#Ptsd in healthcare is real

[midnightlovestories]

I, for one, love the fact the the writers in Prodigy made Janeway retire from Starfleet. Not only it makes sense but also shows her character growth.

Janeway loves Starfleet, Janeway IS Starfleet but I really appreciate that Prodigy showed that you can experience burnout even in doing something you love, in something that you considered part of who you were.

I love that Janeway allowed herself to recognize that it was becoming too much for her and took active steps to focus on herself (retirement). She's been through a lot even before Delta Quadrant and the PTSD from the Delta Quadrant alone was enough for her to spend the next decade in therapy. Also, if we consider Mosaic as canon for her backstory, she never really dealt with the loss of her father and fiancé, or her depression. She never grieved properly, she never processed her loss, she forced herself (and was pushed by her sister) to move on, she returned to Starfleet and kept herself busy, she buried her grief.

All that is a lot to carry and I mean A LOT. It all boils over in 'Night' in season 5 and she succumbs to her depression and then AGAIN, in the end she just claws her way back because the crew loves her and won't allow her to sacrifice herself and also her sense of responsibility to her crew wins. She claws her way back. She had a job to do, she has to get them home. Self-sacrifice is imbedded deeply in her character.

But there's no respite at home. Home is not the same.

Janeway is a scientist and an explorer first anf foremost, she’s also excellent diplomat. Politics is part of diplomacy but politics is not why she joined Starfleet for. Her job as an Admiral is now mainly politics, it's a chronically stressful occupation with insane responsibility and Janeway hadn't had a break for years at this point. And even Chakotay’s disappearance aside, she's clearly disillusioned with what Starfleet is at this point.

It is becoming too much and Janeway acknowledging that is huge step for this character, it must be nothing but devastating to acknowledge that the one thing you gave your life in service of, is no longer serving you, it's actually bad for you and your mental health. I don't believe Janeway took the decision to retire lightly, I imagine it broke her heart to retire but she needed it.

I know kiddies watching PRO won't know any of this, because you need to know Janeway’s backstory from Voy, but just the fact that the show for kids did not shy away from trauma and mental health issues is, in my opinion, phenomenal. I love and applaud the writers decision to make Janeway retire, however briefly. It checks out.

[notiddygxthgf]

𝟎

★ pairings: suguru geto x satoru gojo, satosugu

★ synopsis: Suguru Geto struggles with letting people in after leaving a three-year-long abusive relationship. Enter Satoru Gojo, the boy who doesn't seem to take no for an answer.

★ c.w.: slow burn, mutual pining, explicit sexual content, dub con elements, implied/referenced rape/non-con, mahito is a real abusive asshole, past relationship(s), past abuse, recovery, hurt, comfort, vent fic, based on my shitty ex, my therapist told me it'd be a good idea idk, im a good writer I swear, brought to u by the bch who wrote best friend's brother!choso, sexual tension, new love, fluff, angst, smutt, graphic, psychological trauma, theres a happy ending in here I swear, angst with a happy ending, psychological trauma, PTSD, idiots in love, sexy smut I swear.

★ a/n: NGL I kinda hate how this turned out. but! it had to be done! I had to get it out of the way. the way I think this is gonna work is past flashbacks first, present time next. it's gonna prob alternative between the two for a while. comment your thoughts! let me hear u! feel free to slander mahito... he plays the shitty ex.

★ w.c.; 3.4k

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

𝐔 𝐍 𝐅 𝐎 𝐑 𝐓 𝐔 𝐍 𝐀 𝐓 𝐄    𝐀 𝐈 𝐋 𝐌 𝐄 𝐍 𝐓

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

PROLOGUE

2019. MONTH UNKNOWN.

I WAS ONLY 12 YEARS OLD the first time I tried to kill myself. In retrospect, I can’t possibly imagine what could have been so important to little me that he firmly believed he would rather die than live without it. I wish I could say that I had a difficult life. That simply was not the case. I grew up with two loving parents and a kind brother, in a small town where every friend I’d ever had was within a mile of me at any given point in time. We weren’t rich, but we most certainly weren’t poor. I had everything a child could ask for and so much more.

Again, I wish that I could say I had a difficult life, but that simply was not the case. 

It’s just that I’ve had these… thoughts for as long as I can remember. An unfortunate ailment, if you will. No matter what I did, there always seemed to be something missing. Something I felt I would spend my whole life searching for – or at least trying to supplement.

At 12 years old, I planned my first attempt.

It didn’t work.

So, now, faced with the unbearable burden of deciding what I was going to do for the rest of my life, I chose to pursue a childhood dream of mine. I wanted to go to school to become a doctor. I didn’t know what kind, per se, but I knew that I wanted to heal. 

Maybe I thought, I don’t know… that if I healed enough people, I may have been rid of the ailment – healed, myself.

So I left my small town, enrolling in an academy 30 minutes away from the house. I got into their Healthcare program. Again, what more could a kid want?

Yet the void inside of me only grew larger, more ravenous. I lost touch with all of my small town friends – one by one. I had no one.

But I was pursuing my passion, right? Why wasn’t it enough?

It was in that godforsaken academy that I met him.  

“Pick a card,” he asked me. His grey eyes were so sharp, even then. “Any card.”

I glanced down at the fanned-out deck in his pale hand, eyes crawling over the many different suits and shapes before eventually settling on an ace. I pulled the card out. 

Ace of spades. I tried to memorize it. I also, coincidentally, tried my best to ignore the incessant thrum of my racing heartbeat against my veins, my arteries, my chest. He was sitting so close to me.

It was just the two of us in the hallway. Just me and him and the infinite space between us, the small gap between my right shoulder and his left. 

I handed it back to him. “What are you doing?” I asked.

He slipped the card back into the deck without looking. He shuffled it once, twice, three times. Made a bridge with his hands and let the cards fall back into place. I watched with a remarkable sense of interest.

“Is this your card?” He tucked a stray blue hair behind his ear, producing a card.

I furrowed my brows, about to say something, when I noticed something off about the card. It was different. Where there once was a large blue spade, there now was a small, torn piece of lined paper taped to the surface. The gray lettering on the handwritten note read,

WILL U GO OUT W/ ME?

My eyes went as wide as saucers. My mouth lolled open, lips shaped around his cursed name, “Mahito, I…” 

I thought of my parents. I thought of my religious father. What would he say? What would he say if he found out his 14-year-old son was a homosexual?

I thought of my parents, and I bit my lip, “I don’t know if I can… I don’t know. What if my dad finds out?”

Mahito tucked the deck of cards neatly into the pocket of his black cargo pants. His hoodie was rolled up to his elbows, revealing intricate stick-and-poke linework over his forearms. He shrugged, humming, “Who says he has to?”

The tardy bell rang. We were late for first period.

My mouth opened by itself again. At fourteen, I wasn’t so sure I was ready to lie to my father about something so serious. Not yet.

Seemingly sensing my hesitance, Mahito laid a hand on my stiff shoulder. “Hey,” he muttered softly. “Think about it. Give me your answer after school, yeah? We’ll meet here at 3:30.”

And then he slipped away with a quiet, ‘See ya’.

Without confirmation.

In his absence, I swallowed the lump that had formed in my throat.

2019 February.

Mahito ran away from home two weeks into our relationship. Ran away without so much as a notice or a warning. Ran away and left me there to assume the worst. He didn’t live in the best area. Perhaps he was staying with a friend? If not, was he dead in a ditch somewhere?

There was no way to tell.

He could have at least told me, I had thought. Then again, would I have tried to stop him? Undoubtedly.

They issued a missing persons alert the day after he didn’t show up. I remember seeing the poster all over my social media, all over the streetlights and posts. 

It didn’t seem real. Even as I held the missing poster in my trembling hand, I remember feeling numb. I remember feeling as if this were all some sort of cruel prank, that he would be back just in time for our after-school walk with a smile on his face.

 But there he was, smiling up at me from the page in my hand. 

MISSING PERSON: MAHITO 

Height: 5’8

Weight: 150

Eye color: gray

Hair color: blue

Remarkable features: tattoos on arms

Last seen: February 14th.

I crumpled the piece of paper up, tossing it across my messy bedroom with a sigh. I hadn’t slept last night, and I wouldn’t have slept tonight either.

I sunk into myself, curled into a ball on my twin-sized mattress – the same one I’d had for as long as I could remember – and cried. I was utterly inconsolable. I cried until my voice was hoarse, until there were no more tears left to cry.

Until my phone buzzed.

I assumed it was another homework notification. I didn’t check. What did it matter? In my eyes, my world had stopped spinning. It had stopped the moment he ran away.

But it buzzed again, and again.

It was then that I realized I was getting a call. Begrudgingly, I picked my phone up off of the bed. I turned it over. The screen was lit up with the words ‘NO CALLER ID’. 

I wanted to hang up. Desperately. Wanted to save myself a shred of peace and dignity and move on with my night – in hindsight, I probably should have just hung up when I had the chance. But, no, I felt something in my gut call out to me.

Against my better judgment, I answered, “Hello?”

The line crackled. “Suguru?”

Suguru. 

My heart leapt up into my throat. With wide eyes, I answered again, “Who’s this?”

“Suguru, it’s me, Mahito,” He sighed with relief, like he hadn’t expected me to pick up. Truth be told, I hadn’t expected it either. “I’m sorry I couldn’t call you sooner, my love. I’m calling you from a phone booth right now.”

My love. The nickname sounded like honey coming from his lips, but I knew it was laced with venom. Still, as would seem to be the trend, I was weak for it. 

My eyes began to water again, somehow. “Where are you?”

I knew better than to call him ‘baby’. Not when my father was sleeping in the room next to mine. 

“I can’t tell you that right now,” He answered. Of course, he couldn’t. There always seemed to be something he was hiding from me. I didn’t see it that way back then. “Look, I don’t have much time to talk, I–”

“I’ve been worried sick about you, Mahi,” I spoke again. I felt numb. So numb. “Please, just–”

“I stole ten grand from my mom,” He cut me off. “I’m running away from home. The abuse, it’s just– I can’t. I can’t, anymore.”

His mother was a real piece of shit. I knew that. She never wanted Mahito, not as a single mother. So she tried multiple times to be rid of him – beating him senseless with hangers and wires and even going so far as to attempt to poison him on his birthday. 

Still, ten grand was a lot of money.

Stolen.

“I’m on the run from the cops, I– I think they’re trying to find me,” He panted into the microphone. “You can’t tell anyone, okay? You gotta lie for me.”

I felt sick. Sick to my fucking stomach.

“I’m sorry, I…” I trailed off, holding back vomit. “Hold on.”

I ran to the bathroom and promptly emptied the contents of my stomach into the sink. I had just eaten mac and cheese an hour or so ago, and the vomit was tinted yellow. I could still see a few noodles here and there, only partially digested.

It made me want to hurl again.

“You okay?” he asked me.

“Am I– No, I’m not fucking okay, Mahito! First, you run away without–” I had to swallow bile a second time. I felt it burn as it slid back down my throat. “You could have fucking warned me , or something, and now you’re calling me at eleven at night to tell me you’re fleeing the fucking cops?”

He paused. “I know,” he said. “I know, I’m sorry. You know I love you.”

And immediately, like some sort of magic trick, I felt my exterior soften. I didn’t even care that we were only a few weeks into our relationship. He was my first. It was like he knew the effect he had on me. 

“Suguru,” he said again. “I love you.”

His words were like honey. I took a spoonful.

“I love you, too,” I sighed into the receiver. 

“You’ll keep quiet about this for me, right?”

I was weak for him, as always.

“Okay,” I said.

I found myself sitting at my desk in the middle of the day, struggling to concentrate on the lesson. The classmates at my table – more like a group of desks placed together – were talking about the missing boy.

My missing boy.

They were talking to me, actually, but I had long since tuned them out. It was all a blur for me – a blur of faces and voices and words I didn’t want to hear. 

“He’s a freak,” The boy across from me, Choso Kamo, remarked. “If I were you, I’d break things off before it’s too late.”

Choso’s critical words sent a sharp pang right through my rotten heart. 

“Exactly,” My friend, Shoko, chimed in. She was a pretty thing, about a few inches shorter than me with brown hair up to her chin. She always looked so tired . I wonder if she recognized that I felt the same. “He’s got some serious issues. Guys like that rarely make for healthy relationships.”

Choso leaned in, leaned over the desk to offer more of his thoughts, “You can’t just ignore the fact that more people are catchin’ on, either. What if your dad finds out? You know he thinks that… kind of stuff is wrong.”

Choso was Shoko’s friend. He wasn’t homophobic. A little misguided, but he had the spirit. Hell if he weren’t a raging heterosexual, I might have even gone for him instead. He had that look I liked – sleepy, downturned, dark eyes framed by messy bangs. He never wore colors. He was content to make a statement in black. Black eyeliner, black shirt, black doc martens, black hair done up into two messy pigtails. 

It was his signature look.

Our classmates didn’t take too kindly to ‘emos’ like him, though. He was an outcast. Hell, we all were. That’s why we sat together, after all.

The harsh opinions of my classmates threatened to erode my self assurance. I knew people were talking – people always talked. I knew the hushed whispers of my name as I walked past people and cliques in the mornings on my way to class weren’t a hallucination. 

I knew I had to stand by my boyfriend. I knew I had to stand by Mahito, but the weight of their disapproval put a strain on my shoulders. Does anyone want to hear that their friends don’t approve of their partner?

Admittedly, he wasn’t a very good partner. He had demonstrated that much in the first few weeks of our relationship. I knew he wasn’t good for me, but, fuck, I wanted to try. I wanted to make things work so badly that I ached for it. Everyone else knew he wasn’t good for me, too. 

But, fuck, was I naive to wish I could prove them all wrong?

In my eyes, he was only misunderstood. The ghosting, the red flags, the alarming behavior… I could see past it all because I loved him. My first love. No one understood him the way I did. How could I blame them for their concerns?

It didn’t matter how many voices I had in my ear telling me it was wrong. Soon, he would come home to me, and I would feel his skin against my cheek as I hugged him hello. That’s all that mattered.

How could that be wrong?

“It’s not wrong. How could it be?” I kept my gaze trained on my desk. My vision was blurry, unfocused. My mind felt numb and detached. I muttered. “I love him. He loves me, too. He told me he did.”

He did.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Choso and Shoko exchange a dubious look. 

They didn’t understand him the way I did.

“He told me he loved me,” I repeated the words like a mantra, like a reminder to myself that I was fighting for something. 

That as long as I was loved by him, I would be okay. 

He called again that night. Earlier, this time, at nine o’clock. 

I was in the shower at that time, curled up on the floor, sobbing into my arms. The water streamed past my shoulders, my arms, my nose. I glanced over at the screen through blurry eyes. 

NO CALLER ID.

I closed my eyes. I took a deep breath.

Then, I let the call ring.

Current Day. 

[12:13 PM]

[Automated]: you have 3 new messages. Play back?

[USER] Selected:

[NO] ...

... [View Inbox]

...

[ Last 6 Years ].

[REPLAY>>] Message from 'Blocked Number'.

Transcription:

" Suguru, this is me, Mahito. I don’t know if you can hear me or not– I don’t know if anyone can hear you or not, so please use headphones, or something, I don’t know. I just wanted to call and make sure you’re okay. I’m gonna try and call you later. Right now you seem to not be answering your phone for some reason. Doesn’t matter, though. I’m not in a really good place, right now, I’m… surrounded by a lot of people. So, um.. I just wanted to say that I love you, and I’ll call you a little bit later, okay? Bye– kisses…….”  

[End of Transcription] 

[Automated]: Would you like to play the next message?

[ Yes. ]

“ Suguru, is this– this is me, Mahito. Um.. I just wanted to say that I’m okay. Nothing has happened to me yet. I’m perfectly safe. I’m in a laundromat somewhere. And, uh, I said I love you… I don’t know why you’re not answering my calls… You know that I always try to text you whenever I can– and try to… call you, but… I don’t know, maybe you’re too depressed, or some shit. Maybe you’re mad at me. I understand. I– what I did was wrong, I… What I did was idiotic, and what I did was stupid, and shitty… And I understand if you’re mad at me and you don’t wanna answer my calls. So, yeah, I gues… I’ll try to call you again tomorrow. 

If you’re hearing this voicemail, but you probably won’t, um… I just want you to know that I love you. And I’m trying to do my best just… to see you again. You like pizza, don’t you? How about we do a pizza date sometime, yeah? Somewhere around next week, maybe. Huh? How about that? Sounds cool, right? Yeah, yeah it does. Um, anyway, I… gotta… I gotta go. I have to… do some things. Uh… uh… at least I love you. 

And, I– I might not have brought much with me, but I have the little stuffie that you gave me. It’s in my book bag. Not gonna take it out because people are gonna know what my things look like. I’m always gonna keep these memories close to my heart. I don’t care what anybody says. Even if I go to prison, I’m taking this shit with me. Alright? Um, I guess that’s it. And… last thing? I love you. 

Please, answer me. If you’re calling, that means you actually care, but if you don’t, then… it’s fine. Don’t recall this number. I’m not gonna respond. This is just some random guy’s phone. Okay? Um… I love you, and please stay safe. Please don’t worry, I’m still alive. I miss you. Okay, bye, I love you.”

 [End of Voicemails Received on February 18th, 2019].

[Automated]: Would you like to replay the messages?

[ No. ]

[ Delete ] > [ All messages from {Blocked Number}] 

[Automated]: Are you sure?

[Yes]

[Automated]: Deleting all messages from {Blocked Number}.

THE WIND BLEW IN HEAVY from below, sending a plethora of leaves flying out in all directions. As I knelt down to test the current with my fingers, my boots sank deeper into the muddy riverside.

I sat on the bench in front of the riverbed. Wiping my fingers dry on the fabric of my denim jeans, I took a moment to take in my surroundings. The park was mostly empty, save for a few teenagers

The water always looked pretty this time of year. For a few moments, you stood there drinking in the sight of it.

In the present, I sat alone in front of the serene lake, surrounded by the picturesque beauty of nature. Lush green trees lined the shore, their leaves rustling in the gentle breeze. The scent of damp earth and the distant call of birds created a peaceful atmosphere, contrasting with the turmoil in my mind.

I watched as groups of carefree teenagers ran around, their laughter and joy a stark contrast to the heavy weight I carried in my heart. A deep sigh escaped my lips as I averted my gaze towards the shimmering water.

I wished for the water to possess the power to cleanse me, to wash away the burdens that weighed on my soul. 

The sound of the water rushing past was almost deafening, drowning out the laughter of the teenagers. It consumed my thoughts, leaving me with an overwhelming feeling of dread and isolation. I yearned for the water to offer solace, as if it held the key to absolution and a fresh start, but it remained an unsettling reminder of my own inner turmoil.

I had a vision every time I came here for some peace of mind. It was the same vision every single time. It plagued me every time I found myself in front of the water. It was an image of me, standing at the water's edge, and then, with a deep sense of despair, throwing myself into it, sinking into the abyss and drowning.

As I sat there, the scenery around me seemed to blur, and the vision of my drowning self played on a loop in my mind, a relentless nightmare that I couldn't escape. The lake, which should have been a source of tranquility, had become a symbol of my pain and a relentless reminder of my inner struggles.

It seemed to call to me. I could almost hear the wind carry my name.

Suguru.

The water always looked pretty this time of year. I sat there watching it for a moment too long, wondering what it would feel like to be enveloped by the cold current, to feel it wash me away. 

And, again, the sound of the current grew louder. Deafening. Consuming me.

a/n: l comment and lmk what u think pookiesss

comments + reblogs are greatly appreciated!!

I obviously do not own jjk or anything related to it. please do not reproduce, copy, or translate my works anywhere. dont fk w me im a bruja.

