#But hopefully I’ll get used to it and ill be able to function without constantly checking for updates

[sondheim-girly]

the knots in my stomach are back. I think I’m gonna try and take a break from tumblr tomorrow for my mental health, and just get updates from one of my irls.

[funkymbtifiction]

How I Write, How I Dream: ESTP Edition

Mod: An ESTP asked permission to submit this, since she noticed I do not have an ESTP ‘How I write stories’ description in the archive to match this series. What follows is in her own words.

ESTP: How I Write, How I Dream

So this submission is like 6+ years late topically, I think, but it’s an understatement to say I get side-tracked easily. First I had to be self-aware enough to actually determine my type with confidence, and then I had to remember to write this up. Hopefully it’s an edition that’s better late than never – in any case, I thought it might be fun to contribute, given the frequent lack of Se-dom voices in things like this.

I’m aware that I might be in a comparatively small group as a regular ESTP writer, let alone one familiar with personality typology, but I wrote my first short story at nine for a 4th grade assignment, and then my first full story/intended book when I was eleven, (both of which I immediately proceeded to act out on the playground), so it’s sort of always been a part of my normal retinue of hobbies/coping mechanisms/diversions/distractions. Usually I find that I write the most when I’m bored or otherwise dissatisfied with my real life – sort of using it to spice things up with more exciting events, even if they’re regrettably fictional. I also suspect that I use writing to experience all the interesting things I find myself unable to physically do, at least for the moment – not unlike what your ISTP contributor described. I think sometimes that I use it to subconsciously work through certain concepts, too, until I understand them holistically. It’s like it gives me a way to actually engage and interact with a philosophical concept through tangible expression – through embedding it into [fictional] human behavior. Like how I understand the nuances of the concept of apostasy better for having walked through the plot of Silence (2016) with Scorsese than I would have if it was still just a definition in a theology textbook. Application helps me. (I also had a counselor a while back who told me that I used my writing to work through the emotions I hate to process in real life, but I was never wholly convinced of that or the connection of my plots to my real life events, so jury’s out, I guess.)

When I was a kid, I liked to read a fair-ish amount. Spies were oftentimes my favorite topic, but I also wanted eagerly to be one and owned probably every kid spy gadget ever manufactured for sale at the Spy Museum in D.C., to which I dragged my parents practically every weekend so I could crawl through air vents, etc. However, my favorite children’s series of all was actually the Ingo series by the late Helen Dunmore, which provided me with exciting, nature-based, and [mostly] emotionally satisfying adventures in my lifelong favorite unpredictable environment – underwater. (I also dragged my parents constantly to our local aquarium.) As I got older, the frequency of my reading dropped, and I now find myself usually pulled more towards nonfiction.

[Note – I just realized a lifelong quirk with me and books. I’m sort of ridiculously set on *seeing* the books I own. I mean, I know what I own, but I still constantly get out every book I own on a particular topic just to see them all at once. It makes the knowledge more cohesive for me to concentrate it visually, I guess. Even just the covers. Anyway.]

My writing habits are kind of awful – in that, like alluded to above, I pretty much only write when I either a) am seized by a great idea, or else b) have nothing better to do. I have little ambition to actually publish or anything like that, regardless of encouragement, and I prefer to think of my writing as just a diversion, an amusement for myself alone (though I do crave minimal approval, as I do in anything). In any case, as soon as the pressure of a schedule is attached to my writing, it drains of all joy for me. Much like your ISTP contributor described, I think I hover somewhere between plotter and pantser, depending on the story. Too much planning leads to my feeling like I have no incentive to actually write it, as I’ve already experienced it, and too little leaves me spinning aimlessly with no real direction. I write both prose and screenplays, and the rule seems to hold true for both, overall. Also, whenever I have a problem in my plotting or characters or whatever, I find that I have to step away, go be busy with something else, sometimes for a long while, and when I come back everything just falls into place. I guess unconscious Ti and/or Ni finding solutions? I’m not totally sure how/why that happens.

As my inclusion of screenplay format may suggest, I experience my stories in an incredibly visual way. I think sometimes that my narratives come across very much like movies, with all the requisite limitations and usual lack of character introspection. I feel like I pretty much focus on the observable actions of my characters – I find describing any kind of extended rumination highly unnatural, at least most of the time. Even my planning is highly visual. I have a tendency to graph, chart, draw, and plaster my options all over the walls. It’s ridiculous sometimes, but in many cases I just have to be able to see them all next to each other, even if there’s no other information provided. Like my books, mentioned earlier. It helps clarify my plot choices in my mind. It’s also a quirk/weakness of mine that I am often entirely dependent on outside images for descriptions. I need to find a real person, place, or thing to base my fictional ones on physically if I hope to have any kind of concrete knowledge to allow description. Again, it helps solidify them/it in my mind.

I have another weakness in my writing that often results in much incredulous laughter – I’m often entirely blind to any hidden meaning or symbolism in my own writing. I might get the vaguest sense of something being a good line, but be unsure why until my ISFJ friend starts praising my deep, archetypal references and crafting – and then staring at me when I clearly have no idea what she means. It’s happened several times by this point, and though it makes me laugh, I’ll just blame it on the subconscious inferior Ni. I pretty much never have any kind of goal of being symbolic or laden with deep meaning. If I were ever to try that, I think it would massively stress me out.

In terms of editors, beta readers, or whatever else we want to call those who give solicited criticism – that’s just what I need/want. Criticism. For the most part, I’m incredibly thick-skinned about my writing and would be absolutely fine if someone told me that it was utterly terrible and the whole thing needed revising down to the very concept. That may be because I think many of my concepts are lackluster to start with. But nothing frustrates me so quickly as readers unwilling to actually [and harshly] criticize. I always tell them that I want him/her to rip it to shreds. I mean, that’s the only way it’ll get better. (I’ve made mistakes before by assuming that other writers feel this way, too – my sister did not appreciate my input.)

I write almost exclusively dramas these days, I guess, though of varying subtypes. (I also maintain the availability/ready accessibility of about 10+ stories at any given time of active writing. I bounce between them sometimes based on what I’m feeling like at the moment or what I have a new thought about.) I have a sort of historical drama thing that takes place in the 1680s, a modern drama prompted by a premise of genetic engineering, a Most Dangerous Game kind of hunting/weapons thing, a detective story in the immediate aftermath of WWII, a classic deserted island story, a thing involving the phenomenon of stigmata… the list goes on and shifts constantly.

However, while I’ve typically enjoyed writing, here’s the omnipresent rub – engaging with it for any great amount of time makes me really unhealthy emotionally. I’m pretty sure that after like two or three days primarily working on a story without other overriding priorities, or like six or seven with those scattered distractions, (at best), I’m plummeting straight down to my inferior functions. My historical stories do this even more quickly, because they oftentimes seem to require more mental effort. I get super irritable, drown in self-loathing, start to think that everything real that I want is never going to happen – it’s really not good. The fact of the matter is that while writing is a fun diversion oftentimes, I go insane doing it for too long, because I need to get out and engage. (Thanks to my pesky Se-dom, daring to ask for more than just incessant fidgeting.)

When I do write, however, I’m known for my in-depth research, my character-driven plots, lines some people in my life seem to think are witty or something, and emotional depth, believe it or not. I’ve been complimented on it, as well as my tendency to accurately portray mental/emotional illness. I don’t know. I’ve never thought I was overly talented at such things, but then again, I never paid much attention. Even this write-up has been hard – analyzing my writing like this. It’s not a strength of mine to scrutinize my own habits.

After all, I’m busy – I have to go blast Maroon 5 as I jump off a 20-foot wall yelling, “Parkour!”

I am an ESTP, remember? ;-)

[chilling-seavey]

Passchendaele WW2 Extension - The National Service Act

Charlie (and Richie!!),

I just had to write you myself because it seems I’m going to be getting a job of my very own soon! The government has started to use conscription as a way to have more men come fight with you but they’re letting us women actually take part in the war effort too! I’m so terribly excited, I could burst. I don’t know what I’m to be doing yet but getting out of this house for more than going to the market will be lovely. Mum has to go into London this week to declare that Dad is unfit to fight since he’s still in the age requirement for conscription. I’m scared they’ll tell her “who cares” and make him go anyway but she has told me not to show my fear in front of Daddy. It only makes him panic. I’m more scared for him than I am for myself…I hate seeing him like this and it seems day by day he’s shutting down more and more. Charlie, please tell me he’s written you. I know he reads all your letters but he’s never given me anything to mail in return.

