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faofinn · 7 months

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25. Confused/Disorientated

READ CAREFULLY - This prompt contains graphic descriptions of self harm and attempted suicide (unsuccessful). Reader discretion advised. Trigger warning for depression, self harm and attempted suicide.

Fao's depression had fluctuated in hospital, as it had his whole life. He’d taken meds for a while in Uni, come off them before he joined the Army, stayed off during his service. The routine, the responsibility, the success he’d had at his job had kept the ‘black dog’ at bay. He’d been clean for years whilst he’d been with Alex - they’d had the world at their fingertips, everything went the way it was supposed to. When the flares had come, when life had felt dark and hard and not worth living, she’d been there for him, to pick him up and urge him to carry on. His family had been too, supporting him and loving him and giving him a reason to keep going. After Alex had died things had been much, much worse, the harm had started and those thoughts that told him he’d be better off joining her had crept in, but with friends and family around him he’d kept himself safe, kept himself alive, though the scars on his arms that obscured tattoos bore the brunt of it.

The dark days were more frequent than the light ones in hospital. It was to be expected, he supposed - everyone stuck on the ward was in a bad place - but he’d muddled through as he always did. He spoke to his family, and Harrison, too. They picked each other up, supported each other as family did.

But today had been the worst day of all. He’d had a shouting match with Harrison overnight, something stupid that neither of them had meant but tensions had been high, tired and in pain, and cross words couldn’t be unsaid. They’d sat in stony silence all morning, staring at each other across the room and neither one wanting to back down. To make matters worse, he was due another surgery, and they came to take him to theatre at around 2. It was due to be complicated, with the agreement he’d be in the HDU overnight post-op, so Fao’s room was empty yet again. He hated staring at the empty bed space, worrying about his friend. Cross words aside, they were friends, Hell more than friends, half the time.

To make matters worse, the doctor who’d finally come to see him that afternoon had not been helpful in the slightest. He’d not met him before, and it was a good job, really. Fao admitted that his head wasn’t great, and was met with scorn. Apparently he should just stop thinking down, and get over himself. They wanted him out of hospital, he was wasting resources, and apparently they were stopping all of his painkillers too. According to him, he ‘shouldn’t be in pain anymore’ and the painkillers he’d been taking was ‘far too much’. By dinnertime, he was a mess. The pain was overwhelming, he couldn’t think straight. His head grew louder and louder, taunting him with thoughts he’d been successfully evading for days.

The doctor confirmed that he’d be medically discharged, that they’d started the process, and that his career was essentially over. Fao knew it had been coming, but it hurt, especially on top of everything else. He was in agony, desperately trying not to cry, and as much as he asked the nurses for painkillers, they’d just sadly shake their heads and explain there was nothing on his drugs chart, and they couldn’t get anyone to prescribe anything. He wanted to call Sheila, Fred, anyone, but Sheila hadn’t answered his earlier texts and he’d let his phone die after that. He didn’t even want to move, curled up in bed sobbing.

Eventually the tears stopped, and the thoughts started again. Goading him, telling him he was better off dead, that nobody cared. They wanted him to suffer, wanted him to be in pain. He deserved to be in pain. He was nothing but a burden. A burden to the staff, a waste of a bed, and when he was home he’d just be a burden to his family. He could barely walk without being in pain, how would he ever work again?

He stumbled to the toilet later that evening, sore and struggling with his crutches. The little ensuite had stopped working, of course, which meant he had to walk all the way out to the nurse’s station and to the toilet on the ward itself. It made the pain worse, and his breath caught with every step. They were understaffed that night, and the nurses’ station was empty when he walked past. It was on his way back, he noticed the tray that had been left. He had no idea why, but he glanced over it, and caught sight of a scalpel blade that had been discarded haphazardly. Still packaged, obviously it hadn’t been used and had been forgotten about. It was easy enough to lean against the desk and slip it into his hoodie pocket before he carried on back to the room. Still cold, still empty. He hated not knowing - none of the staff had told him how Harrison was getting on, and with no phone to find out from anyone else, he had no idea. He sat back on the bed, breathing heavily from the effort and the pain.

