#Medication Misuse

[neuroticboyfriend]

What are your thoughts on the phrase “medication misuse”?

It's fine? People (myself included) do misuse medications - aka not using medications in the ways they're intended to be. It doesn't carry the same sense of demonization as calling it abuse.

But personally I prefer to just say substance use, so I don't really use the term medication misuse.

[gerardpilled]

Please put me in touch with his therapist because I need whatever prescription they were writing him

[chocodile]

Query; how much would Hyden taking proper medication and treatment for his real physical + mental ailments ACTUALLY do for his overall well-being?

That's a good question! There certainly are things that hypothetically could help him, but it would depend on whether we're talking modern medicine or not. He's already getting the "best" treatment his time period can offer (a few magical charms, dozens of folk remedy tonics, some of which contain mercury, opium, and unicorn blood). I imagine he has a whole shelf of tonics, tinctures, and other oddball cures he's tried and discarded over the years.

Unfortunately, his most significant problems can't be treated with the medical knowledge of his time period. (Even magic doesn't help that much: Healing magic is somewhat primitive and falls more under "speed up rate at which a wound closes" rather than "cure chronic conditions, fix nerve damage, and stop a magic crystal from burrowing its roots into your frontal lobe".) So all Hyden can really do is (poorly) manage symptoms.

In a more modern setting: He would have many more options. Depending on how "modern" we're talking, he might be able to get his gigantism treated in childhood. His abnormal height meant a lifetime of joint and muscle issues, among other things, and early-onset osteoarthritis in his early 40s. Stopping him from growing so tall would prevent a lot of pain and inconvenience in his future. Other than that, physical therapy and a marginally less sedentary lifestyle could also help, if he stuck with it. However, even with modern medicine, his two primary non-magic-brain-crystal-related physical ailments (osteoarthritis and nerve damage) cannot be cured, only managed.

In terms of mental health, he'd be a very difficult person to treat. If he lived in a modern-ish time period, I do think he might get (mis)diagnosed as bipolar, and mood stabilizers probably would help with taming some of his most extreme and impulsive behavior. The problem is that he'd be really bad about taking medication as prescribed. For example: stopping a med cold turkey when he "feels fine" and suddenly starting it again during a "I'm so fucked up, there's something wrong with me" spiral after a wild manic bender lands him in trouble.

As he got older and his reckless behavior slowed down, he'd probably wind up with a regular prescription including an antipsychotic, antidepressant [of dubious effectiveness], painkiller, and a bunch of common middle aged person medications for blood pressure and the like. They might not fix him, but they'd certainly leave him feeling better than the sketchy medieval folk remedies he canonically takes, at least.

[ingydar-phan]

Ughh ok this discourse is done pissing my off. If you’re allistic and you have any thoughts about allistic people making autism jokes I’m smashing u with hammers. If u think publically claiming allism and then misusing terms for disabled people is funny I’m smashing u with hammers. If ur one of my mutuals who dmed me thanking me for my input or just a silent mutual who agrees w me, im kissing u all over ur face. Ik this is silly and harsh and not real but im irritated. Im right and if u disagree pls just stay out.

[anonymocha]

Tried sketching Lamont in the Sucker for Love game sprite style… I may make a version with r99 style but oh my god thats NOT easy

[mime-rodeo]

what is it with people nowadays using the word “narcissistic” as a replacement for toxic or abusive? even if we are ignoring the fact that this sounds ableist towards people with NPD (which we shouldn’t ignore btw but just for the sake of this argument) y’all are not even using it in its ORIGINAL definition, as in “a person who has an excessive interest in or admiration of themselves”. you’re just using the word for whoever slightly pisses you off. “my friend was kinda rude to me yesterday, she’s so narcissistic” IM BEGGING YOU DO EVERYONE A FAVOR AND PICK UP A DICTIONARY

[whump-about-it]

Last Hope

@whumpril Day 10: Adrenaline

CW: Probable misuse of medication (not for plot purposes, but because I'm not a medical professional and am basically making this up), criminal Whumpee, blood loss, fear of death.

Nothing had gone as planned. Whumpee was supposed to get into the compound, download the virus, and get back out. It wasn't supposed to take more than an hour. They weren't supposed to run into anyone. Least of all Whumper. Now Whumpee was bleeding uncontrollably from a knife wound in their chest, and running blindly through the labyrinthian facility trying to escape Whumper and find some kind of exit.

