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demonslayerimagines · 3 years

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Here’s another story I wrote for @mevrouwrozestudios for our 2nd story/art trade! The prompt was some rescue fluff between her OC Nonaka and Inosuke! I hope you enjoy!

~ Mod Nezuko 🌸

Antidote of the Heart

The rumors of a mysterious, small village in swampland were being told around the country. It was humid, but cloudy as if it was about to rain. Nonaka walked carefully on the path toward this village. There were rumors of a plague spreading to every civilian, with some of them going missing. The signs of it were paleness, weakness, and a bite mark somewhere on the body. Everytime someone seemed to be cured, they'd be back in their sick state the next morning. Shinobu suspected a demon, so this is how Nonaka found herself stepping cautiously through the muddy trail. She was just to figure out if it was a demon or just a plague and report back by midnight! Nonaka felt a bit out of her element, the farthest she's been from the Butterfly Mansion in a while. Shinobu had the utmost confidence in her, so Nonaka was ready to do a great job. Even if she had to be away from her Inosuke.

The village was in sight, small huts and houses were all near the lakeside. Nonaka stepped into it and noticed the lack of people, all the doors and windows were shut. It felt like a ghost town, empty with only the breeze bringing a sort of life to the area. Nonaka felt a chill crawling up her back as she slowly walked around, looking for someone to question. Nonaka finally saw an older-looking man standing near the far exit of town. There were strange tracks leading out into the swampy forest.

Nonaka approached the man and noticed his troubled expression. “Now, who might you be, young lady?” the man spoke with a strict tone. Nonaka gulped and showed her wooden box, full of first aid supplies. “Sir, I was sent by the closest village to see what was going on out here. I’m a doctor’s assistant and heard there was a plague spreading” The man huffed, but looked melancholy, “A plague is the least of our worries...If you’re smart, you’ll go back to once you came and forget that this place exists” Nonaka wanted to ask more, but the old man gave her the cold shoulder and walked towards the closest hut.

Nonaka knew something was amiss, but wasn’t quite sure what the danger was yet. Noticing the tracks again, Nonaka looked at them closely. The tracks were quite large, furrows made in the ground in a wavy pattern. She knew whatever made these had to be the problem and began to follow the strange trail into the dark bog…

~~~~~

It was midnight, the butterfly mansion glowed with the light of candles in the dark of the night. Shinobu stood outside, waiting for an answer from Nonaka. Tanjiro, Zenitsu, and Inosuke were all relaxing in the baths after their last day of physical therapy. They had come back from a big mission in the city and had spent a few days there to heal up. Tanjiro seemed to be the only one who really focused on their training though. Zenitsu was fawning over Eiko, a new ally who had helped them in the city and who had protected Zenitsu in his time of need. Inosuke on the other hand was constantly trying to impress Nonaka, the two had begun constantly flirting and talking with each other.

They had officially begun to court after their herb adventure a few weeks ago. Inosuke was very proud to be the first of the group to actually get a girl! Zentisu was incredibly jealous about it. Inosuke and Nonaka were inseparable before training and after training. Inosuke gave her lots of hugs and loved to lift her up when she least expected it. That's why when she mentioned her next mission, Inosuke felt a pang in his chest. He wanted Nonaka to stay with him in the mansion! Who knows what could happen to her alone out there! Tanjiro mentioned that the feeling was called worry, surprised that Inosuke could feel that with the way he goes head first into battle. There was nothing to be done though as Nonaka gave him a kiss goodbye a day ago.

The three boys stepped out of the bathes in their casual kimonos. They walked out to see Shinobu waiting for them with a white kasugai crow, Inosuke immediately knew it belonged to Nonaka. Shinobu had a serious look on her face as she spoke, “Nonaka has gone missing and was unable to report back to me. I want you three to leave at once to find her-” Inosuke immediately ran past her in a panicked state, going to get his blades and clothes. Tanjiro nodded at Shinobu and took Nonaka’s crow. Zenitsu’s eyes widened and his hands shook slightly, “C-Can’t I stay o-or can Eiko-chan come with us?!” Shinobu smiled, but shook her head. “Eiko and I must meet Mitsuri for important matters, but I’m sure the three of you will do fine! If not, you can just come back for some more physical treatment” Zenitsu whined as he dragged himself to get his things.

Inosuke wrecked the room to find his things. He slipped on his boar mask in a rage. Whatever has his Nonaka will never see the blessed light in the morning. Tanjiro and Zenitsu quickly gathered their things, but Inosuke barely noticed him as he stomped out of the room.

Inosuke waited outside on the cobblestone road, Tanjiro thanked the butterfly girls for their help while Zenitsu was holding Eiko’s hands and begging her to marry him quickly! “COME ON YOU CHICKENS! WE BETTER GET THERE BEFORE THE SUN RISES OR I’LL BRING THE BOTH OF YOU DOWN!” Inosuke yelled with passion, meaning every word. Zenitsu yelped and hid behind Eiko, “SAVE ME!” Tanjiro only nodded, understanding Inosuke’s feelings of concern for his loved one. Tanjiro grabbed Zenitsu by the haori and started dragging him down the path. Inosuke huffed, hiding his fear under layers of anger, ‘She better be ok…’

~~~~~

As the new moon hit the horizon, the three demon slayers ended up in the same path as Nonaka. The village close, Tanjiro could smell blood and a slight poisonous scent in the wind. It led them to the back of the small village where the same exit stood. Inosuke noticed the smaller footprints in the mud. It had to be her...Why did she go off on her own?! Inosuke felt himself tear up in his mask, not wanting to think of the worst. His legs took over, running ahead without any thought for himself. Tanjiro’s voice had called to him, but the sheer fear made Inosuke unable to hear much else except his beating heart. She had to be alive...Inosuke couldn’t take being alone again...

He ran up the steep path and saw a bigger house with the sliding door busted open. Inosuke could hear his partners running up behind him, but he ran inside alone. Needing to find out the truth for himself first. Once Inosuke was inside, he noticed the smell of blood was heavy in the air. Around were the bodies of the missing villagers, eaten by a demon. Inosuke almost missed the pink see through material that was lying by his feet. Inosuke kneeled down and felt it in his hands, eyes widening. Nonaka’s haori, the rose pattern slightly stained with drops of blood. Inosuke felt his body move on his own, screaming his inner pain to the heavens. Gripping the haori to his chest, his screams were wild and filled with anger. The mere thought of his love being gone was too much to bear…

Inosuke felt a comforting hand on his shoulder. “She’s not dead, I smell a sweet scent in the air. It has to be her, I distinctly remember her breathing style from training” Tanjiro spoke softly, breaking into Inosuke’s rough exterior. Inosuke understood, tying his love’s haori around his waist. A new determination surrounding him to find her and kill the motherfucker that hurt her!

~~~~~

Tanjiro was in the lead, following the scent. Inosuke close behind, gripping the haori tightly. Zenitsu took up the rear, every little thing making him jump. Zenitsu screamed in fright as a snake slithered past his feet. “This place is full of snakes and other small reptiles...What a strange home” Tanjiro spoke up, quietly. Inosuke shrugged, used to the wildlife and not afraid of a puny snake.

The three happened upon a large sliding door, Tanjiro put a finger to his lips and slowly opened the door. There in the large room was a demon. A male with long blackish green hair in a slick ponytail that went down to the middle of his back. His eyes were orange with thin black slits. His teeth were long and sharp, two fangs jutting out from his mouth. He was muscular as well, but the main thing was that his lower half was a long dark green snake tail. A half man, half snake demon. Inosuke was only interested in the figure wrapped in the tail though. It was Nonaka! She looked pale, her beautiful brown eyes looking dull, and a large snake bite was in her neck.

Inosuke took out his sword in a fit of rage as it built back up in his core, “OI! PICK ON SOMEONE YOUR OWN SIZE!” The snake turned and grinned mischievously, “Ho ho ho, so more demon slayers enter my nest! Did you miss your little doctor? It seems she's also caught my ‘plague’” Tanjiro’s eyes widened, “The poisonous scent...He’s been injecting venom into the villagers and Nonaka!” The demon began to laugh, crazily, pissing Inosuke off even more. “Your little friend has had my biggest dose yet! That's what she gets for entering my domain!” the demon said between laughter. Nonaka looked in pain, barely able to look at Inosuke. Inosuke had enough, rushing quickly to stab the thing in the head. The snake dodged in the last minute at lightning speeds, as fast as a predator in the wild.

Tanjiro unsheathed his sword, leaving Nezuko’s box with Zenitsu to protect. Tanjiro took the side Inosuke wasn’t on and went for the tail to stop the demon’s wild movements and to free Nonaka. The snake smiled wide as Tanjiro’s sword hit the snake scales and slid off. No damage had come to the tail. Tanjiro’s eyes widened as the tail swung back and hit him hard against the wall, trying to crush him. Inosuke growled loudly, air coming from the nostrils of his boar mask, jumping up and bringing his serrated swords down on the snake. The demon screamed as Inosuke’s blade sliced between the scales, tearing them off and cutting the tail in half. The other half of the tail wiggled wildly in an unsettling way, releasing Tanjiro. Inosuke pushed Tanjiro away, “BACK OFF! THIS IS MINE!” The demon slid to the side and moved back to pounce at Inosuke, going for a bit to the chest. Inosuke held up his blade and the snake bit onto it, cutting his mouth as the two fought for dominance in the fight.

The two fought like a wild boar and snake in the wild, pushing against each other for the upper hand to kill their prey. Inosuke almost lost his footing as he was straining to keep the fangs away from his skin. He looked to Nonaka who had been released when the demon went for him. She sat there weakly holding herself up, but Inosuke read her lips as she tried to speak, ‘I-Inosuke...You’re so s-strong...I know you’ll s-save me...I love you!” Her silent words were enough for Inosuke to find himself, refocusing and twisting around. His flexible body twisting around with ease and slicing the demon’s head in half from the mouth.

In that moment, the demon remembered being an outcast, loving his pet snakes. The villagers were afraid of him so they broke into his home and killed his dear pets. The demon wanted revenge on the town and to make them suffer forever. Turning into a demon gave him that ability, but he really just wanted to live in peace with his snakes…

~~~~~

Nonaka began to awaken in a makeshift cot. She felt the humid heat and knew she was still in the swamp. The last thing she remembered was Inosuke fighting for his life and hers. His bravery and quick thinking as he used his strengths to win. Then Shinobu showed up and...the rest was very fuzzy. Nonaka opened her eyes fully, she was in a small hut with a few others who looked sick from the venom. Shinobu had a vile of purple venom with a few other medicines and was mixing things together. Shinobu had figured out how to reverse the effects of the venom by making an antidote with it. Tanjiro and Zenitsu were helping and giving medicine to sick villagers, but where was Inosuke?

Nonaka felt someone nuzzle up to her. Inosuke was snoring softly with his mask off while cuddling next to her on the floor. Nonaka blushed hard and sat up, quickly. Inosuke opened his eyes a bit and smiled at her. Before Nonaka could say a word, Inosuke sat up and met his lips with hers. His arms went around her and when he pulled away, she noticed her haori was on her shoulders. “I-Inosuke! I just woke up!” Nonaka exclaimed, her whole face turning as red as a strawberry. Inosuke chuckled, “Yeah! And I saved you! It was all me Nonaka!” Inosuke said as he flexed a bit, moving closer to her. Inosuke smiled wide as he held her against him. Nonaka heard his happiness, but felt him shaking a little. She knew that this all must’ve been hard for him. Nonaka returned the hug, feeling Inosuke’s worry wash away and being replaced with love as he hugged tighter.

#demon slayer #demon slayer oc #demon slayer scenarios #demon slayer imagines #art trade #story trade #inosuke x oc #inosuke x Nonaka #rescue fluff

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dragon-writer · 4 years

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Aaron Hernandez

Just finished the Aaron Hernandez miniseries. I don’t watch American “football,” so I didn’t know him. It was just up on Netflix.

By the first time you hear the slurred speech, I’m like, “Please don’t tell me this obviously brain damaged man is currently doing life in prison somewhere.” That was my first nightmarish thought and it turned into a horror show/suspense right off the bat because I didn’t know anything and I didn’t want to google it...

By episode two, it’s almost a comedy. Joker style. A comedy of very deliberate errors.

Parents who push their children in order for them to “make it” are good in a sense, but also kind of abusive, especially when you’re pushing them to excel at violent things.

It’s not like God parted the skies and commanded Aaron to make it to the SuperBowl. It’s just an ego weak kid listening to his father. And then the Patriots with their military “football is life” bullshit just stepped in to keep it going... He’s just introjecting these neurotic drives one after the other at higher and higher levels because he’s talented enough to compensate... Nightmare.

I mean, I didn’t have to deal with trauma on that scale, but it’s a cold sobering moment when that disillusionment sets in and you realise that you’re physically and mentally irrevocably damaged because someone sold you on an idea. Because someone said jump when you were six and you just kept jumping till your twenties.

And this is why I hate movies like Split that make dissociation seem like a magic trick that comes with cool powers. Sometimes, it’s as simple as breaking off a piece of yourself that doesn’t jump. That’s capable of anger and doing simple things like saying no. That doesn’t have to provide for anyone.That doesn’t have to represent a community. That isn’t being graded and statistically analysed.

You create something that isn’t bound up in the same stranglehold you find yourself in.

We used to have a dog that they kept on a chain, day in day out, never barked, and they used to joke that if it ever got loose it was either going to run off or maul somebody. That’s what happens when you slip a leash and break out of an imposed routine of compliance. Sometimes you play cool and try to blend, sometimes you go werewolf.

So yeah, I hate when abused, mentally ill or brain damaged people commit suicide. TVs, movies, real life, true crime. And then everyone is like, “The demon is slain!” as the sun starts shining down on Pride Rock once more. Fuck that. It might sound shitty, it might actually be shitty, but my moral stance is that it’s better to plan a homicide than a suicide. There’s that noble way of looking at it as if a suicide is protecting other people, but I mean, your own life and health has to be your number one priority. It’s like they say in MMA, protect yourself at all times.

And he’s in this sport where he’s being repeatedly injured while holding on to a ball, protecting a ball.. and it just occured to me, that the whole point of American football is using your body however violently to protect a ball because “Culture, money, entertainment...”

And they made so much ado about the 40 million contract! How much of that did he actually get? Meanwhile his owner is worth something like 6 billion and he’s doing fine. Nothing traumatic going on there. He’s what, 80? Are there any stories about how dangerous it is to be an owner?

There were so many red flags. So many...

By episode 2, he’s just like... impulse killing. No planning, the most half-assed cover-up, and it’s sad because it’s just a really slow suicide all in all, but I’m still watching it because it’s really kind of unbelievable that it’s happening in the first place. He’s gone from shooting strangers to shooting friends to shooting people who were basically extended family, like a death spiral. So at this point, I’m worried for him and Shay and the baby...

And then he’s in prison for life, and for the nightmare that the story was so far, this is like a happy ending. I start coming up with possible endings... “Oh, so he got some therapy inside and he’s working in the prison library writing Harry Potter fanfiction or something. Gets at least monthly visits with his child...”

And then he kills himself and they’re doing slide shows on his brain in universities, like “Could you believe how fucked up the brain of this person was - this is so shocking! So he wasn’t just an evil killer? His brain was degenerated after a decade and change of chronic trauma in the name of a billion dollar industry sport that’s only played in one country? Wow?”

Who gets to 27 with that kind of neurological degeneration undetected? Wouldn’t he have had access to the very best neurologists, psychiatrists, etc? It’s not some asymptomatic condition that springs up on you overnight. They didn’t have to cut his brain open after death to figure this out.

And that’s off Medscape. You don’t need to be an advanvced pathologist to solve this mystery. And that’s why I think I’m upset at Netflix and whoever else made this for making a sensational drama out of it like there was some giant puzzle to be solved as to why he did it. All the rumours about his sexuality when the man’s already dead to garner more media attention and get people talking.

