#bring it up with a doctor or therapist or counselor
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ME THIS IS ME. IT'S A PROBLEM
everyone's got that one homie who zealously adheres to his inflexible code of honor even though it has long since become a burden to him
#it's a genuine problem#and if you struggle with this kinda thing PLEASE I BEG OF YOU#bring it up with a doctor or therapist or counselor#or anyone else who might be able to help you#this shit ruins your life#not jrwi#glub glub#psa#kinda
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WIP -- MARRIAGE COUNSELING
Marriage Counseling
The atmosphere in Dr. Morrison’s office was thick with tension. Two accent chairs sat five feet apart from each other, a preference made by Jasmine. She leaned into the right side of her chair, her body resting against the boxy armrest. Her arm tingled from the pressure applied to her elbow from the weight of her head resting on her palm. It was falling asleep, but she didn’t care—her eyes were fixated on the outside. It was currently raining.
The clock on the wall loudly ticked, forcing her to count the seconds. Fifty-eight…fifty-nine… It was now five minutes after four in the afternoon. A throat cleared from across the coffee table, drawing her to the sound. Dr. Morrison's eyes flitted from left to right at the couple across from him. They had been sitting in silence for several minutes now. As much as he enjoyed listening to the sound of the heavy rain beating down on his ceiling, he wasn’t getting paid by the hour to do so. “So,” He breathes, crossing his right leg over his left. “What seems to be the problem?” He asks. No one would speak up to answer the question, leaving the doctor hanging.
“Alright…” He says quietly. “Let me rephrase then: When did everything start going wrong?” He asks. Jasmine shifts from her current position, lifts her head, and allows her arm to rest flat against the chair. She’d purse her lips at the questions, her gaze now on her husband.
“Great question. When was the last time you were home? March?” She asks, her voice laced with bitterness. Joe slowly turns his attention towards her, his thick brows knitted in annoyance.
“I was—.”
“Doesn’t matter, it’s been months.” She finishes, sweeping her hand at him. Joe huffs, sitting up in his chair. He looks toward the counselor, his eyes wide as he gestures at her.
“See! Every time I try to talk—.”
“If I wanted to hear excuses, Joseph, I’d ask one of the twins about you.” He lifts his hands in disbelief, his mouth agape at her words.
“Oh my God,” He mutters, lifting his hand to rub at his brow. The room would fall into silence once more. Jasmine folds her arms over her chest, now staring past the therapist at the painting on the wall above his head. Doctor Morrison looked between the pair once more, slowly lifting his pen to write. This was going to be an interesting couple to work through that’s for sure.
The wife appears to be extremely bothered by her husband’s absence. The husband is frustrated he can’t explain himself. He writes on his clipboard. The doctor clears his throat, glancing up at the couple once more before letting his eyes settle on Joe. “Why haven’t your wife seen you since March?” He asks. Joe looks up at the question, removing his hand from his face.
“My job is demanding. I’m always on the road for shows, doing interviews, and charity work, and when I’m not doing that, I try to make it home—.”
“Tries—.” She scoffs.
“Mrs. Anoa’i, please,” Morrison says, glancing briefly in her direction. “Go on.” He nods once. Joe rolls his eyes at her, shaking his head slightly. She peers over at him, her lips pressed in a thin line. He was lucky she was being silenced. Morrison clicks his pen, going in to write more.
“I try to make it home when I can, but sometimes things happen that prevent me from doing so—a change of plans with my job. When that happens, I offer to fly her out or bring her on the road with me.” He explains.
“And when you propose these alternatives, what is the response?” The Doctor asks.
“If there was a response, Doc, we wouldn’t be here.” He answers.
“Being married to Roman Reigns isn’t exactly a walk in the park.” She says. “Our home is the last place we have privacy. I value our peace and I know he does too.
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REBLOGS WELCOME! :D
-
So therapy is going well.
-
“And you know what? You know what else, Mariana?”
“Yes? What?”
Slime leans closer, a sneer on his face as he says: “Your sex playlist sucks.”
And that is too far. Too far.
Mariana tackles him out of his chair with an offended roar, ignoring Roier’s cries from the other side of the desk.
“Gentleman, please!” Roier protests. “Not in the office, please! Take it outside!”
Slime’s face screws up in anger. He grabs Mariana’s shoulders, nails digging in through the spandex of Mariana’s suit.
“Is that what you want?” he asks, voice low. He meets Mariana’s eyes and brings his head closer; almost reflexively, Mariana does the same until their noses are brushing.
“Is that what you want?” Slime repeats, his breath ghosting over Mariana’s lips. “Do you want to take it outside, Mariana?”
“Oh my God,” Roier says.
“No,” Mariana replies. “I want you to kiss me.”
And he does.
-
Really, therapy is going well. Better than Mariana had expected, what with the single least experienced person on the island acting as his therapist. Because Roier of all people was obviously the best choice, ignore his murderous grudge against his ex… whatever, and his fun new hobby of putting children in pits to fight to the death. The guy whose last relationship ended in literal murder is obviously the best person to be the island’s court-mandated couples’ counselor.
But, well, it’s working, surprisingly enough. Slime hasn’t wished death upon Mariana in days, and Mariana is almost allowed to tuck their daughter into bed. And Flippa? She’s happier than ever (though, really, that isn’t saying much.)
-
“What the fuck are you doing?!”
“What does it look like I’m doing, Mariana? I’m meditating. Just like the doctor ordered.”
The chainsaw in Slime’s lap disagrees with that statement. As does the blood spattered across his face. And the dying BadBoyHalo groaning on the floor in front of him.
Bad rolls onto his back and looks up at Mariana pleadingly. He mouths, ‘help me’.
Flippa stands over him holding a gun three times too big for her tiny little egg hands. She waves it cheerfully in greeting as she notices Mariana in the doorway.
Mariana rolls his eyes and groans, throwing his arms into the air. “Chinga su madre, man, what did I tell you? Stop killing people on the rug! Do you know how hard it is to clean it?”
Bad coughs blood onto said rug indignantly. Bastard.
“Well, maybe people shouldn’t try and kill our daughter on the rug,” Slime calmly responds. He speaks slowly, and Mariana is thankful for it. His translator can only work so fast, and most of his husband’s murderous rampages go by too quickly for the translator to pick up. It’s a pain.
“Oh, is that what happened?” Mariana asks.
Slowly, he walks towards Bad, whose eyes are slowly draining of life. He’s got maybe ten more seconds left before he’s forced to respawn. Mariana could save him right now.
He pulls out his sword instead.
Juanaflippa backs up, already covered in too much blood for her tastes.
“He-” Mariana points at Slime. “-is the only person allowed to kill eggs. Mamahuevo, fuck you.”
As soon as Bad is dead, Slime jumps to his feet and pulls Mariana into a bruising kiss, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and holding him tight. The chainsaw digs into Mariana’s back slightly, but it’s hard to pay attention to that when his husband is right there.
“You are so hot when you’re killing people,” Slime murmurs.
And Mariana doesn’t quite understand what he said, his translator out of sight, but he knows when he’s being sweet talked well enough.
“Me encantas,” Mariana says. “Now…” (What are the words?) “...put the chainsaw down and take me to bed.”
And he does.
-
Once, there was a time when Mariana couldn’t remember why he married Slime. Well. He still doesn’t know why he married Slime, or when. It just sort of happened one day, and maybe they should have gotten divorced long ago for Flippa’s sake. But, hey, they got married before they even knew each other. They spent most of their marriage apart. Now that they’re being forced together, Mariana can definitely see the appeal of being married to Slime. He’s funny, and he’s smart, and he’s very attractive. Who cares if he’s literally made out of slime? That just makes him special.
A human, a slime, and an egg. What a family.
-
Juanaflippa is still learning how to write. Her English is messy, but her Spanish is messier. Mariana tries not to think that it’s his fault for not being there for her, but he also knows that it is kind of his fault. He knows that, so Slime doesn’t need to keep rubbing it in like the asshole he is.
“Oh, wow, Flippa! That’s great!” Slime coos upon being presented with Flippa’s most recent attempt at signmaking. Mariana can’t really understand what’s written, but he thinks that he knows one or two words: ‘mom’ and ‘dad’.
Flippa hops up and down excitedly and quickly scrambles back up to her room to get another sign to work on.
Mariana idly watches her go, sprawled out across Slime’s couch with his translator in his hand ticking away. One annoying thing about his husband is how fast he talks, it’s impossible to keep up. Literally impossible. Luckily, Mariana’s been working on his English when he’s been alone, so he can at least try to figure out what’s going on without having his translator out all of the time.
Slime sighs and slumps onto the couch by Mariana’s feet. Without hesitation, Mariana kicks his legs up onto Slime’s lap; Slime doesn’t move them.
“She’s learning so fast…” Slime says.
Mariana nods. “Yes, you are a good teacher.”
“Yeah, I sure am.”
The accusation is left unsaid, but Mariana hears it, anyway.
Lightly, he kicks Slime in the chest. “Hey, fuck you. I’ve been trying.”
“I’m sure you have,” Slime responds, and the condescension is dripping so thickly from his voice that it’s in a puddle on the floor. Or maybe that’s just Slime himself.
Mariana kicks him again. He doesn’t say anything, though, because maybe therapy has been working. A week ago, they would have been yelling by now. Today, though? He’s happy enough to stew in his discontent.
He likes the quiet, anyway. Slime is a lot prettier when he isn’t screaming his head off. Very nice to look at. Muy guapo. He pretends that Slime isn’t looking back if only because acknowledging it would make him blush, and he would like to keep his dignity, thank you very much.
Eventually, Juanaflippa comes back downstairs with a new sign.
‘Te quiero, papá,’ is written on it in shaky chicken-scratch letters, and it’s enough to almost make Mariana cry. Almost.
He slips off of the couch and pulls Flippa into a hug. “Aww, Flippa, yo también te quiero.”
She wiggles in place happily. The wiggling becomes more enthusiastic when Slime goops his way into the hug as well, tucking his chin into the crook of Mariana’s neck.
Slime says, “Te amo, Juanaflippa.” And, well, it’s not quite right, but he’s got the spirit.
Mariana looks up at him with a slight pout. “What the fuck? Why don’t you say that to me?”
Slime rolls his eyes. “Fine, I guess I can say it, I guess.”
And he does.
-
And then there’s the sex. But that was fine before, to be honest. The only thing that has improved about it is their playlist.
-
Slime’s new house has a bedroom with enough space for the both of them, and it’s almost nice enough to make Mariana consider partially moving in. Almost.
Their beds are on opposite sides of the room because, frankly, they aren’t ready to properly share a bed yet. But the floors are bare so as to make it easier to push their beds together when wanted.
Mariana wants.
He pokes his head out into the living room. Slime is right where he left him, facedown on the rug after a long day of renovating. Juanaflippa is asleep upstairs, nobody else is awake on the server to interrupt or eavesdrop, it’s the perfect opportunity.
