#FULLY MEDICATED AGAIN.

[moe-broey]

Hhnghb

[owletstarlet]

patron saint of the lost causes (1/2)

“You can stop looking at him like that.” Taki’s voice is frank, but not unkind. Katsumi could not be less in the mood for whatever the hell kind of conversation this is about to be. “Like what,” he replies anyhow. “Like you broke his best friend."

(For @goodlucktai. You know what you did.

ao3 link | part 2

The thing is, Katsumi really doesn’t want to hear that he couldn’t have known what was going to happen. He knows. Knows because nobody will let him forget it. Knows from his 2AM search history the night after, curled up on his side on a guest futon in the Fujiwaras’ sitting room, feeling pinned down by the blue glow of his phone screen under the duvet.

Here’s how it happens.

***

It’s not that it’s uncomfortable, exactly, to be alone with Tanuma Kaname while walking the forty-five minute round trip between the temple and the combini through nothing but trees and rice paddies and still, thick summer air. Tanuma’s a decent guy. Quiet, thoughtful. And, as he’d made very clear within two minutes of Katsumi meeting him, fiercely loyal.

All good traits, really. But carrying a completely meaningless conversation with someone he honestly doesn’t know all that well doesn’t seem to be within his skill set. And that’s fine, it’s whatever.

It’s just that Katsumi’s starting to feel like a jackass when he’s the only one who’s talking.

School’s been out less than a week, and for some godforsaken reason he’s been talked into coming all the way out to Hitoyoshi by the group chat he’d been added to months ago, for some other godforsaken reason. The conversation had turned to potential vacation plans—the seaside, or a theme park. And it’s not like Katsumi would’ve said no; he’s got a whole month to fill here. But when Tanuma had either hedged or failed to respond altogether, the others had gotten it out of him pretty quickly that the better part of the month both before and after Obon would be full up with temple preparation and events. Apparently, even back when the temple had still stood vacant, some of the locals who had ancestors’ graves out in the crumbling cemetery there would still come out to tidy up as best they could and leave behind their flowers and incense and prayers. This is the second Obon since the temple had reopened, and not only were more visitors expected, but they’d need to be able to properly host them and provide an adequate place of worship.

From just that couple of messages, the others seemed to work out in short order just how overwhelmed he was. Which was news to Katsumi; sure, the guy wasn’t much of a texter, or talker, for that matter—but the messages had just seemed brief, concise, and apologetic.

But when they all show up on the temple doorstep a week later and Katsumi sees the way Tanuma’s shoulders sag with sheer relief, he knows the others were right.

Thus began a multi-day frenzy of scrubbing wood floors, polishing every metal surface within an inch of its life, weeding, dusting, and near-vicious refusals of Tanuma’s father’s offers to compensate them for their efforts. Katsumi certainly wasn’t against the concept of getting paid for busting his ass like this all day, but the man was drowning in paperwork and nonstop phone calls and visitations on top of whatever else it is that priests do all day, so he’d let it drop.

“He really does just radiate that dutiful son energy, huh,” Katsumi says to Kitamoto one day, leaning on a rake and blinking the sweat out of his eyes in the brutal 2PM heat, watching Tanuma pause to tug a crooked, bright red knit cap back into its place on the head of a tiny Jizo statue with endless care. He didn’t mean it as an insult, but it sounds kind of dickish coming out of his mouth anyhow. “Just looking at him is making me tired.”

Kitamoto hums. “That’s part of it,” he says, at length. “But this is his home, too.”

***

Katsumi feels sort of bad that Tanuma has to make this annoyingly long walk just because he himself doesn’t know how to get to the nearest Lawson. He’d lost a fierce, best-of-ten coin flip battle with Nishimura over whose turn it was to pick up snacks. It’s not that it’s a nightmarish distance away considering they’re on the bare outskirts of town, it’s just the late afternoon sun beating down on them that makes him ready to commit  homicide. And most of the way there between the wooded temple grounds and the main residential area is along a dusty gravel road between sunken rice fields, riddled with potholes and not especially worth it to navigate with a bike.

And Lawson isn’t even good.

Precisely none of this is Tanuma’s fault. This is an objective fact that he, of course, knows.

But they’ve only just left the store, and Katsumi ran out of random topics to fill up the stagnant air about ten minutes ago. The best he’s got at the moment, short of intermittent bitching about the heat, is his completely unfounded opinion of some new game he’d seen an ad for at the register which he never intends to play.

