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sergeant-donny-donowitz · 4 years ago

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Making Friends: Basterds Imagine-Fem!Reader

Requested by @cass-danvers

@owba-chan @war-obsessed @inglourious-imagines @tealaquinn @struggling-bee @frozenhuntress67 @kwyloz @sodapop182 @marlenemarauders @what-the--curtains @taikawho @spookybearlandtaco Let me know if you wanna be added to the IB or OUATIH taglists! :)

___________ It was a cool Sunday evening. The basterds marched into an A-list, luxurious club in the middle of Paris, in the middle of the nazi occupation. It was a bold move. Some may even say stupid. But it was necessary. Besides, they were the basterds. Bolder still was something they'd come to see in a few moments. It was you. You, in your long, glamorous red evening gown, with a slit down your leg, and black gloves half way up your arm. And bolder still, the bright spotlight shining directly onto you with a loud click, just as the band began to play. The basterds had never seen you before...but the light that flowed onto the crowd immediately around you was quite revealing. They'd seen every single one of those spectators before. They were all high ranking, high profile, high-on-their-kill-list nazis. All of them were targets the basterds had been pursuing from the moment they landed in France a year before. And there they were, all in one place. Donny instinctively reached for a pistol hidden in his coat, but Hugo signaled him off, shaking his head slightly. If Donny did what all the basterds wanted to do, none of them would make it out alive. Aldo looked around at the basterds, with stark eyes indicating one word they often did not listen to: "Wait." Since it was an order, they had to do just that, while clenching their fists and jaws seeing their prime targets slip through their fingers. In order to fit in, they ordered a round of drinks, and lit up some cigarettes. They had no choice but to listen...and watch... your performance. "When they had the earthquake in San Francisco, back in 19-6..." You were singing put the Blame on Mame. It wasn't quite what they expected to hear, but, they weren't exactly complaining. And yet...

Aldo leaned into the table, and muttered low enough so no outsiders could hear, "Look for anyone that might be Y/n L/n. Got it?" Aldo rolled his eyes, seeing Hirschberg's eyes were glued to the stage. "Got it, Hirschberg?" "Uh huh..." Aldo muttered, "Damn it, Hirschberg," and glanced at the stage... He wasn't disappointed. The light from the chandeliers reflected off your eyes, beaming flares of danger and daring as you sang and swayed with the band, walking out toward the crowd, "Put the blame on Mame, boys..." The basterds scanned the room, looking for anyone that looked like a Y/N L/N. "Mame did a dance called the hoochy coo-" Hirschberg's elbow rested on the table, and his chin dug into the palm of his hand as he sighed, "Hm...she really did." Smitty rolled his eyes, nudging Hirschberg out of his day dream. "Look for L/N." "I'm lookin'..." "Not at the right-" With that, the song ended, and the announcer spoke in French while the crowd called out for an encore. The one thing all the basterds were able to pick out, even though they didn't speak French, was two words: Y/N L/N. Donny laughed in disbelief, "No fucken' way..." "This is crazy..." Omar shook his head,, watching as you blew kisses out to the crowd with a wide smile. "She's crazy..." Wicki muttered, lighting a cigarette that rested between his lips.

Aldo shrugged, "Well shit..." He chuckled, and sighed, "Well best damn place to hide is right out in the open, some times." Hirschberg elbowed Smitty, remarking "Told ya I was lookin' the right fucken way." They sat through the encore, and the encore to the encore, and the roaring applause. They watched as you spent the night moving from enemy to enemy, spilling their drunken and careless secrets right into your ears. Eventually, the club was empty except for one of the bar tenders set to lock up, you, and a few disguised soldiers. "Des amis à vous?" He chuckled lightly as he wiped down a glass. "Friends of yours?" "J'espère" you sighed, as you took a drink for yourself, "Hopefully." The bartender, Marius, leaned over the counter and presented you with your purse. "Merci," you chuckled as you pulled out a folder. You made your way to the table in the back of the club where ten young men were sitting. You stopped at the edge of the table. Though the lights were fully on, there was still a sharp streak of intrigue and hazard cutting through your smile. You were one dangerous woman, any basterd could see that. You looked them over, barely half a moment studying each of their faces. You slid the folder onto the table, and it met the hands of the man at the very end of the table: Aldo Raine. A round of whiskey and packs of smokes were brought to the table as he briefly filed through the thick stack of bloodstained information. It was exactly what he was looking for...which was suspicious. Aldo sniffed some tobacco before looking up at you, "So uh, where does a pretty lil' parisian singer like you get information like this?" You spoke suddenly, in what could without a doubt be identified as a Brummie accent, "Get yourselves some friends, mate." Hirschberg smiled blankly with dreamy eyes as he nodded "So you're British..." Your accent changed suddenly, sounding like an equally dreamy California girl as you shrugged, "Depends who's asking." Aldo had his fair share of run ins with spies and double agents. He laughed, "Aw you tommy's don't know wh-" You suddenly mimicked his accent, "Tommy, huh? Ain't that nice." He was startled, but then smirked a little "Well I'll be damned..." You shrugged, now in your natural tone and accent, "Sometimes, darlings, the best informants are only great pretenders." Hirschberg could hardly contain his excitement, asking with a wide grin, "Who are you?" Smitty rolled his eyes, though he had to admit, "You do look familiar." "Oh," You shrugged, "I've been here and there." "Where?" Even Wicki was a little curious.

Seeing as you'd all be there for quite some time, a pot of coffee was brought over by Marius.

Hugo finally spoke up, "You make friends with the nazis?" "I make them think I do." You shrugged, taking a sip of coffee, with a sly grin. "Rub elbows with the higher-ups, get them piss-drunk. A few drinks loosens anyone up...And loose lips sink ships," you winked as you stirred your coffee. Something about the way you smirked told them you were one hell of a spy. You could tell your enemies the loveliest lies of all, and they'd believe you. You were dangerous... But to the basterds, you were now an ally and an advantage. Donny raised his eyebrow, remembering their briefing before finding you. It wasn't just a folder with names and rumors. You had indispensible, indisposable insight. This folder was only the tip of the iceberg. You had names, you knew faces, voices, wives, families, addresses, plans and plots, back alleys, back ups, and back stabbers, spies, and double-agents. You knew the worst of the worst, and they knew you. Just what the basterds needed. Not only that, but you were supposed to house the basterds in your apartment in the dead center of Paris while you helped them piece everything together and create a plan of attack. Donny asked, "They know where to find you?" "No one gets in without an invite. Every one of those damn animals stationed in France knows that," you smirked, "But, for the next few weeks, only you boys have an invite. No one gets in or out." The doorman, after all, was a friend of the resistance. He packed a gun. A knife. Not only that, he literally owed you his life. Marius vouched for that as you walked toward the stage. You'd left your keys backstage.

"So how do we know you won't double cross us?" Wicki wanted to trust someone, he really did... But that got harder to do as the war went on. You stopped by the stage, looking back at him, you lifted your leg onto the stage, your heel producing a powerful, echoing thud. The slit of your dress shifted, revealing a knife strapped to your thigh. "This knife belonged to-" you trailed off, knowing you'd never see his face again. You'd used that very knife to exact revenge on the nazi that took him from you. "Someone I used to know. Using it won't bring him back...but it does make the world a little brighter." Hirschberg sighed, resting his face on his palms, murmuring "Marry me..." You giggled, disappearing behind the stage's velvet curtains. You soon reappeared with the keys, then quietly led the basterds through Paris. Louis, the doorman, kind as ever, let you all in through a hidden back door. He familiarized himself with the basterds, taking note of their faces. They were the only ones to be allowed in to see you for the next few weeks. As the basterds followed you to the elevators, and you made sure no one saw them walking into your apartment. You quickly unlocked the door, and drew the curtains before turning on the lights, then welcomed them all in. For the next couple of weeks, this would be their headquarters. You showed them around. It was a big place. You had a few guest rooms, showers, and had stocked up the kitchen. The flat itself was about as luxurious as the club. "Nice place ya got here, kid." Donny smirked as he sat on the couch, which was the first couch he had sat on in well over a year. Aldo nodded, looking around, noting the thick walls and quiet area. "This'll do..." Wicki wasn't so sure. He stood behind you as you cleared things off the large dining room table, and began to set down files, maps, and photographs that they'd need for the mission. "The nazis know where you live, don't they? What if-" You shook your head. "I wouldn't bring you somewhere it was dangerous. Believe me, corporal. I want this war to end, too." You sighed, "Besides....it'd be rather ungentlemanly to just barge into a lady's home, knowing she lives alone. As a matter of fact, it's scandalous." "How can you be so sure?" You shrugged, as you organized some of the papers, "Would you rather these meeting be held somewhere more public?" Omar smirked, "She's got ya there, Wicki." You sighed, glancing at the clock on the wall. It was just past 2:30 in the morning. You welcomed them to make themselves at home. They slept in a warm, quiet place for once. Though it was safer than what they were used to, there was still a lingering fear that any moment, the sound of marching boots would echo in the hallway leading to your front door. They were soldiers, far behind enemy lines. There was always a chance of something going wrong. You weren't a soldier, but you were in no less danger. It was Wednesday now. You spent the first few days going through files, showing them what information and photographs you had about their targets before even starting to come up with a plan of attack. It was now nearing midnight, and you noticed Aldo was tense, snapping a bit at his men. He wasn't uneasy because of the information you were giving them, in fact, the things you gave them gave him the most peace of mind he'd had since he left Tennessee. You slipped away for a moment, and found Utivich in the kitchen, eating a pastry you'd left out for them. You noticed he had a bit of a sweet tooth, and made a point of saving a few extra treats for him (because Donny tended to eat way more than his fair share). "So your lieutenant's a little-" "On edge?" Smitty chuckled a little with a sigh, "Aren't we all, miss?" "Y/n." You smiled kindly as you sat by him, handing him another pastry. He smiled with bright, grateful eyes, "Thanks, Y/n." You nodded once, and after a moment you asked, "He a smoker?" You hadn't seen Aldo light up a cigarette, and wondered if he'd gone through his ration...and subsequently gone through a bit of a withdrawal Smitty shook his head, "Snorter, though. Man loves his snuff." "Ah," you nodded, understanding as you made your way to a cabinet. You pulled out five tins of snuff, or so, and Smitty watched in awe. "I told you, make friends to survive this," you winked as you walked back out to the main room. The rest of the basterds were calling it a day, and finding a place around the radio to sit. Aldo was standing by the window, looking across the street. There was an operahouse and a theater there, which was going to play a part in the big plan. "No one's going to talk. You're not the first man anyone's seen on this balcony," You chuckled as you pulled him out to the balcony for a breath of fresh air. He looked up at the stars. The big black canvas with an infinite splatter of stars, reminding him of the southern night sky. He smiled softly. You slipped the tins into his hands, and he turned to you "What's this for?" You shrugged, "A little birdy..." You glanced out at the sky, and the Parisian skyline. Sure it was bright...but this night didn't hold a candle to what you knew before the war. You smiled softly, nostalgia clouding your eyes. It was a familiar feeling, and you saw it in Aldo's eyes, picturing a sky an ocean away. You left him there, knowing soldiers like Aldo had a lot to think about, and a world on their shoulders. So you sat with the others by the radio for a while, looking at them once in a while, wondering where they'd be a year from then. Maybe they'd be home by then... At least, you hoped they would be.

