#She's supposed to be the best specialist in my condition in the country.

[strigital]

hey there, handsome beans. how are y'all?

bet y'all were wondering where tf Meg's gone again. to make long and complicated story short: a few physical illnesses followed by a severe mental crysis followed by more sickness followed by more mental problems. there was, among other things, an autistic breakdown which as we know doesn't go away easily. i will be severely honest with you guys. i do not know how i am still alive, given how horribly suicidal some of these days are. i suppose having pets does make a difference - no matter how selfish the suicidal ideation is it never manages to overpower the motherly need to love and protect these small creatures that so wholly depend on you not just for food, water and shelter, but for companionship as well… Belle, despite having only been out of shelter for like three moths, has been working her little butt off trying her damnest to convince me that i am needed: from following me everywhere like a shadow to crying like a child whenever there's a closed door between us… anyways, what was i talking about? ah yes… the horrific state both my mind a body ended up in. i honestly have no idea where this all came from. it was like one day it was sunny and calm and the next morning i woke up in the aftermath of a severe hurricane, ruin and corpses all around me. perhaps it was all brewing for a long time and i simply failed to notice the telltale signs. after all, there's no smoke without fire. there must've been a trigger. a final drop, a straw that broke the camel's back. sometimes it felt like a horror film, full of terrible thoughts and feelings that paralise you in a fetal position in the corner of your bed and keep you there hostage for days on end. some other days there would be flashes of unexplainable happiness that lasted barely a few hours and left you feeling panicked. most days there would be this prevailing feeling of numbness that wouldn't allow you to eat, let alone take care of daily chores. i've been having severe nightmares. i've plunged my body into a state of starvation. i've turned my home into a horror house of dirt and clutter. i'm failing behind in college and my boss at work is extremely unhappy with my productivity. i've lost ability to feel time: days muddle together, all i ever feel is a desire to sleep all the fucking time.

worst of all is that i cut contact with my closest people, among them - my dearly beloved husband, who still fights cancer on the other side of the planet, wondering where his useless wife gone. i've decided that it would be better for all of them, especially my hubby, to not see me in this condition. that the best i can do for them is to remove myself from their already busy lives and free them from any heartache i may cause, me being out of my mind and all. i did, however, used the very last of my strenght to reach out, to try and call for help… the suicide prevention line was a fucking joke that left me even more desperate than i was before i contacted them. i did, however, join a local autistic group on facebook and lurked there quietly, absorbing their experiences and sifting through for any sliver of hope. and i foud it. a doctor, who may just be the only specialist on adult autism in this entire country. getting an appointment with her was a small war in of itself. and she will cost me a lot of money… but as of right now i feel like she is the only person who can pull me off of the edge, before i tumble over and plummet into the abbyss. 29th of november i will sit my ass on a train and ride to another city to meet her. i pray to whatever will listen that she will take me seriously because neither my current psychiatrist nor my psychologist do. anyone i tried talking to these past two months on the matter of my crisis never offered me any help, only useless advice like "you should talk to a priest" or "have you tried reading a self-help book?". i'm drowning over here, karen, a priest and a book will only be of use during my funeral… the meds have become useless, even when i double or triple dosage.

most of all my heart aches for my husband. he tried calling me a few times yet i was too broken and lost in the dark to even have the courage to call back. i know i have no right to scream for help to a person who had been at war with a third stage cancer for almost three long difficult years. but i am teethering on the edge. i feel like that tiny hedghehog from an old soviet cartoon - lost in a thick fog, calling out for someone, anyone, looking for a way out. and the fact that no one understands or tries to understand hurts even more. the only one's who do are those anonymous people on facebook, fighting similar battles to mine. and when i read a letter from an anonymous mom who, like me, reached her breaking point and cut off any contact with her family in preparation for a final act and she only writes on facebook to find someone, anyone, to tell her what she truly needs and wants to hear in order to swerve off of this path of self-destruction i cannot help but feel an odd likeness to hope. i am not alone. but these people, those like me, simply do not exist within an arm's reach… god almighty, i so so hope the doctor will fix me. i am so tired waking up everyday with a desperate desire to die and walking all day with an invisible noose on my neck which only grows tighter every day.

i will go now and try to record a longwinded voice message for my husband… again. i will try my bestest to apologise, to try to explain, to ask for help. but how do you even begin to explain that your life so suddenly, so abruptly and seemingly our of nowhere became an open bleeding rotten sore, that only grows everyday, infecting more and more of your soul? i don't know. i never had this kind of crisis before in my life and, as if by some cruel divine joke, right now i have no family, no friends to turn to, beside my cat and my dog.

i will not ask of you to pray for me nor wish me luck. y'all have your own busy, messy lives. i only ask that you take care of yourself and your loved ones, so nothing like that ever happens to you or them. trust me when i say that no one will believe you, because this wound is invisible. they will tell you to feel grateful for having two arms and two legs and a roof over your head. meanwhile you will slowly rot away until one day they'll gasp: "how did this happen? they were such a happy person, nothing was wrong in their lives!" that's so fucking unfair, but it is the world we live in. and i know that oversharing like this on the internet is an incredibly stupid thing to do, but… i don't know. maybe another person with similar hardships in their life will read this and realise that they are not the black sheep of the human species and that shit like that happens to others too. i know this thought brings some very mild comfort to me, so maybe it will also brings some to them.

so stay strong, my beans. god knows i'm trying to. love you all and, hopefully, see you in the near future again with memes and stuff,

-- Meg K.

#personal #update #autism

[yourreddancer]

  · “I am not a military man. I never wanted to be in the military. I am a researcher, have a PhD in history and work at a museum. I am also sort of a writer. I am supposed to be researching history, writing scientific and popular science works. And fiction too; because I like it and I am good at it.

But lately I've been in the military. Because there is a war in my country. Every day we engage in artillery duels, in which one successful strike by an enemy will turn us into mince. We sleep in the cargo beds on top of the boxes in unbelievable narrowness, and take warm shower once a month. When it's raining, we're wet. When we're in a swamp, we're as dirty as hell (and, again, we take a shower once a month, and there is no guarantee that we will have such an opportunity the next month).

 And when it was cold, my brothers in arms froze off their fingers. We eat only when we have a minute to spare, not when it's time to eat or when we have an appetite. We sleep so irregularly that I don't know if I will ever be able to return to my standard schedule from 11pm to 7am. At the same time, we are a priority target for the enemy. And they can try to wipe us out in different ways, at any moment.

Thousands of historians, writers, accountants, bankers, IT specialists, teachers, designers and representatives of other completely peaceful professions in Ukraine have found themselves in these conditions, if not in more drastic ones. They are being killed with 152 mm artillery and Tochka-U missile launchers. Bullets, VOGs, clusters and phosphorus ammunition flies at them. Some of them have already died. And some will never return to their profession because they have burned out. But they all continue to fight. Because Ukraine is behind them. Because if they lay down their arms, their parents will be killed, their wives and daughters will be raped, and their homes will be destroyed or confiscated.

And when politicians from France, Italy, Germany and other countries offer us to lay down our arms, agree to lose territories, provide Russia with some security guarantees (what an absurdity!!! Russia does not need any security guarantees; it’s Russia’s neighbors who need guarantees against the threat from them)...

 Then I feel anger and deep disgust. I loathe these worthless people who, because of their prejudices or because of Putin's dirty money, are ready to condemn my country to occupation, to a slow and painful death. I feel disgust and anger at those who have great opportunities to help overcome the crisis, but instead seek, consciously or unconsciously, to deepen it. Because even the complete capitulation of Ukraine will not solve the problem of the global security. On the contrary, it will push Russia into new conquests.

We do not need offers to surrender. If you are not ready to fight with us against a rabid enemy, then help us with weapons, money, sanctions. We need a lot to defeat Russia and thus drastically reduce the global crisis. But we have the main thing: motivation. We have historians who are ready to sleep on top of boxes, five people in two sleeping places, and knead the mud for weeks without being able to shower. We have accountants who are ready to eat only porridge with stew for months. We have young students who spend their best years risking their lives. And they will not go anywhere, unless they are all killed.

With your consent

Ukraine will fight to victory as long as she can resist.

And what will you do?

Sincerely,Nazar  Rozlutsky, PhD, author of six books, currently a junior sergeant in the Armed Forces of Ukraine.”Translated by Pavlo Gintov

[awheckery]

so. uh.

cut for frank discussion of chronic illness and the serious failures of the american healthcare system. tw for fatphobia and gaslighting.

Last July, I got sick. It wasn’t too bad at first: some fatigue, body aches and a slightly elevated temp, until suddenly it was bad and I wound up in the ER. It took three rounds of steroids, a round of antibiotics and a more powerful inhaler to get my feet back under me, but I never fully recovered.

I didn’t talk about it here, except for answering an ask in October and blaming my lack of creative output on depression. It really, really wasn’t depression; it was my health progressively collapsing, one system after another until the avalanche of symptoms that flattened me just after New Year’s.

For the last four months, I’ve spiked a fever over 100°F nearly every single day. My joints hurt. My knuckles are knobbly and swollen, and occasionally my fingers are so painful and weak I’ve had to literally tape my pen to my hand at work. I get rashes at random that itch so badly I claw myself bloody. I overheat and have hot flashes in temperate rooms. The skin on my face and neck and shoulders turns red and hot to the touch, like I’m burning for hours with no immediately discernible provocation.

Some days, I wake up and I don’t have the strength to get out of bed. Some days I can’t wake up at all. I’ve slept through deafening alarms for hours, long enough for my phone battery to run out and die. I can only stand up for ten minutes a day without being hobbled by the effort, and every extra minute beyond that I pay for in hours spent bedbound by exhaustion and pain.

I keep losing words. I’ll arrive at the middle of a sentence and stumble to a halt, because the word I need isn’t there. It’s not true aphasia, and it’s not all the time. I comprehend written and verbal communication perfectly well, but I can’t get my own thoughts out without tripping over them.

I am, to quote a friend attending school to be a nurse practitioner, “a textbook case for SLE,” and I agree, but somehow I can’t pay a doctor to treat me seriously.

In January, I was referred to a rheumatologist after the bloodwork my PCP ordered indicated I had autoimmune activity of some kind.

To date, that’s my only test for anything that’s come out definitively positive for any kind of disease state at all. Ever. I tested negative for celiac disease on a technicality nine years ago, despite how specifically and intensely sick gluten makes me, so I was dismayed but not too surprised when follow-up bloodwork for lupus came back just barely inside the range of “normal.” Despite that, I wasn’t prepared to be jerked around as much as I have been.

The first rheumatologist I saw, back at the end of January, had barely been in the exam room for thirty seconds when I could see he’d already made up his mind about me. He was dismissive and perfunctory and condescending when he told me that “plenty of perfectly healthy people have positive ANA results,” and he referred me back to my PCP for an exercise program and antidepressants to treat my “fibromyalgia.”