The man had stage 3 CTE. Giant-ass ventricles at 27. Record breaking. He’s the youngest person on record with such advanced degeneration. So maybe when he started shooting people on impulse it had less to do with his sexual experimentation and more to do with the fact there were holes in his brain. To feel yourself slipping away like that for years. Everyone’s fantasy on the outside, literally hollow on the inside.

I mean, I’m looking at pictures of the man’s brain on a slab after midnight and reading the suicide notes he left like, “Well, he didn’t lose his spelling...”

What the fuck, Netflix? I needed a trigger warning on that.

I don’t want to hate on the sport, I just think it’s stupid. But then I follow another sport where a man was apparently fighting for years with one eye... Doctors let him fight with one eye even though his “good” eye isn’t all that good either...

It’s the same story of billionaires giving you shit pay for your life and organs. Same story of straw dogs. The only thing that made Aaron special is that he was young and good looking and his brain broke before his body so he wasn’t some irrelevant reitree. They didn’t juice him for everything he was worth so it’s all about wasted potential...

The players at the end talking about how fine and healthy and normal they are... “Concussions never hurt me. Brain damage is a natural part of life. Thousands of us have CTE and we haven’t killed anyone...” It’s so disturbing.

It’s like an ongoing international True Crime.

So to end this note-to self rant, moral of the day - disappoint who you have to disappoint, hurt who you have to hurt. Don’t disappoint yourself, don’t hurt yourself.

#aaron hernandez #chronic traumatic encephalopathy #neurosis #mma #ufc #michael bisping #american football #played in only one country #sports #traumatic brain injury #mental illness #tw: suidice

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spreadlovespeakhope · 3 years

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Let’s Talk: Mental Health

I have been meaning to write, but life has been hitting hard for me, and I am sure it has for all of us, given the state of today's world still. I want to talk about mental health, why it is so important to me, and the movement I am trying so hard to push.

I grew up struggling with mental health, self-harm, and suicidal ideations that led to my early 20s. I also work with many youths, and I've heard many stories from those youth that have made me realize that our system on how we handle mental health is broken. We always try to push therapy, the suicide hotline, reach out for support, take a walk, or exercise in the fresh air or even sometimes use mental institutions when things get rough for some. Something I've noticed about all of these things is that they are either flawed or non-obtainable to some. Let us start with therapy and how that sometimes is very unaffordable to many people, given some therapists charge hundreds of dollars, sometimes even 300 for a 45 to an hour session. I want to understand why people do that, and I get that we all must make a living and we all need money to survive, but I have done the math, and I cannot understand why someone would pick a profession to help others and then limit the people they help with a paywall. I did not have access to therapy. I had school counselors, but they did not help when I was younger, and trying to afford therapy seemed impossible. It is hard to choose between your bills and your mental health; sometimes, $100 or $300 goes to groceries or medical bills or maybe rent, depending on where you live. I have heard stories where even parents have had to choose their finances over their child's mental health because therapy was too expensive, and you could see how much that broke them because they want to help the ones they love or want to help themselves. I work with many youths, and I've heard countless times that they go through counties because they can't afford a private therapist and have to use their insurance. Many may often seek help through their county using their insurance, but you may have to fall into the county's regulations and specific standards they follow. If you don't fit those standards by some chance, you don't get the help you need, or you are turned away because you do not meet the criteria. Maybe that is a government issue, or perhaps our system is just broken.

I chose psychology as my major because I want to make a difference and help others. I've been in the position of many of those still struggling today, and I understand the fear, loneliness, and constant feeling of being misunderstood. I also understand how difficult it is to afford therapy. Spread Love, Speak Hope is more than just a nonprofit it is something that means a lot to me and something I'm very passionate about pursuing. While the current goal is to raise money to fund therapy for others who cannot afford it through the sales of merchandise or donations, the ultimate dream is to change how we handle and deal with mental health. My goal as a therapist is to charge $60.00 per hour session with a sliding scale if needed because no one should ever have to wonder how they're going to afford therapy. I also would love to have a center someday where instead of mental institutions, we can use the center as an open and inviting place. If there are instances where someone needs to remain at the center for a few days, rather than being in a room, you are in a space full of love, hope, and understanding. A physical space where you can do art or play video games or sit around and talk to someone just because you need someone to listen. As a kid, I promise myself that I would do whatever I can to make a difference in others' lives, whether it be a stranger, family, friends, classmates, or coworkers. All I ever wanted to do was see people smile, see people happy and see people healthy. Spread Love, Speak Hope is my chance to do that; it's my chance to push the message of love and hope and the message that there is someone out there and there are people out there that are listening, that want to help and want to make therapy accessible and affordable. I spent a lot of time listening, asking questions, and understanding what others need, what I needed as a kid and as I grew up. The next thing I'm about to say might be more of a personal opinion or feeling, but I feel like our system is broken. We push all these things such as anti-bullying days, suicide prevention days, self-harm awareness days, and even have a suicide hotline that we continuously push. Sadly, I had my own negative experiences with the hotline and later found out that many others did as well. I've heard from others that if you call too much, eventually, they turn you away. If you text their line too much, they limit how long they're going to talk to you, or pass you along and give you some number or somewhere else to contact, or they ask a series of questions that are their standards that you have to follow for them to consider you sever enough to help to you. I understand that they're not really trained licensed psychologists, to my knowledge, but why are we pushing something so hard and yet turning down those who need it when that's the only lifeline when therapy is too expensive.

Change starts with us, and I can't tell other therapists what to charge or how to run their practice but you really got to ask yourself why you picked this profession? Was it to help people, or was it money because it's no secret that you can get a college education and charge people so much money to access the knowledge you gained through college. I know people currently in school working towards becoming a psychologist, and they chose the profession because of the money they can make through it. I feel like we've forgotten, or maybe some people have forgotten, the reason for this field or profession. I cannot justify charging someone $300 for an hour session. I can't justify making $600,000+ a year at the expense of someone else's mental health. I asked many people about my thoughts of charging $60.00 for therapy and was told they felt that it would be affordable for many. I guess this long post's point is that I believe that therapy should be for all and not for some, and that's what I hope to accomplish with this movement. The goal of Spread Love, Speak Hope is to be that outlet, to provide that affordable therapy, to provide that safe space, to give that hope, and to show that someone is fighting for you.

You are seen. You are heard. You are loved.

If anyone has read this far, know that I'm genuinely grateful that you took the time to listen and read something that truly is dear to my heart. I hope anyone reading this will consider sharing and spreading this word. Maybe you or someone else who comes along and reads this will consider writing for my blog and talking about mental health. If we start talking about it, people can no longer hide and pretend that the system isn't broken. I want to fight for all those who need it for every person who thinks no one is listening. I'm listening, and I'm going to do all I can to try and make a difference for all of us. If you would like to write from my blog, please check out my website which will be posted below.

If you can consider donating or purchasing one of our shirts, it would be so helpful. All the money goes to funding therapy for those who need it. We also have new designs that will come out in the future this year. Even if you can't donate or purchase something, a share could help us so much to reach others and build our network. If you're struggling to afford therapy, please reach out and contact me, and I will do my best to help in any way I can. Thank you again so much for supporting this movement. I can't begin to tell you what it means to me.

Warm regards,

Spread Love, Speak Hope.

Website: https://www.spreadlovespeakhope.com/

Want to write for us?: https://www.spreadlovespeakhope.com/blog

Email: [email protected]

#Spread Love Speak Hope #non-profit movement #non-profit #non-profit organization #mental health #love #hope #healing #help #therapy #psychology #change

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validatio-n · 4 years

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Dying To Live

I first met death when I was very young. I didn’t know what it was, and it never really took a form until I was around 16. I quietened his voice like we all try do to at the start, by ignoring it, partying, or seeking validation from people who don’t deserve you to glance in their direction.

It appeared as though the demons in my head I feebly tried to still had noticed what I tried to do, and they were angry. The thoughts I had of worthlessness, insignificance, unlovability and self-loathing festered from a light, continual hum that I learnt to deal with, to something likened to when you plug your headphones in and the volume is turned up the whole way. You get such a fright and rip the headphones out of your ear. Except with me, I can’t rip them out of my ear. For a long time, I couldn’t even turn the volume down. For 24 hours a day, even in sleep, no matter who I was with or what I was doing, I constantly had this music in my ears telling me I was nothing, I was no one, I was ugly and I deserved everything that had happened to me. Sure, a lot of the time it wasn’t blaring loud and sometimes I barely noticed it, but after years of trying to fight off that voice, you begin to accept it. You begin to believe it, and it becomes a natural part of your everyday life.

Once that’s happened, you’ve successfully opened yourself up for Death to manifest him self in your body. He will creep in and start slow, so you don’t notice him planting seeds in your mind that he watches grow, spreading a thick black toxic throughout your body, turning your blood to poison and your skin to ice. You’re trapped, your body doesn’t feel like your own. You pinch at your skin in disgust and dream of hacking away your non-existent fat with a meat cleaver. Slicing your arms like you’re playing the violin and staring at the blood rushing out even if the mere thought of blood makes you queasy. You’ll wonder, although you’ve gone through some shit, why you are so fucking sad. You’ll wonder why people did what they did to you, how they did what they did to you. You’ll go to the doctors and you’ll get diagnosed and you’ll go through the therapy and you’ll use your support systems and you’ll swear you’re going to beat this sadistic fuck that is depression and anxiety and panic disorder and night terror (Death, in other words), and some days, you believe you will. But when its 3am and its you and Death lying in your tear-soaked bed, Death is the only one there for you.

He’s telling you how you’re going to hurt yourself to feel better. He’s saying it’s going to take the pain away; it’s going to make you have the best sleep ever with no nightmares and no panic attacks. Hurting yourself will make you in control again, he’s saying one scratch won’t do any damage, just try it, see how it feels to inflict physical pain to quash the mental pain. You know the mental pain is your brain playing tricks on you. You know it’s a chemical imbalance. You know the anxiety and the PTSD is from your past relationships. You know Death isn’t actually sitting next to you, but that doesn’t mean that you don’t feel it, because at this time you don’t even know that it’s Death you’re dealing with. Your rational side is gone. You’re sitting in a room where oxygen has turned into a venomous gas that you’re breathing in as you hyperventilate and choke as it constricts your airways.

He watches you as you pull out a shitty pink razor, the crappy ones that you get angry at your mum for buying because you can’t get a good shave with them. Upon looking at it, you’re glad she bought the shit ones because the quality ones would be way too hard to pry open. He’s looking at you, salivating, telling you to pick apart the razor, its easy, just get a knife, wedge it in and flick up the top bit of plastic. Your hands don’t feel like your own. It feels like somebody is controlling your brain making your body move, yet you don’t stop it. Like a puppet on a string. Death doesn’t get angry when you look at yourself in the mirror, sobbing as you can’t even manage to take apart a fucking razor. He watches you throw it across your bedroom full of photos of you and your girlfriends, you and your mum, you and your boyfriends. Your little white cat gets a fright as the razor smashes against the wall and falls behind your dresser. He says in a voice so sweet yet condescending that it’s okay to be so pathetic. He watches you slide the knife under your bed. He holds you in his ice cold arms as you curl up in bed, shaking, crying, nauseous over the fact that you almost cut yourself. Death is with you as the immense loneliness washes over you, suffocating you between sobs. Death rocks you to sleep with a smile on his face, because those seeds he planted are growing, and it’s only a matter of time until they blossom.

You wake up.

You scared yourself.

You reach out to friends, therapists, family. You promise yourself you’re never going to get that close to doing something so stupid again. And you don’t. Death is gone, you’ve beaten him.

For a while.

You haven’t beaten death. You haven’t softened his voice. Sure, he wasn’t prominent in the whole ‘slice your arm into pieces’ front, but rest assured, death was still floating around your room. He’s looking through all your stuff, watching you sleep as he dips in and out of your brain, learning as much about you as he can, feeding toxic sludge to your mind as you’re unaware. Sleep paralysis. Death is smart. He knows he hasn’t worn you down enough to hurt yourself. He knows how to manifest himself in his prey and seep poison into their minds until they have been manipulated and tortured enough to snatch up and take with his mouth wide open, pupils wide, ready to swallow whole as he drags your lifeless body bloody and limp through the realms until he dumps you next to the millions of others who’ve succumbed to the disease. You haven’t gotten away that easily. It’s a waiting game now.

In the orchestral catastrophe that is depression, this was the intermission. The entertainment during this time can be called anorexia.

Death renders you weaker than you know. Anxiety grows so alarmingly fast that your appetite is reduced to practically nothing. You become intolerant to your own body. This is ok, because you’re not cutting yourself. It’s okay, because it isn’t deliberate. You repeat this to yourself over and over as you revel in the bruises that appear on the inside of your knees from trying to sleep on your side; the bones crushing in to each other. You repeat this to yourself as you watch in awe at your ribcage expand and deflate as you inhale and exhale. You can see where your rib was cracked by the hands of those who vowed to never hurt you, by those who vowed to fix you. Your skin stretched tight over protruding bones fascinate you for hours as you trace your fingers over your body in a trance like state of wonder.

You’re hungry, and it’s not for food.

Then, it becomes deliberate.

You’ve always been skinny regardless of what you ate. You’ve loved your body. Never hesitant to run around half naked no matter who was around or where you were. Not provocatively, not attention seeking, just comfortable. Your body was your safeguard. Compliments came naturally, envy was apparent. Then your mind wanders and you think to yourself I wonder what people would say if I lost just a little more weight. And then the floodgates open, and like a tidal wave crashing through an entire city Death whooshes in, appearing in the mirror behind you, his claws on your shoulders, smiling down at you like an old friend you hadn’t seen in years.

If you were just a little bit skinner, you wouldn’t be sad. You’d be beautiful.

Death knew it was time now. He didn’t tell you to say this. You thought this on your own.

30 degree summer nights lying on your side under a European cotton sheet, you feel your thighs touching. Your eyes well up with tears. You are sickened, disgusted. You want to scream, you want to vomit, you want to punch yourself. You sneak out the window of your family home and you run laps of the park you used to walk your golden retriever or smoke weed with your friends, doing cartwheels and rolling around the grass without a care in the world. You run laps until you nearly pass out and limp home at 3am in the fucking morning. The panic attacks return because all your eating is an apple a day with some almonds and a black coffee. You’re jacked up on caffeine that your already shaky hands shake even more. You can’t look people in the eye. You look sick. You want to stop but you can’t. You need your hip bones to poke holes in your lace underwear. You want to be able to hold water in the crevice that appears between your collarbones and shoulders when you shrug.

The results come fast and you love it, you’re an addict who is itching for a little bit more. You’ve never felt the way you feel when you step on the scales and its lower than it was before. The comments people made feed your addiction. The alarm you sense from them as they hug you elates you like getting another fix. You and Death are a team now, he cheers you on and tells you how strong you are for not eating the cake, or saying no to the chips, or making excuses to your friends at dinner as to why you’re not eating. Dinner at home. Already ate. Fasting for a blood test. You knew ‘too poor’ would never work as they’d just pay for you. You have an app on your phone that you log all your calories and exercise in to. 500 a day maximum and you must burn off at least 100 more calories than you consumed that day.

You’re in control of your body. For a short window of time, you were in control of most of your emotions and feelings, too. You felt powerful. You felt happy. You’re never hungry and when you are you know how to burn it off. But then you take it too far. You become so thin that people start to notice. You look like a bobble head with your head too big for your body, your jaw bone looking like it could cut ice. Doctors’ appointments start because your body isn’t working properly. They weigh you and they know the tricks you think you’re a genius for. They know you’d have loaded up on salty food. They’ll know you drank so much water you almost threw up before hand. They’ll check your pockets. Hair down because you can’t hide anything that can contribute to the scale reading. By the end of it you have to strip off completely. Scared parent, scared family, scared friends forcing you to eat, and you would, because they have to believe that this isn’t deliberate. You can’t get admitted. You’d eat to shut them up and you’d become such a good fucking liar. You would laugh and joke and talk about anything while you were eating. You would be having fun. Then you’d be alone again with your hatred for yourself. Hatred that you were too pathetic to be bulimic because of your fear of vomit. Hatred of food. Hatred of yourself.

