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pollenat · 3 years

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ITZY and A moment of sadness

➛ Trigger warning: angst. The concept resolves around the reader going through a depressive phase and the members’ reactions to it.

Dark and provoking. Somehow, the world feels worse than immortal killers from cult classics. It’s much more relentless in its pursuit after your peace and it’s not even trying.

You wonder, have you always felt this way, or was there a time when the world didn’t seem as bleak as it does at this moment. Everything looks fruitless. What’s the reason for passing days? What about the changing seasons? How does one go on with a reason? The world does nothing and yet chooses that form of an attack on you. It’s effective.

A knock resonates. Jumping in place, because you were drowning in pain, until the sound, like a rope, pulled you towards the surface, the real world of now, you welcome it with a little bit of hesitation. Who? What? Why? Like a sleepwalker, you walk towards hallway, slow, terrified, blue. The anxiety raises, and you wonder whether it’s not too late to turn back. Pretend you’re not home. After all, there is no emergency to take care of, is there?

The knocking resonates once again, a stark contrast to the silence and calmness of your small apartment. It feels dead although you’re the most living creature that could ever inhabit the four walls. Not even a fly to join you. Just you and the terrorizing knocking on the front door.

A breath in, a breath out. You’re not sure about opening the door even when your hand catches the locking mechanism. The crunch of turning metal travels through a crack in your chest, like water does through split glass. There’s a silhouette outside, one that you instantly recognize as...

YEJI

Though you’re sure she will start scolding you any second now, a sigh breaks through the plush of her lips.

“(y/n)-” accompanies a soft smile of comfort.

Yeji isn’t mad, though you think she should be. Any other person would be furious at you for avoiding them. But not Yeji. She understands and offers her presence. Always. So in the end - you’re at fault here. For making her worried, hurting her by avoiding contact and being so thoughtless towards someone who’s still by your side. No matter how many may have left you, Yeji would never do such thing. The thought makes your eyes burn. All you had to do was tell her.

She doesn’t wait for you to speak, or cry your eyes out. Yeji’s arms open and lock you in a tight embrace. As she clings onto you, you’re pushed deeper inside the hallway. The sound of closing front door is just a sound. Yeji smells of familiarity and promise that things will be fine. Eventually. Perhaps, with her around it may seem so. Once she’s gone, the spell will break and you’ll return to the spiral of self-pity. It’s a wonder she hasn’t grown tired of you already.

“I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.” says Yeji. Her tightening embrace seems to be an answer to your similar motion.

Your fingers dig into the common material of her coat. It’s cold from the temperature outside. Her helix, leaning against the side of your head suffers the same fate. You were the reason she had to endure it - the cold. Guilt instantly fuels your imagination. You think of her frozen fingers, shaking teeth, teary eyes and itching skin - all of which you’re the reason for.

“Are you overthinking?” She waits a moment until, lying, you shake your head no. “Don’t ever think that I could be mad at you for being sad.”

Her statement is not just any reassurance. It’s her proving how much she cares about you. So much that she knows you’re on a self-guilt spree. Like always when feeling down.

“How-” You still want to ask, but the pain in your throat seems life-threatening.

Her hold weakens, so she can lean back and look at you properly. The avoidance of her gaze doesn’t discourage Yeji. As little as you want to show, her still smiling lips are pushing themselves into your view. Like magnets, they summon your eyes to appreciate the show. It doesn’t last long enough. She pouts, head nodding at somewhere behind you.

“Shh. I’ll make you something to drink, alright? I bought chocolate and other things. Chose the weirdest snacks I could find in the store-”

Yeji’s hands slip down your arms to lock on your fingers. You’re pulled along to kitchen, the usually irritating light of a lamp you hate, no longer as terrible. Frankly, it’s hard to pay attention to anything other than the young woman in front of you. Yeji is a bright star of good vibrations. Just a look at her and you’re feeling lighter, as if the sadness could be weighed and abandoned. You don’t need the chocolate-sized portion of dopamine. It won’t last, though you don’t plan on completely omitting it.

“Good thing I remembered to buy milk, right?” Yeji’s eyes almost close, unable to fight with her raising cheeks. “What would you do without my grocery shopping sense?”

She’s talkative, putting the day’s history into words. You’re listening, eager to catch onto every syllable, focus on something that’s worth your attention. Chocolates are small and last a single bite. But Yeji? She’s a lifetime of dopamine.

LIA

Before you can recognize the visitor, her hand lands on the door to push it farther. Jisoo has a solemn look on her face. She quickly passes you and closes the entrance, as if she was scared of something awaiting outside. The palms of her hands are flat against the door’s surface. Curtains of dark hair cover her profile, to keep you away from whatever her face may be painting.

You’re trapped in long minutes of uncomfortable silence, filled with thoughts of scary possibilities. Did you do something wrong? Maybe something happened to her? The reminder of many missed calls passes your mind, like an accusatory finger pointing at the main suspect. You want to ask her what’s going on, but words are too difficult to come by.

After what feels like forever, Jisoo turns to look at you. The solemnity falls, so a picture of worry can take its place. She looks as if guilt was chewing her ear off. As if she was the one with a string of bad choices following her.

“Sorry.” Her voice is small. “I was worried you’d- you’d close the door in my face.” A huff of disbelief follows. She seems amused by her own way of thinking.

Unsure how to tackle her behavior, you just nod in understanding. Lips feeling dry, you dare a look around the room you see on a daily basis. Just like you imagine yourself - it’s a picture of pure misery. Slightly embarrassed by the mess, you scramble to collect abandoned belongings. Otherwise Jisoo will surely scold you.

A jacket you had no strength to hide. Shoes you didn’t care for. A jumper you randomly abandoned. In the past they didn’t matter. Now, they’re an irritating distraction.

“What are you doing?” Jisoo catches the jumper’s sleeve.

“Cleaning.”

She clicks her tongue and pulls the material out of your hands. It’s neatly folded and placed on the nearest surface, so you’re no longer bothered by it. But the need to hide it in a closet raises in the place of irritation. You’re staring at the jumper, indifferent to Jisoo’s hard gaze.

“Seriously,” She steps in front of you, taking all of your sight for her. “don’t you think there are more important things than stress-cleaning?” Jisoo’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes.

Embarrassed, you attempt a sigh, but instead of frustration, it’s a sound of a broken heart. Distorted and miserable. Out of what exact reason? Who knows, because surely not you. One moment you were existing, the next one you were feeling guilty for breathing.

Jisoo’s right hand wipes your cheek, probably to get rid of a stray eyelash you haven’t noticed. It’s a kind reminder of the good things, you’d kill to get a hold of. To forget for a moment and focus on something else, other than your mental state. Like the jumper. You want to put it away. Out of sight, out of mind as they say.

“You ignored my texts, calls... Just a single word back would do.” Though you’re the one with dark clouds hanging over your head, Jisoo sounds like she’s in actual pain, all caused by your stubborn silence.

“I’m sorry. I just don- didn’t feel like talking to anyone.”

“And that’s fine. But always let me know you’re around, okay? No talking. Just a yes, or- I don’t know.”

Perhaps it’s the pressure of your terrified gaze. Perhaps the useless silence pushes her into action. Or, perhaps, it’s Jisoo’s own overpowering feelings that make her embrace your middle. She doesn’t look like someone who wants to let go and her tightening grip only proves the assumption. For the first time this eveing, her smile shines with honesty.

RYUJIN

She looks annoyed. The opening of your front door has her head falling back, a deep breath escaping, eyes closing. You watch her chin, somehow relieved it’s her, somehow more scared it’s her.

“I thought-”

Her raspy voice is terror-inducing. Under other circumstances, you’d love catching onto the rougher parts when she reaches the lows. But now? Now you’d rather tune it out so she doesn’t speak more, so she doesn’t get a chance to say something that may cut through your fragile shell.

“I was seriously worried.”

Without any other courses of action left to take, you open the door wider. It’s only polite to allow the guests in and you have no answer to her statement. But Ryujin doesn’t seem ready to step in, or even look at you. She’s facing the hallway’s wall, sorting out emotions that are a total mystery to you. There’s more to her state than serious worry.

“Why didn’t you answer the phone?” Her question isn’t a surprise. It’s a fact you want to push out of your awareness. Phones are scary. Answering questions is scary. Seeing irritated Ryujin is scary.

“Sorry-” You tell her, lost on words.

Her face finally turns towards you which you answer by looking down at your feet. You haven’t noticed how irritated the cold made your skin. White lines of drought cross your blueing skin tone. Toes drum against a dirty doormat.

“Just a text would be enough.” She says in a much softer tone. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

Though eager to, you don’t allow yourself a look at Ryujin. Who knows how much more heart break you can accept, even if the previous reasons weren’t directly caused by you. Is your head you, or is it a different being? These days, it rarely seems to be an ally, more an enemy.

Steps are taken towards you. Ryujin’s heavy boots stand next to your naked feet. You want to step back and let her inside, but hands catch your cheeks before you can move away. Chin is lifted up. You’re staring at Ryujin and she’s staring back. Into your soul, someone could think. But the thing is, you’re aware she must know now. Her sudden softness is enough of a proof. You’re fragile and Ryujin knows how to deal with characters in your state.

