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autisticlenaluthor · 3 years

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road trip ficlet

Kara hopped out of her car, stretching her arms out behind her head as soon as her feet hit the pavement. Of all the days she could’ve picked to pack up and throw her life into the metaphorical wind, this had to be the worst. Tuesdays were just never good for life changing events, especially when they ended up like this.

Sun beaded down, forming droplets of sweat that lined Kara’s forehead, and caused her hair to frizz up from the humidity. Normally, she didn’t mind the heat, but Kara was starting to think the weather, and the lost road map, and the fact that her car radio had broken down about ten miles back were all signs that maybe she should’ve stayed home. Maybe she should’ve tried to ride it out at work, to fix things with her boyfriend, and every other fuck up she’d spent months trying to handle. Maybe she just wasn’t the adventure type. Some people were built for boring, day by day lives with partners they don’t love and jobs they secretly hate.

Perhaps that was the world Kara was made for.

With a sigh, Kara ran her hands through her sweaty hair and pulled it back into a low bun at the base of her neck. Once she could finally feel the air hitting her skin again, she allowed herself to lean back against the side of her Jeep and do a quick scan of the gas station.

It was pretty empty. There was a pick up truck and a man in his mid forties standing by one of the gas pumps, a mini mart with a lit up sign at the other end of the lot. Half the letters had gone dark and Kara was unable to make out any shoppers through the windows. Instead, all she could see was the cashier.

Finally, her eyes landed on a young brunette woman. She sat on the pavement, leaning back against the store with one of her legs outstretched onto the road, the other crossed over at the knee. A cigarette sat perched between her index and middle finger, emitting a long line of smoke that clouded up around her face. Sunglasses had been pushed back into her hair like a headband and a navy blue jean jacket was tied around her waist. She didn’t seem to mind the smoke nor the heat. Kara couldn’t help but wonder how long she’d been sitting there, for her to become so unfazed to all of that.

With one last pop of her back, Kara began the walk across the near empty lot, grimacing at the smell of exhaust and gasoline creeping up through her nostrils. She did her best to shake it off, turning her head in the other direction in hopes that it would somehow vanish, but the effort was quickly deemed useless. Instead, she just looked towards the woman and, in turn, made her observance even more obvious.

But it wasn’t until Kara had already made her way into the mini mart and was hit with a wall of crisp air conditioned air that she allowed herself to breathe a sigh of relief. No bad smells, no humidity. Just a cashier and aisles upon aisles of snacks.

Just what she needed.

Kara was so caught up in the satisfaction of one thing finally going her way that she didn’t even notice the footsteps behind her, or the cashier grumbling an oddly cheerful hello to whoever had come in after her. It took her all the way until she was standing between the chips and candy aisle that Kara heard somebody clear their throat and tap her shoulder.

“Hey.”

Instantly, she whipped her head around, brow furrowing when Kara saw the same woman from outside standing a few feet away from her. She had her hands planted on her hips, chin raised, with the slightest smile on her lips. The cigarette was gone and so were the clouds of smoke, revealing the rest of her face to the world.

She had green eyes, Kara noted. They were narrowed ever so slightly, but Kara could still make out the color, the way the fluorescent lights seemed to bounce off the little pools of honey surrounding her pupils.

“Hey…” Kara said, slowly setting her bag of chips back down on the shelf. Was she in some sort of trouble? Because it felt like she was about to face the adult version of getting called to the principal's office.

“I could see you staring at me,” the woman stated. “Outside, I mean.”

“Oh… yeah, sorry about that,” Kara said with a nervous chuckle. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, I’m just-- I quit my job yesterday and I’m kinda in the middle of the biggest mistake of my entire life, and you were just sitting there and I got caught up in my head and I, well, when I get stuck, I stare. It’s a nervous habit, I have this problem where either I don’t make eye contact at all or I just get super aggressive with it and act all robotic. So I stared at you-- but you know that part. But it wasn’t because I wanted to be weird. Or robotic. I just think I’m in the middle of like a quarter-life crisis or something, and you know, when I get nervous--”

“You stare?” The woman finished, raising an eyebrow.

Kara nodded. She clamped her mouth shut to make sure she wouldn’t get another word out because holy fuck what was she saying.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “I stare.”

The brunette smiled, dimples appearing at the edges of her lips. It was a very nice smile, Kara couldn’t help but think to herself. It felt warm like her eyes.

