#all together it was about three months from diagnosis to the end of my therapy and that's the timeline of her being 'missing'

[cinemaocd]

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for making my ex taking medication as a bargain chip for us to get back together?

This happened a while ago but I saw some posts about the right of someone to go unmedicated and now I feel bad and wonder if I was shitty 💊🧘‍♀️ mentions of death, pet endangering, pet death, untreated mental illness and if you call them a narcissist I will steal your left socks. Also not disclosing their diagnosis because you guys can't be normal about mentally ill people.

So me and J (about 25, I was 22 at the time. Name changed for privacy. Both of us is NB) had a extremely quick developing relationship where in 5 months we went from dating to living together. Don't judge me okay I was 20 when we met and I needed a place that wasn't my parents house. Sorry, this will need some context. J convinced me to drop college due to mental health and to move out of my roomies house for privacy reasons.

So three days before my 21th birthday, J lost her brother due to an accident, and we moved together anyway. One month after her brother passed her cat also passed away. That made the grief way worse and about 10 months into the relationship she tried to choke my cat because she peed in the wrong place. I told her I was going to leave her and in result she slitted open her arm with a box cutter.

Later she admitted to be hurting our two cats when I wasn't home by choking and almost drowning them.

By december of the same year I came out as aromantic and she was extremely shitty towards me from deceiving her because she thought I actually loved her but that was all a ruse. So we broke up for real this time but kept living together because well, it was unfortunately what we had and we couldn't move to our separate paths due to our income. That was january with until march/april more or less when she noticed i was pulling guys like no one and hooking up constantly (that was self harm but that doesn't justify it. In my defense I told her just because she would ask me repeatedly if I was hooking up with guys and always wanted to know where I was going). I also went back to college and started hanging out with other people that seemed to actually like me!

Keep in mind all this time she was unmedicated and when I tried to bring up she need therapy and medications she would shut me down, even before the break-up.

And then, by may she was crawling at my feet because she wanted me back. And I cared a lot about her. So I put in my conditions that unless she was medicated and on therapy by the end of july, I would never consider going back to her. And would you look at that, it actually worked because before june ended she was both medicated and on therapy and I said well you did your part, and went back to her, with her now.

Btw for all that matters I am 25 and broke up with her again from almost 2 years now but last time I talked, she was still on therapy and medicating herself, making a bitter remark on how "that's the only way people can stand her, that no one can stand her true self"

So, AITA for making my ex take care of her mental health before I considered going back to her?

What are these acronyms?

[brainisonfire]

I really hope this won't come across as a way to compare different kinds of illnesses and struggles cause it's not, it's just stuff I thought about while listening to the great impersonator that I needed to share. at the end of the day, I'm just a mentally ill bitch lol

i still need time to process this record well enough to be able to fully put into words the amount of things that im feeling, but this whole thing about this album is bringing back things. so im sorry if this is going to be sort of a trauma dump.

in february one of my best friends lost her mother to cancer, and even tho it's not my trauma and my loss to claim it hit harder than i expected (and yes, i do feel like shit for expecting it to hit less). my friend and i grew up basically as one, we've been together since we were three years old, we spent so many afternoons in her room playing with her mum. i knew that woman too well to act like it didn't hurt me as well, but im not going to pretend it's my loss to grieve. she had a family i need to stay closer than ever now.

all of this was to say that when she died something in my brain snapped. i had the kind of reaction that makes you go 'life is short. i can't keep wasting mine. anything could happen at any minute. i dont want to go with these many things left unsaid'. which felt insane, and also kind of bad if i have to be honest, because years ago when my father died i didn't have the clarity of mind to act the same way and i wish i did.

it lasted a few months and then i fell back into my usual mental patterns and old habits, which I'm definitely not proud of, but i really do believe that even tho i keep telling myself that i went back to therapy because i needed an ocd diagnosis and someone to help me manage it (which is something that was and still is definitely very real), i actually needed to know i was working in a direction where i could, someday, be at least well enough to be there for my friends when they need me. because i fear that, right now, I'm not. and it's not fair to them to always have to second guess if they can call me or not when they need a shoulder to lean on, especially when tragedies like that happen. i want to be able to give them my undivided attention, not to have to fight against my brain to be able to barely have the energy to listen to them.

it was weird to listen to this album and realise that I can (in my own personal way, i dont want it to sound like i know the exact same pain h experienced cause i didn't go through the same things she did) relate to both of the points of view. my chronic illness is not nearly as debilitating as what she had to go through, but in my tiny way I've been both the 'heavy heart' that's 'too much to hold' and the one that wanted to try to be there for someone else and couldn't because of my own issues. and I swear im trying so hard to not repeat the same mistakes. im far from perfect, but I'm trying to show up more for the people that i love.

I'm not the kind of person that needs to do something big with their life or to give meaning to it etc, but i do need to know that it's worth it, that the bad parts are balanced by something positive. and, right now, i still dont know how to hope for things, cause a future is still not a concept i feel comfortable in yet. if i have to be completely honest i never pictured myself getting this far, but now that I'm here i might as well try to *actually* be here, at least for the people i care about. I can't do that if i dont start seriously working on things i avoided for ten years, and grief plays a huge part in this because spoiler: no matter how much time it passes, it still hurts.

i wish 13yo me didn't shut down completely and was able to process things instead, but apparently it's a job for 23yo me. i still need to fully accept that it is ok to miss my dad now even if i didn't let myself feel it for years, but i'm getting there. i have a million questions for him and I'll never get the answers. i still have to learn how to deal with it. this record hit like a ton of bricks.

so once again, after saving my ass with both badlands and manic at the most perfect time, h art came in at the right moment. i feel like something in me changed after listening to this album, exactly in the same way i felt in february. i felt my perspective shift again, for the better. I hope it'll last.

i might not be able to stitch my brain back together as fast as I'd like to, this shit will take time. i still have to fully convince myself that i can use the word 'will' instead of 'could' because i still dont really believe I'll make it lol, but one step at a time. I'm tired as fuck, but I'm trying.

i'm just so glad that i can do it while listening to the great impersonator. i needed this record so bad, it's unbelievable how someone who doesn't even know me is always able to give me exactly what i need when i need it. I'll forever be grateful for what she did and keeps doing for me through her music. this album means so much more than I'll ever be able to express

[tellthemeerkatsitsfine]

Every once in a while, I do Chortle headlines round-ups. But this time, it's their external headlines list that caught my eye and seemed worth posting:

Yep, that seems to me like a solid summary of comedy news from August 2023. I've been obsessively following comedy in the last month - I mean I'm always obsessively following comedy but I've been especially doing it in the last month because I wish I were in Edinburgh and I want to vicariously live through everyone who was - and this seems like pretty much the cliff notes of what you'd learn if you were following Britcom in the last month.

Eddie Izzard is happy and performing a collection of the best stuff of her long career and it's fucking great. Edinburgh Fringe Festival living is tough, it's too expensive for the comedians and for the audience, that's a big problem. The Edinburgh Fringe Festival is full of comedians telling their traumatic stories. John Robins is getting his shit together (honestly, I did read that article and it made me feel a bit guilty for how I recently said in a post that I like the angry bitter version of him so I'm a bit sorry that he's getting better - of course comedians can still be great after getting therapy, often they can be better after getting therapy, James Acaster's brilliant latest show is a great example of that, of course I'm happy about John Robins getting his life to a better place, I was being flippant about John Robins' problems in that other post, reading that article made me want to stop being flippant for a minute and say I really am glad he's taking better care of himself, and I am sure he can make greater comedy than ever in the wake of that). Stewart Lee is maybe autistic - yeah, I knew that, I heard him talk about that possible diagnosis in his show last year, I got a bit emotional hearing from this guy whose comedy has never been especially personal or emotionally vulnerable, but it has been cynical and pedantic in a way I relate to, so hearing he might have this major thing in common with me got to me on an emotional level, and God damn it, why did he have to ruin it by doing the "rich successful man leaves age-appropriate wife for woman half his age" thing that makes me no longer want to relate to him at all?

That's five of the six stories in this round-up. The sixth being - God damn it, Mark, what the fuck? And I know, I know, we're not supposed to care, we're not supposed to put strangers on a pedestal and then be upset when they fail to live up to our standards. I know, I know, but what the fuck, Mark? Hell of a thing to leave out, that is, of all that material you did for all those years about the ending of your marriage. Hell of a thing to leave out, to people who were listening to that material and thinking we knew what you were talking about. What the fuck? I mean... how did you even... three fucking years? Are you fucking kidding me? Just on a practical level, that is so long. No, no, it's fine, I wasn't tying my faith in humanity to the idea of Mark Watson being perfect or anything.

And, no, sorry obviously I was in fact tying my faith in humanity to that, but also, I don't think I am being ridiculous with my pedestal or demanding too much perfection, because surely "if you're going to cheat on your wife don't do it for three whole years, and if you are going to do that then don't spend years doing material about how hard the end of the marriage was without mentioning that little detail, not that you have to tell us every bit of your personal life if you don't want to, but don't talk about it in your comedy at all if you want to leave out the part where it was all your own fault" isn't too fucking much to ask? Fucking hell, Mark. Why? Why, Mark? Mark. Mark, what the fuck?

Anyway. I feel like that screenshot is Britcom in August 2023 in a nutshell. John Robins is okay, Stewart Lee and Mark Watson have news that will disappoint you, Edinburgh Fringe is trauma-filled and expensive. And Eddie Izzard is doing great. Good for her.

[stardust-in-my-mind-blog]

rambling prose practice - autism

My anxiety has been a three-pronged trident for the last month concerning the appointment I went to today. It's funny how life unfolds with the help of unexpected blessings, like my general practitioner. She's around my age and has been there for me through it all—the highs of getting into my master's program, the lows of having to leave due to the resurgence of childhood trauma triggered in a class ironically titled Adverse Effects of Childhood Trauma. Through my experiences with brainspotting and extensive therapy, she helped me return to school in just three months. And then, she gently but firmly made me realize I couldn't keep battling myself to reach some elusive "normal." Normal. What even is normal? I've never fit into that box. ADHD seemed to explain part of it, but something was still missing... My husband and I have been separated for some time now. Despite our efforts to salvage what we could, our paths diverged further as we both changed profoundly. The season of our life together has ended, and now I'm taking steps to find a new place to live. It feels different this time—we might even share a lawyer, a stark contrast from my previous experiences with divorce and custody battles. I refuse to return to the place where I overextended myself until I burned out completely. I can't force myself into roles or situations that no longer fit. Instead, I'm embracing the discomfort and finding a bit of relief in rediscovering my authentic self. I'm realizing now that I'm easily overstimulated, a realization I once mistook for fear. Sometimes, I almost wish it were fear—it seems easier. But when someone disrespects me now, something inside me shifts, and I'm tempted to engage in dangerous games of my own. It's a work in progress.

I've also learned to be more direct about how I feel now, especially when something is negatively impacting me. My fear of burnout and meltdowns outweighs any other concern. This has made it easier for me to communicate when I need a break and to regulate my nervous system. I'm highly sensitive, but with space and time, I can pinpoint what's upsetting me and avoid projecting it onto others. My past experiences haven't all been supportive. The last time I mentioned autism in a professional setting, the therapist laughed at me. He reacted similarly when I brought up Jung, and his behavior was unsettling, to say the least. This left me feeling unsupported and invalidated. Because of this, I came prepared for today's appointment, scripting my dialogue and considering bringing my journals and evidence to validate my experiences. I expected to be dismissed or laughed at again, and the anticipation of this brought tears to my eyes as I write. Instead of skepticism, my doctor asked me why I wanted to pursue this autism diagnosis. I explained that I also believed I had ADHD, but previous therapists never truly saw or understood me. Their assumptions didn't match my reality, and their advice left me frustrated. It was triggering to feel so misunderstood despite my efforts to explain myself clearly. I shared with her my childhood obsessions with dictionaries and thesauruses, how I found solace in the forest and my imagination instead of friendships. Living in this world often felt like a poor imitation for which I was constantly punished. I also mentioned how if I didn't honor or respect myself, my body would no longer let me do it. Burnout is such a weird thing. Even looking at possible employment now, I realize how careful I will have to be to make sure I feel a sense of agency. There's something about me that really attracts people who want to micromanage me. Most the time they are trying to be helpful, and I listen patiently, but I want to curtly point out exactly why their concept of how something should be done is absolutely wrong for me. I'm not special, I just need agency, or I'll literally throw a fit eventually, and it's... really embarrassing.