“Hey, Slime,” Mariana says, and that’s enough to get his husband to roll onto his back with a groan.
“What are you still doing here?” Slime yawns. He covers his mouth halfheartedly, stretching his legs out sleepily. “I thought you went to bed.”
“I did,” Mariana confirms. “You have a bed. Come on, get into it with me.”
And usually that’s enough to get Slime up and moving, but he doesn’t so much as look at him. No, his eyes slip shut, and he lets his arms fall across his body like a mummy’s.
Oh. He’s tired.
“Estoy cansado,” Slime sighs. “Lo siento, mi novia. No sexo tonight.”
Mariana can’t help but be disappointed. The sex is one of his favorite things about their relationship. It’s the one thing that he and Slime could agree on before the court case, the one single bit of solidarity in their relationship.
But… it is late, and maybe Mariana is a bit tired as well.
So he goes out of the bedroom to pick Slime up, only buckling a little under his weight. (For a sentient pile of goo, he’s fucking heavy.)
Slime’s eyes flutter open, and his face wrinkles in confusion as he’s moved. He looks up at Mariana blearily, unsure as to what he’s doing. Honestly, Mariana doesn’t know what he’s doing, either. This is weird.
“Your back is going to hurt if you sleep on the floor,” is Mariana’s excuse even though he knows fully well that Slime doesn’t have a spine.
“Oh, cool, alright,” Slime says. If he snuggles into Mariana’s chest a little, neither acknowledges it. “Gracias.”
“De nada.”
He drops Slime into his bed and hesitates. What now? Does he… tuck him in? He’s a grown man, he can tuck himself in.
Mariana turns to… go, he guesses, to go back to his own house, but he’s stopped by a goopy hand wrapping itself around his wrist and refusing to let go no matter how hard he tries to pull away.
“Slime, come on, let go,” Mariana groans. “Maybe I want to go to bed too, huh?”
“Then get in here,” Slime says, and that’s all the warning Mariana gets before being yanked down with a yelp onto the bed.
Slime hums, and then he’s out like a light, snork mimimi, and all. Mariana stares at him for a good moment, and then he sighs and takes his glasses off. He takes Slime’s glasses off as well, and, after placing them both onto the bedside table right next to each other, he lets himself relax. There isn’t quite enough room for the both of them, but he thinks it can make it work.
And he does.
-
So, yes, therapy has been working. It’s been working very well.
(Now, if only someone could get the therapist a therapist. Mariana is starting to get sick of hearing about Roier’s relationship problems at what are supposed to be his therapy sessions. At this rate, Mariana is going to kill Spreen himself if only to stop the complaining.)
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Amaryllis
Chapter Two: Wednesday
Pairing: Frankie x f!Reader
WC: 4.7K
Warnings: Mostly fluff and a little angst…
Summary: Something, no, make that someone, throws a wrench in your normal weekly routine.
A/N: This was originally posted as a Writer Wednesday entry well over a year ago and was the first chapter I completed for this story. The concept is the same, but some words/phrases have been changed. You can read the original Writer Wednesday post HERE.
Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist
Tom knows that you go see your mother in the City every Wednesday… You go and spend the day taking her around to do her shopping, Doctor appointments etc and you have to go see your OBGYN once a month anyway, so it all works out. You started getting pretty bad anxiety within the last couple of years or so… Your arrangement taking its toll, but Tom would never let you see a counselor or therapist because he fears what you would tell them. Even though revealing the inner workings of your life would put at risk the one person you were doing this all for in the first place… So you avoid the conversation entirely and go every week just to get some things off your chest, since you would have no one else to talk to otherwise.
Today, you go for your regularly scheduled appointment. 9:30 am every week without fail. As soon as you walk in you see a familiar face, currently nose deep in a magazine. You keep walking forward and take a seat. You open your book and try not to make it obvious that you’re hiding your face.
Tom isn’t aware of these appointments, which is why you felt safe having them at all since they took place over an hour out of town. You’ve been coming regularly and never once has there been an issue with seeing someone either you or Tom knew. Until today…. Today, Tom’s friend Frankie is sitting in the waiting area, left foot resting on his knee, thumbing through the pages of the standard medical magazine set out for patients' to help pass the time. So far, he has yet to notice you. You let out a breath and continue flipping through the pages of your book.
Apparently Frankie is early to his appointment, because even though he was here well before you, your name is called loud and clear. Of course, Frankie hears your last name and he looks up at you then. He just smiles and waves a friendly hello, and—
Nothing else happens. The world doesn’t suddenly combust at him seeing you. So you wave back a little awkwardly and make your way to the nurse waiting at the door to take you back for your appointment.
The hour is over way too soon and when you walk out, thankfully the waiting area is empty of Frankie. So you quickly make your way to your car and head to see your mother and carry on with your regular Wednesday routine.
You’re hoping that there would be no reason for Frankie to bring it up to Tom… Like ‘hey man, saw your wife today at the therapist’s office…..” etc etc… there should be no reason for him to, so you force yourself to let it go. Thankfully, Tom never says anything (you know he would if he knew) so you go about the rest of your week as normal.
Next week rolls around and you show up extra early for your appointment, hoping like hell that you would be called before Frankie even showed up. If he showed up at all.. There was no reason for you to believe that he had a regular schedule like yours. It was just a one off and you needed to stop worrying about it. And you did… That is until Frankie walks out of the doors as he was finished with his own appointment.. How had you never seen him here before when you’d been coming for so long?
Frankie spots you this time and walks over to you slowly to say hello…. “You’re Tom’s wife right?” You nod quietly. “I thought that was you last week, but I wasn't sure. I’d never seen you in here before, but my appointment last week got pushed back for some scheduling issue… So I…” he slows down his words… “I guess I normally wouldn’t have.”
He’s rambling. Frankie is cringing internally at the realization, but you hardly pay it any notice when your own thoughts are doing much the same. —So that explains it. And you just HAD to show up early to your own appointment this time trying to AVOID him..
You still haven’t said anything so the silence quickly becomes awkward… “Well it was good seeing you. Uh, tell Tom I said ‘hey.’” And with that, he leaves you to stare blankly at his back as he leaves the office. Again, you’re hoping that there would be no reason for this to get back to Tom. Thankfully, it doesn’t.
Next week you go to your appointment at the normal time… He said it himself that his regular appointment was earlier than yours, so you just needed to go like you normally would and everything would be fine… And you’re right. You go in and he’s not there. You get called back and go into your appointment, breathing a quick sigh of relief.
When your hour is up, you walk out and he’s still not there. Again, you let go of the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, and make your way to your car with a smile on your face.
The air is cool and the sun is shining when you exit the building and you are ready to take on the rest of the day… Refreshed that your anxiety was unnecessary, only to curse the ground at your misfortune because apparently the universe hated you and enjoyed your misery…..
Walking up to your car, you see the back passenger’s side tire is now flatter than a pancake. “Shit,” you let the word escape your lips quietly, shaking your head as you think about your options:
Option number one: You change the tire. This would be great if you had any knowledge whatsoever on HOW to change a tire.
Option number two: You call your husband—Well if you called him, he would want to know why you were parked at the Doctor’s office, and also without your mother, you instantly decide against it, which leaves you with option number three….
You do nothing.
You look out across the parking lot and continue to ponder your poor options when you notice a little diner across the street. You decide to just take a breath and grab a coffee and maybe something to eat while you figure things out. You call your mom to let her know; she doesn't own a vehicle which is why you made the weekly trip up here. Fortunately, she was still stocked up on food and she didn’t see her own doctor until next week, so you not making it today shouldn’t hurt anything.
So, you make your way over to the diner. You honestly think the City is beautiful… all of the buildings, nothing like in your town. Everything was so big and open.. You missed it a lot….
When you step inside, the door has a little bell that dings signaling a new customer. You walk to the front and wait to be seated. You just want a few minutes of quiet so you ask for the secluded booth over in the corner. Perfect. You sit and order a coffee with cream and sugar and pick up a menu and attempt to let your mind relax.
The funny thing about anxiety is that letting your mind relax is the equivalent of asking a toddler to sit still…. They may WANT to, but their little bodies just have so much pent up energy that despite your effort they HAVE to move… Your anxious thoughts immediately take over—
‘How am I going to get this settled without letting Tom know?’
‘I wonder what would happen if I just stayed here… Forever?’ ‘No, no, can’t do that’
‘I really like this mug’ ‘Do I want a sandwich? Or maybe some soup?’
‘Hmm, the guy at the counter has a pretty nice back… snug jacket, broad shoulders and faded jeans. Dark brown curls peeking out from underneath his ball cap… Oh my God! That’s Frankie!!’
You curse to yourself, which apparently wasn’t really to yourself, when your very audible gasp is heard near the front, to which said object of your attention turns and immediately lays eyes on you. His face actually seems to light up… You wonder why that is? You also notice how flush you suddenly feel for shamelessly admiring his back side, not knowing at all who it was as if he could hear your thoughts.
He’s making his way over and lucky you, you’re cornered in your little secluded booth… ‘Breathe…. Breathe…’ you tell yourself until you hear “Hey there,” Frankie is upbeat and to anyone else looking, you seem to be catching up with a friend. “Hi Frankie,” you say softly.
“Funny seeing you here… if you weren’t married to Tom, I’d think I had a stalker,” he says in a joyful tone, but the wild deer caught in headlights look on your face has him apologizing almost immediately. “Sorry, just kidding… Promise! —But I will say, I’ve run into you the last three weeks in a row now…” He’s looking at you with a question on his tongue, but he won’t ask it. So you answer for him. “My mother lives here in the City, so I help take her around on Wednesdays.”
“Must’ve just missed each other before then.” He smiles before saying “well it was good seeing you.” He seems to hesitate before adding, “Hope you have a good day.” He goes to leave and you suddenly remember your current dilemma….
”Wait, Frankie?” He turns to you, a look of confusion on his face, “actually, I’ve run into some trouble with my car. The tire is flat. Is there um, any way you could help me figure out how to get it home?”
It takes him a moment to respond… like his gears are turning, but he finally answers you, “oh, uh yeah, sure. I’d be happy to.”
God you sound like an idiot, Frankie chastises himself.. Why are you making this awkward? Well, she’s beautiful, you dumbass, and you’re fucking awkward— His running commentary matches your own, unbeknownst to you.
“Ok, so where are you parked?” Frankie tries to curb his thoughts by just addressing the task at hand.
“Across the street…” You point in the general direction of the office building, “at Dr. Pomater’s office.”
“Oh, that’s right. I usually come over here for a late breakfast after my appointment.” Frankie is annoyed at himself— she doesn’t care, she just needs your help.
Also food… She just got here, there’s no way she’s already eaten..
“Did you um, want to eat first? I noticed you only have a coffee..”
“Oh, I uh, well yes. I guess I haven't gotten the chance to order yet.” —Frankie thinks your light accent is endearing. It’s not super thick or put on, but almost makes you sound elegant, which he would argue matches you pretty well.
