#Whoever told you healing was linear was LYING TO YOU

[faeriekit]

Health and Hybrids (XXI)👽👻💚

[I can't remember the original prompt posters  for the life of me but here's a mashup between a cryptid!Danny, presumed-alien!Danny, dp x dc, and the prompt made the one body horror meat grinder fic.]

🖤Chapter navigation can be found here🖤 Click to browse previous updates.

💚 Ao3 Is here for all parts (now featuring mediocre mouseover translations, only available on a computer)

Where we last left off... Wonder Woman! Robin! Impulse! Danny! Dick drawings! Who says that occupational therapy and learning a second language can't be fun?

Trigger warnings for this story:  body horror | gore | post-dissection fic | dehumanization (probably) |  my nonexistent attempts at following DC canon. On with the show.

💚👻👽👻💚

EXTRA TW for: vomiting, panic attacks (this chapter only)

Danny can hold a spoon now. He is unstoppable.

So, when the lady isn’t there to feed him dinner (more mush), one of the not-the-lady nurses gives Danny a tray, and lays a mat over his lap so that he can eat without completely messing up his bedsheets.

Eat he does. Slowly. Maybe a little messily, and it’s kind of embarrassing to have to admit to himself that food definitely spills out of his mouth and onto his lap. The doctor/nurse/medical person, whoever they are, turns on the television, and Danny doesn’t try to ask for the remote. The television only gets something like ten channels, and none of them are cartoons at lunch hour.

So. News it is.

Most of the news follows the same cycle; the weather, sports teams Danny can now recognize the colors of, traffic cameras, and events with long, scrolling text to detail the happenings onscreen. There’s something about dogs? That’s fun. The scientist/nurse/tech, whoever they are, says something in the tone of Aaw, aren’t they cute? as puppies run about and wrestle on screen.

Danny kind of misses Cujo. He picks at his bedsheet, and doesn’t say anything.

The dog program transitions away— there’s a bright banner in its place. Danny’s seen it before: it’s something to the equivalent of Breaking News. It’s usually weather, or crime, or something.

Um. But it’s not that. Danny’s spoon drops, because a ROBOT LADY lights up the screen with a glistening silver suit, not unlike the Ecto-Skeleton his parents used to keep in the basement. Or, well…this one might be more streamlined?

Danny shifts. He can’t help. He’s here, in the hospital. Or. Uh. The space…hospital. His body is very broken.

But there’s a robot lady wrecking a town on Earth.

And Danny can fly.

…Could fly. Could have flown. If he was. Well.

Danny’s not well, and his body aches and his hands don’t work and his legs work even less, but there’s people out there who need help. People who are getting shot at with rays and Danny can fight them, and humans can’t. Danny can help. He—

His core throbs. Danny chokes. He pulls at his chest, trying to find some kind of purchase on his medical gown to tug himself—up?? Out?? He can’t fly right now, but maybe—?

“Whoah, whoah, whoah, abide, abide.”

Danny grits his teeth. “Look!” he snaps, and jams a finger at the television. “There’s—look! There’s a giant robot out there punching buildings!”

“Wacie,” the human protests, but at least turns up the volume so that Danny can see better. “Wacie, þær eart firas þær nou.”

What does that mean?!

Danny hasn’t lifted himself in forever. His legs don’t work, but his arms…might.

He presses his palms down to the mattress. He pushes.

There is a liberated fraction of a second where Danny’s whole weight is on his arms.

—And then he comes crashing back to reality, his elbows snapping back into place. His butt slams back onto the bed and the whole frame jitters.

Danny pants. His arms quake.

The medic completely barrels through Danny’s usually meticulously-kept personal bubble, trying to make sure Danny didn’t dislodge his IV or rip his ligaments and tendons or tear his muscles or. Something. Danny barely notices, barely cares, because someone else blasts onto the television screen in a red bathing suit and gold boots.

And suddenly, both the people on screen are fighting. It’s brilliant. It’s bloody—it’s physical, in the way that flesh and bone and metal must be. Danny’s never seen serious fighting like that before.

And the new woman flies.

Danny stares.

She flies. She fights. She wins—narrowly dodging or displacing lasers with something shiny on her arms, and getting long hair singed in the process. In the end, the robot is tethered down with some kind of shiny metal rope, screaming and kicking all the way.

…Danny barely remembers to choke in air. That's so cool.

The medical person says something reassuring, but Danny’s too tired to listen. He watches this new woman take her applause, floating down on nothing but air to meet the reporter and answer questions. She looks poised. Confident. People clap. People shout things out. People smile. People cheer.

…No one is screaming. No one is running.

There are no ghost hunters in the crowd.

Danny’s exhale is manual. So is his inhale. His heart monitors are making all sorts of funky pictures most likely, but that’s not his business—he watches a woman in armor who flies take off into the sky, free to come and go as she pleases.

It…it hurts. It’s so beautiful and so peaceful and gentle and it hurts so much.

His eyes well up with tears. Why did she get this? This…niceness? Everyone had hated him when he'd tried to help—the teachers, Vlad, the town, his parents. They’d hated him! All he ever wanted to do was help like she did!