And Tanuma doesn’t look especially anxious, or at least not like he’s here under duress or anything—he was the one who volunteered to show Katsumi the way— but he doesn’t look especially comfortable, either. He’s already fished a bottle of tea out of the shopping bag, fiddling with the wrapper between sips and watching the dusty gravel crunch beneath their shoes. His responses aren’t rude, just a little off key, a subdued smattering of ‘oh’s and ‘hm’s and ‘I see’s that don’t always quite sync up with Katsumi’s words, a second too late or too early.  

Maybe it’s the truly ridiculous heat that’s getting to the guy. But he’s drinking his tea, and he’s wearing the same old wet towel he’s had slung around his neck all week, ojiisan style. He’d just re-soaked it again in the little sink outside the combini bathroom. It’s funny, Katsumi thinks, that Tanuma’s such a painfully self-conscious person, but then there’s these odd little things here and there that it doesn’t even seem to occur to him to be self-conscious about at all. He didn’t get out much as a kid, from what Katsumi’s heard. It’d be almost endearing if Katsumi was in any sort of mood to be endeared. As it stands it’s too fucking hot out here and now he kind of wants a stupid neck towel too.

Katsumi doesn’t want to make shit awkward, not when he’s staying in his house. But why had it been somehow easier to talk to Tanuma when they were being chased around some hell-mansion about to be murdered by some ghost-doll-things.

He’s not gonna take it personally. Even with his actual friends, where he seems most at ease, Katsumi’s seen him get fidgety, fingers worrying at a fraying shirt hem or drumming on his knee like he doesn’t always quite know how to physically handle too many eyes on him at once, or so many voices in the room. And more often than not, if one of the others picks up on this, he’s seen them seamlessly take the volume down a notch, give him some room to breathe, a little radius of calm. As though his comfort level is some sort of sixth sense for them all.

And Katsumi’s starting to wonder if running his mouth so that Tanuma wouldn’t have to was really the best course of action here. Maybe silence, comfortable or otherwise, would’ve spared them both.

Hell, too late now.

“…and it’s only available on the newest consoles, because of course it is, and even though Sakatani managed to get his hands on a copy and says he’ll let me play, apparently the graphics are kind of ass, so—uh. You good over there?”

Tanuma’s pinching the bridge of his nose, mouth twisting a little and pace falling a half-step behind Katsumi. He doesn’t really answer, just gives an absent diplomatic little hum like he has done for most of the conversation.

Katsumi stops walking.

“Hey.”

And Tanuma honest-to-god almost shuffles right past him, reaching up to rub at his temple now. He only stops when Katsumi snags the strap of the little freezer bag that he’d brought in a thoughtful yet desperate bid to keep the drinks cold and the tops of Nishimura’s chocorooms from all melting together inside the box. Tanuma blinks hard, like all the dust in the air has gunked up in his eyes.

Katsumi frowns. “Your head hurts?”

Tanuma just blinks again, nods once. The look on his face is strange. Vague, kind of.

Katsumi swears under his breath. “Hey,” he says again, louder, when Tanuma’s gaze slides away and out of focus. He grabs his shoulder, shakes him just enough to get his hazy attention back.

“Is this some youkai thing?” He tries to make the words slow and clear. “’Cause if we need to run…” Their chances wouldn’t be stellar, probably, out in the very-wide-open with no visible houses or people that Katsumi can see, but if they booked it they might make it back to the temple in 20 minutes. Barring being gutted in a rice paddy by invisible monsters.

Tanuma frowns, like he’s trying to grasp at the edges of his focus. “I don’t…”

“You don’t know? Or you don’t think so?” If there were time, Katsumi would feel like an ass for getting in his face and snapping at him. But he can feel Tanuma listing forward where he’s still gripping his shoulder, and he puts another hand under his elbow to steady him. “Should I call someone?”

Blink, blink. Apparently, that was too many questions at once. “…hot,” is what Tanuma finally settles on, in a small voice. Then his knees buckle.

Fuck.

Katsumi just barely manages to keep Tanuma from a total faceplant. He’s not so heavy, but it’s so abrupt that trying to catch him sends Katsumi falling back hard onto his own ass as Tanuma’s knees hit the ground.

