#did I ever circle back to the idea of being a therapist?!?

[swiftful-thinking13]

today in the car I was thinking about what my life would look like right now if the p*ndemic never happened

[himbeereule]

(I'd call this a hot take if it weren't so lukewarm that it crosses the treshold into slightly cold)

"nowadays, everyone is suddenly getting diagnosed with autism or adhd or whatever"

no, people just used to not get diagnosed no matter how obvious it was

like, throughout my whole childhood people - including professionals - were like "huh, she's seriously strange, wonder what that's about", but nobody ever had the brilliant idea to just check

I mean, there was the assumption that I probably have adhd, but I was never tested nor did they do anything to help (except scolding me for not really participating in class, forgetting to bring things (sometimes my whole schoolbag) every single day, etc; I've never done homework in my entire life)

they did send me to speech therapy because I was really quiet unless talking about some special interest, then I wouldn't shut up until told to (my dearest adults always made sure to let me know how much they suffered from me talking to them <3); it was a semi-success - the therapist found that she couldn't do any exercises with me, but that I was happy and able to hold a normal conversation about the goals and methods of speech therapy (she ended up explaining her study books to me, and we just chatted about those for the whole therapy)

they also sent me to occupational therapy, but I spent the whole time rotating (literally just spinning in circles every session), so that didn't really help with anything either

so I had to suffer through many years of school (I skipped a grade, but changed schools a lot (I attended almost all school types in Germany lol), so I've been in school way longer than normal) always listening to teachers saying I had "the potential to always get perfect grades if she just... uuuh..." without ever managing to think of an actual solution, or even just suggesting we could maybe look for what's wrong with me

literally all my various schools ever did in that regard was sending me to take IQ tests, which led to one of the stupidest sentences I've ever heard (keep in mind it was an actual psychologist specialized in schoolchildren and responsible for the entire school who said this): "she's just so intelligent, we normal people will never understand her" - which was then used as justification to do absolutely nothing despite me having glaring problems in every single sector of (school) life

this whole thing also seriously set me back later - when I first learned about autism, I was like "no, everyone always told me how extremely weird I am, this would be way too easy of an explanation"; in the end, it took me three whole years of people learning about autism going "hey, that sounds like you!" (one school I was at specialized in social professions, so we learned about things like that as part of the curriculum), and people who lived with autists and autists themselves constantly assuming I was autistic and being really bewildered when I told them I wasn't, before I decided to go to diagnosis (surprise: the peer-reviewed status was officially confirmed)

but at that point, it didn't really help anymore - yes, getting closure was kinda nice, but when you're an adult, the little help that is available is only available if you take care of getting it yourself - which I absolutely can't, that's part of the problem in the first place.

so, in conclusion, I spent my entire life getting told how much potential I have by the very people who made sure to do nothing to actually help me achieve it (or just, you know, have a somewhat stable average performance, like everyone else)

tl;dr: I'm a massive disappointment to myself and everyone else, but at least I know it's not my fault. yay.

[silentalltheseyearsnomore]

I don't really want to tag this as I feel like I don't trust a whole lot of what is on this little app but a few follow me who I feel are authentic and relate to me so maybe I'll get lucky and you'll relate or have any idea wtaf happens with us lol

I am too exhausted to explain properly but... we have this thing where we get stuck writing. non stop. through an entire day, entire night, not allowed to stop for water or food or rest. only ever to our therapist of the time.

usually, in the past, it was always triggered by "confessing" (every single reason we are evil, that DID doesnt exist, that our history never happened.. every single thought we have.. etc, it was terrifying, we couldnt even stop to reach a hand out.) and we did a lot of work with our longterm therapist back then to understand what parts were at play, that it seemed very linked to some programming, but we never untangled it all. we saw the similarities of not being allowed water, not being allowed food, going insane, the feeling of spinning in circles, losing all realities, confessing, insanity.. etc... and it was always like breaking a spell. The second we managed to stop it, we saw it all clearly and couldn't understand how we were under such a spell. But trying to stop it felt like death. Because to stop it we had to believe it was a program and STOP. And believing, meant being even more evil, because it's not real. But once we did...we were okay. It was fucking terrifying.

But today we had similar in a different way. It wasn't about confessing but more.... trying to get every reality from every part on paper or not being allowed to send to our therapist. It would be a lie. And spinning in circles trying to explain and add another reality and another and another. And we thought eh this is just the product of a lot of fear, and a lot of parts all at once. But.... again we ended up a few seconds away from being unconscious from a faint from not drinking or eating, in the dark in a carpark after not stopping all day.

We also think we identified old sabotaging programs a past therapist noticed activate in us very often during therapy. But I just..

It's so hard to believe any of it is true.

Is this... does this sound at all not insane to someone?

[stanheightsimp]

I wrote this quickly to distract myself from my burnout. Sorry, it's badly written and sloppy, a bit. There will surely be corrections in the future, when my mental health is better !

Group Therapy | Adam Stanheight x /Leon Kennedy

Adam must take part in group therapy. He meets a survivor of Raccoon City. Since Amanda and Leon are both in DBD, I'm obsessed with the idea of a Saw and Resident Evil crossover (and also because Leon and Adam are comfort characters). | 2478 words

Adam Stanheight stepped hesitantly into the overheated room, nervously fidgeting with the excessively long sleeves of his flannel shirt. He didn't want to do this. Fuck, he hated this kind of thing. Group therapy. For people suffering from PTSD. Great.

It was his therapist who'd sent him there "an indispensable step in his healing process". Supposedly, Adam was too self-focused on his suffering. Supposedly, it would do him good to find other people who had it as bad as he did. Blah, blah, blah. Fucking idiot therapist. As if he could understand what Adam was going through. As if anyone could understand what it felt like to wake up in a tub of dirty, cold water, seeing a person saw off his foot, , get shot by this person, and be left to die for seven days in the dark, without food or water. Adam decided he'd do the bare minimum, even put all the ill will in the world into it, so they'd leave him alone, or even, oh fuck, that was what he wanted, kick him out of group therapy for being unbearable.

He sat down grudgingly on one of the folding chairs arranged in a circle in the center of the room, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms over his chest, reluctant to cooperate. A few people were already there, people in his age bracket. At least, that was something. Adam didn't really like people from his parents' generation.

His gaze met that of a blond boy with hair like the lead singer of the Backstreet Boys (Adam hated the Backstreet Boys). Blue shirt open over a white T-shirt, sky-blue jeans, big clear eyes, and eyes rimmed as if he hadn't slept in days.

Leon Kennedy met Adam's gaze and wasn't sure whether he liked him or hated him. His old self of a few years ago would have liked him, probably. Leon liked people, trusted them without restraint. He believed in many things, was unfailingly optimistic, and managed to find beauty in everyone. Even when people were capable of the worst, he could find the best in them.

Well, that was then. Leon clung desperately to the ghost of the carefree, optimistic kid he'd been before Raccoon City.

"We have a new member," declared the group therapy organizer, and Adam rolled his eyes. "Adam, stand up, would you like to introduce yourself?"

No, fuck no, I don't want to introduce myself, I don't want to be there, I want to disappear.

Adam stood up with a sigh.

"My name's Adam. I'm twenty-five years old. And four months ago, I was a victim of Jigsaw. He locked me in the bathroom, and I almost died in there. And… that's it."

