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sanderssidesfanfiction · 3 years

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If There’s a Place I Could Be - Chapter One

A/N: If you have notifs on this blog, you might want to turn them off for the day, heh. I'm gonna be posting 99 chapters of this bad boy today, so there's gonna be a flood of notifs in your inbox, and I apologize for that in advance. This story has been two years in the making, and I hope you all enjoy it as much as the AO3 crowd did!

If There’s a Place I Could Be Tag

July 3rd, 1985

Remy sat in his closet, hands pressed against his ears in a futile attempt to block out the noise. Tears streamed down his face as he could hear his parents’ continued argument. His mother was acting out again, because of course she was, and his dad was trying to deescalate the situation, which only ever wound up Mom more. The screaming started up, and Remy flinched, desperate for the continued argument to stop, just for a second, just so that he could feel safe enough leaving his closet to go to the bathroom.

He knew, though, that he was going to have to wait for a while to get anything he wanted, let alone that.

September 8th, 2000

Remy looked around the campus he was on with a sigh. He really didn’t know why he was doing this. College just seemed like one of those things you did just because; it wasn’t like he was going to get a job just because he had a degree. But here he was, at his parents’ insistence.

He was sipping his coffee on a park bench, watching the leaves on the trees. He had some time before his next class, and it wasn’t like he had anything better to do. “Pretty, isn’t it?” a man asked from behind him.

Turning, Remy found a man with a curly mop of red hair and bright green eyes. “Yeah, I suppose,” he said, looking back at the leaves.

The man sat down next to him with a smile. “My name’s Emile,” he said.

Remy offered his hand. “Remy.”

“Nice to meet you, Remy,” Emile said. “Mind me asking why you look so down in the dumps?”

Remy shook his head at Emile and said, “It’s nothing important.”

“It’s affecting you, so obviously it has to be important,” Emile said with a frown. “Everyone’s feelings are important, no matter what they are.”

Remy inwardly sighed and outwardly bristled. This guy was clearly intent on making friends, something that Remy didn’t want, or need. “Please. That’s the sort of thing only overly-sensitive people think. Normal people don’t need to talk out their feelings every second of the day.”

Emile blinked. “I was just trying to strike up a conversation,” he said, and his eyes looked hurt.

“Have you considered that not everyone here wants to be your friend?” Remy asked, sipping his coffee.

“Well, not everyone has to be my friend, but you’ve hung on the outskirts everywhere I’ve seen you during orientation,” Emile said. “I figured you might want to know one or two people here, just to have a familiar face around campus.”

“Touching, but I’ll be fine,” Remy grumbled. “I don’t need any friends.”

“I don’t believe you,” Emile said simply.

Remy jumped like he may has well have been stabbed. He snarled at Emile. “You don’t know anything about me! Why would you even suggest that you know my social habits better than I do?!”

Emile had his hands held up in surrender, his eyes wide. Remy sighed. This kid clearly had lived a very sheltered life. Someone had to toughen him up so he didn’t break the hard way the second someone pushed back against him. And Remy didn’t know anyone else on this campus who might be able to teach the kid anything about life, so it looked like if he wanted Emile to not get destroyed on campus, he would have to be the one to toughen him up, bit by bit. “I’m sorry,” Remy said. “I don’t...have good experiences with people trying to be my friends in the past. No one stuck around longer than it took for them to get blackmail material on me.”

“That’s terrible,” Emile gasped.

“That’s life,” Remy said, voice dull and hollow. “If you want to be my friend, I guess you can try. Just don’t be surprised if I don’t follow you when you jump off a bridge.”

Emile sat there in stunned silence for a second, before he whimpered out, “You never did answer my question.”

Remy ran a hand through his hair and took another sip of his coffee. “Why I’m upset? I don’t want to be here. College is just...extra school that you go in debt for. I don’t know what I want to do with my life; I’m taking business classes because I had a knack for math in high school, but so far the textbooks I’ve read haven’t taught me anything. I don’t have anyone on this campus that I know, and you’re the only person who’s even bothered to stick around me for longer than twenty seconds. No friends, no learning, and thousands of dollars of debt. That’s why I’m upset.”

Emile shrugged. “Well, why are you upset about having no friends if you don’t want any friends?”

“What?” Remy asked, glancing over.

“Why are you upset about having no friends if you don’t want any friends?” Emile repeated. “That would seem like a blessing, wouldn’t it? Not having to deal with people faking being your friends after high school?”

Remy shrugged. “I appreciate company. Not friendships, but I don’t like being stuck with my thoughts all the time.”

“Well, there are a couple people who I know who are throwing parties later, if you ever want to...you know...party? Have something to do outside study and not make friends?” Emile offered.

Remy glared at Emile. “And now you’re mocking me?”

“What? No!” Emile said. “You said you didn’t want to make friends? So I just...aw, shoot, it wasn’t supposed to come out that way!”

Remy scoffed. “Emile, you clearly don’t have the right social skills to be compatible friends with me. I suggest finding someone else to hang around with, because I’m certainly not your ‘pal.’”

“Actually, provided you don’t mind, I’d like to stay right here, talking to you, thanks,” Emile said, pulling out a book from his backpack and settling into the bench with a sigh. “We don’t have to be friends, but I’d still like to be a familiar face to you.”

Remy blinked. This kid...wasn’t backing down? Remy assumed he’d scurry away and regroup and Remy would have some time to figure out how to toughen Emile up, provided he came back. But he was...staying? Even after Remy had snarled at him? “Why?” Remy asked, before he could stop himself.

