#i probably should tell all this to a therapist or my journal instead of strangers on the internet..

[cheekblush]

I've read your tags on a few posts, and I just wanted to say, you're not alone, you are doing your best, and I am so proud of you for keeping on trying despite the hard circumstances. I see you trying. Trying is the working hard part. I know jobs sucks painfully sometimes, but no matter what, you find something to keep going for.

It really is the little things in life that bring pleasure. I am proud of you for even going back to school. I believe in you. And just like a mentality of 'work hard at your job till you retire' is spread, so is a 'never give up, and if you do, you're a quitter, and a quitter is a failure' mentality. I just wanted to say it is absolutely okay to know when to give up sometimes. You are not your mistakes when you were/are mentally ill. You are loved, supported and going through a tough time right now and need all the love and support you can get, and I wanted to remind you to give yourself the same amount of grace, love, affection and support too.

tumblr seems pretty adamant about not letting me reply to you (probably bc my reply is waaaaaay too long 🫣) so the only way i could make it work is by taking screenshots. i apologize in advance for the huge wall of text, the small font and the overall incoherence. and i deeply, deeply thank you for your kind words. take care and stay safe 🩷

#thank you i'm sorry i love you 💌 #i probably should tell all this to a therapist or my journal instead of strangers on the internet.. #but the tumblr girlies understand me like no one else #i should've just thanked you and moved on but the words just kept coming out of me like a waterfall... again i'm sorry and thank you so muc #replies #anonymous #when sad #keep forever 🗝 #i basically spent the whole afternoon writing this reply and trying to post it 🥴 #my first reply was WAY better and so much more coherent this is so all over the place but it was still good to get it out of my system

[olderthannetfic]

You have way more wisdom and experience than I do and also approach topics with a lot of nuance (which I really appreciate) so I was hoping you could offer some help. If this ask is too heavy or it's too weird feel free to ignore.

I've been Poor my whole life and I've also been severely mentally ill most of my life. Mental health care isn't covered by my country's government and therapy is really expensive so I pushed on using mostly online tips and tricks to manage my depression. But that's not working anymore. I do everything I see online but it's not helping any longer. I've journaled in old school notebooks, I've worked out at home so much I'd be buff if I wasn't too underweight to gain muscle, the little food I can afford is so meticulously chosen as to be healthy that I put health food bloggers to shame and a host of other stuff people tell you will cure depression.

I recently realized that a lot of the things that happened to me as a kid were actually extremely traumatic and abusive which only added to it.

I'm desperate for any support but I can't afford therapy and I also can't just say to my friends "I need you to help me with complex trauma." that would be overstepping boundaries and also very entitled of me, so I'm definitely not doing that.

I worry that eventually it will be too much and I'll fully have a mental breakdown, which would be disastrous for me as I pay for my college myself and a mental breakdown wouldn't exactly be good for my barely above minimum wage job.

How do I prevent that? Are there any sources that can assist you when you know that realistically you can't afford therapy? Or are there books or online services that can help? Is there way to work through this right now until I save enough for a therapist. I'm at my wits end and it's starting to become obvious to those around me that I'm struggling a lot mentally. Just going through the day is soul crushing and my only motivation is the money I pay for my degree not being wasted.

This is a lot to ask from anyone, especially an online stranger, so please don't feel obligated to answer. if you can't answer that's fine and I'll probably ask Reddit again. Also if any part of this is trauma dumping please let me know as I struggle with knowing when I'm just telling people stuff and when I'm trauma dumping

--

Nah, this isn't trauma dumping. That usually involves more details of what happened to you and is often in a derailing context in an existing conversation.

Unfortunately, if there were easy answers, you'd already have found them.

The first thing is not to beat yourself up. Mental illness and poverty do a number on anybody.

All that "go jogging to feel better" shit is for people who have mild situational depression. You don't. No matter how hard you work, none of that crap is going to fix it. I mean, eating healthy couldn't hurt, but it's not your fault it didn't work. It was never going to work.

Yours is presumably a brain that needs meds, and until you can afford to pump some different chemicals into it, it's going to keep making the wrong ones and ruining your day. Health is a nice goal... Under the current circumstances, however, I think a more useful goal is just to survive. Every day above ground is a win.

As long as you're still kicking, there's always time for things to improve. You don't need to be a superhero and fix yourself right now. You just need to make it through school till you can at least focus on just the shitty job instead of the shitty job plus school. (And hopefully, a better job, eventually.) Whatever keeps you upright and heading for that goal is what you should do.

In terms of specific resources, you could try looking up the DBT resources other people have been talking about. DBT seems to be used on otherwise intractable depression, suicidal tendencies, etc. and often on people with a hot mess of a childhood.

Unstructured journaling and general "try to be healthy" stuff has not helped, so I would focus on more structured practices that involve specific homework. Meditation and mindfulness exercises may help (and are a part of DBT).

[the-autisticats]

An exploration of abusive, unnecessary research conducted in the Journal of Applied Behavior Analysis

Let me start this post by telling you all that reading the journal article I’m about to share made me extremely upset, to the point that I started hitting myself in the head. So needless to say, if you’re an autistic person who went through ABA as a child, you’re probably gonna want to keep scrolling. If that wasn’t clear: consider this paragraph a GIANT content warning.

Now, let’s get into it. What am I talking about? I’m talking about a study that was conducted in 2018, and published in the Journal of Applied Behavior Analysis. The study is called “Sound attenuation and preferred music in the treatment of problem behavior maintained by escape from noise.”

Here are the basics of what they did in this study:

They used two autistic children, Lana (age 6), and James (age 15) as test subjects. The goal of the study was to see if music-playing & noise-canceling headphones would decrease aggressive and self-injurious behavior in noisy environments. Any random autistic person off the street could tell you that yeah, of course noise-canceling headphones will decrease aggression in noisy environments. The aggression is a result of overstimulation, so when the person stops being overstimulated, *gasp* the aggression goes away. What a revelation! /s

But apparently, the therapists who conducted this study were not aware of that information. Instead, they viewed aggression and self-injury as “problem behavior” that was “reinforced” by the children’s ability to escape the noise when they exhibited the behavior. And their reason for using music-playing and noise-canceling headphones in this study wasn’t to reduce overwhelming sensory input, it was to see if the headphones would decrease the likelihood that the kids would “act out” and try to escape the environmental noise.

So the premise that this study was built upon is fundamentally flawed. And honestly, it’s baffling to me that in 2018, the authors of this study were still viewing self-injury and aggression due to sensory overstimulation as intentional, manipulative behavior to escape the situation. But that’s the problem with behaviorism, after all. It only examines people’s actions, not the root causes.

Now, let’s get into what they actually said about these two children:

“Two individuals referred for the assessment and treatment of aberrant behavior participated. Lana, a 6-year-old female diagnosed with pervasive developmental disorder, [ADHD], and obsessive-compulsive disorder... [and] James, a 15-year-old male diagnosed with autism spectrum disorder and profound intellectual developmental disorder...

“We treated both participants’ problem behavior under other environmental conditions prior to the study. However, caregivers reported that additional problem behavior continued to occur in noisy environments. Lana’s mother reported that Lana displayed problem behavior in loud restaurants and sporting events. James’ mother reported that James displayed problem behavior when she and James’ father argued loudly in front of him.”

Okay, deep breath. First of all, the definition of the word aberrant is, “deviating from what is considered proper or normal.” So the behavior they’re “treating” here is basically anything these kids do that isn’t standard neurotypical behavior. And if you’re autistic, I’m sure you can see exactly what the real problem is: these kids’ sensory and emotional needs aren’t being met. Somehow, it’s the autistic kids’ fault that they get upset and overstimulated when they’re forced into loud & aggressive situations?? I’m genuinely stunned by the fact that somehow James is the “problem,” when his parents keep arguing with each other in front of him! Their behavior should be treated!

But of course, the study gets more upsetting. As background, let’s go through the physical setup of the experiment:

“We conducted all sessions in a 3 [meter] by 3 [meter] padded treatment room equipped with a therapist, a stereo system, and two chairs.”

“Trained observers recorded data on the frequency of aberrant and adaptive behaviors in the presence of noise using laptop computers from behind a one-way observation mirror.”

Okay, so: the kids got put into a room with an ABA therapist and a stereo system, while being observed by strangers they couldn’t see, who were on the other side of a one-way observation mirror. Kinda like Eleven in Stranger Things. But I digress...

There were five different experimental conditions (scenarios) that the therapists created:

No-noise (Lana only): during this condition, the therapists were completely quiet, and didn’t play any sounds on the stereo.

Escape from various noises (Lana and James): during this condition, the therapists played sounds on the stereo system, unless the kids exhibited “target” behavior (aggression or self-injury). Whenever the kids started hurting themselves or others, the therapists turned off the stereo for 20 to 30 seconds, but then resumed playing it.

Escape from argue (James only): during this condition, two therapists who James knew had a staged argument with raised voices. Once James started hurting himself, the therapists paused for 30 seconds, but then continued arguing.

Standard headphones and music (Lana only): during this condition, the “escape from various noises” scenario was repeated, except this time Lana had unrestricted access to non-noise canceling headphones that played her favorite music.

Noise-canceling headphones and music (Lana and James): just like condition #4, the “escape from various noises” scenario was repeated, except this time both kids had unrestricted access to noise-canceling headphones that played their favorite music.

And before we discuss the results, here’s one quick thing y’all should know:

“For Lana we set the volume of the noise at 101 decibels... for comparison, all of the following produce an approximate 100 decibel acoustic level: a jet take-off at 305 meters, use of outboard motor, power lawn mower, motorcycle, farm tractor, jackhammer, garbage truck, Boeing 707 or DC-8 aircraft at one nautical mile before landing.”

This is the part where I started hitting my head. Are you kidding me!? They put an autistic 6 year old girl without protective ear coverings in a room with a stereo system that played at the same volume as a JET ENGINE?? Construction workers wear earplugs and ear defenders when they’re working with jackhammers!! And they put a child with known auditory hypersensitivity in a situation where they knew she would become extremely distressed... for what? For science!?

This is what they wrote about that in their section about the study’s “limitations.”

“According to the World Health Organization, the 101 decibel noise level used in the escape-from-various-noises condition for Lana could be potentially harmful with extended exposures. The Occupational Safety and Health Administration (OSHA) begins to set limits at noises above 85 decibels.”

They then went on to say that “noise exposure for Lana never exceeded the recommended maximum exposure time of 15 minutes.” So sure, the study was technically within the boundaries set by government organizations. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t incredibly harmful.

The results of the study were entirely unsurprising to anyone who knows anything about autistic people: both kids started injuring themselves or others during the conditions where they were exposed to loud noises and/or arguments. When they were given headphones with music but no noise-canceling qualities, their aggression decreased only a little bit. When they were given noise-canceling headphones that played music, their aggression decreased dramatically.

And the reason for that is not, as the study suggested, that “[noise-canceling] headphones and preferred music functioned to abolish the value of escape as a reinforcer, and decrease behavior that was previously evoked by noise and reinforced by noise removal.” The reason is that the noise canceling headphones blocked the overwhelming auditory stimuli, which calmed the kids down because they weren’t being overloaded anymore.

It’s so f-ing simple. And it makes me so angry that autistic people’s “aggressive behavior” is still seen as a manipulative tactic that gets encouraged when our caregivers remove us from overwhelming situations. Our “aggressive behavior” is an involuntary response to our bodies being overloaded with painful stimuli. That’s it. These so-called therapists wouldn’t have to torture kids in studies anymore if they would just listen to autistic people about our experiences.

To all you ABA therapists out there: listen to autistic people when we tell you that what you’re doing is wrong. Listen when we tell you that you’re participating in a system that does not value us as full human beings, unless we conform to NT ideals and stop exhibiting “aberrant behavior.”

This has to stop.

~Eden🐢

#actually autistic #aba therapy #autistic #autism #ableism

[mailorderfictionalcharacter]

to love & be loved

@startreksecretsanta and @spinifex-ao3, I present my humble gift for the 2020 Secret Santa Exchange. 

to love & be loved is a Raffi-centric short fic. It can be read on AO3 here, or below the cut. 

There was this thing Raffi's therapist recommended. She said that we tend to view mental ailments as a result of a singular issue, when that was not the case. This isn't unique to the so-called mental conditions; physical ailments are always the result of multiple convergent factors, many of them largely outside of our control. Whether you break a bone running down a corridor depends on the gravity levels, the angle, your physical ability to catch yourself (or not), your species' biological attributes, and so on. But because the bone is easier to fix, we don't place as much value on all these could-have-happeneds.

So her therapist recommended that she looks at her alcoholism, even at the collapse of her family, and traces its lineage. To assemble the history in whatever way she preferred; a narrative, an artwork, a quasi-scientific graph, a mission report. Raffi tried and failed.

She ended up with a start chart of the Milky way, no, too big, zooming into a few classic earth constellations. She grabbed her stylus and pulled it across the screen, trying to connect disparate factors.

Childhood??? --- > my son --- > my husband left me

kicked out of starfleet --- > Starfleet = War?

Starfleet = JL? -- > betrayal?

She couldn't talk about any of it. She brought in a star chart with a handful of annotations explaining her biggest failures and regrets. She could barely explain why she wrote them down without crying, her hand itching for the phantom weight of a glass, even filled with water. So mapping the lineage of her alcoholism & her life became their goal. The implication being that you cannot fight a monster you cannot name.

***

Raffi's therapist was an Andorian woman with deep blue skin, almost an indigo tone. She was tall and friendly in a way that was sometimes clean and professional and sometimes cute and childish. On Earth, she took the name of Julia for some of her clients. Her actual name was J''ul/sth, but more humans were able to pronounce the vowels in Julia, so Julia it is. Julia was a fiercely intellectual woman and would cater her services to different conceptions of what it means to be mentally unwell. She was familiar with centuries of earth, Betazoid, and Andorian theories of mental illness, many of which weren't even addressed within the medical model preferred by Starfleet. Even in her darkest hours, Raffi could barely think a negative thought about Julia; her competence, her expertise was... illuminating.

For someone who had been judged by her own spouse as incapable, for someone who struggled to take care of her hair or to sweep a floor, it was intoxicating to have this brilliant woman focused solely on her for an hour each week. Julia never condescended. She had this assured confidence that Raffi was an interesting person, still worth talking to. It was the sort of thing that could give you hope, if you let yourself believe. It was also the sort of thing Raffi fucked up.

***

Julia was not a believer in abstinence from alcohol as the definition as sobriety. She pointed to it as an outdated Earth concept that had far too long of a shelf life for the evidence behind it. She encouraged Raffi to define her own boundaries about what substance use or lack thereof meant. And Raffi remembered when she could go to a bar for the music and the sensory experience of one or three Saurian brandies without the all consuming urge, twisting under her skin, telling her to escape from her life. And that was their goal. But Raffi didn't tell Julia which bar. She went to a local bar, one that straddled the line between bar and pub and played live music, an eclectic mix of whoever was willing to play for cheap, across genres, cultures, and species. Tonight was a young human teen, not a singer. They were remixing Vulcan instrumental music, very peaceful and precise, with bright and happy sounds. It was almost gauche, the way the emotions would intercut through the melodies. The sort of thing that art and music journals would comment on, asking if it was subversion or a childish rebellion, a blending of cultures or a mocking. The sort of thing that goes good with brandy.

And it was good. It was good for an hour, slowly nursing two drinks. It was good until she saw her, walking in kind of tipsy, skin flushed a warm blue. Surrounded by friends, bar hopping. On a youthful adventure. She felt ashamed, in that moment. That this woman half her age was supposed to be giving her advice, pretending to listen to her problems. That she could never be one of those friends, all so young, with a world to explore.