The assembly said a unanimous "hello Adam" which Adam felt was forced and hypocritical. Fuck, he hated group therapy. Everyone came not to support or listen to others, but to be supported and listened to by someone, to have someone sympathize. Basically, this kind of therapy was the most singularly selfish thing Adam had ever seen.

"Was there any particular reason he captured you?" asked a girl, older than Adam but not by much.

Are you fucking kidding me? You really think this asshole needs a reason? You're such an idiot! Adam tried to reply, but just shook his head.

"Actually, maybe there was a reason. I was suicidal, in a way."

"What do you mean, in a way? You either are or you aren't, there's no in-between." commented a teenager laconically.

"Shut the fuck up, I didn't fuckin' ask for your opinion." Adam replied, sitting back down.

The therapy organizer intervened, asking with forced enthusiasm and empathy, someone else to talk about him. At first, Adam couldn't help rolling his eyes as he listened to the other people's testimonials, and especially as he saw the sympathetic nods.

Leon didn't say much either. But he did listen. He listened a lot. He seemed to really listen to what others were saying. He didn't necessarily propose solutions, but offered a listening ear, a real listening ear.

Then Adam decided to speak up:

"Before the trap, I was… I was convinced I was nothing. I was alive, but I was nothing. I didn't even want to live. Today, I want to live, and I've realized it, but I'm just… too broken to live. I have nightmares every night. Horrible nightmares. I can't get into a bathtub without thinking about the trap. Everything brings me back to it."

He took a deep breath, holding back the rising tears. And it was Leon who came to his rescue by speaking up, diverting attention from the dozen or so curious faces scanning Adam, probably waiting for him to burst into tears.

"I was in Raccoon City when it happened. September 30, 1998… It's a day I'll never forget. Somehow, I made it out. But too many others...weren't so lucky. But deep down, I know that the cop inside me died that day. If I could just forget what happened that night, the pain—even for a second."

Leon swallowed his saliva with difficulty, his eyes moist and his fingers clutching the fabric of his jeans.

"Thank you for your testimony, Leon" said the organizer. With a wave of his arms, he invited the participants to repeat what he had just said, and there was a brouhaha of more or less sincere "thank you for your testimony, Leon".

The rest of the session passed laboriously, and when it was over and Adam had put on his jacket, Leon approached him. The room had already all but emptied.

"Hi. My name's Leon." "Adam" he replied in a formal, wary tone. "First session, huh?" "Yeah, and probably the last." Adam replied with a deeply jaded look.

Leon could see through Adam's game. He knew that Adam's cynical, sarcastic attitude was just a mask. Just as Leon had closed in on himself like a shell, Adam was trying to repel others.

They stared at each other for a long, long time. Soon, the room was completely empty.

"Shall I walk you back to the parking lot?" offered Leon to Adam. "Why not" the dark-haired man conceded.

Five minutes later, they were in the men's bathroom, Leon pinning Adam against the wall, pressing his body against his and greedily exploring his mouth, Adam's arms around Leon's neck and Leon's hands on Adam's hips.

"Is this how you welcome newcomers?" sneered Adam against the blond's lips, as he slid his knee between his legs. "Just you. Only you." moaned Leon in his ear, before disengaging himself from the brunet's embrace and wiping his lips. "See you at the next session, Stanheight?" "Wait, all this so I can continue your bullshit therapy?"

Leon gave him a mischievous smile, placed a tender kiss on his cheek, and exited the restroom. Just before, he turned back to Adam and whispered in a soft voice:

"It's a date, yes." "Shit."

And so it was that Adam Stanheight didn't miss a single session of group therapy.

[tobiasdrake]

Tactical Story Time? Tactical Story Time.

Shit, I don't really have a pen on me. If only there was a way to preserve a still image of your words for future reference or something.

I dunno, maybe rip out the pages and give those to me. You seemed bizarrely okay with that idea earlier.

Does it say anything in there about what she is? Like, I have a vague understanding of what she is in the sense that she's an ominous force that menaces Repine. She used to be their queen but then she betrayed them, possibly to the Soul Curator?

But. Like. Literally, what is she? A robot? A monster? Just some asshole in the desert? What are we dealing with here and, more importantly, what kind of dimensions are we going to need to dig for the grave?

There is one thing in this entry that is no longer true. I aim to create further contradictions.

Oh cool, a logic puzzle. I can decipher this.

I mean, you could probably decipher it yourself. I've played the quiz game. I know you have all of the answers to everything because you're the smartest person ever.

But I wanna take a spin at it.

That's stupid. That would just put them one march east of their starting point.

That will take them a bit further, but you could do it in three steps if you went south instead of southwest and then east.

So one march northeast and then one march east. The goldilocks of poor navigation.

You realized how bad these directions are?

...so you all had the right directions for part of your trek and you somehow know which part even though you were in the wildly wrong areas of the map. Sure. That makes sense.

There's no way this can be literally true. This is a coded map. So we need to go:

NE SE NE E

Bit convoluted with the norths and souths but at least it's consistently moving east instead of winding stupidly in circles.

Wait, there's a speedball station? Why didn't it come back online with the others? There better be a good reason or I'm going to punch B'st very hard in the shoulder.

I don't want to have to do that. He can't actually be hurt because he only experiences the conscious suggestion to behave as though he's been hurt, but also he is very hard and I might injure my hand. Please do not make me have to do that.

Known and noted. Your sacrifice is now part of a larger effort to tear the Queen That Was from her throne and leave her lifeless body in the sands.

Rest in Vengeance, Joce.

Alright, team! It's going to be a four day hike through those sands so we need to make sure we've stocked plenty of food for.....

...glass golem....

...haunted puppet....

...Serai, do you actually eat food? That could go either way. Have you been not eating food this whole time, and your crew just never noticed because of your suave mystique?

Huh. I. Guess. We only have three mouths to feed. That will make this simpler.

Oh my god I am actually sick of the color blue. I didn't think I could get sick of the color blue. I love blue. It's such a great color. But four straight days of nothing but blue is too much blue. It's way too much blue. How do you people live among all this blue?

Oh. So it's a private Speedball station. That makes sense. Congratulations, B'st, you've been spared from having to break my hand.

It's fucking empty. Did we just spend four days wandering aimlessly through an ocean of blue only to find out that the queen's been dead all this time? Are your people living in fear of a memory?

...maybe the real Queen That Was is actually the sand that got in my fucking pants along the way.

What, to murder someone? I'm always ready for that. It's been, like, my default state of being ever since we lost Garl.

I should probably see a therapist about it but I'm not going to because I might kill them.

...you know what, unfurled like that, you're actually really beautiful. I'm going to beat you to death, but I want you to know that you're making the whole "abomination of wires and guns" thing really work for you. I especially love the hand made of cord fingers, and the way your neck forms the handle of a gun.

Are you able to combine into, like, a hand holding a gun that then shoots-- Sorry, I'm getting distracted to the point that Serai's starting to give me stink-eye. We came here to murder.

Oh, you CAN!? AHHHH YES, THAT IS SO FUCKING COO--

OW. FUCK.

Why do I say things? T-T

You know what? Fine. You want to go? Let's go. My artillery is better than yours.

The puppet isn't good for much but he can carry out a fine carpet bombing.

Fuck her up, Serai. This is your moment. I'm just glad we could be here to help make it happen.

Revenge is underrated; That felt great.