Emile looked up from his book, briefly shocked, before he smiled. It was soft, and kind, and nothing like Remy had ever seen directed at him before. “Because everyone deserves to be comfortable, and familiar faces tend to make people relax a little more.”

Remy frowned. “I don’t...I don’t understand you.”

“That’s okay,” Emile said, turning back to his book. “Learning to understand other people is half the fun of making friends.”

“But...I don’t want to make friends,” Remy said.

“Okay,” Emile said. “But would you want to make a friend?”

Remy scoffed. “Changing the noun in question from plural to singular does not change my sentiment.”

“It was worth a shot,” Emile said, smiling into his book. “I figured I may as well try. And it didn’t work, but now I know where you stand.”

Remy shook his head. “An optimist,” he muttered. “Of course you’re an optimist.”

“Why would that be a bad thing?” Emile asked.

“Because there’s not a silver lining to any and every situation,” Remy said, wrinkling his nose. “And I fear for the sanity of anyone who believes otherwise, because clearly, their head must not be on straight.”

“What situations aren’t there silver linings in?” Emile asked. “Every time something bad happens, it leads to something else in someone’s life, and sooner or later that ‘something else’ is something good. Something that you wouldn’t have gotten without the bad.”

“You don’t know that for a fact,” Remy warned. “You could have even gotten to the good thing faster without the bad.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Emile said. “After all, you might never have met me or anyone else on this campus if you didn’t come to college.”

Remy barked a laugh. “That full of yourself, are you?” he asked Emile.

“Well, I’m not saying I’m the epitome of good things, but a friend is always a good thing in my book. Or even just a familiar face. I’ll be around, you know. And I’m always up to help if you need a hand,” Emile offered.

This kid was sickeningly sweet, and Remy didn’t know how he had tolerated that attitude for this long. “Whatever,” Remy brushed off. “I’m fine on my own. Be a familiar face if you must, but we are not friends.”

“If you say so, Remy,” Emile said.

“I do say so, Emile,” Remy said, voice dripping venom on Emile’s name. “I need to head to my next class soon.”

“If you have a phone, we can exchange numbers?” Emile asked hopefully.

Remy arched an eyebrow. “That desperate to pester me, huh?” he asked with a sigh. “Yeah, I have a phone. Don’t really feel inclined to give you the number, though.”

“Oh,” Emile deflated, and Remy didn’t expect to feel bad for making a jab at the kid, but he did.

He groaned. “You’re making this hard,” he griped.

“What, being alone?” Emile asked.

“Not caring about anything here,” Remy grumbled. “Granted, the caring is in the sense that I hate this place and most if not all the people in it, but I was hoping I could just...apathetically make my way into getting a degree and moving on from this hovel.”

“You worry me,” Emile said.

“Do I?” Remy asked. “How so?”

“Well, I know we’ve only known each other for like, ten minutes, but I’m studying psychology so that I can become a therapist and—”

“Hold up, hold up, hold up,” Remy said. “Hold. Up. You’re studying to become a shrink?”

“Uh. Yes?” Emile said, tilting his head to the side. “Is that a problem?”

“It means we definitely can’t be friends. I don’t need you shrinking my head every chance you get to try and get me to reveal my ‘troubled past’ or find out that I’m secretly in love with my mother, or whatever. No, thank you. I hate shrinks and I loathe therapists.” Remy took another sip of his coffee, but it tasted bitter on his tongue.

“Why?” Emile asked. “They’re incredibly helpful.”

“I don’t need ‘em,” Remy scoffed. “Everyone I’ve ever met who’s talked to me for a while is like, ‘Oh, you should go see a therapist!’ And that has been the end of many a small friendship. I don’t need a therapist. Never have, never will. Just because I was the baby in the line of three, doesn’t mean I was neglected or some crap.”

“Wow,” Emile said. “Okay. There’s a lot to unpack there, for sure. But, uh, if you don’t want me to...uh...listen, that’s okay. I wouldn’t ‘shrink your head’ if I were your friend, though. Number one thing I’ve learned from talking to therapists when I ask them about what the job is like is that you can’t be a therapist to your friends. You’re too attached to the situation to make an objective observation and help the person see things from another perspective. You’re not in trouble when it comes to that, if you want me to be more than a familiar face.”

“Well, I don’t even want you to be a familiar face, you’re the one who keeps insisting on talking to me,” Remy griped. “No one ever seems to get that I just want to be left alone!”

“Well, I know extroverts don’t understand that,” Emile said. “I’m an...eccentric introvert, I guess? So I understand wanting alone time, but you’ve been alone for at least a week and a half. That’s...not necessarily healthy.”

Remy put down his coffee and groaned into his hands. “Oh. Come on. You care. Too much. You don’t even know me!” he exclaimed, turning to growl at Emile directly. “Why would you even try to get to know someone who is very obviously trying to push you away?!”

“I like the challenge, and I worry about what being isolated does to a person,” Emile responded, without missing a beat or flinching. “If you want to be left alone right now, just say so, and I’ll leave you to get to your next class or wherever you need to go. But know that when I see you again and it’s clear that you’re just hanging out and not doing anything important, I’ll come back to talk to you. Because you’re definitely on my ‘potential friends’ list now, if for no other reason than spite.”

Remy snorted at that. “Yeah, whatever. You keep telling yourself that you’re making a difference, talking to me. If it makes you sleep easier, you can call us friends. But I don’t consider you anything more than the guy who won’t shut up about friendship and being alone.”

