#how to talk to mental healthcare professionals

[just-antithings]

Anti-ism is psuedoscience and a moral panic rolled into one

One of the most dangerous things about therapyspeak leaving the intended audience is that now antis feel fully qualified to tell survivors how they should and should not be coping, even to the point of attempting to override/contradict the advice of certified therapists.

I've had antis tell me the fiction I enjoy writing is retraumatizing myself, that I am doing harm by writing it; when I responded that actually, my therapist signed off on the stories I wrote (even when I mentioned the specific phrase "consensual nonconsent"), they said that my therapist doesn't know what she's talking about since she sanctioned my coping mechanism and explicitly labels her practice as kink-positive. Antis are attempting to make me, a survivor with mental illness that could ultimately be fatal if I leave a psychologist's care, disregard the advice of the medical professional supervising me when they have no certification at all. This could, if I were a more vulnerable person, be dangerous for not only my trust in my therapist, but it could sabotage my treatment as well.

They are using what amounts to little more than memes, based on misinformation, that use a few intelligent-sounding phrases that very rarely apply the way they think they do, as a wedge to attempt to assert themselves as authorities who can, with certainty, dictate the appropriate course of treatment for a total stranger, including telling them to disregard the therapies administered by a trained professional.

In other words? Antis are frighteningly similar to anti-vaxxers, who took medical terminology they didn't understand, applied it to shaky cause-effect logic models, started a moral panic, used statements generated by that moral panic as a citogenesis-fueled proof their initial starting of the moral panic was justified, damaged the doctor-patient relationship of millions of total strangers, jeopardized the healthcare of those strangers who now believed their doctor to be incompetent for following accepted medical best practice, and fomented dangerous fringe political ideologies that coupled themselves to other conspiracies based on rejecting commonly-acknowledged practices.

"Vaccines cause autism! Narrative therapy that implements any form of controversial kink causes retraumatization of the writer, reader, or both, and starts the writer on an inescapable slippery slope to becoming an abuser themself! It's better to be dead than autistic! It's better to suffer feelings of shame and/or isolation in silence than it is to use fiction to put a voice to your feelings! Your child is vaccine-damaged from thimerosal and is getting sick from virus-shedding! Your fiction caused me to groom myself and you're a porn-addicted monster for not facing your trauma the proper way! Your doctor doesn't know what's good for you, I do! Only I understand how your body/mind work and what treatment is appropriate for you! Your doctor has been manipulated by Big Pharma/kink supporters! The empirical-study-informed best practices for pediatrics/psychology are what's wrong, not me, whose research is carefully informed by TikTok videos and Twitter posts carefully formulated to cause amygdalar growth to keep me afraid so I will continue to engage with fear-mongering content that causes my politics to shift towards the alt-right, who coincidentally also push narratives based in fear, not in medicine! I am being perfectly logical here!"

Antis fundamentally reject empirical medicine just the way anti-vaxxers do. They just seem to get a free pass on it since it's "only" mental healthcare they are sabotaging, and few people acknowledge it as something as legitimate and lifesaving as other medical care.

#submission #just anti things

[bolshefem]

if you think people are more empathetic to women than men you are straight up fucking delusional. men have proved themself almost INCAPABLE of empathy for women, and this is statistically and empirically supported. they are incapable of understanding that women have an internal life, do not see us as humans with emotions who exist external to them. look at the comments on a post of a man talking about self harm vs a woman. "men's mental health matters too🥺" "I'm proud of you" vs "attention whore" "sideways for attention downwards for results" "ugly bitch trying to get sympathy"

this is what happens for ANYTHING regarding sexual assault, mental health, suffering, trauma.

or an overweight man vs woman "keep your head up king👑" "you got this bro, I believe in you" "these women don't deserve you." (like totally unprompted not discussing relationships) Or often no comments on his weight at all if he's not talking about it. For a woman, no matter WHAT she is posting about "landwhale" "starve yourself" "put down the burger" "kys fat b*tch" and the most vile and insanely cruel comments The amount of threads and forums dedicated to eviscerating degrading and insulting overweight women on places like lolcow and kiwi farms and just social media in general and I genuinely have never seen one for a man. Same thing with things like facial deformities, the comments are unbelievably cruel to these women.

the level of vitriol is not even remotely comparable, and I don't even think it's mostly a double standard. I think they just lack the capacity to feel empathy towards women and perceive them as human and capable of feeling pain. Things are solely perceived in how they relate to them and thought to be performances for men. Women exist to serve them and if they don't give them a boner they don't deserve to be alive. If something, no matter how innocuous, pisses them off in the slightest they don't have a single qualm because they just don't view them as real people and full human beings with internal lives. women having emotions is inherently manipulative, anything they say or do is a performance for men. And like look at things such as the gender credibility gap https://www.tedxmilehigh.com/gender-credibility-gap/ Women are systematically less believed as witnesses in a courtroom, reporters, academic authorities, in claims of sexual assault, discrimination, or harassment.*

Women's reports of pain symptoms are less likely to be believed by doctors, and they are staggering more likely to not receive proper medication, go undiagnosed and untreated. Women are 32% more likely to die post-op if their surgeon is a man. "Womens' pain not taken as seriously as mens' pain. Researchers found that when male and female patients expressed the same amount of pain, observers viewed female patients' pain as less intense "(sciencedaily.com/releases/2021/04/210406164124.htm) "Nearly three-quarters of cases where a disease primarily affects one gender, the so-called “men's diseases” are overfunded, while the “women's diseases” are dramatically underfunded."

https://www.concernusa.org/story/gender-bias-in-healthcare/ https://www.washingtonpost.com/wellness/interactive/2022/women-pain-gender-bias-doctors/ https://www.medicalnewstoday.com/articles/gender-bias-in-medical-diagnosis#how-does-it-affect-diagnosis https://www.health.harvard.edu/blog/women-and-pain-disparities-in-experience-and-treatment-2017100912562 I could literally go on on this topic forever. The gender empathy gap is a form of epistemic violence against women.

* "Suicidal behaviour and self-harm in women can be viewed by family, health professionals and the community as attention-seeking, manipulative and non-serious, which can negatively influence how young women are treated." (Curtis, 2016) *Men with overweight tend to be perceived as wise or experienced, while women's credibility tends to decrease with excess weight... women seem to experience higher levels of weight stigmatization than men, even at lower levels of excess weight (Flint et al., 2016)

*Women are at greater risk for weight/height discrimination than men (Puhl et al, 2008)

*so many papers on this but "Across the board, women are perceived to be less credible than men. Especially women’s testimonies of rape and sexual harassment are widely trivialized and disregarded, even though reports of sexual abuse are not more likely to be false than reports of other crimes" (Schreurs, 2020) more like Mack, 1993

#RAMBLE #this was supposed to be like two paragraphs #sorry for the mess but worth a read

[she-is-ovarit]

I am on government insurance (Medicaid). Out of pocket, my psychologist's rate is $225 an hour. He went through a decade or more of school, obtained a PhD, and graduated with student loan debt. He didn't state how much, but I can imagine it's likely in the hundreds of thousands considering he still has this debt and graduated with his PhD in the early 2000s.

He shared with me that out of that $225 rate, he obtains about $25 from one Medicaid client's insurance company. The insurance company pockets the rest. My friend, another therapist, has a similar story. She makes $75 off of Medicaid clients usually when her rate out of pocket is $200.

Most therapists, psychologists, and psychiatrists are no longer accepting Medicaid/Medicare insurances because of this reason, which people who are poor are on. Over half of mental health professionals are no longer accepting insurance, period. I think we all understand that low-income people and low-income communities struggle the most with mental health issues, and if you are a person of color in the US you are more likely to be low-income. If you are a domestic violence survivor turned homeless because you left your significant other, you are also more likely to be on Medicaid. If you are a first generation student, you are most likely on Medicaid. If you are formerly incarcerated, you are most likely on Medicaid. And so on.

Additionally, if you are a human being of the female sex, you are far more likely to seek out therapy than someone of the male sex. Overwhelmingly men don't seek out therapy unless their female significant partner pleads with them, pressures them, or gives them an ultimatum which influences them to make an appointment. What does this mean when the vast majority of mass shooters, rapists, pedophiles, and domestic violence abusers are male?

Figure 2. Percentage of adults aged 18 and over who had received any mental health treatment, taken medication for their mental health, or received counseling or therapy from a mental health professional in the past 12 months, by sex: United States, 2019

Pair all of these details with the fact that mental health professionals are in such high demand right now, that even with private insurance the wait list is anywhere from three to six months out. Insurance agencies are business, and the corruption inherent. Many focus on prioritizing coverage for acute crisis rather than treating long term underlying conditions (which in turn prevents acute crises), don't provide coverage for co-occurring conditions, are advertising that more providers are accepting their insurance than there actually are, and are solely driven by financial interest.

I wonder how much domestic violence, sexual violence, child abuse, poverty, hate crimes, generational trauma, and overall suffering within individuals and in their societies can be reduced by valuing mental health and holding insurance companies accountable for their financial exploitation.

We talk about the US healthcare crisis without talking about the US mental health crisis.

#mental health #therapy #psychology #behavioral health #social work #capitalism #late stage capitalism #poverty #inequality #healthcare #United States healthcare

[trans-axolotl]

genuine question. what else are you supposed to do with people who WILL kill themselves the second they’re given free reign?

So this is always the question that comes up when I discuss the fact that psych wards are a form of incarceration. It can be really difficult to imagine alternatives for how to care for suicidal people when we've only ever seen psych wards, but I think that it is super important for us to do!

I think it's important to acknowledge that getting rid of psych wards would require a fundamental reshaping of the psychiatric system. So much of mental healthcare is connected to a fucked up, carceral system, where ableism is rampant. Mandatory reporting of self-harm laws, bullshit restrictions on medication, crisis hotlines that call the police--the psychiatric system is connected in a lot of big and small ways that all enable psych incarceration and mistreatment to happen. so it's not enough to just get rid of psych wards, we also have to change the wider landscape of mental healthcare.

secondly, I think we also need to look at factors that drive people into crisis in the first place. no matter what we change about society, there are always going to be people who are mentally ill and neurodivergent, and people are always going to be experiencing mental distress. so while getting rid of capitalism and fighting against oppression to create a better society won't change the fact that there are people in crisis, i think it might help to reduce the numbers of people. if our mental healthcare system wasn't so fucked, that maybe some people would be able to get help before things get to a crisis point for them. If medication was more accessible, if therapy wasn't super expensive, if there is more acceptance and education and resources and communities were better informed about how to support mentally ill people, then maybe not as many people would end up in some types of crisis. We can't talk about getting rid of psych wards without also talking about fighting against racism, colonialism, capitalism, transphobia--the things that are contributing to a lot of people's experiences of crisis.

But to really answer your question: in terms of actual physical replacements for psych wards, i think peer respite houses are really promising. peer respite houses are something that already exist in dozens of states, and they are spaces that offer 24/7 short term crisis stabilization in a home like environment. they have a very specific code of ethics and principles that define peer respite that makes it different from a hospital. To classify as peer respite, it has to be staffed by a people who have lived experience with mental health, which means that all professionals and staff there are also going to be people who are mentally ill and neurodivergent. Peer respite can offer a place for someone to be in direct contact with support 24/7 without locking people up. They're focused on reducing power imbalance between staff and patients, and don't practice abusive treatments like strip-searching, solitary confinement, and forced medicalization. they allow you to bring in your own belongings, leave when you want to, and have vistors. they aren't a perfect solution, but I think they are a hell of a lot better than psych wards and offer a way for people to be under suicide watch without being incarcerated. Here's a great link to read more about the mission and structure of peer respite. Here's a link to a mostly current directory of peer respite in the USA.

I also think that we just need to accept the fact that psych wards do not work, that many people attempt suicide instantly after leaving psych wards, and that there is no justification for abusing people in the name of treatment. suicidal people deserve autonomy and respect, and we deserve to be able to have input about what's happening to us.

there's also a lot of things that I think can be used as alternatives to psych incarceration for suicidal people before we get to the point where crisis stablization is needing, like mad mapping/pod networks and Wellness Recovery Action Planning or a similiar type of recovery plan. I also think that thinking about how to support people who are suicidal requires a fundamental restructuring of how we think about suicide (I might make a post about this later). and that there's a lot of ways we can support suicidal people that don't require formal institutions. you can get a group of people together to do informal suicide watch for a friend, you can work to understand your own suicidal ideation in alternative frameworks (suicidal ideation as communication, resistance, tons of other ways), you can create skill sharing networks where you all work on therapy skills together and try to build up your own distress tolerance skills, you can visit people in the psych ward and sneak them in candy and a stuffed animal, you can pass out zines about harm reduction for self-harm in your friend group.

this got a little long but to sum it up: there are alternatives to psych wards, even when people are actively suicidal. peer respite is one option, and any alternative to psych incarceration also has to come along with societal changes, fighting oppression, and mindset shifts.

#personal #asks #antipsychiatry #suicide mention tw #psych ward #ok to reblog

[dromaeocore]

@pisforpandemonium Absolutely!

So the first book I'm gonna recommend is Soteria by Loren Mosher and Voyce Hendrix. It's about the development of a home/intentional community for people with schizophrenia/psychosis. This home was very pro-autonomy, many workers had psychosis themselves, and they did use meds, but it was always the resident's choice and usually not the first line of treatment, as they found that psychosis often resolved on its own within a few weeks. Some of the methods used at Soteria were a little... wacky, being the 70s, but all in all it was very successful. There are now Soteria Houses all over the world.

Another one is Healing: Our Path From Mental Illness to Mental Health by Thomas Insel, MD. It's written by the former director of NIMH, and while I don't agree with every one of his takes, there is a great chapter about the Clubhouse Model, another peer support model created by a bunch of ex patients, by and for people with mental illness. People in the clubhouse are Members, not patients. They are assisted with vocational goals, food, etc, and most importantly, given community. It's a really interesting paradigm and there are hundreds of clubhouses all over the world now.

The Voices Within by Charles Fernyhough is a bit dry IMO, but it goes over the research behind voice-hearing and goes into the Hearing Voices Movement - another, you guessed it, peer support movement for voice hearers and other folks who have experiences not aligned with consensus reality i.e. psychosis.

Some others I haven't read yet are Geel Revisited after Centuries of Rehabilitation by Eugeen Roosens, and On Our Own: Patient Controlled Alternatives to the Mental Health System by Judi Chamberlin.

I'm also gonna rec a bunch of podcasts.

Heart Forward: Conversations from the Heart has a ton of awesome episodes about the US mental health system and alternatives to it. They have lovely episodes about peer respite and Trieste. It's such a compassionate and solution-focused podcast with a diverse amount of topics, I love it.

Patricia Deegan: Personal Medicine is a great one about Dr. Deegan's life and the Commonground Software she developed to help aid in joint decision-making with patients and providers, where patients have a solid say in their treatment. (I've listened to a ton of interviews with Dr. Deegan and she is an amazing, inspiring individual)

A Place of Safety? is hosted by an Italian psychiatrist who worked in Trieste (an Italian city with world-renowned mental healthcare) and he talks about a lot of problems with the NHS and how it relates to Trieste.

Alita Taylor - Open Dialogue is an episode about a highly successful mode of treatment in Western Lapland for people with psychosis and other mental illness. Here's a documentary I just found about the practice, haven't watched it yet but it looks cool.

Mad in America also has some interesting podcasts about many of these topics

Some articles:

Bethel House, basically Japan's version of Soteria

Hearing Voices Movement, as previously discussed

Hurdalsjøen Recovery Center, a "medication-free" hospital in Norway (meds are optional, not banned lol, and they also assist with tapering off)

Recovery Colleges, where struggling individuals, caregivers, and professionals all take an active role in learning about mental health

Obvs this isn't everything but I hope I've given you a good starting point!

#it's actually a goal of mine to write a book summarizing every one of these that I'm aware of lol bc afaik there isn't one yet #just every goddamn innovative and humane mental health practice there is :3 #pisforpandemonium #reply #psychiatry #mental health #psychiatry critical #healthcare reform

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

WBITA if i told my mom to stop watching kdramas and get off the internet.

I [20F] have been increasingly frustrated with my mother [44F] for a very stupid and hypocritical reason. We're pretty close, with her mostly raising me on my own and all that, but we're very different people and often clash on a lot of things. Despite that, I like hanging out with her and telling her about stuff and vice versa. She also works from home, so we're around each other very often since I don't work rn.

The problem is that for the last month or so she's gotten very into kdramas and youtube summaries of manhwas and all that. I am not trying nor claiming to be a mental healthcare professional, but I am 99% sure she has some type of undiaognosed autism (like once she told me that for most of her life she didnt how to show or feel emotion and she would copy other people arround her and we had an argument about how that is Not The Common Human Experience. Among other things she's a neat freak, blunt, has told me before that she has very bad intrusive thoughts and so on) . This is relevant bc another one of her quirks is that she can become obsessive with something Very Easily. She cannot help herself from bingwatching shows, speedreading through books, She Has To Finish A Task Before Anything Else In This One Specific Order. This is serious, she geniunely gets angry or frustrated about any sort of interruption. Normally this is fine for me to work around, but the reason I am here with this ask is bc it's gotten worse.

Every time I go and try to talk to her, she's got her headphones on, watching a manhwa video (her headphones are bad bc they're work headphones so I can hear what she's listening to). 90% of the time I interrupt her, she does the biggest sigh, fixes me with a dead stare, and acts dimissive. At night, where she would usually hangout in the living room watching idle TV, she now goes straight to her room to watch kdrama's in bed, and her room is where she works from too. The latest development is that she's stopped eating in the livingroom during her work breaks too, which was the one time of day I could hang out with her while she's on the clock. She instead asks me to bring her food to her room and once again, on her personal laptop, watching manhwa summaries.