Later that night, you woke to the sound of footsteps. Your eyes shot open, fearing the worst, as you reached for your knife. You snuck to your doorway, ready for anything... Except for what you saw. Sgt. Hugo Stiglitz pacing around, murmuring things to himself every so often. "Hugo." Your voice was soft...and that's what startled him most. You motioned for him to come in. He hestitated for a moment. He spoke lowly, "Sie könnten die falsche Idee bekommen ..." 'They might get the wrong idea...' How he knew you could speak German, you didn't know. He lingered outside of your bedroom, and you giggled, rolling your eyes as you pulled him in, "Schlimmeres kann über Menschen wie uns gesagt werden." 'Worse things can be said about people like us." He smiled briefly, though it was dark, you couldn't see it. You flipped a dim lamp on, and shuffled through a hidden drawer, till you pulled out a key. You smiled, hoping he'd be a bit patient with your system. You opened a jewelry box...though there was no jewelry in it. Just cartridges and bullets for guns Hugo hadn't seen around. He was a little impressed, though he'd only admit it to you years later on a visit. You pulled out another key, then pulled out a box, and unlocked it. Hugo wasn't a nosy person. But...seeing the lengths at which you'd gone in such a short time during the war, he was a little curious at just how much information you had hidden away for the allies. In that box, no more than two feet across, he saw carefully folded notes, clipped to photographs, sketches, seeming to never end. In the blink of an eye, you snapped the box shut, and handed Hugo a folded, handwritten note and a photograph. His eyes narrowed, and his knuckles went white as his eyes locked onto the photograph. "So I was right..." You sighed as you sat on the bed, "You know him." Hugo looked up at you, and nodded slightly. You handed over the other scrap of paper. It contained an address, a phone number, and a few other details Hugo may have deemed useful. The nazi in the photograph was the one responsible for torturing Hugo when he was detained. That same nazi happened to be transferred to Paris just after Hugo's escape... and he happened to make his way into the club...regularly, every Friday and Saturday night. He often bragged about being the one to capture and torture the great Hugo Stiglitz, to your face... He slowly smiled again... He was going to sneak out, without a doubt. You saw him to the door, and winked, "Habe Spaß," 'Have fun.' It was now Friday afternoon, and you had to go to the club to perform for the evening.

The basterds were a little reluctant in letting you go. What if someone followed you? Or what if- You immediately shut down all worries and disguised suspicions. "It'd be far more suspicious if I didn't show up, since I've been there every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday evening for the past four years, with no exceptions. That's how I've made it this far." Aldo nodded, then said, "Omar. Why don't you go with Y/n?" Omar nodded, "Yes, sir," while Hirschberg muttered "Are you fucking kidding me?!" After you slipped into a long black dress, satin gloves, and shimmering heels, Hirschberg lingered by the door. "How do you do it?" "Do what?" You asked passively, as you slipped a deep red shade of red lipstick over your lips. "Do this job. Talk to them nazi fucks, and not blow their brains out?" Your heels clicked over the wooden floor was you down the hall, "I wouldn't get very far if I did, now would I?" "Huh..." He shrugged chuckling, "Maybe not in those shoes." "Mm," You smiled, resting your gloved palm against his cheek, remarking quietly with a smirk "Don't wait up." His heart melted, he sighed deeply with parted lips, watching you walk out the door. Omar walked out with you, and followed you to the club. Not closely enough for there to be questions, but close enough to get a good seat...for..."safety measures." The truth was, you reminded Omar of his kid sister. He got a letter, just before leaving England for France with the newly formed team of basterds, a year earlier. She'd gotten married, and Omar never forgave himself for having to miss it. She was so much like you, it kind of hurt him. He didn't know much about you, and frankly, he didn't bother asking. It was a dangerous thing to do in these times. But it broke his heart, knowing you probably had a family waiting for you to come home, somewhere in the world, just like he did. Still, he tended to keep distant from you. For a moment, toward the end of your performance, there was a glimmer of a tear in the corner of his eye. For a moment, as you sang on that stage, you smiled just like his sister did, and it broke his heart. It was three AM by the time you were both back at your apartment, and he didn't say much. You didn't ask what was wrong. You knew soldiers, and you knew better. Besides, he seemed tired, and headed to bed right away. He didn't seem to notice the figure looming over the table with all the plans and information charted out. "Wilhelm?" You called out quietly, in case a few basterds had fallen asleep nearby. You set down your keys, and slipped off your heels with a breath of relief, and walked over to him, looking down at the plans, "What did we miss?" He shook his head, "Nothing..." He spoke sincerely, but you noted a twinge of worry in his voice. "You need some rest," you sat, resting the side of your face against your palm, and your elbow on the table. He shook his head again, "No matter how much we plan..." "You're basterds," you smiled a little, not understanding yet. "It'll work. It has to work." He spoke suddenly, which wasn't something he did often. "There used to be more of us," he sank into a chair beside you. "I see..." you looked at him, "Maybe I will never understand what it is to be a basterd. But...I understand what it feels to be scared of losing everything." He only raised an eyebrow, as he turned to look at you. You weren't just a singing spy in over her head. You had a story, as detailed, and mysterious as any of the basterds. In that moment, when he looked in your eyes, he felt as though he'd known you, at some time. And yet, you seemed distant. You smiled, "So the only thing we can do is raise the stakes." "What do you mean?" You shrugged, "I can make a few calls....figuratively." "To?" "A few Soviets. Andrei, Mikhail, Yura, Irina. They're all snipers. I can get some resistance fighters in, some rebels, some double-agents. I know people on the inside, that can get in with no suspicions. No questions asked." He smiled a little, beginning to feel a little relieved."You've already called them." He was half asking, half confirming. You smiled with a nod, "I was going to mention it in the morning." "Mention it?" He chuckled a little, "You really are the greatest agent I've never heard of." You laughed softly, "Goodnight, Wilhelm." "Goodnight," he smiled, as he found a place to sleep in one of the guest rooms. You were only halfway down the hall, when you heard an odd sound. You slowly pushed open one of the doors, and found Donny sharpening his knives He hadn't noticed you walk in. "Keep it up, and you'll whittle it down to nothing." He smirked, and you asked "What's troubling you Sergeant?" You shrugged a little, "Didn't think that was a possibility." "And I didn't think you'd be as good of an agent as you are." "Hm," you laughed as you sat across from him, "No one ever suspects pretty ones like you and me." He'd been called every name you could think of, but pretty...well, that was not a common one. He put the knife down and you saw how tense he looked about the upcoming mission. By dawn, the basterds would be leaving. "What do you drink?" "Whatever you have, kid." You came back shortly with some whiskey, and your glasses clinked. For once, Donny was silent. But, he was calm now. You finished your drink, and said good night. But, before you slipped out the door, he said your name. You lingered by the doorway and he said, "Thanks kid. For everything." You smiled softly, "My pleasure." as you shut the door.

Though you weren't going with them, you found yourself as equally sleepless. If something went wrong, you knew you'd never forgive yourself. You'd hardly have time anyway. If something went wrong, you'd definitely be found out and executed. It wasn't long before you heard birds chirping outside. The basterds scrambled to get their things ready, go over the plan one last time, and say their thanks and goodbye. They slipped out the door silently, separately, and slowly, as to not alert any neighbors. The very last basterd to leave was Smitty. He lingered by the door, and seemed worried. "What's wrong?" "What if they find out about you?" You smiled softly, "Oh, don't you worry about me." "If they find this," he gestured to all the files you had laid out, "If they know you helped us...they'll kill you... Or worse. I mean, what if-" "Well," you sighed, as you lit a cigarette with a peaceful sigh, "That's just the way it goes, sometimes." You'd come to that conclusion the night before. "But," he shook his head, almost as though refusing to say goodbye. "Oh..." You hugged him "Don't you worry about me, love." You smirked a little, "I have friends that'll take care of me." "But...what...how can you be so sure? How can you be so calm?!" "Like I said before," you shrugged, "If you want to survive this war, make yourself some friends." He nodded, with a half-hearted smile as he left. Before you closed the door, he turned back and asked softly "Are we...friends?" "You know where to find me," you smiled, letting him know you were the kind of friend that would get them through the war. As a matter of fact, they'd meet other contacts, rebels, and informants over the next few years. And every once in a while...just when they least expected it, that new 'friend' would tell them you said hello. Far from the skyline of Paris, and any luxurious club, wandering the bloodstained wilderness, Aldo would always respond the same, but genuine way. He'd smile, and hold one of tin boxes of snuff you'd given him, and chuckle, "Well I'll be damned..." It wasn't until the war ended that you got to say hello yourself. It was a Saturday night. Paris was free. And it was your last night performing in that club. It was time you went home you thought... You looked out at the crowd, studying the faces of French, and other allied soldiers. You saw friends of yours, finally allowed to be at ease. You saw a face you hadn't seen since before the war. He'd written a review of a movie of yours, an undiscovered gem, he called it. His name was Archie Hicox. Lieutenant, now. And, you were thrilled to see a few more familiar faces by him. Bridget von Hammersmarck, of all people. And, of course, the basterds. You addressed the crowd, spoke in French, but didn't say goodbye. This was not a time to say goodbyes. All you said was that this next song was one near and dear to your heart. You sang Put the Blame on Mame, just as you had the night you met the basterds. You couldn’t stop smiling as you sang that old familiar song. That night, it felt as though you’d never sang it before. You felt free, you felt more alive than you had before. And seeing those basterds again did it. They couldn’t believe a spy with so much to lose like you could make it this far...but then again, basterds like them had made it to the end. In a way, they owed it to you. At the end of your performance, the loudest cheers and claps and demands for an encore came from a table of basterds. What are friends for, after all?

#Inglourious Basterds #aldo raine #aldo the apache #Donny Donowitz #the bear jew #smithson utivich #Omar Ulmer #gerold hirschberg #Hirschberg #hugo stiglitz #Wilhelm Wicki

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pastrygeckos · 5 years ago

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I think one of the biggest misconceptions about IBS/IBD is that it's "just" stomach aches. I mean first of all, I could talk about just how painful it is, and how it messes with your vagus nerve so you almost pass out, all day, but right now all I'm thinking about is the side effects of your intestines flaring up. I couldn't get to sleep last night because I was having really bad cramping/burning in my lower abdomen (and it was extremely noisy lmao) without any actual bathroom action.

Today I feel like I have a flu. My joints are achy and my brain feels like its swimming in soup. My head hurts, I'm distracted and fatigued. I happened to have a blood test done in the middle of an attack once, and the results showed a huge spike in white blood cells, because the guts are inflamed. I feel this crap now, even though my main flare up was yesterday. Really the only thing you can do to mitigate it is to first rest, and then up circulation (have a walk or something) to get some nice, fresh blood flowing again.

It aggravates other things, like arthritis, colds/flus, migraines, sore muscles/tendonitis, period pains, etc. etc. so it can all add up quite easily. Not every flare-up is going to include inflammation side effects, and you can also get them alongside minimal pain/stomach upset. It's all a game of dice.

The reason I talk about IBS quite a bit (especially what comes along with it) is because I have a really hard time finding anyone else that does! It brought a smile to my face when I made the vagus nerve post and saw all the people replying or tagging about how they didn't know about it, yet had experienced it at some point, and how hearing about it brought them comfort. I spent 21 years of my life suffering (mostly) in silence (being bullied and mocked by my parents when I did bring it up), and with the help of a couple people I look up to also speaking up (namely Bruce Greene and Elyse Willems) I've just let go of the shame. Sure, digestive issues are gross and kinda embarrassing, but if I was having migraines I wouldn't keep that a secret so why should I keep the IBS a secret?

If anyone ever tries to write your symptoms off as whining or exaggerated, show them this picture of a normal colon vs. a spastic colon. It's fairly easy to see why that would hurt.

#IBS #IBD #Ibs flare #Digestive issues #Pastrymom #Text post

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spoonssporksandknives · 5 years ago

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Social Distancing - Nine Days In

So as a means of dealing with isolation and chronic illness and the PANDEMIC that’s going around, I’m trying to blog more.

If you’re new here, I’m Heather and I’m immunocompromised or immunosuppressed – whichever term you prefer, the answer is yes – and I’m currently social distancing with my child and partner in our lil’ condo in Central Florida which as of this morning, has no official social distancing, sheltering-in-place, or other protective orders in place to deal with the pandemic of COVID-19. We also have people littering the beaches here in spite of the pandemic, which is just...greaaaaat. Yeah you'll survive your illness but will your Nana, y'all? Or your friend whose pregnant? Or in cancer treatment?

I don't think people really understand how many immunocompromised people need them to not. Or just how many of us there are. It's not just "medically interesting" people like me. There are a wide array of immune-related illnesses – some acquired, some genetic – mine’s genetic, and keeps my body from generating the proteins on the surface of white blood cells that allow them to “remember” which viruses and bacteria we’ve encountered before.

Basically my immune system is amnesiac, which is not a great thing at any time, but particularly not right now. I spend a lot of time at home, and even more so right now. Lots and lots of handwashing too. Our child is an adult, but he has a variety of diagnoses of his own, and more than a little anxiety about this, particularly since I almost died when he was 14. I don’t think it occurred to me until I woke up and saw him just how serious it was.

