#and let me panic and say they’d improved my quality of life

[shoutsindwarvish]

i had what might’ve been a neurological event over a month ago (that i wrote off as psychosomatic until my therapist told me to talk to my doctor) and my pcp referred me for an mri to find out for sure. all well and good (albeit nerve-wracking), especially since i’m lucky enough to have the money for it right now. i’m scheduled to get it in about a week.

i had an regularly scheduled appointment with my psychiatrist a few days later and told her what had happened and also that i have a lot of anxiety about it but otherwise feel fine. she freaked out and told me to reduce my antidepressants immediately because she thinks it might be serotonin syndrome. even though 1) i looked up the symptoms of serotonin syndrome and literally none of the symptoms match, 2) it makes absolutely no fucking sense because i’ve been taking the same meds for over a year and never had this happen until now (and the other two similar events in the past happened BEFORE i started taking new meds) and 3) she didn’t even bother saying i could have adverse effects or ask how i’d like to proceed. i mentioned that i know i’ll have withdrawal and if it’s necessary she just ignored me and told me to do it

that was thursday and the ssri withdrawal is starting to hit real bad and i’m bitter because i don’t think she gives a fuck that she’s causing me suffering and she just wanted to feel like she was doing something and now i’m dizzy and nauseous and feel Wrong™️ and it could’ve been completely fucking avoided, i felt perfectly fine other than anxiety (which lowering meds will not help). this is not the first time she has made a med change without giving a shit about my input. (yes, i could disobey her, but that creates other problems.)

basically i wish psychiatrists who actually give a shit weren’t almost impossible to find so i don’t have to settle for one who doesn’t treat me like an addict when prescribing adhd meds

#rant over #my posts #brain blogging #the addict thing is from experience btw. the psychiatrist i had before this one was a huge fucking bitch. #she said she wanted to urine test me before she’d refill my prescription #(despite being on adhd meds since age 10) #and then wouldn’t tell me where to go #and only looked at her emails a few times a week #AND THEN #she literally smiled when i started crying when she said she was taking away by benzos #and let me panic and say they’d improved my quality of life #just looked super fucking smug as if my reaction proved she was right and that i was an addict #before saying she was going to prescribe an alternative prn #and then looked CONFUSED when i immediately calmed down #because i didn’t WANT to take benzos because of their abuse potential #she was also overall super condescending #(the one before her also sucked but not as egregiously) #so basically i know i can do worse but fuck i wish i could do better #i guess the rant was not over lol

[astheroid]

Hellooo! I made sure to be early this time lol, I hope I made it (◕દ◕) — congrats on gaining 200!! For your event, hmmmm..

Hinata + solivagant, cold and sun ( Do you see the theme I'm suggesting here :3 )

This is such a unique idea for an event btw, I love it ♡ ♡

200 honibees event- Hinatarexi's submission

Words used: sun, solivagant, cold

*Definitions for uncommon words linked to said words

If anyone were to describe Hinata Shoyo, they’d say things like “friendly”, “energized”, and some random phrase referencing the sun. His bubbly personality and emotional maturity that allows him to make friends with just about anyone makes him an outstanding candidate for anything involving a team. Very few, however, remember his past.

He grew up as a sort of solivagant, pushing past those who didn’t share his dreams. Playing volleyball alone, the smacking of his palm against the ball echoing throughout an empty gym. Morning runs in the crisp, cool air, the breeze ruffling his orange bedhead. Always alone in his thoughts and passions.

That was until you came along. You, who stumbled into him on his first day of school, and stayed in his life forever.

You were late. Late, late, so late, and everything reminded you of that fact. The emptying sidewalk, the flutter of lost papers in the wind, and-

Fuck. You weren’t looking where you were going.

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry. I- um, I really didn’t mean to run into you.” You had knocked over a random boy.

“It’s ok! I totally didn’t see you, it’s my fault.” He laughed, as you helped him gather his school supplies. “Are you hurt?”

“Nope.” As you handed him his last pencil, your hand brushed his arm and he gasped.

“Your hands are so cold! Here, let me warm them up.” His calloused palms covered yours. You smiled nervously, your cheeks heating up in time with your hands. “My name’s Hinata Shoyo, by the way. I’m a first year! How about you?”

“L/N Y/N.” You stammered, eyeing where your hands were linked. “I’m a first year too.”

He grinned. “Cool! Wanna walk in together? It’s… oh my god. We’re so late, let’s go let’s go!” He gently tugged on your hand, tripping over his own feet in his panic. “School’s almost started!”

In that moment, everything felt right. Orange hair, red cheeks, and a cooling breeze. A bright smile as you were dragged through the corridors. A warm hand doused in sunshine, and visions of the future swaying in the wind. A boy you hardly knew, but one you would know forevermore.

AAH THANK YOU FOR BEING HERE >w<!! I hope I did your words justice. I’ve been working on improving my writing during my free time, so quality goes up while frequency slows a bit.

#200 honibees #haikyuu!! #haikyū!! #haikyu x reader #haikyuu fluff #hinata shouyou #hq hinata #hinata shōyō #hinata fluff #hinata x you #haikyuu hinata #hinata x reader #hinata headcanons #haikyuu fanfiction #hinata shoyo #hinata shoyo x reader #hinata shoyo x y/n #hinata x gn!reader #gn!reader #haikyuu

[florenceandthemachine]

@hearteyesforbuck asked:

I have been dying for a meet-cute au where Eddie takes Chris to the gym once a week and they box a little together before Eddie spars; usually Chris sits by the ring and reads but one day Eddie finds him laying on a bench, lifting an empty bar while this really cute blond guy spots him and gives him encouragement ....

guess who’s asks are still broken?

Tumblr keeps adding the “Read More” into the ask box, which breaks the entire post when I try to post it. Why is it happening? No idea, but if anyone knows how to fix it, please let me know, this is getting really old.

anyway, fun fact that I just learned about myself—if you want me to dedicate 100% of my brainpower to writing 4.5k of something in one sitting, you just throw in Christopher Diaz.

Eddie liked to think of himself as some kind of a “do it yourself” kind of dad.

Most of the time, that was a good thing.

Kitchen faucet broke? No worries, Eddie has some plumbers tape and three different YouTube videos telling him how to fix it.

Car wouldn’t start? Not a problem, Eddie bought the full repair manual offline and knows his way around a wrench.

Christopher needed forty gluten free, egg free, dairy free cupcakes for class tomorrow? Eddie was perfectly capable of... admitting when he was outmatched by a stand mixer and calling thirteen local bakeries to see if they delivered, because his car still wasn’t starting.

Point is, if there was a way he could work on something, Eddie would at least try it—and needless to say, that got a little complicated where Christopher was involved.

Eddie still wanted to do a lot of it on his own. Chris was his kid, and no one else's, and he didn’t even like being away from him while Chris was at school—he wasn’t sure if that was guilt stemming from leaving Chris as a kid, or guilt about introducing Shannon back into his life only to have her wind up dead, or guilt about... well, pick-a-thing, but he was pretty damn sensitive about what he perceived he could do to help his kid.

Which is why, when Chris’ physical therapist gave Eddie some suggestions about how Chris could work on strength training at home, Eddie dove completely into the deep end, head first, no floaties.

Working on Chris’ fine motor skills had been cake. Writing, drawing, arts and crafts, even playing video games, all helped improve Chris’ hand eye coordination (and if Eddie ran out of room on the fridge for Chris’ masterpieces and started framing them instead, well, that was his own business, no matter how nosy the busybodies at Michael’s got).

Working on his gross motor skills, though, that was another story. They could go on walks, sure, and they did every day. Eddie could hook up the trail-a-bike to his own once or twice a week so Chris could ride along with him, without worrying about his balance, but those were both leg heavy activities—and while it was great that Chris was building his core strength and leg strength, Eddie wasn’t about to just strap a wrist weight to Chris’ arms and call it a ‘well rounded workout’.

Short of more physical therapy, Eddie was at a loss as to what to do—so when Google Maps pushed him off the 101 to avoid a wreck on his way home from work and he got caught by a stop light right next to "Ricky’s Boxing Gym”, Eddie felt like his prayers had been answered.

Over the next few months, they had set up a pretty good routine. Eddie would bring Chris to the gym, they would hop into one of the many rings, and he and his son would get a half hour of quality time, three times a week. Eddie had his own set of boxing mitts, and Chris thought that spending a half hour trying to punch his dad’s hand was the most fun a kid could have after school. Chris would tire himself out and sit on the bench, drawing or reading for a while more, while Eddie would actually spar with one of the staff members, get his own workout in, and then they’d go home.

Nine times out of ten, they’d stop for ice cream or pizza, and completely undo any of the workout they had actually done, but Eddie thought that was a small price to pay for the whoop of joy Chris let out when he actually managed to hit Eddie’s glove dead center.

Eddie’s sparring partner of choice (well, after Chris) was Tommy Kinard. He was nice enough, and kept Eddie on his toes, giving him plenty of time to look over to Chris to make sure he was safe, and happy, and occupied, and (“Dad, I’m fine! Go punch someone!”) okay, maybe he was helicoptering a little bit. He hadn’t really thought it was a problem until Kinard went on paternity leave, leaving him in the capable, and brutal, hands of Boscoe.

Boscoe was a beast. He didn’t know her first name—didn’t know if she had a first name—but what she lacked in pleasantries she more than made up with strength. If Eddie was being honest, though, he kind of loved it; even after the first day they sparred together, when he wound up limping into the 118, proudly admitting to Hen that he had been beat up by a girl.

The thing was, Boscoe was intense, and while that was a good thing, it gave him less of a chance to helicopter over Chris.

Which, okay, maybe that was a good thing too. Whatever.

He knew the gym pretty well by that point, and knew the people who worked there, knew he could trust Chris with any of them—which is why when he looked up after dodging a jab from Boscoe, and saw Chris absent from his bench, he only panicked a little bit.

When he managed to take a wider look around the gym and saw a familiar pair of shoes laying down on a workout bench, the rest of him obscured by a bigger, bulkier body, that panic went from 0-60 real quick.

“Hey!”

He only barely managed to dodge a glancing blow from Boscoe as he ducked beneath the ropes, grabbing a towel to blot at his face as he hopped down. His voice was little more than a quick bark through the gym as he stepped around another group of machines, his frantic pace slowing a little as he got into earshot.

“... yeah, come on buddy, you can do it! Come on, give me one more rep! You got this little man!”

Fuck, had this stranger actually given Chris a set of weights?

His temper was white hot by the time he finally got around the front of the machine, opening his mouth to shout, to get a manager, to do something, but the words died in his throat as he took in the scene before him.