Katsumi yelped as they went down, but Tanuma hasn’t made a sound. They’re both on their knees. Katsumi’s got him by the shoulders, and his head’s lolling forward, bumping into Katsumi’s chest.

And, shit. He was not lying. Katsumi can feel the heat rolling off him. He manages to maneuver a hand up to the side of his neck, and very nearly yanks it away, hissing through his teeth.

“Right, so,” he mutters. “Probably not youkai shit, then.”

Probably not doesn’t mean definitely not, though, and even as he’s trying to lower Tanuma fully onto the parched ground, curled onto his side, Katsumi’s fishing out his phone.

One bar. He’ll take it.

He hesitates for a second, torn between dialing Natsume, firing off a group message, or just calling an ambulance. He settles on the first—Natsume’s got the fastest mode of transport, which also happens to be an apparently giant and terrifying monster, if Sensei’s own words are to be believed, so that’s two birds one stone.

He hits Natsume’s name, fingers shaking.

And, dead air. Not even a dial tone.

He swears, checks the screen. Zero bars. A stupid little red x where the bars ought to be.

Goddamn backwoods towns and their goddamn backwoods reception.

“Hey.” He lays a hand on Tanuma’s shoulder. Katsumi can’t see his face, but his breaths are coming short and harsh. “I’m gonna borrow your phone.”

Less than one minute later and he’s given it up. Tanuma’s got the same network carrier, and an older phone to boot. It’s like there’s some fucked-up barricade made of yellowing rice fields, choking air and far-off cicada screeches between themselves and outside human contact.

Well then.

Tanuma’s eyes are open now. Not a lot, but that’s got to be better than passed out. Katsumi manages to work an arm under his shoulders, get his opposite hand under his head and neck. “Let’s get some tea in you,” he says, because he’s not sure what the fuck else to do. He can feel a pulse that’s far too quick thrumming under his fingertips, can see the intense splotchy flush across his cheeks that seems to have crept up out of nowhere. Tanuma doesn’t answer him, just scrunches up his eyes against the direct sun on his face, makes a small pained noise that makes Katsumi feel ill.

Making him drink turns out to be less than an inspired plan. He doesn’t seem to register the tea at first, letting it dribble down his chin, but then after a few slow gulps, he gags. And then proceeds to be sick, all over Katsumi.

“Eh. Didn’t like this shirt, anyways,” Katsumi tells him, hoping to exude literally any emotion other than pure terror, and barely managing to turn Tanuma’s face away in time before he gags again.

By the time he finishes, there’s tears in his eyes, and his breaths are coming ragged and loud. He doesn’t seem to notice that Katsumi’s dug through the combini bag, sliding the 2 liter of mugicha under his head and neck like a pillow, and tucked the bottle of Calpis that Taki had asked for underneath his armpit. The rest of Tanuma’s own bottle he upends over his neck and chest, soaking his towel and the top of his shirt. That, at least, elicits a reaction, a faint confused “hm” that would be perfectly reasonable for anyone whose friend has just drenched them in a bottle of jasmine tea.

It makes Katsumi smile, just a bit. “Gotta cool you down. Sorry.” He’s got no idea if it’s the correct thing to do; he’s based the entire tactic on some random lackluster TV drama he’d seen years ago, where some captain of a school track team overheated during a practice, and her teammates tried to care for her on the field while someone fetched a teacher.

At the very least, it didn’t seem to be hurting. His eyes are open wider now, marginally less clouded over. Katsumi’s positioned him on his side again in case of more puking, his cheek squashed against the tea bottle, and he seems to be focused on some spot on the gravel past Katsumi. He looks like he wants to say something, mouth forming around the shape of words, but nothing comes out.

Katsumi turns. There, lying maybe a half meter away on the ground, is something small and rectangular. Some kind of talisman, Katsumi thinks; it’s made of thin pale wood and covered in some inked-in kanji and symbols he can’t make out. He doesn’t touch it, at first. “This is yours?”

Tanuma nods, just a little, then screws his eyes shut like his head is protesting the movement. But by his side his fingers twitch vaguely in Katsumi’s direction. It must’ve fallen out of his pocket when Katsumi was getting his phone. Katsumi scoops it up and places it in his palm, and Tanuma’s fingers close immediately around it.