You never want to see your teenager looking haunted by a near death incident, y’all.

But: back to today. I’ve been really ill – I have IBS as well as primary immune deficiency and asthma, and I’ve been flaring, probably at least partially due to stress. It’s not all bad – my partner normally works a lot of hours and right now is home and we’re getting to enjoy this bit of time together. We’re also coping by spending time with longer distance friends, playing Cards Against Humanity online.

Aside from these things, we’re trying to keep busy. My partner is reorganizing our home office, such as it is (small). We already had grocery delivery because of my condition, so we were set there. We already have a warehouse membership and we’re making good use of it. When we went last week, we got a huge bag of potatoes, some oranges, a big bag of chicken legs, bread, etc. I want to see if we can get a bag of rice – sushi rice is amazing when my stomach is cranky and I want to get more of it if we can. We’re thinking about hitting the Asian market for it because people are afraid of shopping in Asian businesses right now, which makes literally no sense but here we are.

The proprietor of our local market across the street is delightful and I bet she’ll even have eggs, which have been AWOL on every shopping trip my partner has taken since we had to hole up. Granted, this is not much because we’re afraid of me getting something secondhand, but anyway, the moral of the story is don’t be racist y’all.

The amount of panic buying going on is ridiculous. People are acting like there’s a damn hurricane on, and there’s not. JFC I hope they get this under control before hurricane season, can you imagine what it’ll be like if there’s a major hurricane in the middle of this shit? I don’t even want to contemplate it, but I’ll have to soon – hurricane season is just a couple of months away.

Okay I’m going to stop this train of thought before it makes me more anxious than I already am. I’m not actively panicking or anything but every so often the sheer fuckupedness of the situation gets to me and because I have it anyway for the chronic nausea, I think I’m gonna hit the cannabis. Vaped of course. Because WTF lungs.

Hope you’re all well and that your loved ones are as well,

#covid-19 #coronavirus #chronic illness #primary immunodeficiency

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mrs-hollandstan · 6 years ago

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This concept of tom holland being a nurse is awesome. Would you do something with Peter Parker where the reader is still studying to be a nurse and suddenly one day in the middle of the the night Peter goes to her room in his Spiderman suit begging for help because he's terribly injured but he haven't tell her yet about being Spiderman so she starts to freak out because he's bleeding a lot and also due to the fact that he didn't tell her his secret and starts to cry while cleaning his wounds?

Mmm yes. Moooooorrrreeeeee bloooooooddddd.

“Diazepam treats muscle spasms, anxiety and seizures. Lorazepam treats IBS, anxiety and epilepsy. Warfarin treats-” You’re interrupted with a knock at your bedroom window and more questions than answers. The darkness outside doesn’t do anything else and until you stand, your heart is pounding.

Walking to it, you open and none other than Spider-Man falls through your window, blood splattering on the beige carpet as he holds his side. You gasp, grabbing his arm to sit up before hauling your arms under his and hoisting him to his feet, dropping him against your bed. He groans,

“Y/N…”

“How- who…” Reaching a shaky hand up, he removes his mask to reveal a familiar face, gashes and bruises littering his beautiful face. Peter Parker,

“What-”

“I know… I know but… m'sorry… I need help.” You nod,

“Take… take the suit off. I need full access to you.” You mutter, listening to him groan as he strips of it. Meanwhile, you grab the needle and sutures from your nursing kit the program provided you before hurrying to the bathroom and getting the alcohol and cotton pads as well as the box of bandages under the sink. Looking at yourself in the mirror, you brush the beads of tears rolling down your nose away and find him again.

Clicking open the alcohol, you crouch beside him, pulling a cotton pad out and sniffing back your tears. Dampening the pad in alcohol, you raise your head, finding the first small gash near his hipbone. You look to his face, his eyes closed,

“Keep still.” You murmur, waiting until he nods to drag it across the flared ends of his skin. He hisses, but holds still, his abdomen contracting in pain. You clean it and sew it up, minding the tears slipping down your face. His breathing is ragged from the cuts littering his face and body.

You repeat the process until you get to the bad slash, pressing down on it to stop the bleeding. He wheezes but allows you to do it, his eyes squeezing shut tightly.

“God damn.” He groans, holding your hip tight in his hand as you crouch over him, hands crimson in his blood. He grunts, but his blood eventually stops leaking from the wound. You draw back, wiping your hands off on a towel but his hand reaches up to brush a tear away,

“What’s this… huh?” You sniffle,

“Its nothing.” You can hear the wheeze in his voice,

“Yeah? You always cry for nothing?” Brushing a fresh cotton pad across his skin, he hisses again, his eyes squeezing shut again before he opens them,

“I am sorry. I didn’t wanna keep this from you but… it’s another secret you would’ve had to keep and I didn’t want that.”

“So you would’ve let me lose you? No context, just my best friend in a casket and I don’t know why?” He sees the tears clouding your eyes before you slip the needle beneath his skin, a little bit of blood seeping from his wound.

“I never thought about it… I hate myself for doing this to you.”

“Me too.” You mumble, closing his side up. He watches you climb off of him, walking to your nurse kit and finding the painkillers. Walking back to him, you hand two to him,

“I love you.” He mutters, slipping them into his mouth and swallowing them down with water. You open the box of bandages, finding the handful of big ones to cover his stitches with,

“I have for a while but… now that I’ve screwed everything up… you should know that.” He watches you bandage him before cleaning up the area,

“You didn’t screw anything up Peter. There’s just so much going on right now. You’re Spider-Man and you didn’t tell me. You came to me, beaten and bloody and I don’t know how to handle it. It’s a lot.” He nods,

“I know… I know.” Folding your arms across your chest, he sighs and holds his own up,

“C'mere.” Walking forward, he rubs your back as you climb in beside him, laying your head over his shoulder. He reaches up to play with your hair,

“Is there any way you can forgive me?” You nod, running your finger over his pec, just beside his nipple,

“You got me some practice in the stitch district. It helps. I’m not upset about it. I get it. But if I’d lost you, I don’t know what I’d do. I love you too Pete, and… I just don’t want to lose you.” He nodded,

“I get it. I should’ve told you. There’s a number of times I wanted to tell you. But I just… I didn’t want you to have to deal with it. Keeping that secret.” You nod, craning your head. The corners of his lips twitch as he raises his head,

“But I’m still here… and I just stained your floor so… it was time.” You nod before crawling further up to gently, ever so slightly press your lips to his.

The both of you lose your breath and Peter holds your hips, wanting to drag you ever closer. You break when the door swings open and your roommate steps inside, looking at the open window, the blood on the floor, Peter’s suit, and you and Peter laid on your bed,

“God you two are disgusting. Use protection.” As she turns and closed the door again, you giggle as Peter looks after her, shocked,

“Did she just blatantly ignore the fact that your room looks like a crime scene and I’m Spider-Man?” You giggle again,

“I think she did.”

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savingmyguts-blog · 6 years ago

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A month ago, I went on a blind date. My first blind date. Not only was it my first blind date, but it was also the first date of ANY kind that I had been on in years. That was actually why I told the friends setting us up that I didn’t want to know anything about him beforehand; I knew if I let myself think about the person, and thereby the whole world of dating, I would talk myself out of it before I even got to meet the guy. The date went well - like, unbelievably well. I can’t believe that was literally just 35 days ago, because I am truly crazy about this guy. I haven’t found one bad thing about him yet - until tonight.

For context: I have Crohn’s disease. It’s an inflammatory bowel disease, and I would tell you its symptoms, but one of the wildly frustrating parts about this disease is that there’s no one-size-fits-all symptoms list.

But back to tonight. It’s 9pm. I’m still at work, because I started a new job three weeks ago and have been putting in a lot of hours trying to figure it all out. I’ve had diarrhea and stomach pain day long. So my positive energy tank is already running on fumes when I get a text from my new, amazingly wonderful boyfriend. It says “I’m listening to a podcast that is super interesting about gut health and I thought you might enjoy it.”

Great. Another asshole who just heard about Crohn’s disease five seconds ago is about to ~cure me~ by telling me to drink some kombucha. Whyyyyyy? Why is he ruining everything by trying to fix a problem he knows nothing about? Why do people do that?

But, like I said, I really really like this guy. Everything about him feels so good. It doesn’t connect that he would be that person, that that would be his intention. So I ignore my brain’s massive eye roll, finish up at work, and decide to hear what the podcast has to say during my drive home.

In the thirty minutes of this three hour podcast that Dr. Rhonda Patrick was talking about gut health, here’s what she covered:

LDL proteins transport cholesterol to your cells, and the cells use the cholesterol to repair themselves. The LDL actually slices off a piece of itself to give to the cell for this process, and what remains of the LDL is transported back to the liver to be recycled out.

There are over 100 trillion bacteria in your gut. The majority of this is healthy bacteria, converting the food you eat into energy for your body. Your gut is also the place in your body with the highest concentration of immune cells.

The bacteria and the immune cells (white blood cells) are kept separate in your gut by the gut barrier, which is made of mucin (similar to mucus.)

When the gut barrier becomes compromised, the immune cells begin attacking the bacteria in your gut. As the bacteria is killed, it releases endotoxins. These endotoxins bind to the LDL that has sliced part of itself off to give away the cholesterol. This prevents the LDL from transporting back to the liver, so you just have LDL proteins covered in endotoxins stuck in your system. Your immune system recognizes all these lumps of endotoxins floating around and sends more white blood cells to fight and kill them. But it doesn’t work, because the white blood cells aren’t actually fighting bacteria like they think they are - they’re fighting LDL proteins that have bound to the endotoxins let out by the bacteria killed off in your gut when your gut barrier broke down. So you’re left with several things: a broken down gut barrier, a lack of healthy bacteria in your gut which means less energy being converted from food (and more room for unhealthy bacteria to take over), all these endotoxins just stuck in your gut/bloodstream, and too many white blood cells being produced. None of those are good things.

People with IBD will often notice mucin in their bowel movements. The gut barrier is literally breaking down and just exiting your body on a regular basis. To make more mucin and build that gut barrier back up, your body needs energy. When you don’t have a functional gut barrier, it’s a lot harder for your food to be converted into energy. Circle of death. Eating more fermentable fibers will create more short chain fatty acids in your gut which is what converts your food into energy. On the opposite end, when you eat food with a lot of refined carbohydrates, the saturated fat increases your body’s production of LDL proteins - which is not good, when you have endotoxins binding to all your LDL.

Kombucha feeds/energizes your gut cells so they can keep producing mucin for your gut barrier to strengthen.

A few years ago, she took a baseline sample of her poop and sent it off to be sequenced, to see what bacteria was and wasn’t present in her gut. Then she took “VSL #3 with sachets” probiotic every day for 30 days, and sent her poop off to be sequenced again. Huge increase in the amount of healthy bacteria in her gut (she didn’t specify how much) as well as a reduction of the amount of unhealthy bacteria. There are at least 25 studies that show effectiveness of this type of probiotic in treating IBS/colitis.

The reason she became so interested in gut health and was sequencing her own poop, etc., is because she had inflammatory bowel issues for years following an MRSA infection. Her doctor gave her three rounds of antibiotics, and when the infection still came back again, she decided to treat it herself without antibiotics. She got rid of the infection for good by using garlic/grapefruit seed extract/teatree oil/something else I had never heard of. But the damage to her gut from three rounds of super-antibiotics wrecked her system for YEARS. When she sought treatment for it, gastrointestinal doctors diagnosed her with neuropathy and suggested SSRIs and anticonvulsant medication. She refused. They never asked her about her diet, her medication history, nothing. She said “if I was a dummy - I shouldn’t say it like that - if I were a person who listened to authority, who just did what my doctors said, I might be stuck on a bunch of pointless medicines right now and would never have returned to a healthy gut.”

Do you know how much of that information I’ve been told throughout six years of being treated for inflammatory bowel disease by the “best, most-recommended” gastroenterologist in my state?

None of it.

None.

Of.

It.

When I asked if I should try drinking kombucha/taking probiotics, I was told “you could, but I don’t think it will help you. Your main concerns lately are acid reflux and diarrhea, and those aren’t the big symptoms of an unhealthy gut, so I don’t think that’s your problem.” I tried it anyway, but halfheartedly and with no guidance, and gave up faster than I should have.