When Julia caught her eye, she walked over to say hello. And when Julia's friends asked her who she was, Raffi called herself a friend; not a client, not a patient. She doesn't know what it says that Julia didn't correct her; probably that outing a client was a breach of professional ethics. Raffi has more brandy, to wash away the deception, the feeling of herself as lecherous and pathetic and weak.

Raffi wakes up in an unfamiliar bed, entangled in long blue limbs. For a moment, this brings her happiness. The idea that she was wanted, that the woman who knew so much about her made love to her.

It was only for a moment.

She shifted out of the bed, cautiously. She left to the sound of gentle snoring and the feeling of breeze and slick on her public hair.

She didn't go back to therapy, after that.

--

She met Benjamin Sisko, Emissary to the Prophets and legendary war hero, at a Starfleet Intelligence conference. It was near the end of her career; there wasn't much longer she could hold onto the idea of the person she used to be, of whatever Starfleet begged from her. There were always threats on the horizon and she had become numb to it all. But Sisko interested her.

In a way, his life was quite possibly her worst nightmare. The idea of being essentially forced into a religion because, by the way, you are now an important figure in our religion and its impact on interstellar politics... what a nightmare. That wasn't mentioning being pulled out of linear time by powerful aliens worshipped as gods. At least -

At least when Q had showed up that one time, JL and him had a bit of a rapport.

But he didn't seem unhappy. She was used to seeing the haunted faces at conferences, as people who were raised in peace and sent out to explore ended up soldiers for war. Starfleet Intelligence was different, it attracted a more cynical bunch. The sort who wouldn't show it. But Sisko seemed... happy. He didn't look like a man who was kidnapped in order to appease powerful beings, or even someone straining under a PR lie. He looked like he had transcended beyond it all. And yeah, she wanted a piece of that.

But she couldn't ask for it. It was a crazy request. It was her imprinting her desires and pains onto a stranger's life.

It surprised her, after the conference, when he approached her and asked if she knew any Bajorans.

“Just the one.” Something in her felt compelled to add, “he wasn't religious.”

“So I'll be the first one to surprise you like this.”

And he grabbed her by the ear, what the shit, and said, in a low voice. “Your pagh is strong.”

***

After Agnes Jurati confessed to murdering a man, on their ship, the scientist had cried, and asked her, “Why are you still being so nice to me?” There were a lot of answers Raffi did not give. She did not say that she had a son and a husband who wouldn't let her love them and her desire to care for someone was apparently stronger than the realization that they were a semi-brainwashed murderer. She did not say that at this point, she didn't feel like she could judge anyone, morally speaking. Or that maybe this was pragmatism, keeping your friends close and your potential enemies closer. Or that at the very least, there wasn't much she could do to fuck up Agnes' life anymore, which is a marked improvement from the rest of her relationships.

Instead, she let herself feel soft. “Because, sometimes we make mistakes. And even if we can't fix them, I think we should still let ourselves love and be loved.”

#raffi musiker #alcoholism

[there-will-be-a-way]

1/?? ok so first off im really sorry for sending this ask but you seem as good a person to ask as any. dont feel any pressure to answer or even read through this all tho if you dont want to. this will be a really long series of asks so definitely feel free to ignore them if they overwhelm you, because i cant really keep my thoughts straight atm, but ill number them all and sign off with a '- H.'

2/?? So for starters, I’m not asking for a diagnosis, obviously you’re not a therapist, I’m just asking for any advice/opinions you might have and want to offer up. So I’m 19, I dropped out of school when I was seventeen, almost never attended before that, tried to get a job a few months ago but was fired after a few days of work because I stopped showing up (I was in a numb, dissociative state for the full work days, and I had to get drunk just to be able to have the courage to go in) - H

3/?? I was diagnosed with anxiety, depression, autism and c-ptsd all when I was 16 because it was obvious that I was having a lot of trouble functioning in society and socialising with anyone. I have always dissociated a LOT, having out-of-body experiences, talking to people without feeling like I was really personally choosing my words and they were instead just coming out of my mouth from nowhere, feeling numb and having a lot of problems with memory. - H

4/?? I thought for a little while at the beginning of this year that I might have DID because of all the dissociation and occasionally having short spurts of lost time, but I quickly dismissed it because I didn’t think I had any other personalities in my body (I don’t know if that’s the right way to talk about them, forgive me if I say something confusing or wrong, I didn’t know much about DID until very recently). - H

5/?? Anyway, in recently I found your blog and looked through a few of your posts (not many, just the last couple of pages here), and I thought, what if I do have personalities? I often feel like im not fully in control of myself and I have heard voices before, although it doesn’t happen much and I never connected either of these to a definitive personality. - H

6/?? So I decided to try to separate myself into different people (I don’t think that’s the right term but bear with me) and I came up with a list of nine initially. And the more I tried to categorise my behaviour/opinions/hobbies into each of them the more afraid I got, because I think i might actually have DID after all? It was very easy to do, and its very easy for me to see everyone as seperate entities - H

7/?? Except im nineteen so surely SOMEONE would have noticed I had it before now? Even if I didn’t, someone else should have? Although most people who know me would probably write off my behaviour as a combination of the effects of aspergers and ptsd, so they wouldn’t even consider something else. - H

8/?? Also, I read about switching, and different personalities having very distinct voices and presences and I don’t know if its just that I haven’t examined these facets of myself before, but I don’t think I have that? Maybe i just need to think on it more than i have, but im worried im just lying to myself because im so desperate for answers as to why i am the way i am. - H

9/?? So ultimately what im saying is, I don’t know if im lying to myself or if it might be a real possibility I have DID. Just from what ive written here, do you think theres any way I could have it, or is it obvious I probably dont? I think it would be useful to know if it would help me get more in touch with myself, because a lot of the time I don’t even feel like a real person. - H

Hey there 👋🏻

First of all, you are brave for reaching out and wanting to figure out what's going on with you so go you! However, it would be irresponsible of me to judge your situation based on the little information I have about you - and this goes for any stranger on the internet. This is definitely something you should bring up with a therapist, if you can, especially since your symptoms seem to cause you a lot of distress and disrupt your everyday life. Whatever your symptoms stem from, you deserve professional help.

So yeah, my advice would be to bring this up with a therapist and be open to all possible explanations. In the end what matters isn't so much the diagnosis but getting help for your symptoms. In the meantime I'd advice you to look into grounding techniques and practice them since you obviously struggle with dissociation. It can also be helpful to keep a journal and write about your experiences.

Lastly, there is a common misconception in your ask that I'd like to clear up: Dissociative Identity Disorder most often is a covert disorder. The disorder's purpose isn't to make the most elaborated and noticeable 'personalities' but to survive severe childhood trauma. That means different things for different people - and therefore the disorder is different for everyone - but most often dissociated parts of self (= the 'personalities') are so covert that it's common even for therapists to not notice the person has DID. Many people with DID have parts that act very similar and are hard, even impossible for others to tell apart or notice.

Anyway, I hope you understand that I didn't not answer your question because I'm being mean but because I don't want to cause you harm by misjudging your situation (I'm just a stranger on the internet).

I really hope that you can get the help you deserve since what you describe does sound distressing and is worth looking into. I'm keeping my fingers crossed for you and sending my support.

Take care!

#answering asks #anons #tw drinking mention #didn't not answer? #didn't answer not because? #I have no idea how to say this but you get what I mean #language machine broke

[dat-fandom-losertown]

The Drift Between Us

•◊•◊•◊•◊•

Chapter 8: The Search

•◊•◊•◊•◊•

Hank Anderson x Connor, Gavin x RK900 (Ritch)

Pacific Rim AU

Warnings: Inaccurate/Unfair representation of a therapist (for only 1 paragraph), A physical fight, and I think that’s all?

Word Count: 12,273

•◊•◊•◊•◊•

A/N: Hey guys, I normally don’t like putting notes before a fic, but I just wanted to apologize for this update taking literal months, and I wanted to thank anyone who’s still around and is still wanting to read this. On with the long-awaited chapter!

•◊•◊•◊•◊•

Previous <> Masterlist <> Next

•◊•◊•◊•◊•

    After Ritch hesitantly peeks through Connor’s journal (which turns out to be admittedly helpful, if not surprising because of the specific note that Ritch is more compatible with Gavin despite the fact Ritch had always made sure Connor wasn’t in the area when they started picking at each other, the one exception being during the Alex fiasco) and adds his own information to it, he goes to lunch.

    He ends up spending most of his meal time talking with the Jericho Squad (and he doubts he’ll ever not internally cringe whenever they unironically call themselves that) about therapy and what generally makes a good therapist and a bad one. It’s actually quite helpful. Helpful enough, in fact, that after he and Connor take two written evaluations directly after lunch– with the second one having significantly harder and oddly specific questions that he’s sure they both got some wrong– he initiates a relatively unstressful talk with his brother about general types of therapists.

    They end up agreeing that they absolutely don’t trust strangers with anything personal, which will make this entire endeavor harder than it probably should be since the therapist will be a stranger. They also surprisingly agree on what type of therapist they think they’d prefer to have, despite their very different personalities. Neither twin mention that this may be because the warm, casual nature of the person they’re both hoping for is nearly the opposite of how Amanda always treated them, but it does vaguely show up in Ritch’s unsettling dreams that night.

    The next morning, on his way to breakfast, Ritch almost predictably runs into Gavin. However, instead of immediately getting into another round of gibes, Gavin is so wrapped up in whatever he’s doing that he doesn’t acknowledge Ritch at all. He supposes that even the pilots with shorter tempers have actual work to be done, so the trainee doesn’t question it and moves on. Ritch refuses to believe that the negative emotion he feels because of the lack of attention from Reed is disappointment. Just another thing to shove away and forcibly forget about for the preferably indefinite future.

    The strength tests after breakfast definitely help with keeping him distracted from therapists and Gavin and anything else he’s shoved away from his mind so well that he can no longer recall what they are (but he knows they’re there. He can feel them trying to cause him more stress and uncertainty, but all he has to do is pointedly not think about that vague feeling and they can’t bother him). Chloe doesn’t show a reaction or share their results during the strength evaluations, so he doesn’t know if they’re just average or if they scored close enough to what they had before that no input is needed. Yet another thing to add to the “don’t think or worry about it right now” pile.

    Thankfully, or unfortunately, depending on the point of view, he forgets about everything in that mental pile except for one thing after he finishes dinner. The therapist search. He and Connor have separate people they’re going to check out, since Marshal Fowler said it would be better for them to not have the same therapist. Both he and Connor readily agreed.

    When Ritch arrives at his appointment, the older man only greets him and introduces himself as Dr. Johnson before getting right down to business. That isn’t anything more than a rub in the wrong direction, but when Ritch gives an honest but simple request, “I’d rather not give any personal information before I know you’re right for me,” the man starts assuming possible situations that could be the reason why Ritch is here without letting him properly speak. Again, Ritch doesn’t have a particular problem with this– he certainly won’t be choosing this man– but Mr. Johnson then ignores Ritch when he requests that they get back on topic and instead takes that as a “clue” that he is “getting close” to the “real reason” and starts spewing even more ridiculous bullshit.

    (As if he, of all people, would have had any time or desire at all for a romantic relationship growing up, and that he would’ve been be vengeful, of all emotions, if “she” died in what would be considered a freak accident. As if he even knows if he’s interested in women exclusively or at all. It’s not like he’s had the time or desire to experiment with relationships or even the idea of them.)

    Ritch ends up so tense with frustration that he gets up and leaves long before the session is supposed to end, ignoring the calls behind him. He will not put up with someone who won’t listen to him, not again. Not if he has any control over it, and Marshal Fowler and Chloe had guaranteed that he does.

    After those short 15 minutes, he reluctantly decides to get some outside help, and there’s only one person he can think of that would have both the information he’s looking for and the potential willingness to help– even if it’s only for Connor’s sake.

    He’s surprised to see the man he planned on looking for during breakfast. After a beat of hesitation, he figures that the sooner he asks the better, and heads over to a table with only one, familiar figure sitting at it.

    “Hello, Mr. Anderson.”

    The ex-pilot doesn’t turn around to face Ritch or sit up from being hunched over his food, and huffs in lieu of a greeting. That isn’t unexpected, though, since it is a well-known fact that Mr. Anderson normally doesn’t get out of bed until lunch is already being served. It would almost make Ritch feel guilty for bothering the exhausted man if he weren’t also concerned about himself and Connor being eaten alive by strangers who claim they want to help.

    Mr. Anderson suddenly turns his head towards Ritch, as if just realizing something. “I thought I told you to call me–”

    Ritch sees the shock on his face when he registers his blue eyes instead of Connor’s brown ones. He probably should have waited to call out to him until he was seen and couldn’t be mistaken for his twin, but he didn’t want to spook the older man by appearing in front of him without warning. There’s nothing to do about it now, though, so Ritch tries his best to offer what could be an apologetic smile, but could also very well look like an awkward grimace.

    He’s not well versed in showing proper emotions yet since he’s only had a day or so of practice. Simon and Josh are trying their best to teach him so he doesn’t look angry at the press if/when he’s announced as a new jaeger pilot, but so far it’s been an uphill battle.

    He doesn’t voice any of those thoughts when he addresses Mr. Anderson again. He is not like his twin, who gets nervous and overshares and rambles as a result. He has more self-control.

    “I apologize for interrupting your meal, but may I ask you for a favor? Or rather, offer to owe you one in exchange?”

    Something curious yet cautious glints in Mr. Anderson’s eyes. “What kind of favors?”

    “The kind of equivalent exchange. I may be out of line to ask this, but you do have experience with the therapists and such here, yes?”

    “Why the hell do you want to know.” Mr. Anderson snaps and sits up defensively, but it doesn’t bother Ritch. He was expecting this and more to come.

    “I would like to know which ones Connor and I should avoid.” Seeing Mr. Anderson’s blatant confusion, Ritch figures Connor hadn’t mentioned these trial meetings to him and explains further. “We started mandatory therapist jumping yesterday and the one I started with was pushy, impatient…” He purses his lips and looks to the side. “I generally try to avoid using words like “unpleasant” when describing people, but that’s the most accurate word I can use for him.” Ritch pauses long enough to look him in the eye. “Of course, if you do trust me enough to tell me these things, then I’ll let you cash in a single favor from me whenever you’d like.”

    Mr. Anderson snorts and turns to his food again, trying and failing to not let his surprise show. Is he surprised because Ritch wants his help, even though he can count their interactions on one hand? He can’t imagine it being anything else, especially since he knows of some of their issues from Connor apparently mentioning and/or actually talking about them with the older man. Maybe his twin downplayed their experiences again despite being much more anxious than usual recently?

    God, this is way too much thinking for someone who’s been actively trying to not think for the past several weeks, years even.

    “Lemme guess, a favor within reason, right?” Mr. Anderson jokes sarcastically after a few moments.

    “I am not my brother or your old partner.” Ritch states.

    Mr.Anderson looks up at him at that, very still with slightly raised eyebrows, probably asking “Does that mean what I think it does?” silently. Ritch answers the assumed question with a slight upwards tilt of his head, “Yes.”

    Ritch has far less of an issue than Connor does with doing things that don’t exactly follow the rules. Not that his brother has any particular issue with breaking the rules, he just doesn’t like to anger people because he seems to have trouble making them not angry anymore. Ritch, on the other hand, usually knows exactly how to placate and bargain with most types of people, and thus he has very little apprehension of doing things against the rules.

    Mr. Anderson hesitates for a moment before nodding his head to the chair in front of him, saying, “Go and sit down. Should I wait for Connor before I start or–”

    “Wait for me to start what?” Ritch’s shoulders stiffen in surprise, but he quickly relaxes them again. He didn’t hear Connor behind him over the white noise of the food court. ”If you don’t mind my asking, of course.”