“So…” the woman began, rocking back and forth on her heels. “I know that you quit your job and now you’re on some sort of self fulfilling journey to go find a new life. You’re kind of in the middle of a breakdown, but you aren’t really sure yet, because you haven’t gotten to the ‘drink yourself into oblivion’ or ‘shave all your hair off stage.’ And now you’re in a gas station because I’m guessing in the midst of your panic, you forgot to pack and now you’re realizing just how big of a mistake everything you’ve done in the past twenty-four hours was. Oh, and how could I forget? You stare when you’re nervous and that’s why we’re here now.”

Kara just stared again, completely dumbfounded. They’d been talking for all of thirty seconds and this woman was psycho analyzing her as if they’d known each other for years, and for some reason, was getting everything all of it right. The whole thing was so stunning, all she could do was nod and mumble a quiet “yeah, that all sounds right.”

“Now that we’ve got your life story out of the way, mind telling me your name?”

“Kara?”

“Nice to meet you, Kara, I’m Lena.”

Kara smiled. “Lena, that’s pretty.”

“Thank you.”

“So, now that you know every crushingly embarrassing detail about what I’m doing here, what about you? Are you some kind of serial killer who stalks people outside gas stations, comes inside and befriends them Ted Bundy style, only to brutally murder them and stuff the bodies in the trunk of their car once they’re done?”

Lena paused and raised an eyebrow, unsure of how to respond to that. The change in expression was so painful to watch that Kara was starting to consider crawling into one of the ice cream freezers and hiding under frozen Snickers bars and Drum Sticks for the rest of eternity.

“Oh-- you weren’t joking,” Lena said after a moment. She chuckled nervously and pursed her lips, slipping her hands into her front pockets.“No, I’m not a murderer. If I were though, I probably wouldn’t tell you.”

“Yeah… probably,” Kara said quietly. She could feel her cheeks filling with heat, tomato red was nowhere near strong enough to put a label on the mortification she felt. Give it another minute and she was sure steam was gonna start shooting up out of her ears too.

“But no, I wanted to get away from reality for a bit so I tried to backpack through the country. But all my stuff got stolen about two shady motels ago and the next bus isn’t gonna come by for another day, so I’m waiting it out here,” Lena explained. “I’m not really sure where I’m gonna go, though. It’s kinda hard to figure stuff out when you’ve got no phone.”

Kara nodded. For a second, she looked back across the store, trying to see her old, beat up car through the front window.

She did have extra room-- a lot of it considering she hadn’t packed anything at all. And having someone to talk to might’ve been a nice change of pace seeing as now that the radio was blown out she didn’t have any other way of filling the silence.

No, Kara! You can’t take a stranger on a road trip with you– she could literally be a serial killer! You just had this conversation, what the fuck is wrong with you?

But clearly, Kara’s mouth worked faster than her brain because the next thing she knew, she was asking Lena if she wanted to come with her.

“You could ride with me for a bit,” she’d offered. “I mean, I don’t really have any plans so I’m just kinda driving aimlessly, but if you’re okay with that, you could tag along.”

Lena hesitated. She pulled at the tips of her fingers as she tilted her head to the side, unable to tell if Kara was bluffing or not.

“Are you serious? I mean, I could be dangerous. Very, very dangerous,” Lena taunted. Her voice was low and husky, the slightest rasp attaching itself to her words. It had to be the cigarettes shredding up her lungs. Kara knew it was a bad thing, it had to be a bad thing, but god, it was so sexy.

“Yeah… I mean, as long as you don’t get car sick, I-- I could squeeze you in,” she stammered, grimacing at the way she was sounding.

“Great,” Lena grinned, though, she still looked a bit confused. “You’ll meet me outside?”

“Sure, right. I’ll meet you outside.”

#supercorp #supercorp ficlet #supercorp fanfic #supercorp fan fiction

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quillsareswords · 4 years

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Smoke: VIII | Smoke, Silk, and Snow

SUMMARY: After vanishing for four years, you return to the place you once called home, to the people you once called family. We all carry our baggage in different ways, using different techniques to hide it. You just happen to hide it in cigarette smoke.

CHAPTER SUMMARY: At Damian’s request, you done a dress and a pair of heels to attend Bruce’s Christmas Charity Ball. You don’t get to mingle much, but when he catches you out on a balcony, the pain in your feet is worth it.

SERIES WARNINGS: cigarette smoking; underage drinking; gang activity; violence; swearing; blood; self-hate

MASTER LISTS in BIO

You duck and weave through patrons, hitching up a floor length skirt with one hand and balancing a stiff drink with the other. Your ears are near ringing, with all the noise and voices and glasses clinking and has the music been this loud the whole time?