Thank God Caretaker had insisted on coming along. Whumpee had argued that this was a one man job, and they could drive their own getaway car. But Caretaker was a worrier, and apparently a vindicated one now. Whumpee could only hope they would get back to them to hear Caretaker tell them that themselves.

Struggling to stay focused as they ran through the building, trying to remember where they had gotten in from, Whumpee turned down a dark hallway lined with doors. Whumpee hadn't remembered being in this area of the building before, but with Whumper at their heels they could barely complain about the ample hiding places it provided and stumbled forward, one hand staunching their bleeding as best they could and the other grabbing at doorknobs, hoping against hope that one of them would swing open. Finally, at the end of the hall, one of them did with such a loud screech it made Whumpee's blood run cold even as the slipped in and locked the door behind them.

The dark room beyond seemed to be some sort of chemical lab. The walls were lined with counter spaces topped with severely sterile looking machines and locked cabinets. A part of Whumpee's mind drifted towards the idea that there was probably something valuable to steal in the room, before a sudden thunder clap of pain radiated from their chest through the rest of their body so intense that their knees gave out underneath them and they fell to the floor muffling a cry.

It had vaguely occurred to Whumpee before that the only reason they had gotten as far as they had as of yet was because of the adrenaline pumping through their body and numbing the pain and panic coursing through them. It seemed to have been starting to ware off now though and the room swam in front of Whumpee as they rolled onto their back and grasped the bloody hole in their chest with both hands. The contact elicited a disgusting squelching noise and another thunder bolt of pain that made Whumpee's eye site go grey momentarily.

Concentrate! They ordered themselves, their eyes sweeping around the room dizzyingly. There was a window at the far end of the lab. Whumpee couldn't tell if it opened or not, but they could at least be able us it their barings as to where Caretaker might have stationed themselves if they could get to it. That would be no use though if they bleed to death before they got out of the compound, which was a dangerously real possibility right now, so Whumpee continued to scan the room until their eyes finally landed a large metal box screwed to an adjacent wall with FIRST AID written across it in large red letters.

Whumpee pulled themselves into a sitting position and the world wavered in front of them. They could feel the little blood they had left in their body rushing away from their head and heart and towards the open would between their upper ribs. A nauseating feeling washed over them and Whumpee had to fight the urge to pass out. They knew they wouldn't wake up again if they did. This also served to confirm that there was no way Whumpee was going to be able to stand in their current condition. So once they'd gotten their senses back Whumpee resolved to start scooting across the floor on their butt, holding their gushing wound with both hands and fighting for consciousness the whole time.

When Whumpee was halfway to the first aid kit however, they suddenly became aware of the sound of heavy footsteps rapidly becoming louder. They froze and pressed themselves up against the nearest cabinet, holding their breathe as they listened to Whumper's familiar footsteps run down the hall past the room they were in, then back a few seconds later, disappearing back the way they'd come and back into the depths of the compound. Whumpee gasped for air as they heard Whumper's footsteps disapear. There was was a sudden rush in their heartrate that didn't seem so dizzying, and a shock of renewed adrenaline ran through them that they used to leverage themselves to their knees to quickly crawl the rest of the way to the first aid kit.

The adrenaline had run out by the time they got there, and Whumpee teetered on the edge of consciousness as they pulled the first aid kit from it's box on the wall and flung it open. Breathing was getting so painful that Whumpee was beginning to wonder if the knife had punctured their lung after all.

Hang in there, they told themselves. You just need to stuff the wound. Whumpee collapsed against another set of cabinets. Most of their energy spent, and ran a bloody hand over the supplies in the kit, feeling rather than seeing for the packets of gauze. Instead their hands ran over something plastic and cylindrical. Hovering over it out of exhaustion more than curiosity, Whumpee quickly realized what they were feeling. It was an EpiPen.

It took Whumpee several seconds to figure out why their slowing heart leapt with joy at the feeling of the medical device under their finger tips. They didn't have any allergies, and though they'd been trained in how to use an EpiPen, they'd never had need to before.

Epinephrine. Adrenaline. Their mind sluggishly eked out the thought, followed by a half forgotten memory of Caretaker explaining to them how adrenaline worked by constricting blood vessels.

It was a terrible idea. Part of Whumpee knew that. But they were desperate, and probably not thinking straight. And they knew that if they didn't stop the bleeding somehow they were going to be dead soon anyway.