I miss you both terribly and I know both of your Mum’s have been writing to say how proud we all are – so much so that you hopefully haven’t let it get to your heads! – but it’s true. I wish you could at least come visit for a week. Maybe by Christmas?

All my love always,

Your favourite little sister,

Evelyn

December 18, 1940

Evelyn stepped out of her bedroom, dressed in her favourite dark blue dress and topped with a small hat over her blonde hair. She paused in the hallway and glanced through the master bedroom door that was slightly ajar. Her mother was stood at the side of the bed, brushing her father’s hair and whispering reassuring words to him as his hands clung onto the back of her dress.

“They’re not going to take you.” Elizabeth said softly. “You are not well and coming with me will allow them to assess you and see that.”

“I’m not sick.” Daniel whispered shakily.

“I know, darling. I know that very well, but we have to claim you as such so they can’t take you, alright? I’ll do all the talking. You just stand there and look pretty, alright?” Elizabeth set the brush down on the bed and took her husband’s face in her hands to get him to look at her. Daniel nodded weakly and she pressed a kiss to his forehead before helping him up.

Evelyn scurried downstairs to not be caught eavesdropping and the three of them met in the front hall to put their shoes and coats on. Daniel moved slowly as he buttoned up his coat, sneaking glances at his twenty-year-old daughter as if he was mentally preparing himself to never see her again. She sang softly to the radio as Elizabeth drove them into the city and Daniel kept perfectly quiet, staring out the car window blankly.

Their first stop was to find Evelyn a job to apply for to help the war effort and they joined the queue of other young or able-bodied women who all seemed excited to do something other than tending to a house. Daniel was on high alert, scanning every face the passed and his eyes constantly flicking to the cloudy sky as if expecting an air raid any moment. He wasn’t completely in the wrong to be apprehensive about that.

When they reached the front of the line, Daniel saw the familiar set up of two tables with officers sitting behind them and he grabbed onto Evelyn’s arm and pulled her close.

“They’re just going to give me work, Daddy.” Evelyn whispered shakily.

“Come now, Dani.” Elizabeth said, leading them both up to the next open booth to greet the man behind the table.

Evelyn stood in front of her parents and offered a sweet smile to him.

“Hey there, little lass. What’s your name?” he asked sweetly as he looked down at his long list.

“Evelyn Rose Seavey. I’m willing for any job you can offer me, sir.” she said proudly.

“Not far away.” Daniel piped up.

The officer glanced up at him, eyeing the of-age gentleman who was so obviously not fighting in the war but he turned his attention back to the young woman. “Are you good with numbers, doll?”

“Relatively so.” Evelyn nodded. “I’m a very good worker, sir.”

“We need some ladies to build weaponry and aircraft, would that be something you’d be good at, you reckon?”

“Oh, I would love to build aircraft, sir! My brother is in the Air Force! I would truly love to build him some planes!”

The man smiled at the obviously excited woman and he filled out a form for her, “Here’s the information for all you need to know…the address of the factory and what to wear. Report there next Monday.”

Evelyn thanked him eagerly and the three of them headed back out of the building, the daughter gushing with excitement. Daniel grabbed the paper from her and scanned it over, sighing thankfully when the address wasn’t too far from home and she could easily commute everyday. He would have preferred her to just stay home and never leave anywhere but that wasn’t realistic.

Next stop was to report and state their case in front of the tribunal as to why Daniel was unfit to be conscripted and why Elizabeth had to stay home with him. Daniel felt like a complete burden as she straightened up his jacket and ran her hand through his hair before they headed inside, reminding him not to speak. When it was their turn, they headed into the small court-type room and stood in front of the row of older men, each with a cigarette in hand and papers in front of them. Daniel shuffled closer to Elizabeth under their stares.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen.” Elizabeth spoke strongly. “We come to you today to express that my husband is unwell and would not be a benefit to our military in this war.”

“What are your reasonings?” one of the men asked.

“Well, you see,” Elizabeth sent a reassuring hand on Daniel’s back, “he fought in The Great War and it left him very troubled and unwell.”

“Is he mentally ill, ma’am?”

“Yes, sir, he is.”

Daniel scrunched his eyes closed and hung his head. Evelyn glanced at her father from his other side. There was nothing ill about him at all, at least to her.

“Do you have medical documentation, ma’am?”

Elizabeth stepped away from Daniel as she opened her purse and moved forward to hand over the papers diagnosing his shell shock, but he grabbed onto her arm to keep her close. She strained forward a bit to set the papers on the edge of the table. The row of men eyed Daniel down their noses before taking the doctors papers to skim.

“And he is incapable of functioning in society?” another man asked.

“Without me, yes.” Elizabeth added. “And even some day that’s trying as well.”

“And you’re his daughter?” the man directed to Evelyn.

She nodded, “Yes.”

“Has your father ever shown signs of normalcy around the home?”

Evelyn glanced over at Daniel, frowning sadly at his shut tight eyes and pale complexion, and then turned to the row of men, “This is our normalcy.”

“We ask you not to send an unwell man out to fight.” Elizabeth pressed. “Britain deserves a strong military of capable men and my Daniel would not be among them.”

Well, they got the verdict they were hoping for as the men agreed on the terms to allow Daniel to be exempt from conscription and the family of three headed back to their car quickly. Daniel had tears welling in his eyes as he got in the passenger side of the car and Elizabeth walked around to the drivers side, Evelyn scooting into the back.  

“I hated that.” Elizabeth grumbled as she pulled the car out from the curb to drive towards home.

“Me too.” Evelyn added quietly from the backseat.

Daniel let out a small sob and he held his sleeve to his mouth to try and smother any sounds to not be found out. He hated crying and he especially hated crying in front of his children.

“Listen to me, darling.” Elizabeth said strongly as she set her hand on his as she drove. “You are not an unwell man and Britain would be more than proud to have a man as brave as you fighting for them but we did what we had to do to keep you safe.”

“I’m not ill.” Daniel whimpered softly.

“No, sweetheart. We know.” Elizabeth tucked her fingers around his to hold his hand. “You are perfectly fine but you just need to be kept safe.”

“I’m such a burden.”

“We’re not going down this path again, Daniel James.” Elizabeth warned, giving his hand a squeeze. “You are not a burden; not to our friends or your children and especially not to me. You got yourself out of a really dark place years ago and you were doing so well but it is not your fault that the world turned like this. It’s going to be hard to work through it but you have your family right here with you.”

“Yeah.” Evelyn piped up from the backseat and she leaned forward to set a soft hand on Daniel’s shoulder. “I don’t want you going anywhere, Daddy. I want you right here, just how you are.”

Daniel cracked a small smile and leaned his head against hers.

Taglist: @randomlimelightxxx @hopinglimelight​ @jonahlovescoffee​ @hiya-its-amber​ @chanelwonders​

[the-odd-job]

Ashes of Icarus chapter 6 - Deceit and Lies

Rating: Explicit Warnings: Chose Not to Use Category: Other Fandom: Transformers Characters: Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, Ratchet, Prowl, Optimus Relationships: Megatron/Sunstreaker, Sideswipe & Sunstreaker Additional Tags: Dubcon, Unplanned Pregnancy, Mechpreg, Sticky Words: 2272

A thoughtful chapter.

( Previous )

“Why he slag didn’t you call for backup?!”

Sunstreaker snarled. “The fragging comms were jammed! How the pit were we supposed to do that?!”

“Back out of the jammed area, report the disturbance, and see what orders you’re given,” Ratchet snarled right back, clanging him on the helm with the butt of his welder. 

And okay, that was one way to handle the situation, with just the one minor complication that they hadn’t wanted to.

Or Sunstreaker hadn’t. Sideswipe didn’t bother himself with too many opinions as long as Sunstreaker remained satisfied with the whole situation.

And oh, he was very satisfied. 

But no one else needed to know it was about anything more than a battle well won—and not one gloriously lost. 

“We could handle it,” Sunstreaker still argued with a roll of his optics. And according to their lie, they had. So what was the problem?

He didn’t get to hear Ratchet’s opinion on that because the medbay doors opened then to admit Prowl and Optimus, interrupting Ratchet. The medic, along with the twins, glanced at the arrivees, before Ratchet dismissed them with a hmph and set back to work on Sunstreaker.

Ratchet never did like to be interrupted when he was busy yelling at his patients. Especially if those patients were the twins. They deserved all the yelling they could get.

Sunstreaker took it as the short lived reprieve it was, though. “Did Grapple find anything?” Sideswipe asked, doubling down on their lie with his natural curiosity. “Or is that classified?”