“Did something happen?” She comes closer, so now her warmth is shielding you from a draft.

Hesitation holds you silent for few long seconds that Ryujin bravely faces.

“No.”

“So nothing happened?”

“Nothing happened.”

“So you’re sad?”

A bite on your lower lip answers her. Ryujin nods, dropping her eyes. She doesn’t speak for a longer time, until cold wind’s blowing makes you shudder. At that, a guilty smile crosses her fingers and without turning away, Ryujin kicks the door closed.

“We’ll have to do something about that then.”

CHAERYEONG

A picture of pure worry. Chaeryeong looks like a puppy that has done something wrong and now feels guilty. But she did nothing to feel guilty of. You’re sure of that. As always, the fault is all yours. Why would she even choose to care for you? Obviously - aside from the kindness of her heart. And now, in a spot right next to the uselessness, you’re struck with guilt.

She wants to say something, but decides to search your face before speaking. Lips close, then press into a thin line. Her eyes drop down before looking at you again. You’re not sure how to answer her unclearly asked question. There’s no clear explanation to your state.

All wordless, you take a step to the side, allowing her inside. Chaeryeong hesitates only for a moment. She’s such a natural view, you’re weirded out by her being frozen in place, unresponsive to your motion. An invisible switch has to be turned on for the pieces to match. Her steps inside are small, anxious. Remind you of her first time at your flat, back when things were alien. But they’re not anymore. Chaeryeong knows everything about the four walls you inhabit, from the most comfortable spot on your couch, to where you hide socks. She’s seen it all. Your gloomy days are where the blank territory rests. Best couch spot won’t help with that and Chaeryeong knows it.

After closing the front door, you turn around to catch her facing you. Dark eyes hang under wrinkles of a strained forehead. For a moment you forget yourself. Fingers, as if having their own mindset, reach forward to flatten her skin. It’s soft and warm, unlike the rooms you’re closed in.

“Don’t do that, or it will stay that way.” Chaeryeong’s frown deepens for a second, but she smiles. You do as well, though the corners of your lips ache.

Her hand doesn’t swat yours away, like it tends to do with a little bit of a joking undertone. Instead, it weakly grabs your wrist to invite you into a hold. Her bright smile doesn’t falter like yours. Chaeryeong’s face remains an anchor, the last reminder of good feelings you’ve once possessed.

“Can we watch a movie?” Her question takes you by surprise. It’s careful, but also so outside of the range of possible topics, you’re not sure whether to be glad or doubtful.

“I mean- Sure?” The smile widens, though it seemed impossible a moment before.

You’re pulled straight on the couch, with no possibility of standing up in sight. Chaeryeong’s hands circle around your arm, her body coming as close as possible, making you wonder whether she has applied glue in-between your sides.

“Next time,” The TV clicks. “just text me.”

Though you’re basically glued to one another, she doesn’t dare even a stray look in your direction. Chaeryeong’s eyes are focused on the screen. You know she’s not watching the random episode of Family Court.

“Text you what?”

“You know what!”

Your question seems to offend her somehow. One of Chaeryeong’s hands slaps your abdomen, but frown is quick to disappear as she lays a cheek on your arm. Only now you notice the warmth she emits, like a human-shaped heater. Comforting, inviting, overtaking. You cannot resist the magnetic pull. Skin rests on her velvet-like hair. Maybe next time you will find the courage to text her, so the smell of her strawberry shampoo fills your senses and pushes everything wrong out.

YUNA

“Ah, you really couldn’t be bothered to have phone on you? Seriously, who does this now? We’re living in the XXIst century!” Yuna babbles on, eyes staring at you, but not really. She’s so taken by the monologue, your state passes her judgement unnoticed. Knowing her, the speech was in the works her entire way to your apartment. “And to think you usually never let it go out of your hand! But today, you just had to ignore me? What am I to you?”

“Hm?” Her eyes widen, a sign you read as I didn’t meant that last sentence. It was the heat of the moment and, frankly, you don’t care about words today.

Yuna doesn’t continue her rant. Your passiveness is much more interesting to her than the personal feeling of anger. A little dumbfounded, she finally takes her eyes off of you to stare at your front door. She may be lost in thought, but you realize it’s not good to keep the guest waiting outside. Weakly, the door is pushed wide open. Your feet take you back to the couch you occupied earlier.

It takes her a moment to gather thoughts before you hear her stepping inside and closing the door. Then she struggles with the fabrics. You haven’t noticed her current choice of shoes, but you imagine her pulling boots off of her feet. Yuna sighs in discomfort. The noise isn’t meant to be loud. It’s the silent apartment that takes it on a run through every nook and cranny.

A stray pillow occupies your fingers. Yuna walks inside the living room. Her hesitancy is obvious. She may be quiet, but the atmosphere is screaming. Another material is pulled, probably a scarf. Feet pad against naked floor. She stands next to you, staring at where you’re tormenting the poor pillow, before she dares to sit down. Yuna is not good with these things. You know they make her uncomfortable. That’s why you avoided involving her in the first place.

“Are you-” She jumps a little at the volume of her own voice. “Are you feeling alright?”

“I’ll be okay.” Then, so she doesn’t have to wonder, you add “Didn’t mean to worry you.”

“Well-” The paint comes off of the pillowcase’s zipper. “You should worry me with things. You know, when you’re feeling bad and all that- All that stuff.”

There’s an attempt at humor - a huff you don’t understand. Probably meant to portray her powerlessness. You’re aware there’s nothing Yuna hates more than the thought there’s nothing she can do. It’s an energy-consuming parasite that feeds on your anxiety and her inability. So the silence continues, stretched into long minutes. Every time she opens her mouth, nothing comes out of it. Every time you move a little, she jumps in her seat. As if your movement could hurt her.

“Really, you can go home. I’ll deal with- this.”

She doesn’t answer. Not initially After a moment of hesitation and analyzing your features, Yuna dares to scoot over, so your thighs are touching. The lack of sudden movement on your side gives her all the encouragement she needs. Arms are quick to embrace you. Their hold is tight, but maybe not tight enough. The thought isn’t voiced.

“But I don’t want to go home. I want to stay with you. Keep you company. I know I’m not that good with these things, but- I want to be better at it. So just tell me how can I help, or if you don’t want to talk, then I’m fine with not talking too!” Her passionate words land on the back of your neck in a series of rapid breaths. “Just- don’t push me away, alright?”

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#not proud of that intro #sorry for not updating #im not dropping the acc or anything #just trying to survive school #itzy fanfiction #itzy imagines #itzy reactions #itzy headcanons #itzy angst #kpop fanfiction #kpop imagines #kpop reactions #kpop headcanons #kpop angst #girl groups #pollenat's reactions

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vadaschiquita · 3 years

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Chiquita | Ch. 18

Chapter 17

It had been an agonizing game of musical chairs riddled with anxiety and unanswered questions sitting in the ER of a New Jersey hospital. From nurses, to doctors, to social workers had accosted Nevada with questions of her whereabouts and even threatened with police involvement when he’d refused to provide the answers they sought out of him.

Nina and Jess had sat with him, receiving the news of Mariana’s reappearance from Pucho. The both had shown up hastily, shouting his and her name to every medical personnel they managed to pass by from the second they’d entered the emergency room to the second they’d found him with his head in his hands. Jess had asked all the hard questions firsthand, attempting to keep her voice even as she got out of Nevada what truly had happened in the confines of the storage container in order to deflect any trouble without the need of lawyer.

“You gonna stop with the fucking leg bounce, Valentina?” he scolded his sister.

Nina sighed heavily, rolling her eyes as she came to a stand. “What the hell are they doing to her, Vada? She’s been in there for fucking ever!” she paced in front of the row of chairs.

Nevada trailed her with his eyes, leaning back, and stretching his leg in front of him. “Nina, you irritating my soul isn’t helping. Stop with the fucking questions… and the pacing!” he waved his hand towards her direction when he caught sights of a doctor approaching their general direction.

Nevada stood, pulling Nina behind him as the doctor smiled, “Mariana? Mariana Santos?”

“Yes, yes! How is she? How’s the baby? Can I see her?” Nevada shot in rapid fire, unable to stop when the doctor raised his hands in order to put a stop to his rambling.

“Easy, Mr. Santos,” the doctor appeased, checking the tablet in his hands. “There’s good news and there’s bad news. Now, I understand that she was in labor when brought in,” Nevada nodded, running his hands against his jaw at the mention of bad news. “Giving birth is a marathon and we need mom awake and alert in order for her to push. We considered taking her to the operating room and perform an emergency C-section, but baby was coming, and coming fast so we had to rely on medication to strengthen the contractions. That allows the contractions to be strong enough so that the patient doesn’t have to do anything.”

“O—Ok,” Nevada stumbled, looking over his shoulder to his sister for some type of assistance.

“Is the baby safe? Is she safe?” Nina asked, watching the helpless green in her brother’s eyes grow by the second.

“Yes, both Mariana and the baby are in good health,” the doctor smiled.

“But?” Nevada took a step forward.