Slowly Whumpee's fingers closed around the EpiPen and they dragged it out of the first aid kit and towards their body. It took them several tries before they managed to get the safety cap off, but once they did they held it up with a shaking hand and hovered over a space just above their wound. They knew that when being used for it's intended purpose, you where supposed to stab the patient in a larger muscle. But when used for bleeding Whumpee considered that they wanted it as close to the veins they were trying to target as possible. Whumpee sucked in what they hoped wouldn't be their final breathe and bit the inside of their cheeks to gag their own scream then drove the pen into their muscle with all their remaining strength, pressing the button at the opposite end before the pain could paralyze them.

Please let this work. Whumpee prayed to any God that might be listening. This is my last hope. Please let this work.

Authors Note: I just want to reiterate that I am not a medical professional and am nearly 100% certain that Epipens can not actually be used to stop bleeding. Please don't try to use them for anything other than their intended purpose.

[borderline-culture-is]

CW: MEDICATION MISUSE, mentions of suicidal ideation

BPD (+ GAD) culture is impulsively x9 taking the normal dose of the beta blockers prescribed for your panic attacks because your FP hasn't responded all day and its causing extreme anxiety which is also exacerbating your auditory hallucinations + paranoia + suicidal thoughts

.

[casekt]

This but completely unironically

[ollieofthebeholder]

And If Thou Wilt, Forget: a TMA fanfic

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] || Also on AO3 and my personal website

Chapter 7: For this they wait, one waits in pain

There was some sort of confusion regarding the insurance that took a while to sort out, and the only doctor in the hospital qualified to perform brain surgery already had an operation scheduled for that morning and couldn’t arrive any earlier than he was already set to, which resulted in considerable debate over whether it would be better to move Gerard to another hospital or keep him there until the neurosurgeon was available, on which neither Gerard nor Gertrude was consulted. Evidently, however, the other hospitals in the area were also fully booked, and the decision was made that there was no point in transporting him somewhere else if he would have to wait the same length of time. It took Gertrude a great deal of effort to swallow down her impatience over the delay—she had work to do, after all, and this was seriously impeding her progress, to the point that she almost would have wondered if Gerard’s seeming illness was something caused by the Stranger trying to slow her down had the MRI not come back with positive results. In truth, she still wasn’t entirely sure it wasn’t.

Gerard, for his part, seemed relieved it wasn’t happening right away. He slept fitfully through the night—she was permitted to stay with him because they’d bought her claim that she was his mother—and she wasn’t sure if the constant waking and jerking about was due to pain or fear or something more insidious. Looking into his head would be a frivolous use of a dread power, so she restrained herself.

It was difficult, though, especially having to answer the same question every single time he surfaced from unconsciousness, which was proving to be at least once an hour. At least it wasn’t an example of memory loss.

She glanced at her cell phone just as it lit up with a notification—an incoming text message, unsurprisingly from Tim. Swiftly, knowing he was likely to call her if she didn’t and not wanting to disturb Gerard’s current state of rest, she sent him the exact building and current location, then slid the phone back into her pocket. Chicago traffic was less a condition and more a war in progress, but even with all that in mind, he would arrive within the hour, and hopefully would be in time. She didn’t need to wait for a response from him.

Which was a good thing, as she realized with mild surprise nearly twenty minutes later that she had never actually received one.

As the thought crossed her mind, Gerard stirred and woke once more, and once again spoke in a raspy, sleep-strangled voice. “What time is it?”

“Ninety-two minutes later than the last time you asked, Gerard,” Gertrude replied, trying to keep the annoyance out of her voice. “It’s ten thirty-seven A.M.”

Gerard blinked at her, then sank back against the bed, blinking. So softly she almost didn’t hear him—a sure sign he wasn’t talking to her—he murmured, “Still morning.”

Gertrude glanced up at the ceiling. Technically, Gerard hadn’t been moved into a room yet; he was in a bed partitioned off from the larger part of the emergency room waiting to be prepped for surgery, and there were no windows back here. Understandable that he might have lost track of time, but a bit odd that he was so desperate to keep track.

“I think if your condition was at the risk of being immediately fatal, they would have rescheduled the morning’s patient,” she said as neutrally as she could.

Gerard rolled his head to look at her. Before he could answer, though—assuming he was planning to—the nurse who had been checking on him for most of the evening slipped around the curtain, a light jacket thrown over her scrubs and her purse dangling from her shoulder. Ignoring Gertrude, as she was wont to do, she spoke directly to Gerard. “Hey, sweetie, I’m about to head home, but I wanted to let you know that I just heard from my boss that they’re finishing up the surgery ahead of you. It shouldn’t be too much longer now.”