I’ve noticed the mucin in my bowel movements for years, but the ONLY poop-related question I’m ever asked during visits is if I can see blood in it.

I too have had multiple experiences with MRSA infections and had to take round after round after round of antibiotics until it went away... the most recent time being a mere two months ago. TWO MONTHS AGO I got a staph infection in my eye, and now, four rounds of antibiotics later, I’m in the middle of a “flare up.”

My gastroenterologist has never asked about my history with antibiotics. When he asks about my diet, it’s never a conversation about healthy foods that might help or how different foods are interacting with my malfunctioning gut. It’s always just “these specific foods have been known to cause more pain, are you avoiding them?”

Eight months ago, I had a colonoscopy. There were no ulcers in my colon this time. He saw inflamed areas throughout my colon, but not general/total inflammation throughout the whole thing. What he actually said when I woke up was that if that had been his first/only look at my colon, he wouldn’t have diagnosed me with Crohn’s disease. So what does that mean? Am I just in remission? Do I not have it? If I don’t, what DO I have, because I’m obviously not healthy? His only answer was “I don’t know. we’ll just have to keep watching what happens and treating symptoms as best we can.”

I feel a strange combination of excitement and fury. why is htis podcast the first time this connection has been made for me? when i asked lydia about kombucha/probiotics and she said it wouldn’t help me. dr. lievens has never once asked about that, looked at my medication history, nothing. and he’s supposedly the best! i love “aha!” moments and this feels like one, but why the fuck is it just happening now?

Right now, I am just overflowing with questions. Every angle I think of it all from, I end up with six new questions and the list just keeps growing. But I also want to find out the answers. Which is more than I can say for my life lately before this.

Sorry Zach, you are still amazing and just like everything else about our relationship that seems to defy what’s supposed to be happening, that bubble has un-popped.

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edwardiansnow · 7 years ago

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2017.

I said I would eventually try to write something about 2017 and whilst this might not have been the form I thought it would take, I think maybe this is it.

2017 was tricky for various reasons, personally and professionally. However, the two dovetail neatly when I consider perhaps the thing that cast the bigger shadow over the year: my health.

I also wonder if writing it out and 👀 it in type might help me with my own comprehension of it.

In 2017 I was diagnosed with a chronic, autoimmune illness (non-curable, as is typical with these things). It’s IBD. No, not IBS. I confused the acronyms too. IBS is a functional disorder syndrome (which can be damn nasty in itself), IBD is a disease in which my body, well, attacks itself. (There are two “flavours”, I have colitis. No, I hadn’t heard of it either.)

IBD is always there though at certain times it “flares”. During a flare, the most unpleasant of the symptomatic effects (I won’t detail them, you can google if you want) are there for weeks, sometimes months at a time. This has happened to me twice in a substantial way (though thankfully, nothing so severe that I had to go to 🏥 or anything. But still, it’s really, really unpleasant. And humiliting. And demeaning. And debilitating). The first time I thought I just had a terrible case of food poising or some gastro-something-horrid virus. The second time I knew I had to go back to the doctor and submit myself to the necessary “investigations”. Yeah. I lost a lot a days to them in 2017.

I bring this up as it appears – and I’m so desperately hoping I’m wrong – that I am heading into another flare. That means the past two weeks have been full of horrible white bread and plain 🍚. I can’t eat anything remotely “healthy”. As a vegetarian which a family disposition towards type 2 diabetes, that’s really not fun. Having to explain to people that actually, you’ll just eat a plain brötchen and saying yes, I know I usually 😍 coffee, but not right now please isn’t great.

All that is deflating in itself, but what is really getting me down is the realisation of all this. This is how life is now. The periods of feeling well are overshadowed by the fear of When It Comes Back – which is the wrong way to think about it as it never actually “goes away”, it just becomes less apparent. I managed nearly a year of remission until now but even so, during a test in the middle of that period, the inflammation was still there. That is the first thing I need to get my head around.

The second thing I am struggling with is perhaps the hardest thing about all this: fatigue. 👀, if people do know what IBD is, because of what the B stands for (guess what: “bowel”) the assumption is that you essentially have bouts of Bad Food Poisoning or tee-hee-lots-of-bathroom-time periods. Which in a sense you do.

But the thing is, my body is spending a good chunk of time and energy quite literally attack itself through chronic inflammation. I am struggling with accepting how much of my energy level hard drive space I am having to give up with no choice. I felt absolutely exhausted for large stretches of 2016 and 2017 (so much so I went to have my thyroid tested etc).

Before I really started getting ill, whilst never the greatest morning person I would set my alarm on weekends (once I actually get up, then I am fine to get going), open the 🚪, pick a direction and just… walk. Nothing has ever given me greater happiness than Doing That in This City. It’s hard to articulate how important that has been for me. And still is. But it’s not achievable as it once was before. That quietly devastates me. I am determined to maintain as high a level as I can but it’s hard. I have now become aware of this which has helped me a little bit.

I also worry so much about how this has/still might affect my professional life. I am a freelancer which means a degree of flexibility but, on account of the areas I operate in, it also means the opposite - you Don’t Want To/Can’t Say No to Work. I worry that it will hold me back in terms of trying to really get competent in German, that it will hod me back in my ultimate mission to stay here (which has now been granted a Brexit subplot mission: demonstrate your worth/ability/desire to stay here). I worry about the stress of having to navigate tests and treatment in a foreign language, about health insurance admin and, well, What The Hello To Tell People.

Moving here required a lot of personal 🚀 fuel. But it wasn’t difficult because I so wanted it. And I still DO, more than ever. I just hate feeling like the tank is empty every now and then. More than that, I hate the thought that it will never, ever be full again.

I’m not sure why I share this here. Perhaps because I know I have to start accepting and adapting to this more willingly than I have done so to date. And to be very honest, because I want to be less alone with it and want someone to understand.

For anyone reading this who struggles with anything autoimmune/chronic/similar: you have my solidarity and meine herzlichsten Wünsche.

Thank you if you read this. It’s not terribly well written but there it is. More building, 📚 and berlin spam as normal to follow.

#personal #me #ibd

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crohnsdigest · 5 years ago

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Things People with IBS Are Tired of Hearing

When I received my initial diagnosis of irritable bowel syndrome (IBS) almost 10 years ago, I naively thought that all my digestive issues would be a thing of the past. Now that the doctors knew what these unrelenting symptoms were, surely they could fix me. Fourteen-year-old me was wrong. It was only the beginning of a very long and emotional journey. Conditions like IBS affect eating habits, daily life, and social agendas. I’ve come to terms with the fact that suffering in silence with a digestive condition is counterproductive. While I previously tried to hide it from everyone but my mother, I now talk about my health on the internet, baring all for the world to see. And it’s strangely therapeutic. But when you share your story, you’re also privy to some weird and wonderful comments in return. As it turns out, everyone else has an opinion on it too. Let’s talk about the 12 things that everyone with IBS is tired of hearing. Because they’re definitely more of an expert than the various gastroenterologists I’ve seen, right? Whether or not they think this pearl of wisdom is helpful, it’s tricky to know if I should roll my eyes or accept that they’re trying to be sympathetic. There’s always that one person who feels the need to add their card to the pile when I acknowledge or talk about my IBS. Their stomach pain is so much more painful than mine apparently. And if I try to top that, watch out! Oh, how I wish it were only a temporary bad stomach. When I air out my digestive issues, it’s natural to expect a few responses. However, there’s usually someone who indulges a little too much. And 90 minutes later, I’d probably be able to pass a quiz on their entire GI history. I know they’re trying to empathize, but IBS isn’t something a person just “gets once.” For starters, people only get diagnosed because they’ve had symptoms for months, or longer. If only IBS reared its ugly head just the once and then disappeared altogether. My problems would be solved. The wonderful thing about invisible conditions like IBS is that I probably do look fine on the outside. And I suppose it’s a compliment that I look like my normal self when there’s so much inner turmoil going on. But if someone had a broken leg, people generally wouldn’t tell them to suck it up and walk on it. Just because IBS can’t be seen it doesn’t mean it’s not there.

Usually delivered in tandem with a heavy sigh and a roll of the eyes. I understand it’s frustrating that I have dietary requirements, but it doesn’t help to make me feel awkward about them too. It’s already bad enough I’ve had to give up chocolate, cheese, milk, dairy, butter. But look, I’m still here, walking and talking — so I must be able to eat SOMETHING.

Yes, good food and exercise can help ease symptoms. But in some cases, they can also exacerbate them. So it’s a little unsympathetic to assume everyone is the same and that the solution is so simple. When someone tells me this, I understand they’re only trying to help. But it’s slightly frustrating to assume I’m not already trying. Surely everyone’s aware that even Her Majesty the Queen goes for a number two? Although it’s not the most pleasant thing in the world to go through, I’d appreciate a bit more of a dignified response. But this sort of comment makes a person feel embarrassed for opening up.

That’s what I tell myself too when I’m sitting on the toilet for the seventh time that morning. I don’t believe in this malarkey, either! If only IBS were a myth — it would solve all my problems.

We’ve all heard the phrase “mind over matter,” and to some extent it’s true. With IBS, worrying about symptoms flaring up invariably means that symptoms do flare up because of the anxiety. I can’t win! But saying it’s all in my head? That’s insensitive and downright inconsiderate.

I thought I was finally at the tail end of my symptoms, and then, oops, there I go again. It’s back to the IBS grind. What I’d like people who don’t have IBS to understand: I’m tired of being controlled by my digestive system, but I can’t help it. I’ll probably never be 100 percent better, but I’m doing my best. It’s frustrating, but I can work around it.

Say I have 10 cats, and someone allergic to cats comes over to visit. Would getting rid of nine of the cats mean that person doesn’t have an allergic reaction? (No.) If I could eat that creamy, melted-in-the-middle, warm chocolate pudding, I would. But I can’t. Admittedly, it’s difficult to know the right thing to say to someone who suffers from IBS, because from an outsider’s perspective it can be frustrating to not know how to help. I remember my mother being in tears because she felt powerless to help me. It can be tricky to know what will be the most helpful thing to say. But please rest assured, sometimes I and others like me just need a sympathetic ear (and a toilet close by). Your support means more than you know. Click here to read more on crohnsdigestnews Read the full article

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twenty-nothing · 5 years ago

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OneHundredFive

STEP ONE: Spell your name with songs: Closer - The Chainsmokers Over You - Miranda Lambert Undo It - Carrie Underwood Right Above It - Lil Wayne The Motto - Drake Need You Now - Lady Antebellum Everything You Do - He is We You and I - Lady Gaga

STEP TWO:

– Name: Courtney – Birth date: July 12th – Nickname: I don’t have one – Eye Color: Green – Hair Color: Dark Brown – Zodiac Sign: Cancer

STEP THREE: –The shoes you wore today: Rose gold ballet flats – Your perfect pizza: Pepperoni, mushroom, banana peppers and pineapple – Goal you’d like to achieve: Fall in love

STEP FOUR: – Your best physical feature: Eyes – Your bedtime?: I usually go to sleep by 9 every night during the week and whenever on the weekend

STEP FIVE: This Or That… – Pepsi or Coke? Pepsi – McDonald’s or Burger King: Burger King burgers, McDonalds fries – Adidas or Nike: Nike – Lipton Ice Tea or Nestea: Neither, I hate tea – Chocolate or Vanilla: Vanilla lately – Cappuccino or coffee: Coffee, cold brew specifically STEP SIX: Do You… – Smoke: No – Curse: Fuck yeah – Sing: I do sing, doesn’t mean I can sing well – Dance: Sometimes – Take a shower everyday: Yes – Have a crush: Not at the moment – Do you think you’ve been in love?: Yes, I don’t know if I ever will be again – Want to go to college: I already have an accounting degree – Like(d) high school: Yes – Want to get married: Yes – Get motion sickness: Very much. Car, train, airplane, boat, you name it lol – Think you’re attractive: No – Think you’re a health freak: I fucking wish, then maybe I’d be a little attractive – Get along with your parents: Yes STEP SEVEN: In the past month… – Gone to the mall: Yes – Eaten an entire box of Oreos: No -Eaten Sushi: Yes – Been on stage: No – Gone skating: No, I want to though – Made homemade cookies: No – Gone Skinny dipping: No – Stolen anything: No STEP EIGHT: Ever… – Played a game that required removal of clothing: No – If so, was it mixed company: N/A - Flashed anyone: No – Been beaten up: No – Shoplifted: One time when I was 14, with the wrong friend. Got caught, never did it again and never hung out with that crowd again STEP NINE: – Age you hope to be married: If life went how I planned it I would have already been married at 22 – Numbers of Children: One and I want to foster – Describe your Dream Wedding: Nothing too big. Lemon-Raspberry Chiffon cake. Barn with twinkle lights. October wedding. – What country would you most like to visit? Fiji