What made him so different?! Why was it Danny who got hunted down and shot at? Why was it Danny who got kidnapped and taken hostage?!

Tears burn his eyes like fire. It’s got to be the salt. Danny’s strangled whine turns into a choked off sob before he can catch it. His hand goes to his mouth, but he can’t stifle the noise.

He doesn’t want to. He wants to cry. He thinks he deserves it.

The tears come until he is sobbing, crying, wailing—because WHY WHY WHY was it so easy to hurt him?! WHY DID THEY HURT HIM, WHY DID MOM HURT HIM, HE DIDN’T DO ANYTHING WRONG!

A towel appears in his hand. They’re so nice to him here. So much nicer than when Mom and Dad had—

Danny’s cries are as much screams as they are anything else.

There are hands on his shoulder. On his back. Rubbing. Danny wants to shove them off but the lady isn’t here, which means that it’s one of the staff-members who isn’t supposed to touch him. They’re not supposed to touch him in case Danny hurts them but one of them gave Danny a clean towel to scream into and is rubbing his back because he’s crying.

They’re trying to be so nice and gentle but EVERYONE JUST WANTS TO HURT HIM.

They’re smart, though. They notice before Danny does, and have a bucket ready by the time heaving sobs turn into outright vomiting.

At least the mush mostly makes it into the bucket.

*

…So.

Having a breakdown…sucks.

Danny has to carefully brush his teeth with an extra-soft bristle brush and rinse out his mouth before he gets more water.

Someone is being very nice. There’s artificial fruit punch flavoring in his drink. He wants to feel grateful but he mostly feels dead.

…His eyes slide listlessly across the room. Ha. Dead.

Danny is horizontal and wrung dry and too tired to do anything but pant by the time the lady comes back to his room. She’s in quicker than usual—her gown is sort of sloppy, hair sticking out of her hair net, and she’s still looping her mask around her ear.

She gets down on her knees beside his bed. She asks him if he’s alright.

Danny’s not alright. He isn’t sure he’s been alright in…ages. Ages and ages. Before he was trapped and tied down. Before he was hated. Reviled.

…Before he was Phantom, maybe; before Danny Fenton had died a shocking, senseless death.

Tears try to wring themselves out of his aching eyeballs, but he’s too dry-eyed to cry; the lady make sad, wet eyes for him, and that’s probably enough between the two of them. Danny’s misery is a vast, gaping void, and all he has to show for it is the shovel he’s been digging through all this shit with for the last few years.

The lady brings her hands closer to his hairline, curled fingers hovering in the air. Her word’s don’t mean anything to him, but the gesture is clear: May I?

“…Mm,” Danny agrees. His eyes fall closed when she gently scratches at his scalp with her fingers.

No one’s touched him gently, on purpose, in…ages. When he was little, Dad used to pop him between him and Mom in bed. Mom would brush out Danny’s bangs with her fingers and Dad would hum. It was always something ill-fitting and silly. Guns N’ Roses. Led Zepplin. Santana. Sometimes Jazz would sit with them, crushing him until Dad had to pull him up and out of harm’s way.

In the quarantine lab, hurting him had just been part of the scientific process. What if there was some new discovery under his fat layer? On the other side of his ribs? Nestled between his alveoli?

Danny sniffles. He’s too dry to cry. He blinks invisible dust off of his eyelashes, and focuses on the weird lady who’s with him now.

Up close, when his eyes work, she looks nice. She has blue eyes, like him. Like Dad. They’re kinda…glowy, maybe? Sparkly? They remind him of ice in the Far Frozen—inhumanly brisk, and impossibly clean. She has eye crinkles where she smiles, tan skin making them more defined than their actual depth. Between her hair net and her medical mask, little wisps of black baby hairs shine through.

She pets him. She smiles. Danny isn��t sure why, but. Whatever. Jazz used to insist that human skin-to-skin contact was an essential need, so this is probably, like, also medical care.

Yeah. Danny squints. …Sure.

Whatever. It’s nice.

So Danny gets petted and it’s fine. He almost doesn’t notice the giant gauntlet under the paper sleeve of her gown, but then it’s right in his field of vision, and. Hey. Didn’t he see that on TV, like, an hour ago?

Danny stares.

He can’t actually tell if they’re gold under the pale blue color of the gown, but. The color is certainly some sort of unusually colored metal, cold to the touch even through the paper-like material of the gown.

…He doesn’t want to touch her, or let her know that he’s touching her. But. He brushes the back of his wrist against the bracelet, and it hums against the paper gown between it and his bare skin.

The lady blinks. She looks down at where they made contact, and asks him if he’s alright.

Danny looks away.

She knows she saw him reach out to her, though, so she takes her hand off of his hair (…hey…) and pulls back the sleeve on her gown. “Sest,” she offers. See?

It is the same kind of bracer he saw on TV. Up close he can see the designed etched into it—geometric lines stretching down from her fingers to her elbow, terminating in something structural. Not quite diamonds. Just…strong.