We can mark that off as another great menace your people no longer have to live under, thanks to the magic of excessive amounts of violence. I think your world is just about fully liberated at this point.

There's just one malefactor still lingering in the realm.

[whatislovevavy]

WC: 4.4k

Synopsis: An exploration of why Bucky decided to cut his hair

AN: This has been in my Google Drive for about two years and finally got around/had the motivation to finish this. This piece was technically my first ever piece of fanfiction I ever wrote. My writing mostly pertains to Top Gun and Top Gun Maverick so this was a nice little brain break from that. I thought I'd include the original author's note I put together, having never written fanfiction at the time, just for nostalgic sake and if anyone wants to know just how new to this I was lol. Also this divider is not mine and I was unable to tag the account that made it since it was deleted. This work will be posted on my side blog @sophs-writing-nook.

Original Author’s Note: Hello everyone :) This is the first fanfiction I’ve ever written and I really hope you guys like it because I’m a bit nervous about it. I’ve had this idea since I saw the first promotions for the Falcon and Winter Soldier series and didn't really do anything about it for a variety of reasons. I haven’t seen a lot of fics exploring this concept so I decided to write this on a camping trip in my notes app where I didn’t have reception so I apologize if there is bad grammar, spelling errors, etc. If there happens to be a similarity to another fic, it is purely coincidence and I don’t intend to plagiarize anyone. Please let me know if it does appear I have. I have a lot of respect for fanfic writers and don’t want to disrespect anyone and steal anyone’s work unintentionally. 

Warnings: Blood, Trauma (PTSD), sadness with some bittersweet moments sprinkled in, supportive Sam because that’s a warning in itself. 

None of these characters are mine. Read at your own discretion.

Bucky had tried finding a routine after coming back: Get up by 7, go on a run make breakfast, try to keep in touch with his friends he had made since coming back, try a new recipe, maybe try online dating, catch up on what he missed the past 70 years, try to forgive himself for all the atrocities he didn't have a choice in committing, make dinner, shower, and sleep by 9.

That's what his therapist, Darlene, told him to do at least.

She wanted him to write in a journal the names of the people and families he wanted to make amends with, things he wanted to explore and try out, and good things he remembered before he was the Winter Soldier.

Darlene had kept encouraging him to keep referring to the Winter Soldier as if he were his own separate person, and not affiliated with James Buchanan Barnes.

It helped a bit with passing the blame, but not by much. He, naturally, chose the last remnant of Steve he had- his journal- to hold these thoughts.

Steve saw the best in him when he couldn't. 

He made an effort to try and forgive himself for everything he did, for Steve’s sake. 

Why Steve had left him, he didn't fully understand. 

It didn't make the "forgiving himself" part any easier. 

If his lifelong friend, who had been with him through thick and thin, decided to leave him now in this time of his broken, mutilated life, what did that say about him? 

Was he wrong about him? 

Did he truly believe he was worth being fixed and forgiven? 

There were small moments of hope that he could be fixed, but they were few and far inbetween.

His nightmares had gotten worse.

If Darlene would ask, he’d tell her, “no, they haven't", "they've stopped", or "I haven't had one for a while.” Bullshit excuses that anybody who saw the dark circles under his eyes wouldn't believe. Darlene knew he was lying and would try to reassure him that their space was safe and it would help him to get his nightmares out in the open.

He didn't think so.

This woman didn't know what it was like to have the same horrific scenarios play out in his mind every time he went to sleep. 

To see himself killing innocent people like he was in the backseat of his mind. 

The blood. 

Their faces, some close friends and others strangers. 

Their pleas and calls for mercy were what always broke him. 

He was forced again and again to witness himself taking their lives and couldn't do anything to stop himself. Forced to use any part of himself for Hydra.

Nothing was spared.

He felt unforgivable, these nightmares were a sign of the Winter Soldier still being in his head, buried and ready if Hydra got their hands on him again. 

He was tired of fighting and worrying, only wanting lasting peace and a full night's rest.

He had started renting an apartment in downtown Brooklyn near where his family had lived during the 40's. It was near the church cemetery his mother, father and sister, Rebecca, were buried. They were placed in the row closest to the street behind the church his family frequented during his youth. 

His parents had passed from old age when he was imprisoned by Hydra. 

A small part of him was thankful for that. 

They never had to learn that their son had done such horrible things.

They lived with the good memories of him.

His sister had passed during the time half the population was gone, the Blip people called it, from Alzheimer's. He visited her once before, but she was in the late stages, and was a shell of who he remembered growing up. 

His little sister Rebecca, whom he protected, opened jars for, teased, and made sure the boys she liked would be good to her, was now unable to remember him. He was told she passed peacefully in her sleep a few months after he disappeared.

Darlene thought that buying an apartment so close to his family's resting place might be overwhelming for him, but he wanted to be close to them and the memories he had.

The apartment consisted of a basic floor plan; kitchen, bathroom with a shower and bath, living room, bedroom, closet. However, he only used the kitchen, bathroom, and living room.

He didn't have many things when he moved in, and didn't feel he needed all the space allotted to him.

He had invested in a modest tv set, a microwave, blender, and a camping mat, courtesy of Sam's encouragement. 

He had tried sleeping on a mattress, but he felt that he was going to sink through into the floor with how soft and marshmallow-like it felt. He always slept on the floor with a few blankets and sheets. 

Sam had the same experience when he came back from Afghanistan.

Sam had tried to help him adjust to things since coming back, and had done a lot for him, including to help him find his apartment and encourage him to try new things.

There were times he had trouble getting out of his headspace to return Sam's calls and initiate with his friend. Darlene had been saying that for a person who allegedly had no one left, he seemed to have a safety net in Sam. She pushed him to call someone other than her and initiate with him. It was another case where he felt she didn't fully understand how difficult it was for him to build relationships, and "get his nightmares out in the open" since coming back.

He had gotten home late that night from the store, buying ingredients to make a recipe Darlene recommended: chicken tikka masala, he thought she called it.

He was amazed at the amount of change he had missed, especially from a grocery store. His family would boil everything with what minimal spices were available, other than the usual salt and pepper. He found solace in trying new recipes and exposing himself to the technological wonders of the 21st century, including learning how to use a DVD player and the iPhone he recently bought. He tried online dating but found it was too overwhelming and made him feel like a fish out of water. Asking people on dates and seeking relationships came easily to him when he was younger before the war, but everything felt so different now. 

He felt so different and foreign to himself. His arm. His mind. He felt like a shell of the person he was before the Winter Soldier.

His groceries were unloaded into the fridge and he started to prepare his dinner. He placed a bowl on the counter for mixing chicken marinade and marinating the soon to be cooked slices of chicken. The chicken slices were placed into a pan on a low heat to begin cooking. They wouldn't take long since they only had to cook halfway through initially. He gathered the spices for the marinade.

The soft smells of turmeric, ginger, cumin, and garam masala reminded him of the evenings he spent helping his mother cook during the summer. His mother would rummage together some cash every once in a while to buy a few sachets of spices from the local grocery. It was an indulgence she took part in that, compared to now, seemed simple and less of an everyday luxury. 

Sure, the spices she would bring home were more mild and less "exotic" than what he had available to him now, but it was the familiar memory of being taught to cook and the soft smells of his mother's cooking.

His conscience told him to use the spices sparingly despite himself being confronted with a substantially sized grocery aisle complete with spices from almost every corner of the world a mere few hours ago.

