointed and yelled a few choice words hand selected for our doctor, R went for the door to get other staff, someone else just cried out at her hysterically. J lunged at the woman as G slid into my arms, looking away from what was happening and sobbing into my shirt. I put my hand on her hair half to comfort her and half to make sure she didn’t look back. A dozen staff members crowded around the doorway of the room but only three actually entered; I don’t remember how it felt watching my friend try to choke out an old woman and be pulled away by security, but the picture of it in my head is crystal clear. A nurse, Cecily, had her arms out low but wide, making a barrier between us and the gasping doctor. Everyone was yelling, us at staff and staff at us. The intern that helped me with french came to guide Olivia out of the room and M screeched that he was a traitor, throwing a stack on coloring sheets in their general direction. Olivia said something under her breath as she left-- something about how we were terrible demon children, or how ‘never in all her years in the field’ something like this had happened, I think I forgot because her words aren’t worth remembering. We locked eyes for a split second before the slid out of the room, and I muffled “Occupational Hazard” into G’s hair.

For an hour after we were forced to sit and have alcohol poisoning explained to us until Freud Jr. Appeared. We were happy to see him but still furious, all on the same side against Olivia once we were finally asked what had happened. Everyone recounted the same story, agreeing loudly with each other, stopping to comfort and apologize to G and ask if she was okay. We stayed in that room for another hour, giving our testimony and demanding J shouldn’t be punished, or more begging they didn’t send him back to juvenile. Freud nodded solemnly as he listened to us the way only he and Jesus and two of the nurses did, meaning at all. He told us he’d see what he could do. We didn’t see J for the rest of the day and come morning, Jesus was his new shadow. He was on some kind of reverse suicide watch, with all the restrictions, but the league of nameless psychiatrists and hospital directors had agreed or been swayed to agree that J’s only real crime was being physically violent with staff. After dinner that night, I asked if he could have my candy bar, and threw it in the trash when I was refused.

I was discharged after nine days on the ward, feeling no more or less suicidal, no more or less recovered, not more normal but not more different. I remember Rebecca calling me into the hallway to ask if i was afraid to go home. Of course I was, I told her! I was leaving friends I had connected to more in a week than I had with anyone in years. I was returning to a town of people like the staff, strangers that didn’t understand and only pretended to want to. I would be returning to my second month of high school, gone for the last week of September, though I’d barely showed up at all before then. I asked her what I had not to be worried about, but then dropped it, because I knew we were only having this conversation in case my answer alluded that my parents weren’t safe to go home to.

The goodbyes I was given before 8 o’clock lights out were short and sweet and always, turning our attention back and forth between them and “Oh Brother, Where Art Thou!” playing on the television. I only slept an hour through that night, feeling about everything I could think to. In the morning, I was given my shoes while the others were lined up, in the middle of Checks. I waved silently at them and heard M call out “Bring a better book next time!” Before Jesus closed the double-doors behind us.

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