“But you’ve already eaten, I’d hate to keep you any longer than necessary. I can just eat when I get back home.” Your stomach chooses that exact moment to growl, like the traitor it is…. Frankie notices.
“Nah, I don’t mind. I’m off on Wednesdays so I’m free. I actually could go for another cup of coffee, if you don’t mind the company.”
You smile slightly at that and say “Ok, well would you like to sit? I will try to order and finish quickly.”
“There’s really no rush, go ahead and take your time and we can talk about our options for getting you back up and running.”
You agree and so you both sit in your booth across from each other… You decide to go ahead with the soup and sandwich combo, sneaking a peek over the top of your menu before the waitress comes back over —Frankie is looking down at his own menu… He’s wearing a light gray t-shirt, the material thin, but not worn. He’s got his jacket on as he was about to leave before your squeak of surprise at seeing him alerted him of your presence. One thing you hadn’t noticed about him before were the thick rimmed black glasses he was wearing now. Had he been wearing those before? After a moment you notice he takes them off and puts them in his inner jacket pocket and sets down his menu. So just reading glasses then, you suppose… You think to yourself how they give him a very boyish quality that makes you smile inwardly. You definitely should NOT be noticing this, so you look back down at your menu.
The waitress makes her way to you and takes your order. Frankie orders his coffee with cream and sugar… Hmm… You think how Tom would never drink anything unless it resembled something akin to freshly laid tarmac, claiming it “separated the men from the boys” or some other ridiculous admonition.
You notice Frankie looking at you and shit, did he ask me something?
“Hmm?”
He smiles slightly at that and you notice a dimple in his right cheek… Again, noticing things you shouldn’t…. His chuckle breaks you out of your head yet again as he says “I was just wondering where Tom was today?”
“Oh, Tom is uh..” your frustration at the question prevents you from answering right away. This was the entire reasoning for your anxiety toward Frankie seeing you. You couldn’t afford for Tom to find out about these appointments and put a stop to them. The small amount of peace of mind it provides you with, gets you through the week and you’re just not ready to lose that yet.
“Um, well Tom he uh, usually works on Wednesdays… shows his houses.”
—His brow furrows slightly like he can sense your hesitation, but he doesn’t say anything.
“Gotcha, yeah I haven’t seen him since that fight night awhile back….” The night I met you he reminds himself. “That was a pretty fun night…. First time I got to see the guys in a while.”
—Your stomach clenches at the memory of Tom on that night, but you’ve gotten good at hiding your disgust by now, “yeah — Um so is there an auto repair place nearby or…? I honestly know nothing about cars,” you laugh nervously, hoping he doesn’t notice your obvious shift in conversation away from Tom.
Your waitress then makes her way back over with your food and Frankie’s coffee. He takes a long sip and you start in on your soup.
—“Do you have a spare? I’ve got my jack in the truck. I could probably just change it for you.”
You feel like an idiot, but answer honestly, “I really don’t know. I’m sorry.” You give a nervous laugh and Frankie chuckles. He’s not making fun of you, but he thinks it adds to your charm.
He chuckles again and shakes his head a little, shrugging off a thought…
—‘This is Tom’s wife man, get a hold of yourself..’
He continues to shake the thought from his mind and moves on — “What kind of car do you have?”
‘Real smooth’ —
“Oh, it’s a… I’m really not sure…”
“That’s ok. We’ll figure it out. It’s probably in the tire well like most.”
—Your blank stare makes him cough and regroup, “I mean that there are some that have them underneath, but most sedans have them in the trunk.” Still nothing — You would be embarrassed, but you were genuinely just confused. Tom ensured that you were only knowledgeable in things meant to be handled by women like cooking and cleaning house. “Let the men handle things sweetie,” Tom would say when it came to just about anything etc.
“It’s ok,” he laughs again, but it doesn’t have the condescension attached to it that you’d come to expect from Tom. You think to yourself that it’s a nice sound coming from Frankie.
“I think I know where to find it and how to get you going again.” He smiles at you again and you say a quiet “thank you” as you go to finish the remainder of your meal in a comfortable silence.
Frankie is looking out the window now…The view from the diner overlooks a little park and you think the colored leaves against the still green grass is beautiful… Fall has always been your favorite season and you thank the Lord that the majority of your pregnancy will be in the cooler months.
After a bit, your waitress walks over and asks “is there anything else I can get y’all today?”
“No thank you,” you and Frankie both say at the same time, pulling another light chuckle out of Frankie and a smile from the waitress. She finishes writing out your check then puts it face down on the table and scoots the paper toward Frankie.
You both reach for it at the same time again and while his gets to it first, you go in and lightly swat at his hand saying “no sir….” And you wiggle a finger at him. “You’re already fixing my car…. The least I could do is pay for your coffee.”
He tries to come up with some quip to keep the lightness going but falls short and just puts his hands up in a mock surrender. Broken pride and all — he’s not upset; far from it actually, but he can’t help the small pout that makes him look offended… the sly look in his eyes tells you he’s only playing though, and you lift your chin in triumph at your little win.
It takes him a moment to remember that this is a completely abnormal situation whereas he is with his friend’s — No not his actual friend - his mentor maybe? He doesn’t really know what Tom even is to him anymore. All he knows is that —this is Tom’s wife and you’re simply having coffee and he is going to help you get your car running—
Frankie’s thoughts are interrupted when you stand up and say “come on, follow me.” He trails behind you - the awkwardness coming back slightly.
You pay the bill and walk toward the exit. Frankie follows and you both head outside into the crisp Fall air. You start to walk toward your car that’s parked across the street when Frankie stops you —
“Uh, my truck is over here. We can just drive over if you’d like?”
“Ok,” is all you say. Why is this so awkward? You already find yourself missing the ease of the diner.
He is just a friend of Tom’s helping you get to your car… Nothing to worry about.
Frankie’s truck is kind of what you’d expect — it’s an older looking truck. You have no idea of the model, just that it’s aged. -Brown with tan lines down the sides — almost matching his jacket. The inside is clean, but the interior is worn.. it smells of gas and oil, with a little hint of vanilla from the little tree air freshener hanging from the rear view mirror. When you first opened the passenger door, there was a horrible creaky sound that you were well used to. Your Papá used to have a truck similar to this and the thought makes you smile.
“She’s a little old, but she takes good care of me,” Frankie says warmly. His adoration for the truck is evident in his tone. His hand worries at his scruffy chin and he asks “ready to go?” You quickly nod and close your door.
The drive to your car is short — Neither of you say anything other than an “over there” as you point to which car is yours.
So when Frankie asks you if you’ve called Tom yet you jump… unsure if it’s an accusation or just from the question as a whole.
“No, I didn’t want to bother him. He’s usually very busy.” Frankie almost scoffs at that.
“What?” You ask him. He almost seemed annoyed.
“I don’t know why it would bother him to hear from his wife when she has a problem. I’d hope he would want to make sure you’re ok. Make sure you get home safely.”
Frankie is having a hard time keeping his mouth shut…. Tom very rarely mentioned you unless prompted when the guys got together… and before he met you it didn’t really matter… but having spent just this short amount of time with you today, it makes his blood boil. He doesn’t have words to voice the why behind that quite yet.
You honestly don’t know what to say to that. Tom was never like that with you for obvious reasons, but Frankie wouldn’t know that.
“Well — Ok, so you see…” you sigh… there was no other way to do this. Unless you said otherwise, there was no way this wouldn’t get brought up to Tom. Not about the car, but the where. You wanted to be honest. You wanted to be able to talk with someone about your situation, but you couldn’t. Not about everything anyway. Not yet.
“Frankie, can I say something? Without judgement and without this getting back to Tom?” He nods. The confusion is clear on his face… “Would it be ok if this just stayed between us?” You motion between the two of you. “About the Doctor I mean..?” He’s still looking confused. Similar to how you must’ve looked when he was talking to you about cars.
“Tom doesn’t know that I see Dr. Pomater. He’s never believed in Therapy and thinks it’s a waste of time and money,” — ‘amongst other things’ you think to yourself.
“He wouldn’t be happy to know that I’ve been seeing one. But to me, just having someone to talk to that is unbiased and non-judgemental? It helps me feel better.” You know you sound childish, but it’s the truth and Frankie holds all the cards here.
After a moment you hear Frankie respond. “So he just thinks you’re taking care of your mother on Wednesdays?” He looks up at you at the question.
“I do take care of my mother.. She doesn’t speak English well and she doesn’t own a vehicle, so she needs assistance getting groceries and getting to and from Doctor’s appointments. It also allows me to spend more time with her since I moved out of the city.”
Frankie nods — He seems to be processing.
“So, Tom doesn’t like the thought of a therapist, or he won’t let you have one?”
“I, um… I..” you trail off.
You look down, breathe in then out through your nose. You look back up at him and —he must know how Tom is… “Tom, he… No.” And you leave it at that.
You look away and start unbuckling your seatbelt— Frankie says your name and you turn back to him to see this look…. It’s a mesh of worry and concern, but also something else you can’t put a name to. His lips are parted like he just paused mid-sentence — “Does Tom…? I mean — Tom has never really told any of us much about you. Is he, uh, is he ok? To you?”
You’re not liking where this is heading.. Frankie continues…
“When we were in the service, he was my Team Lead and I’ve always respected him for his position. We’ve all managed to keep in touch for the sake of all the shit we’ve been through together. But through all of it, we didn’t even know you existed until a couple of years ago…”
Shaking his head, he starts again.. “To say we were shocked to learn that he had a wife—was a fucking understatement.”
“Where are you going with this Frankie?”
Upon hearing his name, he stops and looks at you…. “How did you and Tom meet?”
“It was a long time ago. I believe we met at the grocery store. He was in line behind me and my mother.”
“When did you get married? He never told us anything until about two years ago… during our last deployment.”
“Um, six, almost seven years ago… Yes, it will be seven years in March.” Nope no this is not good……
“How old are you—?” He says your name at this to really stick the question….
“Twe— I’m twenty-five.”
“So you were 18 when you got married? How long did you know each other before that?” Frankie can’t seem to stop the words from leaving his mouth…
You think he is almost accusatory in his questioning and you’re unsure of where all of this emotion is coming from.
“Frankie, these are very personal questions… Why do you need to know this?”
“Sorry — I’m sorry.” He looks down and takes a breath. He immediately looks like he feels terrible for even asking and waits a few moments before starting again— He’s struggling with his words— wanting so much to understand what exactly is going on, but he knows he hasn’t earned that right yet. He feels terrible and hopes that he hasn’t offended you.
Frankie takes a stuttered breath, “it was inappropriate to ask you those questions and for that I’m sorry. I just don’t understand him sometimes. You think you know a lot about a person when you work side by side with them in life or death situations like we did, but turns out I don’t know much about him at all. I’m sorry…”
You dislike the look on his face… the despair of a situation you know absolutely nothing about is clear, so you try to lighten the mood…
“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t know much about him either…”
You get a small laugh at that so you take it as a win.