Because Chris was definitely on the bench, and he definitely had his hands on the bar—the bar that was completely devoid of weights, Eddie noticed, the same bar that had two much larger, stronger hands attached to them. Hands that were probably doing all the actual work of lifting the bar, because Chris was laying back, unable to speak, because he was giggling so hard.

The bar landed back on the rack with a dull thunk as Chris pulled his hands back, sticking them straight up in the air triumphantly as he sat up. The man behind the bar gave a big show of leaning against the frame of the bench dramatically, fanning himself, giving Eddie a full view of an employee shirt, name badge, and the gym logo stitched across the polo he was wearing.

Whelp, that was almost very embarrassing for him.

“Holy cow, that was such a good job! Man, you have got to be the strongest kid I’ve ever met in my life!”

“Dad, did you see me? Buck says I’m super strong!”

Eddie had to admit, he was a little thrown by whatever was happening here, but Chris was obviously having a good time, and he felt the white hot anger dissipate into something a little less angry and a little more embarrassed.

“That was some pretty impressive work, buddy! Have you been holding out on me?” Eddie dipped down and tossed a few playful jabs at Chris, selfish only because he wanted to prolong the joy his son was obviously feeling, but it was all worth it as he was handsomely rewarded when Chris started giggling again.

The man—Buck, Eddie gathered—laughed, drawing Eddie’s attention upward, and for a moment, his brain short circuited, because there was no way on earth a gym rat could be this... pretty.

Because damn. Buck was pretty.

Pretty enough that Eddie was easily distracted, waxing poetic (internally, thankfully) about beefy arms and a plush lip that he didn’t notice what was happening until Buck stuck a hand out, smiling, and Eddie could only guess what was going on. He reached out and took the hand, his own smile hitching as Buck’s face slipped into confusion.

“Uhh—”

“...I was asking if you wanted me to take your towel for you and get you a fresh one.”

Oh. Right. Towel.

Eddie’s face burned as he pulled the towel off his shoulder, handing it over, giving a too-tight laugh as he nodded his head. “Yes! If you could get me a new towel so I could strangle myself in embarrassment, that would be great.”

Well, at the very least, that got Buck to laugh again—death would be worth it if that was the last sound he heard. “Sorry I kind of stole your kid. He was wandering in between the machines, and it’s my first week off of the evening shift, so I just wanted to make sure he didn’t get hurt—but then he started asking about all the weights and pulleys and stuff, you have a really smart kid!”

Total Gym Hottie (Buck, his mind corrected. If he was going to drool over someone the least he could do was use their name) was complimenting his kid now, and Eddie was so star struck he was actually proud to say he didn’t stumble when Buck nudged his shoulder, head jerking back to the ring he had abandoned.

"...anyway, I think strangulation is the least of your worries, if I know that look, Boscoe has an entirely different death planned for you if you don’t get back in the ring. Go on, I’ll help little man here wheel you out on a gurney when she’s done with you.”

Buck sounded way too positive about that, and it was all Eddie could do to groan and walk back to the ring, tail between his legs.

Sure enough, even after he had the next day off, he was still sore when he walked into the 118 for his next shift.

--

Buck became easily, seamlessly, a part of their routine, in a way that probably deserved a little more insight on Eddie’s part, but insight was for suckers. At least two days out of the week, their schedules aligned—Eddie and Chris still worked on their exercises, but now it included Buck giving a dramatic play by play on the sidelines, talking up Chris like an announcer, or just otherwise causing shenanigans.

It was worth it, easily, because while Chris was certainly never a negative kid, Eddie had never seen him in brighter spirits. And Buck... well, anyone that could find a way to help out his son in a way that Chris clearly enjoyed earned an instant gold star in Eddie’s book. The fact that he was easy on the eyes wasn’t a bad thing, either.

“Diaz, I swear to God—”

Eddie only barely ducked under Boscoe’s extended hand, forcibly rooting himself back in the moment, looking guiltily back to her instead of watching Buck and Chris.

“—can you pay attention for like three minutes so I can hit you without feeling bad about it?”

Eddie tried, he really did, but it was hard. A few weeks had gone by since their initial meeting, and Eddie had gone from “wow he’s pretty” to “full high school crush” in no time flat. It wasn’t his fault, though—because what sealed the deal wasn’t the moment Buck had switched to tank tops over polos, or how happy Eddie was to spend time staring at Buck’s magnificent ass (and it was really, really magnificent, let the record show), it was how he interacted with Chris that sent him over the edge.

Buck was good with Chris, but somehow that was the understatement of the year. He was kind, and he was bubbly, and he was just in sync in a way that Eddie wasn’t even sure he had reached, and Chris was his son. Buck was patient in a way that seemed effortless, easily slowing himself down or changing what he was doing when he noticed Chris struggling, wether it was in going over a math problem while Eddie got the crap beat out of him or just showing him how some of the different machines worked.

Hell, right now, Eddie had his hands securely around Chris’ hips as he lifted the other male to a chin-up bar, helping Chris count out the pull-up’s he was doing—and while all Eddie could hear was Chris’ laughter, all he could see were the thick cords of muscle attached to Buck’s arms, lifting Chris like he weighed nothing.

Eddie wondered, not for the first time, if Buck could lift him like that.

Like she was a horrible mind reading pervert, Boscoe smacked him with an open hand—not hard enough to hurt, but not soft enough that he was going to ignore it.

“Diaz, this will be our last session together. Kinard is back next week—” Another punch, a quick jab that Eddie blocked with his forearms. “—so the least you could do is focus on me and not the apple of your eye over there.”

“Buck isn’t the apple of my—fuck—my eye, grow up.” Eddie huffed as he threw out a punch of his own, his hand knocked away violently, only barely dodging the sharp hook that Boscoe sent to him.

“God, I was talking about your kid, Diaz. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

Oh.

Ignoring how red his face was, Eddie grumbled and threw another quick jab, though he missed completely as Boscoe stepped back, a grin on her face, and Eddie knew better than to trust that look. The last time he trusted that look, he had been talked into fighting bare-handed, and he still wasn’t sure his knuckles would ever really work again.

“You know, Kinard is supposed to take you back as a client, but I bet if you asked nice enough...”

Oh no.

“Hey, Buck!”

Oh no. Eddie looked up in horror as Buck easily lifted Christopher onto his shoulders—god, so much muscle—and jogged over, with the nerve to not even be out of breath when he smiled up to the pair in the ring. Eddie bit his tongue and leaned over to high five his kid, fully prepared to deal with whatever terrible thing was about to come his way.

“Kinard was supposed to take Diaz here back after he’s off leave next week, but I know he wanted to ease back into things after being away from the gym for a few months. You think you could spar with him in the interim?”

Oh, no, didn’t seem to cover it anymore. Eddie was having a hard enough time focusing on the task at hand when Buck was in the same building, he would be signing his own death certificate if he had to stare Buck in the face, and then try to hit said face. He hadn’t even seen Buck break a sweat before—he didn’t know if his little bisexual heart could take it.

He was somehow both relieved and regretful when Buck shook his head, looking plenty apologetic as he pulled Chris up and off of his shoulders, making sure that he was steady on his feet before he leaned up against the ropes. “Sorry, Eddie. I don’t really box, and besides, I think Chris and I are making real progress while you get your butt kicked. Show him the guns, Chris!” Buck said, and Chris immediately started some classic strong-man poses, Buck posing dramatically behind him, and Eddie felt his heart melt for two entirely different reasons.

Buck turned around mid pose as the door chime went off, giving Eddie ample time to count out the individual strands of muscle fiber in the moment before Buck relaxed, turning with a smile back to the gang in the ring. “Lena, that's my next client. Chris, Eddie, I’ll see you both next week, yeah?” He said with a grin before he fist bumped Chris and waved to Eddie, slipping back into Professional Buck mode. Eddie waved back, brows almost in his hairline as he looked back to Boscoe, who was scowling at him.

“So—”

“No, Diaz.”

“Wait, why not? Buck gets to call you Lena!”

“Beat me in the ring as often as Buck does and I’ll consider it.”

Eddie had his mouth open to retort when Chris cut him off, pushing his glasses up on his nose as he tilted his head. “Can I call you Lena?”

She didn’t even hesitate a moment, nodding her head seriously. “You can absolutely call me Lena, squirt.”

Chris promptly stuck his tongue out at his dad, and Eddie reacted in sort, falling to the floor of the ring as he grabbed at his chest. “The nerve! Betrayed by my own child, my own flesh and blood!”

Chris looked thoroughly unimpressed, sitting back on the bench as he started to pack up his schoolwork. “Lena, can you tell my dad to stop being such a drama queen?”

It wasn’t until they were both in the car, that Eddie, thoroughly beaten down by his son, his trainer, and his own brain for providing a play by play of Buck that day while he was in the locker room shower stall, really thought about what Buck said.

He didn’t box. Which was strange enough in a boxing gym, but whatever, there were plenty of machines that Buck could be working on instead.

But them Boscoe (god, he couldn’t even call her Lena in his head, it felt like she would figure it out and beat him to death) basically admitted that Buck regularly whooped her behind the ropes

If Buck wasn’t boxing in a boxing gym, what the hell was he doing?

--

As it turned out, Eddie didn’t have to wait long to figure it out. Barely a week had passed before Eddie had received a call from Chim, all but begging Eddie to switch shifts so he could take the girl he had been seeing out on a proper date. The switch was a no brainer—Maddie seemed like a great girl, and as much shit as he gave Chim for... well, being Chim, he obviously wanted to see his teammate happy, especially when the only thing he would have to change was a gym day from a Monday to a Sunday.

If he had known that this would be the day that sealed his fate, he probably would have reconsidered the switch all together.

The gym was packed—which probably wasn’t surprising for a weekend day, but damn, Eddie had been glad he booked a ring with Kinard ahead of time. It was nice to see a familiar face in the gym anyway, one that wasn’t trying to beat the crap out of him in the ring, and once Kinard joined up with them, it was easy to shoot the shit. Eddie congratulated him on his step into fatherhood, ruffling Chris’ hair as he did—not that Chris noticed, busy scanning through the machines for a familiar blond head.

Not that Eddie could judge, when he was doing the same thing.

“Hey, I’m gonna toss my stuff in a locker. See you out here in a sec?”

“Yeah, sounds good! Buck and Boscoe are almost done in their ring, we have it next.”

Eddie was halfway to the locker room before what Kinard had said clicked in his brain, and he immediately did a 180, making a beeline to the rings set up on the far side of the gym, easily spotting the pair when he knew what to look for.

It was no wonder that neither he nor Chris had recognized Buck when they walked in—he was literally drenched in sweat, his usually fluffy blonde hair dark and slicked to his forehead, scowling around his mouth guard as he danced around Boscoe.

Boscoe, who Eddie had never seen so worked up. Damn, she really hadn’t even had to try during his matches. Wasn’t that a blow to the ego.