“No, Grapple did not find anything to suggest why the Decepticons were interested in that area,” Prowl responded with an irritable flick of his wings, although for once it likely wasn’t aimed at them and instead at just the entire situation. Not having all the variables didn’t suit him. “It could be they were simply scouting for something that wasn’t there after all.”

“No matter their reasons, good work on hindering their efforts,” Optimus said with a nod at the brothers. Sideswipe nodded back, Sunstreaker just huffed.

“Did you expect anything less?” he sneered. Ratchet whacked him again, probably for disrespecting their mighty leader this time.

Sunstreaker’s digits twitched, but he knew better than to whack Ratchet back. That was a surefire way to get welded to the berth.

He had to content himself to just some offended growling that Ratchet paid absolutely no mind to. 

Optimus didn’t take the bait, though, only gave Sunstreaker a look that would never ever accomplish a damn thing. 

“Regardless, I would like your reports as soon as possible,” said Prowl, and right there was a third mech who didn’t appreciate his attitude with Optimus. Well, tough luck, because the Prime wasn’t exactly demanding better treatment. He’d just have to deal. “Will you be able to compose them during your repairs and return them to my office after Ratchet releases you?”

“Sure,” Sideswipe agreed. Would this mean less abuse from Ratchet? See, they’d need to be able to focus on writing their reports, it wouldn’t do if they were constantly distracted by one irascible medic. Right?

He could hope. “Good,” Prowl nodded, and after get well soon wishes from Optimus, the two headed out of the medbay.

“We will need to run patrols with increased frequency in the area, just to be–“ Sunstreaker could hear Prowl continue to Optimus.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” he said, sitting up straight. Optimus and Prowl paused on their exit and looked back at him, Optimus with some level of surprise, Prowl with exasperation.

No doubt the tactician already had an inkling of what Sunstreaker wanted to complain about. He proceeded to do that without delays. “I am not driving any more patrols on those god forsaken excuses for roads,” he snarled, jabbing a digit at Prowl. “Two more patrols, then we’re done with our punishment duty, right? I’ll go on a fucking strike if we’re scheduled on any more patrols there after that!”

Sideswipe was snickering, but his brother wasn’t in too much of a disagreement with him. Let the likes of Hound take those routes, they had the fragging alt-modes for it!

“Your preference has been noted,” Prowl said dryly, and Sunstreaker didn’t hold out for hope that Prowl wouldn’t schedule them there if he saw it necessary. That was the downside of being some of the best the Autobots had to offer. If their skills were needed somewhere, there weren’t too many who could fill in for them.

And then they’d just end up doing shit they’d rather not have, like driving on dirt roads that all but wrecked their frames. 

Now Prowl and Optimus left for real, leaving Sunstreaker to brood and Sideswipe to kick his legs while he waited for his turn to be fixed. They’d need to make their reports convincing, somehow. Choreograph an entire fight that didn’t happen, between mecha that had never been present—make it hold together with the scene left behind and their own injuries.

They had their work cut out for them. At least they wouldn’t have trouble keeping their reports matching up, a small mercy. Twins and all that.

--------------------------------------------------------------

They’d been in a few battles during the course of their lives. That came in handy when fabricating the details of their story. Ratchet left them to it, mostly, fixing them in the relative silence of just the medic’s aggravated grumbling and the occasional order to move this way or that or do this or do that. 

On their way from the medbay they delivered their reports—one from each frame’s perspective—to Prowl’s office. The SIC nodded his thanks before sending them back on their way. They fetched their ratios and sat in the rec room while they drank them, where Sideswipe shared some words and laughter with Bumblebee and Windcharger.

Sunstreaker let it all wash over him, struggling to keep his thoughts from traveling down paths that would have damned him if anyone became privy to them.

Thank Primus the Autobots had no telepaths in their ranks. He’d be doomed otherwise.

But he was rarely particularly involved in social situations. It was doubtful anyone noticed he was more distracted than usual. 

They didn’t linger in the rec room very long after finishing their cubes. It wasn’t just Sunstreaker that was suffering from the state of his processors—Sideswipe felt the same need to sort their goddamn thoughts out. They slipped through the halls and into the quarters without interruptions, out of sight, hopefully out of mind, too, for long enough that they could work all of this out in peace.

Together they sat down on the bottom bunk of their berth, then… Silence.

They didn’t dare say a thing out loud. This was one secret they did not want getting out, not even—especially not—by accident. There was no one to overhear them, but that didn’t matter.

Say not a thing.

Not like they needed to, anyway. They functioned on the same wavelength, spark bound as they were. His thoughts were Sideswipe’s, Sideswipe’s thoughts were his. The transition was smooth, seamless—silent and untraceable. 

Just what they needed.

Sunstreaker was the driving force behind all of this, though. It wasn’t his life, it was their life, but it was a give and take, push and pull. This time, Sideswipe gave, letting Sunstreaker direct the course of their actions according to his… Conclusions.

Whatever those might turn out to be.

‘Think about what I said.’

Which part? Megatron had said more than a few things, from recounting their ill fated fight a long time ago, to making fun of his frame’s reactions that absolutely had nothing to do with Sunstreaker’s genuine desires, absolutely not.

Ugh.

Sideswipe shifted, and offered a thought.

‘I’ve gotten better.’

‘Is it something to get better from?’

...Was that it?

If it was, what the pit did Megatron want him to do with that thought? He had been a berserker—still was, technically. The damage had gone nowhere, but… He hadn’t snapped in a long time. 

Wasn’t that the goal? Oh, they had valued the likes of him in the Pits thanks to the unhinged violence they could unleash, but was that anything to actually desire? The Autobots had gone out of their way to give him back control over his own frame and mind, to reduce the instances where he lost it and… Became a danger to anything and everything. 

How could something like that be desirable?

What did Megatron think?

Why was he thinking about what Megatron thought? So the mech had beat him in a fight again, wow, and decided to frag him afterwards, wow, but what did that change? They were on the opposite sides of the war for Primus’ sake, that little fact had gone absolutely nowhere. He shouldn’t give a frag about any of Megatron’s thoughts, especially not after the tyrant had decidedly not asked his permission to fuck him. He’d just swooped along, turned him the slag on, and done the deed.

And… Sunstreaker found himself decidedly not opposed to that. He should be! Not only because Megatron had technically forced him, but because he had technically gotten forced by the enemy leader that he should, under all circumstances, want to kill in the name of putting an end to the war in favor of the side he belonged to. 

But here he was, post-fuck… Still enjoying the afterglow of some fragging awesome overloads, and… Not opposed to the idea of next time.

As Megatron had threatened.

Promised.

Oh by the Thirteen he was screwed. Literally as well as figuratively. What were his options? Even if he swallowed his pride and reported the r-word—which he was never going to be able to do, he had too much of it—all they’d need was to have a look at his memory files and see how… He couldn’t even say he was conflicted. If he had been, then good, but no.

If he was honest with himself, the part of him that wasn’t anticipating the next time with much eagerness was pathetic. He was a bad, bad Autobot, remember? He didn’t give too many fucks about the fact he was obliterating the Autobot code even more thoroughly than he had so far in his career as a soldier. He didn’t care. Why would he have? He wouldn’t have gained a whole lot by following the damn thing to the letter, even if he’d been so inclined.

So it didn’t particularly matter to him, on a personal, emotional level, that he was getting fragged by the enemy and fucking enjoying it. 

And if they had a look into his head… They’d see that.

But if he didn’t care about the whole thing on a personal level, he did care about the consequences he would have faced if his comrades found out about this whole thing. It would end badly for him. Very badly. He didn’t even know how badly, but how the hell were you supposed to interface with Megatron, like it, want for the next time, and not end up too deep in trouble with your own side to ever surface again?

No. No, he couldn’t afford this to ever come to light. Even on the off chance they’d somehow ignore his own excitement over it to focus just on what Megatron had done… No.

How the pit were they supposed to keep it a secret if it was just going to repeat, though? This time had been difficult enough. They’d done their best, given a story as believable as they could, made no mention of Megatron, not even a suggestion that he had been present to do what he had–

But because they’d lied, no matter how good they were at it, you could shoot holes into their story. The environment wouldn’t necessarily entirely agree with what they had said, if someone went to have a real good look at it. 

And what of their injuries? Sword marks. Those weren’t that usual here on Earth. They’d added their fair share of gunshot marks—and frankly, that had hurt—but Ratchet wasn’t dumb. He’d fixed those sword marks, the cuts of a sharp blade. He knew where they’d come from.

