#I have spent SIX YEARS trying to heal an eating disorder

[house-of-crows]

I wish all "eat less move more track everything" medical rote responses a very DIE.

[angelofthemornings]

Okay, I came up with an action plan. I sort of want to share it with others, so after I review it with my therapist next week I'll post it to r/hikikomori. I'll show you folks too.

I decided to come up with an action plan about my condition based both on personal research and input from my new therapist. I'll make reminders in my phone calendar and come back with three month, six month, and one year updates. If anyone would like to do the challenge with me, please comment and update as well! I'm doing this publicly partially because I think it would be a little easier for me to do something for others and not just myself. If I'm a success story people can look at, then others might figure out how to help themselves too.

Some background on me:

I was a healthy, active, and industrious kid. Very curious, always doing something, a hard worker. The only thing wrong with me was some autism, very mild.

However, I developed severe insomnia around the age of thirteen and was unable to sleep until two or three AM. My parents decided I was "being obstinate" and refused to take me to a doctor or even get me OTC sleeping pills. Instead, I'd get locked in an empty closet hoping I'd pass out from boredom (I didn't), or dragged out of bed and onto the floor at six AM by my arm or my hair and forced to go to school on only a couple hours' sleep. Maybe an adult could handle that kind of sleep deprivation and still function, but for a child this was torture, especially because I was screamed at and sometimes hit every morning because I struggled to get up and going. I completely collapsed mentally - I even started bedwetting - and dropped out of school within a few months of my insomnia appearing, becoming a hikikomori. I spent over a decade more or less in captivity, and, possibly due to the stress of isolation, I developed bipolar disorder and epilepsy (I'm pretty sure, at least, that both came after I entered social withdrawal and weren't the cause) and I also struggled with alcoholism for a bit. I have some other trauma from things like relationships - I ran away and lived briefly with an older man as a teenager and it was really bad - and some other things, but that's not important right now.

I spend all my time lurking on social media looking for cheap dopamine hits and reading ebooks on my phone and that's just about it. After a LOT of trying and failing I'm able to draw and paint on a tablet for at least a few minutes most days as well.

So, as for the challenge.

My first step was stabilizing my health (bipolar disorder and epilepsy are in control and my sleep schedule is good, and I stopped drinking using the Sinclair method). That's taken care of.

Here are my instructions to myself for the rest of my healing process:

1. Accept that you were driven into a fragile and fearful state that is so normal to you now that you don't even notice it. Try to notice it. There are lots of things you want to do and don't do, and things you do that you don't want to be doing, and they grate on you. Pay attention to those moments and challenge and interrogate them, like:

"I don't want to get on social media this morning. Why do I feel like I have to?" Once you have answered that: "Is that true? Do I really have to? What will I feel if I don't do it and is that feeling really going to be intolerable?"

"I want to pick up a little, but I can't make myself. Why is that? Okay, it feels like I'm afraid my back will hurt. But how much will it hurt and will I go all to pieces if it does get sore? No, I think I can handle it."

"I need to clean the snow off of the car and I can't do it, but I can't identify why. What is something I could do to make myself more comfortable doing it? Maybe I'm hungry and could eat lunch first to get myself energized and to move around a little before doing any labor, or maybe I subconsciously realize I'm not wearing warm enough clothes."

Now is where all the research you've undoubtedly done about ADHD and autism stuff will come in handy. "Oh, it looks like I feel like I'm not going to be on time so I won't do anything before my telehealth appointment, even quickly change the clothes I've been in for three days...I know from my research that I can use a visual timer to help with that."

You'll have to talk to yourself like a mother negotiating gently with a very young child, or like someone rehabilitating an abused kitten, and that's okay. "Reparenting yourself" is a very common technique in American psychology. Remember that the father of hikikomori studies, Saito Tamaki, is really against firmness and force. He often compares it to "driving someone into the corner." Your job is not to discipline yourself and try to get tougher, your job is to coax yourself out of that corner. Again, the "abused kitten" model of thinking about yourself should work well here according to him - I don't think telling a feral kitten that Marcus Aurelius wouldn't approve is going to make it stop cowering. Kindness and creating a safe emotional atmosphere so it feels comfortable expanding its boundaries will.

Understand that "making yourself comfortable so you can do things" is much different than just "making yourself comfortable"; the latter is the kind of retreat that led to your unhealthy lifestyle. The former is purposeful healing.

Also understand that this "mindfulness" will take time to do consistently and is sometimes going to get annoying and cost energy. But if you can manage to do it for even one thought/action you want to change a day, that's still significant and will grow into serious progress.

2. Move physically. I don't mean go outside and jog for an hour right away, that's like, step nineteen. Moving physically and "being in my body" or "aware of my body" is difficult for me because of self-hatred and possibly some sexual abuse trauma, and after all this sedentary isolation I feel very detached from it. You'll want to start with very small stuff like chair yoga or those under-the-desk pedal things, and for only a few minutes. You can work your way up to true exercise later, for now, your job is just to get used to yourself as having a body.

3. Go outside by yourself, with no particular reason at first to decrease pressure. To start, I want to drive to the park at least twice and then three times a week, I don't even have to get out of the car, just practice being there. After I can regularly go to the park without feeling stressed, I can go to the public indoor pool and swim, just to practice being visible around others (water is really soothing to me). Then I'll attend virtual meetings for something - I've found some groups for autistics, LGBT, etc. After establishing regular attendance at virtual groups, I want to start going to the open art studio held at the library every week. That is attended exclusively by old ladies and they're always happy to see younger people, and older women generally have good social skills that'll compensate for my bad ones, and it's way less pressure than trying to create a social circle with people my own age. I also can either sit there quietly and make art or choose to socialize a little, nothing is obligatory.

If I struggle too much with the virtual groups or open art studio, I might attend an adult day care center for the disabled and have people pick me up to go, so that I'll have something external pushing me.

After I get used to that, I need to focus on one-on-one stuff which is very hard for me. To do that, I want to get virtual lessons in language learning (expensive but I'm going to try to squeeze it out of my budget) (on italki you're paying the tutor to be nice to you and you're not talking in your native language, so you're going to stumble and be awkward by default, no shame) or in violin so I can improve my skills and express myself. After I get used to people that way, I can try to join things like book clubs in my area and meet people in their 20s and 30s naturally.

4. This is about where I can start considering maybe a part-time job or school. It might be useful to take a class or classes on Coursera first, that way I can practice structure and doing things consistently for weeks on end.

5. In general, I want to make a list of three things to do every day. At least one of them should be a fun thing that I'd like to enjoy but struggle to do, like playing my violin. Another one should be something challenging and productive I can do on my phone, like use a language learning app, because phone activities are easiest for me. The remaining slot can go to obligations like doctor's appointments or cleaning up.

Advice: Studies show (source: Tiny Habits, written by the director of the Stanford Behavior Design lab) that you actually have a very limited window to reward yourself for good behavior, as in, less than a second. Saying you'll eat ice cream after dinner if you do something in the morning isn't effective. What you need to do is, after you've done something you want to reward, give yourself a bit of congratulations. I personally started playing the Final Fantasy victory sting in my head once I've done something I want to do. (The author of the book says he does a little dance or goes "Yay me!" when he does something like his pushups.) I also got the Do It Now app, which gives you points for tasks you set so you can watch yourself level, and I added not only obligatory stuff (cleaning, brushing teeth, appointments, etc.) but entertaining things that aren't sitting on a screen that I'd like to do more of but are hard for me (violin, listening to music, etc.). These two tools can give me tangible, psychologically appealing rewards. I don't know why being able to press a button in an app and watch a number go up is so satisfying, but it is.

Also, meditating helps (especially because it makes you more aware of your thoughts, that's useful for step one). I financed a Muse S meditation headband that reads my brainwaves and rewards me with audio cues when I reach a relaxed state, but I'm not going to say that's necessary because I want this challenge to be as cheap as possible for everyone.

Above all, be gentle, and give yourself points for trying even if you can only do something for a minute or two.

[whirlybirbs]

          (   this chapter’s gif by @august-walker​ from this beautiful set !   )

✪   —   VACANT MIRRORS  ;  B.B.  |  4/?

summary: you formulate a plan, meet steve rogers, and bucky goes on a date.

pairing: bucky barnes / f!reader

tags: set before & during tfatws, friends to lovers, therapy positive, trauma healing techniques, ptsd mentions, the normalization of anxiety disorders, and a good ol’ slow burn

word count: 6.8k, mother of pearl

a/n: this ended up being mostly a filler with a lot of romantic growth - i had to break this chapter up from the unce unce unce clubbing that coming up, so please enjoy! 

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MOSCOW, 1975.

In all the years that James Buchanan Barnes has had a heartbeat, he’d come to know the sounds of grief well.

War taught him a lot of things — that they were all just little boys playing with guns, and that no matter how many times you thought you’d be ready for the vomit-inducing pungency of violence, you never were. In the end, you’d do anything to save yourself; you’d crawl through the thick of death and debris a million times over if only to cling to the shredded tatters of your own humanity.

You would kill someone else’s son for the sake of your own mother.

War was disease that devoured every part of you — it was gunpowder snuff and carved flesh. That sickness — inky and desperate — had sunk deep into this heart during the war, and it crescendoed to the sounds of mothers clutching dead sons. The sounds that followed death were like a hollow opera. Waning and wailing.

In the raucous wake left by warborn grief, Bucky drowned everytime.

To the Winter Soldier, the operatic quality to the sounds of grief were as insignificant as a child’s rhyme.

He did not drown. No, he waded through the waves, comfortable in the cold and unphased by the stinging cut of loss. That was not something he could comprehend. After all, there were orders and there were targets, and everything in between was absolute.

He was the disease that devoured all.

He’s holding a gun to Andrei Kuznetzov’s head in a dining room with ornate trim — with silverware as delicate as scalpels that tinker against fine china. The carpets are red, the curtains are red, there’s blood on the table cloth. The guests continue to eat. Kuznetzov’s wife is screaming, red nails dug so deep into the dining chair’s arms it’s carving out the fabric. War dogs, like him, keep her rooted in her seat, and her tears find polished boots. She’s begging and bartering but the man with Kuznetzov’s life in his hands is not listening. He is eating his veal, bloodied meat dancing between his lips. He takes a sip of wine as his medal emblazoned chest glimmers in the light of crystalline chandaliers.

The spoils of war.

His smile is stained red.

There is no deal to be made.

The Winter Soldier pulls the trigger.

NOW.

His eyes are open.

Panic is the first emotion he feels, and it seizes him up quickly in its grasp. He doesn’t know this view, he doesn’t know where he is, not again, not again, not again —

Then:

“Good morning, sleeping beauty. Did you know you snore?”

The relief that the sound of your voice brings is immediate, and just like that he remembers. He’s laying on the bed. You’re sat up across from him at that small desk in the corner. He reaches as he rubs his face to thumb the edge of the pillowcase. He exhales tightly.

He’s fine. His name is James Buchanan Barnes. He is not longer the Winter Soldier. He’s in his Brooklyn apartment. He is fine.

When’s the last fucking time he’s slept in a bed?

He sits up, scratching his neck as he does. You lean back, half rotated in the desk. Before you is a mess of papers and his laptop — and on top of the keyboard sits his notebook. It’s open to the page where all he’d been able to figure out about Innessa was scrawled in his chicken scratch.

Bucky swings his legs over the edge of the bed and immediately his back complains.

“How long was I out?” he asks, voice hoarse with sleep. He moves to part the curtains. The room blooms with warm morning light.

You offer an apologetic smile into the vanilla sunshine. “Three hours. I wanted you to get some shut eye. You were starting to look a little overwhelmed last night—”

“You click too fast,” he waves, standing and immediately rolling his neck to the side. You watch as the man, before as peaceful as a sleeping pup, now regains his usual thinning veiled level of threat. Bucky is dangerous — it shows in the way he holds himself. He cracks his neck, rolls his shoulders, and groans. He exhales again, posture sagging a bit, “I couldn’t keep up.”

You’re standing now, socks padding against the hardwood as you eye his cowlick with a budding bloom of affection. With his notebook between your index and middle finger, you offer it out. You cling to your empty coffee cup in the other.

“I didn’t peek,” you say warmly, “Pinky promise.”

His laugh is more like a hot puff of air. Bucky manages a look that feels like an emotional dethaw.

“Thank you.”

You lead the way to the kitchen, stretching your own back as you go. You’d been up all night — this is your third trip out here for yet another cup of coffee. The pot has been on for too long, though, and you know the coffee sitting there is beyond bitter. You’re moving to dump it down the sink when Bucky grumbles.

“Don’t.”

“You want it?”

“No,” he mutters, reaching for a mug, “But I don’t want to waste it.”

“Wow,” you chirp, “The Great Depression just jumped out.”

“Yeah,” he snorts, yanking open the fridge to search for something to eat, “It does that.”

“Well, grandpa,” you hand him the steaming cup and set out to make another pot, “You’re also living on Depression Era rations — might I suggest some Dolly’s? Because I’m starving and I’ve been up all night and I think that means I get to decide where we get breakfast.”

Bucky’s look is soft — but you don’t see it. You’re too busy scooping sugar into your cup, too busy nudging him aside to grab the milk. He’s rooted there in the kitchen, watching you move about. You’re comfortable. There isn’t a trace of anxiousness in you, not in this moment, and he tries to remember what it looks like.

Your eyes find his and he clears his throat.

“Earth to Sergeant Barnes?”

“Don’t start,” he groans, albeit playfully, “It’s too early.”

“Oh, what? Too early for me to grill you on why you didn’t tell me that little laptop in there was on loan from the FBI? To one Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes of the 107th?”

His face falls.

“Don’t worry,” you raise a hand quickly, leaning against the counter as you sip your coffee, “I figured that out before I did anything massively illegal.”

Bucky rubs his face as he takes a sip of his coffee — the bitterness is enough to slap him awake. He winces, swallows it back, and remembers the taste of instant coffee made in helmets on the line in Bastogne. He can smell snow, and the acrid sting of mortar smoke. Suddenly, he’s craving a cigarette.

That hasn’t happened in a while.

Bucky clears his throat. “Did you find anything?”

You frown slightly, lips pulled as you hide your inward disappointment — you push off from the counter and shake your head as you brush past him. Like a loyal dog, Bucky follows. Into the bedroom you go, and Bucky’s again surprised he managed to get any sleep at all in that bed. Maybe it was the comfort of having someone else there, or the genuine exhaustion that had finally choked him out after hours of trying to understand what the hell you were even doing on there.

You plop into the desk chair and snatch up a piece of paper littered with notes.

“I couldn’t do much of my usual snooping,” you explain gently as you gesture to the chromebook, “This thing might have been given to you in good faith, but they’re watching you pretty closely. So, I worked a little magic and ended up running a virtual machine. Gave me enough wiggle room to avoid the malware and keystroke trackers. Even still, I wanted to be careful, so I just did a little looking.”

“Looking?”

“I can’t dig deeper on Innessa, I know where to dig, but I can’t,” you frown, “Not on this laptop, and definitely not on my personal machines. I’ve got the GRC breathing down my neck, and the files I need to poke are very much off-limits.”

“So, what? We’re shit out of luck?”

“No, not entirely,” you stand up and motion to the paper in your hands; your tone is tight, “I know a few people who can help, but getting to them is going to be the hardest part.”

Bucky takes the paper, squinting at the writing as you settle on the edge of the bed next to him. You take a sip of your coffee and watch as his blue eyes dart across the notes; you point to the name scrawled across the top.

“There’s a club in lower Manhattan, but you’ve gotta know the right people to get in,” you mumble, scratching your cheek as a creeping sense of embarrassment bubbles up behind your words, “It’s in the basement of an old computer repair shop. It’s like a blackhat networking event, but with strippers.”

Bucky squints at the paper and reads the name. “The Glass Cannon?”

“Yeah,” you huff, crossing your arms tightly as you stand, “That’s the one.”

Bucky looks up from the paper, attention now rooted on the pacing you’ve begun to do across the room. Back and forth. You’re holding your coffee like a lifeline, gaze far away. That anxiousless way you’d been holding yourself before is gone. Now, he can see the tensing in your shoulders, in your fingers. You’re suddenly nervous.

Bucky stands. His voice is gentle.

“You alright?”

“Yeah,” you snap almost immediately, “Just, y’know. Worried. I spent a lot of time there when I was younger. Did stupid shit. And now I’m about to waltz in after six years like I haven’t put that part of my life behind me.”

“We don’t have to do this,” he says immediately, moving to stand closer and halt your pacing. The invasion of your space forces you to look at him. His fingers glimmering in the morning light. You follow the line of his figure up to his eyes. The emotion there makes your heart clench. You can’t pin it down, and it’s gone in an instant.

“It’s the only way we’re going to find Innessa.”

“You don’t need to put yourself in situations like this for me,” he says, stressing the for me part in both expression and tone. The depreciation makes you wince and you’re fast to shake your head.

“That’s what friends do, Bucky,” you stand your ground, but you know there’s more to your reasoning than that, “Plus, she’s a bad guy. And I know you said I technically wasn’t the sidekick, but—”

“You’re not the sidekick—”

“I know,” you huff, nudging him gently with your arm, “But, I wanna help. Do some good.”

“You do enough good,” he mutters, “You’re a good person.”

Your words fail you at that — and your mouth parts but nothing comes out. Bucky watches with an expression as solid as rock as you blink and look away. His hand, the one of flesh and bone, finds your wrist as you tighten your grip on your mug.

The touch, though far too tender for you to handle, feels like fire.

Like a slap in the face, you’re reminded of how handsome Bucky is.

You slap that thought back, trading volleys, and remain quiet.

His tone is stern. “I mean it.”

“Well,” you finally muster, tone dipping sardonically into a cruel peel of humor, “Just wait until you see me in my natural habitat. Maybe the tequila shots will make you second guess that.”

“I didn’t know we were going out drinking,” he chirps as he raises an eyebrow, “Am I going to need to get you a leash?”

“We’re gonna have to try and blend in as best we can. People are going to know me — if they try to pin me with the GRC or the feds, we aren’t going to get anything on Innessa. They probably won’t even let me in the building if they suspect something’s up, after all not everything that goes down in Glass Cannon is kosher.”

“This is already sounding like a bad idea,” Bucky mumbles as he crosses his arms, “I’m stating that for the record, by the way.”

“Well, I think standing around and working ourselves up about this is even worse of an idea,” you chirp back, moving towards the door to muscle on your shoes, “So I say we feed ourselves and don’t worry about this until Thursday night.”

“Thursday.”

You nod.

All of a sudden, Bucky’s eyes go wide.

“Today is Sunday.”

You freeze, hand on the doorframe. You shoot him a wide-eyed look at the sudden flare of panic that’s shot up through him. “Yea, Bucky, today is Sunday.”

“Shit.”

“What?” you nearly cry as he disappears into the bedroom once more. You hear his closet open, then a clatter as he grabs something like keys — you nearly run directly into his chest when he strides back into the kitchen. He’s shouldered on his usual leather jacket, and in his hands is another.

He’s got keys in his hand.

“C’mon.”

He shoves the jacket into your arms and you frown.

“What the hell?” you cry, doubling back to snag your phone and bag as Bucky moves to the door, “What is this?”

“Put it on,” he says, holding open the door for you as you follow him into the apartment hallway.

You raise a brow and stand there as he locks the door.

“Why?”

“Because,” Bucky mumbles, rubbing his face as he widens his strides to the stairwell across the hall; before you know it, you’re desperately trying to keep up as he bounces down the steps — light on his feet like the boxer he is — towards the lower level of the apartment complex, “We’re late.”