No, Buck definitely wasn’t a boxer, because this was a dance. Every move he made, he made with his entire body, his energy flowing through each form, moving easily and gracefully in a way that shouldn’t have been possible with such an incredible amount of force and flat out violence. He almost felt dazed as he followed Buck’s movements, but in the best possible way, his eyes snapping back and forth as he tried to trace where one hit ended and the next began.

“Wow.”

Eddie was glad that Chris said it, because he still couldn’t find the muscles needed to pick his jaw up off the floor. He didn’t know if Chris had followed him over to the ring or if his Buck-radar was just that good, but for the time being, Eddie was more than thankful for the minute distraction as he ruffled his kids hair again.

Boscue was moving more desperately as the match continued, launching into a series of quick jabs, but even Eddie could see where that was her downfall. Buck knocked her arm back with her last punch and sent a kick straight for her shoulder, but then he twisted his entire body off of the mat and his other leg was in the air too, and Eddie instinctively sucked in a breath as Buck locked her neck between his thighs. They both came crashing down to the mat, struggling impressively until Boscoe slapped Buck’s thigh twice, and then—

—and then Buck was all smiles again, beaming as he released her and took a knee on the ring, helping her back into a sitting position, spitting out his mouth guard with an excited moment of praise for her technique.

Eddie could not compute. This was his downfall. Eddie is dead, long live Eddie.

“Holy cow, Buck! That was amazing! You’re like... you’re like a ninja crime fighting super hero!”

Well, that was one way to put it.

Buck’s head whipped around at Chris’ excited outburst, lighting up when he spotted Eddie and Chris near the bench, eagerly scooting forward into a sitting position closer to the ropes.

“Thanks, little man! That was some mixed martial arts, it’s super fun. I’ve been teaching Lena for a few years, she’s getting pretty good!”

Buck’s grin slid into something a little more proud and pleased as he looked to Eddie, and Eddie felt every muscle in his body tighten as Buck’s gaze burned through him.

“What did you think of that leg lock, Eddie? Total knock out, right?”

Oh fuck, was Buck flirting with him now? That had to have been flirty, right? Come on, Brain, do something.

“... legs.”

“...my legs?”

“Buck, your... your legs.”

Buck’s smile looked a little more pinched as Eddie groaned, shaking his head. “Okay, I, I’m sorry, but I have to ask you this or I will completely die. Can I take you out to dinner sometime? I know a great place off the strip, you’ll love it, my treat.”

The look on Buck’s face was skeptical, at best, but at least he wasn’t shutting him down, giving Eddie the benefit of the doubt (and giving him a moment to get his brain back online). “Because of my legs?”

“No. Well, okay, you have amazing legs. And arms, though, and like... a stupidly handsome face, and I would be blind not to notice those things—” shit, Eddie probably sounded like such a shallow asshole right now. “—but I’m asking because you’re really smart. And you’re kind, so kind to Chris too, and you’re patient, and... Buck, you’re really really sweet. And I would love to take you out for a dinner date the moment you can look past my apparent inability to form a single coherent thought.”

After a moment that felt much longer than the three seconds it was, Buck sighed and leaned past Eddie, looking critically to Chris. He slid down to his stomach, squinting as he dropped down to eye level with the boy. “What do you think, Chris? Should I give your dad a shot?”

Well, at the very least, Buck was asking the one person that Eddie knew he always had in his corner; and sure enough, Chris delivered. “I think so. Dad really likes you.”

That’s his boy.

“Last week he spent my whole entire physical therapy appointment telling Dr. Wilson how much help you gave me and how nice you were and how much he appreciated it. It got kinda annoying.”

...well damn, Eddie wasn’t expecting to be called out by his own kid like that, but if the suddenly soft look Buck was giving him was any indication, it might have been the necessary push to get him to understand how serious Eddie was.

Eddie tried to keep his excitement tamped down when Buck nodded, sitting back up. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll make you a deal. Only because you managed to ask me out before I could ask you.”

Wait, Buck wanted to ask him out anyway?

“If you can land three hits on me in three minutes—should be easy after spending a weeks with Boscoe—then you can pick the time, the place, and I’ll even talk Lena in to letting you call her Lena. But if you don’t...” Buck reached through the ropes to help Eddie up, tossing him a wrap for his hands as he did. “... then I get to pick the time, the place, and you start training with me in MMA instead of going back to boring old boxing.”

Eddie blinked at him in abject horror as Buck dipped his voice low, seeing with terrible clarity exactly where Boscoe had learned her terrifying grin.

“That way you can see my leg choke up close and personal. Deal?”

The stakes were too high, and Eddie couldn’t say no.

He was screwed.

He was elated.

But fuck, he was screwed.

(Three minutes later, Buck asked if Eddie was free on Friday at seven, promised to pick somewhere nice, and gave him a searing kiss before he disappeared into the staff locker room. Eddie, on the other hand, needed a spatula to peel himself off of the floor of the ring.

He had never been so happy that he could barely move in his life.)

#911 #buddie #evan buckley #eddie diaz #christopher diaz #buddiefic #911fic #flospeaks #hearteyesforbuck #meet cute #gymfic #gym au #buck isn't a firefighter #but Eddie still is #still pretty canon if you look hard enough #also I love Chris with all my heart #Eddie wants to be crushed between bucks thighs and honestly?.... #same #eddie takes buck down a year and a half later in his first successful leg choke and buck is so proud he proposes the next day #mutually assured devotion

[generaldisdainn]

Four of a Kind

AO3 link

Rating: MA

Summary: After accepting a job as the head of marketing for a local animal shelter, Anna finds herself in a new city in need of a place to live. Luckily, 3 guys know just the place.

Previous chapter

Chapter 8

I’m sorry I kind of went off on you. It made me feel really bad and I bet it made you feel bad too so I wanted to apologize. There’s history that I don’t know and I shouldn’t judge you when I don’t know all the facts. If you don’t want to talk to me that’s fine, but I’m not going to pretend like everything’s okay between us. Against my better judgment, I care about you, and I want you to be happy. So if you want to talk, I’m all ears.

Kristoff clutched the letter that had slid through the space beneath his bedroom door. He didn’t expect Anna to be willing to talk to him so soon. For that matter, he didn’t expect to want to talk to her so soon. Sven’s pep talk as well as an hour alone in his room gave him a genuine desire to shed his cold demeanor. He found he didn’t care much for the person he became since his relationship with Samantha had ended.

Before he had a chance to stop himself, Kristoff was up on his feet, walking across the apartment and knocking on Anna’s door. He heard a loud sniff from the other side and then footsteps leading up to the door. He heard the lock disengage and then he saw her, eyes red and swollen, clutching a snowman plushie.

God, I fucked up, he thought.

“I thought you didn’t like being in here,” Anna said, motioning to her room.

“Well, I decided, fuck that,” Kristoff responded. “Can I come in? I need to tell you something.”

* * *

Kristoff pulled into a parking spot in the lot just outside his apartment complex. He pulled his phone out from his pocket and tapped the “Messages” icon. Right at the very top of the list of conversations was one called “Sammy Sammy Bo-bammy,” a title his girlfriend, Samantha, came up with and one he thought was too adorable not to use. He tapped on the conversation and typed “guess who’s home early <3 come over?”

He noticed she had become more distant and distracted whenever they were together recently. Kristoff guessed that it was because of how often he was working; he wanted to work as many hours as he could so he could afford to take her to the Cayman Islands, a vacation the two of them had talked about taking since they started dating. After noticing her shift in behavior, he decided that it was more important to spend quality time with her.

As he strolled leisurely across the parking lot, he spotted something familiar out of the corner of his eye. It was a car, just like the dozens of others in the lot, but it was the same color as Samantha’s. And the same make, Kristoff noticed. And model. And that license plate number was strangely similar, too. No, it was the exact same number.

What’s she doing here in the middle of the afternoon? Kristoff thought. He knew she didn’t like his roommates, so she couldn’t be checking in with them. Although he remembered, she had been talking to Brant a lot more often whenever she was over. Brant was his least favorite of his three other roommates, but even so, he was happy she had another reason to be at his place.

He stepped into the elevator, pushed the button for the 4th floor, and leaned back against the wall. A smile spread across his face. This was the first step toward improving his relationship. Tonight, he and Samantha would finally finish that show he could never remember the name of (all he could think of was “Parks and Offices”), then they’d just chill out together, maybe go up to the roof and watch the stars, and if he really played his cards right, possibly even make love.

Kristoff stepped out through the open doors of the elevator with a confident stride. He had faith in himself and his ability to rescue his relationship. As he walked down the hall, he pulled out his phone again to check for any replies from Samantha. Nothing.

No big deal, he thought. Her phone’s probably dead.

But she usually had a charger with her, and Kristoff’s phone was the same as hers, so he knew there was a charger handy in his apartment.

No. Kristoff shook the idea from his mind. She wouldn’t ignore me. Not on purpose, anyway.

He turned the door handle and opened the door slowly, eager to see the surprise and delight on Samantha’s face when she found out he was home hours before he said he would be. But he didn’t see her. He didn’t see anyone, for that matter; the entire common area of the apartment was empty. Maybe he misremembered her license plate number? Maybe she wasn’t here at all?

Brant was definitely here, though. He heard a commotion and some faint music from inside his room on the other end of the apartment. Kristoff couldn’t care less what he was doing, just as long as he took out the trash at some point.

Kristoff knocked on the door to his room. “Sammy? You in here?” No response. He opened the door to a dark, empty room. Now he was getting confused. Was there someone else in this apartment complex she was here to see? He made his way over to Brant’s room to ask him if he’d seen her. A twinge of worry forced his hand through his hair. He knocked on the door to announce his entry, then turned the doorknob.

“Hey Brant, do you know if-”

There was no need to ask him anymore.

There she was, stark naked, her mouth agape and her face drained of color. And there was Brant, just as naked, haphazardly covering himself with the sheets on his bed.

For a fraction of a second, Kristoff wanted to be dead. His heart plummeted. His hands went clammy. He felt numb.

Samantha grabbed a towel on the floor and wrapped herself in it. The silence was unbearable, but no one had anything to say. In an instant, all Kristoff’s hopes, his plans, his life...it was all gone. Ripped from his mind, an empty void where they once were.

Samantha’s mouth shuddered like she was going to speak. “Kristoff...it’s..it’s not-”

“Well, I was right about one thing,” Kristoff said. “You were surprised that I’m home early.”

Samantha let out a heavy breath as a look of pity darkened her face. “You have to understand-”

“You’re cheating…” Kristoff said, “...with him? With him? ” He turned to look at Brant, who seemed to be trying to obscure himself with his sheets. “With you?! ”

“No, Kristoff, don’t get mad at him,” Samantha pleaded.