She believed me. It seems like such a little thing but I've been trying to convince people that my brain worked differently for awhile. That my unmasking was not a temporary thing. That the girl who didn't have needs and limits was never a real person. Just me desperately trying to figure out how to be loved when everyone told me it was so hard to do. I’ve actually been told by people they wanted me to return to the previous version of myself. That quickly let me know where to put that person in my life. Far away.

I recently watched a K-drama called 'It's Okay To Not Be Okay,' where one of the characters is autistic, and I saw myself in one of his meltdowns. If I catch the signs of overstimulation early enough, I can keep things under control until I reach my room and dive under my gravity blanket. Outwardly, I may appear fine, but inside, it feels like chaos—like I'm running around lighting fires and screaming. Any unexpected bodily sensation or change I don't understand can trigger me. When I shut down and go numb, I have to isolate myself because facing my reality feels harsh and overwhelming. Despite these challenges, I've developed strong coping mechanisms and learned my limits, setting boundaries that even my children can understand. I’ve learned that when others can’t accept or hear my boundaries and limitations… there’s usually a reason beneficial to them for ignoring me. That’s a hard lesson to learn. I didn’t want to accept it, but I do now. I cherish the unique way my brain processes information and the intensity of my hyperfixations. I wouldn't change anything about myself, not even my difficult past. It's frustrating to hear people say I don't "look" autistic. I often find myself baffled by social interactions and the dishonesty I encounter. Though I struggle with socializing, I'm slowly relearning how to navigate it. Reading Katherine May's book 'The Electricity of Everything' was a revelation for me. Her narrative voice resonated deeply, and like her, I too surprised my doctor when I sought a diagnosis. Sharing experiences like hers helps me feel less alone. So, maybe, somewhere, my experience will help someone else too.

[phawareglobal]

Jas James - phaware® interview 426

Long-term Canadian pulmonary hypertension and lupus survivor, Jas James discusses survivor's guilt and the importance of both emotional and physical support from friends, family and fellow patients.

I'm Jas James and I'm from Vancouver Island, BC, Canada. I was diagnosed 21 and a half years ago. I'm a patient and I also have lupus. I've had a lot of milestones lately. Every one is a blessing. I never thought I would see my girls grow up. They're both married now. I never thought I'd ever see a granddaughter. I have a granddaughter now. I would say I'm at peace with my diagnosis. Every day is a gift. I've talked to my family about it and whatever happens, happens. I've survived over 21 years and I'm still going. It's really a blessing. I'm lucky. I still have a lot of survivor guilt. It's really hard on me when I see patients struggling, because I'm still doing well. I'm still doing well with one therapy. That's really hard. 

Losing friends is hard. I was here 10 years ago at the PHA Canada Ottawa Conference. Now I'm back. Some of those people aren't here. Sometimes I just shut down when that happens. I feel coming to this conference I can give people hope. Actually, at the end of the month, I went to a Zoom meeting and there was a brand new diagnosed patient. When I told her my story, she said, "You know what? I feel good leaving this meeting. You just gave me hope." I just tell them to keep going, live each day, do the best you can. Even if you can just walk a little bit every day, do it, but do it every day. Try and look after yourself as best as you can. 

I don't really think about having PH. I do have it, but I think about living every day. I think about the things that make me happy. I have a really supportive husband who wants me to have the best life I can, so he encourages me to do the fun things. He can do the things that help me not struggle, like housework and stuff. I have a really supportive family as well, daughters who will step up to do things. My granddaughter gives me so much joy. I just want to keep going and going. 

Support is important because it's emotional support, it's physical support. The education, PHA Canada is giving us support. Vancouver Island support group. We all sit and talk about everything, everything in life. Family support is incredible. Everybody gets it. We've talked about life. They all understand. I even asked my husband the other day, "Do you think I'm lazy?" He said, "Not at all." I asked him that because I've heard people say, "My partner just thought I was lazy, but I really had PH," but he's never thought that of me. That's the only reason I asked him. I didn't think he ever thought that, but I was hearing this from other people. Even my friends, my girlfriends, everybody is so supportive. If we're going to go swimming, they're going to paddle me out on their tubes so I don't have to paddle. I've just had a lot of people around me always supporting me. 

I always say one day at a time. So true. I've been through a lot of stuff, not PH, and somehow I got through that. Actually, between me and my husband, we've lost three siblings, not to PH, to other things, who are younger than me. I'm the one who is supposed to be the sick one. I'm the one that's still here. I just think every day I wake up, it's a gift. We're somewhat isolated on the island. My clinic is in Vancouver. I have to say I have the most wonderful clinic, wonderful nurses, the same doctor for 20 years. Now, I have a new one, but the other one is still down the hall doing something else. They are unreal. They will answer you instantly on an email or a phone call. So I'm really lucky that way. Even though I don't live in Vancouver, I hear friends of mine saying, "Jas, you really got great care." I say, "I really do." 

Because we are a little bit more rural, our support group is really strong in coming every month. We get really excited to be together. I find it's really important to tell your story and connect with people. I would say find support, join a support group, go on the website, PHA Canada. You'll find support groups on there. You'll be able to Zoom, meet in-person. You can phone somebody. You can email somebody. There's so many ways to connect with people now with social media. I didn't have that when I was diagnosed.

There's one other thing I want to say. This disease is invisible. I don't look sick. Even though I don't look sick, this disease is not invisible to my friends. They all know what I have. They are very helpful in knowing my disease. That helps me. You have to educate the people around you so they know what I'm dealing with. They know what to say to me. They're more than happy to say, “Here, can I take your bag for you? What can I do to help?” At the same time, I'm the type of person who likes to be as independent as I can, but I will speak up if I'm struggling and say, "Hey, can you just help me with that?" It doesn't hurt to ask for help. I've met incredible people all over the world. I just want to thank everybody for the incredible care I've had from them and understanding. 

My name is Jas James, and I'm aware that I'm rare.

Learn more about pulmonary hypertension trials at www.phaware.global/clinicaltrials. Follow us on social @phaware Engage for a cure: www.phaware.global/donate #phaware Share your story: info@phaware.com @phacanada 

Listen and View more on the official phaware™ podcast site

[sysmedsaresexist]

OH, I KNOW THE ANSWER TO THIS ONE!

It's from first negative symptoms in GENERAL to CDD diagnosis.

I want to be quick with this answer, so... hopefully I can manage that.

As I said, in previous years, in current clinical population, in well established CURRENT progression, amnesia is prevalent and alters are not usually known at the start. This is someone going in for depression and 12 years later coming out with DID.

This figure, 5-12 years, includes an incredible number of systems that had no indication they were multiple-- like myself! As I said, my alters only started really taking on life and making themselves known after diagnosis of OSDD. This was not to be my final diagnosis, my journey was only just starting towards a DID diagnosis.

This number will decrease as the current clinical population is replaced with the younger, internet-savvy population that were able to figure out their symptoms much earlier.

If you can go in and tell your doctor what you think is going on, this process will go MUCH faster.

Now, the second part of this answer-- the part people don't like and don't think about in this figure.

Much like cancer, doctors don't immediately jump to that. They start with the basics and rule things out.

Mental health works the same.

You don't want to jump to the worst case scenario-- a CDD is essentially as bad as it can get, and if you're not in full communication with your system, things get difficult. It takes longer.

Part of this figure is the ruling out and testing of medication. This can take YEARS, and so many lose faith and patience with the system and process.

Each medication change can take half a year to a full year.

So for example, you've started with depression. You've been put on a medication to help with that. It's not working and your symptoms are getting worse.

It's 3 months before the first medication fully leaves your system so that you can try the next one. It takes 3 months for the new medication to begin working, you need to give it 3 months to see if the effects are positive or negative, and then it's another 3 months for it to get out of your system to try the next medication.

Now your doctor is moving to the next level-- BPD, schizophrenia, bipolar, you've got a year of medication changes for each and more intensive therapy.

Rinse and repeat, over and over, until you finally find something that works and the full extent of your symptoms are known.

So many lose patience and money through this process. They see it SOLELY as a failure of the system (which it is, financially, backlogs, etc) and not as a real process. So many are changing medications before they gave it a chance and now they have multiple medications in their system interacting and throwing off the effects of the one they're trying out.

THIS SUCKS-- technically, if you're on a medication already, you should be coming off to try out new medications. For example, I was on bupropion and switched to escitalopram. I had to (and was luckily able to) come off the buproprion completely, for three months, before I tried escitalipram. Six months later I was on a dose of both, together, and it was working better than individually.

This was a long process, technically I ended up on both regardless, we could have skipped that step, but we didn't, and I don't mind that. It showed that the dose of buproprion that I was on was much too high.

THIS IS ALL PART OF THE PROCESS! A process that the general public really doesn't understand.

Not to mention the changing of doctors throughout. If you've started with a general psychiatrist, once you start talking about voices, you're going to be transferred to a new doctor. Every change in doctor will take additional time, transferring files, doing a new patient profile, etc.

Anyways, yeah, I failed, this is long, that's why the figure is so big, this is what the previous clinical community went through.

If you are aware of symptoms, this process won't take as long. The point was that not everyone is aware until they're MUCH older, and that's okay, that's normal.

DID spend an average of 5-12 years in the mental health system before ever receiving the correct diagnosis

We had a hard time parsing the study linked to this statistic, and we're wondering if any of y'all know when the "timer" starts and ends in the study?

Like when the client first sees a MHP? When they first see one for the symptoms related to their DID? Does it consider clients that stopped seeing MHPs, and if so, how (count the time not being seen; subtract that time; start the timer after they started being seen again)?

And does the "correct" diagnosis come need to come from a specialist? Would OSDD count as correct as well (if later changed to DID)?

Some All of these questions may or may not apply to us 😅 And we're curious as to what that statistic means.

-Faye

Which study are you referring to? Could you send us a link?

[creativeashproductions]

Shattered Hearts // Luke Patterson

Summary: The teenage years are supposed to the best time of life but not when fate has other plans for Sunset Curve. Not feeling well reader stays home while Luke prepares for the performance of his life at The Orpheum. Shit hits the fan hard and the fallout ensues.

Warnings: Swearing, death, hospital, cancer (type is not detailed) angst, and fluff.

Words: 2.3k

Requested: @lolychu​

A/N: I didn’t go into detail about the kind of cancer because I didn’t want to, I want it to be as general as it could. I’ve never gone through it or had someone close go through it so it could be wrong and I apologize for that. Broken heart syndrome is REAL by the way.

Masterlist

Los Angeles, 1995

There are articles of some medical mysteries that can’t fully be scientifically explained, such as when someone dies in excellent health following the death of a loved one. The scientific term is takotsubo cardiomyopathy, but the world knows it merely by Broken Heart Syndrome. It was a day that was supposed to be the greatest of your teenage years, but the day couldn’t have gone any worse.

First, you woke up with an incredibly high fever and newfound bruises. Pain in a wrist out of nowhere but you wrote it off. You had plans, and illness wasn’t scheduled for the day. Your boyfriend and his band had gotten their big break, well their almost big break. Today was the day Sunset Curve would perform at The Orpheum, and you were gonna be backstage cheering them on.

Luke made his appearance at your house in the morning before early rehearsal, and you managed to convince him you were feeling okay. He went on to their studio, and your mother drove you to the hospital in fear.

Life was an asshole. While you waited for test results pale against the hospital sheets, an ambulance rolled in. Carrying three bodies that would go to the morgue for positive confirmation of death. You wouldn’t know for a full day, Luke’s parents too grief-stricken to call you and that’s okay. 

“Mom?” You asked as her form caved in on the floor near your hospital bed, “Mom!”

Her eyes filled with so much pain brought you fear and concern. With a struggle, she came closer to hold your hand tightly and spoke brokenly the fate that would snatch you.