    Ritch turns to his twin. “Mr. Anderson has agreed to tell us about some of the therapists here so we can narrow our search. Did you have a pleasant experience with yours yesterday evening, Connor?”

    He knows Connor catches the silent apology in his tone for ignoring him yesterday when his brother wanted to “compare results”, as he called it. Ritch needed to focus on how to get the tight-lipped Anderson to talk about something he likely would rather not. This is all rather straightforward and easy compared to what Ritch thought he was going to have to do.

    Connor answers as he sits down in the chair to the left of Ritch and places a steaming cup near Mr. Anderson’s tray, “I wouldn’t call it pleasant, but I wouldn’t call it unpleasant either. I believe Dr. Amelia Johan would be suitable enough if there were few or no other options. What about yours?”

    Ritch feels his expression darken slightly and has to stop himself before he clears it, then he ignores how vulnerable and awkward he feels in order to exaggerate the emotion. According to Josh and Simon, not immediately returning his face back to neutral makes him seem more human, as mildly insulting as it was to insinuate that he wasn’t human for keeping his thoughts more private. It’s one of the things they insisted he work on, though.

    “Avoid appointments with Mr. Johnson.” Ritch states plainly, pretending he doesn’t see Connor’s concerned look and body language out of the corner of his eye.

    Hank snorts in agreement. “You were right to call that man pushy. Pushy and he never lets the conversation be turned to himself or give you a break for even a second. It’s like talking to a wall that always insists you got mental work to be doin’.” He shakes his head, “I guess it works for some people… From what I heard, the roughest appointment with him is the first one, especially if you don’t work with him, but I wouldn’t know.” he finishes with a shrug.

    Connor frowns. “That’s pretty much the opposite of what we’re looking for.”

    That visibly grabs Mr. Anderson’s attention. “You’re both wantin’ the same kind of shrink?”

    Connor nods with what looks like amusement in his eyes, “It was a surprise to us as well.”

    “We’d prefer someone who is kind and more casual rather than always controlling where the conversation goes.” Ritch finishes.

    “You’d probably like Alicia Steinfield or Alexander White, then,” the older man informs immediately. “If they even still work here, that is. And avoid Johnson–” he gestures to Ritch “–obviously, and Dustin Payne and Felix Antúnez. They’re pretty strict and prefer to follow the ‘therapy is only about work’ policy. I didn’t like them much, either.”

    The ex-pilot takes a slower, almost exaggerated bite of what’s left of his breakfast. Ritch wonders if that’s a normal thing for him and Connor, because his brother, without seemingly realizing it, starts eating his own previously ignored breakfast. Interesting.

    “Dr. Steinfield and Dr. White.” Ritch forces himself to nod as he commits the names to memory because that’s apparently a normal, human thing to do according to Markus.

    Connor turns to face Ritch. “Do you think we could request to change our schedules so we can meet them this afternoon instead of the ones we had previously?”

    “I’m willing to try. After we finish breakfast.” Ritch adds as Connor moves to get up. “I’m sure they’ll at least let us skip anyone with a similar... technique as Dr. Johnson.”

    Connor nods, settles back in his seat, and starts shoveling food in his mouth in a way that Amanda would definitely disapprove of. Ritch simply sighs and turns to finish his own food in a more respectable-sized bites. He and Mr. Anderson end up making eye contact for a moment, just long enough for the older man to nod at him, and for him to return it.

    Getting this information was much easier than he thought it would have been, indeed.

•◊•◊•◊•◊•

    Once Ritch finishes his own food and leaves with the message that he’ll be going to the training room after requesting a meeting with whoever’s in charge of setting up their appointments, Connor quickly swallows his large bite of food. Speaking with a full mouth isn’t a habit he particularly cares about if other people do it (he’s had to sit through too many meals with too many “important” people who do that to truly care anymore), but he hates doing it to others. Besides, Hank may put up with his weird eating habits (some days, like today, he’ll shovel his food in his mouth because he can’t get enough, and other days he’s barely able to force down several nibbles), but he's pretty positive the ex-pilot draws the line at seeing what he’s chewing.

    “Thank you.” Connor says, not hiding any of his sincerity or gratitude.

    Hank harrumphs and looks away. “I did that for more selfish reasons than you think, Connor. You don’t need to thank me.”

    Connor simply raises an eyebrow. “If I know you as much as I’d like to think I know you, I know that if you didn’t really want to surrender that information, no amount of bribing from Ritch would have gotten you to tell us.” Hank’s head snaps up at that, but Connor pushes on. “And considering that I wasn’t far behind Ritch when coming to the food court, he didn’t have to barter with you very much to get you to agree.”

    He doesn’t explicitly say how he’s almost positive that means Hank actually care about people and things, even if he doesn’t realize or want to admit it himself. Hank hates even the mention of himself having any positive emotions for whatever reason. Connor doesn’t understand it, but he hopes to learn at some point in the future when Hank is ready. If he becomes ready.

    He almost expects Hank to get grumpy or irritated at him for even insinuating he may secretly be a caring person, but he just sits there and stares at Connor for a few moments. Connor decides against continuing the eye contact, since it usually make things more awkward for Hank when he snaps out of whatever it is that makes him zone out like this occasionally. He turns back to his food. Just as he raises his second bite to his mouth, Hank speaks up with a cautious tone.

    “How did you know he offered me something for the information?”

    Connor answers easily and nonchalantly, “That’s his tactic for getting something he wants.”

    “Huh?”

    Connor sets down his fork of food and looks up to study Hank’s confused– and concerned?– face. He figures the full truth of Ritch and Connor having to train themselves to be successful manipulators so they could get nice things while growing up would ruin everything he’s trying to do and be with Hank, will invalidate every single thing Connor has ever done or said to gain the fragile, unsteady trust he’s gotten from him, so he only tells a gross understatement.

    “When Ritch wants or needs something from someone he doesn’t know well but trusts enough to not be purposefully difficult or cruel, he offers a favor because he doesn’t know which specific thing that person may want. It’s nice to know that he trusts you enough to not purposefully send him into a situation that will get him hurt in huge trouble.” Connor smiles lightly and takes another bite of food, believing the conversation is over.

    “What about you?” Hank’s question pulls him out of his head.

    Connor snaps his head up in surprise. “Me? What about me?”

    Hank huffs in what sounds like amusement, and the assumption is proven right when Connor catches the slight uplift at the corners of his mouth as he shakes his head.

    “How do you get what you want from people?”

    Connor only hesitates in his answer because he has a feeling that Hank will not like it.

    “I like to do most things on my own without needing to ask for anything because I like the sense of accomplishment, so I usually only needed to pull little tricks when Amanda needed sponsors for something and Ritch and I decided to split up. In those cases...” Connor glances away.

    “People like giving things to people and creatures that look innocent, helpless, and fragile, like small children or puppies or kittens. Even on a subconscious level, people like having something to temporarily protect, whether it’s because of the ego boost or just because they’re a nice person and like to help. Even if everyone knows that I am the opposite of fragile and I’m certainly not helpless or childish, I tend to appear so when in uncomfortable situations, so it helped me gain pity points when making the rounds for sponsors.”

    “Is that part of why you get anxious if people don’t like you? The sponsorship stuff?” Hank’s winces, like he didn’t mean to say it, probably knowing how quickly this question could make things go wrong, but did anyway.

    But Connor doesn’t feel the same suffocating pressure he knows he’d feel if anyone else– even Ritch– had asked this same question. He knows Hank hates people, and that he hates gossip even more. He knows Hank isn’t asking him this to judge him or anything of the sort. If anything, he’s asking out of curiosity that has mixed with the same protectiveness that he showed when he gave him the weighted blanket and the stress ball, that leaked in his voice when he asked how old Connor was that same day.

    As much as he has been subtly pushing to get closer to Hank, Connor is only now realizing how safe and calm he feels around him compared to how he feels around the people closer to his age. It’s not logical by any means for someone who is unstable (hopefully only temporarily) to get along with someone who is easy to anger and snap– Ritch has made that beyond clear since the very beginning– but for some reason, it’s working for them. He doesn’t know how or why, but it is, and he’d really rather not look a gift horse in the mouth.

    “Hey, Connor, you don’t have to–”

    “I don’t know.” Connor quickly says, needing to interrupt Hank’s obvious attempt to take back the question.

    After a short moment of pondering, though, he sets his elbow on the table and his head in his palm, continuing in a casual tone, “I don’t actually know, I’ve never thought about any of it before.” He huffs a laugh that lacks humor, lowering his hand and turning back to his food. “That’s probably why I have to find a mandatory shrink, huh? To get me to analyze this with this stuff?” He shakes his head. “Ritch is not going to like this one bit, and it’s going to get much worse before it gets any better.”

    “Yea.” Hank says with obvious discomfort. It snaps Connor’s attention back on him. “Yea, it probably will be. You uh, you even okay enough for the shit that’s about to pile on ya? Especially 'cause you’re apparently going straight into a jaeger once you’re declared ready for it. Skipping training and all.” he asks with false nonchalance. Connor has no clue why Hank is asking these questions when he usually avoids this kind of thing like the plague, but he answers anyway.

    “I know I’ve been a nervous wreck since we first got here, but that’s mainly because Ritch and I have never been anywhere near as busy and overwhelming as this place can be. And it certainly didn’t help that we were trying our best to blend in with the herd and not stand out when we’ve spent the last decade learning how to do the exact opposite. Now that we’re slowly getting used to this place and not having to worry about holding back anymore, we’ll be able to show everyone exactly why we were able to graduate from this program so young.” he finishes confidently, head up and back straight.

    Hank just looks at him for a moment. Right as it starts making Connor unsure about his answer and has him coming up with things to distract from his bold statement, Hank nods and starts clearing his area. The ex-pilot makes eye contact with him with a strange, earnest look he doesn’t think he’s seen from the older man before.

    “I hope you will, Connor. Show ‘em what ya got.”

    Hank turns and leaves, leaving Connor with wide eyes and a slack jaw.

    The first thought that comes to mind after his thoughts have slowed down enough is man, I wish I had someone to tell about this. Of course, he’s sure that Simon, Markus, and Josh would listen (not North, though), but they wouldn’t understand why this is a big deal, especially since they still don’t seem to like Hank very much. For that same reason, Connor certainly can’t go to Ritch about this either, even with the fact that Ritch now voluntarily owes Hank a favor. Owing something to someone is different than tolerating them enough to listen to a twin get excited over the tiniest bit of encouragement and support from them.

    Connor quickly finishes his meal and cleans up before heading to the training area. If he’s going to prove to everyone that he deserves to stay here even though he and Ritch have lied multiple times on things that definitely should have gotten them thrown out, then he’s going to need a good partner.

    Traci is a good choice– and Connor’s first on his list– but she and Ritch get along easier with one another than she does with Connor. He doesn’t know exactly why, but she’s very hesitant around him and the atmosphere between them is awkward more often than not, so that’s probably a no-go. Jeremy could possibly work too, but his combat skill is too far behind for Connor to feel comfortable approaching him with something like offering a partnership. Plus, he doesn’t know much about his personality beyond “quiet” and “reserved”, so that is a bit of an issue. He’ll have to start some conversations with the other people on his list before he can properly narrow down–

    “Connor! Hey!”

    Unbothered by the interruption, he spins to greet Markus, then waves to Simon, North, and Josh who are close behind him. He pauses to let the four of them catch up before continuing on or saying anything.

    “I don’t think we’ve actually talked since the morning after the party. How have you guys been holding up with the training regime?” Connor asks with a smile.

    “It’s been hell,” North immediately complains, “and I know we haven’t even started the hard-core stuff yet. We’re just getting into shape and learning basics.”

    Markus nods in agreement, “You and Ritch are lucky you get to skip this.”

    “Maybe not so lucky…” Simon interjects, “That just means they’ve done all of this at an earlier age.”

    Don’t panic, don’t panic. They mean nothing by it, just don’t panic and make things weird, Connor chants to himself as he forces himself to answer aloud calmly with a shrug.

    “It wasn’t too bad. We were children with lots of energy when we started doing what you guys are doing now.”

    North and Josh nod together. It’s the first time he’s ever seen the two agree on something before. It’s almost frightening.

    “Traci started her self-defense and karate lessons when she was young, so it makes sense.”

    There’s a silence that Connor would describe as calm or peaceful that lasts for a few moments. He counts it as a win that he has managed to not visibly freak out like he is internally. He messes with his hair for a second to give his hands something to do in the hopes that maybe they’ll stop shaking if he does. Markus must catch the nervous movement for what it is, though.

    “You alright, Connor?”

    “Yea, I’m fine.” He plans on stopping there, but then he realizes that these four people are probably the best people he can go to for advice on making friends and finding potential partners. “I’m just worried about finding a partner, I guess. As you could probably tell, I normally don’t do too well around people I don’t know well.” Connor chuckles softly, but even he can tell that it’s somewhat off.

    “Any chance we could help with that?”

    Connor mentally blesses Simon as he says, “If you don’t mind, that would be amazing.”

    Josh smiles and comes around to Connor’s other side. “So what do you need help with?”

    He barely stops himself from saying everything short of learning the English language.

    “How did you guys know you could be compatible with one another? Because Ritch and I are technically compatible, but in reality we aren’t.”

    “So the difference between working well with another person and being drift compatible, you mean?” Simon clarifies, and Connor nods graciously. “I guess you wouldn’t have to learn too much about that since you were supposed to pair up with Ritch all along, huh?

    When Connor nods once more– again very thankful that Simon is insightful enough to figure this out without having to make Connor struggle to get a proper explanation out– Markus begins the explanation.

    “Well, I guess one difference is how well you know a person. Obviously, people who have known each other for longer are naturally going to be more compatible because they can be more in sync, but what we’re learning now in class is that that alone just isn’t enough to become jaeger pilots. Skill and mindset play huge roles in it too.”

    “Like the Hallowitts.” North offers. “They get along great and are as close as siblings can realistically be, but they are, by far, the least compatible pair in that room. I’d be surprised if they last another week here.”

    “I’m inclined to agree.” North snorts and Markus smiles at Connor’s wording, but he forces himself to pay it no mind. “As much as I’d like to think that everyone has an equal chance here, they just don’t. There’s a reason passing rates of the jaeger training are so low, and even those who pass aren’t guaranteed to become pilots.”

    Josh nods, “Exactly. Now, that being said, there are rare cases of two people who have never met being perfectly compatible.”

    “I guess the difference is how you mentally click with a person,” Simon jumps in, “Like you and Ritch don’t dislike one another, but you also don’t really get along or understand each other, right? Maybe at one point you did, but not anymore. You guys aren’t drift compatible because your mentalities and coping mechanisms are just too different, even though you both grew up in the exact same circumstances and have complimenting skill sets.”

    “So I find someone who understands the crazy things I do in certain situations and why I do it?” Connor asks dubiously.

    “And someone that can keep up with you, because damn, Connor, you and Ritch whooped each other’s asses on that first day.”

    Connor sighs heavily. He still has the aches from a couple of the worse bruises left over when he touches them, even though there are no more marks, because there hasn’t been any other training or exercises that have given him new bruises and scrapes so he can ignore the old ones. Don’t get him wrong, it’s nice to not have something he needs to actively ignore, but it’s yet another difference from what he grew up with and more proof that he’s in a completely different world now.

    Connor sighs again, with this one coming out as more of a groan than a true sigh. Where the ever loving hell is he supposed to find someone who can not only keep up with him in skill and not drag him down constantly, but also understand him and his trauma (if what Dr. Johan was going on about in their meeting yesterday is actually true for him, anyway) enough to know when to leave Connor alone and let him to his thing and when to step in to help.