This, on top of my own personal declining mental health and the fact that sometimes I feel like our roles are reversed (I do any chore she asks me around the house, I cook for the entire house, I am the one sent to do grocery shopping etc while she goes out with her friends) I don't mind this usually, she is my mom, I am unemployed, and she does work a 9 to 5 even if it is from home. But now it stings a lot. The part that makes me think I am the asshole is the fact that the way she is acting right now is the exact same thing she used to scold me on before. "Take off those headphones, stop only hangin out in your room, notice the world around you" and I am still a bit like that. But I feel like I've changed. I finished highschool during the pandemic and quarantine and it fucked me up, not having the strongest friendships irl since I live in a fairly conservative country and I am very outwardly queer and stuff. But I've made an effort to start talking to her, to hang out with her, to help around the house. I was and still half am in the same behavioral pattern she is in right now, but I feel like I've made the effort to not wear headphones so often so I can hear if she calls me, to leave the door to my room open etc. It feels like minor things, ik.

I will also say, while I spend a lot of time online and on my phone/laptop, I do a diversity of things. I draw, I watch youtube videos, I talk and play games with my friends, I read, etc. Things I don't mind pausing. My mom, all she does, is ocasionally scroll through instagram, respond to messages, and watch youtube manhwa summaries. It is all that she does. And she acts like I've come in yelling during one of her meetings every time I interrupt her.

The problem here is, I am afraid that if I bring this up with her, that I will find out the change in behaviour I think I made would be invisible to her and that I would be the biggest hypocrite. And I do not want another yelling match as we have had several in the past on similar subjects, where I think I've changed but she doesn't.

Another one, it seems to make her happy. She laughs, and seems to be geniunely invested. Her new workplace is stressful and the work that she has to do is complicated, and I am glad she's found something to destress her and again. I do the same thing, I hole myself up in my room and spend time alone, why am I now mad at her for doing the exact same thing, right? But she's stopped listening to me. I tell her about things, she dismisses me bc she was in the middle of a video, and then comes calling for me because "Why haven't you done x y z Why is x y z here Why are we missing x y z" despite me having told her. I've suggested to her to watch some longer youtube videos together, which is usually our bonding method, and she'll agree. How that usually went was that I would wait until she called me since its her schedule we work around or that I pop into the living room and her seeing me would remind her. Now, again, she barely leaves her room. She just watches those videos and those shows. Nothing else. Works, sends out the roomba to vaccum every day, either gets her own food or yells for me to do it for her, and thats it. Checks on her plants maybe, does one or two chores that I haven't done. Back to her manhwas.

So , WIBTA if I confronted her about this and told her to stop? It risks another yelling match between us, it is hypocritical of me to do so bc I am the same. I am not gonna pretend I don't also become a hermit and hole myself up in my room. But idk. And it seems to be a geniune interest for her and it makes me happy, even tho in this whole situation I feel abandoned by my mother. Which sounds very stupid and dramatic but. Oh well.

What are these acronyms?

#aita #am i the asshole

[paperstorm]

I am upset and I would like to talk about it.

The mother of one of my closest friends, a woman who is like an aunt to me, is going through an incredibly difficult time and has developed an alcohol dependency because of it. After many, many months her daughters finally convinced her to go see a therapist, and after a few sessions she was told “I don’t treat alcoholics, come back to me when you’ve stopped drinking.”

This is apparently something that is both common and completely legal. Something similar happened to me once, a psychiatrist told me “Just stop using, okay?” as if it was as easy as picking a different t-shirt to put on in the morning. It is so infuriating and heartbreaking how much both the general public and literal medical professionals misunderstand addiction. It is not something fun that people just do because they want to. It’s not something frivolous that people can just stop doing at any given moment.

Addiction is a symptom of broader mental illness. Always. Every time, in every case. It is not possible to have a drug or alcohol addiction if you don’t also have untreated mental illness. Addictions develop because a person’s needs are not being met. It is a coping mechanism, it is self-medicating. The idea that it’s something people could just choose to stop doing tomorrow if only they were stronger is killing people. The conceptualization of addicts as petty criminals rather than sick people in need of medical treatment is killing people.

Imagine going to a doctor because you have Covid and them telling you “I don’t treat people with coughs, come back when you’ve stopped coughing.” Without exaggeration, this is what mental healthcare workers are doing when they send addicts home with judgment and finger wagging rather than compassion and treatment.

I don’t know that with all the flowery language in the world I could overstate the harm that is being caused. It’s difficult for me to imagine this woman will ever be convinced to go back to a different therapist. I can’t wrap my mind around how this is okay, to have someone who is sick reaching out and asking for help, and a doctor telling them to come back when they’ve stopped daring to have symptoms of their illness. I lived despite this malpractice. So, so many addicts don’t.

#to put it in fandom context this is why I need people to be more gentle with TK #this is the kind of shit he is up against

[aguzsstuff]

Hannibal's ocd headcanons!

cw: very basic talk about mental health and ocd, can be triggering so be aware.

Three people said I should share my headcanons so here I am, first of all what's ocd? OCD is the acronym for Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, a mental disorder that affects daily life making the person have intrusive thoughts that distress them and lead to compulsive behavior like the ones I'll be talking now.

Why do I headcanon that Hannibal has OCD?

through the series Hannibal shows a lot of subtle ticks, changes of behaviors, change of tones, subtle facial expressions that really made me realize that he has a lot of moments where their thoughts seem to fight his actions, something I feel a lot when I'm on a bad day, and I have a great amount of ocd symptoms (another undiagnosed thing, thanks argentinian healthcare) and so I made headcanons about it I won't extend to much on this.

What kind of OCD could distress Hannibal Lecter?

I know I know, a cannibalistic serial killer seen to be feeding his intrusive thoughts, but I don't think so, Hannibal's ocd has nothing to do with killing, hurting, made anything unmoral, Hannibal's OCD lays on dirtiness and rudeness.

Hannibal hates rude people, he hated rudeness as a whole and same thing with dirtiness, but not necessarily as something that's inherently bad, but something that he could never be and disgusts him profoundly.

What kind of intrusive thoughts does he have?

I've been thinking on a few and his consecuences.

Screaming in the middle of a lecture with other professionals, it distressed him to the point he stopped going.

Talking too loud or aggressive to someone else, he never ever raised his voice and sometimes even talked in whispers.

Yawning in the Opera, he ends up with his hand bleeding because he pinch himself from time to time to avoid it.

Forgetting his plastic suit, he can't even remember how many times he looked at himself, he knows he's wearing it, it can be so frustrating that he sometimes had to walk back and make sure of it twice plus times.

Being rude himself, sometimes his brain will scream insults and curses and he would go purposefully mute to avoid saying those words out loud.

Accidentally throwing garbage out of the trashcan, he has to make sure a lot even when he knows he did throw it in place.

What about Will rudeness?

I think Hannibal found Will's rudeness endearing because he was pretty not gonna lie, still there's moments when he seems about to correct him, but he doesn't, because for him correcting an adult man on his manner would show rudeness on his part.

Thank you for reading !

I'm one of those people who like to think a lot and I can't help but spiraling on some headcanons, maybe this could gave you all some fanfics ideas too.

#nbc hannibal #hannibal lecter #hannibal #hannibal headcanons #headcanon #ocd #mental health talk from a mentally ill person #feel free to add anything!!

[privateanxieties]

you fascinate me so (my sweet refuge)

Summary: Peter is the physical therapist she sees three times a week following New York's latest scheduled disaster. Unbeknownst to her, he is also the one who pulled her from the rubble of her office building.

Pairing: healthcare worker!Peter Parker x Reader (she/her);

Words: 15.6K

Warnings: 18+ mature, dumbasses in love, talk of trauma, shameless flirting, mutually agreed upon impropriety in a medical setting, oral sex

--------------------------

The Universe is said to always seek balance. It gives and takes with impartiality, whether from the downtrodden or the well-off, in an attempt to keep the world spinning. At least, that's what the guru from the spiritual retreat said. She was there for a long afternoon, her money for the full week be damned. She's not really sure why she went for that option first when there were other perfectly good psychologists to visit. She just felt it would be weird to have someone else apply the same techniques on her that she used on her own patients. Plus, she already has a therapist she's seeing three times a week. She can skip on the head doctor until her body gets better.

It makes her somewhat of a hypocrite, because that's the very thing she's criticized in others: delaying treatment, even if they can afford it. And yet, this is her reality for the foreseeable future: Zoom sessions with her remaining patients while she finds a different office, trying to rebuild her clientele (five of her old-timers are dead), and 7 o'clock physio with Peter Parker every Monday, Wednesday and Friday.

She can't even drink to take the edge off, and not just because she's aware of how terrible that would be for her mental health, but also because she's on medication. She'll remain on medication for a long time, a fact that definitely hasn't sunk in yet. She wonders if any of her patients have picked up on differences in her conduct or attitude, because she isn't so sure she's the best judge of that anymore.

The last session of the day ends with an agreement that next time Sara wants to try something exotic in the bedroom, she'll make sure to talk it through with her quite surprised partner. That is, before she presents him with an extensive array of colorful dildos.

At least Sara has someone to proposition. She sighs as she shuts the laptop lid a little harder than normal. Good fucking luck putting yourself out there now, she thinks. It's one thing to not be shallow enough to think physical appearance is everything, and another to be entirely confident in what her body looks like now. She used to like prancing about in her apartment wearing only lingerie, and now the radiators have to be turned off because she gets too warm in her clothes. She tried wearing thinner shirts but she can feel the scars through the fabric.

Her phone chimes with the reminder that she needs to leave for the clinic in Brooklyn. It's much farther away from her Queens apartment than it needs to be, but the therapist came with a glowing recommendation. So far, she can't exactly contradict the stellar review.

Peter Parker is the sort of medical professional you can't fault for anything. His bedside manner is impeccable, and he's incredibly skilled at creating the right atmosphere for each patient. Not like she can vouch for that - he's only seen him work with her, but something tells her he knows how to talk to just about anyone. It's both admirable and a little annoying, because talking is supposed to be her job - her whole job, in fact. Listen and talk. Counsel. Make people feel heard, seen. Make them feel safe. Parker does all those things so well, it makes her a tiny bit jealous. He has an edge over her. Or that's just how it feels in her head, because she hasn't yet managed to figure him out.

It's a bad habit derived from her profession being what it is, and it isn't helped at all by the fact that some people are instantly intriguing. Thirty-year-old Peter Parker had her brain scrambling to decode him the very first time they met. He's insufferably likable, and that means his closet must be full of skeletons. Perhaps tap dancing skeletons. No one is that nice, that skilled and that good-looking without some serious damage. Whatever she needs to tell herself to stop the blood rushing to her face when he smiles in greeting, and rushing other places when he touches the back of her knee. It's wrong of her to think those things about an unsuspecting (at least hopefully unsuspecting) fellow healthcare professional, but it's also hard not to. He's seen her in short shorts and complimented how nicely she was healing. Truthfully, she shouldn't be reading so much into something extremely normal for a physical therapist to say, but Parker is the sort of handsome that when she saw him for the first time, she contemplated abandoning the appointment before having to be vulnerable in front of him.

It was early in her physio journey. She's since grown used to him and his gentle approach, but in the worst way possible. She now looks forward to therapy for all the wrong reasons. In the five months since that first Monday, Peter's company and caring nature have come to override all her reservations. She doesn't even mind the pain she knows she'll be in for an hour each time. That hour is due to start in about three minutes, she notes after shutting her locker.

Gym shorts. Tank top. Wrist band. She could wear different clothes, sure, but that first session she had with him was so tense and uncomfortable that it led to this being the only option. It wasn't his fault. There were just so many scars littering her body that he kept touching one or another whenever he had to do anything, and it psyched her out to the point she started crying. He handled that one like a pro too. He promised he'd do his best not to touch any of them so long as she told him where they were, but the idea of having to point it out every time was even worse than showing skin in front of him. He also said that her reaction is normal - her body isn't the same anymore. She's allowed to mourn the changes as long as she understands they don't make her any less of a person. Her value hasn't changed one bit. If anything, she's survived more than most - it should count for something. Those were his words.

So, here they are. She's a bit soft for him now. The way he greets her in that sultry tone doesn't help at all. He's got a nice voice; he could say pretty much whatever and she'd find it soothing, but what he directs at her is instantly more enticing. Whether it's in her head (most likely) or just what he sounds like with everybody makes very little difference. However, what he's wearing always makes a difference. She's learned in these last five months that earth tones look dreamy on him, in a take-you-home-and-cuddle kind of way. He's wearing a fitted t-shirt tonight, deep burgundy like the late October leaves of the great oak tree across the street from her apartment. It would be cozy enough if he weren't also wearing gray sweatpants, a different pair to his usual black ones. She doesn't allow her eyes to linger.

"Hey tiger," Peter greets with the same easy-going smile as always. He's standing by the massage bed, fixing the head rest to her preferred position.

The room is nice. It ought to be, for how much the clinic charges per session. The colors that dominate the space are mostly soothing, the exception being the splash of bright blue found in one of the wall illustrations. She would not have picked that particular artwork. Spacious but not cold, every station is a decent distance from the next so the patient can focus singularly on their current task. You can't wish you were doing another exercise while working through the one you hate, and for her that was anything floor-related. Every time she lies down on the mat, she remembers being trapped under a slab of concrete.

"Hi," she says quietly, setting her phone down on Peter's corner desk.

"Not feeling up to it tonight?" he asks with a small frown.

She contemplates telling a lie, but doesn't see the point in doing so. However soft she might be for him, he's her therapist first. She would hate being lied to if the roles were reversed. It's just annoying that she has to be honest about things she would definitely hide were this a different type of relationship. She wants to be able to say only those truths that would cast her in a positive light, not talk about her pain levels with him.

"The doctor changed my prescription." She tries getting away with a short explanation, but knows Peter will unravel it to his satisfaction. He's nothing if not thorough, and she can't even fault him for it, because she's known to do the same in her practice.

"Old one not working anymore?" he asks just like she predicted, crossing the room to stand closer to her. She shakes her head.

"Not really. And they give out opioids like candy, so as soon as you tell 'em you're in pain, they jump you."

"I would hope your primary care physician isn't jumping you. You need to report that."

Easy. It's so easy for him to make her lip quirk upwards.

"Or I could just retaliate in kind," she suggests, pressing her lips together to keep from smiling.

"Doctor on doctor violence? Savage. Didn't expect that from you," he retorts with a smirk.

"I'm a psychologist, not a doctor," she points out.

"You have a Ph.D."

She tries to come up with something to say in return, but he is correct. She is, technically, a doctor - albeit not a very smart one when standing in front of Peter Parker. If she wrote her doctoral thesis with the same wit and clarity she wields in conversation with him, she'd never have graduated.

"Are you taking the medication?" he switches subjects, a small smile on his face that she registers as victory over leaving her speechless. Could be pity.

"Just started. Thought I could do without for a while, but then I woke up today and called a friend to go get them. I couldn't get out of bed."

Her words hang in the air for a while, and in any other room with any other person, she would dread the sympathy to come with the confession. Peter will give her none of that. She's at ease waiting for him to speak.

"You wanted to power through it?" he asks with that glint in his eyes she can seldom decipher.

"I wasn't trying to be brave. Just didn't want to… I didn't want…" she trails off with a frustrated sigh, rubbing at her eye like it'll summon words to the forefront of her mind.

"It's a lot. The meds change your mood. They mean more side effects. Probably don't need to deal with that along with everything else."

Again, she can't fault him for reading every inch of her with deadly accuracy. She can just pout - in her head. She'd never be caught dead pouting in front of him.

"Yeah. It doesn't help that they're addictive. Probably ruined more lives than they improved."

Addictive substances and behaviors weren't her specialty, but one reads many things when in school for an additional ten years. It would be hard to find a professional in her field who's unfamiliar with the opioid epidemic.

"I know. But you have to get out of bed. The rest we'll figure out as we go," Peter says in encouragement, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

He always does this - he refers to her own health progression like it's a group activity. She doesn't have any argument against it, no matter how hard she tried finding one. It's like everything she's ever done with her own patients is now seeing application in her struggles, and at every turn, the only objection she can think to put forward is this sucks.

"Alright, come on. We can chat over there too." He motions to the wall farthest from them, where they usually begin.

She holds back a groan, already dreading the ache in her deltoid muscle after the first ten minutes will be up. Once their session starts, Peter morphs into a vigilant hawk. He won't let her complain, and he'll only give her the break she actually needs, which she's come to appreciate. It wasn't like that in the beginning.

There was a struggle between them at first. With both of them trained to recognize body language cues in different capacities, a natural competition emerged for who was really right - her, extremely aware of mental processes and needs, or him, experienced in what the body can actually handle. They've learned to work together since; Peter will give her a break as long as she asks for one invoking the real reason she wants it. She can't cheat by pretending her back hurts too much to keep going when it's just her mood that's plummeted.

And it's like he knows when she's going to be difficult. She barely said hello tonight and he picked up on her attitude instantly. It's the mark of a good therapist to be so in tune with and understanding of others, but sometimes, being seen this transparently makes her defensive and unreasonable. Being a psychologist doesn't mean she can't be childishly petulant when it suits her.

"D'you need a map?" Peter asks.

"Huh?" She blinks at him, suddenly put on the spot.

"So you can get back to me. Where'd you go just now? You're not in the room. I need you to focus."

Childishly petulant. She craves a good stomping of her foot at being admonished in this manner, especially by him, but wouldn't that make him correct in every way? So she endures this one gaffe, nodding reluctantly and doing as he asked, thinking she can come out on top some other time. Maybe there's still a little bit of a struggle on her part. What's worst is that she can tell it clearly isn't reciprocated by him. He's just doing his job - she's the one thinking she needs to play mind games to keep her dignity. Or maybe it's some kind of allure she's struggling to maintain in front of him. He can't have her all figured out.

