#and then get my weekly therapy session with harper

[uplatterme]

going to buy groceries 🙈

[nilolemillion]

Okay, so here’s this Batfamily headcanon I’ve been thinking about.

Jason Todd takes Fridays as his ‘day off’ to ‘rest,’ (because of course, none of the Batfamily actually rests). Tim Drake, on the other hand, claims Wednesdays as his day off, mainly to balance out his detective work with tactical planning. But here’s the twist: no matter what their schedule looks like, every Thursday, without fail, they all come together for brunch.

And when I say brunch, I don’t mean a peaceful, chill, serene break. No, it’s basically their weekly therapy session, except it’s filled with prime shit-talking. They spend the time roasting each other, complaining about Bruce, dragging the villain of the week, or venting about how their respective teams are ‘a bunch of dumbasses’ (even though they’d probably die for them).

Now picture this:

Bruce needs Tim to sign some important Wayne Enterprises paperwork- Tim’s the one leading the project. So Bruce heads over to his office, expecting to just drop the papers off and get it done. But when he arrives, Tim’s secretary politely informs him, “It’s Thursday, sir.” And Bruce just has to smile, play it cool, and respond with, “Oh, right! Silly me. Almost forgot. Thanks, Margaret!” as he walks away.

But inside? Bruce is dying. The best detective in the world, and he has no idea what ‘It’s Thursday’ even means?! He’s fucking pissed. How did he miss something so obvious? But of course, he doesn’t ask- he would rather dive off a rooftop than admit he doesn’t know something. Obviously.

Meanwhile, over in Roy Harper’s world, Roy is losing his mind trying to find Jason. He’s checked everywhere. Everywhere. He knows Jason can be sneaky when he wants to be, but this is different. Usually, Jason’s more chill when it comes to Roy. At some point, Roy’s genuinely wondering if Jason’s turned this into a really unannounced, fucking terrible game of hide-and-seek.

How on earth do you lose a guy who’s 6’0”, loaded with guns, and wearing that ridiculously bold red helmet? Seriously, how?! Roy eventually gives up and leaves a voicemail: “Okay man, I’m out. I’m done playing, I’m not giving you the victory tho.”

And yet, right at that very moment, there’s Jason. Sitting across from Tim in a small coffee shop in New York. They’re completely at ease, sipping espresso and eating waffles, chocolate cupcakes, and all the sweet stuff Jason can barely handle because he’s clogged up from all the sugar.

Jason, mid-rant, says, “I swear to God, Dickhead needs to learn how to set some boundaries. The way he lets everyone be so co-dependent on him is both impressive and pathetic.”

Without missing a beat, Tim, sipping his coffee like he didn’t just call Dick a dozen times three days ago because he’d had six espressos and was spiraling from anxiety, responds with the most sarcastic tone: “Tell me about it. I was thinking of giving him a ‘How to Set Limits’ book for his birthday.”

And don’t even start with “ugh that so not canon” stfu bitch. Here you go. The comic is Red Hood and the Outlaws (2011), which is probably in my top ten from all time, even tho I love the 2016 one. This is the issue #8, 10/10 totally recommended.

[bastardcherub]

HI I LOVE SAWYER

-I'm so curious what Harper did to him bc ur wording intrigued me jxhd

-does he like to be around anyone specific? like platonically or as a love interest or anything. also, you mentioned him working at the farms so I'm curious how he gets along with Alex!

-i want to paint his nails and tell him how pretty he is, n maybe smear his lipstick after,,,

I’m so curious what Harper did to him bc ur wording intrigued me jxhd

Sawyer has been to the asylum. He's an emotional guy and this town swallows people like him whole. It took more and more of him till he couldn't handle it anymore.

Harper found his emotional sensitivity to be very concerning, and became very focused on Sawyer's recovery.

Sawyer became convinced that his is at fault for the bad things that happen to himself and to others (to an extent). With his newly developed and extreme sense of guilt, he tries even harder to keep to himself to avoid causing more problems. Since the more people notice him and pick fights with him, the more it proves his point that he's the issue.

He doesn't want to hurt people... But his whole existence seems to attract the type of trouble that ends in pain... It's him. That's the only explanation... Right?

Well... His isolation, medication, and weekly therapy sessions have certainly resulted in his trauma levels staying in a manageable state! And all it took was some brainwashing new age treatment options and intentional isolation and dependency on Harper and his medication removing harmful outside influences combined with soothing medication! (...And a couple of virginities that Sawyer isn't aware he's lost. But that is just the cost of Harper considering you a fascinating specimen.)