He hadn’t questioned it, why any of the Constructicons or a Seeker would have had a sword with them and the skill to wield it efficiently enough to be a match to Sunstreaker, but had he wondered about it? Sunstreaker didn’t doubt that very much. 

What had he come up with as an explanation for it, in the absence of anything the twins would have directly told him?

Primus, what a mess. But as long as he didn’t ask, they didn’t need to answer. Besides, what were the odds Ratchet would start to suspect that? They’d fixed the area around his cover before anyone else had gotten to the scene, removed the traces of interface from him—the evidence of who he had interfaced with. 

But if he grew suspicious… The future times would become even more problematic.

What could they do but worry about that when the time came, though?

Was that his conclusion? It was.

Sideswipe nodded at him before he stretched from having sat in the same position for who knew how long by now.

Then he got one of his brother’s trademark grins, bright and full of mischief. “Want my help touchin’ up your paint before I go see if ‘Hide or Jazz would be down for a tumble?”

Yeah, him and Megatron had been something to look at, hadn’t they? Not too much of a surprise Sideswipe would have some charge to burn.

Sunstreaker gave a wry smile of his own. “You bet.”

( Next )

[theravenclawmonster]

I thought getting diagnosed would be able to get me help...(post 1 of dunno how many)

Trigger warning: This post (and the later continuation posts after it titled the same) may contain mentions of abuse, mental illness, suicidal thoughts and many more things which i will try to edit in it after writing the post(s) (hopefully i’ll remember to)

Disclaimer: this is just a written account of events that happened in my life in the past few weeks and my emotional/ physical response to those events. I am writing this here so that it stays here as help for people to read and maybe see what certain things feel like, and as proof or diary for when i forget what really happened and start to believe her words. Also, this is going to be a long post... a very long post.

So, i thought getting diagnosed would maybe help me... A couple of weeks ago, i realized that my heart has been beating a bit faster than what i remembered it used to and my blood pressure would get low. Of course like every other pain or issue ever, i tried to first ignore it and act it out (trying to look fine) but you see, with low BP i really couldn’t act okay. My brain would go numb, i would feel like my brain was pushing me (the consciousness or me in my brain) towards the top of my forehead forcing me into my skull from inside; everything else felt numb. I couldn’t really speak or even think, all words were slurred if i tried my hardest. My body moved very slowly, i couldn’t even raise a finger in the normal speed (even in front of my parents, in front of who i never ever show if i am in pain or ill. but until then i had hid it pretty well by going to my room or just not letting them see me that much). By this time i didn’t know what was happening and episodes like this continued for 3 or 4 days, until one day i remembered that i should check my blood pressure as my heart feels like drowning (it was around 90 and 65 and pulse more than 110). Now, as someone whose blood pressure has always been around 110/70, i got a bit scared; i didn’t know if it was okay to have it this low or not and i wasn’t feeling okay at all. Anyway, it dropped a bit more and my mother noticed me (until then i was completely wiped out, had no strength to even be present in my body let alone act okay. i continuously felt like if i closed my eyes i’d slip away and never come back.

My mother told me to get up and have some ORS (some sort of salts and electrolytes thingy used in dehydration etc) and eat bananas. after some time my heart felt a bit fine and my BP rose up to 105 and something. But i felt exhausted, as if i had fought a war with my bare hands. I couldn’t even ask them to take me to a doctor and after this episode was over she suggested it very ummm... very angrily... so i stayed quiet. Later my sister (married) texted me and said that Mom will get an appointment for her general physician tomorrow for you. She obviously had talked to my mother on the phone and knew all about it (or at least as much as my mother decided to tell her). The next day she took the appointment which was for almost 2 weeks later (only time available). throughout the days leading up to that she told me that i’d feel fine and we’d not even need to go to the doc.

finally, the day arrived. My mother had been telling me to write things to show the doc, my symptoms and stuff, but i couldn’t write anything. I wrote this on a paper 9in a slow child-like handwriting:

1. Pain everywhere

    Tired

    Breathe (referring to difficulty in breathing but i couldn’t write the whole sentence)

the day i went to the doctor i added “ fog/ Quick sand” to the list wanting to say that i feel like i am in a fog/ quick sand as everything including my body and my brain function becomes very slow and delayed.

I didn’t take that paper to the doctor (well, that exquisitely written note wasn’t very helpful). I had decided beforehand that i’d somehow send my mother out and talk to the doctor in private as my emotionally abusive and controlling mother makes me unable to function like a normal human being. It took me days to prepare myself to say that. I also took all my history with me from the beginning of the year. Below is the brief history:

[ I had a very bad chest infection right after chicken pox (at the start of this year, yes great start to a great year 2020), I had to get a chest x-ray in which Scoliosis (bending of spine) showed up. According to the doctors and my family, as it was an incidental finding, it was asymptomatic and therefore needed no treatment or even a brace. No one cared to pay attention to what i said or how i felt as the fucking patient who actually dealt with a lot of back and shoulder and literally almost every kind of bone pain, and for whom the discovery of scoliosis was an answer to a lot.] Anyway, back to the regular rant.

so we went to the doctor. As i sat outside waiting for my turn, i practised again and again about how to ask to be diagnosed in private and not making my mother mad. first, my mother’s turn arrived and she told me to go in with her and remember what doctor tells her for her diabetes and acidity issues. After she was done... (i am getting a bit hazy here) i think the doctor brought up my scoliosis (i went to him in the beginning of the year and he referred me to an osteopath or someone) he talked about how he discussed my case with his colleague and he advised me to go to another hospital in another city for they have a specific department for things like scoliosis. After he said it all and looked at me expectantly to start telling him why i was there, i told my, mother if she can leave, she laughed embarrassed and acted like ha ha sweety i won’t disturb you go on ahead. but i repeated it a couple more times ( i think my tone was pretty dry, but i am not sure as i couldn’t really regulate anything at that time).

She left. then the doctor asked me about my health and i started to explain, except i couldn’t find the right words and forgot everything and just burst into tears. he patiently offered me tissues and waited for my answer. I explained somewhat. i don’t really remember the symptoms i explained, just that i felt fake and weird as if it all wasn’t really happening or i was faking everything and don’t know why the hell i kept bawling my eyes out, i was fine!! stop crying and making a scene. I was also inwardly thankful that my mother wasn’t in the room as i have had a similar experience of crying in front of a doctor and she taunted me about it for months calling me fake and attention seeking and a liar. Anyway, here is a list of what i told the doctor (from what i can remember):

- i feel like i am always holding myself up tightly, if i let go i’d fall. My muscles all feel seized up

-I have difficulty in breathing, i can’t breathe deeply for years. and before it was connected to emotional issues but now its almost all day everyday.

-As because of scoliosis my ribcage is a bit twisted so if i bent over my left ribs dig into my stomach area and it is quite painful if my stomach is full, if i have gained weight or if i have gas.

-my ankles feel swollen on the inside and walking is painful, my heels hurt and the top of my foot and the pain goes all the way up to my pelvic bone and back. My back hurts all the fucking time.

-My knees hurt so much that i have not been able to put my weight on my left knee for more than a week now (it has been hurting in the past as well) and now my body had developed a weird habit of walking up the stairs without putting pressure on left knee at all, which has in turn made my right knee tired and painful.

- I can’t really feel hungry. like if i don’t eat for a long time i’d feel that painful hunger in my stomach but i have no desire to eat and i keep forgetting about it. even when i try to eat i look at food and recoil in a little, i can’t eat it usually or at least like i use to ( I loved food more than almost anything ever, with only some foods that i couldn’t eat). and even after i eat (usually only when i eat something with wheat in it) my stomach swells up a round and painful (which is even more painful when the ribs dig into it.

-My jaw feels stiff and my teeth and gums hurt as if i have been clenching my jaw (which i do catch myself doing quite often)

-oh! i actually started out with saying that i can’t really hold up my neck some of the time (like a baby), and it keep falling around if i relax, it was happening right then too. then i cried. i also mentioned something about my bones painfully feeling like they’ll fuse into each other (if i lie on my side sometimes i feel like both sides of my ribcage will collapse into each other

This was all i could remember then and i think there might be more that i told him but i don’t remember it rn

The doctor asked me things in return. he asked me about my sleep which i told him i can’t sleep. I have been a person who’d sleep 7- 8 hours a night and then also take a nap in the day. I love to sleep, i could always sleep, no matter what happened. If i had cramps, migraine, back pain, emotional abuse, my favorite character died, tired, bored anything; I’d sleep it off. But now, no matter when o lie down, firstly, i am in too much pain to be comfortable in any position, it takes hours to fall asleep and no more fun daydreaming before sleep too. and then i wake up even more exhausted somehow.