After another minute or two of semi-awkward silence, Frankie moves to get out of the truck.. “Well let’s see what we’re working with here.”
He grabs his jack out of the back of the truck and makes his way over to your car. You pop the button to the trunk and he easily finds your spare. He goes back to the bed of his truck and looks around for a moment and comes back with this X looking tool. You can tell he’s done this before, many times, and you flush at how ignorant you must’ve sounded to him… shaking your head, you just let it go… You don’t feel like Frankie is judging you for what you lack in tire changing etiquette, so you turn and watch him to see if you could maybe even learn a few things.
Frankie takes off his jacket after he gets the car partially up off the ground — taking the X tool and beginning to remove the bolts from the hubcap.
He’s so quick and efficient, he makes it look easy. As Frankie is crouched down, you notice a little bit of sweat at the small of his back that’s dampened his thin t-shirt slightly.. You also notice that the material hugs his torso and makes a show of the muscles in his back and shoulders as he keeps himself steady. The muscles in his arms flexing as he grunts slightly with the exertion to loosen the bolts… it has to be the hormones that are making you focus on entirely the wrong thing, but….
No, you need to look away, so you try to find something else to focus on while he finishes.
Looking up you begin to silently name each thing you see, desperately trying to keep your focus away from Frankie’s backside— blue sky, birds, leaves, trees, more trees, there’s a couple walking their dog, a mother pushing a stroller….. You go so far as to start listing the color of each new vehicle that passes by…
This is ridiculous— you think to yourself. You’re a grown woman and you can handle this.
You turn back around, just as Frankie is standing up. The tire is on and he’s wiping his hands off on his jeans. “I think we got it all done.”
“Thank you so much Frankie— Really, I truly appreciate it.”
“You're welcome,” he smiles back at you.
“How can I repay you?”
“You bought me coffee, remember? We’re even.”
“No seriously, coffee doesn’t count.”
“Ok fine, how about you pay me back with a second coffee next week? And maybe a donut?”
You tense slightly at the thought because you know how that looks…. But you shake the thought away because you should be allowed to have a friend. And coffee with a friend should be ok. Right??
“Alright, you’ve got yourself a deal. I’ll see you next week then.”
He quirks a small smile and nods, “see you next week—.”
Your name sounds so soft coming from his mouth that you instantly blush, turning quickly to walk around to the drivers side and get in. He’s already back to his truck before he offers a small wave. You smile and wave back, starting the car to head to your Mother’s and continue on with your day. The smile never leaving your face as you drive away.
******
A/N: I’ve been playing with the wording of this chapter just trying to get it to flow the right way, but I feel like I’m running in circles with it so here it is lol As always please let me know if you would like to be tagged or if you would like to be removed from the tag list. Thanks for reading!
Tag List:
@just-here-for-the-moment @boliv-jenta @heythere-mel @sunnysidekit @wildemaven @harriedandharassed @bitchwitch1981 @hnt-escape @autumnleaves1991-blog @queridopascal-main @queridopascal @quica-quica-quica @littlemisspascal
#frankie 'catfish' morales#frankie morales fanfic#frankie x female reader#frankie x f!reader#pedro pascal#pedro pascal characters#triple frontier fic#triple frontier#triple frontier fanfiction
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the kennel, recovery arc
masterlist here. occurs several months into will's recovery. this one comes with a special surprise.
content warnings for: referenced noncon, scarring, human trafficking, bbu/bbu-adjacent elements, traumatized whumpee, therapy, adult language
recovery piece, hope house
See, the thing about therapy is, when you show up, they expect you to talk. Or maybe they don’t. Every therapist Will has seen since his release from the hospital insists that the time is his, and if that’s really true, then they should be fine if Will wants to spend it staring into silent space. He’s pretty sure that silence isn’t what they’d prefer, but they all smile that weird, tight-lipped, clinical smile and try to nod reassuringly before he goes out. He isn’t reassured, and he usually doesn’t go back to the same person twice. It isn’t fair to torture the same person over and over. Will knows that for certain.
He does go back, though. It’s important to Dad, and to Tommy and Annie. All three of them have their own counselors or psychiatrists. It’s like a fucking mental health love fest.
His dad says talking to someone will help Will feel better. Will does feel better. Better is relative. No one flays him open with a bullwhip anymore. That’s better. No one forces him to–well, there are a lot of things no one forces him to do anymore. That’s better too, and it isn’t because he talked to some quack in an expensive office. He tries to tell his dad that–not in so many words, of course, because he doesn’t have many, and those words are the wrong ones–but it doesn’t really land.
You know what I mean, bud, Dad will say. Happy. I want you to be happy. Will always swallows his response: I’m not sure I can be.
Tommy says it’s helpful, that talking to a (supposedly) neutral third party means that Will can talk about the things he doesn’t want to talk about with anyone else. Will knows what Tommy means, and he doesn’t want to talk about that with anyone. Let Tommy pour his guts out; it was probably harder for him anyway. Tommy was the one that did the hurting, after all. Will just had to take it. That makes him a victim, doesn’t it? People always feel worse for the victim, and they shouldn’t feel worse for him than they do for Tommy. Tommy didn’t want to do it, and Will knows that, and he’s fine now, and everything with Tommy is fine. What would be the point of rehashing that?
Annie says that talking to someone will bring him back to himself. Will isn’t sure that would be a good thing. If he doesn’t talk about it, if he doesn’t have to face what happened, then maybe he can pretend it didn’t.
He can’t, of course. He wakes up every day with his nerves still burning, and he knows that it did happen. He knows that he’ll never escape it too. He’s pretty sure Annie feels guilty about that, even though she shouldn’t. She never hurt him. Will doesn’t think she would. But maybe she isn’t interested in being saddled with someone so broken. She shouldn’t be. She probably wants a version of Will that is whole. Will isn’t sure that’s ever existed.
Will isn’t sure of much, really. That’s why he lets them railroad him into seeing person after person, even though he knows it’s a waste of time. Eventually, they’ll know too. They’ll realize he’s a waste of time, and this pressure, this weird suffocating love will fall away. It’ll be a relief. He can’t carry the weight of their love or their expectations on his broken shoulders. He knows they think a fancy doctor will talk him out of feeling that way, but Will doesn’t want to be talked out of it. He just wants to be left alone. That’s what he deserves.
No such luck, though. This week, the session isn’t at a fancy office. It’s not even in town, which makes Will wonder if he’s exhausted all the local options. They’ve been driving for almost three hours when Dad pushes the truck into park. Will barely paid attention to their route.
“Where are we?” Will asks. His voice isn’t quite a whisper, but he wouldn’t call it full volume either. It exists. So does he. Whatever.
Dad shrugs, but his knuckles are white around the steering wheel. “Queens.”
Will looks up from his lap for the first time since they left home. Sure enough, they’re on a dingy side street that looks like it could be a location for a Scorcese movie. Old cinder block apartments and uneven sidewalks.
Seriously? Will thinks it, but he doesn’t say it. There are still a lot of things he doesn’t say. Like how ridiculous he was for thinking Tommy would disappear on him when the city is technically so close. And how he must be a lost cause if whatever this is is his best option.
“Why?”
“Why here?” Dad asks.
Will nods, flexing his fingers out of their habitual curled position. He winces and hopes that his father doesn’t notice.
“Well,” Dad sighs, “this place is supposed to be great.”
“So were the others.”
Dad shakes his head. “This one is different. They specialize in–well, I mean, they’re supposed to be great for people like–that have–people that have been in situations like yours.”
Will’s laugh is breathless.
“No, really. Bud, you’re not alone. This place serves people who’ve been rescued–” Will finches, and his dad reaches for his hand, “--people who’ve been saved from WRU. You know, the–”
“The pet agency,” Will finishes softly.
“Yeah.”
“I wasn’t a pet,” Will says. He wasn’t good enough to be one, and Doc made sure he knew it. That’s why he ended up with Pat. Pat didn’t want a pet. Pat wanted something to break, to pick apart piece by piece, and after what Doc had done to him, Will was made to order.
“You weren’t,” Dad agrees immediately. He squeezes Will’s hand. “You aren’t.”
“Then I don’t need this,” Will whispers.
“Bud–”
Will pulls his hand away. “Please let’s go home.”
“I think we should give it a try.”
Because it will make Will feel better. Because talking to a neutral third party will help him get it all out. Because it will bring him back to himself. Except it won’t do any of that. All it’s going to do is remind him of everything he wishes he could forget. Will cradles his head in his hands, crunching his elbows down on top of his jeans. He wore jeans. He usually does, so that the shrinks don’t know what a slob he is.
“Dad–”
“Bud. Will. I know it’s hard. I know you hate this. It’s not–it isn’t exactly my favorite thing either. But you need help. And Dr. Whitney thinks that this could be a really good fit. The staff here, they–”
“Whatever,” Will mumbles. The staff here will be just like the staff everywhere else. Patronizing at first, bewildered once they realize what he’s been through. They’ll tell him his feelings are valid, and they’ll offer him juice or cookies or a box of fucking tissues. Maybe they’ll even scatch him behind the ear since they’re so good with pets.
“You’ll try it?”
And God, the hope in his dad’s voice. Will nods without lifting his head, grinding his face into his hands. He will try it, even if it won’t fucking work. Because he’s a good boy, even still.
It’s quiet for a moment, and Will knows that Dad is waiting for him to say something else. But he can’t make himself say anything. They’re going to expect him to talk in there, and he can’t use up his words before. He doesn’t have that many words to spare.
The cold air bites his cheeks when he steps out of the car. It’s a wet, chance-of-snow sort of cold, and Will shivers inside his hoodie. Dad offers his hand, like Will is some toddler in a grocery store parking lot, but Will takes it. He’s certainly not going to get himself in the door.
The apartment building is one of the less sinister on the block. It’s a sandy red brick, with a little boxwood-lined courtyard in the front. There’s a fountain, but since it’s December, it isn’t running. There’s a sign affixed to the brick near the double-doors: Hope House, Founded 19XX. Discretion, Care, and Healing.
Gee, what a clever name. Will wants to vomit. Discretion, sure. Because everything about this is shameful, and there’s no way to make it not.
Dad hits the intercom, and a warm female voice answers.
“Hope House. How may I help you?”
“Uh, we have an appointment. William Cartwright, at 11:00?”
“Oh, of course. I’ll buzz you in, and then you just head to reception.”
The buzzer isn’t a buzzer at all, but a soft chime. Probably so it won’t spook the pets, Will thinks.
“Will?”
Dad holds the door open, and they go in. Once their feet cross the threshold, Will’s pretty sure that there’s no going back, and he pulls his hand away. Dad sighs, but he doesn’t admonish Will. That’s the benefit of being completely fucking broken: you can get away with almost anything. Except, apparently, keeping your business to yourself.
Will doesn’t look up from his feet, just follows his father’s heels across the ancient checkerboard floor. He stops when Dad stops, and he waits. He knows he doesn’t have to do any of the talking just yet.
“Mr. Cartwright?”