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wanna join the taglist?| mlol; chapter index

[traumacatholic]

Finally kind of feel in a position where I can post this. I realise that my last post and long disappearance was probably of great concern to some people, and I am deeply sorry for any worry or pain that I've caused other people with that long disappearance. There was a lot going on in my life, including moving house. And I think the longer I took a break from Tumblr, the more daunting it came to come back. But the fact of the matter is, I've cried over this blog a lot. Or rather, I've cried over the followers of this blog and the people that have engaged with it. I have been dealing with a great sense of guilt. Guilt that I've let you guys down. Guilt that I've betrayed you in some way.

Something that always pained me, was the reality of my own struggle to access mental health support. It's an unfortunate reality, that no matter how many times we might work to raise awareness, and tackle stigma surrounding mental health (particularly complex mental health issues like OCD or PTSD or Schizophrenia, etc). That this doesn't do much to tackle the core issue that's the main struggle for people: accessible healthcare. Be that to do with any financial costs or lengthy waiting lists or other issues. There was a sense of deep guilt of encouraging people to seek help, whilst also being fully aware that they might be even more disheartened if they reached out for help and were unable to get anything substantial. I would never want to build someone's hopes up in order to then shatter them. I've experienced it all too much with trying to access support on my own.

I also felt really guilty running this blog when I was struggling with Church attendance. It felt like I was lying about my piety, to people that were desperately trying to fight to be able to attend their Church and to be a part of Church life. I'm in a city now, and I've started attending Church regularly. I've been trying to get into the practice of daily prayer, and the daily readings of theological texts alongside Scripture. Some days are better than others, but then I guess that's always going to be the case. Something that was really deeply meaningful to me during RCIA was being told that conversion to the faith wasn't a one and done thing. Each day, we are constantly converting back. We are constantly returning to God and being renewed in our relationship with God, no matter how far we stumble or what kind of problems we stumble into - willing and unwillingly.

And this is where it gets, I guess, the scariest. I've been dealing a lot with anxieties and doubts surrounding my faith. Not in the, "Hey guys sorry I've taken a break and became atheist" kind of way. But I've been feeling a strong pull towards Orthodox Christianity. And the Church I've been attending, has been an Orthodox one. I don't know. It feels weird to type that one out. It felt so weird to call myself Catholic for a long time. And then I became so happy of the title, and I loved the faith. I still do, love Catholicism. But I think this is something I need to explore. I've been feeling the draw to Orthodoxy for a long time, and I always kept pushing it away. But I think the only real way I can really address it, is by actually giving it a fair chance and exploration.

I don't know what I'll do with this blog. I don't intend to delete it - I think there are still people that can find help and comfort from the prayers that I've posted. I do have a new Tumblr, where I post excerpts from Orthodox texts I've been reading. I do still feel really strongly about helping people struggling with mental and physical health issues, trauma survivors etc. I care intensely about that work. And it's why this post pains me so much. I still want to be able to give you guys help, you can always send a message over to my new blog @orthodoxadventure if you're in need of any prayers or advice surrounding mental health/trauma etc (also despite the circumstances, I did go through RCIA, and if anyone has any questions surrounding it, I'll try my best to answer) , and I think I'm going to make it a habit to check the blog here.

I'm deeply sorry to anyone that I've hurt by doing this. I would really appreciate your prayers. None of this is, particularly easy. I feel like I've let down and hurt so many people. But I also knew that the more I tried to resist the interest of Orthodoxy, the more I felt that I was letting myself down and letting my relationship with God down. Maybe in some time, I will return to Catholicism, much more content and happy and more knowledgeable in that choice. Maybe I will go further down the path to the Orthodox Church. But I knew I couldn't just feel like I was sitting on the fence any longer. I hope that you will be able to forgive me for this, and I intend to keep you all in my prayers.

[builtbybrokenbells]

belladonna | vi

Too beautiful to resist, and too deadly to survive; the tragic tale of belladonna in all its glory.

masterlist | taglist

Pairing: Danny Wagner x f!reader, f!reader x OC, OC X OC

Word Count: 23k

Warnings: Please heed the warnings carefully and understand that the scenes and themes in this chapter can be extremely triggering and/or upsetting to some readers. This is a detailed and extensive list, but please inform me if I miss something, and it will be added immediately.

ALL OC—Overdoses, active OD/mentions of previous OD, graphic scenes/descriptions of overdose (stimulants & narcotics), heavy descriptions of addictions/addicts/addict behavior, use of/heavy mentions of drug use (stimulants/narcotics), heavy mentions of relapsing, trauma bonds, abusive/toxic romantic relationships, descriptions of toxic/abusive parents, PTSD/CPTSD behaviors/reactions/explanations, dissociation, shock/descriptions of being in shock, trauma, triggered trauma responses, near death experiences, suicidal ideation, mentions of/toxic/abusive relationships, mentions of death/dying, brief mentions of seizures, absent parents, death of a parent, parents with active addictions, missing persons, police stations/reports, neglect of children, mentions of criminal activity/criminal records, gambling, brief mentions of guns/bullets, poverty, crying, mentions of homelessness, mentions of physical violence, mentions of blood/scenes with blood/bleeding, vomit, extreme emotional distress, mentions of cheating, mentions of AA/NA, NA meetings, fighting, yelling, name calling, insults, drinking, flirting, mentions of hookups/sex, smoking, depression/anxiety, mental health struggles

As always, please feel free to reach out to me if you need an ear, and know that you are not alone in whatever troubles you are facing. I’ve also included a list of helplines and resources for anyone who may be in need of them. I love you all so dearly.

Emergency substance abuse hotline (US): 1-800-662-HELP (4357).

Canadian Mental Health and Addictions Phone Line: 1-833-553-6983

Virtual NA meetings and support (worldwide)

Canada’s complete comprehensive list of addiction helplines, inpatient/outpatient programs, and family support per province | UNITED STATES

If you are struggling with addiction or know someone who is, remember to inquire about Nalaxone kits at your nearest pharmacy, as many in Canada are active participants of the program. At participating locations and clinics, Nalaxone kits are free of charge and accessible without a prescription or healthcare card. It is a fantastic and life saving tool to have on hand while waiting for EMS. There is also free online courses for Nalaxone training to anyone who is interested.

Remember, no matter what is portrayed in fiction or media, the safest course of action for anyone suffering from an overdose (accidental or intentional) is to call 911.

Hi everyone. I think an apology and explanation is due before we get too far into this. This chapter is the main reason for my sudden absence from Tumblr, and after 28 days of writing this and trying my best to perfect and encapsulate the feelings and emotions of this particular chapter, I finally found the courage to post it and share it with you. This chapter is incredibly personal to me, as is every emotion and scene within it. When I started writing belladonna, I knew I would be putting myself on display through my writing in a way i have never done with you before. As I sit and edit this chapter, I’ve learned that sometimes being on display and relating to others is the only way for me to heal and work through this.

This chapter is course, gritty, a bit gruesome, and fictional, as much as it is based on real life events that happen to many people behind closed doors. When opting to write about my struggles with addiction, I never wanted to come on here and sugarcoat a disease that is vile, cruel, gross and above all, deadly. I have been very lucky to be blessed with so many friends and supporters when I started posting on here, and your love has bled the courage into me. This particular story has been incredibly cathartic for me, even if writing it has been painful by times. It is my hope that by telling a story about my own struggle, that maybe somehow I can reach someone who has felt the same or been through something similar and help them. Love is the only way through, as is being honest and transparent, and I hope my honesty is conveyed and that my love for you all is so apparent in everything I do and post.

Please heed the warnings at read at your own discretion. Kindly send me a message if I have missed anything. Please send me a message if you need an ear. I love you all so very much. 🤍 be kind, enjoy, and don’t mind any grammar mistakes.

June 29, 2022 - 2:15 AM

“Holy shit, Utah.” Danny huffed out a breath, his drooping eyes tired yet somehow still full of life. He was eyeing the stack of your old journals he piled high, still collecting them from boxes shoved in the corner of your living room. “When you say you write a lot, you really mean it.”

“Always have.” You shrugged, sitting cross-legged on a kitchen chair as you watched your brand new vinyl records spin round and round. Your bloodshot eyes were an obvious indicator of your high, and the giggles that fell from your lips when you heard the crackle of dust under the needle only solidified it. The joints Dylan and Vincent gifted you were top notch, and half of one (shared, of course) nearly had you on your ass.

You looked back over your shoulder, a lazy smile on your lips as your gaze landed on Danny. He was sitting on the floor, eyes wide as he continued to place the books atop each other in a makeshift Jenga tower. It was tilted to the left, swaying under the weight of every new book he added as it threatened to collapse. He seemed to notice it too, taking the initiative to start a separate pile right next to it, determined to do the same thing all over again.

“Most of those came with me from Utah. Well, arrived from Utah, I guess.” You corrected yourself. He looked to you, his head cocked to the side as he awaited an explanation, knowing very little about your travels to New York. “When I moved here, I really only had one bag. Some clothes, my laptop, and the journal I was currently using… and one empty one. I was determined to get the hell out of there, and that meant I didn’t really have a whole lot of time to plan… or pack.” You explained, giggling at the painful memory. Right now, you were floating, happier than you had ever been—the sorrows that backpacked to New York with you seemed far away, like it had little effect on you anymore, even if you knew it would haunt you along with the sobriety the morning brought. “I hitchhiked to Salt Lake, bought a bus ticket with the last money left in my account and left on the next one out.”

“I spent my first few weeks at a shelter until I got back on my feet. I applied for some jobs, and John took a chance on me at the Fox. He helped me out of a shit place, and some days I really feel like I owe him my life. Once I had employment, I was able to apply for subsidized housing, which landed me here.” You continued, your eyes fluttering closed as ‘Dirty Work’ spun to a close for the hundredth time that night. “When I got my first paycheck from the Fox, I called my brothers up and told them I’d cover all the fees for them to pack up my stuff and ship it out… plus a little extra for having to deal with our mother while they cleaned out my room.” At that, he gave a little laugh, agreeing with the fact despite how little he knew about her.

“But, they’re the best, and instead of mailing it out, they stuffed Patrick’s mini-van full of boxes and drove 32 hours to get here.” You rolled your eyes, remembering how angry you were with them for wasting their money and time to do so.

“By that expression, makes me believe they aren’t the best.” Danny gave a soft smile, picking up on your mannerisms long before now. Studying you had proved interesting—everything he learned only made him more confused and even more intrigued. You had the ability to make a good thing seem horrible, and the worst of things seem like a walk in the park.

“No, they definitely are.” You conceded, lifting the needle and placing it back to the second song on the first side of the vinyl. By the rate you were going, your copy of the album would look the same as your childhood one did, but you didn’t care. It had been years since you got to experience the song on vinyl, and you weren’t ready to give up the even happier version of the old memory.

You and Danny had driven Sam back to the Airbnb in the early afternoon, only to go for dinner at a fancy restaurant and blunder around the busy streets of New York, hand in hand. You returned back to your apartment, leftovers in small takeout containers and your heart more full than your belly. You sat on the couch, a complete tangle of limbs as you watched the sun sink through the windows Sam had coined as beautiful.

Eventually, you smoked the joint previously mentioned, and landed on the living room floor as you let him dig through boxes of your old life. It made it easy for him to know you better, without the struggle of you having to tell him all of it.

“Hunter and Patrick… they’re too good to me. Always have been. If not for them, I'm sure I wouldn’t have survived. Before I moved here, I wasn’t in a very good spot—the worst I’ve ever been actually, and they stuck by my side even when they shouldn’t have. This… New York was my final step in getting better, and it hurt them to see me leave, but they were so proud. Seeing them here, after everything I put them through, was a lot. Emotionally, spiritually, physically. We had a really good few days, but leaving them behind hurt me enough, and watching them leave me behind nearly killed me.” You continued, resting your chin on your hand and feeling your elbow dig further into your knee. You were high enough that the pressure didn’t phase you.

“Why did you have to leave?” He asked, not knowing he was prodding at the most painful part of your entire history. Still, you cared for him enough to try, even if you weren’t ready to give him everything.

“I was mixed up with a bad crowd, and it was starting to take a toll on me. Mentally, I was just… gone. Completely numb and exhausted, and didn’t really care what happened to me. Think everything that happened at my mother’s house, when we were kids, it finally caught up to me, and I didn’t know how to deal with it, so I didn’t. I shoved it so far down and masked it with coping mechanisms that only seemed to hurt me more. Bandaids when I needed stitches… or in some cases, to cut the whole limb off.” You gave a dry chuckle as you looked out the window, noticing a few twinkling stars above the city smog.

“You can talk about it, if you want.” He whispered, still stacking the journals but with much less enthusiasm. You believed he was only doing it in an attempt to keep his hands busy and look less interested than he truly was. If you felt too invested in such hard topics for too long, you had a tendency to back off or shut down.

As he did so, a picture fell out from one of the books, fluttering to the ground as his eyes followed it. He placed the book atop the growing tower, reaching down and picking up the Polaroid to get a closer look. He squinted, the low light of the room making if difficult to decipher the picture he held in his hand. After a moment, he let out a small gasp of shock.

“Utah, is this you?” He asked, catching your attention. Carefully, he stood, walking to your side as he flashed the photo in your direction. You grabbed it from him, looking for only a moment before feeling a wave of sickness twist your stomach.

���Yeah,” you cleared your throat of its rasp, feeling the scratch of smoke still affecting it. “Not long after high school.” In the picture, yours and your brother's faces were all squeezed into the frame, cheek to cheek as you smiled as wide as you could.

It was a beautiful memory, a part of your old life that you missed so dearly; being with your brothers through thick and thin, never experiencing any troubles on your lonesome. Seeing it made you sad, feeling the year and a half of loneliness creep up on you all at once. At the same time, a different wave of sadness washed over you, seeing a picture of a woman you forever wished to run away from.

Your face was gaunt, pale and tired. The bags under your eyes were bold, and there were a collection of small scabs on your cheeks from your constant skin-picking. Your lips were chapped, dry and cracked, and your eyes themselves held no life or light. Your teeth looked brittle even through the still picture, making you run your tongue over the back of them instinctively (a deadly habit you had picked up after you started to sober up, reminding you why you needed to stay sober.) You knew they’d only worsened since then, reminding you of one of your biggest insecurities. Your face was slender, no fat left on the bones that were nearly poking through the skin (that appeared to be hanging off). Your hair was dry, thin, and brittle. It looked as though you could break it all off with a single tug.

The picture was taken at the height of your addiction, just after graduation when you moved out of your mothers house and had a taste of full-fledged freedom. Issue was, you had only ever known how to abuse it. Your graduation money went towards a half years worth of fixes, and nowhere near any kind of post-secondary education. Your brothers were happy that you were alive, but you could see the worry etched deep into their features.

You wondered if Danny noticed the things you did, if he cared as much as you did. When you looked up at him, you noticed him studying the photo with a glimmer of admiration in his eye, forcing you to realize he could never view you in the same light you saw yourself in.

“You look so different.” He noted, his eyebrows furrowed with curiosity. He seemed to be trying to place the obvious disconnect between you and the younger version of yourself, but he was struggling.

“I was different.” You answered it for him. “Completely different person, and hopefully won’t ever be that one again.” You continued, wondering if he would pick up on your subtle hints and figure it out himself. You still dreaded the day you would have to explain to him the entirety of your story.

You were dying of a sickness more sinister than he could comprehend, and in the photograph, you were clinging to life by a thread. You looked ten years older than you did now, and you weren’t even surprised he did not recognize you upon first glance.

“And these are your brothers?” He asked, noticing the glaring similarities in your faces. You gave a hum of agreement, nodding ever so slightly. “You all look so much alike.”

“My parents weren’t good for much, but they sure knew how to make carbon copies of themselves.” You joked, handing the Polaroid back to him and effectively ending the conversation.

He walked back to his earlier post, catching the hint and going along with it. When he sat down again, you faced the window and leaned forward, using your strength to unlatch the lock on them. When they pulled free, the rusted hinges let out a tired groan, and you pushed it open. The screenless opening pelted you in the face with warm summer air, causing you to take a long inhale and let the wind breathe courage through you. At the same time, little to your knowledge, Danny had stopped stacking the worn and well used books, instead picking one from the top and flipping it open. Even if you knew what he was doing, you wouldn’t have stopped him. Now, the two of you were close enough that whatever was written would come out eventually.

Now stuck thinking about the photo and your brothers, you were plagued with a feeling that only ever seemed to eat away at you. You thought of Danny’s earlier words, about talking if you wanted to. You decided that for once, you would say it aloud instead of letting the noise suffocate you.

“My mom was a monster.” You eventually spoke, the chirp of crickets filling your ears, covering the crinkle of garbage that the crows were picking through. He froze, his eyes flickering from the scrawl of the journal pages to you, only to realize you weren’t even looking in his direction. “God, that feels good to say out loud.” You laughed, feeling lighter just from the small confession alone.

“Keep going.” He urged, wanting you to know the safety of your heart if you were to place it in his hands. You were afraid, but you knew if you chose to confide in him, you wouldn’t regret it. So far, you hadn’t, and he showed no sign of slowing down.

“She was everything a mom shouldn’t be. She used fists instead of words… insults instead of advice, and she was absent even though she was always right there. I don’t think she ever really had any desire to have kids or start a family, it just happened. Patrick was an accident, and Hunter was even more so. Me? I was the mistake. Least that’s what she always said, anyway.” As you spoke, he flipped through the journal and skimmed the lines, desperate for a taste of the woman you used to be. “She was an alcoholic, a user, an abuser, and the biggest bully I’ve ever met. Her and my dad met in high school, when they were real young and stupid, and made three irreversible mistakes. They bought a poor excuse for a house for dirt cheap when she got knocked up with Patrick, and dad skipped out for the first time not long after.” He was listening, and you knew that. So, without stopping, you continued to tell a tale you had sworn to never speak of again. You traced the scarred stick and poke on your finger as you formulated your thoughts.

“By the time I was four, my parents were so dysfunctional and broken that they almost had no choice but to put it on us. My mom dabbled in some drugs, but her kryptonite was always the bottle. My dad, though… he was a fan of anything he could get his hands on. He was gone more often than not, and every time he came back, he was barely recognizable. Just when we started to get used to the newest version him, he’d disappear and it would start all over again. I remember sitting in the living room, comforting my mom while she cried until it eventually turned to anger. It didn’t take long for me to learn when to hide.” His eyes flickered to you, but he didn’t dare interrupt.

“My dad went missing when I was five—a sad little lapse of time when we didn’t know if he was alive or dead. Mom started to worry when he was gone longer than usual, and he wasn’t asking for money or breaking in to steal and pawn off our TV. We went down to the police station to file a report, just to be safe. I remember sitting with the chief, and he gave me this little teddy bear… it was ratty and was missing an ear, but it was mine. First thing that was ever just mine, you know? For a few years, I carried it with me everywhere, ‘till my mom got pissed off at me for something and threw it out.” You paused, your face burning as you recounted the worst years of your life. You still missed that damn teddy bear with everything in you, and you probably always would.

But it was never about the teddy bear at all. It was always about the lack of love you received from the one person who should have gave you the most.

Your chest ached with a fervor, and for a moment you thought you might finally succumb to the pain. Still, you persevered and gave him everything you were willing to dish out.

“He came back around, though. He always did. He wasn’t dead, but he did hop the state line to hide from some people he owed money to. He looked rough, but it didn’t take long for us to get used to that version of him, just like always. He stuck around for a little bit, and we all kind of thought he was going to stay that time. Just before Christmas that year, him and my mom really got into it. It was the worst they’d ever fought, and we saw a lot from them. Screaming, breaking things…” you trailed off, your eyes glossy from emotion rather than substance as they flickered to the street below you. Not even tracing the poorly done tattoo served you any comfort. “We all went downstairs to break it up, just like always, but before I got to the bottom of the stairs, Patrick picked me up and brought me back to my room. Told me to hide in the closet until he came back for me. I still don’t know what they saw that night, but it must have been bad.”