You find yourself slipping into old habits, feet plotting a course all their own while you try to keep your mind focused on not having a breakdown with all these people around. Yellow eyes and three inch claws aren't going to look very good with a burgundy dress.

Outside the ballroom, there's less of a crowd. Further down the hall, the masses dwindle. Sliding into a room past the kitchen's back hall—where you pass waiters and a new bartender—you finally find solitude.

One of Bruce's parlors, or lounges—whatever he calls them. There's a leather couch and a pair of matching arm chairs, all facing an oak coffee table despite being paired with end tables. Bookshelves and works of art line three walls, tall windows the other. You breathe deeply. The room is unsurprisingly a little stale, seeing as it's likely unused until there's a party a few doors down the hall.

You steal a sip from your glass before you make for the door to the balcony. The night air stings cold against your skin, but sets a lively burn in your lungs. It's quiet, thankfully, aside from the hum of the ongoing gala in the window-lined room about ten windows to your left. The light spills out from there and illuminates most of the gardens that stretch out toward the woodline. You've always loved the garden.

Alfred's flowers are always so pretty, and the smell is always overpoweringly fresh.

You lean on the thick stone railing. You pull out the paper pack from the pocket of your skirt and stick a cigarette between your teeth. You light it, take a drag, and swipe a moment to reminisce on all the times you've gone running through that garden, for one reason or another. Sometimes it was for fun, sometimes Damian was angrily chasing you with the garden hose because say yeet one more goddamn time, Y/N, one more. Good times.

Damian. The bold man that had asked you three times to come to this event, and yet in the hour and a half you'd been here, you had yet to see. You admit, you're disappointed. Sure, you know he's busy keeping up images by mingling and chatting, but. . . well, you had hoped he'd asked you so much because he wants you here. Usually, that would lead one to believe he wants to spend time with you here. Then again, it is Damian, after all. He's never exactly been so straight forward.

Your mind reels back to last Tuesday. That fleeting hug. The warmth of his hold at the erratic pace of his heart. I’m glad you’re home.

"Thought you'd be here."

You turn over your shoulder.

Damian's hands are tucked into his pockets, and you'd be lying through your teeth to claim he isn't absolutely stunning in a dark green three-piece. You hope he doesn't catch the movement of your eyes before you snap back to reality. You turn halfway as he joins you by the stone, pinching your cigarette in the hand that still rests on the wide ledge. You note a vague limp in his gait.

"You narrowed down one room out of the hundred—minimum—of rooms in this house?" Your eyebrow quirks.

He sets his whisky glass down beside yours. "Well, it's the only empty room close to the ballroom, and it's been two hours since it started to get loud. I figured you'd be looking for a quiet corner about now."

You shrug, trying to play off the fact he was actively thinking of and looking for you in a sea of people. You push daydream thoughts away and remind yourself that he absolutely took the path of least resistance to check in on an old friend.

"What can I say? The doggy hearing has it's downsides." You take another drag. Turn around, and hoist yourself up onto the ledge to sit with your back to the garden, and the halfmoon shining overhead.

He leans one elbow on the ledge, reaches toward you and wiggles his fingers, a hint of shame and revolt sparkling those pretty eyes of his.

You giggle loudly, trying your best not to howl the laughter bubbling up your chest. Damian shushes you, though he's grinning and peering over your shoulder, so it's hard to take him serious. Two glasses in two respective sets of hands, you make sure you aren't followed as you slink off to hole up in an empty sitting room.

He finds one, juggling his drinks as he fiddles with the doorknob. This only makes you want to laugh harder, but you know that doing so would result in one hell of a scolding, so you pipe down until you get into the room.

After that, it's all on the table.

You're practically choking on giggles while Damian grins and laughs as openly as the nightsky, amber liquid sloshing in one of his glasses and clear in the other. You're making for the chairs in the middle of the room, when you hear the floorboards creak in front of the door.

You get quiet, an anxious twist in your belly, staring at the door, waiting for Bruce or your brother to rip the door open and start scolding you for sneaking drinks.

When it doesn't happen, you make a break for the balcony before it does. Laughing again—a little more nervously now—you hop up onto the stone wall. The glasses clink as you set them down beside you, and Damian's join them.

"Best make it last," Damian chuckles. "I don't think we can risk another trip."

You nod. "Well, then it's a good thing I brought back up," you grin, fishing a white and green pack of Camels from a pocket in your coat, and hold them up with a shake.

He scoffs. "I don't smoke," he says proudly.

You cock an eyebrow. "Neither do I."

He snorts, takes one from you anyway. "I hate it when Jason smokes," he sighs, hovering the end over the lighter in your hand. "Smells terrible."