Together, they work through the first set of exercises on rotation tonight. These are meant to improve her arms' mobility and strength, and in the five months since they've started, she's noticed a few positives. She can, for one, open her arms wider than before, but still not all the way. The priority at first was to be able to dress herself, and once that was accomplished, Peter switched gears to less crucial uses of her limbs. Quality of life first, then everything else. It's somewhat of a motto for him, but she's inadvertently found herself saying the words under her breath on particularly awful days. Standing before her, Peter extends his arms to where her last known limit was - just about enough to welcome someone into a hug, but far from a complete 180 degree angle. She mirrors him by bringing her arms up parallel to the ground, then slowly opening them until she matches the angle. Peter gently takes hold of her wrists, wordlessly telling her to breathe through it.

In, out, in, out - steady at first and then shaky as her arms predictably begin to tremble with the effort, but also from nerve damage that will never completely heal. They continue working as the muscles in her back increase their protest, but she says nothing. She wants to disappear into her thoughts again, but Peter is watching her intently, marking every flicker of her eyes and twitch of the brow. She wonders if she'll ever get to watch him like this, roles reversed and vulnerability all his to bear. Keep dreaming.

"You're quiet tonight," he remarks softly, momentarily catching her off guard.

"You told me to focus," she shoots back almost predictably, like she was waiting to make a comment about his reprimanding.

"You're overcorrecting. You're so focused you haven't even noticed we're done."

Are ten minutes up already? And does she want to admit to him that she was busy trying to match the intensity of his gaze for the mind games played only by her?

"Whatever," she says before she can think it through. She sees how it ticks him off. A rare sight.

"Don't 'whatever' me. You're not at the gym, you're in therapy."

His tone is more than gentle, but all she hears are the words. None of the things she's learned at her job keep her from an overblown response. She drops her hands from his hold less delicately than she should and forces a grimace back when a pain current wracks through her spine.

"Am I? I haven't noticed, to be honest. I only come here every other day because my life is great."

Peter fixes her with a look that immediately tells her what he's going to say, and the worst thing is, she knew the moment she finished her sentence that it would only lead to more of him getting the high ground. She keeps saying all the wrong things, despite being more than capable of taking a person apart with words.

"Don't throw a pity party. You're not in the mood, fine. Have a break, we'll move on. You need to vent, then vent. But don't do this."

God, she shouldn't be on the verge of crying in frustration just because she's being met with patience. She shouldn't be seeking to rile him up enough to make him say she isn't worth the effort. That's so messed up, and all the more sad because she knows she's doing it consciously.

"If you got it in your head that you can make me drop you, I'm sorry. The only way you get out of here is if you walk out."

She looks away from his steel gaze. There isn't enough fight in it - at least, not the kind she wants to see. She searches her brain for something to say, something to counter his statement and maybe even make him renege on it, but it takes too long. His warm hand is on her shoulder, one of the only places she's comfortable being touched.

"I'm not letting you quit on yourself," he promises. It's soft like the comfort she isn't sure she wants, and so quiet it can't drown out her sniffle.

"Hey."

Even in her distressed state, she picks up on the change in his voice. He's come a little closer, his other hand lifting her chin up delicately. He's only done this once before.

"It's a bad day today," she finally admits, swallowing around the lump in her throat and daring to look up despite the welling tears. She's met with focused brown eyes that have every intent of drying her own - if she'll let them.

"I can see that. Do you wanna talk about it?"

She nods before she can change her mind. It isn't fair, she knows. She shouldn't put this on him, because he's not her. He's not the psychologist she should be going to see. But, he offered and it was hard to say no.

"Ok. Think we can still do something while we talk?"

"What?"

His lips twitch mischievously.

"You were in a rush on Friday. I didn't get to do my job properly."

Oh. That. The last part of their session is the one most people think of when they hear physio. It's both the best and the worst, because on the one hand, she doesn't have to move. On the other, she has to sit there and pretend she's normal while he flexes and massages every limb expertly, peering down at her with his knowledgeable gaze.

"You're going easy on me?" she tries for humor, but knows he's of a different persuasion.

"Who says I'll go easy? If we're not doing anything else, I'm going all out on this," Peter says, making his way towards the massage bed by the wall. She doesn't follow immediately, waiting for his back to be turned before she runs her mouth again.

"I can handle it, don't worry." She wants to rile him up again, but maybe in a different way this time.

"I know you can."

She thinks she sees a tiny smirk when he half-turns to beckon her forward, but it's gone as soon as it appeared.

------------------------------------

Parker has nice hands, if a little calloused, and he works them so well that she ends up thinking about them long after she gets home. It'd be easier not to, of course, if she hadn't forgotten to bring her lotion and he didn't have to use the one already provided by the facility, because now she smells like him. Every twitch of her finger and brush of her arm as she puts together a meal , every time she moves about the living room trying to tidy up - it all sparks a little firework in her brain and she inhales deeply every few minutes. Pavlovian would describe it nicely, this pressing instinct to just consume something, but she's already eaten dinner and dessert. She's not satiated by a long shot, and she has a feeling she'll be reading herself to sleep tonight if this persists. She's considered a shower more than twice, but each time she glanced at the bathroom door, something turned her away with exquisite resolve.

She realizes with mild intrigue and no small amount of horror that she wants to smell like him, because she likes it. Her first reaction is to correct this. It would do no one any good if she even slightly entertained the notion that she can look him in the eye while thinking inappropriate things about him and his exceptional dexterity. The occasional flirtatious comment that's taken in good faith and goes nowhere is one thing. Unilateral sex fantasies that might get her humiliated, either privately or publicly, are another. The rubber band inside her that feels ready to snap any one of these days can be assuaged some other way. Maybe a documentary that engages her intellect instead of her libido.

She climbs into bed with Netflix and popcorn, knowing the morning will find her stripping her bed sheets instead of picking at every little kernel bound to fall out of her bowl and mouth. She picks the most unappealing subject possible: unethical human experimentation in the late 20th century, and she clicks play with another deep sigh. And she tries following along. She really does. It's just that under the sheets, there is nowhere she can go to escape the woodsy scent drawing her attention to how much better her calf muscles feel after that massage. It would be a nice sensation, if the tension hadn't moved elsewhere.

She hesitates like it'll make a difference. She can't focus on anything. All day, she's been walking around with weights tied to her feet, more so than usual. She woke up in the most pain she's felt since the attack. She was fighting every impulse to snap at her patients. She tried picking a fight with Peter and it failed, and that was a good thing but also a frustrating failure. It scarcely mattered to her coiled up nerves that he made very good points during their conversation. Yes, it's good to admit you're having a tough time. Yes, letting people know about it is always better than holding things in and blowing up unexpectedly. No, she won't sass him next time.

But she wants to. His determination to not let her quit on herself despite her obvious willingness to be rude and unfair just makes the propellers in her mind spin faster. It's an ambition she can't remember ever being stuck with before. He's so composed and patient and insufferably adept at taking her apart with a few well-placed lines and a knowing look, so much so that it makes it difficult not to pick a fight. She wants someone to talk back to. This is her problem. This is why she should not have skipped out on mental health to focus on physical recovery.

And yet, despite seeing this as clearly as any other incontestable fact, she knows she won't be calling any offices tomorrow. And though she should have more self-control than this, her hand still drifts low above her navel, hesitating briefly before figuring she should at least go to sleep with one less frustration. As much as she tries to think of anything else, the scent lingering all around makes brown eyes appear in her imagination and firm hands ghost across parts of her they never would in real life.

---------------------------------

It's only incidentally that the TV was on. Her mother called at noon on Tuesday to make sure she was alright, because every news channel in the country was transmitting live from the Lincoln Tunnel, parts of which had been accidentally demolished in what appeared to be a serious maintenance mistake. Had she not seen the images already, her mother's frantic explanations would have done nothing but throw her into a mild panic attack. The contrast between what the woman is like now and how she used to be growing up always gives her whiplash,  but she can't be mad her mother got the help she needed.

As it is, she's doing alright. She tries not to watch obsessively, keeping herself busy between the only three appointments she has today, but every time she checks back in the body count gets significantly higher. By mid-afternoon she has to resort to breathing exercises to steady her mind, and they work insofar as she keeps at them. However, they don't do much of anything when the 6 o'clock news announces what they believe to be the final death toll. Sixty-seven people perished in the chaos and destruction, and almost two hundred more have been hospitalized with mild to severe injuries.

It's a day of mourning in New York, like so many before it. She, like many others in the city, is glued to her screen with an array of emotions she's doing her best to handle. Others, much less fortunate than them, are crying and screaming, paralyzed by shock and grief. The least fortunate aren't feeling anything at all, and who knows what they might've felt in their last few moments.

She has an idea. Images like the ones shown today dance behind her eyelids just about whenever she isn't keeping a tight lock on her focus. They've been rapaciously beating at her door on and off throughout the day, and she is running out of viable distractions. Many aren't even an option at this time, because she'd feel terrible watching a movie to distract herself from all this. Maybe she should just read that study she's been meaning to get around to and simply go to sleep, sure to wake tomorrow with a little less stinging sorrow.

She intends to do just that, but right as she prepares to take her meds and climb into bed, her phone chimes with its usual ringtone. She's surprised to read Peter's name on the screen, but answers quickly nonetheless.

"Hi," she says evenly. There's a lot of wind on his side, and she wonders if he heard her because he doesn't say anything at first.

"Can you hea-"

"I have to cancel tomorrow."

Her judgment immediately sends her down the most obvious path, and she wastes barely a second before flicking her psychologist switch on. She's never heard his voice like that, over the phone or in person.

"Are you alright? Was anyone you know - "

"No. I just - I can't. See you Friday."

She takes a short breath before trying again.

"Peter, I know we're not very close, but you can trust me with anything. I promise. If you need to talk, I'm here."

She isn't sure what's wind and what's breath at first, but a noise cuts through that she's too familiar with to mistake for anything else. He hangs up before she can speak again.

------------------------------

At three in the morning, a short jingle from her nightstand chases away already restless sleep.

Back on for tomorrow. See you at 7.

A few seconds later, another bubble manifests as she reads the first one over.

Thank you.

She sighs, dropping the phone next to her as her thoughts are overtaken by an urge she's always found impossible to resist. She takes apart their phone call and his texts like they're ancient secrets one can only decode with the right tools, and finally taps out at six, an hour or so before the autumn sun rises. Wednesdays are free, and she always sleeps in. Today of all days would be best spent away from news and the general public, but she can't stop thinking about what she'll say to him tonight. She fell asleep thinking of him and awoke worse off for it, but there's also an energy that refuses to dissolve no matter what she distracts herself with.

You have to get out of bed. The rest we'll figure out as we go. More of his little phrases find their way into her daily rotation of things she tells herself to keep going. Today, it's the words he told her on Monday that keep the soles of her feet from retreating into the plush mattress, away from the hardwood floor and inevitable pain. She sets one foot in front of the other until she makes it to the kitchen, and she takes her morning medication with less dread than two days ago. She has to train herself to notice the slightest improvement, much like she asks her patients to do. And then, once successful, she has to reward herself somehow.

Today, her reward will be a day without guilt. Horrible things happen all the time with no rhyme or reason. Yesterday was a terrible accident, and that day all those months ago happened to be a vicious attack, but all the same, the result is suffering. She'll try not to think of everything that's been clawing its way into her awareness since noon yesterday, and she'll see where it takes her.

The first item on her task list is prepping her bag for tonight, because risking another forgetful episode and ending up with the same frustrations she did on Monday is unacceptable. It's not just the guilt of surviving that she'll try to avoid for today. She touched herself to the thought of him and tonight she has to look him in the eye. It wasn't even an elaborate fantasy - she guesses maybe two minutes passed before she was slumping back into the bed, the tension having snapped almost unexpectedly when she thought of what he'd sound like moaning her name. She's sure the real thing might put her in an early grave, but why waste time imagining the impossible?

They're alright, but their chemistry isn't off the charts. They get along fine as far as the patient-therapist relationship is concerned, and they've had a chat here and there about more personal things, but they're hardly in each other's lives in any other capacity. He did once ask her if she'd like to grab a smoothie, mindful of the fact she couldn't drink on meds, but she was running late for an evening class after physio and took a rain check. She ended up never collecting, and he never asked again. Maybe if she had, she wouldn't be grasping at straws now, trying to figure out his phone call to her.

Despite her background and training, a part of her still believes that some people are just meant to click. Instantly, they know they'll be a fixture in each other's experiences on Earth. She cried the first time she met with him, and was more than embarrassed and uncomfortable for the following days. Hardly the start of an alluring romance. It doesn't stop her from conjuring what-ifs and crafting the perfect exchanges that might lead to one thing or another, but at the end of the day, what is there to offer him?

A lifetime of chronic pain and debilitating nerve damage that would take the fun out of most things. There are so many date ideas she can't even entertain. When will she ever put on a pair of skates again, or go hiking on a challenging trail? When will she ever wear a dress that shows any kind of skin again? Be carefree taking it off? Get down on her knees for someone?

She perks up before she can sink even further down the spiral, wiping away the one tear or two that managed to escape with her wayward thoughts. Her coffee machine has sat unused for months. Caffeine is off limits too, and tea is a suitable replacement, but she might also just risk it and have a flat white. Her body isn't going to get any better. She might as well enjoy some things while her heart and liver aren't drowning in medication.

She sips at the long-desired indulgence as the first texts of the day pour in, all in response to the one she sent out following the accident yesterday. Most of her patients get back with reassurances they're alright, but by four in the afternoon, one notable absence sits on her brain until she picks up the phone to verify. It rings a few times before a surprisingly small voice utters a quiet hello, and she realizes this must be Emily, the eight year-old girl whom Christie once referred to as her entire reason for living, but also the reason she never got to live.

"Hey sweetheart. Can you put your mommy on the phone for me?" she asks gently, trying to guess what her answer might be. Something has happened for sure, because Christie really isn't the sort of person who lets her daughter pick up a ringing phone, not when they're looking over their shoulder for a rageful man.

"Mommy's in bed. I don't think she wants to talk to anyone. She won't talk to me."

Deep breaths.

"I see. Hey Emily? Can you do me a favor? You don't have to, but if you put the phone on the bed next to mommy, I can talk to her. Make her feel better. She doesn't have to say anything, she just has to listen. How does that sound? Do you wanna help me help mommy to feel better?"

"Yes," Emily says in that heartbreaking way children usually do when found helpless. It's almost a question.

"Alright sweetheart. Thank you. Just put the phone next to mommy on the bed and let us have a chat, yeah? And can you tell me one more thing?"

"What?"

"Have you eaten today?"

"Mm… not really. I'm a little hungry." She can almost hear the shrug in the girl's shoulders, because of course - her mom is lying in bed, isolated and unresponsive. For children, not being loved is a much more immediate fear than going hungry.

"Ok. How about, while I talk to mommy, you go make yourself a sandwich? Yeah? Don't use the stove if mommy isn't there."

"Ok. I won't."

"Thank you."

It takes a minute, but rustling on the other side and Emily's muffled I love you lets her know the phone is where it's supposed to be. Now for the difficult part.

"Christie? I know you can hear me, so don't pretend you can't. You don't have to talk if you don't want to, but you do need to listen." She pauses for her own benefit, trying to dispel a frown she barely realized was carving deep ridges into her forehead.

"I talked to Emily earlier. I've never heard her voice before. She sounds smaller than she is, doesn't she?"

No response.

"She's also smarter than you think she is. Little girls her age see you better than you see them. What's Emily been seeing today? What's she been thinking? Do you know?"

Nothing.

"She's been thinking her mommy doesn't care about her, Christie. She didn't go to school. She hasn't eaten. I know you're probably tired of hearing your own thoughts from my mouth, but motherhood is exhausting. You don't get breaks. You don't get to turn away when you don't feel like it. You have to get out of bed. Every day. For her."

"What the fuck do you know about it?"

"You're right. I don't have children. But I had a mother who didn't care if I was cold, or hungry, or scared, and I've worked with kids who grew up like that too. They don’t know how to pick a friendly face in a crowd. Everyone looks hostile to them. You don't want to do that to Emily. She's too precious. She doesn't deserve it."

"She doesn't," Christie sobs, but the line goes quiet for the longest time, long enough that she doesn't think anything else will be said. She looks out the window at the great oak tree being robbed of its burgundy treasures by an unkind gust of wind, following a particularly large leaf with her eyes until it touches the ground. Christie speaks four minutes after that.

"This little girl… she died in my arms yesterday."

Her breath catches on nothing, expecting anything but that to be the reason for Christie's catatonic state. She's had episodes before, but never have they been triggered by something this serious.

"Were you - Were you in the tunnel, Christie?"

Despite the immediate pain, she has to stand up from her kitchen table right in that moment, or she'll lose her cool at the worst possible time.

"No." Another sob drowns the phone line, but this one isn't followed by an endless stretch of silence. When it rains, it pours.

"I was going to pick Em up from school. I came out of the tunnel right before it blew. So many - so many people were trying to help. They were pulling everyone from the rubble. From the water. Old people, parents, little - little kids. They were so small. I don't know what I was doing… Someone just handed me this little girl who was blue in the face. She couldn't breathe very well. I tried to help her, I did. Please believe me. She was just so little. She was gone so, so fast. I couldn't do anything. I couldn't."

There comes a point in therapy when the boil threatens to singe both patient and provider. Fresh trauma has the potency of a thousand latent squabbles and shortcomings. It's a motorcycle on a tank frame, uncontrollable and well guarded against reason, experience or wisdom. There's only one or two weak points that can unravel the entire thing, but no two models are ever completely similar. You have to work with new eyes every time.

"Christie. That isn't your fault. What happened yesterday was a horrific turn of events. An accident of negligence, if you're comfortable with that. They happen to good people. They happen to bad people. No one has to do anything to deserve it. That little girl wasn't guilty of anything. You're not at fault for not being able to help her. Whatever you're thinking, nothing is going to happen to you. Or to Emily. There is no cosmic punishment for deeds done or not done. There are only people, and the things that happen to them. And we're only responsible for the things we choose, not the ones that happen to us."