“And that was the last time I saw my dad.” You concluded, swallowing back bile as you ignored your racing heart and sweaty palms. You figured for sure he thought you were crazy, that he was already planning an excuse to get the hell out because he couldn’t deal with your shit anymore, but neither of those things were true.

“Ever?” He asked, his eyes twinkling with a saddening curiosity. He hated to pry, but he was so damn determined to know you he jumped at the chance to learn more. You looked back over your shoulder, shocked at his question and wondering if he was feigning interest in hopes to make it less awkward. When you saw the sincerity in his face, you almost doubled over in pain.

Why did he care so much?

“Yeah, ever.” You confirmed, whispering the words so softly that you barely heard yourself. “We had a ceremony for him when I was ten, but it was nothing special. Buried an empty casket and called it a day. For a while, the three of us held on to hope that we jumped the gun, but I think after seventeen years, it’s safe to say we made the right call. Not like he was a dad at all, but the bastard didn’t even say goodbye before he kicked the bucket.” Your anger and spite for the situation was still abundant within your heart, and your chest ached when you thought of it for too long. You didn’t want to be angry with him, or at anyone for his death, but at the end of the five stages of grief, you were stuck in one, perpetual cycle of anger that you never could rid yourself of. Anger for the situation, for your lost childhood, for his lost life at the hands of a disease that almost took you, too.

“What happened after that?” He asked, approaching carefully so you knew it was with good intent.

“Life just… carried on.” You shrugged, curious as to why it hurt so much less when your eyes were on him. Even if you didn’t understand why, you gave into the feeling and stood from the chair. You took a seat on the other side of the stacked journals, just wanting to be closer to him without having to express it aloud. You were giving much more to him than you’d ever given to anyone else, and you were trying to keep some semblance of normalcy. “My mom pretended nothing happened, wanted us to do it too. We got home from the funeral, and she never changed her ways. Sent us upstairs and told us to be quiet ‘cause she didn’t want to listen to us bitch about it all night.”

“Oh my god.” Danny let his shock slip, his expression showing guilt as soon as the words passed his lips. “I’m sorry, Utah. I didn’t mean—“

“It’s okay.” You assured him, giving a soft smile. “It’s a lot to hear, which is why I was so scared to tell you. Don’t want it to scare you, or make you think differently, or whatever.”

“No, Y/N.” He shook his head. “That’s not… not even close.” He extended his arm out, his palm cupping your cheek as his thumb caressed your burning skin. “I want to hear it. I want to hear everything. It just.. it hurts to know that you had to go through that. It frustrates me to know my favorite person in the whole world still suffers because of it, and it pisses me off that anyone could have the heart to do it to you in the first place.” He explained, his eyes never leaving yours. “So please, Utah. I want to hear it. I swear it’s not going to change anything.”

But he didn’t really know.

How could he assure you it wouldn’t change anything until the minute it left your lips? How could he promise something he had zero clue about? If he did leave, you couldn’t blame him. If anything, you wanted him to. As much as you loved his company, he didn’t deserve the turmoil you would bring to his life, the struggles and troubles of your beaten down and broken mind. He deserved the world, bright and shiny, and you could not give him that, no matter which version of you he got.

“Please don’t back out on me now. I want you to tell me, but it’s also going to make me feel things. Not because I think less of you, but because I care about you.” He tucked a lock of hair safely behind your ear, borderline begging for you to understand. “I’ve been waiting for you to open up since the day I met you, and I don’t care if I’m being greedy. I want more, Utah. I want everything, no matter how terrible or awful.”

“Stop.” You bit back a smile, reaching around the stack of journals and shoving him gently. “Stop doing that.”

“Get used to it.” He shot back, carefully maneuvering around the journals to land a quick peck on your lips.

You hated to admit it, but you already were. It wasn’t growing accustomed to the support that was the issue, but rather surviving the loss of it when he was gone.

“Fine.” You huffed, the lingering feeling of his kiss definitely a successful persuasion tactic. “My mom was horrible before that, and just the same after the fact. She was a bully—a lying, conniving, narcissistic, self-serving bitch. Nothing we ever did was good enough, and she made every one of her problems ours. She was always angry, crude and cruel, and she never took care of us. The house was dirty, and she was always drunk. We were always supposed to be quiet, and we’d get in trouble if we weren’t. When she wasn’t yelling or insulting us, she was giving us the silent treatment, or she was gone. Sometimes for a few hours, sometimes for days. When she was feeling nice, she’d drop us off at our grandparents house, but most of the time we were there alone.” You sighed out the last words, wondering how it felt so good and so bad to confess it all at the same time.

“She hated my grandparents because they were my dads parents. I don’t think we ever met hers, to be honest. They probably wanted nothing to do with her either, appalled that they raised such a horrible person. Even though she talked bad about them all the time, she used them for all they were worth, just like she did with everyone else. We had a few social services visits, but she was such a good actor that we never got taken away.” You grimaced at the thought, knowing it was the only time she ever put in any effort to make the house look presentable. “When I was twelve, she met a new guy. At first, we couldn’t believe how much she changed. Now I know it was just to get him where she wanted him. Not that it would have been that hard, anyway.” You scoffed, rolling your eyes at the memory of the miserable man.

“She got a full time job, and the house was spotless. She stopped being so physical with us, but she was still the same old, miserable cunt under the surface.” You didn’t like to use the word often, but you knew for her, it was more than fitting. “When we first met the guy, he seemed nice. Then we moved into his house, and he showed his true colors. Probably why the two are still together.” You shuddered. “He was rich rich. Pool in the backyard, fancy dishes in the kitchen, two and a half bathrooms… all that stuff, but we weren’t allowed to touch anything. He barely acknowledged us unless it was to yell or to side with our mom when she got on one of her power trips.”

“She got a job at his office, and to everyone else, seemed like the perfect woman and mother. They still nursed a bottle of brandy before bed, and she still hated us, though. Kept up appearances, but never actually tried to change. We practically lived in our bedrooms because it was hell to be in the same room as the two of them, and they kicked Patrick out when he was seventeen. Hunter kind of… detached when dad ‘died’, and when we moved there, it got even worse.” You quoted around the word ‘died’, because still to this day, you could never be one hundred percent certain. “So I kinda took care of myself, which admittedly, was the worst person to do it. I’ve learned in my twenty-some odd years that the last person I can rely on is me.” You mumbled, swallowing hard as you confessed. “But, because of that, I have a really hard time letting anyone help. It’s a hard situation to be in, knowing I can’t do it on my own but too stubborn to lean on anyone else.”

“Can lean on me.” He offered, still flipping through the journal pages. He’d moved on to a different one now, still listening but making it a little easier on you. “Been asking you this whole time.”

“I know.” You whispered, saddened at the idea. It wasn’t that easy, even if you wished it was. “I want to.”

“We’ll work on it.” He shrugged as if it were no big deal. You watched him, your eyes sparkling with an emotion you refused to admit to, and wondered how he made it seem so easy to love you. Before him, nobody ever did. Loving you seemed like a curse or a nuisance to everyone who stumbled upon it, but he accepted it with open arms and begged for it to come again.

“She really fucked me up.” You concluded, switching topics so you did not have to dwell on the feelings running rampant in your stomach. “She’s all of my fears rolled into one big pile, and she’s made me hate myself just because I look like her. I don’t talk about it often because I feel like I should be over it, but it still bothers me so much. More than anything else in the whole world. I’m always looking over my shoulder, so self-critical, waiting to fail all because she pushed that narrative.”

“You don’t just get over that kind of thing, Utah.” Danny’s eyebrows furrowed as he spoke. “It stays with you for life, unfortunately. You get to choose whether it kills you or not. You get to choose what you do with it.”

“So far, I haven’t chosen very well.” You gave a sad smile, the thought haunting.

“I’d have to disagree.” He replied, his eyes quickly glancing up at you. “After everything, you’re still good. You want to help people, to help yourself. Even if you fell down a few times, it has to count for something.” You thought about it for a moment, your mouth running dry at the prospect of his words.

“Yeah, s’pose so.” You gave a bleak nod.

“For the record, I think you’re doing fantastic.” He said, still reading the journal so he didn’t come on too strong. He had learned in the long few months he’d spent by your side that you ran when things felt too serious. Always being mindful of nonchalance, he was doing the same thing now. “Even if you think you’re not, I promise that you are. Working your ass off to make ends meet so you can follow your dream. Not many people have the drive to do that.”

“Thank you.” You whispered, your voice cracking as your eyes welled with tears. That’s all you had ever wanted, to do good and be good, and to know he thought so was almost too much to bear. “Don’t say you’re proud of me.” You couldn’t handle it, and you feared if he did, you would fade away into nothingness.

“Too bad, ‘cause I am.” He grinned, not one bit sorry about it.

“Fuck you, Michigan.” You laughed, the action causing tears to leak from the corners of your eyes. You raised your palm to your face, swiping away the physical reminders of your painful life. The coolness of your skin offset the burning of your cheeks, bringing you back to earth for a moment. “I just… I know I can’t change anything, and I know that staying stuck in it will only ever make it worse, but I just wish they cared a little bit more. Not even asking for them to be perfect parents, or anything crazy like that, cause I know that would never happen. I just wanted them to love me, and love me more than they loved to get fucked up… more than they loved themselves, even just for a minute.” You let out a shaky breath, more tears blurring your vision as you let all of the pent up emotions out.

“To feel like I was worthy of loving, that I didn’t do anything to make them feel this way towards me, or do all of those horrible things.” Your eyes flickered to the back of your hands, and through the fast flowing tears, you could see faded white circles on the skin, reminders of a million cigarettes your mother smoked and used as punishments. “I’m a walking reminder of the people I hate the most, and it kills me. Nothing takes it away, no matter how hard I try to forget. It’s always a part of me, and I’m terrified that in sixty years, I’ll be the woman I fear more than anything else. I’m scared that right now, I’m exactly what she thought I would be; wasted potential, wasted space, and a poor excuse for a human.”

“Hey,” Danny said, reaching out as he wiped tears from your cheeks. “I can never understand it, Utah. I don’t know what that’s like, and it’s okay that I don’t. I don’t need to understand it to know that you are worth the entire world and more, that sometimes I really believe you’re the best thing to ever walk this earth. Nothing will take away from what already happened, but you need to know that you deserve better. You deserve everything. You’re worth loving, and it’s pretty damn easy to do it, too. You could never be her, Utah—you’re the best damn girl in the whole world, and she can’t hurt you anymore.” He paused, scooting a little closer so he could reach you more comfortably. “What happened was awful, but I will spend the rest of my days doing everything I can to convince you that she’s wrong.”

There it was again; the promise of forever, despite the end being closer than you could begin to comprehend.

You ignored the inadvertent confession of love because you were nowhere near ready to accept it. Well, that, and because the two of you had already done it a million times or more. Because of your fears, you’d grown to be well versed in saying ‘I love you’ while never having to say it at all.

“Stop it.” You said through gritted teeth, his sweet words only making it more painful. His love was too good, too strong, and it was challenging every miserable moment of your life and conquering it in an instant. He made it worth the pain. That in itself wasn’t a crime, but you were terrified of losing the feeling and reverting back to the person you were before you met him.

“Get used to it.” He said, firmly and unrelenting.

“I can’t.” You shook your head, recoiling at the sound of his words. “I can’t get used to it when I know you’re leaving.”

There it was, the elephant in the room finally addressed. As the words left your lips, you wished to swallow them back down and forget about them entirely. The look of pain on his face was haunting, and it hurt you even worse to know you had caused it.

“Utah, you don’t actually think I’m going to stop caring once I leave, right?” He asked, almost nervous to hear the answer. “Baby,” he continued, shoving the towers of journals out of the way. He crossed the invisible boundaries the two of you had subconsciously drawn, taking you into his arms without a second thought about it. “This summer… these last few months have meant everything to me. I’m not just saying all this stuff because it sounds good or feels right in the moment—I mean it. Knowing you, caring about you, being with you, has been the most fantastic experience yet. I came to New York for inspiration, and I found something way beyond what I ever thought was possible. I found you, and I’ll be damned if I let that go.”

“But you don’t know.” You argued, melting into his touch despite your brain begging you to run and hide, to leave before it was too late and he left first. “You could meet a million better people in Nashville. You could realize that I wasn’t as great as you thought I was when you were here. You could change your mind, find someone who can be what you deserve, and you wouldn’t have to worry about me. You wouldn’t have to stress, or care, or worry about anything other than you being happy. I can’t hold you back, and I can’t stand in your way.”

“Utah, that’s not even possible. You are the best, and you would never hold me back.” He said, his lips hovering just over your ear as he pressed a kiss to the side of your head. “Moving to Nashville and pursuing music has been the goal—the dream. At the same time, it’s going to be blind luck if we even make it. Part of the reason we put it off so long is because we’re scared, because we don’t know if it will be what we dreamed of. When we packed for New York, we were stuck. No writing, no inspiration, no idea. We came here to find it, and if we didn’t find it here, we were going to move on to somewhere new.”

You stopped everything; stopped crying, stopped panicking, stopped worrying, because all you wanted to do was listen. When it came to him, nothing else mattered.

“We got here, and before anything else, before we settled into the Airbnb, before we explored the town, I met you. My first morning in New York, I was nervous, tired, and uncertain. I thought for sure we bit off more than we could chew. I went to that diner alone, looking over that menu and worried about failing, wondering what the hell I was thinking, and I looked up and my entire world got flipped upside down. The sweetest smile and the prettiest eyes I’d ever seen, and for some reason that I still can’t understand, you looked at me the same way I was looking at you. In ten seconds, I knew why we came to New York, and I knew that I had nothing to worry about anymore.” He continued, his steady heartbeat against his chest calming as he confessed to everything he was feeling.

“I didn’t think you’d text me back, and I went home to Sam and talked his ear off all day about the pretty girl from the diner just off the highway. That night, we sat down and we wrote. Songs I never thought we’d even start, we finished. I told Sam I wanted to stay because it seemed like the right spot for us, but it was always because of you.” He said, the smell of his cologne suffocating you as you laid your head on his shoulder. For a moment, you truly believed that death was a friend so long as it was in his arms. “The more I got to know you, the more I felt that you were the very thing I was supposed to find. Since I met you, Utah, everything makes sense again. Music is easy, it’s fun, and I remember why we started doing it in the first place. I don’t feel like I’m walking through the clouds all of the time. I know where I want to be and what I want to do, and you’re the reason why.”

“Me too.” You struggled to suck in a breath, feeling like you were choking on the air as it passed into your lungs. Your chest was tight, your head pounding as you worried his hand was burning straight through your skin. “I felt like I was headed nowhere, that I went through all of this stuff for nothing and I’d be stuck at the Fox for the rest of my life. You changed it. You made things brighter.”

“That’s what I mean, Y/N. I know this stuff scares you, and to be honest, it scares me too. I don’t think either of us planned for this, but I don’t regret it, and I certainly don’t want to forget it. I want to know you, Utah. I want to be with you, just like this, and I don’t want it with anyone else. We don’t have to label it—we can be friends that care a hell of a lot too much, and that’s fine, as long as I’m the one who gets to listen, and I’m the one who gets to hold you like this.” He paused, seemingly overcome with emotion at the simple thought of someone else being this person for you. “You give me too much, make me feel too much for me to let this go. You think you don’t do anything for me, or you don’t deserve what we do for you… baby, you are everything. You do more than you could ever possibly imagine.”

“Danny,” you whimpered, the sentiments so powerful they were nearly tearing you in two. Your words were muddled with tears dripping from your eyes, dampening the fabric of his t-shirt. Why did it hurt so bad to be loved? Why did it hurt so bad to be treated so well? “I don’t know how to do this… I don’t know how to love, I don’t know how to be loved, but I want it so bad. I’ve never wanted anything more in my entire life, and I want it with you.” And for you to say that, you must have wanted it incredibly bad.

What had he done to you?

“We’ll figure it out, Utah.” He promised, pulling you closer to him. “Please figure it out with me. When I go to Nashville, I’m not leaving you. I want to figure it out, even if we’re a million miles apart, or if we’re right here together. You’re worth it.” It was so hard to take him seriously, to believe he could mean the things he was saying and that he was committed to staying.

“Do you mean that?” You asked, unsure if you wanted an answer.

“Of course I do.” He assured you, easing the fear ever so slightly. You sat in silence for a moment, neither of you sure where to go from there and terrified to say something wrong. “Do you want to figure it out with me, Utah?” He eventually asked, the uncertainty eating him alive. Your lips pressed tightly together, the tears slowing to a stop as you thought about it. You did want to figure it out, and only ever with him. There was no doubt about it, so why was it so hard to say it aloud?

“Yes.” You whispered, nodding your head against him.

At that, the two of you seemed to let out a simultaneous sigh of relief. You felt better to admit it, and he felt better from hearing it.

“Okay… so we will.” He concluded, his thumb gently grazing your bare arm as he let it drift over the skin. For the first time since you started seeing him, the future didn’t seem so bleak. “Why don’t you come with me?” He asked, seemingly out of nowhere. Your heart stopped, the aching in your head ceasing and your blood freezing solid in your veins.

“What?” You whispered, afraid to move and terrified to remain in his arms. Your entire nervous system seemed to be eating itself, leaving you in a puddle of anxieties on the floor where you once sat. You felt yourself seeping through the cracks of the floorboards, dripping into the musty basement below, becoming nothing while the question hung heavy in the air.

“To Nashville.” He clarified, as if you had no idea what he was talking about. “Come with me.” The feeling of his arm around you suddenly felt suffocating, constricting as you felt the urge to run.

Stop running, Y/N.

He wanted you to join him, to be a part of his life indefinitely. He wanted it so bad he was willing to take the risk, but were you? Could you risk everything all over again?

Your conversation with Dylan only a few days prior rang loudly in your mind.

“Then chase it, sweetheart. If he feels the same, don’t stick around for us. You gotta be happy. You gotta take care of you.” Dylan said, more serious than ever before. “You waste your time and energy keeping us alive, then you wonder why you can’t get ahead. We’d be lost without you, but I’m scared we’ll lose you if you stay, too.”

“You've got a good head on your shoulders and I know you could make it anywhere in the world. If he asks you to go with him, go. I know you worry about us, but you’ve been searching for a ticket out, baby.” He explained. “If this guy really is all that, it’s worth chasing. I’ve never seen you this happy.”

“You can make anything make sense if you try, angel.”

Could you make it anywhere in the world? Was the head on your shoulders as good as he thought it was?

You knew about life in New York, and although it was terrible by times and everything but what you moved there in search of, you knew it. You were comfortable with it, knowing exactly what to expect and what it would bring. How could you leave and start over, especially knowing that it could turn out worse than this?

Fear ruled your life now, in every way possible. It was the driving force of every decision, the very pillar in which you’d built your current life upon, and the thing that kept you alive. You weren’t sure if chaos is what you needed anymore, because you felt as though it was the very reason you’d led yourself down such dark paths. Although miserable, your job at the Fox and your shitty low income rental was comfortable and reliable. If you jumped the gun and went to Nashville, you were becoming the very person you tried not to be. You didn’t want to be impulsive or rash any more. You didn’t want to chase a whim or a possibility. You needed more, and you weren’t sure if Nashville would give you that, or if it would further shatter your already fragile, personal ecosystem.

You had only known Danny for a short while. Could you give up everything to start over with him?

At the same time, you had to ask yourself, what the hell did you think you were giving up?

