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aggressive-positivity-network · 3 years

Note

Do you have any autistic Scout headcanons? :P

Hell yeah!

I’ve actually thought about this a lot. A lot of people might think that Scout has ADHD, but I think he either has both ADHD and autism or just autism.

This is both because labeling Scout as having just ADHD is kind of a low-hanging fruit, and I also want to explore his symptoms a little more. So, in a word, I do, and thank you for asking about them!

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

Scout’s Spectrum:

So, where exactly does Scout fall on the autism spectrum?

First of all, he probably has both ADHD and autism, but wasn’t diagnosed with the latter until much later. This means that some of his symptoms were taken into account, but not all.

The ones that were paid attention to ramped up out of control, and the ones he didn’t hear about were stuffed away.

His ADHD symptoms include impulsiveness, need for stimulation, hyperfixations, forgetfulness, and insomnia; his autism symptoms include trouble with social skills, stimming, near inability to remember names and faces, lack of eye contact, hyperfixations again, and sensory processing issues, especially with noise and touch.

He used to have a lot of meltdowns when he was younger, usually about wearing new clothes and the amount of noise his eight brothers generated.

However, he was teased and pushed into masking nearly all the time, and made his whole personality about his ADHD, since that was what everyone accepted.

As he got older, he usually wrote off any autistic tendencies as either his ADHD or just “little habits” of his.

During his middle school years, he used energy drinks to bounce back from being exhausted every day after school. This would work, except those energy drinks would upset his ADHD, and would make it much harder to focus on even basic conversation.

After a while, he got such bad grades and had such a hard time making friends that Scout just stopped going to school altogether.

Baseball helped his focus, and the quick movement and thinking made a lot of sense to him. He never had to wait very long for the next development, and the instant gratification and community it provided supplemented what he never got at school.

With sports on his side, he rarely ever drank any energy drinks (the coach would never let them on the field), and he drank bucketfuls of water during every meet and game. Those teenage years were probably the healthiest he ever was.

However, with the amount of rumbles he got into with his brothers, and the turf wars that constantly raged in those neighborhoods, it was only a matter of time before his crime caught up with him.

After his first incarceration, he was booted from the team, which led to a downward spiral of unhealthy coping mechanisms - which included fighting someone tooth and nail whenever he could.

Even if he lost the fight, it not only catered to his impulsive nature and impatience, but also gave him roughly the same sense of friendship and camaraderie that baseball had.

One thing led to another, and by the time Mann Co. found him, Scout was a monster in hand to hand (and bat to bat) and had racked up quite the criminal record.

A perfect mercenary, ripe for the picking.

On The Team:

Scout very quickly adopted the “stupid, scrappy Boston boy” persona.

It was the only thing that made sense, and it kept him from having to try too hard in both the battlefield and socially.

Besides, that meant that he could be as silly, forgetful, and fidgety as he wanted, and no one would bat an eye.

And if he ever needed to take a break from the team, he figured everyone would appreciate the quiet.

The only thing that ever gave him away was him occasionally dissociating right when battle began, especially if the day had been stressful.

It was usually how he calmed down after a fight when he was young, but now he sometimes slid into that state when he was overwhelmed.

However, a yell from one of his teammates would usually snap him out of it.

Medic noticed this pretty early on, and wanted to look more into it, but Scout would keep making excuses not to get a mental examination.

He would blame it on zoning out, being tired, drinking too many Bonks - whatever it took for people to stop asking.

And, eventually, they did.

Even Medic stopped asking after a while - he couldn’t get a thing out of Scout.

This “try so little that when you do try it’s above average” charade worked for a long time. In fact, it went on for so long that Scout forgot how much he was actually capable of.

He began to internalize the stupidity, the exacerbation, the many comments on how dumb he was, everything.

The only time he ever gave his all was on the battlefield - moving fast, memorizing strategies, doing complicated footwork, knowing exactly how much force it took to crush someone’s skull with his bat.

That was one of the only things that he felt good doing, the only thing he could really work on without him being “found out.”

That and drawing, though he never showed the actual pieces to anyone. It was all stick figures and crooked lines with everyone else.

Sometimes, though, Scout wouldn’t be paying attention and he’d let something slip.

One time, Engineer was looking for his screwdriver, and couldn’t seem to find it anywhere.

Scout, not looking up from his comic, said, “Under the couch cushion, hard hat.”

Engineer bent down and reached into the couch, and his hand came back with his red and yellow striped screwdriver.

“Well I’ll be damned…”

At first Engineer thought Scout had just hid it, but Scout explained, still not paying attention:

“Last time we went out on th’ field, you had it on your belt, like always. But I was walkin’ by your workshop, you were usin’ a quarter to tighten a screw or somethin’. Your screwdriver had to be somewhere between the battlefield and your workshop. Engie, you’re like freakin’ clockwork. Every day, after a fight, you go to the kitchen, get a water, go to that couch, between the second and third cushion from the left, and sit there. Then ya go back to the fridge to get lunch and a beer, and ya go to your workshop until somebody needs you for somethin’. Your back loop in your tool belt is looser than all the others, ‘cause the screwdriver pulls against it when you sit down. The shank was probably in between the two cushions, and when you got up, it fell in. Demo, Pyro, and Heavy all sit on the second or third cushion at some point, so it got shimmied down. And since that’s the only time you sat down, ‘cause you woulda heard it if it dropped on the floor, and I…uh…”

“I’ll be damned,” Engie repeated, and felt the back tool belt loop. It was indeed loose.

Scout finally looked up, and realized what had happened.

“Uh, uh - l-lucky guess, huh Engie?”

Engineer squinted behind his goggles. “Yeah…real lucky…”

What ensued was Engie trying to get Scout to turn into a B.L.U Spy by chasing him around with his wrench. After a few good hits, though, Engineer saw that it was the teammate he knew and loved.

“But…how didja…?”

Scout threw his hand up, the other rubbing the back of his head where he’d been hit.

“I toldja Engie! Lucky guess! Jesus!”

Ever since then, Scout chose his words more carefully.

The Breakdown:

But, unfortunately, Scout could not pretend forever.

There was one week where Scout’s assignment count was so high that, if he wasn’t in a fight, he was on a mission.

Usually, Pauling wouldn’t trust him with so much, but no one else was available - or willing - to do the jobs.

Even when she was getting concerned about the amount of hours Scout was putting in, he blew it off.

“It’s no sweat, Miss Pauling! Their practically givin’ me the pay day. Those yahoos don’t know who they’re messin’ with.”

Over time, though, Scout had a harder and harder time staying focused and alert.

He’d sleep through alarms, stare off into space, zone out completely during briefing (not that he didn’t already do that), have a hard time hearing people in battle - even through his headset - ignore Spy’s taunts, and even forget to bring his bat onto the field.

Nothing seemed to help - Bonk!, warming up, stretching, cold showers, setting reminders, nothing.

And the team was starting to notice.

At first it was with the regular frustration - maybe Scout was just being lazy.

But as time went on, and his condition grew worse, their scorn turned into worry. They implored Medic to do something, but he had no way of getting through to Scout.

The doctor wasn’t above simply sedating him and dragging him into his lab for a check-up. However, he had a feeling that this was more than a physical issue.

The worst came when Scout was doing a routine battle with the B.L.U team on the field.

Everything had started out okay - he even remembered to bring his bad this time - but suddenly, everything was ear-splittingly loud.

He couldn’t focus on more than one sound at once, much less communicate the best course of action to his teammates.

He ended up hiding in a dilapidated shed, in a dusty, dark corner, somewhere between zoning out and panicking.

Scout’s head was in his knees, he was shaking, close to crying, when a sudden splitting of wood roused him.

A B.L.U Soldier had kicked his way into the shed, either having heard Scout or to hide from the other team.

Scout was stunned at first, but something of a blind terror filled him. He picked up his bat, screamed, and started pummeling the surprised Soldier.

At some point, he threw aside his bat and began to swing punch after punch, just like he did in his gang days when he had felt overwhelmed. Still screaming. Still crying.

By the time Scout had dissolved into a rocking, sobbing mess, the Soldier was long dead, with a gigantic pool of blood staining Scout’s shoes.

No one even knew where Scout was until a few hours later, when Spy heard a faint note of “Sexbomb” coming from Scout’s Walkman.

Scout had crawled into the shed’s framework, between the outer and inner wall, and was playing a specific verse over and over and over again, looking like he was on another plane of existence.

Spy immediately called for Medic, who had to lift Scout out by the underarms through a jagged hole in the side of the building. By then, the fight was over, so they could take him directly to the lab.

Medic’s Evaluation:

“I’m guessing zhis is your first mental breakdown?”

“Mental…doc, I ain’t crazy. Wait, you’re not goin’ to put me in a straight jacket, are ya?”

“If you’re not doing anyzhing later.”

Medic started to laugh, but quickly realized this might not be the time.

“No, Scout, everyvun has a mental breakdown at least vunce in their lives. It’s a…how do you say…a vake-up call of sorts. Vhen your body has no other options left.”

“Whaddya mean?”

“For zhe past few months, you health, both physical and mental, has been deteriorating. You eat less. You talk less. Your attacks are lackluster. You have bags under your eyes. You flinch vhen somevun yells for you. You stare off into space. Your routine, vhich usually has at least some changes, has become stringent, as if you can’t possibly expend any more energy into extra activities. You have avoided Demoman on zhe battlefield, even though you usually use him for cover.”

Medic flipped through his notes.

“I have pages and pages of your decline. However, as a scientist, I believe it is caused by zhe same source. And, though I usually respect my patient’s right to privacy vhen it comes to these sorts of matters, I believe you’ve been keeping something from me. Something that I should know as your general practitioner…your doctor.”

Scout shrugged, already shutting out the conversation.

Medic sighed.

“Maybe I tried to talk to you about zhis too soon. After all, you’ve just had a very sudden and exhausting episode. But…perhaps…”

Medic took a sheet of printer paper from his clipboard and a spare pen from his pocket.

“…zhere is an alternative.”

Scout was still unresponsive, but Medic continued.

“Zhere is a patient in my vaiting room vis a metal pole through the chest. It vill take me at least an hour to properly remove it, and a few minutes more to heal zhe area. Vhile I do zhat, vhy don’t you draw how you feel?”

Medic smiled.

“I know how much it grounds you.”

It wasn’t until Medic left that Scout actually picked up the pen, but he began drawing immediately.

For the first time in a while, he wasn’t trying to hide his strokes or scratch up the cleaner lines. No more stick figures. No more pretending.

Five minutes later, he was fully engrossed.

Medic started to walk in at one point, but, seeing how relaxed Scout was, decided to give him a few more minutes.

He deserved it.

#tf2 #tf2 scout #scout tf2 #tf2 headcanons #headcanon requests #tf2 mercs #autism #autistic community #autistic culture #red team #blu team #valve games

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spaceskam · 4 years

Text

don’t let me die while i’m like this

a dust & ashes inspired fic that turned into simply a Pierre Bezukhov inspired fic for @matchtheminrenown that has been such a long time coming you have probably forgotten so surprise. However, if you read the warning list and want something lighter, I can absolutely do that for you lol

ao3

Warning: depression, alcohol, suicidal ideation/intrusive thoughts, car accident, I don’t know if this counts as dissociation but it’s similar, there’s a happy ending I promise

Alex was happy. Wasn't he?

His eyes drifted from the blank ceiling over to the man in bed beside him. Forrest looked peaceful, his face smushed into the pillow. Michael slept on his back, but Forrest slept on his stomach. The first few times they shared a bed, Alex would regularly make sure he was still breathing and hadn't suffocated himself on the pillow. He was always fine.

For a moment, Alex thought about rolling over and waking him up slow. He thought about starting his day with languid kisses and getting some of his morning energy through drinking in Forrest rather than coffee. But Forrest slept on his stomach and somehow waking him up while he was face down seemed too hard.

Instead, Alex grabbed his crutches and hauled himself out of bed. His mind was a little blurry and he seemed to move on autopilot rather than actual desire to start his day. He braced himself against the door of the fridge as he leaned down to get his cold brew pitcher and then reached up to grab a cup. By the time he poured half a cup, he decided a little kahlúa wouldn't hurt.

He's stirring in milk when Forrest appears, lines from the pillow case imprinted on his face. Alex remembered thinking that was cute before, but it didn't stir that same feeling in him. This must be the mundanity of having a steady relationship. He just figured it took longer than three months for that to kick in.

"Morning," Forrest said, yawning and walking past him to make his own coffee. He eyed the bottle of kahlúa, but he didn't say anything about. Or, not directly. "Are you working today?"

"Yeah," Alex said, tightening the lid on his cup and feeding the metal straw through the little hole.

"You need help?" he asked.

"No," Alex said simply.

He slid the cup to the opposite side of the counter and used his crutches to walk there. Then he grabbed the cup and leaned as far as he could to put the cup on the window sill before walking to the window. Then he leaned and moved the cup to the slightly oddly placed table in between the kitchen and living room, then to the back of the couch, then he was all good. It was a system he'd perfected.

Alex sunk into the couch and stared at the TV. He wondered if Donna Reed was on this early but couldn’t convince himself to check. Instead, he sipped on his coffee slowly, allowing himself to zone out whole waiting for his second alarm to go off. He zoned out most days lately. Alex decided it wasn't necessarily a bad thing. Maybe he was struggling to be interested in anything and maybe he was on autopilot most days, but that was better than being sad. He'd choose that over sadness any day.

“Are you okay, Alex?” Forrest asked. Alex blinked a few times and saw Forrest settled into the other side of the couch. He didn’t remember him sitting there.

“Yeah,” Alex said and he meant it. He was fine. Forrest nodded slowly and settled into the couch.

Alex stared at him. He was attractive, objectively, and somewhere inside Alex found him to still be someone he liked to kiss sometimes, but waking up to him in the morning started feeling less and less like something that brought him joy. But he’d rather have someone over no one any day.

“Maybe we can have sort of a date night tonight? I’ll make dinner, we can watch a movie, eat ice cream,” Forrest suggested. Alex sipped his coffee.

“Okay.”

His second alarm went off to tell him to get ready for work just as he finished drinking his coffee. Forrest offered to clean his cup for him as he was getting up and Alex said his thanks before heading back to the bedroom. Again, he fell into autopilot as he got ready for the day. Prosthetic, brush teeth, fatigues, fix hair, stretch. He was pretty sure he’d missed a step, already not really remembering participating in it, but his toothbrush was damp and his hair was fine.

“Alex,” Forrest said cautiously as he headed towards the door, “Don’t forget your jacket.”

Sure enough, when he looked down, he’d forgotten his uniform jacket. He went back to get it.

Driving was more difficult than he remembered. His mind kept wandering to nowhere, his eyes getting distracted or unfocusing and he’d have to make sure he wasn’t speeding or going to slow or swerving into other people’s lanes. He shook his head, trying to shake away the cloudy feeling and doing his best to just focus. It wasn’t fucking working.

Alex thought about pulling over and getting more coffee to see if that would help. He thought about calling in sick so he could just stop fucking driving. He didn’t really want to deal with anyone today and this was just the icing on the cake. Could his brain get any more fucking annoying than when it didn’t want to listen?

As he approached a clogged four-way intersection and, just for a moment, not for the first time, wondered what would happen if he didn’t stop. What if he just let go of the wheel. What if he just closed his eyes. But he didn’t. He shook the thoughts along with the fog out of his mind.

His phone rang as he sat at the red light and he looked down, seeing an incoming call from Michael Guerin. Which, in itself was weird. He didn’t call. Michael Guerin kept his space from Alex, always carrying that invisible 10-foot pole to make sure he didn’t get too close. Alex had cried once about it, but he hadn’t cried in a over a week now about anything. Progress.

“Hello?” he asked.

“Alex,” Michael breathed. Alex remembered a time that used to make his whole body revive itself. “What are you doing today?”

“Work.”

“Well, what time do you get off? I need your help with something,” he said. Alex stared forward, his heart beating at a stagnant and anxiety-ridden tempo. Weeks Michael hadn’t talked to him. Weeks Michael had avoided him whenever Alex had been forced to play nice during all the bullshit he put out there. Weeks of it until Michael needed help.

And somehow Alex couldn’t even be angry.

“I’m tired,” Alex said, letting off the break as the light turned green. Michael was quiet for a second.

“Well, like, later, I mean,” Michael said awkwardly.

Alex furrowed his eyebrows as he watched a car on another side of the intersection coming in at full speed. He ignored them, expecting them to stop like most people did,

“Yeah, I--”

They didn’t.

Alex woke up with the worst headache imaginable.

“Hey,” Kyle said, looming over him with a warm smile. Alex squinted at him and closed his eyes again, trying to subdue the pain. “Are you in pain?”

“My head,” Alex groaned.

“Okay, give me one second, I’ll tell them to get you something. I would do it myself, but, you know, conflict of interest and--”

“Kyle.”

“Sorry,” he said, pausing for a moment, “I was worried about you.”

Alex sighed, opening his eyes again. Kyle had turned off the lights and closed the curtains so it was a little bit better. He sat up, his body a little sore and his head still aching, but overall he was fine.

“I’m fine,” Alex said. Kyle scoffed, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Yeah, I know,” he said, “Your car was totalled, Alex. That car smashed into your passenger side and pushed the driver’s side to smash into the car beside you. You were literally trapped in a giant metal sandwich and somehow the worst thing that happened was you hit your head. It knocked you out in time to make your body completely relax and I’m pretty sure that’s what saved you from worse damage and they’re keeping you on watch just in case you have a brain bleed we didn’t see in the first scan, but that was some miracle shit, Alex.”