“Baby, you don’t have the flu.”

“That’s good? So just meds and we can go home?” You asked heart clenching as her eyes closed tight and you knew whatever the doctor had told her after pulling her out of the room wasn’t good.

Couldn’t be good with the slump in her shoulders, the pain in her eyes and the guilt coating her every word. Mom wasn’t a housewife; she wasn’t a flower in need of protection, but she never kept something from you. Always said it straight and as it is.

“Sweetheart, they’re gonna move you to another ward.” You knew deep in your heart the news had to be the worst because Mom wasn’t telling you the whole story. Finally, she broke down, “The doctors got the results back as soon as they could. The fever, the bruises, and the broken wrist have a reason. You have cancer.”

Cancer. A word that sealed your fate. It left you reeling in shock. It shattered your dream with just one single name. Couldn’t be seen but made its presence known. The coming hour was spent with the specialist detailing the type and a tentative treatment plan he wanted to initiate immediately.

A nurse escorted your mother out as the orderlies and nurses prepped you to be moved to a new room. Knowing you were in good hands, your mom walked to the main doors for fresh air only to be astounded at the sight of Mitch and Emily Patterson. Equally shocked, they came together.

“Emily?” Your mom spoke, looking carefully at the parents of your boyfriend. She wondered how the Patterson’s had found out, “Did someone call you?”

“No.” Emily spoke with a numb voice. Your mom took a step back, understanding that one could only react that way for one thing. Something had happened to the Patterson teenager.

 “Luke isn’t here, is he?” Your mom asked, turning to look up at the tall building of the hospital, “Y/N, hasn’t had a phone. She only found out, but Luke hasn’t been with you-“

“The cops came,” Mitch spoke tucking his upset wife into his arms. He was equally as grief-stricken and bitter, but he had to be calm for his wife. They wouldn’t get anywhere if one of them couldn’t get answers.

Your mom gasped, “No.”

“I always knew that band-“Emily’s own sob cut her words off as her knees threatened to buckle. Your mom helped lead Emily into the emergency room before she jogged off to join you but not before turning to the Patterson parents.

“We’ll meet up. Discuss why we’re all here.” 

Being told you had cancer and then informed your boyfriend died all in one night was the most painful thing you had to live through. It was weeks of screaming, invasive procedures and therapy sessions. Your father came from his business trip to Dubai as soon as he could and didn’t leave your side.

A painful six months rolled with cancer stealing your hopes and a fucking bad hotdog taking your dreams away. Nothing made you curious. Nothing felt worth living for.

Not the realistic watercolour tattoo your parents let you get of Luke’s blue guitar you loved so much. It seemed to have a terminally sick child made it practically impossible to say no to, so you got a tattoo of your favourite lyrics of Sunset Curve.

In pretty font, it said ‘When all the days felt black and white. Those were the best shades of my life’ just like it said in Now or Never. One of your favourite songs, you got the privilege of watching Luke create.

“Mom, can I have a popsicle?” You asked from your bed. Eyes barely open as she nodded off her chair, “My mouth is dry.”

“Of course.” She nodded, leaving the room with a kiss on your forehead. Both of you mumbling I love you just in case. You felt like your clock was close to the end, so every word had meaning.

It was a good day so far; you hadn’t had to press for more pain medication like the last couple of weeks. You had managed to turn to stare out the window at the pretty sky. Your eyes fluttered shut completely content that this was it.

Your mom returned to a room with doctors and nurses trying to resuscitate you with your father screaming. No one could figure out if it was the cancer or the broken heart syndrome that killed you first. Your death was a double blow to Luke’s parents the most, along with Reggie and Alex’s own parents. 

Los Angeles, 2020

So much had changed since you died in 1995. Phones had changed, and buildings were torn down. You changed as well too. In relief physically, you had changed from the gaunt, skinny, pale patient to the girl you had been before the diagnosis.

Your hair now looked as healthy as it had been before you had cancer and you weren’t gaunt looking. You were looked just like you did a few months before you got diagnosed and you hoped so since you were dead. It would have sucked to be dead and beyond ugly.

“Do you think she went on to have a family?”

You kept your attention on the waves crashing the beach content to watch the waves doing the same movement they had since the beginning. You paid no attention to the group walking by. Not until one tripped over you landing in an awkward heap.

“Ouch!” The voice hissed. Your eyes flicked down to Reginald fucking Hastings’s blue eyes in pure shock. You scrambled away from the teenager with a sharp scream that pierced the ghoul group.

“Jesus.” You grumbled pushing the little sand that had stuck somehow to your body made of air.

“Oh my god. I think I just summoned Luke’s girlfriend.” Reggie hissed towards the equally astounded members of former Sunset Curve and current Julie and the Phantoms bandmates.

“No, you idiot we’re dead.” You spoke, taking a deep breath in, “After not seeing you for five years I thought you passed on. I’ve been travelling around America and Canada. Something felt like I needed to come home.”

“When did you die?” Alex questioned sadly when you were quiet. His sad blue eyes unable to leave your expressive face, he hoped somehow you had lived to your 90s and died to come back youthful.

“It’s wasn’t harm-“

“No, Luke. I don’t think I’ll ever positively know what happened, but the night you guys died my life ended as well.” You revealed sitting back, letting the three boys join you for an intriguing story to them. Luke wasn’t hesitant in grasping your hand in his, “Funny enough your bodies were being unloaded in the morgue while I was being told by my Mom, I had cancer. The battle was hard but short.”

“Cancer?”

“Our love story was destined to be tragic, whether it be cancer or a hotdog.” You told the teenage guitarist to experience in the afterlife to be gentle about it. The three boys flinched from the indifference, “Have you visited your parents yet? My parents are home for a few weeks.”

“My neighbourhood was torn down. Alex doesn’t know about his and-“ 

“-I’ve seen my folks once so far.” Luke finished playing with your fingers, “You say our love story was tragic, I say it would be tragic if we hadn’t had the chance in life that we did.”

You nodded your head, “Where have you guys been?”

All three boys took their chaotic turn in describing their last meal to Reggie tripping over you with the belief of walking through you. They were in a band with a lifer who made them visible to the public when playing music together. You told them that your parents would choose a destination from your dream travel journal; you would follow them on the adventures.

Slowly you met Julie who put up a distance as she acclimated to having the girlfriend of her crush around always. Julie couldn’t help the feeling of jealously when Luke focused on the teen ghost girl. She couldn’t even hate you! You were so lovely and welcoming to the girl with respect for boundaries, in fact, you were exactly the girl she would have been friends with. Julie loved Flynn, but she could be over the top and dramatic sometimes.

“Good rehearsal. I’ll meet you outside.” Luke spoke, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. You nodded before walking through the white, painted barn doors.

Everything put away properly; Luke was quick to meet up with his girlfriend for their date. Alex noticed the stare by Julie. He had seen it for the past few weeks since you were introduced to the passionate musician with a beautiful voice.

“I’m really sorry, Julie.” Alex softly told the sad Puerto Rican girl yearning to hug the teenager but alas his ghostly body couldn’t allow it.

“Did I have an honest chance before she came back?” Julie asked. Her doe brown eyes bringing Reggie’s attention to the conversation at hand. 

“No.” Reggie answered this time solemn with his blue eyes holding no mirth or childlike glee, “Luke’s been in love with her for years. She’s his all or nothing.”

“I didn’t have a chance between them, and I don’t want you between them either. It’s not a nice place to be even if I was mutually breaking up with his as well.” Alex soothed the live girl yearning to physically comfort her but alas that damn hotdog ruined everything.

“Luke also said when the first big payment came, he would marry her. He wanted to give her the wedding of her dreams.” Reggie unintentionally rubbed the salt in Julie’s wound on the topic of her tragic love story.

Julie learnt to deal with the pain of seeing Luke, so in love and happier than before you had reconnected. In her fashion, she had hidden a new box for her thoughts that was so well hidden the boys would never find it. It was filled with papers that progressively got less romance angst.

“I’m just saying,” Alex spoke, raising his hands in the air after another one of Luke’s emotional rants on the loss of things in death. Such as marrying you.

“Dude, we’re dead, and our ghost connections happen to either be our band, Willie or a very questionable sketchy vintage magician.” Luke snapped slouching on his couch sulking as you were spending time with your family no matter how oblivious they were to your presence.

“I’m ordained.” Willie supplied sitting next to the blonde drummer who had easily swayed from Caleb to the good side again. At the group’s looks of disbelief, he continued, “I was bored! Took some art classes too. It won’t be the average wedding, but you could still call each other spouse.”

“I can check local clubs for wedding dresses. Flynn can easily put together music and Alex can find a venue.” Julie piped up, avoiding the sympathetic look from Reggie, who still thought the teenager had feelings for his bandmate. She no longer did. 

“You can use one of your rings on a chain as well. Maybe hold off on getting a ring until we get money from the band.” Reggie gave his input, earning himself a proud expression from Alex; an expression the drummer rarely was able to give his friend.

“I guess I’m proposing.” Luke beamed already thinking of ways to make his proposal special, not like being ghosts wasn’t already impressive enough. 

It wasn’t the ideal wedding, but it honestly didn’t matter as long as the two of you were able to vow yourself to each other. It no longer mattered on the details other than you two.

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[runessystem]

It took me four days to process and actually remember how horrible and traumatic my last ever appointment with my therapist was. (Like literally the last four days I had been feeling hyper vigilant and was unable to go to sleep and I literally didn't even realise why).

Anyway here's a list of fucked up shit my (ex) therapist of three years did, during our last appointment:

It turned out she hadn't even put my recent (of three months ago) treatment plan in the system yet, we literally had to do that together during out last appointment

I asked to see my diagnoses, there were only two old ones (I got three years ago at the start of treatment to get the gov money), and none of them described my symptoms accurately

She told me I didn't have PTSD when I asked her why it wasn't in my files. I've literally been diagnosed with PTSD since I was 15, even before getting therapy at the institute she works for. This woman literally tried to gaslit me into thinking all of my symptoms are from autism, the one and only diagnosis she initiated.

She tried to gaslit me into thinking we had discussed topics of getting treatment at a different institute, or the topic of her leaving (both never happened), to try to cover her ass, because she had announced her leave and her planning to stop all treatment (even the treatment I get from other therapists) in an email, a fucking reply to me canceling the session two weeks earlier.

Did I mention that she replied to my 5(!) Reply emails, asking for a replacement therapist, very distraught, with basically the same very cold and professional email of her telling me she's going to stop all treatment with vague reasons. But when I actually saw her in person for the last time she acted as if it was already clear that she was getting me a replacement therapist.

During the session she acted very cold and distant and interpretted my frustration as agression

She literally told me that she "already does too much for me, she already gives too much" (triggering) when she literally didn't even put my stuff in my files

I tried to tell her that I felt misunderstood, I felt like she didn't really listen and that she misinterprets my symptoms. Like I felt like there was a communication problem. She interpreted this as an attack. Told me so much about her "expertise as a therapist". She said she did so much for me outside out appointments, like discussing me with her colleagues. ALL THE WHILE she continued to discredit my experiences and blatantly belittle and misunderstand my symptoms. she made me re-tell all of the dissociative and traumatic symptoms I experience. When I got desperate and told her I "literally hear voices and they take over and do things on their own with my body" she said "that's a little much, but I guess that's just part of life, and you're the only one that can make it better, have you tried ignoring them?" HELLO???

She triggered two really scary, bad, flashbacks.

She kept telling me things about psychology that I thought were wrong, to discredit my knowledge and paint herself as the only smart one. She said that dissociative disorders are personality disorders (I'm not sure if this is true or not) and she also kept saying I'm not crazy enough to have a personality disorder.

She kept interpreting me setting boundaries within the conversation as attacks and pushed right through them.