“Oh. Okay,” Gerard said quietly. “Thank you.”

“No problem. You just relax. Everything’s going to be fine.” The nurse smiled. “I’ll try to pop in and make sure you’re doing okay when I come back tonight, depending on where you are.” With that, she turned and left.

Gertrude snorted. “I’m so thankful my cloak of invisibility is working properly.”

“You said yourself you weren’t on my paperwork.” Gerard twisted the sheet in his hands, just slightly. “And I’m awake. They don’t need to tell you anything.”

His eyes flicked up to the equipment beside his bed, scanning the screen. Gertrude studied it herself. She was no medical expert, but…

…but the Ceaseless Watcher gleefully rushed in to fill in the details about heart rate, pulse, oxygen level, and temperature. She knew the exact percentages of the components in his intravenous drip and exactly what would be of concern to his doctor and what would be dismissed as unimportant. In truth, the majority of it was of no more than secondary concern.

“Is there something worrying you?” she asked. This time she couldn’t stop the slight impatience creeping into her tone.

“No,” Gerard replied, with the immediacy and flicker in his eyes that made a lie of that even if she hadn’t had supernatural assistance.

“Gerard.” Gertrude could feel the tingle of the Beholding on her tongue, and it made her all the more perturbed. Gerard’s childish worries were worth neither the expenditure of energy nor the courtesy of gentleness.

“Okay, no, I just…” Gerard swallowed hard. He seemed to have some trouble with the motion. “Have you…heard from Tim?”

Oh. Of course. Gertrude had even thought, after contacting Tim about Gerard’s medical emergency, that he would be upset and stressed if Tim didn’t arrive before he went into surgery. She just somehow hadn’t expected him to actually start worrying until they told him they were actually ready for him, rather than just a vague it shouldn’t be too much longer now. Especially since she’d only vaguely told him that Tim would be arriving…

In the morning. Hence why Gerard had asked, every time he awoke, what time it was. He was trying to ask, as subtly as he could, if Tim would be arriving soon.

She pressed her lips together tightly for a moment so her irritation at herself wouldn’t bleed out into what she was saying. “His plane landed…” She glanced at her phone. Still no reply from Tim since she had sent him their information. “Thirty-two minutes ago. He’s on his way now.”

Gerard exhaled heavily, then coughed hard for several moments. Once he could draw breath again, he leaned back against the headboard with a groan. “I’d kill for a cigarette right now.”

“I doubt they’ll allow it,” Gertrude said dryly. She, too, was itching for a nicotine fix, but at least she wasn’t going in for surgery. As soon as Tim arrived, she would be able to step outside for a smoke. Possibly to leave as well, but most likely she would wait.

“Thanks for staying,” Gerard said softly. “Dunno if I said that yet.”

“You didn’t. But you’re welcome.” Gertrude didn’t bother pointing out how much work she had to do or how much of a sacrifice it was for her to remain. Gerard knew all that. He also knew that she wouldn’t have made that sacrifice for just anyone.

She hoped he knew that it meant that she did care for him, in her own way.

In fact, Tim arrived exactly nine minutes later, rushing through the curtain just as the baby-faced day nurse, his scrubs still so new that they crackled with dye, was disconnecting all the equipment Gerard was hooked into. The relief on Gerard’s face was palpable. “Took you long enough.”

“Yeah, sorry, the teleportation circle was out of service.” Tim looked at the nurse, whose eyes were huge, and then at the white-coated doctor just behind him. “Did I miss it?”

“We’re just getting ready to take him back, Mr. Keay,” the doctor said. Tim didn’t correct him. “You can follow us as far as the door, but then you’ll have to wait outside.”

Gertrude assumed she was included in that; if she wasn’t, nobody stopped her. She trailed after Tim, who kept pace with Gerard the entire way. At last they reached a T-intersection with a sign on the wall. An arrow pointing left read SURGERY; one pointing right read WAITING AREA. Obviously, this was where they would part.

Gerard, who had been silent and almost drowsy—he must have been tired, since he had barely slept in the last twenty-four hours—suddenly reached out and touched Tim’s hand. “Winter.”

Tim frowned. “What?”

“It’s—I’ve been thinking about it. Winter. The first movement, the allegro, but all of it really.”

Gertrude didn’t understand, nor did she understand the grin that split Tim’s face even as the sudden fear flared in his eyes, but she kept her mouth shut as he said, “I’ll give it a listen, then.” He squeezed Gerard’s fingers lightly, then bent over and kissed his forehead. “Play nice. I’ll see you when you’re done.”