Putting aside that I’m not a “perfectly healthy person,” I’m a Fat Lady living in America, and I’ve experienced medical fatphobia for decades at this point. You learn the key words and phrases pretty quickly, and “exercise program” has never not been a euphemism for “weight loss.” (Which is heavily ironic in this particular situation, because before I was Fat, I walked 2-3 miles a day for funsies and spent 15-20 hours in the gym every week. I only stopped because I somehow shredded both my ACLs in one summer. I’d love to get back to that if a rheumatologist could help me figure out how to be active and uninjured at the same time.)

I was frustrated after that first appointment, enough to request a referral to one of the best teaching hospitals in the country. Why not go to the best, right? There was a five month wait for an appointment, but I am stubborn, and I made use of the time by documenting every bullshit symptom my body threw at me. I have a daily symptom journal, full of subjective entries like my pain and fatigue levels, as well as objective entries like daily temperature changes and photos of my rashes and my burning face and my goddamn mouth ulcers.

I thought I had enough logged to be impossible to ignore, and then I saw the second rheumatologist three weeks ago, and the first sentence out of her mouth was the beginning of an interrogation on my blood pressure, and whether I was taking medication or if I was on a fucking exercise program for it. I tried to get the appointment back on track by sharing my symptom diary, and she turned back to my just-under-the-wire test results, and told me, “many healthy people have positive ANA results, it doesn’t mean anything without other positive test results for specific conditions.”

I said, “Healthy people don’t run a fever for months.”

And then she told me that a "fever is not associated with any of the conditions a rheumatologist treats." I was so startled by the confidence and authority with which she stated the lie that I was unable to speak to rouse a defense or contribute anything else for the rest of the appointment. After an insultingly brief examination, in which I never took my face mask off and she declined to look at any of my photos, she said that she “didn’t see anything that could be rheumatologically wrong with me.”

I asked her what she thought could be wrong with me, and she grudgingly admitted it’s possible, though rare to have an autoimmune disease and test negative for everything, so she would order more tests and refer me to appropriate specialists for my various symptoms. She ordered a referral to an infectious disease specialist for my fevers, and a referral to a dermatologist for my “rosacea” (that she’s assuming I have, because I would like to again note she did not see it, at no point did she actually look at my face or a photo of it), and a referral to an ENT for a salivary gland biopsy for my dry mouth, and a referral to a neurologist for my “stroke-like” memory and speech problems.

It was, all told, an unbearably shitty appointment. I cried in my car for an hour in the hospital parking garage so I wouldn’t do anything impulsive like lying down in traffic, and then I went home, cried some more, and went to bed for three days.

On the fourth day, I woke up enraged. It’s one thing to be blown off by a doctor when you’re just reporting symptoms without proof, it’s a wholly different thing for a doctor to ignore your proof and lie about diagnostic criteria to your face.

It’s hard enough not to think you’re crazy when your test results come back negative over and over; it’s that much harder after being told that your major concrete measurable symptom is diagnostically irrelevant, when it really, really isn’t.

(for the record, just going off the symptoms I can concretely prove I’ve experienced in the last week alone, I land a 16 on this chart, which is the most up-to-date, widely agreed-upon diagnostic criteria)

I have decided, for the moment, to play ball. I don’t have the energy to jump through all the hoops this rheumatologist wants, but I'm angry enough to drag myself through them. Tomorrow I’m supposed to see the infectious diseases specialist. On Wednesday I see the dermatologist. In two weeks I see the ENT, and I’ve got a neurology appointment tentatively scheduled for December.

I’m going to be blisteringly forthright with all of these doctors about why I’m there, and that I’m looking to exclude diagnoses other than the lupus I pretty obviously have. (Except with the ENT. Apparently they treat allergies, and I’d like to be able to go outside long enough to walk a dog, someday.)

I’m supposed to see this rheumatologist again at the end of November. Depending on how this week’s appointments go, I’m aiming to either move up my appointment with her when one becomes available, or just send a firm yet diplomatic email asking why the diagnostic criteria apply to everyone but me.

If anybody else has gotten through this fucking nightmare successfully, I’m open to suggestions, it’s not like it can get worse at this point.

#long post #sufferpunk life #chronic illness #chronic pain #sle #lupus #aka why I've gotten nothing interesting or creative done since last year #fml

[illicitivywp]

mal de vivre.

The morning that Harry wakes up and you're not sleeping peacefully beside him is the worst of his entire life.

He can sense that you're not there. The air still circulates whiffs of your caramel shampoo and the breeze of your automatic fan that you always insist on leaving on all night still whirs leisurely and tickles the back of his neck.

Regardless, the room is vacant. He doesn't have to open his eyes to know that much.

For now, he remains entirely numb. Immune to the flooding sobs and intolerable agony and festering anger, he supposes it's in his best interest to stay like that for a while.

For a few days, at least. Until he can fully process your absence. He's not certain how long it takes the average person to wholly recognise an entire chunk of themselves missing, but he figures he's already suffered enough.

Surely, the universe isn't that cruel.

Your love is delightedly grand, and with its sudden unavailability, he feels so dejectedly vague.

He's clearly not perceiving time correctly, perhaps it's his distant concentration or maybe even his body's method of rejecting life and the wretched torture of its innate malice.

A few times, he's experienced sleep paralysis. The first, horrifying occasion is long-forgotten, when he was seven or so - it happened only after staying up until one in the morning to watch a horror movie that he'd been specifically warned not to watch and a towering vacuum of danger stood solid as stone at the end of his bed.

If it weren't for his fingertips subconsciously tracing featherlight scribes of your name on his forearm, he might reasonably assume he's haunted with the condition once again.

A clattering of paws on hard floorboards injects a little more reality into his thoughts, and he still can't bear, physically, to turn over and greet the sweet puppy you'd snuck home and surprised him with upon his arrival home from work around a year ago, knowing that his acceptance of a familiarly-shaped void is waiting just inches away.

Eventually, and after another chaotic scramble of claws in need of a cut, Chi is bouncing enthusiastically at his side and attempting an ambitious leap onto the mattress. She fails theatrically, landing in a resounding thud on her back and launching back to her feet, completely unaware of her owner's awaiting grief.

Masking his greatest fears with scooping a palm beneath Chi's belly and hauling her upwards to nestle into his chest, the reposition forces him to lay on his back (she's always detested laying on her side, especially when smothered with adoring cuddles) and, like the coward he truly is, his eyes focus adamantly on a random spot of the pale ceiling. With every minute shuffle, it becomes more and more achingly apparent that you're really not here.

And if everything runs correctly, you'll squirm and giggle graciously at his waking before returning his kiss, to his lips, this time, and he'll suggest applying a little moisturiser, like he always does, and you'll love him like you should.

When his eyelids snap open and his head curves breezily to your claimed side of the bed, he's somewhat unsurprised to confirm that his life truly has transformed to a dreadful bundle of tragedy. In your imposing place, is a neatly-made bed and an envelope.

A single, white envelope, stained by the sweet, flowing cursive that could flow only from your touch.

Chi leaps naturally to the spectacle, sniffing curiously at the letter and nudging it around a little, whilst Harry is so unexplainably pained that he's unable to move. Swallowing thickly, he's not certain word-for-word what lies in the confines of this envelope, but he does know it'll confirm your leaving him, and for some strange reason, he's relieved you left an explanation, at least.

A souvenir of you to hang onto forever, along with the millions of other items and memories of yours in his possession.

Carefully removing it from Chi's vicinity and replacing the object of her attention with a random squeaky toy that he'd discovered burrowed beneath his bed a few nights ago, he traces your exquisite handwriting with his fingertip and reads along with inaudible movements of his mouth; For Harry, mon amour.

In that moment, he realises profoundly that he'll never get to request hearing you say different words in your accent again.

The amount of times he implored relentlessly to hear je t'aime and have it accompanied with an endearing kiss is infinite.

Harry, my love,

I'm so incredibly sorry that I couldn't handle the pain.

Seeing your face cures any anguish I feel, but not this time.

I really, really tried; I know you did, too. I wanted it to work out, I prayed every day that our suffering would magically end and we could return to our love, I hoped that one day I would wake and cuddle you tightly and describe this awful nightmare I'd had.

Possibly, I may write to you in the future; please, don't try to contact me, it won't work and you know it's for the best. My family and close friends know where I am, where I will be, and they also know not to tell you if you ask.

I wish I could kiss all of your heartache away and protect you from all evil in this world, but I feel my presence is detrimental to your recovery.

My love for you is never-ending. Please be okay.

Forgive me and love someone else like you loved me. Let someone else love you like I loved you. Tellement, tellement.

Forever, I'll think of you and how unbelievably content I felt waking up next to you every day for seven-hundred and eighty (? - I'm estimating) mornings straight.

I will never, ever leave our love behind, and I adore you more than I can express. Your strength and resilience are admirable, and you are truly the best thing to ever happen to me.

Mon bébé, I miss you terribly.

Toujours, ton amour.

~

Chi tugs eagerly on her lead at the sight of the familiar entrance to her home, Harry in tow right behind. Sludgy snow muddies his shoes and soaks the hem of his jeans. His puppy's paws are undoubtedly drenched, too, but her fur is protected valiantly by her favourite jacket. He'd purchased it from a specialist store in France a year prior, and, since surprising her with the present upon his shared return, it'd become her primary option during the winter months.

Retrieving a reasonable pile of letters from his designated section, a rapid flick through displays bills, scams and all of the usual junk he usually receives. He offers his elderly neighbour a polite smile and holds open the door with his knee to construct a clear path for her exit.

He grimaces slightly at the teeth-shaped arc of damp dents into his mail - he hadn't particularly considered the repercussions of carrying it that way - and unclips Chi's lead, allowing her to run rampage through his airy apartment. Absently dropping his keys into its small dish of residence and taking a closer inspection at his post to infiltrate any wrong addresses or scams, he selects an apple from his fruit bowl and steals one firm chunk before noticing something peculiar.

Groomed eyebrows knitting together in confusion, he plucks one particular letter from the bunch and stacks it to the top. Perplexed by the sorely familiar curve of the writing scrawled on the front, his head shakes in denial - you wouldn't have, surely.

Discarding of all other mail on his kitchen counter, he's puzzled beyond belief; you'd left with no verbal warning and a letter that, admittedly, had been the source of several bouts of severe depression and, in spite of its awful affects, read dutifully every single day since your disappearance.

Rashly, he wishes you hadn't changed your phone number and email address shortly before leaving so he could possibly contact you regarding this mystery. However, he knows just as well as you clearly foresaw; his topic of discussion wouldn't be only the letter.

Tearing open the corner cautiously, he's incredibly delicate with checking inside the envelope once open to ensure it contains only his presumed note. Reviewing the front with a scouring gaze of disbelief, it really, truly has come from you.

