#thinking about my funky little stoner and how that's his best chance at medication he will ever get

[wreckmyplans-thatsmyman]

Eddie going undiagnosed with adhd for so long has led to several coping mechanisms as he's gotten older. The middle school buzzcut was a result of pulling at his hair too often. His rings are to prevent him from biting his nails, and give him something to play with. He wears dangly chains and all sorts of zippers and buttons and fidgets so he can stay in constant motion. When he's feeling really keyed up, there's ripping his jeans or a bandana in his back pocket to tie over his head. His hair is too metal, and his fingers are too important to be self-destructive that way anymore.

There's also the desire for stillness, which he isn't very good at. The metal music that's loud enough to drown out every other sound helps. Putting on headphones and plugging them into the sound system, sitting directly underneath it so the cord doesn't pull when he headbangs. Sometimes he wonders if he likes metal music because it reminds him of his brain. He's always got a little too much going on -- the crashing cymbals of anxiety when Wayne sorts their bills on the kitchen table and tallies up if they have enough to cover them all, the steady thrum of the bass line that mimicks the constant thruline of /stories/ he likes to think about, the wailing guitar solo of a sudden idea that cuts over his every thought, demanding attention until it fades out.

There's marijuana, now that he's older. What began as a whim and way to relax quickly became his favorite coping mechanism. He loves the ritual of sitting down with his grinder and papers and rolling a supply of joints. He loves the smell, has gotten to where he can discern certain the varieties not just by sight but by their smell and taste. He may not remember any information for chemistry class, but he has the strains Rick provides him with and their effects memorized. Has to, when smoking Sour Diesel instead of Northern Lights before bed can change the entire course of his evening. Algebra wasn't his strong suit, but he can do canna-math in his head, sales and change and grams and ounces, and he's getting to the point where he can feel the weights without the clunky scale he lifted from Mr. Davidson's supply cabinet. Making money from selling certainly helps out at home, allowed him to save up for his baby and any other Corroded Coffin gear he may need, but if he never had another customer, he'd probably still smoke daily. He assumes it's tolerance, the way sometimes he can smoke and instead of getting blitzed like Buckley always does, he just feels settled. Heavy, as if someone is sitting in his lap, keeping him still and settled and warm. Sometimes it feels like his brain is less like metal music and more like a kindergarten class set loose on a playground or someone walked into Radio Shack and turned every device on max volume. But after a few hits, the smoke dances around to calm the screaming and turn off the screens, and his brain is just a little model train on its circular track, going around in wobbly circles at a steady pace, and he can breathe.

#i could keep going ig but i have other stuff id rather write #eddie munson headcanons #i firmly believe eddie would be dx'd with adhd and possibly autism in a modern setting #thinking about my funky little stoner and how that's his best chance at medication he will ever get