“I can live with that,” Emile chirped, standing up. “I really have to get to my next class, but it was nice to meet you, Remy! I hope that maybe I could see you in the student lounge sometime, or maybe on the quad? I’d love to continue our discussion about whether or not friends are beneficial!”

And without another word, Emile left, humming something to himself as Remy watched on. He wasn’t even sure if he wanted to toughen up Emile. He was entirely too cheery for Remy’s tastes, and he couldn’t imagine what Emile’s poor roommate must deal with. He just hoped that the guy was more patient than Remy was, because otherwise they might have a homicide on the campus.

#if there's a place i could be #sanders sides fanfiction #remile #emile picani #ts sleep #Our Creations

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let-me-love-you-loki · 5 years

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Waking Up in Vegas--Ch. 14

Chapter 14: Send Out an S.O.S.

The Following Monday Night

Mera, Evening, 7:45 PM

The trainer’s room was where it always was, and my things were spread out exactly as I preferred them. All my necessary tools were within arm’s reach, easy to access should any of the superstars need my help. I was never part of the scripted trainer visits—they kept me in reserve for those who were really injured. For the most part, even the fans knew that when I came to the ring, something was really wrong.

I spent a lot of time alone in that room most nights. Sure, there were the times when someone got a little overzealous and either hurt themselves or someone else. But for the most part, I was just there to deal with general sports injuries and required stretching from their physical therapists. Right before matches, there was a steady trickle of superstars. Sometimes right after if someone just needed help with a locked-up muscle.

Otherwise… it was just me and four walls. I kept books with me, so sometimes I would read. Sometimes I had notes or medical records to update for some of the superstars who I saw on a regular basis. Most of the time, thought, it was just my thoughts and me.

With a major pay-per-view coming up, the higher ups were being more careful about the health of their superstars who were set to be big draws. Seth was on the books as going after the Universal Championship at Wrestlemania, so everyone was being particularly careful about his knee and his back.

Which meant he was required to see me before and after his matches from now until Wrestlemania was over. Great, I thought, looking at the note in his medical chart. Just great.

I thought back to the Seth I knew as a kid—back when everyone called him Colby or Brandon’s little brother. He had been so sweet and kind. In high school, he was charming and smart. He’d loved wrestling, putting on shows in his front yard with his friends, covering his basement bedroom in a thousand different names and slogans. But there had been a time—when he was Tyler Black in the ring and Colby everywhere else—when we’d been inseparable. When he’d wanted nothing more than to have me at his side, chasing that dream with him.

We graduated high school. I went to college, fast-tracking through an athletic training program—doing homework by flashlight driving from town to town on the weekends to watch him compete. Forty-thousand dollars of debt to get a degree and a certification to do a job that guaranteed I could be with him wherever he went. Independent wrestling companies didn’t always have fantastic care for their athletes, and I was an added bonus that came along when someone signed Tyler Black. And those hadn’t been bad days.

Crappy apartments, cheap hotels, food that was never that good and half the time cold, long drives and late nights. That had been my life from 18 to 29—eleven years of following him across the world with one company after the other. WWE had made it a little easier with better pay, a nicer apartment, more stability. But it had also created Seth Rollins. He was cocky, self-assured, and selfish. Even though he wore the same face as my childhood Colby, it had been Seth who had ripped my heart into pieces.

Someone knocked on the door. I glanced at my watch, realized that it must have been him. His match started in forty-five minutes. Plenty of time for me to give him a decent once over to ensure that nothing was of concern before he got in the ring. And, hopefully, it could be quick enough that we didn’t have to talk much.

I crossed the room, opened the door. Seth stood there with that annoyingly cocky look on his face, already dressed out in his gear. I fought down the pounding of my heart, the nausea that burned in my throat. “You know the drill,” I said, emotionless as he passed close by.

He hopped up on the table, flopping on to his stomach. I sighed and rubbed my hands together to warm them. It was best to just get this over with as fast as possible.

“Any pain today?” The words came out flat. For just about everyone else, I had a pretty good bedside manner. For Seth, it was all about getting him in and out without too many insults and tears.

“Tight on the left. You know how it gets sometimes,” he said with a knowing something in his voice. He turned his head toward me, pillowing his cheek on his crossed forearms. “Too much strain, you know.”

I forced my thoughts away from memories of the things throughout the years had triggered his aching back. “Tell me when it hurts.”

Dean, Evening, 7:55 PM

I cracked my knuckles, swung my arms to warm up my shoulders. I wasn’t scheduled until the second hour of the show, and I wanted to sit with Mera for a while. It was amazing to me that she had become so perfectly integrated into my life that her presence made me feel calm in a way that nothing did.

As I came down the hallway, I could hear her voice from the trainer’s room. Her tone was even, yet something seemed off. She sounded carefully controlled, clipped. I knew the rules—don’t go into the trainer’s room when someone else was already there—privacy and all that. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t wait outside just in case.

“Use the heat before and after on the back. Rest it twenty-four hours between every exertion. That means matches or workouts. You need to spread it out so that you can even make it to Wrestlemania.”

It took a moment for the response to come. When it did, my blood ran cold. The beast in my chest roared, desperate to get into the room, to keep her safe, to protect her heart.

“What was that treatment you used to do?” The words themselves were innocent, but I knew there was something more to his intent. “It used to work so well.”

“Call a masseuse,” she snapped back. “That’s not part of my job.”

Breathe, I told that primal thing inside me. It writhed in anger and sheer protective instinct. It was like it could sense her discomfort. I watched the door, wishing I could see through it. She was capable, intelligent, and stronger than any woman I’d ever met, and yet all I could think to do was to do everything I could to protect her from even the simplest pain.