STEP TEN: In the opposite sex.. – Best eye color?: Green or Blue – Best hair color?: Dirty blonde or brown – Short hair or long hair?: Short – Height: Taller than me but not way tall STEP ELEVEN: – Number of people I could trust with my life: A good handful – Number of CDs that I own: Maybe 3 or 4 – Number of tattoos: 6 – Number of piercings: 7 Personal Quiz Who were you with yesterday? Co-workers What woke you up this morning? Alarm Where are you? My living room Is tomorrow going to be a good day? Hell yeah, going on a wine trail Do you like anybody? No THE PAST Ever thrown up in public? Not that I can remember Passed out because of alcohol? Oh yeah, bad times What’s on your mind RIGHT NOW? That I need to go take a shower THE FUTURE What kind of home would you like? 2 story ranch with wrap around porch. 4 bedrooms 2 1/2 bath What do you want to be when you grow up? Forensic Accountant Where do you see yourself in 5 years? Hopefully married, or at the very least, engaged. Maybe with someone who can help me be able to go back to get my bachelors. IN GENERAL Do you like candy necklaces? Not really When was the last time you fell over or ran into something? I can’t remember but it couldn’t have been long ago Do you listen to music every day? Yes Do you still go trick or treating? Nope What was the last thing you ate? Supreme Fiery Doritos Locos Taco from Taco Bell Are you a fast typer? Most of the time if my hands are positioned right Whats your favorite type of soda? Cherry Pepsi, Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper, Vanilla Root Beer Have you ever moved? Yes, twice Have you ever won an award? Yes Are you listening to music right now? No How long ’till your birthday? Another year :( My birthday was last Friday When were you the saddest in your whole life? 7th grade. Almost commited suicide What time is it? 8:31 pm Do you use Ebay to buy or sell? Buy Who makes you mad? A lot of people.. Have you ever heard a song written about you? No Something you wanted to happen in 2018? Lose weight, didn’t happen. Typical Summer 2019? Lose weight... Honestly do you miss 2018? No HONESTY SECTION 1. Honestly, what color is your underwear? Blue 2. Honestly, whats on your mind? How I need to take a shower 3. Honestly, what are you doing right now? This and watching Grey’s Anatomy 4. Honestly, have you done something bad today? Nope 5. Honestly, who is the last person you talked to on the phone? Doctor 6. Honestly, are you jealous of someone right now? I’m jealous of everyone who has the life I dreamed about years ago.. 7. Honestly, what makes you mad most of the time? People who are just immature 8. Honestly, do you bite your nails? Nope, I used to though 9. Honestly, have you had an eating disorder? No 10. Honestly, do you want to see someone this very moment? No 11. Honestly, are you keeping a big secret now? No 12. Honestly, do you have a friend you don’t actually like? Nope, I’ve cut those ‘friends’ from my life 13. Honestly, are you in denial? Yes 14. Honestly, do you get up in the middle of the night and eat? No 15. Honestly, do you like anyone? No 16. Honestly, does anyone like you? I doubt it ANGER SECTION 1. What do you do when you’re mad? Rant, be short, cry, isolate, say lots of things I don’t mean, get nasty 2. What’s the worst thing you’ve done when you were mad? Hurt myself, said unnecessarily things 3. Ever made anyone cry when you were mad? Yes 4. Do you swear when you’re mad? Very much CRYING SECTION 1.When was the last time you actually cried? Yesterday. Started another IBS flare up and I’m just so sick and tired of it 2. Ever cried yourself to sleep? Yes 3. Do certain songs make you cry? Yes. Good memories, moved by it, or sad memories 4. What usually makes you cry? Sad parts in movies, stuff that I wish I had makes me cry too HAPPY SECTION 1. Are you usually a happy person? Eh I guess 2. What makes you the happiest? Fall time, outside at night, perfect temp, looking up at the stars 3. Do you believe in yourself? No 4. When people say they think you are good looking/pretty, do you get happy? It makes me feel self-conscious

#long #personal #courtneyhelene #emotions

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myaekingheart · 6 years ago

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I feel like I’ve been all over the place today. I woke up feeling like crap, slept for an extra fifteen minutes, did the bare minimum getting ready. I found this instagram that had funny ED memes, though, and they kind of inspired me to really start trying to do better with my eating. I actually ate breakfast before I left the house, and then I grabbed two snacks from the vending machine between classes (when the ED voice in my brain was telling me that despite feeling a little hungry, I could go without, that I didn’t really need the food, that you could just bypass the vending machine so I thought to myself “well then fuck you I’m gonna get two because I deserve to eat”). It felt weird and lowkey satisfying sitting in this nearly three hour class not starving or feeling like I was going to pass out, and also gave me hardcore nostalgia for the days of elementary/middle/high school when we would have lunch and then go to class afterwards full and sleepy. Really weird shit happened in my afternoon class, though. I somehow got a perfect score on a test that I did not study for at all and totally bullshited an answer on, and then we were put into groups for an in-class assignment that escalated into a group project and I got put into a group with a kid in this class who...intrigues me? I guess you could say? I don’t know, I don’t want to say I have a crush on him, per se, I’m just...intrigued by him. In a socially anxious, non-romantic format. I don’t know, it’s weird, but like not only did I get put in a group with this kid but my professor also had me sit in the desk right next to him and it was just...bizarre. I felt like I was back in this weird time warp almost, I don’t know, there was just something very unusual about all of this. It was also storming outside to give an even greater air of the unusual. We luckily got out early, too, which was nice. Had a pretty smooth trip home even if my contact started bugging me at the bus stop. Had a few pieces of chocolate when I got home, and then curled up and actually read a book for fun for like a solid three hours which was super nice. It was when my boyfriend and I went and got dinner that things started going south again. Dinner was decent, but we got chicken and it didn’t sit well so I started having yet ANOTHER IBS flare-up, and then of course when I was in the bathroom trying to deal with that, I could overhear my neighbors next door yelling at each other which only heightened my anxiety. I just wish I could live in peace, honestly, I’m so sick of this stupid apartment and this stupid town and everyone in it. Hopefully things will be better once we move, it’s just getting to that point that’s the struggle. I wish we could just pack up and get out of here now. But anyways, I thought I was okay enough to get a shower so I took one and then I started feeling worse so I had to sit in the bathroom for a solid, like, twenty five minutes just trying to suffer through this. Took my meds and was still in hell, but at least it wasn’t the same brand of hell as Thursday morning. At least this hell was productive. But hell nonetheless. The anxiety started kicking up, too, which also did not help this one bit. I just overall started feeling very chaotic and uneasy and I started blaming the food. I started fearing that dinner made me sick, or maybe I was just stressed, or maybe this was punishment for having eaten too much today. I don’t know, that last option doesn’t sound totally impossible. Maybe my digestive system just couldn’t handle the extra load. Maybe I’ve gotten my body too accustomed to starvation and now this is the price I pay. Sounds about right. I’m very scared I’m falling into the same pit from a few years ago, though, where everything stressed me out and my IBS reached a peak to where I couldn’t even a damn thing without feeling sick and then lost like ten pounds in the course of a couple months. I’m scared of that happening again. I don’t want to get that sick again. I don’t want to go through that torture again. I can’t handle it. I find it funny, though, that my IBS started getting really, really bad again around the time when I started applying for jobs. It’s almost as if my body just doesn’t want me to work, you know? Like I want to get a job and be independent and make my own money and shit but then when my body does stuff like THIS, it makes it hard to feel like a functional, productive adult, if not human being. I don’t even know if I can make it to school tomorrow with how absolutely disgusting and sick I’ve been feeling tonight. I guess I’ll see how I feel in the morning-- I really shouldn’t skip. I have homework due tomorrow that I can’t afford to get a zero on--well, actually, I can, but I don’t want to. And I only have one 45minute class, really. It’s just that my bus commute is also, like, 45 minutes there and back. So that’s extra. Extra spoons to spend. I don’t know, I’ll probably suck it up and go anyways but I guess we’ll see how I’m feeling. It just sucks, though. Like I don’t want to be sick like this. I don’t want my life to be dictated by my chronic illness but that’s basically life with chronic illnesses, isn’t it? Your entire life revolves around them and is dictated by them. And that fucking sucks, but I know there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. If there was, it wouldn’t be chronic, would it? I don’t know, man. I’ve kind of reached a stalemate in my flare-up at this point, but I still feel iffy. I stayed up two hours later than my boyfriend now just because I didn’t feel confident enough that this was over and that I would be able to crawl into bed and happily oblige to sleep without interruption. And now it’s been two hours and I haven’t had to run back to the bathroom yet so there’s that. I don’t know. I’ll have to make sure I keep my meds on hand tomorrow at the very least (I forgot them today, which made eating more an especially scary idea that did actually feed me lots of anxiety) just to be safe. My next doctor’s appointment isn’t for another two weeks so that’s fun. Last I was there I asked him about this weird deja vu bullshit I’ve been feeling off and on for a few years, which I’ve begun suspecting is temporal lobe epilepsy. If that is what it is, then that’s terrifying and I’m not sure how I feel about that but I want to make sure I have answers. My primary said he wasn’t super well-versed in what the deja vu stuff might be but that he was going to ask the psychiatrist on campus (I see an on campus doctor because I can and it’s free for me so woo fucking hoo) and let me know when I see him at our next appointment. I just have to say, also, that I really, really like this doctor. Technically he’s a nurse practitioner but whatever, po-tay-to po-tah-to. He’s just got this really great demeanor/attitude, I feel like he genuinely cares about his patients and enjoys his job. He makes it fun, or as fun as a doctor’s appointment can be. And when he asked me if I wanted him to get me in touch with the psychiatrist on campus, and I told him I wasn’t sure about the finances of it and that there was a copay per my insurance I didn’t think I wanted to pay, he said that was fine and that we would work on it together like whatever I was dealing with. I mean, after all, it doesn’t mean he can’t consult with the psychiatrist about something he’s unsure on himself. I don’t know, just overall he’s a really cool guy and I like seeing him. He makes me less nervous about doctor’s appointments than I usually am, and it’s just overall nice to know that he and the staff in general there are such kind people who always seem like they care about their patients and whatnot. Plus it’s free, so that’s always a bonus. But yeah, when I do go back, I hope I can get answers on what this weird ass deja vu shit is because it hits at the most inopportune moments and leaves me kind of mentally stunned for a solid three hours or so afterward, it’s so weird. And when I do go back, I’ll likely have to talk about the hell week I’ve had with my IBS so that should be fun lmfao yay for chronic illnesses-- they fucking suck.

#ramblings #delete later

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kaoruyogi · 8 years ago

Text

How to Win Wars and Influence Nobles (Ch. 5)

Rating: E for Explicit/NSFW Content! (Eventually)

Check it out on AO3!

You’d think a video game lawyer could just drop into a pseudo-medieval universe filled with magic and demons and be totally okay with it, right?

Nah.

In the wake of her brother, Spencer’s, disappearance, Belle dropped into Thedas with luggage, but without a clue. After a brief but memorable panic attack, she resolved to be the best goddamn lawyer Thedas had ever seen. Even if she was the only goddamn lawyer Thedas had ever seen. And even if that obstinate asshole, Cullen, wouldn’t stop giving her the side-eye every time she walked into a room…Or every time he walked into a room with her in it…Or every time they walked into a room together…Or–Fuck it. You get it.

Chapter 5: Don’t You Goddamn Dare

“You look like a frickin’ peacock,” Spencer said.

Belle preened, running her fingers along the frilled collar of her new Orlesian attire. “I like peacocks.”

