#just. a little scary and annoying getting to go through withdrawal and a bad depression episode

[changterhune]

Time to Cut And Run

I think I’m done with social media. 

Okay, not all of it. But most of it.

“Why?” is what you’re asking. “You’re so active on it! Look at you with all the Facebooking, the Twittering, the Instagramming, the Tumbling and such!”

You’re right. And it’s slowly killing me. No joke.

WHEN YOU’RE THE PROBLEM YOU GOT A BIG PROBLEM

When my first reaction to dropping all social media was fear and concern that I couldn’t do it then I should’ve known I had a problem. As I’ve had more and more time to hear their experience and how they felt after cutting this particular cord I knew it was something I had to do.

Of course in grand Terhune style, I made a big frigging pronouncement that on August 1st, 2019 I would be deactivating or mothballing my Facebook and Twitter accounts for one month. I said I’d keep my Instagram and Tumblr active, though I might’ve ditched Tumblr, too, at the end of the month.

But it didn’t work out quite like that.

“Why?” you may ask? (As if anyone’s still reading).

Well, I’ll tell you.

PEER PRESSURE

Two friends of mine cut the cords from social media this summer.

They immediately reported feeling great but not after some initial shock and withdrawal (which apparently was significant). My aforementioned terrified reaction to this turned into admiration then concern and jealousy. They could easily disengage, it seemed, while I found the idea as frightening as severing a limb.

When I began to envy those who can seemingly manage if not thrive from their social media presence is when I realized I was really in it deep.

A HISTORY LESSON Fourteen years ago our family moved to Maine, uprooting from an established network of friends and family. My wife and I threw ourselves into a new business (a yoga studio) and our daughter was in school. We developed friendships and built a loving, vibrant community around our yoga studio. Our sense of professionalism meant maintaining boundaries though we maintained some social contact in meatspace (what the rest of the world calls in real life or IRL in technospeak). It was enough and made up for what we lost when we moved to a new state.

During this time, from 2005 to 2014, social media grew from a few blogs and LiveJournal into Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat and others. Many of my social media accounts were created in 2008 after I attended the Viable Paradise workshop. There I connected with fellow writers and future friends from all over the world.

In the beginning, these platforms allowed me to keep in touch while friending new people and reconnecting with friends from my hometown, college and other areas of my life. It was fun to grow my friends lists in all those apps. There I got to know the new friends and reconnect with the old ones. At one time I could even distinguish between someone I knew from real life, the internet, high school, my yoga life, my music life and my writing life.

Then as they often do, things got… weird.

Actually I became severely depressed and then I got weird.

Okay, fine. I got weird-er. Ya happy now?

“MY COMPLICATIONS HAD COMPLICATIONS.”

2013-2014 is when social media became problematic for me. Though in some ways it was a lifeline, where I kept in touch with people when I felt isolated. But more often I grew to feel as if I wasn’t validated unless I posted something on social media. 

Or I wondered if I was valued or even alive if I posted something and got a “like.”

It became the place where I lived the most and this wasn’t good for me.

In that time social media grew into something like the facehugger from the movie “Alien.” If you don’t know what that is (what the hell is wrong with you?!) then here’s a litte background for you:

The facehugger is a parasitoid; its only purpose being to make contact with the host's mouth for the implantation process. The Facehugger secures its eight finger-like appendages tightly around the head of its victim and wraps its tail tightly around the host's neck, eliciting a gasping response and allowing the insertion of an ovipositor into the host's esophagus. An embryonic form of the Xenomorph is then implanted directly into the stomach of the host. During the implantation process the host is fed a constant supply of oxygen via two lung like organs. 

Here’s a fun video (WARNING IT CONTAINS SCARY SHIT):

Get the picture?

Social media - mostly Facebook and Twitter to be honest - became a thing attached to me, breathing for me while implanting something foreign into me. But instead of originating as something invasive I basically invited it in, made it some tea, shaved while it drank the tea then allowed it to hop on my face and ride me like a fucking tired, old pony at the carnival.