—

does he like to be around anyone specific? like platonically or as a love interest or anything. also, you mentioned him working at the farms so I'm curious how he gets along with Alex!

ok this is something I’ve sorta avoided thinking abt bc I’m not sure actually HDBDBDJD so let me just. do some character development real quick.

ok conclusion: honestly, he really does keep to himself :( I know You didn’t ask abt who Sawyer DOESNT like being around, but I’m still gonna keep my rambles HAHA

Robin and Sawyer’s relationship is complicated. Robin adores Sawyer, is always so nice to him and so caring. Sawyer doesn’t understand why he looks up to him so much. especially after his time at the asylum, the way Robin looks at him just fills him with so much guilt. He’s not the person Robin thinks he is. but he doesn’t want to hurt him by shattering his hope. so he stays distant, trying not to harm but also not further feed this delusion. but he’s always kind. he feels so very protective over Robin. he’s been nothing but good to Sawyer, even when he doesn’t deserve it. so he doesn’t even think twice when taking on Robins debt. it’s the least he can do.

Sawyer might get along with Sydney, but for that they’d have to interact enough shebdbdd well, he might study in the library sometimes, but he doesn’t borrow books. maybe once or twice over the break, but he doesn’t exactly chat with Sydney when he does. but like. two quiet awkward loners? I’d honestly like to see that SHDBDBDN

funnily enough. when it comes to who he likes being around most it might just happen to be Alex. Alex just expects him to do his best on the farm. he’s allowed to come and go and take breaks whenever - a huge difference to his work at the docks. the farm might not make him that much money right now, but it’s close enough to what he made at the docks, and it’s a lot more peaceful. sometimes he sits down with Alex for a break, and it’s almost nice. he doesn’t ask any invasive questions, and Sawyer is happy to nod along anything he tells him about himself. all in all, his first few weeks working on the farm have been some of the nicest he’s had in a while. hard work, yes, but he feels respected and appreciated.

—

i want to paint his nails and tell him how pretty he is, n maybe smear his lipstick after,,,

I’m not sure how You’d get that lipstick on him unless You kiss it onto him ahevebajan at least while he’s still in denial over liking it

but the nails? You could probably get him to join by saying pleeeeaaaaseee with puppy dog eyes and guilting him a bit HSBEBNASKSN like. “but I have no one else to do it with 🥺” would probably be enough HAHAHAHAHA he’s such a fucking softie

if You tell him how pretty he is? oh he is BLUSHING blushing. his guard was fucking DOWN. he’s just sitting here getting his nails painted???? probably a bit too fascinated by how the colour looks on his nails??? and then You call him PRETTY??????? this man’s brain has short-circuited. maybe manages to stutter out a “t-thank You?” but. he’s useless. congratulations, pip. You broke him.

he is NOT forgetting this moment. ever. especially not the coming days, as he looks down at his cracking polish. and then once it’s gone, still, every once in a while, looking at his plain nails and remembering how the colour looked against his skin.

pretty.

[thelamppoststation]

Future’s Past by TheLampPost

In 2008, a year after James managed to get off that godforsaken rock, he receives a visit from a young woman with blue eyes and blonde hair. She hands him a locket and a letter, then demands answers to questions that he didn't even know existed. Post season 6 (Suliet) - This story is also partly set during the DHARMA days.

---------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 3: Truth and Tea                  

       Aylesbury, England - April 2008      

The sound of a woodpecker hammering its beak against the side of a tree carried through the open window, intruding upon a stale conversation, that for the past half hour had been dominated by unimaginative splashes of silent exasperation. Dr. Stanhope asked a question, Theresa would answer, Stanhope would ask a follow-up question, or another question, Theresa would answer, etc…

"And how have you been sleeping lately?"

They'd been going back and forth like this for months now, getting positively nowhere. And while Abigail insisted that this was good for her, that she would soon come to realize that Stanhope was trying to help her understand her condition better; Theresa knew, with absolute certainty, that she wasn't going to find any of her answers here, at these weekly one hour therapy sessions on the couch of a clueless psychologist in Aylesbury.

"Theresa?"

"Sorry?" she blinked, and sat up straighter.

Stanhope narrowed her eyes, and crossed her legs; stretching the thin line around her mouth into a forced smile.

"How have you been sleeping lately?" she repeated.

"Better," Theresa shrugged and stared down at her nails; she really should stop biting them. "But I do sometimes still wake up in the middle of the night, unsure of where I am, or how I got there."

"Hmm."

"And I've been having dreams."

"Oh?" Stanhope looked up from her notebook, pen hovering in midair.

"They're silly, really," she smiled, and shrugged. "I try not to think of them too much."

Stanhope nodded, mirroring Theresa's smile; it looked even less genuine than the first one.

"I'm not sure if you're aware of this," her expression morphed into a pensive grimace. "But, research has shown that dreams help the unconscious mind to process that which we've not been able to properly address with our conscious mind. Maybe, yours are simply a manifestation of your subconscious, trying to make sense of a reality that you've only recently become a part of again."

"Maybe."