"If I lose Em, I don't want to live."

She breathes in sharply, holding it for a few seconds and releasing it slowly.

"Christie, Emily is right there. She's in the kitchen, looking for something to eat. Your little girl is thinking about you. You're thinking about her. But you're right next to each other. You can go give her a hug. Nothing is stopping you. You can spend all the time you want with her."

"What if something happens to her?" Christie whispers.

What if. Of all the questions she hears from patients, the ones that start with those two words are the trickiest to steer away from. So often they are nothing more than facts of life. What if someone I love dies? What do I do with all that love? What do I do with myself?

"You can't spend all the time you have with her thinking about that. That's why we're alive. We're here to love others until we can't. No one is offering you guarantees, and no one gets to know how long they have. That's life. It gave you Emily. It's giving you time to love her and care for her. That's enough. It has to be."

Moments pass. Christie releases a ragged sigh. It's that sound that makes some of the tension leave her shoulders, but her leg hurts more than usual. She didn't even realize she'd been gripping her thigh viciously all throughout the phone call to keep centered. Focused. Keep herself from being too involved in a subject so close to home.

"Can you stay on the phone with me until I get to her?"

"I can stay as long as you need me to."

It's another minute or two until she hears hushed whispers and sweet apologies, and it takes her a while longer than it should to hang up, intruding on a mother and her daughter's private moment for her own selfish reason. Christie doesn't need her anymore for now. She did well. If only she could reason with herself this effectively.

She sets her phone down on the kitchen table and glances at the oven clock. Just after five. She has some time to wind down after the impromptu therapy session, and the two hours between now and physio are just about enough to grab food at that Korean place by the clinic. Already dressed, she takes a cab to Brooklyn that only manages to wind her up even more, because the driver, however polite, insists on telling her things she didn't ask about the tragedy everyone is discussing. Even within her extensive repertoire of conversation dampeners she can't find a sensible way of asking him to stop without seeming like she doesn't care about the victims of a horrible event. She does slam the car door with all the strength she can muster after getting out. It hurts, but it's worth it to blow off some steam.

Woori Bar & Grill caught her eye weeks ago, but eight p.m. has always been too late for heavy foods and she's always been too tired after physio to keep standing. Well, not exactly - she's always been too sleepy after being handled by Peter, and it always took the car ride home to wake herself up. She's wide awake right now, which is why she spots him at the bar almost immediately upon entering, like her eyes had nowhere else to land but there.

It's almost six, which is strange, but maybe he got hungry and had some free time. Unfortunately, her assumption is dispelled as she studies him. Peter is nursing a half-full whisky tumbler, head hung low and body language almost textbook perfect. He's most definitely drunk. Proceed with caution. Crossing the room almost diagonally, she makes her way to him with a neutral expression, and notices him notice her without even looking. It's like someone plugged him into the wrong outlet. She can sense he isn't going to be welcoming.

Stopping a couple of feet away, she sets her bag down on the empty chair next to him and sighs to herself. She can see the right side of his face. He seems adamant about staring at the amber liquid swirling in his glass, what she can discern of his features set into an icy glare.

"Are we still on for tonight?" She chooses to open with the obvious, because dancing around the topic wouldn't serve either of them. This is a version of Peter she hasn't seen before, and he proves her right when he scoffs into his drink.

"Why? Did you answer my texts?"

He's caught her off guard. Completely. Even a brief recall makes her realize that no, she didn't. She read them twenty-seven times, but she didn't answer. It's a fuck up that he seems to want to use against her, but if he thinks he can, she'll demonstrate otherwise.

"No, but I saw them. I assumed that was that, we were still on. I should've answered earlier, I'm sorry."

"Yeah well, I'm sorry too." He doesn't sound apologetic, for whatever it is he might be referring to.

"For what?"

Peter veers his head at her, and she's too surprised by the cuts littering the left side of his face to be affected by his words.

"For thinking you were serious about recovery."

He's in pain. The eyes that normally watch her with patience and care drag across her face with disdain that isn't meant for her at all. She can see that, and she knows it to be true in her mind, but it's still hard to be on the receiving end of his disapproval, however misdirected.

"You don't think I'm serious about my recovery because I didn't answer your three a.m. texts?" She raises an eyebrow. "Be honest, Peter. You're having a bad day. You're not in the mood, fine. You need to vent, then vent. But don't do this."

Throwing his words back at him isn't something she does to be petty or retributive. She says them to him because he was right to say them to her.

"I don't need to vent. Least of all, to you." He glares, pushing the glass away as he turns his body towards her more.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she asks patiently, without malice. She isn't insulted. She can't be, because she's needed right now.

"Like you don't know?" he sneers. "You don't think I can see you, taking me apart in your head every time we meet? Trying to figure me out? Suspicious of everything, like I'm judging you instead of helping you? You're always trying to pick a fight, like that'll give you your precious insight into who I really am. Well, here you go. Here's your fight."

He puffs up his chest but it's just a drunken motion, supported by the fact that he has to keep his left arm on the counter so he doesn't fall off the chair.

"Something bad happened to you, and now you're waiting for someone to confirm what you already think about yourself. You want someone to tell you you're wasting your time. That you'll never be the same. You don't like me looking at you up close. You can't stand that you aren't seeing what you expect to see. Why am I looking at you like you're a person someone might want? Isn't that what you think?"

All the restraint in the world isn't enough to keep her eyes from welling up with hot tears, but she refuses to cry. He doesn't mean any of it. He doesn't.

"I don't know what happened to you, but you're lashing out at me unfairly," she says, voice shaking despite her best effort not to let it.

"Unfairly? You don't think it's fair? You get to live. Others don’t. You're alive, and you're acting like it's this great inconvenience. The pain has nothing to do with it. You just don't think you're worth it now that you're damaged. You don't think you have anything to offer anyone."

It feels like her feet are nailed to the ground. They won't listen to her command to turn and just get out of here.

"I don't understand what I did to you." She switches approaches, because this is too personal. The vitriol he's hurling at her can't originate anywhere else. It might be caused by something else entirely, but something is bothering him about their relationship specifically. She wants to know what.

"Oh, you don't? Every time you show up for therapy, you're waiting for me to act the opposite of how I feel. Every time I smile at you, you don't think it's sincere. Every bad day you have, you think I'll tell you to leave. I could get down on my knees for you and you'd think it was a declaration of war."

It's too much. He's said so much in just a few minutes that she's now disoriented and afraid to speak, should he unveil more of her worst thoughts in response. He's looking at her with unbearable clarity. Is he even drunk at all? He hasn't slurred any of his words. He's just used them to take her apart, vivisecting her in public to no one's awareness. Nobody can help her, and she wouldn't ask anyway. He's right. About everything. It burns at her soul so badly that she wants revenge, despite knowing better. But who is he to peel away at things she hasn't even dared say out loud? To throw it all in her face like he's perfect and all-knowing and was just waiting on her to put it together like the inferior mind reader she is?

"I didn't see you get down on your knees. All I saw was you doing your job. Or was I supposed to jump you because you saw my body up close and didn't look away disgusted?"

The incision isn't quite as precise as his, and in any case, he's had something to dampen his reception of it. She has to fight with him sober and blindsided, while he looks like he's been sitting on this for a while.

"Fuck off. That's all you saw because that's all you'd let yourself see. But you can't lie to yourself when you're alone. There's no one to pick a fight with to distract yourself."

Peter stands from the bar chair quickly enough that she doesn't have time to move back, and they brush chests when he squares his shoulders. He peers down at her with narrowed eyes that have lost some of their fight, and his lips quirk upwards in a self-satisfied smirk.

"I bet you think about me when you're alone."

"Is that what you're doing? Picking a fight with me to distract yourself? What happened to you? Where did you get the cuts on your face?" she insists, ignoring his daring statement.

Something of what she says makes his eyes harden again, but it's like he's left the room to go somewhere unreachable. He's not here with her, but wherever all this started. She tries pushing through one more time.

"What happened, Peter?"

His face crumbles. He's the picture of overwhelming grief for only one second, because he sidesteps her and heads for the door before she can react.

"Peter!"

She shouldn't follow after him. She's heard more than enough for one night, and he's packed too many hurtful truths in what amounted to barely half a therapy session. So, whatever makes her hurry in his direction can only spring from irrationality. Typically, irrational actions are fueled by three things: anger, envy and a third thing she isn't willing to admit to.

Despite having only spent minutes inside the bar, the chill of late October hits her much worse than when she got out of the cab. She pulls her cardigan closed as she follows a worryingly wobbly Peter down the sidewalk, guessing he must be headed to the clinic just a few blocks away. By the way he's swaying left and right, he shouldn't have been able to say even one coherent thing to her, but he rattled off all her faults like he was speaking directly from her subconscious.

"Come on, Peter. Just stop!" she calls after him, but he continues on without acknowledgement. He's walking too fast for her to catch up without putting herself through significant discomfort, yet she keeps following at an increased pace. They make it for two blocks before she shrieks in pain. Her shoe gets caught onto a sharp protrusion from the pavement, and she puts her arms out to break the fall, but her knee still takes the brunt of it. It's so intense she grits her teeth hard, grunting through tightly closed lips as shocks travel along the cartilage. Her palms burn with indented gravel that scrape at easily breakable skin, and her left arm gives way from the impact, leaving her head to bounce off the pavement.

Breathing shallowly and gripping whatever she can to soothe the pain, she doesn't realize Peter has returned until his hands cover hers. He's muttering incessant no's under his breath, moving skittishly and touching her seemingly everywhere at once before cradling her head in his lap.

"No please, please. Please, not you."

He says it over and over, and she's so confused it almost overrides the pain emanating from the bluntness of the impact. Peter begins to murmur apologies as he dabs at her temple with the hem of his shirt, making her look up at him in a daze. She's putting all the effort into studying his face, hoping it'll both distract her from the burning of her knee and unravel previously elusive mysteries. Like why his eyes seem to be perceiving something other than what he's really seeing, and why his chapped lip trembles like something horrendous has happened.

Something horrendous has happened, she realizes, but not here and not now. She reaches up with her less injured hand to wipe the tears that begin to fall, noting how warm the skin of his cheek is. Her other hand goes to cover the one of his that rests awkwardly on her shoulder. He's touching her where he knows she's comfortable, despite his frantic outburst just a few seconds ago. She doesn't think she'd mind very much if he just swallowed her up the way he seems to be itching to do.

"Do you need a map?" she whispers to him, drinking in his glistening eyes and wholly wishing to dry them.

"What?" Peter sniffles, just as quiet of a whisper leaving him.

"So you can get back to me."

He flounders in response, clearly not knowing what to do. Her thumb needs to stop brushing the underside of his jaw before she does something stupid like asking him to kiss her. He's in distress. He's drunk. She's taken a bit of a tumble, and his words still linger not very far from her heart. They're a mess tonight.

"Can you help me up?"

To her surprise, he doesn't. He swoops her up entirely, and a frightened whimper escapes her at the thought of how wobbly he was a minute ago. She'd put both arms around his neck if she could, but her left can't reach. The angle is too wide. The adrenaline must be wearing off now, because she's hurting in more places than she realized.

"I'm taking you to the hospital."

She scoffs, amused. Even she knows it's not that bad.

"You're taking me to the clinic so I can get a band-aid and a leg compress. Maybe a lollipop for being so brave."

Peter nods, looking serious like a heart attack, and it makes her laugh despite herself. She can only hope they'll make it the remaining few blocks without another tumble, and she's impressed to find that he seems to have shaken off his stupor entirely. His grip and balance are both excellent, and she feels secure. Not that she has anything to compare it to - she's never been carried before, at least not that she remembers. Either he's masking it very well, or the intoxication evaporated some time in the last few minutes. The woman at the front desk stands up in surprise when they enter, but Peter assuages her concern with a quick dismissal.

"It's ok Norah, I got her."

In some capacity, she does feel 'gotten', whatever that means. His chest is warm and solid against her head, and though he still smells of alcohol, the scent that spun her in a tizzy Monday night lingers at his collar. It's different on him. It's the difference between melting sugar in cold versus hot water. One of them takes significantly less to achieve its purpose. She isn't exactly eager to be set down, but eventually his warmth does leave her. She keeps inhaling surreptitiously until he gently puts her down on the massage bed. He leaves the room before she can even sit up properly, and she has a minute to sober up alone.

First deciding to assess the damage, she pulls the hem of her tracksuit bottoms to just above her knee, seeing the skin is already starting to bruise in that nice way that lets her know some tiny blood vessels popped. Not that she can see all that many of them under the layer of scars running from knee to ankle. They're jagged and nonsensical, because rebar doesn't usually follow a steady pattern when piercing your leg. The pain is somewhat manageable, but she suspects that's because she took her medication only an hour before leaving for the Korean place. A mild stabbing sensation every few seconds is the worst of it, at least for now.

The second part of the assessment is the worst one. There's much to think about, particularly all the things that were said that crossed many lines. Professionally and personally, a transgression has occurred.

When Peter returns, he stops closer to the door than to her. Their eyes meet, and they both appear to be thinking along the same lines. He's holding a first aid kit in one hand and leg compression sleeve in the other.

"I can um - I can get someone else to do this if you don't want me to uh… Just, if you don't want to see me right now."

She hums, studying him from head to toe. Not wanting to see him is an exaggeration, she knows that. And though he seems to have calmed from his previous state, he was inebriated enough to be swaying left and right. Maybe talking more isn't the brightest idea. So why can't she decline politely and say they'll meet up at a better time for them both?

"Do you want to?"

His eyes widen.

"Want to what?"

"See me," she clarifies.

All at once, he seems to soften up - shoulders sagging, releasing a breath that looked like it hurt to hold in, head tilting. He steps closer and closer until he's right there, jeans lightly brushing against her exposed knee. He's caging her in with his gaze, and she's letting him.

"I wanna take care of you."

Her soft little sigh is, even to her ears, the picture of weakness. How does it take only a handful of words to make her throat close up? How is she seeing things that aren't even there?

"Stop doing that," Peter says, lips pressing together for the briefest moment before he speaks again. "You heard what I said. That's all there is. Stop turning it into something else in your head."

He speaks so determinedly, she misses the moment he sets down the supplies he brought, and it's only when she feels his light touch under her chin that she's embarrassed to notice her eyes well up.

"If you need me to say it flat out, then I guess that's what I gotta do."

That line snaps her attention like an unruly planet pulled into orbit by a much larger cosmic force. Suddenly, she's just there to listen with no background noise.

"I care about you. You're important to me. I know it might not look that way, because I said a lot of awful things to you. But I swear, I didn't mean any of them. I was - " He looks away. "Something terrible did happen. I was taking it out on you, and I shouldn't have. I never should have. I might've just blown it all up before I even -"

He sighs in frustration, but it's also just the most exhaustion she's seen him display, ever. Peter looks worn out, and the contrast between the him she's come to know and the person in front of her now is more jarring than it should be. He didn't get like this overnight; it was her that missed and misinterpreted who knows how many clues into his well-being. The cuts on his face solidify that fact even more. Some psychologist she is. Where was she looking? Was she looking away, trying so hard not to be seen by him that she ended up the one blinded?

"What do you think you've blown up?" she asks, hoping her voice will work and surprised when it does.

Peter bites the inside of his cheek, letting his hand drop from her chin and running it through his hair.

"I dunno. Maybe I've been imagining things too. Seeing what I wanted to see. Maybe there wasn't anything to blow up."

Her heart surges through her throat and attempts to crawl out of her mouth. She hasn't been this scared in a while.

"Peter. Please, tell me what you think you've blown up," she finds herself begging, unable to give a verdict until she knows beyond any doubt what he was trying to say.

And Peter, for his part, looks misty eyed and desperate too. Time has slowed down just a little bit.

"This. Us. If that was ever a thing. I can see why you might not feel that way now, but I - I do. I don't know if I can say it any more clearly."

Breathing out to try and regain some semblance of outer calm, her initial reaction is to look away while speaking. But she can't. She owes him the same direct honesty, and she's been averting her gaze for too long anyway.

"You haven't blown anything up." For a moment, she thinks that will be enough, but quickly realizes it's only because she's hoping to spare herself vulnerability. Unfortunately, that's also the instinct that got them here, so getting them out will require a different approach. She needs to say what she thinks, and she needs to stop turning very clear statements into something less than what they are. He likes you. Deal with it.

"I like your smile. I've never thought it wasn't sincere. I just thought that maybe it was too good to really mean what I wanted it to mean," she confesses, taking a break to let the words be heard by her too. She's uncomfortable in every way one gets when utterings truths that have never seen the light of day. It makes language seem a different force altogether, capable of wielding reality in unpredictable ways - the opposite of everything she's learned to do.

"You said some harsh things I wish I didn't have to hear from you, but you didn't lie. And you weren't fully yourself. I was worried you might still not be, but you seemed pretty observant at the bar, so…"

Peter winces in response, seemingly wanting to say something in return but stopping himself to let her continue.

"It's ok. I don't hold grudges." She smiles. "Especially not against people I need in my life."

He looks caught off guard, and she wonders if what she said is a surprise to him. He had her all figured out just a little while ago.

"I'm sure there's a lot of specialists in town who could do the job."

He picks now to be coy? Or is he the one flustered for the first time? It's strange to think that just a couple of days ago she was wondering if they'd ever switch places, with him being the one under the microscope for a change. Is this that moment? It's not as triumphant as she thought it would be. This doesn't feel like a power struggle. It's just two idiots doing what should have been much easier from the beginning, what with their respective professions.

"Maybe, but none of them are you. I need you in my life as Peter, not as my therapist."

"Is this you saying you no longer require my services?"