There’s a couple of very, very tiny letters down towards the bottom. His eyes strain when they try to make any sense out of them; they’re too small for him to actually focus on, which sucks.

She steps back, and pushes her sleeves down to show off her gold bracers. She lifts up the hem of her gown, revealing red boots that go waaaay up her thigh. They have the same gold metalwork as she does on the bracers.

Danny just saw those on the television. His eyes widen.

“You—“ he starts, and then remembers their difference in language. He points his hand at the television. “You fought? You were on TV?”

“Hwæt?”

“The TV?” Danny repeats. She doesn’t understand. Danny doesn’t know how to tell her what he means. “The…you were there?”

She looks at him to expand. Danny looks back at her.

…So they just stare at each other silently.

The door cracks open; the person who’d mediated Danny’s breakdown pokes their head in and says something. “Eower feoht wæs an þe box todæge.”

The lady blinks. Danny blinks. Wait. Did they just call the television the box?

“…Box?” Danny clarifies, and lifts a hand to shakily point at the television again.

The lady blinks, and grins. “Yea!” she returns, pumped up. She stands, to the powerful height she’d had on the television—excuse him, the box—and flexes her now-exposed arms to show off massive biceps.

Holy moly. Danny hasn’t seen any bigger biceps on his Dad.

She flexes one arm, the other, both—in front, and behind. If Danny had that much definition, he’d be showing off too! She leaps back impossibly far—and holy crap she can fly— to show off some mock punches at invisible enemies at speeds that Danny would be hard pressed to follow even with supernatural abilities.

He goggles.

She laughs at him, but she doesn’t sound mean—she sounds show-boating and silly, and teasing and playful, but not mean.

She’s like him. She’s not a ghost but she flies and she’s not human. She’s not human just like Danny. Just like that one green guy. Like the fast kid who visits him.

It’s such a relief. It’s so scary. Who are these people? Why are they healing him? Why are they keeping him?? Why do they have access to so many non-human people? What do they want him for? Is Danny supposed to fight like that?

He would fight. If he had to. He’s done it before.

If they make him fight, Danny’s pretty sure he’s going to fall apart like cheap glass.

The lady comes back when Danny goes quiet, her gloved fingers brushing up against his knuckles. The sensation is enough to bring Danny out of his…fog. Sometimes everything is so cloudy and vague. The pain medicine makes it go away, and the pain medicine brings it back.

Danny curls his hand into a shaking fist. He bumps her knuckles against his.

She makes a surprised noise. Danny feels her gently move his fingers, rearranging, moving where his thumb goes—

He huffs out a laugh. His fist wasn’t good enough to her standards. Her fist bump meets his in the middle with a smirk and a laugh, victory written all over her face.

#Whoever told you healing was linear was LYING TO YOU #my boy has PROBLEMS #'he's healing' Physically? Yes! #ngl I got through the whole chapter and wrapped up and started updating this post and THEN went. Wait. Is this a panic attack? #turns out! It is! #health and hybrids #dp x dc #danny phantom #dcu crossover #dpxdc #dcxdp #tw medical #tw gore #tw body horror

[lockley-spktr]

Progress

Summary: Bucky is still struggling with his nightmares even though he completed his list of amends. The two of you have a serious talk.

Word count: 2,055

Warnings: Mentions of therapy, trauma, and Bucky’s nightmares. Otherwise I can’t think of any others. Yes, I included fluff in here. Bucky has suffered enough in canon. 

Author’s note: I started writing this after I watched the TFATWS finale when it was first released. For the most part, I enjoyed the finale, but some things in regards to Bucky fell flat for me. I got the impression that we’re supposed to believe he’s fine now just because he finished his list of amends when we didn’t even get to see a montage or anything. And his talk with Yori was anti-climatic to say the least. that just didn’t sit right with me so here’s my spin on what I think Bucky still struggles with after the events of the TFATWS finale. A lot of the therapy talk was personal for me so it hit hard as I was writing it. As always, feedback is appreciated!

You catch a glimpse of the digital clock on your nightstand as you roll onto your side. 

Since when was it 2:00 AM and where had Bucky gone off to?

Usually, when woke up in the middle of the night if you were alone, you'd readjust and fall back asleep. If Bucky was with you, you’d snuggle up against him and fall back asleep. 

Since you weren't alone and Bucky had disappeared on you neither one of those two things was an option for you. 

Rubbing your eyes, you get up from your bed and stretch. You grab a blanket and make your way into the living room. 

The soft glow of the TV screen catches your attention. Your eyes wander to Bucky who's sat on the couch and playing with his hands. 

“Bucky?” You say softly, trying not to startle him.

Bucky turns his head to face you, “What are you doing up?”

You shrug, “I just woke up. I went to snuggle up to you, but you weren't there. I was worried.”

Bucky furrows his eyebrows, “I’m sorry, I didn't mean to worry you.”

You shake your head, “It’s alright. What's wrong?” 

Bucky looks away from you, focusing his attention on the TV, “Nothings wrong.” 

“Bucky.”