“That’s good, Belle, because your brother is right. You do look like a peacock,” said Dorian. “Shimmery, green, and quite full of yourself. It suits you.” He sat across from her at a large congregational table in the center of the Herald’s rest. “Don’t you think, Sera?”

Sera, who sat to the right of Dorian, was almost too busy stuffing her face with stew and booze to answer. She did, though, mouth full and muffled. “Dunno, never seen one.”

“But you told me you’d been to Tevinter. Did you not manage to catch a glimpse of just one while you were there?”

“Bit busy, yeah?” she said before swallowing down her food. “I had things to do not looking at your stupid pee-birds. Pretty’s fine, but if you can’t eat it, sleep with it, or steal it, ‘s not worth much.”

“She’s right, you know,” Iron Bull said in his deep voice. “Pretty things are pointless if they’re useless.”

“Well, I suppose it’s good that I’m not useless then, isn’t it?” Dorian asked, leveling a squinting glare at the huge Qunari to his left. There was definitely something going on there.

“I don’t know about that, Buttercup,” said Varric from the end of the table. “You can’t eat, sleep with, or steal the Counselor, and she’s still pretty useful.” Belle loved that he’d taken to calling her Counselor. It lent a sort of foreign familiarity to their interactions.

Sera chewed and grinned at the same time. “Might try number one and two, though, just the same.”

Belle grinned back at her. “Sorry, Sera, I tend to prefer a different set of parts than what you and I got goin’ on.” Belle sipped her water, still smiling.

“Parts you can buy,” Sera said. “Or make.”

Belle’s water nearly came out of her nose. When her laughter had slowed to a simmer, she said, “Very true, but I prefer men anyway.” Sera just scoffed and shoved another heaping spoonful into her face.

“And I know this outfit is a little extravagant, P,” Belle said, turning to her brother, “but it makes my tits look amazing.”

“Here, here!” Bull raised his glass. Belle winked at him.

“Ech! Ew! Can you not, though? Can you just not talk about your…” He waved his outstretched hand around as if to block the offending boobs from view. “Your…those?”

“Aw, come on. What kind of shitty big sister would I be if I didn’t embarrass my little brother every now and then?” She jostled his shoulders. “Besides, you’re leaving tomorrow, and I won’t get to harass you for a month. And I’ve really missed harassing you. It’s probably the thing I missed the most after you vanished.”

“So, what, I should just start talking about who I’ve banged since I got here?” Spencer asked. He was always just as good at playing these games.

But Belle wasn’t about to back down. “Yeah, dude.” She made her tone as serious as she could. “Tell me who you banged.”

“Ohhh no, I’m not f—”

“Tell me who you banged, dude.”

“Blonde hair and a soft mouth.” Cole’s voice slipped up beside her, startling her just a bit. The ethereal boy was a mind reader. She just had to accept that. That was a real thing here. He was also sweet and kind. He’d brought her a cup of ginger tea the day after he returned with Max to Skyhold. “For your stomach,” he’d said. “You’re worried, but this will help.” She’d hugged him tight after the initial shock wore off. She’d hugged him tight a few times since, too. He was like a little mind-reading Winnie the Pooh.

“She’s always mean but she was nice then. Like Claire,” said Cole.

“Ewww, dude! You slept with Claire two point oh?” Belle’s mouth curled up into a sneer that melded disgust with amusement.

“Who’s Claire?” asked Varric. He leaned forward, intrigued.

“Tits McGee? His clingy, weird high school girlfriend.”

“She wasn’t weird, Bete.”

“She was so fucking weird, P. She fucking knocked on my fucking window in the middle of the fucking night after you guys broke up! My window! Not yours. Mine. And she knew it was mine, the creep. I was only home for the weekend, too, the little spaz.”

Sera snorted, and Spencer let out an exasperated groan. “Ugh, fine, whatever. She was weird. But she still had a great rack.” He and Sera clacked their mugs together at that. Belle shuddered.

It was moments like this that eased her mind. As everyone chattered about spying and stew and sexual conquests, Belle settled into the idea of being there. She still wanted to go home, that much was certain, but the people around her grew on her. She was still terrified to let Spencer leave Skyhold with nothing but a sword and shield to protect him, but knowing that Max was a powerful mage who needed little protecting placated her protective nature. Spencer had a dangerous job before being sucked into another dimension. Albeit, no one was actively trying to kill him most of the time, but there was still very real danger in his day-to-day.

At some point in the evening, Spencer excused himself to join his cohorts at another table, and they eventually retired for the night. One by one, the people laughing with her shuffled off into the night to sleep or fuck, or both. They left until she was alone. Wide awake and alone.

Belle wasn’t sleeping well. She thought about it as she trudged back to her tower. Anxiety and insomnia poked and prodded at her. The latter would have been nonexistent without the former. It wasn’t the kind of anxiety that sent her spiraling into a panic attack every night. It was the kind that whispered in her ear and flicked her consciousness just enough to remind her that something was wrong all the time. She was not supposed to be in Thedas. She was not supposed to be there, and it would kill her soon. She was sure of it. She only had seventeen days left. Seventeen days until things went south.

She climbed her stairs, all the while giving silent thanks to God for sending wonderful Josephine to her. Belle hated heights, and that godforsaken ladder had only highlighted her fears. She’d slept wrapped up in a blanket in the corner of her the tower for the first three nights, if anyone could call what she did sleeping. She shivered and wept and curled into a ball on the floor. Perhaps she’d slept those three nights, and perhaps she hadn’t.

The king-sized bed the workers had somehow hauled up to her room was passable. It was soft, if a little lumpy, and the covers were warm and plush. She thanked God again for the clandestine set of clasps she’d managed to have put on every piece of her new wardrobe. She unhooked and unsheathed herself and changed into her nightshirt. It really was too short and thin for the weather in Skyhold, but that didn’t matter. The fact that it smelled different didn’t bother her, either. It was the piece of home she could slip into every night.

Belle wasn’t even sure how long she would be able to keep wearing that nightshirt. It was starting to hang off her frame in a strange way. She was losing weight, already down somewhere between ten and fifteen pounds, she reckoned. To a point, that was to be expected when she stopped eating processed foods and chocolate and climbed every fucking stair known to mankind. But there were also times she wasn’t eating at all. She counted calories as she slipped under her covers and sidled up to the window at her bedside that she liked to stare out of in her sleeplessness. Maybe six or seven hundred calories, eight if she was pushing it. That was all she’d eaten that day. Less the day before. She’d made a good arrangement with the cook so she could avoid her food allergies, but that only took her so far.

Fear gripped her constantly. Fear that at any moment her gastroparesis or her GERD or her IBS would flare up and incapacitate her with no remedy. The meds were for management, they weren’t a cure. She couldn’t even think about her asthma, her chronic migraines, her cervical stenosis, her subluxated lumbar spine, her fucked up sinuses, or her very rare but occasional bouts of chemical depression. It was all too much.

So Belle stared out that window, watching the two moons creep across the sky, so huge that they looked like they would collide with the mountains as they passed overhead. Night sounds of wind and passing birds and the odd howling wolf soothed her. She cried most nights, but she usually watched and listened until her eyelids were too heavy, until sleep clawed its way into her head.

Movement on the battlements below caught her eye. A head of thick, surprisingly curly blonde hair exited the nearest tower. Cullen wore a loose white tunic and brown pants, but no shoes. The easy night wind that breezed around Skyhold ruffled his already mussed hair, and he ran his hand through it as he padded toward Belle’s tower. She watched him stop midway and put his hands on the stone wall.

He looked out at the snowy mountains. A dim and otherworldly blue glow hovered in the air—the moons reflecting off the ice—making him appear as if he’d been made a ghost upon the setting of the sun. He really was impressive to behold. Even under his loose clothes, and even from that distance, she could see that he was carved muscle and sinew and raw power. His profile was striking, and his bare hands looked at once soft and rough, fragile and strong.

Cullen leaned on those irreconcilable hands and stretched and twisted his body. The barest hint of sweat darkened the back of his tunic. More withdrawals. Belle wished he would at least put some shoes on. As hot as he might have been, it wasn’t good for him to be out in the frigid air in nothing but wisp-thin fabric. If it had been anyone else, she might have yelled down to them and grinned like an ass. They might have shared a laugh at the fright she’d given them. They might have gone back to bed or come to keep her company in her solitude.

But this was not anyone else. It was Cullen.

She didn’t hate him. On the contrary, she respected him. It took a while for her to realize that he was like a lot of the cops she’d worked with. He’d probably started out like the brand new cops—baby cops, everyone called them. These baby cops were dead serious about the job, about the cause. They ran themselves ragged working overtime and triple-double shifts and arresting even the most pithy offenders because they were going to make the world a better place, goddamnit.

Then they got tired. They got jaded. Some of them got funny, and some of them got angry. A lot of them landed in between. There was always one moment, one pin in the map of their career, that tipped the scales. An abused kid who begged them for salvation. A cute kid who asked them to play catch on duty. Someone’s schizophrenic brother or husband that shot their partner. Someone’s depressed brother or husband that they managed to talk off of a bridge. There was always something that stuck with them. Plenty of them would keep running themselves ragged until they couldn’t anymore, still determined to make that fraction of a difference. It was admirable, however futile it turned out to be.

Belle wondered what the pin was in Cullen’s map. What was the moment that tipped his scales? How long would he run himself ragged before he couldn’t anymore?

She watched him watch the mountains for uncounted seconds. She didn’t know how long he stood out there, staring at that glittery blue ice that turned him spectral. She only knew once she woke the next morning that she fell asleep watching him. She fell asleep to strange dreams of the blue and blonde phantom that snarled and wept and snarled again, the apparition that ran ragged as he slashed at misshapen demons in the darkness, the ghost that wondered if he would ever make that fraction of a difference.

*****

“You look like fucking frilly Bayonetta, weirdo,” Spencer said into Belle’s hair as she hugged him goodbye.

“And you look like a level two paladin, you fucking dork.” She squeezed him tighter and they laughed.

“I’m sorry I’m leaving so soon after we found each other again.”

“At least this time it’s by choice,” said Belle.

A throat clearing sound came from behind her. Goddamnit. She rolled her eyes while she was still facing away. The sound came from Cullen. She didn’t even have to look.

Belle and Spencer said their “goodbyes” and “I love you’s,” and she made her prerequisite threats that no one better get killed coupled with menacing and pokey fingers pointed from her eyes to everyone else’s. She watched Josephine linger a bit too long and a bit too close to Max. So, this was that courtly love people talked about. Passing touches and amorous gazes and just that inch of space missing between two bodies. It was adorable.

Belle stood sandwiched between a melancholy Josephine and a stoic Cullen. They watched Max, Varric, Vivienne, and Cassandra ride away, followed by Spencer and the rest of his battalion on foot. Belle caught sight of a short swath of blonde hair and an impressive bust on one of the soldiers. Tits McGee part deux, she thought.

She noticed Cullen’s flop sweat only in passing as she beelined for her tower to cry in private.

For the first week, Belle missed having her brother to complain to about what a pain in the ass it was to be without all their modern comforts. Taking a piss was an ordeal that either involved a disgusting bucket-chair contraption or a trip to the reeking communal latrine. Her period had only ended a few days before, and it became a mess of stained rags and embarrassing laundry the moment her temporary tampon supply ran dry. And to pick up said embarrassing laundry was a slew of servants, which made Belle uncomfortable in an entirely different way.

She took it upon herself, over several days, to do some housekeeping of her own with the servants. She checked in on all of them, managing to convince a few of them to speak candidly with her about their salaries and living situations. As it turned out, a position at Skyhold, or any of the Inquisition’s other properties, was coveted amongst the serving class. The pay was good and everyone got their own bed or bedroll, which was more than any of them were accustomed to in the homes of their previous employers. It was a relief to hear, though it brought Belle little comfort in accepting their servitude.

She had also taken to playing herself one song on her mp3 player every morning. The thing had a fully-charged twenty-four-hour battery when she’d been sucked into Thedas, and she figured she could make it last for a few months by turning it on for a single song. She sang along when there were words because she loved to sing. She was also rather good at it, if she allowed herself to believe what she’d been told. Settling into a version of her customary morning routine helped prepare her for the day, even for just a few minutes. It was better than nothing.