Alex’s eyes widened and he looked down at himself. He didn’t even see a scratch. What the hell?

“You scared the shit out of all of us,” Kyle said, reaching out to gently rub his thumb over what was probably a massive bump on the side of his forehead. Alex swallowed hard as guilt filled his system. Yeah, this wasn’t his fault, but it very well could’ve been. “Guerin called us freaking out.”

“Is he here?” Alex asked. Kyle nodded.

“Everyone is, but I told them to give you some space first because I figured you wouldn’t react well to a room full of people.”

“Yeah,” Alex breathed, licking his lips. Kyle still had that grim little look on his face, still touching the bump on his head.

“When he called saying something happened to you, my mind jumped to... just not good places,” he admitted, meeting Alex’s eyes, “Are you okay, Alex? Something has been going on with you and I guess I didn’t realize just how many warning signs you’ve been giving off until I heard you were hurt and I immediately assumed you did it to yourself. I’ve been a shitty friend and I’m gonna be there for you more.”

“You’re not a shitty friend,” Alex said. Kyle rolled his eyes, his hand dropping down a little to rest on the side of Alex’s neck.

“I noticed there was something wrong and I didn’t talk to you. I’m talking to you now and I’m not going back. So, tell me, are you okay? Is this a good excuse to look into adjusting medication or something? Tell me what’s going on or what you need and let me help because I never want to feel like I did when I got that call, okay?” Kyle said. Alex nodded easily and moved in for a hug.

Kyle clung onto him as tight as his body would allow and Alex reveled in it. It seemed to be the first time in awhile he actually felt something. It made Alex realize that maybe numb wasn’t better than sadness after all.

How long had he spent just allowing things to happen? When did he go from bad to worse? He couldn’t remember. Well, fuck that. He’d survived something that should’ve killed him. This was his second chance. Or, third chance. Fourth chance? It didn’t matter. He’d gotten out unscathed and he was thankful. He didn’t want to die when he couldn’t feel anything and didn’t have the things he wanted. He wanted to feel something, everything. He was ready to force himself out of his rut.

Alex squeezed Kyle and pulled back a little, resting the non-bumped side of his head against Kyle’s. Despite the tears in the doctor’s eyes, he smiled right back at him.

“I’ve been a little numb lately,” Alex admitted, “But I’m done with that. Done wasting my life being numb. I’m going to do good things. Marie Kondo my way through life. Does it bring me joy? No, so we change it. Starting with Forrest.”

“Whoa, what?” Kyle asked, pulling back, “You’re gonna dump Forrest?”

“Yeah,” Alex breathed. Saying it out loud made him feel even better. He was putting in effort, moving forward. It felt good. “I almost died and, if I had, I would’ve been in a relationship with someone who doesn’t really inspire me to feel something. He’s a great guy, I just need something...”

“More like Guerin?” Kyle guessed. Alex rolled his eyes.

“Fuck Guerin. If he wants me, he can fight for me,” Alex decided, “But yes.”

Kyle laughed and let his hands fall off of Alex.

“Well, whatever you want to do, I’m here for you,” Kyle said, “And if you’re ever feeling numb like that, just tell me. I know you probably think no one cares, but we do. I do. I’m here to listen. I love you, man, and I want you around as long as possible.”

“I love you too,” Alex said.

It was the first time in a long time he’d said those words to anyone, romantic or platonic. He quite liked that it was Kyle who got to hear them. It made him smile. It made him feel good. He was never going back to feeling numb. He was going to do whatever he could to keep this feeling in tact.

“Now when can I leave?”

Alex was happy. Wasn’t he?

His eyes drifted from the blank ceiling over to the empty space in bed beside him. It’d been a week since he broke up with Forrest. He’d taken it well enough, he said that he’d seen in coming and would like to be friends, but he needed a little space and Alex agreed happily.

And he’d been happy. He didn’t have a concussion, he bought a new car, he went to work ready for the day, he went for drinks with Kyle, he went through files with Michael again (after an apology, of course). He was doing better, so much better he didn’t even need to take his meds anymore. Or, he thought so.

Today he was back to feeling rough. He’d been doing his damnedest to get out of bed and he was struggling. He knew a bad day would come eventually, but so soon? Did he have to plummet so soon? He was trying so hard.

Tears sprung to his eyes and he took a deep breath, willing them away. No. He refused. He was going to be happy. He was moving forward.

He forced himself to get out of bed and it helped when he didn’t think about it. And he moved to the kitchen to make his coffee, shutting his brain down as he allowed himself to swing back into autopilot. It was easier that way.

His phone rang as he sat on the couch and he sighed, answering it without looking.

“Hey,” Michael said on the other end. For a little while after his wreck, Michael’s voice had brought him so much happiness. They would look over files, tease each other, laugh. Two days ago, they play fought and ended up a giggling mess like they were teenagers. Two days ago. How had he ricocheted so quickly? Because today the sweet sound of his voice drained Alex of his energy.

“What?” Alex asked, swirling his coffee. He couldn’t finish it. It was half empty and he couldn’t finish it.

“You wanna come have breakfast? I can make omelets and some coffee, we can watch a little Donna Reed,” Michael offered, that tone in his voice that was usually a little tempting. Alex wanted to want to go, but he was tired and had more important things to handle.

“I have work,” Alex said.

“Tomorrow then?” Michael suggested, still not dissuaded.

“I’m tired.”

Michael was silent for a few seconds, drawing it out as long as possible. It started to make Alex feel a little sick. He wanted to apologize and say he would come in the morning even though he didn’t want to. Before he could, though, Michael started talking again.

“Okay,” Michael agreed, “Okay, yeah, that’s fine. Get some rest and I’ll see you soon.”

“Okay.”

Alex held his phone to his ear long after Michael hung up.

Kyle was standing by Alex’s new car when he got off of work.

“What are you doing here?” Alex asked. He was too tired to deal with this right now. He just wanted to go home and crawl into bed and stay there for a few years.

Kyle held up Alex’s weekly pill box. He stared blankly at it, not really understanding how or why he had them. Kyle shook his head and held them out alongside a bottle of water.

“Michael called me, said something was up. You can imagine my surprise when I saw you picked around your antidepressants the last week,” he said. Alex stared at him and reluctantly accepted the offering. “You can’t just go off them, Alex.”

“I was doing fine,” Alex said, reluctantly fishing the pill out of the little compartment.

“Yeah, because you were taking them and because you were riding that high,” Kyle said. Alex shrugged, staring at the pill in his palm. Was it normal to stare at it and feel like failing? Tears burned in his eyes and he blinked them away. Kyle’s boots crunched against the ground as he stepped into Alex’s space. “It’s normal to have good days and bad days, okay? Don’t beat yourself up.”

“I thought I was better,” Alex said, shaking his head as a new wave of tears hit him, “I mean I’ve been doing my best to make myself happy, but nothing’s working. I don’t understand why I’m like this.”

“Alex,” Kyle said, his hand gently gripping Alex’s chin and making him look at him, “This shit isn’t a linear process. You are doing better. The way you’re feeling right now? Yeah, sure, it’s worse than you were a couple days ago, but is it worse than you were three weeks ago?”

“I don’t even remember three weeks ago.”

“That proves my point,” Kyle insisted, “Just take the pill and let’s go home, okay?”

Reluctantly, Alex did what he said and let Kyle pull him into a hug. It wasn’t as uplifting as the last hug Kyle gave him felt, but it was as strong and stable as always. Alex loved him for it.

They made an appointment to see a therapist on the way home.

Alex was content.

His eyes drifted from the blank ceiling over to the man in bed beside him. Kyle slept on his side with his mouth open and his arms and legs splayed out like a starfish. He took up most of the bed and Alex had woken up more than once because Kyle had unintentionally pushed him to the edge. Alex would kick him until he either moved or woke up with a whiny ‘why are you kicking me?’. It’d be funny if it wasn’t annoying.

This wasn’t a permanent arrangement, but it was one that, all sleeping habits aside, Alex appreciated. It took him a little while to accept that maybe having someone around him to be a rock before he could be his own was important. Alex had spent so much time thinking he needed to be self-sufficient that he hadn’t realized how important a good support system was. And Kyle was one hell of a support system.

On days when Alex felt good, he was there to remind him he still needed to take his medication and still needed to go to therapy because that’s how you stayed feeling good. Whenever he was feeling bad, Kyle would manage to find that perfect balance between babying him through it and getting him to cope on his own. It kept him from shutting down while still allowing him to process it. On days that were in the middle, Kyle was still just there and his friend. He liked it.

There was also just a lot of understanding that being content most days in life wasn’t a failure, it was the goal. No one could be happy every day. Content was okay. It was better than being numb. Anything was better than being numb.

Alex didn’t get out of bed until there was knocking at the door. He didn’t groan or have to battle with himself if he should just ignore it, he simply got up and went to the door. He didn’t have to think about it. Progress.

When he opened it, Michael Guerin was standing there with grocery bags.

“What are you doing here?” Alex asked. He hid the fact that he was happy to see him. They weren’t together, but they were working on navigating what that could one day be like. Communication and dedicating time to each other were two of their most important things right now.

“I’m making you breakfast. Well, us and Kyle breakfast. Omelets and coffee,” Michael said, pushing his way through, “And guess what I brought?”

“What?” Alex asked, following him into the kitchen. Michael dug through one of the grocery bags before holding up a CD.

“Season 1 of The Donna Reed Show was in the discount bin for $3. Now you have your own copy,” Michael said, flashing a smile. Alex smiled right back, sitting down at the counter.

“Thank you,” he said.

“No problem,” Michael said, turning back to find a pan to start cooking with.

It wasn’t long before Kyle got up as well and Michael poured him a cup of coffee. It was nice having them both here. No animosity, no jealousy, they were just there for no reason. No reason other than that they wanted to. Because they liked being around him and they loved him. This was contentment. This was the goal. Michael at the stove and complaining at Kyle for putting too much shit into his coffee. It felt like home.

And, although he wasn’t in the best of moods, Alex smiled.

#alex manes fic #kylex brotp #malex fic #alex manes #michael guerin #kyle valenti #rnm fic #my fic #no hate to forrest #full hate to myself because i'm gonna be late for work becuase i wanted to finish this lol

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ifthearmorfitsarchived · 3 years

Text

Huh.. since we’re discussing mental illness and common traits (which is never a bad thing really, the more you know the better you’ll understand yourself and your symptoms, the symptoms of others... the better you can help those understand yourself better and likewise), I barely ever discuss mine unless its with close friends of mine since of the... stigma with it, which I hate by the way, but what are you going to do? The most you can do is educate, but people are still going to assume things based on media and things they’ve been told by others (aka misinformation).

Anyways, I have Schizophrenia as well as some other mental illness, but this is the one I barely talk about because of the stigma that comes with it like I said. As soon as you even mention it, people automatically assume you’re dangerous, you’re insane and should be locked up, you shouldn’t be around me or others who have this condition and are going to kill or harm someone. That isn’t the case. In my case, more often then not, I feel the need to hurt myself more then others when I get overwhelmed and such. I never ever want to hurt anyone. The idea alone of hurting someone? Of causing someone emotional or even physical damage severally wounds me. I don’t like it. I don’t want it. That is why I like to make people feel good and happy. I like to help others whenever I can. I didn’t always use to be like this.. I use to be spoiled, cold, harsh, basically a total asshole, but I changed. I’m not sure why I changed, but I’m glad I did. I guess it was because maybe some defining points in my life that made me realize, I can’t keep behaving like this. I need to be better and I will be better. I think the thing I was trying to avoid the most was that I never wanted to end up being like my mother, who... I won’t be discussing, but let’s just say she was not a good person to me or some other members of my family. That’s all.

Some things I’ve noticed over the years but never really became aware of until I started watching videos and intensely looking into what I have was that, everyone may have the same disorder but not all the same afflictions...? Does that make sense? Like some will hears voices, which I do (most of it is static and sometimes I hear more voices then one, overlapping sometimes to the point I can’t understand what is being said to me, sometimes I’ll hear a distinct voice clear as day; it differs) and some don’t ever hear voices. Some see shadows or figures (which again I do, but I’ve got so use to it, it doesn’t really bother me anymore... somewhat), some suffer from dissociation (which I do constantly so if you’re ever talking to me and I just seem like I’m zoning out, not entirely paying attention to what you’re saying I could be dissociating or my short attention span kicked in, it’s never because I’m not interested in what you have to say NEVER), some suffer from hallucinations (which can be from seeing figures to seeing other things that are not there but our brain wants us to believe it’s there, it’s trying to convince its there even when in reality it’s not), some suffer from paranoia (this is a big one for me and I mean BIG, because of this I have such a hard time trusting others, opening up to them and telling them my issues or just speaking to them honestly and I hate that but that’s just how I am and been for quite some time (this could also stem from my Social Anxiety as well but paranoia is also a part of it I guess)), some have disorganized speech (which again I do have; I stutter, I repeat myself like I go in circles sometimes without realizing it, I talk to myself constantly sometimes without even knowing I am, I have trouble saying certain words, I sometimes slur my words or sentences together).

Some other things I’ve noticed is that some people will carry around objects that have a texture to them. It can be soft, crinkly... What-have-you. I myself carrying soft objects on my keychain whenever I go out and sometimes I begin to touch and or pet them aggressively whenever I get overwhelmed or even when I just need something to busy my hands. I also sometimes will latch on to people and start caressing their shirts, the things they’re wearing, but mostly their shirts... I don’t do this with anyone really except for my father and a very dear close friend of mine because they understood why I did this. My father doesn’t really, but he lets me do it anyway because he’s trying to understand. I mostly do this in crowded places when it’s just.. there’s too many people around in a small place or something like that. If no one is around, I’ll take one of my objects and do this to them or I’ll feel my jacket, hoodie, what-have-you. I also will sometimes erratically not be able to sit or stand still. Meaning I can be standing in line or somewhere and I’ll begin to fidget like my legs will jerk, arms twitch, fingers dance, look around the room constantly. It doesn’t mean I’m impatient, but just that I’m uncomfortable and want to leave the place immediately but can’t since I have to be there or something. Noises sometimes also bother me, especially if they’re repeating ones. I once tossed my therapist’s clock against a wall because it was bothering me that badly and I couldn’t take its constant ticking anymore. I apologized profusely afterwards of course and they just tried to help me calm down. I felt bad though because I think I scared them, which.. I didn’t mean to. It’s odd though because I’m fine with the sound of my fan going, but ticking can set me off or hearing the beating of my heart. Hearing the beating of someone else’s heart is soothing though...

I’m not sure why I wrote this and I apologize it’s so long, but I do hope you all continue to discuss such things and learn more about each other and yourselves. It’s important to, not just for others but yourself as well. Educate them. Educate yourself. Just because you have this disorder it doesn’t define you... It’s just something you have to deal with, but it doesn’t mean you’re broken or should be discarded or anything like that. You should be loved, just like anyone else who doesn’t have these conditions. You’re just as valued as anyone else. Remember that. Remember that always.

#﹙ OOC ﹚ Oᴘᴏ sᴘᴇᴀᴋs #LONG POST;#((My bad.. I just felt like writing / speaking about things and it got out of hand whoops))#((Let me know if I need to tag this with anything though))

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paganchristian · 3 years

Photo

Well, I like this picture of my cat, with his tongue curled, so that’s why I’m posting it. Coincidentally I just noticed that there’s some bucket with a picture of it looks like the three wise men, in the corner behind him. I don’t have a ready interpretation of that as having any significance, but maybe it would if I tried, to find it. Or just found meaning whether it was “meant to be”, regardless. And when I am analyzing things for possible signs, I look at all kinds of random details. That is just one potential one that pops out at me. Sometimes I will analyze or go into meditative states and see what signs seem to pop out at me from whatever and wherever, or from particular things, that seem to be more fluid and abundant in the signs and feelings that they give to me. Like, pictures, personal photographs of ours, that is one thing. Anyway, ..

The tongue-curling, well, I call it that but maybe it’s something else, not quite a curling tongue, but it’s cute. Curling your tongue, it reminds me of childhood as my sister could curl her tongue but I could only partially curl mine and it seemed as if she was happy that she could do that better than me, if I recall correctly. Lol

Anyway the silliness of making faces, and again here we are at childhood themed stuff, a recurrent theme for me.

I am thinking of that because to me, it needs to be reminded of again and again and again because I keep on veering into the zone of worrying and thinking too Much! I can worry again, what of my salvation or Hell, I can worry, what about my family and loved ones and my daughter’s salvation or Hell, and I can worry about all of the things that I think that these Christians in these groups I’m drawn to might think.. I can worry how they might condemn or argue or debate over this or that with me, if they were to tell me how they saw my life, my thoughts, my feelings and my experiences, my interpretations and so on. I can think of all of the taboos I break that might send me to Hell in their eyes. I can think about all of the criticisms I would make that might make me a big problem to them, an outsider, intruding, stirring up conflict. But I can think of how I seem to need to express my problems I have with the things they do, because if I don’t’ do that then I feel repressed, self-destructive. I need to talk about the harm that these things are causing my heart and mind and soul, so that I can think it out. In the secluded, sequestered cloister of my own soul and my heart and my prayers to God, there is not enough conscious articulate awareness. I am trapped when I keep things there.