Theresa bit her lip, suppressing the urge to explain how Stanhope's interpretation of reality lay tied to personal experiences that resided in a linear sphere of her own existence; a stable constant in spacetime. In truth, it was all relative; a construct that Theresa had believed to be true until it collapsed in on itself some seven years ago. From then on she'd resided in a vast void as an onlooker, her body wasting away while her mind remained trapped in a narrative that promoted senseless discontinuity; she was three, and looking for her dolly; she was twenty, talking to her father; she was ten riding her new bike in the rain. While in between those realities her body remained tettered to a drifting soul in an undead state. Alive, but not living.

"Trees," she said.

"Trees?"

"My dreams," she began. "Palm trees, banana leaves, and sometimes images of cobwebs with black circles, but they're not really cobwebs. They look more like the ones that you see in comicbooks, or cartoons," she paused, her mind sifting through the pictures of her dreams. "A swan, an arrow, and a rabbit. I think. They appear in black and white flashes. And there are more, but it doesn't matter, because it always ends with him."

"Him?"

"Daniel."

Stanhope had been listening to her with increased interest; the explanation of the dream chained to a piercing expression; but now her pupils had dilated even further at the mention of Daniel.

"Daniel Faraday? The man who put you in a coma?"

"He didn't put me in a coma," Theresa snapped. "I put myself in a coma!"

"Theresa–"

"I wanted it; I asked him. I knew the risks involved; we'd tested the rats, and understood that the human mind could potentially respond differently," she inhaled sharply. "I did it to myself!"

Stanhope didn't move, merely looked at her, tainted compassion melting down the sides of her face.

"I'm sorry," she leaned forward, and put a hand on Theresa's knee. "I spoke too abruptly, I didn't mean to upset you."

Theresa pushed her hand away, unwilling to accept such a thoroughly educated apology; she already struggled enough with Stanhope's ambiguous nature as it was.

They'd been tiptoeing around the "event" since she started these sessions, and Stanhope's demeanor would invariably change whenever Theresa so much as mentioned Daniel's name; it unnerved her. Why was she so interested in him? What did she want?

On more than one occassion Theresa had laid the memories out in front of her like pieces of a puzzle that didn't quite fit into the picture of her past anymore, and in those instances it became obvious that it had always been and would always be Daniel who laid at the core of her trauma.

Was that it? Did Stanhope get off on that? She'd located the source, and now she wanted what? To excavate the neural pathways between her memories and emotions; tear down all of Theresa's defences, until she could stand it no more?

She wasn't ready to admit that she hadn't given up on him, yet. Nor ready to confess that his disappearance had ignited an overnight obsession. Every single day since she'd woken up from her coma, she'd been looking for him, and every single night he would appear to her. Speaking without words in dreams that proved to be impossible to decipher without properly working ears. But she was sure, so sure, that it meant something.

"He's still out there somewhere."

"He has been missing for over four years. Wouldn't it be better if you laid Daniel's memory to rest, and just moved on from all of this?"

Theresa snorted and crossed her arms in front of her chest; she almost sounded like Abigail. Move on, go out, meet other people; as though it was that easy to forget.

"Have you ever lost someone?"

"Yes, of course." Stanhope replied.

"Well then what if you knew for sure that they weren't lost, but still out there somewhere? Wouldn't you do anything you could to find them, and bring them back?"

Stanhope sighed and reclined in her chair.

"Theresa, there's a difference between rational dreams and irrational fantasies," she began. "Every 90 seconds someone on this planet goes missing. In the United Kingdom alone over 170,000 people are currently unaccounted for. Daniel has been gone for over four years; he disappeared along with an entire science team, and then some. I don't like to make a sport out of contradicting my patients, but it's my duty to make you understand that holding onto Daniel's memory makes it impossible for you to move on. From one scientist to another, you must understand that when that freighter lost contact with civilization in the middle of the South Pacific it wasn't because of a defective radio."

"They never found anything."

"They didn't find the Titanic until 1985, that doesn't mean it didn't sink before then," Stanhope uncrossed her legs, and capped her pen. "I understand why you're holding onto this; it's your lifeline. I see it all the time. But just because they weren't able to find that freighter doesn't mean it's still out there somewhere. You woke up months ago, it's time for you to let go."

Theresa clenched her jaw, shooting daggers at the woman across from her. In what world could this harpy ever have obtained a Master's degree in psychology from Yale university?

"With all due respect, I really don't give a damn about what you think happened. I know he's still out there," she rose from the couch; her nostrils flaring with contained anger. "And he's on that island!"

Stanhope stared, her jaw unhinged.

"Island?"

Theresa was done. Whatever Stanhope had to say, she wasn't interested in counterarguments any longer. At the end of the day she, herself, was the only person who understood what had happened, and maybe, just maybe, if she ever found him, Daniel would understand too.

"I think we're done here," she reached for the doorknob with a type of determination she hadn't felt in years.

"Goodbye, Dr. Stanhope."