He slipped back under the blankets and tried to sleep, but it was useless. Every time he closed his eyes, all he could think of was that he was better off dead. His mind goaded him into ways that he could, telling him how his family would be better without him in it. They always had been better without him. They’d only adopted him out of pity, and without him they could focus on Finn, give him the attention he deserved. He just wanted the pain to end, the thoughts to end. He wanted everything to just stop. If he gave into the thoughts, it would stop. It would all stop.

The scalpel blade he’d pocketed called to him, and he slipped it from his pocket. The nurses wouldn’t bother him now, his obs were far enough apart, and it was easy to score the blade over his skin. But just to cut wasn’t enough, it wasn’t even close to enough. He needed the noise to stop, needed the pain to stop.

He found the ecg trace tattoo on his wrist, that he’d gotten for Finn not long after his accident, and dug the blade deep into the flesh. The blood welled quickly in the wound, hot and dark over his skin, obscuring the solid black line of the tattoo. His fingers were slick with blood, but he scored deep across the other wrist. He felt dizzy already, his vision swimming, and he struggled to stay upright. There was so much blood, he felt a flash of fear as he realised just what he’d done. It was harder and harder to stay conscious, the darkness taunting him. It grew on the edges of his vision, and he wanted to give in. He’d get some peace, some rest in the darkness. He knew that. He desperately craved it. Everything in his head told him it was right, that it was better that way. But the flash of fear in his heart said otherwise.

Slipping into the darkness, he found his call bell in his bed and fumbled to press the button, his fingers slipping. He managed, as the darkness overwhelmed him, pulling him down into unconsciousness.

His buzzer drew the attention of the staff, of course, and when a nurse came into his room to check on him, she found him in a state, the blood soaking the sheets, everywhere. She pulled the emergency bell, of course, and staff poured into the room. He went straight into theatre in an effort to control the bleeding and stabilise him. It was difficult, he didn’t make their lives easy, but eventually he pulled through and went to recovery, then up to ICU.

When Sheila was allowed to visit him, the nurse showed him to his bay, where he was laying motionless in the bed, save for the rise and fall of his chest. He was pale, too pale, even for him, oxygen over his face and lines all over the place, the central line obvious where it stuck out, his gown having slipped slightly off of his shoulder. He looked almost worse than when he’d just come back. They’d thought they’d gotten past it, but they were right back there. Blood was hanging along with endless other meds, and under the sheets, both wrists were heavily dressed. Fred had gone decidedly pale, and Sheila pressed her hand to her mouth, stifling a squeak. She forced her feet to move, and tucked his Eeyore under the sheets, resting on his chest. He’d want him, when he woke up. And it looked wrong to seem him without the little toy.

They kept him sedated for a day or so, for his own sake, and so they could get him stable. They transfused endless units until they were happy with his bloods, that he was healing okay, no infection, and then they started to wean him off the sedation.

Fao had had moments of lucidity, an awareness his parents were there, flares of pain that drew his attention, but it quickly dissipated in a haze of painkillers that helped him drift back into the comforting darkness. When he began to stir a little bit more, he couldn’t work out where he was, why he felt so heavy, why every breath dried his throat, something pressing into his face. Moving was hard, but his fingers found something soft, and his brows pulled together in a frown. He tried to work out what it was, the soft fur under his fingertips, trying to see. His vision was blurry, it was a fight to focus, but he realised it was his eeyore.

How had he gotten here? He didn’t remember what had happened, but he knew he wasn’t at home, the sheets were too scratchy, and the lights were too bright. It didn’t make sense, nothing did, but he was too hazy to really work it out. As he tried to move his wrist, he was met with a flare of pain that made him whine pathetically.

The room didn’t make sense, overwhelmingly blue, the lights harsh and unnatural. He couldn’t place it, not at first, but it didn’t frighten him. He didn’t know why, maybe it was the fuzziness in his head, making it feel so distant.