But even these people say you need a spiritual guide, to tell all to, when you have conflict and confusion. So they admit the need to talk things out. But I will not do that, that is, have such a one-on-one spiritual guide as they say you need, for one, because I’m not even a member of any kind of church, where you would find your guide, nor do I feel I should be a member of the church either, because I don’t agree with all of the rules or beliefs that they require, and nor follow the rules they demand enough to belong there. And I also don’t need a spiritual guide because I feel like it is very confining, and repressive, suffocating and controlling, the role it puts you in, if you have to depend on one person for all that, and if that person doesn’t really understand you and respect you and care about you and have compassion for you, if your situation goes way beyond what they can comprehend and know how to deal with, then you are likely to be judged, given wrong advice, given simplistic answers. I don’t need that yet again, as my weird situation has over and over again been the source of great pain when I tried to seek others’ input, and they wrongly judged and wrongly advised me, and if you place all of that pressure and expectation upon one solitary person, it’s way too much build-up and commitment to someone who you’re just assuming will understand and be able to care for you in the way you need, and not actually harm you instead, as everyone else has done. Some helped me, but mostly everyone has harmed me as much as they helped or harmed me way more than they helped me.

Anyway, I just want to forget all this feeling that I need to think and worry about that, any of that. Can’t I just think about practical obvious real world grounded life? Of course, and I think that is really what God wants me to do right now. I have health problems and my family does too, and I can address them to the best of my ability. I can try to think of how to connect to family members so that neither one of us is as lonely and isolated, and so that I will hopefully take small steps to learn, bit by bit, how to be more social, so that I can also have that skill for whenever I might need it in my life in the future, and I’m not completely isolated from every person who is not in my immediate family. I can teach my daughter the social habits and mannerisms and views and skills I gain. So that she will learn how to make the most of these things and not just be one more isolated, self-absorbed, lonely person who cannot find any way to connect to others. Who can find what to appreciate and find what there is in common that is truly relatable and worthwhile. Not that awkward feeling of forced and painful seeking solace and validation in others, when it’s not authentic and not true. Not that because that leads to a worse kind of loneliness that just being alone, oftentimes. But in spite of all the differences and the lack of ability to relate, still being able to find something that makes interacting worthwhile and meaningful and rewarding so we’re not so totally alone in this world, and so we have more than just our immediate family, who after all might not always be there one day.

What is it that makes me feel like I need to settle all these debates and these crises and dramas and threats regarding religion and spirituality? I think it’s only the voices of echoed memories of things I’ve read and heard and been told, that others have said, don’t do this, you can’t do this, you must do this, or you will be lost, you are wrong, you will go to Hell, etc, etc. And I should know that I have to live my actual life and I can’t get lost in these never-ending debates while my life goes astray or gets stuck in degenerating cycles, where I can’t get anywhere because there is no one to talk to, no clear answer, no honest straightforward discussion of my points, not the time and emotional and mental energy to think it all through, anyway.

I just have to remember how to let it all go. But excessive prayer and spiritual reading do not help me with that, at all. I seem to need to deeply distract myself from the majority of religious stuff, and only keep a bare minimum of practices.

Every day is so full of miracles, signs, coincidences, and special, unique moments. Rare things happen all of the time, every day, to everyone. But each rare thing only happens rarely, just like the many wildflowers blooming and so on, each blooming only a short time. But because we realize they’re ordinary, because they’re not totally unheard of, we shove them aside, as if they’re not very important and yet that is where I find all of my inspiration, all my signs, usually. In things that appear so ordinary even though they’re not as ordinary as they seem, at all, if you look at all the connecting coincidences, associations and synchronicities going on, all the different events that happen in a short time, in my mind, my dreams, my feelings and thoughts and ideas and little things that happen in my life and they all start to connect, in so many ways. Ways that are easy for someone to deny because they could just be coincidence but when you accept that coincidence can be meaningful even if it seems likely and not that rare, then you at that point, you have opened the door to a great world of wonder and joy and amazement, ideas, and insights that can change everything in your existence.

So why can’t I just let God talk to me like that? Why can’t I just let God talk to me through the feelings, the dreams, the visions and psychic impressions, and let that be his gift and guidance, in addition to my constant prayer, without going more formally into all the practices and beliefs they say I have to follow?

And the only reason shy I couldn’t do that would be is if I agreed to go along with what they say. What humans have made into traditions over time, and rules and so forth. And though they say it’s all God’s rules, and God’s demands he put on us, well, how can I assume such? When following those very rules is trapping me into a feeling of dissociated anxiety that prevents me doing real things that are good for clear, important actions of love and caring? When escapism and playfulness and daydreaming are healing me way more than prayers and religious practices would? Then what? I guess that is up for me to decide, because it is my life and I am the only one who can decide what I’ll believe about what I should do, and how, and why, and when.

What I can do, or can’t do, can believe or can’t believe. Even when I’ve asked God to help me believe and help me do these practices and it’s not working very well and he instead seems to be telling me to go do my escapist things, to just have fun. And I pray all the while I’m doing these fun and escapist things, so it’s not like I’m leaving God behind. God is in the fun and escapism and daydreaming.

It will have to be ok, for now, because I think I will drive myself crazy and waste a horrifying amount of time if I try to worry about all the ways I’m supposedly wrong and must follow rules according to certain Christians, but can’t follow them. No I just can’t let my life fall apart while I worry about such things.

I feel like maybe the reason that religious rules are so rigid is that people are creatures of habit. They are easily distressed if their rules and patterns are disrupted and so they create rules to represent their habits they want or choose to follow. It doesn’t need to make total sense or work all the time, it just needs to be a consistent habit for them. And then, the reason they get so upset when they see others doing differently or when they hear others arguing against their rules is because it makes them start to feel doubt over their habits. They really want to cling to those habits and they can’t stand doubt to be cast on them. People are so fragile, so easily upset in their sense of self-image and personal sense of purpose and validity, thinking they have a right to be the way they are, or thinking they are good enough, as so on. When someone starts to do things differently, they are so fragile, they start to think that if that person is doing things differently, maybe my way isn’t good and theirs is the better or the only good way. But when people have developed rigid habits, and they prop up their religious and moral identity on them, they are very fragile if they feel that someone’s different way of doing things might be better and might show that their way is wrong. I think that this also might account for the rampant conformity and judgmental attitudes and us vs. them mentalities that are so prevalent in human societies, even over things that absolutely don’t make any sense at all. So you have people getting all uptight over the way others’ dress and it’s not a matter of say, indecency or offensiveness, or anything, or you have people who are judgmental about all kinds of trivial things and get very cruel and divisive over these things.

Then funny thing is that I see this behavior in my daughter, or rather, I see the insecurity that she has, when we do things differently or ask her to do something differently or ask shy she did something a certain way, and it’s not even like we are at all judgmental or harsh. We are extremely respectful, open minded, understanding, positive, supportive parents and have always been and she is not around another negative input in that way. We are both weird, too, and not conformists in our ways of acting so she’s not learning that from us either, and we aren’t around anyone else who would affect her in that way.

I think it’s an instinct, to be overreactive to these things and insecure. I have been noticing behaviors like this among others too, and how people oftentimes seem to easily upset and disrupted in their beliefs, their feelings, and their attitudes, and the least little thing from others makes them feel insecure or offended or hurt or confused, and so that might explain why religions sometimes are so controlling and fixated on every little detail of peoples’ lives even when those rules don’t always make sense or work and aren’t even possible. And why some of these religious groups try to stamp out dissent and threaten you if you dare criticize anyone. Because they are scared the sense of unity and harmony and confidence will be disrupted and people will lose their fragile sense of confidence in the religions.

It’s repressive, but so are people’s mindsets and they can’t handle the least rocking the boat, and I on the other hand feel like I’m living in a stormy sea and my boat can’t not rock, but I don’t fit in with those who have to have all these rules. I have to make my own rules or guidelines. Maybe I do recall times in my life when I had a greater need for that kind of conformity and unity of identity and behavior with the others in my group, because I was so lost and confused but that was signal to me of what to do, what to think, what to believe and what to feel, when I was totally at a loss otherwise. But now I can’t do it anymore. My life demands a much more individualistic, outside the rules and lines approach. I would become extremely mentally ill or even lose my mind, and make myself miserable if I even tried to be so silent and conforming and so approving and positive to the things that cause m great harm and need to be spoken openly about, even if only in the privacy of a blog that is still not completely private, so I feel like I'm not suffocated into total submission and repression, as if my human life and reality did not need and deserve to be cared about or noticed and given a voice, among other humans.

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skruffie · 4 years

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in which I’m getting to know my brain better

I can’t really pinpoint a time when I started reading about ADHD and believed that maybe it was something that I had. I think it’s kind of been in the back of my head from when ADD was still a commonly-used term but then I would go “naaaah can’t be me, I’m just a lazy person!” I remember ages ago in high school I was at a friend’s house and watching their brothers and I thought “This is what actual ADHD looks like” so I guess that kind of pins it for me thinking about it as long ago as 15 years ago but I never gave it serious consideration until more recently.

(This is very, very long so I don’t blame you if you want to just skip it entirely)

Just last night I was talking to Zack and I was giggling and going “I still can’t believe I really didn’t see this before” and they were going “Really?”

Let’s think about this. As a kid I was always pretty sensitive and had weird... I used to call them compulsions but now I wonder if it was more impulsive behavior where I would hoard things like rocks and leaves or do dangerous shit without thinking about it (one memory comes to mind immediately when I noticed there was broken glass on the playground and I started meticulously picking it up as carefully as I could, and my teacher freaked out when she saw what I was doing. It unsettled my mom too, but me explaining that I didn’t want anyone to get hurt didn’t help put them at ease). I would be deeply sucked into my imagination at times, like...

When I was a kid I always kind of pictured myself like everything that was happening was a movie. I don’t really mean this in a dissociative derealization kind of thing, but just imagining every second was a movie or a video game. Sometimes I still do this. I can’t really pinpoint if there were a lot of hyperactive symptoms other than countless times my mom told me to stop fiddling with my hands or string or whatever was within my grasp. I would always come home from school dirty with grass stains on my jeans and holes in my knees and rocks in my pockets, earning the title “skruffy ragamuffin” from my sister, but I just kind of figured that was part of being a kid. Looking at it NOW through this viewpoint gives me second thought though.

I picked up on physical activities rather quickly from a young age like dancing and karate--probably the physical movement was what I needed to help me focus--and I do things like pick at the skin around my thumbs, bite the inside of my cheeks (Didn’t realize this was a thing until I watched Hannah Hart describe it as part of her fidgeting and went “OH.”)

As I got older and after my sister died, see... I always viewed this time period in my life as I couldn’t do school or focus because of my grief and my home life falling apart, and I think part of that is still true. However, I would continue this with “And because of that I didn’t form good study habits and that continued into highschool when I stopped giving a shit”. Which was better than thinking I was just a stupid failure, and I really don’t think I am stupid... I can think quickly on my feet, I notice things that other people don’t, I’ve been an advanced reader from a VERY early age and I can infer correct answers from context clues and analyze things in that way.

There is one memory from high school that, in the past, I thought maybe was tied to an emotional flashback but I realize now that it might’ve been Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria. There was a weird disagreement that I was having with a friend of mine over something (truly can’t remember what it was about now), and somehow this rejection of him not listening to me spiraled me into this state of Why Should I Fucking Bother and the first target for this heavy, painful feeling was “okay, well I should just stop drawing because Why Should I Fucking Bother”. My English teacher found me sitting in the hallway crying and sat down with me to ask what was happening and I tried to explain, and then he had me show him my artwork and he goes “You are an incredible artist, you shouldn’t give this up.” One of few teachers in my life who I will always respect because he was always stern in a kind way, understanding, and an overall wonderful man.

I’m kind of getting off track here but I think that’s really just self-demonstrating at this point.

When I worked at Target there wasn’t really an opportunity for the ADHD type symptoms to manifest because I was pretty much always moving. In school I could zone out very easily but at work I was able to have more bouts of focus, but traded off my inattention for anxiety instead. This was also just a few years after the big PTSD causing event, but retail in general can give pretty much anyone some anxiety issues. Nonetheless, the things that I enjoyed about working there is that I was able to master my work zone completely (to a point of annotating the training guide with new information and keeping it updated), became the go-to person for several things, and I enjoyed being able to have a bit of freedom of movement around my work space. I enjoyed being able to have physical, tangible ways to see progress being made on something and there was a surprising amount of nuance and problem-solving when it came to resolving customer complaints.

Moving to a desk job in 2018 was a weird departure from all of that. I had started off kind of as a clerical worker and would compile the concrete goods vouchers that we send out to our clients, receive them back, prepare them for scanning, scan+upload to case files, etc. It was dreadfully boring a lot of the time but I didn’t mind the long stretches where I could sit and prepare documents for scanning because I was able to listen to music while I got them ready. After a while I was encouraged to become a fiduciary, and that is really when the Maybe I Have ADHD started to rear it’s head.

My job doesn’t have the tangible way to see that I’ve made progress. I update placements to generate foster care payments, I generate the vouchers for concrete goods, I put in ongoing foster care case management payments or daycare payments, I will sometimes resolve some payment issues but only to a certain point--I’m able to see information but being able to solve the problem is actually not my area unless I can correct it within the case management system. There is an extreme need to be detail oriented because we work with specific service dates, with some services ongoing but some needing to be renewed every six months, gobs of emails with paperwork and trying to get the right signatures on everything because we’re dealing in state money...

on top of this, in order to move into the permanent position, I’ve been taking the accounting classes online outside of work and (until the pandemic started) having a long commute-work-commute day that totaled about 12 hours out of my waking life. My diet changed radically because Zack and I didn’t see each other often and getting home at 6:30 at night didn’t leave a lot of room to cook and then eat before having downtime to sleep... only to wake up at 5:30 AM again... my insomnia started kicking in to a point now where I take a benadryl through the work week to keep my sleep schedule on track. I started having anxiety attacks at work because trying to keep up with remembering all the little details I need to at work was getting to me.

As I was training, I would write a post-it reminder whenever I repeated a mistake and stick it to my monitor. I got up to about 14 post-its before it became distracting and I instead compiled them onto a list and tacked it to my cubicle wall.

A few months into this I had a crying jag talking to Zack because it felt like something was really wrong and I couldn’t pinpoint what exactly. Depression? Anxiety? Trauma? School trauma? I think it’s just been untreated ADHD this whole time. I keep thinking back to this post I’ve seen on Tumblr a long time ago where someone said “disability exists in the context of the environment” and I think that’s what’s happening to me. I previously have bee in environments that weren’t butting up against The ADHD as much, but this job has been extremely challenging for the past 11 months.

Thankfully, my boss and I have one-on-one discussions regularly (used to be every other week but since the pandemic started it’s been weekly phone calls) and she has no issues with my work performance... likely because I exert a lot of mental and emotional energy to keep up with everything I need to do. I’m also in charge of the busiest field office in our region--there’s a high turnover rate, lots of child welfare cases, etc--and the social workers that I talk to on the regular enjoy having me as their fiduciary. There have been many times however, despite the fact I seem to be doing pretty good, where it feels like I am hanging on by a fucking thread. Here’s something personal that I don’t think I’ve shared yet on the blog: last year, within the first month and a half of adjusting to this new pace of work and school and the long commutes, the schedule was so stressful for me that it made my period late. Worrying I was pregnant just stressed me out more. Not being able to treat this Probably ADHD has been detrimental to my mental health.

On the 22nd, I’m going to have a telehealth meeting with a doctor to see if I can get a referral for a screening. I kind of worried that if I do get diagnosed with ADHD it would send me into this mourning state of what-could-have-been but honestly... I’m tired. I’m tired of beating myself up for exhausting myself into keeping up with other people. I think I owe it to myself to get the help that I need. Looking at my life with the lens of I Probably Have ADHD has actually given me a renewed sense of self-worth and confidence because it’s something that I can learn how to take control of. It’s worth it. I’m worth it.

#actuallyADHD #?#examining my entire life in a tumblr post #adhd

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mental-health-advice · 4 years

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Ah nevermind I just saw it! Unfortunately got kinda hidden between other posts. As far as I am concerned I don't know how much it at this point really affects my siblings. A few days ago one of my brothers showed abusive behaviour towards our younger sister too that caused me flashbacks since trauma with my mother doing similar things to me was involved. With the current Corona situation I unfortunately can't leave myself and she keeps telling my siblings how it's all their fault and just(1🦚

-parenting. So they think they only get disciplined for misbehaviour when they really actually didn't do anything wrong. My mother threatened before to take me to court for slander if I spoke up about something she told me. I am 18 now but cabt work or afford a lawyer or to move out so I'm basically fucked and wouldn't be able to take in my siblings :( - 🦚 (2)

Uff, I... don't remember sending that. I knew I sent some untagged ones back then which i mentioned but damn. I don't know when i sent it or what triggered me that badly that day.vlike what exact Corona news... for the promise I mentioned I have vague ideas of what I may have meant. Either that I originally promised myself to not try and harm myself until I meet certain people who mean the world to me, or that I promised myself to make the person who I planned to meet happy. Legitimately see (1)

them smikez make them laugh. They also suffer from mental health problems so yeah. I kinda just promised myself silently to make them happy. They loudly promised to make me happy. We are just very good friends for context. Like siblings pretty much. I kind of developed this probably unhealthy dependence on her which I think might play a role in why I completely shit down when I sent that. Uff. I guess I should look into how to not put my life into my friends hands at this rate...(2)

Also am just going to add that I'm also 🌺. That was my first tag I believe. I responded with the same tag after the answer to make it easier. I might just tag with both from now on d96xt idk geht I keep changing tags - sorry about that!(I also think i tagged one as either ☆ or ♡?? Really sorry if I'm causing confusion! Illl try to stay consistent now!) -🦚

I've mentioned in a previous one that I tend to kinda zone out when sending in stuff under huge emotions. I just noticed that this resulted in me thinking I sent in something completely different from what I did. Like before I would just be like "I dont recall what I said, but I'll recognize it when I see it!" But in one of the recent ones of mine you answered I was confused for a moment because I thought I had remembered but it was something totally different. Am I losing my mind here? -🦚🌺

Hi there,

First, I hope it's okay that I'm answering your asks at once! Since I've answered your other asks, I figured it might be easier just to answer them all in one place to help both of us keep track of them easier. Hopefully that's alright with you!