He digs his own phone out again, an exercise in futility, and dials 119, resisting the urge to chuck it into the field as the call refuses to connect. It’s not like he couldn’t half-drag, half-carry Tanuma back towards the nearest house if he really needed to, but god knows how long it’d take, and even with his net zero medical expertise it seems like a bad idea to be moving him from this spot unless it’s on a stretcher, or on the back of a giant invisible wolf monster.

Tanuma’s staring at nothing at all again, his knuckles white from gripping the talisman. Katsumi frowns, grabs Tanuma’s wrist.

“You’re gonna break it. The wood’s pretty thin.”

Tanuma, predictably, ignores him. Even as weak as he is, with his thumb digging into the center of the thing, he’s likely to snap it in half.

But he doesn’t, or can’t, resist when Katsumi takes it from him. “Let’s keep this in one piece, huh. We need all the damned luck the gods want to chuck our way right now.” He’s about to slide it safely back into Tanuma’s pocket when he pauses, glancing down at the talisman.

“You’re sure nothing’s about to pop out and eat us, right?”

But Tanuma’s eyes have fallen shut again. He doesn’t seem to have passed out; he’s still gasping like he’s run a marathon.

“Right. Gonna take that as a yes.” He finishes tucking the talisman away, then slides his hand up under Tanuma’s fringe. He frowns. The intense heat, he was expecting. What he was not expecting was the desert-dryness of his skin. Katsumi’s own hair’s been plastered grossly to his forehead all week long, only to poke up and frizz at odd angles throughout the day. He hadn’t noticed earlier because of the damp towel and the tea-soaked shirt, but Tanuma’s not sweating.

He swallows back panic. God knows how he’s got any more panic to spare, really. “Look,” he says, not expecting an answer. “Nobody’s coming, because apparently nobody in this entire fucking town uses this road except us, so I’m gonna get help.” He blows out a breath. “I think we passed a pay phone. Ten minutes ago? Maybe less. I’ll make it five. If you get eaten by monsters while I’m gone and I ran in this weather for nothing I am gonna be pretty damn irritated.”

***

The only coffee the vending machines have, at least on this floor, is some dismal off-brand that only comes black. But Katsumi resolutely ignores the acid roiling in his stomach when Kitamoto passes him one and pops the tab. It’s something to do. Chug coffee, scroll his phone. Rinse, repeat. At least it’s cold.

“Hey.”

Something lands in his lap. A squashed-looking cinnamon roll, another vending-machine offering.

“Eat that too or you’ll puke again, probably,” Nishimura tells him.

Katsumi has to bite back the reflexive dickish retort. Nishimura looks just about as shit as Katsumi feels, but he’s still got it in him to be kind. Katsumi’s got nothing in him but raw nerves and stomach acid, at this point.

“Right,” he mutters. “Thanks.”

There’s not even a good reason anymore for the weird shitty haze over his brain. When Tanuma’s dad had called, just before three AM and only two-ish hours after they’d been forced to leave the hospital last night, the news had been good. He was awake, talking a little, and the fever definitely wasn’t gone but the numbers were creeping back downwards. They’d need a few days, at least, to run some barrage of tests and keep an eye out for lasting damage. Tanuma’s dad had been judiciously vague about just what kind of damage, but the half dozen browser pages on heatstroke currently open on Katsumi’s phone had given him a pretty grim idea.

The Fujiwaras’ house had been closest to the hospital, so they’d spent the remainder of the previous night all sleepless and huddled together on the floor of Natsume’s room. Katsumi hadn’t even put up a fight when they’d dragged his futon into the very center of the room between Kitamoto’s and Natsume’s, when Nishimura had idly flopped his own legs over Katsumi’s, or when Taki pulled up some aggressively cheerful magical girl anime on Natsume’s laptop to fill the dead air. When Sensei had tucked himself in by Katsumi’s hip and gone to sleep. When Touko-san had patted his arm, after their very late dinner, her eyes so gentle it hurt. He’d felt liminal, then, like he’d take off and run if he could just escape his own skin, but at least with the others all squashed up against him he could remember to breathe.

It's past 10 in the morning now. Visiting hours had started at 9, and they’d all piled on the first scheduled bus towards the hospital this morning and arrived before 8, anyhow. They had, of course, not been allowed to step foot out the door without a bag loaded up with bento lunches and a firm promise to Touko-san they’d be back by late afternoon when visiting hours had concluded to get some rest. Though she’d been saying something about “getting some things ready” to bring over herself for Tanuma and his dad, and based on the look on her face when she’d said it Katsumi’s half expecting her to march through the waiting room doors in the next hour or two like a woman on a mission with half the contents of the closest supermarket and drugstore loaded up in her arms. The thought makes his chest feel tight.