“Yeah.” Gerard managed a shaky, tentative smile in reply, then fell back against the gurney. The nurse wheeled him towards the door to the surgery. Tim watched silently for a long moment, then turned and headed for the waiting room.

Gertrude started to follow, then stopped. She really needed a cigarette; it had been a long night and a long day before, and she was itching for the nicotine fix. Tim was there and waiting. She could step outside for a few minutes and probably be back before the anesthesia had even taken effect.

Or…theoretically, she could leave. After all, Tim had arrived, which meant Gerard was no longer alone. They both had her number. She could, in theory, take her bag and go on to Pittsburgh as she’d planned. She could continue on her journey, while they…

While they what?

She pushed the thought out of her head, or at least to the back of her mind, long enough to focus on memorizing the route out of the hospital.

It took her longer than she had expected to find somewhere to light up; unsurprisingly, there were regulations against smoking within a certain distance of the hospital, but it hadn’t occurred to her that the sheer glut of medical centers in the area would mean she would need to walk several blocks before she was free of the judgmental red circles with crosses. Finally, she stopped on a street corner, tapped a slender cigarette out of her pack, and flicked her lighter. The crackle as the leaves caught, and a moment later, the soothing scents of tobacco and menthol curling into her nostrils, calmed the itch and put a balm her fraying nerves.

There were probably better ways to do that, but hell, at this point, if the cigarettes hadn’t killed her yet they weren’t likely to. Then, too—she smiled grimly to herself as she drew on the cigarette—there were enough things that wanted her dead that would be furious if something as innocuous as emphysema was her undoing in the end that it was almost worth the attempt. Anyway, smoking hadn’t caused Gerard’s illness.

She leaned against the signpost on the corner, blew out a puff of smoke, and watched it spiral up to join the clouds overhead. Now that she had time, she tried to put her thoughts in order.

Facts. Logic. Look at the situation without emotion, without sentiment. It was something she was ordinarily quite good at, but for some reason, she was having trouble this time. She was getting soft in her old age, that’s what it was.

Logic reminded her that if she was truly viewing this situation from an unemotional standpoint, she wouldn’t have bothered to contact Tim. The sensible thing to do would have been to get Gerard his treatment, get out the door, and get moving. She had, after all, left the Archives virtually unguarded, and there was no way to alert Leitner that she had done so. Since he knew about Tim, he would be down in the tunnels—which she also hadn’t mentioned to Gerard or Tim—and assuming everything was fine. Tim should be there, not here. Logically.

Except…Gertrude had to stop herself from grinding the end of the cigarette into pulp. Except Gerard needed him, whether he would admit it or not. Except that she would lose Tim’s respect, to say nothing of his trust, if she kept something like this from him. Except there was no way she would have the patience to wait for Gerard to recover enough from brain surgery that he could leave the hospital, never mind travel. She Knew that it would be several days before he was well enough to leave the hospital and that it would be six weeks before he could safely fly—the minimum suggestion was seven to ten days, but hospitals tended to suggest the full six weeks, and she didn’t want to risk pushing him too far, not when she’d gone to all this effort to help him.

Damn and blast.

So. As she saw it, she had two choices. She could leave Tim and Gerard behind in Chicago while she continued her search, then contact them to catch up with her whenever it was safe to do so and hope like hell Elias didn’t get into the Archives in her absence…or she could leave Tim and Gerard behind in Chicago, fly back to London herself, and leave them to continue the search.

Neither of those options were particularly palatable, but one was definitely easier to stomach than the other. And the more she thought about it, the more sense it made. After all, wasn’t that what she had assistants for? She’d taken Tim into her confidence, at least as much as she took anyone else in. He knew as much as she had at his age—maybe more. And Gerard was Eric’s boy, so he was sensible…but he was also Mary’s son, and he wasn’t defenseless. They would be all right.

And it would keep them out from underfoot for a bit. She could call them home when—if—things got bad.

Gertrude finished her cigarette, flicked it into a nearby ashcan, and headed back to the hospital. Since she still wore the visitor’s pass they had printed out for her that morning, it was no trouble at all to get past the desk and back to the waiting room.

It seemed odd to have so many people there on a Tuesday afternoon, but then again, medical emergencies didn’t precisely wait until after normal business hours. Gertrude paused in the doorway and scanned the room. Partly she was scanning for potential statements—not that she expected much, but the fear of the survivor, the unharmed, was often sweeter than the fear of the actual physical victim—but mostly she was looking for Tim. It didn’t take long, even in the crowd. He had claimed a spot in the corner, directly under the television, which seemed to be playing some sort of home improvement show, and sat with his head bowed, staring at his hands, which were laced together between his knees. She edged her way across the room to join him.