“I’ll get mad at whoever the fuck I want.”

“Uh, I think I’m gonna go,” Brant muttered.

“No, no, no. You’re staying here and packing your shit. You’re gonna be gone by tomorrow.”

“Kristoff, no,” Samantha said. “He doesn’t deserve to pay for my-”

“Shut up,” Kristoff barked. “Brant. Your shit. Now.”

“Wait, hold on, Kristoff,” Brant said. He stood up, wrapping himself in the towel. “I’m...I can be better, I’ll...when she’s over I’ll stay in my room, okay? Just don’t…” He took tentative steps toward him. He was looking Kristoff in the face, a politeness there that Kristoff felt unable to reciprocate.

“Get the fuck away from me.”

“Come on, man. Kristoff, I’m your friend.”

Before he could stop himself, Kristoff’s right fist collided with Brant’s face hard enough to shatter a car window. There was a substantial thud of the hand making contact, an unsettling crack of Brant’s nose breaking, and a wet spatter of blood on the wall and floor. Samantha shrieked, terrified, as Brant crumpled on the floor, clutching his face and groaning in pain. Samantha began to cry.

“Kristoff, why?! Why did you do that?! Why did you...you…” Her words were frantic and shaky.

“The next time I leave my room, you both are going to be gone.” Without another word, Kristoff turned around and walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

“That was the last time you ever saw them?” Anna asked.

“Yeah, thank God. I don’t know what I’d do if I saw either of them again, in any setting.”

“Wow. That’s good, I guess.” Anna nervously eyed the off-white marks on the wall of her room. “So...underneath that paint is…”

“Is Brant’s blood, yes,” Kristoff finished her sentence.

“Is Brant’s--yeah,” Anna said. Her stomach turned a little. “Did you...mean to punch him that hard?”

“I don’t know, I’d never punched anyone before,” Kristoff said. “I’d never...y’know...felt the need to.”

“Yeah, that makes sense.” Anna extended her legs and laid her plushie on the bed beside her. She turned to look at Kristoff who was sitting in her desk chair which was turned around to face her bed. “And, I mean, I can’t really blame you. If I could hit my ex that hard, I would.”

“What happened with your ex?”

“Well, it wasn’t as dramatic, but he was a Brant-level asshole, too. I just didn’t realize it until after he dumped me.”

“Wait... he dumped you ?”

“Is that so hard to believe?”

“No, it’s just…” Kristoff had had enough of being standoffish with Anna. “...why would anyone want to leave you?”

Anna could fight the smile she wanted to show, but she could do nothing to hide the blood rushing to her cheeks. “Well…”

“C’mon, it must be a good story,” Kristoff said, leaning forward to rest his head in his hands. “You don’t have to go into it, but--”

“No it’s fine, I’ll, uh...I’ll try to keep it short.” Anna sucked in air and held the breath. She hesitated to speak, not sure how Kristoff would react, but she knew it was important for her to be as candid as he was.

“About a year ago, I went to get an X-ray done because I had chronic pain in my abdomen. Turns out, it, uh...it was a tumor.” Anna looked up at Kristoff when she said this. His eyebrows were knitted and his eyes darkened.

“Are you okay now?” Kristoff asked.

“Yes, I’m fine. Now hush, I barely started my story,” Anna said with a smile. “Yeah, it was a tumor in my pancreas, a benign one, but still painful and dangerous. Anyway, I go to the surgery—his name’s Hans, my ex I mean, by the way—and the doctor’s like ‘Hey, you might die but you probably won’t,’ and I was like ‘wow, okay, thanks for the panic attack right before this life-saving surgery.’”

“Yeah, that guy really needs to work on his bedside manner.”

“Right? Anyway, the surgery happened and they were able to get the tumor completely removed. And when I woke up, a bunch of friends and family were there to greet me. My sister Elsa and her fianceé Honey were there, my friend Pansy and her boyfriend Gene were there too, a few of my coworkers from my old job also, and they brought me flowers and cards and stuff. It was really sweet, but guess who the one person who wasn’t there was.”

“Oh man, really?”

“Yup- it was Hans. The jerk wouldn’t even make sure I was alive.”

“Wow.”

“Me being a naïve moron, I just assumed he was busy or something.”

“Someone else in that room was probably busy too!”

“Yeah, Elsa actually had to catch a flight. A flight! And Hans couldn’t even see me!”

“I can punch him if you want.”

“Okay, but that’s not even the worst part! The next day, after I’d been recovering for a while, I got a text from him basically saying ‘I can’t be with you if you might die. Also, I’ve been seeing someone, so it’s over.’”

“Oh my god, what an asshole!”

“Yeah, I already don’t have my own parents’ love, why did his have to be so fragile too?”

“Wait, you—what?”

“Oh my god, did I never tell you? When my sister Elsa came out to them, they were furious. I sided with Elsa, so they disowned us both.”

Kristoff was stunned. His mouth fell open. “...Jesus...I’m so sorry, I—”

“No need to apologize,” Anna said. “It sucks, but we’re both better off without them. Just like the two of us…” She alternated pointing to herself and Kristoff. “...are better off without our exes.”

“Yeah, I just…” Kristoff rubbed his face. “...I don’t know, sometimes I think I could’ve been better earlier, when—”

“Okay, I’m gonna stop you right there,” Anna interrupted. “I’m not letting you blame yourself for the end of that relationship. She and Brant were the problem, not you. You weren’t doing anything wrong. She thought she could get away with having your love and Brant’s sex at the same time, and you showed her she couldn’t.”

“I mean...yeah, I guess,” Kristoff conceded. “I just...I feel bad for having hit him so hard, that’s another thing. It’s why I never wanted to come in here, because that paint’s a reminder of...well, everything that happened here, but specifically the punch, the blood, the…” Kristoff took a deep breath before sighing out the last word, “...scream.”

Anna couldn’t deny that it unsettled her, too. She thought the punch was justified, but she was not a violent person; even violence in movies made her uncomfortable.

But she could see in Kristoff’s eyes that he didn’t want to do something like that ever again. She knew he didn’t regret the action; he regretted the pain.

“Kristoff…” Anna began to say.

“Anna, I’m sorry I’ve been such an asshole. I’m really, truly sorry. I was just—”

“You were protecting yourself, I get it,” Anna interrupted. “Believe me, I do. I just…” She sighed deeply. “...I just wish you hadn’t pushed me away in the process.”

“Yeah, I just hope you can forgive me for that. And I shouldn't have said all those things to you out there. I'm so sorry.”

“Don’t worry, I accept your apology and I forgive you,” Anna said with a matter-of-fact cadence. “And, y’know, if you want to...pretend that last night never happened, then it never happened. If you want to be just friends, then—”

“Yeah, that’s the tricky thing,” Kristoff butted in. “I, uh...I lied, earlier.”

Anna’s brow furrowed. “...About what?”

“Well…” Kristoff paused, as though he was holding back the words he knew he wanted to say. “...I think sex means a lot.” When Anna’s facial expression didn’t change, he continued. “...Because I like you. Like, a lot.”

Anna’s heart and mind entered a brutal tug-of-war at Kristoff’s admittance. She thought and felt so many different thoughts and feelings all at the same time, all of which manifested in stunned silence.

Anna blinked. “You...really?”

“Um…” Kristoff wasn’t sure what reaction he was expecting from Anna, but it certainly wasn’t what he was faced with at this moment. “...yeah. And, well, that’s why I didn’t want to get close to you, because the last time I let that happen it ended up fucking me over.”

“Yeah…” Anna was still trying to reconcile her own feelings; there was a small part of her that felt hesitant, but there was a much larger part that kept saying he likes me over and over.

“But, I mean, we slept together last night, which was great by the way, so either I didn’t learn anything from last time or I just like you too much.”

“Well, I don’t see anything wrong with that second option.” Her thoughts were settling somewhat, landing on the idea that his confession made her happy more than anything else. She flashed him an easy smile that he returned for a moment.

“Yes, definitely, but...I don’t know, I just...I don’t want to have to punch anyone again, y’know?”

“Yeah, I get it.” Anna ran her fingers through her hair. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, I know what it’s like to be cheated on too.”

Kristoff smiled. He felt for her, but there was something comforting about knowing Anna had had similar experiences. “Listen, Anna...as much as I like you, and I think you’re beautiful and funny and sexy and...well, you get the idea. I just can’t get into another relationship right now.”

“Okay,” Anna responded. “And thank you, that’s very flattering. Like I said, if you can’t be anything more than friends with me right now, that’s totally fine. I won’t be upset. I’m just glad you finally came clean to me.”

“Yeah, I am too, actually,” Kristoff agreed. “I feel like, well...I feel like I don’t need to pretend I don’t like you anymore.”

“Yeah, please don’t do that,” Anna said, only half-joking. “So, we’re friends?”

Kristoff smiled. “That sounds good to me.”

“Alright.” Anna returned the smile. She loved seeing Kristoff happy. She hoped she would see his smile a lot more often in the near future, now that he was ditching his aloof attitude.

“Hey, can I...can I give you a hug? A friend hug?” Anna asked, gingerly extending her arms.

Kristoff took a breath. Start being nice right now, he said to himself. “Sure,” he mumbled. They both stood and wrapped their arms around each other. It was a comforting, safe embrace, one that felt like a resolution to each of their struggles, before and after they met each other. They understood each other better than they knew. They pulled apart and sighed simultaneously. There was no tension or awkwardness, and, Anna noticed, Kristoff seemed to be more at ease in her room.

“So,” Anna said, “I actually have to do some stuff for work that I’ve been putting off.”

“Oh, okay, that’s—yeah, I’ll leave,” Kristoff responded.

“Oh no no, I didn’t mean I want you to leave.”

“Yeah, I—”

“Like I don’t want you to leave, I mean, I like having you around and everything.”

“No, really, it’s—”

“I just have stuff to do and—”

“Anna, it’s fine ,” Kristoff said with a chuckle. “I’m not offended.”

“Okay,” Anna said, taking a deep breath. “Okay. I’ll see you.”

“See ya,” Kristoff said, stepping toward the door.

Anna suddenly realized she still felt guilty for some reason. She couldn’t tell exactly why, but her conscience still poked at her back. Was she forgetting something?

“Kristoff?” Anna called out, hoping she would remember in the time it took for him to turn around.

“Hmm?” he responded, half-turning back to look at her. His bright eyes and soft smile instantly reminded her.

I’m never yelling at that adorable face ever again.

“I’m sorry I snapped at you earlier. I know I said it in my note but I wanted to apologize to you in person too.”

Kristoff laughed. “It’s fine. I would've yelled at me too. And I really should be thanking you—you and Sven both—for pulling my head out of my ass.”

Anna snorted. “Hah! Yeah,” she conceded. Kristoff stepped past the door and shut it behind him.