“What?”

“You're a terrible liar.” 

“I’m not lying.”

“Then look me in the eyes and tell me nothings wrong.”

Bucky sighs as he leans back against the couch cushions. Still avoiding eye contact with you he speaks softly, “I can’t.”

“That's what I thought.”

You sit down on the couch next to him and lay the blanket on both of you. 

“Is this alright?” You ask. 

Bucky nods, “You know, I used to be a good liar.” 

You chuckle, “Used to being the key phrase.”

Bucky takes your hand in his, rubbing your knuckles with his thumb, “You think you're funny, don't you?”

“I don't think I’m funny, I know I’m funny. Even if you were a good liar I’d still be able to tell when you're lying.”

“Why is that?”

“Because we’ve been dating for ten months, I know you, baby,” you soften your voice, your playful tone disappearing, “And that also means I know when somethings wrong, please talk to me.” 

Bucky sighs, “I had a nightmare.”

“What was it about?”

“Yori’s son,” Bucky pauses, and when he continues you can hear the frustration in his voice, “And I don't know why. I spoke to Yori, months ago, I told him what happened. I don't understand why it's still haunting me.” 

“Bucky, just because you spoke to him, doesn't mean that what he did is just going to be erased from your memories.” 

“But I told him. I did what Dr. Raynor told me to do, what Sam told me to do.”

“That doesn't just mean the guilt you feel because of it disappears.“

Bucky huffs, “Well it should.”

“I know you want it to disappear, but you know that's not how trauma works for anybody.“

Bucky looks down at you, “What do I do?”

“You keep trying, that's all you can do,” you move your free hand to his face, wiping away his tears, “My love, that's all any of us can do.” 

“Just trying doesn't feel like enough.” 

“It is enough, Bucky.”

“I was making progress. I thought I was getting better.”

“You are making progress. You are getting better. The progress you've made doesn't just disappear because you had a bad nightmare.”

Bucky let's go of your hand and turns away from you. 

“Please don't do that.” You say, readjusting on the couch so your body is facing his. 

“Don't do what?” 

“Don't close yourself off from me.”

Bucky runs his hand through his hair. He lets out a sigh as he turns to face you. 

You smile putting your hand on his knee, “Thank you.” Your voice is soft and your touch is gentle. 

That makes Bucky relax a bit knowing you're not mad at him. You're just worried because you care about him. 

Even after all this time he still isn't used to someone caring for him. There are moments where he accepts it and believes it. Then there are moments where he can't accept it and listens to the lies his brain tells him.

The look on Bucky’s face makes your heartbreak. It's a combination of fear and frustration.

You take his hands in yours and rub your thumbs along his knuckles just like he did with you earlier.

“Bucky, progress isn't linear. It's messy and filled with so many ups and downs. You may think you're over something, and then something like a bad nightmare happens and you feel like you're right back where you started, right?”

Bucky nods.

“The thing is you're not back where you started. The progress you made is still there. It doesn't just disappear because of one bad moment,” you move one of your hands to his cheek, softly stroking under his eyes with your thumb, “You'll bounce back from this and continue to heal, you always do. You don't give yourself enough credit for how strong you are.” 

Bucky leans against your hand and presses a kiss to your palm.

“You've been to hell and back multiple times yet you never let that change you. You easily could've turned your back on the world, but you didn't,” you move closer to him, “Every day you choose to be kind and if the opportunity presents itself you choose to help others. You’re a good man.”

Bucky knows you’re right. He knows that you aren't lying to him and you believe everything you said to him. You were always truthful, you never lied, not to him.

You were kind, but his mind and his thoughts weren't. And he knew that you could tell he was battling his thoughts right now. 

You put your hands on his face, softly stroking underneath his eyes with your thumbs. “Bucky, you are good. You are a hero. And you deserve all the good things the world has to offer.”

Tears well up in Bucky’s eyes and as they fall you wipe them away. 

“Do you believe me, Buck?”

Bucky nods, “I do.” 

You can tell he's being truthful and that makes you smile, he's come so far, “I love you, baby.”

Bucky presses his forehead against yours and smiles, “I love you too, doll.” His hands move to your face, he leans in and kisses you. 

The two of you stay on the couch a while after that, you're straddling his hips, and your head is against Bucky’s chest. He has his chin on your head and his arms wrapped around you. 

For a while, it was peaceful. Bucky had fallen back asleep and you were happy that he was getting some much-needed rest. 

Just as you were about to fall asleep you felt Bucky jolt awake.

His grip around you is tight, but you don't mind, he isn't hurting you. He could never hurt you. 

Bucky looks down at you with wide eyes and your heart breaks, you hate seeing him like this, he looks so scared. 

You readjust yourself on his lap, still straddling his hips, you put your hands on his shoulders. “You’re alright, baby. You're with me. What happened?” 

Bucky shakes his head, “Nothing.”

“Did you have a bad dream again?”

“No, I just,” he sighs, “I didn't mean to fall asleep.”

“You need to sleep. Why are you fighting it?” 

Bucky shrugs, but you know there's a reason. Something he isn't telling you. 