He checked my BP and breathing ( i couldn’t breathe properly maybe because of crying) and stomach softness. My BP was 135/95 which i contributed to the car ride (i have car anxiety... dunno what it is but i get super anxious and panicky in a car especially with my family) but he said it could be because you just cried so much.

so, then he said that you are too stressed and your neurons are constantly firing cuz pain both emotional and physical. (he was talking for quite some time but i don’t remember what he said) he said most of it seems to be mental but upon my request he did give a few tests (one in particular expensive one for some muscle disease or something) then he referred me to a psychiatrist. he also asked me to write down my symptoms as the more i tell the doctor the better they can diagnose. then i got out and told my mother the diagnosis and referral. she went in to the office herself and talked to him for some time.

So, we had the tests done (with my father making it a point to say loudly how expensive was one of them in particular) and got an appointment for the psychiatrist. Also said that i have some stomach acidity and gave medicine for that

this seems like a huge post so i am thinking about making another one for that session and the later drama, hopefully before i forget

part two can be found here

[downspiral]

* / BPD ( borderline personality damon )

lil talk about damon’s behaviour, emotional patterns and mental health! i’m categorising this as a headcanon for simplicity’s sake but this is all based on canon material, whether unintentional or not i do genuinely think he has it in canon and will sort of be elaborating on why that’s clear to me. as a disclaimer none of this is meant to excuse any of his behaviour and hopefully it won’t come off that way either, but bpd and its associated stigma is a personal topic to me, so please go in with sympathy and an open mind. under the cut bc this could get lengthy!

so to start off with i’ll just briefly explain borderline personality disorder (BPD) for people unfamiliar with it— it’s a mood disorder that has many associated symptoms with various mental illnesses like depression, anxiety and bipolar disorder, as well as substance issues, eating disorders and other personality disorders eg. antisocial or narcissistic personality disorder. it’s classed by four groups of symptoms:

emotional instability

disturbed patterns of thinking or perception

impulsive behaviour

intense but unstable relationships with others

( obviously this definition is too broad for any specific diagnosis, since everyone is different, and can’t be used alone to diagnose someone without ruling out other disorders and subjective opinion of a professional who knows enough about your behaviours to make an assessment, so from here on out i’m going to be drawing on my own experiences, and hopefully i’ll be able to articulate it in a way that makes sense, but please let me know if it doesn’t. )

***

the first and most glaringly obvious identifiers of this where damon is concerned in my opinion is a), his tendency to spiral very suddenly and abruptly after even minor triggers, such as failure, rejection or even just feeling insulted by someone he cares about, and b) his frequent impulsive behaviour, and what might be termed a lack of self-control in following those impulses - the first examples that come to mind would be his leaving for a road trip with katherine despite hating her, or killing jeremy because he was the first person he saw after feeling rejected by elena - and as he later admitted honestly, not knowing that it wouldn’t be permanent. 

so starting with a), his irrational spiralling — i’ll preface this by saying that in my own experience, my initial diagnosis where my therapist suggested BPD as a possibility was immediately after i told her that i felt my emotions were just more severe than most people’s, which is why i always felt i was overreacting to things, both bad and good, alternating with feelings of extreme numbness and dissociation which would follow immediately after as a coping method. bouncing between extremes of emotion is also something we see damon do constantly; not regarding the humanity switch detail and focusing solely on his ‘humanity-on’ behaviour, we still see him go between extremely cold, numb and uncaring (albeit often this is hidden behind deflection and humor) to deeply hurt, loving, and willing to make huge sacrifices for causes or for people. 

this is also a little muddled by the in-world lore of vampires having very heightened emotions. if you consider that damon already had BPD while a human, which is highly plausible given what we see of the decisions he made even then, then it follows that as a vampire those already-dysfunctional behaviours would be driven to extremes. this isn’t only obvious to the person watching; other characters comment on it constantly, e.g. almost any time katherine shows up, everyone immediately starts worrying if damon’s going to snap, having learned that the tiniest of things can send him into extreme behaviour, harmful to both himself - picking a fight with julian out in the open, described as having a death wish, and various suicide missions - and other people - e.g. attempting to kill jeremy and bonnie, despite it being abundantly clear that those two murders would make everything worse for him, and logically, make no sense, and serve no benefit to him. they were not thought-out decisions, not premeditated, and not something he would do in a sound state of mind, which is part of why they’re so painful to watch - they’re stupid, unjustified decisions, and seem irrational and disproportionate to whatever triggered him to make them. this also falls into the category of ‘lashing out’, something damon is frequently noted to do - often in the form of destroying or severing relationships, which may be done via simple purposeful negative interaction with someone, or doing more, genuine harm so that those relationships are ended regardless. 

this ties in both with the impulsive behaviour aspect, but also a comment elena once made which struck a huge chord with me as an identifier of BPD - she said he felt that everyone hated him, and in an attempt to face those perceptions or correct them as someone of sound mind would do, he instead tries to come to terms with the pain of that by making himself believe that they were right - ‘proving’ both to others and to himself that they were right to hate him, via doing bad things. while this particular incident was partially due to enzo’s influence and damon seeking approval from the only person he felt he could still get it from, he still had the agency to make that decision, and this wasn’t the only time where that behavioural pattern could be observed. 

the depth to which those thought processes go can sort of be seen when you consider season 8, where enzo and damon were both under the mind control of a siren, leaving only their subconscious with free will to resist. enzo’s instinct was to try and weave messages into the things that the siren had him do, knowing that bonnie would recognise them and be able to save him from doing more harm. on the other hand, damon’s instinct was to sever those relationships so completely that none of them would ever attempt to save him again, thus keeping them, in his eyes, out of harm’s way. 

i don’t wanna make this so long it’s unreadable so i’ll try and end it with this last point, which is that another symptom of BPD is latching on to one particular person - whoever might feel most significant to them at the time, whether a friend or romantic interest, though often those feelings can combine and become confused when that emotional connection is made (most obvious example being elena, who damon had a relatively good and stable friendship with, that seemingly functioned fine as it was, yet progressed into romance anyway and became destructive). when that said person is found, the intensity of your emotion leads to a usually unhealthy amount of attachment on your part - often leading to possessive, manipulative or even emotionally abusive elements of relationships that more often than not become toxic. this person becomes the sole way that you feel validation/love/approval/happiness, any good emotion at all - in a way, your brain compensates for previous and more significant traumas, e.g. parental abuse/neglect, by channelling all this emotion into the nearest outlet of love and acceptance you can find. as a result even the tiniest fraction of attention or approval from that person can completely brighten your mental state for weeks, while the tiniest perception of disapproval or neglect from them - note perception, this could be something as miniscule as a misunderstanding, a tone being read wrong in a text, a genuine mistake being interpreted as a deliberate attempt to separate - can be enough to drive you to suicidal ideation. 

obviously, whether it’s known to them or not, all this puts an unrealistic amount of expectation on the other person - one individual cannot possibly be responsible for the entire mental state of another, and will often - quite rightly - lead to the decision to end the relationship out of self-preservation. this is observed very frequently with damon’s close relationships; at some point, most of the people he’s been closest to have, with some degree of regret, been forced to write him off, because he puts too much strain on their own mental state. without significant effort to change on the part of the disordered person, sadly, this situation doesn’t usually have a resolution, because one’s own mental health is never the sole responsibility of others. it’s worth saying that most of these behaviours are done unintentionally and instinctively, as what seems the first logical conclusion in a brain that has been wired - physically, neurons and pathways in the brain have been grown by trauma that leads to those paths becoming the ‘right’ ones, rather than the healthy alternatives, which is usually what therapy’s end goal is - minimising the disordered pathways while reinforcing the positive ones, via practice of healthy behaviours and identifying bad thought processes so they can be stopped with the hope that those ones will take priority eventually. that being said, decisions that are motivated by and followed by, self-hatred, doesn’t excuse them from the harm they may cause other people. and it’s not fair - none of it is, because immediately what that situation seems to become is, ‘i didn’t ask to be this way, i don’t want to be harmful, but because i have been traumatised this is how i turned out, and now if i want healthy and good relationships, i have to work twice as hard against all my natural instincts just to ensure i come off as a person worth caring about’. 