------------------------------------------------------

       Aylesburg, England - April 2008      

Harper watched her storm out, the door slamming shut with a loud definitive bang. The silence that ensued reinserted itself with deafening determination, but for the woodpecker that continued to hammer out its frustrations into the tree just outside her office window; what she wouldn't give to be that bird right now.

She reached for her cellphone, dialed the number; the line almost immediatley connected.

Theresa Spencer had been one of her most frustrating cases to date. A stubborn young woman struggling with the after effects of temporal displacement syndrome. As an acting psychologist she had had trouble holding back. The way she'd treated the young woman had gone against everything that she had ever been taught in college: 'Never bait the patient. Respect their boundaries. Guide them through difficult experiences, never force their hand. Present tools, not the toolbox.'

She'd done none of that.

And she'd lied.

All in the name of–

"Yes?" the line clicked.

Harper rose from her chair, and looked out the window. She could see the woodpecker now; a bright red feathered crown bobbed up and down on its little head.

"I figured you'd want to know that she's ready."

"So soon?"

"It wasn't difficult; she did most of the work herself," Harper paused. "She still loves him, Eloise."

"Yes, that's what I counted on; I just didn't think she would start looking this soon. Are you sure?"

"She's been having dreams; she mentioned the island."

"Really?" Eloise paused, a static crack sounded on an exhalation.

"Are you sure you want to go through with this?"

"Are you second guessing my motives, dear?"

"Of course not," Harper moved away from the window. "I haven't forgotten what you did for me; I'm just not sure it's healthy to go through such lengths. Most people, they take a pottery class, start croquetching; they don't–"

"Look dear, I appreciate your professional opinion, but if I wanted therapeutic advice, I'd ask. In the meantime, just do as you're told."

Harper sighed. 'Do as you're told', that had worked out so splendidly in the past.

She put the phone on speaker, then walked around her desk and sat down. The screensaver on her Windows XP immediately gave way to a bland desktop with the standard green hillside/blue sky background shining brightly, almost happily, in her face. She hadn't bothered personalizing the image; she wasn't going to be in England for much longer anyway.

"I looked into the information that you gave me."

"And?"

"I found a woman," she double clicked on an untitled folder, pulling up the file.

"Her name is Jamie Rachel Spinoza; she lives in Miami. Her parents are Bob and Mary Spinoza; he's a math teacher at a local highschool; she's a dentist assistant. I couldn't find any connection to the island, they seemed chosen randomly by the mother. But, if what Richard told you is true, then this Jamie will be your best bet. Her birth-certificate looks… improvised," she double clicked on another file, and a fadded brownish yellow scan of a 1970s Florida birth-certificate popped into view. "It appears to have been signed by Richard himself," she snorted. "Or at least it looks like his handwriting."

"Excellent!"

"Eloise," Harper turned away from the screen and pensively stared at her phone. "You should know that she recently gave birth to a little baby boy; I couldn't find anything on the father. He doesn't seem to be in the picture; if anything were to happen to–"

"Do you have an address?"

Harper closed her eyes, and sucked in her lips.

Unrelentless.

"Yes, I'll mail it to you."

"What about the other one?"

She scrolled down to the last item in the folder, double clicked.

"Kai Nieves?"

"Did he check out?"

"According to Adam he's 'the real deal'."

"Good, has he been recruited, yet?"

"They're negotiating," Harper scrolled through a list of pictures. He was a handsome man, dark skinned, blue eyes; an unusual combination of tough and kind mixed together, but very appealing nonetheless. "Apparently, Mr. Nieves isn't exactly in the business of promoting his gifts. He wants to know what he's getting involved in, and he wants to talk to you."

"Hmm."

Harper could almost hear the wheels in Eloise's head turning as she considered the demand.

"I think he would be more inclinced to accept our offer if we tell him what happened to his parents," she suggested.

"No," Eloise retorted. "Send his details to me; I'll visit him first thing in the morning. Then book me a flight to London."

"You're coming here?"

"Of course," Eloise's voice pricked up. "If you say she's ready, then it's high time I meet my future daughter-in-law."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

       3 days later      

       Aylesburg, England - April 2008      

"He's a nice lad; you should give him a call."

"Abigail," Theresa sighed and looked up. Not this again. "Will you please stop trying to set me up with your colleagues?"

"This is the last one, I swear; he's the one."

Theresa closed The Hidden Reality by Brian Greene; thumb inserted between the pages as she sat up straighter to read the name and number on the napkin.

"Jack Hoff?" she narrowed her eyes. "Are you serious?"

Abigail shrugged.

"He's a really nice guy."

"Abby, just say that name out loud, and tell me again how he's supposed to be the one."

Abigail huffed.

"It's not his fault his parents didn't put proper thought into naming him when he was born; He's really nice."

"I'm sure he is," she pulled her legs in, motioning for her sister to sit.

Abigail flopped down; her shoulders slumped as she eyed Theresa.

"I'm worried about you."

"I'm OK," Theresa assured.

"Are you?"

"Better than a year ago."