OUTRAGE FATIGUE

 As my friend good friend and bold German brother Marko Kloos wrote, it’s all too easy to open up one of these sites and get enthralled in the rage of the day. I don’t know who manages their social media engagement and doesn’t feel this or how they do it. But I realized that I was experiencing something dubbed extreme outrage fatigue. And it made the depths of my depression in the last five years considerably worse than it had to be. Because it’s one thing to be engaged and aware of what’s going on and yet another thing entirely to go from zero to furious in a second. 

I had enough stress and cortisol cocktails back when we owned our business. Real life then dealt me an even greater dollop of it in the last five. I’m better now with the help of therapy, medication, and a new CPAP machine. And as I get better, I realized giving my body a heaping dose of cortisol every time I open Facebook and see something that jolts my nerves and off I go into a tailspin.

And I’m so, so very done feeling this way. I’m fairly sure it’s killing me slowly.

DER PLAN? DIRT PLANT!

Unlike the facehugger from Alien, pulling the plug on social media hasn’t strangled me or causes acidic blood to scar me or eat a hole in three or four decks of a spaceship.

But the withdrawal was a little intense that first day. I’m not gonna lie. 

Because I’m a little addicted to social media.

Which, if you’re unfamiliar with recovery schpiel, means I’m very addicted.

Social media - with its likes, hearts, emojis, RT’s and everything else - is perfect for our little lizard brains. They only want to feel fed, fucked, free and fat - which really means feeling loved, wanted and secure. When we get a little like or emoji on a post it releases endorphins into our brains and we crave more. So much so that I often wish I’d never gotten involved with it and kept my daughter off social media for as long as possible.

It’s not social media’s fault per se, it’s just that I am wired in such a way that it makes addicts of us (my wife can take it or leave it which is both annoying and enviable). 

Now don’t get me wrong: there’s a ton of things I love about social media. I love that it’s connected me with people all over the world, made new friends and reconnected me to old ones. I love that it’s truly helped people in various causes across the globe from the Arab Spring uprising, the RESIST marches in the US and the Hong Kong protests. It can be a tool for positive change in the world but it’s not being used as such because those who run Facebook and Twitter see more profit in running it another way.

Don’t believe me? Then go to Netflix and watch The Big Hack documentary. Then tell me how you don’t care about what Facebook does with your information. Because I guaranteed they know how you think and decide about your purchases and beliefs almost as well as or better than you.

SOCIETY’S A DRAG SO WHY NOT JUST DROP OUT?

“Well, why are you staying on Instagram and Tumblr?” you may ask. “They’re just as bad!”

Okay. I’ll tell you why. It’s simple.

Because they bring me joy.

My Tumblr dash is mostly science fiction themed posts and a few political ones. I go there for concept art, the work of favorite artists, funny gifs and even music (I certainly don’t go there for adult content since they killed that community off the day before my 50th birthday. Great gift, jackasses!). It’s a nice place to unwind as I usually check it out at the end of the day before I go to bed.

My Instagram feed is full of pictures and videos of synthesizers, cute animals, cartoons, comics, fail videos, concept art and almost no politics. I feel better when I go on it, especially when I see pictures of dogs and cats. And Sparky has a pretty dedicated following which I must curate for his majesty. 

Now if I’m being honest with myself I’m still checking the likes for video clips I post of my songs or artwork. That little approval drug, that little pip of endorphins is something I have to deal with. 

And if I’m being even more honest with myself I can safely say social media has done very little to help me sell my books, music or comics. Most of that I’ve done by hand through word of mouth.

DELETE AND REPEAT UNTIL YOU FEEL THE BEAT

 “Okay, so big deal,” you say. “You’re not dropping out but you’re cutting back. What’s it gonna look like from here on out?” you may ask (as if anyone is still reading this).

For starters my online presence has shrunk noticeably. Initially I planned to deactivate my Facebook account early in August and do the same with Twitter. I started this by deleting the apps from my phone on a Monday.

Then something extraordinary happened.

First the anxiety whacked me over the back of the head and took me for a ride in the back of a smelly old beater. Like for most of the day I was grabbing my phone, going to the apps and experiencing a jolt at not seeing them there. It was like I kept reaching for a door that had been there or a window only to find it replaced with a giant brick wall or gaping empty space. This went along for a good 5-6 hours.