You eye him a little suspiciously. You hand him a stick all the same. "You don't smoke."

"Neither do you." He only comes close enough to light the end of it before he pulls away again.

You take a drag the same time as him, still eyeing him warily. He doesn't cough and sputter like he use to.

He must feel your eyes, or he reads the look on your face like he always does. "I don't really smoke," he sighs, words laced with gray clouds. "Only once every blue moon." The next part is quiet, like he doesn't really want you to hear it. "It's been a long week."

You chuckle. "You’re preaching to the choir."

He shakes his head, eyes wandering the garden. You aren't sure what he's looking for. "At least you’ve been sleeping."

Your eyebrows raise. "Bold assumption. What happened?"

He nods, understanding. "Bruce and I have been arguing since Tuesday, and I haven't spoken to him since then, aside from professionalism and patrol. My apartment building was evacuated Monday night and cost me five hours of sleep—and while I appreciate how seriously they take a bomb threat, I wish they would take efficiency in the same vein."

Dick mentioned he'd moved into a penthouse uptown, not too far from the Wayne Industries tower. Flash thoughts run through your head about what it would have been like to help him move, but you plunge them into the deepest part of your mind before you dive too far down the rabbit hole.

You nod slowly. "Sounds rough."

He blows out a puff of empty air, apparently meant to resemble a laugh. "Yeah."

His grammar is more relaxed than you're used to. He's only this loose when he's very tired—at least, that's how you remember.

"How have your friends been?"

He's changing subjects. You decide to let him. "Good, last I checked. I was over there yesterday morning." You sigh, deeply. You feel the anxieties crawling back up your throat, so you subdue them like bees with a lungful of smoke. "We've been having problems with another pack. I don't remember if I mentioned that before."

"Fleetingly."

You bob your head. Another drag. "They're out for blood. Jumped one of ours a few days ago."

He turns his head toward you. "You sound nervous."

"A little," you laugh nervously. "We've got history with them, ya know? They know where to hit, but we don't. Makes me uneasy."

He straightens his posture and you sense a shift in character. "Are they illegally involved as well?"

You take it for what it is. Curiosity, a warning, an offer. You shrug, leaning back on one hand. "I don't know. I've had eyes on every other street corner since Friday, but nobody is seeing anything."

You look away from him. You really shouldn't be telling him any of this. Maybe it's the buzz from six shots of tequila—all you can hope to get, unfortunately—or maybe it's the nostalgia of this that's loosening your tongue. This used to be your routine for these kinds of events.

"Tell me when you find out. I might be of some assistance."

You blink, eyebrows furrowing. You still aren't looking at him, but you're wondering why he's so eager to help all of a sudden. Maybe last Tuesday changed things more that you thought it had.

"It's my job, Y/N. If they're breaking the law, it's my duty to make a move." He clips the white stick between his teeth again. "Besides, I owe you for Tuesday night."

"You don't owe me," you say quickly. Your eyes his his shoes. Quietly, "I still owe you for leaving."

He's silent for a moment. You both are. The air stills.

"No," he sighs at last, stubbing out the cigarette before he flicks it off into the night, "you don't. I've forgiven you for it."

Your eyes blow wide. "You–"

"I was angry. For two years, I was angry. You never called, never texted, and I thought it was because of something I did. Then I realized it wasn't, and I didn't know who else to blame, so I blamed you. After two years and three months, I realized you were really never coming back, so I moved on." He picks up his glass and downs the whole thing.

"I was alright for two years, and then you turned up again. I was angry again, and then then the whole thing with Erica—I didn't have time to properly process anything. And at the time, I didn't know everything. I didn’t know that you were building a new life for yourself—a good one. I didn't know you'd been chased out, either."

You go rigid. When did you tell him that? How did he know?

He sees your eyebrow twitch. "You didn't tell me. I worked it out myself." He turns to face you fully. "I wish you had, though. I wish you would have told me then. I could have helped."

You advert your gaze again. You squeeze your eyes closed. "You couldn't have," you grumble. "It wasn't that simple."

You jump when your phone rings. You dig it out in a rush. "Tyrone's got the absolutely worse timing," you growl, hopping off the ledge while answering. "I'll just be a minute," you excuse, darting back into the sitting room.

"Tyrone," you hiss, "this had better be something–"

"You're still there?" He sounds surprised.

You make a face. "Well– Yeah?" You pause, running a checklist of all the things you had on the list for today. "Should I not be?"

"I mean . . . No– Yeah, you should be, I just didn't think you'd stay very long. Having a good time? Meet somebody?"