At the end of the conversation when I was already tired from crying and having flashbacks I asked her to please stop. I asked her to stop the conversation, I didn't feel like we would get any further with it. She saw this as an attack (which made me reengage because I'm stupid) and then two sentences later she angrily stated that she didn't want to talk anymore and went to her desk to do the rest of the paper work. This triggered me even more because she said it quite loud and angrily and made me completely disengage even though she JUST made me reengage. I tried to explain this to her, in the most kind quiet way I could muster, and then she told me: that she got called during our appointment by her colleague, who asked if she needed assistance. Saying I was the loud one, implying that I was crazy, dangerous, that I was the bad guy and she was the one being attacked by me. And honestly that was really the cherry on top. I hope the reason she left the institute is because she got fired.

TL; DR

Didn't put my stuff in the system nor my files

Didn't put my diagnoses in the system not my files, now I need to do another diagnostic assessment

Gaslit the absolute hell out of me

Triggered me to have two violent flashbacks during the session

Told me wrong facts about my diagnoses in order to sound like the professional and make me question myself

Ignored and pushed away my boundaries

Set up boundaries in order to jab back at my recently ignored boundary.

Told me I was loud, voilent, crazy (but not crazy enough apparently), and that she was the one being attacked by me. I was literally just crying in a chair and having flashbacks while just sitting in a chair.

[wishfullyeternal]

Reid x Reader- Hurt Pt 6

Reid x Reader- Hurt Pt 6

Warnings- Mentions of violence, gunshots, swearing, PTSD, depression etc. Please exercise caution.

Words- 1544

A/N- finally got around to continuing this part! hopefully y'all like it! as always requests are open and love you lovelies!

In your mind it was all so clear, each memory playing in your head effortlessly, but when it came to words, it was useless. Useless to even try and explain what had happened, it was so simple yet so complicated, and to even speak it aloud would give Noah some kind of power beyond the grave.

"I don't know," You said, rocking back and forth slightly, feeling sweat begin to bead at your forehead, even the fleeting thought of his appearance was enough to make you visibly shake, your fists clenched and breathing erratic.

"You seem nervous, is everything okay?" You nodded and clenched your teeth, struggling to answer the therapists' question.

"It was cold, and I had just gotten off work," You trailed off, struggling to remember the events even though they were seared into your mind.

"Noah was home, in my apartment, looking for something to accuse me of cheating on him, and he found a picture of Spencer, and screamed in my face-"

"Are you in a romantic relationship with Dr.Spencer Reid?" You shook your head violently,

"Oh no, it's not like that, we're just on cases a lot together, so we've become pretty close friends," You laughed nervously, and the therapist pondered on your response, but nodded and wrote down something on her notebook. You made a mental note to try and see what it was.

"Once he was done yelling at me, he grabbed something to try and tie me, to keep me still so he could-" You took in a breath, trying to find a way to move away from the subject, but there really wasn't.

"Rape me." The therapist nodded and scribbled something down,

"I didn't have my gun, so I kicked him and we ended up fighting, and that's how I got the bruise on my face," You gently touched it and winced, but luckily it had begun to heal. The therapist then wrote something else down and spoke.

"After that though, you went to Dr.Reid's house and let the BAU form an investigation trying to find him, correct?" You nodded,

"I stayed with Penelope to help, they wouldn't let me in the field at the time," You nodded to yourself, trying to give yourself some type of confidence to get through the last of the events.

"Noah was already in the building though, and when I was getting coffee from the break room, he found me, and we both pulled our guns in a stalemate," She nodded, wanting you to go on,

"But he got into my head and made me think that it was wrong for me to defend myself, so I ended up putting my gun down and letting him take me from the break room," You shook your head, knowing it was a mistake you made that resulted in his death and maybe, just maybe, if you hadn't surrendered that quickly he would still be here today.

"Why did you let him take you out of the break room," You closed

your eyes and spoke quietly,

"Because maybe if I would have let him do anything he wanted to me, it would all fucking be over," The politeness was gone from your voice, and you desperately wanted to get this fucking interview over with so you could get back onto the field and forget about this.

"What did he say to you?"

"He told me everything he knew about me, my favorite color, favorite music, why I liked it, everything..." You faltered, trying to find the words that would make her understand exactly what you were going through, but there weren't any words that could. Of course your significant other should know these things, but the way he said them with so much venom in his voice completely broke you.

"Reid was walking in at the same time, and pulled his gun, talked to Noah, realized he was going to kill me no matter what, made a judgment call and when he moved, Reid shot him." You quickly finished and began to get up,

"Sit down please, I'm not done yet, I still have to give you my diagnosis." You furrowed your brows, there was nothing wrong with you, why would you need a diagnosis?

"Severe PTSD, and moderate depression, both are caused by the traumatic event, and can be lessened with therapy and meds, I want you to start seeing a therapist once a week and start you on Sertraline, first ten milligrams and then gradually increase from there, if everything goes well, you'll be allowed into the field in about 2 months-"

"2 months?!" You said in disbelief,

"I have to go to therapy and take whatever the fuck that is for two months?" She nodded,

"At your first session the therapist you choose will give you the prescription, so please take it easy and get some rest. I'll check in on you in two months. Know that I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt, usually, I would keep someone out of the field for at least three months."

"Can I at least help in Quantico?" She thought for a second but then nodded. You thanked the lord above that you wouldn't be so cooped up at home, and went back to your desk, not before sneaking a look at the clipboard she was writing on.

Obvious PTSD, amnesia? Depression, co-dependent, prone to relationships that give not receive. Stable enough to keep gun, etc, keep an eye out for new relationships/drastic changes in mood or behavior.

You took offense to the co-dependent phrase but quickly booked it to your desk, eager to get the hell out of there. Hotch stood at your desk, awaiting your arrival.

"What did she say?" You nodded to yourself and let out a breath, composing yourself.

"Out of the field for two months, gotta go see a therapist and take some meds for PTSD, I can still help Penelope though," Hotch sighed,

"I'll see if I can lessen it for you, but from now on help Penelope and go to therapy. I know you don't want to but it's for your own good." You nodded and sat at your desk, shuffling through the immense amount of paperwork you had to do from both the FBI itself and the case before.

"What did they say, I can give a second opinion if you want," Reid looked over your shoulder and to the paperwork you were completing.

"You know you can leave that for later," He continued, you nodded.

"Better now than later. I'm out of the field for two months though, and I gotta go get therapy and meds, I can still help Penelope." Reid smiled,

"You know that's not what I meant, what were you diagnosed with," You sighed,

"PTSD and mild depression, she called me co-dependent..." Reid laughed,

"First two maybe, but only mild, and for the co-dependent part, I'm sure you know the answer." You laughed quietly, it was something you were going to have to work on, but not yet.

"You don't seem super nervous talking about it, why?" He tried to pry and get more information, but in reality, the only thing you could think of was how detached you were from the event, seeing it from the outside rather than the inside.

"I guess I'm just detached, that's all." Reid shook his head,

"That won't do you any good, therapy will help though. Do you want me to drive you home, it'll be better to be in a place you recognize." You nodded, trying to remember how you had left the place, probably messy.

"C'mon then, better get there now so we can clean." You smiled, we. Such a simple gesture, but made you feel loved.

The car ride was less than interesting, and you found yourself aimlessly scrolling through your phone, only looking up when Reid had parked.

"Nervous?" He asked, you nodded and sucked in a breath, letting it out and preparing yourself for what was to come.

You got a flash of memories from that night, and the way you ran to your car, hands still barely tied. The hallway you almost tripped down, and the doors you had to open. Reid put his hand around you, noticing your breathing change.

"It'll be okay, it's just a room, and Noah is gone. He won't hurt you again." You nodded and tried to comfort yourself to no avail. Your heart began to beat faster and faster, like thunder in your head, deafening, you could almost feel the blood coursing through your veins. You put in the key to your apartment and gently opened the door, Reid just behind you.

It was a mess. Just like how it was left. You couldn't help but place a hand on your gun, looking for any type of movement.

"There's no one here, promise," Reid said, trying to calm you down. You let your hand wander to your side, and sat down on the loveseat, where everything went down.

"Do you need anything?" Instead of declining like you usually would, you asked for a glass of water, not wanting to get up and get it yourself. Reid went into the kitchen and ran the water, but before he got to you you heard a deafening.

Crack!

Like the thunder you had heard when Reid pulled the trigger on Noah, in fact, it was identical.

Oh fuck...

Not today, not today, not now...

[commander-diomika]

I just feel like i cannot do a single thing until I wrote out what happened with my ex. I feel completely clogged and broken down. I know this isn't exactly the same as journaling but here we go.

The timeline; five and a half years ago, Charlie and I got together. Two years later in early 2018 we moved in together after getting engaged. It was always an unconventional relationship structure; we're polyam, we've both got other partners, and I was very clear that I wanted to continue living with my queerplatonic life partner as well, so the three of us moved into together. We approached it carefully; I had said I never wanted to cohabit with a partner again, they weren't sure if it suited them. So we got a three bedroom place, everyone got a bedroom and Charlie got the garage as their study/rumpus room so they could have plenty of space for their computer and independence from me.

We'd been living together for a year, when out of the blue they told me they wanted to move out, citing not feeling like they had enough space from me, and being able to hear me have sex with my other partners was distressing as our bedrooms shared a wall. Up until this point I thought we'd been sharing fairly successfully for a pair of mentally ill, depressed people doing their best to support each other and share a bit of joy where we could. I was heartbroken and felt like this had been dropped on me out of nowhere. They'd never mentioned any issues or told me that hearing my sex life was upsetting them, or tried to bring me into that thought process at all. I told them off for making a unilateral decision about our relationship and living situation, and they agreed to stay and try and work on the issues instead of just leaving. This got long, more under the cut.

As a compromise, I moved my bedroom from upstairs next to theirs into the garage downstairs. That... wasn't ideal obviously? It's a poorly insulated room with no windows to the outside right next to the kitchen, but I was committed to them and I wanted them to be comfortable, whatever that took. I understood that this was an experimental solution, not one that promised to fix everything, but I spent the next six months checking in a LOT to make sure their concerns had been resolved, and they assured me that they were happy, and my garage bedroom had fixed it.

The three of us got a dog. I drove them to and from multiple surgeries and cared for them in recovery. I spent a vicious year going to therapy 1-2 times a week. I got sober. I learnt to manage my ASD diagnosis and pulled myself up outta a pretty deep hole. I put on a solo Fringe show.

One year after moving into Garage Bedroom, the pando hit. Almost nine months of hard lockdown together in a house with the three of us. But we got through it. I spent most of 2020 doing all the cooking because I was off work, and Charlie was still working from home, so we fell into a routine of me cooking when the worked, and they cooked (reluctantly) one night a week. I tried to be the best partner I could and check in as much as I could, even though the answer to "how are you" for most of 2020, for everyone, was "sad and scared and just doing my damn best." They said they were happy. They told me they loved me. They told me they loved living with me.

In late Jan of 2020, several months out of hard lockdown and less than a month after the three of us adopted a cat, Charlie once again drops the bomb that they want to move out. Less than a week later they had applied for and accepted the lease on a new house. I had no idea this was coming. They never told me they were unhappy or wanted things to change. Which was a fairly ingrained pattern in our relationship by then, but I guess I deluded myself into thinking that if there was a really big issue, they would come to me. That I didn't need to go fishing for problems if I was given no indication that they existed.

They moved out, which I helped them do, once again putting their needs ahead of mine. As long as they were happy and doing what was right for them, I couldn't be upset, right?

Couldn't be upset that they'd completely upended my life, left me and my roomie with the dog and cat, and the choice to either move ourselves or live with a stranger. They wanted things to just continue... with the two of us spending one or so nights a week together but with them now in a different house. Like things hadn't changed. Like I wasn't hurting and the trust wasn't broken. Like I wasn't still reeling over the fact they could have decided to do this without even flagging it to be before enacting the move out. I tried to let things continue. Said for the moment I had to reframe us as friends but wanted to keep seeing them.

That lasted about a month before I allowed myself to realise it was over, to reflect on all the ways I felt wounded, all the ways in which I couldn't feel close to them through the huge gulf of their lack of consideration or ability to open up to me. The final nail in the coffin was a long message from me, laying out my hurt, laying out my fears that living alone would allow them to indulge their tendancy toward isolation, all the ways in which their staying silent about their needs had hurt the relationship in many ways, not just the sudden move-out. Their reply was that they understood and respected my need for space and a proper break up, but that part of them was confused about how I had seemed happy with our relationship before we moved in together, and they didn't understand why we couldn't just go back to the way things were.