Maybe it was his upbringing during the Great Depression and watching his parents worry about where the next paycheck would come from.

Or maybe it was his instinct telling him this small semblance of peace he had found in his Brooklyn apartment would be snatched away, and that he needed to savor every new experience in stride. 

Because if he let himself enjoy them too much, it would make the snatching that much more painful.

He couldn't decide.

He finished the marinade and would have to wait an hour or two to start the sauce and cook the chicken. He placed it in the fridge and made his way to the bathroom for a shower.

The warm water felt nice on his warped, scarred flesh around his arm on his left side. The area would often become sore and plagued by knots. Sam recommended warm showers, aloe vera, a massage and spa place nearby, and Advil. The thought of people he didn't know touching his scarred flesh made him feel nervous, so the rest of his suggestions were his go to. 

His scar tissue and long hair were the last physical mark of Hydra on him. 

He was thankful he didn't have to see the red star that had branded him for so many years when he looked in the mirror anymore, since leaving Wakanda.

But there was still his hair.

His hair that had blood, dirt and grime stained into it for his 70 years of service. No matter how many times he showered, he knew the blood would never leave his hair or his hands. His mind would drift through waves of hopelessness in quiet moments like these more often than not.

He dried himself off with a soft towel, changed into a pair of boxers, and began to gingerly apply aloe vera to the junction where his arm met his shoulder. His shoulder was still a bit sensitive after all these years despite the enhanced healing from the serum. Shuri theorized it was because the metal cavity of his arm continuously tore through the underlying tissue. She was able to remove the bits and pieces of metal embedded in his shoulder. His arm was in the healing process, but it would take a while after years of damage even with the serum. After he finished rubbing in the aloe vera, He put on a dark t-shirt and made his way back into the kitchen to finish the sauce.

He carefully prepared the onions, garlic, and spices for the sauce the way his mother taught him to. 

He couldn't help but think about how his parents and sister would have loved to have tried this recipe with him.

He could almost hear his mother's voice in his head telling him to "cut the onions a bit smaller" or "don't let the garlic and onions burn in the pan".

Rebecca's eagerness to try the sauce prematurely with a perfected pout and whines of protest when denied so.

His father's quiet yet strong presence at the kitchen table reading the daily paper and soft scolding of his sister.

Steve drawing in his journal at the dinner table on evenings when Sarah Rogers would be working late at the hospital.

The radio softly playing in the background as a soothing ambiance.

The kitchen window opened to let the aroma of the Barnes’ family dinner wander through the back alley of the apartment building, and let in the sounds of the neighbors' soft conversations, clothes oscillating in the wind on the clothes line, and car engines humming as people made their way home at dusk.

All qualities of his family's evening routine and upbringing he longed for, but took for granted in his youth.

The stark smell of overcooked onions brought him back to the task at hand, pulling him from his thoughts but leaving his buildup of emotions he felt were about to rupture. He added the heavy cream, spices, brown sugar, and let them stir with the marinated onions and garlic. He felt tears start to form in his eyes. Letting the sauce thicken, he turned the pan onto a low heat, and added the marinated chicken to finish cooking. 

He placed the spatula down on the counter top with a shaky hand, placing his hands on the counter to support himself as he let out a shaky breath, blinking away tears that formed in the corners of his eyes.

God, he wished they were here with him. Steve. His mom. His dad. Rebecca.

He wished he had somebody who knew him before the Winter Soldier that could help him to pick up the broken pieces of himself and to become the person he was again.

He wished he could have said goodbye to his parents, Rebecca, and that Steve hadn't left him.

He wished he could've held his parents one last time before they passed, met the man that Rebecca fell in love with and had a family with, and fought harder for Steve to stay with him and help pick up the pieces.

All things that he couldn't do anything about now.

He wiped his tears away and returned to stirring his chicken masala. Thoughts of his family blending with the thoughts of his recipe like the spices and heavy cream in his pan as a cope. Darlene had mentioned that the recipe goes best with garlic buttered rice or naan, so he had bought ingredients for both, but opted for the naan. He turned on the oven, placed some naan from the store on a baking sheet, and into the oven before returning to stirring the contents of the pan. 

He remembered Sam wanted to come over and check in on how he was settling into his apartment, sometime the next day. Maybe he would want to try some of his dish. 

"Initiate, take small steps to initiate". This counted as initiating, right? He hoped so.

His chicken masala was well blended and deemed done. His naan close behind. He placed a bowl and plate on the counter, served up his recipe and naan, and sat down at his two person dinner table, and prepared to eat. Darlene had told him that making a makeshift taco with the naan tasted good if he opted to not make the garlic butter rice. He took his first bite and let himself experience each incredible flavor. 

He would definitely be making this recipe again.

Maybe he could make a batch for Sam. 

It would be a small way to return the favor.

He made his way through his dinner, and would start heading to bed soon. It was almost 9 anyway. Shuri told him that consistent good sleep would also help him heal mentally along with his therapy and the treatment she provided.

He made a mental note to try making the garlic butter rice, thank Darlene for the recipe, and ask her if she had any more favorite recipes he should try during his next session.

He brought his dishes to the sink, moved to the bathroom to brush his teeth, and shed himself of his shirt. Sleeping shirtless was normal for him both during the war and after getting the serum, finding that he would warm up easily and end up tossing and turning in the night. 

His escalated body heat helped him to survive the frigid Siberian winters during his imprisonment, but not the mild to warm summer nights in Brooklyn.

Laying on the hardwood floor with the lights out left him with his thoughts. He remembered the nights he and Steve spent laying on couch cushions on the living room floor of his parents apartment. 

The nights he and his sister would read The Hobbit under the covers of his bed when they were younger, while their parents thought they were sleeping. 

He liked to sleep with the TV on at a low volume and the window opened so he wouldn't be lost in his thoughts for too long. 

He didn't have as much trouble falling asleep as before. Darlene told him to take deep breaths while resting his eyes and had gotten better at it since seeing her. 

Breathe in for 5 seconds, exhale for 10, and repeat till he felt calm enough to drift to sleep.

He steadily awoke hours later, feeling warm and groggy.

 It was quiet. 

The TV was off and the window was shut. 

He was none the wiser in his hindered state of being as he lifted himself off of the floor and trudged to the bathroom, the soft sound of his bare feet pattering on the wood floor like rain drops on a window, encompassing his apartment in a soft echo.

He turned on the soft bathroom light and twisted the cold faucet on, leaned down and scooped cold water in his hand, and poured it on his face. Supporting himself by his forearms, he closed his eyes and relished in the feeling of cold on his face and cascading down his neck. 

The water felt warmer now and had a distinct iron smell to it.

He opened his eyes and was met with his hands drenched in blood. Blood flowing into the sink from the tap. 

He slowly turned to meet his reflection. Met with the cold, dark, blank eyes of the Winter Soldier. The blood stained leather vest, black muzzle, and the long brunette hair stained black from blood falling over his face. 

He was there with him, as clear as day. 

He felt a stark and deep rooted sense of fear awaken and burrow itself in his chest as he quickly retreated from the sink, pressing himself against the opposing wall. Eyes wide and breathing heavy, he felt the walls of the bathroom constricting him.