“I’m Brian Cartwright,” Dad says good-naturedly. He gestures to Will. “This is my son Will.”
Will doesn’t look, but he hears the drippy smile in the woman’s voice. “Welcome. I see you’re on the schedule for an initial consultation?”
“Yes.”
“For outpatient or residential therapy?”
Will’s head rises at that—of course, of course Dad would want to unload him; why wouldn’t he?—and Dad almost chokes.
“Outpatient,” he wheezes.
“Of course. That’s no problem at all. Just wanted to be sure.” The woman is smiling, and she turns her stupid, cheery face toward Will. “We’re happy you’re here, Will.”
Will shrugs and looks back at his feet. It doesn’t track. Why would anyone be happy that someone needs to be in a place like this? Not that he needs it. He doesn’t. He’s accepted what he is, and this attempt to make it better will be just as pointless as all the others.
His father rests a strong hand on his shoulder. “Is there any paperwork we need or—“
The woman’s smile stays in place, but it falters a little. “We’ll wait on that until Will’s met with his counselor.”
“Why’s that?”
“We have a lot of clients with, ah, unique circumstances here, and we want to make sure that we do whatever we can to keep them safe,” she says vaguely.
Will doesn’t know what she means, and he’s pretty sure his father doesn’t either. But Dad nods anyway.
“Of course. Where should we–”
The woman’s eyes dart to her computer screen. “Looks like we have him in the green consult room. That’ll be three doors down to your right.”
“Thank you,” Dad says. He squeezes Will’s shoulder.
“Thanks,” Will whispers.
“Of course!” the woman chirps. “Mr. Cartwright, there’s a visitor’s lounge for your convenience just across the hall. Coffee, tea, whatever you need.”
“Will, can you–”
Will nods. Three doors down to his right. He can handle that. He’d rather not, but it doesn’t seem like anyone’s super concerned about what he’d rather do.
Dad claps his other shoulder and gently spins Will around to look at him. “Alright, bud. I’ll be waiting, okay?”
“Yeah,” Will forces himself to say. He may as well get warmed up.
“Good luck.”
Will walks alone, silently counting the doors until he finds the right one. He feels his dad’s eyes on his back, but he doesn’t look behind him. His fingers are sweaty where they meet the door handle. He opens the door anyway, his skin smooching against the shabby brass.
There’s a man waiting for him. He’s young, or youngish. Younger than any of the other people Will’s been forced to talk to anyway. He looks nice, Will guesses. He doesn’t quite smile, but his face is soft and open. His blue eyes watch Will intently, but somehow, his gaze doesn’t have the same weight as Will’s father’s.
“You must be Will,” he says softly. He doesn’t move, but he nods at the open doorway. “Please, come in.”
Will’s feet move almost automatically into the room. He hovers against the doorframe, and the man nods again.
“You can close the door if you’d like, but you don’t have to.”
Will closes the door. He always does. It reminds him a little of his cage. He always felt safer inside his cage. He misses it sometimes, but he doesn’t suppose anyone would understand.
“Okay, then,” says the man. “Would you like to sit down?”
The man gestures at the overstuffed green armchair across from him, and even though Will doesn’t know what he’d like, he sits down anyway. The chair is soft and comfortable. Will sinks back into the cushions, and they fold around his body like oversized wings.
“Hi,” says the man.
“Hi,” Will answers.
“I’m Jack.”
Will glances up from his lap. They never introduce themselves this way.
“You’re not a doctor?” Will asks. He doesn’t mean to, but the words slide out of their own accord. He presses his lips together to keep any more from escaping without his permission.
Jack laughs. “No. Not yet. I’m working on it. And even if I were, I’d probably still ask you to call me Jack. Dr. Prescott-Kenyon is kind of a mouthful. But I can assure you, I’m a fully licensed counselor.”
Sure. Because pets don’t deserve real doctors. Will’s face scrunches up. “Good for you.”
Shit, he shouldn’t have said that either. But Jack doesn’t seem fazed.
“I guess it is,” he says good-naturedly. “Hopefully, it’s good for both of us.”
“Sure.”
They sit in silence for a long moment, and Will shifts deeper into the cushions. He’s ready for another silent round of Beat the Clock.
But Not-Doctor Jack doesn’t flinch away from the awkwardness. Eventually, he shifts forward to the edge of his own chair, swiping a file folder from the low table between them. Will can see a printed label with his own name and birthdate on the tab. It must be his records. Pages and pages of Will’s most humiliating moments. Probably photos from the police report as well. Screen captures from Doc’s live streams. Will’s fucking lucky that there’s no room for videos in a paper file.
Will knows there are pages and pages of failed attempts at recovery in there too. Notes from other shrinks that call him willful or stunted or traumatized. And maybe he is all those things. But those people didn’t know him. Maybe they all had fancy diplomas, but that didn’t mean they could understand what Will’s been through. Not-Doctor Jack won’t either.
Will’s hands start to fidget on his lap, and he focuses on the jagged white lines of scar tissue Pat left on the backs of his hands. Will remembers that particular session. The scars look careless, but they weren’t. It was one of the only times Will actually saw his own hands while he was in captivity. Pat had yanked off Will’s mitts and strapped him down, threatening to sever every tendon in Will’s hands if he so much as breathed. It was part of a wider threat to dissemble Will’s entire body, to turn him into something slack and helpless. A worm instead of a mutt. Pat never did it, but the threat was always there; Will has the scars to prove it. Sometimes, Will feels like Pat’s knife is still rasping against his skin–
“I’m sorry,” Jack says suddenly.
Will starts, stuffing his scarred hands beneath his thighs. He doesn’t understand. The guy hasn’t done anything to him. Why is he apologizing?
Not-Doctor Jack must not be completely incompetent, because he answers Will’s silent question without hesitation.
“I’m sorry for what happened to you,” he clarifies.
How fucking original. Will shrugs. “It’s over.”
“It’s okay if it doesn’t feel like it is.”
Will doesn’t look up, but he wants to. It isn’t as though none of the others had said the same thing–trauma takes time to work through, his feelings are valid, blah blah blah–but no one’s ever sounded quite so certain that it is okay if Will’s still broken. Maybe Not-Doctor Jack isn’t trying to superglue the cracks in Will’s facade. That doesn’t mean Will trusts him, but he guesses it isn’t the worst start.
“I know you’re probably used to getting the third degree right off,” Jack says, “but I want to know what questions you have. For me.”
Will blinks. That’s–that’s not how this normally goes. He swallows, and for a moment, he thinks he feels the scratchy band of his collar against his throat.
“What is this place?” he asks.
“Hope House?” Jack looks around the room like he’s considering it for the first time. “Well, it’s a kind of halfway house.” Will notes silently that Not-Doctor Jack doesn’t say for people like you. “A lot of the people we serve live here, and that’s because they don’t have anywhere else to go–or, in some cases, they’re just not ready to go anywhere else. Did your dad–”
“It’s for pets,” Will finishes.
“People who were treated as pets,” Jack corrects gently. “None of them are pets.”
“But they think they are.”
“Sometimes, yeah.”
“I’m not a pet,” Will whispers.
He doesn’t say what he’s thinking; that he would have preferred to be one, that it would have been easier on him than what actually happened. He could have found the good home Doc always promised and been okay. Not great, not happy, but okay. Someone would have taken care of him, and he wouldn’t have had to reckon with everything that he’d lost.
“You’re not,” Jack agrees. “Most of the others were–were contracted to WRU.”
There’s a slight catch in Not-Doctor Jack’s voice, and Will peeks up again. The older man’s long fingers do their own fidgety dance at the roll of his black turtleneck sweater.
“Some still are. So, a lot of the work we do here is about rehumanizing people who’ve been told that they are less than a person. Relearning basic skills. Working on decision making and autonomy and confidence. That kind of stuff.”
Will doesn’t think about the breakdown he had at the Thanksgiving table. He doesn’t think about the hours he’s spent in bed because he doesn’t know what to do when he’s out of it. He doesn’t think about the fact that there are days when his father dresses him and helps him bathe, that Annie feeds him, that Tommy reads to him. He doesn’t think about any of that.
Except that he does, and he’s pretty sure Not-Doctor Jack knows it. But he doesn’t ask if that’s why Will’s here, because it’s Will who’s asking the questions.
Sneaky bastard.
Then again, Will supposes it isn’t all that hard to trick a stupid mutt. He eyes the chunky folder in the older man’s hands. He must know what Will is.
“You’ve read my file?” Will asks.
Jack nods. “I have.”
“So, you know what happened to me?”
“I do,” Jack says softly.
“And you still think you can help me?”
Jack slides the file back onto the table and leans over his knees. He ducks his head to seek out Will’s eyes, and, begrudgingly, Will lifts his head.
“I do,” Jack says again. “I’d like to say I know I can help you, but I know that sounds like bullshit.”
“Why?”
“Why does it sound like bullshit?”
Will shakes his head. “Why do you think you can help me?”
Jack laughs under his breath, his eyes flitting self-consciously away. He tugs again at his turtleneck. “Man, buy a guy dinner first.”
“What?”
“I think I can help you because I understand.”
Will can’t help the bitter laugh that rockets up his throat. Now, that sounds like bullshit.
“I know,” Jack says. “How would I know, right?”
Will raises his eyebrows, but he doesn’t take the bait. Fuck this guy if he thinks he’s getting anything else from Will until he explains himself.
“Hope House is pretty unique,” Jack says. “Not just because of the population we serve, but–well, most of the staff is a bit different too. Myself included.”
Sure. They’re probably extra self-righteous and smug. They probably pat themselves on the back at least seventy times a day. Look at them, doing the work no one else wants to do–or worse still, undoing the work, the training other people have put in. Will stares down at the floor.
“Some of the counselors here wouldn’t be able to get jobs anywhere else,” Jack goes on, “because they don’t technically have an identity.”
There’s a queer jolt in Will’s stomach, and he can’t help but look up again. “They’re–” Will tries, but he can’t finish his thought. There’s no fucking way.
“We,” Jack says evenly. “We were.”
“You?”
Jack’s long fingers scrabble at his turtleneck, and he drags the chunky black fabric down and away from his throat. Just beneath his fingertips is a band of damaged skin, wrinkled and shiny with scars.
Will touches his fingertips to the twin scars on his own throat, leftover from the thick prongs of Doc’s collar. His eyes prickle with tears. “I don’t get it.”
But he does get it. His body begins to rock back and forth, seesawing against the overstuffed cushions.
Jack lets his turtleneck go, and the fabric slowly rises back into place. “When I was your age.” It’s all the explanation Jack offers. Then Will remembers, he’s the one asking the questions.
“You signed up?”
Will knows the WRU people sign contracts, that there is the illusion of choice. He didn’t have that. He didn’t choose to be rescued. He wasn’t rescued at all.
“No,” Jack says. “I didn’t sign up. Most people don’t. Or if they do, it’s because they don’t feel like they have any other choice.”
“Then–”
“I was taken too.”