The moment she sat down, he stirred. He leaned further forward, reached into his bag, and withdrew a folder, which he handed to her without making eye contact. “Brought your lunch.”

Gertrude, who had been in the act of taking the folder, blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“The statements. You get energy from them, right?” Tim shrugged, still not looking at her. “I’ve seen you. You start getting tired in the afternoons, you grab a statement and a cup of tea and head into your office. You always look a lot perkier when you come out, and it’s sure as hell not the tea. I know you didn’t bring any with you, but I kind of got the impression you were picking statements up as you went. But if you’ve been here with Gerry since last night, I reckoned you might be running low.”

Slowly, Gertrude pulled the folder into her lap and opened it. Three separate statements, if the plastic clips holding them together were any indication, sat in its covers, the top one yellow and fragile with age. She hadn’t thought she was that obvious.

“Thank you,” she said. Convention dictated a reciprocation of some kind, she felt, so she asked, “How are you holding up?”

Tim was silent for several moments, staring at his hands. Finally, he asked in a low voice, “Is he going to be okay?”

Guilt stabbed at Gertrude’s stomach for a moment. “I can’t Know the future, Tim.”

“I’m not asking the Archivist.” Tim looked up at her for the first time since he had arrived. “I’m asking you.”

Gertrude took in the pinkness of Tim’s eyes, the hollows in his cheeks, the tight lacing of his fingers. He was too open, too vulnerable, and she was too tired and drained to stop the Ceaseless Watcher from letting her Know—about the way his throat had closed up momentarily when she had told him Gerard was ill, about the way he’d sat upright and rigid and willed the plane to go faster, damn it, faster, about the way he’d nearly broken down when the receptionist couldn’t find Gerard’s name at first, thinking he was too late. About how much he had already lost in his life, and what he feared would happen to him if he lost any more.

“He will be fine,” she said, with all the certainty she could muster. “He’s young, and healthy apart from this…well, and the smoking. We caught it before it was too far gone to correct.” She patted Tim’s arm in a perfunctory, awkward fashion. “And you’re here.”

Tim managed a smile. “I’m not exactly a trained doctor.”

“No, but now Gerard knows you’re waiting for him. He was…quite anxious that you weren’t here. Hopefully now he’ll be able to relax, and let the treatment actually work.” Gertrude fished her reading glasses out of her pocket and perched them on the end of her nose. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to read this statement.”

“Go ahead.” Tim pulled out a set of earbuds and popped them into his ears, then plugged them into his phone. A moment later he had called up one of those video sites and was scrolling for something.

Gertrude turned her attention to the statement and began to read it aloud. She kept her voice low, and nobody seemed to notice—especially as doctors periodically came out and called for one person or another. Tim seemed fully absorbed in whatever he was watching on his phone, so she allowed herself to sink into the statement. It was old, but nasty, and while she wasn’t particularly interested in the Flesh she could at least see why Tim had brought it to her. It had taken place some way to the west of where they currently were, but nevertheless it was American. She could almost feel the very ground beneath her rising up to meet the statement, the blood and fear that had soaked into the soil of the place singing out to welcome its errant brethren home.

Which was unusually fanciful for her, and patently ridiculous. But she felt it nonetheless.

A few answers filtered in as she lowered the last page to her lap. Sarah Carlisle had not died, not then; she had been found half-frozen by a nearby Cheyenne tribe and taken in. One of the members of the tribe, though his title in their tongue had been different, had been an Archivist, and though Sarah had believed the Cheyenne could not understand her, the Eye had granted him the ability to interpret her words—my husband’s corpse begged me to eat it—and he had led an expedition to the cave, where he had encountered the Avatar of the Flesh that dwelt there.

As much as she wished the Ceaseless Watcher would leave her be, she would admit to a grim satisfaction at the knowledge that that long-deceased Archivist’s tactics had not been so very different to her own. At least she was following in a grand tradition of sorts.

Tim had been right, although she wished he wasn’t. She felt much better after that. She turned to study him just as he sighed, removed his earbuds, and pocketed his phone. “That’s him, all right,” he mumbled.

“The Winter allegro?” Gertrude asked.

Tim started. “Hey. Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You didn’t. I was finished. Were you listening to the allegro from Winter?”

“Well, the whole thing really, but yeah, that’s what I was listening to.”