“The oxytocin given to strengthen the contractions has left Mariana with an accelerated heart rate and some arrhythmias that are being monitored as we speak. Your son has a little bit of jaundice—nothing that we're worried about—and she’s protecting her airway as she should, but due to her arrhythmias and the stress her body endured for the amount of time she was in captivity, we’ve placed her in a medical induced coma and we’ll wean off sedation once we know her heart has recuperated. Other than that, we’ve stitched the gash at the back of her head, and we’re letting her body heal her other contusions and abrasions the natural way.”

“So—Son?” Nevada sighed, feeling his chest inflate at the thought of someone continuing his namesake to the world.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the doctor looked between Jess, Nina, and the appalled man in front of him. “I—I thought you knew the gender of the baby before—”

“No, no; we wanted to find out whenever they were born,” he chuckled, feeling his elation travel through his body. “Can—Can I see her? Please, doctor, I need to see my Chiquita—and my papito. Where—Where is he?”

The doctor smiled, cocking his head in the direction he’d emerged from, “Your son is currently in the NICU under bili-lights for his jaundice, but I can arrange for him to be brought to Mariana’s room so that the three of you can be together.”

Nevada nodded, falling into step with the doctor as they approached the ICU room where they’d placed Mariana.

Mariana’s doctor had done well by his training, keeping idle conversation as they accessed the main hospital through the emergency department, but Nevada had only heard some of it and answered to ten percent of what he’d heard. His mind was still crowded with the sounds of her cries as Ricky choked the near life out of her, the muddled sound her skull made against the concrete floor of the storage unit, and the whisper of his name from her lips when she’d finally noticed that he was real and there to not bring harm upon her.

If he needed to go home and return later on to Mariana’s room, he wouldn’t know the way to her.

He couldn’t stop thinking of the thousands of ways he’d failed her during her pregnancy, during her captivity, and how much he was failing her now. He knew nothing of being a father to a child, a child he did not want to raise without her.

The needs of a newborn were different to the ones of a toddler and child.

What little experience he had with children came from his ability of having cared for Sofía from a young age. He never kept her when she needed her mother at every turn, but once Sofía had been able to walk, to talk her way into basic needs, had been when he’d trusted himself to do more than just a prolonged visit to his sister’s place.

The severity of the situation weighed heavily on his shoulders, not only did he needed to care for a slightly vegetative Mariana, but now he had to care for a newborn that wouldn’t know his mother until the sedation could be weaned off.

“You’re free to go in and visit for as long as you please, Mr. Santos. I’ll make sure to speak with NICU nurses to bring by your son sooner rather than later.”

Nevada looked up at the doctor and extended his hand to him, shaking it for good measure. He’d never been one to engage in such… pleasantries, but there was no other way he could express the gratitude he had for him and his team in the roles played in Mariana’s safety and in the delivery of their son.

He entered the room slowly, hearing the soft air release the breathing machine produced indicative of Mariana’s in and outtake of air.

He coughed his sob, watching the bruising across her face, vivid against her ashen skin. Her hair and face had been cleaned of the blood, her wet clothes had most likely been tossed, and her stomach was as flat as he could remember before her pregnancy had taken over. Her wrists were securely tied to the bed and all the lines feeding her medication, food, and monitoring her heart rate were coming out of her body at her arms, chest, nose, and neck.

Nevada stood at the foot of the bed, taking in the feeble form of his Chiquita.

“Ay, Chiquita,” he mused, approaching the bedside. He took her hand in his, placing his lips to it multiple times, “You can't give up on me just yet, mami. Tenemos un varoncito, Mari…”

He pressed his forehead to her knuckles, feeling the tears escape his eyes when he sniffled, raising his eyes to her face. His knees were already protesting, but in comparison to what he knew she’d endured, slight discomfort showing his age and lack of continuous exercise were the least of his concerns.

It felt like hours of him staring at the beauty of her face even through the stains of Ricky’s work when soft cooing and an apologetic remark caught his ears.

He sniffled, following the noise with his head when he saw the nurse hauling in an acrylic box containing a small bundle of chunky joy. He stood, placing one more kiss on Mariana’s hand as an added bonus.

The nurse accommodated the acrylic box next to Mariana’s bed away from the IV pumps and other staff’s general way. She opened the side door, reaching inside for the baby to wrap him in the bili-blanket to maximize the results of the phototherapy.

“He already breastfed before we started her medications and he had his first bowels, so, little man is doing really great,” she turned, smiling at the stirring child in her arms. “We let them have skin-on-skin contact for about an hour, hence the reason it took us so long to come fetch you.”

He let go of a long breath of air unaware of its presence when the nurse placed his son in his arms. He hummed, watching the beautiful contours of his son’s face. He saw resemblances of Mariana’s features staring back at him: from the color of his skin, to the pout of his lips. Mesmerized by the beauty of his son, he almost missed the tap on his shoulder from the nurse offering him a comfortable chair so that he could sit and continue admiring the beautiful thing he’d helped bring to life.

“Por poco me matas, papito,” he mused, scoffing airily.

He smiled at his newborn son, running his thumb over the smooth flesh of his cheek. The baby stirred, scrunching his face, and sneezing consecutively.

“Dios te bendiga,” he smiled, leaning forward to press his lips against his forehead. He murmured his love for him, nuzzling his nose to the baby’s forehead, whispering a prayer over his son.

Nevada had never pegged himself a religious man, but more of a spiritual one. He respected the teachings of the Church, the ones instilled in him as a young boy by his mother. He proudly wore the gold cross gifted to him on the day of his thirteen birthday and whenever he played with lives too closely, forgot the teachings that his mother worked day and night for him to remember, he took time away on his knees, asking for forgiveness, and a little more clarity.

He knew the life he led was not ideal, but it had been fruitful.

It’d help him provide for his family, not only his sister, but his extended family in the Dominican Republic. And, now, with his son in his hands, and his Chiquita lying next to him, he knew that now more than ever, the need to work his ass off would quadruple and intensify.

The tip of the iceberg was what she knew—what everyone knew, but Nevada’s operation and connections ran deeper than that. Two people in his entire operation knew how deep his hooks were in the city, the two people he trusted with his life, and the two people he would trust with their lives from now on.

He’d made the mistake of not listening to her, of not allowing her to call her shots knowing that in the deepest existence of her body, all bells and whistles were going off when it came to Dylan Perrot, and that because of his mistake, he’d almost lost the love of his life without the chance of admitting his undying love for her. In consequence, he’d endangered the life of his then unborn child… deliberately! And for that, he’d never forgive himself.

Ten days it had been since the fateful night of the rescue and almost suicidal mission in Union City.

Nevada had set up camp in a hotel a couple of blocks from the hospital. He was there from the minute visitation started to the second it ended.

The nurses knew when he was coming, they knew the way he wanted things, how he wanted things, and they knew that if he saw something out of line, something that was out of place, the never ending tongue lashings would be the best part of their shifts.

They had a schedule set, one that for the last ten days everyone had abided to.

As soon as visiting hours started, Nevada would stroll in, without a word to anyone, and plant himself at Mariana’s bedside. Once the nurse noticed his presence in her room, they’d go in, let him know of the findings and progress, and confirm her nightly bath. If for any reason, the bath had not been completed, they’d assure him that it was the first thing on their to-do list once medication had been administered.

Minutes later, they’d roll the baby in and a breastfeeding nurse would help him latch against Mariana. All of the medication given had been cleared and safe for lactation, and once he was done, Nevada would burp him, and allow for skin-on-skin contact with his mother even if Mariana’s body remained unconscious.

She’d been free of sedation for six days, her body having flushed out all remaining harmful additives to her milk, and though still intubated, her reflexes and neurological responses were great, she just needed to wake up.

During quiet time, and after his feeding, they would take the baby back to the NICU. He’d been off the bili-lamps and blanket, but remained under observation for slight elevation of heart rate. Even though, hospital policy was for no visitors during quiet time, the nurses at the ICU where Mariana lain, allowed him to stay. He was never a bother and he never disrupted their workload.

“Chiquita,” he rasped, her hand in his. “Chiquita, stop being so fucking stubborn and open your eyes,” he scoffed ruefully, placing his lips to her knuckles. “Papito needs you, I—” he stopped; feeling the way his heart hanged on by a thread at the thought of losing Mariana.

He squeezed her hand in his, groaning softly to prevent his sob to fill the room. “I—” he sniffled, shaking his head.

He stood, lowering the bedside rail in order to hover over the still body of hers. He pressed his lips to her temple, tipping his chin to press his forehead to the side of her head. If he wanted her to wake up, then he’d coax her back to life. He would speak the unspoken words that threatened each and every second to come out of his mouth by the mere thought of her existence. He’d say the words like a prayer, a contract devoid of annulment until he’d gotten what he’d come looking for the past nine days: her eyes.

“I need you, Mari,” he whispered against her face. “Te amo, Chiquita. Te amo tanto…”

He sighed, pressing his lips to her brow, lingering at the spot until he felt her quiet stirring.