He can't remember how many times he read each postcard that you'd gifted him with at the very beginning of your relationship. You'd recently made the permanent move from France to England, and, in a new country with limited knowledge of the native language, Harry had unintentionally become your beacon of comfort here.

With his fluent French and English, he was the perfect contender for kindly correcting your terminology and educating you on the essential etiquettes of Britain. Within weeks, however, your sweet smile had changed from an enjoyable sight during your frequent coffee shop meetings to something he craved.

He misses reading your silly, awful puns based around your home country, especially his favourite. A laughably unfunny joke paired with a matching scribble of the two of you; what do french fries do when they meet? They ketchup!

Harry,

I feel awful for waiting so long to speak to you again.

Your voice and your hugs. I've imagined them every single day.

I miss my Chi. How is she? I hope she's not missing her maman. Give her a kiss from me.

And the biggest kiss to yourself, because you deserve it, mon tout.

I'm inexplicably sorry for leaving so abruptly; I just couldn't take much more. The reminders were too much. Seeing your inconsolable pain every day was too much.

I'm so, so selfish, but I still believe allowing you to heal without my troubles was the best and easiest path for both of us.

I'm sure you noticed, but I may have stolen one of our pictures. It was your favourite, and that's why I had to choose that one, I suppose. Horrible, again.

I miss your dimples (and irritating you by poking them all the time). I miss your lips, they were so soft. No wonder you always bossed me around with the lip balm - I have my own now, I take it everywhere with me.

It smells like caramel.

Most of all, I miss your love. I've never known someone to love like you do. You were, are, and always will be, incredible.

Have you found someone to love yet?

Do you still think about me? If yes, please don't.

It's not fair of me to appear out of nowhere like this and not allow you a chance to reply. If you wish, post your letter to my maman's house - I'm not there, just to crush any other hope you have, but I'll receive it.

I'll be sorry forever, mon amour.

Sois gentil avec toi-même.

Câlins pour toujours, your baby.

~

Auriele,

I'm so thankful you decided to reach out again. I've missed you. Tellement, tellement.

Chi is brilliant, still eating everything and constantly in need of a haircut. She does miss you.

My hurt is still prevalent, I've accepted that it always will be. I truly don't believe it can be fixed again, but I'm still trying.

I spent the two weeks after your leaving searching for every single picture in existence of us. I cried so many times, I wish I could tell you that I'm wholly recovered and that you're fully forgiven, but I can't.

I think I counted them all. It's either three-hundred and seventy-seven or one-thousand, one-hundred and two (I have two sticky notes labelled pictures, I'm not sure which is correct.)

No one could ever love me like you do, tu es le meilleur.

I suppose that answers both of your questions.

Thank you for the chance to respond. I was incredibly confused when I received your thoughtful letter. I'm assuming by this one's destination being your maman's house, you're in France? You don't have to answer that. I would understand.

Mon bébé chéri, je t'aime.

Harry x

~

Harry,

It was the least I could do. I hurt you doubly and you never deserved that.

Tell her I love her. Buy her an ice cream for me (note the two dollars also enclosed in this envelope!)

There aren't enough apologies in the world to properly cover the extent of my mistakes, but I'll continue gathering as many as I can. And send them straight to you.

I also wish you could truthfully claim that you're okay, and I hope, with time, that you will be. It's all you ever deserved, mon chéri. You don't ever have to forgive me. I understand entirely if you hate me.

I wouldn't be surprised if those numbers were both low counts. I loved your face, as superficial as it sounds, but it truly was prettier than anything, and my favourite thing was always surrounding myself with it. Aussi longtemps que je pouvais.

My baby, I only tried my hardest to love you, and I sincerely hope I haven't ruined your idea of love so much that I'm your standard. Please, travel, find people to connect with, fall in love with a place, if not a person.

I bet Chi would love Spain. Australia, maybe? Thailand? Your choice entirely. You always were smarter than me (i.e. I left you - doesn't get much dumber.)

I am in France, feel free to ask any question you want about my current life if you decide to write back - you really don't have to. It's okay. You're still perfect.

Just not my address. It's so selfish of me to hide away from you when you're the one who deserves closure, but I'm not ready to share that information. Again, I'm sorry, and I hope you understand.

Tu me manques. Tu me manques ma maman et mon père. Tu me manques au cœur.

All my love, Auriele x

~

Every day, his thoughts are plagued with ideas of how to write his next letter. Your previous few communications ran smoothly; you seem incredibly apologetic and, as much as he would've gladly ignored the past tense use of 'love' in your most recent letter, he can't help but realise the difference from your first each time he reads it.

He's not certain why his first letter practically poured from his pen and before he knew it, it was sealed, posted and received. This time, however, he can't even construct a way to greet you.

Has distance and time really weakened your connection that much? His favourite childhood Disney movies would be ashamed.

The heartache you've endured together is insufferable, the bitterness remaining fresh and the misery continuing to roll onwards with him, and yet, you're both still alive. Perhaps, he should be a little more thankful.

He's tested out various support groups over the past few months; they appear to help in the moment, but once he returns home to a completely empty house, - aside from Chi - he realises all of his progress to be entirely fake.

How can he realistically recover from his insurmountable loss in solitude?

An apartment which used to breathe vibrant life and excitement for the future, diminished to nothing but silence.

He might as well have lost his house, too. Every second he spends there, surrounded by reminders of his grief, is draining. Of course, if he were a millionaire, he would've discovered a lovely, one bed flat with wide, open floors and windows. If he were a millionaire, though, maybe none of this agony would've ever happened.

He could’ve fixed it.

Regardless, he didn't, and now he returns home every single day, monotonous and finding solace only in rereading your letters and running through his local park with Chi, no matter the weather.

Sometimes, he hears the faint echo of your melodious voice ringing in his ear; mon doux bébé. For a moment, he believes you may be talking to him, but with a resounding giggle of contentment, you never were.

Within a month, he lost both of his sweet baby girls, and the pain is simply too much to comprehend.

Elle, mon cœur,

Firstly, I apologize for my late reply. This letter was, for some reason, incredibly difficult to write.

You hurt me never. Life hurt me, and it hurt you, too, and I'm sorry it's so cruel.

Chi adored her ice cream - vanilla, your favourite - and said thanks! (complimentary picture attached, for you).

Sympathy and apologies aren't a cure. I've received enough of them to know. I hope you have, too. We might not accept it and it might not heal our pain, but it is nice to know you have people by your side.

Mon amour, I would/could never come close to hatred for you. You are my entire heart, and you own everything within it.

I hope, one day, I can forgive you. I hope you can forgive me. We both made mistakes. We're both accountable, and so is fate. Unfortunately, it wasn't on our side, and we have to welcome that.

Your face is certainly Top Five list of physical attributes, which goes as followed:

1. your lips. I know I complained about them being dry all the time, but I miss them, still.

2. your eyes. Somewhere between the ocean and a cottage filled with flowers, they were paradise.

3. your thighs. I am a man - a broken one, but a man nonetheless - and they are certainly the most family-friendly feature I could think of.

4. your smile. Even on my darkest days, your smile was heaven. I hope you're smiling right now. I wish I could see it.

5. your face? All of the above and everything else. Was that cheating?

I wish I could leave here. I wish I could find a small, tropic island where Chi and I can get tipsy on Virgin Mary's and surf all day, but I feel it wouldn't be fair for both of us to run.

Although, Chi would certainly have a great time in Thailand. She told me so.

Did I mention she misses you? We miss you.

I have more questions than you can imagine. This is only my second letter, however, so I suppose I'll stick to three for now, (sorry for all the lists!)

How are you? Mentally? Physically?

Have you made new friends whilst you've been out there?

Would you ever visit London again?

I miss you forever.

Ton bébé.

Harry x

~

Harry,

It's more tough to write my letters than you might assume. No need to apologise, I understand.

Life is shit. I thought I had accepted that. I never imagined how evil it could be.

Chi, my baby, looks so pretty. I love her haircut (number 8694743? out of infinite).

I have heard my fair share of sympathy. At first, I felt bitter. They didn't understand what I had suffered, they didn't understand the pain I felt. With time, I realised that, sometimes, sorry is all you need to hear to feel a little better. To feel like you're managing life, at least.

I wish I could believe I deserve it, but I truly don't.

My mistakes seem perpetual. I'm constantly remembering new ones. Things I could've noticed faster, signs that I should've recognised. Yours are nothing. You made no mistakes, mon amour, please believe that. As much as fate has been my least favourite higher power for the past year, I agree about welcoming our own.

I would make a list of my personal favourites of your appearance, but I'd be here all day, and I'm meeting with a friend in an hour (your second question - check).

It wasn't fair for either of us to run. I think it's turned out for the best, however.

I can imagine Chi passed out on the beach. You both deserve a holiday. Go to Scotland, or something, at least. Just away from London.

I miss you both. Much more than I can express.

I'm well. Mentally; it's a struggle, but that's just life, I suppose. Physically; my sickness stopped a while ago. I hope your headaches did, too, but I've been searching for cures for those for a long time.

Yes! I've made quite a few close friends. They all know and love you. I'll tell them you asked.

London holds far too many memories for me to bear. You're the only one I can stand. Maybe one day.

Tellement de câlins.

Auriele.

~

The second your letter arrives and is read fully three times over, Harry's scrambling to collect his fancy paper and ink pen, thousands of ideas about how to reply brimming in his head.

Pen to paper, however, his mind is entirely blank.

You're inching closer to addressing the subject of your pain, and so is he. So far, the only discussions you've had regarding that difficult topic have ended either in awful arguments or uncontrollable, endless crying and they all occurred before your disappearance.

Since then, you've had ten months and seventeen days shared to mature from and process the situation. Perhaps, if you were to have a conversation about it now, it would be beneficial.

Harry is aware of the solution to his strange writer's block and urges to attempt to fix your hurt, but he's not quite sure if he's ready. Physically forcing himself up from his cluttered desk, he tries not to think of the main event when changing his sloppy t-shirt and joggers to jeans and a jumper; it's February, so the wind is still well and alive but, luckily for Chi and the duration of her walks, the temperatures are beginning to rise.

His destination is barely a thirty minute leisurely stroll through the city away, and he feels shameful to admit that this is his first visit in ten and a half months. Several times, he's gathered his courage to stand on the pavement, surveying the vast area but never making it closer than the protective fences.

This time, though, he's determined to make it. And he will, with je t'aime's and sweet giggles bubbling in his ears.

Your je t'aime's and her sweet giggles.

Auriele,

Life will continue to surprise us. It may be malicious, but it's also given me you, so I guess there are a few reasons to be grateful.

I think it's more like *8694744 out of infinite, and I'm sure she'll have many more unpleasant trips to the groomers in the future.

You are handling life impeccably, considering all. You deserve showers of recognition for just being here.

No one has ever been more deserving of my love, and no one ever will.