Also, there's no need to apologize for using the different tags on your asks. I'm just glad we got it all sorted out so you can watch out for your asks a little easier!

It's really unfortunate that your brother has exhibited some of the same behaviors as your mom. While it's not surprising because kids tend to model the behaviors they see, it is unfortunate that your sister has to be subjected to the behaviors and they cause you flashbacks. Neither of you deserve this!

It must be frustrating to know that you're currently stuck with your mom because of COVID-19. It makes sense that you can't afford leaving right now anyway, but maybe this is something you can work towards over time. Maybe, once quarantine eases up at least, you can start working on saving up money to eventually get your own place. Perhaps you could also use this time right now to think about what it might look like when you do move out, like if you'll be able to take your siblings with you or not.

As for what your mom said about suing you, this honestly sounds like one of her many abuse tactics to try to control you using fear. Though I'm not a lawyer or law expert by any means, I know she would need proof that you were making things up in order to actually sue you for slander. I don't she has this proof since you're not actually making things up. This is why I truly think that she's just trying to manipulate you by threatening to sue you, but I obviously can't know that for sure.

It's really great that you have the type of relationship with this friend you mentioned! It's amazing when you find someone that you care about so much that it gives you motivation to keep going. You mentioned not wanting to rely on friends so much in this way, but it didn't sound like you or your friends are being harmed by viewing them as a reason to keep going. Everyone needs these reasons and there's nothing wrong with those reasons being other people. You're going through a lot and deserve to have support from your friends, so it's wonderful that you care about them (and vice versa) this much! While it may help to try to find more reasons to keep going, I don't personally see anything wrong with your friends being a rock for you. You can always check out our reasons to stay alive page here if you'd like examples of what helps others keep going.

Finally, I don't think you're losing your mind! Some people tend to dissociate when they get overwhelmed emotionally, so I don't think what you're experiencing is a sign that you're losing your mind. Sometimes people subconsciously check out mentally when they get overwhelmed, which sounds like could be what's happening here when you don't remember what exactly you sent in your asks. I know I mentioned grounding techniques before and you mentioned that they can be challenging when you're around your mom, but I learned something in therapy last week that might help because you can likely do it without your mom noticing. Basically, just pick something in your surroundings and mentally pay attention to the very fine details of the item. For instance, I've been practicing this with my bookshelf in my bedroom and I mentally describe the colors of the shelf, the texture, the details of my books on the shelves, etc. This helps orient you to your surroundings in the present moment, which can be helpful when you're emotionally overwhelmed. It can also probably be done without your mom noticing. Maybe this is something you can give a try when you feel overwhelmed like you did when you sent your asks and didn't remember the content afterward. Again, I don't think this is a sign that you're losing your mind and perhaps this is something that could help when this happens to you.

I hope to hear from you again soon!

-Samantha

#abuse #trauma #family #COVID-19 #coronavirus #🦚🌺#🦚#🌺#advice #advice blog #mental health advice #mhasamantha #Anonymous

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sanderssidesfanfiction · 5 years

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We’ll Carry On - Chapter Six

We’ll Carry On Tag

General Content Warnings: Sympathetic Deceit Sanders, Substance Abuse, Abandonment, Minor Character Death, Transphobia, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Dissociation, Bullying, Homophobia

August 29th, 2011

Roman sat in the back of Mom's car, and asked, “Hey Mom, what's adopted mean?”

“It means someone who wasn't born into their family was brought in later,” Mom said. “So if something were to happen to me, and some other family took you in and decided that you were going to be a part of their family permanently, even when you were an adult, you would be adopted.”

“Oh,” Roman said, swinging his legs. “Susie in my class said she was adopted when we played Two Truths and a Lie, and that was one of her truths.”

“She's a very lucky girl,” Mom said. “Sometimes, kids don't get adopted. It's sad, but then it feels like they have no one to turn to when they become an adult.”

“I'm glad I don't have to worry about that,” Roman said.

His mom looked back and gave him a smile. “I would never leave you for anything, my little knight.”

January 18th, 2019

Roman was shaking just a little. His leg was bouncing impatiently on the bench in the courthouse, Mister Emile on one side of him, and Mister Remy on the other. He was nervous. He knew this meant that he wouldn't have to go back into foster care, but it didn't mean he wasn't nervous about what this meant for him. When he was younger, he was always scared thinking about adoption. In order for it to happen, something would have to happen to his mom. Now that his mom was gone, and he was actually being adopted...well, he didn't feel great.

That's not to say he didn't trust Mister Emile or Mister Remy; he trusted them with his life most days when he went to sleep, when he turned his back to them, when he let himself ask for help with whatever he was dealing with at the moment. It just meant that...his mom was never coming back. Legally, she was gone. She wouldn't be able to come back, and Roman knew that she was never able to come back before, but he guessed that a small part of him hoped all of this had just been a long, bad dream. He didn't feel good, at all. He felt queasy and sad and more than a little overwhelmed.

Mister Emile rested a hand on Roman's knee that wasn't bouncing like a jackrabbit on a sugar high. “You're fine, Roman,” he assured. “All we're doing is signing a piece of paper. It's not a big deal. After all, you've been living with us for a little while now, and that's not going to change when we sign this.”

“I know,” Roman said with a sigh. “I'm just...”

“Nervous?” Mister Remy offered.

“Realizing” Roman said. “Realizing that I'm going to have a family again. I miss my mom, yeah, but I'm also glad to have a new family, you know?”

“Yeah, I guess that would be a shock to anyone,” Mister Remy said. “Adoption is a life-changer, even if it doesn't always seem like it. Sure you've been living with us, but now you're gonna be officially part of our family.”

Roman swallowed. Yeah, that hit the nail on the head. He nodded, adding, “I didn’t realize I was hoping that my mom might come back. Because I know she won’t. But now that I’m being adopted...it’s just...reminding me of when she left...” and there was a reason he didn’t talk about that. A very good reason. He didn’t trust himself to even think about it, let alone tell anyone else.

When their name was called, Roman wiped his sweaty palms on his new dress slacks, standing up along with Mister Remy and Mister Emile. He knew that Mister Remy felt a little uncomfortable in his button-down, but he was willing to bet that he looked twice as uncomfortable as Mister Remy did.

They walked into the room across the hall and to the left, where a judge was talking to someone, who Roman assumed was his secretary. The judge turned to smile at them as the secretary walked out after giving Roman a smile. “Sorry for the delay, sometimes those hearings take longer than I’d like.”

A flash of brown curls rushed past Roman and he flinched on instinct, before realizing it was just Sarah McGee, the social worker. “Sorry I’m late,” she apologized. “I’ll leave earlier next time, traffic was heavy for it being early morning.”

“Next time?” the judge asked in amusement.

“They’re in the process of adopting another boy,” Sarah explained, panting. “Of course, he only moved in a week ago, so it will take time.”

The judge laughed. “Well, that’s certainly going to be an interesting process! Are you looking forward to having a brother?”

Roman shrugged. “I mean, I’m looking forward to it as much as I can, I guess,” he said. “I never expected to have a brother but I’m not objecting.”

The judge offered Roman a soft smile. “I’m a middle child, myself. It can be difficult to stand out to outsiders, but good parents will always make sure you feel heard.”

Roman nodded. He didn’t have older and younger siblings, not officially, but he knew the struggles of being a middle child from foster care. Being ignored in favor of the younger or older kids was a low blow, that took a while to recover from. Eventually, you grew numb to it, but that didn’t mean that it was any better, just that you learned to compartmentalize.

“Shall we get started, then?” the judge asked.

Roman started to zone out as Mister Remy and Mister Emile started asking questions, and Sarah and the judge answered them, and then asked some questions of their own. Eventually, the judge pulled out some paperwork from his desk, and then Mister Emile and Mister Remy signed it, as well as Sarah. The judge shook hands with both men in the room and Roman blinked. “That’s it?” he asked. “Just three signatures on the paper?”

“That’s it,” the judge confirmed with a smile. “All the hard stuff was already done, so the papers just needed to be signed off.”

“Huh,” Roman said. He didn’t realize adopting someone could be that easy, or that anticlimactic.

They left the room after a brief conversation, and it took them walking to the parking lot before the magnitude of what had just happened struck him. He was adopted, he had two dads. He never had to go back to foster care.

Without any warning, his legs buckled and his knees hit the asphalt, hard. He wasn’t sure if he was breathing or not. This had completely thrown him for a loop. Now he had to comprehend the consequences.

“Woah, Roman?! You okay?!” Mister Emile asked, rushing to his side and gently touching his shoulder.

Roman blinked a couple times, suddenly pulled out of his head. He was still kneeling in the middle of the parking lot, and his knees ached. “Yeah, I’m fine,” Roman said, voice thick with emotions that Roman couldn’t pin down. “It’s just...I’m actually...adopted.”

“Yeah, you are,” Mister Emile said with a nervous smile. “I hope that’s okay?”

Roman nodded, standing with help from Mister Emile. “Yeah, it’s okay. I just never thought I’d see the day where I was adopted.”

“You just always assumed you’d age out of the system?” Mister Emile asked, and Roman didn’t fail to notice Mister Emile kept a hand on Roman’s arm as they walked.

“I always assumed I would never be in the system period,” Roman said. “Once I was in it, I...I pretty much always knew I was going to leave it one way or another. And I did. It all worked out. I just never thought it would work out this well.”

Mister Emile smiled. “I’m glad you think ending up with me and Remy is a good thing.”

“Well, yeah,” Roman said like it was obvious. “You guys actually care about me. Maybe not more than my mom when I was really little, but you still care about me a lot, and that makes a world of difference.”

Mister Emile smiled and they got in the car, where Mister Remy was waiting with the heating already starting to warm the inside. “I agree,” Mister Emile said. “And every kid should have someone in their corner.”

“I think that’s something we all agree on,” Remy said, pulling out of their parking space and getting on the road. “Now we need to get you to school, Roman.”

Roman groaned.

“No complaints, young Mister Picani,” Mister Remy said. “You need school.”

Roman sighed but ducked his head to hide his grin at the “young Mister Picani” comment that made him feel all warm and fuzzy inside. He didn’t know why it felt right, but it did.

“I saw that grin,” Mister Remy teased.

Roman stuck his tongue out at him. “So what? I was just adopted, I’m allowed to be happy!”

Mister Remy offered him a grin of his own. “I know. But I wanted to hear you say it for myself. It’s a nice thing to hear.”

Roman rolled his eyes good-naturedly and smiled as they drove to the middle school. “I hope you realize that you’re a bigger dork than Logan most of the time.”

Mister Remy gasped in mock offense and Roman couldn’t help the big grin that spread across his face at that. “I’ll have you know that I am the cool dad!” Mister Remy exclaimed.

“Yeah, no,” Mister Emile said. “You’ve never been the cool dad, Rem. Do you know exactly how many times I’ve had to veto your rules because it was something that Roman or Logan could do on their own and they really didn’t need supervision, or us making snap judgements for them?”

“No,” Mister Remy said.

“Neither do I, but I can definitively say it’s been a lot,” Mister Emile said with a laugh.

Mister Remy made an offended noise, and if Roman didn’t know any better, he would say Mister Remy was pouting when he responded with a, “If you don’t know the exact number how can you say that?”

Mister Emile turned, looked him dead in the eye and said, “Because I lost count after thirty seven.”

Roman guffawed and Mister Remy turned a dark red. “Oh, shut up,” he mumbled.

“Not a chance, Rem,” Mister Emile said, not unkindly. “If it’s not this thing, it’s something else. And we both know you’re not hurt over this; if anything you’re just a little confused. I know you always said you’d be the cool dad, but you worry too much and you have too much experience with too-strict rules to suddenly be lax about what your own kids do.”

“Are you trying to shrink me?” Mister Remy asked, tone turning offended again. “I thought we agreed you wouldn’t do that anymore!”

“You asked me not to, yeah, and I said I will do my best not to. But sometimes when you ask for an explanation that’s my automatic response. So...sorry, I guess? But you knew you were signing up for this when I told you I was going to grad school to become a therapist.”

“Yeah, I know,” Mister Remy said, and this time he was definitely sulking. “Doesn’t mean I like it when you accidentally shrink me.”

Mister Emile shrugged right as they pulled up outside the school. Roman looked out the window and sighed. He hated middle school with a fiery passion, and decided that high school and college had to be much better than this ever would be. “I can’t wait for high school,” Roman muttered.

“Only a few more months, and then you’re off for the summer and you’ll be in eighth grade. After that you’re a freshman in no time,” Mister Emile assured him. “You’ll do fine, Roman.”

Roman sighed. “I just really hate this place,” he grumbled, getting out of the car but not closing the door just yet. “Thanks for all this,” he said.

“Sure thing,” Mister Emile said. “Do you need me to come sign you in?”

“Yeah,” Roman said with a sigh. “Though in high school, you’ll only need to sign a note which I can turn in myself.”

Mister Emile nodded and got out of the car with a promise to Mister Remy that he’d be right back. Roman kicked a rock lying on the pavement into the grass and sighed. “Middle school sucks,” he said under his breath.

“I know,” Mister Emile said. “Though you might not want to tell Mister Remy that.”

“Why not?” Roman asked. “Did he like middle school?”

“Actually, he has no recollection of the eighth grade, and very little of the sixth or seventh. He was bullied a lot, from what he told me, and he suppressed all of those traumatic memories. So far, he’s had very little luck in the way of recovering them, but thanks to some talking with a therapist who isn’t me, he no longer has flashbacks,” Mister Emile said.

Roman turned silent. He didn’t know Mister Remy was bullied. “I had no idea,” he said. “He doesn’t show it.”

“Yes he does,” Mister Emile said with a sad smile. “He shows it everyday with the kindness he spreads, and the smiles we both know are a little too forced to be genuine. He doesn’t want anyone to be sad, so he makes sure that no one he knows has to be, or that no one knows he is.”

“But we both know when he is anyway,” Roman pointed out.

“That’s because he trusts us,” Mister Emile said, and they walked inside. “I hope you won’t abuse that.”

“I would never dream of it,” Roman assured.

“Good,” Mister Emile said. “Now let’s get you signed in.”

#we'll carry on #sanders sides fanfiction #roman sanders #emile picani #remy sanders #our creations #danger gays

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burlybanner · 5 years

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Drip (ScienceBrosWeek, 2019)

Second verse, same as the first.

Summary: Peering deep into the rabbit hole carries serious penalties.

Disclaimer: Again, this is different from my usual style and I’m not sure where this story is going. So I’m not sure when I’ll continue. But keep me honest; it’ll happen eventually.

Unbeta’d, same ol’ song.

Part 1 here. **

The ride down should’ve frightened Bruce more than it did. Maybe he was dissociating because it reminded him of too many things. Down, down they went. When he looked up, the opening from the ceiling shrank as they descended into the dark, the lips of the opening closing as slowly as they sank. But Bruce was more curious than anything; Clint had pressed one of the three buttons near his hip, but continued to flip through his magazine as if he could care less about his passengers. How could he see in the growing dark? Maybe he didn’t care; maybe that was part of his job, to appear unassuming.

He heard a sudden clank with the hydraulic elevator hum, and eerie pops and pings ramped his anxiety. Seconds passed before he noticed strings of industrial fairy lights waking up, welcoming them as they plunged into the deep. His anxiety flickered with the bulbs, ebbing and flowing as they pulsed on the dank dolostone like lightning bugs. He’d always liked lightning bugs. He hadn’t seen any in years; he wondered if they still existed.

“Hey. You with me?”

Tony’s voice, although a whisper, still echoed against the slick walls. Drips of karst water fell off the sides and disappeared into the ether. Somewhere in the distance he heard a drip-drip-kerplunk, another forgotten echo in a forbidden cavern.

“Always,” Bruce spat out, but Tony fumbled for his fingers anyway. It was just enough to shock him, something he loved and hated.

The platform screeched. Bruce wasn’t sure why he’d thought they’d be in some techo marvel of an elevator, like ones in the movies. He also didn’t think they’d be in some ridiculously slow mine elevator, either.

“Okay,” Clint finally said. The elevator rattled, bouncing to a stop. “First floor, ladies.”

“Really?”

“I call ‘em as I see ‘em.” Tony rolled his eyes as Clint turned a key and pressed another elevator button. The button glowed, maybe reading his thumbprint - hell, what did he know - and the gate squawked open. “This is where you get off.” Clint chuckled.