“Buck, please.” You push gently you don't want to upset him, but you know he’ll feel better if he says it out loud, gets it out of his head, and he knows that too.

“I don't want to have any more bad dreams or nightmares.” 

“You can't stay awake forever,” you rest your hands on his chest and play with his dog tags, “Can I ask you something?”

“‘Course.”

“Why'd you stop going to therapy?”

“The goal was to finish my list of amends. I finished it so I stopped going.” 

“Finishing your list of amends wasn't the goal, it was one goal. The goal is to heal and learn how to cope,” you sigh, “My love, the goal isn't achieved by just finishing one goal. Even then healing is a constant process and it's hard, but once you start feeling better it's all worth it.” 

“Doll, I know you're right, but I’m scared.” 

It feels strange for Bucky to say it out loud, but he can't ignore the instant relief he feels once the words leave his mouth. 

“Oh, baby,” you place your hand on his cheek, and he leans into your hand, “It’s okay to be scared. What are you scared about?”

“I’m scared that I can't do it, that I’m not strong enough.”

“Not strong enough? What did I say earlier? James, You are the strongest person I know,” you kiss his forehead, “You've endured things that no person should ever have to experience. And you survived.”

Bucky smiles, “James? You must be serious.”

You giggle softly, “You bet I am.”

“I don't want to go back to Dr. Raynor.”

“You don't have to.“

“Who will I see?”

“Whoever you want to. It's your decision to make, Bucky. Not the governments, not mine, yours.”

Bucky’s eyes light up, “Yeah?”

You smile, “Yeah. It might take some time to find the right person, but you'll find them, I know it.” 

“Are you sure?”

You nod, “I believe in you,” you kiss his forehead and continue, “If you want I can come to your appointments with you, I can just sit in the waiting room for moral support, or I could come in with you if there's something you want to talk about, but you're not sure if you can do it alone.” 

“I can't ask you to do that, Y/N.”

“You aren't asking me to do anything, Buck. I’m offering. Whatever you need I’m here for you.”

Bucky’s voice is quiet as he asks, “Why?”

“Remember how last week you came to therapy with me, just to sit in the waiting room in case I needed you during or immediately after the session?”

Bucky nods, moving his hand to your face, “I do.”

“Why’d you do that?” 

“I knew you had a rough week. I didn't want you to be alone.”

“Why didn't you want me to be alone?”

“Because I love you.” 

You smile, “Those reasons are exactly why I want to do this for you. I know this is going to be hard for you, I don't want you to be alone, and I love you too.” 

You rest your forehead against his “I’m so lucky to have you,” Bucky mumbles in between kisses, “you're so good to me.” 

“The feeling is mutual,” you hold his face in your hands, “Why don't we go back to bed? We can talk more about all of this tomorrow,” you kiss his nose, “You need to sleep.”

“So do you, doll.”

“That’s why I said why don't we go back to bed. We as in both of us, Barnes.”

“You’re last naming me now?” 

You nod, “I might start middle naming you soon.”

“Please don't.” 

“Buch–”

Bucky cuts you off by covering your mouth with his hand, “That's enough of that. You win. We’ll go to bed.”

You burst into a fit of laughter the moment he picks you up. Bucky can’t hide the smile that appears on his face when he hears your laugh, it’s one of his favorite sounds. And knowing that he’s the reason for it makes him incredibly happy.

Once you’re both settled under the covers, Bucky turns to face you. When he speaks you almost miss it. His voice is soft, you can tell just how exhausted he is. 

“Doll?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you hold me?

You don’t say anything. You just hold open your arms and Bucky takes the hint. He rests his head on your chest and you wrap your arms around him.

You kiss his head, “Are you comfortable?” 

“Very.”

“I’m glad. Now, get some rest,” you rest your chin on his head, “I’m right here if you need me. I’m not going anywhere, I promise.”

“Love you so much,” Bucky mumbles as he falls asleep.

“I love you too.”

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes drabble #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes fluff #warnings are above the cut #if i missed any warnings please let me know #there's something i wish i added to this #i just wasn't sure how to fit it in #oh well #maybe in the next fic

[letfatewritethewords]

I process things with art. I process with written words in the hopes that one day it can be spoken without my voice shaking. This week has been one for the books.. and I decided to share. This is long, but I want to remember what I’m learning.. how I’m processing.. if you decide to read, thank you. If not, this will still be here as a reminder of my progress every year.