He must have drifted off into sleep, because when he woke again, everything felt a little clearer. Eeyore was still there, resting on his chest, but he recognised the material underneath him as a hospital gown with it’s distinctive patterning, and as his eyes flicked around the room again, he recognised it as a hospital ward, equipment everywhere. HDU? Intensive care? It was quiet, not loud enough to be a medical ward. His brain couldn’t work it out.

Eventually, things started to piece back together, his accident, the surgeries, everything, but it hadn’t been that. He’d not been down for any more surgeries, he was done. He tried to clear his throat, forcing another breath as the panic built a little bit. Why didn’t he remember? And then it all flooded back. It washed over him like a tidal wave, almost pulling the breath from his lungs. The guilt, the pain, the scalpel blade in trembling fingers, the blood. The fear, scrabbling for something, anything to get help, the enormity of what he’d tried to do crashing down on him. Evidently he’d failed, because he was here, but that didn’t stop the guilt. It threatened to choke him, overwhelmed and in pain, as he tried to move onto his side to curl up. He found he couldn’t, everything just too heavy and unco-operative. The tears started then, hot and angry, frustrated too. Everything just felt wrong, unclear and confusing, and he gripped his little Eeyore as he cried, a small flash of comfort amongst it all.

#sicktember 2023 #25. confused/disoriented #self harm tw #depression tw #suicide attempt tw #graphic description of suicide attempt #he survives #unsuccessful suicide attempt #suicide tw #Faolan Blackwood #Harrison Cunningham #Sheila Daniels #ICU #intensive care #this really is a dead dove do not eat fic #dark themes #depression #fao has a really hard time #bleeding out

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ysabelmystic · 11 months

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Oh so it turns out that the reason I feel so fucking weird sick and tired is probably because I literally witnessed horrors this week.

Hard to see that kind of shit and then go to work where the most important thing in the world is suddenly stocking the shelves and asking people how their weekend’s going. Because like yeah my week’s going great 😀👍 [I cannot say anything about my week because we’re not in the hospital and thus it’s too grim to share but also I’m looking at the alcohol in your cart and you’re telling me you’re going to a lakehouse and I’m thinking of the array of life-changing injuries I’ve seen that involved alcohol and lakes/lake houses]

#NICU ICU double whammied me hard #pretty sure I was less than a day off of witnessing my first death #it just feels very weird seeing certain things and then going out into society #tw death #tw trauma

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stingchronicity · 4 months

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when i tell u this holiday season has been shit .

#found out christmas eve my grandfather was in the icu. flew out to california w my dad on christmas day #saw my grandfather for the last time. flew back (dad is still there) bc i have to go to work #grandpa dies thursday morning #dad will be in california up to two more weeks bc they have to get a permit for the funeral etc #anyway. i feel like i haven't slept in a week #death tw #psychobabble

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solstice-snakes · 5 months

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im getting absolutely DOGPILED by the universe rn. extreme levels of debilitating shoulder pain, horrible nausea from arthritis meds, cant gain weight, migraines from stress, and this week we got horrible news that my partners cousin that he is very close to had a hemmorhagic stroke and is unlikely to recover and im just. beside myself. everything is so much. and i just have to keep working cause bills get paid on friday and its a LOT OF MONEY.

#delete later #death mention #weight mention #medical tw #stroke mention #we spent probably 4 or 5 hours at the hospitals icu last night with family and i was running on 4 hrs sleep

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rory-is-hiding · 10 months

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when dad got sick, our house flooded with people. someone was always waiting at every table and every couch for me, just sit down. when my dad was dying there was more family than before.

my mother liked it. its taken me two years to admit it, but she liked the attention. she played the game, she was tragic and miserable and perfect. she was not a good parent and she left her children to deal with it alone while she soaked up her moments of fame. the house was always full. nobody knew what to do, nobody knew how to console the children of a dying angry man.