“I swear, Barton--”

“Sorry. But hey, it’s boring today. A guy’s gotta have fun wherever he can find it.”

“Never mind.” Tony didn’t seem too put out but he grabbed Bruce’s hand tighter and dragged him from the lift before it slowly ascended to heaven, with Clint safely tucked inside. Bruce blinked. He hadn’t seen the small bridge until now. A small walking bridge, joining the lift platform to another section of the cave.

“We’re gettin’ there.”

“Mm.” One foot. Two feet. Three--

“Hey. Can you do one more elevator?”

“Sure.”

He accidentally peered over the sides of the bridge before they were done walking; it was a long way down. A very long way. And Bruce wasn’t sure why Tony’s hand was so tight. He’d never grabbed his hand so tightly before. Wait, no. He had. But--

Blinking, Bruce felt his heart rate slow down. The lights were brighter, calming now. “Hm. We’re in a normal elevator.”

“He lives,” Tony crowed. “Astute as always, Dr. Banner.”

“Fuck off,” Bruce said, but not unkindly. The new elevator was similar to the ones at Stark International, from what he could ascertain. Smooth ride. Very, very fast. He was used to these, and found them quite pleasurable. Soothing, even.

“How long was I--”

“A few minutes. Barely enough.”

Bruce’s gaze followed Tony’s arm. “And yet you’re still holding my hand.”

“Am I?” Tony smirked, untangling his fingers from Bruce’s. A bead of sweat formed near Bruce’s temple and dribbled down his neck, joining the other stains from earlier.

“It’s been awhile.”

“Yeah. But to my credit, you haven’t dissociated like that in...?”

“Years.”

“But not months.”

“No. It’s better now.”

“Which is why I was holding your hand, to ground you.”

“Is that the only reason?”

Tony smiled but didn’t answer before the doors whooshed open. Bruce’s lips parted. People hustled in front of him holding stacks of paper. Phones rang. An admin yelled “please hold, I’ll transfer you” and someone else barked “coming through” while carrying a box of donuts and a jar of coffee. Florescent hums and its ugly glare over a white, gray, black decor. A typical day at the office and typical office workers. Except everyone wore black uniforms. Jumpsuits, really. Which would be less creepy if they didn’t mimic paramilitary organizations.

“Tony, what...Is this--”

Tony left the elevator and crooked a finger towards Bruce. He waited until Bruce joined him before announcing, “Welcome to SHIELD,” and bowing before him like it was some great honor. He could’ve just as well announced “Welcome to Sherwood Forest,” because the result would’ve been the same.

“SH...what?”

“C’mere. I’ll show you around. But stick close to me, yeah?” Tony purposely kept his steps slow as he weaved through the throngs, as if he’d done the very same thing countless times. Bruce’s eyes narrowed. Tony’d known about this place, been here. For a long time.

“Wait. Wait.” Bruce planted his feet, refusing to take another step. The office waltz around him took cues from Bruce’s stance and became quieter, less frenetic. Faces turned his direction and not all were welcoming. “What the hell is this, Tony? I can’t go with you.” He gestured wildly at the underground...lair? Villain’s castle? “Why the fuck am I here?”

Instantly Tony was beside him. Slinging an arm around his shoulders. Grounding him. “Sorry,” he murmured in Bruce’s ear. “Thought you’d break later.” Tony kept talking quietly but Tony’s body steered them from the crowds and towards another corner with less razzle-dazzle. Far less nonsense.

Tony nodded to a door, off to the side; the name Tony Stark was on the door.

Tony Stark, Assistant Director of SHIELD.

What?

“Shh,” Tony hushed, because he must’ve said it out loud. “C’mon, I’ll buy you a coffee. Tell you all about it inside.”

And Bruce went in because Tony told him to, and he’d always trusted him to this point. Tony wouldn’t steer him wrong. Couldn’t.

Tony’s arm was still around his shoulder but he somehow kicked open his door, leading Bruce into an office space barely half the size of what he had at SI yet still, somehow, intimidating. There was a small conference table surrounded by high end lounge chairs, abstract art on three walls with a heavy curtain covering the fourth, and a desk surrounded by two-shelf bookcases, straight from an episode of Mad Men.

“Sit,” Tony said, nodding to an overstuffed barrel chair beside one of the bookcases.

Bruce did. He let out a happy groan as his backside plunged into bliss.

Satisfied, Tony turned to a high-end coffee maker. The room was also big enough for a decent mini bar, of course; Tony opted to rest his coffee maker on the mini bar counter, maybe as a joke. His two favorite things in the world, together.

Two seconds later Bruce heard a hiss with a steady drip-drip-drip. He watched as a dark liquid titrated into a demitasse.

Tony slid a saucer beneath the cup. “You still like cioccolotta calda, right?”

Bruce shrugged. “I did when we went to Italy, that one time. You, me, and Rhodey.”

“Well. This will remind you of our trip. Guaranteed.”

Bruce snorted while adapting to everything. The chair hugged him like it was made for his dad bod, and he let himself feel it. Let it pull him out of the red zone, and into the black. When he felt near zero he spied the plush sheepskin rug, several inches deep, surrounded his chair.

“Go on. I know you want to.”

Bruce toed off his shoes and let his socked feet comb through the rug’s fluffy furry goodness. He sighed softly. “Like it was--”

“--made for you?” Tony finished. He handed him the Italian hot chocolate. “Yeah. Kinda the point.”

“Tony--”

“Shit. Wait, don’t drink it yet.”

Bruce sighed again and let his feet flex across the sheepskin. He almost tasted his cocoa despite Tony, but Tony jiggled his hand.

“Sheesh. So goddamn impatient. What did I say?” He dropped a dollop of whipped cream - fresh whipped, it seemed - into Bruce’s cocoa. “Now you can drink it.”

Bruce did, and involuntarily moaned as the flavors danced on his tongue.

“Yeah? See?” He grinned. “And they said it couldn’t be done.”

“Mm.” Bruce’s tongue darted to the corners of his lips, lapping up every stray drop of chocolate. He finished the cup, quietly placed the cup and saucer on the small bookshelf, folded his hands over his paunch, and let his head drape over the back of the chair.

Sighing deeply, Bruce closed his eyes. “Will you level with me now? You’re buttering me up for whatever it is. I get it. And I’m as calm as I’ll ever get today, so you might as well spit it out.”

He didn’t get an answer right away, but he didn’t expect to.

“Stop playing games with me.”

“I’m not, I’m...” Tony huffed, and Bruce opened one eye, watching him pace the length of his office. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. That’s all.”

Bruce grunted. “So start with the small things. Like why you have a curtain on a wall with no windows.”

“Who said I don’t have windows?”

“Tony. We’re underground. At least a hundred meters, I imagine, if an operation like this is going on and no one’s noticed. But you have a curtain. Why the hell do you have a curtain, when there’s nothing to goddamn see?”

Tony laughed, probably the most genuine laugh he’d heard from him all day. A full out, head back laugh, and Bruce tiredly lifted his head. “Oh, Brucie,” Tony said. He chuckled a few times. “If that’s all you wanted to know, well. That’s easy.”

He toggled something under his desk - another fucking switch, Bruce thought sharply. He rolled his head over the back of the chair as the curtains slowly parted, not caring in the least for Tony’s “big reveal.”

“I’ve got one of the best views in the world.”

“Sure you do,” Bruce grunted. He rubbed his eyes and slowly sat back up. “What could you possibly have that other rich bas...”

He stopped. Rubbed his eyes. Looked again. Then tripped to his feet and went to the very edge of the window. Tall waterfalls, lush grasses and dense jungle flora and fauna filled his view. The waterfall spilled into a subterranean lake, and from the lake’s current, Bruce guessed a river was in there somewhere, too.

Eden. No, better than Eden.

“I...it’s beautiful.” Words failed him.

“Yeah, I think so.” Tony shuffled his feet. “I’ve got the best view in the house. I think there might be a few birds to the west of the falls,” he said, nodding to the window. “Dunno how they even got in, but whatever. Mi casa, and all that.”

Bruce gripped the glass, unable to drink it in fast enough. “How?”

“You’ve heard of Sơn Đoòng cave?”

“Of course.”

“Well Dad found out, and wanted to recreate it. Make it ‘better’ or whatever. Not because he was an environmentalist, though. He wanted to prove he could it. And in America, no less.”

Bruce scowled, tearing away from the idyllic picture. “Stop lying to me. Hang Sơn Đoòng wasn’t discovered before the 90s.”

“Fine, then.” Tony nodded to the scene. “Explain that, Mr. Scientist.”

But Bruce couldn’t. Instead he pretended he wasn’t dreaming, hoped he wasn’t, even though it felt like it. He wanted, very badly, to take a nap somewhere in there. To get completely lost in it. “I can’t help thinking,” he murmured. He splayed his hands over the window, as if purifying his soul. If he could translate the beauty, bottle it, and drink it. He would be absolved. Completely, utterly absolved.

“I can’t help that, despite how beautiful this is, there’s a snake somewhere.” Bruce’s heart crumbled in ways he hoped wouldn’t. God, he could be so, so cynical but he was usually right. It’s what kept him alive so long. “Is this the reason you brought me here? I wish it was, I want it to be. I hope it is. But...it isn’t, is it?”

Tony slowly shook his head and smiled sadly. He dropped his gaze and fixed himself a drink. “Need you for more than the great views, buddy. I’d hoped I wouldn’t have to add you to the roster. But we need you.”

Bruce swallowed and let himself view Eden, unspoiled, one last time before biting the apple of truth. “It never runs smooth, does it?”

“Nope.” Tony poured a shot of whiskey and gulped it down. “Never does.”

#sciencebrosweek2019 #part two #drip #of the story that has no direction and is surprising me #seriously I don't know what to call it yet #don't know where it's going #bruce banner/tony stark #stanner #science bros #sciencebrosweek #@sciencebrosweek

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showyourenergy · 5 years

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compare and contrast;

As soon as they’re out of the tower, Lalna set the other him down and crouched down to examine him. Thankfully, the ginger-haired shorty didn’t try to punch him in the face or anything, and instead still seem near-catatonic from the emotional blow Nigh had dealt. That’s… not good. To tell the truth, Lalna wasn’t in the best mental shape either; he felt like he ricocheted through several emotions from the situation escalating so quickly, and it always left him feeling dizzy. Oh, yeah, and he nearly died, had a weird-looking clone yell at him and a different weird-looking clone go nuclear at a catboy, and he had no idea what he was doing.

He’s pretty familiar with his own biology out of necessity. This means that feeling nothing when he checks for a pulse, not even a weak one, when checking the spot he’s checked on himself dozens of times, is disorienting. The sensitivity issues on his mechanical hand means that he doesn’t even bother trying to check his own wrist most of the time, seeing as he may not even be able to accurately feel it, but seeing as he was able to use his organic hand for this then it was worth a shot. Still nothing. He was out of practice with this location, so maybe he was just doing it wrong? Lalna checked a few different spots on the wrist, thinking intently, then pressed his fingers against his own wrist, sensitivity issues or not. It kind of hurt with how much pressure he was putting on it, but he could faintly feel it, just not enough to get an accurate count.

Which meant he just discovered this clone doesn’t have a pulse whatsoever. That’s… inconvenient, and also somewhat disturbing.

There isn’t any apparent injury when he lifts up the clone’s shirt, careful to not make the situation even more awkward and doing his best to avoid being near the thaumic mess serving as his right arm. Or, at least, there isn’t any blood. There’s also far less scarring than he has, which he feels like he should’ve expected but it still felt weird. Whoever this was, they’d had better luck at staying uninjured than he had. Either that, or flawless healing was another ability Specimen Three had.

He felt around, just in case there was something internal he couldn’t see at first glance, then frowned. Hold on. There was something wrong along his left side, where Nigh had grabbed him. He hiked the shirt up higher and leaned in for a closer look. There was something weird there. He blinked. It almost looked like a tattoo, or some weird marking, except it felt weird when he touched it, as if the texture of the clone’s skin had changed. It… kind of looked like a crack, thin blocky lines scored on his skin.

“Am I dead yet?”

Lalna jerked away. The clone was alive after all, blinking up at him with half-lidded eyes. It was the first time he got a full, proper look at him without things immediately going to hell, and it was one of the weirdest experiences Lalna had. Lalna was pretty used to seeing his face in the mirror, especially once he’d taken to monitoring himself for Flux resurgence, and he’d seen more people with his face walking around than he was comfortable with: alternates from other universes, clones of himself with the slightest physical differences like styling their hair differently, mindless crowds of mass-produced copies intent on murdering him into the ground, a dark, warped reflection of him with red-lensed goggles and a too-wide grin. This version of him still stood out from the rest.

Like he’d first noticed, the odd clone was closer to Nano’s height (and Specimen Three’s) than his own, and his hair was a vivid orange and far fluffier than it had any right to be. A single scar ran across his nose, starting from just under one eye and ending under the other. His labcoat was rumpled and dirty, with one sleeved rolled up to showcase his replacement arm, and the glove on his organic arm was fingerless and beige instead of being shades of grey like Lalna’s own. The shirt he’d been messing around with was also beige, and proudly displayed a logo of… some sort of company? It looked like a knockoff NASA logo, except in shades of orange and reading “JAFFA”. In small text circling the logo was what he assumed was the program’s motto: “Hold space to slow down”. The clone was also missing boots, instead apparently preferring to go barefoot, and the hems of his pantlegs were in horrible shape. Asides from all of that, they were identical.

Wait, back up. He’d heard of JAFFA before. They were the rival space program to whatever Sips and Sjin’s was, and he’d kind of stolen the idea of going to space with Nano from them. He didn’t really know much about the organization, just some word-of-mouth that it had gone quite catastrophically… Had this Lalna worked for them? The thought dug into him despite his attempts to shoo it off. He had more urgent things to focus on!

…Like the fact that the clone had asked him a question and he’d zoned out staring at him. Whoops.

“Uh... no? I mean, you seem fine, minus the whole… not having a pulse thing.” He scratched behind his head as he tilted back from a crouch to a haphazard sitting position. It wasn’t very graceful, but he didn’t care too much about that.

Oddly, the other Lalna didn’t seem too bothered to hear that. “Oh, that’s… normal.” Lalna raised an eyebrow. The other him opened his mouth to elaborate, but seemed to think better about it as he sat up and avoided looking in his direction. Lalna’s gaze drifted to the modified weapon he’d grabbed along with the clone, worried that he was going to pull it on him again, but there was something else on the clone’s mind. “…What happened to Drei?”

“Specimen Three?” He doesn’t quite understand the look the shorter him gives him. Annoyance? Irritation? Offense? Maybe “Drei” was their preferred name and he wasn’t appreciating him calling them by their designation. Somehow that felt about right, although he couldn’t explain why. “Uh, they stayed behind,” he answered. The redhead’s blue eyes widened in horror and panic, and Lalna held up his hands. “I’m sure they’ll be okay, though!” he quickly appended. “They’ve survived–” He cut himself off before he let slip that, one way or another, Drei had survived him and Nano destroying the facility they were stored in. He was pretty sure that info wouldn’t help the situation whatsoever. “–things,” he substituted. “They’re a Nano, I’m sure they can handle anything thrown at them.”

The other closed his eyes again, and for a moment Lalna thought he’d finally lost consciousness. Then he spoke up again. “Are you going to kill me?”

“What? No!” He gave him a startled look. “No, not unless you’re like… gonna try and kill me or Nano first, or replace me and do dastardly things.” The other Lalna didn’t look like he believed him, or maybe was just having trouble understanding what he was getting at. “Okay, uh. I think we got off wrong. Can we start over? Here, uh, my name’s…” He paused. Saying “Lalna” wouldn’t help, not when the name could apply to them both. Especially if the other had some bad experience or another with another Lalna, which he could easily believe both from how he’d reacted to him and how badly almost every encounter with another him had gone.

“I’m Atomic,” he settled on. He still wasn’t used to calling himself that; he’d come up with it sometime after he and Nano had exited the Time Gate while neck-deep in yet another identity crisis, and Nano had tried to push him towards defining himself as a separate entity from Hector. Finding out his entire life had been a lie had hit him hard, and he was still dealing with the aftershocks a year later.

…Speaking of identity crises. Atomic realized something that had been bugging him in the back of his mind and hadn’t surfaced to the forefront until now. Every time he’d met another Lalna from his universe— that Magic Police asshole, the pretender that had locked him away in the arrow trap, even some occasional flickers from Hector himself— foreign memories had crammed themselves into his brain, disorienting him. They could happen without him having contact with the relevant Lalna, but there was always that moment of dissociation and confusion when he met another where, for the smallest of seconds, he forgot who he was.

That hadn’t happened. Whoever this Lalna was, he had no foreign memories from him. That was… another weird thing.

He was watching him— no, more like scrutinizing him. Atomic tried not to fidget. He could tell that the other was looking at his scar; it was pretty hard to miss, a splash of discolouration across his face where the Flux used to be, and was one of the traits he desperately clung to to set him apart from the other Lalnas he’d met. After a moment, it clicked: the redhead was likely trying to compare and contrast him with whatever other Lalna he’d met before.