You groan, trying to shrug on the jacket that smells like Bucky as you follow — a smell you’d come to know as clean laundry and sandalwood. Must be something for his hair. He never wore cologne, that much was apparent. The jacket is big on you, especially on the shoulders. You were swimming in it, trying not to trip as he held the door open to the garage.

Suddenly, the air is cooler. Immediately you wonder how much his rent is if he had access to a ground level garage. Call it NYC instinct.

“Bucky,” you nearly whine, throwing your head back, “Where are we going?”

Before you get a reply, you run straight into his back. Bucky grunts, moving to grab both of your hands and push you to the front of him.

Sitting in the spot is a motorcycle.

It’s a jet black Harley.

Bucky is handing you the helmet on the back seat as your mouth moves in disbelief. “No way— no, I’m not getting on that thing. I’d rather sell my kidneys. Stop, stop — ow, Bucky — you haven’t even said where we’re going!”

He’s muscling the helmet onto your head and through the flash of the visor you can see a real smile, the sort born out of his never-ending amusement towards your fickle sense of humor. His fingers are nimble against your chin. He takes the time to strap it on, adjust it, and give it a gentle tug. Bucky taps the matte black helmet twice, then flicks the visor down.

“We’re going upstate.”

                                        ◦   ◦   ◦   ◦   

It takes two hours to get to Elmwood Senior Living.

You spent the first forty-five minutes clinging to Bucky’s waist with your eyes closed — no fault of Bucky’s, really. It was different from riding in a car by miles, and you had your own qualms with driving. You couldn’t be in the passenger’s seat anymore. Not after the accident with Jaimie, when Mom disappeared. Being out of control made you itch; and it’s not until the fifty-minute mark that you ease up on the panic and remember who the man is that’s driving the bike.

You trust Bucky. You trust him with your life.

Once it’s open road, winding up towards the Northern part of the state, it gets easier.

Bucky can feel your grip around his waist loosen just a bit — and it’s enough reassurance that he stops looking back in the mirror every fifteen seconds. It’s enough permission to open up on the throttle, and the bike roars alive. Your immediate reaction is a gobsmacked yelp, the sort that’s pulled from a jolt of shock, but then comes the laugh. 

Bucky’s own quiet chuckle rumbles against your chest. You hold on tighter, but this time with open palms against the thrum of his ribs.

Halfway through the trip, he pulls into a McDonald’s.

You drop your ass onto the parking lot’s curb as he leans against the bike and houses a burger. You laugh, eyeing him candidly as you take a large bite from your own lunch. Bucky is a mess with it — cursing quietly when he ends up getting ketchup on his jacket.

“Shit.”

“Jesus, Bucky,” you mutter, “Did you even taste that thing?”

“Barely,” he clears his throat and starts picking at his fries, “These things taste different now. First time I ever had McDonald’s was right before bootcamp.”

“How much was it? Five cents?” you snort, leaning back and dropping a fry into your mouth.

Bucky watches with a half-smirk. “Fifteen, but nice try.”

He spends the next five minutes on his hand with a wet nap, trying hard to get the grease out of the delicate plates along his palm. You watch, as you knock back the rest of your soda, as his eyes crinkle tightly in frustration. His mouth is pulled tightly into a fine line. For the second time today, you’re reminded of how handsome Bucky Barnes is — and how fucking stubborn he is, too.

“Want help?”

“No,” he mutters, trying to get a spot between his thumb and index finger, “I got it.”

“I have smaller fingers,” you sing-song, gathering up his trash and your trash and crossing the parking lot to the bin; upon returning, you waggle them in his face, “Good for hard to reach places.”

Bucky absolutely hates that can feel his blush hit the tips of his ears at the comment.

He’s glad you’re too preoccupied with his hand to notice. You’re watching, like you always do, with respectful awe. To you, this part of him is a bit like a treasure — you find it beautiful and intriguing and incredible. It’s clear in the way you watch the mechanisms turn and tighten that you aren’t frightened by it.

It unsettles Bucky every time.

Finally, once he’s finished under your watchful eyes, he leans to muscle that helmet back over your head. You groan, squinting tightly.

“C’mon,” he knocks your helmet with his knuckles, “We’re almost there.”

The rest of the ride is wide open space, farm land and mountainous peaks looming far ahead. It’s warm, and the sun is hot on your back. The wind is howling around you and it sends your jacket collar flapping against your neck. Your chin rests neatly on Bucky’s shoulder, trying to get a view of the road ahead.

Elmwood Senior Living is tucked into the back of a suburb.

The two of you weave through a neighborhood or two, dancing under the shade of age old maple trees. They cast long, scattered shadows across the pavement as kids play on their lawns. A dog barks somewhere in the distance. Over the hill, church bells ring. Sunday service has ended.

Bucky rolls into the parking lot, past the large sign with swirling lettering. Suddenly, things make more sense. Suddenly, you’re struck with a sinking feeling of grief. Nostalgia. Mourning. But, happiness.

There are folks sitting outside, basking in the sun, tethered to walkers.

Bucky’s wrists crank back weathered knuckles, and slowly the bike rumbles into an open spot. Extending his legs, Bucky balances the bike with ease. You take that as your cue to swing yourself off the back clumsily, hopping a bit. Bucky leans, kicks the stand down, and with significantly more grace than you, swings his leg over.

You’re shrugging his jacket off when he speaks.

“He’s going to be different than how you imagine him.”

You exhale slowly, draping the jacket over the bike’s seat. You peel the helmet off.

“I’ve sort of pieced that together.”

You can see the slight discomfort hanging in his posture. You reach and touch Bucky’s arm.

“Come on,” you nod to the entrance, covered by a shady overhang where someone is helping a family member out of their car, “We don’t wanna be late, huh?”

His eyes soften. Bucky nods.

You walk side-by-side into the lobby of Elmwood Senior Living and it’s like time slows down. It halts in a warm, sunshine colored still — full of chatter, full of humanity, full of wisdom. The room is framed by big windows, by plants, by a man in a U.S. Navy ball cap. He’s stationed by the door, watching the comings and goings. The main desk, where a young woman watches, sits in the corner. You follow Bucky with a content little look. He notices.

He stands a little closer at the main desk. The girl, who looks like she’s incredibly out of place with her blue hair and piercings, is younger than you thought. Highschool, maybe. She offers Bucky an excited smile.

“Took you long enough,” she chirps, moving to sort through a bin to her side with key fobs.

Your brows raise. You spy calculus homework on the desk.

Bucky snorts. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

He notices the same problem set you so, and purposely leans over the desk. Suddenly, you’re seeing flashes of a more boyish version of Bucky — one that reminds you of a man with siblings. Bucky taps the paper, jutting a chin to the girl as she tries to swat his attention away.

“How’d you do on that test?”

“I got a 96,” she chirps pridefully, laughing, “Thanks for the help, nerd.”

You’re watching the entire exchange with a smile, backing up a bit to toss a curious glance over your shoulder. There’s a dining room through open doors — and looks like lunch is just wrapping up. Folks are moving around, back to their rooms or upstairs where you can hear the beginnings of a seated aerobics class begin.

Bucky nudges you with his hand.

“Thanks, Sarah,” he says and waves the key she’d handed over.

The girl with the blue hair scoffs. “Say hi to grandpa for me, Bucket.”

You laugh out loud as Bucky quickly flips her off. She’s quick to do the same.

You follow him around the corner, grinning ear to ear. He spares you a sheepish look, then rolls his eyes.

“What was that?”

“She’s a good kid,” he offers, eyeing the key with the grey little fob attached, “Reminds me of my sister.”

Your face softens. “Sister?”

“Her name was Sarah, too,” he says quietly, boots landing softly on the blue carpet. He’s navigating the residential wing like he’s done it a million times. There are rooms with flowers outside, with holiday garb, with little photos and keepsakes. Each room holds a lifetime of personality — the sound of Jeopardy lulls along in the background.

You hum. Bucky sighs.

He meanders down a long hallway where a different door is — this one heavy and locked by the little keypad. Bucky raises the key fob to the device and the door buzzes.

This side of Elmwood is quieter.

Down the hall, Timmy Dorsey and Sinatra play quietly over someone’s record player.

There aren’t as many folks in the hall in this wing, but doors are open and nurses flit about. Around the corner, there’s a loud conversation going on about lunch — and you watch as Bucky weaves towards the nursing station. It’s a room overlooking the common area with windows. Inside are three women.

One of them immediately jumps when she sees Bucky.

“Oh, good! I was meaning to talk to you—”

“Everything alright?”

“About the same,” she breathes as she stands, moving to grab at a Bucky’s arm with a sense of motherliness that makes you smile, “But, meals have been a bit difficult lately.”

“No kidding,” he mutters, rubbing his chin, “He just doesn’t wanna eat?”

“He thinks Peggy is coming home,” the woman whispers with a pained smile as she begins to lead you both down the hall, “He thinks your grandmother made dinner for him.”

“Right,” Bucky nods, “Doesn’t wanna ruin his appetite.”

“Exactly.”

You take note of the conversation, muddling through your own confusion. You’re quiet, though. This isn’t really your conversation to have. Bucky seems to be relaxed more — even humming slightly to a song that plays across the hall from the room the nurse is knocking on.

“Mr. Carter?” she calls gently, “Your grandson is here to see you, and his…”

She looks expectantly at you. You bawk.

“Friend.”

“Right,” she smiles and pushes open the door.

It’s like a little slice of home.

Sofas, chairs, photos on the walls. There’s a record player in the corner, a television, a coffee table stacked with books on the second world war. There’s a dresser covered in baubles and warm light coming in from the window overlooking the street. It reminds you of your grandparents’ sitting room — everything looks so lived in, so comfortable, so alive.

And then, below the light of the window, is a hospital bed.

In it is Steve Rogers.

Not the one you know — no, this one has lived a full life. This Steve Rogers has fallen in love, owned a home, settled down. This Steve Rogers has years of wisdom settled into his face, years of well-fought fights in his joints. His blonde hair has gone shock white, but his smile is all the same.

“Bucky.”

The way Steve says his name is like the man beside you holds the world.

To Bucky, he can hear a new weakness. A new exhaustion.

“Hi, punk.”

The nurse offers a little wave to you as Bucky ventures into the room, stripping his jacket off and moving to scope out the minifridge in the small kitchenette beside the bathroom. She leaves the door open, and you smile to her softly. Bucky rummages, poking his head up.

“You want a drink, Steve?” he asks, tone almost like he’s feeling out the lucidity of the man across the room, “There’s some of that lemonade I brought last week in here.”

“Sounds good,” he says slowly, “Please.”

You feel out of place — not unwelcome, but… it’s clear that Bucky has come and gone from here a thousand times now. He knows to get the glasses out, to get a straw, to turn down the record player on his way over. Doris Day’s voice lowers to a soft croon. You watch with heavy eyes.

“I brought someone, Steve,” Bucky says, “She’s a big fan.”

“Oh?” Steve asks with a slow look to the corner where you’re standing, “That musta broke your heart.”

Bucky snorts as he moves to swing the hospital bed’s tray over Steve’s lap. He places the lemonade down, then the other glass on the nightstand. He’s quick to move the armchair closer to the nightstand, and gestures for you to come over. Bucky’s hands guide you by the shoulders as he plops you into the chair.

“She’s one of the good ones,” Bucky says, “Reminds me of you.”

“No kidding,” Steve says slowly, offering a hand that shakes, “Steve Rogers. It’s a pleasure.”

You exchange your name with a shy look, shaking that hand with reverence and gentility. “It’s an honor, Mr. Rogers.”

“Please,” he mumbles, moving to slowly take a sip of his lemonade, “Steve is fine.”

Bucky moves to take up a post on the opposite side of Steve, in the sun. “You’re losin’ weight, y’know.”

That earns him a wave of the hand.

Bucky leans back and sips his lemonade. He waggles a finger and you watch the two begin to go back and forth.

“No, no,” he swallows, “No, you don’t get t’ shrug me off—”

“M’fine, Buck,” a sigh, “Really.”

“Mhm,” he narrows his eyes, “You’re startin’ to look like the Steve I knew before the serum.”

You lean back, hiding a quiet smirk behind your hand.

“I was wondering when you were gonna show up an’ pester me,” he says with a tired look, “The only peace I get around here is when Peggy comes home.”

Your eyes jump to Bucky. He’s watching you.

“Peggy?” you ask gently, “Is that your wife?”

A proud smile washes over his face. “Still knocks me for a loop, too.”

“Steve,” Bucky’s voice is gentle, “Peggy won’t be coming around for a while. Remember?”

There’s a look that flashes across Steve’s face, then. A mixture of sadness, of confusion, of panic. It’s clouded with a furrow of his brow, hidden by a tilt of the head. He looks at Bucky, mouth pulled in a fine line.

When he finally speaks, his voice is sad.

“That’s right. I forgot.”

“S’alright,” Bucky taps his head, maintaining an air of nonchalance, “That’s why you got me.”

“And why you’ve got her, no doubt,” he turns to you with a winning smile and offers his hand again, “Steve Rogers. Nice to meet you.”

You take it, you shake it, and you introduce yourself once more. Your smile is patient and understanding. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Steve.”

Bucky breathes a sigh of relief. Steve smiles, tossing Bucky a look that borders on mischievous.

He sips his lemonade and clears his throat. “How is Sam?”

“You ask every time,” Bucky mutters, “And every time I have the same answer.”

“Sam?” you ask slowly.

“Wilson,” Bucky finishes, “Bird man.”

“You mean Falcon,” you correct, shooting him a stern look, “The Falcon. Are you ghosting The Falcon?”

“I don’t know what that even means, so maybe,” Bucky leans back and crosses his legs, “I’ve been busy.”

You roll your eyes. Steve saw. He smiles.

“I’m gettin’ why he keeps you around.”

Your face is smacked with a look of pure joy.

“C’mon on now,” Bucky cries, nearly indignantly, “No flirting—”

“M’ not flirting—”

“I know that look, Steve—”

Steve is laughing.

Bucky has a stern look in his eye. “You always do this—”

“I’m not doin’ a damn thing—”

“And you better keep it that way, old man,” Bucky shirks, voice splintering into a laugh in a way that you’ve never heard before, “I swear, this is how it always goes.”

“Always the bridesmaid, never the bride, huh, Buck?” you ask gently, leaning your cheek into your hand.

Steve laughs loudly at that.

Bucky spares you a smile — the sort that’s drenched in good humor and sunlight. It makes your lungs flutter, and you ignore the buzz in your fingers at the sight. You hide your laugh into your cup of lemonade, resigning to be a quiet counterpart in the conversation.

The two of them go on to chat about small things, then chat about old things. From the Commandos, to HYDRA, to amends, to therapy, to Peggy, to the itch the starch of their old dress uniforms used to bring. It takes a bit, a few redirections on the way, but it’s clear by the end why Steve Rogers is in Elmwood’s memory unit.

It makes your heart ache.

And if a super soldier is bed-ridden…

The two of you say goodbye around three in the afternoon after Bucky helps Steve shave.

The walk back to the bike is quiet.

Bucky speaks first.

“He’s dying.”

You chew your lip, eyes on the pavement. You match his slow stride, bumping your elbow with his as you walk. It’s still warm, and the clouds hang high in the sky. When you look up, Bucky’s watching you. You sigh.

“I’m sorry,” you finally muster, “I am.”

“Don’t be,” he says, grabbing the jacket from the seat and holding it up, “He’s lived a long life.”

You let Bucky hold out the arm for you, and you press your hand through the sleeve. He helps the other side on, and you zip it up to your chin. When you turn around to face him, there are tears in your eyes.

They snuck up on you. You hadn’t realized it until Bucky’s face fell, until the first one fell along the weathered leather of the jacket. You blink, raising your brows as you swipe them away, and offer an apologetic look.

“I’m happy,” you say, “Y’know. He has you. But, he’s a man out of time. Even now. That makes me sad.”

Bucky’s quiet for a while. He’s leaned up against the bike as you turn and watch Elmwood from the back of the parking lot. There’s a big part of you that feels heavy with guilt — and though Steve was in good spirits when you left, you can’t help but ache to provide him with more company. It’s clear that seeing Bucky means a lot to him, and that in turn it means a lot to the man beside you.

“Come on,” Bucky says then, “Let’s go home.”

You nod, let him muscle that helmet onto your head one more time, and hold on a little tighter back to the city.

                                       ◦   ◦   ◦   ◦   

You don’t see Bucky until Tuesday.

In all honesty, it feels weird to not hear from him for two days. At the very least, you expected some sort of phone call — but you remind yourself that you’ve been okay alone for a long time. There’s no need to throw all your work on being comfortable by yourself out the window for Bucky Barnes.

It’s tempting, though. God, it’s really tempting.

You hate the ache in your chest when you finally see him lumbering towards the cafe counter before your appointments. You hate this new feeling — so you shove it down and ignore the way his fingers brush yours when he hands you your latte.

He is ignoring it, too. He’s been ignoring it.

No use in thinking about it though.

“You got plans later?” you ask him in the elevator after your appointment, tilting your head, “Apparently there’s a Lord of the Rings marathon tonight on FX.”

Bucky stiffens — and immediately he can feel the hot sting of anxious regret flood his cheeks. He clears his throat, tucks his hands in his pockets, and toes the ground. You watch with a confused look. Then he speaks tightly.

“...I’ve got a date.”

You could have caught flies the way your jaw fell open.

“Oh. Oh!”

You blink, readjust your expression, and swallow down a sharp stab of rejection.

Bucky clears his throat. “It’s… I wasn’t going to but, Dr. Raynor—”

“No, no,” you wave your hands and shake your head and try to seem genuine, “No, I’m happy for you. Is this one of those Christian Minglers?”

Bucky groans. “Shut up.”

“Okay,” you say, “Okay! Just, uh, be careful. Y’know? And call if you need anything.”

The elevator doors open, and Bucky walks side by side with you through the well-lit lobby. He holds the door open for you, and you pass through with a pained look at the ground. He lingers, though, rubbing the back of his neck as you wait for him to say what’s on his mind.

“Thursday,” he says, “I’ll stop by.”

“Yea,” you say, waving your hand, “Whenever.”

But, that doesn’t end up happening.

No, Bucky Barnes shows up at your apartment doorstep at 10pm.

He’s clutching takeout and a six pack of beer and wearing a horrified expression that screams of guilt and exhaustion. No, Bucky buzzes the door to your apartment and basically croaks that he’s here — he’s asking if the marathon is still on while you buzz him up.

“Third floor,” you say into the buzzer with a smile, “Come on in, old man.”

When you open the door, you have to laugh — because his hair is a mess and there’s still a trace of lipstick on the corner of his mouth. Whereas jealousy threatens to flare, his incredibly regretful expression tamps it down. You cock a hip, eye him up and down, and jut your chin out.

“Get laid?”

Bucky rolls his eyes so hard you’re surprised he didn’t break something.

He pushes past you, moving to drop the beer on the counter and place the takeout gently down by the basket of fruit.

“I’m here for the cat,” he grumbles, “Not your witty commentary, sweetheart.”

You’re moving quietly to the sink and gathering a paper towel with a smirk as Bucky looks around, admiring the decor and aliveness of your apartment. When you turn around, he’s already pried a beer from the pack and popped the top off with his vibranium palm.

He winces when you reach up to swipe the coral lipstick from the corner of his mouth.

Then Bucky settles, letting you clean off the mess.