For her, it was like a large tunnel filled with echo. She heard the words he’d whisper to her every day, she heard the plight of his voice, and she heard the cry of her child. Now, she couldn’t discern what was real and what wasn’t, but the ache and discomfort she felt constricting her throat caused her eyes to shot open.

Nevada took a step back, “Mari, Mari—”

A cough broke through her, the vein in the middle of her forehead prominent with stress. The breathing machine had begun blinking red, making the most harrowing sound that filled the room. She attempted to raise her hands, but they’d been restrained as a precaution to prevent what could’ve happened had her hands been free of them.

The nurses were quick to enter the room. “What's going on here?” one of them asked with a small smile.

“I—” Nevada stumbled with his words, glancing at Mariana struggling to catch her breath.

Mariana continued coughing, her eyes bulging out of their sockets as she struggled to catch her breath. Nevada stood to the side and watched, listening to how the nurses were begging her to relax and take it easy.

“We’re going to have to give an Ativan bolus,” the nurse said, looking over her shoulder to one of her coworkers.

Nevada sprung into action, “No! No! Let me try something.”

The nurses paused, stepping back quickly to allow Nevada to stand besides Mariana.

Mariana was frantically scanning the room; only able to see the blurry, jumbled mess in front of her. She couldn’t focus her eyesight on anything concrete. The nurse’s face was unclear and she couldn’t hear over the blood rushing through her ears. She was tugging at her restraints when one of her hands was finally freed from them, but it’d been stopped mid air by a pair of hands she thought she recognized. She moved her head as carefully as possible, attempting to not stir further the discomfort in her throat.

“Mari, mami,” Nevada cooed, stepping closer to the bed to be in her line of sight. “Chiquita, you—you’re at the hospital. You have a tube down your throat that’s helping you breathe, mami, pero you can’t pull it off. I—I know, I know you want your hands free, but you have to promise me you’ll calm down, ok?”

The breathing machine lagged in its response, but it stopped its noise, just like the heart monitoring machine stopped its chirping. The room became quieter; the only sounds now were the low murmuring of the nursing team, and Nevada’s heartbeat in his ears.

Mariana’s vision still hadn’t clear. Not even after the fluttering blinking from her part. She squeezed Nevada’s hand as he brought it to his mouth to place a kiss to her fingers. She opened her hand, spreading her fingers along his jaw, flexing them to scratch at his beard. He hummed, closing his eyes, and enjoying the feel of her hands against his face.

Her eyes watered because even though she could not see him well enough, she still knew it was he. She would always know it was he.

A nurse placed her hand on his shoulder and he turned his head, “We’ve paged the doctor to see if we can get that tube out in the next couple of hours. Keep her calm and with company, ok?”

Nevada nodded, turning to grab in both of his hands one of hers. “Ay, mi Chiquita,” he breathed out.

A couple of hours indeed had gone by and Nevada decided to keep busy on the other side of the hospital where the NICU took place. They’d kicked him out, respectfully so, and not being able to sit on his ass quietly for more than a few minutes at a time, he’d busied his time in visiting his son over in the NICU, and allowing Nina to sit with them as well.

Nevada had returned and was now sitting across a very animated Mariana bickering her way with a doctor.

“That’s still not answering the question of my supply, doctor. Am I going to be able to breastfeed with this medication in my body?”

She sounded a little hoarse, but her… gumption and bravado seemed intact. “Yes, Miss Santos. We actually recommend labetalol for postpartum complications. You wouldn’t be the first nor the last of my patients who’s suffered some mild complication… that isn’t easily fixed,” the doctor said with a smile.

Mariana sighed, leaning back against the elevated headrest, giving a nod and a shy smile. “When can I eat? And, I mean, real food.”

The doctor nodded, “Unfortunately, due to the stress the tube puts on your throat, we want to make sure you heal for at least twenty-four hours before you can eat or drink anything. We are keeping the feeding tube until tomorrow, so we won’t completely starve you.”

“And, my vision?”

The doctor nodded and offered an apologetic smile. “I understand that it’s been blurry since you woke, but that your left eye is back to normal, now?” Mariana nodded, fidgeting with her flat sheet. The doctor sighed, tucking his arms in his white coat pockets, “There’s really nothing we can do about that, Miss Santos. You suffered a concussion to the occipital region of your brain on the left side, which figures why your right eye is still struggling to catch up. You just have to relax and let your body do its job.”

Mariana nodded and had resulted to silence when Nevada piped up, “How long?”

“Anywhere from a couple of days to a couple of weeks. We really do not know,” he offered simply.

“When can I—” Mariana’s musings had been put to a stop when the NICU nurse walked, rolling a fussy newborn baby in.

Nevada placed his coffee cup on the rolling tray lodged between Mariana’s bed and the chair as he stood, approaching the shrieking baby. He thanked the nurse just as the doctor excused his self. He bounced his knees, shushing his son lovingly, and placing a kiss to the baby’s cheek.

“Ready to meet our son?” Nevada asked with a smirk.

“Son?” Mariana said in a low gasp. “Ian…”

“Matías Alexander Ramirez,” Nevada corrected. “Meet the most incredible woman you’ll ever meet,” he finished, handing Mariana their son.

Mariana stretched her neck, waiting for Nevada’s impending kiss upon her lips. As soon as skin-to-skin contact had been made, Matías sighed, opening his beautiful eyes to search his mother’s face.

Mariana lowered the hospital gown at her shoulders. “He prefers the right one,” Nevada said with a wink.

“Nevada,” Mariana warned, adjusting the baby to suckle with the nurse’s help and guidance.

Once Matías latched, Mariana sighed, feeling tears spring into her eyes. She listened to the suckling noises he made, running her free hand through the soft jet strands on the baby’s head. She saw as her teardrop startled Matías and she chuckled ruefully, wiping away the tear from his face.

“Seven pounds, thirteen ounces, and twenty inches of pure Ramirez,” Nevada gloated, sitting down on the recliner that had become his home throughout Mariana and Matías’ hospital stay. Mariana smacked her teeth, unable to contain her happiness as she looked at him. “I told you he likes the right one.”

“You would know,” she bit her lip, turning to face her child once more. “Vada… ¡mira qué hermoso!”

“Tiene a quién salir,” he finished, tipping his chin in the air causing Mariana to giggle softly.

She was mesmerized by the beauty and easiness of the baby’s face. What once seemed like a dream, something she’d thought she could have, but after having faced Ricky’s abuse had been torn from her life, seeing the miracle that was her son in her arms had made her particularly emotional. It could’ve also been the fact that for a month, the uncertainty that clouded her mind every day on whether or not she would see this pregnancy through, or worst, the thought of her never getting the chance to meet her son, had her sitting with airs of elation.

She’d made good on the promise she’d made to her child: Nevada would get them out of there and they would be together once more.

She sighed, all love-filled, and she raised her elbow, allowing for greater reach and to place her lips upon Matías’ relaxed brow.

He was suckling contently, the veiny, thin flesh of his hooded lids protecting the beautiful shine of his eyes. His tiny fists were tucked under his chin, yet it was the steady beating of his heart that most excited Mariana. Being able to hold her child in her arms for the first time, to provide him that comfort, had her floating on cloud nine.

She turned towards Nevada with a smile, “What happened to Ian? I thought we were set on Ian as a name.”

Nevada smirked, basking in her happiness. “He was named Ian… for about two hours,” he smirked, biting his lip. “Then, I stared at him, and he didn’t look like a Ian Ramirez, but Matías…” he clicked his tongue. “Matías Ramirez es un hombre de palabra y autoridad… como su papá,” he finished with a wink.

Mariana shook her head, glancing down at Matías as he elicited a soft coo. “Why Matías?” she asked, smiling down at her newborn.

“Gift of God,” Nevada looked at Mariana, thoroughly in love with her. “Just like his mother.”

Mariana bit her lip, giving her newborn once more all the attention she harbored.

Nevada hummed; engulfed in all the love he had for the both of them. “Chiquita,” he called out for her hearing her hum. “Mírame,” he asked of her and once she smiled at him he admitted his love for her: “Te amo.”

Mariana’s smile grew on her face, biting her lip furtively, “Te amo, más, papi.”

tags: @bananas-pajamas @scarletsoldierrr @imjustreallynosy @katierpblogg @angelicdestieldemon

#me #chiquita #chiquita series #trouble in the heights #Nevada #Nevada ramirez #nevada ramirez x reader #nevada x reader #fanfiction #fanfic #Raul Esparza #chapter 18 #blood #hostage

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bothsandneithers · 3 years

Text

Day 3327

I need to hurry up and write this, because I am forgetting how miserable I was. This is not part of an effort to ensure that I don't repeat this process over again (perhaps as some may be tempted to do after childbirth). Instead, this exercise is consistent with my tendency to ask my friends to describe the most uncomfortable and unfortunate parts of their vacations. Who wants to hear a story that could more succinctly be conveyed within the narrow pages of a travel brochure? To adapt this question to the present situation: Who wants to hear a series of events that could be more adequately summarized by a few pages in a student handbook?