The room went quiet. I paced, the worst possible scenarios playing through my mind.

“They never know how to do it. It’s either too much or not enough pressure. You’ve always been able to fix it,” Seth said in a tone that sounded both pouting and deceiving. “This is my big shot, Mera. Help me out here.”

Her visage floated into my mind. I could see the way her liquid gold eyes blurred with guilt, how she might look at him with her lips pressed into a line, her face a mask of discomfort and unhappiness. I’d watched her long enough to know how her emotions played over her features, how her sadness, pain, and shame could bend her into someone that gave away her best self to cater to another.

I knew there were tears in her eyes when she spoke. Just as I knew the answer before she even gave it. “Okay.”

The primal thing in my chest surprised me with the ferocity of its jealousy. It dug in, tried to drive me to bust through the door, to drag her away and remind her that she was mine and I was hers.

It took nearly every ounce of my will to keep myself in control. My feet picked up their pacing, taking me further away from the trainer’s room. It was as much for my peace of mind as it was for her privacy. Mera was my wife, regardless of how long it had been. There was nothing within me that could distrust her.

Seth Rollins was another story. In the last week, I’d seen my tag partner and brother in a new light—as a man who was self-centered, self-absorbed, and selfish. While I didn’t know the details of their relationship, I had pieced together enough to know that Seth had broken her heart completely. The fact that he seemed to be using their history to get what he wanted made my blood run cold.

Mera, Evening, 8:14 PM

I washed my hands in the sink, making sure to scrub the Icy-Hot from my fingers. The tremble that ran through them made me feel sick, stomach turning over as I tried to get myself under control. I hated the way that old feelings came rushing back with the memories of caring for Seth back when he had been Colby and Tyler. Some part of me—a traitorous corner of my heart that reveled in masochism it seemed—still thought there was some good in him, a piece of the old version of the man that I’d known.

My back was turned to Seth as he pulled his shirt back on. The rustle of cloth and the creaking of the padded table let me know that he was up and moving. I grabbed a handful of paper towels and dried my hands aggressively, hoping to hide their shaking. As I tossed them in the trash can, I stepped over to the WWE-issued laptop with the superstar’s medical records on it.

“Knee looks good. Heat on the back twice a day, 20 minutes each time. Strenuous activity only every other day, Monday through Saturday. Full rest on every off day until the match,” I said over my shoulder, already pulling up his medical chart. Once those directions were in his record, booking would have no choice but to go easy on him—perhaps easier than they already were.

Footsteps scuffed across the floor. Flesh met metal, then a heavy sigh. “You know Vegas weddings aren’t binding after 30 days, don’t you? Didn’t Dean tell you?”

The door whined on its hinges. The sound of it thudding back against the frame echoed the weight that slammed against my heart. Every fiber of my being suddenly yearned for Dean, to confess everything that I felt—the confusion and fear. I tried desperately to push away the seed that Seth had tried to plant. After all, Dean and I had already talked about having a real ceremony of some fashion.

I felt my throat close with tears as I realized there was a ticking clock on our marriage.

Dean, Evening, 8:20 PM

I watched from down the hall as Seth walked away from the trainer’s room. There was a smirk on his face that made me wonder what I’d missed while I’d let my feet carry me around the backstage area. That beast inside me roared, sent adrenaline flooding my veins, screaming commands to find and protect what was mine.

Reaching for the door, I heard her sobs. The door banged against the wall as I swept her into my arms. My fingers tangled in her hair. Silently, I swore. I’m going to slaughter him.

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@bethany99stuff-blog @houndsofjxstice @lunatictoosweet @xbutterflius-effectusx @mother-forker

#waking up in vegas #dean ambrose #dean ambrose fanfiction #wwe #wwe fanfiction #mera reynolds #dean x mera #ofc #oc #multi-chapter #real person fanfiction

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achillesmercury1996 · 3 years

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Mindless ramble I plan to read to my therapist about my ~life~ under the cut

Y’all, I just wish I knew what in the ever-loving FUCK I want to do with my life. Like, I wish there was something that I was genuinely GOOD at, but whenever I stop to think about it I just... *Radio Silence*. I went to primary school for 12 mother-fuckin’ years, yo, and during that time, I learned fuck all about myself and what I want to do with the remainder of my life. I dabbled in theater back in those days, but never stuck with it because I’m what my parents like to call ~a quitter~. (When, really, I just didn’t like rehearsals after school, and I especially didn’t like getting harassed by the male director with an ego bigger than Napoleon’s).

Anyway, by some fucking MIRIACLE, ya girl graduated, and got accepted to UNIVERSITY. Which, for me, it was a huge fucking deal because I’ve never been considered ‘smart’ or ‘the college type’. Like, I graduated high school with a 2.9 GPA, whereas my sisters (who I’ve been endlessly compared to my entire life), graduated with a 3.8 and a 4.0, SO, and ended up going to one of the big 10 universities in America. Again...SO.

Carrying on. I went to uni undecided because, again, I don’t know what the ever-loving FUCK I want to do with my life. So about halfway through my first semester, I was walking back to my dorm and was like, “FUCK IT, I write a lot, I’m gonna major in Journalism and Minor in Writing hahahahahaha because writing one semi-successful fanfic on fanfic dot net back in 2012 means I’m cut out for this legggoooo!!”