Atomic cleared his throat and the other startled. “Uh, like I said, I’m Atomic,” he started off, somewhat nervous. “I used to live in a big castle, and I studied things like… the Flux…” He couldn’t help but stare at the other Lalna’s right arm as he spoke. It was oversized and appeared to be made of Flux, or Taint, or at least some kind of thaumic corruption; it looked dead-on like Nano’s own Fluxed-up limbs, made of Flux goo held into shape somehow, although unlike Nano’s he couldn’t make out the dark shading indicating where the original limb was. Weirdly, it seemed to mimic the appearance of a robotic limb, with bands of darker purple around the joints and darker-shaded fingers that gave it a segmented look. Oh, yeah, and then there was the yellow eye on the back of the hand staring at him.

He was losing focus again. Atomic tried to ground himself with his own memories again as he resumed speaking. “I kinda took on an apprentice, Nano, and xe got… uh, Tainted. So since then I’ve been moving around, trying to find a way to cure xem before it’s too late.” He interlaced his fingers, examining how they fit together. “…and I’ve never seen you before in my entire life.”

The clone was scrutinizing him again. “So… you’re not him?” Atomic looked up. The other sounded confused, but also… hopeful? “You didn’t work for Hole Diggers? …You didn’t nearly throw me out into space because I’m a reject?”

Atomic’s eyes widened, and he shook his head hard enough for his goggles to fall down over his eyes. “What? No! No, I don’t even know what Hole Diggers is.” Actually, it did sound somewhat familiar… Hadn’t Hat Corp sold them a deed to a shitty, inhospitable island? His confusion and alarm seemed to soothe the other’s nerves, and the redhead reached out with his thaumic hand. Atomic eyed the offered hand uneasily, noting the six-petaled flower marking on the palm. It reminded him of the flowers Specimen Three—Drei—has been sprouting. He wondered if that was intentional.

“I’m Digger,” the other Lalna said with an uneasy smile. “Because, uh, I used to work for Hole Diggers… or, my original did.” He didn’t see the look of shock Atomic had in response to what he said. “I’m a reject, as you can probably tell… Honeydew messed with the shell constructor.” Atomic’s eyes went even wider as he mouthed ‘Honeydew?!’ in alarm. “Um, sorry for freaking out. A… a lot of things happened today.”

Atomic shook himself out of his daze. He’d have to ask Digger for more information on Honeydew— and the Lalna that Digger had been cloned from— later. “No kidding,” he groaned, pushing his goggles back up to rub at one eye with the heel of his palm. Digger still had his hand extended. Atomic considered it, then grasped it with his mechanical hand and shook it. Ew, squishy. “Do you… need a ride home…?” He trailed off, looking around. Digger giggled.

“No, it’s okay, I know my way around.” For a moment, Atomic could swear that Digger’s blue eyes had shifted to a more purple hue. Maybe it was the lighting? “Um… what about you? Do you need help?” He got to his feet and picked up the double-ended disassembler, then stowed it away in his inventory before helping Atomic up.

“I am in need of so much help,” Atomic groaned.

#txt #muse; breakthrough breakdown #muse; work a miracle #thread; corrupted skies #kinda? it takes place during the conflict between drei and nigh

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jupiterm00n · 7 years

Text

September 23, 2017 1:57am

I decided to withdraw from school to go to detox and rehab then hospital. Then maybe to an outpatient program? I don't want to do an outpatient program though because honestly, every time I look at my body I just freak out. And I know when I go awAy they'll make me eat which I've been debating for over a year. Honestly that's one of the only reasons why I haven't gone. They make you eat. They weigh you every day and the last time I was in hospital they made me drink ensure throughout the day. Thankfully I had Mandy, who taught me that straws make it easier to drink, and that if I feel like I'm gonna throw up, she showed me the plants I could pour the rest of the ensure In. Last time I went to hospital I gained like 8 lbs because they took away my diet pills and laxatives, and I couldn't puke anymore, they watched me eat. I had to. I can't look at my body. It's disgusting and hideous and damaged. Dysfunctional. It's gotten worse. It's not just sad or panic anymore, it's like whenever I see pictures of myself that others have taken or if I look in the mirror too long I start to dissociate. And people use dissociating as such a causal term which pisses me off so much. It's not just zoning out. It's where you're no longer connected to reality. I can't even look in the mirror long enough to do makeup. I have to take breaks. If I stare at myself too long I start to see stars. And everything blurs and it's like I'm sitting in a crowded room of people but I'm not in my body. I've had so many out of body experiences recently. Where I'm literally not in my body because I get so anxious about just stupid shit like how big my thighs are. And whenever I feel my arms touch my ribs I want to scream and rip out all my hair. I know there are more important problems. And I want to get better, but I want to be 75lbs so badly. It's the most fucked up thing. I'm prepared to go to detox, get clean and go through alcohol withdrawals. I've lost so many friends. I'm so out of control. And the one way I feel power is through this. The week before I decided to drop out I had one of the best nights I had in a while. I saw one of my favorite bands, Andrew Jackson jihad, and I hadn't eaten for probably 3 days and I felt so powerful and in control. I could see how hollow I looked. I lost 5 lbs in 4 days. And I felt like I could do it again, be thin again. I had a lot of fun that night. And I went out to eat that night and had something to eat and had a tiny bit to eat and immediately felt so full. I felt so good. I felt so good all that night. I mean I was happy from the concert and good company anyway, but the feeling of not eating at all and going to bed, knowing that in a few hours when you step on the scale, the number will have dropped so much. That week I felt so much power and confidence. I went to a movie with friends the next night and I looked at myself in the mirror. I was weak and I could hardly get out of my friends bed. But Before I left I went to splash water on my face and run water over my wrists since I was having heart palpitations. Something I haven't had since I was like 84 80 ish lbs... but I looked at myself for the first time for a while. I looked completely hollow. The bags under my eyes were protruding like watercolor clouds. My bones were sticking out and my skin was dull and pale. I looked like a corpse. A walking corpse. But when I smiled my teeth were even whiter and my cheekbones looked higher. Looking down at my stomach I noticed there wasn't any bulbous flesh that left lumps under my sweater. And it's scary. Wanting to be completely diminished. I don't know what the fuck is wrong with me. And I don't know why I want this. And why whenever I'm upset about something I self punish by binging, eating massive amounts of food. Then I get more upset about that and then spiral I've been spiraling for so long. Binging. Starving. Fuck. I've also been told that I'm a manipulative bitch, people think I'm manipulative. I was really happy I was making friends with people and really happy I could still be friends with my ex's friends but, apparently a ton of people, most of them, think I'm toxic, they think I'm manipulative. They don't trust me. They think I'm a monster. And I know I'm a destructive bitch but not in the ways they think. Mental illness appears a lot in the early 20's and he knows that and he's told me that and I know that and I know it's not all my fault. But it's my fault for oversharing. For trusting these people. For telling them I have borderline personality disorder and anorexia nervosa. And they googled bpd. And I know what comes up when you look up that. You get articles about how you should never date someone with bpd, or how people with bpd are manipulative monsters, or you'll just get the whole fucking screenplay of fatal attraction, or who's afraid of Virginia Wolfe. There's nothing else. I can't convince them I'm sane. My friends, have seen me when I thought they were asleep. They've seen me break down fucking sobbing, ripping my hair out. How the fuck can they ever see me as I want them to see me. I want them to see me as normal. They can think I'm fucked up. But having depression is one thing. Having a personality disorder that's constantly labeled as "the devils illness" is a whole other thing. And idk how to deal with it. I want it to go away. I wish it could leave. I wish I could be happy more than anything. I wish I could eat and not feel guilt. But I also wish I was 70lbs. I wish people could understand that personality disorders are hard, but that I'm not a psycho bitch. That I have a ton of empathy. That I'm always there for anyone who needs help. That my manipulation doesn't come from evil or psychopathy, but from the fAct that I can't ask for anything. I haven't been able to ask for anything because I was always punished for it, and because I'm so scared of abandonment, I don't want to lose anyone I'll do anything and I'll try to make them stay. I'm so fucked up I wish I was dead I want to be dead but I see too much beauty in people and the world and I want to help. That sounds so fucking dumb and selfish and godlike. Honestly, I want to die so badly. But I cant keep just doing that. I can't keep trying to die. It never works, and in the end I just end up more upset that my 13th attempt failed yet again. I don't want to die I'm equally scared of death as I am of living. I don't know what death is like and I never will fully. But being close to it sucks. And I'm going through so much shit that I know that if someone tries to save me that another failed attempt won't be worth it. Plus. I've had days where there are small things that make me ant to cry because of their beauty. The stars I looked at the other night made me feel so small and so insignificant and less alone, the sunlight through a windowsill, a moth dancing along a light, my best friend giving me a hug, knowing all the shit all the garbage he's been through I wish I could take it all away, wishing I could be what he wants me to be my best friend hugging me telling me he loves me. Those things make death seem like the more scary option I think

#tw #i'm drunk #ed #tw:ed #tw: weight mention

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aslightstep · 7 years

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19 - Winteriron

I’m not their hero/But that doesn’t mean that I wasn’t brave

This is honestly a little bit away from the prompt.

Song is:

I’m Not Your Hero

“Take a trip with me,” Tony says, collapsing on top of him, grabbing the remote out of his hand before Bucky can stop him and turning off the TV, cutting Megyn Kelly off mid-sentence on another one of the seemingly endless roundtable discussion on the Winter Soldier’s place on the Avengers roster.

At this point Bucky is pretty sure he can do an accurate impression of both sides of the debate. Bucky the Victim vs Bucky the Assassin. Rarely, they get creative and add in the ever popular (and Bucky’s personal favorite) Bucky the poor unstable woobie, those brave Avengers for taking him in, I hear Tony Stark’s dating him, how precious, now lets keep him away from the weapons but no need to lock him up, of course!

(It’s rarely used because its hard to sum the position up in a snazzy caption, you see. Tony calls it the ‘Bucky the Dog’ argument. ‘You’re like a rescue,’ he’d explained. ‘Apparently we need to feed you, house you, but not let you out because you’ve been raised badly and don’t know any better, and might go gnawing off some poor kid’s arm for looking at you the wrong way.’

Tony hated Bucky the Dog.)

“Ignore the crazies,” Tony wheedles. “Pay attention to me.” He makes grabby hands that Bucky grabs up and uses to drag his boyfriend closer. “So take a trip with me?”

“Why?”

“Because I want to take a trip?” Tony says, affecting an innocent expression. “Because the Tower has access to too many 24 hour news channels? For the opportunity of new and exciting places to have sex? Bucky! Stop with the patient eyebrows.” Bucky mouths ‘patient eyebrows’ to himself, shaking with laughter. “It’s a surprise.”

“Oh, God,” Bucky groans. The last ‘surprise’ of Tony’s was a cake filled with strippers. For Natasha.

Tony seems to read his mind and points an accusing finger at him. “You cannot deny that was amazing and she loved it.”

Natasha had loved the strippers. She knew at least eight new ways to bend now.

“Alright,” Bucky agrees, and accepts his boyfriend’s gleeful, slightly sloppy kisses with a smile.

“It’s not an argument of what James Barnes deserves, that’s a complete strawman. It’s a question of what he can handle. The man has had an incredibly difficult life, one that’s produced well documented instances of PTSD and dissociative attacks. This is not a man equipped to handle the kind of stress the Avengers are put under every day-”

“He was a monster, plain and simple. And maybe we can believe Mr. Stark and Captain Rogers here, maybe the monster has been taken out, but what kind of scars did that leave-”

“I mean, in all honesty, how can he ever be trusted? How will we ever know?”

“Hey.” A foot kicks at his own, knocking Bucky out of his miserable recollections.“I know that face. This plane is a That-Face Free Zone.”

He kicks back at Tony. “It’s nothing, Punk,” he says, mustering up some semblance of a smile. It just makes Tony grimace, then crawl over so he can sit beside him.

“How ‘bout just no faces at all?” he asks as he settles. “For a former super spy you have horrible facial control.” Bucky stiffens up beside him and Tony sighs, taking his hand. “James.”

James. That’s all its ever taken from Tony. His name, said in that fond, slightly impatient tone. “James,” Tony had said, finding James in the aftermath of a panic attack that had ended in the destruction of his living room. “James,” he had said when he built a new arm and the first thing Bucky did with it was play fetch with the bots. “James,” he had said when Bucky had finally surrendered and kissed him. “What took you so long?”

Now Tony sits with him, patient, staring out the window so James feels distinctly unenclosed. He hadn’t been like this at the start of their relationship and its nice, sometimes, to think that Bucky has taught him some things, too.

“They’re not wrong,” he finally says, and Tony takes that as his cue to finally turn and look. “The news. I’m a complete mess three days out of five. I remember all of it, everything I did, so it’s all still there in my head. I can’t be trusted.”

“I trust you,” Tony responds immediately. “Am I an idiot?”

“No.”

“No, James, I am very smart.” Bucky smiles painfully and Tony clenches his hand. “Look, you being an Avenger? That’s always your choice. I’m sorry if we’ve pressured you-”

“You haven’t-”

“Oh, we totally have. Especially Steve. But you’ll need to discuss that with him. As for the rest - those vultures have only ever seen skin-deep, trust me on this. If I listened to them, let them dictate my life, I’d’ve ended up face down in a ditch bleeding Patron by the time I was twenty five.”

Bucky pulls his hand away so he can wrap his arm around Tony and hold him close. “You hate tequila,” he mutters, and Tony laughs.

“See? They don’t know anything. All they saw of me was a drunken overgrown fratboy and all they see of you is the Winter Soldier. Thing is, yeah, they’re not wrong every once in awhile, but they never have all the story. The Winter Soldier is not everything you are. You’re Buck, you’re James, you’re Sergeant Barnes.

“And by the way, you’re only a mess two out of five days. At most. The other three?” Tony smiles at him. “You are the best, the bravest man I have ever known.”

“Jeez, Tony,” Bucky breathes, because he never knows what to do with these pep talks. He wants to believe him, but he is constantly surrounded by heroes nowadays, and he is always reminded of his bloody past and how painfully he falls short, how impossible it seems to ever come back from that, even when he sleeps every night next to a man who did just that. He drops a kiss on Tony’s head and leans back into the chair. “So where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise, Buck. A surprise. Your dementia is showing again, old man.”

“I’ll show you old-” Bucky tips his boyfriend over in the seat.

“Oh God, I’m so glad you believe in stubble-”

“Believe? Facial hair’s not like Santa Claus, doll-”

“James.”

They touch down in Washington, DC. Tony takes them to a hotel first to freshen up, which for some reason means busting out the baseball caps and shades for both of them. Then they hope in a car that drops them off at the Mall. Tony leads them to the National Museum of American History and Bucky stops dead.

“The Smithsonian? Tony, I’ve been here before…”

“Yes. When you had just broken your brainwashing. Somehow I’m thinking you weren’t exactly absorbing all that you could.” Tony looks at the ground, the space where Bucky has taken a step backwards, and grabs his hand. “I just wanted you to see something, but we can leave.”

Bucky stares up at the building. The last time he’d been here was a blur of memories without context and a constantly building terror at what had happened to him. He had been scared. But Tony is with him now. “No, I’m fine. Show me.”

The Captain America is as busy as ever, and this time Bucky notices how many of the exhibits bear a tiny inscription under the description: Donated by Howard Stark and the Stark family.

Tony smirks when he notices where Bucky’s gaze is lingering. “Yeah, let me tell you there is nothing quite like meeting the men your dad quite literally collected.” Bucky waits for a moment to see if his smirk goes sharp and sad, but Tony just wanders on. He’d let go of his anger about Howard around the same time he’d let go of his anger towards Bucky.

They stop in front of the glass wall bearing his name, date of death (which bears a new addendum in tiny print of his miraculous recovery in 2016), height, serial number, rank, and a summary of his life.

“James Buchanan Barnes,” Tony murmurs.

“Five hundred words or less,” Bucky says. He doesn’t mean to sound as bitter as he does, but Tony just smiles sympathetically at him and takes his hand, leading further.

They pass wall after wall of Steve Rogers, Captain America, Brooklyn’s Favorite Son, and American Legend. Bucky can see where the facts have gotten muddled: for example, he knows for a fact that the assault on the HYDRA base on the border of Luxembourg was planned by Dugan, not Steve, and was a smashing success, but facts rarely stand up to myth. “Bet Steve hates that.”

“He does. We’ve been petitioning to make them get their asses in gear and change that for years,” Tony groans lowly.

Tony tugs him further, further into the exhibit, a part Bucky never visited before, too skittish about lingering last time. There is a wall with a long line of booths cordoned off by black curtains. The Howling Commandos: From the Other Side, a banner reads overhead, and Tony leads Bucky into one. They squeeze onto a seat, Tony puts his arm around Bucky, and then he presses play.

An old man appears on screen, looking to the side as if listening to someone. He nods, and chuckles. “My name is Peter Montcourt,” he says, his French accent extraordinarily thick. “I was nine years old when the Howling Commandos liberated the town of Bayeux from Axis control. My hometown.”

“I had lost a brother, a father, already. My town was overrun with Nazis, Italians. People disappeared during the night, never heard from again. Everyday we heard - it might be you. You might be next.

“Then one night we heard gunfire and explosions and I remember thinking that this was it, they had grown tired of watching us, now they were killing us all. A soldier burst into my house with a gun, and I stood over my mother, but the shot never came. He was gunned down.

“I never met Captain America. Steve Rogers did not liberate Bayeux. He was leading another push. Bayeux was liberated by-”

“It was me,” Bucky breathes, tears in his eyes as he remembers, and Tony’s hand smooths down his arm.