Anna took a deep breath and recounted all the revelations from that conversation. Kristoff had been cheated on. Another person’s blood was on the wall in her room. Kristoff had feelings for her. He had tried to push her away because of how strong his feelings towards her were. She smiled at that thought. He really was the big softie Sven and Ryder kept saying he is. She already liked Kristoff a lot, but she expected that with all of that out in the open now, he’d become significantly more likable in the near future.

[inanawesomewave]

AND HOW DOES THAT MAKE YOU FEEL?

It’s been a very long time since I posted and for that I can only apologise, I’m extremely, abnormally, infinitely pregnant (okay, I’m 39 weeks) and I’ve spent this past few months hibernating, and recovering from a bipolar depression that, thankyou alexithymia, I didn’t notice I was having until it went away and I no longer had any thoughts of ending my life. But, I’m back now, happily alive and happy to be alive, and as I’m in these final days of pregnancy, I’m thinking about oxytocin. When you’re ridiculously pregnant you think of all the ways you can induce labour (hint: none of them work). I’ve tried it all, castor oil, clary sage, red raspberry leaf tea, evening primrose, sex, long walks, whatever. And I started thinking today about how the only thing that is proven to work, is oxytocin, and how when it is released, it can make your body think you are breastfeeding and you begin to have contractions now that the baby knows it’s okay to come out and get fed. That’s because oxytocin is a hormone that promotes love, bonding, sociability, friendship. They call it the hormone of love, lust and labour. And I realised, as I was looking up all the ways I could release oxytocin myself at home, that I don’t have a good relationship to it. At all. 

I first realised maybe there was something a little off with my oxytocin during my last pregnancy, and in the first few months of breastfeeding my son. I would pump milk or my son would latch on, and within seconds I felt horrendously depressed and anxious, as if the release of oxytocin triggered a panic response in me. They playfully call this “Sad Nipple Syndrome”, many people confuse it for a repressed memory of sexual abuse, but really, it’s related to a phenomenon known as Depressive Milk Ejection Reflex and is believed to be because of a rapid, brief reduction of dopamine immediately before milk let-down, but I wonder if for me it has more to do with oxytocin.

Now I’m not trying to martyr myself when I say this, because largely, I find breastfeeding very rewarding, not to mention practical, and money-saving, and it’s my favourite time of the evening -- when my son is cuddling me, watching his bedtime shows, and nursing. And I’m not battling through some horrendous feeling in order to do that, and really, I’d mostly got used to it. But just recently, near the end of the pregnancy I’m having now, I’m experiencing that familiar sense of dread, anxiety, depression and need to escape when he latches on, and I felt it the other night when I was expressing, and I felt it recently after (hehe) an orgasm. I mean, when it comes to dopamine, I’m fucked. I’m bipolar and I take, to be exact about the dosage, a metric ton of quetiapine (Seroquel) every day just to keep on an even keel, which is an antipsychotic which means its sole purpose is to tell my dopamine to shut the fuck up for five seconds. I’m used to having my dopamine function in swells and droughts. But oxytocin, fucking hell. I have antisocial personality disorder. It makes sense that something about the bonding hormone makes me feel uneasy, or even unwell, like I need to escape the situation. I’ve always said, something about myself and my disorder that I kind of despise, is how I have this bizarre drive to fight my way out of any and all groups I find myself in. Groups of friends, colleagues, schoolmates, peers of any kind, I will try with all my might to be part of the group, then when I realise how cynical I am about that, I will try to at least appear to be part of the group for Machiavellian reasons, and then when I begin hating myself because the pretence is too exhausting, I will find myself subconsciously picking the group apart. My lack of empathy becomes hostile, and if anything, the most toxic trait I exhibit in these situations is to break the group up entirely. If I can’t have it, nobody can. It was worse when I was younger: at school, I’d lie about things one friend said about the other and watch arguments happen, delighting in the collapse of that friendship circle. I’d tell one the other stole from them, I’d tell the other that everyone is saying she spread a harmful rumour. I’ve even gone so far as to frame a person for theft just to watch the fallout. I did that when I was about 8, I did it again when I was 10. I did it a third time in my teens. It was kind of my MO. I’m not proud of that spiteful need to isolate people from loving interaction just because I was so afraid of it. Okay, I’m a little proud of pulling it off. The ease with which you could snap apart even close bonds confirmed everything I loved and hated about how I saw the world: sociability is a lie and empathy is a cool trick to use against people. Even as an adult, whilst not maliciously and actively trying to hurt people any more, I have found reasons to leave groups under a black cloud. I was a poet once, and I hated all my contemporaries except for a few. I used the people I hated the most, got where I wanted to be, and fucked off forever because the game got boring. I did the same when I was a musician. When I was a student. When I was doing both my undergraduate degrees. My God, my need to be antisocial is so strong, it’s ruining my careers.

Now, we all know that research on ASPD is quite scant. They don’t really want to know much about us except for the fact we prefer bitter tasting things, or that people want to fuck us, or that we dig easily accessible rap music. What is out there about us is mostly inconclusive, or the conclusions drawn are highly subjective -- I featured one on this blog a long time ago for example that said we are more likely to use expressive, emotive and loaded language when talking about our life experiences, and the researchers used their personal judgements to conclude that this was further evidence of our heartlessness, which was fucking hilarious. Heaven forfend we might be seen as humans for five seconds. Anyway, today when searching around to see if there’s any chemical link to ASPD and oxytocin, I found this. If you don’t have access to it, that’s fine, it was a study from last year that looked into this very relationship, to see if oxytocin treatment could improve outcomes for antisocial people both with and without diagnosis. The research itself was more an inquiry into an aggregate of 36 previously done studies (because to actually do new research would cost money that needs to be spent on finding out if we ever yawn or if our eyes look weird or if we give a shit if someone jumps up behind us dead scary like and says “boo” or some shit). Results again were inconclusive, but something interested was noted: oxytocin was largely associated with a reduction in criminal/amoral/antisocial behaviour, but in some, had an opposite effect - that is to say, antisocials sometimes respond to oxytocin with hostility toward their loved ones. 

So why is that? Well, there aren’t any answers right now and “further high quality, large sample-size studies are required” (so, let’s not all hold our breath at once), but do I have a theory? You bet I do! 

We know that personality disorders, especially cluster-b, come from neglect and trauma. We can theorise that antisocials have a lack of empathy because we weren’t taught it, or maybe we had emotionally manipulative parents that would prey upon our empathy and later use it to harm us so we learned to be cynical of it, maybe we had to learn how to fake empathy toward our abusive parents so they’d stop beating the shit out of us for five seconds, maybe we learned the language of violence and aggression because it was the language we were taught at home, and maybe we fought our way out of social groups because we were taught not to have friends, or our parents only really loved us when we reflected their own hateful, selfish and volatile traits back to them, so we learned not only that love was pointless, but actively rejecting it was favourable. There are lots of reasons why a person might develop antisocial personality disorder. So surely it makes sense, that if we learn these antisocial behaviours, we also learn to be antisocial to a chemical process in our bodies that is imploring us to be the exact opposite? Doesn’t it make sense that if we feel love, bonding, connection, our instinct is to panic and fight it? To feel sad, to want to cry? And if we don’t know how to cry or connect to that part of ourselves because we never learned emotional intelligence, doesn’t it make sense we’d then convert that feeling into something else, something immediate and easy? Like anger? Like rage? Antisocial people experience everything in primaries: blue, red, yellow. Generic bad, rage, and generic good. When we need to access a secondary or tertiary emotion (something orange like homesickness? Or something even magenta like... fucking... humiliation?), we have to channel it back into one of those primary colours, something we can understand. So, generic good, generic bad, and red red rage are all we have. Oxytocin? Bonding? Who knows where that belongs. Could be any of the three. And let’s be honest, this isn’t restricted purely to antisocial personality disorder. Narcissists respond to love and bonding with a push-back, so do borderlines and histrionics. It all comes out different, but it all comes from the same place: don’t you fucking dare love me. The only person in my life I feel that immediate, unwavering bond with, is my son. Maybe that’s why I’ve been able to breastfeed him despite the sadness and panic of it all, because the initial reaction to the oxytocin is the hurdle and not the reward, and after that I can get to it properly, to look at him and feel intense love, empathy and joy. Maybe it’s evolutionary, the truth of it is when it comes to my children, I don’t care what the mechanism is that makes me love them the way I do or how it ties into my disorder. But how I feel about friends, lovers, and other family members is up for scrutiny, my own scrutiny at that. 

So as I sit here wondering why it’s hard for me to experience oxytocin, I wonder how the rest of you feel. Do you have a good relationship to it? What does it do for your empathy? When you perform a good deed, do you feel warm and fuzzy, or is it a logical step for you? How do you access love? Is it a decision, or a gut instinct? And for christ’s sake, when you have sex, are you doing it to grab hold of the oxytocin, or fight it off? 

#antisocial personality disorder #antisocial #actually aspd #actually npd #actually bpd #antisocial feels #antisocial tag #cluster b #cluster b feels #trauma #abuse #neglect #sociopath #sociopathy #psychopath #psychopathy #oxytocin #love

[freedom-shamrock]

A Familiar Detail

Also on AO3 This is a direct sequel to Something Familiar, and probably does not stand on its own very well. It is also @miraculousfluffmonth‘s Aug 17 prompt, AU.

School was on spring break and Marinette was finally recovering from a rough bout of influenza.  Now that she was well enough to do some sewing, her first project was an outfit for Chat, who'd just had another growth spurt.  His new life and diet were agreeing with him pretty spectacularly, and he'd started picking up more mature modeling jobs at Gabriel's request.

He'd paged through her designs and picked a shirt and pants.  It took a little time to map out the pattern, size it for him, and take him to pick out a fabric.  She had the cut pieces spread out over her floor, her pincushion strapped to her left hand.  She knelt over the organized mayhem and chatted with her familiar.  He watched, in cat form, from the high platform of his tower.

"I may not be able to finish it today, but you should be able to wear it tomorrow," she explained as she lay one piece over another and ran a line of pins down the edge.  He was well accustomed to the process by now, having spent the last six months with her, but she had made a commitment to appreciate him, and letting him know what she was doing was part of that.  It had become routine at this point, and comfortable for both of them.

It's so nice of you to do this.  His voice in her head was soothing, though she could feel his excitement.   I love wearing things you made just for me .

She glanced over her shoulder at him, smiling happily.  "I've told you, I'll try to make you anything you want me to.  You choose your style now, Kitty."

He sprang to her desk, then hopped lightly down next to her, careful to avoid the fabric.  He strode up her bent legs to her thighs and pushed his head vigorously against her chin in gratitude.