You decide to ignore the suggestive tone he uses. With a glance thrown over your shoulder to the man standing out on the balcony, busing himself with stargazing and probably listening to your end of the conversation, if you know him well enough. "You could say that."

"You're with Damian, aren't you?" You can't help but notice he sounds sort of disappointed.

Your eyebrows slant. "Maybe. Is that a problem?" You feel defensive. Tyrone is like family to you, and you want his approval, but you don't understand what he'd expected. You came to this event specifically at Damian's request.

"No, of course not. I know you went because he asked, but I thought you might, ya know . . . mingle some."

You cross one arm over your waist and rest the opposite elbow on it. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"No, nothing!" There's an edge of embarrassment and panic in his voice. "I don't mean anything, really. Just, you've been in Gotham for a few months now, and it doesn't seem like you see anyone other than him. You're at t complex often, I just mean–"

You close your eyes and pinch the bride of your nose. Right. You should have seen this conversation coming. "Look, Ty, can we talk about this later? I'm in the middle of a pretty important conversation."

He gets strangely quiet. "Right. Sorry, I just wanted to check on you. I'm going to wait up, so call me when you leave and when you get home, okay?"

Your eyes are still closed, but you hear Damian shifting around on the balcony. "I can handle myself." You exhale slowly. "But, yeah. I appreciate it."

"I know, but I don't like the silence on the Rats' end. I'll talk to you later."

"Yeah. Bye."

You hang up and pocket your phone. With another exhale, your heels click as they carry you back out to the balcony.

"Problem?" Damian asks passively. You can't help noticing he seems a little deflated.

You polish off your drink. "No, he just wanted to check on me." You try to meet his eyes again, but he's much more interested in cold blanket of snow whiting out the property.

"That's kind of him," he offers. You see now that his eyes aren't focused and he seems spacey. "Are you close?"

He's changing the subject. He receded into himself. Your moment of vulnerability is gone, and with it your window of opportunity to finally put everything behind you.

You just want a fresh start. You're sick of feeling like there's always something hanging in the air between the two of you, blocking any amends you have a chance to make. Frustration boils in your lungs.

"Very. We grew up together, in the complex. Born into the pack, you know?" The causality of the new conversation eats at you. You get caught up in the pent up irritation and make a leap of faith.

"When I said earlier that you couldn't have helped, I mean it."

He closes his eyes. You can’t tell if it’s disappointment or if he’s bracing himself for a rocky conversation.

“It’s deeper than drug deals, Damian. They’re Werewolves. They want Gotham.”

He throws you a look you’re familiar with. His should-I-be-concerned-about-that glare hasn’t changed a bit .

“Not the way you’re thinking. It’s complicated.”

“Like everything else.”

You cringe. Should have seen that coming. “I’m sorry.”

He exhales, closes his eyes, and turns to face you fully before he opens them. “I can’t hold it against you,” he admits. “I know better than anyone how that goes. You can’t fill anyone in ion details, because those details have details, and by the time you’ve said your piece, everyone’s twice as confused as they started.”

You nod, the tension in your shoulders easing.

He leans almost all of his weight against he stone half-wall. “I know you can’t tell me everything. But what can you tell me?”

You maul it over. What can you freely tell him that you haven’t already? “Not much,” you answer honestly. “Mostly just that the Rats are the one’s who killed my parents. They were trying to disband the pack by cutting the head off the snake. They went after Nick and I next. Nick managed to lead a group of them to the Crime Alley area, where some of ours ambushed them. The other group went after me, and that lead to the warehouse fire. Some of the other young members were there, like I’d told you. Some of them didn’t make it out.”

He soaks it all in. Clarity dawns his face. “You didn’t wait for me because you didn’t want them to target me.”

You nod. Finally.

He shakes his head with a ghost of a smile. “Do you know how many years of frustration and weeks of awkward resentment you could have saved us both if you’d just told me that?”

You laugh. It isn’t boisterous, or loud. It’s a spurt of disbelief and relief. “You’d have found something else to hate me for, I’m sure.”

He snorts. His tiny smile fades, and then it’s back to openly confused eyes and an odd edge to his voice. “But why didn’t you call?”

Your eyes hit the stone tiled floor. Hesitance, then honest hurt. Self-inflicted, but hurt all the same. “It was stupid, looking back.” You take a deep breath. “I was embarrassed. And guilty. At the time, I had people on my ass who wanted me dead, I’d been lying to your face and keeping things from you for years, and then I’d literally left you in a burning building. I didn’t think I could ever face you again, after that.”

His expression is solemn. He considers your wording for a moment, before he slides his hands into his pockets. “I would have forgiven you,” he states quietly.