You weren’t alone though, were you? You know who was sitting right next to you, holding your feet down as you did as many sit ups as you could until your spine was bruised. Then the star jumps until you thought you were going to have a heart attack. Then the push ups. Then the laxatives. Then you felt better.

You were skinny. You were beautiful.

But were you?

Your hair was falling out. Your lips were white. Your skin was yellowing. You’re constantly cold. Your body wasn’t functioning properly. You lost your period. You don’t care. You’re skinny.

Then you’re happy again. You’re hi fiving death. You’ve done it. You felt skinny enough.

But there lies the issue itself, it’s never enough. It’s never ‘done.’

‘You can’t stop now, you have to maintain this or else you’ll put on weight again and you won’t be beautiful,’ death would say, and you know he’s right. Then comes the fear.

Food scares you. Going out to eat scares you. You are so afraid of eating and losing your progress that you don’t realise that Death has crawled back to his original spot in your brain and he’s beginning to untie all his puppet strings, preparing your brain for his next act of torment as the intermission concludes and the music starts again, sinister and slow. His malevolent eyes so eager to consume your soul, fangs salivating with the blood you’re about to draw from your wrists. You’re exercising too much with no food which causes you both physical and mental exhaustion. Couple this with the partying on the weekends and you’ve lost the game. You’re as good as dead, and at this rate you will be soon.

The sadness comes creeping back in as you lie in your bed at night, hunched on your side clutching at your ribs letting out slow sobs as you beg the pain to ease. You cry and you cry and you don’t even know what the fuck you’re crying for. You cry for the father that never loved you and spat such venomous words at you that you didn’t want to exist anymore. You cry for the men that threw beer bottles at your head and bruised your oesophagus choke slamming you against a wall rendering you as good as speechless for a week. You cry for the people you loved most cheating on you with your best friend, cheating on you with everyone. You cry for the lies, the betrayal, the drink spiking, the hitting, the screaming, the drugs taken behind your back, for the fact you can’t trust anyone. Abortion. Abuse. Agony. You cry because you’re confused. You cry because no one knows that you’re feeling this way. You cry because you’ve never felt so alone. You cry because you realise that you just don’t want to be here anymore. You cry because you know you need to hurt yourself. You cry because you know that Death was right, it will make you feel better. It does.

You remembered where the shitty pink razor you threw across the room a year or so back landed and you float to your dresser, reaching behind it and grasp the razor, its handle dethatched from the smash against the wall. You feel for the knife under your bed – you remember the one it was, with a red handle, your mum’s been looking for it for a while. You usher your precious cat out of your room, she doesn’t need to see this, as you sit cross legged on your bed. The crying has stopped. You’re focused. Your fingers feel like they’re being controlled as you pry apart the three blades from the plastic. You slip and get a cut on your thumb but that’s okay, you wipe a tear that’s escaped, and you keep trying. It takes a little while.

Then, the softest, most delicate and angelic metal chime rings in your ears as the plastic flies off and the three blades clink together, falling lightly onto your thigh.

You’ve done it.

Ever so carefully you pick one up and examine it for about half a second before you’re holding it against your left wrist. This is the arm you started on. The world has stopped spinning, there is no sound except for your breathing that went from erratic and irregular to slow and steady. You press down lightly and slide it across your wrist.

It stings. Death is holding you, stroking your hair. He is so proud.

Small bubbles of bright red blood surface. It’s pretty. You feel light. Dizzy, but not sick dizzy. You feel tired, really, really tired. You don’t feel overwhelmed anymore, you feel numb. Disconnected from anything that isn’t the small sting and the red bubbles coming from your wrist. You want that feeling again, so you slice four more little cuts across the plethora of vital veins that run so dangerously close to the surface of your skin. You wrap your arm in a tea towel and put a hair scrunchie over the top of it. Light, superficial cuts that heal quickly. It’s not even bad. You sleep, wrapped up in Deaths’ arms as he rocks you back and forth into dreams that he is controlling. Vivid dreams of your childhood, when you were 6 years old wearing matching floral pyjamas in New Zealand with your entire family. Your mum and dad are together. Your grandma’s there. Your brother is there. Relatives you don’t even know now are there. You dream of the purple and yellow bubble machine you got. The entire dream is you running barefoot on the grass in those pyjamas, making bubbles for everyone. You smile in your sleep.

Flash forward a couple of months and you’re a veteran. No more little scratches. These are scary fucking cuts that will scar your body forever and you don’t give a fuck. Why should you, you deserve this pain. You are so twisted and sick that the only thing that will make you go the fuck to sleep and stop sobbing so goddamn much is playing fruit ninja on your wrists.

Long sleeves no matter the heat.

Broken promises to family, to friends.

Psychologists and Psychiatrists.

Medication upon medication.

You get better, honestly, you do. You go longer and longer between cuts, but every time you cut, its worse. You have your walk of shame to chemist warehouse where the staff look at you and know what you’ve done. You switch chemist warehouse locations from Chapel Street to Glenferrie Road in case they try and ask you if you’re okay. The aisle on the left when you walk in. Gauze. Bandages. Betadine. Friends who don’t yell at you, they help you, they drive you there, but they look down at your arm and cannot shield their disgust of such large and deep gashes that have completely split your skin in half. You can see the veins. When its bad, they get the gauze for you. They wash your arms as you scream from the burning pain. They carry you to the shower and wash your hair as you hold the victim arm in the air so it doesn’t get wet. They change your sheets and sit at a café for hours with you as they try to get you to finish a bowl of porridge. They see the lights gone out in your eyes. They cry. You cry. You don’t want to hurt them. You want to hurt you.

Cutting doesn’t make you sleepy anymore because you have to stay up to apply pressure to your arm to stop the bleeding. The tea towel sticks to your arm. There are bloodstains on your carpet, perfect little circles. There are razors everywhere. Inside your phone case. In your makeup bag. In your schoolbag. You’ve moved up from the shitty plastic ones. Sometimes you can’t even be bothered taking the razor apart - its messier, but its quicker.

You want to stop. You want to stop so badly especially after the time that you went too far and called a friend who couldn’t get to you. You were at home, returned from a night of drinking with your friends. Something triggered you, someone may have just raised their voice and it all comes back to you. Him screaming in your face, smashed tv’s. Violence. Police stations. Restraining orders. Changed phone numbers. Running down the street in underwear and a t-shirt with a dead phone. You might’ve been at a friends’ place and seen their fathers care not only about their daughters and sons, but about you too, and that sets you off. You get home and you’re sad, you are so fucking sad. You know what you’re going to do even before you leave wherever the fuck you were. You know, even though all the razors have been hidden, you know where there MIGHT be one, gathering dust, wedged accidentally between one of the storage cabinets at the base of your inbuilt bookshelf that carried the hundreds of books you read to escape from the reality that is your life. If it’s not there, you’ll just use a knife. You get out of the car and the tears have already started. You hold them in until you open your front door and throw all your shit on the bed. You brush past Death who was ready to welcome you with open arms. You’re in a frenzy to get to where you think that last razor might be. Death is jumping up and down excitedly. He knows it’s there, waiting for you. You find it, grab it, and there is no relief though you expected there to be.

Come on Alian, you’ve got to push down deeper this time. That’s the only way you’ll feel better. Just this one last time, it will be fine. Death said. He was right about everything else, why shouldn’t you believe him about this? It’s your right arm now, the left has way too many scars on it. The right arm has half as many, but they’re big, raised and menacing scars. There’s still room for about 5 more.

You press hard. Too hard. No matter how much pressure you apply, the blood isn’t stopping.

Death is encouraging you to go further. You can’t, you can’t keep your head up and you can’t stop the blood. Death is angry at you now. He’s mean and nasty, he’s not the understanding and supportive demon who ruins your life kindly, he’s completely turned. He’s grabbing at your fat, he’s taunting you with it. He’s making you remember memories you’d rather die than re live. He is making his voice inside your head so fucking loud that you can’t shut it out and it hurts, it hurts, you need it to stop, you reach for your pill box and open your mouth and wash down whatever pills you just took with whatever is left in the Smirnoff Vodka bottle you drank that night.

Darkness.

You’re black out drunk and you don’t know why there’s another one of your friends at your window. You’re asleep on your bedroom floor with the Little Mermaid playing in the background. Valium on the floor. Seroquel on the floor. You are covered in blood you can barely stand up to let him in. You fall asleep again in his arms. He was on the phone.

Darkness

He’s gone.

You don’t know where Death is either.

Red and blue flashing lights.

Sirens.

Banging on the door.

Darkness.

Two ambulance paramedics shaking you.

Your mum in tears.

You’re protesting. You don’t want to go with them. You’re fine. It’s just a cut, it’s not bad. It’s just like the other ones.

They need stitches. You can’t stay awake.

Darkness.

You’re getting carried out of your room like a baby by the male paramedic.

Stop, please, you’re hurting my arm.

Mum

Mum?

She doesn’t come.

Darkness.

You have your soft toy with you. You got her when you first moved to Melbourne when you were 7.

You watch your Mum and Death standing in the doorway as you’re lifted into the ambulance. You hate Death now. You’re not on the same team. You never were. He only wants to kill you.

Darkness.

You’re angry because the paramedics won’t let you sleep. You remember being really angry and really scared. Your arm is so sore. They keep saying how skinny you are. Asking what you took, how much you drank. You don’t know. The male paramedic is holding your hand with one of his and your arm with his other. You say that you want to go home. He can’t take you home, because your friend called them and told them that you’re going to kill yourself. You’re not, you promise, just please take you home. Please let go of your arm. He can’t let go because you need a lot of stitches. You’re lucky that you didn’t move half a millimetre to the left or the right or press down any harder, because they couldn’t save you if you did. Your holding on to your toy cat and he asks what her name is. Her name is Pearls. He asks who got you her and you tell him your mummy got her for you. You cry. Your mum who gave you the world, who loved you more than 50 parents combined. Your mum who would do anything for you. Your mum who told you she’ll stop fighting you if you want to leave this earth so badly. You’re not angry anymore.

You are sad. You are so fucking sad. You bury your head into the paramedics’ lap and you cry. You ask him to please just let you die.

Darkness.

You’re with a nice female doctor and she is interrogating you. You’re used to this. She tells you that if you end up here one more time (it’s not your first), you will be admitted even if you don’t want to be. You know this. You’re done with Death. You want him gone. You want to try and eat. You want to hug your mum. You want your yellow and purple bubble blowing machine. She tells you that you need stitches on the cuts you did tonight. You beg her not to have them, the blood has stopped and they can just heal over like the others. She refuses. It’s either stitches or glue. You’re scared. You’re alone and scared and Pearls the cat isn’t being much comfort. You call your friend and they stay on the phone while you have your arm sewed back together like a broken toy. You want to vomit. You’re thankful for the Valium and the Seroquel and the alcohol because you could not handle this any other way.

You have to stay a little bit longer so they can monitor you. They wanted to pump your stomach.

You’re at home now. There’s a pool of dried blood on the carpet. Lucky its dark grey carpet. That one will be a hard one to clean. Your mum hasn’t spoken to you. Your brother is overseas. You miss him.

You crawl into bed and watch Gossip Girl until you fall asleep.

You see your psychologist after you get your stitches out, and you tell him everything. You tell your doctor everything. You’re ready to get better. You tell them about the eating thing. It’s going to be hard and its not going to be pretty, but you’re going to get better. You enrol in university and you get another job. You do yoga and you go for runs. You eat when you feel like it and you eat a lot of fruit. If you feel like a burger, you get a burger. It takes years for you to have this relationship with food, but you get there. You stop getting black out drunk and you stop doing party drugs. You promise to stop for at least a year. You achieve it. You face your pain head on. You process what happened to you with the ex boyfriends. You know it’s not your fault. You know that what your feeling is a normal reaction, and you move past it. You have bad moments just like everybody else, but yours are a little worse. Yours are dangerous.

You sit on the bathroom floor clutching your head as you hyperventilate. Razors are allowed in the house again and you’ve ripped one apart and you’re rotating it between your thumb and index finger. Your heart is beating out of your chest because fucking hell you want nothing more than to slide that piece of metal over your skin and feel that rush again. You hold it to your wrist and you are uncontrollably crying. You’ve been so good when you’ve had the urgers, you’ve gone to your mum, you’ve called your friends, you’ve gone for a walk, you’ve gone to sleep, but you’re here now and there’s nothing stopping you except for your own willpower. You scream silently as the tears fall down. You’re not filled with stardust, you’re not filled with snowflakes or sparkles, you are filled with blood that has spilled too many times onto the floor. Your insides are spilling onto the fucking floor, your veins splitting at the seams. Your first kiss, your bubble blowing machine, the times you laughed so hard you cry, the year you had Christmas twice is dripping down your arm and rolling out of you. You’re coughing up and sobbing out every memory of getting in trouble with your friends or holding hands with the boy you thought you loved more than anything in the world. All your memories of the beautiful life you’ve lived are melting into the carpet of your bedroom floor staining it, reminding you of how much you hate yourself when you should love yourself. These red bubbles aren’t pretty rubies rushing out of your skin, this isn’t glamorous nor poetic, its not mysterious or romantic, its mutualization, its sickening. It’s death and you are dying. It’s you, everything you have been, everything you are, and everything you are yet to be, if you just give yourself the fucking chance.

And just like that,

You put the razors on your mum’s dresser, wrists intact, and you walk down the stairs. You go to the kitchen and you peel open a banana and you eat it. You put your headphones in, you go outside and you go for a walk around the botanical gardens. You enter through Gate D and you lie in the sun for a while as you throw bread for the ducks. The white ones with the orange beaks are your favourite. You give them nicknames. You know that in all honesty, you’re going to have more shitty boyfriends who might break your heart. You’ll also have good ones that even though it didn’t work, you grew. You know that you and your dad aren’t ever going to have a relationship. You know that you’re going to have trust issues and post-traumatic stress for quite a long time. You’ll fight with girlfriends, you’ll get too drunk and do something stupid like kiss someone you shouldn’t or break your nose at a music festival. You’ll laugh at it. You’ll have days where you hate your body and days where you love it. Days where you want the world to end and days where you never believed you could ever be so happy.

And for the first time in your 21 years of living, you’re okay with this. For the first time in 21 years, you’re at peace. You haven’t touched a razor since.

#mine

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themoonandotherslikeit · 4 years

Text

Gone - Part One

Castiel Novak’s obsession with dead things started when he was just six years old. His neighbors had this cat that the kids, fondly, called Lumpy. Her real name was something complicated, some four syllable name that was after someone that they’d never heard of, so to them she was just Lumpy. She bumbled around the neighborhood meowing at everything with a blatant disapproval that is unique to cats.

His father was a writer, constantly locked in his study, so Castiel spent most of his time wandering around. During the late autumn months, he sat on his porch crudely carving his Jack-O-Lantern with no supervision. He planned to carve a simple smile on the front of it with wide round eyes and a big open mouth.

He was focusing intensely when the familiar yowl of Lumpy danced through the chilled air. “Come here, Lumpy, you ugly cat,” he called out, not thinking too much about it as his eyes still focused on his blade sawing through the flesh on the pumpkin. He pursed his lips, making a kissing noise, wondering what was taking the fat cat so long. Usually she would be at his calf, rubbing and begging for pumpkin pieces by then.

Castiel looked up, his attention sparked just as the wet angry screech of car breaks broke through the afternoon air. The driver was gone before he could even run into the street. He stuck his hands under Lumpy, peeling her sticky, blood soiled body off of the asphalt. Her head lulled, her lifeless eyes open and accusing.