Then the anxiety went away.

The next day was infinitely easier. Without reaching for my phone the way Charles Bukowski reached for a cigarette or glass of whisky first thing in the morning, my day started off much more relaxed. Combined with the benefits of sleeping with a CPAP machine and POW! I was up earlier and easier in the morning as I went off to walk the dog then head into work. In the weeks since I curtailed my social media usage I feel so much better. More relaxed, less anxious and not nearly as out of touch as I thought I might. I check the news feed for a few minutes and listen to the radio but that’s it. Not nearly as much outrage first thing in the morning.

Despite not deleting my Facebook or Twitter accounts completely I haven’t felt much temptation to reinstall them. In fact most days, instead of checking in on both at least a dozen times an hour, I usually check in on Facebook at work late in the morning then once at night at home in my office. 

It shocks me how, after so little time away from it there’s so little there that I wonder how it became such a huge part of my life. The annoyance hits me like a day old haddock in the face the moment I open Facebook and after seeing if I need to reply to anything immediately I just close it and move on.

I have not, obviously, deactivated or deleted either of the monsters for a couple reasons. It’s nice to check in on people individually because the feed is bullshit due to algorithms that show you want Facebook or Twitter wants you to see (I’ve largely abandoned my artist pages because the effort involved in getting them to produce any results is herculean and yields nothing). My Instagram posts to Facebook and other social media so I didn’t need to check it as often. In fact I can’t usually stay on it for more than 5 minutes before getting bored.

YOU NEED US. DON’T YOU? PRETTY PLEASE? “So how are we going to stay in touch?” you may ask. “What about the people who need to get in touch with you?” (as if anyone is still reading this in the present day).

Honestly? If you want me you know where to find me. If you have my digits then call or text a brother. You can always email me, too.

I use Facebook Messenger regularly, despite knowing every word and image I put there is used to sell beer and cheap shit. My intention is to focus more on my personal site and blog at www.charlesrterhune.com and www.changterhune.com. There I’ll be posting regularly in an effort to hone and maintain my internet presence as much as I can (for we are all still at the mercy of the behemoth that is Google). It’s also a case of having the time to post as I’m working on several project at a time. My website will post to social media as long as those sites are active.

Honestly, if I feel this good weeks after cutting the cord I’m sure it will feel a-frigging-mazing in a couple months or even a year’s time!

So I’ll see you around these parts I hope.

Or maybe even IRL here in meatspace!

- CHARLIE/CHANG/CHIZZLE/CRT

#outrage fatigue #social media #facebook sucks #twitter sucks

[shannaraisles]

Set In Darkness

Chapter: 3 Author name: ShannaraIsles Rating: M (for language) Warnings: Bereavement, canon-typical injury and violence Summary: She’s a Modern Girl in Thedas, but it isn’t what she wanted. There’s a scary dose of reality as soon as she arrives. It isn’t her story. People get hurt here; people die here, and there’s no option to reload if you make a bad decision. So what’s stopping her from plunging head first into the Void at the drop of a hat?

A Better Impression

A moment ago, the world had been the right way up. One unexpected patch of ice later, and Rory was flat on her back, grimacing up at the sky as her healing ribs throbbed painfully.

"Ow."

A warm chuckle reached her ears. "You know, cupcake ... you've gotta be the clumsiest healer I've ever met."

The stocky shortness of Varric Tethras sauntered into her line of sight. His grin was surprisingly comforting; had been, right from the moment they'd met, when the Seeker had ordered him to sit in the cart with the recovering healer everyone was so worried about.

It was two weeks from Frosthelm to Haven ... two weeks since Ria's death. Rory had spent the first days in sullen, numb silence, though that didn't seem to bother Varric. He filled the silence easily, drawing on a seemingly limitless repertoire of tales and anecdotes, all the while watching her listlessly staring out at the snow-covered mountains that had killed her friend. No, that was wrong. A car accident had killed Ria; an accident she would have survived if they'd woken up in a hospital, rather than a backwoods Chantry where basic care took second place to singing the Chant of Light. She knew what had been behind the sudden need to have her in company at all hours of the day and night; Varric had been put on what they would have termed back home a suicide watch. In their eyes, they had already lost one healer to misadventure. They couldn't afford to lose another one to her own depression, and they didn't even know what was coming in the weeks and months ahead of them. She did.