Too. Because Will was taken. Not rescued. Taken. And the man sitting across from him knows it.
“How long?” Will manages.
“The better part of a year.”
Will nods. Just like him.
He looks at Not-Doctor Jack, and Jack looks back at Will with an expression that, for once, doesn’t seem to patronize. Jack doesn’t look uncomfortable, doesn’t look at Will like he’s something to be pitied. His face is wide open, his blue eyes nothing more than kind.
“Doc–Doc thought–he thought WRU charged too much,” Will says haltingly. “That’s why he went into rescues.”
“That’s not a question,” Jack says, his voice gentle.
“No,” Will admits. It’s not an answer either. But it’s something. And it’s further than he’s ever gotten before.
“Did they hurt you?” Will asks.
Jack nods, and his handsome face pales just a little. “Yeah, they did.”
“I’m sorry,” Will says. And he really is.
“Thank you.”
Will has more questions, but he doesn’t know how to ask. Are you better now? How long did it take? Do you think I’ll get better too? It’s the first time the thought has even crossed his mind.
Jack braces his hands against his knees, and for the first time, Will notices the flash of a wedding band on the other man’s finger. Something about it makes Will’s chest feel tight. Maybe, just maybe–
“Will, I want to be clear with you: if you decide we should work together, you don’t ever have to talk about anything you don’t want to. That’s not what this is about. But if there are things that you’ve wanted to talk about but haven’t felt like you could? I might understand. And even if I don’t, I can promise you that I won’t judge you. I couldn’t.”
Will’s body slows, and he relaxes back into the chair cushions. “Okay,” he whispers.
“Okay,” Jack echoes. He smiles. “What do you think? Should we give it a try?”
Will isn’t sure if he should agree to anything, but just now, he thinks he might want to. He wants to let Not-Doctor Jack not-doctor him. Maybe Will isn’t ready to tell anyone the things that gnaw at his heart when he lies in bed, but he might be ready to at least consider it. He draws his hands out from beneath his legs and looks down at his scars. He didn’t deserve them, but they are a part of him now. He just has to learn how to accept them.
“Okay,” he says again.
NOTE: Jack Prescott-Kenyon is my whumpee from behavior modifcation (masterlist here).
taglist: @darkthingshappen, @oddsconvert, @sparrowsage, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @mylifeisonthebookshelf, @highwaywhump, @squishablesunbeam, @hold-him-down, @whumpsday, @sowhumpful, @termsnconditions-apply, @honey-is-mesi, @irishwhiskeygrl, @deltaxxk, @d-cs, @whumpinggrounds, @canislycaon24, @considerablecolors, @starlit-darkness, @scp-1926, @flowersarefreetherapy
#the kennel#recovery arc#tw referenced noncon#please see other warnings#will cartwright oc#brian cartwright oc#therapy for will#if only he'll agree to it#whump writing
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I wonder if I’m going to make it out of here before the next relapse happens with urges and emotions. I keep saying I want to leave as soon as possible. And I do want to, but it’s becoming “a need” to now. Like urges are getting more frequent, my mood has definitely dropped this last week and honestly hopelessness is starting to become a thing again. I need to leave, clean up my apartment and see how long I’ll last before having to come back.
My meeting with my team this morning was too much. I went in feeling fine. I woke up early, snagged the hot shower, made an iced coffee and then meet with them. My doctor is back from vacation and she asked how the week went and if I stayed safe. I said it was okay and that it’ll be 4 weeks this Wednesday. Then my social worker brought up the thing last Monday with my ex and honestly I forgot all about it. That’s how dramatic I was that day. But I forgot that I got over the event but that just left the floodgates open to feel all the other emotions I hadn’t felt for weeks. Then my doctor said how she heard we had a long conversation about abandonment last week. I was debating even bringing it up, the same thing about not being able to work with my doctor outside of here. So we talked a little bit but then it brought up intense emotions and I kept saying that it’s fine and my doctor replied that it’s not fine and if we don’t continue to talk through this then I’m just going to end up right back here.
I left feeling like shit, had strong urges, didn’t act on anything but still went and took a PRN. I was thinking about just going back to bed but I stayed up, fought the tiredness and went to groups. I didn’t talk but I’m glad I went just to show up and get credit. In between the 11 and 1 group I finished the email reply to my old group therapist. I also sent my resume to this guy I’m working with for job coaching. I’m meeting with him tomorrow at 11 and I was supposed to send it last week but typical me, last minute.
I asked them tonight if I could reserve a room for 11 and they said they’d leave a note for the charge nurse in the morning. I really wanted to reserve the good room tonight but when I said the time they were like “oooo that’s a tricky time” cause of team meetings and shit. Someone mentioned the quiet room and I sarcastically said “maybe someone will be in the quiet room then”.. So I’ll just do it in the quiet room and reminisce of the good old days.
I had a good check in tonight with my favorite counselor. He was worried in the end that he made my night worse. I told him that it was a good idea for me to get out all that I talked about cause it would have just built up. And that if I had to talk about it with anyone it would be with him.
So now it’s 11:44pm and I’m sitting in the hall with my lap top. I just snacked on some pizza crackers from Trader Joe’s dipped in cottage cheese. The crackers are a hit for me although some people don’t like them. The Smallest Man Who Ever Lived has been stuck in my head these last few days. So I think I’m just going to scroll on here for a bit, listen to her and then take meds and watch Million Dollar House Hunters til I fall asleep.
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making my own post for this, instead of burdening someone else's with my tags:
I often see posts about "remembering that one time I fucked up" or "i keep beating myself up for this thing I did wrong"
and i gotta just say, if the memory keeps coming back with little prompting, or no prompting, almost intrusively, and it's bringing you active distress every time (aka you're hurt, sad, upset, and/or experiencing physical sensations related to those emotions, etc), then maybe what you're dealing with is a form of trauma.
this won't be everyone. but i know it was me. i started therapy for some of my emotional problems and memory problems. if someone wants, I can go into detail about that.
but i know that my path won't be right for everyone. I mostly just want people to consider that maybe there's a path for them, past the pain. one that reduces the distress of the past, brings perspective, and possibly resolution.
little traumas matter too. and past memories that actively distress you are probably some form of that. but i'm not a therapist or a doctor or a counselor. if you have it in you to seek healing, just know that I'm cheering for you. if you don't, then i just hope that things go well for you.
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Dr. Cinnamon Roll, M. D., Ph.D., NCSP, LMHC
Well, I've seen it all: one-sided crushes, flings, situationships, horror stories, heartbreak, love, love triangles, and all the messy, hard-to-define ways of knowing someone in between. Rude to the waiter, rude to my friends, rude to my parents, rude to themselves, rude to me. Peter Pan, Madonna-whore, Oedipus, God, hero, inferiority, superiority, Napoleon, and savior complexes. The liars, the cheaters, the fuckboys, the gaslighters, the jerks, the assholes, the players, the closeted gay guys, the short kings, the golden retrievers, the bad boys, the mistakes, the phases, the ones who were jealous, insecure, clingy, possessive, and/or unavailable, the ones that got away, and the soulmates. Oh, and, just in case it wasn't clear, I was referring to ex-therapists, not boyfriends.
I guess I'm a little bit of a therapy hussy; I've burned through five therapists in as many years. Here's a tour of them, along with some honorable mentions:
Dr. #1: Took my therapy flower.
I wasn't too jazzed about seeing her at first. My parents were forcing me to go after my friends' parents had eavesdropped on a conversation between my friend and me and narced.
As cliché as it is, we just...drifted apart (deep sigh). We broke up after a year when I came back from spending 2 months away from home because her private practice wasn't covered by my insurance. It had been okay for a while but wasn't sustainable. I learned a lot from her, but I didn't really want to be in therapy at that age and I didn't feel like I could be honest with her about the way I really felt about myself without her feeling obligated to tell my parents what I said, which I really didn't want to have happen to me again.
She diagnosed me with dysthymia, generalized and social anxiety, O.C.D., and suspected I might have PCOS (she was right). You never forget your first.
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Dr. Chucklefuck: The school counselor for last names H-K, another unintended, unanticipated, unwelcome, and shit-on-a-cracker result of that 1 conversation with my friend. This fuck carrot, who had a doctorate, certification, and 15 years' experience in school psychology told me, "suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem," inspiring much emo poetry. If any cock lemurs who don't know anything about the permanence of your situation have said anything like this entirely untrue and insensitive statement to you, I am so, so sorry. Please don't believe them. You deserved so much better.
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Dr. Pushy: Insisted I have my camera on during our zoom meetings, after I repeatedly told her I was more comfortable with it off and felt it would be easier to talk honestly. She diagnosed with me body dysmorphic disorder. Plenty of fish in the sea.
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Dr. Heartbreak: Shattered me. She was my first love, my high school sweetheart, my prom date, my ride-or-die, my steady gal. We were together for all 4 years.
I was having a rough go of it: failing classes, missing so many days of school I might not have graduated, and barely able to leave my house. I was seeing her twice a week, but things just kept getting worse and worse for me. There was no structure to our meetings, no plan for treatment and no goals. I would bring up an issue and she would just tell me the first advice that popped into her head. I would tell her that I couldn't see the point of getting out of bed, and she would recommend putting on some good music first thing in the morning. She was kind and she wanted the best for me, but she couldn't tell me anything I couldn't have googled myself. I had wanted to see a different therapist for a while, but my parents didn't want me to have to start over and build up a relationship with someone new.
I knew something else was going on, something beyond my previous diagnoses of depression and anxiety. I had been meeting with a professional twice a week for 4 years, but it was watching tiktoks, 30-second videos filmed by random children on shaky, blurry iPhone cameras that made me suspect I had autism. I felt more understood in those videos, where such niche, specific experiences from life were described by a stranger so impossibly similarly I thought they must be talking about me and not themselves. Dr. Heartbreak gave me a months-long evaluation, during which time she forgot to bring the papers she needed to the office with her, forgot to send me the results for several weeks, made multiple errors on the final report, and I failed 2 more classes. I was then that I found out I had not only autism but ADHD and an eating disorder, too late.
After the evaluation, I started looking on my own for other therapists, and talking to my pediatrician about ADHD medication. Dr. Heartbreak told me next time she had a new patient, she would immediately start them with a comprehensive evaluation. "What about me?" I thought.
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Dr. Rebound: A one-night stand and my first experience getting back out there after the big heartbreak. Rodney Dangerfield must have been her fashion icon, because she wore a very loosely-tied bathrobe to our one and only zoom meeting, which was unfortuitously scheduled at the same time as her three cats' yodeling jam session. {From what I gathered, there's a feline Yoko Ono, and more drama then Fleetwood Mac had during Rumors. I give the band maybe another six months (in cat time) before the lead yodeler tragically O.D.'s at 27 like all the great artists before him.} You know what they say, the best way to get over someone is to get under the copay plan of someone else.