It's good to see a glimpse of his usual good humor returning. It lights up his eyes to her preferred twinkle, and she doesn't feel as tense that she might be staring at his mouth. It's allowed now - in moderation. Still, there is something she'd like to address tonight, before it fizzles out into obscurity and remains a sore spot between them.

"What you said earlier, about me being afraid I have nothing to offer anyone - " His grimace gives her pause, but she presses on ahead for the sake of clearing the air.

"I have thought that before. I can't say it isn't on my mind more than once a day, especially if I'm by myself. I just wanted to make things clear. I don't hate myself. I just know there's a lot of things I can't do anymore. I'm in pain every day. It makes me tired, and it makes me more irrational than even I know what to do with. And it's not shallow of me to say that yes, I don't look the same anymore. I haven't come to terms with that. I don't know how to be carefree just wearing whatever. I - you know I don't like being touched. That's not going to go away immediately just because I know how you feel now. It's fine when you do it in our sessions, but somehow, the thought of it happening in any other setting sort of…" Makes me nervous.

She doesn't continue because it might be a little too much honesty. She didn't need to bring up the concept of him touching her in different contexts. That's not the kind of thing people discuss before they've even gone on one date. But, she has brought it up, and now she must deal.

"Do you think you wouldn't like it?"

Jesus, that was blunt and an absolutely insane question. She remembers every bit of the fantasy she had Monday night. He probably wouldn't even have to touch her to unwind her like a clock. Daring to peek at him, she's surprised by the genuine intrigue she finds there. He really wants to know, because he might not be as good a mind reader as she assumed.

"No, that's not it. I know I would, I just - "

"You know you would?"

Shit. Shit. Of all the things to say without thinking.

"So you have thought about me."

The smirk in his voice makes her groan, but she resists the urge to climb off the bed and scurry away. The brave thing to do would be to just face him and admit that yes, she has thought about many things, but that would just give him the upper hand. Instead, she'll take the coward's way out and provoke him.

"And you haven't?" she asks, blinking at him. They're the same height in this position, and it's weirdly empowering to not have to look just slightly upwards all the time.

The question rattles him, but not as much as she thought. In fact, the glint she can see take shape in his eyes spells nothing but danger.

"I'll tell if you do."

If she replaced the Cheshire Cat with a picture of him on the cover of Alice in Wonderland, she doesn't think anyone would notice.

"Information isn't free. It has to be earned."

Wherever that comes from, it manages to change the atmosphere in the room in seconds. Peter is quiet as she watches him, transfixed by his expression. It's then that he moves closer, tapping her knee with a featherlight touch. She parts them on instinct, enough to allow him to step forward. He's so close now that her breathing automatically becomes shallow and her eyes unfocused for the briefest moment. It feels good to have him standing between her legs, but the real delight is his arm slowly wrapping around her lower back and pulling her against him, eyes watching attentively for any sign of discomfort. None to be found.

"I wanna kiss you. I've been thinking about that, among other things."

It's really unfair the way her ears seem to be working better than they ever have, picking up on every breathless little whisper, every change in tone from him and sending all that information not to her brain, but much lower down.

"Please."

Every second he leans in closer her heart beats faster, and she worries it might actually stop in her chest when their lips touch. It's gentle and soft and so languid it drives her insane, because the way he's holding her to him and gasping against her mouth between switching angles makes her toes curl in her shoes like she's never been kissed.

His other hand comes up to the junction of her neck and jaw, big and firm and hypnotizingly warm. Embarrassingly, a low moan escapes her lips right before he captures them again, tightening his arm around her in response. A single kiss has never been good enough to make her moan like that, and she fights the urge to wrap her legs around him. She's not sure how that would work out, because they already feel pretty weak and her knee still hurts.

Peter pulls away slowly, thumb caressing her cheek and making her keep her eyes closed for a second longer. When she opens them, she finds a wholly different Peter, pink lips parted enticingly and eyes just a tinge darker than they were before. It's something about his face, or maybe just the way he's holding her, or his scent once again spinning her stupid, but he's changed somehow. The way she's being looked at, though new and unusual, is instantly recognized by the instinctive part of her brain, the part that doesn't really have much to say while her eyes follow him, mesmerized, as he reverently drops to his knees in front of her.

She swallows quickly before she can choke on air. Peter is so close she can feel his breath on the skin of her exposed knee, which his face is almost level with. She's getting more dizzy with every passing second, and she can't decipher the question in his eyes until he says it out loud.

"Can I take care of you, sweetheart? Show you what I've been thinking about?" he murmurs.

The vibration of his lower timbre sends her pulse climbing and a shiver runs through her entire body when his hand touches hers on the edge of the bed. He lifts it gently so he can put his underneath.

"Or maybe you can show me what you've been thinking. Hmm?"

He wants her to show him? Fuck, this is bad. It's a proposal she has trouble processing, because how have all her reservations flown out the window the instant she looked down at him? He might be the one kneeling, but her brain is the one that got short circuited. She can't think of any reason to deny herself what he's offering because she can't think at all. Peter Parker is on his knees, asking to take care of her like that's a thing she knows how to respond to.

"What's going on in that head of yours? Still overthinking?" he asks not unkindly. Someone else would've been turned off by her silence a while ago, but he keeps looking up at her through those unfairly long lashes.

"I don't know what to say," she answers honestly before she can run it through a filter.

"Just say what you're feeling. Do you want me to touch you?"

"Yes." Fuck, that was even faster than her previous answer and more effortless than she imagined.

"So show me where to touch you, baby. You're in control. Show me how to make you feel good."

She breathes in through her nose to attempt to steady herself, removing her hand from atop his to guide it to his cheek, and just that singular touch has her skin tingling with anticipation. When he leans into her palm she almost closes her eyes.

"I thought about you a few days ago," she tells him quietly.

"Yeah?"

She nods, all of a sudden shy but doing her best to mimic his confidence.

"Remember how I forgot to bring my lotion? And you had to use the one here?"

Peter looks confused for a moment before he nudges her hand, urging her to continue.

"I couldn't think of anything all night because I kept smelling you on me."

Her hand leaves Peter's cheek, moving back to cover his hand and boldly guide it to her covered knee. She keeps it there for a few moments before moving hers away.

"I couldn't sleep either. I kept seeing you every time I closed my eyes."

Peter listens intently, moving his hand in a motion that's meant to be soothing but just serves to wind her up. His touch isn't new, but the context and intent are so different that it doesn't matter. If anything, it only makes her wonder more.

"Yeah? What'd you do?" he murmurs.

She tears her eyes away before answering, because despite talking being her main activity in life, saying sensual and lewd things to Peter Parker makes her feel like she's never said anything eloquent ever.

"I thought about you touching me. Like you are now, just… less clothes."

He raises an eyebrow in question, and this time he doesn't have to say it out loud. He's asking her permission and she all too willingly gives it, taking his hand again and guiding it to the waistband of her pants. She helps him pull them off by leaning back on her hands, and she notes with amazement that she's completely forgotten about the tumble she took earlier. The heels of her hands are still smarting, but she can't find it in herself to care.

But, suddenly, reality hits: she's in her underwear in front of Peter and he's looking at her through hooded eyes, and she realizes her fantasy doesn't hold a candle to the real thing. Nervousness blossoms in the pit of her stomach, but she doesn't get to say anything before Peter takes her hand again.

"We don't do anything you don't want, yeah? Promise me."

It rings true of the early days of therapy, when he made her promise not to push herself beyond her limits just to seem tough, and she melts just a little more on the spot. Nodding her head, she whispers the promise back to him and takes advantage of their intertwined hands to once again place his on her thigh, this time higher than earlier.

"I trust you."

Peter smiles softly and leans forward to gently kiss her busted knee, and that one gesture pulls a whimper from her lips. Keeping his eyes on her, he places another kiss further up on the inside of her thigh, right where a different scar begins. Blunt concrete also leaves interesting marks with no particular pattern, but she calms herself through the knowledge that Peter has seen all these before. He's not going anywhere, and he's still watching her like he wants to eat her. She feels his tongue dart out to lick a short stripe in the same spot he kissed.

"Is this what I was doing to you, baby?"

It doesn't even matter what he was doing to her in that scenario, because this is far and above anything she could come up with. But the longer he spends kneeling in front of her, the more her tongue loosens and her mind starts saying whatever it wants.

"Yeah. You can… You can touch me. I want you to."

He might as well, because she's pretty sure he can see the spot forming on her panties. But instead he keeps placing featherlight kisses higher and higher on the inside of her thigh, slow and soft and she's about to ask him again when he sucks a mark against the sensitive skin. He's so close to where she wants him that it drives her insane, and when his tongue peeks out to lick a stripe along her panty line she can't hold back a moan.

"Peter, please."

His immediate groan travels straight to her core, and she gasps as he kisses her through her underwear. It all happens so fast after that, it's like she unlocked some part of his brain with her plea. He moves her panties aside with two fingers and licks into her with a moan that almost ends her. She tilts her head back, eyes closed as she melts into his touch. She can't look at him anymore. She's so wound up and he feels so good that it'll all be over before she's gotten to enjoy it. Her heart is hammering away, thighs trembling as he holds them open with his hands. The sounds he's making have her whimpering this high-pitched nonsense she's never heard spill from her mouth, because he almost sounds like he's the one in ecstasy.

"Taste so good, sweetheart… Fuckin' sweeter than I imagined."

She tries to focus but his words just keep sending her deeper and deeper into the pleasure-induced haze, and without thinking, she brings her hand to his hair and pulls. Peter sucks her clit into his mouth, and it almost pushes her over the edge, but then he moans again and she gets dizzy, going limp in his hold as he devours her.

"Look at me, baby. Wanna see those pretty eyes."

She opens her eyes and notices the room is spinning, but she looks down like he asked and a shock runs through her at how dark his eyes are. He hums appreciatively and pulls her even closer to his mouth, bumping his nose against her and flicking his tongue perfectly.

"Peter," she keens helplessly, arms trembling from the effort of holding herself up. He's got her on the edge of the bed, about to slip off when he pulls away to hook her knees over his shoulders. He wastes no time diving back in and the new angle makes tears gather in her lash line. It feels so fucking good she doesn't want it to stop, but it's then that Peter moans her name, sucking on her clit again and looking straight into her soul. She comes with a soft mewl, his name spilling from her lips repeatedly and mind blanking when he just keeps going, bringing her down gently with kitten licks and light kisses.

"You ok? That feel good?" he asks quietly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Kiss me," she pleads, sure that if he doesn't do it in the next thirty seconds she might start crying.

Peter sets her legs back on the bed carefully, kissing her knee one more time before standing up and gathering her in his arms. His kiss is sweet and reverent, grounding her the way she knew it would and helping to slow down her pulse. She can taste herself on him - a new sensation - and finds that she doesn't mind it. It makes everything even more intimate than it already is, and a tear does escape despite her best effort to calm down.

She pulls away to take a deep breath, and Peter frowns upon seeing her damp cheek.

"What's wrong?" he asks, caressing the skin with his thumb.

"Nothing." She shakes her head. "That felt really good. I just…"

She sighs, biting the inside of her lip to stop another tear from falling. It's stupid, yet important - the sort of thing she doesn't like having to say out loud to another person, but has Peter not proven he can handle what she throws his way?

"I'm not used to this. I'm not used to being treated like - like - " She swallows hard, trying to look at him but failing.

"Like you're precious?"

She hides her face in his neck as soon as the truth is out, but nods to let him know and to let herself acknowledge it at last. Peter kisses her temple and shushes the small sobs that couldn't be quieted by her, whispering reassurances that she's everything and more than that to him. It takes her a minute, but she feels much lighter once calmed. A blanket of serenity falls over her in his embrace, and as she slowly becomes more focused, she notices something she didn't before. Peter is rock hard between her legs, and the feeling of it makes blood pound in her ears. She's already drunk on him and wanting, and the emotional security she feels right now makes him even more irresistible. But, when she moves her hand down his chest, he stops her just before she reaches his belt. She's confused and almost hurt for a second before his sinful smile puts her at ease.

"Let's take it slow, yeah? We've all the time in the world and I don't want our first time to be here, kinky as that may be."

She raises an eyebrow at his statement, because he did just eat her out with seemingly no problem, and he didn't care about where they were in the least. A handjob shouldn't be so far outside the bounds of acceptability.

"Oh, baby… Do you think I can have you touch me and not fuck you senseless afterwards?"

She stutters without words while Peter looks like the cat that got the cream, seemingly very happy to have rendered her speechless. He gives her a quick peck before pulling away, looking to the side for the supplies he brought in that have been completely forgotten in favor of a different type of care.

"Let's clean you up and get you home. Gonna have to catch up on our session tomorrow. No slacking."

He's switched to doctor mode so quickly it gives her whiplash, and a small chuckle leaves her at his serious expression. She decides to play into it.

"It's Thursday tomorrow. We don't have a session."

"Don't we?" he volleys back without pause, a grin appearing on his face as he works to clean the small scrape on her forehead from where she hit the pavement.

"I don't know. Where would we meet? The place is closed on Thursdays," she points out with no small degree of mirth, waiting for him to finally ask what she wants him to.

"I think I know a spot where we could go."

"Yeah?"

Peter stops what he's doing to lean in for another kiss, taking her breath away with the look in his eyes. He murmurs a quiet yes against her lips before capturing them with his own, and she sighs blissfully as her eyes close slowly.

.

.

.

Epilogue

Friday, December 17 | 7:52 p.m.

"Come on, sweetheart. Just give me one more."

"Peter, I can't."

"Yeah, you can. C'mon, I got you."

Grunting with the effort, she concentrates on the feeling of his warm hands on her calf to distract herself from the uncomfortable stretch. She's never had her leg at this angle since before the surgery, and even then, it was under much more pleasant circumstances.

"You know, I'd be more motivated if we were doing something else instead," she says, wiping at her brow with the back of her hand.

"Yeah? Like what?" Peter challenges.

"I don't know. What could we possibly be doing that would involve this much contorting?"

"Well there's gymnastics, acrobatics, the trapeze at the circus… Maybe pole dancing," he rattles off, looking down at her with a smirk.

"Mm. Wouldn't mind dancing on some pole."

Peter snorts, amused but undeterred.

"Come on, you're almost there. Just push a little further."

"You know, the things you're saying to me could very easily be heard in a delivery room somewhere."

"Stop wisecracking and focus."

"Bossy," she exhales, moving her leg higher and relying on him less to keep it straight. She can't hold it very long, but the fact is that she's made it - she's finally managed the elusive ninety degree angle they set as a goal a month ago, and it's a victory that doesn't take much to make her smile. Peter helps her move it back down when it starts to shake, but the tremors can't ruin the happiness of having gotten farther than before.

"I did it!"

She sits up from the floor mat, throwing her arms around his neck and peppering his face with kisses until he laughs.

"Easy, tiger. You haven't stretched yet. Don't wanna pull a muscle," he says, pecking her lips in return.

She pouts easily, something she recalls being dead-set against doing in front of him just two months ago. They've had so many firsts together in such a short time, yet none of them felt like moving too fast. Between spending time at each other's places and sleeping together, moving physio from the clinic to her living room still feels like the biggest transition that took no effort at all, at least on his part. He said he wanted to keep being her therapist as well as her boyfriend, but the latter made doing the former difficult. She thought it might have something to do with having to assert authority in their sessions while being equals in a relationship, but the explanation he gave almost made her laugh. He felt weird charging her. That was it.

"Can we skip stretching? I'm really sweaty. Wanna go shower."

She watches him contemplate her proposal, and he sighs in resignation when seeing the hopeful look on her face. He helps her up from the floor, watching her carefully until he deduces she's fine.

"You know, I was gonna ask you to join me, but if you're disappointed, I get it. I can shower all on my own… Just me and my thoughts in there. Who knows what I might come up with?" she muses, walking away from him and towards the bathroom. It's only a second or two before she hears him follow after, biting her lip and squealing when he picks her up from behind. The pain has been getting better over time, or maybe she's learned how to live with it more easily, but overall she suspects it's the change in morale that helps the most. Having someone to care for you and caring for them in return rivals the strongest willpower that attempts to go it alone.

She's been thinking about that more and more as the holidays approach, because as far as she knows, neither of them have any plans. Peter mentioned his only remaining family is his aunt May, but nothing has been said in relation to any end of year celebrations.

She uses the time they take in the shower to come up with the least intrusive way of asking, but Peter wandering hands and gentle touches have her starting the process over. By the time they've gotten out and he's laid her on the bed, taking her apart with his mouth and fingers and cock, her mind has quit on her completely. She's barely coherent as she writhes above him, bracing herself on his chest as he thrusts into her from below, whispering profanities that make her lightheaded.

"So fucking tight, baby. I can feel you shaking. Gonna come for me again?"

She whimpers from a particularly deep brush of his cock inside her, watching his eyes as they glue themselves to the spot where they're connected. Peter isn't just incredibly vocal in the bedroom, she's learned. He's also a voyeuristic lover whose adoration and worshipping can sometimes be overwhelming enough on their own. He's caught her frowning at herself in the mirror once and managed to make her come right there, with lazy flicks on his fingers through her soaked folds and words she'll never forget hotly whispered in her ear.

"Asked you a question, sweetheart. Wanna answer me?" he growls, sitting up so they're chest to chest. Her nipples keep brushing against him with every motion, adding to the flurry of sensations that build up to a crescendo.

"Yes," she moans, hugging him to her. "Yes, I'm close. Don't stop."

"Fuck, you're perfect. Feel so good around me."

"Peter," she tries warning him, and he reacts by pulling her down at the same time that he thrusts up again, ripping the sob of his name from her lips greedily and holding her still as she shakes around him, walls clamping down on his cock repeatedly. He groans into her mouth as the feeling of it snaps his self-control, thrusting a few more times as his orgasm washes over him.