this is getting a little off-topic, but to say - there is a stigma about BPD, often associated with emotional abuse and manipulation, and it’s too complex a topic to sum up in one paragraph, but the gist of it is that sadly in my experience there is truth to it. i feel as though my disorder increases the likelihood of me being harmful, which means i have to work twice as hard to stop it - things that seem like common sense, basic decency, human logic that comes naturally and as first instinct to many, have to be actively strived for by people with this particular disorder. so while failing to do so may happen more for those people, and thus lead to them coming off as a worse person, there is some explanation as to why - and of course that doesn’t mean excusing that behaviour, never! but, there is a grey area between ‘excusing and enabling unhealthy behaviour’ and ‘your disability grants you no leeway whatsoever’. there is a middle ground and it’s hard to find the right place to walk it, and probably differs for everyone, but for me that’s why damon is relatable, and why i think i have more tolerance for things that he’s done. 

i’ll just end this by saying that this is all one person’s experience of bpd and what i’ve observed from a few others i’ve known. i don’t speak for everyone with bpd, it’s not my call to make, mental disorder is overwhelmingly complex and hotly debated even in medical circles. but all that being said, i have recognised a lot of my own emotional experiences in damon’s and how the characters around him react to it (without the murder, obviously) and to me it is slightly more complex than ‘this is a shitty person’. thank you for reading all this if you did, it’s kind of hard to talk about, but hopefully for some this adds a little more insight into my portrayal and attachment to the character. 

[mindlessselfdeprivation]

The Nothing

It’s just like The Neverending Story. It’s not darkness, it’s not even a hole, because even hole would be something. No, this...this is just nothing.

That’s depression. That’s what true despair is, it’s The Nothing that eats up your everything. It bleaches your life, nothing has any color or flavor or texture anymore. Food sucks, company is annoying, being alone is excruciating and substances exist only as a shit-ass temporary floaty. Recreation means nothing anymore, every desperate action during the day is taken only to distract me from myself for a little bit longer. Sleep will come soon, and in sleep there’s just that sweet fucking nothing. 

Which is what you feel like you constantly have, at any given time. Nothing. The Nothing has it now. And now every memory is covered in spikes, too painful to even go near.

Nothing can make you feel ok anymore, and your good days are the ones where you only brood and lament your life for a few hours out of the day. You know, as opposed to every second you’re awake. 

Those days happen so much more often. I swear to fucking God, some days I feel like the pain inside me is gonna open a fucking hole in the earth. Like I’m no longer going to be able to keep this horrible monster at bay anymore, and the scream that finally peals out of me will shred my lungs and crack open an abyss that swallows me once and for all. 

I fear for anyone that might be around when that bomb goes off. Which is another problem. Although I’m desperate to be seen and heard and known and loved, I’m fucking terrified of getting near anyone ever again, it seems like an absurd idea to even say it out loud. I’m a goddamned hurricane, I’m a fucking natural disaster on legs, an extinction level event taken human form. All of my relationships....it’s just a festering sewage basin, that whole area of my life. Everything there, flies and pestilence, disease and rot. 

That’s my heart in there too. Fucking rotten, like an old forgotten tree stump wasting away in a swamp somewhere in whogivesafuck. Thinking on it, can I even love anymore? Do I even know what that is anymore? 

An older woman I work with asked me for a hug the other day cause she was a little sad, thinking about her brother that died...and I was happy to oblige, she’s the sweetest little thing. And I realized - holy shit, this is the first real hug I’ve had in an entire year. I’ve hardly touched anyone for ten months outside of a handshake or a friendly bro-hug. 

And afterwards she thanked me and said I gave great hugs, and it dawned on me...I remembered being a guy who loved hugs, remembered a guy that was very romantic and affectionate, that insisted on using physical touch to remind those around him that he loved them dearly....then I looked over from that guy to the one that’s in there now. What a shadow, what a husk he’s become. Empty and hollow and discarded. A lost soul...an inevitable consequence of The Nothing.

The worst thing? I mean, if there is a blacker black than all the rest...

The Apathy. That’s what The Nothing shits out and leaves behind for you. You just don’t....fucking....care...anymore.

I used to have passion, play music, learn language or just about any damn thing else (I was always such a junkie for knowledge), write stories or poetry or music or any one of a dozen other things that enjoyed. And I don’t even write this out of sadness or with some sense of self pity, this is just a cold, apathetic recall of facts. There was a guy who knew love and there’s the guy sitting there now. And those are simply two different guys. And the insurance adjuster in me is fairly certain that at this level of damage, it’ll cost more to repair the existing vehicle than it would to just buy a new one.

I don’t have any real relationships anymore. I have the ones that are necessary to maintain normal social function, but even those I put in just enough to get buy and no more. I’ve lost too much and hurt too deeply and hurt others far too much to let anyone close anymore. It’s hard to describe how it feels to look around you and realize you’re standing alone, no one around. 

The only times I hear from someone is when they need something from me. I’m like a tool for rent. Why buy this thing when I only ever need to use it once in a blue moon?

Family? No, two sisters and two brothers in law that I don’t know anymore and they definitely don’t know me. A mom that taught me to use people like pawns and a dad so devoid of emotion and connection that it’s impossible to communicate, a daughter I never see or speak to anymore and an ex that swore we’d remain amicable for the sake of our daughter but slowly, methodically, and fucking brilliantly shut me out of her life completely...and my daughter with her by extension. Friends? No one there that knows me either, just people I talk to on occasion to spend a little bit of my distraction time with someone else.

But no one around me knows this. I put on a pretty decent mask I suppose, my boss apparently thought I was a really happy guy and married with kids. Ha. Cool, it’s working. I’ve gotten good at camouflage. It’s just another form of lying, and I’m incredibly good at lying. 

Talking about it, is like...what’s the fucking point? This is a tar pit, baby. I’m not bringing anyone else in this. Even if you were standing right next to me with a brilliant torch, this darkness, this Nothing around me is far too thick to see it. 

I miss writing though, maybe that’s why I’m finally doing this. Putting something down. I’m going to commit to talking to this fucking thing everyday. No one knows me here, I barely use this website. I only ever got onto it for....well, another person who eventually left. Maybe that’s why I feel I can be ok here, being naked and bleeding and fucked up and real.....no one who knows me by my mask will have to know what lives underneath it. This is my tree of trust.

I don’t want this to just be a dumping ground for depressed Emo bullshit though, I can go listen to Dashboard Confessionals while cutting myself if I wanted to go there. What I want is a true exploration and record of The Nothing as it grows stronger, what it’s taking, what fuels it, can I escape. I don’t want help either, I don’t think there is any such thing (see tar pit reference above). Maybe you’re always alone too, maybe you’re also constantly afraid that the house of cards will get blown down and people will see the real ugly inside. 

Maybe this is just me yelling into the wind that you’re alone, but not so alone. Maybe all of us are and none of us. Maybe I don’t know what to believe anymore.

I’ve tried to remember it, you know. Happiness. I’ve tried to find that motherfucker like Sherlock and his dear Watson, complete with cocaine and violins. You ever try to think of a nice warm fire while you’re soaking wet and freezing your balls off? And how’d that work out for ya? Same idea - “Just think happy thoughts” is like telling someone that just fell into arctic waters that they should “Just think of a nice warm fire”.

Hopefully, they’re still giving you the finger when their body gets frozen in place. It’d be a bit of justice, if there is such a thing.

That happiness is like the thought of a warm blanket when I’m currently buried in snow. Doesn’t actually exist.

There’s not a day where I don’t wake up wishing to fuck that I hadn’t. And there isn’t a night that I go to sleep that I don’t pray that I won’t wake up this time. Life has become a grueling marathon of pain and most days I have trouble figuring out why I fucking bother. 

Even as I’m writing this, I’m constantly stopping to wonder what’s the fucking point. 

I’ve gone on dating apps, funny enough. But every time I actually think about having a connection with someone, it honestly freaks me the fuck out. I’m so fucking damaged, there’s just no fucking way I’ll find someone with a back strong enough to help me carry all this baggage. I freak out and delete the account.

It’s completely not about the sex for me, if you can believe it. I’ve got such a low libido recently that even the idea of it lately gives me paralyzing anxiety. I don’t want to have sex if it’s not with someone I have a good intellectual connection with, and I never have. The problem with that is that sex in my mind is held on this strange pedestal where it straddles the line between sacred entity and foul beast, and it’s gotten so complicated and ridiculous that I just don’t care anymore. 