"I'm not talking about that."

"I know."

"Why can't you just let it go, Trish?"

"Why can't you just quit setting me up with middle-aged men, Abby?"

Abigail rolled her eyes, and shoved Theresa's feet off the couch; the book slipped from her lap and landed on the carpet with a tud.

"Oy!"

"Because, dear sister; the world doesn't solely revolve around Daniel Faraday and his silly experiments!" Abigail motioned to the book as to emphasize her point. "You spent six years in a coma, and the first thing you do after you wake up is call out for a deadbeat ex-boyfriend who abandoned you eons ago!"

"You don't know that he left of his own accord!"

Abilgail gawked, her eyes bulging like that of a toad choking on a fly.

"Do you ever hear yourself?! Not a single call or message in six years, and you're still defending this guy?!"

Theresa pulled her legs back up and rested her chin on her knees; her eyes fixed on a point somewhere beyond the diningroom chairs. The harsh consonants; the long drawn vowels; she was getting so tired of this eternal discussion that held neither answers nor solutions.

"Can we just not?" she heard herself say. "Just not today."

Besides, her mind hadn't exactly been on Daniel so much as it had been on other brainchilds and hypotheses. Two days ago, a sudden epiphany had her digging through files and old research that had lain stored away on Abigail's attic for some six odd years. Contrary to what her sister believed, Theresa hadn't just been Daniel's research assitant. She had had her own motives for wanting to work with him. Yes, he had been her boyfriend, but he had also been her colleague, and thanks to his invaluable insights he had gotten her involved in groundbreaking research that had held the potential to bring about an enormous paradigm shift. She owed him; she owed him so much more than Abigail would ever be willing to admit or accept.

"I guess it wouldn't hurt if we cut to the intermission early today," Abigail smirked, her expression softening.

Theresa snorted.

"The guy could bake one hell of a pancake, though; I'll give him that."

"Excuse me? What was that?" Theresa gasped, and put a demonstrative hand on her chest.

"Did Abigail Imelda Spencer just say something nice about Daniel Faraday?"

She reached for her sister's forehead.

"Dear! You're burning up. Maybe, you should…hold on," she theatrically pulled the napkin from her sister's chestpocket, and held it out in much the same manner Abigail had done moments before. "Maybe you should ring up Mr. Jack Hoff; see if he can help you flush that blush straight off your face," she winked.

"Oh, will just shu–"

The doorbell cut straight through their living room banter; both sisters simultaneously looked up.

Theresa frowned.

"You expecting someone?"

"No."

"I swear," Theresa began. "If this is one of your set ups come to take me out on a date; you're definitely crossing a sacred line, my precious sister."

Abigail rolled her eyes, and stood up.

"Oh, why don't you just stuff that napkin down your throat already?" she countered, before rounding the corner, down the hallway.

Theresa laughed, her attention momentarily drawn to the number underneath the name; even that seemed like a joke: +441296 366613. She flung it away, symbolically getting rid of Mr. Hoff and his digits, but as she watched the napkin flutter to the ground, she couldn't help but wonder what a date with a man called Jack Hoff would be like; maybe, he preffered to be called Jim. She would.

"Uh, Trish," Abigail reappeared, her expression grave as she stepped back into the living room.

"There's someone here for you, but I don't think–"

"Huh?" Theresa stood and crossed the room. "Who is it?"

Abigail caught her arm, pulling her backwards before she could peep around the corner.

"I'm not sure if you should."

"What are you on about?" she narrowed her eyes, twisting her neck in an impossible angle to catch a better glimpse.

"Maybe we should continue this discussion inside? It's raining cats and dogs out here."

Theresa's eyes widened; Abigail scowled.

"Mrs. Hawking?"

She pushed past Abigail, her jaw unhinged as she faced the woman in the doorway.

"Please, Eloise, dear. Mrs. Hawking was my mother's name."

Eloise stepped across the threshold, looking for all the world like Mary Poppins blown in on a regular Eastern wind as she surreptitiously closed her umbrella with an animated flourish. Abigail remained stoic, arms crossed in front of her chest, while Theresa felt an almost irrepressible urge to climb up on the rooftop to scrutinize the current position of the weather van, just to make sure.

"Forgot your broom, I see."

"Abigail," Eloise inclined her head. "It's nice to see you again."

"Nice?!

Theresa placed a hand on Abigail's shoulder, rage burning a metaphysical hole through the reality of their current situation. There was only one person her sister desired to manually vivisect more than Daniel, and neither of them ever expected that scenario coming to pass. Apparently, Abigail had just won Satan's lottery.

"Just let me handle this," Theresa whispered; Abigail continued to scowl, but refrained from speaking her mind further.

"Why are you here?" Theresa turned to Eloise.

The old woman took a step closer, the light illuminating her aging face. She appeared much older than the last time they'd seen each other. But then, it had been over a decade ago since they'd last spoken.

"I think it's time we talk."