Despite her bitterness and grief, Rory knew she was in a position to make a difference, however small. Oh, she wasn't going to touch the big events with a barge pole - far better to endure the tragedies she knew were coming, than derail the story and be totally in the dark. But as Varric regaled her with stories of Hawke - Garrett, the mage, she had to remember that - she pulled herself together under his gaze. Dream or not, she was here. Ria would never forgive her if she let herself fall apart. She was just going to have to make the best of it.

And there were surprises in store for her. Varric, who had always been more of an annoyance to her in the games, was a warmer character in person, his humor just a little darker than she had realized. He also embellished his stories outrageously - it was amazing just how often the hero was rescued by his dwarven friend. She'd finally challenged him on it, the first words she spoke to him after three days of silence to call him out on his bullshit, which he owned up to easily and effortlessly engaged her in a lively debate on the limits of poetic license that lasted a good hour or more. It was only when they camped that night that she had realized what he had done. For three days, his embellishments and exaggerations had grown more and more outrageous, until the moment when she had called him on it. He'd been baiting her, wanting her to challenge him, drawing her out of her self-imposed isolation the only way he knew how.

She couldn't hide away again after that. The soldiers who were traveling with the Right Hand began to include her in conversations at the campfire, making a place in this core of pre-Inquisition devotees that was hers alone, and Rory had finally realized the reason for their former silence. They had thought they would have to watch her die slowly, over months, by inches. By breaking her silence, she had proved that she could be tempted to live, and they were eager to offer that temptation - not because they needed a healer, but because she needed friends. And in spite of herself, she was grateful for their offered friendship.

Not so much right now, of course, lying on her back in the snow with a dwarf grinning down at her.

"Oh, shut up and be helpful," she grumped, waving her hands at him.

Still chuckling, Varric leaned down to pull her onto her feet, wincing sympathetically as she hissed in pain. "Those ribs still giving you trouble?"

She nodded, forcing herself not to touch her tender side. "And will, for at least another month," she told him, brushing the snow from her skirt.

"Can't you take something for it?" he asked in concern.

"I wouldn't be much of a healer if I use all my stock for myself," she pointed out ruefully. "I can still do my job with cracked ribs. Those potions can do more good for other people." She tilted her head, looking down at him curiously. "Aren't you supposed to be under guard?"

"Oh, I am," Varric assured her. "Look."

He gestured to a young soldier who was standing nearby. Rory waved at the lad, who she thought might be called Eoin, and smiled at the slightly sheepish nod she got in reply. Varric's warm chuckle made itself known again, enjoying the interaction he got to witness. It was all fodder for his writing, after all.

"C'mon, I'll walk you to where you're going," the dwarf volunteered. "Where are you going?"

She grimaced nervously. "I have to speak to the commander," she confessed, tugging on her braid. "He's been put in charge of space allocation, and I have ... none."

That wasn't the only reason she was nervous, of course. Anyone back home would have understood; okay, maybe not anyone, but most people she knew. This was Cullen Rutherford. Handsome, troubled, driven, sexy as all hell ... the single greatest crush she had ever developed, and until two weeks ago, he'd been non-existent. Now he was very much existent, and had spent the last two weeks thinking she was a suicidal wreck. She was pretty sure he was the one who had arranged for Varric to talk her out of that initial depression. It was more in character for him than Cassandra, at any rate. She hadn't spoken to the commander since he'd asked her to follow through on a promise she hadn't actually made, but she'd seen him watching her. Was he expecting her to start screaming again? Would he comfort her if she did?

Rory tried not to giggle at that thought. He'd be more likely to send her packing if she fell apart again. No, the goal today was to prove she wasn't a raving lunatic, mad with grief. Approaching his personal problem might have to wait until he was sure she wasn't going to slap him for not being her best friend.