She slipped her pin-free hand around his lithe body and cuddled him a moment.  "We take care of each other now."  At her mother's suggestion, she'd done some reading, and was trying to make sure their relationship stayed balanced and equal.  She may have rescued him from a terrible situation, but she wasn't in charge of them.  He'd been seeing a counselor since before he started school, and occasionally sat in on those so they could address ways to be healthy with each other.  They would have to decide together where they were going to university and where to live, but so far all the smaller decisions had been pretty easy.  It was probably too much to hope that they'd never have a serious disagreement.  

When he stopped rubbing against her, he met her eyes and leaned in toward her face.  His nose was cool against her cheek and his long black whiskers tickled her skin.  He stretched a little to reach her nose.  Kitten kisses.  That's what her mother called these.  It was a cat's way of showing affection, and Chat was extremely affectionate.  She giggled at the touch of his nose against hers.  He did it sometimes when he was a boy, too, especially when he needed cuddles but didn't know how to ask other than in cat.  Those probably didn't count as kitten kisses, maybe they were boy kisses.  She froze as his nose touched her lips.

No.  Definitely not boy kisses.  Boy kisses were something else entirely.  He was a boy as much as he was a cat.  They were kitten kisses in boy form.  It was normal… for them.  It didn't mean anything that a crazy handsome, super sweet boy spent quality time nuzzling her.  

That didn't help.

It also didn't help when she only just realized that while they'd rearranged her room, putting a twin bed for him under her loft, he slept with her most nights, and he was a cat only half of those times.  He was her familiar; this shouldn't even be an issue.  He was recovering from years of abuse.  He was still figuring out who he was.  There was no way he was ready to be confronted with this mess.

She wasn't aware of the passage of time, or how long she'd sat there, frozen.  She didn't notice the flash of green.  But she couldn't help but notice the two warm hands cupping her face.  "My Marinette," he said gently.  "You're freaking out."

She closed her eyes, not sure she could handle his human form so close just now.

"Open your eyes," he coaxed.  "Open your eyes and breathe, nice and slow with me."  It was like when he soothed her after a nightmare, his thumbs lightly brushing her cheeks.

She focused on the green of his eyes.  In an effort to pull her brain off that other topic that was not appropriate to think about at this time.  Green.  Green.  Green.

His smile was sweet.  "Yes, my eyes are green."

She blinked several times and he leaned back, out of her space.

"Are you okay?"

She nodded.

Now he looked confused.  "Should we talk about it?  Because anything that does that to you… I should probably know about it."

She groaned and moved away from her pattern to flop on the floor.  "You're right," she admitted.  "But I don't want to."

"Oh," he said quietly.  "Is it me?  Did I do something…"

She sat up and grabbed his hand.  "Ugh, no.  It's not you.  Or… well, it is , but not in the way you're thinking."  She let go of him and returned to her spot on the rug.  "Ooooh.  This is so embarrassing," she whined.

He laughed.  "Well if you're worried about embarrassing things, I have a whole list of things I can share to make it even."

"Really?"  She turned and looked at him, surprised to see pink in his cheeks.

"Oh my god yes," he said, lying down next to her.  "Uhm.  Sometimes I switch to cat form because it's socially acceptable for me to crawl into your lap for cuddles that way."  He hesitated a moment.  "Especially at school.  Oh, and I go cat when I'm happy so I can rub against you and knead on you."

Neither of these were a surprise, but they also hadn't been things she'd consciously considered.  Giggles erupted out of her before she could stop them. 

He covered his face with both hands.  "Noooo.  You can't laugh.  I'll die of shame."  He peeked at her from between his fingers when that only made her giggle more.  "Or not.  See.  You can share.  It's only awkward for a minute."  Without looking, he reached over and hooked her pinkie finger with his.  "Nino says the whole point of being a teenager is that we all have the opportunity to be awkward and we learn how to survive embarrassment."

"Ugh.  No fair, Kitty."  Was she freaking out over nothing?  Would this damage their relationship?  Sudden clarity forced her to see this could hurt what they had if she tried to keep it to herself.  She'd just gone into a full panic less than thirty seconds after recognizing what she'd noticed and felt.

"You don't have to tell me."  He squeezed her fingers.  "And if you need time, I can wait."

She shook her head, though he was still focused on her ceiling.  "No.  I think… I need to tell you, because then you'll know why I'm being weird… if I get weird about it."  She sighed.  "I don't want you to feel pressured to feel or act in a certain way about this."  She closed her eyes tightly, as if that would ward off unpleasantness.  "I've always thought you were kind and sweet, and beautiful.  Even when I thought you were just a cat.  And I just… very suddenly realized I want to kiss you."  Was that clear enough?  She needed to be sure, and she'd kissed him in cat form often enough that it might not be.  "Boy you, that is.  And, ah, the way Alya kisses Nino."

You want to kiss me ?  His telepathic voice was quiet and surprised.

I'm so sorry for making you uncomfortable .  She tried to roll to her side, away from him, but his grip on her hand pinned her down.   You're my familiar.  I'm not supposed to feel like this about you.

"I'm not just a cat, though," he pointed out.  "Which would be weird, wrong."  She heard him move, but didn't register that he'd come closer until his nose nuzzled the side of her face.  "Is there a rule or witch law about this?"

She let out a slow breath, relaxing against him.  "There's no law, because traditionally familiars are animals, and we are morally and magically obligated to do right by them.  A regular cat, even one elevated by a familiar contract, is still a cat, and can't consent to anything like this."

"True.  And as someone who spends time as an actual cat, it'd be pretty twisted."  He pushed himself up on one elbow so he could rub his jaw against hers.  It was rare for him to scent mark her in human form.  Coming on the heels of her confession, it felt reassuring.  Sighing softly, he settled beside her again.

"We're bound together forever," she said quietly, though she wanted to just forget this whole thing.

"Yeah."  He shared his happiness through their link.

"I don't want us to hate each other, or get uncomfortable around each other," she explained, desperate for him to understand fully.  "Our familiar relationship is more important than exploring some fickle infatuation."

"True," he agreed easily.  "But this isn't just infatuation."

She turned to him in confusion.  "What do you mean."

"Love at first sight isn't real," he said.  Something in his tone suggested this was going to be one of his long-winded existential expositions.  He had surprised her with his focus and depth in the past.  Clearly his philosophical and critical thinking education had not been slighted.  "Like and interest can be piqued.  Even fascination," he said.  "But you can't love someone you don't know.  You can just love the idea of who you think they are."  

He let go of her fingers to slide his hand under hers.  "I liked you the first time I saw you, even though I stayed hidden.  Your kindness drew me to you until I'd seen enough to know that being with you would be infinitely better than being on my own."

Six months had done little to improve her dismay over the way he'd grown up, his isolation, and his time on the streets of Paris.  She rolled just enough to be able to reach over and rest her hand on his shoulder.

"Even when you thought I was just a cat, you showed me more respect than anyone I'd ever met."  His face retreated from her neck so he could meet her eyes.  "You made me feel loved."

"You are loved," she insisted.  "Mama, Papa, Nino, Alya, and I all love you."

He nodded.  "But there are at least three different kinds of love right there.  Mama and Papa love me like they love you, as a son.  Nino and Alya also love me like they love you, as a friend.  And I return all those feelings in kind."  He took a slow breath.  "What I feel for you is very different.  You're not my sister or even a very close friend.  And it's not just the familiar binding that makes me feel like I belong with you, that I've found my home with you."

That was enough to make heat rush into her cheeks.

"I know people would say I'm too young to feel this, and I know I don't have a lot of experience in this, but, I love you."  His face was serious and his eyes flicked around nervously.  "And like you said, I don't need you to react in a specific way.  But I feel like you should know."

She rolled closer toward him, moving her hand from his shoulder to his back as she hugged him. Her face pressed to his chest.  "Have you talked to your counselor about any of this?"

She felt him move his head.  "Yeah.  She thought I should talk to you about it.  See what you were comfortable with."  His fingers gently tugged out her ponytail  so they could run into her hair, caressing her scalp as they went.  "She's doing some research on ancient arcane history, because she's heard stories that suggest what we have isn't new.  That it used to be common for witches and shapeshifters to partner up like this.  It's apparently part of why black cats have some form of magic."

"Oh."  It made a lot of sense, actually.  But that would have been hundreds of years ago, before even witches bought into the irrational fear of shapeshifters.  "Maybe we should see her together next session," she suggested.  "We can both just kind of… process this.  Try to understand what we feel.  And see if she has some suggestions to help us not mess this up."

"Yeah," he agreed.  "But for right now, I just want to hold you."

She nodded, then shifted to nuzzle his neck the way he always did hers.  "That'd be perfect."

"I think you mean, purrrfect," he corrected, giggling a little.

"Yeah."  She rested her ear where she could hear his heart.  That."

#Miraculous Ladybug #mlfluffmonth #Something Familiar #my writing #fanfic #ML Fluffgust 2017

[hillarykylie]

Can’t stress how important this is.

💕 Your habits, practices, work ethics and daily routine will reveal a lot about you than you think and as most entrepreneurs would say, the route to your success 💕

I don’t have the BEST daily routine myself, but I’ve definitely made significant chances to my productivity and habits over the year which’s helped added value to my life.

Have long-term goals in mind, but start by breaking them down into small, achievable goals.

It’s a lot of effort and hardwork - since it takes 21 days to make or break a habit, but trust that it’s worth the process.

These are things which I have incorporated into my schedule:

• less distractions - less use of social media unless necessary

* turn off notifications / mute conversations temporarily unless crucial.

* stop refreshing your newsfeed for the umpteenth time.

* turn off your active / read statuses

* switch your phone to silent

• Filter who you follow / subscribe to on social media

* unfollow/unsubscribe to accounts/channels who promote constant negativity, hatred and encourage destructive lifestyles and behaviour.

* part of my journey to recovery from ED was to stop following Pro-Anorexia blogs who perpetuate/encourage anorexia. (I’d realised in hindsight how much I was regressing in terms of my mental health because I was constantly getting fed by toxic information)

* fill your following list with accounts/people who radiate positive vibes - mental health recovery channels/accounts - therapist accounts, quotes, or memes! (They make you laugh anyway) study blogs, fitness videos.

• less procrastination - this skill takes a bit of time to master but basically, allocate yourself a strict length of time to rest and recharge.

- I’m still guilty of procrastination now and then but it’s become more infrequent recently.

- of course if you’re drained, take breaks.

- getting your tasks done before doing what you like is a much better and rewarding feeling.

- one thing to combat my emotional procrastination is to set myself about 10-15 minutes to cry or have a breakdown and then get back to work (ik this sounds odd and bizzare, but this works wonders for me everytime lol)

It’s okay to feel defeated, exhausted and drained. Allow yourself to feel and don’t suppress these emotions. But set yourself a reasonable amount of time to let your heart out and cry. And when all that’s done, get back to work.