“Sergeant James Barnes. The same James Barnes who gunned down the man who wanted to hurt us. He came into our house after that, he told us who he was and that he was a sniper, and asked us kindly if he could take a position in my room upstairs, because it had good sightlines. We of course agreed. He told us to hide, but I stayed and watched him. He remained calm, and efficient. He never panicked. He was very brave.

The man grows a little teary-eyed. “People do not talk about Bayeux much, because the very same day Captain Steve Rogers freed a POW camp near Lyon. But I do not forget. None of us in this town do. We owe Sergeant Barnes and his men our lives. I was very sorry when he died. He was a good man.”

The video freezes and Bucky lurches forward, pressing his hand against Montcourt’s face. “He grew up, James,” Tony whispers. “Had a family. All because you saved him.”

“I’m not him,” Bucky says hoarsely, tears nearly blinding him. “I’m not the sergeant.”

“Mm. But he is a part of you.” Tony intertwines their fingers. “I just…I wanted you to see, know, I guess, that you are…more than the Winter Soldier. More than whatever they call you. That there’s as much greatness in you as darkness. You were a good person, Buck and…we can’t all be war heroes. Sometimes we’re just victims. It doesn’t diminish you or what you did or what you can do. I’m - shit, I’m sorry, I’m so terrible at this. I just thought you should see.”

Bucky is quiet for a very long time, staring at Montcourt. He remembers that little boy and his mother. He had remained in their home for three days, defending it and taking out enemy soldiers. The woman had brought him food that he never ate. The boy kept him awake with conversation. They had been the brave ones.

He withdraws his hand and places it over Tony’s. “Thank you,” he tells him, and the other man smiles tentatively. “I - I get it.” He isn’t the Soldier or the Sergeant. He’s just Bucky now, with shades of all of them thrown in, but maybe…maybe that isn’t so bad. At the very least, he remembers how to be strong and good. And if he needs a reminder, he has Tony and Steve and the Avengers.

They don’t get to decide what he is or isn’t. Only Bucky does that. And he doesn’t have to be a hero. He can just be…an Avenger.

“Are there more?” he asks, gesturing towards the screen. Tony’s smile goes full-blown and Bucky can’t help it, leaning forward to kiss him soundly. “I love you.”

“You, too,” Tony replies softly, pulling away. The moment goes soft and sweet for a moment, but that was never Tony’s particular style and sure enough he pulls away, his grin going positively wicked. “Ninette three booths down tells a charming story involving you, her, Dugan, my dad, two goats, and a modified washing machine. I would love to hear your version of it.”

Outside the booth an old man is waiting his turn with his wife. He steps aside for Bucky and Tony but freezes dead when he catches a good glimpse of Bucky’s face, looking back over his shoulder at the Barnes Memorial for a moment before turning back. Bucky freezes when the man raises his hand, but he merely salutes.

Bucky returns it, sloppily, then heads for Tony, who has been lowly calling his name: “James.”

#alanna writes #drabblethon 600 #winteriron #tony stark #bucky barnes #mcu #anon #alanna talks #song is #i'm not your hero #by tegan and sara #bucky-centric #fluffy

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deathghost8 · 5 years

Text

Origin 1

First fragments **This forms a broad timeline however the specific breaks and amounts of time between have been mostly left out, though you may occasionally note formatting artifacts which somewhat mark the break points.** I guess this all started late one night when a passenger in my car asked a strange question- What are you like as a person? My mind locked up for a moment trying to produce the response. I’m very inward, as in there’s so much thought swirling about my mind that it can be a struggle to pull any of it down into verbal communication. As you just saw. So I used to misinterpret my inwardness as solitary, but as I’ve grown up I have learned that I vitally seek people. I seek to help them. I need the energy, being needed. I started with just me, a fragment of me, inside, and worked my way out. I refused external wisdom. I had to figure it all out my way. That’s what I’m like as a person. In kindergarten I would refuse to do the art projects, desiring to make my own design than to reproduce the suggested themes. Another night, in the deep suburbs near where I lived, I stared into the vacant shops and offices, brooding. A very typically slow Friday night. Nothing at all is going on out here, even on a weekend night. What’s so convenient about this store, I demanded to know. All you fucking sell is sugar water, candy, junk food, nothing real. The overhead signs glowed back at me defiantly. Over 112 energy drink. Flavors to choose from. Deli. Restrooms. Ice cream. Energy zone High Voltage. Cold drinks. This ain’t convenience! This is shit! It’s not just the health less ness… It’s the infuriating marketing we’ve all been force fed for generations now asking us to accept healthlessness. Near the start of that night, waiting for any ride requests, I stared into the library across from my place. Imagining an old library man, the keeper of the establishment. It brings him joy, and he’s lived there and kept the place in order for as long as I can remember. But no. No we don’t have that. We have economics which have divided us up, kept us living separately, just coming together to grind through the workday, scarcely interacting, then back to our disconnected residences. We need to rehumanize everything. We need old library men. The concept of the library is theoretically just right, but under implemented. It needs to be a center point to a village, a place where everyone can convene and receive nurture, knowledge, nourishment. It needs to have a kitchen and other community driven facilities. Even housing units, as an option for anyone experiencing a conflict at home or difficulty finding a home. I would love to cook for my neighborhood. Nothing brings people together in belonging like good free food. We need to rehumanize everything. We can’t continue on like this. Several weeks before that, I sat in a parking lot, which happened to contain a cell tower. I posted it to all of my blogs and accounts. Behold the beacon of our dystopia ~ a state of civilization in which our communities keep us separated instead of unified, and this technology tethers us to the employer and gives us the illusion of connection to each other so we scarcely notice the actual distance of humanity from itself #wireless #lifeless #dehumanized #dystopia A little after that, I drove past a curious mass of parked cars. So many all parked, but the location did not seem to be a public parking lot or car dealership. Maybe they were rental vehicles. I think that sight planted the seed of thought that continued to haunt me. But I realized I’ve been haunted by this for as long as I can remember in my adult life. I’ve always peered into partially lit, empty offices or residences with dim lighting spilling out, just longing for some purpose, some life. Who I am has formed almost completely upon the basis of this haunted sense of the scarcity of actually living. The emptiness all around me. I don’t know what to do. But just now, having come up with the right words for my relation to the other humans here and now, I can see that my calling is to spark rehumanization. I have to do it. Everywhere I go, every way within my control, I have to positive initiate. Break the insecurity. Unite with those around me. Give them permission to be alive for once just by crossing paths with me. The things people say to me, mostly drunk ones, in my car have confirmed this thought process. My city is populated with beautifully vibrant people just doing their best. For the first time ever I feel a kinship with my actual place, that I only could have gained going around serving the people, lightening their load - there is immense freedom in being transported without having to drive. It is similar to minimalist housing. Far lower emotional overhead. Zen af. All on its own before we have exchanged one word, my efforts are toward rehumanization when I am out on the road taking people out, or to work, or getting them home safely. ~ Hey employers- are you sick and tired of unmotivated, whiny employees always trying to get more time off and get off the hook for being late when they barely even work while on the clock? Look no further, I have the answers you need. My new human efficiency program will help you schedule your labor and time off provisions so that work will get done when it needs to and the employees will be happy and engaged in your organization’s goals. My seminar will teach you everything you need to know about engaging your workforce as human beings, trusting in their talents, and structuring work the way real people actually work. You’ll learn how to treat people who actually have more important priorities in their life than your profit margins and performance bonuses, so you can unlock the true potential of the parents in your workforce rather than constantly working against it. I’ll teach you how to avoid the 3 most common productivity and morale busting mistakes employers make when it comes to allocating human resources, to achieve astonishing levels of occupancy you never thought possible. ~ Spent most of today experiencing waves of furiousness… The rare state in which life is screaming at you in every color. The one where it’s like you’re going cry, but you just linger in that space without the catharsis. How much suffering and loss is it going to take before we acknowledge it. We are complicit in every death. Every murder and every suicide. It’s on us, while we yet continue to stand by whilst human beings are thrown away, and treated like garbage by elitist economics. I’m ready for open revolt against the extreme wealth that has decimated any semblance of fair free market. Donating my platelets every other week has imparted to me a sense of vitality, a willingness to bleed and physically give of myself in defense of fairness for my kids and my brothers and sisters, all life on our earth. I grew up through a large amount of grief and trauma, having lost my mother at age 10 and suffered numerous abuse and neglect following this, developed PTSD. I spent the last few years recovering and learning what I needed to do in order be the real authentic me in defiance of the PTSD suppressing myself, to hide it even from my own consciousness - dissociation is the primary feature of symptoms. I realized that all the work I want to do, all the life dreams I have involve non monetary gains. Work whose value isn’t money, but love. I bounced several ideas off my sister (first born, and grew up in an adoptive family, I am 2nd born, we just met last summer)- everything from family campus / super libraries to update for the needs of families in today’s economy, to an emergency life crisis ambulance/center (for the purpose of providing access to first response in critically life threatening EMOTIONAL / DOMESTIC injury rather than physical, to a housing program designed to complement the first response so victims of economic tyranny or domestic oppression would have somewhere to go to escape the trauma source, to a restaurant that operates sort of like facebook where you do not actually have to pay to be a patron / participant in the product. I don’t want to be making food just to throw it away. I want to feed the people, and teach them how to make great food for cheap. I want to apply this same aesthetic to all aspects of living/service industry, from housing, to gym/shower, communication/internet cafe, clean drinking water, and early preschool (0-5 education) that is DIRELY needed for our generation’s families with kids. Ever since I lost my higher paying IT job I’ve been very focused on the entrepreneurial attitude toward making a living. It got me thinking about the actual term, living… and I realized that it’s not living at all to sell off most of your time in order to pay for housing and nutrition. I drove with uber and lyft for the better part of this year, but I also worked on a food truck and in a grocery delicatessen. We throw away almost all of what we make to be sold, hot or cold, day by day. Why not operate as a non profit, remove the pay to play and ridiculous markup that is done to create a profit margin, and serve all who are hungry, whilst accepting tips / pay what you want and running a recipe blog / school to promote Budget gourmet as a brand while attracting sponsors who want to be part of the ecosystem of community consciousness and hunger security inclusiveness. Thus the idea is dual faceted. I want to run as a food truck, going where there are likely to be a lot of hungry and economically rock bottom or near to it community members. But I also want to have the ability to share the recipes and the knowledge for our frugal gourmet minimalism theme in a way that builds community. So there is serving in house but also the to go / DIY element that has done very well for brands like blue apron. The bicycle collective near here has an earn a bike program where kids can come learn how to build the bike and get to keep it. The idea is to give to the community, not serve a bottom line or a profit target. Pay to play is a garbage aesthetic and we need to start acting against it immediately. I have to start somewhere. I cannot keep flushing my time down the toilet for an hourly wage. what this really comes down to is this you have the permission to be you and the power to do so that is your authenticity and your creativity that is who you are whatever you feel makes you powerful and special and worthwhile if anyone looks upon that, your truth, and feels saddened or threatened, or uncomfortable because of your truth. That is not on you! that is on them, on their unwillingness to be vulnerable, or to hold space for human truth death makes you stronger when i am gone, u will become more powerful than can possibly imagine because you will experience the spiritual level up that is only found when your close connection or bond passes on i am trying to teach this to layne when she asks me all the time what will happen if me and her mom die ok? no it’s not ok ok. thats true but being not ok is not bad being broken and enraged and furiously lost are all natural and fuckin true and human and im perpetually stuck in that state, so much so that i can almost not participate in the routines placed before my by my society That’s why creatives are often furiously volatile. The creation is like an answer to our dread, our fiery abandonment. Not even that. It is a song. The dread is instrumental and our creation and product is the vocal. Anarchy… he eyed the borrowed body wash bottle critically, turning the word and the concept over in his mind as he scrubbed his hands clean of the filth left from the cleanup in the back. It was a disgusting job but someone had to do it. The funny thing was, he surmised, that anarchy would be a context in which everyone operated as individuals without any sort of manufacturing and packaging that made this body wash what it was. Fake, mass produced, inhuman. Anarchy would be human efficient and free of the corporate entities peddling this Branding. Just then, he heard the door open. It seemed his friend had decided to join him for a shower room chat after all. how lovely. This whole idea about charging for emotional presence / attention is interesting to me although I hate monetary currencies. Because you either have insufficient amount or else zero worry. It’s too much of an extreme. It’s the core essence of the dynamic between a client and a professional that my fascination has been fixed upon. Not the currency. The exchange of affirmation / support. The audience / receiver offers something non monetary just as the performer. Each of them needs the other. The two roles are in perfect balance. The thing that’s corrupt and fucked up is the monetary racket on human rights such as housing and nutrition access. So we’ve ended up radically having to Charge for something that is actually built in to relational structure of a tribe / population as a life guard / social infrastructure. ~~~~~~~~~~ Now, I’ve begun to think about money a little bit more intricately / focus on the nuance. There are two monetary exchange contexts that I think stand alone as good pure implementations of the abstract ideal of numeric currency. 1- when you pay your ex in the absence of any other tangible interaction, reason or desire for them to respect you or accept that you’ve done something useful - child support is actually an empowerment to the party who wants to be more civil toward the one who is being irrational. 2- tipping for attention/emotional presence. This is therapist, dancer, cam model, even tips you give to your driver or waitress. It’s similar to Play. You choose to do it freely, you aren’t exactly trading a numeric sum for a fixed quantity of something the provider creates. It’s in flux. What you get is the nurture of that person and the fulfillment of having given on your own choice, not on the structure of Product A costs X dollars. So we are talking about power. Emotional power. I once wrote something about becoming powerful being the cure for vengefulness. If you become powerful there’s no need to venge. The really intriguing thing there is the wondering whether without money’s influence we would just be naturally exchanging the emotional attention currency very freely and in a two way fashion, and money has muted us, made us withdrawn and uncertain and insecure….. crippling us with respect to emotional capability. It was funny because Layne was telling me that we should just throw away all your money. Then we can be free. She was so right! She’s always right. Kids are are smartest citizens. We just fail to listen to them or give them any freedom to choose their own passion. If they aren’t free to make their choices how can they ever reach their real potential to contribute to the human race ? Danksgiving thoughts: Be an Oregon person. They are nice to a fault! Let being nice to someone be the mistake, not failing to include people without meaning to. I talked to a random maverik worker while I was getting my soda. (Granted, she had just shot me an incredulous look questioning why I had punched the mtndew Pitch black button for one sec with no cup under it - but I responded by speaking to her without even thinking about it. I read a cue and then responded to it. I wasn’t even high yet) -Sorry, I’m a little disoriented, they don’t have any soda machines in Oregon, all their soda setups are ultra basic. I haven’t seen code red anywhere out there. Ah found it sweet (on this machine, I meant) Of course though, that’s because every restaurant and fast food just about in that state will sell you 10 different kinds of beer on tap, they just don’t care about soda. At the register she continued the thread, smiling and asking me if I was from Oregon originally. After I had realized I was taking forever to go and get to her register to pay for the drink. Commenting that I was sorry my friends were blowin up my phone today as I walked up, in recognition of how long I’d been standing there sipping the drink and looking at the phone. Once I danked up, and got home, I was thinking and realized what I’m writing, and telling right now. I realized that I positive initiated her, and I need to be an Oregon person and not a muted non participant. Just before the knowledge hit me, I was having a discussion with myself about how great the medication felt. How Utah was starting to drag me a bit but how totally recharged this was making me feel. And then pontificating further how my personality is such that I only need really small amounts of medications, the ways parts of me are magnified and variated is significant without large alteration, they scale up powerfully. However, the degree to which I am the full complete me without any med is very low. I’m far from the fully realized me, baseline. Further from it than the more normal people are from theirs in a fully unmedicated state. So that’s the trade off for my kind of neuroatypical. Further from my communicable self much of the time. Normal are a lot more authentic automatically. But I’ve learned about myself that the best thing I can do for others is automatically include them even if it isn’t necessarily otherwise beneficial to me to do so. That’s what Oregon and its people are giving to me. Potent inclusiveness affinity. * What if some works of fiction we enjoy are actually just the very clever way of certain individuals publishing their alter ego, their actual deeds, which they otherwise are unable to fully reveal to their peers or family. If this were to be read by someone who knew me, they wouldn’t know it was fiction. They would read it as factual based on contextual links to their perception of me. This is my art. What’s depicted here represents my attempt to understand the full fledged version of me, the one that interacts intuitively and doesn’t withhold any thought or feeling, just expresses itself authentically. * He had ultimately realized the folly of having a low amount of human bonds at any given time. If you’re only close and bonded with one (or none), you start to go a little loopy. it’s an echo chamber. You need a robust emotional support grid in order to access your full emotional capability. Your sanity… your intellect. The echo chamber itself can drive both partners into a place of slight unwellness, spawning toxicity and abuse within the interaction.He had finally realized what had gone wrong with his ex. They just corroded away in the convenience of each other. Then finally the bond was just too brittle, broke, and became jagged, so they had no choice but to part ways. Lesson learned. Make many friendships, and love hard, love often, love as many as you can. Not doing so is literally poisonous. Taking human risks is absolutely crucial for survival. So take them… or die inside. Bringing a child to existence can inflict the beginnings of this state on someone. Now you may be wondering how this enlightenment equates to a broken state for Stanley. Well…. I’ll explain it to you. Loving is really painful. Pain is power.Joy is sharp as fuck and we rarely actually encounter it in its pure form, the agonizing one. The one that stops time and makes us question if we may have just died and are now just experiencing the mind’s last few fantastical random musings. Its preamble is a stark, icy, disorienting space we feel when we connect most deeply with another. It’s a space that at first we fear, we respond with adrenaline, and a need to escape it. Only once we stop running away from truth, as in with death, do we begin to become capable of perceiving the power, the raw energy presented before us. The fear it triggers is so deep and primal, that only once we have mastered that fear can we harness the full spectrum and array of human capability found there. Stanley had explained this to his friends. The strongest entities are those who have risen from being REPEATEDLY shattered and destroyed. Aliveness literally only exists within the boundary of that moment of rising. Not the bottom, not the apex. Only during the rise do we experience life. ||||||| Prior fragments Missing some that are voice notes which describe plot pieces and character elements ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 5TH JANUARY 2016 HAUNTER It had been only minutes, it seemed, since he collapsed exhausted into bed. Crushing, enormous pain filled his mind, hurling him back to consciousness. Crying out in the darkness, simultaneously involuntary and yet labored. It was so hard to exert the force, yet all he could do. He could not yet pry himself from the bed. He was frozen in pain. Was it an evil spirit, visiting disdainfully? *What have I done to deserve this, please go away, you. I’ve nothing against you. I just need my rest. I beg of you.* No. No, that was nonsense. I’m actually dead. I am doomed to whimper in the dark for the next foreseeable while, with no end to it. My peace has been stolen away, he thought to himself as he continued to bend under the weight of the cold oppression on his mind. I can’t even have a reasonable death. He would have chuckled except for the pain exceeding anything he had ever felt. It occupied him. Self was lost, faded into the background, the sharpness in his head was the only thing in existence. And the only thing keeping him conscious. Finally he managed to leave the bed, still moaning. Oooow. He stumbled in the dark to the kitchen for a pill. He stumbled into the study for a bit of a breath from his herbal inhaler. If there was any hope for him now it was the relief that God’s plant could bring to him. There he sat on the sofa bed. And the dark one sat beside him. The pain throbbed and lurched. He stared the entity in his invisible face. Why have you come here? ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ [stanley p] . . . He sat, continuing to wonder for quite some time. Hours seemed to pass, yet there he sat. Perhaps he had become lost in something deeper than the ability to express whatever it was. [powerful selves] I contain dark wisdom. Well, being wise feels a little too similar to being delirious. I’m realizing that I am as traumatized by my experiences up close to death itself as I am by what it took from me before that…. Knowledge of who I am. If I become powerful, then revenge itself loses meaning. If I become powerful, I become able to engage, provide affection, and harness total honesty to those I care about and wish to receive care from. [dreams of my death] This is my other recurring dream. One is brightness and belonging. With someone, within somewhere, that I don’t currently know. This one, is one of the other kind- Dreams about the end. It’s a very short dream. I am in some kind of elementary school. It’s daytime. I feel extremely heavy and altered. I take your hand and tell you I need to go out by the trees and lie down. It is hard to walk because I am so heavy. I am going to walk as far as I can and then collapse beside the trees. The sun is shining. I am going to die on this day- something is wrong with me and I am going to lie down and let it happen. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Chapter /0/prologue, part 1 Success is the worst. no question. he’s the picture and definition of why our capitalism has failed. it has cultured the bacteria of ignorance, growing to absolutely terrifying levels. Most ignorant and least ethical ones have risen to hold the modern resource, wealth. in so doing, they have denied this resource to the common citizen. A system which primarily accomplishes this rather general prosperity shared by the vast majority of a populace simply should not be permitted to continue. What this amounts to is a new collective wisdom. That another few sorts of crime exist beyond what we original presumed in our legal system. Financial violence, and cyber abuse. These are the new evil. Based within the imaginary realm of monetary value and electronic communication, these wrongs currently dominate present day (modern) life. The amount of power that our number 1 criminals of today actually command is beyond the level that could’ve been imagined by civilization 200 years ago. It is a greater tyranny than any previously encountered in human history. Entire wars have been fought over less tyrannical situations. Why am I telling you this? What does this actually matter now. Their power is so great it can never be defeated now. Knowing is not half the battle. The battle is already over. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Chaper 0, part 2 in 2016, Ronnie goes on to win presidency… but it turns out the illuminati is real and in direct control of the US government, where wall st has really just been a front for this secret organization, closely run by (along with other ultra wealthy elitists) Frank Success. who, it turned out, just decided to enter the race for some laughs. To amuse himself, fabricating the presidential run of a fictional character- a ridiculous and bigoted simpleton with too much money- when in actuality he is a brutal intellectual who just borders on extremely sadistic. so although the working class had won the presidency, subsequent attempts to elect purple party working folks into the government to create legislation of the new democratic socialism for human efficient and parent positive egalitarianism, what wouldve truly been the end of harsh collectivism as well as rugged individualism…. all attempts fail because voting is somehow overpowered by illuminati trickery. Ronnie’s administration discovers this by employing the most clever cyber spies recruited from anonymous, and ex-nsa whistleblowers (After it was permanently shut down a little before the 2017 inauguration of Ronnie) and at the same time covertly running a candidate in direct cooperation with actual illuminati agents. beating them at their own game once again, the reality is clear to the sandman… Ronald Sander, that there is no democracy possible while such large amounts of power exist in such concentration in the hands of essentially state-less tyrants. that their power exceeded that of monetary funding.. so no matter how resonant the political revolution, the elite stood as immovable objects.. threatening more and more every day to hire private armies in order to wage war on the former serfs at whom they used to scoff. he’d realized that american democracy couldn’t touch this enemy. as a result of this discovery, ronnie is forced to lead a global revolution against the corporations and elitist individuals who have rendered democracy completely unusable until they are disarmed. in essence a battle for what would become this.. The New States of America. the problem is, the elitists haven’t been defeated. not yet. we’ll get to that later. just be patient. [hello, newcomer / ch0 p3] Hello. My name is I don’t have one. My discipline is positively cultivating life. nurturing and supporting young people, myself, and my community. I am a lifeguard, a quiet fellow who doesn’t apologize for my refusal to recognize the worship of money, or imaginary beings supposedly influencing life in the known cosmos. The only worship I find honest is the worship of life’s beauty. Human beauty. Joy and pain. Living, dying. Adoration, and grief. All beautiful. All powerful. All real. I reject interruptions of my real life by imaginary constructs such as currency and deity. Now, my work and effort is largely ignored. I am so unvalued by the intentions of my so called civilized society, I barely even get to do the work that matters to me. Most of my attention is spent toiling for wages to exchange for basic necessities. Due to institutionalized bullying, present day history features an upside down paradigm in which work and specifically wages supports living. In this paradigm, the most important work goes ignored at least and very often completely undone. Only work in the pursuit of monetary profit gains is incentivized. That’s a strange terminology, incentive, but I swear to you it is the prevailing lingo of my people. Allow me to explain. It is a word that describes the intention to get someone to do that which has little to no actual vital value. This ‘Incentive’ is only necessary when your economics are so backwards that meeting basic human needs is considered success. In my location in space time, not being homeless is considered success. It’s not only possible but fairly likely that you can be completely excluded from the economics we have, as most wages to be found are far too low as compared to the cost to obtain housing. As a result, housing is a temporary arrangement for the vast majority of my people. We enter into an agreement to surrender the majority of our wages in exchange for the living space. This is called rental. It’s just a really fancy term invented to conceal the utter ludicrousness of the actual arrangement. The place you rent to live is called apartment. You live there, but it isn’t home. Welcome to my apartment. My tiny little sliver of society I’ve been granted the privilege to temporarily occupy. Due to the smallness of employment wages, several individuals often join together and split the rental fee, resulting in the only significant clan structure being composed of groups of us spending almost all of our time on the wage gather. We’re alone together, scarcely accruing the necessary energy to meaningfully spend attention on one another, those rare moments we even cross paths outside of the Employment scuttle. What’s the point, you wonder. Why do they continue to serve the wage, why do they not demand that the wage serve them? Like I said - institutionalized bullying. Around 1% of the people take the gains, the major portion 90% or more of what is produced by our hard work. In the beginning, this is what they did. Since then, they have created new imaginary funding known as credit, and increased it through various crooked means, to the point that now, they have infinite income. Infinite access to any item or resource that they might find useful, entertaining, or intoxicating. Oftentimes, something’s use to 1%ers is purely in its superiority value. The privateness- Its ability to exclude others. Vacation houses. Private aircraft. It’s a great big club. The party to which we aren’t invited. That is why they do not demand the wage serve them. Those from whom we would demand it are secluded away in this infinite privateness, hidden from us, untouchably elite. Using their limitless resources, they create a second version of the truth, obscuring further yet their ultimate superiority. These are the two vices - dishonesty and theft. Through these, 1%ers continuously augment the elite status to which they are addicted. They have corroded from the inside out. They are cancer on life and its beauty. They are the definition of evil, in my view. They have continuously diminished that which sustains and vitally support living, pushed it down, degraded it…. This is what we are left with: Wageslavery, notfreedom, emptiness and collective loneliness. We have nothing. The things that we have represent little more than the debts incurred to receive them. It’s good that you are here now. The private club is approaching its end. The people are awakening. The truth is being reassembled bit by bit. Employment is being circumvented by a new practice known as sharing. Stick with me, newcomer, and you will see.