Please, don't blame yourself entirely. Yes, there were signs. Signs that we both should've seen earlier. We knew as much as everyone else. We can't know if things would be different if we'd noticed them, because they're not.

I'm glad you're enjoying life in France. Is it peaceful? Is it too far to ask if you're living with one of your new friends? What're their names, if you don't mind my asking?

If I were to go on holiday right now, Paris would be my first choice.

I'm glad you're feeling better, I hope you continue to improve mentally in the future. I wish you nothing but true happiness.

If you're ever here, I'd be honoured to see you again.

This might surprise you. Before I wrote this letter, I went to visit her.

I haven't since we were there together.

I talked to her for hours about my life and my pain and your letters and your pain and anything I'd love to say to you if I knew how. Meline always was the best listener, no offence to you. She just understands.

I miss her. I miss you. I miss my babies.

Please, send me a picture of you (always topping lists) in your next letter. I need to see you now. I bet you're glowing.

Toujours, Harry x

~

Harry, mon amour,

I feel as if I should address the end of your letter first, because I certainly wasn't expecting it. I cried a lot. I'm still crying as I write this.

It feels nice to feel.

I've been so numb to it all. I know I should sob every day, think of her every single second. I don't. That may make me an awful person, but I always preferred not to lie. Especially to you. I don't think the gravity has quite hit me yet.

Back to the normal, top to bottom of your letter.

My family is a gift. My parents, you and Meline, specifically. I've never admired anyone more.

I miss Chi. Especially today, for some reason. Send more pictures of her when you next write. (I enclosed an updated picture of me in town, if you hadn't noticed! It was taken last week.)

I had concerns. Concerns that I didn't follow up on. We knew something was wrong, but we did everything we could, right? We found help. We found medicine. Why didn't it work?

How fucking cruel can life possibly be?

It's much quieter than London. The air quality is visibly better. I am, actually. My closest friends are Leon and Aline. I'm living with them!

Paris is about as good a holiday as you can get. If I'm ever near you, whatever country it happens to be in, I'll be sure to see you.

The last part of your letter. I already touched upon it but not nearly enough.

I haven't said, heard or read her name in eleven months. I miss it. I miss your voice. And her laughs. She was so, so lively and enthusiastic for life.

It's so unfair that she didn't get the chance.

And I agree; she always was a fantastic listener. I told her about our issues more than I should've.

I wish I could hear her again. Her name wasn't Meline Risette Styles for nothing. Her laughs were so pretty. I could've listened on repeat.

I did. For a year.

I miss her.

I miss you. I miss your warmth. I miss your heart and your love and your smile and everything about you.

I miss normality.

When we thought things would be okay.

We were wrong, and hindsight, that's okay, too.

We will heal eventually, I trust that life can't take much more away from me.

Tout mon amour, Auriele x

~

Since that day, Harry's visited Meline every Sunday without fail - it's only been three weeks, but going in the first place was an unimaginable step.

He even combined Chi's walk with the most recent, and each time, entering, staying at and emerging from the cemetery becomes easier.

The first time, he paced through the gates several times before building the bravery to even step inside without running back. His flight or fight instinct had been touchy the whole time, bias towards flight the entire time.

He just wanted to be as far away from the source of his pain as possible.

At the same time, he just wanted his daughter back. Alive and healthy.

Once he'd settled, laid on the ground like a madman next to her grave, he never wanted to leave her again. He even brought her flowers and a little teddy bear from a shop he'd passed on his hurried journey there.

It was well and truly dark by the time he even considered returning home, because he'd rather be with his sweet baby than alone at home.

Now, Chi sniffs inquisitively around at the bundles of flowers placed on surrounding graves whilst Harry converses with his dead child's grave like she was as animated and eager as he remembered.

It's a little questionable for his sanity, but extremely helpful for his own mental health. And he's trying to fix them both.

He just wishes so much that he'd pushed for more tests in the hospital. If he could, he'd reject their diagnosis and prescription of heart medication and an inhaler for when her asthma flared up.

They claimed she had a weakened respiratory system and, subsequently, her heart didn't deal well under stress, mostly due to her premature birth.

They were correct.

However, they were entirely wrong when they sent you all home with a tub of medicine and advice to lower any potential stressors around her.

Harry remembers scoffing to himself; she was one, what could possibly be stressing her that much?

Apparently, a lot of things.

Your je t'aime's and her sweet giggles.

There's truly nothing better.

Auriele,

I understand completely about any emotion feeling refreshing. For a while, I felt immune to it. I cried and I got angry, but nothing ever really set in.

I'm thankful that I can feel now and it doesn't destroy me.

You're not at all a bad person, or a bad parent. Often, I wish I could forget about her. And not just to remove the pain for a day or two. Also, I appreciate the honesty.

Important things must be talked about first. And while this paragraph isn't quite at the top of my letter, it certainly is my most admiritive.

You're so, so unbelievably beautiful. Even more so, now.

Your eyes are still paradise. That picture is stuck onto the cork board in the kitchen forever.

We did absolutely everything in our power to help our baby. As soon as we noticed an issue, we took her to the hospital. Maybe they accidentally underestimated her condition, maybe they just assumed it'd be treated with that medication.

Either way, we helped her as much as we could. And you were, are, and always will be the most incredible mother.

Meline was lucky, truly. She loved you so much.

As it turns out, life can be our greatest enemy. It's difficult to control and even harder to accept, but everything happens for a reason, I suppose.

Leon and Aline sound wonderful. I know it's not my place, but tell them I said thank you for being there for you? You don't have to.

I've never known someone deserve a full, healthy life more than our sweet girl, and it's an injustice to steal that opportunity from her at such a young age.

She would've been two next week. I'm sure you don't need reminding, but I'm still trying to handle my feelings about it. I already know her birthday is going to be the worst day since she died.

Meline Risette Styles deserves the world, as do you. Please don't be afraid to take it. You've earned it.

Her name still brings me so much joy; little honey, pleasant little laugh. It was such an apt description, in her short life.

Life can always take more, but it gives things that are so wonderful. Sois optimiste.

Tout mon amour et câlins, Harry x

wattpad:

#harry styles #letters #heartbreak #sad books #harry

[venesicity]

Please feel free to not answer if you’re uncomfortable or just don’t want to answer! I’m going to try and see if I can get evaluated for borderline personality disorder but I’m not sure how it’s going to be/how to do it and where or not they will take me seriously because of my age. Do yoh have any tips/advice you’re willing to share? Thank you <3 have a lovely day!!

honestly my main advice is just. be persistent ! talk about how bad you’re doing, how the symptoms are affecting you, and keep asking if you can get assessed. ive heard a lot of people suggest making notes and having examples of all the symptoms you experience, and that’s a very good idea too!

ime, i first went to my GP (or family doctor ig?) and said i was concerned i may have bpd. she asked about my symptoms, examples of them, and any traumatic experiences i’d been through (though it’s important to remember you can also have bpd without trauma). after i answered all of that and she agreed with my concerns, she referred me to a general psychiatrist, who did another assessment, and then referred me to the personality disorder specialist for their assessment.

it’s very much not recommended to go in and insist you Have bpd (or any other condition), or say you think you have It in particular ; a lot of the time, professionals take that as a red flag and automatically doubt you more — bc ig they just assume you’re not supposed to know what you have symptoms of 🙄🙄 if you Do go into it with the “i think i have bpd” opening, you Will - ime - get grilled intensely over your knowledge about bpd, so just a word of warning if you do that !

age wise it really depends — america seems to be perfectly happy to diagnose 15 year olds and under with bpd, but in the uk you’ll struggle to get diagnosed even at 17 (though i have heard it’s easier now). depends on your location. it’s also important to remember adolescence can look a lot like bpd, so don’t be too disheartened if you’re still young and don’t get a diagnosis — sometimes those symptoms Are just part of life, sometimes they’re a sign of bpd, and sometimes they’re something entirely different. and a lot of the time, the only way to figure that out is by waiting, or by getting help for your symptoms in the meantime and seeing if they improve

speaking of which: what matters most of all is your symptoms, not the label — the things that are causing you distress are more important than putting a name to them. even if you don’t get a diagnosis of anything, or just don’t get an exact bpd diagnosis, that doesn’t mean the symptoms you experience aren’t real or important (quite the opposite). a symptom based approach is often what most therapists go for, and tbh, id agree with that philosophy ; whatever is distressing you is what is most important, not any specific label that can be ascribed to it, and it’s important to remember that what you’re going through is valid and real regardless of what exact label you’re given in the end

also ! you can’t really get diagnosed with bpd in the uk anymore - or any country that uses the icd (international classification of diseases) - because of how the recent edition has reclassified personality disorders. i think some areas give both an icd-10 and icd-11 diagnosis, and some will probably still diagnose bpd/eupd, but by 2022 all pd diagnoses be replaced by the shitty new classification (mild/moderate/severe pd with [blank] traits)

i Hope that helped :00 !! i wish u the best of luck, have a great day / night !!

#blows u a kiss!! gl gl !! #feel free to send another ask or dm if u need more help ! #callers

[elegantmess-southernbelle]

Our Greyhound Bus Experience

Strap in, friends, this is a long and harrowing ride. Literally, in the case of this friend.

At 11:45 PM (PDT), 10 of July, 2019, my dear friend, whom we shall call Oliver, was supposed to be leaving Seattle on his 11th cross country trip with Greyhound Bus Lines. Our intent was for him to have a leisurely trip to my home in Richmond VA and eventually fly home from Seattle after DragonCon. At least, that was the plan.

First of all, due to health problems, Oliver is a larger person, weighing 350 lbs. He is uses a motorized wheelchair for most mobility that weighs in at exactly 232 lbs. He is Ainu (a Japanese native minority).

Before they could begin to load Oliver on the wheelchair lift, the problems began. The lift began malfunctioning almost immediately, extending and promptly retracting. At one point, it actually reached the ground, and then refused to rise again. Several people fought to get the lift working and, even then, it repeatedly malfunctioned. It would not get off the ground empty, as they tested it without weight. At one point, Oliver was hovering about 1 1/2 feet (50 cm) off the ground with no motion in either direction. After an hour, the employees gave up, and the driver drove himself to the depot nearby to fetch a replacement bus and test the lift himself. 2 1/2 hours after the bus was meant to leave, it was finally ready to go.

That was the easiest part of this trip.

Upon arrival in Spokane at 7:09 AM PDT, it was discovered that the bus had missed their connection to a Jefferson Bus to Billings, MT, and across North Dakota, to Minneapolis (Jefferson Bus Lines serves the Mountain West from Spokane to Minneapolis, though the tickets are issued by Greyhound). The Spokane station is a Greyhound Station. In Spokane, Oliver was reissued his ticket for the next route west, leaving at 5:15 PM PDT. The new route also went to Billings via the same path, but crossed Wyoming and South Dakota, and on to Minneapolis, rather than North Dakota as his original itinerary did. Having the resources available, he seriously considered transferring to the Amtrak Empire Builder and eating the cost of the Greyhound ticket. In retrospect, he believes he should have, but hindsight is 20/20.