They're both left panting as they come down, her more so than him. Her stamina might not be what it used to, but his is absolutely insane. He'd keep at it if she didn't ask him to stop, and one time she didn't just to see if he could fuck her stupid. Mystery solved. She begged him not to stop until she passed out for a few seconds, and when she came to, Peter was none too pleased. He's been careful ever since.

Her thoughts drift back to her earlier intentions, remembering she had a plan. Well, sort of. She has something she wants, and she has an idea of how to ask for it, but courage? Maybe it's too early, regardless of how well they're bonded. Maybe he does have other plans, and he just didn't discuss them with her, because this is new for them both and she doesn't expect -

"Need a map?"

She laughs breathlessly, dopey and in love as she stares into his eyes.

"Nah, I'm good. I just wanted… I wanted to ask you something. And you don't have to feel like you have to say yes just because you're still inside me."

It's Peter's turn to laugh at her disclaimer, pushing little wisps of hair from her sweaty forehead. They showered for nothing.

"What is it?"

"Well… I know we haven't talked about this, so if you have plans that's ok, but uh, it's gonna be Christmas soon and I would like to spend it with you. Whether we celebrate something or not doesn't matter to me that much, but I know I'll miss you, and I'd like to invite you to stay with me this week."

She tries not to study his reaction too closely, although in their current position that proves difficult. Peter juts his bottom lip out as he appears to think, and it's just shy of adorable and terrifying at the same time. She has no idea what he'll say.

"Well, to accept that I have to ask you something in return. And you don't have to say yes just because I'm still inside you."

She laughs at him repeating her words back to her, and laughs even harder when Peter groans, dropping his head to her shoulder.

"Don't do that," he admonishes without any force behind it, stealing a kiss from her neck before he pulls back.

"What is it? What do you wanna ask?" she says, brushing his hair back and running her fingers through it the way she knows he likes. He closes his eyes after she does it a few times, and she smiles at the sight.

"We don't really celebrate Christmas, aunt May and I. At least not in a religious way. My parents were Jewish, but they were also scientists, so believing in God wasn't really a priority. May and Ben raised me how they knew - we made our own traditions. We ate together on the 25th and we exchanged presents because I told them I heard other kids at school did it and I wanted to do that too, but we don't go through the whole 'putting up a tree' thing."

He's rambling out of nervousness. She can tell because it's different to his usual, more passionate rambling about things he finds fascinating. Still, it's nice to hear a bit of his family's story, and she's happy to know he's had many people to love him, even if he lost them.

"Baby, what do you wanna ask me?"

Peter opens his eyes slowly, looking sleepy and a little bit shy. She tries not to melt, but it's a losing battle.

"I was wondering… if you'd like to do that with us this year? Have lunch at May's house and do presents? I want the most important women in my life to meet," he says, watching her just as patiently as she watched him.

Her heart skips an involuntary beat at his declaration, the phrase ringing around her head and threatening to make everything fuzzy and warm. It's almost enough to make her tear up, but that would make her too emotional and she'd end up saying things neither of them is ready for yet. She settles for kissing his forehead, overwhelmed by the rush of affection warming her chest.

"I'd love that," she murmurs softly.

"Yeah?" he returns just as gently, one of his hands cupping her jaw.

She kisses him in response, trying her best to show him how much his question meant without words that would give away too much too soon. That will happen in its own time, and she's entirely happy letting things come as naturally as they have so far. All they have is each other and a growing tenderness, and it's more than enough for every day. The rest, they'll figure out as they go.

- fin -

A/N: Whew, that was insane. I wrote this in about four days like a woman possessed. It’s also the first time I’ve written any smut whatsoever and now I feel like a whore, but a proud one. As always, let me know your thoughts and don’t hesitate to drop into my inbox with questions or random thoughts about my fics. Thank you for reading.

#peter parker x reader #peter parker x you #tasm!peter x reader #tasm!peter x you #tasm!peter imagine #tasm!peter fluff #andrew!peter x reader #andrew garfield!peter parker x reader #andrew garfield!spiderman x reader #healthcare worker!peter #peter parker fluff #peter parker imagine #peter parker smut #tasm!peter smut

[rattusn0rvegicus]

Hi. Misconception I'd like to dispel, that is commonly promoted by some real shitty medical professionals: "You have no place in the healthcare field as someone living with psychosis/serious mental illness."

Well, how about Carlos Larrauri, a Psychiatric Mental Health Nurse Practitioner and advocate with schizophrenia?

How about Katharine Fox or Aashish Tagore, physicians who so courageously wrote of their own experiences with psychosis in a medical journal, risking the horrible effects of stigma?

What about Mark Vonnegut, a fucking Harvard pediatrician and author who has been diagnosed with severe schizophrenia and bipolar disorder and had multiple psychotic breaks resulting in hospitalization - who opened his own practice years after his diagnoses? He also wrote this article.

Or John Budin, a psychiatrist and advocate with bipolar disorder? Carol North, a psychiatrist and author with schizophrenia? Dan Fisher, a psychiatrist who works with the National Empowerment Center considers himself recovered from schizophrenia? Elizabeth Baxter, another schizophrenic psychiatrist? Wow, there's a lot of 'em!

How about the researchers with psychosis in the healthcare field who have done so much for the community, such as Elyn Saks, Patricia Deegan, Nev Jones, Ron Bassman, etc?

Oh, and here's an awesome article about recovery from schizophrenia that talks about a lot of these awesome folks. (there is discussion of psychiatric abuse, though, so be warned!)

I can guarantee you there's plenty more who aren't open about their experiences, given the societal stigma of psychosis and the much more extreme stigma of living with a serious mental illness in the medical profession.

(This post is not a "you're disabled? see, you have no excuses!" post and don't you dare misinterpret it as such. This post is for the countless people with psychosis I know who have had their dreams dismissed as delusion or simple fantasy by people in power. You don't have to "settle" for jack shit. It may be harder. It may be a long road ahead. But that doesn't make it impossible.)

#psychosis #pseriouslypsychosis #schizophrenia #heathcare #medblr #also psychiatric diagnoses are SO dicey and shouldn't be seen as a bonafide death sentence for ANYONE given how vastly varied the recovery #rates are #also as a schizoaffective healthcare worker who is going through further education i get real mad about this shit

[doctordragon]

Having a doctor tell me to my face that she wasn't sure why they made us sign informed consent for HRT really shifted my entire perspective on trans healthcare and how much it's gatekept.

Like, I was 18 and I had been desperately trying and failing to get hrt for around 3 years. I remember talking with a phycologist and asking her if the effects were reversible and being horrified when she said no - not because I didn't desperately want all of those permanent changes, but because I thought it meant my mom wouldn't let me get it (I was right). I finally convinced her when I was 17 except this was 5 years ago so there were only 2 places in the whole state that did trans healthcare. One of them did it for minors but they required 6+ months of gender therapy (that I did not need. I already knew going on HRT would be the life-changing joy it is and I was secure in my identity as a nonbinary man). The other only did hrt for adults, which would be faster at this point to just wait until I'm 18 than do 6+ months of unnecessary gender therapy. It was in Boston so I every time I wanted to see my PCP I had to take a whole day to take the T in and back to my hometown. Also, I needed a bunch of signatures from mental health professionals and an official diagnosis of gender dysphoria.

Here I was, having prepared for literal years for this moment. I had experienced denial after denial, jumped through hoop after hoop, all for a medication I knew was necessary for my health. Signing an informed consent form was nothing to me. I was just reading a bunch of information I already knew and signing my name. It was the easiest hoop to jump through.

And here was a doctor, telling me that she didn't even know why they made us sign informed consent as a gatekeeping measure.

#trans #transgender #hrt #trans hrt #testosterone #trans man #transmasc #hormone replacement therapy

[trans-axolotl]

I went to the anarchist/abolitionist healthcare conference this weekend, and it was really a beautiful experience that I don't even have words for. Being able to share resources, knowledge, dreams, and joy together with other people invested in this work was so special, and I gained a ton of hope by seeing the many ways that other people are actively engaged in resisting these fucked up systems and building care into our communities. I gave a presentation about psych abolition, talked about resistance within the psych ward, and got a standing ovation from a room filled with 50 people, many of whom were mental health professionals looking to build solidarity. I legitimately almost cried because of being to have that experience with my mad comrades. I met so many beautiful crazy people who intimately understand what it means to survive as a mad person, and just gained so much knowledge from people actively putting their abolitionist values into practice. I want to share a few of my favorite resources that I became aware of at this conference, and I'll make another post later with some of my key takeaways.

Mutual Aid Self/Social Therapy: This is a support framework designed by one of my friends that provides an intentional structure for providing therapetuic support within communities, especially organizing communities where there's a lot of burnout. It offers so many resources for skills training to allow anyone, whether you have a background in emotional support or not, to set this up within your community. The framework is purposefully not hierarchial or transactional, and allows for actually addressing people's material conditions as well as providing space for emotional processing.

Of Unsound Mind: Incredible archive and research on psychiatric history. Mostly focused around America, but also has some info on other countries. The author of the website will be coming out with a book later this year, which I think is mostly going to be about the Trieste, Basaglia, and that history of psych resistance in Italy.

Power makes us Sick: Collective that focuses on autonomous healthcare and emotional support, especially in terms of autonomous trans healthcare. Has some fabulous zines and resources.

A Corpse among Corpses: Incredible documentary about asylum graveyards in the Midwest and the trade of graverobbing for experimentation in medical schools, and how this connects to settler colonialism, slavery, eugenics, and modern gentrification. Really do want to emphasize a trigger warning for genocide, eugenics, medical violence, self harm, antiblack racism, instituionalization, and lots of discussion of death. I talked a lot with the filmmakers, and really appreciated their care and intent in making this film as a way of bearing witness rather than exploiting atrocity in the name of art, but do want to be very clear that this film is incredibly heavy to watch and might be something worth doing with other people. It was deeply impactful for me, and made me tear up many times.

The Living Museum: Through transforming the old Creedmoor hospital grounds into a musuem and workspace for current patients to showcase their art, this space celebrates psychiatric resistance, transformation, struggle, and joy. I really want to go visit and share in that space, as it seems just so fucking cool. It seems like you might need to contact directly to schedule a visit.

Cahoots Crisis Response Model: This is one model for crisi intervention teams that respond instead of police. They are not perfect, still have some enagement with police, but are an interesting example of how to try to implement these types of programs. Since theyv'e been around for 25 years, they have a lot of knoweldeg and could be a good first group to reach out to if you're trying to create this in your community.

Overall this whole weekend was a beautiful example of how to put our values into practice, and really just wanted to share these projects with you all!

#personal #psych abolition #mad liberation #mad pride #antipsychiatry #mad studies #mental illness #neurodivergence #okay to reblog!

[scaryarcade]

ooh, hey, on the subject of "people with DID being harmed/having symptoms worsened by misinformation", you wanna know what kinds of spaces we should really be paying attention to with regards to this? wanna know where i've picked up and internalized all kinds of falsehoods about complex dissociation, and been taught to "manage" my symptoms in ways that actively made them worse? from almost every mental health professional i've ever seen!

from the psychologist who diagnosed me with BPD when i was a teenager after a 30 minute conversation with me wherein i tried to explain my symptoms (this guy also told me all my symptoms were caused by brain inflammation and could be fixed by dieting!)...to the therapist who told me i was actually just schizoaffective...

...to the MULTIPLE individual DBT therapists who told me the only way to work on my dissociation would be to categorize it as a "problem behavior" (verbatim!) and do behavior chain analysis to figure out what i was doing to cause the problem (actually, the problem was that i was being abused!)...

...to the first therapist who diagnosed me with DID, who proceeded to idealize the hell out of my alters and constantly told me weird shit about how fascinating i was and how i was his most interesting client (to this day, one of the only instances of someone actually romanticizing my DID, and it came from a healthcare professional, not a teenager on tiktok or whatever. huh!)

out of 7 mental health professionals i've seen over the course of 10 years, only ONE of them knew enough about trauma and dissociation to NOT ACTIVELY HARM ME. what the hell makes anybody think the healthcare system is safe or trustworthy for people like us? we CANNOT and MUST NOT allow "seek treatment and talk to a professional!" to be the only option for people who are struggling. there NEED to be alternative paths that do not involve this horrifically broken, exploitative, abusive system.

#syscourse #ummm gonna go ahead and also tag this one as #vent #since its a lil heavy #abyssposting #antipsych

[trials-of-apollo-my-beloved]

Door Three-Thirty-Six

These are the first three chapters of my Apollo gets therapy fic

Apollo finds his way into a therapy session. And despite telling himself not to, keeps showing up.

Chapter 1

There hadn't been a specific moment that led me to seek out therapy. I hadn't had some revelation, I didn't realize my need for help in a moment of desperation. Honestly calling it a need is a bit of stretch. I knew plenty of people that needed therapy. Nico D'angelo for example, or really just about every demigod I’ve ever met.

Honestly , I tapped my foot at a nervous six eight tempo on the waiting room floor, I probably shouldn't have come at all. Healthcare professionals are already so bogged down with work nowadays. All I'm probably going to accomplish by doing this is take up the space of someone more deserving of the help. I narrowed my eyes at the door number. I swore the email had said I was supposed to go to  room three-thirty-six by 9:30 AM! It was at least 9:45 now, shouldn't the door have opened at some point?

Maybe I had gotten mixed up and it was actually 9:30 PM instead. Maybe I should have chosen a therapist in Europe instead. Their measurements of time are so much more manageable. I speak enough European languages that I could have pulled that off.

A creak emitted from door three-thirty-six and for some unknown reason, my breath caught in my throat. Whoever was on the other side seemed to have stopped in their tracks right before they opened the door. I could see the bottoms of the shoes. They looked fancy, but worn. The owner was probably middle class if the generic store brand tag sticking up from the back of their shoes was anything to go by.

The door opened and I yelped. A middle aged woman looked at me questioningly. Mayhaps wondering what I was doing hovering outside her door. A sentiment that the longer I forced myself to see this through, the more I sympathized with.

"Uhm, hello!" I attempted a polite wave.

The woman blinked at me. "Hi there. Are you Apollo?" She had a wonderful voice, deep for a woman and undeniably pleasant. I could see how she had become a healthcare professional. A soothing voice has always helped me with bedside manner.

"Yes, that's me! Apollo..." I stuttered trying to remember the alias I had created for this. Yes, I had to create an alias entirely for going to therapy. Apparently mortals need to exist before they're allowed to sign up, and I couldn't just get this service on Olympus. The closest thing Olympus had to mental health services was some Dionysus enchanted ambrosia. Also called alcohol in some circles.

"Apollo John Smith." I don't know what you're talking about, I very much did not google the most common last name in *insert place here* to come up with my alias! That'd be stupid and incredibly transparent.

"Right, Apollo." The woman, who I assumed was Delilah Burch, my therapist to be, smiled inexplicably at me. She couldn't have possibly already realized I was lying about my name could she?

"Sorry for the wait. I had a client online that needed some extra time. Please come in." Burch's office wasn't decorated like most medical facilities I have been in. In fact, with the couch in the center of the room laden with handmade quilts, it reminded most of the infirmary at camp half blood. The room looked designed to have a homely feel. Even the dents in the wall next to the couch,  told a story of perseverance. I don't know why, it was completely ridiculous, but I felt like the hole was taunting me.  

Like it was saying, "I've withstood too much to be felled by you." Wow, I was in a weird mood today.

“May I?” I gestured to the couch. Delilah smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling in a way that reminded me fondly of my son Austin.

“Of course. Please.” I practically sunk into the couch. Even if I got nothing out of this visit, like I suspected would be the case, the journey would be worth it for this wonderful couch.

“What is this made of?”

Delilah chuckled, “I don’t know, but I’ve been told it’s something that starts with a p.”

“Well I’m going to have to look this couch up.” I didn’t say it outloud, but this couch had to be better than even Hephaestus’s laboratory couch. While my half brother was quite the inventor he was very facetious with comfort.

“If you find it, let me know. There’s quite a few people who have been asking me for it.” Delilah sat in a swivel chair across from, her long dark hair disappearing into black chair.

“Now,” she trailed a digit down her clipboard, “Since this is our first session, Apollo, it’s always good to start with an introduction.”

I nodded. Being a medical professional myself I was familiar with the more routine aspects of psychological treatment. Beyond the rubric though, I will admit I am rather clueless.

Delilah set the clipboard down on her lap, and I had to constrain myself from peering down at it. “I’ll go first. My name’s Delilah Burch, as you know. I am thirty-six years old. I have two siblings and I live with my dog bailey.” She pointed her pen at me, probably indicating it was my turn.

“Hello…” I trailed off, suddenly realizing I had no clue how to introduce myself. Usually I just say, “Hi I’m Apollo,” and people fill in the rest. I couldn’t do that now, obviously.

It wasn’t the best idea to start therapy based on a lie, but Olympus already had enough blackmail on me without finding my therapist.

I’ll just follow the template Delilah had laid out for me, “My name’s Apollo. I have…” My plan to follow her template fell apart as I realized I had no clue how many siblings I had.

“Well depending on how you define siblings I have a sister. I am…” Oh goodness. Another roadblock. How old was my identity again. I think I went with forty. Purely on the fact that I couldn’t gush about my teenage kids without getting weird questions.

I am not very familiar with the topics that come up in therapy, but if I had chosen my age simply off of how I appeared to mortals, I feel that being a teenage father would surely come up.

“Forty, I am forty-years-old. And I live alone. With my horses if we’re counting pets.” Delilah’s eyebrows lifted at my age, but hopefully that wasn’t because she had caught onto my lies. She was hopefully just contemplating how amazing I looked for my age. I get that a lot. Even in Olympus, which is always slightly less flattering because the people complimenting my looks there are mostly just trying to call me old without getting vaporized. (Ahem, Hermes and Dionysus.)

Delilah looked at me contemplatively. “If you don’t mind me asking, how do you define your siblings Apollo?”