Your eyes leap to his, shock jolting through your mind and parting your lips.

His eyes are soft on yours. His head is tilted just a smidgen to the side. The right edge of his mouth tips up. “You could have started the fire, and I’d have still forgiven you. You were my best friend, (Y/N). I trusted you more than anyone, and that includes myself.”

Your eyes are watering. “I, um–”

“I should known you had a good reason to leave so suddenly,” he concedes. “But I was hurt. I couldn’t get past feeling like it was my fault. We thought the fire had been started by someone who was after me, or someone I should have been after. “I’m sorry I didn’t trust you.”

The apology nearly knocks you over. When was the last time you heard him genuinely apologize to someone like this? Seventh grade? You stand stiffly for a long moment, blinking dumbly at him, mouth agape.

The next physical thing you’re aware of is his knuckle bumping your arm and the teeth peeking out from his smile. “This is the part where you say, No! It was my fault!”

You snort, trying to regain some composure. “I mean, it was–”

“I’m joking,” he chuckles, “it was never your fault. It was the Rats’. Which is why I want to do anything I can to help you bring them down. For good, this time.”

TAGS: @howcanibreathewithnozaire @avis-writeshq @mello-10 @ukuleleatnight @chikorita-stuff @idkmanicantenglish

#smoke series #damian wayne x reader #damian wayne imagine #Damian Wayne

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fucknfurter · 5 years

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Britney Spears Changed The Way We Talk About Mental Health — And Now, She Deserves Nothing But Support

When the news broke on Wednesday, April 3, that Britney Spears was reportedly seeking treatment to cope with her dad's recent illness, fans applauded her decision. (Jamie Spears reportedly suffered from a colon rupture, according to People, and has undergone several surgeries in recent months.) "We all need to take time for a little 'me time,'" Spears wrote on Instagram, and supporters full-heartedly agreed.

This overall gracious and kind public response to Spears' reported decision to get help is a reminder of how far we've come in our understanding of mental health,thanks in part to Spears and other pop culture icons who have publicly battled mental illness. No longer is a celebrity seeking mental health treatment treated as tabloid fodder. For the most part, it is recognized as a sign of strength that could help others get the help they need. What a difference a decade makes.

Back in 2007, when Spears was struggling with her mental health in the public eye, it was treated with little sensitivity or empathy. Moments of instability — the shaving of her head or umbrella attack on the paparazzi following her every move — were played for shock and awe with headlines that included derogatory terms like "meltdown" and "breakdown." And it wasn't just tabloids. News organizations like CBS added to the stigma of Spears seeking treatment, posting a timeline of "Britney's meltdown" in 2007, while MTV went further with a 2008 post titled, "Britney Spears' Downward Spiral: A Timeline of Tumult." And it wasn't just Spears who was attacked. This was unfortunately how mental health was covered back then — in 2010, Gawker ran a "A Visual Timeline of Lindsay Lohan's Fall From Grace" that included mentions of her time in rehab.

It's surprising to look back now and see how Spears was covered in the late 2000s by the news, especially considering the fact that the singer herself attempted to tell her story in 2007. Three months after Spears' bald head was splashed across every magazine cover in February of 2007 and after a trip to rehab, she wrote a letter to fans on her website about what led her to seek treatment. "I confess," the then 25-year-old Spears wrote, according to MTV. "I was so lost."

"Recently, I was sent to a very humbling place called rehab," she wrote. "I truly hit rock bottom. Till this day I don't think that it was alcohol or depression. I was like a bad kid running around with ADD." (In 2016, Spears told Marie Claire UK that she suffers from severe anxiety that led to the 2007 incident. “If a hair was out of place, I’d be so anxious," she said of what it was like for her then. "I would get very anxious about so many things.”)

Spears should have never felt as if she needed to explain herself, but it's understandable why she would. Spears' troubles were played for laughs on late night shows making fun of her mental health and her parenting. "Britney Spears's two-and-a-half year old son, Sean Preston, was photographed holding a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Did you see that?," Tonight Show host Jay Leno said in 2008. "Pretty shocking. Britney said it's not as bad as it looks. She said the kid only smokes when he's been drinking."

Late Late Show host Craig Ferguson was the exception. In early 2007, he delivered a monologue explaining that he wouldn't poke fun at Spears because comedy "should be about attacking the powerful — the politicians, the Trumps, the blowhards — going after them. We shouldn’t be attacking the vulnerable.”