But they’d shown up just in time to be informed that Tanuma had an MRI among other things scheduled that morning, and that no, they did not know how long it would take.

Across from Katsumi, Natsume’s dozed off, despite his own best coffee-fueled efforts. He’s slumped sideways onto Taki, lank-haired and restless, flicking through an old magazine with disinterest as her heel bounces on the scuffed linoleum. Sensei’s perched across both their laps, still absurdly half-stuffed into the duffel bag in which they’d smuggled him through the hospital doors, which seems pretty pointless to Katsumi if he’s just going to sit there with his entire head sticking out at this point. But he seems entirely unbothered, his eyes closed; maybe asleep, maybe not. But they’re the only ones tucked over in this little alcove of a waiting room, and damn if not a soul has interrupted them for a good two hours.

It’s probably for the best that Natsume’s getting some sleep, really. He hadn’t gotten any more than Katsumi had; Katsumi had heard his muffled hitched breaths last night when they were all pretending to sleep. Out of all of them, he’s said the least this whole time.

“You can stop looking at him like that.”

Taki’s voice is frank, but not unkind.

Katsumi could not be less in the mood for whatever the hell kind of conversation this is about to be. “Like what,” he replies anyhow. 

“Like you broke his best friend,” Nishimura says, lowly, before letting out a slight oof like he’s been elbowed in the ribs.

Damn. Alright then.

None of them seem to be holding their breath for him to respond, at least. They don’t seem to know what to say, either, really. He’s weighing the pros and cons of just fleeing to the bathroom when Kitamoto finally says, “Natsume knows better than anyone that this isn’t on you.”

“Why?” Katsumi feels his gut give a little lurch. “Was it some kind of youkai shit after all, then?”

Taki shakes her head. “I mean, you’ll have to ask him, but. Sensei did go and check the area out last night and ask around and everything, and it all seemed normal.”

Sensei remains silent, naturally, but his ear flicks in Taki’s direction.

Kitamoto’s mouth twists. “What I meant was, just keeling over in random places with no warning or explanation is like. A hobby of Natsume’s.”

“We love it,” Nishimura mutters. “It’s great.”

Sensei huffs.

Katsumi glances at Natsume, still slack and dead to the world on Taki’s shoulder. And okay, maybe he kind of still looks like a stiff breeze could knock him over. But much less so than when they were kids. Less so even than the first time Katsumi had come to this town. “How many times constitutes a hobby?”

And Nishimura frowns, then honest-to-god starts counting on his fingers.

Taki watches him, mouth twisting like she’s considering it. “I guess it depends what counts as keeling over. Or what constitutes a warning.

“Enough times,” Kitamoto says, decisively.

Nishimura scuffs his toe on the floor. “And with me and Acchan, he’d just be lying through his teeth about it, for months, because he didn’t think he could—“

Could what, Katsumi wonders, but Nishimura never finishes the thought. Kitamoto bumps their shoulders together Nishimura huffs, apparently relinquishing the rant building inside him, but Katsumi thinks the look on his face, the tightness in his eyes, is just this side of grief.

“Anyways,” Nishimura says, after an uncomfortable beat, sounding only slightly more subdued. “Even if you don’t wanna hear it, you’re the Big Damn Hero in this situation. No ifs-ands-or-buts, okay. We all know it. Natsume knows it.” Taki nods, flint-eyed like she’s daring him to argue.

“You can’t predict this stuff,” Kitamoto adds, after a moment, his expression hard to parse. “With anyone. And you’ll just make yourself crazy thinking you can.”

“Okay,” is all Katsumi can think of to say. It sounds dismissive, probably, but it’s all he’s got right now. He watches Natsume scrunch up his nose in his sleep. The council hath spoken, and he is too goddamned tired to refute them.

tbc

[piningpercussionist]

Interest checking somethin' real quick!

*I couldn't think of a better way to word that, but I mean like. If I only opened comissions for stages sketches through flats, but you wanted shading, or something. Or if I end up deciding certain kinds of commissions won't work for me and have to put up restrictions.