I’m sure that someone could have a field day by drawing parallels between giving birth to a child and writing a dissertation. While this is not my story to tell, I have described my experience by drawing upon the image of a mother who harnesses supernatural strength to lift a car off of her child. The listener is then immediately confused, and I then have to clarify that, in this metaphor, I am both the mother and the child, and that the dangerous, debilitating, threat of the car, is my dissertation.

It may be more effective if I am more direct: I want everyone to know that I (as the small child) was quite miserable, and I (as the mother) accomplished something that I thought was more than I could handle.

I imagine that if a car did end up on a small child, then the entire situation would invoke so much stress on the mother that she may not ever be able to recount exactly what happened during those subsequent moments. In a different way, of course, and for reasons I am still trying to understand, I too remember very little from the summer and early fall leading up to my defense.

In the place of memories, I find myself relying on artifacts to represent months and events that I cannot recall. One such set of artifacts are the six or so issues of The Atlantic magazine that have been set aside into a small pile; each one received a small verbal promise that I would open the pages after my defense. Now, as I review the covers, I imagine that they may never be read. Below are some of the stress-inducing cover stories of these abandoned issues:

How to destroy a government: The president is winning his war on American institutions.

How QAnon is warping reality and discrediting science.

The election that could break American.

How did it come to this? Why the virus won.

In the early days of lockdown, when the virus was beginning to take hold of its victory, I read this explanation for why most of us are not thriving right now: In order to flourish, one must be able to play several different human roles over the course of the day -- something that is arguably impossible when we rarely leave our dwellings.1

After reading this explanation, I starting clinging to the argument that the overwhelming reason why completing my dissertation had become so difficult was because of an absence of variability in my human roles. Even though none of my other typically played human roles were terribly interesting (commuter, friend, peer, coffee shop customer, gym patron), each one offered me respite from the singular human role that I was stuck with: The neurotic graduate student.

The neurotic graduate student human role was difficult to be around, because she was always worried about so many things: that her arguments weren't good enough, that there were errors in her code, that she should be able to understand certain concepts that were still evading her, that more time-intensive analyses were still required, and that overturning new stones would reveal that previous analyses or assumptions were wrong or incomplete. More simply, the neurotic graduate student human role was always worried that she was not good enough.

This persona can be debilitating, and I found that the act of writing a dissertation included a lot of time not actually writing, but rather, a substantial amount of time was devoted to sitting in paralyzing anxiety, not able to do anything.

Even though many of the weeks leading up to my due date were a blur, I do recall choosing this time to watch One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Perhaps I did this because misery loves company. I decided to view this odd movie choice in a particular odd format, whereby I watched the movie in 15 minute intervals, across several nights, as if savoring a segmented Toblerone.

I watched the first few segments in stoic sympathy with the characters, but I eventually found myself amused when Jack Nicholson realizes that almost all the residents are “voluntary”:

You can go home any time you want? You're bullshittin' me. He's bullshittin' me right? Cheswick, you're voluntary? Scanlon? Billy, for chrissakes you must be committed, right? I mean, you're just a young kid, what're you doin' here? … I mean, you guys do nothing but complain about how you can't stand it in this place here and then you haven't got the guts just to walk out?

I remember smiling for a few moments at this scene; it was a gentle reminder that I invited this stress into my life, and that I could, indeed, bring it all to an end if I really wanted to. The smile was fleeting, and felt similar to when you are crying, and your friend says something that is true and funny to try and make you feel better, and you laugh and it feels really good but it also reminds you of how bad you feel, and how far away you are from feeling like yourself.

Yet again, someone else might have a field day drawing parallels between today’s academic environment and a fictional mental institution from the 1970s. I can't do this, in part because, aside from that one scene, I don’t actually remember what happens in the movie.

I did, however, voluntarily lock myself in a hotel room to write, because the suffocating familiarity of my home was preventing me from generating any new sentences. A sticker had been placed between the room's door and its frame, denoting that the room had been thoroughly cleaned. Surely this was only intended to be a symbolic seal to provide some peace of mind that it was safe and acceptable to be outside of one's house.

Once inside the room (that seemed no cleaner than in the absence of a pandemic), I did not immediately initalize my plan to write incessantly. Instead, I desultorily found myself on a support group on reddit that was dedicated to "PhD stress." Feeling compelled to write anything that was not my dissertation, I made a post targeted at those who were also writing their dissertations during a pandemic:

What you are doing right now is really, really hard.

Under "normal" conditions, you would be facing a sheer amount of uncertainty with your work (e.g., not knowing how analyses will turn out, not knowing what your advisor will think of your progress, etc). Under these new conditions, you are dealing with the uncertainty of the state of the world (pandemic), the government (upcoming election -- if in the US), as well as your dissertation! These are absurd conditions, whereby any one of these things would undoubtedly have negative impacts on your well being.

For many, you went from having an entire support group of peers, to sitting in your bedroom, day in and day out, trying to come up with novel ideas and effective ways to communicate these ideas.

As such, I urge you to take care of yourself. I urge you to give yourself permission to ignore unwanted criticism that, while in other circumstances you may work hard to address. Now, in this current context, just don't. Give yourself permission to stop perpetuating the idea that your work and your psyche should not be impacted by the fact that nothing is the same right now.

Defend your ideas, yes. And do good work (-- nah, do good enough work). But know that you are defending your work under surreal circumstances. Account for this when you wake up tomorrow, move four feet from your bed to your desk, and try to do the same thing over again.

Overnight, this became the most popular post in the subreddit’s history. Admittedly, there aren’t a lot of members in this particular community (it should also be noted that this post was recently surpassed in popularity by a post entitled, “PhD has destroyed my mental health”). Still, several users responded with something along the lines of, “Thank you. I needed to hear this.”

I needed to hear those words too -- that is one reason why I wrote them. But I was also desperate to play another human role; one who ambiguously could have already made it to the other side of the dissertation defense, and was able to offer encouragement to those close to the finish line.

Soon after my hotel stay, where I eventually did find motivation to write, I was set to defend my dissertation. This was met with the opportunity to transform into another human role: someone who was nearing the end of her graduate student career, and had no choice but believe that her work was good enough.

The dissertation defense took place via video conferencing. I sat at my desk in my make-shift office in my bedroom.

Five kind and smart professors asked me kind questions that made me feel smart.

And that was it.

After the defense, the stress began to fade away. I recalled the wise words that my therapist once said, “It’s remarkable how, after the defense, people just won’t need anything from you anymore.” I made edits to my dissertation and submitted my final version. I dismantled my “home office” and replaced it with a reading chair and a plant. A new issue of The Atlantic arrived in the mail, and now with time, cognitive space, and optimism that this issue would not be as depressing as the others, I started to read.

I opened to an article about a historian who predicts that the United States is about to experience a terrible decade. He blames this on the overproduction of elites. ("There are still only 100 Senate seats, but more people than ever have enough money or degrees to think they should be running the country.") These elites find alternative ways to disrupt the status quo to influence people; the elite overproduction "creates counter-elites, and counter-elites look for allies among the commoners.”2

Although the article was compelling, it did not feel like appropriate material, as one does not work tirelessly through graduate school to then be compared to Steve Bannon.

I continued to the next article which was about young adults (or old children) who post things to a social media platform I’ve never used (TikTok). Not only do they create short videos that are viewed by millions of viewers, but there is an entire industry of these individuals, and they curate their content together in the mansions that they cohabitate (I am yet to grasp the monetization of this endeavor).3

I settled into my chair. Finding myself enjoying my new human role as a casual observer to an unknown world, I thought: What an absolutely absurd life pursuit.

xx,

Amy, PhD

https://nplusonemag.com/issue-37/the-intellectual-situation/epilogue-for-a-way-of-life/ ↩︎

https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2020/12/can-history-predict-future/616993/ ↩︎

https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2020/12/charli-damelio-tiktok-teens/616929/ ↩︎

#phd

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enneagramspam · 4 years

Text

SAMANTHA BARNES

9w8

“I didn’t know what it would be like…. Caring about people. People who are alive. How wonderful and terrifying it all is. I didn’t know that my actions could have consequences because they never did before. Not since…well. I never had an effect on the world around me. And I got used to that. But that hasn’t been true for a while now…”

Sam is introduced in The Bright Sessions as so deeply disintegrated, she appears very much like a Six- incredibly anxious, obsessed with anticipating and managing possible threats, so desperate to avoid conflicts- internal and external- that she self-isolates to the point that she rarely leaves the house and has no social relationships to speak of. As an unhealthy Nine, she struggles with asserting herself and has difficulties with change that result in an inertia that pervades every aspect of her life, despite, as Dr Bright puts it, a great desire to find “order in the chaos,” and to create lasting peace of mind for herself and her loved ones. While as the series progresses, she goes on to confront her basic fears and move in the direction of her basic desires, proceeding generally towards integration, the stressors she faces contribute to disintegrated behaviour displayed even late into the series.

Basic Desire: To have inner stability "peace of mind"

“I have an Olympic gold medal in shutting myself off from the world.”

Like many Nines, Sam is often extremely conflict averse. Indeed, she’s introduced as diffident and eager to please;

“I’m Sam, Samantha, my name is Samantha Barnes but you can call me Sam. Or Samantha. Either one is fine, whatever you’re comfortable with. It’s your office.”