And that's what Spears was at that time — vulnerable. Jokes were being made at her expense while she was experiencing something serious, despite few people in the press treating it that way. With her letter, Spears might have felt as if she had to prove to the world she wasn't on drugs or going "crazy." That's how seeking help was seen in 2007 — a last resort, something to be ashamed of.

Twelve years later, there is more understanding of the pressures that not only come with being a celebrity, but being human, as illustrated by the current response to Spears' reported decision to seek treatment. There is also a more progressive vocabulary associated with mental health. Seeking treatment is luckily no longer code for "breakdown," it's a form of self-care that celebrates putting one's own personal mental health needs first.

In the years since Spears wrote that letter, more celebrities have felt inclined to open up about their own mental health struggles. Emma Stone and Selena Gomez have talked openly about their anxiety. Demi Lovato has opened up about her struggles with substance abuse multiple times in the past decade. Oprah Winfrey just announced that she's making a documentary about mental health with Apple. And on the heels of the news about Spears, Justin Bieber posted a therapy selfie to show that it's "cool to have a healthy mind and healthy emotions."

In many ways, what Spears endured in 2007 paved the way for honest discussions like the ones these other celebrities are having with their fans. It also helped so many people understand how to talk about mental health in a better way to understand. As Spears boyfriend Sam Asghari wrote on Instagram, seeking treatment "isn't weakness, it's a sign of absolute strength, people should only be inspired by this."

Now, once again, Spears is pushing the conversation surrounding mental health forward. This time, though, she's getting the kind of love and support she deserved all along.

If you or someone you know is seeking help for mental health concerns, visit the National Alliance on Mental Health (NAMI) website, or call 1-800-950-NAMI(6264). For confidential treatment referrals, visit the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration (SAMHSA) website, or call the National Helpline at 1-800-662-HELP(4357). In an emergency, contact the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-TALK(8255) or call 911.

#britney spears #my queen #my sun and stars #its nice to see the media owning up to the crap they pulled in 2007

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samtheflamingomain · 3 years

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one week down

I went into inpatient rehab last Monday and figured now would be a good time to give an update. I have a lot to say, but I know not everyone cares deeply about every minute detail, so I'll do a quick highlight reel for those mildly interested.

There's 5 of us, 3 men, 2 women. I'm the youngest by 7 years, and the only one here for just alcohol and weed. We have 6h of mandatory classes/groups every day except weekends when it's 1.5h. The classes are pretty boring and mostly stuff I learned from entry-level CBT/DBT with a few hidden gems of wisdom here and there.

We wake up at 8, DIY breakfast, class for 2.5h, lunch, 1.5h class, break, 1h class, dinner, an optional walk around the block, another 1h class, then bedtime meds and last smoke break at 10pm. No mandatory lights out time but I'm usually exhausted and out by 10:30.

The food sucks, but I'm trying to lose weight so I'm glad it does. I've already lost 6 pounds. On the other hand, I can't remember the last time I ate 2 meals with vegetables for a week straight. I'm smoking 3 times as much as I ever have, because everyone else is a "pack-a-day" smoker and it's been great to take away cravings and also socialize.

I really like the people in the group, and there are 2 staff members who are very well-liked because they're great, 2 that are okay, 2 that are serious hard-asses, and one who's just an outright asshole piece of shit with no business being in the healthcare field.

I'm in a weird kind of mindset where I go back and forth between "I never need to drink again" and "I can probably get drunk once or twice a month, the others here are much worse off than me, so comparatively, my addictions aren't such a big deal". I know that neither of these mindsets are truly healthy. The first because I know there will be days where I will want to drink and I need to plan for that, and the second because I simply cannot do moderation, and my life and problems aren't diminished by the existence of others' problems.

As for poppers, the other thing I'm quitting, I know I can never do them again. Poppers are all-or-nothing. It's impossible to moderate them because I would just do them all day every day, and the few times I've tried to quit them myself, by day 3 I'm digging through garbage to make a DIY bong. Quitting alcohol makes me restless, which I can manage. Quitting poppers makes me so depressed that I get suicidal.

Sorry, that was the "short" version but it got away from me. Now for a bit more detail.

I had to be 5 days sober of alcohol to come in, so it's been nearly 2 full weeks since my last drink, and exactly 2 weeks since the last time I got drunk. I still fantasize about getting sloshed again, but the rational part of my brain is slowly coming back and overriding those thoughts. I haven't had a severe craving to the point where I want to quit or even to the point where I've been super restless, largely because they keep us busy.