"You've got a tent," Varric was saying as they moved through the little village.

"A tent that I share with Elora and Inis," she pointed out. "Can't really see or treat patients there."

"You've got a point," the dwarf agreed. "Curly's been surly the last couple of days, though. Might not be the best time."

Surly was one way of putting it. Rory's main experience as a care assistant might have been in critical care, but she could spot the signs of severe chronic pain, even if no one else here could. Cullen was irritable, easily annoyed, his skin sallow and marked with dark circles under his eyes, constantly frowning even when he was supposedly at ease. He looked like stomped over crap, to be honest, but she didn't know the full extent of his withdrawal symptoms. She wasn't even supposed to know he was going through withdrawal. She'd gleaned from the game that he had unpredictable insomnia, headaches, and apparently generalized pain that could buckle him from time to time. There were ways to alleviate those symptoms, but she needed him to admit to suffering at all first.

"I'll just have to be persuasive, then," she responded absently. She paused at the gate, surveying the stockaded area that had been set up for training recruits and housing the fledgling group that would be the Inquisition.

Cullen was there, barking orders at the soldiers sparring in front of him. He looked even paler in this unforgiving light. A gust of wind rushed off the frozen lake, ruffling the skirt around her calves as she shivered, hugging her arms about herself in an attempt to stay warm. What she wouldn't give for a pair of jeans and some boots. Instead, she was garbed in a woolen dress with long sleeves that fell to her mid-calf, over a linen shift, with thick wool thigh-highs that were overlaid at the sole with hide and held up with what felt like string. Surprisingly warm, given the freezing conditions, but itchy and prone to get wet easily, and every now and then she got a shocking whoosh of wind right up her skirt that froze her bare backside.

"Well, there he is, cupcake," Varric announced, somewhat superfluously. "Want me to wait? I've got nothing but time until the Divine gets here."

"Uh ..." Was Cullen more or less likely to yell at her if she had moral support? "No, I can handle this," she said, sounding far more confident than she felt. "It's not like he can do more than make me cry."

"If you get through it dry-eyed, I'll buy the drinks at the tavern tonight." How was that for motivation?

If nothing else, Varric's assurance made her smile as she stepped away from him, tucking her arms close about herself in an attempt not to have chattering teeth when she reached the intimidating presence of a man she had written some embarrassingly candid fan-fiction about in another life. As she approached, however, Cullen suddenly marched into the midst of the training ground, shaking off his fur mantle to take up a shield and demonstrate its proper use to the only slightly clueless recruits. Rory was left on the outside of the circle that formed around him, unable to see past the shoulders in front of her, glancing curiously to the man Cullen had abandoned so abruptly.

"Do I smell, or something?" she asked, more for something to say than any need for an explanation.

He laughed, shaking his head. "I don't think he saw you, lady," he assured her in a robust accent she had to remind herself was Starkhaven, not Scottish. "The commander's been very focused today."

"We only arrived yesterday," she pointed out mildly, her mind wandering to some of the content of that awful fan-fiction even as she spoke. "He's not really expecting raw recruits to be proficient on their first try, is he?"

"No, he's not so hopeful of that," the man agreed. "But the sooner they learn technique, the sooner they'll improve and be able to teach others competently. I'm Knight-Cap ... Captain Rylen. Sorry, the change in rank title's still tripping me up. And you are?"

"Hmm? Oh ..." Embarrassed at being caught wool-gathering, Rory blushed under his expectant smile. "I'm Rory. Just Rory - no title."

"Ah, you're the healer?" Rylen nodded, putting a face to the name he'd already heard a fair amount. "There's your title, Lady Healer Rory."

She snorted with derisive laughter. "I'm definitely not a lady."

"Healer Rory, then," he corrected himself cheerfully. "Your accent says Ferelden. Local lass, are you?"

Panic gripped her at the innocent query. Why hadn't she thought of that? Someone was bound to ask sooner or later - thank gods she was English, from London; her accent at least placed her in the one country in Thedas she had a fighting chance of pretending to call home. The in-game map flashed through her mind, supremely unhelpful as it was. She couldn't say Redcliffe or Lothering, or Denerim ... all too risky, too many people here hailing from those parts. There must be somewhere else. Honnleath? No, Cullen's from there. Come on, come on, think ...