"Talk?! I've been trying to contact you for the past year; my sister tells me you ignored her calls and messages for over five! Honestly, I'm not quite sure whether to let Abby have a go at you, or if I should just throw you out myself!"

"Oh please, Trish," Abigail gritted. "Just give me five minutes with her."

"Yes, an unfortunate lapse in judgment on my part; I assure you, it won't happen again."

Abigail snorted loudly; Theresa remained apathetic.

"No, it won't," she said. "It was nice of you to stop by, Eloise; but whatever you've got to say, I'm not interested anymore."

"My dear, I think you would want to hear what I've got to say."

"Not interested," she turned around, guiding a fuming Abigail back to the living room.

"Don't you want to know what happened to Daniel?"

She stopped, her back straight as an arrow, nerves wound tightly around an invisible coil of her own making.

"No, no, no," Abigail shook her head. "Don't even think about it, Trish!"

But she was already thinking about it. In reality, she had nothing to go on; she'd already dug up everything there was on the Kahana, even secretly visited its last known location, followed coordinates that had left her staring into the deep blue of a vast ocean that held onto whispered secrets as though bound by an unbreakable vow. It had ignored her, stared back at her and challenged her sanity. Eloise was the only person left alive who could possible shed some light on the unsolvable mystery of Daniel's disappearance.

"Abby, could you please make us some tea?"

"What?!"

Theresa looked back at Eloise, who had taken the liberty of unbuttoning her coat; the umbrella placed against the door, dripping water onto the fading words of the "welcome home" doormat.

"Are you off your rocker?"

Theresa stepped closer to her sister, voice dropping to a whisper.

"I need to know."

"No, I won't stand for this," Abigail countered, putting her hands in her sides. "It stops here, Trish."

"Why are you so hell bend on keeping me from finding out the truth?"

"The truth?! This is not about any truth, and you know it."

"Last time I checked, it wasn't you in that coma, Abby; it happened to me!"

Abigail snorted.

"'D'you really believe that?"

Theresa shrugged; her shoulders slumped. Why couldn't her sister understand? She was a scientist, a believer of facts and a seeker of truth, always on the side of the undiscovered. An inherent curiosity creature lived inside her brain, housed in her skull, fed on her neurons, and for months now it had been aided by a second creature that was slowly drilling holes into her heart, scarring the outer reaches of her soul. It was dark there, cold.

Truth? It had never just been about the how; it had always been about the why.

"I have so many questions, and nobody has been able to give me any answers! Why can't you understand that?"

Abigail scoffed.

"Why can't you understand that I'm right here? Right now. Why do you insist on chasing ghosts; aren't the living enough?"

Theresa stared, her stomach in knots. It wasn't fair; it wasn't true.

"I'm sorry you feel that way, Abby."

Abigail let out a low frustrated growl, clenching her fists together in futile surrender.

"Yeah, me too," she said, then thundered down the hallway, shoving hard past Eloise as she reached for her coat.

"Good luck with this hag," she threw over her shoulder, leaving the which unsettled.

The loud bang of the door shutting closed momentarily shocked through the corridor, shaking the furniture before it resettled.

Theresa sighed.

"Tea?"

"Please."

With a heavy heart she made for the kitchen, uncaring of Eloise following. These fights had been getting more and more intense of late. Last week she'd even scanned open ads online for available flats in the surrounding area. It would break Abigail's heart if she moved out, but she simply couldn't take it anymore.

"This had better be worth my time, Eloise."

The old woman had followed her into the kitchen, and sat down at the table; Theresa reached for the kettle.

"Daniel's dead," Eloise said.

If there was a way to get straight to the point, then surely Eloise Hawking had just nailed it. Theresa whirled around; the kettle fell in the sink, water clattering off of it.

"He died on an island in the South Pacific Ocean in late 1977."

"1977?"

"I buried him myself."

"What?!"

"I shot my son in 1977," Eloise said it with such cold conviction it made it hard for Theresa to sympathize. Not a tear or tremor burst through her poised expression, stoic figure; it was like looking at a robot talking about murders yet committed.

Theresa closed the tap, leaned her palms on the counter; her back curving under the weight of a thousand questions. She asked only one:

"You're sure about this?"

"Positive."

She turned around; the making of tea; the cooking of water, all but forgotten.

"He did it then."

"If you're referring to his experiments, breaking through the barriers of space time," Eloise rolled her eyes, air quoting the words. "Then, yes, and no, I suppose."

Theresa slowly lowered herself into the chair on the opposite side of the table, her focus never having been sharper.

"What do you mean?"

"He traveled through time, but he wasn't the one who made it happen."

Over the next hour Eloise spoke of events that started with a plane crash on a beach in 2004, and ended with a riffle deep in the woods in 1977. All through her monologue Theresa refrained from asking questions. Instead, she sat with her hands crossed in her lap, her heart slamming against her chest as the old woman revealed all that Theresa ever wanted and needed to know. Daniel had lived and died, becoming part of an immense paradox that defied all reality known to mankind.