Well that wasn’t what I was expecting. She had deviated from the first day rubric. I was lost. I opened my mouth, but I had no idea how to answer that question. I could go with full, biological siblings. That generally is the definition for siblings in my family, though even then that familial bond was sometimes ignored when my father, well…

My father’s… everything, probably wasn’t the topic to bring up on my first session with a new therapist. I didn’t know much about Delilah, but she didn’t seem like the type who was seeking a challenge. I guess I’d just stick with Artemis, even if I did consider a certain McCaffrey a little sister as well.

“I was counting full siblings. Of which I only have one.” Delilah leaned in like she was genuinely interested in what I had to say. I admired her for that. I for one was never able to pull off, “genuinely interested” when my patients told me about their personal lives. I’m sorry, but I do not care about your new shrine on Crete! I just don’t.

“That’s nice. Could you tell me her name?” She flashed her clipboard at me, “I like to make a diagram of relationships patients have so I have something to look at incase I forget.”

I blinked. A diagram. Well that was fancy. I knew that mental health practice had improved quite a bit over time, but a diagram was a stroke of ingenious. Back in medieval Europe Dionysus used to tell me stories about forgetting the names of people seeking his aid and how he would just cut a hole in their skull to get out of admitting he had forgotten. Which yes, was standard mental health treatment at the time.

“Well, that is handy.”

Delilah smirked, “Definitely. So what’s your sister’s name?”

“Oh, right.” I paled, realizing I hadn’t come up with aliases for any of my siblings. That was maybe something I should have considered before coming here.

“Artemis.”

“Oh I see.” Delilah scribbled on her diagram. “Apollo and Artemis, like the Greek gods! Are you two twins?”

I laughed nervously, “Very much like that. Yes we are twins. By the way, your last name, Burch. Are you perhaps related to Caroline Burch?” Confused Delilah looked at me. “The poet. And an excellent one at that.” I hinted at her, but Delilah’s face remained foggy.

“Well that’s disappointing.” I’d been a fan of Caroline Burch’s work for a long while and her stellar portfolio of poetry. Honestly her works deserved to be put in schools. I curse the person who somewhere along the line decided that Bill and Dante were the only poets doomed to be taught in American highschools.

“Sorry to disappoint. I’d say I’m about as related to her as you are to the real Apollo, but you know, you never know.” She said. I contained a laugh, you never did know.

“So do you have any other people in your life that I should know of? A parent? Friends? Kids?” Oh dear, I would have to come up with some aliases on the spot, wouldn’t I?

Start with the easy one, “I have a friend named Meg. She’s a little like my younger sister.” There, no harm in that. There’s plenty of Megs walking around. Her name wouldn’t incriminate me as one of the twelve olympians.

Now, onto my other relations. My mind raced through all my father’s titles. I would rather not discuss him ever, but considering this was therapy, and he was my abuser, if I did continue on with this charade he would no doubt come up.

“My father’s name is Bob and my mother’s name is Leto. I also have a lot of half siblings since my father’s a doner.” I winced as my poetic sense came up with a more truthful rhyme to that cover. Sometimes my talent is a curse.

Delilah’s smile had slipped at some point and she was writing so intently that I wondered how all those words could fit onto the diagram.

I felt awkward just sitting there and watching her so I continued. “I also do have other friends, but I don’t think you could fit them on your diagram.”

Delilah looked up at me, a challenge in her eyes, “Give me enough time, I could do it.”

“Okay. I also have four daughters, Kayla, Gracie, Emma, and Urania. Four sons, Austin, Will, Jerry, Raphael, and Yan who prefers no labels.” Delilah’s face remained mostly impartial, but her brow did furrow slightly.

“So your kids don’t live with you?”

“Eh heh, no, not typically. I mostly come to stay with them than the other way around.”

Delilah hummed, “Are they from one partner, no partner, multiple?” I leaned back in my chair. This was the trouble with choosing a mortal physiatrist. While the anonymity it allowed was convenient, it also had the downside of coming with mortal judgments on morality and this country's strangely christian prejudices. I hoped Delilah wasn’t the type to slut shame, but well, that’s never something you can tell from looking at a person.

For example; you would think Janus, the god of doorways would be totally down and cool with people having multiple partners over their lifetime, but no, he was a total stickler for ‘one true loves’.

“Multiple partners.” I meant to say it as a statement, but it came out more like a question.

“Alright.” She said, I let out a sigh of relief. This session had already been so awkward without the added tension of conflicting views on monogamy.

“Are you uncomfortable right now Apollo?” Delilah asked me. I froze up, which must’ve answered her question better than even I, with all my poetic wisdom could have done verbally.

“You really don’t have to be. I know all therapists say this, but trust me this is a safe space. Unless you are planning to harm yourself or others everything said in this room is entirely confidential. There is no judgment. Promise.” Her words were kind, and settled my nerves slightly. Though I knew she could not uphold that promise.

In my experience nothing I did was beyond scrutiny. Perhaps the only time in my life where my actions hadn’t been observable by Olympus was when I was hanging off the edge of chaos.

“No judgment? Well that does sound nice.” I smiled weakly. Delilah locked eyes with me, looking almost concerned for my well being. An idea that was completely absurd considering we’d only met around forty minutes ago.

“Yes. I find it quite nice. Once we look at things objectively it tends to shine a light on things we didn’t even try to look at before.” I nodded. Remembering when I sacrificed to my sister Diana at her temple at Camp Jupiter. Looking at mortals making sacrifices to me from above I had always thought they’d see it as an honor. Doing it myself had revealed the menial reality.

I was going to respond -with some mortal friendly revisions of course- my anecdote, but a piercing beeping erupted from Delilah’s pants.

She patted her lap like a dad recovering from a particularly funny joke. She pulled out her phone. “I’m sorry Apollo. It seems like our time together has come to an end.” She adjusted on her chair and pulled out her business card. “When would you be free for another session?”

I tapped my fingers considering. For all my worries today hadn’t been a total disaster. I looked at Delilah, she didn’t appear to be in a hurry to throw me out. Maybe the troubles of Noca county weren’t so terrible that I was taking up the spot of someone who needed more desperately than I?

“Any time is good for me. Most days after the sun sets I’m free.”

“So around eight?”

“Yeah, that, that works.” Delilah scribbled that down on her business card.

“Is next Thursday good for you?”

I mentally sorted through my to-do list for this month. It was depressingly short. One of the downsides of avoiding my godly family is the loss of, “Never a dull moment”.

“Yeah.” I stood up. Mourning the feel of comfortable couch on my tuchus.

Delilah held out her hand. “See you soon Apollo.” I took and we shook.

I found myself smiling, “You too.”

Well, I thought, that went surprisingly alright.

Chapter 2

I grabbed Dr. Burch’s knocker and swung it against her door. I winced. These doors were solid wood alright.

I looked around me subconsciously, hoping I hadn’t accidentally summoned Janus with my doorway abuse. In my defense, I would tell him, Dr. Burch is the one who hung the metal thing on the door in the first place! It’s basically asking me to hit the door!

I considered the simple wall hanging, the black seemed to clash with the yellow-esk wood, which shouldn’t have been possible because every fashion magazine I’ve read has told me that nothing clashes with black. I might have to go back and reconcile some of my style choices from the 1980’s…

The knocker was quite wide as well. Aren’t therapist’s offices not supposed to have things you could hang yourself from? Or are those psych wards? I realize I’m showing my ass on my knowledge of mental health treatment facilities.

I stepped back from my doorknob ogling when I heard voices on the other side of the door. I quickly retreated.

A teenager emerged from the room, looking like they were holding back tears. I tried to look away -I know teenagers can get touchy about getting stared at- but this particular teen reminded me eerily of my Lester Popadopalous form if he'd gotten, well, more sun.

Dr. Burch followed behind them, giving me a side eye that didn’t seem to fit well with her dogma of, “no judgment”. Maybe I shouldn’t have knocked, but then why have the knocker to begin with? Did it just come with the door?

Dr. Burch turned the teen towards them and patted their shoulder. “I can’t promise you everything will be alright Clifton, but remember that while you can’t change the situation you can change-”

“How I react to it? Yeah I heard you and mom the first ten-thousand times thanks.” Clifton shrugged Dr. Burch’s hand off, she dropped her hand and gave them a Chiron quality smile. The type of smile that seemed to be both comforting and condescending in equal measure.

“Have a nice day Clifton.” Clifton did a weak wave and walked off. Glaring at everything that came into their view, including me.

If the passive aggressiveness kept up I might decide that this therapy thing wasn’t worth risking my reputation.

Once Clifton was beyond the corridor Dr. Burch turned to me, suddenly all smiles. “Hello Apollo. It’s good to see you.”

I fought the urge to nervously twirl my hair, “Yes, good to see you too.”

“I must admit after our last meeting I was worried you wouldn’t be coming back.” I was suprised. I thought our last meeting had gone relatively well! At least amongst first impressions with mortals. Was it the last name Smith? I knew that was going to be a give away!

“Really,” I chuckled in a very, totally casual way, “What made you think that?”

Dr. Burch tilted her head, “You just had a very nervous energy. You seemed very uncomfortable here to me. I’m glad you came back.” She held open the door.

Curse this woman and her Sally Jackson perceptiveness! I was nervous. Gods, maybe I should just give up the charade and tell her I’m a god. I feel like that could help me avoid a lot of problems. But, I spotted a photo on the window sill of Delilah, another woman that looked like her, and a small child, it would likely cause more problems than it’d be worth.

I sat down on Delilah’s ungodly comfy couch (as a god I’m aloud to say that) and tried not to give it a Chrissy Amphlet feel up.

“You get the name?”

“What?” I looked up at Dr. Burch sitting across from me. “What name?”

She picked up her clipboard and clicked her pen, “The name of the couch. You said you would look it up?”

I didn’t remember that. Had I said that? To be frank I didn’t remember much of our last encounter. I hadn’t felt like I’d needed to, with how wonderfully mundane things had turned out.

“I’m sorry, I forgot.”

Delilah waved off my apology, “That’s fine. You didn’t have to.” She adjusted in her swivel chair and took a long sip of a large water bottle on her right. “So Apollo, now that it’s your second session I think we can get into the more fun part of this relationship hmm?”

I blinked, not knowing what, “the more fun part” meant in this context. In my experience the more fun part of relationships wasn’t exactly safe for work. I doubted Delilah, with her professional wardrobe and this being her work place meant that .

“What do you mean?”

She smiled warmly, perhaps sensing my discomfort again. “Could you tell me Apollo, why you decided to come here?”

I looked around her office and raised an eyebrow, “Well you let me in so…”

Dr. Burch chuckled like I’d made a particularly funny joke. “No, I meant why did you decide to seek help, Apollo?”

My cheeks went gold. (A wonderful side effect of having ichor instead of blood is that people can’t tell when you’re blushing.) I didn’t know what to say. As I told you at the beginning of this tale dear reader there was no specific reason I decided to seek help. Nope, no reason at all. In fact one could say I had the opposite of a reason, an anti-reason? Yeah, I like how that sounds. I could totally sell that to my buddies at Websters. Good word for poetry, anti-reason.

“Uhm, I guess I just felt like it.” I meant to say it like a statement, but the ‘uhm’ and the way my voice increased in pitch at the end of my sentence pretty thoroughly sabotaged the attempt.

Dr.Burch, bless her heart, -no not literally godly power, you’ve messed up blessings too much for me to use you right now- made no comment on my voice crack but to scribble on her notepad.

“Therapy is all about feelings, so, you’ve got the right idea there. Is there anything else? Anything you’d like to work on?”

I grimaced. There were many things I’d like to work on. My hair, my parenting skills, the sun chariot stereo, but the worry I had held signing up for therapy in the first place held me at bay from saying any of that.

“I… I think that everyone has things they can work on. Ways to be better.” I thought of Reyna’s words after our meeting with Harpocrates. To be a better person I had to change, to work on things and be better .

Delilah gave me an evaluating look and- wow, I was really uncomfortable. More uncomfortable than that time when I’d gone to that modern rap convention and over half the free styles had included the word, “bitch” five times plus. Some of the freestylers had even gone on to rhyme the word with itself. Which, as the expert on rhyming I was fairly certain didn’t count as actually rhyming. The rappers and their possies hadn’t too seemed inclined to take my advice though.

Honestly that’s my issue with modern rap, too many yes men. Sure it feels good to have people patting you on the back for everything you do, but it stifles creativity, and creativity is especially what modern MCs need- what was I talking about again?

“I think that’s a wonderful philosophy.” Dr. Burch cut into my musings, “And, I know I’m supposed to be impartial here, but one I quite agree with. I wish all my patients had that mindset going into therapy. It would be very beneficial for them and me.”

I nodded, the wisdom of Reyna Avila Ramírez-Arellano was something to behold. “The thing with therapy is that it’s a partnership. It doesn’t work unless both parties are cooperating and willing to work together.”

I nodded again, mentally sliding that information into my lexicon. I would have to speak with Dionysus about that particular piece of information because if he was helping Nico D’angelo with his mental health, and knowing my brother he would need a bit of push to really contribute to a partnership. Or anything really, with all he stalled doing anything you would think he was the god of dragging his heels not wine.

"So is there anything specific you would like to work on Apollo?” Oh goodness, we were back to this question. You know I've never related so much to Meg’s refusal to form coherent sentences before.

I gripped the couch cushion, trying my best to figure out how to proceed without giving the game away, so to speak. What part of my life could I talk about that wouldn’t get me immediately labeled an immortal being?

My kids? I suppose that could work. I did want to become a better person for them as well as myself, so it was even true! Though based on my appearance the fact that I have teenaged children might actually give me away. I suppose I’ll have to look into those ridiculous, mortal, “anti-aging creams” (which, as a doctor I must tell you mortals to stop buying. Truly most of them do more harm than good.) to use as an excuse in case someone Dr. Burch starts asking any questions.

“I would like to learn how to be a better father. I know that’s very broad but,” I trailed off, unsure what to say.

Dr. Burch nodded sympathetically, “It’s fine Apollo. That’s a wonderful goal to have and we have a lot of time to work on it. Though as you said that kind of goal can sound incredibly daunting, so how do you feel-” She clicked her pen and brandished it at me, “about breaking it down with me?”

How I feel, well in general slightly terrified that one of my siblings or shudder my father would burst through the window behind you and start streaming my embarrassment to all of Olympus. How I felt about breaking down a goal, “That sounds fine to me.”

I brought up how I felt that I didn’t spend enough time with my kids. (Leaping and bounding over the topic of the ancient laws) We then discussed my profession and creating slots of time for my kids and by the end of the session Delilah had me sending an email to camp half blood stating I’d be over to take cabin seven to the latest performance at the Sydney opera house.

By the end of the session I felt quite content. I’ve been told that therapy is supposed to make you uncomfortable, but I was starting to feel quite at home in Dr. Burch’s office. Returning to the Sun Palace I quite happily marked down our next meeting in my calendar.

I found I was actually looking forward to my next hour at door three-thirty-six.

Chapter 3

This might be strange to say, but I was having a magnificent day. I’d hung out with Meg at Aeithales and there wasn’t a single monster attack, I spent the previous night on a joyous outing with my kids, and I do believe I finally managed to shed that awkward, “you’re our dad, but we never used to see you so we’re always very mindful of how we act next to you” mindset from Kayla and Austin.

Not to mention the performance itself was outstanding. That drummer, why she was something else. Both in stamina and style. The two S’s of how to be a good performer, and the way she complimented the singer’s sporadic tempo, her technical chops were nothing to scoff at either. I digress, all I’m trying to say is I walked out of the concert with an amazing sense of fulfillment and an amazing musician's number in my back pocket.

And before you get all, “Oh Apollo, but wasn’t this trip about your kids? Why were you flirting?” First off, I can flirt and shower my kids with affection at the same time! That’s not weird! Also my plans with Anastasia aren’t going to be anything like a date. They are going to purely be two musicians with mutual admiration for each other having hour long rockin jam sessions. Nothing romantic about that.

Currently I was flying through the sky in the form of a peregrine falcon, the fastest bird in the world, wind rushing through my fathers, brushing against my skin, the world passing down in sweeping arcs and blurred river roads.  No matter how many times I did this, flying free was alway exhilarating.

I regretted many things about accepting my godhood back from my father, regaining the ability to fly was never one of them.

I swung into a dive plunging down at the speed of one of my arrows. My wings were tucked close to my body and my feathers deflected dust particles like a windshield, air moving out of the way of my descent.

It was glorious. Approaching the ground I pushed out my wings and crashed into a wall of air like a spaceship hitting Earth’s atmosphere. Then I was soaring, flapping my wings to pull me above the ground so I could glide to a stop at my destination.

I drifted to a wire and landed, gently descending onto the ground. I started to waddle through the streets to an alley where I could transform into a more suitable form for counseling. If the residents of Saint Paul Minnesota were at all confused to see a peregrine falcon wadling through their streets like a lost pigeon, none of them took up their grievances with me.

Last second before exiting the alley way I realized that I forgot to put on clothes, and quickly equipped the first thing that came to mind. Which was a chiton, then to be replaced by my usual Lester Papadopoulous mom jeans and T-shirt for modesty reasons.

While my chiton was down right modest back in ancient times nowadays it would be quite a scandalous thing to show up to a mental health facility in. Or at least when you weren’t in LA. Depending on what part of that city you were in, my chiton could still, probably, be considered modest.

It occurred to me as I progressed through Dr. Burch’s building that I looked like father. Of course I always look like a dad in the fact that I am, by a broad definition of the word, a father. But with my worn and aged Lester jeans, the pockets sagging from use- and for some reason I couldn’t fathom my form appeared older than I usually went with- I truly did look like someone’s pops.