The Winter Soldier reached out his metal arm, severing the separation between the mirror and his bathroom, and brought it down onto the counter top with a resounding crack, small remnants of the cheap countertop tumbling to the floor. He lunged for the door and twisted the knob but it wouldn't budge. Desperately, he tried to break down the door, knuckles bleeding and eyes teary. He could feel the Winter Soldier getting closer to him and was too terrified to turn back and face him. He broke through the door with a splitting crack, splinters in his hands. Awaiting on the other side was a long dimly lit corridor lined with bars and cold concrete walls. 

His heart stopped. 

He knew this corridor. 

He would always know this corridor. 

He didn't want to go forward, but he had no choice. Breaking into a sprint, not looking back and praying he didn't trip over himself, he felt a sudden, strong grip on his leg, pulling him backwards. Landing on the hard concrete with a groan and turning himself to face his captor: Two dark, army clad figures awaited him. He shuffled away from them as fast as he could but couldn't get to his feet fast enough to avoid being dragged to by his feet towards the bathroom. His screams echoing off the walls, and hands burning from friction against the cement floor at his attempts to escape their grasp.

He couldn't believe what was happening, he thought he was free from Hydra. 

Free from these corridors. 

Free from the chair.

He felt his nails fruitlessly catching on the small ridges of the cement floor as he was mercilessly dragged. The hallway enclosed in darkness behind him and the bathroom light ahead of him, serving as a beacon of pain and suffering. 

He was left on the bathroom floor, shaking and crying, accentuated by the sound of the slamming of a steel door. His teary eyes searched for the figures but found none. Instead, his eyes landed on the dull gleam of the worn metal frame in his bathtub, tinged with small droplets of blood, smoothed down edges, and strained leather straps.

If he wasn't sobbing before, he was now. He felt so trapped, his heart beating out of his chest; his lungs made of tin, unable to expand.

His shaking frame was folded on the floor by the bathroom door. A few moments of silence flooded by the drops of his sink tap and his attempts to catch his breath. 

Abruptly, a handful of his hair was grabbed, his body dragged to the chair as he let out seethes of pain and cries. 

He was held down in the chair as he was strapped in by faceless, dark army figures. Soft whispers and murmurs of pleas for mercy and forgiveness settled around him, originating from every vent and faucet in his bathroom, nestled their way to his ears. 

They grew louder and droned out the sound of leather going through buckles and the mechanical "wrrrrr" of the head plates assembling towards the top of the chair. 

He struggled and screamed, but it was no use. 

Trapped in the chair, no chance of escape; Limited by his mind and not his body. 

He anxiously waited and dreaded for the excruciating pain of electricity to course through his body, to hear the words Hydra spent so much time and care to drill into his mind.

But both never came.

He awoke with a startle, eyes wide, body and blanket soaked with sweat, lungs gasping for breath. 

His window open, letting in his neighbors everyday routine squeeze into his apartment. 

The TV on a low volume, playing auctions for nic-nacs and heirlooms people didn't find use for. All drowned out by his racing thoughts and attempts at breathing.

The blanket pooled around his waist as he shifted to lean against the wall, closing his eyes and trying to focus on his breathing. 

He needed his hair gone. 

Like a wounded animal, he made his way to the bathroom with shaky breaths and uneasy strides. He flipped the bathroom light on, feverishly opening and closing drawers to find what he needed most.

A pair of scissors.

A raspy sigh left his lips as his hands met the plastic frame of the twin bladed tool.

His eyes shifted from his reflection to his hold on the scissors. 

Carefully, he brought his metal hand to his hair, extending one of his many locks of hair.

His eyes drifted from the lock of hair to the metal blades that almost fully encased it. 

Snip.

He watched as the lock frayed till it was severed completely, feeling the freed lock in his hand and watching it fall to the counter.

A sigh of relief left his lips as tears pricked his eyes as he met his reflection in the mirror. 

Snip.

Snip.

Snip. 

His tears were flowing fully down his cheeks as almost the entirety of his left side was covered in frayed, unevenly cut hair. 

He gingerly ran his flesh hand along his head, relishing in the short tufts of hair, and began repeating the same frenzied cutting on the other side of his head, and towards the back

If the tears weren’t flowing before, they were now. 

He placed the scissors onto the hair ridden counter with a clang, keeping his relieved gaze on himself, feeling his chest wrack with sobs, body slowly crumbling against the sink and to the floor.

He had never felt such relief in his life. 

His hands ran over the chopped hair, savoring the uneven patched of hair, his head laying back to rest against the wood cabinet below his sink,  eyes fluttering shut.

Muffled knocks softly rose his mind from the depths of sleep. 

He let his eyes adjust to the bathroom light, feeling his neck ache from how he slept against the drawers of the cabinet. 

Sam. 

He rose up to his feet with a groan, trudging to his front door.

His front door opened with a click.

“Hey, man-woah.”

He rose his eyes to meet Sam’s wide ones, giving him a small smile, “Hi, Sam.”

Sam swallowed.

“Late night hack job, huh?”

He gave Sam a tight-lipped smile, nodding. 

Sam’s lip quirked. 

“I, um, I made something for you if you’d like to try it.”

Sam watched as he rubbed the back of his neck with his flesh hand.

He moved from the door, leaving it open for Sam to come in.

Sam carefully stepped into his apartment, taking in the rumple of blankets on the livingroom floor. 

“It’s chicken tikka masala, my therapist recommended it.”

Sam took the plastic container he held out for him.

“Thanks for this…We should go get you a haircut. You can’t be walking around Brooklyn looking like you had a blender cut your hair.”

His lip quirked, nodding.

After a few minutes, he met him back at the front door in jeans, a t-shirt, and his bomber jacket, and glove.

“Ready to go?”

He wordlessly nodded, closing, and locking the door behind them. 

—

“Alright, what do you think?” 

The hairdresser adjusted his chair so he could see himself fully in the mirror. 

He could feel his eyes glaze over.

His previously poorly chopped locks were no where to be found, replaced by almost buzzed cut hair with a bit of length towards the top. Barely enough for anyone to get a good grip in.

“It’s perfect, thank you Melissa,” he muttered to the woman that gave him a kind smile in return. 

He tried to hand the man at the cashier station some cash, but Sam interjected with his card.

He looked at Sam with slight bewilderment.

“You’ll cover me next time.”

His lip quirked, as Sam nudged his shoulder as they made their way to the exit.

He stopped in front of a window for a store on the way back to his apartment, seeing his reflection in the storefront.

And for once, he didn’t have a deeprooted distaste or fear of what he saw. 

It almost made him cry.

He needed this.

His long hair gone. The last remnant of his time in Siberia, of the shackles that held his mind down under water like an anchor, gone. 

Out of sight. Out of mind.

Sam stopped a few paces ahead of him.

“You wanna stop in?”

Sam’s voice broke him from his trance.

He gave Sam a small smile.

“No, just taking it all in.”

Sam gave him a comforting smile as he caught up with him.

They continued on to his apartment to give Sam some of his chicken tikka masala, running his hand through his hair periodically with a smile on his face. 