• if you’re a Student and find yourself struggling to catch up with work, schedule your day.

Be consistent & disciplined with your work.

You don’t always have to be ahead, but you can stay on top of work through consistency and maximum productivity.

Have a plan, set a schedule. I have a whiteboard in my Uni room which I list out all the important things I have to do - whether it’s essays, readings or laundry.

(Trying to get myself to jot down important events as well on my calendar)

* organise your notes, be consistent with your readings, start your preparation early so you wouldn’t have to burn the midnight oil when your deadline/submission is around the corner.

* write down/type the things you have to do and tick it off when you’ve done them

• TIDY YOUR ROOM.

I never realised how having a clean, tidy workspace and bedroom is associated with having a clear, focused headspace.

This is a skill I’ve only picked up recently. Honestly ask anyone who knew me before the age of 18 and they’d tell you how horrid my living conditions were, I was literally living in a pig sty.

My room isn’t the neatest for now but I’ve made it a habit to clean my room thrice a week, do my laundry, wipe my tables, the floor, change my sheets as frequent as I can, throwing trash, keeping my room as immaculately clean, hygienic and nice-smelling as possible.

De-cluttering has become a newfangled technique of mine in destressing.

Add fairy lights, make your room/home feel like a sanctuary you want to come back to after a long day.

• Take baths!! At least once every 2 days

Added the latter because I know it’s unnecessary to be washing your hair everyday especially when it’s winter.

I know a lot of people with depression like me in the past who have difficulty taking showers but personal hygiene affects the way you feel and perceive of yourself.

Notice how you feel so much more reinvigorated after a bath. It cleanses your soul.

• have a skincare routine - this is applicable to both men and women. essentially, take care of your skin.

everyone in our family has stringent facial routines. you don’t have to go to expensive facials to get clear skin.

But make sure you stick to your day and night routines and wash your makeup off (if you wear makeup that is)

As someone who struggled for years with cystic acne and covered it using makeup, I’ve completely stopped using makeup and have only been using ONE skincare brand for 9 months now - which’s completely transformed the vitality of my skin that I no longer suffer from acne or have frequent breakouts.

I added this because I believe the condition of your skin will affect the way you feel and your motivation. For me personally - my struggle with acne really threw my motivation and focus off course.

• READ, educate yourself.

You don’t have to bury yourself in text books or boring literature but find something that sparks your interest and delve deeper into them.

Read about people’s personal experiences, their stories and trajectories.

Thought Catalog, Elite Daily are two of my favourites.

• surround yourself with inspiring individuals who have the same work ethic and drive as you.

• instead of watching trashy shows about useless gossip and hearsay (trust me I’ve been there - binging Love Island), watch documentaries and videos where there’s an underlying educational value.

Ted Talks and podcasts are my pockets of wisdom.

love love Jubilee debates on YouTube as well where people are divided into two groups whose ideals/beliefs vie against each other - they’ve done rly controversial and intriguing debates such as on pro choice vs pro life, body positivity vs fitness and health, religious vs aesthiests, guns vs no gun policy

I especially love psychological documentaries, reality talk shows where substantive tangible issues are discussed and resolved like Dr Phil / Oprah / World’s Strictest Parents

I’m definitely not at where I want and NEED to be at yet, and there’re are still areas of improvement which I’m still trying my best to work on (e.g my punctuality - huge one)

I think a lot of my lateness is due to the fact that I’m always taking forever to pick my outfits and checking myself out in the mirror lmao

I also hope to lay off my incredibly stressful work ethic. I know I said it’s good to be consistent in working hard but my work ethic is pretty severe that it sometimes exacerbates my anxiety.

Instead of procrastinating like what the majority claim to be trapped doing to themselves, I tend to overwork and overstress.

like I’d feel extremely guilty and have panic attacks when I sense that I’m not doing enough work which actually yields perverse consequences.

I’m a workaholic with an Asian work ethic (the Singapore education system has toughened and conditioned all of us to be academically inclined and disciplined so yea this is an intrinsic quality in most of us) so it’s hard to just ‘relax’.

I spent weeks being ill and hospitalised yet I was still able to finish all my readings and submit my essays by the original deadline despite having an extension due to my illness.

[politicrap-blog]

Politics

Someone on Facebook asked me if I’m one of the “we are mad trump won team.” Let me tell you that yes, I am. I very much am. If you aren't a multimillionaire, you should be, too, because he's already screwing you over. He's looking to take away either all of your healthcare or make what you do have more expensive so his rich cronies can get richer. He cut mortgage aid on the FIRST day in office to make housing and other real estate more expensive. He's a real estate mogul, and stands to directly profit from screwing the little guy. He's willing to cost you money both directly and indirectly via his pipe-dream wall. Both taxes and the cost of goods from Mexico go up, and it won't keep anyone out anyway. We'd have to arm the whole border, which would push us right into going to war against not only Mexico, but probably everyone else who would stand to lose from such an agreement, like China, Russia, and most of the UN. Every single decree we've seen from him, and are going to see from him, are about dollars going right into his pocketbook. Let's talk about the Muslim Ban for a second. Which countries are on the list? Libya, Sudan, Somalia, Iraq, Iran, Syria, and Yemen. How many refugees have caused death on American soil from these countries? 0. Not a single one. In fact, the last time refugees suggested a real threat to the American way of life, the Cherokee side of my family were being slaughtered and enslaved by them. So why the ban? There are a few reasons, but none of them are good. Using panic and fear to increase personal power. Using economic pressure to coerce poor countries into accepting skewed deals. Just plain hatred of brown people. Who knows? Well, now that we're depressed, let's talk about the ACA, or "Obamacare." Millions of people are going to lose their healthcare if the ACA is repealed. If people lose their only access to healthcare, they die. Period, there's no way around it. How high could the death toll be from repealing the ACA? Well, before the ACA was enacted, Somewhere between 40 and 65 THOUSAND Americans died every year due to inadequate health coverage. Afterward, the number dropped sharply, but it's still too early to get a reliable estimate. The number is anywhere between 12 and 36 thousand. That said, any number greater than zero means that the Republican party is literally more dangerous to the American populace than Muslim refugees. They will have murdered, without hyperbole murdered, thousands of innocent Americans, and people are cheering for that because they don't understand the ramifications of what they're doing. They're just bucking the rules of the last president because he was liberal or he was brown skinned or he had a foreign sounding name or whatever. I'd much rather we spend the money that we're currently spending on a pipe dream on infrastructure, education, and yes, healthcare. I didn't support Hillary Clinton, I supported Bernie Sanders, because I believe that all people need to stand together. I believe that everyone should be treated equally, rich and poor, white and black and hispanic and asian and other, straight and gay and trans and asexual and  apache helicopter and whatever else people are calling themselves nowadays. The law should be written so that the variables that make us individual people do not matter beyond the social scope. Rich people should not get lighter sentences than poor people, and the same goes for respectively white and black, but that's exactly what happens, no matter what you think of the now polarized word "privilege" (frankly, I hate it, because it boils down a complex set of socioeconomic interactions to "if you're a white male people treat you better," which is just not always true.) Society doesn't need to change much to make the lives of everyone better. We live in the information age, and could be on the cusp of true greatness via the elimination of poverty through education and the free exchange of information. I believe that the floor of poverty should be lifted so that the lives of everyone gets better, not the ceiling raised so that the top becomes further unattainable to more people. I believe that food, water, shelter, education, and the ability to stay alive if you get sick should be rights unalienable to all people, no matter how much it costs multi-billion dollar corporations or the billionaire elite, or even the regular joes and janes. Life is by far more important money, and if the taxes on my already impoverished wages need to go up, then so be it, but the rich need to pay their share as well instead of hoarding the money in the sick zero sum game of keep away that we're already playing. Adjusted for inflation and cost of living increases, we the actual working people are already earning less than half of the buying power that the minimum wage was worth 50 years ago. We're literally being driven backward economically because of the insane wealth disparity in this country. On top of that, we already have a huge number of democratic socialist/outright socialist programs in place in the United States. Everyone knows about Medicaid, Medicare, SNAP (food stamps,) and WIC as socialist policies, but the roads you drive on, the schools your kids go to, the free parks, libraries, and hell, even the infrastructure that companies profit from, like power lines and water and sewer pipes are paid for via tax money. On top of that on top of that again, a seemingly endless stream of economists have stated that the move to single payer universal health care saves the average American over $1,000 a year. I'd be okay with over $1k in my pocket, and the savings to each and every one of us, as well as the Federal government, could be seriously monumental if we took the further step of regulating the price gouging pharmaceutical companies to keep costs in check and reforming hospitals to keep prices down. The savings to the Federal government after five years are in the high double digit to low triple digit millions of dollars a year. That said, the current administration wants to fleece us for what little we've got while they sail away on a solid gold boat, to hell with making everyone's lives better and actually improving the overall economy by giving the lowest economic class the ability to put money back into it. So am I mad that Trump won? Hell yes, I'm mad. I'm mad that an utterly abysmal businessman (the guy doesn't pay taxes because he lost almost a BILLION dollars in a single year. Somehow that makes him smart. He has dozens of failed businesses in his wake and settled a fraud lawsuit for $25 Million. The guy couldn't even sell steak,) appealed to the worst in people. I'm mad that the new president of my country, MY figurehead, went on air about how he would walk in on underage teenage girls changing, on purpose, and his staff would force them to dote on him in various states of undress. I'm mad that he openly states that he respects no one. I'm mad that he treats people like property, stating that because he is rich, he could do whatever he wanted to whoever he wanted with no consequences. I'm mad because he's a horrifically bigoted person, and always has been. It's not just calling out Mexico. It's stating that he doesn't want "blacks" handling his money, that he'd rather give it to the jews. I'm mad that he tried to impress Billy Bush with "locker room talk." Even if he were in a locker room, that speech wouldn't be acceptable. In every locker room I've ever been in (and having been a martial artist for a very long time, that's quite a few,) if a guy, ANY guy, bragged about sexually violating a woman without her consent, they'd have their throat punched in before they could say another word. Thing about that is, he wasn't even in a locker room. He was at a TV taping where he knew he was being heard by microphones and didn't CARE who heard him. He is nothing more than a pandering demagogue who appealed to the scared old WASP crowd who believes that they're being oppressed now that the playing field is finally starting to level a little bit. Why am I mad? He spouted nothing but bullshit, and it worked. I've never had much faith in humanity, but I've never been quite this sickened by the American people, or been quite so ready to tear down the establishment and start over, either. Why am I mad? We had legitimate candidates that could make the country better, even if you or I didn't like them, but the vast majority of the states decided to elect a man who has one redeeming quality: money that he was born into and has lost most of. Good luck with your reality star. He's going down hard if he makes it to four years without getting himself removed from office.