Poverty, struggle, ghosts of your addictions and the monsters of Utah that still lived in your closet. A rocky relationship with a man who barely ever loved you, and certainly never more than himself, or drugs. A friendship with Dylan, who was absent far more than he was present. An apartment that was filled with mold and falling apart every time you turned a corner, and a job that would get you no further ahead.

You weren’t giving up anything spectacular, and certainly nothing that would ever benefit you.

So why were you still so afraid?

Maybe it was because you were still in denial about loving him. Maybe because you couldn’t yet face the biggest demon of all; your crippling fear of abandonment.

What if you left and started over with him, only for him to decide you aren’t what he wants?

Worse yet, what if you agreed, and by the time September rolled around, he didn’t want you to come?

He still did not know the full story, the truest version of you that you rarely ever shared. You felt it unfair to agree to such a proposal without him knowing all of the details. He deserved more than that, and you still feared you could not give it to him.

Although, after everything, Danny had consistently proved he was willing to stick by your side no matter what kind of baggage you carried with you, no matter how heavy it was. You truly felt in your heart that he would not run, that he would not hide, and he would not change his mind.

That was why it scared you so. Not his possible lack of commitment, but rather his profound desire to stay.

Not once in your entire life had anyone ever wanted to stay, and now that someone did, you had no idea how to handle it.

“Utah?” You snapped from your thoughts, looking back at him with wide eyes and shock-parted lips. Your lungs burned for a breath of air and your mind was swirling with every previous thought and all new ones that stemmed from them. What should you do?

“I… Danny.” You finally choked out, feeling the words get stuck in your throat. You cleared your throat, swallowing back the lump of nervousness blocking your windpipe, never once breaking eye contact with him. “That’s… that’s a big deal, you know? Huge deal, actually.”

“I know, I know.” He conceded. “You don’t have to answer right now, but keep it in mind. Consider it, please. That’s all I’m asking.”

“Are you sure?” You were still in shock, disbelief plaguing you worse than ever before. You felt guilty for seeming so appalled, but at the same time, nobody had ever wanted to love you so badly.

“F’course I am, or I wouldn’t have asked.” He chuckled. “I want you there with me, Utah. Don’t care how crazy or stupid it seems. I just do. Like I said, you can take some time… but just talk to me about it. Don’t get in your own head and trick yourself into believing that I don’t want you, or whatever else you come up with.”

Damn him and his observant nature.

“Okay.” You nodded, taking his hand in yours to show him that you were being serious. “I will think about it. I will talk to you. I promise.”

“Okay.” He reiterated your statement, smiling to himself. Just as he spoke, your ringtone sounded from across the room, the volume grating and worsening the already tense nature of the situation. “You can grab that, s’okay.” He assured you, giving your arm a gentle squeeze. “This conversation can definitely continue some other time.”

“Okay, thank you.” You breathed, slowly removing yourself from his arms.

As much as you wanted to keep talking to him, you were grateful for the distraction so you didn’t have to focus too long on the pressing topic at hand. You stood, stretching your legs before you stepped towards the couch where your phone lay atop a torn cushion. From his spot on the floor, Danny watched as you grabbed the device as soon as the ringing ceased, sending the caller to voicemail.

“Huh,” you hummed, shrugging as you saw Dylan’s name flash across the screen.

You wondered what he needed so late, and why he had to call. Usually Dylan never clicked the dial button, and ignored every incoming call he received. Before you could ponder it for too long, the ringing began again. You hit accept, placing the phone to your ear and immediately hearing a rush of background chatter. You rolled your eyes, realizing it was probably an attempt from both boys to get you down to the Pony to celebrate your birthday.

“Hey, Dyl.”

“Y/N?” He asked, his voice shaky as it sounded over the hum of background noise.

“Yeah, what’s up?” You could hear him sniffle, your stomach plummeting almost immediately as the sound reached your ears.

“Are you home? Please tell me you’re home, doll.” He seemed frantic, panicked as he awaited your answer.

“Yeah, I’m home. What’s wrong?” You noticed he must have pulled his phone away from his ear, muffled shouting in the background that vaguely resembled his voice tipping you off.

“Baby, it’s Vin. I need you.” He continued, speaking before the phone touched his ear again. “I wouldn’t call if it weren’t important. Please.” Your blood ran cold, your palms sweaty as your eyes squeezed shut. You wondered if your head was in the right place, if your fears were misguided or somehow perfectly correct. “Doll, m’serious.” The slight slur of his words sent your feet running across the linoleum flooring automatically, your hand wildly searching for your keys on the mess of your kitchen table.

“Heading down now. Don’t move, don’t touch him, and don’t talk to anyone.” You ordered, your fingertips grazing the frayed lanyard that adorned your high school logo. You pulled them free from the mess they were hidden under, hearing a few loose items go scattering to the floor. “Okay?”

“Okay. I promise.” The waver in his tone made it seem like he was holding back tears, only forcing you to move faster. You hung up the call, not even glancing back at Danny as you slipped a hoodie over your head.

“What’s wrong?” He called out to you, concerned about your sudden shift in mood.

“Ahh,” was the only thing you could force out, your brain jumbled and words failing you. “Pony. The boys are in trouble.” You blinked hard, finally managing to convey the message. In an instant, he was on his feet and stepping towards you. You were in such disarray that you didn’t even react, moving towards the door to slip on a pair of shoes.

“What kind of trouble?” He asked, still hot on your trail. You reached a hand out and laid in on his chest, giving a soft shake of your head.

“You should stay here—really, you should.” You rushed out, your eyes glistening with fearful tears. Danny could not be a part of whatever you were about to walk into, because if he was, you were certain he would have more questions than he could contain. More than you could answer. “Please. Maybe even go back home. I might be a while.” You nervously shifted on your feet, your hand trembling even as you held it against his chest. Your emotion was radiating through you, seeping from your pores and only making him worry more.

“Are you kidding? I’m not leaving, Utah. Whatever it is, I can help.” He argued, only causing your head to fall forward and begin to ache further.

“Danny, you can’t—I can’t… trust me.” You knew exactly what you would walk into, and having him see it too was not something you were willing to accept.

“Y/N.” He warned, showing that he wasn’t willing to back down.

“Ugh—fine, okay!” You let out a growl of frustration, your fingers flicking the lock open and closing around the door handle. You didn’t have time to argue with him, and you certainly did not have any extra energy to waste. “Just… do what I say and don’t ask questions, okay?” You yanked the door open, stepping into the hallway with him close behind.

“What?” He asked, slamming the door shut behind him. Greatly displeased about your request, he made sure to voice his opinion and broke one of the very few rules you had just put in place.

“Danny, please.” You pleaded, rushing down the steps and out the main entrance. The warm summer air smacked you in the face as you tumbled onto the sidewalk, already hearing the buzzing of a crowd by the entrance to the Pony.

“Okay.” He agreed, gruffer than you’d ever heard from him before. He wasn’t happy about the arrangement, but if it meant he could tag along to make sure you were safe, he’d agree to it.

With a momentary sigh of relief, you shoved your way through the crowd of people hovering outside the door, mostly made up of ex-gangbangers and sleazy wannabe’s. Short-skirted women hung off their arms, the smell of hairspray and cigarettes thick as you heaved open the heavy glass door, which had recently been proved to be bulletproof.

Inside was no better, although a little less populated. The ancient bartender sent you a nod from the counter, and the poker table was crowded with the regular attendees. The few booths that lined the walls were mostly empty, save for a few slumbering patrons who would still be there when the sun rose in the sky. Your eyes trailed to the bright flashing lights of the slot machines, but did not linger there for long. You stepped forward, straight towards the narrow hallway that led to the single-stall bathrooms.

As you progressed downward, you noticed a shadow of a man against the door to the men’s room, head in his hands under the flickering light above. You raced towards him, reaching him within seconds as your hand grabbed his bicep to pull him out of whatever train of thought he was stuck on.

“Dyl,” you greeted, breathless with a racing heart as he looked up at you. His eyes were bloodshot, the bags underneath darker than usual as a ring of red lined his nostril. In the moment, you felt anger surge from the very top of your head, pulsing into your fingers and down to the tips of your toes. Your grip on his arm tightened, your teeth clenched tightly together as you resisted the urge to smack him. “What the fuck did you guys do?”

“M’sorry doll—it just happened so fast. I didn’t know who to call, or what to do, an’ you always know.” He explained, stress wrinkling his eyes and tears shining over his blown pupils. His hands pulled at the strands of his short hair, and you could feel the pain radiating from him.

“Tell me what happened so I can help.” You tried again, your hand raising to his cheek so you could force him to look at you. Danny was close by. You could feel the warmth of his body pairing with the thick air of the bar, quickly making you feel like you were suffocating.

“We came down here for a few drinks and a game of poker. That’s it, I swear.” He explained, fidgeting with his hands as you forced his eye contact. “Weren’t even planning on scoring, but we was playin’, and someone wagered an 8ball, and we didn’t think we’d win, but we did.” He was rambling, sniffing hard as he recalled the events of the night.

“Just coke?” You asked, firm as you needed a straight answer.

“I-i don’t know! I think so, but he was all dopey when we got here, didn’t think much of it ‘cause that’s just him… figured he got laid and was in a good mood for once. We split it in the bathroom, cause it ain’t nothin’ to us, you know? A-an’ he was fine—we played pool, and then he came back here and he disappeared. Came to check on him, an’ he was all loopy. He was mad at the world, like worse than normal, and he was all sweaty and confused, like he didn’t know where we were or what we was doin’.” You could tell that Dylan was also feeling the effects of the drug full force—his hands were vibrating, his skin burning to the touch and his heart rapid against his chest. He was taking large gulps of breath, and you were unsure whether it was to calm himself or because he felt like he could not breathe.

“He started twitchin’, an’ he couldn’t hold himself up, so he was slumped ‘gainst the counter. I tried to get him home but he kept pushin’ me off. He started to get sick, n’ I knew what was comin’, so i called you. You know this stuff, you know? You can fix anythin’ doll. You’re the only one he listens to. You’re the one he was askin’ for. You’re the only damn one we can count on.”

Anger was the first emotion that came to mind; pure, unadulterated rage because of their carelessness and lack of self-awareness. Also, anger because after being treated like garbage by Vincent, you were the first one to run to his rescue, just like always, all for him to use it against you later on down the line. You wanted to be done, to stop getting involved in their bullshit and avoid all of the triggers and setbacks for yourself, but you couldn’t. You cared too damn much, even if you didn’t want to anymore.

Second to your rage was fear—horrific, paralyzing, blood-curdling fear. How long did Dylan wait to call? How bad would it be when you walked inside? Was this the time he pushed his luck too far?

Also, what the hell was Danny thinking, standing behind you listening in on this?

“Is he awake?”

“Last time I checked, but he’s a damn mess.”

“Nothin’ I haven’t seen before.” You muttered. “Do as I say and don’t ask me any questions, both of you.” You heard a murmur of agreement, deciding that was good enough.

‘Okay, Y/N. Put your brave face on. Emotions to the side, help him and get out.’ You repeated it in your head until you found enough strength to place your hand on the knob.

“Just stay here for now, okay?” You said to the other two, turning the knob and pushing the heavy door open. The rusted spring on top groaned in agony as the tension was applied, and the broken doorstop scraped against the grimy floor tiles.

When you first peeked inside, you saw nothing out of the ordinary; the regular dirt of the bathroom remained, and the flickering fluorescent lights overhead was a picturesque reminder of a cheap horror movie. You stepped inside, cautious and quiet as you turned your head towards the waterlogged wooden countertop, the tap dripping steadily and adding another ambient sound alongside the humming radiator.

“Vin,” you breathed, your stomach twisting with nausea as you saw him sat down on the floor, half propped up against the counter cabinets and the wall. His head was hung low, his neck slumped forward and his hands limp by his side. “Hey, Vin?” You tried again, taking a knee beside him and grabbing his face in your hands. When his head was eye-level, you noticed his eyes were still open, but just barely. His eyelids were growing heavier by the second, and his skin was sickly pale.

He barely responded to your words, but he knew it was you. Ever so slightly, he raised his hand and landed it sloppily on your hip. His eyes searched yours, finding comfort in your presence as his tongue darted out over his lower lip. His grip on you was loose, but you knew he was holding on as hard as he could, just to assure you he was still there. You raised your hand to his forehead, placing the back of it to his sweaty skin. He was dripping, his body still vibrating ever so slightly as you noticed that he was no longer burning up.

“Hey, baby, please keep those eyes open, yeah? On me. Don’t look away, don’t fall asleep.” Your hand was shaking as you used the sleeve of your sweater to dry his face.

“D-don’t feel good.” He stuttered out, his chest heaving with his breaths. He sounded like he was choking on air as he wheezed it in, his eyes drooping lower with every second that passed.

“I know, honey. I’m going to help, but you have to tell me what you took.” You urged him to keep talking, trying to swallow your panic as you watched him closely.

“Don't want to die.” His voice was weak, his words coming out more similar to a whine as his eyes met yours. In that moment, you thought you were going to crumble and crack, that your calm exterior would fade and you would die alongside him.

“Don't talk like that, Vin.” Your response was firm, but your voice wavered as you held his face in your hands. “Did you take anything else? Just blow? Please answer me.” You had to break your stare, closing your eyes tightly for a brief second after watching a drip of blood fall from his nose and line his chapped lips.

He nodded his head to the floor, slow but effective as it averted your attention to the bag of tiny, white pills that lay beside his limp hand.

For a moment, tunnel vision began and the only thing that existed in the room was you, and the damn bag of OxyContin tempting you just by existing. The air was knocked straight from your lungs, your chest burning and your head throbbing as your gaze remained fixed on the very thing you once believed would kill you. The powder lining the bag made your sinuses burn as you imagined snorting it, and you felt your mouth begin to water at the simple idea of swallowing them down. The chalky feeling in your throat was a phantom sensation, but it was so strong, so intoxicating that it felt impossible to breathe.

For a single moment, Vincent did not exist before you, nor was he in dire need of your help. The two boys waiting patiently outside the door no longer mattered, and the red key tag hanging heavy on your lanyard, stuffed so carefully in your pocket meant nothing.

There was nothing in the entire world, no earthly being or invisible force that could rival the gravitational pull that tiny little bag had on you. There was no amount of sense or reason that could force you away from it, and your commitment to sobriety disappeared the minute it was in your sights, demolished when the demons themselves were within reach.

No matter how healed you believed you were, drugs still ruled your entire life. That was as hard to choke down as the urge to use itself.

A gurgling groan from Vincent allowed for a moment of clarity, making you see the truth of the situation. Without even realizing it, you had reached out and grabbed the bag in your hand, clutching it so tightly that your knuckles began to ache and turn white. You took in a gasp of air, giving your head a violent shake as you understood the implications of your subconscious actions.

“Dylan!” You whined, biting the tip of your tongue as you fought the urge to vomit. You kept applying pressure until the hint of metal filled your senses, knowing it was the only thing distracting you from the sound of your own psyche. As if they were waiting for your call, two heads popped in the doorway. It didn’t take long for Dylan to understand what he was dealing with, and in a single second, he was kneeling next to you. “Take it.” You choked out through clenched teeth, but made no move to hand them over.

“Give them to me, doll.” Dylan reached out a nervous hand, wanting you to come to that decision on your own to avoid a fallout.

“I won’t—I can’t.” Your words were guttural, terrified of your own mind as it refused to let you hand them to him. “Please, take them. Please, Dylan.” At that, his hands clasped tightly over your own, his eyes pleading with you to do the right thing.

“Come on, angel. This isn’t what you want. It’s not worth it.” He bargained with you, keeping his voice low.

“God, don’t you think I fucking know that?” You snapped, the vicious, venomous version of yourself quickly making an appearance. Very rarely did that side of you show, but it was always because of the same thing. “I wish it was that easy—I wish I didn’t want it.” Guttural, desperate, and exhausted, you didn’t need him to reason with you. “Take it from me, Dyl, ‘cause I won’t give them to you. I know you don’t like it, and you don’t want to do that to me, but you have to.” You pleaded. “Don’t be afraid. Don't be nice to me. I love you, and I need you to be mean. I’m going to get mad, and angry and upset, I’ll call you names and say shit I don’t mean, but it’s the right thing for both of us.” You continued, nodding to Vincent on the floor. You couldn’t stop the tears leaking from the corner of your eyes as your fingers clamped further around the bag in your hand.

Dylan grabbed your face in one of his hands, leaning forward and placing his forehead on yours. The feeling was grounding, reminding you of life after the high, of the things much more important than the urge to use that seemed to be taking over. You were shaking, every nerve ablaze and desperate to be freed.

“I love you, doll. Don’t hate me for it.” He said, his fingers gripping the thin plastic as he tried to pull it from your grasp. He held your head to his, forcing you to look at him to remind you of what was at stake as he wiggled his fingers under your own, your clammy palms making it all the easier for him. Not that your strength could ever rival his, but in the moment, he struggled to overpower you. Something inhuman took over when it came to drugs, something so sinister it made your head spin.

Eventually, he freed the pills, quickly closing them in his hand and stuffing them into his pocket. Immediately, you sprung forward, a switch flipping in your brain as your hand began grabbing at his wrist. Your nails scratched at his skin as you did everything in your power to get them back.

“Dylan, baby, please. I changed my mind.” You gasped, desperately pleading when you realized what you had given up. It didn’t seem so hard to resist until they were gone.

“No, doll. Absolutely not.” He shook his head, his hand remaining in his pocket as he watched your feeble attempts at overpowering him. A feral noise escaped you, a mix between a growl and a whine as panic began to creep up on you.

“Dylan, I’m not fucking joking.” You tried again, using all of your might to pull his hand free. He didn’t budge, staying strong despite watching you turn to a mess in an instant. He may have hated seeing you so pained, but not as much as he hated seeing you use.

“Neither am I.” He was stern, beating himself up for subjecting you to this even though he had no other option.

“Fuck you!” You spat, putting as much venom in your tone as you could muster. He recoiled at the sound, his eyes taking in your burning cheeks and fiery eyes. “Useless, no good for nothing, self-righteous, fucking prick.” You couldn’t help yourself, the worst version of you resurfacing and desperate to be heard after being repressed for so long. Dylan wasn’t hurt; if anything, he was biting back a laugh at your ridiculous behavior. If anyone knew the mind of an addict, it was him.

“This isn’t you, sweetheart. You don’t mean that.” His calm, soft rebuttal made you even angrier, but there was a soft spoken voice in the back of your mind pleading with you to see reason. “I love you—you’re better than this.”

You were better than this. At the end of the line, you were far more than the person you presented yourself as in the moment. You knew that, you knew how evil the addiction could make you, how vile you were when you craved the high, but it didn’t matter. Right now, it was the only thing you could think of, the very reason your heart beat and the driving force for each breath that filled your lungs.

“Please, doll. Think about it. Get through it. For me, for Vinny.” He whispered, his lips placing a delicate kiss on your forehead as he talked you through the worst of it. The need was pulsing under your skin, throbbing behind your eyes, drying your veins of the blood and replacing it with desperation. Your throat ached, your chest tight as you tried to listen to what he was saying.

You couldn’t do it; you weren’t strong enough to withstand it. You could feel the pillars you’d rebuilt cracking, wearing under the pressure and threatening to collapse.

And then you felt it—a small, barely there pressure on your hip, hardly even moving the fabric that lay under the hand that moved.

Vincent was still there, giving as much as he could in the moment, reminding you that you were better than the substance that used you.