[astrowaffles]

toji to me is a very downtrodden character and thats the base of like aaalll my analysis of him. i think its a good idea to keep in mind that they're all living in a Secret Society with like negative morals and seemingly a core principle of might makes right. its not Just a lack of therapists, here, right, its an actively hostile environment. and then you have the zen'in upbringing which kicks that up a notch. i dont think toji is actually all that convinced of his power, bc he grew up being told he was worthless without cursed energy. he Never gets revenge on the zen'ins. why? his trauma response to this (get OUTTTTT) is different than maki's (spite them & eventually overcome them-- for approval ? hm.). shes intimidated by them sure but shes got that rebel spirit! girlboss. anyway back to the point bc i have one -> toji never escaped the zen'ins. he Wants to affirm that he's strong without cursed energy despite all the evidence that he actually is (and look how that final attempt went!). id like to propose a theory: he didnt think he could hide a child with The Zen'in Power Of All Time from the zen'ins. i dont think he could either tbh. ok actually are you caught up on the manga 🤨

Hello again! I really love this view of Toji's character, and it will surprise you to learn that I agree with you. I actually do. When I've been replying to your asks before, I've been talking from the perspective of his parenting decisions. But you're right, to take this any further we need to look at his actual personality/character.

Reasons to be sympathetic to Toji (a.k.a extend him the poor little meow meow factor):

abusive ex-family

no support

no therapy

dead wife

poor

gambling addiction

Toji was abused and was brought up in an environment where he literally meant nothing. He was useless. His reaction to this (get out, cut all ties, get stronger) is a response I'm actually proud of him for. So many people are probably still rolling around inside the Zen'in clan, having never got the balls to get out. Toji even chooses to change his name.

Being a cycle breaker is hard. For many people, it's impossible. For Toji - it was impossible. I extend sympathy and empathy to him here because it's DIFFICULT to let go of your upbringing and do it differently, do better. Toji can't bring him self to leave the jujutsu world. Nanami did it, and could have left forever if he so chose - but Toji can't. He's not a sorcerer but he can't let go of that being part of him, he can't stop his Zeni'in upbringing from shaping him. Neither can Maki, but Maki chooses to actively confront the clan and make physical changes to her life.

Toji just drowns in his spite - again, another thing we can hand him a poor little meow meow card for. He doesn't have the tools to heal or make better decisions. We feel bad for him. We sympathise. We want to still see him as a basically good person (and, to be honest, he probably is) who's just been scarred by the world.

So, to go back to what you said: you're right. He doesn't escape the Zeni'ns and I'm not convinced he wants to. He wants to show them he's better but he also can't bring himself to directly call attention to himself.

So let's bring this full circle and talk about what the original post was about: Toji's parenting. You said you still don't think he's a good parent. You're right, he isn't. He never will be. No Toji stan will ever be able to convince me that any of Toji's parenting choices were the right ones. But let's be sympathetic again, let's see how we can cut him some slack for those terrible decisions.

Does Toji even know how to be a parent?

We don't know a whole lot about Toji's parents. We know he hates them, if he ever truly knew them. We can infer he doesn't want to be like them. We're sure he never actively abuses Megumi, only passively, through abandonment. Perhaps he feels this is better than getting directly involved with a small child. He's described by the wiki as a cold person, specifically since his wife died and he 'reverted to his old self'. It's highly possible that Toji chose to abandon Megumi since he thought it was genuinely the best possible path. Toji can be cold, violent, and calculating, and he maybe felt he was in no position to be doing any parenting. We can sympathise with this!

(But he's still a bad father).

Did Toji sell Megumi to the Zen'ins so the kid could train to be a sorcerer?

It's definitely possible. I think this is what @honestlyyoungtyphoon was trying to tell me. Toji can't help a sorcerer kid, but he knows that Megumi needs training and he knows the Zen'ins would love to give it. And, yeah, maybe he's had this plan ever since he realised Megumi's technique, because he knew the Zen'ins would find out somehow.

Reasons this is still a bad parenting decision: the Zen'ins, while they treat their sorcerers well materially and are much kinder to them than they are to non-sorcerers, are still power hungry little bitches. Everyone knows this. While Toji would have no way to create a better plan, he knew himself it was bad. You ever wonder why Gojo went to see Megumi straight away? Because was Gojo was raised how the Zen'ins would treat Megumi. Gojo was living the life that Megumi would live in the future. And Gojo knew that it wasn't a life fit for anyone.

Toji knows that Gojos knows this. Toji knows Gojo could help Megumi. Toji passed the baton. And honestly, this is probably a reveal of part of Toji's true personality. He willingly sent a guy, his own personal enemy, to Megumi because he knew it was good for Megumi. Toji has a lot of pride and it must have taken a lot to ask that. THIS is probably what the aggressive Toji stans mean when they tell me Toji was a good parent.

So, overall: Toji is a damaged person who never received any kind of help and support from anyone except his (now dead) wife. There are many factors that help shape his decisions and parenting choices. Toji is probably a basically good person who is simply hurt by his circumstances, and even his truly awful decisions such as abandoning Megumi could have their roots in a belief that it was truly for the best. However: a good person does not make a good parent.

Toji was a shit dad and we love him <3

[0nlinejournal]

05/31/2023 1:37am

Talked to my sister for a bit today. She told me that when she reads those choose-your-own adventure stories on TikTok that she, for some reason, always imagines herself as male, and realized this only after she saw the girlies thirsting over the spooky mysterious characters in the comments. We speculated that it might be because she reads so much and the majority of what she reads has male protagonists (she was an English major and has her masters in gothic literature). And honestly, girlies that be reading (I’m assuming that’s why these long winded TikToks are also coming up on their feed) be reading hella fan fiction. I discovered this after my year of successfully making more friends this past year. So, since those self-inserts are for women anyways, it’s easier for them to automatically do that with these TikToks. BUT, her having that realization made me have one of my own, that kind of circles back to my shrooms realization. I picture myself as a child in these stories. I’m never my adult self, I am in child form. Another insight of the inner workings of my mind.

I feel as though viewing myself as a child (and being aware of it) has come up enough times this year that it is definitely something I would discuss with a therapist if I got the opportunity to go back to therapy. I’m certain it’s rooted in my upbringing and due to my overly protective mother, but how do I fix it? My mother wanted so much control over me, that I didn’t get to experience what my peers did growing up, and she oversaw all the important things in my life, and I feel as though that had stunted my mental growth. I don’t know how to fucking DO anything. It’s infuriating. And on top of that, attempting to do important tasks gives me debilitating anxiety. It makes me feel foolish. Another hypothesis I have (based off of watching half of a YouTube video that popped up on my feed slightly relating to the subject) is that having to do all the emotional labor as a child and preteen and young adult burnt me out in a way. And now, subconsciously, I want to be a child. And the idea of adult things is not something that my inner child wants to deal with at the moment. Either way, it’s embarrassing that I’m so inept at life when everyone around me is at least knowledgeable and capable enough to seek professional help and get on with their lives. Everyone is struggling, but they’re still moving forward. I feel so stuck in my ineptitude.

I’ve fallen into a pit again. I’ve been doing nothing but working and sleeping. I have been reading, but at unhealthy hours (I will read after this post). I do feel more awake than I ever do during the day, though. Regardless of mental health, my max energy levels are at night after a good half a day of rest.

Well, I’m off to it, I guess. My mother’s birthday is this Saturday. I’m not particularly looking forward to it. I couldn’t get the day off, but I asked her if she’d like to get dinner on Friday. I’ll try to write about it.

2:00am

[bewitching-aria]

The Happiness Trap, part 1

My therapist recommended I read The Happiness Trap in response to my requests for a book to read. As someone who generally reads very quickly, I took notes to try to consciously pick out segments I found especially relatable or important. I find such a note taking practice helps me better remember concepts and check my understanding.