    Ritch is relatively good at doing so, mainly because Connor usually likes being left alone, and Ritch always leaves him alone, but he doesn’t seem to understand Connor at all or care to learn the intricacies of him. He also doesn’t seem interested in letting Connor see any side of him that isn’t practically programmed by Amanda (the level of shock he felt when he saw and heard Ritch actually bantering with none other than Gavin Reed during the “Alex knifing” almost hurt. Why did it take such a publicly known asshole to bring out any kind of personality in Ritch? Why couldn’t Connor after his years of trying?).

    If his own brother can’t understand, then how can he expect anyone else to understand when they won’t have a clue of what he’s been through until it’s too late. He already opens old wounds over and over again with god-awful memories whenever he gets into a mood dip, he doesn’t want to scar anyone else who wouldn't even know what to expect, or worse, they think they do know what to expect. Although, how can they when he can barely think about it in his own head without going into panic-and-shutdown mode?

    “Hey,” Markus brushes his hand against Connor’s arm, gently bringing him out of his thoughts. He gets too lost in them too often.

    He nudges Markus’ hand kindly and says in a tone much more tranquil than he feels, “I’m alright. Just thinking of possible candidates.”

    “And?” North smirks. Count on her to try to lighten dark or awkward moods.

    “I’ve got pretty much nothing.” Connor chuckles much more genuinely than last time. If it has a tad bit of hysteria mixed in like he feels like it might, then no one reacts to it.

    At the four’s light insistence, he agrees to tell them why he believes he won’t match with anyone. He can’t look up from the floor at all. He tries to for half a second, but that makes everything so much worse about this situation, so he stares at his boots. If he tries hard enough, maybe he can forget that trying to explain this exact thing just a few weeks ago is what left him self-bedridden for a couple of days; maybe if he ignores hard enough, he can pretend that he’s talking to himself and there are only his footsteps instead of five sets in total. Before he realizes what he’s doing, he stops so the other four have to stop too if they want to listen. No more footsteps, problem partially solved.

    He can’t procrastinate that answer anymore.

    “I don’t know if you’ve been told this already, or if it’s just common sense to people, but in the drift, you share every single memory with person you’re pairing with. Certain events get more attention than others, obviously, and there is no known way to control what they both see or for how long. You just live through the other person’s memories as if you’re looking back on your own, and then look back on your own while a presence hovers over your shoulder and someone else’s emotions and reactions to events flow through the drift.” He takes another deep breath; his heart rate is getting too fast and his head is feeling too light.

    “And with that being said, I’ve got some real bad memories. Bad enough that Amanda used to try and convince me that they were just vivid nightmares. I think Ritch believes it’s a dream for whatever reason– or maybe he’s still on her side or something?– I don’t know, but it doesn’t work for me. I still can’t talk about it, but thinking like that and trying too hard to bury it is what made me break and sent me in that mood dip a while ago.” 

    He finally gets the courage to look up at the others and struggles to force his breathing to stay deep and slow. It helps that they only look concerned and surprised, rather than literally any other emotion his head was coming up with– fear and disgust, to name a couple. Although, he doesn’t know if the shock is a reaction to the information about what the drift is like, or to the fact that he’s actually talking instead of running and hiding in his room like he so desperately wants to.

    “I don’t want to scare anyone. I can’t live through those memories– not now, anyway– so how can I expect someone else to?” Connor shakes his head, trying to ignore the nausea that’s slowly but steadily growing. “I don’t even know how Ritch is gonna do it. I mean, the only people besides us who really know about this are you guys and–”

    Hank.

    Hank, who let him sit at his table on Connor’s first day even though he had a reputation of eating anyone who came near him alive, and had nearly done so to Connor at first. Hank, who stepped in and helped make him eat after his mood dip even though they had barely known each other for a couple days at most; who, almost immediately after, lead him back to his bunker (a place no one has been to in a long, long time, supposedly) so he could give him a weighted blanket and stress ball. Hank, whom Connor told he lied on essential paperwork when Hank was giving him a snack from his stash (another unheard of thing) and decided to tell Marshal Fowler to give him and Ritch a second chance instead of to get rid of them. Hank, who, despite saying weeks earlier “You’re still a kid to me”, had asked Connor to call him by his first name and has always treated him like a proper adult even though he is quite literally the youngest person on this base.

    Hank, who apparently loves (or at least used to love) dogs and, if the laugh lines and obvious protective instincts are anything to go by, used to be a kind, giving fellow who would laugh and smile easily; who now has to drown his traumas with alcohol and alcohol-induced sleep, not unlike how Connor drowns his own haunting memories with mind-numbing sleep brought by high-grade sleeping oils.

    No one makes– has ever made Connor as comfortable as he does, for whatever reason. It’s been years since anyone has been able to break down Hank’s walls like Connor has been doing effortlessly these past few weeks. They both have their issues, but Connor thinks that could help if they were to ever enter the drift together. Hank wouldn’t be scarred by his memories, and Connor doubts the ex-pilot’s memories could affect him any more than his own traumas affect him now. Besides, Connor has a feeling that he won’t be declared ready-for-battle as quickly as Ritch will be, so that’s plenty of time to wear Hank down, right?

    It’s not like the ex-pilot needs to do too much to get back into shape, anyway. Years and years of doing something over and over again makes every single technique and maneuver pure muscle memory that can’t truly be forgotten. That mixed with the fact that Connor based a lot of his own combat style on Hank’s and Marshal Fowler’s from when they were still active, they might fight better together than people would think. Plus, and Connor doesn’t think anyone else has noticed this between them averting their eyes from him and the hoodies he normally wears, but Hank is still rather built under that beer gut. He could probably carry Connor across the base if he really wanted to.

    Scratch that, he absolutely could if he tried, easily. He almost wants to test that some day. Maybe. Possibly.

    “Uhh, Connor? You good?” Josh tentatively 

    Connor shakes his head in wonder. “Yea, actually. I…”

    He pays close attention to himself, how his breathing is back to normal, the nausea and lightheadedness are almost gone, and he only just now realizes that his hands were shaking again because they don’t feel that way anymore. Yea, his heart rate is still a little high, but give it a few minutes and even that’ll be back to normal.

    He doesn’t trust this.

    “I feel fine. Way calmer than a minute ago.” He adds doubtfully, scrutinizing his own steady hands as if they can give him the answers he wants. “I think I found someone I may be compatible with, but I don’t even know if he’ll want to pair with me to pilot a jaeger. But even that made me feel better.” He looks around at the small group with uncertainty. “I’ve rarely calmed down that fast in my life, and never outside of my own room where I can be left alone to think.”

    North steps forward and carefully places a friendly hand on his shoulder. “Seems like you’re the plannin’ type of guy. You always feel better when you have a plan, and hate when you don’t, right?”

    Based on everyone’s light laughter and large smiles, he doesn’t hide his amazement and realization well enough. That makes sense, though, because he wasn’t trying very hard in the first place.

    “That… That makes a lot of sense. Perfect sense.” Connor smiles.

    He gestures forward, signaling that he’s ready to keep moving, and they all do happily. Connor doesn’t really stop thinking about how he could possibly get Hank to at least test their compatibility and get him warmed up to the idea of un-retiring.

    He doubts that Marshal Fowler would have a problem with helping him get Hank jaeger-ready if Connor can somehow prove their compatibility and Hank’s willingness to start piloting again. If he would have a problem with it, he doesn’t think Hank would be on the base anymore, let alone still bunking in the jaeger pilots’ hall. Marshal Fowler doesn’t seem to be the type to play favorites and put friends first, but Connor could always be wrong.

    As he slowly forms a plan in his head, he slowly becomes more at ease. It’ll take more in-depth thinking and several pages in his notebook, but where before he only had a vague hope, now he has a small chance, and that’s slowly becoming just enough for Connor.

•◊•◊•◊•◊•

    Gavin is getting real tired of all this snooping around. He’s normally the type of guy to fling himself right into the thick of things and deal with the repercussions later; not because he doesn’t care about what kind of trouble he’ll get into later– at least not anymore– but because he doesn’t have enough patience to sit still and do nothing even though he knows there’s bad things going on.

    He tried to convince himself over the past couple of days to just do as Luther and Fowler said and not get involved in the “Alex Knife Supplier” case, as he’s been calling it in his head, but nothing has happened to his top suspects at all and he doesn’t want those assholes to get away scot free. It’s one thing to just be an asshole, it’s another to actively endanger the lives of coworkers and allies. Even he knows that.

    There’s still 20 minutes left of breakfast and he still hasn’t eaten or even entered the food court because he’s been too busy watching those assholes from afar in the hopes that he can catch anything that can bring up more of a case against them. He’d rather not tussle with them until he knows he can get into their bunker and confiscate whatever the fuck is in there, but right now it’s starting to look like he’ll have to tussle with them if he wants any evidence at all.

    “What are you doing, Reed?”

    Gavin instinctively spins around and throws a punch right at the man’s throat, but it’s expertly caught by none other than the Ritch Bitch. After a split moment of surprise from having his punch properly caught, rather than blocked or deflected (which other people have trouble doing sometimes), Gavin instantly scowls and rips his fist away from the other’s grip, silently hoping the goody-two-shoes decides against reporting him for assault or something like that.

    “Don’t fuckin’ sneak up behind me, asshole,” he sneers, “And it’s none of your god damned business. So fuck off.”

    Ritchie raises an unimpressed eyebrow– since when does this dude emote?– then tilts his head at him like a fucking dog. He shifts his gaze to the group Gavin’s been watching for the past hour.

    “Isn’t that the group Alex hung around before he was thrown out?” he asks in a weird tone, almost as if he was aiming for interest or teasing and fell flat.

    Gavin’s eyebrows rise in surprise for just a moment before settling back into a scowl. He hates how many times this prick has caught him off guard today.

    “M’ surprised you even know that. Thought you were too busy bein’ the top of your class to pay attention to what the others were up to.” he turns back to the group, watching them laugh about something Gavin would probably want to punch them over.

    Ritch steps closer to him, inviting himself into Gavin’s cover like an asshole, as he explains, “If anything, being the top of my class means I need to pay closer attention to the other trainees, since I’m somewhat a tutor and an example for them. But that’s besides the point, I know someone as impatient and conflict-hungry as you wouldn’t wait in the shadows without a good reason. What are you waiting for, hm?” the asshole taunts. At least he sounds more normal now. Gavin doesn’t know why, but it was really unsettling before.

    He huffs irritably, but doesn’t immediately taunt back. He may as well tell a part of it. If Ritch is right about being top of his class, then maybe he’ll have some new input, as much as Gavin hates the thought of needing someone else’s help. A mission completed with someone’s help is better than a mission failed with escaped villains, after all.

    “I think they had something to do with how Alex got his knives.”

    To his surprise, Ritch just nods in solemn agreement. “What’s stopping you from interrogating them?”

    Gavin huffs again, this time in irritation at the situation. “Fowler.”

    “Ah. You’re not supposed to get into it, but nothing has happened yet, yes?”

    Gavin whips his head around to glare at the human robot. He suddenly can’t be sure that that’s the expression his face actually makes, though, because the annoying asshole just nods like he’s confirming something to himself again.

    “Have you tried getting into their bunker to check for clues yourself?”

    When Gavin huffs, it comes out less irritable and more incredulous of how stupid this guy can be.

    “If I could do that I wouldn’t be fucking bothering with this, now would I?”

    The trainee just sighs and says, “Come on,” with a beckoning wave of his hand, then turns around and starts walking away. Gavin doesn’t move.

    “Where the hell do you think you’re going? And why the fuck should I follow your ugly ass?”

    “If you want to be caught and get us in some serious trouble, then sure, keep talking that loudly. Also, I’m almost interested in seeing the asses you’re used to looking at if you think mine is ugly.”

    Gavin barks a laugh that has very little amusement. What makes him think he can just start controlling the show out of nowhere like this?

    “You? Trouble? Aren’t you supposed to be, like, the golden child of the current gaggle of recruits or something?”

    Ritch spins around and looks at Gavin with an obviously forced smug and mischievous smile. “If you honestly believe that, then you’re just like everyone else here and have no clue how wide my skill set actually is.” He turns back around and starts walking again. “Come or don’t come, I don’t care.”

    It takes a second for Gavin’s brain to reboot because it’s obvious Ritch is obviously trying something new here and holy mother of god is it making him uncomfortable. This is not the Dicky Ritchy (that name was more than a stretch, never again) he’s been messing with for the past week or so. Once his head does reboot, though, his curiosity of what the hell baby-face is going to do and the irritation that he thinks he can one-up Gavin again wins over standing by the entrance of the food court and watching a bunch of assholes laugh a ways away as if they don’t realize they’re the scum of the earth.

    He speed-walks to catch up to Ritch, because it’ll be a cold day in hell when he’s seen running or jogging anywhere that isn’t to a jaeger or a kaiju. Once he makes it to Ritch’s side, the other speaks in a soft tone.

    “I don’t actually know where their bunker is, so you need to lead the way, unfortunately.” Gavin groans, but still pulls ahead slightly to lead. “How much time do you think we have until they return to the room, and are there any cameras?”

    Everything about this encounter with Ritch is throwing him the hell off– not just how strange the man is being– but he plays along anyway, never one to turn down some scheming.

    “The cameras in the pilot’s hall has been broken for months, maybe years. And the fucksticks will be out of the way for at least an hour. They always stay in the food court until they’re kicked out after breakfast is over, then they go to the gym for a while.” It’s why he avoids the gym like the plague in the morning.

    “Perfect.” he smiles with that same forced smile as before. Gavin’s had enough.

    “Okay, I wasn’t going to say anything, but you’re really startin’ to creep me the fuck out.”

    That rips the fake smile right off the robot’s face. Good, that was the main thing bothering him.

    “Am I?”

    “Yes.”

    “Oh.”

    There’s a silent pause, then Gavin’s starts talking partially because he fucking hates silences and partially because he needs to never see that kind of expression on Retch’s (he may actually use that one) face again.

    “So if I’m reading this right, you’re doin’ me a favor by apparently getting me into this dorm so I can raid their shit, right?” Ritch nods silently, so he continues, “Good. So I’m just gonna return the favor ahead of time and give you some advice because I hate being indebted to people. Got it, asstown?”

    Ritch turns his head to properly look at Gavin, then nods again, slower this time. There’s no smart ass comment to the insult, though, unfortunately.

    Gavin immediately launches into a half-taunting half-serious ramble, “Now I’m only gonna say this one time– so you better fuckin’ savor this, ‘cause I don’t do this shit for just anyone– but holy shit you need to stop making faces and using certain tones when you don’t actually want to. Like, you’re known for being a robot. You can’t feel emotions the way the rest of us can, or you just process them or show ‘em differently. That’s your thing, just like my thing’s being a fuckin’ dickwad all the time and Anderson’s is being a depressed drunkard.

    “Don’t try to go full human on everyone all of a sudden. Just stay fuckin’ blank if you wanna. Only cowards give in to peer pressure and shit.” Gavin huffs in exasperation. He’s is in a very huffy mood today, apparently. “I don’t like looking at your ugly-ass, baby-faced mug as it is, and it is so much worse when you try to smile or some shit like that when you’re obviously not feelin’ it. It’s fucking unatural is what it is.” He shivers and curls his lip in exaggerated disgust.

    Ritch just stares at him for a second, then states in his normal, flat tone, “The only unnatural thing here is how much you smell despite the fact you’ve been standing around and doing nothing for the past couple of days.”

    Gavin smiles evilly, secretly thankful that Ritch didn’t try to go down the genuine route and is instead continuing their normal interactions. Of all the nasty names under the sun he could call him, “unobservant” and “stupid” are two he can’t. “Emotionally oblivious” and “ignorant” or “naive”, however, are not off the table.

    “No, the unnatural thing here is that you’re a grown ass man and you use fruit-scented lotion.”