“Oh my god.” You broke, taking in a gulp of breath as you snapped out of the trance you were previously stuck in. Vincent needed you, and more than he ever had before. You couldn’t let your mind beat you, especially when someone was relying on you. “Take everything. His wallet, the drugs, all of it—take it.” You snapped, a whirlwind of emotions ravaging you all at once. The anger, the fear, the unrelenting and undying urge, it was still there and growing worse by the minute. You pushed it back down, trying again to shake off the claws dug deep in your skin. You ignored the desires begging you to give in, covering it with concern as you squeezed your eyes shut and remembered why you were there. “Where’s his keys? His car?”

“I-in the shop.” Dylan confessed, stress clear in his tone from the moment the two of you shared just moments before. Your sudden shift was giving him whiplash, like two completely different people were in front of him at once. “We walked here after work. Was gonna crash at Lil’s house.” Lillian, Vincent’s on-again-off-again fling that was worth no more than the dirt on the bottom of your shoe. A no good, selfish woman who let addiction get the best of her and had zero intent to change. The same woman he ran to every time the two of you fought, and the very same woman who encouraged every behavior you were begging him to change.

“Fuck, Dylan!” You exploded, overcome with anger in a moment of weakness. “The fuck do you expect me to do? Carry him there?”

“I don’t know, Y/N!” He yelled back, just as passionate and reliant on his emotions.

“Call an ambulance?” A third voice cut in, much calmer and much more relaxed than the two of you. Your head snapped towards the door, seeing Daniel standing with his arms crossed over his chest. You couldn’t read him, only worrying you more as you tried to pick apart his stony face. How much did he see? How much did he hear? How the hell would you explain yourself now?

If you thought telling him the truth would hurt before, it was nothing compared to the storm that was coming.

“Can’t do that.” Dylan shook his head, reaching into the pocket of Vincent’s jeans to grab his wallet.

“Why not?” Danny continued. “He needs professional medical help—don’t think either of you can do that. Call a damn ambulance.”

“Can’t afford it, Danny.” You shook your head, shutting the idea down before he could bring it any further. “Wonder if Al will let me borrow his old station wagon?” Al, the bartender for the last forty years, had come to your rescue a time or two when you faced similar situations. You knew that if all else failed, he wouldn’t let you down. “Wonder if that piece of shit would even make it to the county.” You felt like collapsing, exhausted and at your wits end. You wiped Vincent’s face again with the back of your hand, cleaning the bodily fluids in a feeble attempt to preserve his virtue.

You knew that no matter what you did, both of you had shattered any bit of faux strength you so often tried to show others. You were at your weakest, and he was knocking on death's door for the hundredth time.

“I’ll ask’m.” Dylan grabbed the last bag on the floor, hiding just under Vincent’s ass, and stuffed it in his pocket. Then, he rose to his feet, pushing past Daniel who was still standing stoic in the doorway. He needed to get the drugs away from you, and get the three of you on the move. The only two people in the entire world he held any semblance of love towards were succumbing to the same disease, and he had little idea of how to help.

“Call 911, Y/N.” Daniel continued now that the three of you were alone, hoping to speak some sense into you.

“I can’t.” You said through gritted teeth, holding Vincent upright as his eyes began to roll back in his head. He was slumping down, falling to the left and sliding closer to the floor, and you weren’t nearly strong enough to compete with his dead weight. “That’s 1400$ I don’t have. Besides, they’ll ask questions, and we can’t answer any questions right now.”

“Yeah, questions that will save his life.” At that, something switched inside of you. Your skin prickled with indignation, white-hot energy filling your entire body as Dylan came back inside with a set of keys clutched tightly in his hand.

“He’s violating his parole. He’ll go to jail.” You snapped, cushioning the side of Vincent’s head as it fell into the cabinets beside him. “He’ll get stuck with a bill none of us can afford. It’s going to hurt him far more than it’ll help him.” You finally understood the depth of the differences between you and the boy arguing. “Besides, it’ll take them longer to get here than it will for me to drive him there myself.” You were right in believing he could never understand, and you couldn’t overlook the judgment in his eyes as they flickered to your blood spattered palms. Vincent’s nose continued to drip, your palms catching the brunt of it and the rest landing on his white shirt. You needed to get him out of there before he started seizing, or something worse, and he was not helping.

“Y/N—“ he tried, but you held up a hand to silence any further thoughts. He could see the shaking of your limb, realizing how emotionally attached you were to the situation in an instant. In the initial shock, it was easy to overlook how pertinent the issue was to you, how deeply it seemed to be affecting you. After all he had seen, the drugs in your hand, the ferocity in your tone when Dylan took them away, the terror in your expression now, he understood that more than anything, someone needed to help you.

You were running in circles to help everyone else while you began to drown.

He wanted to be there for you.

“Are you going to help me, or just fucking stand there and make it harder?” You barked, your eyes brimming with tears. Instant regret washed over you, making you feel even worse as you realized how little he deserved such a response. “I’ve done this before. I know what to do, and I can do it again, but I just can’t do it alone.”

“Okay.” Danny conceded, saddened at the sight of you gripping at loose ends. You were near insanity, running the facts over in your head to try and find a solution, and he was making it harder for you, even if the easiest answer was right under your nose. He promised he’d do as you asked, and as it seemed, time was of the essence.

“D-Dyl, I need you to help me get him off the ground.” You stuttered out the command, your cheeks damp with tears as you watched the little color left in Vincent’s cheeks begin to drain even further. “The wagon’s out front?

“Yeah, doll. Made sure of it.” Dyl approached you, ready to move him once you regained your composure.

“Kay, get him up.” You replied, keeping one hand on his head as Dylan slipped his arm under Vincent’s. You did the same on the other side, struggling slightly as the two of you stood from your crouching position. Dylan was much stronger than you were, and you were barely a help even as you got him on his feet. You stood in front of him, keeping a firm hand on him to steady him as his eyes flickered from closed to open a few times. “Hey, you’re okay.” You whispered, your heart aching as you took in the entire state of him.

“Love… you.” He wheezed out, the words hitting you hard and prompting no feelings in which the sentiment normally would. The only time he ever said it was when he thought he wouldn’t get another chance.

Then, to add a little extra salt to the wound, he coughed and sputtered for a moment, his head falling downward as he lost the strength to hold himself up. You barely registered what happened as his shoulders lurched forward and he lost control of all bodily functions. Danny recoiled in reaction to him choking on the vomit that forced its way from his stomach, landing less than gracefully down the front of you and onto your shoes. Unphased, you slipped his arm around your shoulders and with Dylan’s help, brought him out of the bathroom without sparing a second glance at Danny. He followed behind, not daring to speak another word.

“Just get him to the backseat.” You whispered, mostly to yourself as you took steps in time with Dylan, who was still vibrating as he rode his own high. “I hate you guys, you know. I hate you so fucking much.” You muttered, knowing that not a word of it was true, because love was the very thing keeping your feet moving. “I told you I wasn’t going to do this anymore, that I couldn’t do it, and here I am, like it never fucking mattered at all.”

You were feeling so much all at once that the only way to express it was through anger. Dylan knew, even as he took the brunt of your harsh words, that you would do it all over again in a heartbeat, just like they did for you when you needed it. The three of you, thick as thieves, partners in crime, always had each other's backs. Since the very day you met them, it had been that way. They picked you up off the floor at your worst, and you did the same for them, even if it was nearly killing you all to do so.

Sometimes, when you were alone and stuck in your thoughts, you wondered if what the three of you had was real love and friendship, or just a bond formed to help you survive the horrors of your lives.

Before you made it to the front door, as if it were divine timing, a body stepped in the way, blocking the exit and furthering the stress you were already experiencing. You looked up, meeting the beady eyes of a bleach blonde who you’d come face to face with far too much for your liking. Her hair was stringy and her skin was more sallow looking than usual, making your already upset stomach churn again. When you first met her almost two years ago, she was pretty, full of life and all smiles. That didn’t last long once her addiction got the best of her, and you barely recognized her anymore. Twenty two and her face bordering forty, you felt her time was coming sooner than anyone else expected.

“Lilian, get the fuck out of my way.” You spat, your teeth grinding together as the smell of her tacky perfume reached your nose. One too many times you’d walked in on her in Vincent’s bed. One too many times had her recklessness and carelessness resulted in your own heartbreak. One too many times had she enabled Vincent within an inch of his life.

“Where you takin’ him, doll? Thought he made it pretty clear he didn’t want nothin’ to do with you.” She said, her eyes barely on the boy in question, knowing exactly what was happening and only intending to give you a harder time. Was she really using this as a pissing contest? A reason to fight over a relationship with a boy you didn’t even want?

“Didn’t see you in the bathroom trying to save his life.” You hissed, holding Vincent a little tighter to you. Without even wanting to, you found yourself possessive over him, pitted against a woman who you barely knew because of his careless and reckless behavior. “Forgot, you only give a fuck about him when it benefits you or pisses me off.”

“Lillian, now’s not the time. Get the fuck out of here.” Dylan took your side, also feeling the effects of Vincent’s dead weight hanging off him.

“Right, but I believe you got somethin’ that belongs to me.” She gave a twisted little smile, reaching forward and grabbing the corner of the bag of Oxy’s hanging from Dylan’s pocket. She dangled it in front of your face for a moment, flaunting the fact she was partially responsible for the situation you found yourselves in at the moment. Losing all rationality, you saw red.

“You? You fucking gave it to him!?” You seethed, held back only by the weight of Vincent’s arm around your shoulder. “You’re fucking responsible for this?!” Instead of replying, she laughed in your face, lighting the fuse on a deadly bomb. “I should fucking kill you—“

“Not worth it, doll.” Dylan cut in, his gaze flickering to you with desperate eyes. Then, his gaze cut to Danny, also fearful of how this entire ordeal was affecting him. “We have to go.”

“Right,” you choked out, caught between two feelings that were tearing you apart. “Stay the fuck away from him, Lilian, I swear to god.” You warned, taking a step to the side so you could get around her. Dylan followed suit, and without any further delay, Danny held the door open and the two of you.

The night was still warm, the summer air clinging to your filthy skin as you struggled to guide Vincent towards the bartender's old car. Always unlocked, you instructed Daniel to open the back door so you could get Vincent inside. With a bit of a struggle, you and Dylan managed to get the boy down on the backseat, laying him on his side atop the leather covers just in case he was sick again.

“Keys.” You held out a shaking hand to Dylan as he closed the door. He gave you a sideways glance, a grimace on his lips as he challenged you without speaking a word. “Give me the keys, Dylan!”

“Don’t know if you should drive, doll.” He hesitated, the metal keyring dancing around his index finger.

“You’re high.” You shot back, knowing out of the two of you, you were the better option. You reached again for the keys, but he pulled them away from you, wasting another precious second.

“Jesus, I’ll drive.” Danny snapped from behind you, the most sober and level-headed out of the three of you. Your head turned to him, your eyes watery and wide as you once again realized what you were putting him through. “Give me the keys.” Danny ordered, and your eyes flickered to Dylan, realizing that he was just as shocked and sorrowful as you were.

“Yeah, okay.” Dylan conceded, trusting him enough to hand them over.

“Let’s go.” Danny ordered, more serious than you had ever seen him before. You mustered a small nod, motioning for Dylan to get in the front seat.

“You tell him where to go.” Your voice quivered as you spoke, placing a shaking hand on the back door handle as you opened it up again. “I’ll sit with Vin.” Dylan had no problem with the arrangement, following your decision without any hesitation. Once the three of you were in the car, Danny turned over the sputtering engine a few times before the car came to life.

The roomy backseat made it easy for you to tend to Vincent while remaining somewhat safely seated. He was on his side, facing the front of the car while you sat on the edge of the middle seat, turned towards him. You had a tentative hand on his face, brushing his wet hair from his sticky forehead. You felt the seat sinking beside you, the cold ominous air of death surrounding you as you prayed for it to leave him alone.

Religion was never something you found yourself akin to, except for moments like this. You would exert every ounce of energy, every single breath and every sliver of hope to save his life, and if that meant praying to a god or an entity you did not truly believe existed, you would do it in a heartbeat. Muttering under your breath, you pleaded for his life to an empty sky above, wondering if anyone was listening, or worse yet, if anyone cared.

Had the three of you pushed your luck so dangerously far that there was no more grace to be given? Had Vincent laid in the backseat of this very station wagon with sweaty skin and rolling eyes so many times that there was no more mercy to be spared? Had he evaded death enough times to anger the reaper himself? Was death creeping over your shoulder because you had taken too long to help him, or because help was no longer worth a dime?

Every bump in the road seemed to affect his already thready pulse further. Every lull in speed when a potential cop car passed made your stomach churn with sickness. For a single moment, as you listened to the whir of wheels on the cracked pavement below, you wondered if this would be the last time. If he pulled through, would he clean himself up? If he died, would you finally be able to heal and move on?

No.

Death was not the outcome, and the grim sat beside you in the backseat would not threaten you. Peace would not be possible if he succumbed to the sickness, and grief was a one way ticket to death for yourself.

“Vincent, I swear to fucking god, if you die on me.” You were beginning to grow delusional, delirious as you spoke to the near corpse laying beside you. He wasn’t dead yet. His heart was beating, and he was breathing. You knew deep in your heart that he could hear you, whether that be actually hearing you or in a greater, more spiritual sense. If talking to him kept him going (and kept you sane), you didn’t give a damn what the boys in the front seat thought of it. “You don’t get to die on me. You don’t get to leave me here. You don’t get to do this.” You growled through clenched teeth, feeling tears stream down your cheeks as you watched your blood splattered hands cup his pale cheek.

You were so concentrated on the boy below you that you did not even notice the flickering eyes in the drivers seat, checking in on you every few seconds through the rear view mirror. You did not notice the concern etched in his features, the fear, the confusion, nor the worry. You didn’t notice Dylan’s shaking hand as he pointed Danny in the right direction, or the flickering streetlights that were passing you by. You didn’t notice anything other than the shallow breaths still managing to move Vincent’s chest, and his fluttering eyes below the closed lids.

If he pulled through, you would praise every single god to exist to mankind. You would kiss the ground and send your love to the clouds above, and you would never doubt the power again (that’s what you told yourself every time, though). But, you couldn't help but fear what would come next. What painful conversations would ensue in the barren parking lot of the county hospital? The stark white room with fluorescent overhead lights? In this very car, or in your apartment after you were home safely?

You couldn’t help but think back to the bag of pills, how heavy it sat in your hand, how alive you felt for the first time since you gave it up for good. Your heart had never beat so frivolously, so intently for something in your entire life. You could feel your throat close around the powdery outside, every scratch and lump it created on the way to your stomach. You could feel it with such intensity that you had yourself fooled for a moment, believing you had really swallowed them down instead of handing them over to Dylan.

Your entire body ached with need for the one thing you pledged to stay away from, every nerve ending on fire and a lesser, more evil version of yourself clawing its way to the surface. You tried to fight it, to ignore it, but every time you cast your attention in another direction, it only screamed louder. Your head felt like it was going to explode, like your skull was cracking and splitting in half from the throb of the grey matter against it. Your muscles ached and your joints felt rusted, and you wondered if you could pull through it this time or if it would be the inevitable end of another wasted streak.

You didn’t want to be this person; you fought so hard, lost every tooth and nail in the gruesome battle, and still somehow ended up at a loss. You were tired of losing to the call of substance every single time, exhausted from wasting so much energy to end up being something you were always meant to be anyway. Recounting the failures of your parents moments before you found Vincent in the bathroom of the Pony only reminded you of one, terrifying fact.

The only thing you had ever been taught was how to be an addict.

Everything else, you had to learn, to grow and figure out yourself along the way. Right now, facing two different realities for yourself, the choice seemed easy, but it wasn’t the one you wanted. Who teaches you how to stay sober? To resist the temptation every time? To appreciate life despite it only ever being a shitty, torturous thing? Who taught you how to be good? To be better than what your parents were?

You.

You taught yourself.

But what the hell were you to do when you couldn’t depend on the only person who ever taught you right from wrong? What the hell could you do when you couldn’t depend on yourself?

Vincent twitched below you, his chest rising and falling in a jagged manor as he struggled to draw in a breath. You could see the life draining from him, slowly slipping from the mortal body he once lived within. His limbs twitched, and for a moment you feared the dreaded seizure you supported him through once before, but this was different. The air was different, his breathing and his movements. It didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel the same. You leaned down, trying to get closer to his mouth to hear the sound of his breath. It seemed shallow, choppy as it got caught in his throat, and there was a slight gurgle rattling deep under his breastbone.

“Please, Vin.” You pleaded, closing your eyes and resting your head on his still frame. Your tears were soaking through the filthy, torn white tank top form fitted to his body. “Don't do this to me. Not after everything we’ve been through. You can’t leave me here like this.”

“We’re here, doll.” Dylan said, reaching around from the front seat and placing a loving hand on your arm. “Time to get him inside. He’ll be okay.” You barely registered he was speaking to you, your head still resting against Vincent as your eyes began to close.

For a single moment, all of the pain and all of the agony bled from every one of your pores, fleeing you completely. You surpassed a threshold of hurt, feeling your entire body begin to numb. It started in your toes, slowly spreading up your legs, and then it began in your fingertips.

“He’s not gonna make it.” You managed a raspy warning, feeling the numbness trickle up your neck. You’d seen this before, this situation, but never quite the way it was happening now. It was different, and dread began to eat away at you. The numbness, although terrifying, felt nice. It was a break from the usual feeling ravaging your soul, and you wanted to close your eyes and succumb to nothingness alongside him.

“Don’t say that, Angel.” Dylan got out of the car, quickly moving to the backseat. You barely noticed him open the back door beside yours and Vincent’s head. All you could focus on was the gurgling noise in Vincent’s throat, preparing yourself for the worst.

You came so close, but it just wasn’t enough.

That seemed to be the mantra of yours and Vincent’s tragic tale.

“Y/N, get up.” Dylan ordered, his voice far away in your mind, echoing through the emptiness inside your head. “Y/N!”

Still, nothing.

Not enough.

“Baby,” this whispering voice was different. It was calm, collected, comforting. It made your eyes flicker upwards from their fixation on the scummy fabric on the back of the driver's seat. It gave you hope. “Get up so we can get him inside. He’s going to be okay.” Your eyes met a pair of warm, brown ones. The same ones that breathed inspiration into you when you were at your lowest. The very ones that got you through every hard day since. The exact ones that made you feel loved when you thought it to be impossible.

“I can’t.” You whimpered, your cheeks stained with tears as you struggled to keep your eyes on him. “I can’t let him go in there and die alone.”

“You can. He’s not going to die.” Danny said, firmer than before. “You’re going to take him inside, and they’re going to help him.”

Logically, you knew you were wasting precious time. On the other hand, your desolate heart only felt comfort at the thought of Vincent being within arms reach.

“Okay.” You whispered, moved only by Danny’s gentle touch on your knee.

You sat up, allowing for Dylan to pull Vincent from the car. He struggled to stand him on his feet, finding it much easier when you slid from the backseat and took his other side. Your movements were mechanical, robotic—no emotion or feeling in them at all, and only a care for this to be over. Wordlessly, the two of you dragged him towards the automatic doors, the feeling of dread growing larger as you saw the flickering overhead lights of the rundown lobby.

Dylan barely made it through the second set of doors before he was bellowing out for help, calling to anyone who would listen. The frail looking woman at the reception desk immediately looked up to see what the disturbance was, but as soon as her eyes landed on Vincent, all malice fled her face. She pressed a call button on her desk, bustling over to the three of you and nearly tripping over herself in the process.

The whole moment went by in a blur of pale blue scrubs and shouting. Your eyes seemed to be going blurry, tunnel vision threatening to take over as you felt the (literal) weight of Vincent being taken off your shoulders. A group of nurses helped him onto a stretcher, asking the two of you a round of rapid fire questions that all flew directly over your head.

You heard Dylan give them the least bit of information possible, just enough to help but not enough to get involved.

Overdose. Oxy and Coke. About an hour. Not that I know of. No. No. Yes.