To be clear if you've read this far, they were confused about why things just couldn't go back to the way they were, three years ago, before we got engaged, before we adopted pets together, before we shared our lives and friends, meals and domestic life through a long a traumatic year.

And I realised then with a horrible, gut wrenching grief that for them truly nothing had changed. They had committed no more to the relationship in those intervening years. They had revealed no more of themself to me, they hadn't let me in or dedicated themself to the relationship in the way that I had. That all of my growth and learning to let people in had been one sided, and they truly just thought we could drop everything and return to the way our relationship looked back then, when I was a much less open and vulnerable person, when I was deeply fucking depressed and addicted to drugs.They had patted me on the back as I went through a grueling amount of transformative therapy, and they hadn't changed from their stoic, self protective, guarded ways at all. And they wanted to push me even further away.

I'm upset with myself for not seeing it, for not realising I was pouring love, service and commitment into something that they were still holding at arms length. That just because you show someone the hard parts of yourself, if they're not doing it in return it's not really love, is it? I was just a helpful person to have around and they wanted to continue by keeping the easy, companionable parts of us, without them having to do any of the hard work, or ever truly COMMIT to the MORTIFYING fucking ordeal of being KNOWN. They never even understood or acknowledged the importance of that! I thought I was giving them time and space to come to those things on their own, but really I was just giving them permission to never be truly open with me. And that persisted right up until the bitter, shocking end.

There's no happy ending here currently, except for allowing myself to reflect and to reframe our relationship. To better understand. And to let myself feel angry, and upset, for being in a onesided relationship for so long. Perhaps after I'm done being angry, there will be some relief that I'm not longer pouring myself into someone that wasn't able, for whatever reasons, to give much of themselves back. 18/04/2021

[coleyholts]

Here it is.  The Medication Post.

Note: I’m going to start off by saying that this is highly personal and any judgement (although I don’t really care, but we’ll explore that) will not be tolerated and it will make you a bad person. This is a detailed account of my medication history and I am putting it out there in hopes that someone out there will benefit from what I know.  Okay. Glad to have that out of the way.

When I was in high school (maybe 16-ish??), I went to my doctor and told him that I was having trouble shaking the feeling of constantly being rushed and that people are looking at me like I’m less than they are.  These feelings were always present and made my life so much harder than it needed to be.

I was completely open to medication, having known many adults and a few of my peers that had benefited greatly from their qualities.  I started Paxil, and at first, I was so relieved.  As a few months rolled by, I noticed that while I wasn’t terribly sad or anxious, I was not experiencing any positive emotions either.  I had become completely numb to everything I was supposed to be enjoying as a high school Junior with a bright future full of mysteries.

After six months, doc and I had a check-in.  I told him how I felt, so I was switched to Effexor.  I felt like this medication made no difference whatsoever.  I felt like I was served this ultimatum by life that made me choose between being shaky and nervous and having no emotions whatsoever.  I DO NOT RECOMMEND THIS, but I weaned myself off and didn’t look back...until recently.

During my complicated pregnancy filled with hurdles like spine surgery, physical therapy, pain management with the best medications to not harm my baby, gestational diabetes, excessive swelling, knee injections (the list really never ends), I found myself feeling sorry for myself.  I shouldn’t have to go through so much pain in order to bring life into this world like most other women.  I talked to my OB/GYN about this, and he said starting Zoloft would not hurt Natasha, and that a lot of at-risk women begin taking it in the third trimester in preparation for Post-Partum Depression.  I decided to tough out my pregnancy without medication, as I was already out of work at this point for blood pressure.

At your first check-up (usually two weeks after delivery), you are asked to fill out a survey containing questions that indicate exactly where you’re at emotionally.  I felt weird checking boxes of the symptoms I had been experiencing, asking myself if these feelings were real.  My biggest issue was that I was crying WAY too much.  Looking back, I think this was caused by feelings of guilt surrounding the fact that I could not care for my baby as much as I wanted to, being almost 300 lb. And recently being cut in half for a cesarean.  I started Zoloft that day.

For me personally, timing considered, Zoloft completely changed my life.  Although I was dealing with some nerve pain complications, I was able to “get it together” most of the time.  I was so happy that I put my faith in Dr. Aron, as I held my head high and enjoyed my baby and husband while I healed with steroids, muscle relaxers, injections and physical therapy.

Everything was getting better and better medically.  I had reached complete relief with my back pain, while working almost all of the way through my PPD.  I got my ADHD diagnosis, got properly medicated, and everything made sense.  I switched all of my medications to my primary care physician, and was just about to come off Zoloft completely.  I felt so accomplished.  

Then, the accident happened.

When we were discharged after Natasha’s surgery, I called my doctor’s office on the way home.  I sobbed knowing I had to do the exact opposite of what my goal had been and increase my Zoloft.  I left a message with a nurse (they know me from all the bs I dealt with during my pregnancy), and after telling her what happened, I got the notification that my prescription had been filled.  It helped in less than three days, and I was hopeful.

When the episodes (anxiety, tears, shaky, nausea) started, that’s ultimately when I knew that I had to utilize something else.  I was given Klonopin, which would also help with my restless legs.  We also decided to raise my Zoloft for a second time, considering I was starting therapy for PTSD and he thought it would be beneficial to help my chemicals all balance back out.

I still have the goal of completely coming off antidepressants completely; not because of any kind of judgement or stigma, but because I dream of the day when I can be happy again without any help.  I want to be able to walk outside on a fall day and see Daniel and Natasha playing in leaves in the yard without my irrational thoughts, giving me reasons why I don’t deserve this because of what happened.  I want to enjoy being at social events, and not feel like everyone has a reason not to want me there or like they’re thinking how much of an idiot I am for letting my baby roll off my bed. I’m working on this in therapy, and am making great progress.  I have very supportive doctors that help my work towards my goals that I get to set.

So, to close this post, do not be afraid to utilize medication.  Life does not have to be so painful.  You do not walk around with a neon sign floating above your head that says MY BRAIN IS BROKE AND NEEDS MEDS, and there is no need to be embarrassed.  Get the help you need to be the very best you, and give that truly authentic version of yourself to the people you love.

[yikesharringrove]

So I have this theory that Steve and billy would take a long time to get to each other. They both have so much damage. They know they would be amazing but they also know they aren’t ready yet. So they go with their separate ways. They grow up, they get better. 10 years later they are both back home for a wedding (let’s say Dustin/Erica because I personally think they would be awesome. She would run his life and he would thank her for it) And S/B realize they are ready now. The timing is perfect

Read on Ao3.

“It looks good, buddy.”

Steve was sitting bored in the leather armchair. His hand was propping his chin as he stared at Dustin. He had tried out 18 suits and Steve was tired.

“I don’t know, Steve. I don’t think I like the blue.” It was his sixth navy suit. Steve wanted to bash his head in.

“I still maintain I like the first one.” Dustin took another look in the mirror before nodding.

“I’ll put the first one back on.” Steve groaned at the ceiling.

Steve was Dustin’s Best Man. They had kept in close contact even as Steve moved to Chicago, worked entry-level jobs until he went to college, studied, and became a special education teacher.

Dustin had recently graduated from MIT, was living in Indianapolis with Erica. He worked at an engineering lab, was designing already. Steve was very proud. The past few months he had driven to Indy every Friday and staying through the weekend, helping him with plans, the registry, and addressing invitations. He nearly shit when he wrote Billy Hargrove’s name and address.

“Okay, I think this is the one.” Dustin was back in the first one. Steve wanted to hit his head against the wall until he fucking died.

  “Okay, so we’ve got me and your mom, and the Sinclairs, and Marnie, and Robin at Table 1. Table 2 is El and Mike and Will and Seth and Reggie and Max and Angie and Lucas, which, shouldn’t he sit at table one? Family and that. Table 3 is Nancy and Jonathan and Mrs. Byers and Hopper and-” Steve choked on the next name. “Billy? Why didn’t you tell me he was coming?” Dustin looked up from the huge board they had been using to make the seating chart.

“Does it matter?”

“Yes. You know he’s the love of my fucking life.” Steve was gawking at Dustin who rolled his eyes.

"He's not. You've just been gross and hung up on him for ten years, Steve. That's lame."

"We could've had something! We were getting close and I kept-"

"You were getting closer and you kept feeling electricity and then he died and then he was fine and then he ran away to California I know, Steve." Steve felt his face heat up He looked back at the seating chart. "Stop pouting."

"I'm not pouting." He was totally pouting. "It's just, I haven't seen him in ten years. It's gonna be, what if he's moved on."

"He's not bringing a plus one."

"Maybe they couldn't come." Dustin rolled his eyes.

"Just fucking talk to him when you see him. Don't know why it has to be such a big deal."

"I can't talk to him, Dustin. what would I say?"

"Start with hi, Billy. And just see where it takes you."

"I just, it's been a while since I've dated and-"

"But it's time you moved on from Taylor. I told you that guys was bad news, and lo and fucking behold, he ends up sucking." Steve shifted uncomfortably. That relationship had ended over three years ago, ended with Steve spending two months on Robin's couch. He was still in therapy over it. 

"Yeah, I know." Steve was talking to his arms, folding tightly over his chest.

"Buddy, I'm not trying to be an ass. Just saying. You're doing much better after that. And Max says Billy's really good. That he's got his life on track and is happy."

"Then he probably has someone. And he might not even be into guys!"

"Okay, then get over your lame self, and be his friend." Steve huffed. "But whatever you do, just help me finish this fucking seating chart."

Steve was fucking running.

He had been in charge of the rings, and he had, misplaced them.

Because of course he fucking did. Of course, he held onto them for weeks only to lose them on the day.

He was sweating through his white shirt in the Hawkins heat. Running from room to room in the upstairs of the old house. His parents kept the Hawkins house, just in case they were ever passing through. Steve doesn't think they've spent more than three hours in it since he was nineteen, but it gave him a free place to crash whenever he was in town.

He was tearing through rooms, anywhere he could've been these past few hours. He knows he had the rings when he put on his shirt, had them in his pocket when he realized he needed cufflinks.

He flew downstairs, rummaging through the drawer in his father's side of the bathroom, finding the rings exactly where he had stolen the cufflinks from. They were thin, gold bands. Erica's had a small diamond set into it. They were engraved on the inside, quotes for Star Wars, Dustin's holding Princess Leia's I love you, Erica's with Han Solo's I know. Steve had made fun of them endlessly when he had picked them up from the jeweler's.

"Steve, you're a fucking idiot and also a genius." He scrambled to his car, driving well over the speed limit to the venue, a historic house in the old part of Hawkins. It was grand and beautiful and much cooler than the summer air outside. Steve was so focused on delivering the rings he didn't notice the Camaro sitting out front, still in its pristine condition. He opened doors at random, getting screamed at by Erica's Maid of Honor, Marnie, when he burst into the wrong room. Marnie fucking hated Steve, and he didn't really know why. Apparently it had something to do with the engagement party. But, he got blackout fucking drunk at that thing, so he had no idea what she was so pissed about.

Well, now she was quite obviously pissed that he had slammed open the door to find her and Erica in robes, getting their makeup done. She threw a shoe at his head.

He was fucking sprinting down a hallway when he crashed right into a fucking wall, solid and steady. He was knocked back on his ass,

"Oh shit, sorry!" He looked up, finding Billy Hargrove staring down at him. "Steve fucking Harrington. As I live and breathe." Billy's hair was long, was wild and big. He was wearing a well-fitting suit, looked thick and muscled, more than he had in high school. Steve's mouth went fucking dry. Billy had his shirt unbuttoned to the bottom of his sternum, showing off a large chest piece, gorgeous flowers weaving around and through the scar on his chest. Steve could see it was healed, but still raised, pink and shiny in a few areas, the skin pulled and puckered where Billy had been stitched back together.

Billy extended a hand, a scarred tattooed hand, and heaved Steve off the floor.

"Hi, Billy." Billy grinned at him. It was softer than he remembered. "You look good."