During his 12 hour layover, he called Greyhound Customer Service to tell them what had happened. He was told that nothing could be done about the issue until 24 hours after he had arrived at his final destination. That, by the way, would have meant that the earliest he could have called would have been on Monday the 15th of July, after the immediacy of the events could have been lost, particularly to someone with a neurological disability, which Oliver has (namely Moyamoya disease).

Upon attempting to reboard after 12 unexpected hours in Spokane and 2 meals out of pocket that he otherwise wouldn’t have needed (Spokane has no restaurant in station as of that date), they checked what was to be the first of his Jefferson Lines busses, only to discover that, once again, the lift was broken. This was discovered, again, before an attempt was made to load Oliver. Jefferson Lines, however, was able to fix the problem almost immediately. Rather than try and fail to repair the lift, as Greyhound had in Seattle, they immediately went and got another one. During this time, Oliver discovered that his new ticket and his baggage route tag no longer matched (Greyhound has passengers take possession of their own bags at every stop, while Jefferson does not). The single, quite overwhelmed ticket agent in the station —from Jefferson, but doing the work of both companies— had issued everyone replacement tickets, but forgotten to also issue new route tags to put on the baggage itself. Thankfully, the young man who works there as the only luggage specialist was able to run in and grab a new baggage route tag for Oliver, thus making his bag match the itinerary on his ticket.

(Also relevant here and in future in the story is that Oliver’s bag was marked in Seattle with a bright pink a “special handling” tag. This is supposed to mean that baggage handlers at each Greyhound Station are supposed to handle his bag. Ultimately, the only Greyhound stations which respected this were Spokane and Chicago.)

He traveled uneventfully through the night from Spokane to Billings, Montana. Sadly, this meant that part of the reason Oliver had booked the trip as he did was moot. He’s fond of Western Montana, thinks it’s beautiful, and had been looking forward to seeing it. However, due to the schedule shift, the bus was crossing the area not by day, but by night. His arrival in Billings was uneventful. His transfer to the next bus was likewise, due to the professionalism of the Jefferson employees. Alas, it was in Billings where the baggage error caught up with everyone on the bus, save him, who was continuing east. Since their baggage tags no longer matched their itineraries, their bags were held in Billings for the next bus across North Dakota to Minnesota. One friend he had made on the trip, we’ll call her Countess, had lost her baggage, leaving her bereft of clothing suitable for the funeral she was attending in Chicago. Oliver, having caught the error, stayed with his bag across South Dakota and into Sioux Falls.

At this point, the night caught up to Oliver and he attempted to go to sleep. He uses a C-PAP. And, unfortunately, the electricity on the bus proved to be faulty. Ten times during the night, he awoke when his C-PAP shut off. However, he lays no blame on Jefferson for this as they were very apologetic about the complication and he did survive the night.

Minneapolis, unfortunately, is a Greyhound Station, despite it also being the Jefferson Lines corporate headquarters. By this point, three nights had elapsed and Oliver had only managed, at most, 4 hours of sleep per night, the whole time in a seated position. Whilst being loaded into a Greyhound bus from Minneapolis to Chicago, the driver and station personnel responsible for loading him onto the bus manhandled his chair by shoving, pulling, and yanking it into positions of their choice by the seat back, contrary to his explicit orders not to. This ultimately damaged the seat back. The actual trip from Minneapolis to Chicago was uneventful, as Oliver slept the whole way.

In Chicago, everything got better... and much, MUCH worse. The station’s chief baggage handler saw to the handling of Oliver’s bag personally and attempted to console Countess as to her lost baggage. Heartened by the good treatment he and Countess had experienced at the hands of the chief baggage handler, and with memories of a similar wheelchair lift problem in Chicago on a similar trip two years prior having been handled remarkably well by the personnel at that station, Oliver decided that it would be in his best interests to talk to the customer service representatives who are stationed permanently at Chicago to see if his troubles for this trip could be similarly resolved.

He could not have been more wrong.

The customer service agent who took his complaint was not only extremely dismissive of his problems, but having not heard that the lift issue in Seattle took place before he used the lift, took it upon herself to tell him to his face that “weight is not a disability.” That, “they shouldn’t have to accommodate someone whose only disability is being fat.” That, “the ADA has limits and you should know them.”

With Oliver now stunned into, in his own words “Beached Fish-style Silence” (mouth moving, no words coming out), she then walked away, talking quite well above conversational levels, about “entitled people who abuse the ADA”, carrying this monologue throughout the station amongst the other station and talking about how it contributes so heavily to the delays in Greyhound service.

(Editors’ Note: I’m glad I wasn’t there. As a female-bodied person with a disability causing insulin resistance, I feel very strongly about fat shaming and ableism. This person was 1000% out of line and it’s a common intimidation tactic to do what she did to pit other people against the disabled. Thankfully, it didn’t work to turn them against him, though it did silence him, an abuse survivor with PTSD. Just be aware. This is a not-uncommon corporate tactic and NOBODY should tolerate it.)

He left Chicago, en route to Baltimore, via Cleveland and Pittsburgh. A mostly uneventful day passed crossing Illinois, Indiana, and Ohio. Alas, in Indiana, it was discovered that, like most drivers, this driver did not appreciate the thought of letting a wheelchair using passenger off the bus at meal stops. Oliver, at the outer limits of his capacity, is able to walk roughly 330 feet (100 meters) in a day. This meant that he could not easily walk into and out of the Howe, IN travel plaza, though he forced himself to do so anyway, as the alternative would be going roughly a full day without food. At all previous food stops, the driver or another passenger had been willing to take an order and money from Oliver, preventing delays. Indeed, the driver across Montana was so upset at herself for having to do so, that she kindly bought his food in Missoula with her own money. (Not surprisingly, she was a Jefferson employee....) The driver in Indiana? Not so much.

Given that he had no choice, Oliver walked into the travel plaza, purchased food and went back to the bus, collapsing in agony. At this point, it must be noted that, in addition to Moyamoya Disease, the condition that puts Oliver in a wheelchair is Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome Type VI, a degenerative connective tissue disorder. (Those interested can find more information online.)

After sitting in chair in agony for another hour and a half, the ride eventually returned to normal. Everything was fine into Cleveland. However, because on most Greyhound Busses, the restroom is in the back and the wheelchair seating is in the front, Oliver found himself needing to use the washroom in Cleveland, rather than doing so en route. This meant he had only enough time to either use the washroom or get food, not both. Given the choice, he decided to use the washroom. He was required to do so without his chair again. Upon reboarding, they were informed that, due to accumulated delays en route, they would not be having a rest stop at Pittsburgh, but would instead be continuing through the night into Baltimore. Thankfully, they had switched drivers in Cleveland, and when the new driver was told of Oliver’s needs, re-added a very short break in Pittsburgh to the trip to accommodate. This was necessary, as had he not had stopped in Pittsburgh, he would have been unable to use a washroom or acquire liquid to take his medicine.

From Pittsburgh, they then made Baltimore. However, somewhere in Ohio, (likely at Cleveland), Oliver’s luggage got lost. The loss was discovered in Baltimore when the suitcase did not appear at the side of the bus. He was told at Baltimore that it almost certainly had gone on to Richmond without him. That could not have been, as Oliver witnessed it being loaded in Chicago. The only possibility is that it had been unloaded at a station stop between Baltimore and Chicago, the most likely being Cleveland.

By this point, Oliver was too physically exhausted and emotionally worn out to do more than file a half-hearted complaint. This was also when Oliver discovered that his bus, which was to go from Baltimore to Richmond, having originated in New York, was running at least 4 hours late. No reason was ever given, though Oliver suspects it had to do with the blackout of Manhattan that day.

Two buses left Baltimore with a destination of Richmond, (including one that was an express between Baltimore, DC and Richmond), before his scheduled bus arrived. However, Greyhound would not change the ticket, due to the inconvenience to them of putting a wheelchair on one of those busses. His bus finally did arrive in Baltimore, 4 1/2 hours late. He boarded, minus trouble and luggage and proceeded to groggily travel through DC during rush hour, finally arriving in Richmond at 3:15 PM EDT on Sunday the 14th. This is a full 19 hours later than he should have, on a day when Richmond’s bus system is on a limited schedule and the only local wheelchair transports are impossible unless pre-booked.

At this point, I fetched him from the station, using what means I had, and guided him to my house, via these limited busses. This forced us to hike/roll a mile and a half from the last bus stop served to home, in 90 degree F (33 C) heat and both of us exhausted, angry and miserable.

He is now here, finally, and has had a full night’s sleep. Where his story goes from here is anyone’s guess, but I think it safe to say it won’t be getting there via Greyhound, as they have lost a lifelong customer.

[berniesrevolution]

In the early summer of 2017, a little less than a year after his Presidential campaign had ended, Bernie Sanders spent a few days on a speaking tour in England, to promote the European version of his book “Our Revolution.” The Brexit resolution had passed twelve months earlier, a general election looked likely to consolidate the conservative hold on the country, and Sanders’s audiences—in the hundreds, though not the thousands—were anxious and alert. I was at those events, talking with the people who had come—skinny, older leftists and louche, cynical younger ones—and they were anticipating not just the old campaign hits but a broader explanation of why the world had suddenly gone so crazy and what could be done. Sanders had scarcely talked about foreign affairs in his 2016 campaign, but his framework had a natural extensibility. Under way in the world was a simple fight, Sanders said. On one side were oligarchs and the right-wing parties they had managed to corrupt. On the other were the people.

In the thirty months since Sanders’s 2016 campaign ended, in the petulance and ideological strife of the Democratic National Convention, he has become a more reliable partisan, just as progressivism has moved his way. He begins the 2020 Presidential campaign not as a gadfly but as a favorite, which requires a comprehensive vision among voters of how he would lead the free world. In 2017, Sanders hired his first Senate foreign-policy adviser, a progressive think-tank veteran named Matt Duss. Sanders gave major speeches—at Westminster College, in the United Kingdom, and at Johns Hopkins—warning that “what we are seeing is the rise of a new authoritarian axis” and urging liberals not just to defend the post-Cold War status quo but also to “reconceptualize a global order based on human solidarity.” In 2016, he had asked voters to imagine how the principles of democratic socialism could transform the Democratic Party. Now he was suggesting that they could also transform how America aligns itself in the world.