Belle also discovered that she liked the Ferelden nobility much better than the Orlesians. They were of sturdier stock, in her opinion, and less likely to find offense in petty things. A Bann named Hammett, there to discuss trading embrium shipments for extra Inquisition patrols, was accidentally served wine meant for the soldiers, much to Josephine’s immediate horror. Before she could have the offending beverage replaced, the Bann guffawed and drank down the whole glass.

“Wine is wine,” he said, “and the Inquisition soldiers are getting some damn good wine.” Belle liked Bann Hammett.

Ferelden clothes were also more comfortable. She had a few frocks made in various earthy tones, and belted at the waist rather than corseted. Each garment hung just above her knees, and was paired with leggings made of cotton, lambswool, or something called “samite,” and knee-high leather boots. Belle took the liberty of having cloth inserts put in for arch support. She had no clue how everyone walked, let alone marched, without arch support. It made her feet ache.

Cullen seemed to like her better in Ferelden garb, chest-thumping Ferelden that he was. He would nod a greeting to her before staring, which was an improvement on the unrestrained staring he’d been doing since she arrived. The two of them even managed to sprinkle some casual conversations into their routine amidst the bickering and shouting matches over who said what or who promised something to whom.

He didn’t look well, though. Every day his skin looked paler or greener. That flop sweat Belle noticed in passing became persistent. He would wobble where he stood or brace a hand on the war table or lean a shoulder against a wall. His symptoms were getting worse. But every time she asked him how he was doing, his answer was the same.

“Fine.”

“Fine,” Belle would say back.

She still watched him training from the battlements while she ate lunch. While she’d first started doing it to check his competence as a commander, she’d since begun to watch for his welfare. His hand would rest on the pommel of his sword and his body would sway as he barked out orders or instructions. He looked like he would fall over in a stiff breeze.

About eight days after Spencer and Max had left Skyhold—oh, who was she kidding, it had been exactly eight days, two hours, and twenty-one minutes since they’d left—Belle walked through the rotunda with Dorian and Sera on her way to let Cullen know that she needed two of his men to escort an Arl up from the valley the following day. It was her plan to have dinner with her friends after giving Cullen the message.

“We should ask the Commander to join us,” Dorian said. “I think he must be rather lonely locked away in that tower of his.”

Sera pulled a face. “Pfft! He’ll piss on the party!”

“I’m certain he’ll do no such thing. He just needs to loosen up a little. Perhaps a strong glass of something will help.”

“Trust me,” said Belle as they passed through the door to the battlements, “alcohol is the last thing he needs right now.” It would only make things worse. Alcohol dehydrated people and sapped them of vital nutrients, and Cullen needed every vital nutrient his body could contain.

“Oh? So you don’t think I should ask him to join us?”

“That’s not what I said. Ask him, don’t ask him, do what you want. Do you, booboo.”

“I haven’t the slightest idea what that means, but it sounds rather dismissive,” said Dorian.

“And you are right on with that assessment.”

“Perfect! We’ll have an extra dash of dashing at dinner tonight, then!”

Sera groaned.

Belle opened the door to Cullen’s office, talking as she did. “Hey, Cullen, I’m going to need to bor—”

She stopped cold at the sight of Cullen lying face down next to his desk, his arm outstretched, as if he’d tried to catch himself as he fell. A small wooden box lay open beside him, its contents spilled and smashed on the floor.

Belle shouted his name as she ran to him. He didn’t move. She felt the sting and scrape of the stone against her knees when she skidded onto the floor. Adrenaline pumped through her body, helping her roll him onto his back. His eyes were closed, his mouth open.

“Cullen?” She patted his cheek. “Cullen, wake up. I need you to wake up for me. Cullen?”

Nothing.

Sera stood frozen by the door. Dorian had appeared on the other side of Cullen’s body at some point. He repeated after Belle with a waiver in his voice. “Cullen? Wake up. Cullen?”

Nothing.

Belle put her ear down next to Cullen’s open mouth.

Nothing.

She two fingers under his jaw to check for a pulse.

Nothing.

“Sera,” Belle said, keeping as calm as she could. Calamity was her specialty. It was not her way to scream or freeze or run. “Sera, I need you to go get Solas.” Sera didn’t move. “Sera! Now!” Sera muttered something like “sorry, yeah” and ran back toward the rotunda. Solas hadn’t been there when they passed through, and Belle wondered if he’d returned since they walked out.

“He’s not breathing and his heart’s not beating, Dorian. Do you know any magic that can bring him back?”

Dorian looked grim as he shook his head. “Not alive. I’m a necromancer, which means he would have to stay dead for me to reanimate him.”

“Then help me get this armor off.”

Belle tugged Cullen’s mantle out of where it was tucked into his belt, while Dorian worked Cullen’s right arm out of it. She pulled it under Cullen’s body and yanked it off his left arm, throwing it out of her way. A mass of silvery steel still stood in her way.

“Roll him toward you,” she said. Oh God, Cullen, breathe, she thought. For the love of God, breathe.

Dorian did as she asked, and she unfastened a small brown buckle that she wondered how Cullen reached every morning. “Down,” she said, and Dorian set Cullen on his back again. They worked at the twin buckles in the front, and pulled Cullen’s cuirass over his limp head.

“Get the straps on your side.” Dorian obeyed again, unfastening the right side of Cullen’s breastplate from his backplate while Belle worked on the left side. Her fingers were steady. They were always steady in an emergency. She was fire-forged for this exact brand of crisis.

She and Dorian pulled Cullen’s breastplate off to reveal his sweat-drenched tunic, every fiber soaked through. His body was still warm. Dorian tugged the backplate out from under the dead man. He was dead. He would not stay that way. He couldn’t.

In almost any case, you’re only going to do compressions until help arrives. No rescue breaths. But in the event of an unwitnessed cardiac arrest, the body is likely deprived of oxygen, and would benefit from compressions and rescue breaths, she remembered the words of the instructor at her last CPR certification renewal. Not compression-only CPR. Rescue breaths and compressions. Rescue breaths and compressions.

Belle tilted Cullen’s head back to open his airway, and swept her finger through his mouth. She fastened her mouth over his, feeling the smooth skin of his scar and the rasp of his stubble against her lips, and breathed into his body twice. His chest rose and fell with each breath. He hadn’t choked on anything. Good.

She laced her fingers together and pressed the heel of her hand into his sternum to start compressions. Thirty to two, thirty to two, thirty to two. Cullen’s ribs cracked against his sternum with her third push. She counted aloud, all the while singing “Stayin’ Alive” in her head to keep the proper pace for her compressions.

“What are you doing?” Dorian asked, no doubt bewildered by her efforts.

“CPR,” she said as she pushed down. Fifteen. “Don’t you dare die, Cullen.” Twenty.

Belle felt again for a pulse at thirty. Still nothing. She breathed into Cullen’s mouth again, watching his chest rise and fall, and started her second set of compressions. “Wake up, Cullen.” She could feel foolish tears rising, burning her eyes. “Wake up. Don’t you fucking die on me, Cullen.”

His head lurched and his body jolted with every compression, his mouth lolled open. One of Belle’s absurd tears broke free and landed on his chest. He couldn’t die. She needed him. The Inquisition needed him, but she needed him, too. She didn’t even know why. All they did was argue and stare at each other.

An uncharacteristic sob forced its way from her unwitting lips after her third set of breaths. He still had no pulse. It wasn’t working. Maybe she should have made Dorian do compressions, he was bigger. But she would have had to teach him how, and time was of the essence.

Thirty more compressions, two more breaths. Nothing.

Where the fuck was Solas? Where was the fucking guy with the strongest healing magic in Skyhold?

Thirty more compressions, two more breaths. Still nothing.

Belle’s tears were flowing uninhibited. “Wake up, you obstinate asshole! This doesn’t get to kill you! You don’t get to die! Wake up!”

She stopped compressions, and balled her right and into a fist. “Don’t you dare die on me! Don’t you goddamn dare!” She swung that fist down onto his chest as hard as she could, grunting out another sob.

Nothing happened.

Belle screamed as she swung her fist down to thump Cullen’s chest again. It was a desperate scream that belonged to the helpless and hopeless and wretched, to the already-dead warrior thrusting his sword in a pointless final effort to vanquish his enemy. It was fraught and forlorn and tore its way out of her with such force that it made her body tremble.

“Don’t you goddamn dare!”

*****

Notes: Please don't hit me!!! *flinches*

On a side note, I'm not saying that non-rescue personnel should do rescue breaths. I'm an advocate for compression-only CPR for those who are starting out uninstructed. Also, precordial thumps (slamming one's fist on someone else's chest) are *rarely* effective on those whose hearts have stopped beating for an undetermined amount of time. AKA DO NOT TRY WHAT IS DEPICTED ABOVE AT HOME! I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE IF YOU DO, SO DO NOT USE THIS AS A RESUSCITATION GUIDE!

Kay...so...still don't hit me. Pretty please.

#cullen #cullen rutherford #commander cullen #cullen x belle #belle dolan #dragon age #dragon age inquisition #fanfic #mgit #self indulgence au #modern girl in thedas #htwwain

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toxxictara · 5 years ago

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Cancer’s legacy

Yesterday marked 11 years since I was diagnosed with a locally advanced rare Gynaecological cancer. Since then, I’ve tried to raise awareness of cancer in young adults (i.e. 18-45), created and host a fundraising VW Show for a local cancer charity, and try to help other ‘cancer people’ deal with their experience.

However, what is rarely mentioned and I certainly wasn’t told by my Doctors or Medical team, was the profound impact of the long term effects of having had cancer under 40; especially a pelvic cancer which was subject to many Gy of radiation and caused severe long-term damage; the full extent of which I am only starting to experience now.

About 2 years after treatment ended, I started to get bone pain in my hips in the area of the radiation, but also suffered occasional bowel problems (in the form of diarrhoea or urgency when I ate/drank certain foods - usually with caffeine in).

It wasn’t very often though and although I knew it was a side effect of radiotherapy, it was tolerable. However, about 2-3 years ago, it started to get worse; more often, and I started to have to be careful of what I ate/drank. I started researching ‘late effects of pelvic radiation’ and discovered that ‘pelvic radiation disease’ (PRD) is a thing; and I most certainly have it.

Now at 11 years, it’s almost intolerable. I have to be extremely careful about what I eat/drink, sometimes it even flares up for no apparent reason, which makes one anxious and depressed due to worrying about one’s damn bowels all the time! >:(

Isn’t it bad enough to have a Gynaecological cancer under 40, a stigmatised cancer, a cancer for which the treatment is humiliating and painful; ruins your body image and your sex life, brings about premature menopause?? Adding insult to injury, I essentially have radiation-induced IBS-D. In discussing our problems with other cancer people who have PRD, and people who have IBS-D, it is apparent that it ruins lives. You can’t eat what you like, you constantly have to worry about being near a toilet; and having to go 3-6 times within an hour if you have a flare-up! Anxiety makes it worse, but of course, you get anxiety worrying about your damn bowels all the time!

It’s embarrassing beyond belief. How can you feel good about yourself when you’re constantly having to poo? How sexy is that? FFS, how can you move forward from your cancer experience when the late effects of that experience get worse. (PRD is a progressive condition and can sometimes worsen over years, or even occur decades after cancer treatments ends :o )

It makes going out difficult. I work in Film and when you’re on Set in the middle of a shot, how the hell can you get away if you a get a flare-up? Sometimes it comes seemingly out of nowhere and is so sudden, it threatens disaster. I’ve been caught out a few times, and it’s bloody horrid.

I never had anxiety or depression before stupid cancer, but now I do. I also have PTSD (triggered by snow as I was in Treatment in Winter time) and snow brings back the horrible vivid taste of chemo, the smell and sounds of the hospital and the sense of doom and surreality of having cancer in your 30s when you thought yourself one of the healthiest of people. I was Vegan, straight-edge, a Pentathlete, ina monogamous relationship, and never had an STD. I was incredulous that I could even get cancer.

This stupid PRD isn’t easily addressed. Doctors are hopeless; they just tell you to take Loperamide (which actually makes me ill), or Buscopan (which helps with the cramping, but doesn’t actually make you not ‘go’ :/ ). You fear that if you can control the dreaded diarrhoea or urgency, you’ll just bung yourself up and then have that problem. It’s a bloody vicious circle with no real viable solution.