You repeated it in your head, trying to bring yourself back to earth. The numbness continued to grow worse as you looked down at your stained skin, the crimson color making your skin prickle with pins and needles. You flipped them palms to the floor, looking over the appendages as you tried again to repeat Dylan’s answers in your head. White static filled your brain, a low ringing sounding deep in your ears. You flipped your hands over so you could look at your palms.

Overdose. Oxy and Coke. About an hour.

You looked up from your hands, noticing the stretcher being wheeled back behind a set of large wooden swing doors. Someone was doing chest compressions as they rolled Vincent away.

About an hour. Not that I know of.

The room was spinning, the lights too bright and the noise too loud. Still, it couldn’t be any louder than the incessant ringing in your ears. It couldn’t bring you back to earth. You feared that nothing could.

No. No. Yes.

“Come on, Angel. Let’s go outside.” Dylan’s hand landed on your shoulder, but you were unmoving. Your blood felt still in your veins, your lungs not daring to expand so you could draw in another breath. With every second that passed, the faster the room swirled. You couldn’t move, you couldn’t speak, you couldn’t think.

Oxy and Coke. No. About an hour.

You blinked hard, studying the crevices in your fingernails that were caked with dirt. The lines in your palms were painted red, the dry substance beginning to flake off and only leave behind a slight residue of color.

Yes. Overdose. Not that I know of.

It was a jumble of words, not even the short slew of answers making sense anymore. Dylan had given up, opting to force you outside rather than wait for you to come-to. He didn’t want to stick around for any more uncomfortable questioning, and he didn’t want you to be their next subject. The night was hot, the air laying over you in a thick, uncomfortable blanket.

Overdose? Coke and… Yes.

You fell to your knees on the pavement, your body too heavy to hold upright. Your head fell forward on your shoulders and you squeezed your eyes shut, trying to pull yourself back together. You were so far away from reality that you did not even notice the aching sensation in your knees from the contact.

You felt someone kneel before you, taking your face in their large hands to help bring you back to earth. Behind your eyes the details only further muddled together, and you wanted so badly to focus on the warmth of the touch instead of the horrors in the blackness.

“Y/N.” the voice echoed across the empty parking lot, muffled from the ringing and lost in the endless swarm of thoughts. “Utah.”

Michigan.

He was there, right in front of you, still with you. He didn’t leave, he wasn’t afraid, and he still cared. Your Michigan, your knight in shining armor, the rainbow glowing brightly against the gray rain clouds.

“Overdose. Oxy and Coke. About an hour.” You breathed aloud, finding the strength to open your eyes. It was coming back to you, the whole picture rather than the speckled images flashing just behind your eyes. You could notice the prickle of feeling begin to return to your fingertips, your heartbeat still agonizingly strong as it pulsed under your skin, but no longer so much so that it was throwing you off course.

“What’s wrong with her?” Michigan. You could hear him talking to Dylan, asking in desperation as he digested a scene he had never been a witness to before. He had never seen you like this before, and he was terrified for your wellbeing. Michigan. Your Michigan.

“Just in shock, man.” Dylan made a feeble attempt at consoling him. “Seen it a few times… she’ll snap out of it.”

“How are you so calm about this?” Danny was taken back at Dylan’s constant coolness, even in a moment like this.

“Seen it a few times before.” He repeated, hoping that got his message across loud and clear. “She’s a hell of a lot stronger than any of us. She’ll be good, promise man.” Dylan assured him. “Now, we gotta get Al’s car back to’em ‘for his shift’s done.”

“What about her?” Danny looked back to you, still on your knees in the ambulance bay in front of the entrance of the emergency department. Your hands were clasped tightly over your ears, trying to silence the ringing that was driving you to insanity. At least now your eyes were open, and you were looking at him, but he was unsure if you were seeing him. He had never quite seen the expression on your face before, your eyes blank and empty, your features etched like they were stones, unmoving and emotionless. Your entire body was still aside from your hands trying to force themselves further over your ears.

“She’ll be fine.” Dylan repeated, placing a hand on Danny’s shoulder. “She’ll come back ‘round, and she’ll be pissed if we stay.”

“I can’t leave her here like this, Dylan.”

“You can, and you will.” Dylan replied, firmer as he nodded his head towards the car. “We can go back, and you can get your car. I gotta get out of here, but you can come back if ya want… she’ll be a little less loopy. Trust me when I say, I can’t be here if the cops come askin’. You shouldn’t be either.”

“What about her?”

“She will be fine.”

And you would be. You knew the drill better than all three of you combined, and once your composure came back, you would know exactly what to do, and you would be happy the other two weren’t there to fuck it up for you or Vincent.

“I know her, man. I know trust ain’t somethin’ that comes easy, but you gotta believe me.”

“Okay.” Danny whispered, his eyes cutting back to you, still stoic as you remained in the same position. He leaned forward, his hands clasped over yours still covering your ears, and placed a gentle, tentative kiss to your forehead. “I’ll be back, Utah.” He seemed like he wanted to say more, to say the very thing you both had forbade yourself from feeling, but he couldn’t. The time wasn’t right, and telling you now would only cause more trouble than anything else. Instead, he said it with his eyes, knowing that you did not recognize the look even if he so badly wanted you to know he felt that way.

Within a moment, Danny had pried himself from your side and the two boys got in the car. You did not even come to when the engine backfired as they sped from the parking lot. Your eyes remained focused on the distance, still looking but certainly not understanding.

You could almost hear the ticking of a clock as the second passed by, but you remained frozen in place. After a while, the numbness in your arms subsided, and the feeling in your face returned. Your memory flashed between two different places; the bag of pills in your hand, and the picture of Vincent lying in the backseat. Both places, the sound of the morbid rattling in his lungs played over and over again and the feeling of his chest catching on every rush of air was felt under your palms.

You wondered if you stayed here forever, if no more hurt could touch you. If you laid down on the pavement and gave into the rapidly growing nothingness in the deepness of your chest, would it all just stop?

You had two choices; get up and carry on, be the strong person Vincent and Dylan needed, or succumb to the looming doom that you always feared would catch up to you.

Two choices, both just as consequential and tempting, but neither getting you ahead of the demons you tried so desperately to leave in the past.

If you walked back into the hospital, you would run into said demons head on and pray they wouldn’t take you hostage again. If you died, even if you died sober, the addiction would still win.

The third option was standing on your feet and walking away. To go as far as your legs would carry you, only in the direction away from the mess of a second life you’d built, until you collapsed and death took you for its own anyway.

For a brief period in time, you questioned if the reaper sitting so close to you in the backseat of the station wagon was there for Vincent, or for you.

Maybe, your fates were still delicately intertwined like that had been for the last year, even if you tried so hard to cut the ties holding you together.

If he dies, so do you.

Death clearly wasn’t an option, nor was running, so you did the only thing you could; you got up and continued on, just like you had a million times before.

Getting up off the ground, fighting your way from rock bottom had never been the hard part. The struggle seemed to lie within the immediate aftermath. What the hell were you to do next?

You brushed the loose gravel from your scraped knees in a robotic manner, straightening up and turning back to the sliding doors you did not remember exiting through. Four steps was all it took for you to get inside the entryway. Two more steps and you were back under the flickering tube bulbs behind plastic panels in the ceiling. Three steps to the right and you were facing the waiting room for family and friends alike. One turn of your head and you located the public washroom, single stall and separated from the waiting room by one heavy, wooden door. Five steps forward and your hand clamped around the handle, and a half a step until you were inside.

The door closed behind you with a loud thud, causing you to jump in surprise. You felt your bones rattle, threatening to break through your skin. Every aspect of your being, all of your physical forms trying to separate themselves from each other. You advanced towards the sink, looking at your reflection in the mirror as you flicked the tap on. You didn’t know the woman looking back, sober, high, or strung out in shock. No version of you would have known the face in the mirror, with her sunken eyes and empty gaze. The cracked lips and puffy cheeks, managing to look pale and blazing red all the same.

You did not break eye contact with the stranger as you stuck your hands under the forceful stream of water, the searing heat not even breaking your focus or causing you to retreat.

“Overdose. Oxy and Coke. About an hour.” Even your voice was foreign to you, but you tried your best not to let it deter you. “Not that I know of. No. No. Yes.” A sigh of relief fell from your lips as you repeated the words without a hint of forgetfulness. You finally broke your staring contest with your reflection, looking down to your hands that were now rinsed free of any blood or dirt. Instead, your skin was scalding from the heat of the tap, aggressively red as you continued to hold them under the water. You raised one to the soap dispenser on the wall, pushing the button over and over again until the foam sanitizer was overflowing from your cupped palm falling onto the counter below.

You brought your hands together and began to scrub. All the way up to your elbows, in every crevice and crack, under your fingernails and between every finger. You weren’t sure how much time had passed, but when you returned your hands to the water and rinsed the suds away, the heat stung your skin aggressively. When the soap was washed away, your eyes still seemed to notice bloodstains on your pale skin, and more than that, you still felt dirty. Repeating the process a second time, you thought it would help. Instead, it seemed to make it worse.

You lost count of how many times you switched from the soap dispenser, to scrubbing, to rinsing, but by the time the dispenser was out of soap entirely, your hands were raw from the heat and the friction. You swallowed back a bitter taste as you cupped your hands under the water and splashed some on your face. You let out a hiss of pain when the boiling liquid washed the dirt from your stress-worn features, but carried on to repeat that process until you couldn’t withstand it anymore.

By the time you returned to the waiting area, your shirt was soaked with water droplets and your skin was desperate for a break, even if you still couldn’t shake the feeling of filth caking it. Your shaking hands raised to your line of vision, ready for the final inspection, but nothing but disgust raised in your chest as you remembered the patterns of speckled blood and dirt that once decorated them in perfect order.

“Excuse me?” Your head snapped up to the entryway, eyes wide as they landed on a nurse holding a clipboard. With a vibrating finger, you pointed to yourself as if to ask if she was talking to you. She gave a bleak nod, motioning for you to join her in the hallway. One foot in front of the other, you finally found yourself in a deserted area of the hallway, face to face with a health professional you assumed to be trying to save Vincent’s life.

“Is he alive?” You asked, steady and calm, your own voice shocking you as you spoke. You blinked twice, trying to be normal.

Just be normal.

“Unfortunately, we can only release information to the next of kin. Are you next of kin?”

“No.” You shook your head. “Don't know the guy from a hole in the ground.”

“Right.” She nodded. “At all?” You shook your head, catching her gaze as you tried to piece together her intent.

Fuck.

She remembered you. It was the same nurse who questioned you the last time you were here.

“Not at all, ma’am.” You reiterated your claim, trying not to give any semblance of recognition from your eyes.

“So you can’t answer any of these questions?”

“Try me.” You shrugged, keeping your tone steady and calm, carefree and cool.

“Patient’s name?”

“No clue.” You shook your head. “Reminds me of a guy I met a long time ago. His name was… oh, fuck… Alex?” You chuckled to yourself, looking off into the distance as you feigned a fake smile. “Not the same guy though, don’t know his name.”

“Date of birth?”

“Could be an Aries, but that’s just a guess. Probably doesn’t help you much.” You rattled off another ridiculous answer. The nurse did her best to hold back the eye roll trying so hard to escape.

“Ma’am, I’m not sure you understand the seriousness of this situation. If you have any information that can help, we need to know.” She rattled off the same spiel you’d heard a million times.

“Fine—I don’t know his name, or his date of birth. Met the guy at the bar tonight, he had a little too much fun.” You snapped, sticking to the same recycled story you used every time.

“You’re sure?” She asked again, raising an eyebrow. You felt less bad about giving her the run-around, knowing if they had time for questions, he was okay.

“Positive.”

“Alright.” She noted something on her chart. “The police will likely have the same questions, but I’m not the police. What’s said between us is solely to help him, not to get either of you in trouble.”

“His blood type is O+, and he has no allergies.” You muttered, sucking your bottom lip between your teeth. “He has no next of kin.” You added, giving her a tight lipped smile.

“Seems odd to know that about someone you just met.” She replied, a frown decorating her lips.

“Like I said, Doc. Just met the guy. Don’t know his name or where he comes from. Call it intuition, or whatever helps you sleep at night.” You shrugged, stepping backwards and out of the conversation. “I’d really appreciate it if you could save his life.”

𓇢𓆸

June 29th, 11:58 AM

The time passed slowly, despite the early morning being filled with so much excitement. The cops did in fact ask all of the same things, but you were even more tight lipped than you were with the nurse. Danny returned not long after the cops held you hostage with their questions. He brought you a change of clothes and your pack of cigarettes and a lighter, assuring you he would wait outside as long as you needed. He promised to take you home as soon as you were ready, and expressed his gratitude that you were alright.

You couldn’t help but notice his lack of questions.

You wondered if when the smoke cleared, he would pack up and disappear without ever asking anything at all. You couldn’t blame him if he did, but the thought did sting. Maybe Nashville was out the window after all.

He didn’t overstep any boundaries, opting to wait outside to give you the space you needed, but made you promise to find him if you needed him. You appreciated his presence, but felt guilty for dragging him into such a mess.

And a mess is exactly what this was, no matter which way you looked at it.

Once Vincent was stable, the same nurse who questioned you before returned to advise you of the fact, breaking the rules entirely. And, because of your helpful comments, she sneakily slipped what room he would be in. After a while of debating whether you should sneak to his room or not, you decided that you didn’t wait around for nothing. Following the colored arrows on the floor, it was easy to find the barebones private single room in the back end of the emergency department. The tiles were squeaky and everything smelled heavily of sanitizer, and the rhythmic beeping of the monitors hooked up to the boy served as a comfort, knowing that no matter what, his heart was still beating.

For hours you sat in the uncomfortable padded armchair pulled close to his bedside, your hand loosely in his own as you flip flopped between listening to the beeping or the ticking of the clock on the wall. You watched as the sun rose high in the sky, beaming in through the small panel windows on the stark white wall. The sheets covering Vincent seemed scratchy, and the pillow below his head was flat, but for the first time in a very long time, he seemed peaceful. His youth was always so much more noticeable when he was asleep, the stress lines dormant and anger a far away place. Even now, as sick as he was, he didn’t seem like he was bothered by anything at all.

His chest was rising and falling in a steady rhythm, much different than it was the last time you saw him, and the color had returned to his face, although still a little lacking. You took the time to admire him, just like you would have months ago while he slept away the early mornings in your bed. He was beautiful, his features sharp and soft all the same. His hair was curled and dark, and his eyelashes the same as they rested over his cheeks. It tugged on your heart slightly when you thought of such things, and even though you loved him so much and cared so deeply about him, it wasn’t the same. You weren’t attracted to him like you were before, desperate and animalistic to be with him one more time. Feral as you fought for his affections and always lost sooner or later. It didn’t feel the same as it once did, and you couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Were you only so attracted to him, so eager to be with him because he was the only thing in your life that made you feel something? Whether good or bad, pleasurable or painful, when in his company, your chest was always filled with some kind of emotion. Back then, you were desperate to feel, to catch a break from the burgeoning nothingness and never ending loneliness, to fill a void you thought only substance could solve. Now, you didn’t feel that same draw, and you cared about what kind of emotion you felt in his company, because there was somebody else showing you something better.

You weren’t lonely, or numb, or any of the things you once were when you clung to Vincent’s karmic love. You cared about him, loved him, but were not in love, and did not want to be with him. When you looked at him, you felt more bad than good, and it was hard to digest. Someone who you once thought was your whole world was now just a part of it, the same as anything else. The things you once felt for Vincent now hit you tenfold when you looked at Danny, but they weren’t nearly as painful or scary as you used to think they were.

The love you had for Vincent was not the same as the love you had for Danny. It never was and it never would be.

Your relationship with Daniel wasn’t built on lies and deception, nor did it hurt you when you got to close. It didn’t feel like a punishment for all your past wrongdoings, and it was happy far more than it was anything else. Daniel didn’t give you the bare minimum (or less than, sometimes), and frame it as what you deserved. He gave you the whole world, and never put responsibility on your shoulders for shit he caused. Daniel never caused shit, anyway.

It was carefree and fun, happy and healthy. The relationship you had with Danny was unlike anything you’d ever had before, and you were so grateful for it even if you felt like you did not deserve it. He had your back no matter what, and would never take advantage of the kindness or respect you offered him. He wasn’t a part of this world, the evil, drug filled world where your demons hid around every corner and watched your every move. He was a ticket out of that life, away from all of the things you did not want to be, and right now you were terrified that you sacrificed that bond with him to take care of Vincent yet again. You tried not to focus on that, knowing that worrying would do nothing but hurt you more in the meantime, but it was still sitting heavy on the back of your mind.

Knowing those things also brought up a worse, even more painful surge of emotions. It made you face some hard truths about you and Vincent, and as you sat and stared, you wondered why things had to be this way. Thinking back on all of the time you spent together, you had never felt that type of love towards him. You wondered if he was clean and sober when you met him, would it be better? Would it have worked?

What you felt for him was leagues different than what you felt for Danny, and it made you question if you ever truly loved Vincent at all. Was love the emotion, or did you stay with him and around him because you didn’t know anything else? Did you stay because you feared nobody else would understand you, that nobody else would ever love you? Did you stay because it was safe and comfortable, or because you wanted to?

Was what the two of you had love, or was it a sick and twisted trauma bond tying you together?

After all of the bad, the near-death experiences, the two-timing and mistrust, the fighting and the insults, the lack of trying and the lack of care, how could you ever say the two of you were in love?

What you suffered at his hands was abuse, even if he did not intend to be so cruel to you. Through it all you had formed an emotional bond with him and even when he was miserable, you begged for him to love you, genuinely, just once.

Your parents had taught you to do just that, and even now, twenty four years later, you still could not break the cycle.

Well, until you met Daniel. Until you learned what love was and how it was supposed to feel.

You felt the hand beneath yours twitch, as if he felt your train of thought and he was powering up to convince you otherwise. His heart monitor spiked momentarily, and you noticed his eyes flutter ever so slightly. He sucked in a sharp breath, wincing as he did so. Eventually, he managed to fight the bright lights and pry his eyes open.

You stayed silent, pulling your knees a bit closer to your chest as you waited for him to come to. You never knew what version of him you would get when he opened his eyes, never knew if the damage he sustained was permanent or temporary. You didn’t know, and recently, you had grown to hate uncertainty.

“Hey, doll.” After a few moments of silence, he eventually spoke, his voice quiet and raspy. You didn’t respond straight away, feeling his eyes on you as you watched your hand intertwined with his. The heart monitor picked up the pace again, showing his nervousness over your lack of an answer and your sullen features.

“Hi, Vincent.” You whispered, keeping your eyes anywhere but his.

Silence fell between you again, but not because of a lack of things to discuss. Neither of you knew where to begin, and you weren’t even sure if you wanted to. After everything he put you through, you were beginning to lose yourself.

“You’re mad at me.” He stated, a little stronger when he spoke the second time.

“Yep.” You gave a slow nod, but never withdrew your hand from his.

“S’okay. You should be.” All you could do was nod again, wondering if he knew the extent of the anger you were feeling. “I didn’t want to get you involved in all this… not again.”

“So, what?” You scoffed, still quiet as you continued the staring contest with your hands. “I don’t answer the phone? I don’t come to the Pony? I don’t bring you here? Not sure if you dying would be any better than me not getting involved.”

“I’m sorry.” He stressed the word, shifting slightly on the hospital bed to sit up a bit further. “For everythin’, Angel.”

“Okay.” You hummed, pressing your lips tightly together so nothing more could slip out.

“Talk to me.” He pleaded, adjusting the I.V. fluid drip so he did not knock it out of place. “Please.” Stress was etched into his features again, returning to him as soon as he woke up, but the softness of his eyes was unlike what you had seen from him lately. The bags under his eyes and the emotion filled expression was familiar, though.