Anyway, I declare my major and minor, and let me tell you...I took my first journalism courses at uni...and girl, journalism was NOT IT. Not for me, anyway. I always saw journalism as legit WRITING, and given the media boom, it is literally everything BUT writing. When I tell you my ass was hauling a FIFTY POUND VIDEO CAMERA AND BOOM MIC ACROSS CAMPUS FOR A PROJECT WORTH 50% OF MY GRADE...no, ma’am. I literally spent thousands of dollars on a course my 3rd year in my major where you were graded ONLY on doing these 2 film projects...and I DIDN’T DO EITHER OF THEM. I got a D- in the course just because my prof liked me, and would feel bad giving me an F.

Side note, there was even a point during my 2nd year of uni where I decided to change my minor to EARTH SCIENCE because I was like, “yo, rocks are neat, and maybe I could write for Nat Geo one day hahahahahahaha”. Girl, WHAT!?

Okay, so needless to say, I literally fell into a pit, spiraled out of fucking control, drank so much cheap beer, and dropped tf out halfway through my 2nd semester my 3rd year. I had spent HOURS every single day, prior to my decision of dropping out, just looking at other majors offered at my uni (and I went to a liberal arts school, so we had a ton), and absolutely NONE OF THEM struck my interest. NONE.

So what did I do after I dropped out? You mean other than gain 50 pounds and work dead-end jobs? I WENT TO FUCKING BEAUTY SCHOOL. It’s like, someone looked at me, said my makeup looked nice once, and I RAN WITH IT, GIRL. I shit you not, even before I left the town my uni was in to move home, I was looking at beauty schools out there. It wasn’t until I realized that financial aid wouldn’t pay for housing at a beauty school did I realize I would have to move home.

So I’m 22, and my dumb ass goes to Esthetics school. One of the WORST ESTHETICS SCHOOLS IN MICHIGAN, MIND YOU. BECAUSE I SOMEHOW GOT A SCHOLARSHIP. And, no, I didn’t get a scholarship because I’m ~so good at what I do~. I got a scholarship because I’m ~broke~, and the admissions officer felt bad for me, and said if I could write a decent essay about why I wanted to be an esthetician, then she could hook me the fuck up. And I said BET, because one thing that came out of me going to uni...I can write a BOMB essay, okay? I was the designated editor on my dorms floor my 1st year at uni. Not because I’m ~such a good editor~ but because I can bang out a 5 page essay in thirty minutes no problem. Ya girl knows how to write some bullshit down on paper and make it look like gold. Too bad I fucking HATE DOING IT.

Anyway. I go to esthetics school, and immediately get licensed after graduating. It was one of the worst 6 month periods of my entire life, and I honestly hate reflecting back on it. It was also a waste of 8k, and now I’m 10k in student debt hahahaha thanks America!

I genuinely tried to pursue esthetics afterward. I really did. I had a bitchin’ resume, and I went to a ton of interviews at salons, and applied to countless places as an esthetician and makeup artist. I even had a potential job lined up at a salon not far from my house...which ended up falling through because they wanted me to do ~free labor~ for three months full-time before hiring me. Which...no thanks. I needed money. So what did I do? I GET A JOB AT FUCKING KROGER. AS A PICK-UP ATTENDANT. Again, another dark point of my life that was followed by me quitting there after getting injured, going to work at HOBBY LOBBY only to have a mental breakdown before one of my shifts that leads to me quitting there.

Holy fuck. So I had a small moment where I was unemployed for the summer. I went on a trip with my boyfriend, and was a bridesmaid and makeup artist for my sister’s wedding. So it was a good summer. Aside from having no direction in my life that wasn’t to the nearest bar or bottle of what-the-fuck-ever. But you know.

I got a job that December (2019) as a receptionist at a local gymnasium. Honestly, it wasn’t that bad. I had nice coworkers, the customers were actually pretty chill, and the kids were...tolerable. It wasn’t bad, okay? I actually liked it, but we all know what followed the year 2019...

That’s right...2020. Covid-19. The bane of all of our existences as of right now.

We had to close in March of 2020 with no clue as to when we’d be able to go back. Which, at first, was a nightmare. Because I had shit to pay for, and NO INCOME. At least until unemployment kicked in, we got our first round of stimmy checks, and ya girl actually started to thrive.

I studied more into Buddhism, got into wicca and witchcraft which ended up being a huge light in my life, believe it or not (even if I’m no good at it rn), and I was able to just...be. For a while at least. The world seemed to stop, and I could actually BREATHE for once. It was nice. I lost weight. I stopped drinking ENTIRELY (and haven’t had a drink since summer 2020 THANK YOU VERY MUCH). I read a lot more and finally got to expand my book collection. I just...got to be. And it was so nice.

But now that America and society wants life to ~go back to normal~ and ~keep moving~ (thanks, boomers), that means that I need to do the same. Except I don’t know what it means to ‘go back to normal’ because I’ve never had a normal. And I don’t know how to keep moving because sometimes I really don’t want to. I just want to be. I want to be able to sit down at dinner every night and not feel crazy anxiety because my parents keep staring at me like they’re about to start grilling me about not doing anything with my life. Because, girl, if I had any sense of direction and what I wanted to do with my life, I WOULD BE DOING SOMETHING, OKAY? Like, this pandemic is fucking horrific, okay? But I’d be a liar if I were to say that those few weeks in March and some of April where we were all just vibing, baking bread, sewing masks and being NICE TO EACH OTHER were awful. They weren’t. I loved them. I will forever be chasing that high.