Shall I not eat? How do I live my life when I like to ride, hike, swim, be outdoors, work on Set, and travel?? All those activities are affected by PRD and you worry all the time if you’ll have a flareup and be ‘caught out’.

It’s fecking rubbish. What makes it worse is that nobody ‘normal’ can possibly understand the difficulty and they seem to think that since it’s 11 years since cancer, that I should be ‘fine now’. Erm, no. >:(

I considered not writing this. Why the hell should I tell everyone that I have ‘poo problems’?? :( However, I think it’s necessary that people be made aware of PRD and know that it’s debilitating and horrible, and is a direct result of a treatment that is meant to save your life. Sometimes that life becomes a living hell though, that you are just fighting to survive.

I’m not giving up though, but at this point, I’ve earned the right to whinge and everyone who thinks I can just ‘suck it up’ or thinks it isn’t ‘that bad’ can fuck right off.

Damn cancer...

#youngadultcancer #cancer #pelvicradiationdisease #prd #ibs #damncancer

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sergeant-donny-donowitz · 5 years ago

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Tough Guy (DonnyxFem!Reader) (Pt.1)

Requested by @sodapop182

@owba-chan @war-obsessed inglourious-imagines @tealaquinn @struggling-bee @frozenhuntress67 @kwyloz

Let me know if you wanna be added to the IB or OUATIH taglists!

A/N: I learned so stuff about ww2 nurses, and omg they were baddies

A/N 2: Yall...we need nurses/doctors/CNAs/Rns, now more than ever, Stay inside and do them a favor <3

PT 2 Here

__________________________________________________

His blood was spilling onto the snow, pooling through layers of jackets the basterds wrapped him with. His blood was begginning as a slow drip of crimson on white, like cherries in the snow.

The basterds couldn't help him, and they couldn't afford to lose another basterd.

When Donny woke up, he was in an aid station. That never happened to any basterd before. He felt like he didn't deserve it.

So when he realized you were taking his temperature, and his vitals, he shifted, "I don't need your help."

You raised your eyebrow.

"I don't know why they send you all out here anyway. We can take care of ourselves. We have to. I don't need this. I can-"

The way he said 'we' irked you.

You knew he was talking about the soldiers, forgetting war efforts involved everyone. There were civilians, women, children, medics, engineers, any and everyone everywhere left life as they knew it. Left it all behind, and put it all on the line. Even if they weren’t on the front line, it didn’t mean it wasn’t valuable.

You decided to play his game. You had the time.

You stood back, and crossed your arms, "Aw, don't like seein’ dames in charge, huh?"

"Wh.." He sputtered, realizing how his tone came off, "No, I...I meant...Uh...That's not what I meant! I..."

You smirked, "Alright tough guy. You still got some shrapnel there. You don't need me, right? Here." You handed him a scalpel.

He stared at you blankly.

You stared right back, your arms were crossed, your eyebrow raise, containing a laugh of amusement behind a face of routine. "Well, sergeant? I'm waiting."

His lips parted, but no words came out.

He was Donny Donowitz. He had never been speechless in his life.

You crouched over him, "Look. Your job might be to kill the enemy, but my job is to keep you alive."

This time, he raised his eyebrow. His head tilted to the side, and his dark eyes tried to see through yours.

He couldn't read you.

You stood back up, "Sometimes we can't do that," You sighed, sometimes it was too much. There were days where the blood didn't stop, there was no time to eat, no time to sleep.

There was a commotion out in the corridor.

There had been an air raid over a nearby town...Which meant chances were you wouldn't be able to save someone that night.

You looked back at Donny, and shrugged, "Hang tight, tough guy."

"Wait...I-"

You looked back at the door.

You knew he wouldn't say it.

He was too proud.

He wouldn't admit he needed you.

It kind of gave you some satisfaction, but, at the same time, there were others that really needed you.

Donny, in the mean time, slumped back down.

What was he going to say?

He stared at the ceiling, looking for those words as his fever took him back to night.

****

Donny's eyes went wide.

He flailed, and shot straight up, immediately trying to get up. The nurse that was in the room at the time couldn't get him to calm down, and there were no sedatives at hand.

"Y/N?! SOMEBODY! GET ME SOME GODDAMN SEDATIVES!"

In no time, you marched in.

The sole look on your face made Donny Donowitz stand down.

He was genuinely terrified.

You were not having it.

Your hair was pulled back, a few wild strands undone from the long hours. Your sleeves rolled up from your day turned graveyard shift. Your stern, unamused expression settled him down immediately.

You held up a syringe.

He immediately backed down.

Because if there was one thing Donny couldn't handle, it was syringes.

He could scalp all the nazis in the world, and bash as many of their brains in as he pleased....but a needle was an absolute hell no.

"Hey hey, hey, what's all the commotion in here, huh?"

That was a rhetorical question, of course. Because Donny was the most problematic patient you’d ever had. So you immediately looked to him. The only conscious patient in the room, and you muttered "Oh of course."

He gathered his strengths back up, "I gotta go, I gotta get back out there."

You looked at the other nurse. "Lana, can you get private Martinez down the hall some more morphine? I'll handle this."

Lana, the other nurse, smiled and nodded gratefully as she bounded down the hall.

"You're not ready to go back out there."

"But-"

You gently pressed your fingertips against his covered wound, and he flinched as a wave of sharp pain struck him.

“See.”

He shook his head, and started to sit up, "I'm fucking fine!"

You couldn't believe it. Their pride and stubborness was the number one thing that got those boys hurt and right back to you.

Or worse.

Six feet underground.

"Hey." You raised your voice.

Normally, you weren't that nurse....but Donny wasn't making it any easier.

It had been a tough week.

There had been more casualties than usual...

No matter how much training you got, nothing could ever prepare you for that. Not those sad eyes that would never see victory, or home again...

You stood over Donny, "I didn't bust my ass trying to save you, just so you could go and-"

"Save me?!"

You glared, "Yeah. You."

"You didn't save me, " he huffed, "The boys brought me in."

"Oh." You picked up a tin, and shook it around. A metallic clink began to ring through the room. "And who took this fucking bullet out of your belly? Who stopped you from spilling your guts out? Who closed up that wound when your sloppy team couldn’t? All the lovely ladies here."

He was silent for a moment.

He lowered his voice, and muttered, "You don't know what it's like out there, sweetheart."

Sweetheart?

You gritted your teeth.

You weren’t taking a back seat. You’d worked too hard all your life.

Smoke practically flared out of your ears.

"No?" You lowered your voice too, not to comfort him, but to confront him.

"C'mon sergeant. Nurses see all the blood you don't have to. We sit with the dead and the dying day in and day out. We stitch you up, and send you back out there. Hell, we go out there."

You knew he was going to say it wasn't the same.

Somehow, sometimes you thought it was worse...

Millions of lives were in your hands. Seeing even one go was enough to make you wonder about it all.

"I was there... the Blitz." You had the burns to prove it. You were there, on the lines of multiple battles, but that basterd didn't need to hear your biography.

Just your point.

"I know what's happening, because I've been on the front lines. A lot of us have. You don't think we do? Well guess what tough guy, hundreds of us have been hurt or killed out there. My sister's a nurse. You know where she is?"

He shook his head.

"Yeah. I don't either. She's a POW somewhere in the goddamn pacific. And my brother. Know where he is? A fuckin' captain training kids, 18, 19, 20 year olds to come out here and join the circus. So welcome to the club, tough guy. We all got front row seats here."

He heard you slam your fist down on the stand by his cot, and you left.

He turned his head, and saw you left a few pain killers by his glass of water.

He woke up again, in the middle of the night. His eyes fell on the clock hanging over the doorway.

It was almost 3 AM.

He spotted a figure, slumped in the corner.

You were sitting in a chair, drinking out of a canteen.

"Can I have some?" He smiled a little.

You closed the cap, and rolled your eyes on the ceiling, and sighed, "Nope. You're in a hospital."

"Then how come you get some?" He thought he had you.

You smirked and looked at him, "Cause I'm not on medication."

"But you're on duty."

"Off the clock."

He noted your hair was down, and nodded, then asked softly, "Then why are you here?"

You smiled a little and looked at him, "Seems to be the only way to keep you here."

He chuckled a little, though it hurt, and he gripped his wounded side.

You were both silent then.

You pressed your back against the chair, and your head leaned back against the wall, and you shut your eyes, though you were far from sleeping.

You didn't know how much time had passed, but you knew it had been quite a while.

"Hey...nurse..."

You peeked one eye open, "Sergeant?"

"What's the first thing you're gonna do when you get home?"

You sighed, and thought for a moment.

You could say the standard issue answer: Hug your mother. See someone you love. Find your friends.

You'd thought about home a lot, sure. But never really thought about going home. You'd seen so many that never would go home. You'd been on one front line too many. You never had a guarantee of making it through a whole day. So you never gave yourself the luxury to think of that hope at all.

"Get a rootbeer float." You decided.

It was true.

There was a mom and pop shop down the street from your home. You hoped it was still there when you got back. Somehow you hoped all your friends would be in the same booth like they were every Friday night, after school, after work, before they all volunteered or got drafted.

You looked to the tired soldier "What about you, sergeant?"

He smiled a little, "Get a piece of pie."

"Oh yeah? Boston cream pie?"

"Huh?"

You shrugged a little embarassed as you pulled the covers back over him, "You...got that kinda accent..."

He smiled, "Should."

You smiled softly, "See you in the morning, sergeant." You turned and started walking out of the room.

"Wait..."

You turned to look at him.

"Y/n...that's your name, right?"

You nodded, "Yeah..."

"I'm uh....I'm..." He couldn't appologize, of course, that pride was hitting in.

You nodded, and spoke softly, "Yeah, I know."

He sat up, and it didn't hurt. "You uh...you do good..."

You laughed a little, "Gee, thanks. I never woulda guessed." You sat by his side.

In the morning, a doctor came by.

Donny was discharged from the aid station. He stood up, and turned around, searching the room... Three nurses were there, and none of them were you. As he walked down the hall, he glanced into each room, but couldn’t find you. He stood out in the snow, and sighed. His breath forming alost cloud as he whispered your name in defeat. “Sergeant Donowitz?” He turned and found a soldier in a jeep, waiting to drive him to the end of allied lines, where the basterds would be waiting for him. He got into the jeep, and turned around one last time. You stood on the highest floor of the makeshift hospital. It hurt having to see so many people that wouldn’t make it. Talking to them made it hurt more.... But falling in love was a million times worse. You shook your head. That couldn’t be why it made your heart sink... Why did it hurt so much to watch him walk out? That was what usually made you relieved for a patient. You didn’t want to answer that... **** Months passed. The basterds were walking through a small town in France, recently taken back by the allies and the resistance. The snow had long metled away. The skyw as bright blue. It was an early summer morning. There were soldiers everywhere. Nurses and medics responding to the wounded. The basterds were staying there for a day or two, and then continuing on their mission. Aldo gave them a “day off” which was rare for the basterds. Rarer still was a coincidence like the one Donny was about to live. He spotted someone, in civilian clothes, but with the sharpness of a fighter, and the soul of a basterd, and the heart and courage only a nurse could have. “Y/n...” You turned around, and smiled, unable to believe it as you ran to him, and threw your arms around him. He smiled down at you, and you giggled, “Still a sergeant, huh?” He laughed, and rolled his eyes, and kissed you. You spent the rest of the day together, and at sunset, when the boys had to meet back up, Donny walked you to the aid station. “Meet me after everything...When the war’s done...” You nodded, “I’ll be right here, tough guy.” He looked back at the waiting basterds, then back at you. He couldn’t tell you about the mission, or that the war would be over sooner than you thought. That was all classified. He only told you they were heading to a small town called Nadine. He kissed you one last time, adn walked away with the rest of the basterds. He llooked back at you, adn this time, you were still there. And you’d be there, for him when it was all over, just as you’d been there, like every other nurse, when it was all beginning.

Amazing art by @sodapop182 y'all should check out her blog 😭💕

#Donny Donowitz #donny-donowitz #donny donowitz imagine #donny donowitz x reader #Inglourious Basterds #inglourious basterds imagine #Quentin Tarantino #eli roth

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