“About what?” You furrowed your brows, finally catching his eyes. “What do you even remember?”

“Enough.” He responded, a bit more gruff to match your intensity.

“How many times are we gonna do this, Vin?” You shook your head, puffing out a sigh. “How many times are we gonna sit in this exact position, talking about the same old shit? How many times ‘till you stop waking up?” You finally expressed a sliver of your worry, unable to stomach the thought of him not waking. As angry as you were at him now, you were so grateful that his eyes were open and he was talking.

“I know, Angel.” His head fell back in defeat, and he gave a slight wince as he coughed to clear his throat. “It was a mistake. I swear, I’m trying.”

“Stop trying and start doing.” You barked, sick of the same old excuse. “Do you know how scared I was? In that old fuckin’ station wagon, holding you in the backseat and thinking it was going to be the last time? Lying to that same nurse that’s still trying to save your life? How angry I am right now, after you’ve been so miserable and cruel to me, and I’m still sitting by your bedside to make sure you’re okay?” You paused, swallowing back word vomit you knew would do neither of you any good.

“I love you, doll, and I wanna be better, for you.” You looked to his face, seeing his eyes shining with tears of frustration. “You didn’t deserve any of that shit, baby. You shouldn’t be chasin’ after me, waitin’ to clean up my mess. You don’t deserve this.”

This.

Didn’t deserve this.

Which was coincidentally him, which he thought was exactly what you deserved.

“Then stop making me.” You frowned. “Stop chasing after Lillian, stop spending every night at the Pony. Get the fuck away from her, get away from that place, and get the fuck away from the drugs, Vin. They’re going to kill you, and I’m not planning your funeral while you’re still alive. I said I was done, but I’m always going to be here, trying to keep you safe no matter how pissed off I am. That’s what you do when you love someone.”

“I ‘preciate you still lovin’ me, even if I don’t deserve it. I’m happy you’re still here, even if I’m a real piece of work most o’ the time. You’re the only thing I’ve ever had, the only one who ever loved me at all. I’m trying for you, doll.” You didn’t want him to try for you. You wanted him to try for him. “I’m done with Lil, I swear it. I’m not lying, baby. This time was different, an’ I really thought… I really thought this was it, that I was a goner.”

“We all did, Vin.” You confessed, relaxing ever so slightly in your seat. You felt your chest tighten and your throat close around the words, tapping back into the fear you felt on the way to the hospital. “I can’t do this again. I can’t lose you too.”

“Hey, don’t talk like that.” He squeezed your hand, forcing your attention back on him. “I ain’t leavin’ you, ever. You should know better than that. I’m gonna get better, clean myself up, and prove that I mean it.”

God, you hoped so desperately that he was telling the truth and he could follow through with his previously empty promises.

“All that stuff I said to you, angel… it’s not true. I didn’t mean a word of it. You’re the best damn thing this world’s ever seen, and that it’ll ever get. I always need you, an’ I always will. M’sorry I get so awful sometimes. I don’t care if you’re mine, or someone else’s, or nobody’s at all. S’long as you’re here, that’s all that matters to me.”

You knew how vile substance could turn people, but it was so damn hard watching Vincent turn into a completely different person at the drop of a hat. You yourself had suffered through the wicked ups and downs, but watching it on someone else, being at the receiving end was gut wrenching. You knew Vincent was good at the core, and he had the ability to be that way all of the time, you just wanted him to harness that power and fight through all of the nasty thoughts and feelings instead of throwing them at everyone else. You wanted him to see the other side, to experience it with you so he knew how much better it was, but he was further gone than you had ever been.

You didn’t want to think that he would stay this way forever, but it was easier to believe that instead of getting your hopes crushed every time.

“I’ll always be here, Vin. Even if I’m mad, even if I hate you, I’ll always love you. Just what we do. We don’t have anyone or anything else.” You confessed, feeling a sinking feeling in your stomach as you spoke.

What if you wanted someone or something else? What if you wanted to get away from it all, to leave this life behind and start over again? Were you destined to live this way forever, or could there really be something greater waiting for you to discover it?

After the long night full of twisted feelings and events, Nashville with Danny seemed much less scary and a whole lot more tempting.

If he was even still willing to take you after all this misery, of course.

God, that conversation seemed so far away now, and as painful as it was at the time, much preferred to what you were facing now.

Why did it make you feel so terrible to think such things? Why did you feel like a villain for wanting better for yourself?

Why was it such a horrible thing to want a lover, a life partner instead of a partner in crime?

You had so many questions that always went unanswered, and with the way your life had always been, you knew you would need to ask a million more before anything you were asking now made the smallest lick of sense.

TAGLIST: @imleavingyoufornewyork @itsafullmoon @bladenotblaze @jessicafg03 @dont-go-home-without-me @peaceloveunitygvf @torniturntomyarrow @lostoverseer @clairesjointshurt @jordie-gvf @lallisonl @smoking-jakelane @gretavangirlie @hollyco @aintthatapity @demonrat444

[snzluv3r]

i know there’s a lot of chronically ill/medically complex people on here so i was wondering, have any of you ever struggled with medical burnout (for lack of better words)?

(also gonna rant real quick under here sorry for the negativity)

i’ve been really struggling lately because it feels like half of my time is spent making phone calls and scheduling appointments and going to get tests and scans and spending months of my life just in limbo on waiting lists. i’m so sick of feeling like my health is a job and constantly being at the hospital for appointments like it’s gotten so bad that i can barely bring myself to take my meds anymore. it’s just so exhausting sometimes and i wish there was a way i could take a break from all of this without potentially making my health worse.

even today i woke up really sick and had to miss out on something i was really looking forward to yet i still feel this responsibility to make all of the medical calls i was planning to make anyway because i’ve been putting everything off for so long. it’s not like making those calls is that much work but it gets so frustrating being bounced around or not getting a straight answer because insurance or referrals or whatever other stupid healthcare system process that makes this all so much more complicated.

i also am still on the waiting list for my new PCP and have no idea when i’ll be able to actually meet her, yet my psychiatrist decided (without consulting me or my therapist) that because my meds haven’t changed recently (they absolutely have), i can just get all of my psych meds (including adderall) through my PCP….which i don’t technically have. i’m so frustrated because my nightmares have been so bad for years and they’re only getting worse and every med i’ve tried for PTSD nightmares is either bad for my physical health or doesn’t work at all and that’s really not something that i necessarily trust a pcp with??? it’s just not necessarily in their scope and i’ve had too many prescribers fuck up my brain and body by recklessly putting me on different psych meds without proper knowledge or research.

i’m just so frustrated and i’m so miserable right now i wish i didn’t have to do this for the rest of my life. and the fact that EDS literally just gets worse with age like? i don’t think i CAN do this for the rest of my life it’s just an endless cycle

sorry for complaining and ranting so much nobody is even gonna read this and that’s okay i just needed to get it off my chest

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Michael Shermer

Published: Mar 8, 2024

Leaked documents from World Professional Association for Transgender Health practitioners reveal a medical profession in the grips of an ideology-driven social contagion

In an early study of crowd psychology, Extraordinary Popular Delusions and the Madness of Crowds (originally published in 1841 and still in print), the Scottish journalist Charles Mackay documented such delusions as alchemy, fortune-telling, haunted houses, magnetizers, religious relics, and prophecies, and the mad crowds that fell for economic bubbles like the Dutch tulip mania, the Railway Mania, witch crazes, and the South Sea Bubble. “Men, it has been well said, think in herds; it will be seen that they go mad in herds,” Mackay observed, “while they only recover their senses slowly, one by one.”

The redux of my title includes such such popular delusions of the past half century as the Subliminal Messages scare, the Satanic Panic, the Recovered Memory mania, the Self-Esteem movement, the Multiple Personality craze, the Left-Brain/Right-Brain fad, the Mozart Effect mania, the Vaccine-Autism furor, the Super-predators fear, the Drug Abuse Resistance Education (DARE) program that increased teen drug use, the Scared Straight program that made adolescents more likely to offend, the Critical Incident Stress Debriefing (CISD) programmed that worsened anxiety and symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), and many more that have plagued psychology and psychiatry.

The latest of what is likely to be added to this pantheon of popular delusions embraced by mad crowds is the trans movement as a whole and Rapid Onset Gender Dysphoria in particular, as revealed on Tuesday March 5, 2024 by Michael Shellenberger, Mia Hughes, and their colleagues at Environmental Progress in a 242-page document titled The WPATH Files: Pseudoscientific Surgical and Hormonal Experiments on Children, Adolescents, and Vulnerable Adults. “The World Professional Association for Transgender Health (WPATH) enjoys the reputation of being the leading scientific and medical organization devoted to transgender healthcare,” the authors note. However, after reviewing hundreds of leaked internal documents revealing shocking levels of uncertainty, ignorance, and devotion to outdated and debunked pseudoscientific theories, therapies, and practices, the report’s authors conclude that the opposite is true:

Newly released files from WPATH’s internal messaging forum, as well as a leaked internal panel discussion, demonstrate that the world-leading transgender healthcare group is neither scientific nor advocating for ethical medical care. These internal communications reveal that WPATH advocates for many arbitrary medical practices, including hormonal and surgical experimentation on minors and vulnerable adults. Its approach to medicine is consumer-driven and pseudoscientific, and its members appear to be engaged in political activism, not science.

We devoted an issue of Skeptic to “Trans Matters” (Vol. 27, No. 1) that included an especially thoughtful, sensitive, and deeply-researched cover story by Lisa Selin Davis, “An Overview of the Debate, Research, and Policies”, documenting the massive spike in patients reporting gender dysphoria over the past decade (this data is from a gender clinic in British Columbia but rates are comparable elsewhere). Before 2015, most trans were young boys who identified as female; after 2015 most trans were adolescent girls identifying as males.

As I read the research, the Before Time (pre-2015) was very likely recording real instances of gender dysphoria (GD) in very young children and at a vanishingly rare rate well below 1%; the After Time (post-2015 to today) is very likely a phenomenon called rapid-onset gender dysphoria (ROGD), a label coined by the physician and public health researcher Lisa Littman, after she discovered in her exploratory study based on parental reports that entire peer groups of adolescents and teens were declaring themselves to be transgender, after immersion in social media or exposure in classrooms in which sizable proportions of students identified as anything but cisgender and straight. With watchful waiting and compassionate support for these adolescents, and dealing with their underlying issues of body dysphoria from puberty, autism, anorexia, and normal teen anxiety, sadness, and stress, the vast majority grow out of their self-identity of “being in the wrong body” and/or realize that, in fact, they are gay or lesbian.

Unfortunately, watchful waiting and compassionate support is not a practice that WPATH appears to recommend to medical and psychological practitioners; instead, “gender affirming care” calls for them to go along with whatever their (almost always) underage patients tell them that they want, which is often invasive, irreversible, and life-changing Hormone Replacement Therapy (HRT) and/or surgery, including the amputation of healthy breasts in females (a double mastectomy, or “top surgery”) and the surgical removal of otherwise healthy genitals and reproductive systems that will never again function normally (“bottom surgery”). Detransitioners—those who transitioned then changed their minds and sought to return to their “assigned at birth” sex (a number that is growing by the month)—are discovering that they can never have biological children (they’re told “don’t worry, you can always adopt”), can never breast feed (they’re told they can “strap on” milk-delivering faux-breasts and become “chest feeders”), and can never experience the full range of normal sexual functioning, including orgasms, not to mention numerous drug side-effects, surgical complications, infections, mounting medical bills not covered by insurance, and the like. As the authors of the WPATH Files note:

This report will show that this is a violation of medical ethics and, as is revealed by its own internal communications, WPATH does not meet the standards of evidence-based medicine. It will further show that the ethical requirement to obtain informed consent is being violated, with members admitting that children and adolescents cannot comprehend the lifelong consequences of sex-trait modification interventions, and in some cases, due to poor health literacy, neither can their parents.

Before I review some of these documents, let me note that I have covered this topic before in this column, for example, answering the question “What is a Woman, Anyway?”, on the trans swimmer Lia Thomas in particular, and on trans athletes in female sports in general. I personally know two (MTF) trans adults who transitioned well into adulthood and are happy they did so, I recognize that there are people who genuinely experience GD (which is different from ROGD), and I stand by my statement in the last column that:

Of course we should support trans rights for the same reason we support the rights of people of color, women, and gays: it is immoral (and in many cases illegal) to discriminate against someone based on such immutable characteristics as skin color, gender, and sexual preference, so gender identity should be included in our ever-expanding moral circle and our ever-bending moral arc. The problem arises when there are conflicting rights claims.

In the WPATH Files what we see is the rights of underage adolescents and vulnerable adults being violated by the very people tasked with protecting them, so I agree with the authors’ call for “the U.S. government to oversee a bipartisan national inquiry to investigate how activists with little respect for the Hippocratic Oath could have risen to such prominence as to set the Standards of Care for an entire field of medicine, leading to the medical abuse of minors and vulnerable adults.”

What follows are some of the more revealing—and in many cases egregious—examples of uncertainty, ignorance, and embrace of pseudoscientific ideas revealed in the “semi-private conversations inside WPATH’s internal online forum for discussing specific medical cases,” along with my comments (below each screen shot)

Note that this post is from Marci Bowers, often tagged as “the world’s preeminent ‘gender-reassignment’ surgeon” and who self-identifies as “a woman with a trans history” (i.e., a Male-to-Female [MTF] trans), revealing that medical professionals had no idea of the consequences of transitioning youth. The correspondent inquires about the consequences for fertility and orgasmic response post transition. “The fertility question has no research that I’m aware of,” Bowers admits, but suggesting that puberty blockers will “preclude those opportunities.” Oh is that all? What about orgasms? Again, Bowers is “unaware of an individual claiming ability to orgasm” after puberty blockers. Say again?

Here is a man (AMAB = Assigned Male at Birth) who self-identifies as a non-binary female who is taking Cialis/Viagra (presumably to enhance his—sorry, her—erections) who wonders if they breast feed their 7-month old will the meds get into the infant’s system. Apparently the amounts would be so small that the infant would not experience “any adverse effects” such as, what, erections?

Here's a therapist who practices EMDR (Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing), the long discredited treatment for PTSD/trauma. These people are years behind the science. A 2022 literature review, for example, concluded: “Taken as a whole, this small body of work suggests that eye movements do not reliably affect susceptibility to misinformation, nor do they appear to enhance memory, but they do seem to increase spontaneous false memories.” False Memory Syndrome is the correct interpretation of what was happening in the 1990’s Recovered Memory Movement in which adult patients in psychotherapy were convinced by quack therapists that they had been sexually molested as children, even though the patients had no memory whatsoever of such abuse, nor was there any corroborating evidence such crimes ever occurred. Astonishingly, there were cases of aging parents who were tried, convicted, and imprisoned for sexual molestation based on nothing more than bogus “recovered memories,” a mass hysteria that came to an abrupt end when lawyers sued therapists for malpractice. See Carol Tavris’s account of this madness here.

Here is a discussion of Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID), previously known as Multiple Personality Disorder (MPD), explaining that consent for transitioning must be obtained from each "alter" (alternative personality). DID and MPD is a bogus diagnosis. There is no such thing as multiple personalities, so there can be no "alternate" personalities to give consent. The entire diagnosis was founded on two famous cases that turned out to be fraudulent: Sybil and Eve (as in The Three Faces of Eve). The real Sybil—Shirley Mason (played by Sally Field in the film version)—admitted she made it all up: "I do not really have any multiple personalities. I do not even have a 'double.' ... I am all of them. I have been lying in my pretense of them." As for Eve, the real woman was Chris Costner Sizemore (played by Joanne Woodward in the film rendition), and her three faces eventually transmogrified into over 20, until a book revealed that the psychiatrist who diagnosed her was sexually and financially abusing her. Nevertheless, such quack diagnoses didn’t stop this surgeon from cutting off the healthy breasts of a DID woman, or carving out fake vaginas in two DID men:

For a complete debunking of these and additional bogus psychological theories, therapies, and treatments, see 50 Great Myths About Popular Psychology by the late Scott Lilienfeld and colleagues, and his more scholarly debunking in Science and Pseudoscience in Clinical Psychology. Skeptic’s own columnist Carol Tavris has debunked these and more quack psychology in our pages (for example, see her article on trans issues here).

This post-op trans woman (a man) later "discovered that I was not suffering from any actual pathology related to being trans.” Yet, she claims to still experience cPTSD, ADHD, anxiety, and depression. O-kay.

This exchange shows a practitioner reasonably conflicted about starting a patient on HRT (Hormone Replacement Therapy) with so many problems, but is nevertheless told it’s “the right thing to do”!

Here a WPATH member complains that their client was denied insurance coverage for surgery until completing a year of HRT, stating that they think the patient needs surgery “for her physical and mental health, along with her safety.” Safety?

This surgeon isn’t sure how to handle patients requesting “non-standard” procedures, such as top surgery without nipples (“non-binary” means “non-nipples”?) and “phallus-preserving vaginoplasty.” The latter is non-standard indeed, inasmuch as normal vaginoplasty involves removing the penis, testicles and scrotum. This patient apparently wants both. In a follow-up missive Dr. Satterwhite explains: “With every patient I operate on, I always take a patient-centric approach and I let my patient lead the journey (not me).” Therein lies the problem when you’re dealing with underage patients who are otherwise not allowed to drive, drink, smoke, vote, serve in the military, get tattoos, and more. Why would anyone—much less medical professionals—think that adolescents could make adult decisions about such life-altering treatments?

Note not only the age of onset of this condition (non-binary), 13, or that the testosterone request comes from the child and not a parent, guardian or medical professional, but that on top of all that this kid is purposefully starving themselves to look “more non-binary”. Presumably this means anorexia. Whatever this youngster is experiencing it is not going to be ameliorated by transgender medical treatments. This is medical malpractice, pure and simple, and it has to stop.

I could go on and on with dozens more such revelatory correspondence from the WPATH Files, so let me close with this observation from John Mackay, who presciently put his finger on the problem we are experiencing today: “We find that whole communities suddenly fix their minds upon one object, and go mad in its pursuit; that millions of people become simultaneously impressed with one delusion, and run after it, till their attention is caught by some new folly more captivating than the first.”

I have little doubt that when the ROGD trans social contagion runs its course it will be replaced by something else, but without politicians or attorneys intervening in the meantime I am not at all confident that the WPATH community is capable of self-regulation and course-correction away from the flagitious path they’ve been on. Still, in the long run, optimist that I am, I hope lessons will be learned from this episode, as they were with the aforementioned previous popular delusions; and with that hope I will give the last word to Mackay:

Let us not, in the pride of our superior knowledge, turn with contempt from the follies of our predecessors. The study of the errors into which great minds have fallen in the pursuit of truth can never be uninstructive. As the man looks back to the days of his childhood and his youth, and recalls to his mind the strange notions and false opinions that swayed his actions at the time, that he may wonder at them; so should society, for its edification, look back to the opinions which governed ages that fled.

Amen, brother.

[not-poignant]

I hope it's okay to ask, but how are things? Looking forward to Underline The Gold on Sunday so much

Omg I'm looking forward to it too

Tbh I'm up to chapter 8 on that now so we're ready to really start pushing ahead with some of the side stories which is exciting

As for me, it's been pretty rough, anon, not gonna lie. I'm going to put this under a read more because I'm pretty honest and also because there's more than one 'I might have cancer' mention among other things:

I kind of thought I was doing fine and then it all got on top of me a couple of days ago and (self-harm mention) I ended up self-injuring due to autistic meltdown. Sometimes I don't realise how bad things really are until I'm at that stage and I have bruises and soft tissue damage to show for it. I've since talked to my doctor and therapist about it, but like...oof.