Fuck. I don’t even know what the point is in writing all of this. Maybe I’ll save it and read it to my therapist on Friday so they can get a sense of what goes on in my mind, or how I’m thinking or whatever...but yeah. I just don’t know what to do. I have no direction. I have no passions. There are things I enjoy doing that make me feel good, but once I pursue them, or am forced to do them in a way that isn’t how I want to do it...I lose that passion. Ya dig? Like back in high school when I was an actress. I actually loved it. But once I had to go to rehearsal after school and get bitched at by a director who treated a high school production of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang like it was Broadway (like, sir, you went to uni for THIS?)...that passion dissolved. Same with writing. Same with makeup artistry. Same with LITERALLY EVERYTHING I’VE EVER DONE IN MY LIFE. And like I said earlier, according to my parents, that makes me ~a quitter~.

I just...I have no passions, and the few things I enjoy doing...I don’t want to pursue them and end up hating them too. I don’t act anymore. I don’t write. I don’t do anyone else’s makeup but my own. I don’t even shop or go to the stores where I used to work (except for Kroger because a bitch has to eat). So when it comes down to it, whenever someone suggests I work in an area where it’s utilizing one of my few interests, or working somewhere that I like to go, that brings me joy or peace...why the fuck would I do that? Because, like everywhere else, I know in my gut that it’ll ruin that for me. I don’t want those things ruined for me. Even if I might be ~pleasantly surprised~, I don’t want to take that risk. Shit, I’m not that kind of risk taker. I’ll jump off of a 20ft high diving board, but I’ll be DAMNED if I apply and get a job at my favorite bookstore only to end up hating it, okay? No thank you.

So, like I said in the beginning...I just wish there was something I was genuinely good at. Something I was passionate about that I could pursue it. Maybe even on my own so I could just...enjoy it without corporate hierarchy or whatever barking orders at me or reprimanding me for breathing the wrong fucking way. You know? Or even something that I was SO GOOD AT, that the company or whoever hired me couldn’t afford to lose me as an employee because there would be no one else out there who could do that job quite like me. Except the latter would never be the case, you know? I’m not that good or desirable at fucking ANYTHING.

Anyway. Too bad there isn’t a course I could take on life. Too bad I couldn’t have directed my own life when it came to deciding to go to uni. Because, honestly, I only went because it was what I was told to do. But I digress about that. I just need...direction. I don’t have any, and I haven’t had any direction for a while. My parents would tell you different because they think that if they advise me on what ~they think is right~ I’ll just do it, and finally get my life together. But they don’t want to hear any of this. They just want me to get a job, make money, and get out of their house. They always say shit like, “you’re 24! You’ve been here longer than either of your sisters!” Again, comparing me to my older siblings. It just doesn’t help when you already don’t know what the fuck you’re doing, you know?

Ah, fuck...anyways. Writing this helps. Getting these thoughts out helps. Sharing it with...someone (like I said, I’ll probably read this to my therapist) helps. It doesn’t give me any sense of direction or what the fuck I want to do with my life, but hey, maybe if I take these thoughts to someone who has their life more together, or who could help me get there, it could be a good thing.

I just want to feel fulfilled. And right now I don’t. I never have. And everyone I know doesn’t do anything that fulfills them. It just pays the bills and puts bread on the table. Which is nice and all, but there has to be more to life than living to work and working to live. What about living to live? I need that. Even doing something that is somewhat enjoyable for the time being would be nice. But I’m tired of waking up everyday wanting to go back to bed because the job I have or whatever is so awful it makes me not even want to go through the day. What life is that? I don’t want that. I can’t have that.

But above all, that’s really what I want in life. I want to do something fulfilling. But how do I get there?

Anyway, if you read this far...thanks? Maybe one of y’all out there feels the same way, and it’s comforting to know when other people feel the same way, I guess? You’re not alone, is what I’m saying. We’re all on our own journey in this fucked-up simulation we call life, but it’s nice to have support along the way. You’re not alone. I’m here, and if you ever need someone to talk to, an ear to listen, or a shoulder to cry on, just know that I’m here.

Okay, I’ll shut up now. Back to our regularly scheduled content and ~the gay shit~!

Love y’all.

#thanks for reading #if you did #I'm good y'all #I'm getting help #I just needed to get my thoughts out #and like I said #maybe someone else can relate #so there you go #personal #about me #to be deleted #maybe #who knows #blah blah blah

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adventuresinmomming · 6 years

Text

The moment that changed everything

I can’t breath. Where am I? I can’t breath. What is going on? Am I drowning? Maybe I’m suffocating? I can’t breath. Close eyes. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Open eyes.

I’m in the doctor’s office. Again. This time for what we hope will be the last time we see the surgeon about my husband’s knee. He’s sustained a major injury to it and already had surgery on it. I can’t breath, because I fear he will require another surgery to reduce scar tissue and increase mobility. The reports from his physical therapists haven’t been overly positive. I don’t know if I can do this all over again.

This summer was one of the peaks in my life. We decided to take another step toward our dream lifestyle when my husband left his job to pursue freelance work with me. I was coming off having lots of work, he had a few immediate projects. The increased flexibility allowed us the freedom to visit family, work on ourselves, run every day, get some extra BJJ in and dream about what else we’d like to do, like pull in projects together, travel and write.

It was on this high that my husband participated in his first BJJ competition. I have a picture of him from right before he started to take the mat for his matches. He looks the healthiest and happiest I’ve seen in recent years. Watching the competition was really motivating for me too and made me want to pursue BJJ even more seriously. I was walking around the competition area to keep our youngest entertained when everything changed.