I originally took handwritten notes! I reproduce a typed version, with some more commentary, to really all-in on the benefits of writing here.

This covers part 1: Why is it so hard to be happy? [read more]

Life is difficult.

With each passing generation, the human mind became increasingly skilled at noticing, predicting and avoiding danger. So now, three hundred thousand years later, our modern minds are constantly on the lookout, assessing and judging everything we encounter. (p.6)

I certainly do relate to having an overactive brain that aggressively tries to account for the worst at all times. In the past, I have explained this behavior as a protection mechanism against variance, where I am unafraid of trying new things so long as I have an idea of what the worst it could be.

Though I have been able to try many new and fun things (and unfun things) without regret with that mindset, surely there were instances where the worst possible scenario I imagined was so unlikely, I avoided doing things I ought not to have. Further, I look back on painful memories where some outcome was worse than what I expected the worst to be. The surprise definitely elevated the emotional response I had.

Another essential for survival is belonging to a group.

So how does the mind protect you from rejection by the group? By comparing you with other members... (p.7)

I have had many difficult experiences with social circles in my past. Compounded by the fact that when I have brought these up to friends (and family...), I have often been told things like:

You should have seen those people were not actually real friends with you.

You need to prove them wrong by being better than them.

You deserved how you were treated.

The last one is the one I want to call attention to. It's a very negative thought, but also one that I myself have found myself thinking a lot. I want to call out, outright, that this line of thinking is horrible.

However, for myself, I convinced myself that such a line of thinking was acceptable (though still negative) because it produced the following:

I deserved how I was treated.

I dislike how I was treated, but because I deserved it, if I want to be treated better, I have to deserve better.

I will deserve better if I am better.

I must better myself.

And indeed, I have bettered myself over my life, and am genuinely proud of what I have achieved, so I did not question this whole thought process as a sort of laziness induced self Machiavellian grind mindset.

There is an additional assumption that I have frequently made that I deserved it because I was the worst in the social circle at various things I'd compare myself against. Grades, attractiveness, personality, etc.

I found some comfort in the passage knowing that this is a sort of widespread rational irrationality.

Life is difficult -- Myth 1: Happiness is our natural state

What is natural for human beings is to an experience an ever-changing flow of emotions... (p.8)

Life is difficult -- What exactly is happiness?

... a life spent in pursuit of feeling good is, in the long term, deeply unsatisfying (p.9)

... there's another meaning of happiness that's radically different: the experience of living a rich and meaningful life.

I have more or less accepted that a good mindset for living life, especially for me currently in my 20s, is to put less emphasis on the future and care more about the present. However, such acceptance is a logical brow beat one, and not one I (at least at the time of writing) emotionally accepted. Such is par the course for me, which we shall see later in these notes.

However, the passage presents this in a way that I do not typically hear.

Normally, when I am given the advice to focus on the present and seek out experiences, this is in response to me thinking about the future in some way. To that end, the conversation is usually one of lifestyle and mindset. However, because my lifestyle and mindset have lead me to where I am, and I have generally been happy with how I've brought things around in life, it's difficult to accept such a dramatic change in thinking, and emotionally I don't think I have (at the time of reading).

The passage invoked an image in my mind of me, in elderly age, telling young people about my life, and how it would be better if I had a vast number of experiences, good and bad, rather than just saying I lived simply but happily. Of course, there is nothing wrong with the latter, but I think I am someone who would like the first. This struck a chord, and opened me up to such a way of thinking more.

The Choice Point

Definition 1. Toward moves. Also known as workable moves. These are behaviors that move us toward the sort of life we want.

Definition 2. Away moves. Also known as unworkable moves. These are behaviors that take us away from the life we want.

There is no list of "right", "correct", or "best" toward moves; we each decide for ourselves which of these behaviors come under this umbrella. (p. 13)

I think this is important to call out, because ultimately this is what differentiates how people live their lives. On one hand, there is some discussion about the capability of an individual to carry out what they believe to be right or wrong, but there is also that different people want to become different versions of themselves. I recall specifically the conversation AC gave about how ones self is fundamentally transient, and that peoples behaviors are so that they can become the self they wish to be, and this felt very related.

Away moves can also include things we do inside our heads such as worrying, ruminating, obsessing, and overanalyzing. (p. 13)

oh man thats me...

Definition 3. Obey mode. Also known as fusion. When our thoughts and feelings dominate us, commanding our full attention or dictating our actions.

Definition 4. Struggle mode. Also known experiential avoidance. When we myopically strggule to avoid, escape, or get out of our thoughts and feelings.

oh man I definitely flip-flop between both of them a lot...

The choice point -- exercises 1 and 2

The first exercise has you imagine that a friend (or romantic partner, or coworker, or any kind of individual that has a named relationship) that is talking about you to someone else, and they are asked to name 3 things about you. What would you like for them to say?

Reader, what would you put for me?

For friend, I had:

Fun

Compassionate

Smart

in that order. This is also the same for relationship partner.

The second exercise had me describe problems I was going through, then a list of away and toward moves associated with them:

The black hole of control

The black hole of control -- Struggle strategies

These go into fight or flight:

Fight:

Suppression. Forcefully pushing unwanted thoughts out of your head, or down.

Arguing. Arguing back with your thoughts.

Taking charge. Taking charge of your thoughts, typically with commands, like "snap out of it!" or "stop thinking!"

Self-judgement. Using harsh self judgment to bully yourself into feeling differently. Name calling, like "loser" or blame like "don't be so pathetic!"

Flight:

Opting out. Opting out of situations, events or activites that tend to trigger uncomfortable thoughts or feelings.

Distraction. Focusing on something else, unhealthy avoidance in general.

Substances. Avoidance/forced removal of emotions by substances.

The blackhole of control -- The problem with struggle strategies.

What's the problem with using methods like these to try to control our thoughts and feelings? The answer is nothing, if

we use them sensibly, appropriately, and in moderation

we use them in situations where they can realistically work

using them doesn't stop us from behaving like the sort of person we want to be, doing the things that matter to us.

This is important, because perhaps individually, falling into using one of these coping mechanisms is an inevitability. I feel that for the sake of priorities, sometimes temporarily avoiding the processing of emotions and difficulty is ok so long as it's not put off forever. Essentially, in a time of crisis, I can see any of these things being ok if the crisis is great enough. However, living your life in crisis mode is terrible, emotionally, and chronically (cortisol and adrenaline moment), which I think I have been doing for my entire life (at the time of reading).

As with anything, there are times and places for things, and the difficult act of processing and going through one's troubles is something that requires a safe space, time and compassion in general. So it is important to seek this out, rather than waiting for it to happen.

Experiential avoidance, in general, is problematic long term because the time and effort spent running away from emotions could be used for more meaningful, life enhancing activities. Further, when the thoughts come back, they often come back stronger, and they come back when we are unable to run farther, so they'll hit at a time when it hurts more. When overused or poorly used, such tactics can also degrade one's quality of life. Substance addiction is probably the most direct example, but never listening to your emotions is a pretty bad thing to do, despite being raised to be a man and not feel anything.

[oh-yes-i-did-not]

An old friend periodically keeps trying to approach me, especially any time I mention that I am thinking of moving back north and she's SOOOOO excited, yes please do move back! But I have no idea how to explain to her that I will never, ever trust her again and so we can't be friends.