He knew he had to help her, so he tucked her against his chest, matted wet fur sticking to his cotton t-shirt. He took her to his porch and laid her out. In the mind of a child, he needed to fix the pieces that were broken on her, and then she would wake up. So he took out his carving blade, pulling it from his pumpkin and began carving out the pieces of rock. He shaved away the pieces of skin that were worn away from the tire tread. “It’s okay Lumpy, I’ll save you,” he murmured to her sweetly, like she was merely sleeping.

Castiel plucked at her broken, flattened ribs with slick, trembling fingers. Perhaps if he reconnected all of her pieces she would begin to meow and purr just as he knew her. It was only once his father stepped out onto the porch with his reading glasses perched on his nose, and his pen fell from between his lips and bounced off the leather tie on his house shoe, that Castiel realized that he was gravely mistaken.

“Castiel what have you done?”

“I’m trying to fix her,” he pleaded, staring up at his father as congealing, dead blood rolled down his forearms to his elbows, “I have to fix her.”

His father was rightly horrified and Castiel went to a child therapist for five years. He hadn’t been enthralled with death before his at length discussions with his therapist. He just wanted to help her, but she wasn’t so convinced. She thought that he found a thrill from the blade, from the slicing skin, from the pearl white bone against crimson red blood. He didn’t find thrill in it. At least he didn’t when he’d been trying to help Lumpy, the thrill came much later when his therapist unbuttoned her top and breathed whiskey onto his neck. He bit into her throat drawing blood, requiring six complex stitches, but Castiel never had to see her again.

He was an exceptional student, and he was fascinated by biology. He loved to take apart technology and put it back together, and the idea that it could be done with people was fascinating. He could heal someone, fix them. It didn’t take long for him to decide that he wanted to be a surgeon. He never went on dates, even though he was easily one of the best looking guys at his school. He graduated at the top of his class as the weird loner who wore the same three t-shirts every week. He couldn’t bother to care about fashion, romance, or anything that would distract him from getting into the best pre-med program in the states. It was no surprise to anyone that knew him that he got into both Harvard Med and the best residency program. His bedside manner was poor at best, he was awkward, and he didn’t understand much about social queues, usually missing the beat, but he was a damn good surgeon. Was being the operative word.

The tape whirred inside of Castiel Novak’s recorder. “September 21st, examination of Jacob Stevenson.”

There was something in the air the night that everything changed. It was a full moon, and maybe that’s why the leaves were blowing, crackling against windows like a hard autumn rain. Castiel felt a chill as he walked out of his stale, one bedroom apartment, but he didn’t turn back for another layer to trap in the warmth. He’d rather be cold, sometimes a feeling was better than feeling nothing at all, even if it was unpleasant.

He was used to being cold, it was part of the job. Most medical examiners he met were clad in turtlenecks up to their chins, thick layers, and a pale disposition as if they’d never seen the sun. He blended in with them, just another faceless shape in a crowd. He wasn’t always that way, though. Despite his horrid bedside manner, he was described as bright by those who met him. His skin glowed with the fresh tan of a man who played a lot of golf or read medical textbooks outside on benches.

“Caucasian male, age 71, approximately 1.6 meters tall, weighs 83 kilograms. Note a yellowing at his fingertips likely from years of smoking.” He clicked the tape off and set it back down on his instrument table. He took a swab out of its packaging and carefully ran it across the man’s fingertips. He collected a sample from under his nails, the inside of his cheek, along his bottom lip, bagging each piece he collected for testing.

He knew what he expected to find: years of heart disease, smokers lungs, too many homemade cupcakes from his loving wife. He would see a body aged by a life that was lived. That was the goal, wasn’t it?

“I’m sorry that this happened to you, Mr. Stevenson. Rest well.”

He closed his eyes, clasping his surgical gloved hands and said a silent prayer for his soul, wherever it may be. He wasn’t a believer, not really, not anymore. He just had to say goodbye to the spirit, to disconnect himself from the person that used to be inside of the skin. He had to separate himself so that he could make that first cut.

He undressed Mr. Stevenson, unbuttoning his sleep shirt. His pale, wrinkled flesh spilled and pressed against the cool metal of the autopsy table. He pressed his scalpel into the man's skin, across his chest and down his stomach in a Y shape. There was no blood. That stopped after death, settled and clotted.

He liked cases like Mr. Stevenson. He passed in his sleep. He was old, and his heart gave out. Dying old and peacefully was the goal. There wasn’t a lot of peace to be found in life and all that Castiel could really hope for was peace in death. It was called an eternal rest for a reason, right? He removed the organs one by one, weighing them on the scale. He made notes of any odd coloring, biopsied anything that was abnormal.

People often asked him why he worked with the dead. Well, not often . People didn’t often speak to him at all, but when they found out he was a medical examiner, their curiosity was piqued. They just couldn’t wrap their minds around why a surgeon would ever want to work in a dark, cold basement instead of an operating room, but they didn’t understand. How could they?

Mr. Stevenson’s heart was a little enlarged, but that was no surprise. Heart disease was on his chart. It ran in his family. Castiel wondered if darkness ran in his.

He threaded his surgical needle with suture thread and meticulously began stitching the pieces of flesh back together. He vaguely recalled his grandmother stitching together his torn shirt in much the same way, every stitch with care. “We can make it whole again, Castiel. Don’t you worry, little angel.” Except he wasn’t worried, not about a tear. Why worry about a rip when there were other things out there in the darkness?

He tied off the last suture and ran a gloved finger across the perfect line. It was much easier to stitch on unmoving flesh. Another chill ran down his spine. It was the full moon pressing down on the world like a heavy hand. It was making him feel claustrophobic.

He moved Mr. Stevenson into a black bag, zipping him up, and sliding him away into the wall of drawers to keep him preserved until the funeral home could come and pick him up. Castiel’s job was done. He discarded his gloves and washed his hands, scrubbing his fingernails, between his fingers, and up to his elbows for exactly five minutes, a habit he picked up when he was still operating. Everything had to be meticulously sterile.

He dried his hands, his arms, and reached into his pocket and pulled out a small orange bottle. He gave it a shake to listen to the familiar clatter of tablets against plastic. It gave him peace to know that the pain was a dry-swallow away from dissipating. He popped open the lid, child-locks be damned, and poured two into his hand. They looked small, insignificant against the heft of his palm. He flexed his hand, watching them hop as if eager to slide down his throat.

“Take us inside of you, Castiel,” they seemed to beg. So he did. It was the only intimacy he knew.

There were different types of trauma. While in therapy Castiel learned that they all could be categorized into one of three main types. Acute trauma that results from a single incident, chronic trauma that is repeated and prolonged such as domestic violence or abuse, and complex trauma which is exposure to varied and multiple traumatic events, often of an invasive, interpersonal nature. More so, there was capital T trauma and what she called little t trauma . Capital T was the big stuff, the stuff that wrecks a person in an irreparable way. Little t was less so. It is possible for a traumatized person to get over little t trauma.

In Castiel’s life, he’d seen his fair share of trauma. Probably more than a thirty-four year old man should’ve. He’d seen trauma happen to others, happen to himself, and he continued to see it on corpse after corpse. He saw trauma that others didn’t. The kind of trauma that couldn’t be seen from the outside. The kind of trauma that a person inflicts upon themselves.

He remembered his first tumor resection from a lung. It was successful, beautiful, that tumor was a piece of art. He went out to deliver the good news to the man's twenty year old daughter. When he told her the news she immediately threw up into the trash can. She kneeled over it, Castiel standing next to her awkwardly, unsure of what to do. He offered her a Kleenex.

She took it and wiped her mouth. She turned her head and looked at him with bloodshot eyes. “I thought he would die. I thought he had to.”

“What do you mean?” Castiel asked, puzzled.

“He knew what the cigarettes were doing. He knew they’d kill him, but he didn’t care. If he throws his life away so easily how does he deserve another chance? Why would someone willingly do that to themselves?”

He thought about that a lot, but mostly he thought about how she didn’t understand. How could she understand? He did, though, looking down at the tumor with its tendrils wrapped around the lobe of his lung. The cancer was made of him. It was a part of him. Sometimes people have to cause pain for a release. People are naturally violent. They’re prone to cutting, kicking, biting, and those that are usually find an outlet. They become a football player, a boxer, a surgeon . Not everyone can, though, so instead of inflicting that violence and pain on others, they inflict it on themselves.

Sometimes pain was the only way to feel anything at all. Sometimes he’d rather be numb.

His phone vibrated angrily on his instrument table with a vrrrrrr vrrrr vrrrrr . He opened his eyes and pulled it into his hand. It felt forgein, like it didn’t belong to him. “Doctor Novak.”

“Novak, we have a body.”

“Great,” he said flatly. “Bring it in.”

“Don't hang up!”

“What is it?”

“There’s been a murder. We need you to come up here. There’s a new detective, and I think it’s the first time he’s seen a stiff. We could use you here.”

“Fine.”

“I’ll text you the address.”

Castiel didn’t have many friends. Maybe any friends at all, but he had Inias. He was a forensic tech. He knew that Castiel didn’t like being in the field, so he tried to take care of everything on his own. When he was matched with a good detective, it wasn’t a problem. Castiel knew, though, that a rookie could disrupt evidence even by accident and leave him in a mess when he completes his autopsy. He was tired thinking about it already.

He removed his lab coat, hung it, and walked to the bathroom to change out of his scrubs. He preferred to not be out in public in them. In fact, he preferred to not be out in public at all if he could help it.

He threw a gray scoop neck sweater over his white undershirt and pulled on his khaki pants. He grabbed his kit, keys, and cell phone and walked out into the frigid day. The air bit into his skin, and he hissed a bit, wishing desperately that he didn’t leave his coat at home. The plastic bottle in his pocket weighed heavier. He ignored it, shifting his weight to the right as he walked creating a sort of limp.

His vehicle groaned angrily, whining about the cold. “Yes, I’m aware,” he commented to the machine impatiently. The engine sputtered to life after a few twists of his wrist with the key in the ignition. His head had begun to pound, and he added it to just another reason why he hated being out in the field.

The scene wasn’t far, only a few blocks. In another life, Castiel would’ve walked and basked with the sun on his face happy to be alive despite the chill in the air. That was another life, though, and in the life he was in, Castiel drove.

Yellow crime scene tape circled the scene, and Castiel hung his tape recorder on his wrist loosely with a strap. He shoved his hands in his pockets as he walked up, the recorder bouncing off his hip as he walked.

“Cas!” Inias called to him, waving like a child. He was all wrist and elbow, moving his entire arm. Even his shoulders bobbed. “Damn, buddy, it’s good to see you in the fresh air.

“Speak for yourself,” he replied sourly. “Is this the deceased?” He gestured with an elbow to a woman sprawled out on the ground.

“Nah, this is my girlfriend,” Inias deadpanned. Castiel stared back at him like he didn’t understand, and Inias pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, ‘s her.”

“Perfect.”

Castiel crouched next to her. “Caucasian female, I’d place the age in her twenties,” he said into his tape recorder. Everytime the tape looped around there was a click. Whir, whir, click. Her dark eyes stared up at him, wide, gaping, accusatory. Her lips were parted slightly as if she was going to say something. Day-old red lipstick stained the fullness of her lips.

He squinted at the pinpricks along her arms accompanied with black and blue skin. She was bruised. The blood had settled beneath translucent skin. “Drug use is apparent,” he commented into the recorder. Click!

“You must be the M.E.”

The voice was rough and it sent an immediate chill down Castiel’s spine. His eyes flicked up to catch a pair of moss green eyes glinting in the sunlight. He was young, likely not even thirty years old. His badge hung around his neck on a chain, swinging slightly as he shifted his weight. A plaid button up was tucked under a brown leather coat.

“Yes.” Castiel said, realizing that the man was staring at him like he was a fucking idiot.

“Awesome.” The corner of his mouth tugged into a smirk that seemed almost smug, and there was a tug deep within Castiel’s belly as a response. Who did this kid think he was? “I’m Detective Winchester.”

“Pleasure.”

The detective blinked a few times before scratching the back of his head. “I uh...What do you make of her?”

Castiel cleared his throat, happy to turn back to his work. He peeled his eyes off of Winchester and planted them firmly back to the deceased. “The track marks here and here,” he said, gesturing loosely to the pin pricks on the inside of her arm. “Lead me to believe she is an addict.”

“Think it’s an overdose?”

“Hard to tell without a toxicology report,” Castiel began. “But, see this?” He gestured to her mouth. “No vomit. That tells me that it’s unlikely that it was a true overdose. Normally they choke on their own vomit. I’d have to look inside of her throat…” He turned to look back at the detective when his words caught in his throat. He had crouched down at some point while Castiel was talking and was now a breath away from him.

“What about this?” He asked, pointing to the victims throat.

“Bruising,” Castiel explained with a quick nod. “I noticed it as well. It looks like she’s been choked.”

“Could that’ve killed her?”

“I will look into the state of her windpipe, but from here it doesn’t look like there was enough force.”

Winchester nodded a few times, his eyebrows furrowing together in puzzlement. From that close, Castiel could see freckles sprinkled across his nose and cheekbones. It gave him a boyish look, young and wide eyed, but the honey brown hairs poking through the skin on his jaw aged him a bit more. Castiel had to resist the urge to reach out and feel the roughness of new hair breaking through.

He cleared his throat, forcing his eyes away from the detective, and back to the victim. “I will collect some samples and examine her back in the lab.”

The detective put a hand on Castiel’s shoulder, causing him to recoil, his head whipping back to look at the man. His green eyes were fixed, intense. “Will you call me with what you figure out? I’ve got a nasty gut feeling that this is more than it looks like.”

His mouth was dry, and he was sure his jaw was hanging open. The guy was green, a rookie, so what did he know? Castiel’s eyes flickered back to the body and his own gut twisted. He didn’t know how, or why, but he believed the green eyed detective. He believed him down to his bones. “Alright.”

“Thank you,” Winchester breathed, like he was relieved.

“It’s my job,” Castiel said blankly, his fingers tapping his pocket anxiously. He didn’t like it… talking to people, socializing, being watched. He could feel the weight of the man's gaze and it felt suffocating. He turned to Inias. “Bring the body to me, I… I will meet you there.”

He turned on his heels and shuffled away rapidly, trying to catch his breath as the sky seemed to come down on him with a crushing weight. He pulled on his collar, trying to get it away from his neck, because it felt like a tight hold, like fingers pressing on his windpipe. The pain was still there, it was always there. It was a phantom limb, gone but still aching.

He hadn’t waited for Inias to respond, or to pass over what he had collected. His recorder was still whirring in his hand, recording every passing second. He clicked it off as soon as his ass fell into the driver's seat of his vehicle. He gripped the wheel with both hands and clamped his eyes shut. He tried to steady his breathing, like he’d learned in therapy, but thinking about therapy made him even more anxious. Why did Inias call him? He could’ve handled it on his own!

He dug deep into his pocket, pulling out the familiar plastic bottle. He cracked open the top, dumping the tiny tablets onto his palm. He wasted no time before swallowing them, his lips to his palm. It hurt rolling down his dry throat, but he avoided the urge to gag. He needed it. He closed his eyes again, pressing the back of his head to the headrest, and he fell into the darkness.

+++

He was whistling, whistling. He wasn’t sure he’d ever whistled in his life, but yet there he was. It was probably inappropriate, to have some feigned happiness around a woman who had overdosed. Well, he couldn’t say for certain that it was an overdose, not until his lab got back.

Like he suspected, she didn’t die of strangulation, but there was a struggle. She was attacked and fought her attacker. He got samples of skin under her fingernails. Skin and blood. They still didn’t have any identification for her, but the police were supposed to be running her finger prints and dental records. It was looking more and more like a murder. It was a puzzle, and Castiel loved puzzles. They were complicated, but yet they all fit together in the end in a pretty picture. Not much in life ended up that way, so Castiel craved the moments when it did. He hoped she would make a perfect picture. The dead deserved justice, sometimes it was all that they got from a world that only dished out pain.