    Ritch gives him a weird look, but it’s at least genuine, thank god. “I do not use lotion, I simply shower everyday, unlike some people.” He pauses barely long enough to look Gavin up and down before continuing. “It’s not my fault you prefer what is obviously scentless men’s soap when women’s soap smells nicer and is less harsh on skin.” He faces front again.

    “Hold on,” Gavin wheezes, “You actually use women’s soap? Like, regularly?”

    “What of it? Are you not secure enough in your gender and sexual identity that using a soap with fruity smells that come in colorful bottles is too much for your poor masculine mind to handle? Poor baby.”

    Gavin wrinkles his nose. “Hell no. I’m gay as fuck but you still don’t see me using that girly shit. It’s a matter of preference, asshole. And I’m surprised you even know what gender identity even is, since you don’t seem to know much else about real humans.”

    Gavin doesn’t realize what he just blatantly admitted to until he’s done speaking. Of course he has to be enough of a dumb ass to officially come out to the one dude who was raised by an old woman. God damn it, he’s probably homophobic. At least it’ll give Gavin a reason to punch him the next time he gets irritated with him.

    Either oblivious to Gavin’s internal wariness or somehow reading his mind, Ritch explains in a condescending tone, “Amanda was insistent that we don’t treat people differently just because of how they identify, and one way of doing that was learning proper titles of people who aren’t ‘Male’ and ‘Female’ and other things your small brain would probably get bored with. But good for you for being just a normal ass and not a homophobic one. You’re slightly less likely to get punched now, anyway.”

    That… is actually pretty cool, the fact that Ritch apparently has no problem with anyone who isn’t cis-het. It’s a complete plot twist and surprise, but it’s cool to know that the dude would only hate him because he’s him and not because he’s gay. He’s been tired of the homophobic jokes and slurs since the 5th grade, so it’ll be refreshing to have someone that’ll skip right over that genre of insults with him, as refreshing as it can be when they’re ridiculing one another, that is (which can be damn refreshing, if you ask him).

    Gavin lets their talk end there as he slows down when they get close to the grease-heads’ bunker. He then silently checks the hall for anyone who could be watching or approaching, and quiets his voice down when he addresses Ritch, keeping a careful ear out for any footsteps or voices. He may be reckless half the time, but he’s not stupid enough to get caught breaking and entering someone’s private dorm.

    “Well, asshat, this is it. Work your robot magic and hack us in.”

    “It’s actually not hacking of any kind. I would ask if you want to learn how, but I doubt there’s enough room in your skull for a brain larger than a peanut with how huge your ego is.”

    An involuntary, offended squawk bursts out of Gavin’s throat, and after a short hesitation where he lets himself be embarrassed before moving on, he smacks Ritch on the arm. “Move over asshole. My ego ain’t that fuckin’ big, asshole, you’re mistaking me for yourself.”

    Gavin sees Ritch roll his eyes. “First, look at the keypad, you see the numbers that are more worn down than the others?”

    “2, 5, and 7? What about them?” Gavin replies in a more serious tone, suddenly a lot more invested in this than he thought he would be.

    “Those are the three numbers that are in the code. Basically, over time, as the same buttons get pushed over and over, the oils and pressure from fingers either wear down the ink of the numbers, or tint the glass over the buttons and give it a tan or brownish look compared to the other clear ones, depending on what kind of keypad it is.”

    “Okay then, genius, how do we know the order of the code, ‘cause–”

    “I wasn’t done,” Ritch interrupts, “The first button is usually the most worn down since the most oils rub off and degrade it more than the others, but in this case, since there are only three numbers worn down for a four code password, the most worn-down one is the one pressed twice, the next worn down is probably first. And when there are repeat numbers in a code as short as this, they’re rarely one directly after another.”

    “So the 2 is repeated, and the 5 is probably before the 7.”

    “Yes.”

    “What if the twos are actually right next to each other. What if they’re both first and last?”

    Ritch actually smirks this time. “I’ll be smart about it and we hope for the best.” Gavin gives him an incredulous look as he continues. “How many tries do we get to do this?”

    “Three. If you fuckin’ think you can–”

    “Watch and learn.” Ritch interrupts fuckin’ again as he gives his full attention to the keypad.

    He tries 5272 first and is denied, then immediately tries 2725 and the door unlocks with a small, green flash of light.

    Gavin doesn’t even know how to react. “What the fuck. I thought you said the 5 was first!”

    Ritch just nods and opens the door. “ I did, but there are other variables that I don’t feel like going over right now, we don’t have time to waste.” He nods to the door he’s holding open, “You go in and investigate and I’ll stand guard out here. I’ll knock if I think someone is coming so you can get out. Wouldn’t want you to get caught and rat me out to lessen your sentence, or have you get both of us caught in the first place.”

    “Ha ha. I’m glad you’re not coming in, anyway. You’d just get in my way, bitch.” He shoves past the trainee, purposely knocking his shoulder into his.

    “Close, but no cigar.” Gavin turns and looks at him in confusion. “My name is Ritch with an ‘R’, not a ‘B’. I can understand if you misread it, but mishearing it when you have no documented hearing problems is a different matter altogether.” He sighs dramatically while maintaining his straight face, which is kind of odd to witness, but not the same odd as before. “At least you’re learning, it was closer than ‘Dick’, anyway.” He finishes as he shuts the door.

    Gavin flips him off even though he won’t see it, then mumbles, “Fuck off, you prick.”

    Gavin quickly looks around the smelly, messy bunker. Time for the fun part.

    He knows better than to dig through places aimlessly and move things too much, so he goes to the tiny closets first. It’s crammed with useless stuff, but there’s nothing clearly illegal hiding in there and there doesn’t look like there’s a false back or bottom, so he closes it. The other personal closet is exactly the same– messy, but inconspicuous– so he moves on. He quickly checks under the bed (nothing) and on the top bunk towards the wall (again, nothing) before moving on to the bathroom.

    In the bathroom, the first thing that Gavin notices is that the mirror is slightly crooked, which shouldn’t be possible since the medicine cabinet behind it is welded to the wall. He opens it and it’s immediately apparent to Gavin that there is a false back; the cabinet is way thinner and more warped than his and Tina’s are, and all of these things are supposed to be basically identical. The fact that it’s empty only accentuates how wrong it looks because there’s nothing blocking the false back.

    He peels it back with ease and behind it is a stack of sheathed knives. Just judging by the handles of these weapons– and the fact that they were (poorly) hidden– they are definitely not pocket knives (the only knives permitted, since they’re mostly used for cutting wires and cables and are smaller, less harmful).

    Before he can do anything else about this new discovery, though, he hears the bunker’s door click open and shut again. Gavin’s in the middle of trying to figure out what to do when Ritch barges into the bathroom and grabs his arm.

    “Gavin, we need to get out of here!” Ritch hisses and grabs Gavin’s arm right above the wrist and yanks him out of the bathroom.

    He tries to yank and twist out of the trainee’s grip, but he isn’t successful. “Give me a second to grab–”

    “I don’t care! We need to go. Now!”

    Suddenly he’s being shoved further away from the bathroom. He hears the medicine cabinet slam closed, then the trainee tugs Gavin towards the bunker door with more strength than he expected. He tries again to pull his arm out of his grip, but Ritch moves his hand and presses his thumb into the sensitive part of the inside of his elbow. He’s yanked in a direction then hears the bunker door clicks shut behind them along with any possible evidence that he now knows for a fact is in there. He doesn’t even remember the code to the door anymore, all he knows is that the five isn’t first, so he can’t get back in.

    He takes a split second to look up and down the hall and sees that it’s completely empty. He could have easily grabbed at least one of those knives. Hell, even using his phone to snap a quick picture of the stack of them with the false back in view would be enough to warrant a search of their dorm– possibly even have them suspended immediately while the investigation starts– and this fucking prick pulled him out for no god damned reason.

     Overcome with anger, he blindly kicks out where Ritch’s knee should be. It works. The asshole goes down for only a second before he rolls into a crouched position facing him, his expression angry and hard. He gets up to his feet smoothly, but Gavin isn’t stupid enough to believe that his muscles are actually as relaxed as they seem, they’re combat-ready, and this asshole is three seconds away from getting his fight.

    “Gavin, cut it out. We need to go–”

    “No! Let me back in you fucking asshole! There’s no one here!” he shouts, spinning with his arms spread out wide, showcasing the nothingness that is in the halls. “You’re just being fucking paranoid. We need those–”

    Ritch suddenly punches him in the jaw. Gavin takes two steps back, but quickly rights himself.

    “I said. Shut. Up.” Ritch snarls, but his attention is on something behind him, and Gavin uses that to his advantage.

    He quickly throws a punch towards Ritch’s collarbone and throat area, but the little devil twists just in time for Gavin to only catch the sensitive part where his shoulder meets his pec. 

    At least that should bruise real nicely. Get what you deserve, asshat.

    He doesn’t get much more time to think about it, though, because there’s suddenly a fist coming straight at his face again, and he ducks. Gavin throws a punch to his gut, but his opponent spins out of the way. He then aims a punch to Ritch’s face, but that gets caught and twisted. He aims a kick at the asshole’s knees before it can get too uncomfortable, and even though Ritch loosens his grip to dodge the attack and he’s able to get his fist free, the trainee doesn’t go down like he wanted.

    There’s a moment of hesitation from both of them. It’s only long enough for Gavin to see Ritch scowling and to get himself in the position to effectively whoop some ass. His partner-in-crime-turned-opponent doesn’t take his attention away from him again, and instead uses the moment to study Gavin’s stance. He has no doubt he has the same kind of attentive scowl on his own face right now.

    Gavin makes the first move, moving as if he’s going to punch with his right hand when he’s actually planning to go to the left. Disappointingly, Ritch doesn’t fall for it, and catches his arm. Gavin dodges his attempt at tripping him, then aims a blow at the stubborn asshole’s neck. He ends up letting go in order to dodge Gavin’s move, but is back quickly with a punch of his own. He ends up catching and tries to shove Ritch into a more vulnerable position, but he ends up letting go to dodge a kick to his gut.

    This guy definitely has more skill than the average trainee, especially for one this new, that’s for sure. Although, that won’t change the fact that he’ll mess up or tire before Gavin will, and he’ll be in a heap of trouble and pain for blowing up the plan.

    The only thing that Gavin is able to focus on after that is where the next punch or kick is coming from and where there’s an opening for him to punch or kick back. One one hand, he’s feeling confident because he hasn’t been hit a single time beyond that first jaw punch. He’s been catching, blocking, and dodging all of his kicks and punches. He’s pretty positive that the only injuries he’ll have from this fight are maybe sore hands and some bruises on his arms from the amount of blocking and deflecting he’s doing.

    On the other hand, however, Gavin’s really starting to get pissed off because Ritch is taking about as much damage as he is right now, which is none. The damn asshole doesn’t even look tired yet. Not that Gavin’s getting tired– he can keep this pace up for a while longer– but what kind of trainee as new as Ritch is able to keep up with a well-seasoned pilot and brawler? He already knew Ritch was good, but he wasn’t supposed to fucking match Gavin like this in a fight.

    Once Gavin accepts that this won’t go anywhere unless he switches things up and stops playing by sparring rules, he lunges forward with most of his weight to punch Ritch in the diaphragm with the hope to knock the wind out of him. It almost works, but Ritch dodges at the last moment and kicks him in the back of the knees as he passes, making Gavin collapse roughly onto his hands and knees. Just before Ritch can pin him down, he shoves himself up into a handstand and his heel narrowly misses the asshat’s jaw as he leans out of the way.

    He sees Ritch quickly swoop his leg out to knock his arms out from under him, but Gavin springs up and flips back onto his feet. He spins to face his opponent and aims yet another punch to his face, but it’s caught and isn’t immediately released like before. A hand comes flying towards Gavin’s neck, but he blocks it, grabbing the other’s wrist and twisting his arm down. Ritch suddenly spins himself so his back is facing him, then grabs Gavin’s wrist and yanks him closer. Before he can do anything to prevent it, Ritch shifts his balance and flips him over his shoulder.

    Gavin somehow manages to twist himself so he can land in a low crouch and wastes no time in jabbing an elbow back. It doesn’t hit anything, but Ritch does loosen his grip so he get free. Gavin rolls out of the way before he can get kicked down, then grabs Ritch’s ankle as it returns to the floor. He stands, bringing his opponent’s leg up by his shoulder, but instead of toppling over like he expected, Ritch quickly switches his weight to his hands and latches his free leg around Gavin’s middle, and when he lets go of his ankle to shove the menace off, Ritch latches that one around as well. Gavin knows what comes next before it happens, and lets himself be twisted and forced to the floor by Ritch’s weight, allowing him to sit on top of Gavin’s chest.

    He lets this happen because he was able to control how he landed, and made sure his feet were planted on the ground just as his back hits the floor. He immediately jerks his entire torso off the ground before Ritch can properly situate himself again, and thus makes him topple over for just a moment. A moment is all Gavin needs, though. He spins onto his stomach and tucks his legs under him at the same time, then rapidly sits up and shoves his head up and back. Ritch dodges the headbutt attempt, and Gavin watches him roll backwards into a standing position as he spins and stands to face him.

    In that split moment of stillness where they’re trying to predict each other’s next move, Gavin suddenly realizes that, for the first time in literal years, he’s having genuine fun sparring with someone. It would probably scare him if he weren’t so focused on the surprisingly competent trainee. He doesn’t even have enough room to think about or process why he would or should be scared. God damn Ritch and his god damned surprises at it again, the fucker.

    Before Gavin can gather his head long enough to make the first move, Ritch suddenly jumps on him, somehow spinning so his thighs are clamped around his neck and head. He uses his weight to try to topple Gavin over, but Tina tried to do this to him one too many times before, so he knows to go to a wall so he doesn’t immediately go down. He then reaches up to twist and pull Ritch’s knee out to the side with his fingers pressing against the nerve bundle on the inside of it. Judging by the surprised noise Ritch lets out, he wasn’t expecting that, and he starts to slip. He suddenly shoves off the wall, leaving Gavin scrambling to regain his footing while keeping that knee tight in his grasp. Just before Gavin can properly get his balance back, Ritch leans back and slightly to the left, bringing them both down. His plan is faulty, however, because all Gavin has to do is put his hands down and land in a handstand and Ritch’s legs slip past his head, leaving him free to back handspring back onto his feet just as his opponent sweeps his leg where his hands used to be.

    Jesus, this is a lot more flipping than Gavin is used to doing. He can’t exactly flip in a jaeger and it’s been years since his gymnastics class.

    Feeling that his back is literally to the wall and watching Ritch flip back on his feet, still relatively untouched, he pushes off of it for more momentum, hoping he can take him by surprise or something. Just as Gavin reaches him, the trainee drops on onto his back and twists and curls at the same time. He doesn’t understand why until a boot hits the backs of his ankles hard and forces him down. Just as Ritch pounces to pin him down, Gavin turns onto his back and tucks his legs in. His opponent barely stops himself in time before he springs his legs up, so Ritch doesn’t get launched away like he was hoping. Gavin instead uses that momentum to sloppily flip into a crouch.

    He dashes up and nails Ritch in the gut with his shoulder and lifts him off the ground, ready to slam him back down to disorient him. He doesn’t get to because he flips forward out of his grasp. Next thing he knows, there’s an arm in front of his throat and he’s being shoved down and backwards, so he twists so he’ll land on his stomach and breaks his fall. He instantly twists and kicks his leg out to get Ritch on the ground too, but the asshole jumps to his other side. No matter, because now Gavin can wrap both arms just below his knees and he forces the man down hard. 