"You seen yourself? You're still as pretty as I remember." Steve fucking giggled like a fucking schoolgirl. He had let his hair grow out some since high school. Some of the kids liked his long hair.

"What have you, what have you been up to?" Steve was overly aware of his arms. Was trying to find a way to hold himself that didn't look stupid.

"You know, California. USed my government hush money to go to culinary school. I'm a sous-chef now at a restaurant in L.A."

"Oh, wow. Congratulations. You've really, you've come a long way. You look, happy." Steve flushed a little more.

"What are you doin', Pretty Boy?" Steve's heart tripped over itself at the old nickname.

"I'm in Chicago, now. I teach special education at an elementary school. I'm actually, I'm in line to become head of the department when the current one, when she retires." Billy's eyes crinkled at the corners with his smile.

"That's so perfect for you. What made you choose special ed?"

"I went to college and learned I'm dyslexic." Billy barked a laugh, one Steve had never heard before, a fucking real one.

"You didn't know? I could've told you that!"

"I mean, I just thought I was fucking stupid, but once I learned what the problem was, the university gave me some resources to help. I was actually in the nursing program, but I kept thinking about how the university helped me so much, that getting a real diagnosis was fucking life-changing, not only for school, but just in the way I thought about myself. I don't want kids to grow up like I did, convinced that their literal disability is just, just stupidity." Steve met Billy's eyes, saw them glow with fondness.

"I'm so happy for you, Steve. I'm so proud you found such an amazing calling, you seem like you've come such a long way." Billy squeezed his upper arm, made Steve melt.

"Thank you, that, that really means a lot to m-"

"Steve! I have been looking for you for hours. Where have you been, Asshole?" Dustin was stomping down the hall

"Doesn't matter. I'm here, I've got the rings, I'm ready to go."

"Did you not have the rings?" Dustin looked like he was going to explode.

"I have them! See!" Steve pulled them out of his pocket, clinking them together. "All engraved with your nerd shit and ready." Billy was watching them, an amused look on his face.

"You are a nightmare and the worst best man in the history of-"

"Can you not be dramatic for one fucking da-"

"I'm allowed to be dramatic today, I'm getting marrie-"

"You're never allowed to be dramatic you little-"

"God, you two really are brothers. You fight like siblings." They both whipped to look at Billy, giving him the exact same pissed off-glare. Billy laughed at them.

"Look, I'll get outta y'all's hair." He clapped Steve on the shoulder. "It's good to see you, Stevie. Hope we can catch up more. Congrats, Dustin." He trotted down the hall. Dustin grinned at Steve.

"It's GOOD to see you, STEVIE. He's totally into you. It's exhausting being right all the time." Steve slapped his arm.

 The ceremony was short and sweet.

Steve stood behind Dustin, handed him a tissue when he got all misty, took one for himself when he began tearing up. He noticed Billy sitting a few rows back, noticed how his eyes were always on Steve whenever Steve's trailed over to him. He was smiling softly at him, even fucking winked at Steve, made him go red and look away. Robin noticed something off about him, noticed the way he was flushed, raised her eyebrow for her spot in the first row with Claudia. He shook his head.

The cocktail hour took place outside in the oppressive heat as the large ballroom was altered from ceremony set-up, to dinner and dancing. Steve was overseeing the transition, as Dustin was extremely specific, and someone needed to deal with it.

"You've been weird all day." Robin knocked her shoulder into his. "It finally catching up to you that one of your kids is married?"

"Mike and El have been married for like, years."

"Yeah, but Dustin is your baby." Steve rolled his eyes.

"It really doesn't bug me. I just, Billy's here. We like, talked earlier. And he kept, lookin' at me." She sighed.

"You know what I've always said about Billy. When he was coming into Scoops like, every day and being all flirty. But just, be careful he's been through a lot and, I just don't want the whole Taylor situation to happen again." He shuffled his feet.

"It won't. He seemed, happy. Like he was all bright and was, was laughing, and I've never heard him laugh like that." Her eyes were soft.

"Just be careful, Dingus."

 At dinner, Steve had to give his speech.

He was a wreck, had dropped his cards, and started fucking crying a couple different times. But he got laughs in all the right places, and Claudia had cried loudly so he was feeling pretty alright about it.

He had made a point not to look at Billy the whole time, couldn't fathom looking into his bright eyes as he talked. As dinner winded to a close, the bar opened, and the music began.

Dustin and Erica's first dance was so sweet, they had chosen At Last, the Etta James number that made Steve and Claudia tear up. Lucas took Erica out next, swapping with Mr. Sinclair as Claudia took Dustin.

And then the music devolved into upbeat dance numbers, kept everyone on their feet for hours.

Steve was taking a much-needed break. Nancy had worn him out during Rio, arguably the best Duran Duran dong to ever exist according to Steve.

"You're really tearing it up out there. Nice to see your taste hasn't changed at all." Billy was leaning against the bar, was nursing an amber-colored drink. Steve sipped his pink wine.

"I stand by Duran Duran." Billy laughed, leaning forward enough for Steve to feel his warmth.

"Your speech was nice."

"Thank you! I was so fucking nervous, you have no idea." It was easy talking to Billy. Felt like not a day had passed since they were sitting on the hood of Steve's car at the quarry together, throwing rocks into the water and passing a joint back and forth.

"I wanna know everything about from these past ten years." Steve took in a big breath.

"You pretty much know it all. Took me a good while to get my shit together and get through school, finding something I'm passionate about."

"But there has to be more. A lot can happen in ten years. You dating anyone?" Steve's heart lodged itself in his throat. He blinked down at his wine.

"Not right now. Last one was, uh, it really fucked me up." Billy's hand was so warm when he placed it on Steve's shoulder.

"I'm sorry I asked. You don't gotta explain." Steve blinked, shaking himself.

"Are you, are you with someone?" Billy chuckled. He ran a hand through his hair, through the wild curls Steve was obsessed with.

"Nah. Hard to find guys that don't get weirded out by the scars. I've got a whole lotta baggage."

"Sorry, guys?" Billy gave him an odd look.

"Yeah, Harrington. Guys. I'm gay. That a problem?" It was the closest Billy had looked to his old Hawkins self, puffing his chest up.

"No, that's not a problem. Just didn't know is all. I'm, uh, I'm bisexual." Billy's eyebrows shot up.

"No shit?"

"No shit." Billy smirked at him.

"You know I've always had a thing for you." Steve choked on his wine, coughing harshly as Billy laughed, thumping him on the back.

"Don't say that shit to me. I've had the biggest stupidest fucking crush on you since I was seventeen. That summer before everything when to shit, when we were, like, hanging out, I kept thinking something was gonna, was gonna happen." Billy's smile fell.

"I know. I'm sorry, Stevie. I just, I wasn't good back then. I was so fucking angry, about moving to Hawkins, and everything with my dad, and then getting possessed, I wouldn't've been good to you. And you deserve good, Stevie. You wouldn't have grown like you did if you were always trying to take care 'a me."

"Sometimes, the growing hurt, and I, I wish some of it hadn't have happened."

"I know how that feels, Pretty Boy. But the growing, sometimes it has to hurt. Everything that happened to me, everything with that thing, it made me who I am, and for the first time in my whole life, I really like who I am." Steve took a breath.

"You know, I never got the story from you. Why you actually moved to Hawkins. You'd say something different and ridiculous every time I asked." Billy looked down at his drink.

"My dad. He caught me with a boy in my room. He said, he told me living in the midwest would straighten me out. I think he thought either I play straight or I'd get hate crimed."

"I'm sorry, Bill." He smiled at him, just one side of his mouth ticking up.

"Honestly, Pretty Boy. Like I said, everything really happens for a reason. That's what I live by now, because all that horrible shit, it led me here, and I'm okay."

"Good for you, Bill. I really mean that. You've made such a great life for yourself." Billy pressed in closer to him, made Steve's breath catch.

"Thank you, Sweet Thing. That means a lot comin' from you." He leaned even further into Steve's space. "You wanna get outta here? I've got a nice hotel room." Steve felt warmth spread down his spine. He hooked a finger into one of Billy's belt loops.

"You know, I've always loved that car 'a yours. First time I saw you get out of it, kept thinking about getting fucked in that back seat." Billy groaned, his head falling onto Steve's shoulder.

"It's parked right outside." Steve leaned to Billy's ear.

"Race ya."

They ran, giggling like little kids all the way to Billy's vintage car. Billy fumbled with the keys, dropping them twice before Steve yanked open the door, diving in the back seat.

They were still giggling as they struggled outta their clothes, making out in between items. Steve flopped down once he was undressed, pulling Billy down on top of him, laughing as Billy knocked the wind out of him.

The giggles turned to moans when Billy latched onto his neck, sucking and biting. He finally put his hand in those curls, the other trailing down his back, ghosting over the scars there.

"I love all your tattoos. So gorgeous." Billy pressed kisses down his chest. He stopped at the large scar running from the inside of Steve's collarbone a few inches down his arm.

"What's this from?" Steve stiffened under him. He sat up, brushing some hair off of Steve's forehead.

"It's, it's from a surgery I had."

"What happened?" Steve pushed his hand away from the scar.

"Shattered my collarbone." Steve was sitting up, was tugging his pants back on.

"Shit, Stevie, I'm sorry. I won't, you don't have to talk about it." Steve huffed, flopping back into the seat.

"It's okay. It's just-" He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. Billy tugged his own slacks back on. "The relationship I told you about. The last one I was in." BIlly's eyes went big. He took Steve's hand.

"Stevie, I'm sorry." Steve shook his head."How long were you two together?"

"A little over four years."

"Holy shit."

"I ended things over three years ago. Packed my shit and left when he was at work. Lived with Robin after that." He crossed his arms over his middle. "I should've known too. There were, there were so many red flags, but I didn't, I never really ever felt loved, and he told me that he loved me, and so I stayed. Through everything."

"Was he your first relationship since Nancy?"

"Like, full relationship. Once I moved to the city, I let myself go wild a little bit, fucked around with a lot of different people. I thought he was it for me, thought he was the one. We moved in together after about six months." Billy placed a hand on Steve's thigh.

"I'm sorry, Baby. I know how you feel. I know how painful it is to live like that."

"I know you do. And I'm, Robin and Dustin really helped me. They helped me find a support group for queer abuse survivors, and, and Robin drove me to therapies, and I'm so much better, but it's, especially the scar, it's a painful reminder." Billy leaned over, pressing a light kiss to the center of it.

"Stevie, I really like you. I'd like to do this properly. I want to take you on a date." Steve looked at him with wide eyes.

"You, really?"

"Yeah, Baby. Been gone on you since I was sixteen years old." Steve took Billy's face between each palm, kissed him softly, smiled into it, into how right it felt, these two broken boys, these two healed men finally finding one another again.

[calpalirwin]

Papa’s Job

Summary: Mason gets introduced to Ashton’s line of work.

A/N: Smushed a few ideas together. Also this piece delves deeper into Mason’s special needs diagnosis/lack thereof. And while I’ve done a fair amount of research both over the years for various reasons, and while writing this, I am by no means an expert, and my research is no substitute for personal experience. So please, feel free to offer constructive and KIND feedback in ways I can better write Mason. Happy reading!

Word Count: ~2k

And away, and away we go!

__

It seemed to Vanessa like wherever she turned, Mason was underfoot. “Fuckin’ hell!” she swore as she turned and almost tripped over the little boy.

Mason’s bottom lip trembled as he clapped his hands over his ears at her outburst.

She sighed and crouched down in front of the almost three year old, keeping a careful hold on Bailey who had been particularly fussy since her first round of shots the day before. “Sweet boy, you’re too close. I have the baby, we have to be careful.”

“Baie,” he nodded, reaching for his sister.

“You wanna hold her?”

Another nod.

“Okay, sweet boy. Let’s go sit, and you can hold Bai.”

Mason sprinted to the living room, flinging himself onto the couch. He grabbed the boppy and put it on his lap. “Momma. Baie.”

“Yes, Mase.” Vanessa said a silent prayer that Bailey wouldn’t kick up a fuss about not being in her arms as she placed the two month old on the boppy.