“I must admit, it doesn’t seem like it would be something Gerard would listen to,” Gertrude said, tucking the statement in the back of the folder and closing it. “Unless it’s also the name of a heavy metal album. Why did he ask you to listen to it?”

Tim managed a small smile. “I asked him if he were a piece of music, what would he be.”

Gertrude gave him a disapproving look. “I thought I told you not to contact him.”

“I didn’t. I asked him that before you left. It was what we were talking about at the pub when you called.” Tim glanced at the clock on the wall. “Jesus, it’s only been an hour. Feels like it’s been forever.”

Gertrude, too, glanced at the clock. “I don’t imagine it will be much longer.”

Tim shook his head. “Craniotomies take anywhere from three to five hours. And considering they made the decision to do the surgery right away instead of scheduling it for a few weeks out when he hasn’t had a cigarette, it’s probably bad enough that they thought the risks of tobacco use on surgery are better than the risk of waiting, so it’s probably going to take a little longer. We won’t hear anything until early evening.”

Dismay and annoyance mingled in Gertrude’s mind. She had hoped to be on the road that day…and, all right, she still could, but two to four more hours had not been in her plan. Still…she would put up with it. It would still mean she had spent no more than twenty-four hours in the hospital, and she could at least make the next train out of Chicago.

It was another hour before it occurred to her to be surprised at herself for not even considering the possibility of just leaving then and there.

People came and went, responding to doctors’ summons or settling in to wait or taking small children who couldn’t sit still any longer to stretch their legs or rushing in to find out how’s it going. Tim coerced Gertrude into playing a simple pen and paper game she remembered from her childhood but hadn’t played in ages, meaning she got thoroughly trounced three times in a row before she recalled the strategy and started out-maneuvering him. She was just about to suggest he consider closing his eyes for a few minutes when the door opened once again and a vaguely familiar man stepped out.

“Who’s here for Gerard Keay?” he called softly. Like most Americans, he mispronounced the first name.

Tim got to his feet so fast Gertrude was almost surprised the sudden change in altitude didn’t make him dizzy. She rose at a more reasonable pace and followed him as he went to speak to the surgeon. She could feel the anxiety rolling off him, but one look at the doctor’s expression and she knew he needn’t worry.

“How is he?” Tim asked as soon as he was in range.

“Doing amazingly well. He got here just in time.” The neurosurgeon smiled. “It was a very large tumor, and it appears to be growing rapidly—I can’t think how he wouldn’t have noticed it before otherwise.” Gertrude kept her face blank with effort. “But we were able to get all of it, as far as we can tell.”

Tim swallowed. “Can I see him? Can I be there when he wakes up?”

“He’s awake now. We had to keep him alert for the surgery so that we could ask him questions, to be certain the removal didn’t affect memory or movement. But he passed with flying colors, which means we were been able to remove it without loss of function. We’re taking him to intensive care for the night, just as a precaution, but he’ll be able to go to a regular room in the morning. And you can stay with him, of course. Just give us twenty minutes to get him settled and we’ll come back for you.”

“Thank you, Dr. Greene.” Tim’s face shone with relief.

Dr. Greene smiled, patted his arm, and headed out the door again. Tim sank to the nearest chair, looking as though a weight had lifted from his shoulders.

Gertrude, too, confessed to a certain amount of relief. She sat down next to Tim. “I told you he would be fine.”

Tim managed a cheeky grin. “Never doubted you for a minute, boss.”

Gertrude smiled back, then got serious. “You have the folio?”

Tim reached into his bag and pulled it out. Gertrude nodded, then reached into her own bag, pulled out a notebook, and handed it to him. “Here. Everything we’ve collected so far. I have a backup copy”—she patted the pocket where her laptop and its various accoutrement rested—“but you’ll need this.”

Hesitantly, Tim took the notebook, then unzipped the folio and tucked it in. “Am I…taking it back to London?”

“No.” Gertrude zipped her bag up and slung it over her shoulder. “Not yet, anyway. Once Gerard is well enough to leave the hospital, and once he’s able to travel, I want the two of you to continue the journey. The next step is Pittsburgh—all the notes are there—and from there, I trust you’ll be able to follow the trail.”

Tim sat up a little straighter at that. “Of the Stranger?”