    He jumps up to get on top of Ritch, who is already rolling onto his back, but is held back by another set of arms. He immediately lashes out and knocks whoever was holding him back in the head, but it was enough to get his mind out of the fight just enough to understand that they’ve gained an audience at some point. Ritch must not have realized yet, though– or maybe he doesn’t care– because he sets himself into a crouch and Gavin is already shifting his weight to dodge right to avoid getting rammed into–

    “GAVIN! RITCH!”

    They both instantly freeze and go tense. Ritch’s eyes are wide with alarm and are focused beyond his shoulder. Gavin has a feeling that he and Ritch are thinking the exact same thing.

    Oh Shit…

    Gavin slowly, cautiously, spins around to face a very angry Marshal Fowler. There are around 15 other people who have apparently been watching the show, if the way Chloe is shooing them away harshly is anything to go by. There’s one burly man who looks like his job is probably moving heavy materials around here who is clutching his bleeding nose.

    In an attempt to put off dealing with Fowler for as long as possible– and maybe a little bit because he’s kind of concerned because he didn’t hold back on that headbutt at all– Gavin takes a step towards him.

    “Oh. Shit. Your nose isn’t broken, is it–”

    “Reed. Stern. My office. Now.” That voice was the worst one. Fowler is usually yelling or “not mad, just disappointed”, but that was the calm angry voice. And to make matters worse, it wasn’t “Gavin” and “Ritch”, it was “Reed” and “Stern”.

    Wait, “Stern”? Why does that sound familiar?

    Ritch lightly brushes his shoulder, silently urging him to follow the marshal. With one quick glance back to the injured man, who Chloe is now hopefully leading to a nurse, he does. They silently walk side by side and keep close enough to Fowler that he can hear their footsteps following him, but never get closer than five feet, as if they’re afraid he’ll randomly snap and start laying it on them. Who knows, he might. Gavin has never been in a fight that big before.

    God damn it, they are so fucked.

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Previous <> Masterlist <> Next

•◊•◊•◊•◊•

A/N: I want to thank everyone who read this again, and thank you all for being so patient with me. I’ve had this chapter almost done since the middle of January and it’s been killing me to not be able to finish it and have it posted. But it was a crazy few months, then some other crazy stuff happened, then quarantine kind of zapped all of my motivation to do anything.

  But anyway, I hope this long chapter was worth the disgustingly long wait. I’m going to really try to get an update out every Monday, but I can promise that you’ll never go longer than a month without an update from now on. Comments (even if they’re just as simple as “nice chapter”) do wonders to motivate me! And I also have oneshot requests open to help motivate me! Here’s a list of ships I’ll write for!

Thank you for reading (and powering through me super long note) and I hope you stay safe and have a wonderful day/night! 💕💖

#hankcon #hannor #reed900 #gavin900 #900gavin #hankcon fanfic #hank x connor #hank anderson x connor #hankcon fanfiction #hannor fanfic #hannor fanfiction #hannor au #gavin reed x rk900 #reed900 au #reed900 fanfiction #reed900 fan art #gavin x rk900 #slow burn #pacific rim!au #dbh au #dbh series #dbh

[firelord-frowny]

wrote out some catharsis instead of going to sleep. 

Under the cut is a bit of fiction following characters I’ve had with me for years. You may notice that tenses are inconsistent - this is intentional. You may also notice repetition in places that seem strange. Think of it as a journal entry. Think of it as stream-of-consciousness. If you’re curious enough to read, a helpful bit of background: 1) Madison has been AWOL for about three years and has just recently turned up again. 2) Nixon is Madison’s best friend and also his It’s-Complicated On-Again-Off-Again lover. 3) Steven is a mutual friend of theirs.

I’ve always been a little bit scared of Steven. 

I mean, I love him. Of course. Deeply. I always have. But I’ve also always been scared of him. Not the kind of fear that makes you want to run away, but the kind that makes you want to hide.  And it’s that plain-sight kind of hiding. Maybe if I just don’t say anything, he won’t notice me. Maybe if I stay very still, I can avoid revealing to this extraordinary human being what an absolute dingus I really am. It’s not “scared” like I think he’ll hurt me. I know he’d never hurt me. It’s “scared” like I don’t know what to do with myself around him. Like I can’t read him, but I know he’s reading me,  and I know he’s seeing through all the bullshit I can usually fool other people with. All my life I’ve been so used to always feeling like the smartest person in the room. But that was never true whenever Steven was around. 

Out of everyone, I’ve spent the least amount of time alone with him. And when I have spoken one-on-one with Steven, it’s always been because he wanted to sit me down and lecture me about something Serious. Like when he told me in the back of Julius’s car that my father was going to beat me someday (he was right about that). Or the time on the metro train when he told me I’d regret not being kinder to my mother after she died (he was right about that, too). 

So when I heard Steven’s voice this morning, that same fear started growing inside me like ice crystals. Like little freezing daggers stabbing into my cells and making me feel cold. 

His voice this time wasn’t distorted by speakers. He was here. And I could hear Nix saying to him, “He doesn’t need to know.” 

Steven said, “I’m telling him.” 

Nix said, “It’s not his business. It’s not even relevant. I mean, not anymore.” 

I rolled out of bed. Paused to make sure my junk wasn’t hanging out of the robe Nixon gave me, and it wasn’t. Then I went to go open the door into the hall. 

Nixon was in the kitchen wearing scrubs. Those must be his work clothes. I remember when “work clothes” for Nixon was black slacks, a buttondown, and a Red Lobster nametag. He was putting dishes away - real, porcelain ones. Not plastic or paper like the ones we used to have. 

Steven was sitting at the bar table on a stool. His hair is gone. He always said he’d never cut it. I wonder what made him cut it. His dreads, I mean, his locs, were probably like three and a half feet long last time I saw him. 

They both turned to look at me. I thought I should say ‘good to see you, Steven,’ or ‘woah, what are you doing here, Steven,’ or ‘where’d your hair go, Steven,’ But what I said was, “...You’re gonna tell me what?” 

And instead of answering, Steven stood up and said, “Put some clothes on. I’m gonna take you out for some food.” 

I shook my head. “I, uh, I don’t wanna eat, I’ll-”

“Puke. Withdrawal. I know. Put some clothes on.” 

I looked at Nix. Nix shrugged and looked away. 

I told Steven, “I don’t have anything clean to wear.” 

Then Nix said, without looking at me, “In the closet at the back. Your stuff is there.” I watched Steven’s face as Nix said this, and I’m damn sure I saw him shake his head and roll his eyes. 

“You kept my stuff?” 

Another shrug from Nixon. “You were gonna need it if you ever came back.” 

Steven said again, “Get dressed.” 

***

My clothes didn’t quite fit anymore. I’m thinner now than I’ve probably ever been in my life. I mean, I was never fat, and I was never bulky, but I was always strong. The only part of the genetic lottery that played out in my favor was my natural inclination to be slightly more fit than not-fit. But even just a few months of treating yourself like garbage can whittle you down to nothing. So I grabbed the skinniest skinny jeans I owned. And I never wore belts, so I had to nab one of Nixon’s, and well, it was big on me, obviously, but I just tried to get it as tight as I could, which looked fucking ridiculous, really, but it was alright because then I threw on a hoodie that almost went down to my knees anyway. 

I didn’t say anything to Steven on the way down to his car. (The last time I was home, Franky and Julius were still the only ones among us who had cars). I’ve always worried that Steven thinks I hate him, given that I never really initiate conversation with him. But I don’t hate him. I’m just scared, like I said. 

The plates on the car were from out-of-state. I finally asked, just as we got in and he pulled out of the space, “Arizona?” 

He explained, “It’s an airport rental.” 

“Airport?”  

“I was in Houston.” 

“Houston… Texas? For what, like, a trip?” 

He shook his head. “I live there.” 

He drove along and I just looked at him like he was a fucking stranger. Then he said, “You missed a lot.” 

I asked him, “Why… why’d you move to Texas? I thought you hated Texas.” Truthfully, the only instance I can remember where Steven ever mentioned Texas at all was in high school when we were talking about that one Spongebob episode.  

He said, “That’s where most of the astronaut training stuff is at.” 

I felt my eyebrows raise. “You’re gonna be an astronaut?” 

He nodded. “I mean, if I don’t fail the exams.” 

Nix is a therapist at a rehab clinic and Steven is becoming an astronaut and I’m a washed-up junkie with nothing to his name besides a dropped felony charge, three misdemeanors, and an outstanding jaywalking ticket. I wasn’t even jaywalking. The light was broken and the cop had a quota to meet. I wasn’t even jaywalking. I’m not paying that fucking ticket. 

I finally said, “That’s like… your literal dream come true. That’s… amazing. Congratulations.” 

But he was terse and decidedly Not Gentle when he said, “I ain’t even there yet. Don’t congratulate me.” 

Steven scares me. I don’t know why he does what he does or says what he says. I can’t read him. I think he’s pissed at me but I also think if I told him I think he’s pissed at me, he’d tell me to get over myself.

I asked after a while, “...If you’re living in Texas now, what are you doing here?” 

“I’m here to see you.” 

My palms began to sweat. That feeling in my chest, that vibrating, that resonance that made me want to poison myself rang around inside me. 

“Why?” 

He pulled into the parking lot of a Waffle House. Steven loves waffles. I hate them. Pancakes, too. Syrup makes me sick. Steven got out of the car and I asked again, a little louder, maybe starting to panic, “Why?” 

He just said, “Come on.” 

I wanted a corner booth. I mean, if I was gonna be dragged to a restaurant against my will I wanted to at least be able to have a wall at my back and to one side of me. Safe. Small. Secure. But Steven asked for a table almost dead centered in the restaurant. I think he did this on purpose. I looked up at him, trying to give him that Look that I used to give my friends when something was too much for me, and then one of them, usually Nixon but also sometimes Franky or Steven, would give me some kind of excuse to leave without making anything awkward. And I know, I know Steven knows that look, and he looked down at me and I know he saw it, but he just… ignored me. 

I’m really scared of him. 

He sat, and so then I sat, but only because I had already stood there for long enough that someone glanced at me, clearly wondering why the hell I hadn’t sat down yet. A waitress came and took our orders. Steven ordered waffles and hash browns. I just shook my head and said “I’m not hungry.” But Steven interrupted and said, “Bring him some strawberries.” 

I do like strawberries.

He finally said, “You’ve figured out by now why I take you out in public to talk to you, right?” 

I just frowned. Confused. Annoyed. And honestly, the fucking fluorescent lights were giving me a headache. 

Steven said, “You’re a lot nicer in public. You don’t blow up. You don’t have meltdowns. Nah, you save those for when you’re just with us. And I know, I know, I’m sure your lil meltdowns are real or whatever, but it’s damn convenient that you can always manage to keep it together when strangers are watching.” 

I can never tell if Steven is trying to upset me. I think if I told him I thought he was trying to upset me, he’d tell me to get over myself. 

I told him, “I don’t know what you’re trying to say.” 

And he said, “Then quit trying to figure me out and just shut up and listen.” 

I think he’s trying to upset me. But I did shut up and listen. He said, “I don’t know what all you thought would happen when you just up and left like you did. And I know, you’re gonna say it ‘wasn’t about us,’ but like, no fuckin’ duh, bro. Because if it had been about us, you wouldn’t have picked your shit up and disappeared like that. But you did. And Franky, Franky started cutting himself again, like a damn teenager… Eli couldn’t hardly think straight. Me, I felt sick to my stomach worrying about you, and I mean sick, Midge. I mean I’m sitting at home tryna study thermodynamics and I cannot get the bile to quit rising in my throat, not knowing if you’re dead or alive out there.” 

For a long time I told myself that this was exactly what I stayed high to avoid thinking about. But I don’t know how I got myself to believe that lie, considering it wouldn’t have been a fucking issue if I had just stayed home. 

I clenched my jaw. Under the table I dug my nails into my elbows. I asked, with the monotonous inflection of a statement, “Why are you telling me any of this.” 

“You mean you don’t want to know?” Steven laughed. Steven laughed. 

“Honestly, man, I really just wanna get out of here.”  

“Yeah, I know you do. And, you know, if Nix had his way, I wouldn’t be talking to you right now. Because I’m gonna tell you what he doesn’t want you to know. And it’s gonna fuck you up, and I’m glad about that.” 

I covered my face with my hands. I bit my tongue. Out of my throat I managed to squeeze out the words, “Steven, what do you want?” 

Then he said, like it was a bomb he’d been holding over my head, “Six months after you left, Nixon drank himself into a coma.” 

My hands dropped from my face and my eyes got hot and my chest got tight and I felt myself say, “What?” But I didn’t hear it.

“And, well, he lived alone at that point, ‘cause you were gone… Franky offered to have him come move in with him… Julius offered… I offered… hell, all of us offered… but he wouldn’t do it. Said he was gonna stay where he was so he’d be there when you got back. But you ain’t come back. And he was alone. So he did what he does, and he drank like a fuckin fish, drank until he almost died, and then he laid there for… well, he doesn’t know how long, of course, but the doc thought it must have been a whole day or two… and, you know, thank God it was the first of the month, so the landlord came knocking when the rent didn’t get paid, and well, that’s the reason your so-called ‘best friend’ ain’t dead right now.” 

I was shaking. All of me, I think, but mostly my hands, and my mouth. And I could feel how wide my eyes were, and how they stung and burned, and the wetness welling up and brimming. And I tried to stay still, so still that maybe he wouldn’t see me. Maybe Steven is a fucking velociraptor and if I just don’t move, I’ll survive this.

“So, the landlord calls 911… the hospital calls Julius… Julius calls us. I tried to call you. You ain’t answer, obviously.” He rolled his eyes. “We spend the next few nights like a damn vigil in a hospital waiting room… they’re telling us he could have brain damage… they’re telling us to expect ‘deficits’ if he wakes up… ‘if.’ If. Because that wasn’t a guarantee.”

My cheeks began to itch - tears sliding down. Tears that I didn’t move to wipe away, because remember, I had to stay still. 

“So Jules finally called their mom… and gotdammit, Red, you know I ain’t a fuckin crybaby, but when you hear your best friend, your best friend since y’all was in playin’ in sandboxes, on the phone with his mamma telling her that her other son might die…” Steven’s voice cracked. I can’t remember ever hearing Steven’s voice crack. “That shit’ll fuck a nigga up.” 

I felt myself ask him to stop. 

He didn’t. 

“So then Mrs. Johannsen shows up, and you know she always hated all of us. And now we almost couldn’t even blame her… this shit all happened because of you, and you’re one of us, so of course she kicks us out… of course she makes a scene, screaming, carrying on. And then we didn’t even get to see him unless Julius snuck us in. A week and a half of us camping out in the parking lot, waiting for the text from Jules that it was safe to come back up… but damn, we’re grown ass men. We got jobs. We got bills. We got shit to study for. Marco’s going to culinary school worrying about whether Nix is gonna die. Eli’s tattooing tramp stamps worrying about whether Nix is gonna die. Die over something so fucking stupid. Die because he thought life without you was just that bad.” 

I’m not that important. I can’t be. I don’t even weigh enough to be that important. 

“But, you know, by some miracle… by some gotdamn gift from on high, he wakes up.” Steven took a breath. Closed his eyes. Exhaled. “He wakes up, and he talks. He talks!” His voice shook. Today is a day where Steven’s voice has both cracked and shook. “And that was a big deal because the neurologist said he didn’t know if Nix would be able to talk. But he could, and he did. And the nurses asked us if we know anything about his ‘medicine.’ Nixon’s ‘medicine.’ They said he kept trying to ask about his ‘medicine.’” 

I finally had to move. Finally had to drag the cuffs of my sleeves over my face and wipe my eyes. 

Steven leaned forward a little. He looked right at me and I think that was the first time I ever noticed that Steven never really did that. He never really looked at me. He glanced at me sometimes, but he didn’t look. But this, this was looking. And I hated it. 