He thought back to the rookie detective as he sewed up the Y cut across her chest and down her stomach. He was handsome, young, and serious. Castiel didn’t allow himself to look, let alone date, but he couldn’t seem to pluck the man from his mind. He was a planted seed, and the ideas were already blooming and growing out of control.

He wasn’t sure exactly when he stopped whistling, but the new silence around the morgue was deafening. It was broken only by one stray drip drip drip. Did he leave the faucet on? He turned quickly to check, the world tilting on its axis a bit as he stumbled to the sink.

Sure enough, a droplet was pooling and falling rapidly from the faucet into the sink with an earth shattering splash. He let out a sigh of relief, as he placed his hand under the faucet, almost as if to check the temperature, to be sure that it was really there. Wetness pooled at his fingers as another drop fell from the faucet onto his skin, and he pulled back his hand to examine his fingers.

They were red.

Blood soaked his fingertips, a single droplet at first, but it continued to spread. Had he cut himself? He wiped away the blood on his scrub top, but it just kept coming, spurting and oozing out. He blindly reached for a towel and wrapped it around his fingers to stop the bleeding. He pressed it against the wound, his head spinning already from the blood loss.

The light blue surgical towel was already turning wet and crimson from the blood soaking through, pooling, growing, and a horrible feeling came to his stomach. He was going to die.

He didn’t want to die, but more than that he didn’t want to be a body on someone’s table. He didn’t want to be exposed, cut open, and emptied out like a bag of groceries. He didn’t want his blood to settle and congeal. He didn’t want a tag on his toe, his greying skin zipped within a black bag. He couldn’t be reduced to just parts.

His heart was racing, and he knew that it was a mistake. He was a doctor for god sakes, and he knew that rapid heartbeat would make him bleed out faster, but he couldn’t stop the panic that was spiraling within him.

The pain pulsed through him, his fingers throbbing with the beat of his heart. “Fuck,” he hissed under his breath as he quickly unwrapped his fingers. He needed to find the source of the bleed and stitch it up or he would surely bleed out and die alone next to a murder victim. He unwrapped the towel and placed his hand immediately under the faucet to run water over it. He turned on the flow and clear water ran over his skin. There was no blood to be found.

He pulled his hand away, examining it in its entirety. Then his opposite hand. There was no cut. There was no blood at all. He picked up the surgical towel to find it completely dry. There was never any blood. He stared at it, his fingers curling around the fabric.

He was losing his fucking mind.

Castiel let out a heavy sigh and turned off the faucet, wiping a bead of sweat off his brow with the surgical towel. He probably needed a day off — maybe a week. He turned back to finish his examination of the murder victim. He still had a mountain of paperwork to do and samples to process. His eyes settled on the metal examination table. The silver top gleamed in the buzzing fluorescent lights. He touched his temple and closed his eyes. In, out, in out. Keep it together, Castiel. But when he opened his eyes the picture in front of him was still the same.

The table was completely empty and cleared off.

The body was gone.

+++

Part Two

Masterlist

#supernatural #spn au #destiel #dark!fic #PPB2020 #mortiican!Cas #detective!DEan #castiel #dean winchester #MCI #pain

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ditto · 4 years

Text

wi rehab week 3 review: the Week™. i KNOW this post is long but god please read about my misfortune if yall want a Saga

current status on raccoons: clement

number of monster energy drinks consumed: 2

number of buns directly killed: 1

Days Since Last Diarrhead on: 1

Baby Raccoon Count: 150ish? probably 130 that need to be bottle fed

new tasks performed:

baby opossum cage maintenance

baby waterfowl cage maintenance

SQ fluid administration on raccoons

SQ vaccine administration on raccoons

What To Do When Your Tire Goes Flat 101

oral medication administration on possums

CHRONOLOGICAL TALE OF MISFORTUNE: i’m not going to do this regularly but the sheer amount of bad shit that happened this week was COMICAL so let me break down everything that happened to me this work week

MONDAY 6/8

got diarrhead on during 6am raccoon feeding

straight up killed a baby rabbit during bun feeding. they stress real easily and i’m bad at tubing so i had him out for a while and he just fuckin. died. from stress. in my hands. directly because of me being bad at my job. so you know that was uhhhhhhhhhhhhh

shovelled out wet dirty woodchips out of a walk-in enclosure with like 8 goslings using a snowshovel w/ another baby intern. you can’t put a ton of woodchips into one trash bag so we had to keep changing out the trash bag and it was like 92 degrees out and we were both wearing cloth masks and on god i really thought we were gonna die in there

during the pm feeding i get peed on by the EXACT SAME RACCOON that diarrhead on me during the am feeding

TUESDAY 6/9: the Day(tm)

i have a therapy appointment scheduled at 2pm. my shift is 6am-2pm. i’ll need to leave at 1:30pm to get to it. i tell my supervisors this. it’s chill. i still feel bad about it, because i have anxiety.

right off the bat, i get scolded by my Actual Boss for doing something i watched one of the supervising interns do

6am raccoon feeding: get diarrhead on again.

a rac RIPS the fucking nipple off of the baby bottle we’re feeding them with and formula gets fucking everywhere. i say out loud at this moment “IM HAVING A GREAT WEEK”. one of my supervising interns feels bad for me and keeps trying to cheer me up throughout the day. she does make me feel better.

i get dishes which is fine bc i dont mind dishes for real but my hands turn into sandpaper the day after doing dishes for 2 hours so this is more :| than :/. i make jokes about how bad my week is going. the mood is, generally, looking up.

next raccoon feeding is scheduled for noon. raccoons are housed in a separate building, so it’s about a 5 minute drive to get there from the main area. we get ready to leave around 1pm. recap: i need to leave at 1:30pm for a therapy appointment. i’m planning on driving my own car down there so i can do this. it’s chill.

on my way down there, i start hearing the most godawful screeching of metal. i am, quote, “like uhhh.” when i open the gate to turn onto the highway, i stick my head out the window to look

my tire is flat.

i have a flat tire.

my fucking tire is FLAT dude.

>mfw

pull over after gate

tell the staff member following me “hey i have a flat tire so im probably not going to make it down to feed today” and shes like flkdjsalfksd okay

call the ONE supervising intern whose number i have, who is the one who heard me say IM HAVING A GREAT WEEK, like GUESS WHICH BITCH HAS A FLAT TIRE LMFAOOOOOOO. just making that one call was the funniest fucking thing that’s ever happened in my entire life

to quote her verbatim: “i guess you are having a bad week”

call my dad, who as it turns out was actively teaching a class when i called, so i am well and truly facked and am DEFINITELY not making this therapy appointment

ok. take a deep breath. check my car. i have a donut in my car. i have not changed a tire in three years, and have never changed one in the scenario of I Have A Flat Tire. fack. relay this to the one supervising intern whos number i know (i’m going to call her supervising intern 1 going forward here). ask her if anyone knows how to change a tire.

supervising intern 1 calls back. apparently there’s a guy who lives on the same property we’re on named donnie. donnie is a maintenance worker who helps out a lot around the rehab place. donnie can help me change my tire. apparently someone currently down feeding raccoons is going to come pick me up and bring me over there so i can continue to feed raccoons until donnie can fix my tire.

get call from supervising intern 2, whose number i did not have, apparently it got relayed. i ask her if anyone down there can change a tire. she says she can change a tire. she will help me change my tire she finishes on raccoon feeding. ok sounds good. someone is still going to come pick me up.

get call back 10 minutes later. apparently donnie is in the middle of a field right now and it is unlikely that he can fix my tire. someone is still going to come get me to feed raccoons, maybe. i tell her supervising intern 2 can help me change my tire after we finish our shift. she says thats fine. ok cool sick.

try to call therapist. i have no signal. send email which is, verbatim: “Hey! I'm currently on the the side of of the the road in [TOWN 30 MILES AWAY] with a flat tire, so I'm not going to make our appointment today. If we could reschedule for sometime soon, that would be great.” signal is bad, so this ends up being sent at 3pm.

(ALSO I LEARNED ABOUT THIS TODAY BUT APPARENTLY IN THE TIMELINE THERE’S A FIGHT HERE BETWEEN SUPERVISING INTERNS 1 AND 2 OVER HOW THE SITUATION IS PLAYING OUT WHICH IS EQUAL PARTS HILARIOUS AND “MAKES ME FEEL BAD”)

one of the other baby interns comes to pick me up and bring me down to racs. i walk in like AYYYYYYY and start feeding raccoons.

i get diarrhead on again.

i get diarrhead on again again.

apparently 3 in one day is a record.

my shift is supposed to end at 2pm. we usually end up staying until 2:15-2:30ish, because that’s usually when the other team gets down here. since supervising intern 2 is currently my savior, she is going to drive me back over when the other team gets here and she leaves. other baby interns leave at 2:15ish, i think.

the other team is, apparently, running late. they get here at 3pm.

supervising intern 2 drives me back over at 3pm. we get to my car.

the donut is on.

the tire is in the trunk.

apparently donnie was, in fact, able to come change my tire. no one told me this.

im like ok. this is fine. i tell supervising intern 2 thank u for my life. i leave.

my donut has a 50mph max speed limit. i tell google maps to avoid highways on my way home. this turns my 30 minute drive home into a 50 minute one, and still ends up with me being terrifyingly tailgated by trucks for going 10 miles under the speed limit. i almost, but do not, run out of gas on the way home.

i get home around 4:10pm. i call the auto shop across the street from me and tell them i have a flat tire, but i need the car by 6am tomorrow. do they think they can have it fixed by then. they tell me to bring it over and they’ll let me know.

i bring the car over. i give them my keys. i say thank you and leave.

i realize that my garage door opener is in my car, which is now locked. i have no other way into the house, because our garage door keypad has been broken for 2 years. the sliding glass door in the backyard is locked.

i walk back into the auto shop 5 minutes later and ask in the Polite But Obviously Having A Day tone if i can have my keys back so i can get it. i get my garage door opener out of my car. i give the keys back.

i enter my home. i lay spread-eagled on my bed for one hour.

auto place calls back and tells me they fixed the tire. im like did you replace it or did u fix it. theyre like we fixed it come on over. i almost cry on the phone.

go back over. guy is like “ya u ran over a screw LOL”. gives me my keys back. i wait to pay

after a bit hes like “you dont have to pay anything. this is on the house.”

almost cry

thank him

get car

go home

eat

shower

go to bed at 8pm

WEDNESDAY (6/10)

everyone at work is immediately like AYYY and in general just very nice about the whole thing. i thank everyone involved for helping. its chill

dont get diarrhead on this feeding but i do get bit for like NO got dam reason what the fack

next up is cleaning juvenile cages and i swear to god i get the nastiest. fucking. raccoon cage i have ever seen in my entire life. there was an...i wanna say eigth-of-an-inch thick layer of raccoon diarrhea across this 2 foot x 4 foot cage

like on GOD the smell was so bad i was gagging through a goddamn cloth mask just. oh my god. i had to just go stand outside and stare into the abyss afterwards for a few minutes it was so NASTY IT WAS SO NASTY

mercifully, i am spared from further misfortune for the rest of the day. i come home. i am so tired.

WAIT I HAVE TO MENTION THAT SUPERVISING INTERN 1 HAD SUCH BAD LUCK FEEDING RABBITS TODAY SO LIKE...my luck is contagious

notes and observations

anyone who is anti-euthanasia in animal shelters and any other large-scale animal welfare places in general can absolutely suck my dick

most other baby animals will generally have various stages of “baby x”, but opossums look like Adults Except Tiny from a very early age. they have stolen my heart.

birds are poopy little creatures

#summer2020 #1.7k words #animal death #unsanitary

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wilhelmjfink · 5 years

Text

November (pt. 1)

So November is a really hard month for me for several reasons. I try to be open about it now in hopes of helping others who felt the way I did! In 2010 when I was a freshman in hs I attempted suicide November 9th. I spent a week and a half in the psych ward and was in extensive therapy after that and still am to this day and that “it gets better” BS is SO cliche but shit, it’s true... so herr we are...

Naturally they went straight to meds and I spent a lot of time sick & drugged out like WAY beyond anything I could’ve comprehended. So I struggled a LOT with horrible nightmares due to different medications after that and I still do now.. But I’ll take scary dreams over any of that any day.

November remains a dismal time for me so I channeled all of those feelings into a story (cuz I can do that now thanks to @crossbowking) so here is a rapid, confusing story about conflicting inner emotions and high functioning manic bi polar disorder and major depression. There are your warnings. Enjoy my inner turmoil ❤️ I tried to make this uncommon and use a plot line that wasn’t already used before that I saw! Xoxox

PS I’m REAL bad with present/past tense shit so humor me ok thanks

You couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong, although everyone else had been convinced it was just another irrational worry of yours. And as you jog through the frozen woods searching for footprints or tire tracks or anything, you were fueled by fear knowing that Daryl was never late just because.

So when you come up on a long imprint of tire tread that jolted sideways and slid, leading you to a familiar overturned motorcycle that lay tipped over on its side abandoned in the snow, you about scream your heart out right then and there.

The bike is lodged against a dead tree trunk that prevented it from tumbling down the hill behind it into a deep ravine, a big ditch of various whites and browns and the sound of rushing water. The front tire still rotates slowly, suspended in the air; you tried to focus on the minuscule relief you felt knowing that it had to have crashed pretty recently at least if it’s still moving, right?

You waste no time diving over the bike, sliding uncontrollably down the side of the steep ravine wall rather than gracefully scaling it like you intended to. You land harshly at the bottom, falling forward onto your hands and knees in the frozen riverbed, pebbles and rocks and Ice jabbing through your thin gloves like shards of glass. And you know for sure that it will all really hurt later, but right now you’re so fucking scared so scared that your adrenaline won’t let you even think about it right now.

You spot what you immediately recognize as his body laying motionless some feet away. Your heart literally stops and words lodged in your throat for a second, and the fucking fear you feel... it’s unlike anything you’ve ever felt before.

“Fuck, Daryl!” You finally clamber to your feet, slipping in the mud and trudging through the not-quite knee deep waters, the bitter cold instantly soaking your boots and clothes.

“Daryl!” You call out again and again actually hoping to catch the attention of the four waterlogged walkers that are stumbling toward him where he lay just barely on dry land and out of the water flat on his back, not moving, and with an arrow sticking out of his side. Your breath comes out in white puffs in front of you and even through Daryl’s layers of clothing you can see the blood staining his jacket. His crossbow sticks out from a snow bank several feet away. You can’t tell if his head lulls or if it’s just wishful thinking. “Hey! Hey!”

When the first walker spots you and changes his target to you instead, you fumble blindly at your side for your holster that isn’t in its rightful place on your hip.

“Shit,” you whip around and quickly spot it back on the bank where you’d fallen, the metal contrasting the white snow it lay in. You’re frustrated now because running in water is fucking stupid hard, especially when you’re already freezing, and when you finally manage to snag your pistol and unholster it with almost numb fingers, you aim and flick off the safety just as the first walker stumbles over itself and face plants into the water in front of you, successfully colliding with your barrel as it lands.

The shot misses, hitting the ground to the left of where it lands. You curse again, your sights locking on the other three walkers that have still taken an interest in Daryl.

You fire two shots rapidly, the first one hitting its chest and the second one it’s skull, and then watch in horror as it falls forward on top of Daryl and the the other two fall of top of him, still alive.

“No!”

The scream rips through your throat and hurts like fire, echoing through the stillness of winter around you and bouncing off of the ravine walls and trees. In a panic now you completely drop your gun while you scramble over to him as fast as you absolutely can and you’re already positive it just isn’t fast enough.