There isn’t anything even tempting or alluring about sex anymore. Even masturbation is almost completely without enjoyment, used every so often as a tool for general upkeep. And even this The Nothing has it’s hands on. The other day, I stumbled on a video that looked almost exactly like my child’s mother with another man...and I got physically ill. After throwing up 3 times and shaking for nearly an hour, I slowly pulled myself back from the panic attack I was having.

I didn’t eat for 3 days and I couldn’t get another erection for more than a week. Suppose it’s safe to say I’m still in love with that woman, I guess. Not only did I feel like absolute shit that whole week, I felt like shit for feeling like shit. My Yin and my Yang were both very very pissed off. This is just one of a number of broken fuses and faulty wires inside this broken machine.

Sometimes I wish we had the ability to do a form of Vulcan Min-meld, but with emotions and empathy. Especially when someone asks what’s wrong. Just grab their hand and rest it gently over my heart and let it tell the story for which I’ll never have the words. 

That’s also why I’d be scared like hell if that were possible, I’d be afraid the weight of it would crush them. I’m not trying to be really morose or hyperbolic, I’m fairly certain the vast majority of people walking around out there don’t carry this. I’ve talked to them, I know them. When you’ve spent a fucking lifetime perfecting your camouflage and your tower of lies, you can spot someone else playing that game from a mile away. And I’m not saying everyone else out there is skipping through a magic pixie lolly-pop fairyland or anything, but most people out there are general pretty stoked about being alive and doing stuff. People like me are out there, but I don’t see very many people that are under the spell of The Nothing.

I fucking hope not, this is an existence I wouldn’t wish on anyone, friend or foe. On that note, I also hope you aren’t going through that as well if you’re reading this right now. If you’ve never counted the different ways you could choose to end your life instead of counting sheep to fall asleep at night, you are truly blessed. 

I hope you stay whole. And with whatever capacity I’m still capable of feeling it, I love you. Cause maybe you don’t hear it that often either, and for that I’m sorry. I’d rather go without food than love, and I’ve been in both spots before.

I hope The Nothing never finds you.

Until next time.

[themockingcrows]

Heavy shit below cut.

For longer time followers, this will not be a surprise at all. I used to talk about these things more on here. For newer, maybe you’ve seen glimpses or some comments, so it may not be surprising either.

I’m disabled, and I’m mentally ill. A lot of my symptoms are made worse by stress, and this entire year has been nothing but repeatedly mounting stress. I’ve had good times, yes, there were wonderful times this year, but always with that background knowledge of being increasingly stressed to the breaking point over and over and over without fail. 

Money troubles, constant threats of being thrown out of our apartment at the time, my spouse having to suddenly leave and be very far away for undetermined-as-of-yet amount of time, the moving house in 3 days with no prior warning, the knowledge I’m getting more and more unwell and still have no way of getting help or treatment, and being very aware that there is next to nothing I can do to fix things. The latest upsets was meeting with a psych I was randomly assigned by an agency and having her ignore all my evidence of physical disability from multiple doctors and decide I was just crazy and trying to be helpless. It broke me for days, I couldn’t sleep, I could barely move.

2017, by majority, has been one of the worst years of my life in a steady progression of bad years and increasing misery. It’s a fucking slog, and it’s very difficult to keep going every day. Often, the only thing that’s kept me alive was the knowledge I’d make the couple people who love me a lot sad, being too afraid, and knowing I’d be stuck having my housemate find me and I could never do that to her.

I’ve had increasing problems with executive function, with brain fog, with energy levels, with pain. It’s increasingly hard to find the little hyper focus lane that lets me fly through projects. My memory and the brain fog are making it harder for me to learn things, and when I learn them, harder to retain them. I learned how to digitally paint and then forgot it by the next week and haven’t been able to remember how since despite constantly trying to re-learn. 

It makes everything feel pointless. I can’t learn, I can’t remember, I can’t think. Sometimes it feels like I can’t do anything but breathe and take up resources for people who are worth being alive. Taking up space. Taking up time and energy because I’m desperate for attention, affection, any kind of confirmation I’m alive and doing something useful somehow when I’m not.

This has been the year that almost broke me multiple times, and it’s been hard to find reasons to keep wanting to see another year. I’m not even 30 and I’ve wanted off this ride too many times to count. I’ve fallen off the wagon and self harmed off and on, I’ve spiraled, I’ve bounced off rock bottom every time my brain decides it wants to attack me and then slammed back down repeatedly because there was no way to confirm to myself I deserved to live. 

I still struggle to find a reason to, and to keep going, even if it means lying to myself. I don’t feel like a person anymore. Even when I feel well and clear headed, I’ve never felt my age. It’s hard to be a confident adult when you feel like a scared kid all the time. I hate literally everything about my appearance, about myself, my attitude. It takes effort to not.

But I’m holding out hope 2018 will be good. I’m hopeful I’ll get the medication I need, the physical help I need, and all the dental work I’ve needed for a decade. I’m hopeful my spouse can come home sooner rather than later to stay, and that we can finally have a home together again. I’m hopeful I’ll find a way through the brain fog and misery even if I don’t get the other help so I can at least create things as easily as I used to be able to, so it won’t be so exhausting and such a stressful experience to make things for my own enjoyment. 

I want 2018 to be good. And so I’m going to keep fighting same as always. And to confirm that I’m swearing here that I’ll be alive and seeing 2019 roll in as well, and with a smile, because by this time next year hopefully enough things have changed that I can feel like a person again. I want to feel that more than anything and I’m still willing to do whatever it takes to feel that way. Just. Need to start catching good breaks that last long enough to help.

[publishyourstories]