He said through his teeth, “But he wasn’t asking about ‘medicine,’ Madison.” That was the first time I could remember him calling me by my real name. I hated that, too. “What do you think he was asking about?” 

I had been doing such a damn good job at the silence and the stillness. But not now. Grief and guilt grabbed me like a puppet and shook me. Shook my shoulders. Pressed the breath out of my lungs in a sob - one that I’m sure anyone in the damn Waffle House was able to hear. And my hands went back to my face and my body curled over and there wasn’t anything I could do, there wasn’t any muscle I still had enough control over to stop myself from coming apart. 

I’m a monster, I’m a monster, a gremlin, a troll, a gargoyle, I’m every hideous thing I’ve ever been called. And I always thought it was because people hated how I looked, and I mean, that made sense, because I hate how I look, too. But maybe they were talking about my insides. Maybe all this time people have been able to see right through me and see all the ugly. 

And now all that hideousness was weeping in a Waffle House. Just imagine - though I guess I don’t really need to imagine - all the fuckups somebody has to make in their life to wind up weeping in a Waffle House at 12:30 in the afternoon. 

And Steven, well, Steven didn’t give a damn. He said what he was gonna tell me was gonna fuck me up, and that he’d be glad about it. And he was glad. I hid myself as best as I could… my face down against the table, my arms wrapped around my head… but I could still feel him looking. And I felt him lean closer, and he said, “But the funny thing is, Red… look at what he’s done without you. Look at his life. Beautiful, right?” 

I’ve only been back in Nixon’s life for maybe thirteen hours, but yeah, it does seem beautiful. 

Steven said, “He got better. He focused. And for the first time since the two of you even met, he’s been making decisions without having to think about you. And now he’s got a career. Living in a safe neighborhood. He’s got himself a girlfriend.” A girlfriend? “Her name’s Yoanna. She’s a holistic aromatherapist or some shit like that. She’s annoying as fuck, but he likes her, so I like her, too.” 

I snapped, finally… not a Big Snap, not by my standards anyway, but a little one. I sat up a little and my teeth gritted together and my hands gripped the edge of the table and I demanded - well, begged, really - “Are you gonna shut the fuck up now?” 

He gritted his teeth, too, and damn, I always say I know Steven would never hurt me, but in this moment that didn’t feel true anymore. He said, “No, I ain’t gonna shut the fuck up. Because since you’ve been gone, I watched my friend regrow a life from scratch. He shucked off all your baggage and became a whole person. And now you’re back.”

“And what, you want me to run off again? Want me to go die in a ditch? Is that what’s gonna make this all better?” 

Then he told me, in no uncertain terms, “If all you’re gonna do while you’re here is wreck Nixon all over again, then I’ll run you off my damn self.” 

This is a Steven who would hurt me If he felt like he had to. I’m sure of that now. And it feels like he feels like he has to. Or, it feels like he feels like he thinks he’ll have to very soon. 

Now when I looked at him, I think the fear in me was obvious. 

He said, “I know it must sound like I hate you. And let me be clear - I’m pissed. I don’t think I’ve ever been this mad at anyone in my life. Or this disappointed.” Then he added, his tone finally softening, “But I don’t hate you, man. I love you. You’re my brother. You’re my family. That ain’t gonna change. But I’m pretty sure it was you who told me before that being family ain’t always enough.” 

I choked. I rasped. I wavered. “But you said I was wrong.” 

“You weren’t.” He answered too quickly and that just fucking broke me inside. “I get it now.”

I made myself ask, “What can I do? To fix it?” 

He shrugged. “You can get yourself together. You can become somebody who makes other people’s lives better instead of worse. It’s really not rocket science.” That’s supposed to be funny because Steven is a literal aerospace engineer. “Man, Nixon loves you… he loves you. And he thinks I don’t know! He thinks we didn’t know! And damn, you might just be the most heavily flawed person I’ve ever met in my life, but forreal, it ain’t hard to see what he sees in you. You’re so fucking brilliant, Midge. And you know this. People tell you all the time!” He sounded angry. He sounded frustrated. “You could be anything! There really ain’t anything you suck at. But you just… waste yourself. And it makes me sick, and sad for you.” I’m feeling sick and sad for myself right about now, too. Then he said, “You know, growing up I had to fight for chances… I had to beg and prove myself worthy of opportunities… but you? People took your hand, opened up your palm, and placed opportunity ever so gently in your grip and you just fuckin lobbed it away every time. And I never told you how disgusting I think that is.” He huffed. Shook his head. “So that’s one thing you can do, right there. You can stop pissing away every chance you’re ever given.” 

The waitress arrived with my strawberries. 

I don’t think I like strawberries anymore. 

Neither of us spoke during the ride back to Nixon’s apartment. But before he drove off, he got out and hugged me. I don’t understand Steven. I can’t read him, and he scares me. I asked him if he was coming back up. He said, “Nah. I gotta get back to Houston.” And then he left. 

I don’t like being the kind of person for whom someone feels motivated to fly across the country just to destroy. 

[getfit182]

01/16/19

It’s been a pretty intense week for me on a lot of different levels. I think this first journal post of the year will be quite long.

Being back at the gym this and last week definitely helped with the whole body image thing. I got to a gym that’s in New York City, and to be honest, a lot of people that go are already so fit and pretty looking. I’m always shy and reluctant in general, but I’m trying my best to push past that to go hard at the gym. I am also trying to get into the habit of not going into the changing rooms to change because it takes a while to wait for one to be empty. I used to barely make it to work on time. So this past week, I just took a dive and started disrobing despite the fact other people were in the same row of lockers with me. And to be honest, even though I am much heavier than them all, no one was staring or looking or snickering. So that’s been a pretty momentous accomplishment, and I know that if I do feel uncomfortable again, I can go back to using the changing rooms, but for now, I think I’m going to try my best to hold out on changing with other people in the locker room. 

Another small accomplishment in general at the gym is that I am getting less freaked out when someone gets on the elliptical or treadmill next to me. For some reason, this instance would always make me feel vastly self-conscious; I’d suddenly be very aware of the size of my thighs or how sweaty I am. But I’ve been doing a lot of “self-reminders” and telling myself that they probably don’t give a fuck how I look; they’re just here for the same reasons I am: to better ourselves.

Today, I am so blissfully sore, that I ditched the gym and visited my friend’s friend’s tortoise instead. It was about a 40 minute drive, but I really enjoyed seeing the little guy, and having him walk around me. Besides that, in the last two weeks, I’ve gone to the gym about six times, and every other day except one, I was extremely active with walking around with friends and doing my squats. It’s finally hit me like a ton of bricks though. I am sore all over, and I sort of like it. That masochistic part of me is totally coming through and aching for more. Unfortunately, I fly out to Texas tomorrow, and won’t be back until Tuesday, and then I don’t have work for the rest of that week, so I won’t exactly have access to go to the gym (I go before work, and unfortunately, I cannot afford the premium membership of Planet Fitness that lets me go to any Planet Fitness I want). To prepare, I am going to try out some home exercises: my usual squats, probably some form of light cardio (maybe try jogging or walking through the park?), the free weights I have, etc.).

I really need to do better with eating. I haven’t really gone too far off the track, but I definitely still over eat, especially when I go out. I’ll order something moderately healthy, but it’s still such a large portion, and I know that, but I’ll still scarf it all down anyways! It sounds ridiculous, but I just really over eat like crazy, especially when I’m emotional. The other day, my mother argued with me over the phone and just rudely hung up, and I totally raided the fridge after that. And after, well, the feeling isn’t so great. I need to do better, but I’ve been taking small steps. So far, no crazy snacks in the house; I only have half a bag of rosemary and herb chips, and frankly, I haven’t had the urge to touch them. I also only have these non dairy cookies that aren’t so bad with calories or sugar intake, and I haven’t really scarfed those down either yet.

I’m putting the mental health stuff under the read more.

A month ago, I went to talk to my mentor/favorite professor, and after the conversation, she said I should talk to a professional, or at least, a therapist. I guess I said something that really alarmed her, and i joke about a lot of my feelings, but I think she sees right through me most of the time. I know I’m a depressed person and I really thought I had it under control, but then I went to a general doctor last week because I have not been to one in a few years. I explained to her that I had this fainting/heart racing episode for a few weeks (if you’ve been following me for some time, then you’ll know what I’m talking about). She asked me all these questions about how I’ve been feeling and stuff, and she basically said, “I’m not a psychologist, but you definitely need to see one.” She explained that people have different reactions to stress and depression, and that since I am dealing with applying to graduate school, a terrible family life, and the immense pressure to leave my non-Muslim partner from my parents, all of it has built a lot of stress and anxiety and sadness within me. And then, of course, I started crying and humiliated myself in front of this new doctor, and I felt so ashamed, and I told her I don’t think I have a reason to be sad because I am healthy, I’m living on my own, and I’m doing what’s best for me, and she said seeing someone and talking about it weekly with a professional would definitely be the best course of action for my mental stability. And this woman was really just a residential doctor, so after seeing me, she discussed my chart and her notes with the actual general practitioner, who came in with a list of clinics and told me I need to get counseling right away, and that when I come back in March, she will ask if I am seeing someone. They were really understanding about everything, but they were pretty firm about me going.

I guess the idea of seeing a stranger and talking to them about my personal life really scares me. I don’t really talk about my personal life, or even my relationships or goals, with anyone. Hell, this post is really intense and kind of uncomfortable to write. I also don’t want to be put on medication because I have a huge fear of that. I know it sounds irrational, and I don’t say that to shame people who are on medication; I am just personally and irrationally scared of taking medications that would alter my moods. I am afraid that someone will tell me that I have to, or that it is the only course of action to help me. But if I can get my emotions under control, and if I can get my sleep fixed, and if I can get the proper tools to help me become mentally sound, then I know it will all contribute to my physical health. I’m beginning to realize that they are both connected even if I don’t want them to be, but I need to accept that and work on being mentally better and stronger.

So, long story short, after my trip, I am going to make the appointment and continue doing my best.

#personal #journal

[whatdidijustwrite]

A Long Way to Go: Damien 1

Synopsis: MC reaches out across the web to find someone to talk to about Alex and how much he misses her while he struggles to raise his eldest daughter. He finds it in a single dad living in his old hometown of Maple Bay…

Damien had started using DadChat when he found out there was a group of transgender fathers on the forums. They all traded tales and tricks, about how dealing with their kids and the awful misgendering that could come about. It was a nice place- the admin of the site removing posts within the forums hating on certain individuals and offering safety.

He rarely went into the general forums- that place was full of people he found tiresome, but sometimes he glanced through. After helping a father learn how to help his gothic daughter in her life, he’d felt amazing and happy. He’d even kept up the correspondence with the man, helping him again when the man learned he had two daughters, instead of the son and daughter he thought he had. It felt good, to be able to help someone.

Looking through the newest posts- more divorce issues, a few people worrying over how to help their children accept their new siblings, not to much.

However, one post caught his eye. A short post from a man named PandaFather (probably the nickname of his daughter) about how to help his daughter after the death of his wife. Reading it, Damien took a moment to think.

He… wanted to help. But he wasn’t sure how. Lucien had been the product of a one night stand, never a mistake but certainly a surprise. And the various suitors he’d had since had never really stuck around long enough for a relationship with Lucien to form- beyond the typical ‘oh, dad’s boyfriend’.

He did understand worry over his child bottling up feelings to make things better for himself though. He understood that very well.

After a minute, he opened up the reply box.

PandaFather,

I’d like to extend my deepest condolences for your loss. Death is the next step of life, but it is never an easy thing to deal with.

I will admit I have never had a partner pass, but I have had to face a child who hides his true feelings as to not upset me. My advice for you is to speak with your daughter, and openly tell her it is okay to cry. It is okay to feel angry, bitter, hurt or however she is feeling. It is okay, and you are there to help her with her feelings. If she does not want to hurt you, tell her it is your deepest pleasure to help her through her pain.

If she still refuses to cry, suggest other outlets. My son uses home renovation for his own outlet (thoroughly supervised of course). Journaling, dancing, singing- any of this could help her with her feelings.

-GothDad123

-0-

M.C. looked over the response from the other father, thinking on it.

It… well, it was what he’d known before. He needed to talk to Amanda, but the suggestion of finding outlets if she needed them had never fully occurred to him until the guy had responded to him.

She loved her photography… but maybe something else to? He wasn’t sure about the home reno stuff- Amanda broke stuff, she didn’t build it up. Nope.

But…

“Hey dad,” a soft voice called out. M.C. turned to see Amanda standing there, looking as tired as ever. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m…” M.C. began but stopped, before reaching out. “Can you come here for a second?” Amanda frowned, but padded forward, letting her dad pull her into his lap in a hug. “It’s okay to cry.”

“..What?”

“It’s okay to cry, to scream, to be… angry. To be bitter about it. You don’t need to hide, okay?” M.C. told her. “You don’t need to be strong for me, you’re my daughter. I want to be here for you.”

Amanda’s breath hitched, and she buried her face into his shoulder. She hugged him tightly. M.C. didn’t mention the wet spot that was forming on his shirt, simply held her tightly.

If a few of his own tears slid down his face, he didn’t mention it.

-0-

Damien was busy with some work when a notification popped up for DadChat. Figuring it was a friend or so replying to his latest complaint about the teacher at Lucien’s school who was constantly trying to get him into therapy because he wore all black, he clicked on it.

GothDad123,

Thank you for your advice. My daughter is doing better now, and we’re… coping I guess. I suggested your idea of something to funnel her emotions to (she was shocked I somehow knew how to use forums, like it wasn’t around back when I was in college). She loves photography but she doesn’t want that to be her outlet, so she’s running off to try a few things.

Thank you again. My wife used to be big into DIY herself, here’s a link to a pretty simple project if you think your son might need a new project.

-PandaFather

Damien smiled at the reply, clicking on the link to find a lovely project on creating a set of patio furniture with pallets or crates.

Damien hummed, thinking of it in the house, with it’s Victorian style. Perhaps in the garden?

However, he did type out a response to PandaFather first, glad he’d helped.

-0-

M.C. didn’t notice his email until after the trip to the music store, which resulted in the buying of a simple keyboard for Amanda. Alex had taught her the basics of piano, but Amanda had liked photography more, so it fell to the wayside.

However, she liked the idea of picking it up again, so they went to get one.

She was already plunking away on the half-remembered songs she’d been taught when M.C. checked his email.

PandaFather,

You are most welcome for the advice. I am pleased you and your daughter have reconnected. I hope she finds a new outlet, one that brings her joy.

I thank you for your link to the patio furniture. I believe my son will have fun putting this together.

-GothDad123

Edited: My son wishes to thank you. He’s gotten bored apparently simply doing simple things, and is eager for a big project.

M.C. chuckled and typed out a new response, sending it to GothDad123 without much thought, before he started up some paperwork.

-0-

GothDad123,

Tell him he’s welcome! My wife would get so bored doing the simple things. Before her death, we were thinking about moving to a rundown house in the town I grew up in, just so she could rip it all apart and make something new. My daughter was really excited, wanted to get out of our town after some things happened.

She’s picked up piano actually- my wife had been a piano teacher for most of her life and while my daughter never actually learned more then the basics, it was special for them.

Thank you once more for your advice.

-PandaFather

Damien smiled at the reply, though he waited to reply back, Lucien roping him into helping sand down the pallets Damien had brought home from the animal shelter (after cleaning them thoroughly of course). Then Lucien began painting them- black- and Damien typed up his new response.

PandaFather,

The piano is a lovely instrument. I’m thrilled she has taken an interest in it once more. Is she particularly inspired by the classics? Or does she wish to learn more modern songs?

I wish to ask how you are yourself. You obviously miss your wife very much. Have you yourself gotten help? I understand this is a subject you might not wish to touch upon but I also know that resisting help can have disastrous effects later on.