“Mhm,” you hum, “Right. Was it at least fun?”

“She had fun,” he mutters into his first sip, “It was a lotta tongue for my first night out in nearly a century, though.”

You wince. He nods with a sardonic smile that tells you everything about how the date went down — and you’re relieved. “So, I take it you're not calling her in the morning?”

“No,” he shakes his head, “Nope. No, and I’ve decided no more dates. That was enough for me.”

You wince and pluck a beer from the pack. Wordlessly, Bucky gestures for you to hand it over. In one smooth motion, he twists the cap off with his hand.

“That bad?” you ask, eyeing him critically.

“I decided halfway through,” he says as he moves to take the takeout from its bag, “I’d rather be watching Lord of the Rings with you.”

That stops you into silence. It’s like someone’s taken your own words and gagged you with them — and you’re left floundering for breath you never even realize you lost. You know he means it. You know it because he won’t look at you, because that sort of confession isn’t easy for people like you two. So you take those words and you glue them in a lonely locket and keep them close to your heart.

Poke’s entrance saves you a mouthful of broken words — he comes in, trots up to Bucky, and hollers.

Bucky laughs.

“Nice to meet you, too,” he mutters, eyeing the cat that’s eagerly rubbing himself along Bucky’s leg.

You wipe your face, sip your beer, and move to the pantry across from the kitchen island. You come back out with a bag of salmon treats — the good ones — and offer Bucky the bag. He takes it, eyes still on the calico, and crinkles it a little.

You lean against the counter and watch Bucky kneel.

“If you keep it up long enough he might even let you hold him.”

He lights up at that.

You laugh.

You move to grab plates and forks and knives and groan when you open up the first box to see Pad Thai — you make a mental note to properly thank Bucky for this. You meager dinner of reheated pasta really hadn’t hit the spot. This will, though. You can tell from the smell alone.

By your knees, Poke chirps.

“He’s cute.”

“I never took you for a cat guy.”

Bucky snorts.

You make a plate and flick his head as you walk by. “You’re missing the start of The Two Towers.”

“I’m going to be confused, aren’t I?” he asks as he stands and begins making himself a plate. He watches as you settle onto the couch and sip your beer, “I was too busy being turned into a cyborg to read the books.”

You laugh out loud. It shocks you.

“Was that a joke? Did Bucky Barnes just make a joke?”

He’s smirking. He rounds the counter with his food and settles next to you. Poke is following him, eager to curl up next to his new friend.

“I can be funny.”

“Funny lookin’.”

He elbows you on purpose. You snort into your beer.

There’s a comfortable moment of quiet between you, and you clear your throat.

“Thanks.”

“Yeah,” he says slowly, “No problem.”

More quiet, and he’s still watching you. Then, he asks what’s been on his mind for the last three days.

“You got a plan for Thursday?”

“I’ve got anxiety, Buck,” you exhale, swigging your beer and turning the television up, “I always have a plan.”

[merflk]

just to be quiet.

pairing: katie bell x angelina johnson words: 1827 link: ao3 soundtrack: quiet - lights

for the @hprarepairnet​  Quidditch Player Ships Challenge

At first, it was a choice.

When she first went back to her regular life, nothing was wrong with her speech. She didn’t like talking about the war, but it wasn’t hard to do, per se. It was just hard to find the right words. She wasn’t the only one with this problem, and the British wizard society practically exploded with initiatives in which people could express themselves and their trauma in different ways. Creative writing, arts… Some of her friends took up painting. Alicia was really into slam poetry for a while. Katie just kept giving her heart and soul to Quidditch.

Things were easier on the field. She felt more alive. She had no intention of going pro, or anything, but she loved playing. It was an outlet. When she was out there chasing those points, the war couldn’t hurt her for a little while. So every time someone tried to talk to her about it and she struggled to find her words, she went out to the field instead.

One day, she realised that she couldn’t… She couldn’t talk about the war anymore. When she tried, her throat seized up, and she couldn’t get her vocal cords to work. It was like the subject emptied her of words altogether.

It was scary, at first, but it was so easy to ignore… All she had to do was stop trying. She was far from the only person who was dealing with the war by trying to put it behind her. No one realised something else was happening. She didn’t realise it herself either.

She’d always been quiet, and working as a magical engineer meant that she didn’t have to communicate verbally at her work much. Before long, she just fell silent. By then, she knew it wasn’t a choice anymore. But it took her a little while longer to admit it.

Her parents freaked out. She complacently let them sign her up for all kinds of therapy, and bore it all for a few months. Nothing worked.

She started obsessing over words like a person with an eating disorder can obsess over calories. She hoarded them. She listened to people as much as she could – podcasts, audio books, videos… She wrote them down. She wrote so much down. Her third therapist thought that might be the key. It wasn’t.

She had a secret that she couldn’t tell anyone else.

She stopped going to therapy after a particularly bruising assessment by her fifth therapist. She refused to tell anyone what had been said, no matter how much her parents begged her to explain. She put her foot down. They were devastated, but they didn’t want to lose her, so they tried to make their peace with it, living for the hope that perhaps, in a few months, they could try again. When those months started adding up to a full year, they reluctantly started learning sign language. They still couldn’t accept that this was their new normal.

Katie’s obsession started dying down a little bit. She had started spending less time on the Quidditch fields over the months, and now she picked that up again. She felt the wind in her hair and the rain on her face and she felt a little more like herself again.

It was around that time that Angelina came back into her life.

Angelina had gone to study abroad after the war; her own way of dealing with the fall-out, Katie supposed. She needed distance from the scene of the crime to process it all. That was alright. She’d always said she’d return someday, and Katie had believed her.

They kept in touch, at first, but soon their communication was sparse. It wasn’t until Angelina came back to Britain that she realised the full extent of Katie’s speech impediment.

It had been partially deliberate from Katie’s side. It was nice to have someone not constantly worry about her. Being mute seemed to have turned into a sign on her forehead that said ‘seriously unstable’.

Letting Angelina see the full extent of it was hard, and she flinched when she caught her surprised and worried expression. She steeled herself for the inevitable questions – for the underlying current of awkwardness that most of her communication with other people now had.

The questions didn’t come. Angelina processed this new development quietly. After a few minutes, in which Katie was wildly trying not to let her eyes tear up, Angelina smiled at her and changed the subject. She leaned into yes-or-no questions. She paid close attention to Katie’s mannerisms and expressions. Fifteen minutes later, Katie was crying after all, from sheer relief. Angelina just laughed – that bright, loud, free laughter that Katie had adored so much at Hogwarts – and wiped away Katie’s tears.

She wasn’t the first person to show Katie some understanding – far from it. Some of her colleagues had been great about things (Michael Corner especially) and Alicia had definitely stumbled her way through learning to adapt to Katie’s new form of communicating. But, somehow, the fact that this was Angelina made things different. More important.

I’ve missed you so much, she realised in that moment, staring at her. It made her flush. She wasn’t ready to acknowledge that.

Still, she wasn’t surprised when she woke up from a nap one day, sprawled across Angelina’s lap in the summer sun, and realised that she was in love with her.

It seemed almost inevitable. The sky was blue, you had to wake up from every single nap, and Katie Bell was in love with Angelina Johnson.

They spent most of their time together at that point. After two consecutive months of sleeping on Katie’s couch (barring five or six nights where they’d crammed into Katie’s one-person bed), Angelina decided she might as well move in. Katie had no objections.

She was already in so deep when Angelina finally started asking questions.

“Why did you stop going to therapy?” she asked softly one night.

Katie froze and, in very quick succession, felt betrayed, stupid and then embarrassed. Had she really thought this moment wouldn’t come?

They were sitting on the couch together. Katie had her legs draped across Angelina’s lap, but she pulled them away at her question so she could pull them up and hide her face against her knees.

She shook her head.

Angelina sighed. “Katie. You haven’t talked to anyone about this. That’s not right.”

She shook her head again, a little frustrated, and lifted up her head to glare at Angelina.

Angelina didn’t budge. She just stared her down until Katie’s shoulders drooped.

Finally, Katie shifted on the couch, crossing her legs underneath her to free her arms so she could sign more easily.

It wasn’t working, she signed.

“Do you have any idea why?”

Katie’s secret stared her in the face. So big, so shameful. She couldn’t keep the tears from welling up. When Angelina saw, she scooted over to her and put a hand on her knee.

“It’s okay,” she said softly.

Angelina flinched when Katie pulled away from her, but she was just reaching over to the coffee table to grab a notepad and a pen. She sat up straight again and took a deep breath. Angelina didn’t put her hand back and Katie missed the heat immediately.

She stared at the paper. She wasn’t sure how to sign this properly. But she wasn’t sure how to phrase this properly either. But…

She looked up at Angelina, beautiful and sincere, waiting patiently for her answer. She had been waiting for months.

Katie took up the pen.

She said that no one would be able to help me talk again if I didn’t actually want to.

And there it was. The big secret.

Therapy didn’t work, because every single therapist she’d seen was trying to get her to open her mouth and speak. Katie played along, and she tried, but she couldn’t, because she didn’t really want to. Her obsession with words, her desperation, it wasn’t because she wanted to speak but couldn’t: it was because she didn’t want to speak ever again, and that scared her.

She handed Angelina the notepad.

Everyone was trying to heal her. First and foremost, their goal was to get her to speak again. It was what she should want, that much was clear. Being mute was a sign that something was seriously wrong with her. Being mute was a defect. She had to speak. She had to speak.

Angelina’s eyes widened as she read the sentence and Katie ripped the notepad out of her hands again, suddenly needing to tell her more. Angelina leaned over to watch her hand as she wrote.

I never wanted it enough. But I had to want it. That’s what they all said. That’s why I couldn’t. I tried to force myself to want it. It didn’t work. Nothing worked.

“Katie,” Angelina stammered.

She took Katie’s hands into her own, drawing her gaze back up to hers. She was still crying. One of her tears hit the paper.

Angelina took the notepad and put it back on the coffee table. Then she took Katie’s hands into her own once again. Softly, she caressed the back of her hands with her thumb.

“You don’t have to speak, Katie.”

Katie’s eyes widened when she heard the words. Something inside of her started to knit itself back together.

“Katie,” Angelina said again, her name an answer on her tongue instead of the endless question it had become, “You never have to speak again.”

Katie’s few tears turned into a torrent. She choked out a sob.

Angelina shook her head, astonished at the weight that her best friend had been carrying on her shoulders. She leaned over to pick Katie up, pulling her onto her lap and wrapping her in her embrace. Katie put her full weight into the hug, pressing her wet cheek against Angelina’s perfect collarbone.

How long had she wanted someone to tell her that? Since the start? Since before it even happened?

Why did she have to speak? Why did she have to want it so badly? Why wasn’t this okay too?

Of course she wanted it to be a choice. But she was pretty sure the only reason she was physically incapable of speaking is because people expected her to do it. And in this moment… In this moment…

She still didn’t want to speak. But she was pretty damn sure that right now, she could.

She brought up her hands to sign a clumsy thank you.

Angelina laughed and pressed a kiss against her crown. “You’re welcome.”

She hesitated for a moment, and then kissed her head again, more slowly this time. “You’re perfect, Katie,” she added softly.

Katie let out a whimper and reached up. She put her hand onto Angelina’s cheek and angled her head up.

This time, Angelina didn’t hesitate. She brought her face down and pressed her lips against Katie’s.

[edo-vivendum]

My Past Two Years 11/2019

I wanna tell yall the briefish version of my past two years. Two years ago, I was doing okay. I proudly identified as 99% recovered from the eating disorder which I'd done IOP treatment for twice. Yet at the same time, I was in a rigid daily routine and maintaining a "healthy" yet artificially low weight (though I didn't realize this). But I was doing way better than I had in high school or in my first two semesters of college. However, I was finding myself fairly frequently overwhelmed with emotional flashbacks, and I decided I was stable enough and ready to finally dig deeper in therapy and delve into my childhood traumas.

I was very wrong. I was far from stable enough to do outpatient trauma work. I managed to fight my eating disorder thoughts and urges through the spring semester, but the signs were there: I was slipping. I was crying most days at lunch. I was lying, arguing over food, skipping meals. Things I'd promised myself I'd never do again. Finals week I told myself I had to follow an old meal plan: I needed energy to perform well in my tests, tests which would replace lower grades from days and weeks during the semester when I just couldn't gather the energy to study. And I did it, I finished the semester with all A's, a feat that was quickly overshadowed by my rapidly disintegrating mental and physical health.

During this period of time, my thoughts were obsessively suicidal, but only when I was eating (adequately). And so I stopped. It seemed safer, a temporary delve into my eating disorder in order to stay alive. Seems fair? I was terrified I'd accidently kill myself. I was so overcome with shame and guilt. I thought I'd be able to just turn my eating disorder off again the moment I was ready. But it didn't work like that.

My mental health was overpowering my sheer will power, and I quickly found myself deeper in my eating disorder than I had been in years. And unlike in high school, my body couldn't take it for months and months on end. I found myself in the ER and was told that I couldn't do IOP anymore, that the lowest level of care that was ethically appropriate when I was a medical risk was PHP, and so I did PHP (a day program). I couldn't think straight, ever. My thoughts were hazy. I couldn't concentrate. It was like being dissociated constantly, except it was there even when I wasn't. And as an all A student, a girl who (at that time) found my confidence only in my intellect, I was terrified. But I was also terrified I'd accidently kill myself if I stopped restricting. But, regardless, I ate my meals in program, arguing and debating over every bite. Then curling up and crying. I stayed alive for the swim team I coach during the summer. I coached in the morning then headed to PHP for the rest of the day. And those kids brought me so much joy. They kept me alive. Them and my guilt. The thought of damaging the lives of everyone around me by ending my own made me so guilty.

Eventually, somehow, I graduated, stepped down to IOP again, and only had groups for a three hours 3 days a week (rather than 6 hrs 6x/week). But then one day they challenged my rigidity. They told me I couldn't bring plain rice with 1 tsp of butter + chik'N (vegan) nuggets + steamed broccoli + a cheese stick. It met my meal plan. Precisely. And they said it was disordered. (it was). They asked me to add ketchup to my nuggets. Something overcame me, and I couldn't do it. I cried so much that night that they pulled me out of the room and had me sit individually with someone. "This is not an IOP response." It wasn't. And suddenly I realized that I had never been recovered, that my rigidity was part of my eating disorder, that I had MILES of work to do, and it was too much. I couldn't do it (at that point in time). I felt so defeated. And I didn't know what to do. And in my defeat, my urges became harder to fight, and my intake once again decreased dangerously.

PHP was suggested again, but I was skeptical. If it didn't work before, why would it work now? My outpatient therapist mentioned to me that residential treatment was only a slightly higher level of care than php. I started looking into options. I felt like a fraud. I wasn't underweight. I wasn't physically at risk to myself (my team and my current self disagree with that). But I didn't think I needed it. But part of me found hope in the idea. What if I could go somewhere and receive ED treatment and trauma treatment at the same time? Somewhere where I'd be safe from myself? In my head, the options seemed to be : (1) die (2) starve myself until I die (3) go to residential treatment, give it my all, and try to recover.

And so I picked option 3. I felt like a fraud, but my insurance covered it. I did my research, and I picked Monte Nido River Towns in New York City suburbs. Within two weeks, I was flying up there. I was terrified, but I was ready to work.

It was harder than I ever imagined. I was so scared. Never before had I lost so much control over my food. I got no say in what was in front of me other than my choice of three food items i could exclude. I picked Brussel sprouts and red meat (and later added raw onions as a third bc the chef overdid it on the onions every time). Monte Nido was stricter than my local program in so many ways, but they were also more supportive. For the first time, I was able to begin to explore my past. I was able to start healing. While there, I realized I was sicker than I could have previously admitted. Most of the clients there were at healthy weights (many of whom has anorexia or atypical Anorexia diagnoses). My bloodwork was a mess. I was having heart palpitations nearly daily. My sodium was low, and my water intake was restricted in order to level my sodium. I realized I'd been overhydrating previously, and it felt like I was withdrawing from a drug. I was always thirsty, overheating, dry throat. It was terrible, but after a few days, I adjusted to drinking only 64 ounces of water a day (I know that's such a normal amount lolll I have no clue how much it was before!!).

My insurance only covered 30 days, and I wasn't ready. I discharged to a PHP in Boston also owned by Monte Nido. I stayed in their supportive housing and did a month and a half of php. It helped. I slowly improved some. I became more stable with meal plan compliance. I started to realize how bad my family was for me. It was only in their absence that I began to flourish. I was preparing my own food outside of program. I did another month and half of IOP in Boston, and then in November, about one year ago, I came home to continue IOP at my local program.

And things became stagnant. I would have a good week and then two bad weeks. Things were stable enough to not need PHP again, but not stable enough to discharge. But I couldn't stay in IOP forever, and after 5 months, they discharged me.

I knew I wasn't ready, but I was determined to try to make it work. I knew I couldn't stay in IOP forever. But I wanted so badly to recover, and I was so scared I'd fall backwards.

So I did pretty well for about a month, then slowly things started slipping. I'm not sure what happened per say. I think I was probably brute forcing it, and I couldn't keep it up. I decided to go back to IOP, not in the full program, just twice a week, sort of a tune up. That was the plan anyways.

I did an assessment on a Monday, started that evening. I was to come back on Thursday. Tuesday, I went to my parents, and for whatever reason, my brother told me that it was my fault that I was bullied.

I spiraled. It triggered shame and guilt. It triggered my own belief that it was my fault. As though all my work had come undone, I was suicidal again.

I tried to hold it together. My therapist talked to me on the phone countless times over that week, but on Saturday afternoon, I asked my boyfriend to take me to the hospital. I didn't feel safe with myself. I was scared to be in the bathroom alone.

The hospital was a horrible experience. It was my second time in a psych hospital, and this time was by far the worst. There were 38 women in a small unit. We spent all our time in a day room that definitely was not designed for 38 people. Most of the people there were detoxing and were sporatic and loud and... Terrifying to me with PTSD from being bullied and verbally abused by peers and teachers. Staff were verbally abusive. Finally, after what felt like a year but was only six days, I left the hospital. My suicidality had been quite literally scared out of me, but my anxiety was 10/10 constantly. I felt unsafe. I was shaking consistently for an entire week. Even now, I start shaking thinking about it.

My therapist suggested residential trauma treatment at a place in Florida called the Refuge. They had an eating disorder program as well, so they would be able to take me (as most places just straight up won't take you if you have an ED but most ED places don't do real trauma work either). Anyways, this place was amazing. I was there for two months, and I grew so much. I was surrounded by support. The ED part of the program was pretty relaxed, which in some ways was good but in other ways let me act out through my eating while doing trauma work. But they kept me contained enough that I was very safe physically. I was so emotionally supported; I don't even have the words for it. My program therapist gave me new understanding of myself. She tested and diagnosed me with Asbergers and taught me that some aspects of my rigidity were likely because of asbergers and not because of my ED —that it was OK if my recovery looked a little different than other people's recovery. I was able to share in groups about my childhood, and I received a ton of validation and support for traumas that I perceived as not worthy of being traumatized by. I was supported and respected and made a ton of progress in respecting and supporting myself.

I discharged back into the shitty ass local iop program. I needed to refocus on the food aspect just a little and get back on track with food. I had a little weight I needed to gain in order to be at my own set point. Blah blah. Etc.