The second I'm able I'm probably going to be opening them, so I'm just kinda feeling out where interest lies! I don't know how I'd be pricing things just yet, honestly? My brain seems kinda caught on "$5 for a quick sketch is a good starting point" but we'll see what happens, since I'm uncertain what the reasonable price escalation from there is to me- also, I have a tendency to go overboard on my sketches naturally, so. We'll See.

Another thing that'll probably be coming is a kofi for tips and requests! But do keep in mind that I just specified requests and not commissions- they'd be in no way guaranteed, I'd just feel a little more pressured on account of your kindness lol

[tj-crochets]

hey y'all normal people* interpretation question. Is there a like normal person one-day kind of illness? I am having my first severe allergic reaction since I've started my new meds** and I ended up asking my boss for the afternoon off once I made it past the cutoff time for same day contractor pay (so none of my contractors' would have their pay delayed because of me). He was fine with it but my coworkers are very friendly and I'd rather the main office not know I have severe allergies, so like if they ask...food poisoning? Stomach flu? Instead of "my new long term meds meant I did not puke, which is a huge improvement for me, but I am so exhausted I was falling askeep sitting up aat my desk" *by which I mean people without my weird combo of health issues, especially the weird allergies, I am just out on words today **severe is...kind of relative? not anaphylaxis, no hospital needed, but thoroughly unpleasant

[starbuck]

me: hey, so i feel like you maybe disregarded my saying that caretaking on top of work and school and pre-planned travel is a lot for me right now and i’m not comfortable with all of that pressure being on me alone when i wanna make sure you guys have everything you need when i’m not around…

my family: of COURSE we heard you, that’s why we started doing a bunch of things by ourselves at great cost to our physical well-being instead of asking you for help!!!!!!

me:

[lord-squiggletits]

Speaking of Tyrest. A lot of people forget that he treated Pharma with absolute disdain, not only using him as a test subject for a clearly painful mass murder machine, but talking to Pharma like he saw him as nothing but some henchman to order around that was nothing more than a 'diseased cripple' if Tyrest hadn't come to rescue him.

Like it really is an interesting background dynamic with some curious implications, but when you look at fandom posts from around that issue/the years after, for some reason people just saw "Pharma worked with Tyrest" and concluded Pharma is a card carrying bigot ksjfnskxkd. Like yeah Pharma didn't do anything to stop Tyrest but it seems his main beef with the Autobots was with Ratchet in particular and maybe a general disdain for his ex-comrades. As well as continuing to hate Decepticons which like, not even the "good Autobots" are immune to (even in Pharma's introduction, First Aid says in his journal something like "yeah we all hate Decepticons, but Pharma REALLY hates them"). And despite what fandom likes to construe there's really no evidence in IDW1 that Autobots and Decepticons are different "races" or "types" of Cybertronians, so Pharma hating Decepticons really isn't a bigotry/robot racism thing. And instead probably has something to do with, idk, the 4 million year long galaxy-spanning blood feud war, or maybe being blackmailed and tortured into insanity by the Biggest and Most Decepticon-y of Decepticons.

Tyrest treated Pharma like trash, the other Decepticons working for Tyrest (how come no one ever brings that up btw) also hated him, so if anything it seems that Pharma was more of a rogue element only staying with Tyrest bc he was his best option and probably had no way to even escape.

I'm glad that at least in recent years the fandom has acquired a keen reading eye and good taste to finally recognize Pharma as the (accidentally) complex character he is instead of making him some posh, racist Starscream clone SHSJDGSGDH

[naamahdarling]

So I'm reading The Body Keeps the Score and it's...mildly illuminating. I'm only part way through and have hope that it might be somewhat helpful to me personally or have even more good observations, because there really are some, and I think that once I get over my disgust and anger, I might even be able to appreciate them.

But what struck me is how this fuckin guy, who is clearly just really into helping people and wants to try to change things and has good intentions and a lot of meaningful experience, and has valuable observations, this guy who really fucking cares, still describes watching actual crimes occur in front of him without intervening, and participating in them sometimes, without acknowledging them directly as crimes or expressing more than some regret. And these crimes were committed upon patients who were already severely traumatized and were in a traumatizing setting, hence their fractious or nonresponsive behavior. Like, he's about as good and well-meaning a guy as you can find, and I see why he has been so important in his field, and still.