"Gwaren," she blurted, quick to add, "originally. I've moved around a lot."

"Where were you during the Blight, if you don't mind my asking?" To his credit, Rylen did seem genuinely interested, rather than suspicious. And he would be - he must have met more than a few Ferelden refugees in the last decade who had fled to the Free Marches to escape the Blight.

But it was another question she didn't have an answer for. Where wasn't hit by the Blight? Mind racing, Rory went for evasive. "I ... don't like to talk about the Blight," she offered awkwardly, hoping she wasn't being too rude.

Thankfully, he seemed to take her reluctance as a mask for memories she didn't want to revisit. "Sorry, I shouldn't have asked," he apologized, a little awkward himself. "I heard it was bad in most places. Wasn't fair of me to pry."

"No, it's ... it's fine," she assured him, more than a little guilty at hearing him apologize for her reticence. "I just don't like talking about it, that's all."

"I understand," he said easily enough. "There's not many who do."

"Thank you." Rory smiled, not wanting him to feel bad for asking a reasonable question. It wasn't his fault she didn't have an answer for it. "You're from Starkhaven, aren't you?"

"Aye," Rylen confirmed. He eyed her with a teasing grin. "What gave me away - the sexy accent, or my astonishing good looks?"

Despite herself, she laughed aloud at that. "Oh, definitely the accent," she said, with a giggle in her voice. "Ria would have -" But she broke off, her smile suddenly gone. Ria wouldn't be jumping anyone anymore, sexy accent or no. Ria was gone.

Rylen was silent with her, no doubt searching for something to say. "I heard what happened on the road," he said finally, offering her his open palm. "I'm sorry for your loss."

Without thinking, she took the hand offered to her, comforted by the understated strength with which he gripped her fingers. No one had touched her since before Ria's death, except to help her overcome the problems she faced with her injuries. She hadn't realized how much she was missing the casual touch of a friendly hand. Ria's hugs had always been the best. "Thank you, captain."

His smile was gentle in the face of her honest grief. "My name's Rylen, lass," he said quietly. "You're welcome to use it."

Surprised by this offer, Rory felt herself smile, if only for the briefest moment, squeezing his hand in return. "Rylen," she echoed, accepting his permission gratefully.

"Captain!"

At the sharp snap of words from his superior, Rylen ripped his hand out of hers, standing smartly to attention as Cullen emerged from the group he had been educating. The commander was flushed from the exertion, the high color in his cheeks only serving to emphasize how sallow his complexion had become. He turned stern eyes onto the captain, shrugging back into his mantle.

"You're on security detail for the Temple perimeter," Cullen told the former Starkhaven templar. "Take three men and a scout - I want to be sure no one is taking a different route to the Conclave."

"Aye, ser." Rylen saluted with a crash of his armored fist against his breastplate, pausing just long enough to nod to Rory before striding away.

"I would appreciate it, Lady Healer, if you did not distract my men from their assigned tasks," Cullen then said to Rory, already turning away even as she responded.

"I would appreciate having a place where I can work, commander," she heard herself retort, stung by the implication that she had somehow deliberately gotten Rylen into trouble just by talking to him.

"You have a tent," the commander reminded her. "What we were able to salvage from the avalanche -"

"- is currently piled up next to it, yes," she agreed. "Though I fail to see how I can be expected to do the work you expect me to do in a tent."

Cullen sighed, turning back to face her. She could see this was an additional headache he wasn't prepared for today, but if she was going to be of any use to them at all, this problem had to be addressed.

"You are a healer," he said wearily. "I doubt your needs are this complex."

Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Are you familiar with the concept of confidentiality?" she asked him, making an effort not to snap. "Not all ailments are generic, and not all people are comfortable discussing them where others can hear. Surely you can see that? For me to do my job, people need to be able to trust me; to trust that what they say, and what I see, won't be heard or seen by anyone but the healer they share it with."