This program has been such a mess. My case manager told me everyone walked on eggshells around me. When I advocated for myself, I was told I was being needy. Then they told me I had to discharge because I was refusing to learn to cope with emotions despite the fact that my outpatient team and I both agree that I'd made huge progress. Before going to the refuge, the experience would have been triggering, but instead it became an opportunity for me to prove to myself just how resilient I have become. I finally discharged IOP last week, and this time, I actually feel ready.

I've been meal plan compliant for months. I've been actively using coping skills and managing situations more effectively than I ever have before. I have made so so so much progress; and I can say, today, I am happy to be alive. I haven't had a suicidal thought since being home from the Refuge. I haven't self-harmed since September. I still have work to do, but I can also accept where I'm at while I'm doing that work. Life is good. I am confident I can keep this up for months, even years.

[ihaveissueslol]

LET'S FUCKING TALK

1st pic: freshman year of high school, when bulimia became a central aspect of my life bc I couldn't restrict. I was at a healthy weight and had muscle tone, but thought I was obese because the nurse told me so. My BMI put me in overweight because I was all muscle.

2nd pic: second semester of college, when I spent 4 hours at the gym every day but had no muscle tone, barely ate anything, and often threw up what I did eat.

It's been 4 and a half years since I took that second pic, and have since gained so much from depression, swing shift, an injury that left me bed bound. I also lost weight. Then gained, lost, again and again. I'm currently about 25lbs heavier than I was in the first pic, and trying to lose in a healthy way, but guys.

GUYS

I WAS SO FUCKING UNHEALTHY

I would make myself throw up and not be able to stand up for 10 minutes because my vision was black and my legs had no strength

I'd take breaks at the gym to "stretch" but really I was trying not to pass tf out

I constantly was in pain with my stomach

I have a heart condition and I almost always had palpitations, chest pain, shortness of breath, and severe dizziness because of this shit

My mental state was so clouded, it was so hard to focus, and I was always tired

I threw up blood

like y'all, this is an illness. This is a serious fucking condition. And the worst part? IT. NEVER. LEAVES. All I want is to look like those photos again, but to do that I'll have to become stupid unhealthy again. Being a nurse caring for others and a karate instructor teaching kids, I absolutely cannot do that. But it's. SO. EASY.

It's so hard to choose recovery and actively choose healthy eating/exercise options. It's fucking awful, and makes me feel like a worthless sack of garbage. But I Have To. Unless i want to end up dead or not being able to do a damn thing with my life.

You think you have control. You swear you can stop and get yourself under control. Bish lemme tell you, YOU CAN'T. This disease owns your dumb ass. You can't give it an inch, because it will take you six feet under.

I now suffer from God-awful heartburn and acid reflux. I need a scope to check for Barrett's esophagus. If I eat certain foods or bend over after eating, my body just regurgitates shit with no warning. THAT'S fun at parties.

I have to take vitamin D, iron, 3 types of acid reducers, a stool softener, and a probiotic regulator every day on top of my psych meds. That's just to get through the day without feeling nauseous, having severe stomach cramps and pain, and being able to shit semi-regularly. My dentist hated me because my teeth are fucked from years of stomach acid erosion.

I have hemorrhoids that bleed from years of depriving myself. If I get drunk or eat spicy shit, I uncontrollably vomit and more often than not, I throw up blood. I shake constantly and my entirely body hurts. All. The. Damn. Time. I bruise easily, it takes 3x longer than normal for a girl my age to heal from injury, and my bones/joints/tendons/muscles are ridiculously more susceptible to breaks or tears. You know why? Eating disorders during my development periods.

Please. If you've read this far, please take control. Please seek help. No, you are not in control. Yes, it really is that bad, or will be. No, it's not a diet. Yes, it will absolutely ruin your entire fucking life. If making this post helps even one person, or tips someone off to help another, then it's worth it. Please don't let this shit ruin your life.

If you're young and someone tells you you're overweight because of your BMI, LAUGH IN THEIR FACE AND GO EAT SOME CHICKEN AND RICE. Muscle weighs more than fat! BMI does not account for muscle! ESPECIALLY IF YOU ARE SHORT. I'm 5'3" and y'all. Made physicals so fucking awful.

Please choose life. Choose health. Choose recovery. It's hard, I'll never say that it's easy. But it's 1000 times better than the alternative. Keep yourself in control, it takes SO much more strength to choose healthy eating habits and kick your ED's ass than it takes to restrict or purge. You are stronger than your disorder.

So much love to each and every one of y'all who struggle, don't think they're struggling, or are actively trying to recover. Love to all my young ones being bullied when they're a healthy weight. Love to all my athletes who can't wear super skinny jeans because of leg muscle. You guys are all so fucking beautiful You can do this.

Stay safe.

[reflections-in-tea-cups]

Shadow

tw: pet death

We lost our beautiful, lively, shy, affectionate, panther of a house cat on Monday, March 25, 2019. While I hope the details of the past month fade from my memory, I know some of you are shocked at the news and want to know what happened. This story is still too painful to retell, so I’m putting it here.

It’s a long story with a tragic end. It’s not my best writing, but editing it further is beyond me right now. 

Shadow came into our lives on Feb. 13th, 2015. We went to the animal shelter to look at a dog – instead, we came home with an eight-year-old black cat. We thought he was a gentle old man, but as soon as he stepped out of the crate we realized they had sent us home with a panther. He was thirteen pounds of pure muscle, and the first thing he did was jump up six feet to hide on the top shelf of my closet.

Despite his size and athleticism, he was incredibly gentle and shy. He hid under the bed the first two weeks that he spent with us, only coming out after lots of cajoling. Even then, he’d often stop just at the edge of the bed so we could reach in and pet him. Once he was comfortable with us, he’d throw himself at our feet for pets and scritches, rolling around so we could get at his belly. He was always deferential to our resident female cat, despite having at least three pounds on her. He was playful and sweet, jumping up walls to catch at laser lights and crawling under the covers for morning snuggles. You always knew what his favorite toy was, as he’d leave it next to (or, more commonly, in) his food dish.

I’m not sure when he stopped eating. He still cried for food every morning and night, and he still went to the bowl and began lapping it up. We noticed that there was more wet food being left over, but that happens sometimes and it usually isn’t a problem – maybe one or both cats don’t care for that flavor of wet food, or maybe they got tired of it, or maybe they’re eating less because everyone is less active in winter. They always had access to dry food, so I didn’t worry.

I was shocked when I picked him up in late February and realized I could feel his bones. He was always a healthy, muscular cat – but suddenly he felt frail and old. Concerned, I made an vet appointment; the soonest available was two weeks away. Luck was on our side, and I got a call a few days later saying they could see us March 8th.

At the vet, we found our healthy-at-thirteen-pounds boy was now under ten. Blood work showed signs of pancreatitis, dehydration, and anemia. X-rays didn’t find anything surprising, just an empty stomach. He got anti-nausea meds, pain meds, and fluids. They sent us back home with some prescription food, instructions to monitor his food and water intake, and a blood recheck appointment set up for a week later.

His appetite increased for a few days. He still wasn’t eating enough to gain any weight, but any progress was hopeful. But by Wednesday (the 13th) he was back to barely eating anything and I called and got him an appointment for the next day. The 14th was terrifying – his weight had continued to drop, and as had his red blood cell count. They recommended hospitalization for IV fluids and medication, and to monitor his eating. I cried signing the papers to leave him there for the day.

When I went to pick him up that night, they said he hadn’t really improved and they recommended overnight hospitalization. Our vet isn’t a 24 hour clinic, so that involved transferring him to a local emergency vet. The ER vet reassured us that pancreatitis is often treated by a few days of pushing fluids, so we should remain hopeful. She also offered to do an ultrasound on his abdomen, to further look for anything else that could be causing his symptoms. No one really knew why he was so anemic, but maybe the ultra sound would see if/where he was bleeding internally.

After a sleepless night, the ER vet called to tell us Shadow had done well – they’d gotten him to eat a little, and the ultra sound hadn’t found anything too alarming or conclusive. The only thing they noted was an enlarged lymph node. We were told another day of hospitalization would be ideal, but we might be able to take him home that night. It was with a much lighter heart that we brought him back to our regular vet, giving them the overnight report and excited to get our healthy boy back soon.

However, our rollercoaster took a sudden dive. The vet reported that he hadn’t eaten and had only gotten more lethargic as the day progressed. The next diagnostic step they recommended was exploratory surgery, during which they would also insert a feeding tube so we could ensure he was getting the calories he needed. At this point, they were very worried he was about to enter liver failure from starvation.

We decided to go ahead with the surgery, which was scheduled for the next morning. We took him home that night for lots of cuddles – lapped up our affection all night. He was so happy to be back in his familiar environment, and our other cat also made it clear she was thrilled he was home.

Taking him to the vet the next morning was a tense affair. After finally being home, he wanted nothing to do with his cat carrier and let us know it. Three hours later I got a call from the vet – he’d done very well in surgery and was waking up comfortably! They had a new diagnosis based on the state of his liver and gall-bladder: feline triaditis. While they did take a couple biopsies, they were pretty confident we were on the right track. They said the prognosis was good but the at-home care would be intensive; not only were we responsible for his calorie intake through the feeding tube until he began to eat again, but there were also five medications that needed to be given once or twice a day. They still hadn’t found a source for the anemia, but hoped it would recoup with everything else.

We were thrilled to bring him home and dedicated to getting him back up to health. His food was specially prepared each day and given to him 4-5 times daily. He had to be quarantined from our other cat and dog for a while, so he was confined to the spare bedroom. Within three days, he was starting to eat on his own and was feisty enough to try and escape to the rest of the apartment whenever I opened the door. His stitches were healing well, and we got a onesie for him to wear instead of the hated cone (not that he liked it much better). The vet checked in that Monday, and was almost as excited as I was to hear how well he was doing. We started letting him explore the rest of the apartment with Leira and Kenai when we were home to monitor him, so he got more stimulation and got to hang out in all his favorite spots. Everything was looking up.

Unfortunately, it didn’t last. On Friday (the 22nd) I noticed that his eating was declining. We had just gotten him up to full calories through the feeding tube, so I figured it would take a while for his appetite to surpass what we were giving him. However, his appetite didn’t pick back up, and he began showing increased signs of nausea when I fed him. He also felt unusually warm. On Monday I called the vet, and left a message asking if this was normal recovery behavior. I spent the afternoon at home with him, waiting for the vet to call. They didn’t, so I called and asked again that evening – this time someone went back to talk to the vet in person. We were advised to take him to ER.

We went back to the ER where he had been hospitalized just ten days before. After a quick physical exam (where we saw he had lost even more weight, and he was feverish), they took him back for more bloodwork. He was extraordinarily anemic – his red blood cell count had decreased by half from its previous low levels. We could take him to a clinic that could do a blood transfusion – the nearest one was an hour away by car, and he’d have to stay there for at least 24 hours to make sure his body didn’t reject the blood. And since we didn’t know what was causing the anemia, it was likely the transfusion would only buy us a little time.

The next diagnostic step would be to test a sample of his bone marrow, a process that would involve putting him under anesthesia. There were three main suspects for his anemia at this point: a virus attacking his red blood cells and/or bone marrow, an autoimmune disorder (his body attacking his red blood cells), or cancer. We were advised that was a toss of the dice whether or not it was something treatable; even if it was, it would be extremely intensive and difficult for him.

We took some time to hold him close and think about our options. His options. For the last few weeks (and the last four years) we had discussed always trying to do what was best for him. And as he fell asleep in my arms, that most difficult choice became clear.

The vet told us we could take him home overnight if we wanted, but it we weren’t going to do a transfusion we should bring him back within 24 hours to put him to sleep. I didn’t want him to go through two more car rides (his most hated activity) and what would clearly be a painful and stressful night – we decided it would be best to let him go peacefully that night. He’d had a good day cuddling on the couch with me, Leira, and Kenai (one of the rare times I actually got a picture of him and the dog together). Luis and I held him for at least an hour, telling him we loved him and soaking in his sweetness.  Finally we knew we couldn’t delay any longer. Luis held me and I held Shadow as the vet administered the anesthesia, lulling him into sleep for the last time.

Shadow was so much more than we ever could have expected. I’ll never be able to describe him adequately, or what he meant to us. We will miss him forever, and cherish the time we did get to spend with him.

[simplyauroras]

yeethaw & howdy for what will hopefully be the last time partners. i love her with all of my heart, and she just deserves all of the love in this world okay? but enough of me stalling let me introduce you to the love of my life aurora.

biography: ( tw: death tw, r*pe tw, abuse tw, eating disorder tw, self-esteem tw, heart disease tw, suicide tw, mental health tw, depression tw )

it is of my upmost pleasure to introduce to you crowned princess of aurora haraldsen bernadotte of norway

aurora haraldsen was born to a commoner mother turned queen named sonja, by some twist of fate her mother met the king who told his family he would remain unmarried unless he could marry sonja, before they knew it the two were wed

though it was apparent to anyone who was around sonja for even a little while, that the title had gone to her head, and who better to know than her own kin?

aurora came shortly afterwards, and was the eldest of eight six children, ( ages twenty-one, nineteen, eighteen, seventeen, sixteen, ten & six respectively, aurora herself is twenty-two )

when aurora was around three years old tragedy would strike as her father was killed in a tragic accident, aurora’s mother would continue reigning as queen, but would never remarry

aurora became responsible at a very early age, while at her various lessons the men who were paid to teach her various skills, taught her all the same thing, trust no one, as these men would often rape and abuse the young princess making her believe that it was her fault, this continued until she left the castle ( more on this later )

when she was ten, her youngest sister belle would die because of the abuse and rape inflicted on her, though her mother afraid of staining her image, covered it up to make it look like natural causes

aurora learned from her tween age that there was no room in the castle for anything other than perfection, that a princess should be perfectly poise at all times, she was taught what to do, what to say, how to sit properly, the proper utensils, and all of those other things she found useless

though when striving for perfection you’ll come to realize there’s no such thing, just as aurora did, as her weight constantly fluctuated due to an eating disorder that she developed

she was never anyone’s idea of perfection, she always stumbled over her words, slouched too often, and was always terrible at hiding her emotions, because of this she was often ‘put in line’ by her mother

as if her mother’s words didn’t scorn aurora enough she often hit aurora, who was told very simply to ‘cover up and act like a princess’ a mantra her mother forced into her head, aurora was constantly spilling sorry as if it were an accident

quickly she learned her place, she knew everything someone needed to know about being a princess, though deep down her self-esteem issues were abundant

aurora often spent time with the people who worked around the kingdom, mostly in the kitchen, and that’s where she learned her love for the culinary arts, but more specifically baking

her mother didn’t approve of her past time and aurora was regulated to certain activities throughout the day, on an even stricter schedule than before, so honestly it’d be a huge understatement to say that aurora didn’t have many friends ( or at least many friends that weren’t paid to talk to her )

though despite this it was apparent to anyone who spoke to her that aurora was extremely gifted in anything that she did, including school, any activity she took up she seemed to master, even if it was nothing more than the fact that her mother expected nothing less than perfection from her

when aurora was sixteen she would face tragedy once again when her brother eric would pass away of heart disease, with the loss of belle still not healed, aurora never truly recovered from either

aurora had enough of everything going on in the castle, she planned an escape disguised as volunteer work to sweden, to the royal family there, the bernadottes

while at the castle she met prince nicolas, and quickly the two kids fell in love, everything seemed to finally be falling in place, the two were set to be wed, and at twenty they’d have their first and only child together duchess stjärna ( pronounced star )

two months before their wedding, when star was only six months old, her father prince nicolas would pass away in an apparent suicide

aurora fell into a downward spiral of depression, but knew that she needed if nothing else to provide of her daughter, and although they were never married aurora changed her name legally to bernadotte

aurora had endured too much, she needed a break from europe, well more like an escape, and so she fled to the americas, or more specifically new york

she took star with her ( scared that if she didn’t star would grow up in the same conditions but also afraid that she wouldn’t be able to provide ) and appeared on a baking competition show, concealing her true identity from the rest of the world, she ended up winning, and in the process was offered her own baking/reality tv show ( think the real housewives mixed married to medicine and with cooking & baking shows )

after her mother finally managed to regain contact with aurora last year, they’ve come to an agreement, when the time comes aurora will come back to sweden to rule as queen as she was destined to be ( her mother constantly sends her money even though it isn’t needed to try and make up for aurora’s childhood )

until then aurora is fine with hiding who she is from the public, even though it isn’t very successful because she’s been in the spotlight since she was young

personality:

obviously being raised in royalty she was taught to be eloquent and grace, can maneuver her way anywhere without falling or faltering once, when she opens her mouth it’ll seem to you as if she’s just read an entire thesaurus  

can’t advocate for herself, but if you talk about or mess with the people she loves or her family? she’ll fuck you up, not literally, but her gracefulness will be replaced and she’ll scorn you with her words

is very gifted, can be considered a jack of all trades in a way? 

she’s extremely supportive of her friends okay??? like if you’re looking for someone to be your cheerleader, and stand by your side no matter what

speaking of falling in love, she’s lowkey a hopeless romantic??? like she’s the kind of girl who falls in love with strangers, or sees people in coffee shops and then envisions their wedding, she’s hopeless but ever since her fiance passed away she’s been slower to fall

has extreme trust issues, afraid that everyone is using her something, or wants something from her

she’s very peristent when there’s somethng she’s striving for, hates giving up on anything especially people ( despite having already given up on herself ) she’ll always push to get what she’s aiming for

is the very defintion of kind, does everything in her power to never ever do something mean unless again it comes to those that she loves

still constantly apologizes for just about everything, is afraid that if she doesn’t say sorry for every other thing she does it’ll cause people to hate her or leave her somehow

despite yearning for love and the feeling of being in it, she’s very philophobic, committing to anything romantic terrifies her, especially since she’s under the notion that it’s even more difficult to fall in love with a single mother

hates letting others know that she’s vulnerable, is often disguising her emotion behind a joke, or by baking things in the middle of the night

wanted connections: ( most of these were taken from nova, sue me, criminial minds is owning my ass right now okay )

frenemies

friends

best friend: after arriving in new york aurora sorta didn’t see the use for a best friend, she simply shrugged off the thought of finding someone who could understand her, and then suddenly she found them, her best friend, she loves them to bits and pieces, and somehow they just feel like an extension of her, nowadays aurora could never imagine going about life without them

protective friend: let’s be real with each other aurora could use all the protecting she can get, not only is she easily hurt by others, but she often gets her hopes up hurting herself in the process, this is probably someone who sees that and is constantly there for aurora, whether it be reluctantly or not, she can always count of them to be by her side

unlikely friends: aurora is the exact opposite of this person, personality wise, fashion wise, and yet the two are still friends, and she actually enjoys it? sometimes she wishes she was outspoken and brash as they are, that she could learn to distance herself so easily, but they constantly prove themselves to be one of the closest friends she has 

confidant: aurora never rushes to open up to anyone, but with this person, things just seem natural, she can tell them all of her secrets and for once not be judged for it, even if most of their conversations have to do with aurora crying her eyes out, or showing the true side of her temper, they haven’t given up hope on her just yet

flirtatious friends: aurora can be a flirt, sometimes, okay never. but with this person things are just different? she’s not drawn to them they way that she’s drawn to anyone else, but what’s the harm in flirting? especially if it doesn’t mean anything to either of them, right? this doesn’t mean anything to either of them, right? 