I was keeping an eye on my husband’s match from afar when suddenly I could no longer see him. I looked into the crowd at our friends attending the competition. The look on my husband’s best friend’s face said everything. I ran to the mat and found my husband surrounded by his teammates. When he didn’t stand on his own, I knew just how serious this was going to be. As his teammates looked up the closest hospital we could bring him to in-network, reassured me and splinted his leg, I stood in shock.

My husband’s teammates got him up and to the car, which I’d rushed to pull to the front of the building. I took my youngest back from our friend who watched her during the mad dash, and asked if they could follow us to the hospital. The location of the match must have been a bad cell area, because both of our phones were almost dead. We watched the battery dwindle down and the turn-by-turn directions with it, as we approached the hospital. My husband bit down on his gi in pain. I’d never seen him in so much agony.

The ER visit was uneventful. There were no broken bones, so a better diagnosis would have to wait until we could see an orthopedics specialist, which they recommended we do asap. At some point during our two hour time in the ER, we switched cars with our friends, and they brought our girls back to our home. When we switched cars, our friend had offered to run out and get gas for his since it was on E. Being in a populated area and wanting to get the girls back to somewhere they’d be comfortable, I told him I’d do it. No big deal. Our phones already being dead at this point, we drove around a very populated area for over 15 minutes trying to find a gas station after my husband was released. All I could think about was what the hell I’d do with no phone and an injured husband if we ran out of gas. With relief, we spotted a station and filled the car.

We got home after 9 and thanked our friends profusely. I got the youngest to bed, setup the oldest in a makeshift bed on the couch and ran to get my husband’s pain medications from one of the only pharmacies still open in the area. We had just missed some of the other pharmacies closing. Exhausted, I drove to the pharmacy a little before 10. The whole night was an exercise in Murphy’s Law. At the drug store, I picked up a pizza and ice cream to go along with the pain medications as I waited.

Back home in 30 minutes, my husband and I proceeded to drown our stress with food and updated friends as the clock struck midnight. Little did we know, this was just the beginning. Reality started to sink in. With an instance, one wrong move, our lives had been tipped upside down. My husband’s a great partner. We do almost everything together or to support each other. Everything was now mine to own. Caring for the girls. Maintaining the house. Guiding our oldest through the start of Kindergarten. Keeping income coming into our family. And now, I was also caring for this typically fiercely independent man.

A month passed as we saw the orthopedic specialist, got an MRI and was directed to a specialist who focused on what we learned was my husband’s very complex injury. We made it through this time with the hope that we were moving toward an end solution that would fix his leg. The last specialist told us, a month having now past, we now needed to rush into a surgery to get the best results. This was infuriating and a relief at the same time. On the one hand, we had done nothing to slow the process. It had taken a month, because that’s how long it took our medical system to get us to this point. We had to see a specialist, wait for an MRI opening, wait to see the specialist again, get handed-off to the specialist of the specialist. But, at least we were to the point of moving to recovery.

There was only a week between the first meeting with the right specialist and the scheduled surgery. It was the worst week of my life. The specialist’s nurse mentioned something to us on our way out (after we asked) about where the surgery is performed. We realized it was out-of-network. We wrongly assumed, they would work on our behalf to get the required approvals. As the surgery approached nearer, my husband decided to check on approvals and our costs. We got three different answers. One from the insurance company, one from the specialist’s office and one from the hospital. We spent hours on the phone with each, to finally realize if my husband went through with the surgery, we’d likely be on the hook for the full $250,000 cost of it. Yes, a quarter of a million dollars for one surgery. If we wouldn’t have started asking questions, we would have gone into the surgery unaware and had this bill on our shoulders after. The hospital said it’s happened to many before us. So, now we were faced with the hardest decision we’d made: keep the surgery and be $250,000+ in debt or cancel the surgery and risk my husband ever having proper mobility in his leg again. My husband reached out to some friends, and through their good guidance and graces we found the only other surgeon in our metro area who could do the surgery. By this time it was Friday after 5. For the first time, I truly understood the poor state of our healthcare in the states. It’s not like we were paying a minimal amount for insurance for our family. We were sinking thousands of dollars into it a year, for a plan that was currently failing us. I finally fully realized that this happens to so, so many people every year. Every report, news article, story I’d heard before on our failing system started to ring true.

During this time, we learned my husband had a blood clot in a voicemail left by hospital scheduling staff. Yes, we learned of a potentially ticking time bomb in a voicemail. With no direction on what to do, we worried through the weekend. Come Monday, we canceled the surgery and worked to get an immediate appointment with the surgeon we believed to be in-network and who had the skill needed to do the surgery. We were running out of time.

The surgeon wouldn’t see us until we saw a specialist about the blood clot. If you don’t know, having a blood clot is high risk during surgery. It can travel to the lungs or brain and cause serious complications, even death. We had no time. My husband needed the surgery now.

Our primary care provider was the most responsive, he’d see us that day about the clot. We saw him, he put my husband on the best blood thinner. Somewhere during that day the surgeon also agreed to see us. The next day we were sitting in the surgeon’s office. He let us know in a way nobody else had yet how extremely serious my husband’s injury was. One more tear and my husband would have been looking at a complete knee displacement and a chance of amputation.

Just like we thought, we needed to do the surgery as soon as possible and now we truly understood how bad the injury was. But, there was a hiccup. He wasn’t happy with our primary care giver’s direction. He needed someone to make a call on what to do about the blood clot. To his credit, he fit us into his schedule the following week under the condition we work out the blood clot on our own. He also ensured he communicated with our primary care physician about everything.