Bailey twisted her mouth to start crying, but Mason was quick to place his hand by her, her little fingers grasping around his slightly bigger index finger. “Baie, Baie, Baie,” he sang softly to her as she settled down.

“Bailey, Bailey, Bailey,” Vanessa sang with him, sitting down next to her son.

Mason continued to sing nonsense sounds at his sister, who slowly drifted off to sleep. Once Vanessa was sure she could move Bailey from Mason and upstairs to her crib to continue sleeping, she reached for her daughter. Mason whined low in his throat, placing his hands gently over Bailey. “Momma,” he warned in a low whisper.

“I know. I’m gonna go put her in her bed, sweet boy,” she answered back, her voice just as low.

Mason’s whine got more pronounced.

Vanessa pressed a finger to her lips. “I know you love her and want to hold her. You’re a great big brother, Mase. But sissy went night-night. You can hold her when she wakes up, okay?”

He pouted, but moved his hands away so Vanessa could take the sleeping infant. But clearly he wasn’t too thrilled at his sister being taken away because as soon as Bailey was in Vanessa’s arms, he chucked the boppy to the floor. “Mason Nicholas!” Vanessa hissed through her teeth as the toddler took off.

She held back the sigh, focusing on getting Bailey into her crib without more fuss.

Mason, in his quest to hide so he could continue to pout in peace, ended up at the top of the staircase leading to the basement. “Hey, Mase,” Ashton smiled when the little boy came stumbling down. He gripped the cymbal of his drum set between his index finger and thumb to silence it, setting his drumsticks aside. “Where’s Momma and Bailey?”

Mason jutted out his lower lip and pointed up the stairs.

“Aw, did Momma put Bailey down for a nap?”

Mason nodded. “Baie, Papa,” he whimpered.

“Aw,” Ashton chuckled, patting his lap. “Wanna come sit with me?”

He wiped at his face, walking over to Ashton and crawling into his lap. “Baie, Papa,” he repeated in a hiccuped sob.

Ashton wrapped the boy into him. “I know you’re sad. But Bailey needs to sleep. When she’s awake you can hold her some more.”

“Momma,” Mason mumbled.

“Yeah, I’m sure Momma did tell you the same thing. But it’s okay. You can still be sad about it.”

Mason let out a shuddery breath of acceptance before pushing at Ashton’s chest. Ashton opened his arms, expecting the boy to climb down from his lap. But to his surprise, Mason reached forward to tap his hands against the various drums, liking the sounds he produced. “Papa!” he beamed.

Ashton lit up like a Christmas tree. “Yeah? You wanna play the drums with me?” Ashton grabbed the drumsticks. “Look, bud,” he said, striking at the drums.

Mason laughed with glee at the sound, clutching on to Ashton’s wrists.

“Here, you try,” Ashton said, handing Mason one of the drumsticks.

Mason looked at it in uncertainty and back at Ashton.

“Like this,” Ashton demonstrated again.

Mason copied what Ashton had done as best he could.

“There ya go! Just like that!” Ashton encouraged, shifting Mason so that the boy was on one his knees, freeing up his other leg to kick up a steady beat against the bass drum.

“Mason?!” Vanessa’s frantic voice called down the stairs. “Ash, is he down there with you?”

“Yeah, we’re down here, baby.”

She came flying down the staircase, halting at the bottom, eyes wild as they landed on Mason sitting happily on Ashton’s lap playing with the drum kit. “You scared the crap out of me!”

Ashton’s own eyes went wide. “Me? What did I do?”

“Not you, him!” She pointed a finger at Mason. “He got mad that I put Bailey down so he took off to hide. I thought he went to hide in his room. Fuckin’ damn near tore the house apart looking for him.”

“Whoa,” Ashton eased, standing up and adjusting Mason on his hip. “Take a minute. He’s been with me. He’s fine.”

“Yeah, I can see that… Here, I’ll take him back upstairs.”

Ashton waved her off as Mason squirmed in his hold to reach for the drums. “Nah, I got him, it’s fine. We’re having fun, aren’t we, bud?”

Mason smacked on the cymbal with his stick, giggling at the sound.

Vanessa’s heart melted. “Alright. But, you, mister Mason,” she said, wagging a finger at the boy. “We do not throw things when we are upset.”

“Uh-oh,” Ashton tsked, looking down at the boy in his arms. “Momma’s right, Mase. Throwing things isn’t nice. What do we say after we do something that’s not nice?”

“Momma!” Mason grinned, blowing Vanessa a sloppy toddler kiss.

She crossed over to her boys, kissing Mason’s cheek. “I forgive you, sweet boy. So what are you and Papa doing?”

“Teaching him how to play drums. He seems to really like it,” Ashton told her, sitting back down with Mason so they could go back to playing.

“Yeah, they say music’s really good for him.”

“Who’s they?”

“They. The doctors. The research. Something about the repetitive nature helping with his speech. I dunno, a lot of the scientific mumbo jumbo goes over my head.”

“Well, why don’t we get him in like a class, or something. They have those, right?”

“Yeah. And I’ve been meaning to. But every time I think to look into it, something else comes up. And without a formal diagnosis, it’s hard to find the right class for him.”

“He doesn’t have a formal diagnosis? What does that mean?”

“It means they, the doctors, just have a lot of really good guesses but not any real answers because he’s still so young. It’s currently a toss up between aphasia and autism.”

“Okay, I know what autism is more or less. But what the fuck is that other word?”

“Fancy talk for speech disorder.”

“That is so fuckin stupid… they can’t tell if he has a speech disorder? He’s damn near three years old and only says 4 fuckin words. I may not know a whole hell of a lot about child development or whatever the fuck, but pretty sure three olds are supposed to say a lot more than 4 bloody words.”

Vanessa stifled her laughter as Ashton vented his frustration. She wondered how many times you had raved the exact same thing to Finn, almost verbatim. “They can tell he has a speech disorder, love. They just can’t tell if it’s just it’s own thing, or if there’s more to it than that. Autism and speech disorders tend to overlap.”

“Yeah, and I bet you had to pay out your fuckin ears for all those doctor visits, and specialists, and shit. God, your healthcare here sucks.”

This time, she did laugh. “Yeah, but Finn and I both have pretty good insurance plans so it wasn’t too bad.”

“Yeah, and we can always just do this,” he told her, jerking his chin about the room. “Do our own music therapy here in the basement.”

“Now, that’s not a bad idea.”

“Man, I can’t wait to start touring again. I mean, I’m gonna miss you guys like fuckin’ crazy. But god, I can’t wait to show you guys around when we do our gig here. You’re gonna fuckin’ love it, baby.”

“It might just be me coming to see you, babe. I don’t know how Mase will handle all the noise, even with headphones.”

“Shit you’re right… well maybe you guys should come to a rehearsal then. Give the headphones a proper test.”