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j-kaiwa · 5 years

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Discussion Article March 11th

‘Learning to relax can be life-changing’: how to find your comfort zone

Many of us have forgotten how to truly unwind. We ask the experts for ways to switch off in an always-on world

How do you like to kick back, chill out and really relax? This sounds as if it should be a simple question. But I can’t be alone in having spent several evenings over the past couple of weeks slumped on the sofa, “watching TV” while my eyes flicker across Twitter and Facebook, as well as five different WhatsApp groups on my phone.

Relaxing is increasingly difficult in our always-on digital world. This first struck me a couple of years ago when I had to stop exercising after an injury. Exercise had always been my go-to “me-time” activity, and without it I felt totally lost. I recently started again, but having only one means to de-stress now feels very limited and I am not even sure it counts as relaxing – it is quite hard work, and inherently competitive. When I find myself at home with a free evening, I often have no idea what to do and inevitably end up staring emptily at one screen or another for hours, before stumbling off to bed, wondering where the time has gone.

This seems to be a common problem. The actor Diane Keaton told More magazine: “I wouldn’t know what to do with a week off,” while the musician Gwen Stefani told Stylist that whenever she has any downtime, she feels as if she is “panicking a bit or trying to plan the next thing”. Elon Musk, when asked what he usually does after work, said: “Usually work more” – which does not seem to be turning out well for him.

The need for some simple source of relaxation can be seen in the initial surge in popularity of the adult colouring book, as well as last year’s 13.3% increasein sales of books providing spiritual guidance on how to live in a hectic world, and the mindfulness “mega trend” seen in Headspace, the meditation app that has been downloaded more than 15m times. Those of us who spent our money on these products were presumably searching for answers to some of the same questions – and many of us are still looking. The bottom has now dropped out of the colouring book market, with Forbes declaring it “dead” in May, and, in June last year, Headspace laid off 13 staff members.

According to a report by Ofcom this summer: “Most people in the UK are dependent on their digital devices and need a constant connection to the internet.” It found that 78% of us now own a smartphone – rising to 95% of 16- to 24-year-olds. We check these phones on average every 12 minutes of our waking lives, with 54% of us feeling that the devices interrupt our conversations with friends and family, and 43% of us feeling that we spend too much time online. We can’t relax with them, and we don’t know how to relax without them. Seven in 10 of us never turn them off.

The clinical psychologist Rachel Andrew says she sees the problem every day in her consulting room, and it is getting worse. “I’ve noticed a rise in my practice, certainly over the last three to five years, of people finding it increasingly difficult to switch off and relax. And it’s across the lifespan, from age 12 to 70,” she says. The same issues come up again and again: technology, phones, work emails and social media.

Kicking back in front of one screen or another does have its place, says Andrew – but it depends how you do it. “Sometimes people describe not being engaged in what they’re looking at – totally zoning out, not knowing what they’ve done for the last half-hour,” she says. “You can view this almost as dissociation, periods of time when your mind is so exhausted and overwhelmed it takes itself out of the situation. That’s unlikely to be nourishing in any way.” Maybe that is why, after I have spent an evening staring emptily at Twitter, or dropping off in front of the TV – less Netflix and chill, more Netflix and nap – I wake up feeling as if I have eaten a load of junk food. I have confused feeling brain-dead with feeling relaxed.

The psychoanalyst David Morgan, of the Institute of Psychoanalysis, believes that for many of us this deadening retreat to our screens is both a reason for and a consequence of the fact that we no longer know how to relax and enjoy ourselves. Our screens and what we use them for are all techniques of distraction, he says. “People have got so used to looking for distraction that they actually cannot stand an evening with themselves. It is a way of not seeing oneself, because to have insight into oneself requires mental space, and all these distraction techniques are used as a way of avoiding getting close to the self.”

Some of her patients, Andrew explains, simply never get around to thinking about how they want to spend their time. “People say they are so busy doing the ‘shoulds’,” she says – whether that is working, caring for family or being a part of demanding friendships – that by the time an evening or weekend comes around when they might do what they want, there is no energy or motivation left for anything but “flopping out”. She adds: “That’s a difficulty – because how is life enjoyable or satisfying in the long term if you’re only doing what you should do the whole time?”

For others, the notion of being in touch with their own needs and desires is totally alien, says Andrew. People who grew up in a family environment that centred around the needs of a sibling or a parent might have spent their whole lives never being asked about what they wanted to do. “It might genuinely be something they’ve never considered before,” she says. For those people, identifying something they might find enjoyably relaxing, and pursuing it, can be a huge, life-changing shift. “It can be quite dramatic.”

Another problem is that it can be tricky to untangle our own wishes from those of the people around us, says Nina Grunfeld, the founder of Life Clubs, an organisation that aims to help people live more fulfilling lives. It can take a lot of effort to discover where your enjoyment ends and your partner’s begins. “When my husband and I were young,” she says, “we went to Rome on holiday, and he wanted to go to every church, every restaurant, every everything. And I got home completely shattered. It was only after coming to know myself, after thinking about my life without him and what I like as an individual, that I realised that for me to enjoy a holiday and to come back feeling relaxed and refreshed, I need to read and be still. Now we’ll go on holiday and he goes off to do the churches by himself, but I’m very happy just lying by the beach, pool or fire and reading. It’s a real treat. I might join him for the restaurants, though.”

Speaking to Grunfeld and Andrew, and hearing their advice (see ) on how to identify different occupations that might relax and reinvigorate me, I begin to feel optimistic. I think back to how I liked to pass the time when I was young; the quiet times sitting reading a book, the rowdier times baking with friends. I resolve to make more time to do the adult versions of these things over the next year – then realise I am making excuses. If I could redirect the evenings I am already wasting on screens, that would be a good start.

The fact is, I do already do all those ideal things occasionally, but sometimes it feels as if being in the world is too much, and I need to disappear from it by losing myself in a screen. It is as if I crave that brain-dead feeling, even though I know it isn’t good for me. Having psychoanalytic psychotherapy is helping me to think about the reasons why I might do this – and for Morgan, therapy can be an important pathway out of being stuck in a screen-gazing rut, because it is somewhere a person is encouraged to use his or her mind. “The therapeutic space is the opposite of distraction – it’s concentration,” he says. “When people come into my consulting room, they often tell me it’s the first time they have ever felt they have had a space where they can’t run away from things.”

I have found that not running away from things, but confronting them and reflecting on them, can feel as exhausting as the running itself. It is difficult, disturbing work. But in a room with someone who can listen and help me to make sense of things, it can also be a relief. Morgan tells me: “We have all these various ways of distracting ourselves from the most important fact of life – that we live, and then we die. Having a mind to help you think about things, having a person who can think deeply about things with you, is a way to manage this very frightening fact of life.”

The flip side of that frightening fact is, of course, the realisation that since we don’t have much time on this planet, it is a shame to waste any of it voluntarily making ourselves brain-dead.

• If you are spending time with family or friends over the festive period, Nina Grunfeld recommends assigning each person one hour in which they are in charge of the group’s schedule, when they can choose whichever activity they consider most relaxing. “One of my children might decide we all have to play a video game; another will decide we are all going for a walk; another will make us all bake cakes. That way you all get a bit of ‘me-time’, and you can experience someone else’s – and it’s very relaxing not having to make decisions for the whole day,” she says.

• Try to remember what you most enjoyed doing as a child, then identify the most important aspect of that activity and find the adult version. Grunfeld says: “It might be that you can’t remember, and you have to ask friends or family, or look at old photo albums. There are normally themes in all of our lives, and if we’re missing those themes as an adult, it’s almost as if we’re not a whole person.” If you loved playing in the sandpit, you might want to try pottery, or if you liked building things, you might want to make bread.

• Experiment with looking at the world in a new way. “Allow yourself to explore. Just walk around wherever you are and see what you can find that is completely new. Try to get lost – whenever you get to a turning, ask yourself do you want to go left or right, and see where you end up,” says Grunfeld.

• If you have no idea how to start relaxing, look at the science, says Rachel Andrew. “There is a growing body of research to suggest being out in nature is uplifting and nourishing.”

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