I always tell people that there was no reason for my name, but it’s a lie. I’m named after Samantha on BeWitched. My grandfather loved that show and suggested it when my mother couldn’t decide. I was born in early September and that makes me a Virgo. Astrology is one of my favorite things. There’s something extraordinary about the idea that we’re connected to the universe by the positioning of the stars. Sometimes it’s so vague.. but other times, it’s right on the nose and my horoscopes will make me cry. Speaking of that, I’m an empath and a 2. When I’m unhealthy, I’m a 4 and If you know what any of that means, I’d love to talk to you more about it. Winter is my favorite season. Fall is a close second. I love the snow and how muted everything is. I like the quiet, the beauty. Sometimes, the light from the sun will shimmer off a fresh coat of snow on the ground. It is absolutely blinding, but I’d still stare, and when the snow fell at night, I’d watch it under the street light across from my house and it felt like time stood still. When I was little, I would lay in the yard full of snow, alone, in my puffy suite, until my fingers and toes would go numb from the cold, listening to the silence, but the best part of those days was going back into my grandparents house and warming up with hot coco made on the stove, wrapping myself in a soft blanket and watching old movies with my grandfather. To me, the Winter is magical. My love languages are Quality Time and Acts of Service. I’m an introvert but I love people. I like to observe, I like to really understand how the mind works and Im eager to help. I thrive in controlled chaos. I like puzzles, I love music, I like crafts, I like to fix things because grandpa always taught me that nothing is to broken to fix. Nothing. No one.

This is the light. This is the part of me that I give willingly to anyone I meet. I wear it on my sleeve. It’s only the light. Until the last 2 years.. this was all I could give of myself because I’ve always been scared of the dark.

The darkest part of me lasted 8 years, my rock bottom lasted 4.5, but as a whole it’s taken up almost 12 years of my life. Sometimes I worry that all I'm ever going to be is this thing that happened to me. That this will define me for the rest of my life and I need to remind myself that I’m a person that can live separate from an event.

I went to the police station this week, I filled out more forms. I’ve filled out so many forms over the last 2 years. For an emergency restraining order this time. For Florida this time. I knew it would eventually follow me here but typhus felt too soon. The clerk called me brave. I smile and thank them every time but I never know how to respond to that. She has no idea how weak it feels and I mean.. how could she. This is the right choice, the obvious choice, the smart choice. In a different situation, it’s one of the many steps I’d be urging someone else to take. In all the chaos, all the hurt, in all the anger and sadness.. it always circles back to “I loved him”. I did. I wanted to fix him. I wanted to see him grow and heal and if I loved him hard enough for the both of us, it would’ve evened out eventually… right?

I failed.

He was always who he was, but I was young and naive and ready to fix the whole world. When I was 18 and we were free, I would’ve told you he saved me. Now that I’m in my 30’s… and he’s in prison and I’m in limbo.. I don’t know what I’d tell you. He didn’t save me, but he didn’t destroy me either. I had every opportunity to tap out and give up.. but I grew into a person I might not have been if I never met him.

Am I angry? All of the time.

Am I scared? Yes.

I see things more clearly now though. People talk about how you never know someone’s story, and that’s because we are experts at playing pretend like we have it all figured out until we’re alone and have to face truest selves. The facade is the hardest thing to give up. Some people saw through mine and there are others, who have built their own, that never will. I share posts about what I’ve learned, how I see people, how I’ve try to treat people with grace and teach children with love and patience in hopes that a little of that sinks into whoever it reaches, but I very rarely show the journey. Partly because I know the details are gruesome and that’s not for everyone, but mostly because I’m scared.

How will you see me?

What will you think?

I’m learning that I’m not this big awful thing that happened to me. I was never anyone’s property and I’m not chained to it anymore. I was very much lied to and manipulated and hurt long enough that it flipped onto me and I carried it without missing a step. I wanted to love him so much that I would heal him. Instead, he “loved” me so much it almost killed me, and he did call it love. Enough times that he re-defined it and I didn’t use that word for a very long time in any meaningful situation. He, for better or for worse, drastically changed the trajectory of my life.

But it’s ok.

I’m wounded but I’m healing. I’m lonely, but I’m learning how to slowly welcome more people in and step out of my comfort zone. If I’m being honest, I’m relearning a lot of things, including how to exist in a world where I have room to make mistakes and fail. I can say or do the wrong thing and be gently corrected for it by my people and move on … sans violence. There are no words for amount of relief I feel because of that truth.

Is it over? No.

He was sentenced to 7 years last year and every year around mid July early August there is an opportunity to apply for an appeal based on his behavior, which will always be immaculate because he is not as tough as he thinks he is. This means that if he applies and it goes to trial, I’m also notified and have to reappear, show any new evidence, and reexplain why he needs to stay there for the safety of others and myself. Telling my story once a year on a whim to a room full of strangers, always men, so they can decide my fate, as well as the fate of this “upstanding young man with a good head on his shoulders” (actual words used during my initial rape/domestic abuse trial against him), was never what I imagined finally turning him in would look like. I really never thought that after everything, his sentence wouldn’t even be as long as our relationship. The original sentence was 5 years. After he got out on a Governor Cuomo Covid related prison loophole and broke his parole almost immediately, he was sentenced to another 2 on top of that. He has 6 left. We talk about how flawed our system is, but really seeing it is a different kind of punch. Women aren’t believed. There’s a reason so many of these crimes go unreported, and why so many women die at the hands of angry men. The hoops you have to jump through are miles high and on fire, and when you and the advocate show up armed only with your truth, your tears and a little evidence from one night at a bar when he got to drunk and forgot he was in public, it’s very easy for a judge to rule on the softer side. Because, as you all know, we’d never want to ruin a wealthy mans life unless there’s cold, hard, reason to.