It occurred to her that any other person would have referred Eloise to the closest mental institution in the Aylesburg, but not her. For she knew that it was possible. They'd researched the brain's ability to travel; why not the whole body?

"Why do I get the sense that you're not just here to tell me that Daniel's gone?" Theresa said after Eloise had finished.

"Because he's not."

Theresa frowned.

"You just told me your past self killed your future son; how he is not gone?"

Eloise smiled and reached for her purse, pulling from it a leather-bound journal, Daniel's journal.

"I want you to take a look at this, and ring me once you've made up your mind."

She placed a card on the table, a foreign number written on it in black ink.

She stood.

"It's my personal number; I will not ignore you this time."

She placed a hand on top of Theresa's.

"What do you want me to make up my mind about?" Theresa asked.

"Thank you for the tea," she said by way of reply, then she walked out of the kitchen, down the hall, and blew out of the house on a Western wind.

The kettle, wet from water, untouched on its side in the sink.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

A/N: I know this chapter was way different! But it's all part of the story, it will make sense later on! I put some nice Easter eggs in this one, though. I'm curious to see if you guys can find and unwrap them! Let me know! I'm super curious!

Again, thank you all so much for the comments and warm messages on the previous chapter. It blows my mind that even one person would read this story, let alone several! Words really can't express how much I appreciate it.

And because I'm so grateful, I'll reveal to you that the next chapter will be set in Dharma Town again, and will include some much needed Suliet!

Thanks again! And hopefully I'll see you in the next chapter ;)

FYI: all of the characters who appeared in this chapter were on the show at some point or another. None of them were fabricated by me, but I did take some liberties with them, and expanded upon their respective story lines.

[raybrwn]

Mental health and Celebrities (two entries)

Mental health in celebrities

Sometimes we overlook the fact that mental health disorders can affect anybody. Many of our favourite celebrities have struggled or is still struggling with their mental health. Because of this, some celebrities use their platform as a space to relate with their fans whilst, others use their platform to advocate for mental health.

Some of these celebrities include:

Singer, Beyonce - According to Harper's Bazaar, the singer told Sun magazine in 2011, "It was beginning to get fuzzy - I couldn't even tell which day or which city I was at... My mother was very persistent and she kept saying that I had to take care of my mental health."

Jamaican artiste, Jada Kingdom - The artiste sometimes uses her instagram as a way to communicate with her fans about mental health and her personal experience. In 2019, the 'Banana' singer revealed that she found out she was bi-polar at the age of 15 or 16. "I always knew something was wrong with me but I wasn't aware of what it was. I didn't understand it, but I do now and I'm still learning about it." She said.

Actress, Zendaya - During her interview with Instyle magazine, she opens up about her battle with anxiety revealing that she does not have it 'under control yet.'

" I don't have the key, so if anybody does, let me know." Zendaya said.

Actor, Dwayne Johnson - During 2018, the actor told a fan who was fighting his own battle with depression that, "One of the most important things that I know helped me with the multiple times that I had gone through my own episodes of depression, was making sure that I was talking to people."

Actress, Taraji P. Henson - The grammy award-winning actress recently teamed up with her best friend and mental health non-profit leader, Tracie Jade on their bi-weekly show called, 'Peace of Mind,' on Facebook. The ladies told USA today, they hope this will be a way to help get rid of the stigma about seeking help. The show has also given celebrities the chance to share their mental health experiences in an open space.

"What we get to do is take the community inside of an actual therapy session, so it doesn't feel so scary," Henson says.

For as many of you who will come across this blog, this was written to remind you that many people are facing the same thing you're currently experiencing, and some individuals are going through worst.

This blog post is to let you know that just like the celebrities listed and the many other celebrities that have not been listed - you can use your lemons and turn them into lemonade. In other words, you may see your mental health disorder or past mental health experience as a bad thing but as a matter of fact it isn't because there is a person out there looking for someone to share their story, so that they can relate to it.

Don't be afraid to speak out. You are not alone.

[fashiontrendin-blog]

What I Learned After 13 Years in Therapy

http://fashion-trendin.com/what-i-learned-after-13-years-in-therapy-2/

What I Learned After 13 Years in Therapy

I noticed an important conversation happening in the comments of the Welcome to Duality Month post about combatting the stigma around going to therapy. Whether cultural or personal, a lot of us feel like there’s a certain amount of shame in seeking professional help. It seemed like a good time to bump this beautiful piece from earlier this year back up in case folks might find it helpful. –Nora Taylor

At nine years old, I started grappling with sudden, frequent panic attacks. At the time, neither my parents nor I could understand what was happening to me. I appeared to be experiencing seizure-like convulsions — sweating, shaking, panting — but on the inside, I felt paralyzed with fear, with no control over my mind or body.

“When is it going to stop?” I’d ask my mom.