I've actually been taking a break from writing since I've hit 50k and I generally have a rule that I have to take at least 2-4 days off once I've hit that point, but I'm still pretty stuffed, but mostly for health reasons. I've written 14 chapters this month so I feel okay about the break lol.

On Friday (the day after the meltdown) I needed to have a hand X-ray (even right now, the knuckles in my left hand are really sore), see my GP for 40 minutes, talk to my therapist, organise an iron infusion (I have microcytic anemia and need an iron infusion again, which I think is my 5th or 6th - I need one about once every 2-3 years, and mostly the time between is the slow downward spiral of losing more and more iron until I'm truly fucked) and a meeting with one of the head haematologists in the state because my red blood cells are bullshit and weird (yay). Guess that explains the exhaustion.

I still need to organise a lymph node ultrasound (which is probably nothing, except there is like a 'higher than average' chance it could be metastatic cancer, since I do have tumours in my head right now that could metastasize, and the tumours are extremely close to the swollen lymph node - also I haven't had a virus).

I need to organise a meeting with a dermatologist, I need to organise a full abdominal MRI to see if I have any other tumours we don't know about, and I got an eating disorder management plan for restrictive eating, which does entitle me to like...cheaper dietitian appointments, but also formalises me as having an ED as opposed to 'disordered eating.'

On top of that I had to deal with a tribunal after my Dad had a catastrophic stroke a few months ago, and the tribunal was last month, to determine who would look after him. Our family is so broken and my stepmother so manipulative/vindictive that the government decided no one could be trusted and took care of his finances and healthcare themselves meaning none of us can have any real say in his future (truly the best outcome, but a damning one for the state of the family), and I also had to listen to my stepmother accuse my sister of being a criminal for 20 minutes with completely unfounded lies, and of course, my Dad has had a catastrophic stroke, and that's complicated. That's a whole...

That saga is so much anon, I cannot even begin to explain even the tip of that iceberg.

I've been spending a lot of extra time like scanning family photos and other things and packing items in his home for storage etc. and while that's been done now for over a month and a half, I guess the burn out started some time ago and it's just been slowly getting on top of me. Kind of the 'slowly boiling a lobster in a pot' analogy.

I've been overall quieter on Tumblr as a result of all of this, and it all just...destroyed me on Thursday, and ever since then I've been recovering.

I've just realised it's nearly 1.00am and I swear the last time I looked at the clock - which felt like 5 minutes ago - it was 11.00pm.

Oh and to top it all off I've had vicious 'not falling asleep until 4.00am' insomnia + increased nightmares because my PTSD has relapsed back into 'pretty severe.' So um, managing most nights on 3-4 hours of sleep a night, and that's bad for all my chronic illnesses, of which I have many.

Ah. Yeah. :(

Lemme rustle up some good news for you, anon, because I feel like this is just too much crap.

Bushflowers/wildflowers are really nice right now as it's turning to spring in Western Australia (it's Djilba in the Noongar seasonal system, which I prefer)

Rhubarb is in season so I'm making a lot of stewed apple and rhubarb as a comfort food.

Reading the manhwa Punch Drunk Love and enjoying it.

Asks like yours - even if all of this sounds dire - helps me to undestand that I actually do have good reasons to feel tired and that it's okay to take breaks and that's really valuable (sometimes - though rarely - people use my anon function to talk at me, rather than talking to me as a person, and I just...really value feeling like a person sometimes aslfkjsa) so while I might seem down, this has actually been nice to end my night on. Also you've reminded me that I am super excited/happy to share more Underline the Gold with people

I got some organisational stuff and organising stuff in the house makes me feel good.

I have an extremely good doctor and tbh for a long time I didn't, so like, every good specialist and doctor is worth their weight in gold. :)

I hope you're doing okay and looking after yourself / taking care anon, and that you get something good out of what remains of the weekend. <3 And for everyone who needs one, hugs are on the house.

[spotlightstudios]

Wow, look at this neat abandoned building. Robot? Idk what ur talking about.

Outside Upgrades Lore beyond the Cut! (A lot of writing, feel free to skip.)

Hi guys!!! This is a doodle for my new and improved Outside Upgrades! Ruin edition!

The characters (ocs) pictured are N (left) and Light (right)!

N is an urban explorer by trade, making and posting videos of her explorations online. (She has no self-preservation skills, which is why she's so popular.) Meanwhile, Light was a FazCo. employee back in the day, and currently they're unemployed.

The whole point of this AU when I first made it was that Light was there the night the Plex collapsed (and would've escaped with the help of Moon). They lost their leg in that injury, and FazCo basically paid Light off to not spill the secrets of the company, and they got to keep Sun/Moon. Eventually they'd discover Eclipse mode, which was their caretaking protocol.

This update? Light was close to the entrance when it collapsed and was eventually found by a rescue crew (they were searching for Vanessa) with their leg pinned under sone rubble. They've been in recovery for a few years by the time they return with N to the Plex. The pair arrive shortly before Cassie, but they shimmy under that gate where it looks like Monty shoved through and go a different direction before she can keep up.

Eventually, they find their way to Gator Grub where Maskbot is and N snags a mask, but a lot of obstacles they can brute force through better than Cassie could. And by the time they get to the daycare, Cassie's already been through. Eclipse is there.

Seeing Light kinda, snaps him out of that "clean up" mode, and after some sappy moments, Eclipse decides to join the two explorers in their adventure and eventual return to the real world.

I like to think that they *do* catch up with Cassie, whether that be after the elevator crashes or before she goes to the basement to confront the mimic, they find her by complete chance. And of course, this is a whole child? Who put her down here??

Eclipse feels terrible that he sent her on her way earlier, Light is dumbfounded as to how she got so deep, and N (who's piecing together what Helpi has been talking about this whole time) is ready to confidently just undo the hinges on the door Cassie needs through so that Roxy doesn't get deactivated. And it *works*.

They all face the mimic, and whether they scoop it, or Eclipse and Roxy are enough to overpower it, or they just get to the elevator safely, it doesn't matter. They get out.

And then soft AU that it originally was ensues, with Eclipse getting repairs done and sticking with Light as a Healthcare assistant robot.

(N also slowly but surely recovers the other animatronics, with Light's help, and gets them repaired and puts about 30 firewalls on their programming. Roxy's the first, with Freddy being the last to be recovered fully.)

And of course, Cassie is implied to at least have a dad, so I imagine she'd find her father, and since he was *also* implied to be a Faz-Technician, he'd fix up Roxy best he could, and when Cassie introduced N finally (Light was busy) her dad offered to repair anything else she brought him, so she brought the band.

I'm not sure how much I'll write/draw for this, but originally I abandoned the idea because it had a y/n. I wasn't sure how I'd write about chronic pain or the loss of a limb or ptsd for a wide enough audience, and it eventually drove me to not write it at all. (Why you see me post AEB the mermay au more than the original-)

I'm glad that I made the choice to drag this one into oc land. Outside Upgrades was always self-indulgent (I made Eclipse a soft-boy and actually put together and decidedly not a whore, and it was pure luck that Canon Eclipse matches up so well) and it will remain self-indulgent.

Of course, if anyone wants to use the design or drop their own character in rather than Light, not like I'll complain! Tho I'd like ppl to @ me if they do use this concept or design cuz I'd just love to see it! :D

Bonus: EYE STRAIN WARNING

The original ver is this obnoxious Bright Red. I was staring at this for like 3-4 hours straight tonight smh.

[slutdge]

Tw medical abuse/ptsd: Medical abuse from holistic mothers gang UNITE - mine treated everything with essential oils, chiropractors, and gut healing. I get blindly angry when people bring up swapping basic, well controlled, dosed, medication- with fucking. ACUPUNCTURE ???? Seeing holistic practitioners and herbalists instead of doctors. The diets.

Yesssss omg it makes me so mad too, my mom said recently "if you guys were babies now i wouldnt have gotten you vaccinated", she chose holistic treatment over physical and medicinal treatment for her BPPV, she constantly denies my actual disabilities, she talked my pregnant sister into seeing a chiropractor for her pain instead of a real doctor which is so dangerous to her and her baby, and is adamant that i could just not be mentally ill if i meditated and took vitamins/essential oils. Its so fucked up to be raised like that. and like im speaking as someone who has been through the wringer of medical/psychiatric abuse but still, have some nuance, you can criticize the healthcare system and how its practiced without going full blown "crystals will cure my cancer" mode, and there are also even more infinite aspects to this i cant cover in a single short answer but denying disabled peoples needs in the name of holisticism is shitty and unexcusable for what i had to go through.

[amurder-ofcrows]

sometimes when i feel like i can’t connect with my immediate family, like it’s hard to take them seriously when they try to get me through suicidal ideation because they see it as a burden on them and not an actually issue about me; i remember those who have already passed and the torch i have to carry for them.

my grandmother, my countless unnamed family members, and strangers who have gone through psychosis and bipolar mood cycles and ocd and panic attacks and ptsd and didn’t make it back.

the members of my queer family who died from AIDS, those who took care of them when no one else would, those who live on with the pain in their heart carrying boxes of the real lives of those passed on. those who were so abandoned, by family, "friends", and society, and everyone else that they thought the only way out was death.

those who had those thoughts and lived to tell the tale and choose to help those going through it. those who are passing that role on to me, for me to be the one who is out and proud and shows a young closeted queer person that life may actually be okay.

the trans community specifically, a community i’ve always thought of as family to me. who took changing my name and pronouns and presentation with open arms and gave me someone to look up to. gave me realistic expectations about what transition entails and made me realize happiness in my body can happen. and i’m going to pass that along for as long as my body and world lets me.

i think of members of the disabled community, those who have fought so hard for my medical rights, my civil rights, and in general my access to healthcare. i share the feeling of pain, being excluded from an inaccessible society, and no one believing you even if you show everything about yourself. i will live to uphold the ADA and fight for disability income marriage equality. i may not be incredibly mobile and i’m in a lot of pain, but i refuse to let a bigot say my life is worthless because i’m disabled.

what i’m saying is, i refuse to give up on the life my family gave me, and i’m not just referring to blood relatives. i don’t want to be another statistic. i want to love my family, to be with them. i’m going to live to be an old man who shows up at pride events, mental health and disability advocacy groups, and community events and gives out hugs that young people don’t get from their fathers.

if it is my turn to take the torch, then by god let my hands deal with the heat

[cbk1000]

Ha! Doctor here. I straight up admit to my shitty documentation skills and bribe our lovely administration assistants with Nespresso capsules and chocolates to keep my ass covered.

Yes, many doctors can be God-aweful fucks sometimes, but if it helps, I reckon it's mostly a trauma response to being called out for being wrong. As a registrar (or *resident in Freedom Eagle-Screech) I can tell you, the PTSD is real. I don't condone any sort of yelling though.

Lol I do genuinely understand that you guys have a lot on your minds and taking care of the patients has to come first and is your primary concern, and billing is our jurisdiction. And we don't expect doctors to know all the ins and outs of that, and I do expect to have to provide education to physicians on exactly what they need to document sometimes, because sometimes the specific wording is important, and doctors don't necessarily know what has to be included in order for the insurance to pay up, which they try to get out of doing in every conceivable way. The frustration is in reminding a provider multiple times what they need to document in order to be paid for x y z service, the provider continuing not to document, and then blaming us for not charging for the service. Also, specifically in my area, the doctors have a reputation for being very coddled, and the culture around that is changing, so we're seeing some tantrums from people who have had their hands held for a long time.

There's also extra frustration in it now, because the pandemic did a number on healthcare systems everywhere, and we had to try and make up millions of dollars this year just to keep from defaulting on our debts. My company has done a few rounds of lay-offs, so people's jobs are literally dependent on us tightening up billing practices and determining where revenue is slipping through the cracks. I know clinics and providers are tired of us bugging them for x y z thing, but we kind of can't get any money without x y z thing, and since our operating costs are tens of millions of dollars a month, we kind of, you know, need money.

Good call with the chocolate and Nespresso, though. I recommend all doctors bribe your admin using these sorts of methods. We all have to work together to defeat the enemy (insurance).

(Also, while I think doctors tend to fell into the trap of any highly-educated person, which is to sometimes forget they don't know everything, and while some of them have been literally the worst co-workers I've ever had, years ago when I worked in medical records, one of the providers used to bring my sister, who worked with me at the time, and I little treats whenever pharmaceutical reps brought in breakfast, because we were kind of off in a corner downstairs and out of sight, out of mind, and he wanted to make sure we got something before it was all gone. He was consistently lovely and I never heard anyone who worked with him have anything negative to say. So you're definitely not all fucks.)

[dancingwithdoom]

Help me

I have spent $73 in the past 2 HARD WORKING WEEKS

On mother loving solitaire

God if you’re there it’s me and I need help

[nolanhattrick]

im going to say this as gently as i can but it probably won't be very because i don't have the energy to elaborate as fully as i need to and this cannot continue to take up space in my head. this is coming from the perspective of someone living in the US partaking in the US (mental) healthcare system

the internet's fascination with (incorrect) self diagnosis (re: if you move your hips to the side when walking around a desk you're autistic!) paired with an aging traumatized population and skewed resource distribution has done a lot more damage to the greater mental health scene in the last four years than i think any of us want to admit

if you have been diagnosed with something between now and march 13, 2020 - ESPECIALLY if it was before march of 2022 - you need to get reevaluated from scratch in person (if you are able to) by someone that will develop an actual relationship with you. not by a telehealth ghost psychiatric service and joint pharmacy that will throw adderall or zoloft at you for $15 a month (!!!)

trauma acts like 90% of the mental health issues 15-35 year olds are posting about. PTSD presents with nearly every symptom known to man. treating it improperly will kill you. i'm really really tired of listening to people on tiktok give mental health advice that's being parroted by actual LCSWs and LMHCs/CCMHCs and PMNHPs when it's just... flat out incorrect at best and actually life threatening and dangerous at worst.

is there a very real issue with supply and demand of controlled substances in this country? yes. is there a very real issue with accessibility of therapeutic and diagnostic appointment setting for disabled clients? yes. the answer to both of these is not creating ghost pharmacies and practices that do not follow up with patients and commonly commit patient abandonment. it is much more involved than that and it cannot be solved through services like hims and hers and donefirst and helloklarity and fucking onlinepsychiatrists dot com are you serious

i understand that the mental health space in this country is difficult and dangerous and hostile to navigate. especially in a small town it is inhospitable for marginalized people. you are preaching to the choir when you're saying that to someone like me. but i'm just very frustrated when people immediately turn to "just get your drugs online, obviously your problem is X"

there is no obviously in mental health. there is NEVER an obviously in mental health. i hallucinate. i hear voices. i see things. i have manic and psychotic episodes. i experience intense waves of suicidal ideation and depression. i dissociate, often. i have impulse spending issues. i have problems with obsessive thoughts and compulsive movements. i have severe offset sleep issues. i have anger issues. i have attention issues. i have some pretty insane intrusive thoughts. do you want to know my current diagnosis?

ptsd (and technically adult gender dysphoria, but.)

i have had a laundry list of others come and go. bipolar 2, MDD, GAD, schizoaffective disorder, insomnia, BPD, OCD, ADHD, autism, intermittent psychosis - just to name a few.

four psychiatrists and 12 years to get to the root of the problem. 60+ years of experience could not give me a straight answer. i really don't want to be that asshole but i don't think some googling and perusing social media and one (1) visit with someone that's not intimately aware of you and your history is going to make safe and calculated decisions wrt your health.

establishing a relationship with one person (after doing some shopping!! look around!! get a sense of the vibes!!) is so so so necessary.

as always - this does not apply to the people it... does not apply to. if you cannot afford appointments, don't have insurance, etc. this is primarily targeting the people that have simply decided that using these services is more convenient than calling someone - even though it is available to, and within reach for, them.

we cannot improve a fundamentally broken system by continuing to break it. it frustrates me that that's what we're doing. making and buying teslas won't save the planet, seeing a therapist from betterhelp will not fix your childhood trauma.

[coolbinivlogs]

Virtual Reality

What exactly is virtual reality? Virtual reality (VR) is a computer-generated environment with realistic-looking scenes and objects that immerses the user in their surroundings.

Virtual reality (VR) is a completely computer-generated three-dimensional environment that is displayed either on a computer screen or through special displays.

Virtual reality is most commonly used in entertainment applications such as video games, 3D cinema, amusement park rides, including dark rides, and social virtual worlds. Consumer virtual reality headsets were first released by video game companies in the early to mid-1990s.

What is a good example of virtual reality?

Virtual reality, or VR, is a technology that creates a virtual environment. People interact in those environments using, for example, VR goggles or other mobile devices. It is a computer-generated simulation of an environment or 3-D image where people can interact in a seemingly real or physical way.

What is the impact of virtual reality?

Healthcare: VR will have a huge impact on how the medical community diagnoses and treats diseases and illnesses. Right now, VR is being used to detect glaucoma, schizophrenia, and Alzheimer's disease. It has also begun to establish itself as a useful tool for treating PTSD and anxiety disorders, dementia, and autism.

[lesbosisle]

Since I first understood what war was I have always had this sense of helplessness. I think everyone feels it, especially now with the attacks on Gaza. I feel that everything I do isn't enough. I can only donate so much money, I can't possibly reblog every family who needs help, I can't stop the hundreds of scammers from profiting off of this genocide.

I felt like nothing I could do was enough.

And then I learned about a technical center at my school which had an emergency medical technician course.

Now to be clear I have wanted to work in the medical field for a long time, at first I wanted to go into psychiatry, but after seeing the type of stress it put one of my family members under, I knew I wasn't cut out to help people in that manner. From my great-grandfather who was a medic in World War 2 my family has continued a line of being healthcare workers. So when I saw this EMT program I knew that's what I wanted to do.

I applied to the program which was one of the harder ones to get into, got waitlisted, and then got in. Currently my dream job is to work for Doctors Without Borders.

So yes what is happening in Gaza and other less talked about conflicts all across the world did inspire me to apply to be an EMT. I know it will be hard. But this feeling off not doing enough and wanting to help people will finally be satisfied.

And whether or not I do end up working internationally I will still be helping people in my local community. Because let me be clear being a first responder is not all about saving lives. Yes that is part of the appeal. But 90% of the calls you get won't be the car accident, doing CPR, type of life threatening emergencies. A lot of them won't even be life threatening.

I had struggled for a long time trying to find a career path in the medical field that fit me. I'm the type of person who needs to be in the first line of defense to feel satisfied. And I think I finally have found something that fits.

This is your reminder to give some love to first responders. What they do is incredibly difficult and taxing, the pay rates are low and secondary PTSD is a very real thing, but this is one of the most important jobs out there.

[xreveriies]

fourth anniversary;

we are just about to come upon the fourth anniversary of covid lockdown. it is amazing how fast time has flown. hospitals have all but returned to normal with normal illnesses with normal recoveries. but the emotions and trepidation we felt back during the start of the pandemic still longers deep in my soul. all these memes on social media about the pandemic, it stings something different. perhaps it is a little bit of ptsd although we are reluctant to admit it. but i am transported to a completely different time and it is almost as if i am watching myself as one would watch their dying self. the emotions, the stress, the unknown clouds over the memories. never have i ever experienced life as it happened in 2020. people my age and young were succumbing to death. i have vivid moments through the haze. n95s being reused for weeks until they were broken and barely hanging on by the straps, much like we were. i saw a colleague become ill, deteriorate, and die. the disassociation we have is real. i have had covid now three times - nothing major but still mildly surreal. i survived while many did not. we were hailed as healthcare heros but fast forward to 2024, we are back to being the public's punching bag, sometimes quite literally. this has had many of us question our roles as healthcare providers. why did we do this again? what is our why?