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Dr. Cinnamon Roll: Love and savior of my life. The suicide hotline set us up on a blind date. After 5 long years of searching, of "I'm not really looking for anything serious right now" or "I still hang out with my ex-girlfriend, that's cool, right?" or "I'm allergic to latex," just as I was ready to give up, all of a sudden, the smoke cleared, the crowd parted, and I saw her. Love at first sight! A bolt straight to the prefrontal cortex! And we lived happily ever after.
Everything she tells me is something I need to hear 10 years ago. She has this incredible way of verbalizing what I've been trying to tell her but just don't have the words for, of summing up my whole life in one sentence. I struggled to connect with every therapist I had before her because they were all so far removed from anything I had experienced as middle-aged, married with 2.5 children, white women. She's only 26, just 8 years older than me, and biracial like I am. You really do a feel a difference with the right therapist. You realize just how wrong the wrong ones were.
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Dr. Cup of Chamomile Tea: Basically the Dr. Garth Fisher of pediatrics. She's the most sought-after, highly-reviewed pediatrician in the state, but remembers the smallest details about every single one of her many patients. She has a lovely, soothing lullaby for a voice and makes Mother Teresa look like a total bitch. She diagnosed me with PCOS.
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Dr. Feelbad: A medication-management referral from Dr. Chamomile. Prescribed me unwellbutrin, then prozac efron, then lexacon, then zoloft (sorry, I don't have a pun for that one, ooh, wait, crossing the sertraline!). She's a trooper, putting up with my bad puns and my treatment-resistant depression.
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Dr. Meanie-Face (Dermatologist): What can I say about this doctor that is complimentary? Oh, the bathroom right outside her office is a good place to cry. She's got that going for her.
She spent my first appointment talking about how she was bullied in middle school because her parents could only afford to buy her 1 pair of bright-yellow, too-small pants. This story was related to my skin, but I don't remember how.
She prescribed a miracle: spironolactone. She said this medication would make me lose a significant amount of weight, take me up a cup size, permanently cure my acne and my hirsutism to the point where I wouldn't need to shave at all, and make the hair on my head grow noticeably thicker, faster and longer. After all, she took spironolactone herself and that's what happened for her! I couldn't believe this pill was even legal and that she was just giving it to me, just like that! Imagine, in a couple months' time, I would be free.
When I came back for my follow-up with none of those results, she completely changed her tune and said spironolactone might have a small effect on all or some or none of those features. When I told her I was still losing quite a bit of hair, she said I wasn't, and joked that even if I was, my dad (who is bald) and I could just go on Rogaine together. When I told her spironolactone hadn't helped my hirsutism at all and that I still had to spend four hours getting ready every morning, she said it absolutely should not take me that long, because she remove all her hair in 3 minutes. She sympathized, saying she "knows how hairy you guys are," ("you guys" referring to Latinx people) because she had so many Latina friends growing up.
When I came back for my third follow-up visit (I know) and told her I had only used the cream she prescribed once because it made my skin peel, she said that was a very common side effect, but explained how the peeling was actually a good thing, because every time my skin cracked and broke off of my face like an extremely painful cheese danish, my acne scars would come off with it. Said peeling would also reveal beautiful, youthful, Freddy Kreugeresque skin and prevent wrinkles. I was 14.
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Dr.s Chatty Cathy and Son (Dentists): I imagine the final (50% of your grade) in the toughest, most brutal weed-out class that causes at least half the students each semester to run out of the room in tears in dental school is a presentation on saying the most asinine things while you're wrist-deep in someone's mouth like, "you're going to {Name of College} next year, huh? That's where we send all the hippies," or "so, guess how old I am." (I didn't guess, but he told me anyway and said he thinks he still looks pretty good for 64, then sung The Beatles song to me and recited a story about Paul McCartney's childhood taken directly from his Wikipedia page.)
That's the elder Dr. Chatty Cathy. I always hope I get Dr. Son, he leaves me alone for the most part and just gossips with the tooth nurse (dental hygienist) about her brother's two-timing girlfriend and time in prison. Maybe they're under the impression the sunglasses they give me double as ear plugs, or maybe they just don't care what someone with a cavity thinks of them (fair).
#treatment#clinic#medicine#health and wellness#mental health#healthcare#mentalhealth#psychology#mental illness#actually mentally ill#mentally fucked#mental ill health#emotional health#life#emotional#emotions#memory#experience#personal experiences#anecdotes#story time#relationships#true story#my experiences#life experiences#therapy#therapist#health#pcos#autism
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So im getting pretty sick and tired of professionals I'm seeing not doing anything because of bias
I asked my doctor if I could get tested for autism and he said no cause he didn't want me to be labeled. He didn't think of any of my concerns and reasons he judged it solely off of his views of autistic people.
Another thing is I asked him today about ADHD meds and he said no and that i need to be retested. INFACT he said "I don't think anything is wrong with her and that it's a lack of sleep"
He blamed my phone and my lack of sleep. If that was really the case, then how come I struggled in elementary when I had a perfect sleep schedule.How come I struggled in 6th grade when i had no phone and a not sucky sleep schedule.
IF IT WAS TRULY MY SLEEP AND MY PHONE, THEN HOW COME HOW I STRUGGLE NOW IS HOW I STRUGGLED MY WHOLE LIFE WHEN I DIDNT HAVE ANY OF THESE THINGS
When I had my IEP meeting, The admins blamed my phone and that's the only thing distracting me and I just need tutoring. Like my whole life I've been distracted, In elementary, I would just read my books and talk to people. In middle school, I would just read my books. In elementary and middle school, instead of sleeping, I would read and do arts and crafts. I've simply replaced that, with my phone and that's the issue. My AUDHD caught up with the times and now I'm an issue.
People my whole life said that I should self-advocate for what I need and what's wrong with me but when I did, they said no. I said that i think I might be autistic and that I truly don't know what I need but I know I need help. They flat-out told me no, that's not it that cause they said so without even hearing me out.
I have a therapist now and I wish I could say she's helping me but she's old and senile, she fell asleep mid session and forgot key things she told me. I brought up a couple sessions agohow I think I might be autistic and told her my proof and she said "yeah, that might be a plausible" but now has the audacity to tell me last session that I might not be and im just a little wierd. Wow, I would've rather you just chucked me out the window.
My whole life, I've felt lost when it comes to help avaliable to me cause my parents didn't know how and my school counselor could only bring me a schedule change but no real help and my SPED department practically told me to go fuck myself because I didn't know what I needed and therefore wasn't gonna get any help. (That's like me saying I'm hungry but idk what I'm hungry for and someone telling me that I'm not getting anything to eat because of that). My doctor said he wouldn't test me cause he doesn't want me to be labeled and in fact he thinks it's my phone that caused all this. My therapist is old and dying right before my eyes and can't even open box, how the hell is she supposed to help me?
Despite self-advocating like everyone told me, the same people are now telling me that I'm invalid in my feelings and thoughts.
There's a certain level of lost you hit before your like "what's even the point? I should just give up" and I'm fighting everything to stay away from that, but I fear I'm at the line just before it
Post made by @amethysttheanarchist
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the one thing that will forever hurt me, is every time i bring up being diagnosed as autistic in my 20's. my aunt always replies back with, "but you tricked them! you knew how to trick them into thinking you were fine!"
like how could you accuse me of lying or manipulating everyone? when i was literally a 11 year old...having panic attacks and meltdowns day after day. psychiatrists, teachers, therapists, and doctors...never took me seriously, they always assumed it was for attention. i lost my education, and my friends because i had to drop out because I mentally couldn't handle being in school anymore. i lost all my happiness, and will to live. i was literally suicidal at the age of 12...I WAS A LITERAL CHILD ??!! my guidance counselor would say "you don't take your meds because you don't like them. they help you." THEY DIDN'T I FELT ON THE EDGE. they wouldn't diagnose me as bipolar. which a bipolar person shouldn't be put on antidepressants by themselves...because it amps up their mania, which it did for me. but nobody listened. nobody cared.
all the diagnosed me was with "school anxiety"...there was so much more, meanwhile the boys in my IOP group therapy had every diagnoses under the sun. I was told by a therapist years ago I couldn't be autistic because i didn't act like her neighbor's autistic toddler son.
i didn't lie to anyone. i never did. they didn't listen to me. they didn't care enough to help me. they failed ME.
If they listened i would've gotten diagnosed properly. i would've gotten proper help and medications. I would've graduated. I would've gone to college. I would be working. but look.....here we are.
#.txt#tw suicide mention#she's been saying this for at least 10 years now#she just said it again when it was christmas#what would i gain from lying and refusing help if that was true??? NOTHING.
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i went to talk about a screening with my primary provider and all they said i had anxiety (which my normal therapist knows about)
if this is the executive dysfunction anon, anxiety can definitely result in executive dysfunction (I keep wanting to use ED but I feel like that will confuse people lol). I would def bring that up with your therapist/counselor, they might be able to give you tools to address it or point you in the direction of someone who can.
if you feel like you're being misdiagnosed though, there's nothing wrong with getting a second opinion or consulting a specialist if you feel like your current diagnosis isn't addressing your issues. in the American healthcare system, you have to advocate for yourself a lot but most good doctors will listen when you say "hey I'm feeling like something is off/we're not addressing the root of my issues". also be sure to share information from your counselor with your PC and vice versa so they're on the same page.
#mental health#advice#i just went through a 2 week saga of not getting the correct meds bc my doctors office and pharmacy couldn't communicate correctly#over the simplest thing but that's how it goes lol
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Coping with the Emotional Side of Diabetes: My Journey to Finding Balance
Post:
Hey everyone! 💙 I wanted to take a moment to talk about something that often goes unnoticed when we discuss diabetes—mental health. Living with diabetes is not just about blood sugar levels, diet, and exercise; it's also about dealing with the emotional ups and downs that come with managing a chronic condition. I’ve found that taking care of my mental health is just as important as taking care of my physical health, so I wanted to share some of the strategies that have helped me cope emotionally. If you're struggling with the emotional side of diabetes, this one’s for you. 💪
1. Acknowledge Your Feelings
Diabetes can bring up a lot of emotions—frustration, guilt, stress, and even sadness. When I first started managing my condition, I didn’t give myself permission to feel those things. I thought I had to always be positive or perfect. But I’ve learned that it’s okay to feel frustrated or down sometimes. It’s a big part of the journey, and acknowledging those emotions helps me process them without getting stuck in them.
Instead of ignoring how I feel, I take a moment to reflect on why I’m feeling a certain way. Am I stressed about my blood sugar readings? Am I feeling guilty after a slip-up? Once I acknowledge the feeling, I can work through it instead of letting it control me.
2. Let Go of Perfectionism
If there’s one thing I’ve learned from living with diabetes, it’s that perfection is impossible. There are days when my blood sugar won’t cooperate, when I eat something I shouldn’t have, or when I feel like I’m failing. But rather than beating myself up, I’ve learned to let go of perfectionism. It’s not about being perfect—it’s about doing my best and moving forward.
Every day is a new opportunity to try again, and sometimes, just doing the best you can is enough.