[yelloskello]

like, I have a lot of feelings on the whole, ‘people seeing their particular issue as a gift’ versus ‘people seeing their particular issue as endless suffering’. I understand the mindsets behind both parties. The former is concentrating on self-love and happiness and self-acceptance. The latter wants to be taken seriously and not misunderstood.

I think. Both can be true. And that the issue goes way farther than those very simple ideas.

The anxiety i’ve been wracked with my entire life has, seriously, been fucking awful. It gets on peoples’ last nerve. It’s made me controlling. It made it so I would fear even small, mundane tasks. When I was a kid, missing one day of class made me subsequently miss two weeks because I was terrified my classmates would notice i’d been gone, and I couldn’t handle the thought of being noticed. I later got kicked out of that same school because of my frequent panic attacks.

But, 1: my anxiety also means i’m very, very perceptive, and very, very good at planning. I learned a good work ethic from it. I learned the best way to schedule out my time because of it. Finding ways to cope with it managed to help the worst part of the disorder, while still letting me benefit from the positives. I would not say my anxiety was, on the whole, a good thing - far from it - but I think it wouldn’t be telling the whole story to say I didn’t gain any important skills specifically from dealing with it.

and 2: if my family had understood this shit better when I was going through with it. If they hadn’t acted like harmless behaviors were the equivalent of severe harm just because it wasn’t how they wanted me to be. If they’d understood that x way isn’t working for me, so let’s try y, or z. Shit probably wouldn’t have been so rocky over the last, like, decade and a half.

with my ADHD, I have HUGE emotions. Once again, i’d overall say this is not necessarily a good thing, but I won’t pretend there aren’t some things I like about it. When I actually get invested in something, when I enjoy something, the emotions around it are MASSIVE - it’s an emotional high I don’t think most people can understand. I can experience happiness more heavily than other people can. ...At the same time, when that happiness ends, it’s devastating, the bigger they are the harder they fall indeed, and leads to a lot of emotional turmoil. Plus, there’s all the other emotions I have to contend with, and the impulsivity leading to a lack of emotional control. Overall, i’d say it’s definitely not a ‘gift’, even the few positives I can find come with hefty consequences in the end, but that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate what little pleasantries I do find in it. I’m stuck with this forever, even if I can work to make my quality of life better with it. Why not include some silver linings in that.

Plus, I can just. Aggressively love myself. I can love that I am this person, all my disorders and illnesses included. I can practice self-kindness and self-acceptance, while simultaneously understanding that I can recognize behaviors that objectively harm people, that these disorders can lead to me doing those behaviors, and I have to find ways to handle that, that... Don’t hurt people. I can work not to be harmful, I can work to make things easier for myself, I can learn to cooperate with my disorder and find ways to come out successful... And still love myself through it all. I don’t need to feel shame and regret. Self-love and self-improvement aren’t mutually exclusive.

[crazycreativescheerleadingcamp]

The Cheese Grates It: FML

Image Source:

wallpaperfo.com

The Cheese Grates It:

FML

  content warning:

suicide ideation

I honestly hate writing about myself, which is why I deviated from a recent prompt and made it an alternate reality of a character instead. However, at the moment I feel the need to share a few things about me and why I continue writing even though I long ago took the dream of becoming a renowned author out in the back alley and shot it.

I recently received criticism of my work being merely a conversation between two talking heads. Well, I guess that's what it is. Often when I'm doing my writing, I've finished working a shift delivering food in rush-hour traffic to nickel-and-diming customers who think that fifty cents is an appropriate tip. Hint: fifty cents was a crap tip back in 1986, when I was delivering pizzas. All told, I average about ten dollars an hour.

My financial situation is precarious. I need to set aside $1000 to get the water pump in the car I prefer to make deliveries in fixed. The whole time I'm driving I'm hoping that something doesn't happen to my personal car.

I know the conventional wisdom is "just get another job," but that isn't as simple as it sounds. This is literally about the only work I can do at this point.

My physical situation is far from good. I used to be able to work physically demanding jobs, but my diabetes has deteriorated to the point where I have problematic activity intolerance. When standing for long periods of time, I tend to become weak, dizzy, and confused.

"Aha, clerical work!" many of you will say.

Sadly, not so much. My brain is stupid, and when I work the kinds of hours where clerical work tends to be done, I become depressed to the point of non-functional. I've tried to do this numerous times in my rather long life, and the result has always been the same. Clearly, I was not made for life on this planet.

A year ago, I lost a reasonably well-paying job where I was making approximately $40,000 a year. I was working as a homecare nurse. My diabetes was getting worse and I was very sick with a severe respiratory infection. The company reasoned that I could continue working because the patient I was working with was the one I'd contracted the infection from, therefore, they believed, I couldn't re-infect him.

I was fired from that job because I fell asleep during my shift. This was not a light drowse where one wakes when one's chin contacts their chest. This was a deep, dark, dreamless, sleep-of-the-dead kind of sleep. There is a pretty good likelihood that I had a TIA at that point. I don't remember falling asleep, but I was asleep for about 20 minutes. I woke to see the patient's father sitting on the patient's bed, glaring at me. I didn't hear him come downstairs or into the room. I left and was fired the next day.

I worked briefly for another homecare agency with a patient I'd worked with previously. This patient ended up in the hospital and never came out. The agency never found me another case. At that point, I tried working as a rideshare driver. An idiot stoner kid backed into the rental car I was using. Lyft took so long to resolve the claim that I wasn't able to drive for a month. The rental car agency never reimbursed me for the unused week on the vehicle. I was out $1000.

I tried going back into long-term care, but found myself physically unable to keep up with the demands of the job. I became weak and confused when my blood sugar dropped and I was unable to take a break. Long-term care does not tend to allow for breaks for its employees. 

I then tried working for yet another homecare agency and discovered that I could no longer handle the physically demanding part of the job.

I worked delivering groceries for a while and ended up with a permanent injury to the median nerve in my left arm. This service promised delivery within the hour. Instead, I would often be greeted by an angry customer demanding to know why their order was three hours late. Customer service never contacted them. They let the driver deal with the unhappy customer. I had severe calf cramps because of having to climb stairs multiple times during the shift. The injury to my arm came about because of having to carry heavy loads throughout the shift. There is now permanent numbness in my left hand. At least I no longer endure agonizing pain in my left upper arm, which I did for about a month.

My anxiety levels are through the roof. I browbeat myself into going to work. Most days I wish I'd just die. Conversely, I have night terrors where I wake up with my heart pounding, thinking "please don't let me die like this."

Antidepressants, the darlings of the psych industry, don't work on me. They make me manic and psychotic. Benzodiazepenes, another darling of the psych industry, have a paradoxical effect. They tend to make my heart race and to cause panic attacks. The exceptions are Xanax, which has a heavy sedative effect and then makes me suicidal, and Valium, which makes me stupid. I mean really stupid, like two plus two equals three or something stupid. 

To counter my raging insomnia, I take a low dose of thc plus cbd. It works better than Valium (see thick as a brick stupid) and better than drugs such as Ambien and Lunesta, which cause me to sleepwalk and do things like pee on my car tire at 3 AM. I was given a medical marijuana card for the horrifying pain in my arm and to help with my glaucoma. What I use is actually recreational edibles and tea, which has a lesser potency than medical grade marijuana. It doesn't get me high. It acts as a mild sedative and has none of the crap side effects of pharmaceutical medications. However, there are certain jobs I can't even think of applying for at this point because of my use of a very low dose of thc for a medical problem. They'd be fine with it if I were fucking my head with Ambien, which makes me do weird shit and wake up tired, but a tiny amount of THC makes me a non-functional hop-head, apparently.

This was my response to the person who decried my writing as being merely a conversation between a pair of talking heads:

  I take it from your other criticisms that "quite interesting" means "I hate it." That's cool and all. The words weren't randomly bolded. It was to keep up with the Wordle prompt, to remember that we had used the words. Honestly, I'm kind of brain damaged and stupid. I work at a menial job earning about minimum wage. I write when I can if for no other reason than to keep some aspect of what I believe myself to truly be alive. With a little help from my friends I am able to do this. Maybe I'm fated to just be a giant talking head, much like the Face of Boe in Dr. Who. Sorry my work didn't meet your exacting standards. I probably won't participate in this particular prompt again. Really, the only reason I do is as an exercise in constraining my word count because I tend to be overly verbose in my so-called writing.

Note: the bolded words were my bad. I forgot that most people on the Weekend Writing Warriors prompt would not also be using the Wordle prompt.

Honestly, the shitty writing would also be my bad. Gem and Tempest aren't to blame. They were only trying to support me.

The truth is, I feel like killing myself most of the time and already would have if it weren't for the fact that my son seems to still need my help. Here are some things I don't need to hear regarding that statement:

"Go to the emergency room."

If I went to the emergency room every time I experienced suicide ideation, I'd have to live there.

"Get counseling."

It doesn't work. I could probably benefit from cognitive behavioral therapy, but county mental health doesn't tend to provide that. County mental health gives you counselors who frustrate you to no end because they are used to dealing with people who have severe psychosis. I only have psychosis when I take antidepressants or prescription pain medications. County mental health counselors are no help to people who see the reality around them all too clearly and know there's nothing they can do to extract themselves from the steaming pile of suck that is reality. So, they write stories involving talking heads because it soothes them for a moment to do so.

"Get on medication."

See "that shit makes me manic and psychotic." Except for Prozac, which left me emotionally flatlined, staring at my arm, and thinking to myself "maybe I should cut my arm to see if I can still feel anything." This wasn't the normal, self-loathing drive to self-injure that I've dealt with all my life. This was a case of wondering if I could still feel anything at all.

Sorry, folks. Pat answers don't work on me. I'm special like that.

Actually, I'm not particularly special. There are a lot of people that the pat answers don't work for.

I have a lot of thoughts about how society could improve to make sure everyone has a decent quality of life. One of them involves not treating the working class like shit. Most people in the working class aren't "less intelligent" or even less educated than people in white collar jobs, and, even if they were, why should they be treated like shit?

We need universal health care so people like me can stop playing the shitty balancing game of having to keep my earnings under $800 a month so I don't lose Medicaid. 

We need a universal stipend. The idea that people would stop working if they were receiving a stipend is erroneous. Most people want to work in some capacity.

In any case, I probably won't officially participate in the Weekend Writing Warriors prompt again. It seems to be a place that isn't for people like me: people for whom writing is a survival tool.

And now, I guess I'll get ready to get out there and get nickel-and-dimed to death once again. Perhaps there will be more from the talking heads who are my characters later. Color yourself oh so lucky.

~The Cheese Hath Grated It~

#trigger warning suicide ideation #cie's personal crap #creative and mentally ill #work #everyone's a critic