I had faint smile lines around my eyes, my posture was laid back, and casual. I looked like a man who was just a day away from going out with his teenage kids to a concert. I felt a weird kind of content, like I had everything in the world right in front of me but was in no hurry to do anything with it.

It was a feeling that was almost entirely foreign. Though I suppose there was no mystery in what spurred on the mood. I’d simply had a good week. Hmm, another foreign thing.

I melted out of my reverie when I met Dr. Burch’s door. Closed again. I suppose I should have expected that. Us physicians were never quite punctual either.

Huh, maybe that’s why there are  chairs in this hallway?

I took a seat when I didn’t hear the conversation going on in room three thirty six winding down. I was mentally playing my favorite songs off of Madonna's album, Madonna when I heard a thump.

I looked around me and saw something had fallen out of my pocket. There was a makeshift doll lying on the floor, its head twisted at an odd angle and droplets of red coating it. That was- that was the doll my maybe-daughter Georgina had made for me. I was sure I lost that ages ago, yet it had just fallen out of my jeans pocket.

My jeans pocket that wasn’t even on the trousers I was really wearing when I first got it. While these jeans appeared like the variety of ones I wore on my trials they were simply a replica. I never would have been able to fit in Lesters' actual trousers. At least not remotely comfortably for me or anyone in my line of sight.

I picked the broken thing up from the synthetic wood floors and turned it in my hand. Now how did you get here my friend? I felt bad for the little doll. I’d completely forgotten about it and now it was all covered in Lester fluids.

A fate I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy- mostly for my own sake.

I looked at the clock, it was getting pretty late. I wondered if I would get punched if I tried knocking again… Whether by Janus or Dr. Bruch I did not know.

As if hearing my slander, the door next to me slammed open, I jumped in my seat, the chair scraping a piercing note into the synthetic wood. Another teenager stormed out of it, not even giving me a second glance.

I smoothed out my t-shirt trying to reassemble my composure. There sure were a lot of angry teenagers here. This is the second one in a row. The youth of today seems to be struggling quite a bit. I should probably do something about that, being the god of youth and all, but I didn’t suppose tracking down teens already getting help and asking what’s wrong would help much.

“Hi Apollo!” Delilah Burch’s lovely contralto met my ears and I looked up to see her smiling broadly at me.

“Oh hello there! Good morning!”

“Yes, it is. Nice and cool. Much better than the summer heat if you ask me.” Dr. Burch chuckled lightly and held open her door for me. I would have disagreed with her and perhaps offered to message her my forty slides long powerpoint on why, actually, summer was the season superior to all others, but I was in such a good mood I didn’t bother. We entered and took our seats.

I cracked a joke about the quality of the couch again, Delilah laughed and then something in the atmosphere shifted. I’m not sure how I could tell something was coming, perhaps it was simple intuition, perhaps it was my on and off buddy Delphi warning me to get out now, while I still could.

The feeling was strange, but I didn’t heed it. I was an Olympian god and Dr. Burch was about as mortal as one could be. Even if a monster were to suddenly burst through a window and destroy the whole building I had full faith in my ability to neutralize it and protect Delilah Burch along with everyone else.

I suppose that was a bit of hubris on my part. Figures what occurred next I must have committed some sort of sin against the fates just wonderful sensibilities.

“You know Apollo, we've had fun our last few meetings.” I narrowed my eyes. If that wasn’t ominous I wasn’t the god of music.

“Yes?”

“And while that’s all well and good, speaking with you has been a delight, I think we’ve come to a point in our relationship where we can start to get into more personal topics. Perhaps dig further into certain issues you think might require immediate attention?”

I blinked, immediate attention wasn’t really how I would describe any of my issues. I was an immortal, when it came to self progression “immediate” was something entirely up to me to decide. Or at least that’s how I used to think. That mentality has acquired some qualifiers recently. For example if one of my friends were in danger, or gods forbid I was the one endangering them, that would require immediate attention.

To my knowledge I wasn’t endangering anyone right now, but… In the past I certainly had. So the first place to start would be there? But how would I discuss that with a mortal? How would I admit to any of my previous behaviors without collapsing in a ball of guilt and having Delilah running out of the room and trying to break her strange knocker off her door and use it to lock me in?

Would all that be worth the chance to be better? Better than I already am trying to be, good enough to deserve those that I wished to protect? I stared at Delilah then turned to look closer at the photo of her sister and that young child on the window cill.

While I wanted desperately to expedite my process towards being a better person, it wasn’t worth the risk. Revealing my status as a god, or even dropping subtle hints in my story could lead to Delilah discovering the truth of the immortal world, which could risk destroying her mind. I couldn’t do that to her. That would make me as bad as I was before. Tossing mortal lives out like candy wrappers.

So where to start, was the question? What about me personally did I not like? Thinking about it, I leaned back on the couch and Dr. Burch graced me with a patient smile.

There was quite a lot about me that I wished I could fix. I wanted to be better in more ways than one, I wanted to be moral yes, I wanted to be strong and resilient, I wanted be clever like Athena so I could wriggle my way out of trouble, I wanted to be free like my sister, I wanted to be brave enough to do more than sit in the golden cage that was Olympus and break out and create change like Meg.

I wasn’t any of those things, especially not brave, but I didn’t know how to ask. Bravery had always been something I envied; seeing it all my life. In Meg, my sister, Don the faun, I watched them stand strong with intention while I fumbled through my decisions like a one hit wonder trying to recreate the success of their first hit.  

I looked at Dr. Burch, really looked at her. I tried to see not just her physically but the room she inhabited, the job she took, and the questions she asked.

Despite her middling age she had the enthusiasm of a young child running into every situation expecting the best. She dealt with children everyday like the young Clifton. Children marching through their existence on this rock in space unsure of how they got here, or how they remain, and she tried to help them make sense of it all.

I only knew Dr. Burch for not even a full four hours, but I could already tell she had faced more trials and come out on top than I ever have.

How to sit in front such a person and ask, answer, with my own flaws pleading for their guidance?

What would they think of me? And would it hurt more if they dismissed me, or if they held a hand?

I found myself staring at the hole in the wall I noticed on my first visit here. There was already spackle filling the cracks surrounding the fist shaped hole.

“I want to be better than who I was, and I want the courage to push through to that.”

Delilah simply marked something down on her clipboard. She looked to me, her eyes were polite, but I felt a pressure to speak nonetheless.

“I want to be brave enough to stay away from my father,” like Meg and my sister Artemis, “I want the courage to look those I have wronged in the eye and promise them that they will be the last to experience the pain I caused them. I want a way to look at my children without all their kindness being unbalanced. I want-” I trailed off.

I broke eye contact with the hole in the wall and hung my head. I didn’t continue. There wasn’t enough time to go on and spill the whole truth of my pitiful existence.

Wow, I’m starting to sound like an edgy teen. It seemed running into that teen earlier was some sort of foreshadowing.

I remained still in the couch seat, frozen, waiting for Dr. Burch to make the first move. The anticipation of seeing her reaction to my confession was killing me, but I couldn’t bring myself to look up and confirm my worst fears.

The silence hung in the air like rain clouds. Condensing dark in the sky, lightning sparking through them and my muscles instinctively tensing.

“Are you feeling good Apollo?” Dr. Burch spoke and I raised my head, her eyes crinkled at the corners with concern, and her lovely mahogany eyes were bearing into me.

I was taken aback. She didn’t hate me! Though I suspected that was probably because I spared her all the gory details of my moral failings.

Also, of course I felt good? I was the god of youth and healing, I was likely the healthiest person on the planet! I quickly checked my form for any blemishes, briefly fearing that my acne had returned; that somehow my emotional vulnerability had registered as wrong to my godly body and it decided to course correct by slowly transforming into Lester Papadopoulos.

To my luck that didn’t seem to be the case.

“I didn’t mean physically.” Dr. Burch interjected. I quickly stopped my personal pat down and did my best not to look embarrassed. Curse me and my presumptuousness. I really need to work on my self esteem, this imposter syndrome is starting to leak into my good looks. If my brain kept this up I might accidentally manifest flab onto my perfect form in my sleep.

I don’t hate Lester’s form anymore, but being shoved into it without my waking consent was not an experience I wished to repeat.

“I mean emotionally Apollo. It is truly wonderful that you’re opening up. Truly, but you don’t have to force yourself. We can take things one at a time. I wrote down what you said. Which do you want to talk about?”

She flipped over her clipboard. I rubbed my eyes and squinted to read the sheet.  When had it gotten so dark? In an instant the room lightened and illuminated the list.

The words fell from my lips as I read them, “My father…” I stopped. I had mentioned my father? That seemed like an oversight. I had already resolved to keep my godly side as far away from Dr. Burch as I could, discussing my father wouldn’t bring anything but destruction. I would have to-

“So you want to talk about your father?”

My panic must have been visible. Dr. Burch pursed her lips.

“Is everything alright at home Apollo?” She asked.

I didn’t have an answer.

Chapters will be updated individually from now on. This was just to get the back log of the fic on tumblr!

#Trials of apollo #Trials of Apollo fanfiction #mine #Door three-thirty-six #therapy fic #pjo Apollo #lester papadopoulos #my fanfic

[tomboyfriends]

hey, do you have any advice for women trying to build muscle? I'm specifically looking to build some muscle in my chest.

Ok, so I'm going to be completely honest with you and tell you that I am less than one year into seriously weight training. I am by no means an expert nor am I a health professional. With that in mind, I'll tell you what I know. :) You are free to message me as well if there's anything more you would like to know. It's impossible to cover everything in one post but I will do my best to be helpful. There is quite frankly SO MUCH to learn about growing muscle, but it is doable. If you have a curious and open mind and love to research then those are amazing assets to have because there are always ways to refine your technique and improve diet and rest. These might seem pretty basic so maybe you already know a lot of this (I don't know your experience level so I'm gonna talk as if speaking to a total newbie) but I'll cover what I think is important. Eat lots of protein. Shoot for 0.7-0.8g of protein per pound of lean body mass. If you are already pretty lean you can use your normal weight but if you are obese then you should try to figure out how much of your weight is fat and calculate your lean body mass from there. Protein powders such as whey protein and pea protein are very helpful and can be more affordable than other sources. Some people will say 1g of protein per pound of body weight but honestly it may be a bit overkill. Try to eat your protein not all in one sitting otherwise your body will convert a bunch of it into energy instead of muscle. Have some of your daily protein with each meal instead, you can break it into snacks as well. Train hard, REST HARDER. If you don't rest your body will not be able to create more muscle. Get at least 8 hours nightly, more is probably better. After working out, do not exercise the same muscles you trained for a minimum of 48 hours. Use this time to exercise different muscle groups, or rest. Technique/form >>> lifting heavy. Form is important for safety and to also ensure you are stimulating the targeted muscles instead of inadvertently using other parts of the body to get the work done. Control the eccentric (lengthening the muscle) phase of an exercise by performing it slowly for 1-3 seconds. Concentric (shortening/contracting the muscle) phases can be done explosively and quickly but you must always be in control of the weight and not use momentum to move the weight around. Rest 1-3 minutes (some people say minimum 2 minutes, you can also rest longer if needed) between sets to make both your muscles AND nervous system enough time to recover. STOP THE WORKOUT IF YOU ARE EXPERIENCING PAIN/NAUSEA/LIGHTHEADEDNESS/FEELING FAINT/ANYTHING ELSE YOU'RE CONCERNED ABOUT. Some discomfort is okay, but as soon as you feel pain in your muscles or joints or anything else that is serious you have to stop or you may seriously harm yourself. It is important to be in contact with your primary healthcare provider and adapt your workouts to your own specific health needs. BE PATIENT. Women can expect to gain about one pound of muscle per month through weight training. You should not weight train solely for muscle gain, but also for the health benefits in improved cardiovascular health, improved mental health, increased energy and strength, better sleeping habits, and good diet (lots of proteins and veggies). Record the types of exercises you do, how many sets and reps you did, and how much weight you used for those sets and reps. Weight training is built upon the concept of progressive overload, which means increasing training volume (weights * sets * reps) over time, by increasing one (or more) of those variables (so upping the weight, sets, and/or reps). In order to utilize progressive overload effectively, you MUST record your progress so that you are not guessing how much you lifted the last session and end up potentially stunting your progress. When you're putting in this much time and effort you do not want to wing it and waste a workout session. --

Now, you want to build chest muscle. I personally work more on leg and arm muscles but I do work out my entire body. I'm saying this to convey that I am not the most experienced. However, this is what I know. You should try to get around 10 sets of chest exercises weekly to stimulate muscle growth (standard across the board for muscular hypertrophy in any muscle group). You can do more (I do bc I have a lot of free time) but don't burn yourself out, because consistency is arguably the most important factor when it comes to muscle growth. You have to commit for several months and then years. 10 sets of 5-8 reps (repetitions) weekly should cause muscular hypertrophy (muscle growth). You can do all ten sets in one session, or break it down into two sessions where you do five sets each. It all depends on your personal schedule. Start light in order to get accustomed to whichever chest exercises you choose first, and then lift the heaviest you can without breaking form/cheating the rep. It is completely possible to work out your chest muscles without doing bench presses. HOWEVER, in the event that you do bench presses, here are some safety tips. NEVER use clips to secure weights on either side of the barbell when you are performing bench presses without a spotter, otherwise you may become stuck when failing a bench press and will be unable to free yourself because the weights are unable to slide off onto the floor, lightening the bar. Bench pressing without a QUALIFIED spotter (not some gym rando you don't know) is not ideal, however it can be hard to get a spotter so that's why I'm giving you this tip in case you decide to solo bench press anyway. Personally I almost never bench press and opt to use the machines which are much safer to use solo. Personally I use pec/chest fly machines and chest press machines to work out my chest, along with shoulder presses to stimulate part of the upper chest (but of course those are mostly for my shoulders). On youtube there are a bunch of demonstration videos (including by women) so you can look at those if you need more guidance than the instructional stickers on the sides of exercise machines. Remember to get good stretches of the chest muscles under tension on chest fly machines (cable machines are good too) bc that stimulates the muscles a bunch and results in good growth. Incline chest presses are good too. You can use pushups to stimulate muscle growth in the chest, HOWEVER it is not possible to utilize progressive overload using calisthenics (exercises with (little to) no external weights/objects) unless you like... idfk wear a backpack with weight on it or something. So you can use this to grow chest muscle initially, however your growth would end up plateauing after a certain point. If you have any more questions just let me know, again I'm not a pro but I'm glad to help in any way I can. There is so much more I could have added but I hope this post has helped you at least even a little bit. Edit: This ask refused to publish a few times because of how damn long my post was lmao

#detransfem #ask #ok xavery #fitness #women's health

[colorisbyshe]

aces face medical discrimination that allos don’t.

I'm only answering this discourse ask because this is like... really... really harmful rhetoric.

If we're talking about HSDD (Hypoactive Sexual Desire Disorder), I have a tag to debunk any point you want to bring up. It's an older tag, so it might not be incredibly up to date but it covers a lot.

But in the broader sense... no, y'all don't. I'm sure individual doctors can be discriminatory or not understanding but... that's true of anything. There are licensed fucking doctors who think vaccines are fake and filled with trackers. Some doctors jsut fucking suck.

What you need to understand is, doctors expressing concern that your lack of sexual desire is connected to either mental health or physical health isn't discrimination but rather a legitimate medical concern.

Being gay can't be caused by cancer. Being straight can't be caused by depression. There is no state of being that can really alter which gender you prefer. There mgiht be extreme cases of trauma where maybe someone stops pursuing relationships with a specific gender or whatever but that's VERY fringe AND would STILL be something you should talk to about with a professional. Not to "fix" necessarily but to better understand and process.

But... lack of libido, which has HEAVY HEAVY HEAVY fuckign overlap with lack of sexual attraction (or even just lack of perceived sexual attraction), can absolutely be caused by cancer or trauma or depression or a hormonal disorder or internalized homophobia or internalzied fatphobia. There are conditions where some people are SOOOO shamed for sexuality that it is literally impossible to penetrate theri vagina without extreme pain. Reactions to sexual desire and attraction and behaviour can affect your perception of said things (and vise versa).

Most of the time, a doctor will not care if you tell them this has just how you felt your entire life. HSDD already has a little annotation saying "Hey! Some people just don't feel sexual desires, that's fine! No treatment needed :)"

But sometimes... they need to know if this is a symptom, especially if this a new/sudden revelation.

Framing doctors doing basic work to figure out if you are experiencing a health problem as "aphobia" is going to prevent a LOT of vulnerable people from getting the healthcare they deserve and nEED.

And I've seen some of y'all fucking weirdos saying that if you're ace/celibate you don't need pap smears, which is fucking insane.

Asexuals and people who mistakenly think they are asexuals because of health conditions--which are not the majority but certainly do exist--need full check ups just liek the rest of us.

There are bad doctors out there. There are doctors who haven't heard of asexuality before. I am not denying that. Again, there are doctors who think vaccines are fake, who won't believe you when you say you're having allergy symptoms, and who will try to diagnose your chest pain as heartburn and send you on your way.

But a doctor meeting your "I'm ace" with, "Hey, will you consent to a hormone work up?" or "Hey, are you doing alright? Do you have any history of trauma" is not an aphobic assault on your sensibilities. It is not comparable to converion therapy or a doctor telling a gay person they are lying or need to be fixed.

And I've said ti before--a doctor is MUCH MUCH MUCH more likely to prescribe you something that KILLS your sex drive, makes you wholly disinterested in sex, makes it nearly impossible to even tell if you are experiencing sexual attraction, than they are to be invested in making sure every random patient wants to fuck and is attracted to random people on the street.

Most doctors do not care if the life saving/changing shit they prescribe you alters your sex drive at all. Won't even fucking tell you if it's a side effect. It's not on their mind. Your sex life is not on their mind unless it is affecting your health.

Anyways, last ask I am touching on the matter. Buy me something, prove you bought me something, and maybe I'll consider talking more

#ace discourse