3. Talk to Someone You Trust
Isolation can be tough when you're managing a chronic illness. Sometimes I feel like no one really understands what I’m going through. But I’ve found that talking to someone I trust, whether it's a friend, family member, or fellow diabetes warrior, can make all the difference. Sometimes, just knowing someone else “gets it” can lighten the emotional load.
If you don’t have anyone in your life who understands, I recommend seeking out a diabetes support group or an online community. Connecting with people who are in the same boat can offer a sense of relief and comfort.
4. Focus on the Positive
On tough days, I try to focus on the positive things in my life. This could be anything from having a successful meal plan to getting through a tough day with good blood sugar control. Focusing on the positive—even the smallest victories—reminds me that I’m making progress, even if it doesn’t feel like it.
I also make time for things that bring me joy. Whether it’s a hobby, time with loved ones, or just relaxing, taking breaks and doing things that make me happy helps keep my mental health in check.
5. Don’t Be Afraid to Seek Help
There’s no shame in asking for help when it feels like it’s all too much. I’ve spoken with my doctor about the emotional challenges I’ve faced with diabetes, and they’ve been a huge support. If you find that diabetes is taking a toll on your mental health, it’s important to talk to someone. A therapist, counselor, or support group can provide valuable tools and guidance.
Final Thoughts:
Diabetes is tough, but remember that you don’t have to navigate it alone—emotionally or physically. Taking care of your mental health is just as important as managing your blood sugar. Be kind to yourself, reach out for support, and remember that it’s okay to not have everything figured out. You’ve got this! 💙
#Diabetes #MentalHealth #ChronicIllness #DiabetesSupport #SelfCare #EmotionalWellBeing #YouAreNotAlone
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Alcohol Rehabilitation Centre in Mumbai: A Beacon of Hope for Recovery
Alcohol addiction is a serious issue that affects millions of people worldwide, and Mumbai is no exception. Fortunately, the city is home to several top-notch alcohol rehabilitation centers that offer comprehensive treatment programs to help individuals reclaim their lives. These centers play a crucial role in guiding individuals through their journey to sobriety, providing not just medical care but also emotional and psychological support.
An alcohol rehabilitation centre in Mumbai is designed to offer a safe, supportive environment where individuals can focus on recovery. With a team of experienced professionals, including doctors, therapists, and counselors, these centers provide personalized treatment plans tailored to meet each patient’s specific needs. The process usually begins with a thorough assessment to understand the extent of the addiction and the individual’s overall health. This helps in crafting a suitable detoxification plan, the first step toward recovery.
Detoxification can be a challenging process as it involves the elimination of alcohol from the body, which may lead to withdrawal symptoms. These symptoms can be severe and require medical supervision, making professional care essential during this phase. The alcohol rehabilitation centres in Mumbai are well-equipped to manage these situations, ensuring that patients undergo detox in a controlled and safe manner. The focus is on minimizing discomfort and providing a steady foundation for the next stages of treatment.
Following detox, rehabilitation centers shift their focus to therapy and counseling. Individual and group therapy sessions form an integral part of the treatment process. These sessions aim to address the psychological aspects of addiction, helping patients understand the root causes of their dependency and learn effective coping mechanisms. In Mumbai, many centers incorporate holistic therapies such as yoga, meditation, and art therapy, which contribute to overall healing and well-being. These programs not only help in combating addiction but also work towards building a healthy lifestyle.
Furthermore, an alcohol rehabilitation centre in Mumbai doesn’t just offer treatment; it fosters a sense of community. Group therapy sessions bring together individuals who share similar struggles, creating a support system that encourages patients to open up and share their experiences. This sense of belonging and understanding is essential for recovery, as it reduces feelings of isolation and encourages long-term sobriety.
After completing the rehabilitation program, patients are provided with aftercare services to help them reintegrate into society. Relapse prevention programs, regular follow-ups, and support groups ensure that individuals continue to receive the guidance they need even after they leave the center.
Choosing the right alcohol rehabilitation centre in Mumbai can be a life-changing decision. With the right support, individuals can overcome addiction, regain control over their lives, and embark on a healthier, more fulfilling future.
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I know I know don't trust internet Doctors but like. I don't even know where to go with this so,, Hey internet doctors.
My mental health has been progressively getting worse, and I don't know why. It made sense when september came, because I was with someone for 7 years, highschool sweethearts, and they got ab*sive and broke my heart in the end in a really cruel way. September was our anniversary month.. So feeling like shit then made sense.
Now it's my birthday month and thanksgiving which I normally love, but my anxiety is at an all time high. My depression is bad. Who knows what else is wrong honestly, I don't notice PTSD symptoms any more tbh because they're just part of my life. Nightmares have gotten worse, Can't sleep or oversleep.. I know some people get really sad when there's no green stuff because that's how brains work, but I've got green stuff (like plants) and the trees aren't all gone yet or anything so I don't think it's that.
And I know it still could be, but it feels different than that. It feels closer to everything cranking up to maximum, and I don't know why. October has, historically been a lonely month for me, but still has been positive. So this feels off. And I don't even know who to bring this up to, to find out what's wrong this time. Or what to look into.
It's gotten to the point where it's negatively impacting my ability to function in day to day life, and people have started assuming I'm lazy when really just finding the motivation to get out of bed, the energy to get through the day, is difficult. (Also have chronic fatigue and fibro)
I also know sometimes that's just how it be but I don't think this will pass.. So do I talk to a therapist? A counselor? A GP? Idk man.
#mental health#cw mental health#tw mental health#Abuse mention#tw abuse mention#vent post#not self shipping#mental illness#actually mentally ill#cw mental illness#tw mental illness
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Impact of Mental Health on Hernia Recovery: Tips for Emotional Wellness
Recovering from a hernia surgery, especially in a bustling city like Chennai, is not only a physical journey but also one that significantly affects mental health. Mental wellness plays a key role in healing, affecting everything from recovery speed to resilience during treatment. Hernia patients in Chennai have found that emotional well-being supports the physical healing process, enabling smoother and more efficient recovery. For those undergoing hernia surgery in Chennai, caring for mental health can be as critical as physical rest. It’s important to explore how mind and body are connected, and by fostering emotional wellness, you can enhance your body’s healing. If you're considering hernia care, hernia surgery in Chennai at GEM Hospital offers holistic support through this journey.
Understanding the Mind-Body Connection in Hernia Recovery
Physical recovery requires rest, rehabilitation, and proper care, but mental health can significantly affect how well and how quickly one recovers. Emotional stress may lead to increased pain perception, delayed wound healing, and reduced immune function, impacting overall recovery from hernia surgery. Taking steps to manage stress and improve emotional health can contribute to a better recovery experience. Here are some effects of mental health on physical healing after hernia surgery:
Higher Stress, Slower Healing: High stress may affect the body’s healing mechanisms, slowing the recovery process.
Mood and Pain Levels: Anxiety or depression can amplify pain perception, making recovery more challenging.
Fatigue and Resilience: Mental fatigue can hinder resilience, impacting your energy levels for physical therapy or post-surgery exercises.
Ways to Support Emotional Wellness Post-Surgery
After surgery, maintaining emotional well-being is vital for reducing recovery time and improving comfort levels. Here are some effective tips for building emotional resilience during hernia recovery.
Practice MindfulnessMindfulness techniques such as deep breathing and meditation help to reduce stress and bring focus to the present. Patients often experience less pain and more relaxed moods with regular mindfulness practices.
Stay Connected with Loved OnesStrong social support from family, friends, or support groups can play a vital role in your recovery. Interacting with others helps alleviate stress and reduces feelings of isolation, boosting morale and resilience.
Set Realistic ExpectationsAvoid pushing yourself too hard to recover quickly. Acknowledge that healing takes time and patience, and setting small goals can prevent feelings of frustration and enhance motivation.
Engage in Light Physical ActivityAfter approval from your doctor, light physical activity can help release endorphins and improve mood. Even short walks or mild stretches can boost your mental and physical health without stressing your recovery.
Express Your EmotionsBottling up stress or anxiety can hinder mental health. Consider talking to a therapist or counselor specializing in post-surgical support to help manage any emotional turbulence during your recovery.
Building a Supportive Routine for Hernia Recovery
Creating a routine can help structure your day, provide stability, and improve emotional wellness. A daily plan that includes rest, self-care, and light activity enhances not only recovery but also provides a sense of purpose and control. Here’s a simple routine to consider:
Morning: Start with gentle stretching exercises and mindfulness breathing for a positive mindset.
Midday: Engage in relaxing activities like reading or listening to calming music to reduce stress.
Afternoon: If feasible, connect with a friend or family member to share your feelings and stay emotionally supported.
Evening: Spend time on a hobby or activity that brings joy, helping your mind stay engaged and positive.
Positive Lifestyle Habits for Emotional Resilience
During hernia recovery, building habits that support mental health is essential. Here are some lifestyle adjustments to boost resilience:
Balanced DietEating nutritious meals not only aids physical healing but also has a positive effect on mood and energy levels. A diet rich in fruits, vegetables, and lean proteins can make a significant difference.
Adequate SleepQuality sleep is critical to both mental and physical recovery. Develop a relaxing bedtime routine to ensure restful sleep, which aids tissue repair and emotional stability.
HydrationStaying hydrated helps your body function optimally, which can also benefit your mental state, helping you feel more alert and positive.
Engage in Enjoyable HobbiesFilling your time with activities you enjoy can be therapeutic. Hobbies like painting, reading, or gentle gardening help keep your mind occupied, reducing feelings of frustration or boredom.
Practical Tips for Managing Stress During Hernia Recovery
Stress management is essential during recovery, and adopting effective coping mechanisms can make a significant difference. Here are some practical tips for managing stress:
Identify Triggers: Understanding what causes stress can help you avoid or manage it.
Break Down Tasks: Recovery tasks or daily chores can feel overwhelming; breaking them down into smaller steps can make them more manageable.
Limit Exposure to Stressful Media: Reducing time spent on stressful or negative content can help maintain a calm mental state.
Checklist for Emotional Wellness After Hernia Surgery
To simplify your approach to emotional health during recovery, here’s a checklist to follow:
Stay Active: Engage in light activities as per your doctor’s guidance.
Practice Relaxation: Try deep breathing, meditation, or light yoga.
Sleep Well: Maintain a regular sleep routine.
Eat Right: Follow a balanced diet rich in vitamins and minerals.
Stay Hydrated: Drink adequate water throughout the day.
Seek Support: Connect with family or friends daily.
Conclusion: Supporting Recovery Through Mental Wellness
Managing mental health effectively enhances physical recovery, providing an overall smoother healing journey. For those recovering from hernia surgery, emotional wellness is integral to improving physical strength and resilience. By nurturing mental health alongside physical care, you can achieve a more holistic recovery, strengthening both body and mind.
If you or a loved one are dealing with hernia or jaundice issues, scheduling an appointment with GEM Hospital can provide comprehensive support for both physical and mental recovery.
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