We got back on the phones with our primary care doctor who got us a hematologist referral. We anxiously awaited the call to schedule the appointment. When the hematologist office called, they wanted to schedule the appointment for two weeks out. Nobody had explained to the scheduler the urgency we were under. I pushed back hard, and she found us an appointment for late in the week far away. We took it. At this point I’m beyond frustrated with a few things: there seems to be no way to be expedited through our medical system when it’s needed (it requires coordination between separate entities that also don’t seem to always communicate well) and we were completely having to advocate for my husband ourselves. I pondered in disgust and a pit in my stomach about what it must be like for anyone with a more grave illness or complicated treatment plan. I now realized just a little bit what it must like.

It’s now a weekend before the surgery and we drive to the hematologists office. In one of the most humbling experiences of my life, we walk into a Cancer Specialists office. Apparently all oncologists are hematologists. Perspective was immediately served by the universe as I looked into faces of folks who were facing something much harder than us. Who may have been in the state of flux we were in for much longer, who may be currently fighting their insurance company for coverage, who’s family life was most certainly being impacted, who could be facing death. My husband and I sat in silence as we gave thanks for all that we did have, and asked forgiveness for ever feeling hopeless about our situation.

We meet with the hematologist. We were expecting him to have a plan for us. Instead, he had three options for us with a limited amount of information about the risks or insurance coverage of each. We would make the decision that could impact whether or not my husband had complications from the blood clot during surgery on our own right there and then. Each option had risks to my husband’s health and/or risks to potentially leaving us thousands of dollars in debt due to potential lack of gaining prior approvals. We finally pressed him to share what option he would choose if it was his life in question. We made a choice, and with everything out of our control at this point, drove home and waited for the surgery.

My parents came to help with our girls. I drove my husband to the hospital and sat with him as they prepped him for surgery. This was a big deal. This was not a 30-minute arthroscopic surgery. This was a 2-3 hour surgery, where they would open up my husband’s leg and rebuild 3 of of his ligaments. Over four hours into the surgery, I got word that it was complete and my husband had done well. The surgeon came to talk to me personally. A few portions of the surgery proved more difficult than planned, but he was confident in a good result. They were going to admit my husband overnight since it was now late in the day and the surgery had taken a long time.

I went up to see my husband. He was completely out of it. Over the next two hours he came out of the haze and walked straight into complete and utter pain. No nurse came to see us for those two hours. My voice with the CNAs and staff became more and more urgent and stern, less and less patient. By the time his nurse came in, my husband’s pain was so unmanageable they had to start him on three pain medicines over the next hour and a half to get it to where he was no longer screaming aloud. During this time, the nurse informed us we were in charge of his pain management. He could call for more pain medications when needed. This would not work, and we let her know. To her credit, she then took it upon herself to set a schedule of medications and try to preemptively provide them, weaning him off throughout the night as able. I stayed a little bit longer, but had to get back to our girls. Honestly worried about the staff’s responsiveness, I placed his phone in his pocket and told him to text or call if he had any issues. We touched-base around 4 am. It took the staff an hour to get to him to get him more water/ice, but he told me not to come until the morning.

Morning came, and I was back at the hospital. We were both ready to get out of there. We were released mid-morning, and started our current journey to recovery. For weeks my husband’s leg was locked at a 30 degree angle. He was to do nothing on it. Physical therapy was very passive. Any weight bearing would start in 6 weeks. I started the count down.

During this time we continued to have to advocate for my husband’s behalf and stay on top of every detail of his care. Even with this, somewhere during this time, I fell into a rhythm. Things started to seem less overwhelming, a bit less exhausting.

About 6 weeks in we had an appointment with the surgeon, where to our delight he gave us a good report. The knee was stable and now it was “go” time. Time to start weight bearing, time to get more aggressive with therapy. We celebrated.

Progress was slow. Some of my husband’s muscles refused to fire. We became discouraged with continued fair or poor reports for the physical therapists. After some back and forth, my husband was able to get a machine that stimulates his muscles that weren’t firing.

We started to see progress the week we had to visit the surgeon, which is why it felt like I was once again sinking as we waited in the surgeon’s office. He had already mentioned another surgery may be needed to remove scar tissue if not enough progress was shown. Had we made enough progress? I had started to get my partner back, as my husband become more mobile, more engaged in life again. I feared that would be taken away as quickly as it had come back.

Our surgeon’s view on my husband’s progress was better than the physical therapists’. He was even very encouraging, reminding us how far we’d come and how truly good my husband was doing. But. If progress didn’t quicken, he would like to do the arthroscopic surgery and manipulation to break up and remove scar tissue. So, we are back on the books for surgery just prior to year-end. My husband is doing everything he can to take that off the books. He’s gone down to one crutch, they’ve added more exercises to his routine and added more machines to do at home. We are trying to stay hopeful and positive, focusing on our dreams and his recovery. We have some fresh dreams brewing. I’m writing again. We are moving forward, even if it’s more slowly or is more difficult than we’d like.

I didn’t write after my husband’s injury. I didn’t have it in me. Sitting in that doctor’s office again, feeling those feelings of despair again, brought back some inspiration. I wanted to share with others my story, maybe help them through. If you are going through a difficult time in your life, know:

You are strong enough to get through it. What strength you feel you lack, you will build within yourself. Be patient with and kind to yourself. Have faith and confidence in yourself. It may take awhile, it may not be how you want, but you’ll make it through. You’ll learn things about yourself. You’ll learn you can do it.

And, who knows, maybe you’ll even discover a new dream or yourself. I have. More to come on that later.

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