She was surprised to see his brows furrow in a curious frown. "It's your standard practice, to protect your patients' privacy this way?"

"Isn't it everyone's?" It certainly was back home, but this definitely wasn't the NHS. Apparently the basic healer in Thedas didn't give two figs about their patients' dignity, going by this reaction. "Everyone deserves the dignity of having their privacy respected, commander."

He was staring at her, apparently having difficulty wrapping his head around the concept of a healer who offered more than just bandages and elfroot on command. It was disconcerting to be under that gaze - as many times as she had seen it in the game, nothing could have prepared her for the full weight of Cullen Rutherford's regard. He'd given her his full attention. She could feel herself fidgeting under his eyes, wondering if he could tell just how big the lie she was sitting on really was. It was a relief when he finally spoke.

"How large a space do you require?" he asked quietly.

"An office would do, for now," she suggested, "but eventually I'll need somewhere to house patients while I treat longer term illness or infection."

"I see." He nodded thoughtfully. "You will have that space by day's end. Haven will be overflowing within a few weeks; where people gather in large numbers, disease runs rampant. Even I know that, poor soldier that I am." Something flickered in his eyes as he said this, some suggestion toward humor that made her lips twitch toward the hint of a smile. He reached down to the makeshift desk that stood between the tents, making a note on one of the many pieces of paper that littered it. "For now, I'm afraid I must ask you to examine the recruits in your tent. I'll arrange for them to come to you singly, and limit the amount of movement in that part of the camp. There isn't much more I can do to help preserve their privacy."

Staring up at him, Rory felt that smile come to life on her face ... her first proper smile since being dragged into this mess in the first place, delighted to discover that Cullen really did care about the well-being of his people just as much as she had always suspected. "That's ... that's wonderful, commander," she declared, grateful that he understood. "Thank you."

The scar on his lip tugged tight for a moment, betraying a smile that was only really visible in his eyes. "It's a pleasure to meet a healer who cares so deeply for patients she hasn't even met," he told her, holding her gaze far longer than was truly necessary. Not that she was complaining. He cleared his throat. "Ah ... I should ..."

"Yes, I have ..." Rory gestured vaguely toward the tents, shivering in the cold air. "Thank you, commander."

She turned to walk away over the crunching snow, unable to resist a glance back as she went. His gaze caught hers, his eyes following her as she blushed and quickened her step. That had gone much better than she'd expected.

#set in darkness #multi-chapter fic #cullen rutherford/original female character #cullen rutherford/rory allen #rory allen #varric tethras #rylen #cullen rutherford #Haven #healer

[bipolar-thoughts17]