Sam’s tendency to self-isolate is not only a result of her fear of loss, but a result of that desire for “peace of mind,”- Sam’s anxiety disorder is severe enough to be triggered by mundane things, and she finds herself “nervous” about day-to-day activities including “grocery shopping,” and “talking to people,”- so she does what so many Nines do, and turns to avoidance as much as possible. For instance, she mentions no longer being able to attend the cinema because the darkness and noise is triggering, and only makes microwave meals in case she time-travels while using the stove and burns her house down. Even her time-travel itself, as much stress as it causes her, is a manifestation of her desire for stability, and dictated by her inner landscape;

Dr Bright: “I think the [time travel is] your body’s way of trying to calm down during a panic attack. When you’re in emotional or physical turmoil, your body transports you to a different place that it deems safe. As if it's choosing flight over fight…”

Sam: “So I’m basically just always trying to find calm.”

It’s important to note that at first, Sam enjoys her “visits,” to different time periods as welcome escapes from the stresses of her everyday life. This atypical coping mechanism is comparable to the fantasies and daydreams real life Nines will often retreat into.

However, somewhat unusually for a Nine, Sam is well aware of her state of inertia from the start of the story and she repeatedly expresses a desire to break out of it;

“I’m tired of waiting

I’m tired of hiding

I’m tired of wanting,”

Her way of living, fine-tuned as it is to avoid conflict wherever possible, becomes in and of itself a source of internal conflict in an unhappy, self-perpetuating cycle;

“When I [time travel], I’m nowhere. I’m invisible. I’m no one. And it’s not better here [in the present], where I have no life, no friends. I don’t exist anywhere! I’m so scared of everything and I’m starting. To lose. My mind!”

It’s Sam’s desire for genuine internal stability that necessitates that she abandon her dependence on avoidance and self-isolation. Nines are often described as being “asleep,” both to their true nature and the world around them. Apart from comparing living her life to “sleepwalking,” this pervasive numbness is something Sam struggles with- her lifestyle leaves her feeling like “[her] brain [isn’t] being fully used.” While she was aware of it, it took meeting Mark, whom she describes as her “catalyst,” to change her behaviour and mindset.

“Working with Joan, and meeting you, and saving you it- it woke me up. It gave me a purpose…”

“I think somewhere amongst all the tragedy, and the panic, and the loneliness, I forgot how to be a person. Or, at least, the person I can be. And now I feel like I’m waking up for the first time in a decade.”

It takes a glimpse of that reflection of her self-imprisonment in Mark, confined against his will, (“I know what that’s like - to be trapped like that,”) to prompt the realisation that the only way out is through, and spur her into action in efforts to achieve peace in the long term for the pair of them;

“I’ve spent my whole life afraid, it’s nothing new. I’m not going to walk away. Even before talking to him, I could have never lived with myself if I let someone rot in the past like that. Now that I have talked to him, well, I want to get him out as much as you do.”

Coming to terms with her own agency is a frightening process for her, as she herself admits;

Sam: “Whatever I am, I think what’s important is that I finally have options.”

Chloe: “And that’s terrifying on its own.”

Sam: “Right. “

Chloe: “But it’s not terrifying in the same way as before.”

Sam: “No.”

It invites conflict in a way that undermines her inner stability, but, crucially, she begins to recognise that standing still has done the same. Compounded with the other stresses she faces throughout the series, Sam is left between a rock and a hard place, due to the conflict that arises when, to achieve her basic desire, she must confront her basic fear;

“I’m- I'm just stuck. But I don’t want to wait anymore. I want to move forward with you but I have no idea how. So I just keep pretending. I keep pretending that I know what I’m doing, that I’m confident in my decisions, that I know how to help…. I’m just- I'm not sure I’ve ever been this lost.”

Basic Fear: Of loss and separation

“I’ve been sleepwalking through my life - just waiting for the other shoe to drop, to get stuck, or to hurt someone again, or for someone to find out about me and lock me up and experiment on me- god, I'm sorry.”

After the loss of her parents, Sam approaches her life in terms of mitigating the risks of potential personal losses. Consumed by this worry, she begins the series afraid to form attachments at all, living in fear of the possible impact of her uncontrollable time-travelling episodes, concerned that they could drive others away or bring harm to them.

Dr. Bright: “And no one has even seen this happen?”

Sam: “Um, I just tend to avoid…um. People.”

As time-travelling causes her to disappear without warning, they are by their nature a sort of forcible, unpredictable separation, and as such, force her to live with the threat of her basic fear constantly;

“I’m terrified all the time. When I’m not actively disappearing I’m worried about disappearing. I’m worried about, about being caught, about hurting someone, about not coming back.”

The death of her parents- the result of a car accident when she vanishes from the driver’s seat- is what causes Sam’s basic fear to become entangled with her time-travelling to begin with, causing her to live in a state of extreme anxiety, functioning much of the time more like an unhealthy Six than a Nine. Even after her parents’ deaths, much of Sam’s life is dictated by a fear of losing her memories of, and feelings of closeness to, her late parents- a fear, by own admission, of a further loss, despite the fact that she has already “lost,” them in the physical sense;

“Don’t you get it? I can’t lose them again. I owe it to them to remember.”

Ultimately, this fear leads Sam to shape her life around remaining close to them, which further perpetuates her own isolation;

“I’m just a ghost, haunting this city, moving their things from house to house like some sort of shrine. That’s— I know. I know how bad that is. I’ve been living with the dead for so long - in my house, in the past, in my own head...”

The idea of moving away from the area where they raised her is anxiety-inducing enough to send her into a panic attack. This fear of change pervades other relationships in Sam’s life as well; while visiting Mark, still, trapped in the past, she neglects to tell him that she is working on a solution with his sister ostensibly because of the potential conflict and complications to their relationship that conversation might involve;

Chloe: “I get it. You don’t want to burst the little bubble you guys are in.”

Sam: “Yeah. I’ve vaguely mentioned that I’m looking into solutions. But I haven’t wanted to make it seem too real, yet. I’ll tell him once we get it all figured out. Once we feel as confident as we can that it’ll work. I just, I don’t want to make promises to him I can’t keep. I don’t think I could stand to disappoint him.”

This is one of the earlier instances of Sam deliberately sweeping problems under the rug to avoid the potential turmoil and loss of relationship conflict, a pattern which continues particularly as her Eight wing starts to become more pronounced.

When Sam does find new relationships, much of her energy becomes invested towards trying to ensure she won’t lose the comfort they introduce to her life and the people she cares for- her relationship with Mark is arguably largely defined by her desire not to lose him;

“I’m scared for you. I just want to keep you safe.”

Her nightmares reflect these fears- in Episode 50: Rose, she has a dream during which she- quite literally- loses Mark in their new home, and suffers a panic attack upon being unable to find him and she goes on to express a belief that losing him is in fact, an inevitability;

“He’s just like everyone else,

He’ll soon be in your past,”

Though he makes her “want to believe,” she describes this as a “want to be foolish”- her experiences have led her to believe the idea of keeping Mark is an unattainable dream- more of an expectation than a fear. The dread that comes with this supposed inevitably remains intense late into the series, and contributes to the breakdown of their relationship;

“I love you and it’s…it's like having a stomach ache all the time. And I keep doing things to try and make it less painful and none of it works. Because you’re you and I’m me and our lives are just filled with uncertainty and danger.”

The potential loss is all she can focus on- to the point that she loses the peace and stability being with Mark previously brought her- being in love with him is “a stomach ache,”- in this state of disintegration, Sam’s basic fears are so overpowering that her basic desires are completely out of her reach. To avoid this situation precisely, Sam, who understands that life is inherently rife with both internal and external conflict, tries to acknowledge and accept her fears;

“Dr. Bright and I have spent a lot of time talking about acceptance. She’s told me that, even if I do get my ability totally under control, I might still have the occasional panic attack and leave without meaning to. And that I should try to accept that. Life is going to be stressful. Bad things are going to happen. It’s about how you respond that matters and that’s- that's what I’m trying to figure out.”

But this still isn’t something she has fully come to terms with by the end of The Bright Sessions, leading her to make mistakes in her desperation to control her circumstances and hold onto that which she fears to lose.

Disintegration to Six:

“It’s about survival, Sam // Never let down your guard,”

As aforementioned, Sam spends much of her life seriously disintegrated, and isolating herself out of fear. Dr. Bright describes the Sam she first meets as “malleable and desperate,” lacking “trust in herself,”- the caricature of an unhealthy Six. Gripped by an anxiety disorder, threat-obsessed, and in dire need of support, latching onto Dr. Bright even as she maintains a deep suspicion of her, Sam has all the hallmarks. Beginning to establish supportive relationships, her anxious tendencies do lessen a bit- but they are so familiar and habitual to her that she practically defines herself by them. It even becomes something of a running joke between her and Mark;

“You know, you can take the cape off for a day, Anxiety Girl. The world is not going to crumble around you ... No, no, it’s alright. You’re always preparing for the worst, I get it.”