If you find it easier to speak of your wife to me, an unknown, I am willing to continue to do so with you. It is sometimes easier to hear from a stranger then anyone else.

-GothDad123

Sending it off, Damien turned back to Lucien who was asking about what kind of cushions they should use for the furniture.

Never a dull day with his son.

-0-

 “I’m gonna pop some tags,” Amanda sang, playing along with the piano. M.C. chuckled, rolling his eyes as Amanda attempted to learn how to play Thrift Shop on the piano, looking way to thrilled. For the past week she’d spent every second she wasn’t taking photos, at school or doing homework with her keyboard. She’d gotten good quick, something M.C. tacked up as her mother’s influence.

M.C. bit his lip, wondering if he should try to get her out and about more. He knew that the thing with the Emmas had hurt her really bad. That had not been fun. Alex had been furious and had forced Emma R. (or was it P?) to admit she’d been alienating Amanda on purpose for some reason. The other kids had been horrified, but the damage had been bad enough that Amanda was isolated from everyone out of choice. It had been the reason they were considering Maple Bay.

Sighing, M.C. turned to his email, eyeing the reply he’d been sitting on for a week.

It had been a mix of being to damn busy and simply unable to admit the guy was probably right. He missed Alex so much, but trying to get professional help had not helped whatsoever. He couldn’t risk another asshole therapist.

But… maybe…

Maybe a stranger would help.

That’s it for this one! I hope you guys enjoyed this!

I did decide to make multiple ‘routes’ for the Long Distance AU. Damien, as you can see, is first because I recently played his route.

I’m debating about having this an AU (even more so) in which Craig did not in fact go to college with M.C. or have it so they don’t know it’s each other for a long time for the lols. Any ideas?

#dream daddy #ddadds #damien bloodmarch #long distance au #long distance damien

[annanicole2004-blog]

yeah i think im gonna start using this dead website mostly for journaling purposes and having a place to put my thoughts on a public forum (as public as my literally 4 mutual followers is) i know that theres a private setting but the fact that anyone can see and maybe relate to what i post is somewhat comforting to me and maybe it will be for them too who knows

i asked for donations on facebook today. I shouldn’t feel bad but i do. everyone is struggling, everyone knows college is expensive and life is expensive. I like being independent and paying my own way, and I don’t really like asking for help with money things. I like having my own money but I also like having the time/energy to pass all my classes. Its a frustrating balance. I got about $30 so far from friends. I shouldn’t feel guilty because I know the world ought to be kinder and everyone struggles from time to time, and I wouldn’t hesitate to give a friend a little extra money if they needed it. I don’t think I really want to be dead, but I do think about not being born a lot. I think about things ive bought that I don’t really need. Times I went out instead of finishing something for a class. I wish I were more responsible, less impulsive, less scatter brained. I wish I didn’t feel like I was moving in slow motion all the time. I wish I didn’t sit in restaurants spacing out for hours at a time because i cant tune out the static in my head. People are very patient with me and I want to be better. I’m a shitty communicator and I have low self esteem and most of the time I can’t really seem to get much work done. Dealing with me is probably the most frustrating thing. I’ve got a lot of great ideas and potential and if I could pull it together I could be a really successful person. I think things will be better once I graduate, but also a lot of opportunities will no longer be there once I’m feeling more focused/less emotionally vulnerable and that makes me kind of sad. I try not to be hard on myself for taking 6 years to graduate bc ive spent enough time torturing myself as it is. Its wasted mental energy. I could be spending that energy thinking of ideas for projects. I can’t give power to these thoughts that I have.

I wish I could forget I ever met This One Person who im going to refer to as Person bc this is th’internet. Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind all of their toxic shit out of my brain. I hate that I dwell on it so much but a lot of things just were so messy and it was never resolved, and I feel like I can’t talk about it with people without them getting tired of it. Person was a sexual predator and i thought they cared for me but it was a manipulation tactic and that’s what i need to get thru my self destructive triflin ass brain. I like to see the good in people and I put my trust in people I shouldn’t. I guess maybe now I know better....right? I used to think my vulnerability was a good thing but now im not sure. I wonder if I’m just weak. Everyone loves a bad bitch who never catches feelings. Nobody wants to see her cry. I wish I was like her too. I wish I didn’t have fantasies of hitting Person with my car.

I can’t think about sex without wanting to cry anymore. I masturbate to memories of sex with Person, and I feel so pathetic. I knew I liked them but I didn’t know what to do with those feelings. I dont think I even want a relationship? im so confused.... I was hurt when they didnt have the same feelings, but wanted to fuck me ??? I felt like a hole. They were on top of me telling me how damaged they were from catching feelings for another girl, like could you maybe wait until u aren’t inside me?????? asshole !!!!!!!!!!!maybe casual sex just isnt my thing and i should stop trying to pretend it is. I was so angry and confused and I think for valid reasons but idk. i was so desperate and pathetic. idk whats wrong with my brain. Im so confused. I wish I was more free with my sexuality, but I can’t remember the last time I felt good about sex. When I used sex as self harm I literally fucked strangers just so I could feel wanted. I wasn’t even attracted to most of them, and the sex was often terrible. It was boring !!! But I felt like that’s what I deserved. I deserved whatever stds I got from fucking random strangers from craigslist. It sounds horrible when I type it out but that’s the truth. I don’t know where I got such bad self-esteem. I look outside myself and I know its holding me back but I don’t know how to stop it. I think its bc I’m still so dependent on my worth as a person being determined by my attractiveness to ppl. I’d like to move on from that, seems a little juvenile. I’d like to stop comparing myself to other girls. I wish I could visit a sex therapist who could break down all this phobia I have and make everything make more sense. I’d like to enjoy sex in my life but I always catch feelings that I wish I could just turn off. Person told me that I feel everything too much. I hate them and I wish I didn’t believe that. I know myself and I think I feel things in perfectly normal proportions, I’m just not as good at hiding them. so dont police my feelings asshole. regardless, they had a point. If I could turn them off I would. Fucking prick. Fucking predatory, asshole prick that doesn’t deserve my presence. The time will come when I never think of them again and I pray that day arrives soon.

Theres things I do like about myself. I’m funny. I’m independent. In some ways, I’m quite brave. I take risks. I’m always gentle. I listen and I want my friends to trust me and get strength from me, bc this world is a goddamn shitshow and everyone needs a little help. I know I have to survive in this world being genuine to who I am, even if everything around me tries to break that down. I’m not going to let it. I know I do things a little differently and it doesn’t make sense to people, but I think I’m capable of so much. I’ve lived through lots of trauma and its given me a lot of pain and probs part of what keeps me from functioning normally but its also what makes me strong. And fuck everyone else, crying and being real about how u feel is strength. And soon, after 6 goddamned years of suffering, I’m gonna graduate. And I’m proud of myself for making it thru 6 years of scraping by working part time and taking classes with fuckhead professers and dealing with this backwards ass university profiting off my struggle. I’m gonna have a fucking BFA that I worked for and achieved. I’m gonna live and thrive, which is more than I can say for Person !!!!!! 

[ouraidengray4]

4 Things to Try If Your Only Hobbies Are Instagram and Netflix

Tell me about your hobbies. Not the hobbies you do once a year so you can list them on your Tinder profile—what hobbies do you actually do? If you’re like most people, your answer is probably, "Does Netflix count as a hobby?" Sure, you probably love to ski, hike, and perform stand-up at your local open mic, but you just don’t have the time to do them very often.

As adults, it can be hard to justify hours away from our busy (and often underfunded) lives to devote time and money to learning something new—especially when that something is crafting model airplanes or knitting scarves for your dog. As frivolous as hobbies may seem, participating in leisure activities can actually make you happier, more productive, and a flat-out more interesting person. And if you suffer from anxiety or depression, hopping on the hobby train may be the next best thing to frequenting a therapist’s couch.

Stepfanie Romine has recommended hobbies to multiple clients as a way to cope with anxiety and depression. Romine’s been a coach for over four years, was the editorial director for a major health website for six years, and has authored numerous books about healthy living. So when she says something will help your health, you should probably pay attention.

Romine once had a client who was struggling with her weight. Though the client was trying to be healthy, she started to obsessively dwell on weight loss. She became anxious and depressed, and her constant obsession with her body didn’t make weight loss any easier.

So Romine encouraged her to find a new hobby. Once her client started learning a new skill, her anxiety started to calm. "By focusing on things she found joy in, she had less time to focus on her body," Romine says. "It ultimately helped her find the balance with her weight and life that she’d been fighting to find."

To be clear, Romine insists that if you have serious issues with depression, anxiety, or any other mental health issue, you should seek the help of a professional. But if your experiences are mild or you’d like to actively manage your mental health through a hobby in addition to talking to a professional, hobbies can be surprisingly beneficial.

Participation in pleasurable leisure activities affects not only your mind but also your body.

In a study published in Psychosomatic Medicine, those who participated in more leisure activities (such as social outings, sports, and hobbies) had lower blood sugar and stress hormones, and tended to have low BMIs and smaller waists. Based on that study, I just might start a "Knit Yourself Thin" program. Don’t judge me.

Hobbies affect more than your blood pressure and waist circumference. They can lead to an "upward spiral of increased well-being." A study from the University of Otago in New Zealand found that students who participated in a creative task felt a greater sense of positive personal growth and excitement—basically, they’d do something creative one day and feel more content and enthusiastic the next. Creativity had a significant emotional impact and always a positive one.

We don’t really need a ton of studies to see this is true. You probably know from your own life that whenever you learn a new skill or do something fun, you feel mentally and physically better, and the effects are lasting.

But for most of us, feeling good isn’t the priority. Working is.

"We’re so focused on productivity and moving up in our careers that hobbies take a backseat," says Jen Billock, a career coach. Though Billock regularly knits, crochets, and learns new languages, even she has to remind herself that it’s OK to do something fun.

Self-questioning thoughts like, "Why am I doing this when I could be working?" might run through her head from time to time, but she shuts down that voice and goes back to her hobbies. Though that impulse can feel selfish, or even lazy, hobbies are a wonderful way to exercise your brain, Billock says. Activities such as knitting, painting, or jogging force your brain to function differently than it usually does, which can enhance your creativity and focus.

If you’re especially worried taking time for a hobby will hurt your work, take a look at this study published in the Journal of Occupational and Organizational Psychology. First of all, I know you’re breezing through that journal all the time, so you probably already know what I’m talking about. But just in case you missed a month, this study demonstrated that doing creative and meditative activities lead to better performance at work. So go ahead and start finger painting at your desk. Just tell your boss it’s because you want to be a better employee.

After reading about all these benefits, I’m sure you’re dying to start a new hobby. But should you pick up cross-stitching or learn the fine art of archery? Instead of going down a Google wormhole, here are the most recommended hobbies—and explanations as to why they top the list.

Knitting/Crochet

Why knitting or crochet? Because all the cool kids are doing it! And by cool kids, I mean Billock, Romine, and me. Though both Billock and Romine recommend yarn-based hobbies, Romine says knitting and crochet are especially good for overcoming bad habits.

Many bad habits, like smoking or eating junk food, tend to involve repetitive motions. A lot of people who try to quit smoking miss the physical action of putting the cigarette to their lips. So when you busy your hands with knitting, you’re fulfilling that craving to "do something with your hands," Romine says.

Romine found her clients were much more successful in breaking habits when they had something to replace the habit with. And since knitting and crochet keep your mind and hands busy, they work incredibly well.

I personally started knitting when I was in my late 20s. At the time, I was an actor, and as an actor you put a lot of time and energy into things that have no physical proof. (You can’t put a good audition on the fridge for your whole family to see.)

So I learned how to knit from YouTube and found the process of physically creating something incredibly fulfilling. Instead of putting tons of work into an audition that led to nothing, I could put in hours of work and be rewarded with a lovely pair of convertible mittens. I felt accomplished and much less stressed.

If you aren’t interested in knitting or crochet, you could try cross-stitch, puzzles, or model building. Anything that takes a little hand-eye coordination does the trick.

Fun fact: Knitting uses two needles (sometimes four, but that’s getting advanced) and crochet uses just one hook. I used to get asked on the subway all the time whether I was knitting or crocheting, so now you won’t have to ask a stranger that same question on your next commute.

Gardening

If you’d like something more active than chair-based yarn arts, try gardening. Romine recommends this hobby to induce a parasympathetic state. The parasympathetic system is responsible for slowing your heart rate, increasing digestion, and generally helping you relax. The meditative nature of gardening helps enable the parasympathetic system to take over, which reduces your overall stress, Romine says.

If you don’t have access to a garden or don’t feel like pulling weeds, Romine recommends coloring. It produces a similar meditative response and is great for relaxation.

Basketball

"Active hobbies release endorphins," says Romine. So any sport or physical activity will get more happiness hormones flowing through your body. Though any sport would work, basketball might be your best bet for several reasons.

First, basketball is social. Sure, you can go to the gym or go running, but most of the time you’re doing that by yourself. In the social media age, most of us have lots of lonely times and are craving some real, social interaction. Basketball is perfect. You get to work together, meet new people, and get that sweet endorphin rush.

Second, basketball is cheap. Though you might prefer to go skiing, sailing, or golfing every weekend, those sports can add up quickly. But basketball? You pretty much just need a ball. Sometimes you don’t even need that! Half the time, you can show up to a park and just start playing.

And if you’re not exactly in the mood to hang with a bunch of teenagers in the park, you still have affordable options, like joining a basketball league. There are teams all across the country, and they tend to cost somewhere around $85 per quarter. That might sound like a lot, but it’s cheaper than most gym memberships (and is definitely cheaper than a trip to the slopes). Plus, having a team will help you stick to your new hobby. It’s easy to skip a day at the gym, but it’s a lot harder to let a whole team down by being a no-show.

Learning a New Language

Both Romine and Billock actively learn new languages as a hobby. Romine admits she does French verb conjugation drills when she wants to do something stimulating. That fact alone proves she’s smarter and more motivated than I’ll ever be.

Even if you don’t want to spend your spare time drilling être, learning a new language can be incredibly beneficial. Romine says that even just dabbling, not aiming for fluency at all, can lower your chances of dementia and Alzheimer’s. Opening your mind to a new language helps increase your neuroplasticity or your brain’s ability to learn and change. Simply picking up a few flashcards now and again is a wonderful workout for your mind.

Start with an app like Duolingo. It features tons of languages and makes learning feel like a game. Plus, you get all kinds of fun phrases. You can finally learn how to say, "We do not choose who we love," in Norwegian!

It’s OK if this stuff doesn’t come naturally to you.

Before you jump into your new hobby of choice, Romine advises keeping a beginner’s mindset. You will be learning a new skill, and that’s not always easy. In fact, I found knitting incredibly frustrating as I learned the basic techniques. But after I got through that initial phase, I relaxed and enjoyed the slow, repetitive craft. By not giving up, I got to appreciate knitting’s meditative qualities.

Still, it’s irritating to not be good at something right away. To get through that annoyance, remember you’re just a beginner and there’s no rush to learn. Get excited that you’re mastering a new skill. Feel good that you completed even the smallest part of a new task. This mindset will get you through the toughest learning stage of a new hobby, according to Romine. After you get through the basics, the hobby will become a much-needed break from your busy life.

And if you realize you truly hate a certain hobby? Let it go. You want to find something that makes you happy and gets you on a positive track.

Make time for your hobbies. Seriously—write them into your calendar. They make you a more well-rounded person and can help keep depression and anxiety at bay. Whether you start painting, playing hockey, or making the Ghostbuster’s firehouse out of Legos, you will feel better and give your busy mind a break. So close your laptop, put away your phone, and get busy on that Princess Leia cross-stitch you’ve been dying to do.

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