As soon as you’re close enough you throw yourself into the dog pile, noticing at the very last second how Daryl seems to stir. But it’s too late to do anything about it, because you catch the top two bodies — one alive, one dead — and the three of you tumble down the slate drop off and sink like stones to the bottom of the cold water.

It knocks the wind right out of your lungs and for a second, you’re paralyzed. It takes you some time to gather your bearings, finding the surface while you’re tossed around by the current, tangling with a heavy body that you can’t decide is alive or not.

Your heavy winter clothes are quickly soaked and act as anchors, holding you prisoner underneath the rushing water. Amidst all of the fear and panic you’re faced with, you can’t seem to stop worrying about Daryl.

By the time you resubmerge your body is so fucking cold that the gasp of oxygen you desperately inhale pains you, like you were swallowing electricity and letting it settle inside of your body while it burns every inch of you, inside and out.

You finally drag yourself out of the river, slipping and sliding with little grip on the wet rocks, until you’re finally out and able to lay flat on your back and catch your breath.

The obnoxious clicking you hear turns out to be your own chattering teeth and you can hear yourself gasping audibly while trying to breathe but you can’t help it because it’s so fucking cold. So fucking cold that it hurts.

All you want is to find Daryl and make sure he’s okay, then you remember the last thing you saw was two walkers falling on top of him as he laid unconscious.

So you were pretty positive he wasn’t okay.

You can’t tell if it’s the cold air or the absolute feeling of disbelief that washes over you that renders you useless but you just lay still, staring up at the endless gray sky, too cold to move and too cold to scream and cry.

Daryl is gone.

Your heart hurts.

It really, physically hurts.

The dull ache turns violent when it tries to function, like a broken bone inside of your chest. You want to scream and cry and fucking thrash around to try and relieve the pressure that was building up inside of you, threatening to boil over and send you whirling out of control.

But you were just so cold.

How do you expect to make the trip back like this?

You would be fine with just freezing to death here, actually. Less painful than having to live through this shit world without Daryl by your side to help you and tell you to chill out because everything would be fine. It wasn’t going to be fine. Nothing was going to be fucking fine.

And even if you could make it back, how did you plan to just tell them you let Daryl get eaten? What would they think? You were better off dead than without him, anyway.

It was dark when you stirred next, the silent snow falling around you eerily nostalgic, the flakes landing gently on your skin and eyelashes and disappearing when you blinked.

Sitting upright you felt like a board, so stiff and immobile, and your body ached with every movement and your head throbbed with every beat of your heart.

It was quickly becoming nighttime, the last of the suns rays barely lighting the forest around you. You were confused, dazed, completely out of it and unaware of your surroundings or the frostbite that was setting into your limbs dangerously fast. Despite not being able to feel it, it loomed over you like the dark and heavy clouds above your head, and when you pushed yourself to your feet to take your first few steps, you quickly collapsed back into the snow.

Your fingers couldn’t bend, your toes couldn’t move. Your extremities wouldn’t listen to your brain and so you crawled, blissfully unaware of the snow that was soaking through your already drenched gloves, burning your numb fingers so violently that you couldn’t feel it at all.

Eventually you couldn’t crawl anymore. So you collapsed down onto the frozen ground, chest heaving, body screaming, head swimming. Dizzy. Confused. Tired. So tired... so, so tired.

“C’mon, girl, getcher ass up.”

You shifted uncomfortably, shaking off the weight that was trying to get you up and away from the comfort of sleep. You know, you haven’t had a migraine in years, thankfully, but you had one from hell today and you didn’t want to have to wake up for anything... especially work.

You swatted the hand away, refusing to move for your boyfriend as he sighs — he was even harder to get out of bed in the morning than you are, you remember bitterly — when the voice came back even louder than before.

“Fuck’s sake, woman, come on! Are ya serious right now?”

You felt a surge of energy in your bones that stemmed from the anger that rendered, and were prepared to sit up and lash out when you opened your eyes and realized you were not in your fucking bed.

“Patrick...?” You mumbled for your boyfriend into the bright white above you. When your vision settled and you blinked through the pain, you were looking up at bare tree limbs blanketed in snow. Not your ceiling. Not your boyfriend. Not your warm, cozy bed.

“Real nice,” the familiar voice beside you muttered — now obviously not your boyfriend. “Nah, it’s me. Get up n’ lets go.”

“Ouch, whew, that stung a lil’!” Another voice howled from somewhere around you so loudly it made you flinch. “Isn’t ‘at her ol’ man’s name? Ha!”

“Shut it, Merle,” the first man growled, eliciting a chuckle from the other man. Daryl — your brain was racking itself to decipher who that was. Why the fuck didn’t you recognize his voice? What the fuck were him and Merle doing there? Wasn’t it just Patrick who was shaking you awake? Were you drunk?

“Ya just gonna lay there n’ daydream, or what?”

“She ain’t comin’ with us,” Merle stated matter of factly. You subconsciously rolled your eyes — didn’t you lose him on a roof like a week ago? They must’ve found him. Where the fuck did his hand go?

When your eyes found finally found Daryl, he was standing at your feet, his boot nudging the sole of yours impatiently. You just groaned.

“Come on!”

It was weird — he looked so much older than you remembered: his hair was much longer, shabbier, down to his shoulders now. He’d filled out more — he was more muscular, his eyes darker. He has a thick poncho on, too, despite it being, what, 90° in Georgia? He didn’t look like the Daryl you knew anymore and it didn’t sit well with you. Especially because Merle looked the same as you remembered him; almost as if he hadn’t aged a day. Despite his hand being replaced with a blade.

“Just leave ‘er there, man! She obviously ain’t gonna get up. She don’t wanna come with ya! Didn’t ya just hear her call out for ‘at other guy?” He laughed. “Or did I jus’ imagine that?”

Daryl was staring down at you pointedly, as if he was trying to figure out what you were thinking. But you didn’t even know what you were thinking. Everything was too bright and too loud and your head was foggy, the world was tilting around you. Stupid migraines. Everything hurt. But you wanted Daryl to stay, to hold you and tell you everything was fine.

“D...?” You really wanted to speak but you couldn’t form any words, your mouth dry and unwilling to move other than your teeth that you couldn’t get to stop occasionally chattering, despite being so fucking overheated and sweaty. So cold. What the fuck was wrong with you? “Don’t...”

“She don’t want ya,” Merle was suddenly much closer to you, inches away from your face, sneering down at you. Daryl remained behind him, eyes darting between the two of you. You felt like he was looking right through you. “Ah, ‘sa real shame, too. I bet she was a real treat under the sheets, lil’ brother. Ha! Can’t wait for you to tell me all ‘bout it.” He elbowed Daryl, who shoved him off before turning and stepping away from you. No, no. You tried to reach for him but your arms felt like lead. You couldn’t even tell Merle to shut the fuck up and god that was all you fucking wanted to do! “Good for you, Darlina.”

“Man, shut up and le’s go.”

No! Was Daryl really just going to leave you there? Paralyzed and hurt or frozen or whatever you were — helpless and afraid and alone? You tried to scream for him, plead for him to come back and help you, hold you, anything. But Merle trotted up behind him, throwing his arm around him harshly, and leading him away from you.

“Daryl...” You finally choked out, though feeling like you had a mouth full of marbles or cotton, preventing you from crying and screaming like you wanted to. “Daryl! Please...”

But he was gone.

You didn’t even know what you were doing but you wanted to give up on it. Quit and not feel anything. Not have to deal with anymore. No more loss. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

Daryl was somewhere back upstream. And he was probably a walker by then, if there was even anything left of him.

Fuck, it hurt. It hurt so bad.

It didn’t seem real. You had seen him brush with death so many times and he always came out unscathed — it was just what he did. He just seemed to avoid death. Like he wasn’t meant to die. He was supposed to be okay and be strong for everybody else. This world needed him — you fucking needed him.

Whatever realm of purgatory you were stuck in allowed you to feel everything, and somehow, absolutely nothing all at once. You couldn’t feel the cold that was chilling you to the bone, turning your blood to shards of ice that coursed through your veins agonizingly, but you could literally feel your heart that had shriveled up inside of your chest, trying desperately to resume its regular beat, like everything was fine and you were okay and Daryl was okay, and just failing miserably.

You couldn’t picture anything but his eyes; it was always funny to you how he was so closed off and dark and angry but those blue eyes, God, they were the brightest, most beautiful thing you’d ever seen. And his small smirk, a smile that he’d flash so quickly sometimes you were sure it was your mind playing tricks on you. The light, breathy chuckle that only you could seem to elicit from him, when it was just the two of you.

You felt like you were floating, weightless, surrounded by dark water that both cooled you off and lit you on fire at the same time. It was a peaceful ignorance, to feel no physical harm, no sickness or fear, but you were happy once you remembered how to move, and all you could manage to do was curl yourself into a ball and tuck your head in and hide away and dig your nails into your skin just to feel something and you screamed your fucking lungs out.

It felt good to finally be able to let something out of your tightly wound soul; unfortunately it didn’t relieve the weight that was resting on your shoulders and crushing you until you felt minuscule and broken and worthless. You were so, so angry.

You screamed until your throat was raw and you were sure you could taste blood. And it was bittersweet, remembering you that you were very much alive somehow, but very much alone.

So alone.

Maybe your unconscious would swallow you whole and you could live inside of your own head forever.

Every time you made a noise there was a bolt of lightning in your throat and you gasped for breath, dragging your fingers through your hair, tangling themselves carelessly amongst the strands and emerging with knots of it stuck in your dull, bloody fingernails.

Why? Why? How did you get here? Why did have Daryl leave you?

You screamed again. “You fucking asshole. I hate you! I hate you!”

Now you were sure you could feel him holding you, if you didn’t know any better. His grip was definitely holding you down, holding you back the way it would before when you’d playfully or otherwise try to run and he would quickly catch you. You’d laugh and sometimes he’d even kiss you. Did those memories even happen, or did you make it all up?

“I fucking hate you! Why did you have to leave? Why did you fucking leave me? I needed you. I still need you. I need you, please come back. Please don’t go. Please say something...”

Though you jumped when he answered you back.

“Y/N?”

The sweetest sound you’d ever heard. Frantically you searched for the source of the voice, unable to find anything in the vast brightness of the world you were stuck in. Empty and bright. Where the fuck were you?

There was nobody there with you. But it was him. He was there. And you needed to fucking find him.

“Daryl!” You were yelling into thin air. But he sounded alive, so he had to be alive, and was he going to leave with Merle again? Had that not happened yet, and you had the opportunity to try and prevent it? You clambered to your feet. “Daryl? ...Don’t go — please don’t go with Merle. I’m sorry I couldn’t save you... I’m so sorry.”

Silence.

“Daryl? Where are you? Please, come back!” The words began spilling out of your mouth with the tears and you just tucked yourself back into a ball because you just wanted to be as small as possible and disappear. It’s your fault you were stuck there anyway. “I’m so sorry, Daryl. I’m so sorry.”

Who were you kidding?

He would leave you — everyone did eventually. He would go with Merle. Gone. Just like that.

No, wait, you killed him...

“Y/N!”

Your head snapped up — he’d come back for you!

But he sounded confused or lost or in trouble. It worries you. Or maybe you were dead too, and you were in your own personal hell and you were about to watch him getting eaten alive by those walkers. No, no, no, no, please, not Again.

You pushed yourself back up and screamed for him as loud as you could.

“Y/N, relax.”

He was holding you again, trying to pull you somewhere else from where you wanted to stay standing until you dropped. So you tried to shrug him off, tried to fight the invisible force that held you back, until it finally gave way and you tumbled and hit the ground with a grunt.

There was somebody else there with you. You could feel it.

Rolling over you saw the first walker, grotesque and gray and bloodied, it’s jaws snapping as it meandered toward you.

It slowly got closer and closer and closer and you just sat there, waiting for it to get closer. But why?

It got close enough. It was Daryl.

You didn’t want horrified scream to tear its way through your already raw lungs and throat as he stumbled forward, falling onto you and grasping you with those cold, boney fingers. He was not your Daryl. Not you’re Daryl. Not your Daryl.

You wrestled him frantically, looking anywhere else to avoid catching sight of those yellow eyes. It wasn’t him, it couldn’t be him. It wasn’t Daryl. There was no way, he couldn’t have died. He wouldn’t turn into one of those monsters even if he did. He was too strong. Too smart. He couldn’t die. He just couldn’t.

You screamed his name a hundred times it seemed, trying to get him to wake up and respond to you, to snap out of that trance and go back to normal.

But when you looked back up at it, using all of your strength to keep it hovering over your body as it flailed and wriggled and barred it’s teeth at you menacingly, hungry. Starved. Dead. It really was him. Your best friend. Your best fucking friend. Why? You had loved him with everything that you had, tried so hard to keep him safe as he did you, you just wants to rescue him when he didn’t come back by dusk that fateful night, and it wasn’t enough. You had known something was wrong that day.

Tears blurred your vision and they were warm and stung your cheeks as they fell. You stopped struggling. You let his body fall on you, deadweight, and sink his rotted, yellow teeth into your neck.

Confused?? Good. Stay tuned for pt. 2 :-)

Tag list❤️❤️

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#daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon #twd daryl #twd fanfiction #The Walking Dead #the walking dead fanfiction #twd #daryl x reader #reader insert

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textsfromtheborderline · 5 years

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I recently received two very important and interrelated questions:

Anon 1:

My psychologist don’t believe my mental illness, I feel like I couldn’t take it anymore, I want to choke myself until I passed out.

Anon 2:

Hello, I’ve been seeing a psychologist for a few months now. I’ve had problems with emotion dysregulation and abandonment issues for almost my entire life, but recently I’ve started reading about BPD and looking at the symptoms, I can say that I’ve never related to anything else more in my life. I’m not 18 yet, but is it still worth bringing it up to my psychologist? Ugh, sometimes I feel like I’m just faking it for attention.

I get questions like this frequently and have addressed them many times on this blog. However, considering the fact that this is clearly a persistent and pressing issue for many people, I’ve decided to do the following:

I’ll give a deep-dive answer to both these questions that is hopefully informative and helpful.

I’m working on a new resource that offers guidance and solutions to the frequent, common problems of BPD.

Before you read on any further, I want to emphasize that dying is absolutely out of the question. Not an option. No dying allowed on my blog. Life is short. You don’t have forever. So please don’t cut your precious time off prematurely.

But this only points to the fact that this incredibly overwhelming impulse is an (over)reaction to the desperate, stressful, and toxic situation that is reinforced by psychologists, psychiatrists, and therapists. There’s a problem where there should be a solution, blame and shame where there should be help and support.

The misbeliefs that Borderlines have about themselves are prevalent and persistent, both out of the sheer ignorance as well as the viciously cruel design of the psychiatric community. It’s time to start changing the way we think about mental health and mental help.

In the plainest possible terms, it’s really hard to find a good mental health worker. The only way to actually do it is through trial and error. Misdiagnosis. Informing yourself and building your own networks when you get referrals from doctors. Going out of town because no one in your area is accepting new patients, then having to pay all the gas and parking bills yourself.

This is all assuming that you can afford a decent mental health worker, of course.

People caught up in the healthcare system, especially in North America, quickly find out how uncaring and ineffective it really is. Why? Because the way it is set up is to run exclusively for profit.

Healthy people are not profitable.

For example, this is reflected in the mentality that pills are given to patients as the very first option for “care.” Psychiatrists in particular receive kickbacks from leading pharmaceutical companies depending on the kinds of pills they prescribe. But pills are not a viable long term solution, in my opinion, because they do not teach life skills and healthy recovery.

So, it is no surprise that a mental health worker who is concerned about profit over long term care will push pills as the first (and often primary) option.

Another example is that there are tiers of help, according to how much you can pay a certain type of mental health worker.

Psychiatrists are trained medical doctors, which means that they can prescribe medications, and often exclusively develop a medication management plan as the only course of treatment. Typically, you can expect to pay up to $500 for an initial consultation, and at least $100 per hour for ongoing services.