“It should be over by next week,” she’d respond, as if we were in the midst of a war that was rumored to end soon.

But when the episodes continued, my parents sent me to Dr. H, a child psychologist. During my first session, I told him about my disturbing thought spirals and the nightmares I had about my uncle who’d died a couple of years prior at the age of 24 from a drug overdose. I remember him tearing up and asking about my relationship with my uncle.

After my first session, Dr. H diagnosed me with generalized anxiety disorder. Despite my parents’ prior warnings about talking to strangers, I began to see him every week. Every week, I’d tell him my deepest secrets and even accept the occasional candy bribe.

Whenever I arrived, I’d ring the doorbell, escort myself into the waiting room and enter his office only when I saw the shadow of the previous patient disappearing down the staircase, just as he’d instructed me during our first session. The protocol wasn’t foolproof. Over the years, scheduling conflicts would occur and I’d run into other therapy-goers in the slivered hallway. When that happened, I’d hang my head low to avoid eye contact, like I was in trouble.

Because I didn’t know any kids in therapy, I thought I was the only one of my kind. Then one night, while I was walking out of Dr. H’s office, I bumped into my classmate — and not just any classmate: the 10-year-old boy of my dreams. We exchanged embarrassed glances and promised to keep each others’ whereabouts a secret. It was one of the first times I entertained the idea that therapy didn’t make me an outsider if cool kids went too.

While my parents supported me and went to tremendous lengths to help me manage my anxiety, they advised I forgo telling my classmates about my weekly visits. I took their word as law and hid my feelings from my friends for years. I understood therapy to be an unspoken, taboo topic. Before I even knew what stigma meant, I felt it swallow me whole.

When I went to my pediatrician, I didn’t have to hide from other patients in the waiting room. So why was mental health treated any differently? When I’d arrive late to school because of an anxiety-fueled stomachache (a frequent occurrence), my doctor’s notes would claim I’d been sick. Would a note explaining that I’d been in the throes of an anxiety attack have made my tardiness any less valid?

For years, I was afraid of opening up about my struggle and assumed others wouldn’t accept me because I didn’t accept me. The first person I told was a boyfriend, about seven years after my diagnosis. Afterward, the world seemed a less lonely place. I felt less isolated and safer than I had in a while.

I avoided medication for 13 years. When I was on the fence last year, at the age of 22, about seeing a psychiatrist for the first time, my friend said, “If you had diabetes, would you even think twice about going to a medical doctor to scout out your options?” She was right. My anxiety needed just as much attention and care, and it had just as much validity as someone whose blood sugar level required management.

Soon after, I was diagnosed with obsessive-compulsive disorder, which helped me better understand my obsessive thought spirals and gave me the opportunity to explore more targeted tools to help manage them, like cognitive behavioral therapy and an anti-depressant prescription. What I once thought would make me seem weak became a gift I gave myself to live a happier, healthier life.

Even if the stigma of mental health has begun to unravel, I still feel it. “Things are that bad?” a friend asked me once, as if therapy were a last, pitiful resort. My boyfriend at the time, out of care, told me he was afraid to date me because our relationship might trigger my anxiety. We ended up dating for two very loving, panic-free years. A principal told me I might not be the right candidate for their school after I had a panic attack during an open-house tour. I went on to graduate from that school at the top of my class.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” another friend texted me this summer after I confided in her. She’d sensed I’d been acting different lately. “Because I thought I could go it alone. Because opening up about my struggle is deeply personal and painful to share” were a couple of sentences I typed and deleted, re-typed and deleted again.

As counseling for mental illnesses has become more commonplace and spoken about, I’ve discovered that many of my friends are now seeing therapists and slip the word therapist into conversation with ease while I, who started going in a time when it was deemed taboo, still sometimes struggle to say the word without lowering my voice to a whisper.

In one of my final sessions with Dr. H, he told me he knew my uncle well. He said it was mere coincidence that I walked into his office all those years ago as the niece of one of his former patients. I was stunned. “I didn’t know he died until you told me,” he said, teary-eyed. “He tried getting help. He wasn’t proud of his actions.” I couldn’t blame my uncle for doing drugs or for living in shame when I had felt the same way.

After 13 years, I sit on my cognitive behavioral therapist’s couch. “Try doing your breathing techniques when you’re on the train this week. That’s not a weird thing to do in public anymore.” She lets out a light laugh. I think of 10 things I’ve seen on the subway that are much weirder than openly taking long, calming breaths. I decide to take her advice.

As I walk out of her office, I see the patient after me shuffling in. He wears a suit and carries a briefcase. We make eye contact. He says hello; I say, “How are you?” We both smile. I keep my head held high the whole time. It’s not everything, but I’m getting there.

Bonnie is a writer living in Brooklyn with works published on Coveteur and Harper’s Bazaar. Follow her blog, bontobewildblog.com.

Collages by Emily Zirimis.