Her desire to protect is something that ties into her Eight wing (see below) but her constant vigilance and her distrust towards authorities such as the A.M. which underpin this desire are an unsurprising symptom of her disintegration, as is the ‘us vs. them,’ viewpoint and perception of constant danger- though, admittedly, it’s somewhat justified given her circumstances.

Sam: “You’re asking me to retreat. I’ve done that too many times before—”

Mark: “Retreat? It's not a war, Sam—”

Sam: “It kind of is. And I have a family to protect—”

Integration to Three:

“I do want to do something with my life. Something productive, worthwhile.”

During The Bright Sessions, Sam doesn’t have much opportunity to demonstrate how she would look when integrated. By the end of the series, she still reacts with knee-jerk worry in the face of potential conflict;

Dr. Bright: “Is that a slight against my scotch supply?”

Sam: “No, no, god— I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-”

But by no means is she quite as averse to it as she was to begin with;

Sam: “You’re teasing me, aren’t you?”

Sam begins to show tendencies of the healthy Three, becoming more self-developing and energetic, when she finds a project- namely, the improvement of the A.M.- to which she can lend her expertise and strengths. Early in the series, she describes herself as being tired of adventures- but newly ambitious, she begins to take a different tune;

Dr. Bright: “Do you think you’re ready? For another new adventure?”

Sam: “Yeah, I think I am.”

w8:

“Imagine what I could do if I was trying, if I had full control.”

At the start of the series, Sam feels completely out of control, like any unhealthy Eight- she views herself as at the mercy of her time travel and her anxiety disorder. In this desperate situation, her self-isolation is an effort at maintaining control in the only way that she believes she can. Dr. Bright recognises this desire for control, and appeals to it when trying to convince her to harness her powers.

“You can learn to control it.”

And as the series draws on, Sam becomes very occupied the idea (“I want to take control,”) and her Eight-wing becomes more and more apparent. When she gains some control over her ability, she soon becomes frustrated that she can’t have complete control over it- this is something she has to “try to accept.” This desire for perfect control after dealing with a complete lack of it for years might seem counterintuitive, or even ungrateful, but it demonstrates the importance of control as a motivator for Sam, and more critically, her fundamental discomfort confronting a lack of it.

Like many Nines, Sam is initially out of touch with her anger, to the point that it’s something she jokes about;

“I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. Well, you know, if I had enemies, that is.”

But when given proper incentive, she begins to exhibit the “intense eruption[s] of anger,” common to Nines who typically default to repressing it, and especially to Nines with an Eight wing- as when she punches Damien after he abducts Mark, surprising herself and those around her. In comparison with Nines, Eights are typically far more familiar with their tempers, and nothing is as likely to provoke them as the feeling that they (or their loved ones) are being manipulated or controlled against their will. Sam repeatedly lashes out in reaction to precisely this fear- early on in the series when she feels “manipulated,” by Dr. Bright, for example, and towards anyone who contributed to confining or controlling Mark (Dr. Bright again during Zero Hour, and Agent Green when he starts to “check up on” her.)

Also like a typical Eight, Sam shows repeated reluctance when it comes to expressing vulnerability- she has issues talking openly with Mark and while she initially describes his respect for her privacy to Chloe as one of the reasons why she likes him, her self-described habit of “keeping [him] at arm’s length,” becomes a problem when they enter a genuine relationship, contributing to the communication issues between the pair of them;

“I love you so much. Do you know that? No, I mean, how could you, it’s not like I’ve ever told you.”

More importantly, Sam’s desire and subsequent efforts to maintain control over her newly dangerous environment eventually lead her to go, in her own words, “full tilt control freak.” Enneagram Institute describes this as a need “to keep the environment, and especially other people, from hurting them and those they care about,” all the while cloaked “in a layer of emotional armor.” Sam likens herself repeatedly to Mark’s “knight in shining armor,”- at first seemingly jokingly, but it’s a role she takes to heart- usually revisited when she perceives that she has failed to keep him safe- and eventually she extends the metaphor to include “dragon[s]”- the potential dangers posed by the various people threatening Mark’s safety;

Mark: “You were still my knight in shining armor. You saved me from the dragon.”

Sam: “But what if there are other dragons? I don’t know how to fight every kind of dragon, you know? If I don’t know what kind of fire they breathe or how resistant you are to that fire—”

Mark: “This metaphor is getting away from you, babe—”

Sam: “I need to know how to keep you safe. And I don’t want to do anything that makes you uncomfortable - I know there are things that you don’t want to talk about and I respect that but-”

It’s the unfortunate combination of her desire to maintain control as a result of her Eight wing, and her tendencies away from interpersonal conflict and vulnerability as a Nine with an Eight wing specifically, that lead her to violate Mark’s privacy in the manner that she does- time travelling into the past to observe his personal traumas at the AM and contacting Damien, both without his consent or knowledge, rather than confronting him directly. She does come to realise that she’s becoming an embodiment of exactly that which she fears, undermining the autonomy of those she loves, and hurting them in the process;

Sam: “This isn’t— I’m not this person. I don’t want to be this person.”

Damien: “And what person is that?”

Sam: “The kind that tries to make decisions for other people. I can’t do this.”

Returning, even, to the armor metaphor, realising at last the fundamental flaw in her approach;

“I’ve just been grasping at anything that I could use as armor even if it meant leaving somebody else defenseless.”

“I don’t want to lose him but, even more than that, I don’t want to hurt him.”

What this fear of and desire for control betrays is an unusually well developed Eight-wing, most likely forged in the crucible of what Dr. Bright describes as “loss, and wars, and repeated physical traumas in the form of time manipulation,”- the absence of safety that builds an Eight. It is this same set of experiences and traits that lends Sam genuine strength and willpower that allows her to lead and effectively protect her loved ones in better circumstances. In Safe House, her efforts to take charge of the situation offers a glimpse of her potential, and by the time The AM Archives takes place, she is able to call upon her assertiveness in times of crisis, encouraging Mags and keeping mostly collected in the face of extreme danger. But throughout most of The Bright Sessions itself, Sam’s Eight wing generally manifests in ways that ultimately cause damage to her relationship with herself and those around her.

#Samantha Barnes #9w8 #Type 9 #The Bright Sessions #enneagram #The Bright Sessions Spoilers #The AM Archives

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maybrandon · 4 years

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Reiki Symbol Coloring Page Sublime Unique Ideas

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#Reiki Symbol Coloring Page Sublime Unique Ideas #Reiki Therapy Training

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a-frozenheart · 7 years

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Ice Queen || Graduation

Deep breath in, deep breath out. Stay poised and composed. Watch your footing and don’t trip on the stairs. Keep your eyes on the Headmistress or the windows or the walls, don’t look out at the crowd. Cast one little spell and then it’s over. You’ll be fine, Elsa. Stop stressing. Keep it together.

Elsa repeated those words to herself in her head, trying to settle her nerves. This was it, she was finally graduating. The Headmistresses stood behind the podium, giving her end of the year speech for all the seventh years - wishing them a bright future and grateful to have been able to watch them all grow and such - as Elsa sat in the front row (everyone was sitting in alphabetical order), nervously fiddling with her wand. She was going to be the first student called up - an unfortunate perk of having an ‘A’ last name. Fiona Babette sat a few seats away from her, looking as beautiful as ever. A little ways down the row she spotted Mocha Chino, a Slytherin who she knew from many of her classes but had never really spoken to before.

Her gaze fell upon the nearly floor to ceiling length windows behind the professors. Outside the sky was a bright blue and clouds gently floated across the otherwise empty expanse of space. Elsa hadn’t gone outside at all that day, but she knew it was warm out. If she let her mind drift away into a daydream she could almost feel the sun on her face, a summer’s breeze flying past her, long blades of grass brushing against her ankles. Elsa dreamed of summer, of feeling warm. It was a shame the heat had such a significant effect on her, confining her to the indoors where it was cool. If only…

“Elsa Arendelle,” A voice rang out through the Great Hall, effectively knocking Elsa out of her thoughts.

She took a deep breath and stood up from her chair. Elsa felt everyone’s eyes on her, following her every move, but she stayed composed. The Headmistress stood off to the side of the platform with a small smile on her face, making room for the head girl to take center stage. Her heels clicked sharply against the ground with every step she took, almost echoing throughout the silent room, a sound that only softened once her shoes met the wood of the short set of stairs that led up to the stage.

Elsa gave the Headmistress a polite nod of her head accompanied by a close-lipped smile. She still wanted to know why the woman chose her of all people to be head girl, but she’d refrained from doing so out of fear she’d come across as ungrateful for the position. The Ravenclaw raised her wand and turned on her heel to face the crowd of her peers, ready to preform the spell she’d chosen and officially graduate.

Except when she turned around all the students were gone. From the looks of it she certainly wasn’t in the Great Hall anymore. If she had to guess, she’d say they were in a church. Pews of men and women dressed in formal attire sat staring up at her- wait, why was everyone looking at her? She glanced downwards a bit and saw she was holding an orb in one hand and a scepter in the other - and her hands were bare. Where were her gloves?! Icy slowly began to spread out from her fingers, creeping up the metal of the orb and scepter.