friends who used to be enemies: aurora has never really hated anyone, other than her mother, but she draws tons of enemies by just being herself, she hates knowing when people don’t like her, so often she’ll try to be friends with them, try to show them there’s more to her than whatever they think, and by pure luck just this once she was successful

roommates: aurora has a fairly big penthouse, and to keep herself from getting lonely she got a roommate, and about a billion animals for her daughter, although their house looks like a zoo, aurora actually loves her roommate? they’ve seen her at her highest and lowest points, and have decided to live with her dumbass through it all, they don’t even have a problem with star living with them, where would she be without them?

lifelong friends: aurora has known this person for what feels like forever, whether or not they know of her ‘idenity’, she couldn’t imagine functioning without this person, they know the in’s and out’s of aurora bernadotte, her deepest darkest secrets…but maybe that isn’t such a good thing

volunteer together: aurora likes to do a lot of volunteer work, so this one’s pretty self-explanatory, they’re friends simply because they enjoy helping out others together, they’ve become closer the more that they do it, but most of the times they talk it’s simply about charity work

ex-best friends: aurora hates knowing that people don’t like her, plus they were really close and aurora really thoguht maybe she could glue their friendship back together, or that somehow if she held on tight enough then her best friend would stop slipping from her fingers, but it turns out the tighter you grip something, the easier you lose it, aurora still misses them, and still probably accidentally texts them from time to time 

forced to be friends because of their social status/family: this muse doesn’t have to particularly like aurora, and aurora may not particularly like them, not that she’d ever admit to that, but because of their social status and who aurora’s parents are she’s constantly forced to hang out with people…who don’t exactly run in the same circles as her 

pr relationship: ( tbh give me this & i’ll cry tears of joy thanks ) aurora is essentially america’s sweetheart, there’s no noticable blemish in her reputation and that’s exactly what happened when their agents set these two up, i mean after all, how hard can faking a relationship be?

exes: uhhhh there’s too many different kind of exes to make this general enough, so instead give me exes on bad terms, exes on good terms, exes who might even still have feelings for each other 

will they, won’t they: aurora and this person have been flirting for what seems like ages, they have a somewhat stable friendship, and she’s been harboring a crush for quite sometime but there’s always some sort of obstacle, a pr relationship, a secret, the universe has a very funny way of saying these two shouldn’t be together, or maybe it’s the universe proving that they can get through anything?

unrequited love: like i said before aurora has a really bad tendency to push away those who love her the most, and this time is obviously no different, they’ve probably never told them about her crush, and she has absolutely zero notice that they even have one, but we all new york has a funny way of making people confess

one night stand: aurora is still trying to find herself, this one night stand was most likely an accident, she probably left in the early morning with no intention of seeing this person ever again, but somehow she can’t seem to escape them

literally anything give me all the angst and feels you can, i promise either way i’ll probably cry about it

[pjbehindthesun]

chapter 15: have you heard the one about…

Hey, I feel like this one needs a preface, if only because Chris shows up briefly, in a very lighthearted scene, and it's a tough time of year to feel very lighthearted. All I will say, inarticulately, is that I started tinkering with and ultimately sharing this old project last year to help me process what happened. Something about having an alternate universe where I could keep things exactly the way I wanted them, keep everybody safe, felt healing. I hope it feels that way for you, too.

So that's enough of that stuff. Peace, love, and I hope y’all like dirty jokes.

Tuesday, October 23rd, 1990

shit. Shit. Shit! SHIT! What was that??

I let go of my lip only when I'm positive I’ve regained enough control of myself not to say anything completely insane out loud. I keep my eyes shut tight though… whether to avoid the awful, crashing reality of looking my boyfriend in the eyes and facing what a terrible person I am, or whether I'm just not ready to surrender the stolen image behind my eyelids quite yet, I can't begin to understand.

Meanwhile, Alex seems totally oblivious as he rides down from his own high, pressing a kiss to my damp forehead.

“Mmmh, where did that come from?” he mutters, brushing my hair back from my face.

Your guess is as good as mine. Well, maybe not exactly…

I shake my head, still not feeling entirely trustworthy enough to speak, and let out a little laugh, shaky and slightly hysterical-sounding.

“Well, whatever it was, it was fuckin’ hot…” he says, nuzzling my nose.

Oh no, don't be sweet, please, after all this time, don't suddenly start being sweet now…

“I'm gonna, uhm... I’ll be right back,” I stutter, nodding in the direction of the door. Really smooth, Cora, Christ Almighty.

After disentangling myself from him and bolting to the bathroom, I splash cold water on my face for several seconds while I try to get my heart rate under control. But it's no use, every time I close my eyes I see the same thing… I try glaring at my own reflection instead, hoping to scowl some sense into myself.

God, get a grip Cora, it's nothing, okay? It's just been so long since you even had sex, you're all mixed up. And it doesn't mean anything, you were just hanging out with him earlier tonight, that's why he popped into your head, just a totally innocent fluke of the subconscious… and you know your subconscious is a crazy motherfucker sometimes … but it doesn't mean anything, right?

It means one big thing, at least. It means I am the world's most horrible girlfriend. I didn't even want Alex tonight, not specifically… I didn't even want him to kiss or touch me, I just wanted one thing… even before I thought of, uhm, someone else… so where do we go from here? If things have gotten so hollow and disconnected that the only sex we’re ever going to have now is this meaningless and empty? Doesn't this mean we’re completely through, if I can't even trust myself not to use him while I fantasize about someone else?

And of all the someone elses, it wasn't just anyone, it was Stone! Stone?! Fuck, it's like my subconscious is on a mission to destroy me. What was it about him tonight? How did he get me so unglued? What made me say such an idiotic thing to him? He probably thinks I’m insane now, or some kind of damn groupie or something. I have a thing for you playing an acoustic… What the fuck, brain, have you been working on this scheme ever since that day at the fucking gallery? That level of treason takes commitment, kudos. But seriously, Stone?

...okay, fine, admit it, Stone’s not the problem here. He’s actually pretty fucking great. He’s insightful, and hilarious, and brilliant, and talented, and lately he's been a lot less of a shit for whatever reason… last night, he seemed so much more sincere, or secure, or something, I can’t figure out what it was... and okay fine yes shut up he is also extremely good-looking shut up already. But it's one thing to respect and admire a friend, or even acknowledge their empirical attractiveness. It's another thing altogether to mentally cheat with one of them.

I scrunch up my face, like I can somehow squint hard enough to crush all these thoughts of him out of my disordered mind.

I grope for the shower faucet and turn it on, climbing in before the water even has a chance to heat up. I don't know how I expect soap and water to wash this night away, but with shaking hands and a sick heart, I have to try.

*

When Alex's alarm goes off, I slam my eyes shut and pretend to sleep. I spent the whole night staring at the ceiling while he snored softly, trying to figure out how I was going to face him in the morning. And the coward’s way out wins. After waiting the usual amount of time to get ready for work and only crack an eye open when I hear the front door open and shut. At least after my shame shower last night, getting myself ready this morning is a quick process… oh, look, a silver lining…

The only glimmer of clarity I found in my panicked thoughts all night was that if there’s any hope for me at all, any hope of retaining any decency or value as a girlfriend and human being, I’ve got to stay the fuck away from Stone for a while. No, strike that, make that all of the Mookie guys, just to be safe. My heart aches at the thought of such an extensive amputation. This could get messy.

The one thing that can make me smile right now is the sight of my little brother in pajama pants, eating cereal on the couch and watching garbage morning news.

“Morning, sunshine!” he quips.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You look like shit, C. Didn’t you sleep?” He peers at me through his shaggy bangs.

I shake my head and gravitate towards the coffee pot. “No. Busy week at school, I guess… I’ve got a couple exams next week…”

He nods thoughtfully. “...your bratty kid brother all up in your business…”

“You know you’re not, drama queen.”

“Yeah, well, I was thinking, I’m liking this Portland idea more and more. I was gonna call around today and see if I can set something up for this weekend.”

My heart throbs painfully again. “So soon?”

“Well, yeah, C, I have to, like, find a job and be a productive member of society, I can’t freeload off of you and Alex forever.”

Definitely my little brother. I frown at him for long enough that he gets off the couch and comes over to give me a quick hug.

“What’s going on with you out here, Cora? You seem so unhappy.”

“I’m not, I --” I swear to god, I’m not, it’s just that none of the right things are bringing me happiness anymore, and I can’t begin to explain that to him “-- I’m okay,” I finish weakly.

“Oh yeah, sure… and you and Alex, that’s okay too?”

“What do you --”

“Come on, it’s obvious, it’s been obvious since the day I got here. Maybe not to you, but I have the benefit of not having seen you in a while. You two are done. You know I love him to bits, C, but you gotta cut him loose if you’re done.”

Guilt churns through my chest as I echo him. “If I’m done…”

“Cora, you’re not happy. I fucking hate that. I don’t know what’s going on, and I for sure know you’re not going to tell me, but you deserve to be happy. You’re the smart one, you can figure it out.”

I allow him to pull me into another hug, which gives me a chance to try and squash the sob I can feel rising up in my throat and the tears pricking my eyes. Just as I think I’ve gotten it under control, there’s a knock at the door.

“Thanks, kiddo,” I mumble as he lets me go.

“You can repay me by letting me use up all your hot water,” he cackles, heading toward the hallway to take a shower.

I frown at Eddie in confusion when I find him standing outside my door, exposing one of the most obvious flaws in my plan. It’s a little tricky to amputate people from your life when they live across the hall.

“What’s up, bud?”

“Hey, sorry, hope it’s not too early, uh… hey, you okay?” he frowns back at me, inspecting my face.

“Yeah, uh, just… something in my eye.”

“Uh huh,” he muses, clearly not buying it but not pushing me for further details. Thank goodness for that.

“Anyway, what’s up?”

“Huh? Oh, uh, we’re gonna be at the gallery all day, we gotta record these demos, but uhm, we happened upon these six tickets for the game tonight, preseason game, Bulls at SuperSonics…”

“Oh right, your Chicago roots,” we share a grin. Damn it, I always forget about those dimples until they blind me.

“That’s right,” he beams.

“Your team’s got my guy, you know.”

“Who?”

“Jordan, who else?”

“Really?” he chuckles. “I didn’t know you were a fan.”

“He’s a Tar Heel, Eddie, of course!”

“Oh man, so then this is perfect timing… we’re all going, the whole group, Lucy’s coming too, and Dave was gonna come but he can’t make it, so I was wondering if you wanted his ticket.”

The distraction of Michael Jordan is immediately replaced by panic swamping my brain at the thought of seeing Stone again so soon. Operation Amputation doesn’t seem to be going so well. And the thought of trying to explain to Lucy why I can’t hang out with her and her boyfriend gives me a bellyache. Why do you have to be so nice to me, Eddie? Be a jerk, make it easier.

“I really shouldn’t… you know, I’ve got a lot of work, and my brother’s leaving soon, and Alex is gone all next week… I should probably stay pretty close to home this week…”

Eddie nods sincerely, wrinkling his forehead. “Sure, yeah, I totally get that. Well, hopefully we see you around soon. You, uhm, you really helped me out last night, you know.”

Without another word, he turns on his heels and starts down the hallway. Suddenly, I remember something I should have said to him already, and I yell out to get his attention, “hey Eddie!”

He whirls around and gives me a questioning look.

“You did great last night.”

He lets loose another one of those massive, dimpled smiles, nods once, and disappears down the stairwell.

***

I decide to cut through the park on my way back. Maybe it’s not the most direct route from my house to the gallery, and I know I need to get back, but it’s a more scenic ride on the bike, and since last night I’ve been looking for any opportunity to be alone with my thoughts.

You know I have a thing for you playing an acoustic…

I still get a thrill in my veins every time I replay it in my head. The little smile, the color in her cheeks, the awkwardness that took over as soon as she realized she’d said it out loud. It was undeniable, even for Cora. She’s gotta admit it now.

But what if she doesn’t? What if she regrets it? What if I try to talk to her about it and she bites my head off yet again? Talking to her last night felt so great, and as much as I want us to finally air out all of our feelings, I don’t want to blow up our whole friendship by fixating on an impossible crush. I just want us to start being more honest with each other. I want her to be more honest with herself. I know she’s not happy, I...

Way up ahead, I spot a redheaded girl on a bike heading towards me on the path… that’s not her, is it? Jesus, man, get a grip, that’s ridiculous. Why would she be all the way up in this part of town? You’re hallucinating her.

Except…

“Stone?” The redhead in my thoughts is the same one braking right in front of my path, and I stop dead, blinking like a deer in the headlights. Funny thing is, she’s got the same expression on her face.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Cora asks, looking a little wild-eyed.

“I live around here, what’s your excuse?”

“I, uh,” she stammers, “just heading up to UW. Classes, and, uh, I wanted to do some stuff in the lab beforehand...”

“This is kinda out of your way though, isn’t it?”

“Uhm, I guess,” she chews her lip and looks around like she’s just realizing where she is, “but it’s pretty, and I guess…”

“It’s okay, Red, I’m taking the scenic route too.”

She fixes me with a questioning expression but can’t come up with anything to say. I can’t get over how nervous she looks. Something really shook her up, I just wish I knew what it was.

“I’m heading back down your way, actually,” I explain, “gotta get back to the gallery, but my parents are out of town for a couple weeks so I’m on geriatric dog piss break duty.”

“Glamorous. Well, I don’t want to keep you…”

“It’s okay.” I glance at my watch. “Did you eat lunch yet?”

“Uhm, yeah, why?”

“I don’t know, just wanted to know if you wanted to get a bite to eat.”

“I just told you, I already ate.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“So you very sensibly asked me to eat lunch with you because…?” she asks wryly, putting a giant crack in that nervous shell.

“I don’t know,” I smile stupidly, thankful for an idea that just popped into my head. “Hey, but there’s this great little ice cream place near here, we should go…”

“Ice cream? It’s almost November.”

“Right? Damn the man! Let’s go get ice cream in 50-degree weather. This place is worth it, honestly.”

“I’m sure it’s great, but I really should get to the lab…”

“Come on, Wet Blanket, there’s always time for ice cream. I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream… in the land of the ice and snow…”

“What the fuck are you even talking about?” she laughs.

“That’s how the song goes, you uncultured swine, the ice cream song.”

“So Zeppelin ripped off a 1920s novelty song?”

“Honestly who didn’t they rip off? Come on, are we getting ice cream or not?”

Her smile broadens. “You’re not gonna drop it, are you?”

“You’re quick, Red.”

We steer our bikes across the park to the place I’m thinking of, talking idly on the way about nothing and everything, and she’s becoming more relaxed by the minute. Maybe this means things are really changing between us now. Maybe she doesn't regret what she said. Maybe the nerves are just because she’s finally letting her guard down.

We park our bikes outside the ice cream parlor and step inside. While she contemplates the choices, I place my order because I know exactly what I want.

“Seriously?” she asks with a snort. “Old lady butter pecan? That's what you're going with?”

“Is there a problem here?”

“No problem at all, granny,” she snickers as she scans the freezer case to make her own choice. “Actually, that's kinda perfect.”

“Granny?? I'm all man, Red. And what the fuck is that supposed to mean, perfect?”

The clerk hands me my cone and glances between us, obviously waiting for Cora to make up her mind but too polite to say anything. Cora, meanwhile, is occupied with way more important things.

“Uh huh. I don't know, butter pecan just makes sense. Like, it's you, in ice cream form. It's a little ironic, so it's got that going on, but it's also undeniably one of the best, most underrated flavors. And it's probably kind of a pain in the ass to make it just right, a little finicky, so the details are important. It explains you perfectly.”

“I'm not sure if I want you to keep describing me or order some damn ice cream so you’ll shut up,” I make like I’m going to mash my ice cream cone in her face, and she squeals with laughter. The clerk sighs and gives us a pleading look.

“Strawberry, please,” Cora finally says.

“Oh hell no, you're not getting off that easy,” I shake my head.

“And your problem would be…?” she raises a lazy eyebrow.

“In no possible scenario are you strawberry ice cream, my fine feisty friend.”

“Bonus points for alliteration, but I was not choosing myself as ice cream, I just fuckin’ wanted strawberry.” A mischievous smile spreads across her face. “But since you brought it up, what ice cream flavor am I?”

We pay for our cones -- I tried to pay for hers but she rolled her eyes and teased that it wasn't a date -- and go sit outside on a bench, which is ridiculous in this weather, but I’ve got a very serious question to ponder and a beautiful girl to eat ice cream with, so who gives a fuck if it's a little cold outside. None of it ever makes sense with her. That's why I love her.

As I'm figuring out how to define her in flavor terms, I glance over and watch her take a bite of her ice cream, thinking of how sweet she looks when she's completely unaware of having an audience. Well, bite’s not really the right word, she doesn't exactly use her teeth, and what kind of psychopath bites ice cream, anyway… but she doesn't simply lick the whole thing, either, except for occasionally running her tongue along the bottom edge to catch a drip… no, it's more like she gives a little lick to one chosen spot, and then applies her lips to melt a little circle of the ice cream, pulling it inwards, then licking again, starting over… uh, Jesus… lucky ice cream...

Her eyes travel up to mine just as she’s about to give another small lick, and she lets out a self-conscious giggle. “You're melting, Stoner.”

“Wha…? Oh,” I switch my attention to my own ice cream, which is starting to run in a little rivulet down my hand, so I busy myself cleaning it up with my own tongue to stop myself from thinking about hers. It doesn't work particularly well… I mean my hand’s clean now, but my thoughts...

“So, did you decide?”

“Mmhmm,” I say, simultaneously trying to corral my hormones and make sure I don't have ice cream on my face like a total dork, “I mean, you're something weird, let's just get that out of the way right now.”

“Granted.”

“Strawberry is way too sweet.”

“Hey!” She elbows me hard and I almost lose the whole cone to the sidewalk.

“Obviously you’re a sweetheart,” I snort. “But, like, strawberry's too… accessible, or something. Too mainstream.”

“Mmmhk,” she says skeptically through a mouthful of ice cream. I will not stare. I must not stare.

“So you're a weirder one. Something completely awesome, but an acquired taste. Offbeat, unknowable, unpredictable. But that’s the fun part. Most people totally wouldn’t get the appeal…”

“Well, definitely don’t quit your day job for a career in ice cream marketing…”

“Hush. What I meant was, maybe you wouldn’t find it in every shop, but that’s a shame, because it’s the best one when you do find it. Except, it’s a little scary, too, like… the novelty makes it cool, and I’m pretty sure it’s gonna be awesome, but can I really handle a whole serving of something so unfamiliar? So what would that even be? Blueberry? Like, I never see blueberry ice cream anywhere but it sounds so fucking cool… but even that’s not quite right, ugh…”

She’s watching me ramble with the most curious expression, and she hasn’t even noticed that her own ice cream is dripping down her fingers. I nod at her and she jumps a bit before trying to clean up the mess and again running her tongue around the rim of the ice cream cone. Deep, steady breaths, man, come on, be cool. She smiles at me again.

“Offbeat scary blueberry, huh? I don’t know whether to be intensely flattered or completely insulted.”

“See? Perfect,” I beam at her, triumphant.

“You’re such a dick,” she giggles, her cheeks reddening just a little. Okay, if both of our minds are thinking about dicks, I might as well make the most of this opportunity.

“You wanna hear a joke?” I ask her, eyeing her as I take a bite out of the sugar cone.

“Always.”

“Okay, well it’s not really weather-appropriate, but I think it’ll still work… have you heard the one about the penguin driving down from Alaska to his vacation down south --”

“Penguins don’t live in Alaska,” she frowns.

“Excuse me?”

“There are no penguins in Alaska, Stone, they live in the Southern Hemisphere.”