In early April, I met with Sanders at his Senate offices, in Washington. Spring was already in effect—the cherry blossoms along the tidal basin were still in bloom but had begun to crinkle and fade—and talk among the young staffers milling around his offices was of the intensity of Sanders’s early campaign, of who would be travelling how many days over the next month and who would have to miss Easter. It was my first encounter with Sanders during this campaign. Basic impression: same guy. He shook my hand with a grimace, and interrupted my first question when he recognized the possibility for a riff, on the significance of a Senate vote on Yemen. His essential view of foreign policy seemed to be that the American people did not really understand how dark and cynical it has been—“how many governments we have overthrown,” as Sanders told me. “How many people in the United States understand that we overthrew a democratically elected government in Iran to put in the Shah? Which then led to the Revolution. How many people in this country do you think know that? So we’re going to have to do a little bit of educating on that.”

One condition that Americans had not digested was the bottomlessness of inequality. “I got the latest numbers here,” Sanders said. He motioned, and Duss, who was sitting beside him, slid a sheet of paper across the table. “Twenty-six (Continue Reading)of the wealthiest people on earth own more wealth than the bottom half of the world’s population. Did you know that? So you look at it, you say”—here he motioned as if each of his hands were one side of a scale—“twenty-six people, 3.6 billion people. How grotesque is that?”

He went on, “When I talk about income inequality and talk about right-wing authoritarianism, you can’t separate the two.” No one knew how rich Putin was, Sanders said, but some people said he was the wealthiest man in the world. The repressive Saudi monarchs were also billionaire Silicon Valley investors, and “their brothers in the Emirates” have “enormous influence not only in that region but in the world, with their control over oil. A billionaire President here in the United States. You’re talking about the power of Wall Street and multinational corporations.” Simple, really: his thesis had always been that money corrupted politics, and now he was tracing the money back overseas. His phlegmy baritone acquired a sarcastic lilt. “It’s a global economy, Ben, in case you didn’t know that!”

When Sanders’s aides sent me a list of a half-dozen foreign-policy experts, assembled by Duss, who talk regularly with the senator about foreign policy, I was surprised by how mainstream they seemed. Joe Cirincione, the antinuclear advocate, might have featured in a Sanders Presidential campaign ten or twenty years ago. But Sanders is also being advised by Robert Malley, who coördinated Middle East policy in Obama’s National Security Council and is now the president of the International Crisis Group; Suzanne DiMaggio, a specialist in negotiations with adversaries at the Carnegie Endowment for International Peace; and Vali Nasr, the dean of the Paul H. Nitze School of Advanced Studies at Johns Hopkins and a specialist in the Shia-Sunni divide.

Few of these advisers were part of Sanders’s notionally isolationist 2016 campaign. But, as emergencies in Libya, Syria, and Yemen have deepened, the reputation of Obama’s foreign policy, and of the foreign-policy establishment more broadly, has diminished. Malley told me, “Out of frustration with some aspects of Obama’s foreign policy and anger with most aspects of Trump’s, many leaders in the Party have concluded that the challenge was not to build bridges between centrist Democrats and centrist Republicans but, rather, between centrist and progressive Democrats. That means breaking away from the so-called Blob”—a term for the foreign-policy establishment, from the Obama adviser Ben Rhodes. DiMaggio said, “The case for restraint seems to be gaining ground, particularly in its rejection of preventive wars and efforts to change the regimes of countries that do not directly threaten the United States.” She and others now see in Sanders something that they didn’t in 2016: a clear progressive theory of what the U.S. is after in the world. “I think he’s bringing those views on the importance of tackling economic inequality into foreign policy,” DiMaggio said.

Since the 2016 campaign, Sanders’s major foreign-policy initiative has been a Senate resolution invoking the War Powers Act of 1973 in order to suspend the Trump Administration’s support of Saudi Arabia’s military campaign in Yemen. Mike Lee, a libertarian Republican from Utah, and Chris Murphy, a Democrat from Connecticut, co-sponsored the resolution; on April 4th, it passed in the House and the Senate. It was the first time that Congress invoked the War Powers Act since the law’s creation, in the aftermath of the Vietnam War. When we met, Sanders said that he thought the Republican support for the resolution was significant, in part because it reflected the strain of conservatism that is skeptical of military interventions. It also demonstrated, he believed, “a significant mind-set change in the Congress—Democrats and Republicans—with regard to Saudi Arabia.” He added, “I don’t see why we’d be following the lead or seen as a very, very close ally of a despotic, un-democratic regime.”

Sanders was warming to a broader theme. Our position in the regional conflict between Saudi Arabia and Iran should be rebalanced, he said. There has been, he went on, “a bipartisan assumption that we’re supposed to love Saudi Arabia and hate Iran. And yet, if you look at young people in Iran, they are probably a lot more pro-American than Saudis. Iran is a very flawed society, no debate about it. Involved in terrorism, doing a lot of bad things. But they also have more democracy, as a matter of fact, more women’s rights, than does Saudi Arabia.” As President, Sanders said, he imagined the U.S. taking a more neutral role in the countries’ rivalry. “To say, you know what? We’re not going to be spending trillions of dollars and losing American lives because of your long-standing hostilities.”

Sanders turned to the conflict between Israel and Palestine, which he described in similar terms; he wanted to orient American policy toward the decent people on both sides, and not to their two awful governments. “While I am very critical of Netanyahu’s right-wing government, I am not impressed by what I am seeing from Palestinian leadership, as well,” he said. “It’s corrupt in many cases, and certainly not effective.” He mentioned the United States’s leverage in Israeli politics, because of its alliance and economic support. (“$3.8 billion is a lot of money!”) I asked if he would make that aid contingent, as some Palestinian advocates have suggested, on fuller political rights for Palestinians. Sanders grew more cautious here. “I’m not going to get into the specifics,” he said. He was worried about the situation in Gaza, where youth unemployment is greater than sixty per cent, and yet the borders are closed. (“If you have sixty per cent of the kids who don’t have jobs, and they can’t leave the country, what do you think is going to happen next year and the year after that?”) But he also said that he wanted to “pick up from where Jimmy Carter was, what Clinton tried to do, and, with the financial resources that we have of helping or withdrawing support, say, ‘You know what? Let’s sit down and do our best to figure it out.’ ” He seemed to want to strike an earnest, non-revolutionary note. “I’m not proposing anything particularly radical,” he said. “And that is that the United States should have an even-handed approach both to Israel and the Palestinians.”

(Continue Reading)

#politics #the left #bernie sanders #foreign policy #New Yorker #2020 election

[lena-in-a-red-dress]

oh gosh. oh gosh. I've been thinking about getting evaluated for ADD/ADHD myself recently but I'm scared & anxious. I don't know who to go to - is any regular psychiatrist/psychologist ok or would I need to find one who specializes?? What if I'm diagnosed but they can't do anything about it?? What if I'm MISdiagnosed so they can make money?? What if they tell me I'm just an attention-seeking narcissist and there's nothing wrong with me at all?? 1/2

All I can share is my experience, which is unique to a) me, b) my area, and c) my country’s healthcare system. I mentioned my frustrations with my concentration/focus (or lack thereof) with my primary care physician-- the person who does my annual check ups. They should be your first stop, if you’re in the American healthcare system, as insurance companies often require referrals for specialist appointments, and even if you aren���t in the American healthcare system, your PCP should be able to point you in the right direction of where to go next. 

I have a really great relationship with mine-- she’s been treating me for my entire adult life. She referred me to a neurologist for ADD/ADHD evaluation. When I arrived, the cute intake girl asked me a shit ton of questions about my symptoms. And in talking to her it really hit home how much and how long I’ve been struggling. 

And the neurologist took one look at my intake form and said “you definitely hit the markers for ADD.” (and maybe adhd? It kinda blurred at that point, because ha-hey guess who’s having focus/attention issues?)

Next step? Medication.

Medication is where the stigma kicks in again. Picture this: I am at the neurologist looking for help. There is literally no other reason for me to be there. I am struggling, I need help, and still-- STILL-- when he mentioned Aderall my brain and my heart immediately wanted to bolt. Like, what the hell else did you think he was going to suggest, numbskull? 

So next steps are getting a brain scan/EEG, to make sure I don’t have any other brain issues they need to worry about, and then I’m starting a low dose of Adderall, which is faster acting than some of the other options. By the neurologist’s words, I could be seeing improvement by the end of next week.

Your questions in your first ask are all anxiety, plain and simple (and guess how ADD can sometimes present in adult women? Ding ding ding! Anxiety). 

A specialist will be the best person to help you, so even if they can’t a) they may at least be able to tell you what it isn’t, b) can point you in a new direction, and c) at least you’re taking steps to help yourself-- which is huge. 

Lately I’ve come to suspect that the school fear about “overmedication” is an early split from what eventually became the anti-vaxxer movement, and fuck those guys. And keep in mind-- our conversation here is not about the virtues of forcing kids to sit still in a classroom for 7-8 hours a day, and the need for medication to help them do so. We are adults, struggling to exist as adults. If there is a tool out there to help us function more easily, we are entitled to use it, just as we are entitled to use anti-depressants or pain-relief.

(And PS if you’re wondering if you’re an attention-seeking narcissist, you’re not a narcissist, because narcissists don’t think about that sort of thing. I’ve had similar concerns seeking therapy and that came straight from my therapist’s mouth, so)

If you do seek help for it, I can warn you right now that it’s going to be a mixed bag of emotions. Yes, it’s a relief, to have a name and reason for why you/your brain does X, but at the same time? I had a cry session last night because if the diagnosis is correct, then-- I’ve been fighting it for twenty-plus years. Twenty years where my potential has been throttled by a condition I wasn’t aware of. Twenty years I’ll never get back.

 And that’s heartbreaking.

The one thing about my appointment with the neurologist that sticks in my craw is something he asked me towards the end as we were wrapping up. He asked me “Why did you wait so long to get help?”

He meant it good-naturedly, and I was still reeling and dealing with the anxiety of everything suddenly happening quickly, so I didn’t claw his eyes out right then and there. But it still rankles even now. 

I’m sorry, how in the world was I supposed to know that my wandering brain and hyperfixation on writing and skating (the only two activities in my life I can focus on with zero distraction), wasn’t NORMAL? My doctor asks for my weight every goddamn visit but at no point has she ever asked me how my focus is. No one ever asked me how many times I need to go back to my apartment in the morning to get the keys/sunglasses/breakfast I keep forgetting. 

No one ever asked me how many times a week I forget my wallet in my other bag. Until my visit yesterday, no one ever asked me how often I talk over someone before they’re finished speaking, or finish their sentences for them. No one ever asked whether I fidget in meetings or if I can hold a goddamn conversation without my brain spooling out to think about that one story/movie/figure skating program/”if I have my protein bar early and skip the late session at the rink I can go to that one place I like for dinner tonight I think I’ll get the fish”.

So, someone please tell me how I was supposed to recognize any of this as not normal.

Long story short, here’s my takeaway: If you are struggling with anything that impairs your ability to function on a basic level, you deserve to seek treatment. If you read something online about a condition that rings true to you and your experience, you have every right to mention it to your doctor.

You deserve to live at your full potential.