Poppers however... on day 2 I was having a fucking breakdown. On the floor sobbing. I went out for a smoke and one of the girls, call her Lisa, was out. I told her how bad I wanted to rip a popper and she said this: "What if you sucked really hard on the cigarette, held it in, then exhaled?" And it fucking worked. Instant headrush. Only about 20% as good as a real popper, but enough that I instantly felt better. Homegirl is a life-saver; I never would've even thought of that because I'd never imagined it would work. Part of doing a popper is smoking a piece of unfiltered cigarette very quickly, so I assumed smoking through a filter wouldn't get the job done.

I miss my kitty, but I'm not homesick like everyone else. They all have kids and 3 are in long-term relationships. 2 are likely going to prison for shit they did while fucked up on opioids and want to show the court that they're working to better themselves and get clean. They have reasons to quit. I... I feel like I really don't.

Yeah, my health has been slowly deteriorating for the past 4-5 years, and I've been very overweight for the past 2-3 years (beer belly), and I spend more money on alcohol than I'd like to admit, but what I spend in a year, Lisa spends on heroin in a weekend. To make things harder for myself, I literally have not had a hangover in 2+ years. I could drink a 26er in 4 hours and wake up absolutely fine.

But I know that my way of life, getting blackout drunk 7 days a week, isn't sustainable. I know that some alcoholics do that for 50+ years, but I'm still pretty young, and I don't want to wake up at age 40 realizing I've pissed away 1/3rd of my life just being drunk.

I guess, when I really boil it down, I want to go back to who I was before I started drinking. I had so much potential to do great things when I graduated high school, and since then it's been a steady decline in my productivity and motivation.

Something that's surprised me about being here is that I've gotten more shit done in the past week than I do most MONTHS. There's a piano that I play for an hour a day, which I haven't done since I was a teenager. There's a treadmill I've used a few times. There's enough down-time for me to work on some embroidery and drawing, but most importantly, I started writing again.

I "finished" my first novel 8 years ago, and I've been trying to rewrite it in its entirety ever since. Draft One was 150,000 words, and Rewrite has been stuck at 25k for almost 2 years now. After a week, it's up to 35k.

And I think I have to attribute this to my lack of drinking. I never realized just how much it affected my motivation before. I used to open the document, force myself to crunch out a paragraph or two and then put it back on the shelf for a few months.

Now, I'm not forcing anything. It's coming to me. I'm inspired. I'm confident. I'm excited.

I've been feeling like I'd lost my spark, my drive to create things, for years now. And it's only been 2 weeks sober and I'm getting that spark back. I guess I do have a reason to quit: I'm not going to accomplish anything, or at least not anything I'm excited about, if I go back to drinking.

Another thing I've noticed is that I'm much more process-oriented. The task of writing always seemed too daunting and stressful because I just want the fucker to be done already. Now, I'm truly enjoying just getting through a scene or chapter. Even just a clever turn of phrase releases the Happy Chemical for me now.

To wrap up this absolute saga of epic length, I want to talk about the people a bit more. It's pretty rare that I get put into a group of people and I genuinely like all of them and none of them annoy me. The last time I was in a classroom with others, we were literally "learning" to identify parts of sentences and doing absolute beginner-level word processing. It was agonizing, because every single person in that class was a fucking idiot and would ask the stupidest questions, take forever to read a paragraph aloud while mispronouncing very common words. I'm not being a know-it-all dick, either. It's objectively true. How do I know? Out of 25, only me and one other person passed the course despite them all attending class regularly.

All that to say, these people are genuinely smart and likeable. John is an absolute encyclopedia on guitars, machinery, cars, and has done pretty much every skilled trade under the sun. He's also had a lot of interesting life experiences. Rick is a yoga guru who brought 12 books ranging from Zen Buddhism to abstract physics, and while I don't believe in 'chakras' and 'healing energies', he doesn't annoy me because he really only talks about it in relation to himself and how it's helped him, which I can respect. Christy is a PSW, and I mention that because she has a way of phrasing things in a wise, educated way, because that's how PSWs get good: they learn to communicate very well. She actually native and lives on a reserve, so she always has something interesting to talk about. Lisa is so well-traveled that when I mentioned I could name all the capitals, she pulled out fucking Tajikistan. She'd never been there. She's also South African and lived during apartheid, and is much more knowledgeable on the subject than myself, and I consider myself pretty well-read on it.

There's no stupid questions that take up half the class to answer, nobody takes 15 minutes to read a paragraph, and everyone is truly putting in the work.

I'm still nervous about coming back home, but my worries get less and less daunting with each passing day.

One week down, 2 more to go. Back at 'er at 9am tomorrow, rain or shine.

Stay Greater, Flamingos.

#rehab #alcoholism #drugs tw #alcohol tw #sam

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