“This is what bothers you? The inaccuracy of the penguin’s habitat? Not, oh I don’t know, the fact that the penguin is DRIVING?”

“Well I was gonna get to that next, but as the resident scientist, I felt obligated to --”

“It’s a joke, you fucking pedant!”

“-- it’s a pretty piss-poor joke so far.”

“Yeah, because of all the pedantic interruptions. Here, shove some ice cream in there, maybe that’ll help,” I nudge her cone up towards her face. “Okay, so who the fuck knows, maybe he’s fleeing a zoo or something, anyway, he’s driving south…”

“...probably to get back to the Southern Hemisphere where he belongs…”

“God damn it,” I laugh. “Okay, fine, have it your way. So he’s driving home to the Southern Hemisphere after VISITING Alaska, and somewhere in Arizona, in that intense desert heat, his car gives out. So he calls a tow truck and ends up at this repair shop in a little town, you know the type, just a big Main Street but nothing else.”

“Sure.” She takes the last bite of her cone and crumples up the napkin.

“Okay. So the mechanic tells him it’ll be about an hour to figure out what’s wrong with the car, so the penguin waddles over to this cute little ice cream shop across the street.”

“Ah, synergy, I see what you did there,” she grins.

“I’m good that way. So the penguin gets himself some ice cream, and he’s sitting down enjoying it…���

“What flavor?”

“Anyone ever tell you you’re a joke killer? No? Alright, fine, it’s vanilla. And he loves it, right, he’s devouring it with his little bill. But penguins are not the most dextrous of animals, not having hands and all… so he’s having trouble managing his treat with his little flippers, gets a little messy, and it's all hot out so the ice cream's melting, you know how it is. But he doesn’t care because he’s having a grand old time. Anyway, the hour’s up, so he waddles back over to the repair shop and asks the mechanic if he’s found the problem with his car. The mechanic looks at him and says, ‘it looks like you blew a seal.’ The penguin freaks out and says, ‘no no, it’s just ice cream!’”

The subtle red tint in her cheeks creeps through her whole face and her eyes widen for just a moment before her shoulders start shaking and her face scrunches up. I’ve never seen her laugh so hard that she forgets to make noise, but it’s so fucking irresistible that somehow I’m doing it now too, and soon we’re both laugh-sobbing so hard my sides are aching. After several minutes and a lot of disapproving glances from passersby, we manage to collect ourselves. Cora wipes a tear from her eye.

“Okay okay okay, my turn... uh, have you heard the one about the nun who --”  

“Oh, please, Red, your Catholic schoolgirl humor is no match for a fellating penguin.”

“You think so? Shows what you know about Catholic school.” Her playful smile takes on a hint of puzzlement. “Hey, when did I tell you I went to Catholic school?”

“Uhm,” I take a moment to make sure I’ve got my dates right, “it was my birthday.”

“Really? You remembered that?”

“Yeah, wow, I listen to you. What a concept.”

There’s an expression of shock in her eyes that’s going to be the death of me.  I nudge her with my shoulder, “just make with the nun joke, will ya?”

“Yeah, uhm… okay, so Mother Superior’s at the convent, and she hears a knock on the door. She opens it up and is shocked to find two leprechauns standing at the door, holding their hats in their hands, all respectable-like…”

“Leprechauns? And my story was implausible?”

“Nah, you’re just funny when you’re all riled up,” she gives me a wicked look. “Anyway, the first leprechaun says, ‘Mother Superior, would you be havin’ any leprechaun nuns in this convent?’ And she says, ‘no, my son, we have no leprechaun nuns in this convent.’ So he asks, ‘and are there any leprechaun nuns in all of Ireland?’ And she says, ‘no, my son, I don’t believe there’s a single leprechaun nun in all of Ireland.’ So the leprechaun turns to his buddy and says, ‘oi, I told ye ye’d been fuckin’ a penguin!’”

We both crack up again, and this time she slumps into my shoulder while she tries to pull herself together. I lean back into her, trying to catch my breath too, but also jealously hoarding the feeling of having her so close. She lifts her face to look at me, her eyes still shining with laughter, her mouth curved open in an inviting smile, close enough that I can count the freckles on her nose, feel her breath on my lips… she smells like strawberries...

She inhales sharply and then tries to disguise it as a laugh as she sits up straight, fidgeting, her shoulders tensed up practically around her ears. “Ha, uhm, sugar high,” she stammers, blushing furiously.

She may be rattled, but I’m experiencing the exact opposite sensation. My brain seems to have slowed every other operation down to a crawl in order to make room for how all-consumingly I want to kiss her. “yeah, maybe,” I mumble sluggishly, trying not to smile too wide.

“We should probably get going, huh?” She bites her lip, glancing at our bikes. I nod, trying to think of something to break the tension.

“Uh, speaking of bikes… and nuns... have you heard the one about the side street?”

She shakes her head, watching me with a wary smile as we start walking our bikes back through the park toward the point where our routes diverge.

“Really, they didn’t teach you that one in Catholic school? The one about the two nuns who rode their bikes to the market, and they’re heading back to the convent? They decide to take a side street, this little cobblestone alley. After a couple of blocks, one nun says to the other, ‘I’ve never come this way before!’ and the other nun says, ‘must be the cobbles.’”

She cringes horribly, laughing in a much more frenzied way than I’ve ever heard, refusing to look at me. Damn it, I wish I didn’t have to go back to the gallery. I could spend all afternoon making her squirm with dirty jokes… or other methods…

Finally, she composes herself enough to rally with another joke, although she’s still stubbornly looking anywhere but at me. “What’s the difference between a woman and a computer?”

“Hm, you got me.”

“Computers don’t laugh at three and a half inch floppies.”

“Ohhh, brutal! Hey, did I ever tell you that I used to date an English teacher?” “No, why’d you break up?”

“She dumped me for improper use of the colon...”

***

Wednesday, October 24th, 1990

Okay, okay, so Operation Amputation’s kind of a colossal failure. Something about the combination of endearingly shy lead singers, my best friend dating the bassist, and the general Stoneness of Stone seems to be making that plan a little too complicated. Time to face facts, I can’t just cut them -- cut him -- out of my life. We’re way past that.

Not like I have any fucking clue what to do with that information, of course. So I settle for wiping this one section of the mirror behind the bar obsessively, until my reflection’s spotless…frowny and washed out under the ghastly halogen lights in this place, maybe, but spotless. At least the lunch shift has been pretty quiet so far today, letting me contemplate in peace. I don’t even look up when I hear the cafe’s front doorbell ring, signaling the arrival of a big group.

“What do you think you’re gonna find through the looking glass?” Eddie’s voice wafts over my shoulder, tinged with laughter, and even though I’m surprised by the ambush -- he’s flanked by Jeff, Chris, and Stone -- I have to laugh along with him.

“Hopefully no Jabberwocks.”

“Let’s hope not.”

“M’lady, a round of beers, if you’d be so kind?” Chris asks with a bow and a flourish, and Jeff bats his eyelashes. Eddie watches the two of them and laughs, but Stone’s quietly focused on me. His gaze makes me shaky all over again as my mind floods with sensory memories from yesterday. His green eyes, which were infinitely more vivid in the sunlight. The rhythm of his silent laughter shaking me as I leaned into his shoulder. The slight cedar smell of his sweatshirt. The way I imagined his lips feeling on mine, if we’d only leaned in a little closer. God, this is so much worse than I thought. I drop my washcloth and walk around the counter to say hi, hoping the rest of these idiots can distract me.

“How come you didn’t come out with us, Cora?” Jeff asks. “Eddie says you’re a big Jordan fan, you woulda loved it, he had a great game.”

“Bulls were victorious,” Eddie beams.

“Uhm, I just have a ton of work to do right now, you know, Patch and Alex are both leaving soon, and anyway I didn’t feel right going out on a school night,” I lie, trying not to look at the real reason for my absence, who is still watching me closely and who speaks up in his usual sardonic tone.

“Oh yes, there’s our good little Catholic girl,” Stone smirks.

Chris's eyes light up in that way that looks wholesome on most people’s faces but in his case always looks vaguely satanic. “Smokey Bear, I didn't know you were Catholic!”

“Recovering,” I fire back.

“Me too! I shoulda known, usually we can smell our own. Hey, you know what's even sexier than Catholic guilt?”

I shake my head, wary of where he’s going with this, and of the intensifying gleam in his eyes. He suddenly swirls an arm around me and dips me so low I worry my head’s going to hit the floor, but he’s got a tight hold on me.

“Absolutely nothing,” he sighs seductively in my ear, loud enough for everyone to hear. As he sets me back on my feet, the guys dissolve in laughter and chatter again, but Stone only gives me a tiny little smile. Even with Chris clowning around and monopolizing the whole cafe’s attention, it feels like there’s no one else in the room when Stone looks at me like that. I used to wish he wouldn’t do that. Now I don’t know what to wish.

The guys hang out at the bar for a while and finish their beers before saying goodbye, and I’ve just gotten back to my cleaning when I hear the bell ding a second time. When I turn around, my mind’s preoccupation is standing at the bar right in front of me, by himself.

“Uh, dropped my keys, had to run back,” Stone gives another little smile, waving his key ring as evidence and stowing it in his pocket. “Hey, you said Patch and Alex are both leaving? What’s going on?”

He really does listen, doesn’t he? “Oh, uh, Patch is heading out on a Greyhound on Friday morning, he’s gonna go visit a friend from high school who moved to Portland.”

“And Alex?”

“Work conference thing all next week, he leaves on Sunday.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah. So forgive my antisocial behavior, I feel like I should probably spend time with them the next couple of days before I end up in an empty apartment for a whole week.”

“Sure, yeah. Just sucks, because I’m leaving Friday too.”

“What? Where are you going?”

“New York. With Jeff. We’re gonna meet with the record label folks and see if they’ll let us out of our old deal before we try to move ahead with this new stuff.”

“When are you leaving?”

“We fly out Friday some time, back Tuesday.”

I thought I’d feel relief at the idea of him traveling a few thousand miles away while I try to figure out what I’ve been feeling for him the past 48 hours, but somehow, relief’s not the word. What the hell, Stone, I’ve finally figured out that I can’t dodge you anymore, that I don’t even want to, and now you’re leaving town? No fair.

He seems to read my mind. In a soft, vulnerable voice I’ve never heard before, only slightly above a whisper, he asks very simply, “can I call you?”

His eyes widen with hope while he waits for my answer. A nod’s all I can manage, and only after he shoots me one more smile and ducks back out onto the street after the rest of the guys do I notice that I’ve been holding my breath.

[im-gunna-shine]

DEAR TAYLOR,

As much as I would love to tell you how each and every song you ever wrote spoke to me—and believe me when I say every single song touched my heart, represented my life, or told a small version of my own love story—there isn’t enough time in the day.

So I will just say this: I knew life was cruel at six years old; I lived in a household version of World War III. My father was alcoholic, my mother hide it as best as she could (but I knew) , and I often found ways to cope—music was the one coping mechanism that always granted peace.

Years later, I learned that life was destructive at 16 years old; in the same year my father passed away from alcohol poisoning, a boy used and abused my heart, a boy toyed with my emotions, body, and soul, and worst of all, I destroyed my own body with an eating disorder for five years. I’ve loved, and I’ve lost. I’ve been left, and I’ve run. I’ve given up, and I’ve held on—and everything in between.

To most people, my life is just a story. It is a quick tale, and then it is forgotten. I’m vulnerable about my wounds, insecurities, and troubling past, present, and future. Your life on the other hand, is a story that is told everywhere. You open yourself to fans, crowds, enemies, and strangers, hoping that someone will feel wanted, loved, touched. . . understood.

I want you to know that I don’t answer the phone--no matter who it is-- if All Too Well or anything for Speak Now is playing. I want you to know that my Husband and I dance in the refrigerator light to “Mary’s Song” because it is verbatim to our love story. (It was also our wedding song. See above picture)  I want you to know that I dated an asshat named Jake too, and every word you ever wrote about heartbreaking and healing, pieced my mended mess together.

I want you to know that your songs matter more than you know, and they continue to matter—12 years later. Your lyrics have been screamed, belted, hummed,  and repeated my entire life. I sang when I was distraught, and I sang when I couldn’t quite put it into words what I was feeling. You’ve spent your whole life trying to put “love” into words, but you’ve done so so so much more than that. You are devoted, encouraging, and THE MOST lyrically gifted writer I have ever heard. Your songs matter; forever and always; don’t ever forget that. Love always, Kambria Taylor. (Yes that is my real middle name ;) )

@taylorswift @taylornation @reptourdaily

[quietnocturne-blog]

one thing that really messed me up was how my parents sexualised a close friendship I had with a girl I really liked platonically. we had grown really close in class and sat next to each other. I thought she was beautiful but in the “I wish I looked like that” way. I was happy for a while just being friends with her.

except for this one time I came to school after a huge fight with my mom about her addiction issues. I said vehemently “I hate my mother. I hate her.” and this girl said “you shouldn’t hate your mom, she like, gave birth to you.” and I smiled, made an excuse and agreed because she had no idea that my mom had smacked me in the cheekbone hard enough to leave a bruise for two weeks. I liked her anyway. this wasn’t her fault. she was my only friend.

around three quarters of the way through the year she got really sick with laryngitis. I texted her best friend to figure out what her favorite snack foods were - chocolate and lemonade - and drove to the store to get some with my aunt, and then to drop them off with her. I made an ironically shitty card to go with it with pen and highlighter and butterfly stickers.

my aunt told my parents like it was no big deal. I didn’t know she had. I went to my astronomy program that night, carefree and happy that I’d helped a friend feel a little better.

both my parents, my stepfather and my mother picked me up. that was the first warning that something was wrong. I said hello, and they were both silent. my stomach dropped, and I regretted eating the pizza, because I knew I was about to lose it.

“So who’s this crush?” My mom finally says, and she sounds so coldly angry, her voice practically shaking with fury. “Do you want to have sex with her, Madison? Do you want to be the only two lesbians in a CATHOLIC SCHOOL FOR GIRLS?”

(She gets just as mad later when it’s revealed that during my senior year I help my best friend, a closeted transgender man named Thomas, try to start an LGBT group on campus. I am the only one who helps. It doesn’t get formed.)

“No, Jesus, mom, I don’t love her. I don’t even like her like that!”

“Madison, friends don’t DO things like that! It’s perverted and weird! Leave her alone. I want you to be moved to a different class.”

I wasn’t moved to a different class, but my mom sent a note to the teacher asking me to be moved up to the front. My friend didn’t move with me because my mom took my phone, used my Messenger and sent her a fake confession telling her to stay away from me because of my “impure thoughts”. She showed me these, asked if it was a joke. I said yes, because my mom was crazy. She laughed. She didn’t sit next to me anyway. I didn’t have a phone for two years.

she was good friends with a nerdy, dorky girl for a while. I started hanging out with her during lunch instead. I did develop a crush on this one. And once, on the way to class after lunch, she asked

are you a homosexual?

and I grimaced, I paused. I said “can I tell you later?”

and that told her everything she needed to know.

and things got very dark for a little while. and I was very alone and sad and depressed and I tried to kill myself in July of 2015 three days before my birthday. and it didn’t work. but I had told this other girl about my plans for it and she told her dad who told the teacher who told the counselor who told my mom.

and the first thing my mom yelled at me when I got home from school the next day, head pounding and stomach uneasy from throwing up unworking pills the night before alone, was

How dare you make this my fault!

I didn’t mention her once to a teacher or a counselor. I never told anyone about the gaslighting or emotional abuse or closeted homophobia or making things like a hug between me and my sister sexual or making me feel like it was my fault for being bullied or the several times she locked me out of the House well after midnight and told me to run away or the times she hit me hard enough to leave scars or told me I wasn’t pretty or that I would only ever date boys who didn’t love me because I wasn’t worth loving or that she disowned me or that my dad didn’t love me so don’t try to get any sympathy from him or that I was destined to be an alcoholic just like her or that they’d spent enough money on me already so they didn’t buy me clothing for four years or about the hoarding food that came with restricted access or about sneaking to the sink to get a drink late at night and finding my mom on the chair in the hallway just waiting for me to come out to start another fight or the confiscation of anything I could use to contact help or the threatening of calling police and the victim blaming or telling my sister and brother that I was crazy, psycho, telling her friends that I was bipolar, had borderline personality disorder, was antisocial, was autistic, was schizophrenic or that she had me drugged for adhd when I was six and clearly didn’t have adhd or that I needed a job to start supporting the family when she had never had one or that they weren’t going to pay my tuition so I had better figure something out or cleaning up her vomit all over the kitchen as a punishment or watching my siblings 24/7 while she slept upstairs or her taking my property and destroying it and then saying she hadn’t or calling family to tell tall tales about me how crazy I was when I’m not crazy she’s crazy -

but then I graduated high school

and I did it alone.

no one was at graduation for me. no one was at the dinner for me. no one saw me walk and thought “wow, our little girl did it.” and there was no graduation party aside from me buying a whole bottle of Malibu and drinking it alone at the park. and then crying because I was turning into her.

but I called my biological dad and I moved away from her and into his house. and it was okay.

and I’m not perfect. but I’m healing from this.

[argylemikewheeler]

hey! idk if this prompt has been done/ won’t work, but i really just want pure unadulterated fluff between the twins richie and mike and them just lying around talking about life and trying to figure out how everything got so bad and just having brotherly moments and loving eachother like the soft boys they are

(this definitely works and i loved writing this)

The June before Will was taken lost, in the woods, The Wheeler’s sent only one of their twin sons to a family member in Maine. Richie had been having problems focusing– and much to a bigger complaint, keeping his mouth shut– and another parent in the neighborhood told them about a specialist in Derry to try and help him with his Attention Deficit Disorder, which Mike always thought was fake; that was just Richie.

Mike had never been away from his twin for longer than a few days, and he had his own reservations about the idea, while Richie was always screaming about how much he hated seafood. He was sent away later that week. By the time he returned the following December, he was a different brother than Mike had sent away.

Richie never slept well as it was, always up and reading or writing or telling jokes to Mike in the middle of the night, but since he had returned, he was restless. He turned over on his bed countless time, his quiet mumbling and groaning keeping Mike up. Their parents never suspected anything, Richie still able to keep his energy levels up to eleven and bouncing around the house, nearly breaking everything like he used to and proving their plan had failed. Mike had heard all the stories though. First, in Richie’s sleep, the boy muttering names that Mike remembered from letters, postcards, and phone calls. Eventually he got the full conscious story, trading his own adventure with Will and even introducing him to Eleven. All Richie kept saying is how much he fucking hated clowns.

Richie was asleep at the desk in their shared bedroom. Mike had been up in their room a moment before, stepping out to grab his campaign planning notebook, when he returned to find Richie asleep on his own hand. His face was slowly slipping out of his grip and his glasses were being pushed up by his knuckles. Mike sat on his bed and wrote quickly, letting Richie get the sleep his body had been begging him to get for the past month.

As if struck by lightning, Richie seized awake, gasping for air and screaming. Mike looked up slowly, finishing his sentence and not at all scared anymore.

“You okay?” He asked, placing his pen down. He spoke gently, knowing Richie was still waking up.

“Yeah.” Richie sighed, adjusting his glasses. “Peachy.”

“You’re safe here.” Mike assured him, although he had traded one evil for another.

“Yeah, I know.” He said, placing his glasses on his head to rub his eyes. “I just shouldn’t have made friends. I should have just been like you and shut myself up in my room for a year and played with myself.”

“Fuck you, Richie.”