“Queen Elsa of Arendelle!” A voice behind her declared, waking her from her panic ridden thoughts. She quickly turned around, wanting to see who had spoke, but completely ignored the man the moment she saw her gloves. Well, not her exact gloves, but Elsa couldn’t imagine who else they would belong to.

The crowd had barely finished repeating “Queen Elsa of Arendelle” when Elsa rushed to put the royal looking items back onto their pillow and, in a flash, slip on her gloves. She turned back to the smiling faces of the crowd, finding it hard to swallow properly. Why was she being called a queen? Was this some kind of surprise test all the seventh years had to go through before graduating? Before she could think anymore on the matter the world began to get blurry and she felt dizzy.

All she did was blink and suddenly she was somewhere new. It was a ballroom of some sorts, filled with double the number of people that had been at the coronation. Ahead of her were the doors leading out of the great hall, but before she could take another step towards them someone grabbed her glove.

With a gasp she spun around, reaching for the stolen glove in panic, “Give me my glove!”

Anna - she didn’t look exactly like her Anna, but she somehow instinctively knew this was her sister - held the glove against her chest, out of the older girl’s reach, “Elsa, please. Please. I can't live like this anymore.”

Elsa’s voice was weak, as was her heart, “...Then leave.” She didn’t know why she said it, the words just spilled from her lips before she had time to think about their repercussions. If she was being quite honest, Elsa didn’t entirely know what she meant by ‘leave’. It just felt like that was what she was supposed to say. The hurt expression on her sister’s face made her regret her words and almost caused the tears she didn’t realize she’d been holding back spill down her cheeks. She turned, needing to leave the situation before she let her emotions get the best of her.

She’d taken only two steps before Anna called out to her, “What did I ever do to you?!”

“Enough, Anna,” Elsa kept moving towards the door, hoping to get there before Anna had time to cause a scene; though the silence in the room told that causing a scene was no longer avoidable. This all felt so familiar, almost eerily similar to what happened at the Yule Ball. Ziggy wasn’t here to rescue her this time though, no one was going to grab her glove out of the hands of a princess of Arendelle (if she was queen that made Anna a princess, right?).

She should have known her sister wouldn’t slink back in defeat. Anna always put up a fight, and now was no exception, “No, why? Why do you shut me out? W-Why do you shut the world out? What are you so afraid of?!”

Her patience worn thin, Elsa whirled around to face Anna, “I said enough!” Her gloveless left hand fell from its secure spot against her chest as she turned, following her motion in the form of an angry gesture. The magic she’d so desperately tried to conceal for years shot out from her exposed palm, causing a wall of ice spikes to erupt across the floor. The hall was filled with a collection of gasps and, in some cases, shouts, as everyone stumbled back away from the icy border.

No one was more horrified than the queen herself. She now clutched the offended hand tightly against her chest once more as she gazed upon the scene she’d caused with wide, terrified eyes. What had she done? How could she have let her temper get the best of her? All the years of seclusion, hiding both her powers and herself from the world, and for what? In one moment they’d all just been wasted.

“Sorcery,” She heard the Duke of Weselton mutter as he moved behind one of his men. “I knew there was something dubious going on here.”

Elsa stepped back, her right hand latching onto the doorknob. In a flash, she pushed the door open and sprinted out of the hall, leaving everyone in a shocked silence. The corridors she ran through were familiar somehow and she ran through them with a foreign knowledge of the way that led out of the castle. The courtyard. That’s where she needed to go. That’s where - she hoped - she’d find solace.

The doors leading outside were heavy, but with her fear-induced adrenaline she managed to push them both open. To her horror, all the citizens of Arendelle had gathered in the courtyard, hoping to catch a glimpse of their new queen. The crowd greeted her with clapping and smiling, completely naive to what had occurred in the ballroom. To her left she heard heavy footsteps approaching. With a gasp she pulled up the front of her gown and hurried down the steps.

She struggled to navigate through the still-clapping crowd, sidestepping everyone in her path. Joyous shouts of “Queen Elsa!” and “It’s really her!” rang through the courtyard. She felt everyone’s eyes on her and found it hard to swallow. This wasn’t a some strange, surprise test the school did before graduation. It couldn’t be, no one knew her secret. And even if they somehow did, how could the headmistress be so cruel as to inflict this kind of anxiety and fear upon the head girl? No, this was all very much real. Elsa came to a halt in front of a woman holding a newborn, “Your majesty, are you alright?”

Disconcerted, Elsa frantically looking around at the celebratory crowd, slowly backing up into a fountain. Both her hands instinctively shot backwards to grasp the edge. Long, thin shards of ice fanned out from where her gloveless hand touched the stone, ice traveling along the sides of the fountain and freezing the water solid. There was a collective gasp among the citizens as they looked up at the jagged looking ice sculpture. Elsa couldn’t peel her eyes away from what she’d done. Now everyone in the kingdom knew. The years and years her parents had spent keeping her magic a secret, everything they’d sacrificed for her, was for nothing.

“There she is! Stop her!” Elsa turned sharply when she heard the Duke shouting. Weselton guards stood on both sides of him and his finger was pointed directly at the queen.

“Please, just stay away from me,” Elsa pleaded that the Duke keep his distance, putting her hands in front of her in a defensive stance. “Stay away,” She’d barely even finished speaking when a blast of ice shot out from her hand in the direction of the front door the Dude stood in front of. The force of the magic caused the Duke his guards to stumble back, slipping on the new sheet of ice that blanketed the castle steps.

The Duke sat back up quickly, further provoked, “Monster... Monster!”

Elsa’s breath caught in her throat. A monster? She looked down at her hand, terrified of the danger it could inflict. She glanced around the fearful crowd, all of them quick to back away from her once she’d met their gaze. Even the concerned woman who’d asked if she was alright held her child away from the queen. Yes, a monster. That’s exactly what she was.

She hitched up the front of her dress once more and ran. Behind her she heard the voice of her sister calling out for her, but she couldn’t stop. She needed to leave, find somewhere she’d be safe, but where? Outside the castle walls. Elsa didn’t know what she’d find there, but she felt that was where she needed to go. The world became a blur around her - she couldn’t focus on anything.

And then there was a door. Elsa raced towards it, her heart pounding in her chest. Once outside, she didn’t even notice the snowflakes that had begun floating through the air. She had a more pressing issue that was taking precedence in her mind. The fjord; the large body of water that separated the island castle from the rest of Arendelle. Separated Elsa from freedom.

“Elsa!” She heard Anna practically scream and spun around, looking up at the archway that her sister would run through in only a few moments. Elsa subconsciously began stepping backwards, not ready to face Anna. Her sister was the one person she wanted to protect more than anyone, what if she hurt her again? Just like when they were children.

Her foot stepped on something that wasn’t dirt and Elsa looked down with a gasp. Icy frost had spread out from where she stepped, freezing some of the nearby water. Could this be her means of escape?

“Wait! Please!” Anna emerged from the doorway, Prince Hans directly behind her. Elsa glanced over her shoulder one last time before taking a tentative step forward. The water underneath her foot froze immediately, creating solid ground to stand on. With a deep breath and a conflicted expression, Elsa began running across the water, freezing everything she touched.

The land opposite of her was covered by tall trees and mountains. It wasn’t a welcoming sight, but she couldn’t turn back. It was too late for that. She heard her sister call out to her from the shoreline. Maybe if she’d looked back she would have seen that she was freezing not only the water she stepped on, but the entire fjord itself. Once she’d reached the other side she paused for a moment to catch to her breath. A few stray tears rolled down her cheeks as she thought back to the look on Anna’s face. Elsa had hurt her, and scared her. She took a deep, shaky breath and closed her eyes, trying to regain control over her emotions before she had a meltdown.

When she opened them back up she was no longer on the shore of the fjord, she was standing up on stage in front of a crowd of students all looking up at her, waiting. She’d paused… but why? The memories of her time in Arendelle were gone, a feeling of unease left in their place. Her mind was a confused mess of emotions she didn’t understand. Only a moment ago she’d been composed and calm. Now she looked conflicted, distressed even. Her wand was raised in front of her, waiting for her to cast the charm she’d chosen for graduation. Why did she feel so strange?

Elsa didn’t know what compelled her to do it, but she didn’t cast the simple spell she’d decided upon. Her powers felt like they were practically bubbling beneath the surface of her skin, desperate to be let out. She took a deep breath and channeled the icy magic that flowed through her veins down her arm, through her glove, and out of the tip of her wand. Something blue and silver, shimmering in light, shot out of her wand. It was an orb, of sorts, that burst apart into a thousand sparkling snowflakes in the middle of the room far above everyone. For a moment Elsa felt like she couldn’t breathe. Why had she just done that?

However, as the snow flurries fell from the ceiling all the nerves she had bundled up inside her faded away. Everyone thought it was just a spell. A wordless spell that no one had seen done before, but a spell nonetheless. Her body grew less tense as she watched the snowflakes float down onto her peers. It was beautiful, not something she had thought her magic was capable of for a long time.

She turned and received her documentation from the headmistress, officially a Hogwarts graduate.

#fhwcgrad #golly gosh this was hard there were so many different scenes i wanted to do #gif bc it's pretty and why not?#selfie

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