He did/does remarkable work, I won't lie, but it just drives home how even though most of these horrible people who taught him may be dead (good) and even though a whole lot of his peers are out of the game by now, STILL their poison lingers, because they absolutely trained a shitfuckassload of the people currently practicing, and trained most of the older people currently still in charge. Two professional generations back and they're using textbooks that are like "ehhh, incest isn't harmful to women, and might actually have psychological benefits." BITCH WHAT? Of COURSE it's fucking awful. That's like common fucking sense. To not be able to see that would require you being mindfucked into believing literally the opposite of what the most basic empathy would tell you is true. These people got their brains washed and then bathed in shit. And now we have the system we do, built by them.

No wonder psych wards are trauma farms and staff utterly ungoverned. They don't see a damn thing wrong with treating their inmates like animals. It's how it's always been done. I mean, I knew that, but still. I keep learning things that make me hate them even more than I did. At every turn they have chosen to perpetuate pain because all they can understand is the need to control these people into behaving "normally".

[f1inl3ey]

Oh btw my dog had a heart attack a couple days ago

[the-obnoxious-sibling]

i am enjoying brilliant minds for, like, the characters and the stories and appearing to be the opposite of house md and such, but. i have been working for a hospital for too long.

what do you mean the neurosurgeon can just. declare that neuro is done caring for a mutual patient

what do you mean neuro is still in charge of the case when they discover the patient’s condition wasn’t ever neurological

what do you mean a patient flatlines and not a single nurse is in the room before anesthesia

what do you mean you have four first year neuro residents and one attending

actually, i have to break that one down

four first year neuro residents and no others? did your residency program only just start this year?? and you got four matches your first year??

four first year neuro residents and one attending? that ratio is insane. how do any of them get anything done. how does wolf have time to breathe.

[marklikely]

theres also a point in the movie where he gets arrested and beat up in jail and he is so depressed he loses the ability to stop time and then later his girlfriend convinces him to try again to stop time for her and he does it and theres this big music swell its handled like a big arc was just overcome. the problem is that there is no story between these scenes theyre only separated by like 5 minutes of unrelated scenes about other characters.

[pochapal]

went outside and exercised normally for the first time since The Incident and i felt fine outside of the expected Hasn't Exercised in several months feelings. against doctor's orders btw but i would rather be dead than forced to spend all my time at home not doing a single thing that could exert me in any way <3

[flippedorbit]

i’m gonna be so for real, if things don’t start changing for me in good ways i will be disappearing off the face of the earth

[ms-newvegas]

I do totally understand every side of arguments irt ozempic and similar. But in personal experience taking trulicity (a similar injectable but different idk class of medicine it’s not quite the same) was the only way I’ve been able to lose significant amount of weight in a reasonable time resulting in my blood test results being better and also feeling much much better physically overall. Like yes I am happy I’m losing weight but it does feel life saving in the sense I feel better and have been repairing my body which I damaged so much with BED. Also it is so much easier to move now! Stairs, dancing, anything. You get used to doing it at a higher weight then you lose weight and it’s like taking the weights off of horses legs

[ghastbutlikegay]

dudes ive hit a point with The Horrors:tm: where im unable to convince myself that any of my friends actually like me

[esleep]

all of my clothes are too big for me since starting adderall has made me drop a ton of weight and i'm actually scared to weigh myself because i'm concerned about how low the number is gonna be. if anyone has tips for force-feeding yourself without throwing up when all food sounds heinous, or foods that are generally agreeable even on a volatile stomach, please tell me.

[thethingything]

our tooth is suddenly a lot more painful again and I don't know why, but I also only had one ibuprofen left so I've just taken that and I guess I have to hope our mum can get us some more before that one wears off because I really want to avoid having to take co-codamol again.

the issue is that we took some ibuprofen earlier and it wore off so quickly I'm not sure we're gonna be able to get away with just using that but I'm gonna feel really shitty if I do end up having to take the co-codamol, and we'd started getting intrusive thoughts about taking it while not actually in pain so I've gotten myself into this ridiculous loop of being like "what if I'm just coming up with an excuse to take it" even though I am in fact in a fuckload of pain now and the other medication isn't helping enough.

it feels like I'm stuck in a situation where my options are once again to either take a medication that I know is fucking me up and it's going to be a nightmare, or deal with being in too much pain to function, so I'm fucked no matter what I do