Mineral Balancing Science, Hair Mineral Analysis & Functional Medicine MEET THE MIGHTY MITOCHONDRIA AND ITS RELATIONSHIP WITH HTMA & FUNCTIONAL MEDICINE. You may or may not have heard the word ‘Mitochondria’ or its many adjectives used to describe the mighty mitochondria itself. Adjectives such as power houses, factories, waste disposal and recycling centres, or cellular assassins... The fact is whether you have or you haven’t, the mitochondria ARE actually all of the above and then some. Did you know that we inherit our mitochondrial DNA from our mother & that they make up over half of our dry bodyweight. Let’s begin with probably one the most important & most familiar functional descriptions of all... “the powerhouses of the cell”. This refers to the parts of cells that turn the 3 macronutrients, carbohydrates, fats and proteins that we consume through food, into forms of chemical energy that the body can use to carry on living. Every living thing is made up of trillions of cells. These are tiny tissue compartments contained by a cell membrane. Cells are actually the smallest things that exist that can reproduce all by themselves. When we look inside cells, we see that they have sub-compartments that are even smaller still. These even tinier cells are known as “Organelles” which perform different functions that are essential for the cell to live. These bean shaped Organelles are found in every cell of the human organism. It’s these that produce about 90% of the chemical energy that cells in the body need to survive. The equation is simple... No energy = no life! The less effective the body becomes at producing energy by way of converting what food we consume into useable cellular energy, the less life we have ahead of us. Another factor is making sure that the food or nutrients we consume are actually being processed and absorbed so that the nutrients can actually reach the mitochondria. Any infections or dysfunction in the digestive or GI system and you are getting malnourished by default. This is why a big focus of the work i do in improving people’s health is focussed towards the restoration & generation of biochemical cellular energy, by working on the entire chain of body systems that play a role in this process. Body systems such as the endocrine system, the digestive & GI system, the detoxification systems, the metabolism & mitochondrial efficacy, as well as a balanced biochemistry. Did you know there is over 200 known diseases that are known to be highly associated with poor mitochondrial function. In other words, where there is low energy, there is disease & illness. I see this all the time on my clients HTMA charts. The people I work with all have unique cases and have been suffering with chronic health challenges for a long time but theres one very common denominator among all of them... LOW ENERGY or deranged & insufficient energy production. We see this derangement within the main ratios on a HTMA which should represent homeostatic balances between the key minerals. The relationships between Ca/P, Ca/Mg, Na/K, Zn/Cu, Na/Mg, Fe/Cu ALL play a part in, and represent energy production and metabolism. Other serious conditions that can occur from mitochondrial malfunction range from neurological & neuromuscular diseases such as MS, Alzheimer’s, Parkinson’s & hearing loss to autoimmune conditions such as Lupus & Rheumatoid Arthritis, to metabolic diseases such as diabetes, heart attacks, stroke, obesity & some forms of cancer. Hopefully by now you are beginning to get an idea of the carnage that can occur when mitochondria go wrong. Serious diseases, and chronic health conditions are a common manifestation when this happens, which is all the more reason why finding the right trained professional to assist in helping you with your health challenges is paramount to ensure this doesn’t happen, or doesn’t progress. It should be noted that mitochondria do way more than just produce energy. They also produce important chemicals that the body requires for other important purposes such as breaking down waste products into less harmful compounds, and then even go on to recycle some of those waste products to conserve energy for other jobs. In addition to this, mitochondria also help in cell repair, sex hormone production, cell signalling & cell growth. Mitochondria also have a very unique role in pre programmed cell death referred to as ‘Apoptosis.’ This may sound strange that the body destroys its own cells, but this is vital for the processes of growth and development. Sometimes cells don’t die when they should, and start to grow uncontrollably. This is how a tumour starts to grow, so it’s hardly surprising that mitochondria play an important part in the prevention of cancer within the body. In order for the body to produce optimal amounts of energy within the cell, mitochondria must have oxygen. It’s no different to the engine of a car requiring oxygen in the cylinder in order to combust. Oxygen is injected in the last 2 steps of electron transport in the Krebs Cycle where metabolically active Fe & Cu are required, in order for this to take place & allow combustion in the cell. This is known as “Oxidative Respiration” It is only then that mitochondria can then burn food optimally in order to create chemical energy by a process called ‘oxidative phosphorylation’. This is where oxygen & glucose gets converted to ATP & carbon dioxide; and where 90% of the free radicals are generated in the cells as ATP is made. It’s these free radicals that form part of the ‘mitochondrial free radical ageing theory’ in that if too many are made via oxidative stress: then these molecules damage parts of the cell, including the mitochondrion itself. The good news is that science shows that we may be able to save mitochondria by increasing exercise, maintain good gut health, eating a high quality nutrient dense diet, and balancing vitamins, minerals & co factors. Just like £’s are the capital currency of the United Kingdom; ATP is the energy currency of the body, and just as a fire goes out without oxygen, if mitochondria lack oxygen, they also stop working. I’ll say it again... No energy = No life! The cells in the body that contain the most mitochondria are muscle tissue, the liver, the kidney, the brain & the heart. The more energy a cell or organ needs, the more mitochondria they have. To give you an example of the importance of oxygen & mitochondria is in sustaining life; when someone suffers a heart attack, or a stroke, the blood stops delivering oxygen to the heart and brain. As these two major organs are responsible for some of the most important functions within the body, they require a lot of energy to be able to do their job properly. Without oxygen, the mitochondria stop working, and the cells in the brain or heart are damaged or worse can even die. Perversely, if the oxygen does return, then the mitochondria get overwhelmed and produce a lot of “free radicals”. These are very reactive chemicals which cause a lot of additional damage. There’s no doubt that Mitochondria are central to our health & well-being. In addition to their main role in making the energy stored in food available to power our bodies, mitochondria are also central to how cells are put together and die, how they respond to infections and injury, and in the changes that lead to cancer and ageing. Every body system I focus on when I work with clients has a direct part to play in this complex chain. You cannot address one system without addressing the others. This is why you hear me constantly going on about comprehensive functional lab testing to uncover all the factors that are contributing to the overall dysfunction. Investing in your health is the best investment you can make. If you’ve been suffering...be smart, find an expert, get tested and claim your life back.

[whitecoatwonder]

The Addict

Part I

I won’t give up easily and I never have. I spent my life fulfilling my dreams despite the odds against me. I fought through these nearly eighty years and achieved a successful career, marriage, and family.

Early in my adulthood, I decided to refuse to let my family history of slavery hold me back. With each letter of my surname, I was reminded of the torment my family suffered in this land of so-called freedom. I relentlessly fought to change this name to free myself of the oppression that once firmly held me. I eventually met success.

My perseverance was rewarded once again as I found the fulfilling career of a university professor. I have been happily married for twenty years to a supportive and loving wife. The two of us have been together through everything, good and bad the same. My faith has carried me through. I cling to this faith as hope and life.

But all too quickly, with just a few too-easy choices, I have become a victim of prejudice. I lost everything I once held dear. I regret every second of it.

Now, each day is a fight for survival. My pain has become my new companion. It settles in close on these cold nights I spend sleeplessly on the city pavement. The pain, the only friend who’s never left me, drives me to turn to street medications to quiet her screams to a whisper, a brief but sweet relief.

When you told me that my heart was severely damaged, I was unwilling to accept the idea of dying this year. I promised you that I would fight to qualify for the lifesaving surgery. I would go to every doctor’s appointment, take every medication, and implement every change in my lifestyle necessary to improve my heart health and get to this surgery. I promised to stay clean. Six months was more than enough time to prove myself to be a good candidate for surgery, I promised you. Dying this year was not something I would succumb to. This, I was sure of.

But after labeling me as a black homeless drug addict, you didn’t seem to think my hope for life was grounded in any truth. You gave up before the battle was fought. You said your hands were tied, but I glimpsed those same hands offering my much needed pain medication without hesitation to the patient one bed over. You left me in agony, lying helpless on the other side of the hospital curtain. You said my withdrawals were nonexistent because they weren’t causing an effect you could see or measure. Their reality cried out to me every minute in this house of misery and my pain tortured me relentlessly in secret.

But you don’t know what that’s like. You gave up on me. You sent me back to die on the pavement.

Part II

You were brought to the Emergency Room after being found as a semi-conscious heap on the sidewalk, unable to care for yourself. We nursed you back to life.

Through promises of sobriety spewing from your lips, the tests of your urine betrayed you. The tests were positive for four different kinds of illegal drugs you had been using. Several of these are commonly injected, often leading to many infectious diseases. One of the infections attacked a valve in your heart, leaving it broken and impeding the heart from fulfilling its full vital function.

I balanced the medications in your body to compensate for the failure of your heart function. I spoke honestly with you about the severity of your disease and its prognosis. I respected you and your decision to fight. I advocated for you. I fought for you and I hoped for you.

Despite this, you have burned all possible bridges of support to health and recovery. You have nobody to help you because you have lied to all of us, losing our trust. Your dear wife refuses to take you back. Your girlfriend also won’t house or support you. Your lifestyle of fraud extends to your devout religious experience, which you constantly defy.

Our hospital team can’t find a single piece of valid legal documentation about you. You have lied to our government and your health insurance about your age and identity for years to qualify for more services.

You are unwilling to consider becoming sober for any second of thought despite your promises. I know this, because I believed you at first. But you always unapologetically came back to using. Despite the lack of objective signs of withdrawal, you lie about withdrawal symptoms daily in order to catch a glimpse of the drugs that tie you down and continue to destroy any life that remains.

The prognosis is less than one year. You could extend your life by improving your heart health, with the chance of qualifying for a curative surgery, but this would require sobriety—your nemesis. With many bridges to help burned down all around you, it would nearly require a miracle even if your will was set to recovery and health.

Your addiction will take your life this year. And you will welcome it home with anticipation.

Part III

I can never forget you. You will always be a contradiction in my mind. You represent the poor, marginalized, and vulnerable. You represent the terminally ill. You represent addicts. But you became a selfish liar and a cheat. You cheated me while I advocated for you to the rest of the team in charge of your care.

You told me over and over that you worked tirelessly to have your name changed from the slave name it once was. But don’t you see that all that work means nothing now? You are not free. Your master is the drug and you are its slave.

I’ve been told that addicts who are not in recovery have hijacked souls controlled by their drug of choice. Was that where your soul was? Because I certainly did not interact with it. Who was I talking to all those cold 6 AM mornings? Was that you? Was that hijacked you?

I was proud that our team successfully fought for a wheeled walker for you, but it felt like a horrible goodbye present. It felt like a slap in the face. A walker wasn’t going to offer a roof over your head, keep the rain off of you, or keep you comfortable as you took your final breaths. It would only help you get to the street where your health would quickly deteriorate.

I don’t even know if you’re still alive and I have no way of finding out. And I don’t have any reason to believe that you would be. I never said goodbye. I couldn’t make myself do it. I felt that I had failed you. We failed each other.

I’ll see you again though. Addiction and homelessness are two problems that go together much too frequently for me to be able to avoid you. You might look different, but I’ll know it’s you. You will have the same blank eyes, lie about your use, blame everyone else for your problems, and you will still be a dying brother in need. All human and all hijacked. Inaccessible to me.

But I should be grateful to you for teaching me my first real lesson in addiction. It wasn’t pretty, but it was real. I have a lot more to learn, and hopefully I won’t fail you again. I want to free you. I want to free your soul.

Written about a patient experience during my 4th year of medical school.