[awed-frog]

About your griffin post, about it being Protoceratops... It's not true. Mark Witton did an in-depth discussion about it.

Yes, about that - as I said in the notes, I’m grateful to the person who posted the link because I’d never heard of any of that, and the more diverse perspectives on stuff, the better. That said, a few things about his rebuttal (and yours):

1. When it comes to religion, mythology and folklore studies, there’s no such thing as ‘true’ and ‘not true’. You can categorize theories with other words, such as ‘likely’, ‘probable’, ‘possible’ and ‘utter troll dung’, but those are not exact sciences, so while it’s possible to follow a rigorous and scientific approach, it’s difficult (or even impossible) to prove anything in a definite way.

2. Adrienne Mayor’s book had an interdisciplinary approach. Mark Witton’s article did not. Now, this is more to Mayor’s credit than to Witton’s demerit, because you’re not going to contact fifteen colleagues for a blog post, but it’s worth noting that the lack of interdisciplinary research is a huge problem in academia, and it’s especially noticeable in ancient history (or maybe I notice it more because it’s my field, I don’t know). Since people tend to be either word-minded or numbers-minded, what you get is a series of extremely well-prepared specialists looking at stuff - while being completely ignorant of 98% of the world they’re examining. An ancient Greek scholar, for instance, will know a lot about linguistic shifts but squat about bread making, and that’s a bad way to understand a whole culture. Mayor, who’s more on the word side of the equation, made an effort to consult with science-oriented colleagues; Witton didn’t do that (although, as I said, that’s perfectly normal for the writing format he was using) and it shows.

3. About his first argument, ie that griffins are found in Near Eastern art: who cares? What you need to do here is not look at how you see the world, but at how a Greek person would see the world. Near Eastern griffins are not relevant - not because they don’t exist (they do) or because they’re not objectively fascinating (they are). They’re not relevant because they’re not mentioned in this context by Greek texts. None of the authors Mayor discusses made a connection between the Central Asia griffins and the Persian griffins. Maybe they didn’t know about the other ones, maybe they saw them as different animals - I honestly don’t know. But if they didn’t draw a connection between the two thing, then neither should we. I know mythology books tend to have categories on ‘monsters’ and offer enthralling images of ‘sirens’, ‘giants’ and ‘demons’ from around the world, but the fact is, how a specific culture understands that monster is likely to differ a lot from what their neighbours think of them. Sphinxes are a good example. There’s the Egyptian sphinx and the Greek sphinx - those are never discussed in the same papers because, despite the fact they do have superficial similarities, they’re very different creatures in what concerns their role in their respective societies’ religious and conceptual landscapes.

4. About his second argument, ie that protoceratops bones are not as widespread as she suggests, and one wouldn’t trip on skulls every two seconds - again, so what? As long as those fossils can be placed in that area at the right time, I’m good. This is not a scientific experiment the Scythians are carrying out: one skull is enough to suggest a story behind it, one trader sharing that story in his travels is enough to make it grow, and one bartender telling Herodotus about it is enough to validate it. The Amazons are a very good example of how that works. The idea of a tribe of women warriors had fascinated the Greek for centuries (they’re mentioned in the Iliad) before Herodotus wrote about them confirming they were real people doing real stuff. Western scholars have been scoffing at him ever since - and they kept scoffing until Soviet archaeologists started finding graves of women who’d been buried with weapons. Now - did archaeologists ever find a cemetery that was 100% badass female warriors? No. Did they find a cemetery that was 50% female warriors? Also no. To the best of our current knowledge, some of those Siberian-based tribes had - occasionally - warrior queens, or high-status women who used weapons. They were not Amazons in the traditional sense of the word, but it’s not that hard to imagine what must have happened there: one foreign delegation headed by an armed queen would have been enough to make any Greek go wtf and ooooohh, because that would have been so exotic - Greek women didn’t use weapons (and neither did Persian women, or Egyptian women - cultures some Greeks would have been familiar with) - so the sight of that must have left quite a deep mark. And since that’s how humans work, one warrior queen can become ‘a whole race of man-hating badass women’ in two seconds flat. I mean, we know that’s how storytelling works, and what happens with dubious or spotty record keeping, but also - how many times has that happened to you? You meet one Korean guy, he’s the only Korean you know and he’s an asshole - before you know it, you start to assume that’s what all Koreans are like. It’s just how we’re wired, and I guess it was supposed to be about protecting us from poisonous plants (‘Sure, that other red berry almost killed my brother, but what about this one?’ - that would have seen us extinct in no time), but it’s also something we need to keep in check, because no - people are not ‘all the same’ just because they belong to the same ‘tribe’. 

5. Another argument he makes is that Central Asia to Greece is rather a long distance for Chinese whispers and legend swapping, and that’s so wrong I don’t even know what to say. This is exactly what I meant when I said people can be experts in their field (in Witton’s case, paleontology) while being pretty ignorant about others, because the ancient world was way more connected than what we imagine it to be. We know that even in prehistoric times, there were crowded trade routes moving from the Baltics to Greece, that people travelled hundreds of miles to go to some sanctuary on a Scottish island, and that yeah - ideas and legends did travel with goods, sometimes in a very lasting way. The traces of Buddhist doctrine, for instance, are all over Greek philosophy. This is a subject that’s only recently been explored because people like to believe Greek culture was born fully-formed without any foreign influences, but the studies on the exchanges between India and Greece - well before Alexander’s times - are fascinating. So no, I’m not disturbed in the slightest by the fact news about ‘griffin skulls’ seem to have travelled from the Gobi to Athens. That stuff happened, and as I mentioned above, all you need is one person - one guy who’s well-spoken enough, convincing enough, or convinced enough - one guy who doesn’t want Greek traders anywhere near his gold-stuffed mountains - talking to a second person. Today we’ve only got about 10% of Greek literature, but Greeks were an inquisitive bunch, and the country was littered with self-styled historians, geographers and anthropologists who spent their time either traveling around or paying drinks to whomever seemed foreign enough to be interesting. That method has limits, by the way - I myself once invented a fair bit of my town’s history because I was sixteen and bored and those tourists had seen me with my Latin textbook and asked me if I knew anything about Roman settlements in the area, so. I mean - half of a Greek historian’s paragraph start with ‘A man in Samos told me’ - God knows who they were even talking to. A local priest keen to increase tourism, the village idiot - anything’s possible.

6. Finally, something else that’s just uh is how Witton says, why single out griffins? What about other monsters? And, well, that’s the whole point of Mayor’s book. We know for sure ancient people found fossils; what we’re trying to figure out is what impact (if any) that had on their worldview. For instance, fossils did not suggest the idea of evolution, but they did mess with (or confirm) some of their religious beliefs. I’m hoping to summarize other chapters of Mayor’s book in more detail, but just a couple of examples: the Greeks, like many other ancient people, believed their ancestors to have been much taller and stronger than themselves -

(This, by the way, it’s another tantalizing way the outside world may - or may not - have influenced thought and belief: did the Greeks believe that because of the monumental architecture older cultures had left behind, or did those staggering things confirm an idea that had sprung from a different source? Like, humans tend to be pessimistic mofos, so it’s plenty possible you’d assume people are becoming smaller and weaker just because, and next the finding of a Daedalic temple just confirms that for you, because how the hell could anyone built that and Jesus Christ? Or maybe you find that temple first, and adjust your theology accordingly. We just don’t know. Hell - we’re struggling to explain contemporary religious phenomena - everything and anything from ISIS to spontaneous lynchings in India to cults - we have zero chance of fully understanding Greek religion in a way that allows us to say, ‘that’s right’ or ‘that’s wrong’.) 

- and they also believed in monstrous giants dying in riverbeds (many Greek rivers are named after giants). Both things are probably related to the giant-ass femurs which kept cropping up in fields and - well - riverbeds, so no - griffins are not the lone exception. We know of people finding stuff they assume to be giant bones, divine cattle, cyclops - if you can think of it, there’s probably a fossil for it.

Ultimately, I just want to say: Mayor does offer some rather sweeping statements, but, then again, her book is aimed at a general audience. Too many conditionals and no one’s buying it (or understanding it). On the other hand, she also never pretends to hold any Universal Truth over the subject she’s exploring, because that’s how (good) academia works: you expect (and encourage) rebuttals, corrections, discussions. That’s how we progress. 

Personally, what attracts me to these theories is that they’re part of a movement that’s arising - bloody finally - acknowledging man is not the centre of the known and unknown universe. 

Until very recently, we were told the physical world has zero influence on what we think and how we feel - because we’re a superior animal, that is, so that stuff doesn’t touch us in the same way it does other (lower) beasts. And while that is true to an extent - if there’s an inconvenient river, we move it - saying that the world around us has no impact on our souls, brains and way of life - that’s just laughably pretentious. We now know something as banal as the weather can completely transform our mood and our decision-making, even on the long term - that trees make us smarter, that urban landscapes are likely to give migraines - there are studies in experimental archaeology in how landscape influences thought (like, you bury someone in a fetal position because the ground is too hard, you make yourself feel better by imagining he’s like a baby in the mother’s womb and will one day be reborn), and a lot of new ideas about folklore and religion. This line of studies on fossils is one example of that; another is how geography impacts theology - I don’t remember who it was, but I know someone suggested the reason human sacrifice is more common in tropical cultures is because in a jungle, death will immediately (and very visibly) feed new life, whereas in colder climates the relation is not that apparent. And again, it may never be possible to prove right and wrong there. Even if we had a time machine, these things are tricky to understand. People think of faith and belief in different ways, approach their religion through their own filter, will pretend to go along with stuff for personal gain. Who knows. The only thing we can be sure of is that those fossils would have been understood differently by different people. To some, that would have been proof of mythical monsters. To others, a way to strengthen their flock’s faith and thus cement social cohesion. And to others still, it was probably just a way to make money - a temple displaying a ‘griffin skull’ would have led to people selling griffin statues and opening griffin-themed restaurants, same as you see today in places like Lourdes or Fatima. Humans are messy. History is messy. That’s what’s beautiful (and infuriating) about both.

#ask #griffins #mythology #greek mythology #religion #mark witton #sorry i'm not including links #i'm late for a job #gaaaaaah #i hope this made sense? #but i'm open to discuss this of course #witton's perspective was genuinely interesting

[checkmate-cherik]

Are you in the USA? Each country is different. Are you trying to see if the doctor will do the surgery or are you trying to see if insurance will cover it? Some surgeries because of the condition and how aging affects the body have to be done within certain time frames or they will just need to be redone (ie: LASIK). If it is a question about insurance coverage best to ask the insurance company, there should be a number to call on the back of your card or an online account with a chat feature.