“A private concert all our own, huh? I think that sounds perfect.”

~~~

Mason gasped in excitement as they walked into the rehearsal space and he saw all the instruments. “Momma!”

“Yeah, I see, sweet boy. Are you excited to watch Papa and Uncles?”

“Momma,” he nodded.

“Go say hi to everybody, and then we’ll sit and listen, okay?”

Mason dashed off to press his forehead against Calum, Luke, and Michael who all murmured their own hellos to the boy while Ashton helped Vanessa get settled down with Bailey. “Ikey!” Mason screeched when he got to Michael, reaching up to touch the man’s fringe that poked out of his hat.

“Yes!” Michael whooped in victory. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!” Michael said pointing at Calum, Luke, and then back at Calum with each “fuck you.”

Calum rolled his eyes while Luke pouted, “How is ‘Mikey’ easier to say than ‘Luke’? How does he like your hair better? I have curls!”

“Oh, just let him have the win, Luke,” Ashton said, straightening up to his feet. “You guys ready or what?”

After making sure Bailey and Mason had their ears protected, the men all situated themselves with their instruments and started playing.

Mason managed to sit quietly through about two and a half songs before he got up and went over to Ashton, resting his small hand against the man’s leg. Ashton nodded for them to keep going when Calum, Luke, and Michael turned to look at him in a silent question. Between beats, Ashton scooped Mason up into his lap and finished the song. “Whatcha think?” Ashton asked both everybody and nobody as he pushed sweaty locks of hair back away from his face.

“Transitions sounded better this time,” Michael commented.

“Sounded better than better. Sounded tour ready,” Luke corrected.

“Could do without audience participation,” Calum teased with a playful look at Mason on Ashton’s lap.

“Just because you missed a beat, doesn’t mean you have to be bitter, Cal,” Ashton teased back. “And speaking of audience participation. What’d ya think?”

With all four men watching her, Vanessa shrugged her shoulders. “I’m no music expert, but I’m with Luke and Mike. Sounded really good.”

Mason, displeased that the music had stopped, reached across Ashton’s lap to strike at the cymbal with his hands. “Here,” Ashton told him, handing Mason the drumsticks. “With these.”

Mason tried again, shrieking with excitement at the sounds he produced from hitting the different parts of the drum set. Much like how he had done in the basement a week ago, Ashton shifted so Mason was fully seated on one leg so he would work the bass drum with his free leg without jostling the boy too much in the process. “Atta boy, Mase!” Ashton praised.

Rehearsal was quickly disbanded in favor of giving Mason a turn at all the other instruments in the room, letting him choose his favorite. Mason sat with Michael the longest, happily swiping a guitar pick against the strings. “Well, now we know what to get him for his birthday,” Michael grinned, sticking his tongue out at Calum and Luke.

Calum grumbled that this was barely a win for Michael because all this proved was that Mason definitely liked guitars, making it a win for everyone except Ashton, while Luke pouted more about how unfair it was Mason liked Michael more than him because “We play the same bloody instruments! I have CURLS!”

Ashton laughed at his friends, letting Michael gloat in his little victories a little bit longer before getting Mason’s attention. “Mase? Drums?” He drummed a quick and small beat that had Mason launching himself off of Michael and across the room to Ashton’s lap.

“Ha!” Calum smirked, flipping off Michael. “Now who’s Mase’s favorite?”

“Bailey,” everyone answered without needing to think about it.

__

Tag List

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[ofthelibertine]

did [DIAMOND BELLEVUE] chase one of seven sins seven miles down the coast? originally from [NEW YORK CITY], the [22] [CISFEMALE] is a [SUPERMODEL] and has lived in the key for [THREE MONTHS]. [SHE] is suppose to call [THE MEADOWS] home, but there is always temptation lurking between the streets and the ocean that keeps [HER] from heading back. sinners and saints take many forms, but they look like [ZENDAYA] and on their way to make decisions, good and bad, they always seem to sway to the beat of [DRUNK WITH MY FRIENDS BY ASHNIKKO].

Trigger Warnings: eating disorder, bipolar disorder, NAS, drugs, alcohol, underage drugs, underage drinking

- B A S I C -

Full Name: Diamond Nathalia Bellevue Nickname(s): Dime, Dia, Di Age: 22 Occupation: Supermodel, but she also runs her own online beauty and fashion shop. Birthday: December 15th Aries: Sagittarius Sexual Orientation: Bisexual Neighborhood: The Meadows

- F A M I L Y -

Father: Winston Bellevue Mother: Betty Bellevue Siblings: Four older siblings (all adopted) Children: She has a 13-month-old son, named Dante.

- B I O -

She is originally from New York City. Diamond was born to a teenaged drug addict and was willingly put up for adoption the second she was born, only to be adopted a few short months later by Winston and Betty Bellevue - an older couple in their late forties who hailed from London, England. They had just moved to the Upper Eastside of Manhattan a few years prior, along with their four other adopted children. Her father was one of the top cosmetic surgeons in the state of New York, while her mother was a leading patent attorney, so they were often kept quite busy with work. Despite that, their work didn't stop them from being really attentive parents to their children. Dime had a great relationship with her parents, and though her siblings were significantly older than she was, she was still quite close to each and every one of them. That said, there were still some clashing personalities and views of opinion from time to time among the family - they weren't perfect, after all - but overall, everyone got along fine. There weren't any disputes that didn't go unforgiven for too long, which was nice. She had a very serious habit of shutting out her family, or even withdrawing completely for a while, as her work or mental state allowed it to happen...but her family eventually reeled her back in and she was grateful to them for that. They really were her rock, at the end of the day.

Despite being adopted by a wonderful and loving family, that did not erase the damage done to her by her addict birth mother. Dime was born with NAS (Neonatal Abstinence Syndrome) and this is believed to be the leading cause of her overall mental illness and eating disorder and later on, her own drug addiction later down the road.

When she was just toddler she was diagnosed with ARFID - she'd always had an aversion to food, starting from infancy and that never changed as she grew older. It worried her parents, because there were many times when she just wouldn't eat anything for days - refused all kinds of food - and it would end up with her in the hospital, being force-fed through a feeding tube, lest she starve. Her childhood diagnosis of ARFID has since turned into a full blown and rather serious eating disorder that she is still constantly battling to this day. When she turned seven, she was officially diagnosed with Bipolar, which she had apparently inherited from her birth mother also. The diagnose did not come as a huge shock to her family, since Diamond had always had very extreme mood swings - one minute she would be incredibly social and rambunctiously hyper, talking people's ears off and the next she would go very quiet and closed off and sink into a very noticeable depression. So by the time she was in middle school, she was taking meds and seeing therapists frequently, which was...tiresome to say the least. Despite her rather poor mental and physical health, Diamond still led a pretty normal life in Manhattan. She was a major hobbyist, even as a child, and so she was always bouncing from one activity to another, easily bored with things once she'd mastered it. She was always wanting to try and learn new things. Dime took up dancing, vocal lessons, piano and violin lessons, and dabbled in painting, scrapbooking, journaling, photography, needlework...you name it, she's very likely tried it at least once. Her interests in dancing, painting and photography were still strong, especially dancing. At the age of five her parents put her in her first dance class and she fell in love with it. She learned ballet first but quickly grew to love contemporary hip-hop the best and delved right into it. She still danced today, and could have gotten a full ride to Juilliard if it weren't for her modeling career taking off as quickly as it had. She was first introduced to modeling at the age of nine, when she was scouted while in the mall with her mother, and after getting both her parents' consent, Dime was allowed to be signed on to the agency and soon she began work as a child model. Child modeling soon turned into full-time as soon as she turned sixteen and by the age of nineteen she was at the top of her stardom. With her parents’ naively trusting that she would be well looked after, Diamond moved out of her parents’ home at sixteen, once she began making really good money off her modeling, and into an apartment with several other young models - five others, to be precise. So it was crowded, with it being only a three bedroom place, but they managed. The apartment building was full of other models who lived in various apartments, women and men alike, and soon these people because her ‘crowd’.

They partied together, slept together and fasted together. Fights were also not an uncommon occurrence among the models, since the industry was known to be quite competitive and brutally cutthroat. Within her first year of living with the other models, she became heavily addicted to narcotics and alcohol - it was ridiculously easy for her to get addicted, too, since she was predisposed to it from her birth. Sadly, in her new social circle, drugs and alcohol ran rampant at parties, even to the underaged.

It didn’t take long before she stopped taking her meds altogether and stopped going to therapy sessions, and instead Diamond submersed herself deep into her new life. Outside of modeling, when she wasn’t working, she often spent her nights out with her fellow models - partying, drinking, doing drugs and having a lot of fun and a lot of sex and she grew further and further away from her family. A family that she still loved with all of her being but whom she rarely saw anymore. She let the lifestyle pretty much consume her life, to the point where her world became a permanent sort of blur; she was rarely sober. Just shy of turning 20, Diamond met an older man named Ivan, who worked as an up and coming actor. He lived in Los Angeles but had been in New York shooting a film. The two had ended up bumping into each other at a party and had hit it off and began dating shortly thereafter. It would prove to be a very short-lived relationship - lasting only a few months, just long enough for Ivan's film to finish and for Diamond to fall pregnant. Unsurprisingly, Ivan flipped the hell out when she told him the news and he immediately fled back to California with his tail between his legs, wanting nothing to do with the baby. Deep down, Diamond couldn't really blame him - his career was just getting off the ground, same as hers and becoming a parent was a total derailment of his plans. As a young working woman herself, Diamond understood that...but she was no less pleased about it. After four years of living on her own, away from her parents, Diamond returns home - not really knowing what else to do, now that she was knocked up. Thankfully, her family welcomed her back with open arms. No one was anymore thrilled with the news of her pregnancy than she or Ivan were, especially given her obvious addiction to drugs, but they were far more supportive with her decision to keep the baby. However, her parents had insisted that she go to rehab and get clean and get back on her meds, first - for the sake of both her and their unborn grandchild - and though she initially fought them on it, Dime had agreed to go in the end. She ended up spending three months in rehab, getting clean and sober and getting back onto her meds and starting up therapy once again. It was an arduous process, but one she wouldn’t regret. When she welcomed her son, Dante - with a clear mind and a heart filled with nothing but love for the infant boy that she cradled in her arms - she’d felt immense relief that she had listened and had gone through the program. A year later and still clean and living with her parents in Upper Eastside Manhattan, while raising her son and still working full-time as a pretty well known supermodel, Dime made the rash decision to buy a beach house down in Key West, Florida. For her, her son and her family when they needed a place away from hustle and bustle of the city. She loved New York City, it was her home and where she worked, but she didn't want to raise her son there, at least not solely. Their Manhattan residence would always be there as their primary home, but a vacation house in the Keys sounded rather nice.

- W A N T E D   C O N N E C T I O N S -

OLDEST (ADOPTED) SIBLINGS - She is the youngest of five, and all of the Bellevue children are adopted so ANY ethnicity will work. (age ranges: 26-40)

BEST FRIEND(S)

Casual Friend(s)

Bad Influences

CLUB / BAR HOPPING BUDDIES - people she can rely on to always be up for going out drinking / dancing with

DANCING OR WORKOUT BUDDIES - She loves to go dancing (she’s a trained dancer) and working out, either at the gym or going on hikes and long walks, so it would be fun to have someone she can go with.

Fellow Models that she’s possibly worked with in the past.

PHOTOGRAPHERS

Rivals / Enemies / Frenemies

Neighbors of Silverwood Terrace

Babysitter / Nanny / Daycare - for Dante

LOVE INTERESTS AND / FLINGS & ONE-NIGHTERS - She’s got a thing for older men, so it would be fun to explore that a bit, in either a serious or casual fashion.

[justseveralowls]

I’ve spent over 16 hours in two different ERs and I’d like to vent

CW: Doctors hospitals, chronic illness, incompetence, female hysteria, humiliation, mental health stigma,

What follows is my original post made on Thursday, there is a update as of today at the end and the news is not all bad. This is made to spread awareness talk about an issue I feel is way too often ignored and most importantly let other people feeling this they aren’t alone.

So. I have ehler danlos syndrome, celiac, endometriosis, fibromyalgia, and an (so far) otherwise specified seizure disorder. So basically I am a medical dumpster fire. Getting a or in my case several diagnosis has been a long terrifying and grueling for both me and my partner. We have enountered many doctors and nurses who were kind attentive willing to listen and knowledgeable about my Miriad of admiditally uncommon diagnosis. But today I am so incredibly hurt, frustrated, angry and scared and I want to put this out there because this is part of the many problems that chronically ill and disabled people face everytime they walk into a doctors office, emergency room or even out in public.

So I look sick, it’s obvious and it’s been obvious for a long time. I sit at around a six to seven on a pain scale most of my life, which sucks. I have chronic nausea and weight loss that makes me weak and thin in a sick way, which also sucks. But by far the hardest thing is hoe many people refuse to take my seriously. So today after three months on a waiting list I saw a gastroenterologist. I was scared, underweight, sick and tired. I wanted answers like always and let my partner drag me into a beige fluorescent room to try and make some sense. Overall the doctor was nice, but put heavy emphasis on my past of CPTSD from repeated abuse, and implied that my weight loss and severe gastrointestinal problems could be “just a side effect of my anxiety”. That was dehumanizing to say the least. Because I know I’m traumatized, I’ve sat in therapists offices and cried, I’ve pulled myself together, fought addiction and anorexia and I know that I’m healing. I know it’s his job to look between the lines but I also want to just have a chance to be understood, and not dismissed as a psych case.

Later today I had an episode of vomiting and loss of consciousness, over all not great stuff. So my partner in their amazing sense of love and compassion took me to th ER. Because that’s where you’re supposed to go when you’re scared, sick, hurt, in danger and don’t know what to do.

My experience there was by far the worst I’ve ever had. My vitals were highly abnormal (high pulse at rest, low BP, and low pulse ox). I was having neurological symptoms related to my seizure disorder and instead was given a barrage of tests that had nothing to do with why I was there, the condition I repeatedly told them I had, or the worrying vitals. So after two hours a head CT and useless blood work the ER doctor looked at me and my partner (who was forced to wait in the car in 94 degree weather) and told me I was fine and dehydrated.

I’m a nursing student, I’m new, I’m a novice at the most, and I have a lot to learn. But never could I imagine having a chronically patient, with abnormal labs and vitals with numerological involvement be given saline and discharged. My partner and I were terrified because we didn’t know what else to do. I needed help. I needed answers. I needed them to hear me. After me panicking my partner told me that we should try again. Because doctors are here to help us, and if your scared and there’s something wrong they took an oath to help.

So I called the nurse who was awesome, he went and got the doctor and I was ready to make my case. My partner at this point as well as me were terrified frustrated and close to tears. And this ER doctor after hearing our concerns, my history (with chronic illness and anorexia) proceeded to throw up her hand and as’ my partner “what they her to do”. This was shocking but sadly it doesn’t end here. The doctor proceeded to insist that I was fine and the situation was both non emergent and out of her hands. I responded in a passive way because at that point I was scared triggered and exausted. And I asked what she thought I should do”. And the words that came of her mouth hurt me and made more angry than any four syllables ever has.

“Psych referral”

Now let me something straight. I am a survivor, I am working in me healing, I am growing and changing for the better. I take my meds go to therapy and work everyday to get a little better. But this woman who obviously hadn’t read my chart which denotes not only my diagnosis, psychological history, and notEs from speacialists on the severity of my physical condition has just implied that I’m crazy. This was horrible but 8 could see how it would seem that I am overreacting but, due years of gaslighting, medication being forced on me to cover abuse and trauma, I hate being called that. It’s not a real term, nor does it help anyone, nor does it doing anything but make me remember the nights I spent wondering if that word was me.

In one visit, one person managed to dehumanize, humiliate dismiss me and maybe risk my life based on the fact that 8 wasn’t worth the time it took to read my chart.

It so incredibly weird to have to say this but I as a queer, gay, chronically ill, Latin person am in fact still a human being WHOS painand concerns deserve as much respect as anyone else. We all deserve to be helped and heard and people like this are one of the many reasons that I and so many others are scared to ge5 help, scared to tell the full story, or scared to speak up. This kills people. This is killing people. And this is why I in all my chronically glory and working so hard to advocate and move forward in medicine as a whole. Because nobody deserves that. Because I didn’t deserve to sit in an ER terrified and be told I was crazy. Because my partner doesn’t deserve to be dismissed and mocked for being scared. Because I nor anyone else have to prove I am sick enough or disabled enough to be worth someone’s time.

I hope anyone who reads this and understands even a little. Who’s been through it, whose family and partners have been through it know that this is not okay, that this not your fault, and that you are by no means crazy. That the people who make feel like burden or an annoyance are the problem. Because you deserve to be heard. I m hoping everybody’s doing okay, I’m hoping your journeys are treating you well. Because as always no matter who are, where you are and what you’re feeling you are not alone, you are worthy and I believe you.

***Update**

I later went to a larger hospital not in my home town, and through a long stay in the ER got a formal epilepsy diagnosis, given a anti convulsants drug, and overall treated like a human being. I now have contact with their epilepsy unit and have the tool and education I need to start this part of my chronic illness journey. I’m exhausted and getting used to knew meds but am highly grateful for the good doctors out there, the nurses who listen and the partner who was angelic enough to be with me through it all.