“Believe me, there wasn’t any of that in Maine.” He said, situating his glasses back on his nose. “Apparently the impending fear of death really limp-dicks the whole town.”

“You are disgusting.” Mike said, rolling his eyes. “Forget I tried to be nice.”

“Aw, come on, Mike and Ike! Don’t turn sour on me!” He said, standing and flopping onto Mike’s bed. He was on his stomach, elbows on the bed and holding his head up as he peered into Mike’s notebook. “What are we drawing today?”

“I’m writing, Richie.” Mike explained, hating to disappoint Richie and his belief that the only thing teenage boys should be doodling in notebooks are “twigs and berries”.

“Anything steamy, loverboy?”

“No.” Mike laughed. “But it is to cheer Will up after everything. He always loves long campaigns.” Mike had been trying to make one long enough to last every day of Hanukkah coming up; even though Will would be home at night for his family’s celebrations, during the day Mike wanted him to be well occupied and happy. “He’s coming over all next week.”

“Oh yeah. That’s right. I have to call Stan after the first night.” Richie said. “Typically, I don’t call after the first night at all, amirite!” Mike rejected Richie’s high-five and continued to write in his notebook. Richie’s arm slapped down on the mattress, a quiet grumble proclaiming Mike a “fucking square”. Mike laughed quietly to himself as he attempted to draw an illustration to his idea beside the bullet point; Will was really far better at it.

“So how is everyone else?” Mike asked. “Bill? Bev? The gang?”

“Still s-s-stuttering.” Richie replied, resting his head on Mike’s outstretched leg. “Bev’s better. Last I heard she was calling her aunt to move across town. Eddie’s arm healed nice.”

“That’s good.” Mike said, nodding along. “He deserves having use of both hands back.” He laughed, remembering the stories Richie told of Eddie struggling to open his pill bottles and hold pencils.

“Yeah, my right hand’s getting pretty tired.” Richie said, snapping his fingers and pointing at Mike as he laughed

“What does he see in you again?” Mike asked, looking up from his work. “I mean, seriously?”

“Sorry not all of us have swing set fetishes, Michael. Some of us find love in crack houses.” Richie pretended to whip his hair back. They both began laughing before Richie placed his head back on Mike’s leg. Mike placed his book next to his face so they could both look at the pages at once. Richie was quiet and watched Mike scribble across the lines. “How the fuck did we get like this, Mike?”

“Like what?” Mike continued, poking his brother’s nose with his pen. “You’re always like this. Not even Mom and Dad’s attempted normalcy therapy did anything.”

“Let me make the jokes there, Michael.” Richie deadpanned.  “I meant like this.” He flopped his arm over Mike’s book and the other over the edge of the bed with an exaggerated sigh. “Fucking comparing the well-being of our friends because they are always, somehow, inching towards the goddamn grave.”

“I blame you.” Mike teased. “You’re the one who became besties with something that eats children.”

“I guess you’re right.” Richie sighed, settling his face in Mike’s leg. “I wish they never sent me up there sometimes, you know?”

“I know what you mean.” Mike agreed. Every time he saw Will suffering, he wished he had won the argument with his parents and played for another ten minutes, maybe then Will would have missed crossing paths with the Demogorgon and he wouldn’t have nightmares that consumed him even when he was awake. “But it happened, for better or for worse, I guess.” Mike closed his book and placed a hand on Richie’s head, smoothing out his hair. His fingers kept getting caught in his curls. “I mean, you made friends, right?”

“Yeah.” Richie agreed, reaching up to take his glasses off. He placed them on top of Mike’s book. “I guess so.”

“I mean, Eddie’s pretty cool, right? You won’t shut up about him long enough to brush your teeth.” Mike teased.

“Your point, wise ass?” Richie asked, squinting and looking up at his brother.

“You’ve got some things to be happy about, right?” Mike shrugged. “Six things, technically.”

“Ugh, do you have to be so right all the time?” Richie groaned, closing his eyes. “Just be bleak about something for like, a fucking day, Mike. Jesus.” Mike laughed again and kept smoothing Richie’s hair. There was so much of it, but so little style.

“Oh! You know what I’ve been forgetting to tell you about?” Mike gasped, already beginning to laugh softly. “The week we spent hanging out with Steve Harrington.”

“Steve?” Richie echoed. “Isn’t he the guy with hair like a rooster?”

“The very same.” Mike agreed. “He and Nancy had a thing for a while. So he was around a bit. Being semi-helpful.”

“He got the shit kicked out of him, didn’t he?” Richie guessed, chuckling. “That guy looks too pretty to fight.”

“First a rooster, now he’s pretty?” Mike laughed, grabbing his brother’s head and shaking it back and forth jokingly.

“Well, cock and pretty are synonyms, right?” Richie laughed, reaching up to grope at Mike’s hands, trying to loosen his grip. “Come on, that’s funny, Mike!”

“How did Aunt Ruth not actually kill you last summer?” Mike asked, finally releasing Richie’s face and letting it rest back on his leg. “I mean, she doesn’t even like it when Mom says ‘God’ in the house. Let alone you talking about genitals every few minutes.”

“I mostly stayed at the arcade, honestly.” Richie confessed. “I’d go from school, to therapy, to the arcade, then roll into bed long after they had gone to sleep. I just avoided them the whole time.”

“You did?” Mike asked, placing his hand back in Richie’s hair. Aunt Ruth always called every other week and told stories about Richie’s progress and his behavior around the house. Mike didn’t know it was all a lie. He had assumed Richie had told him everything.

“Yeah, I was only going to make them miserable.” Richie didn’t seem to be upset by the truth about himself. He shrugged and closed his eyes again, looking like he was ready for another promising nap. “But, between Stan and Bill I always had somewhere to be.”

“Why didn’t you tell Mom?” Mike asked. As much as Richie kept saying he didn’t like eating seafood and would “starve” if he went to Maine, Mike always knew there was a grain of truth to his strong refusal to go. Mike just didn’t think it had anything to do with feeling like he didn’t belong with his own family.

“Right. Like I’d tell her that her own sister thinks I’m a fucking nudge.” Richie laughed coldly. “And you’re going to tell her you had a goddamn government grade mutant in the basement because she could find your friend in an alternate dimension.”

“That’s different.”

“It’s the exact same.” Richie countered. “Mom would laugh at both things and tell us we’re crazy and to shut up– or at least she says that last part to me.” He cracked his eyes back open if only to roll them before closing them over again.

“Well now you’re home.” Mike soothed, petting Richie’s hair again. He was hoping he’d fall asleep again, even though Mike was losing feeling in his leg from Richie’s weight pressing on his knee. He wanted his brother to get some sleep. Maybe being next to him would ease his panic that he had been left in that weird well-hosting house.

“Hey, Mike?” Richie mumbled, words slurring with sleep.

“Yeah, Rich?”

“‘Re you gonna get mad if I drool on your leg?”

“No.” Mike laughed, carefully opening his book and picking up his pen. “I won’t be mad.”

“Okay okay cool okay.” He mumbled, curling his legs into his body and settling his head against Mike’s leg. “Cool.”

“Hey, Mike?” He said again.

“Yeah.”

“Thanks.”

“For what?” Mike asked as if he was asking a child. He laughed at the innocence in Richie’s voice as he tried to write again.

“Thanks.” Richie repeated. “Thanks, Mike.”

“Okay, you better stop talking before you embarrass yourself.” Mike shushed his brother, keeping his hand in Richie’s hair but stopping the movement. “Get some sleep, Rich.”

“Be here when I wake up?” Richie asked, his hand reaching up and grabbing Mike’s resting in his hair. Mike couldn’t go anywhere with all of Richie’s weight resting over his leg, but he assured him he would be. “Okay.” He said with a sigh, his body falling lax as he sighed. “Don’t do anything weird.”

“Does that mean I can’t draw on your face?” Mike giggled, dragging the cap of his pen over Richie’s cheek. “I can draw a pretty wonky looking flower.” Mike pretended to already be drawing, sticking his tongue out of his mouth with faux concentration.

“Yeah, no.” Richie said, fingers curling around Mike’s hand. “Your flowers always look like weird vaginas.”

“They do not!” Mike argued, gasping.

“Yeah, they do. You wouldn’t know, of course.” Richie laughed, peeking through squinted eyelids again. “But they totally do. Don’t.”

“Fine.”

Mike sighed and let Richie feel accomplished by his insult, eyes closing again and his body leaning into Mike’s legs. He’d get some deserved sleep, and Mike could get some peace and quiet to finish his campaign. They’d have a few moments away from their family, people clueless to their secrets. They’d have a few moments to be kids, just two regular kids enjoying winter break. They’d be normal again, just for an hour. They’d be average. Except one of them was getting a weird-looking flower all over his face.

ao3

[the-jade-goblin]

Get Into My OC

I was tagged by @thereluctantinquisitor to do this lovely meme, and I spent ages wondering which OC I should choose for it (I HAVE TOO MANY AHHH)

Until I settled on my soft elf boy 

Assan

NAME: Assan Lavellan

AGE: 21 at the beginning of Inquisition

GENDER: Male

ORIENTATION: Homosexual 

PROFESSION: Hunter

BACKGROUND (TW warning; abuse, rape):  Assan grew up among the Dalish, born and raised on the plains of Neverra. Assan was born sickly as a child with chronic asthma, and spent much of his early childhood sheltered within aravels and being cared for by his mother - or "coddled" as his father put it. Though he grew out of the severity of his asthma as he got older, in colder climates Assan's asthma still affects him. Being sheltered so much gave little opportunity to make friends, though Assan held on to two lifelong friends, Dylah and Shou, who are very protective over him, being the youngest in their group. Assan's mother is the Keeper of Clan Lavellan, his father the Chief craftsman. Though Assan and he father famously didn't get along, he was very close with his mother. Assan’s father neglected Assan, hating that any son of his was born so weak. Assan could never do anything to appease him, everything he ever did was considered wrong by his father, and he doted on his daughters instead. 

Assan has two sisters; one elder by six years, one younger by twelve. His elder sister Raevan vanished on a hunting expedition, and didn't return for several months; only to come back to the clan as the walking dead. Assan was forced to kill Raevan, and eventually, confronted the Tevinter blood mages who had killed and resurrected her, with gruesome results. He was sixteen at the time. As a result, Assan is very closely protecting of his little sister Freeya. Assan still refuses to speak of what exactly he did to those mages, but he’s very ashamed of it. The hatred and anger that burned inside him scared him, and since then he has tried to keep anger at bay; he turns quite vicious when angered and uses meditation practises to lengthen his fuse. 

During a Tevinter raid on the clan, at eighteen Assan was kidnapped by slavers while protecting his sister. He was taken to Minrathous where he served as a slave under a Magister Edward Pavus, brother of Halward Pavus and uncle to Dorian. Assan was almost killed when he first came to Minrathous when Magister Edward was experimenting and needed body parts. He instructed an assistant to extract Assan’s eyes, but Assan struggled and ended up killing the assistant, though it left him with a nasty injury on his eye that got infected and nearly killed him with a fever. He survived, and his master had been impressed by his gusto, and wanted to see what exactly could break his spirit. His master was sadistic and cruel, and “favoured” his elven slaves more than others; Assan was routinely sexually assaulted by the magister and often forced to share his bed while chained up, he spent most of his life as a slave literally leashed like a dog to Edward Pavus. Assan was known as the “pretty elf” by the magister, making Assan badly triggered by the word ‘pretty’ afterwards.   He was captive in Tevinter for two years, before making his escape when his master travelled too near the Neverran border, and made his way back to his clan. He spoke of his experiences to no one but his two best friends, claiming to everyone else he had no memory of the past two years.

Physical

BODY TYPE: Ectomoprh, kind of. He’s extremely lean and long, he can’t eat much and can’t keep a lot down, but he does have taught muscle that makes him small but strong. 

EYES: Emerald green

HAIR: Brown

SKIN: Light tan

HEIGHT: 5'5′’

WEIGHT: 54 kg

SKILLS (S.P.E.C.I.A.L + M)

STRENGTH: 7/10; Assan is not a peak physical condition, never will be again, but his wiry frame does contain a lot of power when applied in the correct way. Being Dalish you kind of have to be strong, all that walking, climbing trees and rock climbing to make a good hunt. 

PERCEPTION: 8/10; Assan is quiet and observant, in his life one must make a quick deduction on the person you’re talking to to see whether or not they can be trusted, and so Assan has become very adept at seeking out people’s temperaments and personalities through quick analysis. However he’s a bit of a numbskull, and while he can usually sense people’s emotions he often misinterprets the reasons behind them and automatically think either the worst-case scenario or that he’s done something wrong. 

ENDURANCE:  10/10. Assan can endure almost anything. He has always pushed his body further than its limits in order to gain strength, when he was younger he’d purposefully hike in the snow or run in the rain to try and build up a tolerance and train his body to get over its asthma. After he returned from Tevinter endurance training was the only thing that kept his mind off his nightmares, he spent that year pushing himself to the point where now he can barely feel the cold or pain or exhaustion. 

CHARISMA:  6/10; Assan is quite humorous and has an easy smile that puts people at ease. He has been conditioned to be quite submissive in nature, so he caters to people’s wants and desires quite easily in conversation. The pain he’s been through as made him extraordinarily kind and he avoids upsetting people.

INTELLIGENCE: 5/10. Street-wise he’s very intelligent. He’s one of the best archers in Thedas, he can repair almost any kind of equipment with limited resources, he can cook fairly well, hunt with the best of them, his tracking and orienting skills are impressive and his knowledge of Dalish religion is extensive. Literary wise, he’s not so good. He can’t read or write, having never needed the skill, he doesn’t know much about history or the Chantry or really human culture in general, and while he’s adept at elvish, other languages are a struggle for him, even the common tongue is sometimes difficult for him.

AGILITY: 9/10; the fact that he’s still alive has hinged on his agility. He’s very agile, he’s fast and small so manoeuvring out of situations isn’t a problem, he’s a fast-thinker and can formulate escape plans fairly well. He’s a great climber, he can balance on any branch even when running and he can climb most surfaces without aid of technology. 

LUCK: 3/10; He would not describe himself as lucky. At all. The luckiest things that have perhaps happened to him is the fact he hasn’t been killed or committed suicide, and meeting Dorian. Also for such an agile elf in the woods or battle, he’s quite clumsy in cities or when flustered, so he’s pretty unlucky in that regard and often falls off shit and gets lost in towns and trips over his own feet when talking to Dorian. 

MAGIC: 0/10; Assan isn’t a mage, and magic of most kinds terrify him. He’s wary around mages, but doesn’t inherently dislike them. Most forms of magic confuse and scare him, even healing magic makes him uncomfortable. The feeling of magic reminds him of Tevinter and it churns his stomach to be around the electric static in the air when magic is cast.  

LIKES

COLORS: Forest colours; greens and browns and dark greys/blues.

SMELLS: Rain, earthy smells, firewood and fresh fruits

FOOD: Ginger roots, nuts of any kind, elfroot

FRUITS: Peaches, mangoes, pears, lychees

DRINKS: Herbal tea, tea made from the crystal grace flowers, hot honey water, and a Dalish concoction made out of several types of root plants to increase vitality.

ALCOHOLIC DRINKS: Assan gets terrible headaches when he drinks alcohol, but he has been known on occasion to drink mead

OTHER

SMOKE: He’s a non-smoker, his asthma doesn’t allow him to keep the habbit without, you know dying.

DRUGS: Assan has had a mild to medium form of diploar disorder since he was sixteen, but he learned to manage the symptoms through meditation taught by his mother. When the Chargers joined the Inquisition Assan sort of became dependant on this pain-numbing elixir Stitches makes since the first time he took it and everything just...stopped. He felt nothing. And it felt wonderful. It took the combined efforts of Dorian, Sera, Cole and Solas to help him stop taking it and find alternatives to help his condition. 

DRIVER’S LICENSE?: Even in a modern AU Assan would 1000% live in the woods somewhere, so no. modern technology would not agree with him.

[howtobesinglela-blog]

A Story of a Fangirl and Her Mental Health

I can recall the exact time in my life where I experienced my first bought of clinical depression. I was thirteen years old. I walked out of my house one night and walked down my street completely dazed. My best friend was my neighbor and saw me from her office window and ran out to ask me what was wrong. I couldn’t tell her. I didn’t even know. I had gone from feeling every emotion to absolutely none at all. I didn’t even know what I was doing outside. It was like a switch had been clicked off inside me and I shut down. My grades started slipping because I couldn’t pay attention in class. My guidance counselor regularly found me curled up in a ball under her desk hiding. She never got me in trouble for it. She’d simply pull out her chair, sit down and wait for me to talk. I never saw a doctor or was diagnosed because the circumstances in my life at that time made a sad kid make sense. My grandmother was terminally ill. My mother was in beginning stages of menopause and didn’t even recognize herself. My brother was battling his own demons. My father had not figured out yet how to be a father that did anything other than pay the bills and sit quietly at the end of the table. I was brutally mentally and physically abused daily by my peers at school. Of course I was sad. But this wasn’t sadness. This was nothing. I felt nothing.

The only time I felt anything was when I put on my headphones and pressed play on my Backstreet Boys or NSYNC CD. I didn’t know these boys and they didn’t know me, but loving them made me immensely happy. It gave me a freedom and safety that I couldn’t let go of. I’d spend hours watching their music videos and MTV specials. I’d obsessively set my VCR to record TRL anytime they were on. It made getting through the day easier knowing at the end of it I’d get off the bus and be able to race home and sit on my couch and be taken away.

Boy Bands became my anti-depressant. Sappy and cheesy and catered to appeal to the raging new hormones of early pubescent girls like myself. The dopamine in my brain went wild. It bonded me for life to my best friend of twenty years. We’d pour over magazines and dress like them and pretend to be them in her living room, trading off who got to be Nick or Justin just because they got the most solos. We weren’t hurting anyone, yet anytime I went to school in a BSB t-shirt my day was made exponentially worse by my peers. My simple enjoyment of something was ammo to ridicule me and tear me apart further. It conditioned in me to be ashamed of innocent enjoyment.

When my depression waned when I started high-school, my need to constantly be enveloped in pop music did as well. I still enjoyed it but it didn’t take up my time. I didn’t need it to feel. I was happy. Still, whenever “I Want You Back” came on the radio, my nostalgia would trigger all of those sensors in my brain that would flood me with happiness. Through my mental stability I found gratitude for the music I found solace in.

I hit my second round of depression in college. I regularly slept less than three hours a night. I couldn’t function in social environments so I rarely left my apartment. I’d curl up on my bathroom floor near vomiting with my desperation to breathe. I was rushed to the emergency room at all times of the night because I was convinced I was having a heart attack. Instead of feeling nothing, this time I felt everything all at once and it was crushing me. I was barely capable of getting dressed and to class. Graduating—with honors no less—was a miracle in and of itself. This time, there was no logical reason for my sadness. My family was well. I was a new aunt. I lived in a gorgeous high rise in downtown Chicago with my best friend. I had a hilarious group of friends. I was a talented writer getting daily feedback from authors and peers. Yet I was a complete mess. This time, I was diagnosed with clinical depression and general anxiety and started to see a therapist that changed my life. But in the meantime…there was the Jonas Brothers.

Three brothers with curly hair and tight pants doing backflips on stage that were catered towards a demographic ten years my junior but I didn’t care. If I found myself in my apartment sobbing uncontrollably for no reason and unable to get off the couch, hitting play made that calm in four minutes or less. Now there was YouTube and laughing at their ridiculous antics would numb me for hours. I admittedly watched a video of Joe Jonas trying to open a chocolate bar while wearing a helmet far too many times and laughed every time. Again I bonded with a newly found best friend over them. We got to be childish and silly and we’d sit up well into the night watching videos and scrolling the internet.