Seeing his face when they read out his sentence, after years of terror, was satisfying to say the least and if I hadn’t been so numb to get through the hearing, I would’ve enjoyed it more. I will never forget going to a trusted friends house after that hearing and being completely overwhelmed with all of the emotions. Relief, guilt, sadness, anger, happiness, fear.. so many I couldn’t express.. all at once because the novocain wears off and numb isn’t forever and I fell asleep with their dog after a lot of crying. I’d be lying though if I said that 18 year old in me didn’t feel a loss. I grew up with incredible grandparents that did amazing things in teaching me how to love people and be a good human, but no one can protect us from everything. I also grew up with a mother who fights demons of her own and never had the capacity to love two kids. In a situation like that, someone becomes the punching bag. I became the punching bag and desperately looked for ways out, an opportunity to run.. and I ran right into him, who accepted me with open arms for the first time in my young, very inexperienced life.. and I followed him blindly and he was my whole world. Until I was 27, I didn’t have a guide. By the grace of God I landed into a community in Florida that slowly helped me realize my worth.

So.. what now.

How do we fix what our parents and past broke?

How do you reparent yourself?

The mental health journey is proving to be my biggest struggle yet. There’s no more outside factors, it’s just me and the lies that have fed me for years and altered how I think and feel and understand the world. I can feel myself frustrating people I’ve let close to me. I feel myself getting nervous and pushing people away. Sometimes I can catch it and regroup, other times that nasty little voice is too loud and I’m exhausted. My goodness though, how cool is it to learn so much about yourself? I know I have the capacity to love that broken part of me eventually, but it’s still hard to face. Getting to learn and understand the reason behind your actions is terrifyingly amazing. I am proud of this journey. Even when I don’t always come up on top. It’s hard to see the progress while you’re in it, but laying it all out like this.. I can safely say I’m never going to be that 18 year old girl ever again. Some days this journey looks different, some days the darkness wins, because healing isn’t linear. Sometimes it’s one step forward, 2 steps back… but nothing is too broken to fix.. and I will never call that darkness home again.

#lonliness #abuse survivor #survivor #domestic violent relationships #domestic violence #processing

[cursesandcries]

i don't like what i'm becoming.

i thought i'm going steady but my mind got the best of me, again. and again. and again.

today, i just did something that made me loathe myself to the core again. yeah, it was unintentional, but it still made me downright disappointed and embarrassed of myself. why am i like this? why do i do things, intentional or unintentional, that i will regret? why am i like this? like seriously, my whole being is made up of negative traits. palamura. bastos. bobo. tanga. nakakairita. attention seeker. clout chaser. naghahanap ng validation sa ibang tao. lahat na. and no, i'm not saying this for whoever you are reading this to pity me kasi ni di ko na nga pinapaniwalaan mga tao na nagsasabi na hindi ako ganon. i may not know my whole self anymore, pero sa isang banda i sure know that i am all of these things. at sumosobra na ako. ni di ko alam kailan pumreno. ni di ko alam kailan tumigil.

i know i said i want to be better. i know i said na there was someone who made me want to become a better person for myself. it may be true and i may have mean it the moment i said that, but i am seriously not having any progress. i always spiral down, back to square one. i know healing is not linear but man, bakit sakin ganito? bakit constant yung pagiging gago ko? bakit ganito ako?

"anong ganito ba?"

hindi ko na din ma-elaborate. pero ganito. basta ganito. bakit ganito ako? bakit ganito ugali ko? bakit ganito personality ko? bakit ganito pagkatao ko? bakit ako ganito? i am someone that i don't want around.

i'm getting sick of trying. i'm getting tired of lying to myself, to everyone around me.

i know the people around me are tired of me, too. they just can't say it because maybe they think it'll hurt me. lmfao. no one can hurt me more than myself and my brain, so don't worry. just fucking admit it. you. are. tired. of. me. too.

and please, stop telling me that i am worth it, that i deserve to be loved, because i clearly don't deserve the good things in this world. i am not deserving of anything. i'm tired of lying to myself that i deserve the things they say i do. the only thing i deserve is pain, and probably death.

i'm tired of lying to myself. i'm tired of getting told that i will be okay, and that i'm not the things i think i am. i'm so tired of trying. i'm sorry pero ayoko na talaga. but why the fuck can't i kill myself?! i'm so tired of this. bakit pa ba ako nagdadalawang isip. punyeta. pagod na pagod na ako sa sarili ko please lang. please help me stop these thoughts. please help me stop this pain. sobrang desperada na ako. pakawalan niyo na ako. bitawan niyo na ako. sukuan niyo na ako.

it would be best for all of you to cut me off your lives. it would be good for your mental health. i hope i can get rid of me too.

#mylife

[pi-cat000]

Random Charlotte

Anime leaves a lot to be desired. I did like the concept of someone having different abilities with different rules and functions. So…

Summery: Yu wakes up without his memory and still in possession of all his abilities. Set at the end of the anime.