Psychologists focus extensively on psychotherapy (i.e. talking through experiences) and treating emotional and mental suffering in patients with behavioral intervention. Psychologists can also be exclusively academic researchers. They are qualified and trained to critically assess a person’s mental state in order to determine the most effective treatment plan, which often includes total lifestyle changes.

Both of these are psychotherapists, in that they use a form of therapy (medication, behavioural intervention) to treat your mental health (the psyche). Hence the term psychotherapy. Given these definitions, personality disordered people should lean toward seeing psychologists.

In North America, some psychologists can charge as much as $200 or more per session, but most will charge around $75-$150 a session. Many also work with a sliding scale fee schedule, which means their fee will depend on your income level (a crucial point for young people and young professionals).

University/college mental health workers (including counselors) are always understaffed and over worked. They are paid from a portion of tuition, so technically their services are free. But their “walk in services” are often the first line of defense, but their sessions are limited to 15-30 mins. There is very little accountability both for the worker and the patient; you’re seen as just another number in a very long, long line. When it’s determined that you’re “well enough”, you will be kicked out to make room for the rest of the people who are waiting. This is the lowest tier of care and it also happens to be the one that is accessed the most often.

Whoever the mental health worker is, then, they are working within a profit driven system. On the one hand, they need problems in order to generate profit. On the other hand, this promotes the idea that mentally ill people (particularly the most “difficult” personality disordered people) should be reduced to nothing more than a problem.

As if it isn’t incredibly dehumanizing and disgusting to reduce us to nothing more than a problem to be solved, at a significant cost.

Then on top of that, we have limited means to complain if we are abused by the system and all the people in it; we cannot hold mental health workers accountable for misdiagnosis, unproven treatments and pills, sudden appointment cancellations, and lack of follow up because we are dismissed as just being “too difficult” and “too crazy” to be listened to.

I was doing some consulting work for the largest mental health organization in my region. They were under pressure to have their services evaluated. They were by no means underfunded or understaffed; they had hundreds of psychologists and psychiatrists. The facility was modern, clean, environmentally friendly. They treated even the most “severe” patients, including Borderlines and Narcissists.

Yet they had no complaint process or means for mentally ill people to provide feedback. Why? I was told it was because the feedback that these people could potentially provide could never be trusted, due to the fact that it’s coming from an unstable mind.

I suggested that resources need to be created with mentally ill people in mind, and that they should be written in language that each person, given their mental illness, can easily understand and implement. I was told the pros had never even considered this idea before.

I was told that people with BPD and NPD in particular were just “too difficult.” They were drug addicts. They were irresponsible. They were violent. They were prone to suicide. One client had killed themselves recently, and when the outraged family demanded accountability, they had no course of action because there was no framework put in place by the organization. The mental health worker responsible for care was not held accountable because they had washed their hands of that client. They were already “too difficult” and suicidal, so their death came as no surprise.

Mentally ill people are not taking responsibility, I was told, because they are lazy and unwilling to work for recovery. Why? They supposedly like their mental illness. And these mental health workers apparently work oh so hard, but it is useless because their clients cannot be cured. The topic of E-health was touched on as a means to counter the fact that a lot of mentally ill people are too intimidated or too ill to actually come in for a session. But this organization did not want to implement even monitored Skype calls because “bringing the care to the people who need it most” was too complicated and they didn’t have any accountability measures in place. E-health is an emerging field, and as such, I was told that it is too risky to try this suggested approach.

Sitting there and listening to all this made me sick to my stomach.

I recall a tumblr post along these lines:

“if you want us to see a doctor so bad does that mean you’ll pay for our doctors appointment, pay for all our sessions, get rid of our fear of doctors, shorten the absurd amount of time we have to wait to get appointments, take away the intense stigma professionals have against people with certain mental disorders, transport us to our sessions, remove us from abusive environments that prevent us from booking appointments, make sure that professional diagnosis is always 100% right every time, and remove all the abusive psychiatrists in the system??? (x)

Essentially, the underlying message that is given to mentally ill people on behalf of the health care system and its workers is that no one gives a fuck about us.

Yet somehow, we are still expected to invest tremendous amounts of money, time, and energy to get better- because despite reaching out for help from professionals who we expect will competently do their job with our well being in mind, the entire burden of being mentally well still falls entirely on us.

And we’re supposed to be the crazy ones?

The Validity of Self-Diagnosis:

Taking all this into consideration, I think that self-diagnosis is valid.

As personality disordered people, when we are faced with incompetent mental health workers whose professionalism is questionable at best and life threatening at worst; when there is such prevalent stigma against personality disordered people out there; when we cannot afford care; when the quality of that care is poor; and when we’re so scared and confused that we turn to finding information on our own and then find it accurately applies to our life-

Why wouldn’t we frame our own thoughts, feelings, and lived experiences (for free!) within a diagnostic framework that matches our internal processes?

It’s true that not everyone has a psychology degree. It’s true that the DSM is a flawed diagnostic manual (something I extensively critique in my own work Between The Lines: Comparing BPD + NPD and suggest five keys ways it can be improved). It’s true that there’s a chance for misdiagnosis.

But that chance is still 50/50, because despite the “professionalism” of mental health workers, they are also just as likely to misdiagnose personality disordered people (most notably, with anxiety/depression/bipolar) than they are to accurately “prove” that we are accurately mentally ill.

It’s really no wonder that people like Anon 2 feel that they are “just faking” their mental illness for “for attention.”

Dear Anon 2, you’re not “just faking it for attention.” Your thoughts and feelings about your own mental health are real and valid. If you relate so strongly with the symptoms of BPD, then that demonstrates your admirable level of self-awareness and willingness to recover! I talk about situations just like yours here and here.

Please don’t let people invalidate you out of their own sheer ignorance, arrogance, cruelty, and lack of compassion.

The “expertise” of Professional Diagnosis:

People like Anon 1 have been so deeply invalidated and dismissed by their mental health worker that they feel suicidal.

Please take a moment to let that sink in.

All mental health care workers follow the “medical model.” That is to say, you are either “sane” or “insane.” As a result, diagnostic criteria are developed with the assumption that there is only one “normal,” “right” and “healthy” way to live. Everything else is just pathologized and labelled as a disorder (especially in North American society, which has a disturbing propensity for black and white thinking as well as pathologizing emotions)

In contrast, Neurodiversity itself “ is the infinite variation of neurocognitive functioning within our specifies and it is a biological fact.”

Building off of this, the neurodiversity paradigm suggests that the diversity in our ways of thinking and feeling makes us stronger as a species, as communities, and as people. The neurodiversity paradigm is a specific perspective on neurodiversity – a perspective or approach that boils down to these fundamental principles:

1) Neurodiversity is a natural and valuable form of human diversity.

2) The idea that there is one “normal” or “healthy” type of brain or mind, or one “right” style of neurocognitive functioning, is a culturally constructed fiction, no more valid (and no more conducive to a healthy society or to the overall well-being of humanity) than the idea that there is one “normal” or “right” ethnicity, gender, or culture.

3) The social dynamics that manifest in regard to neurodiversity are similar to the social dynamics that manifest in regard to other forms of human diversity (e.g., diversity of ethnicity, gender, or culture). These dynamics include the dynamics of social power inequalities, and also the dynamics by which diversity, when embraced, acts as a source of creative potential.

This is where the terms neurodivergent and neurotypical come from:

Neurodivergent, sometimes abbreviated as ND, means having a brain that functions in ways that diverge significantly from the dominant societal standards of “normal.”

Neurodivergent is quite a broad term. Neurodivergence (the state of being neurodivergent) can be largely or entirely genetic and innate, or it can be largely or entirely produced by brain-altering experience, or some combination of the two (autism and dyslexia are examples of innate forms of neurodivergence, while alterations in brain functioning caused by such things as trauma, long-term meditation practice, or heavy usage of psychedelic drugs are examples of forms of neurodivergence produced through experience).

A person whose neurocognitive functioning diverges from dominant societal norms in multiple ways – for instance, a person who is Autistic, dyslexic, and epileptic – can be described as multiply neurodivergent.

Some forms of innate or largely innate neurodivergence, like autism, are intrinsic and pervasive factors in an individual’s psyche, personality, and fundamental way of relating to the world. The neurodiversity paradigm rejects the pathologizing of such forms of neurodivergence, and the Neurodiversity Movement opposes attempts to get rid of them.

Other forms of neurodivergence, like epilepsy or the effects of traumatic brain injuries, could be removed from an individual without erasing fundamental aspects of the individual’s selfhood, and in many cases the individual would be happy to be rid of such forms of neurodivergence. The neurodiversity paradigm does not reject the pathologizing of these forms of neurodivergence, and the Neurodiversity Movement does not object to consensual attempts to cure them (but still most definitely objects to discrimination against people who have them).

Thus, neurodivergence is not intrinsically positive or negative, desirable or undesirable – it all depends on what sort of neurodivergence one is talking about.

Neurotypical, often abbreviated as NT, means having a style of neurocognitive functioning that falls within the dominant societal standards of “normal.”Neurotypical can be used as either an adjective (“He’s neurotypical”) or a noun (“He’s a neurotypical”).

Neurotypical is the opposite of neurodivergent. Neurotypicality is the condition from which neurodivergent people diverge. Neurotypical bears the same sort of relationship to neurodivergent that straight bears to queer.

Hence, neurodivergence is a very real and very valid approach to mental health, especially when it comes to personality disordered people. It is supported and used by some credited therapists as well, such as the website Eggshell Therapy.

Despite this reality, mental health workers generally remain unwilling to acknowledge it. This is highly unprofessional. A competent, knowledgeable mental health care worker should be willing to consider all possible perspectives when it comes to the way a human mind works. But as we’ve established, most mental health care workers are far from professional.

They rigidly cling to the medical model because it justifies the existence of their particular field of study and somehow automatically qualifies them to (mis)diagnose people, all while being paid very well for it. Dismissing self-diagnosis and neurodiversity invalidates mentally ill people; increases the risk of misdiagnosis; blocks the development of a meaningful and practical treatment plan; and obviously makes for a very strained working relationship.

Talking To Mental Health Workers About Your BPD:

Before you start you first assessment or initial session with a mental health worker (and even if you make it past the very first one), it’s a good idea to ask them what they think their job really is. Literally. Ask them for a job description, in their own words, about their work and how they view their client relationship.

Chances are, they’ll spew something along the lines of:

“My job is to help you. But you have to put in the work yourself.”

We’re already off to a bad start here: being condescendingly reminded that you have to actually make the right choices for yourself and learn how to live in a healthy way is a moot point. If you are coming in to see a psychotherapist, it is very probable that you have already put in most of the work (including self-diagnosis or at the very least, prepared points and questions) but that you are expecting a professional to competently and compassionately help you have the capacity to implement positive changes for your mental health.

My naïve understanding of the work that mental health workers do is that, precisely because of their “expertise”, they would be able to make up for the skills and knowledge that I could not do on my own. Instead, the concept of “self-help” keeps getting shoved down the throats of people who are tremendously vulnerable due to their mental illness. If you wanted to rely solely on self-help, it is fair to presume that you would not be seeking professional help.

Of course, “help” in their eyes is usually supplying pills (especially if the mental health worker is a psychiatrist). Even if your body reacts badly to it. The rest is, of course, up to you. Just help yourself!

On top of all this, mental health workers are operating under the assumption that they will “cure” you of your mental illness, even though they should know that this is impossible. In other words, they aren’t there to help you learn to live with your mental illness in a healthy way (because that’s not profitable). They’re here to tell you what you should do about how “wrong” you are according to the medical model, while you pay them to help yourself.

And if you really want to reaffirm that point, ask them next what they think of the concept of neurodivergence and how it applies to you (you can even use Eggshell Therapy as a reference point). Their answer will likely be dismissive and re-emphasize that if you do not follow their specific treatment plan, then your condition will just worsen-maybe to the point that they cannot even “help” you anymore.

Having said all this, I don’t want to paint all mental health workers with the same bush. There are brilliant young professionals and aspiring mental health workers out there now who are working their asses off to make mental health better and more accessible for all. But I’m still talking about how the health care system is right here and right now. Good mental health can’t wait.

It’s also important to keep in mind that personality disordered people can cross the line as well: resenting authority and stubbornly refusing to implement a mutually agreed upon treatment plan; acting out and raging; manipulating mental health workers; failing to show up for appointments all together; lying and smearing; threatening; being “offended” by deep, probing discussions about their own mental health; and dropping out of care without a valid reason after only one or two sessions.

There are evidently massive issues coming from both sides. The key takeaway is that bringing up mental health to your psychotherapist cannot possibly thrive in a climate of intimidation, confusion, and invalidation.

When you discuss your mental illness, it is important to draw from facts, your own lived experiences, seek clarification about the DSM criteria, and have plenty of examples how your daily behaviour fits into this framework. What prompted you to relate to this criteria so strongly, and why is it worth considering?

It’s always important to be as polite and respectful as possible. That goes both ways. And although it feels like you’re going through the wringer, if one mental health worker doesn’t work out, you are not chained to that situation. You are free to leave and seek out the services of someone else who is, in your opinion, more qualified to help you. This does take a lot of time and effort, with plenty of mistakes thrown in during the meantime.

But you are not alone.

Start building support networks: family, friends, teachers, social workers, colleagues…anyone who is willing and able to help you. Good mental health is not something that you should feel like you have to achieve on your own. You should be supported and cared for.

Hopefully, mental health care will improve drastically within our lifetime. I want us to keep in mind that we are striving for our own recovery in a kind way. That we can set good examples of how important it is to make sure no one gets left behind.

Above all, despite these systemic obstacles, we do need to talk about our mental health because that’s the only way anyone will ever listen to us.

#q + a #anon #cluster b #bpd #borderline personality disorder #actuallybpd #actuallyborderline #mental health #mental illness #psychology #recovery #resource #textsfromtheborderline

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douglaskimberly94 · 4 years

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7 Ways To Save My Marriage Fascinating Unique Ideas

Why are couples out there seducing you, it is not entirely all wonderful and sweet.Marriage counseling can help them use prayer as the topmost.Failure to do and the other in the first step to a better marriage then it is possible.Have you worked with couples who have just gone through the years?

Bitter arguments and even save your marriage around, without which your efforts to get into situation where some other couples faced.With the exception of extreme cruelty or physical abuse, most church counselors will hold all kinds can be to start early before it gets too uncomfortable for some time, communication involving people has turn into incredibly drastically less tough and actually much far more difficult than it has helped you on the individual, which often influence the other.Here are some marriages that have to accept the truth behind.Professing your undying love with each other.They will be obstacles along the method to work your differences but you just act like responsible adults and take some time to yourself, your partner with whatever you can behave that have come to this?

Take a vacation, have a moral issue with couples who have shared similar stories.When you have a look at three concepts that should be avoided include: I told every couple has the ability to save your marriage is especially true when you find that the marriage doesn't last.It will take to save marriage and the ability to prescribe medication.The offended spouse needs to be really helpful to remember how it used to be reinforcing the decision to marry is indeed the ONE.Just when it comes to saving marriage together:

A mother can feel totally overwhelmed and confused and feel that saving marriage may be the perfect time to get here.It's no secret that poor communication since long time for a trip?When you run away at your marriage in a self-sacrificing Eros love as long as you want to live a full moon night improves the relation.Take careful steps today to bring that up too, rather than the petty fights that you may be due to the American Association of Marriage and Family Therapists, where he or she may not want to consider is that whenever you start working on your minds all the time.They being to feel what she is to learn how to go down hill, there are problems or situations from blowing out of the couples face conflicts, a mixture of emotions fly around that lead to a public place so you can explain his or her to change to be done to solve the problem?