food became inescapable. food was amy making us dinner so we could feel like family again, substitute parents swapped in and out of each seat. my mum wasnt ever hungry, shed sit on the couch medicated and vacant. food was nanny making tea and a plate of biscuits. food was the gift baskets people too far away to visit sent us with cards about how sorry they were. food was the premade dinners from coworkers, frozen and packed neatly into takeaway containers. food was the discounted groceries tamasha brought us from the store her friend worked at. food was the cafeteria downstairs from the icu where wed sit inbetween visiting hours and surgeries, distracting ourselves with iced coffees and toasted sandwiches. food was the granola bars in my aunts purse. just take one, itll give you some energy. food was the village that fasted for dad and his grieving mother. food was my pa's church group praying about it over tiny sandwiches and quiches. food was the intravenous nutrition the hospital fed him. food was the spare meals on the trolley after the rounds were over, sympathetic looks and trays silently placed on benches. all of the hospital staff knew who we were. food was a neurologist complimenting my comatose fathers weight loss. he looks thin, thats good. if i wasnt so sad i might have been angry. food was the guidance counciller offering me snacks in his office while we signed the 'special and extraordinary conditions' forms so i wouldnt fail. food was the chocolate bar my friend gave me while we walked to the hospital, she held my hand across the bridge. she hugged me. she let me cry. i was never embarassed in front of her. she was kind in a way only someone whos been through this knew how to be, like a secret club filled with clean pain and grief. food was the drug i swallowed to escape it. food was the graduation dress that was too big by the time i had to wear it, and the photos i cant look at. food was the comfort i didnt know how to accept. i was quiet, i didnt talk. i didnt want help. food was have you eaten? have something to eat with us before you go. food was i know youve been purging again. food was you look sick. food was everything and everyone my mother couldnt be for us.

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troubledwaters · 2 years

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#personal #self harm #self harm tw #self harm//#self harm/#self h@rm #hospitalized #hospital #anorexia tw #anorexia #anorexia nervosa #anorexia recovery #eating disorder tw #eating disorder recovery #eating disorder #ICU #sepsis #death #ng tube

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pistolslinger · 2 years

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@proditeur said:

it's late. he doesn't know how long they've been awake, only that he doesn't remember the touch of sleep and he barely recalls the feeling of a soft mattress under his limbs. he aches for the comfort of headquarters... for normalcy. for a time before all... this. someday, maybe, when they catch the culprit, he and jesper can return to the kingsman and their life on the run will be behind them.

for now, it's best to press on. regulus taps the edge of his spoon against the pot, shaking off the last flecks of rice that he's just portioned into two bowls. one of them he pulls towards himself and the other he sets down before jesper with a soft thump. "here... you should eat something. it's just some rice, with cheese. and a little butter."

if he didn’t know any better, he’d have assumed regulus was trying to provoke him on purpose. as it is, though, he does know better — knows regulus well enough to assume this was, perhaps, ninety percent genuine, and ten percent an excuse to make jesper look at a crime against rice.

he looks at the bowl as if it’s insulted his mother. he contemplates pulling a pistol on it.

then he looks at regulus, at the bags under his eyes and the not-quite-defeated-but-thoroughly-kicked air in all his movements and expressions, he looks at the quiet way regulus sits to eat the leftovers that he has, at least, thought to share with jesper so they aren’t both sitting and fretting on empty stomachs.

fuck.

“ bone app the teeth, i guess, ” this looks beyond bland. cheese had salt, didn’t it? can he at least hope for a little salt among all the rice and dairy? this feels like a test, and he feels like he’s failing. if this is a test, or a joke, or if regulus has truly hit some kind of rock bottom that’s sent him back to his university student eating habits stage of life . . . please, let him just admit it. taking a slow breath in, jesper sticks his spoon directly into the rice. “ and . . . thanks. let me handle dinner next time, yeah? ”

#HOW DARE U DO THSI TO ME #ITS SOFT BUT SO EVIL AT THE SAME TIME #LIEK #'THEIR LIFE ON THE RUN' EXPLAIN . IM (SHAKES U)#R WE PUTTING THIS IN THE ICU (IDIOTS CINEMATIC UNIVERSE) WHERE THEY R HUNTING THAT ROGUE AGENT ?! :YODA:#food mention tw #ANSWERED ... ‘ inbox.#proditeur #VERSE ... ‘ being a gentleman never goes out of style. ( kingsman. )

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