Gertrude nodded. “I need access to the Archives for at least some things, and if we’re going to tip our hand that you’re helping me to stop the Unknowing, I’d rather you not be directly under Elias’s eye. More to the point, I don’t want him to be aware that you know about all the rituals. You may be safer if he thinks you only know about the Stranger’s. Regardless, head to Pittsburgh and check the Hall of Records. The specifics are in my notebook. Beyond that, I trust you to use your discretion.”

“How long do we have?”

“As long as you need. I’ll call if you need to return. In the meantime, stay in touch.” Gertrude rose. “And be sure to submit your receipts as frequently as you can. I’ll have the Institute reimburse you. Once you’re on the trail, of course. Until you leave for Pittsburgh, you’ll officially be on leave.”

Tim stood, too. “Don’t forget about the fire suppressant system. Elias has been ignoring the stuff I submitted.”

“I won’t.” It likely wouldn’t come to anything, but Gertrude would give it a go. She held out her hand. “Good luck, Tim.”

“Good luck, Gertrude.” Tim shook her hand solemnly. “And…thank you. For everything.”

“Thank you,” Gertrude said, in a rare show of sincerity. “I wouldn’t be able to do this without you.”

She patted his shoulder, shifted the weight of the bag, turned on her heel, and strode out of the hospital. She would head to the Amtrak station, explain the situation, and see if they would move her ticket to tonight. Then, instead of stopping in Pittsburgh, she would continue on to Washington, D.C. and visit the Usher Foundation to see if her files from Pu Songling had arrived. Then she could catch the next flight back to London, and to her Archives.

Tim and Gerard would be fine. They would continue the work abroad, while she continued it at home. It was the optimal strategy.

She just had to hope it was the right one.

[srslylini]

I want to take away all such terms from the internet because then at least people couldn't use them wrong

I don't even know why this is a thing, no Juniper I do not think you are bipolar because you cried and laughed.

[that-0ne-loser-ky]

lmao, they gave me a starter dose of some adhd med so i forgot to take it of course so i did the resonable thing and took five on new years and i thought i was having a heart attack and i might have but at least i tryed to make a soldering iron (failed)

[adhbabey]

You should always be wary of people who swear off therapy and then minimize, attack and step over your own feelings and experiences, because they think they're above having therapy, or they've tried it for one day, or one week and didn't seek another professional's advice.

Because genuinely, my heart goes out to everyone whose tried therapy and it hasn't worked for them because of problems outside of their control. But for people who fight you on the fact that therapy never works, not for anyone, and that they're better off just reading psychology and theory, those are the people that you should criticize the most.

It is obvious to anyone in the disabled or neurodivergent or mentally ill community that plenty of professionals are fucking stupid or ignorant because they haven't researched enough or learned past a certain point in their lives and stopped helping their patients beyond what they took tests for. And those are the people who let down people the most when it comes to helping people. Those are the people you shouldn't trust with your time or money.

So what makes you think that reading a couple psychology books, probably the same old, traditional bullshit, that they taught to all those terrible doctors, will actually help with yours or anyone else's mental health issues. Everyone whose met an annoying psychology major knows. It's clear that trying to be intellectually superior than a literal patient in therapy, or someone actually living with the disabilities described in those books, isn't the brightest idea.

As someone whose tried and failed to DIY their own mental health journey, it is not easy nor recommended to go through this shit alone. You probably shouldn't, because its damn well easy to make your mental health worse, because it's so easy to fuck something up. Like accidentally or purposely triggering yourself, in order to get to the bottom to why you're feeling something. It's not fun.

So please, if you're having trouble finding therapy, there are community resources out there to help you deal with shit on your own, but don't go spouting stuff you don't actually understand. Don't go trusting strangers who say they have the answers to self help, and then twist around actual clinical terms to bring their point home, don't listen to those people. Don't listen to people who spitefully swear off therapy because they think they can handle it all by themselves. Just don't trust people who don't actually have a degree, and still criticize the ones that do. If some advice to you, seems off, or overblown or diminished, you should be questioning that advice. You should be getting a second opinion.

I make mental health and disabled content all the time on here because I want people to be informed, and to find community and resources to get the help that you need. But you can't pull therapy words out of your ass and expect people not to question you. Talk to the community and don't just go informing random strangers, if you don't know what you're talking about.

If you abuse your platform to misinform other ignorant people, you deserve to have your platform taken away. So treat the chance to educate people as a privilege, don't use it to spout bullshit that you don't understand. Therapy isn't a last resort, so don't listen to anyone that treats it that way.

[mimikyufriend]

you guys gotta stop being so reactionary about ai

[lonelynpc]

BREAKING NEWS: old man misuses emoji in text to favourite coworker