He came to consciousness slowly, pulled from the soothing darkness by his alert ability which told him how many people were in a room. One. Next came the swell of disjointed thought as he registered every mind within a kilometre radius. That would be mind reader. He grimaced internally, forcing the disjointed mess to the back of his mind. 

People didn’t think in ordered or coherent sentences unless they were focused and even then thoughts tended to jump around from one disconnected image to the next. Unfortunately, he had yet to figure out a way to disable it. Slowly, the rest of his active abilities made themselves known. One by one he either disabled them or forced them into a more inert state.

Finally, he felt coherent enough to try opening his eyes. Slowly, he cracked open his one good eye. He was briefly distracted by x-ray, aura reading and heat seeker which turned the stale white ceiling into a confusing mess of lines, pattern and colour. These ocular based abilities had the annoying tendency of activating without his consent.  He deactivated them and the smooth, white squares of the ceiling snapped into focus. With that dealt with he turned his head, wincing at the stiffness of his neck. He must have been lying still for quite a while. The one other person in the room didn’t notice his minute movement focused on the book in her lap.

Snow white hair, petite, she was sitting in a chair adjacent to his bed. He examined her smaller figure, trying to place the sudden sensation of familiarity her presence inspired. Quickly, he cycled through several abilities, checking for hidden weapons, malicious intent, activating skill finder, which gave him an overview of a person’s talents. Analysis and Insight, it informed him, which could be dangerous if utilised correctly.  He focused in on her thoughts, which were half concentrated on the book in her lap and half on his own condition. She knew him. Knew who he was. He was sure, if he were to deactivate emotion erase, he would feel her concern and maybe worry. He rarely deactivated emotion erase.  

Unable to pinpoint any significant threat he waited. Heal and revitalise, which he had activated the moment he woke, would have his body back in top form within the hour. He couldn’t remember what had brought him here his memories of the last few days were confused and muddled. A hospital, he concluded after scanning the people in the building. Though there was not a lot of information on where the hospital was.  It wasn’t the first time he had woken in a unknown location. Another one of his blackouts was the most likely cause.

The girl glanced up, intent on checking his condition, and blinked when she met his eyes. Her thoughts went form rather linear and smooth to disjointed and jumpy. A reel of images and associations slipped by to quickly to be of any use.

“Yu,” the girl said, giving him a gentle smile. Her thoughts settled on himself, showing and comparing him to another version of himself. A younger version. So she knew him from before. Yu. That was his name. He grasped at the word, turning it over in his head. It felt right. More so than Reaper.

“Yu? How are you feeling?” she was asking. He didn’t answer, content to just stare, trying to piece together as much as he could from her thoughts. Interest swirled in his gut. If he could he would most certainly feel excited.

“Yu?” She asked again, uncertainty overtaking her more enthusiastic thoughts. He had been silent for too long it seemed.

“Where am I?”

Surprise.

“You’re at the facility,”

She had made the statement deliberately vague, testing his coherency. He made a non-comital sound, pulling out a vague notion of their location form her head. A city scape. A school. Student council.  Nothing concrete enough to make any real estimates.

“Which country?”

That question was a mistake. Her eyes widened and, instead of focusing on their location like he wanted, she immediately began categorising everything wrong with his demeanour, comparing it to the construction in her head. Apparently, they had been friends. Good friends. He wasn’t conforming to what she knew of him. Understandable as all he remembered from his past was the vague notion that he needed to continue acquiring abilities and then go ‘back.’ Where exactly ‘back’ was had long eluded him.

Maybe she would know. Actually, he was almost certain that she would know. 

“Who are you?”  He whispered. More to himself than her. She heard him nonetheless. Her thoughts froze in distress.  The book fell from her lap and hit the ground with soft thunk. He winced. For some reason her pain left him restless and discontented.

“I’m sorry,” he added, hoping to elevate her distress. It had the opposite effect. Maybe he should leave. All he had to do was activate teleport, and he could go anywhere. If could picture it in his mind and had been there previously he could be there in an instant. He didn’t move, held back by curiosity and an odd sensation of obligation.

“No, No. It’s OK,” she tried to dismiss, composing herself. Apparently, they- the doctors maybe?- had warned her that there might be side effects. Side effects of plundering so may abilities.

“This is … you’ve been unconscious for two days…”

That explained the stiffness.

Any further interaction was put on hold by the entrance of several doctors one of which was carrying a walking stick. He stared. Blind. Not a doctor then. Strategy and persistence. What sort of special skill was persistence? The doctors when straight to examining the readouts on the monitors hooked up to various parts of his body. Their surprise echoed around his mind. Apparently, he was in far better condition than he should be considering he had be shot through the lung with an arrow. Huh. Whoever had shot his was probably trying to get around shield, which stopped high velocity objects. Slightly disconcerting. As interesting as their musings where it was the thoughts of the blind guy that drew his interest. Like the girl this guy was thinking of a past version of himself.

#Charlotte #anime #fanfiction #fanfic #Yū Otosaka #snippet