My nephew was young at the time and the first time I pressed play on “Burning Up”, his little legs went wild. I had a common ground with him that made him excite with the thought of getting to spend time with me. He’d knock his little fist on my bedroom door when I stayed with my parents and ask for me to play music and we’d dance around in absolute bliss. He didn’t know how to hurt yet and for the time being, neither did I. When I came out the other side of that period in my life, again I found myself letting that go but feeling immensely grateful to those idiotic three brothers (who I still believe are wildly underrated).

My third round found me in LA after packing up my life and moving across the country away from my family for the first time in my twenty-four years of life. I wasn’t having any luck finding a job. I was broke and alone and the feeling of worthlessness defeated me. I rarely got out of my pajamas or opened the blinds. But then came the boy band I will always feel the most grateful for. These five British floppy untrained puppies who gave more to me than I can express.

One Direction.

Two weeks into listening to Up All Night on repeat I was showering daily, working out, job hunting and singing on the top of my lungs. Over the course of those three years battling on and off with my depression and an eating disorder that made me constantly forget to feed myself and dropped my weight to 97lbs, I met some of the funniest most amazing women I could have ever dreamed to meet. I made memories one summer as I went to seven different shows that I could never replace. I danced in parking lots with strangers. I spent four days straight at the Staples Center laughing harder than I’ve ever laughed with my best friend and a new friend I had made through the band while we danced to their music. I shared a hat with Harry Styles and a conversation that made me internet famous for a day. I got to take my nephew to his first concert ever and watch as he burst into tears at the sight of them and shook with happiness. I healed slowly while laughing so hard tears streamed down my face. I became the friend my friends went to to indulge in their “guilty pleasures.” We’d sit in onesies and watch videos and shout at the screen at how adorable these idiots were. On the days when I couldn’t stand to eat or get dressed or go outside, they coaxed that tightness from my chest. I made friends with someone from across the world who I’ve shared road trips and concerts and memories with over the last three years. As silly as others found it, the memories and people they gave me are irreplaceable. They didn’t make me whole, but they eased the pain long enough for me to get there myself.

So when I found myself newly diagnosed with PTSD after witnessing the slow and agonizing death of my beautiful strong father and I found I couldn’t feel anything anymore. I didn’t even feel like a person. I didn’t find it that surprising when YouTube showing me a random video of Shawn Mendes sparked that familiar feeling of nostalgia and safety and happiness that had become a pattern for me. Hit depression, find a cute boy with catchy songs to hold my hand through it.

It is how I cope and I make no apologies for it. If watching videos of boys that remind me of when I was happy and safe helps me in anyway, there’s no shame in that. I’m hurting no one. Yet it never ceases to amaze me how often others feel the need to comment on it. To belittle me and make me feel pathetic for it. To judge how I choose to cope with my mental health and the methods I use to feel even artificial happiness.

I hurt no one liking these things, yet others feel the need to hurt me for liking it. For what reason? Because they’ve decided it’s lame? Because they think they’re too good for it? People have been vile towards me and taken any opportunity they can to shred me for having a simple innocent pleasure. They have no idea what they’re doing is ripping the doors off my safe house. They’re huffing and puffing and blowing my house down for no other reason than entertainment to shame me for happiness. For enjoying something they think I’m too old for. Even when I was the “right” age for it, I was tormented for it.

What is it about pop music and boy bands particularly that makes people so vile towards the fans? What is wrong with girls and women and boys singing pointless love songs and dancing in their bedrooms without worry? Where did you become so jaded as a human being that you have to tear apart others for what makes them feel happy and safe? Do these people think they only like things other people like? That there’s nothing in their lives they take an excessive interest in that others would find pointless but that they thoroughly enjoy?

My brother is obsessed with Star Wars. He wears Star Wars merchandise. Drinks from Star Wars mugs. Reads the books, sees the films over and over. Builds custom light sabers in his garage. He’s nearly six years older than me. I love that. I love that part of him is still that attached to something he’s loved since childhood.

My mother is still every bit the fangirl who happily sits on the couch watching YouTube videos of my latest pop crush and sings every word to their songs and shakes her adorable butt around to their music and asks me to take her to shows. In those moments she’s sixty going on sixteen and we are without shame and happy. Two months after burying my father, I sat on the couch watching her and my niece and nephew dance and sing at the top of their lungs to One Direction. It was the first time I’d seen them smile and sing since he’d passed. It was a moment I treasure. I had never felt more grateful than in that moment when for four minutes, the man they loved more than anything wasn’t gone and they were free to express joy.

I am a fangirl. Always have been, always will be. It is my solace and my escape. It is my safe house. It is not the dirty word others have made it. I am not a groupie who has deluded themselves into thinking they’re going to be with them or who stalks their every move. I listen to their music. I watch their videos. I go to their shows. It is how I cope with my mental health until I am capable of overcoming it. When I have children I will be my mother, dancing with them in the living room and singing every song and holding them up to see every second at their concerts. And I’ll love it just as much as them. When their friends complain that their parents hate their music and tease them for liking it, my kids won’t be able to relate. I get to be the cool mom, just like my mom had been for my friends. I get to be part of those memories that they’ll never forget or replace.

I feel bad for the people who punish and ridicule others for loving something so trivial.

Let your children sing-a-long without shame.

Let your friends indulge in something nostalgic.

Let your mom dance and feel like a teenager again.

You never know if your comments are taking something from them they need greatly just to get out of bed in the morning. Loving boy bands and pop stars doesn’t make me mentally unwell. Loving boy bands and pop stars, if anything, greatly aids my mental health in a positive direction.

I am a fangirl. Happily.

[ihaveneverbeengivenflowers]

Looking for a way out of severe anxiety disorder

Whenever I try to stop and think about it, I feel like I’ve been anxious all my life long. In case you’re interested, here's a (not so brief) part of the story of my experience with high functioning anxiety and where it took me so far.

My mother used to tell me that I never slept longer than 20 minutes at once when I was a baby. It seems my first whole night of sleep didn’t happen before I reached the age of 3. At a very early age my parents took my to a neuropediatrician because my father was sure I had some kind of attention deficit/hiperactivity disorder (just for the record, the doctor said I was just an agitated child, but nothing to be worried about).

It's weird the way how some things are crystal clear in my memory and others are just blank spaces. As far as I can remember, when I was a child I'd often lay in my bed at night and when I was almost losing consciousness, some subtle and dreadful ideas crossed my mind. I felt how would it be to lose my father, for example, and it felt so real as if he was already dead in that very moment. I'd start crying and I'd be helpless, and anytime it'd be gone the same way it came, that is, absolutely out of fucking nowhere.

If my mother told me I was going to have a blood test the next week, or any other thing I’d find unpleasant, I'dnt be able to sleep until it was done. Truth be told, anything different in my daily routine made me sick. Literally. I was so freaking anxious and agitated that I threw up anything that hit my stomach, not even mineral water could pass through it. I had high fevers, sometimes diarrhea too. When I grew up, I seemed to become a bit more calm... although nowadays I ask myself how much of this is true (and the answer is “not much”, I guess).

During my teenage years I woke up around 5 am to get ready to high school. And pressing ice cubes under my eyes was part of the routine, because the previous night I'd have cried myself so hard to sleep that my whole face would be swell by the morning. The funny thing is I can't barely remember why I cried that much.

When I was about 16 or maybe 17 I had a huge anxiety crisis. It still makes me feel bad just to think about it, and part of it is just because I'm still unable to understand wtf happened to me. I was at home around 6 pm watching a silly drama show at the tv. And when the opening theme started to play, something crashed down on me. It was like a baloon suddenly popping in my face and scaring the shit out of me. Except that I got trapped in the feeling of this one second for, like, a whole week. I sweat cold, shivered like I was having a heart attack, I overreacted everything, I couldn't think anything right, everything and everyone around me felt wrong, unknown, I wanted to run away somewhere I didn't know. I couldn't sleep in my bed, just being in my room made me feel sufocated. I didn't know what to do with myself and I felt like a broken machine. I spent that whole week sleeping in the couch and my mother (who probably didn't know what to do with me neither) got mad at me because I couldn't get my shit together. Everyday I sunk deeper in hell and whenever the tv started to play that fucking opening theme again, I felt like that nice and sweet song would be the death of me. And it'dnt go away, I thought I was never going to feel "normal" again. Well, eventualy it was gone. But the fucking music haunted me until the end of that show, I can't tell how relieved I was when it was over.

The point is: for unknown reasons, even after I’ve been through all this weird shit, I never asked myself why, or what was that. Seriously. I don’t fucking know why, but I honestly thought it was... normal. And a couple years later, when I definetely realized it wasnt’t normal at all, I found myself unable to get help because I didn’t know where to start to explain how I felt and what was happening to me. I simply followed the flow as nothing was happening. Whenever I was at my girlfriends’ houses to stay overnight, it didn’t matter how comfort around those familiar people I used to be, I had random mental breakdowns. I felt claustrophobic, something inside me urged to run away back home, even though I knew that being home wouldn’t make me feel any better. Anytime I was out with friends as well, I collapsed either when I was supposed to be having a good time with them or when I came back home.

So I unconsciously limited myself to a very restricted schedule. From my first year in college until I got my masters’ deegree, ie, during six fucking years, I basicaly woke up dead, dragged myself to and back from the university and/or internship and studied as a crazy bitch. At some point when I was already post graduated I decided to bury myself deeper and started my PhD while working at 2 jobs at the same time. I was just on my way to accept a 3rd job, but fortunately it didn’t workout - or I’d may be dead this far.

My moment of clarity, if I might call it so, was when (almost literaly) the dam broke. Last January I had a major vaginal bleeding, I lost weight and I started to feel something like heart arrythmia in very agonizing episodes. My fingertips turned blue, I got dizzy and couldn’t breathe, the air just didn’t seem to get in. During one of these episodes I went to the ER feeling like I was having a fucking stroke and, well, big surprise: there was nothing. Blood pressure, cardiac rate and rhythm normal. The doctor prescripted me a diazepan and you know what? I left the place and didn’t take it. Because, despite all my knowledge as a health professional, I didn’t believe my mind capable of doing so much damage to my body. And the biggest irony is that at least one patient with some common mental disorder come to my office everyday and my fields of research include worker’s health and sleep. This is called high functioning anxiety.

And let me tell you something: until quite recently, I wasn’t even aware about at least half of these things I just said. It took me almost a year (still counting) of psychotherapy, horrible crises - the ones I had at my teens seemed to be nothing in comparison to the ones I got during the last months -, sitting at good doctors’ offices and talking to them for hours and working on lonesome, painfull reflections to allow the following thought to cross my mind: I’ve always been a bad person to myself. I’ve never treated myself with 10% of the kindness, patience and comprehensiveness that I treated anyone else in my life, even the ones who clearly didn't deserve it. I never allowed myself to indulge my mistakes, to rest whenever I was tired or to say “no” simply because I didn't feel like to do something without feeling guilty as fuck. 

I’m not over it at all, don’t even know if I’ll be someday. I'm barely sleeping 5 hours a day, and my sleep quality is very poor. Most days my stomach is continuously sick and I can’t eat without taking meds not to throw my meals up. I’m also taking meds to slow down my heart rate and to stop my own hormones of telling my womb to bleed forever, not because there’s something wrong with my body, but because I'm (still!) not able to prevent my anxiety to screw up all  my physiological functions.

There’s certainly still a lot to go, but I’m trying to keep in mind that healing is not linear.

[audiodiaryofasuperhero]

About that Unannounced Hiatus...

Hi, y'all. Remember us? We took a pretty long unannounced break from… well, just about everything to do with the public side of this show.

While we can’t go back & make this hiatus have never happened, or hell, even go back and handle it better, we can explain how & why it happened. If we can’t fix it, we can be honest about it. Maybe we can even bring about a little awareness in the process.

Note: This post is almost entirely about the past year & a half. We will write a separate post covering what’s going on now & what’s next for ADoS. We don’t want to cram those things onto the end of this long post when those are the things worth getting excited about!

Now, to do this, I need to address you as Laura Henderson, the writer/producer/nearly everything on this show. Because the reasons behind the Unannounced Hiatus of Suffering pretty much all have to do with things that were going on in my life.

Hang with me - this is a long explanation.

Some content warnings before proceeding. This explanation includes anxiety, depression, suicidal ideation, self-harm, mania, hypomania, dislocations, & doctors being shitty people who are bad at their jobs.

I made an announcement right before the hiatus, publicizing what was meant to be a small break in production while my household dealt with a clusterfuck of a moving process. What I didn’t mention was the fact that I was struggling with some worsening anxiety & depression issues as well.

As soon as we’d moved, when I was meant to be finishing episode six, three different things happened. 1) I got caught in one of the worst depression spirals of my life. Like, I hadn’t felt so terrible since middle school. I struggled with awful focus issues, self-harm, & suicidal ideation. 2) I got a promotion to sales lead at work. This sounds fancy, but it functionally means that I became the lowest tier of management at my store. With our staff numbers dropping post-Holidays, my hours ratcheted up to 35 hours a week. Plus school. Plus chronic illness. Plus mental health issues. Which all feeds into - 3) I wasn’t happy with the draft of episode 6. I needed that script to do five different vital things, & at the time, it did maybe two of them. I recorded that draft, but ended up deleting it out of frustration at what it didn’t set up for later plot. With everything else going on, it was easiest just to… put it down.

Spring came & my depression receded, although my focus issues increased. This was just in time for me to dislocate my knee pretty majorly. With EDS (an illness I share with Adira), dislocations are pretty commonplace. But most of them are small, slide back in nearly immediately with little to no intervention, & do very little damage to the tissue surrounding the joints. Others are major, where the joint slides farther out of place than usual & stays out of socket until manipulated back into place, doing a fair bit of damage to the surrounding tissues. This was definitely the latter. I was in pain for weeks, & all my spoons were spent trying to get through my shifts at work.

The knee eventually healed. My first night out dancing after it healed, some asshole stepped on my ankle & dislocated it. Not my foot, mind you - my ankle. (I am still very salty about it.) Wash, rinse, repeat from above.

Then things really started to go to hell.

In late June, I started seeing a psychiatrist for my focus issues. My dad has ADHD, & we’d begun to wonder if I may have inherited. The psychiatrist, understandably, chose to start by treating my depression and anxiety instead. She also indicated that she suspected I may have a bipolar disorder. She prescribed me Zoloft, & told me I should call her immediately if I started experiencing suicidal ideation or mania.

Lucky me, I got both.

By week two, I was drifting into a mixed affective state, where I’d be slightly uncomfortably energetic but also a bit depressed. By week four, I was on a little carnival rollercoaster. I was energetic, anxious, depressed, & had a very small voice in my head suggesting awful but non-fatal things I should do to myself. By week six, I was riding a Six Flags thrills rollercoaster, with celestial highs & infernal lows. I felt like I was going to vibrate out of my skin, I went from aggressive cheer to rage at minor provocations, and the voice in my head was nearly indistinguishable from my regular thoughts, telling me all the different ways I could & should kill my self. I was manic. I would have been suicidal if my friends hadn't been acting as voices of reason. I called my psychiatrist in tears & left a message with her receptionist. She never called me back. I stopped taking the pills.

Needless to say, I found a new psychiatrist, an awesome guy who believes in evidence-based practice. We started experimenting to find a good balance of meds. We started with the assumption that there was a low but substantial probability that I had a bipolar disorder, but that it was more likely that Zoloft was responsible for most of the mania symptoms. As the milder medicines mostly failed to stabilize me, we adjusted the probabilities of bipolar upwards, eventually concluding with a diagnosis of bipolar 2. 

While we were still in the early stages of medication experimentation, & I was mentally stable enough to sort of function & get a bit optimistic, my body decided it was its turn to be a melodramatic little bitch. 

Everything started dislocating. Everything. 

My knees, normally prone to minor dislocations around 4 times a week or so, started going out constantly. And then my hips got in on it. And then my ankles. And my ribs. And my shoulders. I went from using a cane, to using crutches, to using a rolling walker. I usually had more joints out than in.

I tried to work through all of this, but it was a nightmare. At one point, I was sitting in my walker at the cash wrap, twisted around to grab something from behind me, and both my hips popped out with an audible “snap.” I tearfully handed the guest what I’d been grabbing for them, then backed myself away from the register to cry for a moment.

Right at the end of October, I asked for a medical leave of absence from my job, with the intention of seeing my rheumatologist to update her on the situation and see what could be done.

When I went to see her, I had a list of ten things that needed to be accomplished. I managed none of them.

When she arrived in the little room, I started explaining what had been going on with my joints for the past two months. She cut me off.

“I can’t help you with that,” she said impatiently. “I can’t help you.”

She went on to add, “But I see you’ve been losing weight - that’s excellent.” (I’d been in too much pain to eat.) “And I’m glad that you went dancing,” (referring to the ankle dislocation from June that had been giving me so much trouble since). “You should exercise as much as possible.” (Ignoring that I’d been trying to tell her I could barely move.)

At this point, I was very teary. My joint doctor was telling me that she could not help me with my joint condition.

“You should look into being treated for depression. You seem very upset.”

To say I left her office devastated is a bit of an understatement. I sobbed in my car in the parking lot for twenty minutes.

I called my auxiliary brain, my most rational, anti-suicide friend. 

“Please, come keep me company. Make sure that I don’t do anything stupid,” I pleaded.

He had some errands to run, but I sat in the car with him. On the interstate, I had to fight the urge to open the car door and throw myself into traffic.

But he got me through that awful day. The next month and a half was a long, drawn-out depression swing.

At the beginning of December, my manager called me. 

“Are you coming back?” she asked.

“I - I don’t think I can,” I admitted.

“I’ll consider this your notice, effective immediately,” she said. “Get better, Laura.”

Things slowly got better. My body calmed down. One of my psych meds was able to pull double-duty as a joint pain medication. I could walk again, even if I wasn’t quite comfortable dancing. I became happier, and if I was hypomanic or in a mixed affective state more so than even-keeled, it was better than being manic or depressed.

I withdrew from my college program, and applied to an online program. While the new program was not my beloved data science, combining information technology with mathematics was close enough.

I was accepted too late to start spring classes.

In early February, I managed to find a new rheumatologist, after calling four offices who explicitly said they weren’t comfortable treating me. She didn’t do terribly much for me, but she explained what she was going to watch for. She referred me to an orthopedist.

By this point, I was thoroughly bored of sitting around the house. I re-applied at my old work place, and was welcomed back with great enthusiasm.

Then my psychiatrist cancelled an appointment. It was nearly impossible to get ahold of his office to reschedule over the phone. Every time I went in person to reschedule, there was no one at the desk. I started rationing my medication, and then I ran out. Things, rather predictably, went pear-shaped.

A few weeks ago, summer classes started for me. I finally got back on medication. My work place started a big hiring push, which reduced my hours to my betterment.

After all that shit, I’ve finally begun to feel like a person again. It was rough and it tested me in ways I hadn’t been tested before. It made social media seem like an overwhelming prospect. I couldn’t manage a huge undertaking like my beloved podcast. But now....

Audio Diary of a Superhero never once left my mind, and now I’m ready to get it up and running again, better than ever before. I’m healthier, happier, and very motivated.

I’m not going to talk about what comes next in this post. But it’s coming. Look out.