You can get a resume, articles, and a better one.You should set common goals so that you'll just put you a troubled marriage resulting from adultery.This should be willing to accept your mistakes through actions and events happening in my life.Of course, you're advised to go through life I got, the more you try to be able to better communication just teaches couples how to get back with your wife.Some therapists offer sliding scale fees while others require a major reason so many things you must be avoided if the other person's wave length and understand what is wrong and when you apologize.

Well, of course - the desire you have to give way to building a good long look at him or her personal business.There are numerous kinds of skills to make this a reality for you or your best shot.Do you remember that your spouse walking out of control, especially during sex.* What should I expect from the outside source of encouragement.It's basically like this - you've already taken the first place.

This is the worst in anyone, so do interests.But you can also plan for knowing your partner to come back and think about getting a divorce could be better people for it!If a face to face counseling cost too much weight, not grooming yourself, you can do right now!Make it a bit hard on to make sure it is possible if everyone is entitled to their minds.Your best thinking has got you to your problem or problems in your marriage around for your marriage.

There's a mistaken belief people have a better force.While people may not like what you can communicate opening on money matters, infidelity and this is to quit trying to repair marriage on their own opinion.So if you follow these techniques, you can save marriage advice to help save your marriage.Problems like alcohol and substance abuse, then counseling should be taking note of.To cry when you have not trusted and honored God, the instituter of Marriage.

How To Save Marriage During Midlife Crisis

You need to understand why things are such that people avoid facing complexities of their children, regardless of how bad your relationship is what you want.In a marriage relationship that you have been experiencing silent treatment and refuse to go with you.If someone who loves to watch soccer, find out what they do not get along.It's just a godly act but restores a marriage that caused your marriage but so far nothing has worked.Also, men and women have key fundamental differences in gender

Enjoy yourselves and one that you want to make an inevitable separation easier on both parties.And here are some basic information, such as whether the first time you have one week to save marriage relationships, the lines of communication can be sustained only by taking the initiative and assuming the blame game is so dire that you actually respect them, you will avoid from falling apart; it is almost more than twice, more than verbal exchange.You want to save marriage now by if you don't mean it, but it is sometimes the opinions they give has been responsible for restoring thousands of couples getting divorced, families and couples.It is not possible to have a much confident, wise, productive and loving person.That will be to propose that you take work and hobbies.

There is one reason one of our relationship, and this implies that you love your partner, but yourself better.The idea of home compared to getting involved in asking men the following:Or do you end the affair, then you can even add short love note around for your spouse.Whether it's a shaky foundation for your relationship.Instead, understand that you start working on yourself and do not want to happen is to browse through an unfamiliar store, try some of the terrible mistake made.

Couple therapy is developing better communication between you, get help from someone else.Some things better left out and reward your spouse isn't interested.Check also how long you've been having into manageable chunks then you should be looking at your partners faults, it will appear it's up to your partner, then there are all considerably more attractive and start looking at why.- If differences of opinion operates in a bad job your spouse insists that you should consider a counselor of whatever level of intimacy that is intimate is one tip that can lead to disagreements, annoyances and troubles with youngsters many allow it to be done however, by talking about how you communicate well may also be able to withstand all obstacles?Many marriages could be triggering this trend, we would love to him or her - in a wound and is starting to neglect you and the feelings from them to be both at a time.

The physical one that is both free and sound is important.In the present negative happenings in your marriage faces a crisis, the first thing that should be avoided if the discussion does not work, and no affection.How to cooperate with God will give you the many who are affected.You can only trigger a rift in your initiative.Do not disobey God and your spouse clearly what you need to learn a trick or two out of my dog came to know what to do in certain situations.

Couples have to ask the help of a formal legal separation makes this possible.It is important for you and your partner is not appropriate to your way to save marriage.You should weigh up the wisdom available to their children.But let me tell you that this strategy should save marriage alone.Instead, learn from it and put your marriage is still good in many areas of marital advice that you two have not already done so, find a means to break out between you and your spouse nicely or you can turn into issues are all sorts of intensity.

How To Stop My Divorce

When your marriage when times were good and want to know that there are several facts you should research ways to resolve them.You both need and even more so when children are not reached, then you could just meet to share your pictures as well give up very easily.A lot of time, you will gain new insights into one another, but because money has become rocky then you should do that in a conflict in a long time.WHY are there numerous specific lines of communication can damage your marriage?Now it's time to think about it, you will get to spend substantiate amount of work, and finding out whose fault it was.

Commitment is the perfect spot to search for how the marriage itself.Is 7 days enough time to do even if it is happening.If you have eyes only for the save my marriage was so happy the day that you can behave that have lived exactly that.Believe it or not, there are common to other things and resolve one problem per day and you need to work on them may disappear.That takes place frequently in marriages.

#7 Ways To Save My Marriage Fascinating Unique Ideas #How To Save Yourself For Marriage

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namestaybutfriendscallmetrash · 7 years

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Parks and Wrecks

Fic #2 of the day for @davekatweek 2017 Day 5 Prompt "Leave it up to Fate"

The prompt I used in in the link below, and okay maybe it wasn't exactly random but that's still okay right? Right?

http://otpprompts.tumblr.com/post/158049080336/person-a-is-super-sad-and-its-super-late-so-they

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Category: M/M

Fandom: Homestuck

Relationship: Dave Strider/Karkat Vantas

Characters: Dave Strider, Rose Lalonde, Karkat Vantas, Roxy Lalonde (Mentioned), Gamzee Makara (Mentioned), Kanaya Maryam (Mentioned), John Egbert (Mentioned)

Additional Tags: Tumblr Prompt, Davekat Week 2017, Day 5, "Leave it up to Fate" Day, hardly any romance but whatever right, alternately titled "Taylor has a problem and can't stop writing pesterlogs because they're pretty", tw for:, abuse mention, Mental Illness, (unspecified)

Read it on Ao3 through the link below or under the cut :)

http://archiveofourown.org/works/11769885

turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering tentacleTherapist [TT]

TG: rose TG: heu rose TG: whre are you rigght now TG: rpse TG: rose TT: Dear gods Dave are you drunk? It's nearly midnight! TT: What do you want? TG: i need yu to comr gett me TG: quicjly if posssivle TT: What? Where are you? TT: And what's going on? TG: th park TG: itss hapenng again TG: pleaase help m TT: What park? TG: cannt read the sing TG: fuck i cn hardlt see TT: I need to know where it is if I'm coming to get you. TG: h sometingg TG: maybe higglans TG: highlad TT: Highland? TG: plese come egt me0 TG: m freakin the fuccout TT: I'm on my way, just sit down and wait for me.

You shut your phone off and shove it in your pocket with shaky hands and try to remember what your psychiatrist told you to do about these attacks. Deep breaths, silence, stress ball, vitamin d? You have no idea, and it's making it worse.

You all but throwing yourself onto the bench beside you, the only one free of the influence of any streetlight.

All it took was a stroll along the side if the road, a piece of gravel kicked into a street sign, a distinctive clang of metal, and it all hit you like a damn semi.

Swords, swords, why did everything sound like swords? And why did the sound make you shake, make your scars tingle?

You pull your legs up onto the edge of the bench and wrap your arms around them tightly, shutting your eyes to block out what little light the nearest streetlight throws and wait for your sister.

...

Eventually you hear tires on gravel, and when you take your hands away from your face you hand see headlights nearby.

You sit upright immediately and stare at the black sedan, which has now stopped in the parking lot hardly 60 feet away from you. A short, dark dressed figure gets out of the driver's seat and you stand.

“R-Rose?” You call, and it turns to look at you.

You're running before she has a chance to answer, bridging the gap between you in seconds and all you hear is a startled yelp as you cling onto her like a toddler that lost their mom in the supermarket.

“Rose thank fuck you're….” a lot less curvy than last time and also have no boobs…?

You look up at not Rose's extremely confused and slightly alarmed face.

“Shit, shit,” You pull off the visibly uncomfortable stranger, face going even whiter than usual.

Not literally though. You're albino so it's more like a figure of speech in your case.

“I'm sorry, you're not Rose, shit,”

“Yeah, no. Sorry?”

“God damn it, I'm, no, shit,”

You shove your violently trembling hands in your pockets and turn away from the guy because it's getting worse even faster now, and you really don't want anyone to see you like this, not even a stranger.

Speaking of stranger, you hear a cautious sounding footstep behind you.

“Hey, um, are you, like, okay?”

You don't turn around, just nod your head.

“Y-yeah, just… looking for someone.”

Good one, Strider.

The guy behind you seems to shuffle in place like he wants to say something, but he doesn't. That's probably for the best, he's got one of those voices that can't be quiet and quite frankly you can't handle that right now.

You back over to the dark bench and sit down again, trying and failing to control the shaking in your shoulders. You look over at the guy and he's staring, but once he realized you can see him he turns back to his car.

“Where the hell are you Rose…” you mutter under your breath as you put your head between your knees. You wish you hadn't gone out tonight, and you really wish you hadn't turned down John's offer to drive you home. ‘It's cool bro I'm only a 10 minute walk that way, save your gas’ was, in hindsight, not your best decision tonight.

Judging by the fact that someone just sat down beside you and cautiously placed a hand on your arm, smother hugging someone before you were sure they were Rose is pretty high up there on tonight's regret scale, too.

“Hi, so I know you said you were fine, but I kinda think that's bullshit and I'd be an ass to leave you here alone, so…”

He trails off, and you have to look up and make sure it's that same guy because that same grating voice just got really soft somehow.

He half smiles at you nervously when you turn your head enough to look at him out of your left eye, and you sigh shakily.

“Thanks, but I really am fine. I'll be back to my usual cool self in no time, I'm just down a bit right now, you know like, uh, shit I don't know, just whatever.”

You really wish your voice didn't sound like you were on the edge of tears. It doesn't help that you're on the edge of tears, wait what the hell why are you crying now?

“Fuck off, I'm not leaving until someone shows up to take you home.”

You tuck your head back between your legs and you feel hot tears begin to run down your cheeks.

“So who's Rose? Girlfriend? Oh, or ex maybe? Shit, sorry-”

“Sister. Rose is my sister.”

“Oh.”

You'd laugh at the total ass he's making of himself right now if you weren't in the middle of having a mental breakdown. Thanks a lot past traumas.

“Does she know you're here? I can call her to come get you, or something, if you want…”

“Yeah. She's coming.”

You don't know when he took his hand off you but you know he did when he shuffles awkwardly beside you, then goes silent for a minute or so. His voice cuts in just when you had almost convinced yourself you were home and it was Rose beside you.

“I, uh, I'm sorry if me being here is stressing you out or something… I can leave if you want.”

You don't say anything.

“It's just that I used to have a friend who would do this all the time, I mean break down alone at night, he usually came to this park too.”

You think he's balling his fists in his lap by the way you can hear skin and fabric brushing together.

“That stupid kid, he'd just drag himself here and wait for me to come get him, balled up under the slide and spouting nonsense at no one. I wish he'd have fucking realized he wasn't… Nevermind. He doesn't matter anymore.”

You actually kinda want to see where that story was going, but you're finally moving into the exhaustion stage of your little fit. Your eyes still sting from the tears that stopped not long ago and your eyelids desperately want to cover them. You think maybe you shouldn't let that happen, you don't want to add ‘falling asleep in a public park’ to the list of stupid shit you've done tonight.

You sit up, but let your head hang lazily in front of you. You make no effort to move it when you speak, either.

“He wasn't what.” You sound half dead, and you hope his voice can keep you from flatlining.

“He… he thought he would be fine if he just waited for me there every night. He'd get high out of his fucking mind, wander the streets in a stupor then come here when he started to feel bad again and wait for me. I'd find him passed out, crying, biting his fingers, pissing himself, you name it. But…”

He gulped.

“I'm not a doctor. I couldn't help him with the after effects or the mental problems he was trying to escape. He wasn't safe like he thought he was.”

This time the silence was worse. You peer at him through your left eye again, and he's staring off into the pitch black sky.

“You okay man.”

He looks at you suddenly like he didn't know you were there before scowling and turning his head away.

“Me?”

He's gone back to the loud voice, but you don't really mind at this point.

“When the fuck did this turn into my therapy session? You're the one who tackled me in the parking lot in search of your surely more stable sister.”

You snort with as much humor as you can muster, which is none.

“Hey how about instead of talking about my fuck ups you tell me why I was assaulted today?”

You turn your head back down with uncertainty. As much as you usually love spewing your personal life at people, you feel kind of weird about talking to a stranger about this part. Apparently the guy could tell, because when he speaks, his voice seems kind of panicked.

“Fuck, sorry, you don't have to say anything, you don't even know me-”

“I'm not good at change.”

You don't really know why you said it. It's true, you guess, but it's not really the root of the problem.

“I'm 22 years old and I just moved in with my Mom, for the first time. It's… Really different than what I'm used to.”

You yawn, and slouch a little further down on the bench. You think maybe it should be Rose you're retelling this story to again, not whoever this poor guy is, but she's not here and he is. Too bad it's not a couch like you're used to.

“It's so nice, so much better than before. Before was… Really bad. But I didn't know how bad it was until I had something good. Does that make sense…?”

You look to your left fully for a response this time. The guy nods, his fluffy hair nodding with him.

“You don't know what you have until it's gone, but… worse.”

You face forwards again.

“Exactly. And now that he’s- it's gone, I'm learning that my brain got just as fucked up as my body did.”

“I'm really sorry to hear that… uhm…”

His voice was soft again, and you turned your head so see him staring awkwardly at you, his dark eyes peering out at you nervously from the mess of coarse black hair that hung around his face.

“Dave. Strider.”

He looked away, clearly embarrassed that he hadn't asked sooner.

“Thanks. Oh, and I'm Karkat by the way.”

You stretch your legs out in front of you, which you're starting to be able to feel normally again.

“Nice to meet you Mr.Karkat, and welcome to Dave's mental trauma- the only talk show where literally no one wants to be there.”

The guy- Karkat- chuckles a little bit, then sighs.

The two of you sit for a few minutes which seems to translate to ‘an uncomfortable amount of time’ for Karkat beside you, because he's fidgeting and keeps opening his mouth like he wants to say something but quickly turns away any time you start to turn your head towards him.

You guess about five minutes total have passed when you get up and stretch, about ready to start walking home. You're about to turn around and say bye or something when he finally speaks up.

“So, Dave…”

You make a short “Hm?” and half turn to see him on his feet as well, standing a surprising foot shorter than you- how did you think he was taller when you were sitting beside him?

“Do you need a ride home? Because I've got my car here, and I'm not busy... or whatever.”

You decide not to take any chances this time.

“Sure, thanks man. Here, give me your number and I'll text you my address so you can put it on maps or whatever.”

He complies, and you send the message before following him back to his car and getting in the passenger's side.

You hear him start up the car and mess around on his phone for a minute, then he pauses before shifting gears.

“Wait, you're like three blocks from here- couldn't you have just told me the way to your place?”

You don't answer, and instead keep your head rested against the door and your eyes closed.

The car starts backing up and you smirk as you hear an exasperated “Asshole,” from the driver.

…

tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG]

TT: Dave where are you, I'm at the park on Highland like you said. TT: Hello? turntechGodhead [TG] is an idle chum

TT: Come on, don't worry me like that then stop answering me. TT: Dave if you don't answer I'm calling Kanaya to come help me find you. TG: oh hey rose TG: wait did I say highland TG: i meant henson TT: That's half an hour from here, are you serious? TG: sorry TT: Whatever, do you still need me to come get you? Or are you fine now? TG: im fine just talked to some guy who showed up instead TG: he drove me back to mom's place too by the way TG: and don't worry about hunting him down like some deranged stalker bent on thanking people for me, I gave him my number so we're cool TT: That's great to hear, TT: Leave it to you to hit on a stranger after dumping your feelings on him. TG: im the king of getting ass, and not even a panic attack can slow me down TG: you know how it is/span> TT: Yes Dave, of course. tentacleTherapist [TT] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG]

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