Yah, I’m in the hellscape of the USA. I honestly just need to discuss with the doctor (specialist, not surgeon) if the treatment she has planned is required by the insurance before they’ll pay up, or if we can skip it. I know the insurance covers the surgery I’d need because I looked it up ages ago. It’s a surgery to remove some diseased organs that are going to get worse with age so honestly taking them now while I’m young is probably the best thing. The disease makes the organs absolutely useless anyway.

I just don’t know how best to ask. The insurance wouldn’t cover my depression medication until I had tried three other meds (all of which gave me extremely negative symptoms and Did Not Work) but I don’t know how to phrase an inquiry about whether this is the same deal.

I suppose I could call the insurance company (they don’t do emails or chats ‘cause they suck) but I just. Really don’t want to go through that.

#personal stuff #sorry if this doesn't make sense #Anonymous

[writingonjorvik]

The B Team Druids - Chapter 8 - A Lesser Hero

It took Carrie a while to get herself woken up. She’d only consciously done this once, and the process was still hazy for her. There was no magic words or actions or process that she could identify, there was just a feeling that washed over her and told she could wake up. Not exactly a lot to go on there.

While she was trying though, she watched the remaining individuals in the room sort out their actions. Elizabeth immediate began to take care of Bree, Saoirse set Carrie’s body down and called Raven, and Ari looked like she was struggling to keep calm. When Saoirse walked out to find Raven, Ari stepped up to make sure Carrie was alright.

Saoirse returned shortly with Raven in tow. The Star druid first set to waking Bree up, who came to looking even paler than before, but that also might just have been the drastic contrast between her and Raven. With Elizabeth and Raven’s help though, they got Bree turned away from Carrie to keep the flighty girl from fainting a second time and so Raven could check on Carrie.

When Carrie finally managed to pulled herself back into her body, she had five worried pairs of eyes watching her, Raven and Ari the most immediate around her.

Carrie gave a weak half wave. “Afternoon.”

“Afternoon yarself,” Saoirse said, taking a step closer. She sounded snarky, like she normally would, but her inflection had a hint of worry. “Ya gave us a bloody big scare dere.”

“Not my intention to randomly fall asleep,” Carrie answered, trying to grin.

“Are you narce- narca- na- narcoleptic?” Bree asked, looking off as she thought through the word. “I thought that was a really rare condition. Do you need medication? I can make something. Are you ok with herbal remedies? BecauseIknowsomepeoplehaveaproblemwithallnaturalandIdon’t--”

“Breade,” Saoirse stated, giving Bree a side eye. Bree practically swallowed her tongue as she drew back the rest of her question. She took a moment, her cheeks puffed out, before letting out a long drawn breath. As Bree was uncurling her tongue, Saoirse turned back to Carrie. “Do ya need anyding? Water? Tea? Food?”

Carrie shook her head, slowly pushing herself up on her arms. Ari rest a hand on Carrie’s shoulder. “Don’t rush. The blood will, like, rush back into your head and make it worse.”

The stare Raven gave Ari for that comment had no emotion in it, but Carrie thought it might be that Ari was wildly off the mark, and giving medical advice in front of a trained healer seemed a little silly. When Raven noticed Carrie was watching, the druid only nodded. “Rest. Drink. Breathe.” She turned, pointing to Saoirse. “Water and mint.”

There was something in Raven’s voice Carrie hadn’t noticed before. The strain in it, yes, but there was something like the sound of two coarse wires being dragged over each other as well. Something in her throat.

Elizabeth stopped Saoirse. “Let me.” She slipped through, walking towards a cabinet over in Carrie guessed was the house’s kitchen. The house was rather studio like now that Carrie thought about it, very open concept. She couldn’t see a stove from where she was, but it seemed a safe bet when Elizabeth came back with a pitcher of water with mint leaves floating in it and glasses, as well as a little bottle of painkillers.

“Slowly,” Elizabeth said, handing Carrie a cup. Carrie nodded her thanks, sipping on it. “Do you know what happened? Why you slipped out?”

Carrie looked over for a moment before Saoirse and Ari. They didn’t look at each other, but both of them seemed ready to accept whatever Carrie said. Carrie returned her attention to Elizabeth. “I’m not really sure, no. I guess, um, a high amount of magic around me seems like it can set it off. Is that normal?”

“That is difficult for me to say,” Elizabeth replied. “There’s nothing normal about these abilities. Dreamwalking, that’s what Jon Jarl called it. Orienmancy.”

“You can see people’s dreams?” Bree asked, her face lighting up. “Did you see mine?”

“Uh, no,” Carrie answered, shaking her head. When Bree started to look disappointed, Carrie added, “But I can’t really see into anyone’s. It’s more like a, uh, like a dream world. Like some kind of twilight zone.”

Saoirse turned to Elizabeth. “Dat sounds a lo’ like Pandoria.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. Carrie, what color was this world?”

“Well, it was this one? Just kinda gold and peach,” Carrie said. She took a sip of the water before asking, “Are there other worlds?”

“We know of one other,” Elizabeth explained. “Pandoria, Garnok’s home reality. But that place looks nothing like this world. No, I believe this is something else, some kind of between.”

Before Carrie could really asked, Bree raised a hand. “It sounds like Carrie is going to a nicer Upsidedown, but Pandoria is more like a Narnia situation. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah, you watch Stranger Things?” Carrie asked, grinning.

Bree’s face lit up. “I streamed it last week. Oh my goodness, can you believe--”

“Anoder time, please,” Saoirse cut in. “Do ya know how serious i’ is dat where dis dream world is?”

“Not really?” Carrie answered. How was she supposed to respond? She barely knew what her powers were, much less if there was consequences to using it.

“Ya could be openin’ rifts all over de country if ya’re no’ careful,” Saoirse said.

Elizabeth sighed. “Let’s not be drastic, Saoirse.” The red-head nearly cut daggers at Elizabeth for the comment, but the older woman was oblivious to it. “There was no fluctuation at Jon Jarl’s mound, and there’s nothing here. I think it’s more likely that Carrie’s right, and this is some kind of twilight zone between here and our plane, but not enough to tap into the dimension bridging our world to Pandoria. That being the case though, perhaps we should test that theory.”

The five young women all turned towards Elizabeth, confused. Saoirse asked first, “Ya wan’ us to try to open a rif’?”

“Ms. Elizabeth, is that safe?” Bree asked, curling up her hand as she asked. “What if we do rip open the tear? The protection wards have been getting weaker and weaker lately. There’s a serious chance a really wound could open soon, whatifweactuallytearsomething?” Bree took a deep breath. “It could go very badly.”

“I have a team dedicated already to investigating this flux, headed by Alex. But between a trained rune technician and one of our portal specialists, it should be fine. And if it goes poorly, I’ll personally send Alex and Linda to come help you.”

“And take dem away from wha’ dey’re already workin’ on,” Saoirse grumbled. Ari elbowed her, cutting Saoirse’s next sentence off.

“Besides, you all are a unit now,” Elizabeth said. “You won’t be able to form any kind of Soul Rider bond without some teamwork. So here’s your first mission. Test Carrie’s reality for any dangerous anomalies, and then we’ll move forward with getting you all into the Jarl’s tomb to form your bond. Alright?”

Carrie nodded. “That seems fair.” Bree agreed immediately, nodding fervently. Ari barely looked up, but motioned her agreement. Raven was silent beside Saoirse, as all eyes turned on them.

Raven glanced at Saoirse. “Help.”

Saoirse grimaced, before letting out a disgruntled sigh. “Achk, fine, bu’ don’ ya dare send Linda. She’s go’ too much on her hands. Alex would be enough. I can handle this.”

“I will do what is safe for our order,” Elizabeth answered, looking around the five of them. “But I think it will go quite well. Best of luck to all of you.” She motioned to her door, smiling, though Carrie felt something weary on the druid’s shoulders. Carrie took the cue to leave.

Outside, Valedale was as cheary and quaint as it had been a few hours ago, oblivious to the conversation that had happened in those closed doors. Carrie wondered if any other druids would even know about this. It seemed like she had stumbled on a secret the leaders of the Keepers didn’t want being passed around knowing about the actual Champion of Aideen, a surprise addition probably wasn’t on their highest order to spread if it meant sharing that secret.

“Bloody hell,” Saoirse griped, closing the door and whistled loudly for Copper. As the Icelandic trotted over, she looked at Carrie. “We goin’ now? I know a spo’ to tes’ i’, bu’ Raven says I can’ jus’ knock ya ou’. Are ya up to i?”

“You’re going to hit her?” Bree asked, aghast and taking a step away from Saoirse.

Saoirse turned to Bree, mouth slightly open and her brows twisted in a confused expression. “Did ya really jus’ fuckin’ ask dat? No, I’m no’ goin’ to hi’ her, bu’ de only way we know how to send Carrie into her dream state is wid a lo’ of magic. De magic from de Jarl’s tomb firs’ and now between--” She cut herself off and looked at Ari, who briefly looked up and shrugged. Saoirse turned back to Bree. “Dat’s all we go’ righ’ now. Bu’ gettin’ hi’ migh’ feel better dan my magic.” The last sentence was added quieter than the rest.

“How about food first?” Carrie offered. As Saoirse and Bree both started to point towards the cafe in Valedale, Carrie shook her head. “No, somewhere private. Any other restaurants in the area?”

“There’s a restaurant up at the observatory,” Bree said. “I need to get Sidhe if we’re going there though.”

“Does that work for everyone else?” Carrie inquired, looking around their circle. Everyone nodded or answered yes after a moment. Letting out a brief sigh, Carrie nodded. “Good. Um, I’m gonna get going then. I need a moment. Meet you there?”

“Ya sure?” Saoirse asked, already on Copper’s back.

“Yeah, just a minute. I’ll text when I’m cool,” Carrie replied, climbing onto Ash’s back. The mare snorted a welcome before Carrie pulled them off up the trail behind Elizabeth’s house. She heard Saoirse move to follow, but there were no hoofbeats continuing besides Ash’s.

When they rounded the bend, Carrie stopped Ash in front of the glowing pillars. The fact that they were still glowing made her uncomfortable. This whole idea of being some chosen one didn’t feel right. And it felt less right the more she was worrying about tearing a seam in reality. She wasn’t some kind of hero though. She was just her, and at the end of the day, she knew she was more worried about herself than anyone else. Not because she didn’t care, but because...what could she do? Even with magic abilities, what was dream walking going to do to protect any of her friends from a demon? What was that compared to magic Saoirse had? The Champion’s powers were probably even stronger than that.

Carrie shook her head. She had told herself she was going to try. She wasn’t going to just be pulled down some path because she happened to have this chosen gift. If she was going to be a chosen whatever, she was going to face it and not let fate just drag her away.

But that didn’t mean she wasn’t going to doubt the being who decided it was a good idea.

Carrie gave the pillars one last look. She sighed, not sure what this meant for her and her life here in Jorvik. But there was only one way to find out. So Carrie asked Ash on.

#sso #star stable #star stable online #the b team druids #woj writing