The last few days

Day 4 : A bipolar cutting her medication cold turkey It started with me not taking my medication while I was sick. I slept through my alarm and now I've just decided that maybe I can live without medication. Maybe I can find an alternative therapy. I am sick of taking medication that doesn't fix my depressive state. I know that they help and that I haven't had a major anxiety and depressive attack in about a year. But I don't remember how I am without the medication. I will try to write everyday, so I can show my doctor this journal so we can find a better way to deal with my psychological disorder. I hate how people like me are given the same treatment, cut and dry. People react to medication differently, so how can we get the same treatment? I'm just assuming, I know other who have bipolar disorder and their treatments are very different then mine. But I know that it must happen out there in the "real" world. I have missed the dreams of being off of medication. They are vivid, scary and yet as soon as I wake up they are forgotten. It's frustrating and I wish that I could remember them. I want to write about them. I don't feel like I dream as vividly when I am taking the meds. I wake up late, and was in a hurry trying to get everything ready. This made me feel a bit irritated. My mind is running with so many ideas, I am trying to filter them so they don't sound so weird and overwhelming. There are things to look forward to today. Bry & I are going to Interstellar Rodeo tonight, tomorrow and Sunday. Tonight, we get to open a bottle of wine with Dan Mangan! I am nervous, but very grateful. The tickets for this festival were extremely expensive, and we were lucky to have won tickets or else we wouldn't be going. Plus we get to met an artist that we have been listening to for a long time. He also looks like a very down to earth person, I just need to remember that he is like any other person. I just realized that since I have started taking my medication I have really stopped taking photos. Why does medication stop my creative flow? I miss photography. If my camera ahead feelings it would feel neglected. At least for the family reunion I will be using it, and hopefully that it will help get back into my art. Women are the most annoying of both sexes. No wonder I have more guy friends. Their high pitch laughter just gives me the biggest headache. I know that when with my friends I probably do the same thing... but still. Go somewhere else and howl like hyenas. When I can hear you over my book that I have on full volume... THAT IS A FUCKING PROBLEM! Breathe in and out, and remember that I am just easily irritated because I am withdrawing. Only 2.5 hours until Bryan comes and picks me up... and then we will be making our way to Hawlark Park! I am getting so excited. We DO NOT need your input on EVERYTHING, sometimes its just better to SHUT the FUCK UP! 10 days in a mad house - read - journals about a women who went into asylums and looked at the conditions of them and how patients were treated. Day 5 : Sleep paralysis? The rest of yesterday was pretty perfect. Music, wine, great food and just a great environment. We also got to see Kyle after everything! Which was very nice because I missed him dearly. I had the weirdest dream, or experience last night. I felt myself wake up, and look over at Bryan but I couldn't move or talk or do anything. I felt like my chest was tight, and I wanted to get Bryan's attention very badly but I couldn't talk to him or move. I must have fallen back asleep somehow because when I woke up fully I could move and talk. Hopefully it was just a dream because if it was sleep paralysis that would be terrifying and it will most likely happen again. I wonder if that's a symptom of the withdrawal, I will need to ask my doctor about it. Today is Interstellar Rodeo day 2! I am beyond excited. I get to see and enjoy another Serena Ryder set and I can't wait to sing and dance my little heart out. I love her! One day I will meet her. Some day. We will going for to find some lawned chairs this morning because sitting on the floor isn't very comfortable even with a blanket. Plus Bryan is pretty sure he broke or fractured his tail bone when he was younger. Which might have never healed correctly and that may be why its so uncomfortable for him. Plus he doesn't have that much cushion there. Kyle may want to go out dancing tonight, but he said we would play it by ear. I hope that if we go to the bar, I don't get angry. I know I will need to avoid large amounts of alcohol, but it's not like I drink that much anyways. So this may be it for today, until tomorrow morning when I get to recap everything and try and make sure to remember how i feel through out the day. Any feelings of sadness, over joy, angry and whatever else I may feel through out the day. I will make small notes on my phone and then recreate them here..... Also, I need to remember to drink more water today. Day 5: The headaches are the worst part of the withdrawal. I know that Bryan might think that my irritability is the problems. But if I didn't get the headaches I won't get mad. It would also help if he did what he needed to do... especially when I have been asking him to do certain things muilple times. I will just need to remind him on Monday and see his schedule so I can send him a million more reminders that day because it seems to be the only way he will do things. Besides that the music told has been fantastic. Teeth are grinding and the headache come and go with activity. I needed some caffeine to keep myself awake. We got ice cream with a shot of espresso and a ice cap. The air felt really dry easier. Now it starting to feel a bit more normal. This festival makes me love our community just a little bit more. So many kind faces and act of kindness that it warms my heart and somewhat restores my faith in society. Day 6: does it have to end? A slight headache, a little bit of grinding. Overall not the worst day. Woke up with stomach pain and thought today was going to be unbearable but then my mom gave me something and now I don't feel as gross. I was hoping Kyle was going to come but he also woke up with stomach problems. We didn't even eat any of the same foods, so it's a little strange that we both wake up like death. Day 7: the weather outside is frightful When its this bad outside, all I want to do is sleep. But we won't let it get us done today. I'm at work today, mostly just answering the phones because I do not have any appointments today. Tomorrow will probably be about the same because of the weather. I need to get a massage. A relaxation massage would be best.... especially because of withdrawing... I'm super sensitive... my parasympathetic system is running on high. A HOT STONE MASSAGE!!!! I would love that!

#mental health #mental disorder #psychologicaldisorder #mood disorder #bipolar 2 #bipolar #bipolar disorder #withdrawl #off the meds