I didn't know it back then, but I had panic attacks. They just started as rage, before turning into hyperventilation and then disassociation. Also, the therapist that my school nurse referred me to said it was just a normal part of being a teenager so I had no way of knowing. It was just normal.

But the first time I had one when someone from my close friend circle was there was the time that destroyed big part of my trust to that friend circle. The friend who was with me at that time told everyone and said I was a "fuckin psycho."

Fortunately I did manage to talk it out with a couple of people, who were willing to listen to me, but then the witness friend and one other made that circle an ex-circle for me because this other person called me, starting to hurl abuse at me the moment I picked up the phone.

So now, 25 years later, I still know that she saw me as a person who would do that. Like, all someone had to do was to say I did it out of malice and for how I am and she would believe it 100% before asking me anything.

So no, we can't be friends, ever again. I keep you on my FB because you're on the organizing part if something happens with my old class but that's that.

And the funniest thing is, I had one previously, on a trip, sharing my room with the biggest assholes my 14 year old self could think of. And they were super cool about it, even tho objectively that one was way worse, I ended up breaking things and hurting myself too. They didn't call me a fucking psycho. The worst person in my life gave me a fucking hug afterwards lmao.

[scarluxia]

Today in therapy

I scheduled my therapy appointments for 9:30 a.m. because it forces me to get a jump-start on my day. This way, I have to get up, get ready, and get some fresh air instead of being a lump at home. I don't know if I like it so far, but anyway...

Today I discussed the logistics and arguments between Loki and me regarding our respective job searches. He wants to do things that build towards starting his own delivery service partnership with Amazon. I want to work in an office. I'm qualified for office administration, but I've taken some time off work for health and family reasons. My goal is to move to a three-bedroom, either house or apartment, in Walnut Creek. I'll be closer to my best friend, in a nice part of the state, and each member of the family will have his own room.

I've been offered an interview in San Francisco. Loki didn't want me to take it and argued very strongly against it. Initially I turned it down, but then I changed my mind because he's the one who doesn't want me to deal with the commute. I have no problem with it.

The thing is, there's a bit of a struggle based on who gets hired first. If I get a job first, then he has to make arrangements to pick up our kid from preschool. If he gets a job first, then I have to fit my schedule around him. He's argued that I'll burn out from trying to work full-time, that I won't like the commute, that I'll be stressed out when I get home, etc. etc. etc., things that everyone in America who doesn't have a positive attitude towards work has to deal with.

I thought he would be employed before I would, or that there would be more opportunities in our current city. I got an interview before he did and I probably would have gotten the job if I hadn't been, well... flaky. I did apologize for it and schedule another interview, but my hopes aren't high. He refuses to file for unemployment because he thinks he'll be hired soon. He doesn't want me applying us for food stamps for the same reason.

If I went back to school and took classes in accounting or paralegal certification, I'd be more qualified for a wider range of jobs. School costs money, though, but if I applied for food stamps and CalWORKS, the latter might pay for my schooling. I just don't understand why he should have the freedom to follow his goals but I'm being discouraged from trying to make myself more valuable. Well... actually, that's one of the things I went over in therapy.

I got very frustrated with my therapist for talking about teamwork. I consider myself a team player. I've never discouraged anything Loki's wanted to do, at least on a professional front. He's had big dreams, big ideas, big goals, since I met him, except when he's gotten demoralized and stuck in this rut of thinking, "Nothing's ever going to work out because it's not working out right now when I want it to." But he's thinking so much about his own journey and just expecting me to work around him that there's no room for him to think about the team. He thinks that he's seeing the big picture, but restricting me from advancing my education is the opposite of that. He's thinking very narrowly about what he wants to do, but if I call him on it, then he'll deny it and talk in circles and all these frustrating things that I hate. I hate arguing with him because it's never about actually solving the problem, it's about doing things his way.

Anyway, during this conversation with my therapist, I had the headache that wouldn't quit, even though I've taken painkillers for it. I've had this headache since yesterday. I told her where it was and she said it's because that's the part of the brain that's concerned with higher executive functioning and planning. Well, that makes sense. I thought I was just hungry/thirsty, but this has been a fairly stressful few weeks.

I'm actually really mad about this because, I went on a trip in November, a very expensive trip considering our budget. I told him about it in advance. I told him how much I needed to take with me. He ended up quitting his job within a couple of weeks before the trip, meaning we were without an income. Then he went back and got reinstated. Now he got himself fired by basically telling the owner of the company that she's making a bad decision by not using his ideas. Then he refused to file for unemployment and told me not to file for food stamps. He's telling me not to try to go back to school because it's not worth it and remember what happened last time? (Yes, and I'm no longer in regular contact with the person who was distracting me last time. I'm also more willing to take a C if it means passing the class.)

So anyway, our grantor wants us to pay our own rent and be self-sufficient, which is fair because he's been paying our rent for three years. I want us to move into a three-bedroom apartment in a nicer city, or at least adjacent to a really nice city (which would, incidentally, be much closer to San Francisco or Oakland, where all the jobs are). In order to do that, we need a dual-income of about $55/hour. We are not in a position to be turning down work. It's vulgar to state it like that, but it is how it is. I want our kid to be in a school he likes and, hopefully, we might be able to find one that isn't thousands of dollars a month in another county. I'm looking at what we need in order to make these things happen.

Loki is looking at what Loki needs to make his goals happen. Now, yeah, he'd like to be able to pay for our kid's schooling too, but not if it means me working upstate. Once again, I have no problem with the commute. Sure, I'll be waking up early and coming home late, like I'd be doing if I was going back to school full-time. This doesn't bother me. It bothers him for some reason.

My therapist asked me if Loki wants me to succeed or fail, and I said... it's more like he wants me to succeed on his terms. He wants me to fail or be discouraged doing it my way so that I'll agree to do it his way, and unfortunately, that's a mindset I grew up with, so I haven't really figured out what I'm truly capable of. I took office admin because I already knew I could type and file stuff, and picking up SAM wasn't hard by any means. Going to school for psychology the first time and business the second time were the only times I've really challenged myself, and I dropped out of both because I wasn't doing it perfectly. Well, now that I'm going to be 33 in a couple weeks and I don't really know how to do much that's useful on a large scale, like, say, accounting or paralegal duties, and it's been ten years since I've received a certification in anything, I'm more willing to just... try something and see if it works out. If it doesn't, at least I've given it a shot.

But then of course, if it doesn't work out, he'll be there with a steaming pile of "I told you so", and that's really annoying to have to consider, so I've chosen to disregard it to the best of my ability.

My therapist says he seems threatened by the idea of me becoming self-sufficient because it'll mean I'm likelier to leave him. Well... the thing is, when he was working, we were getting along fine for the most part. I know he misses working and he doesn't want to just sit round doing nothing, but that shouldn't prevent me from finding work. Like I said, we need to be dual-income in order to achieve our larger goals. He'd also like to move out of our current city, though he's changed his mind about moving outside of California.

He's compared my casting a wide net of possibilities to "running round like a chicken with [my] head cut off". I think that's a very disparaging way of looking at it, and I completely disagree. I enjoy learning. I enjoy being useful. No-one's asking him to be housebound. I think there's a cognitive disconnect between him accepting that we both need to find work, and him telling me I shouldn't take this job because of distance or location. He's said "I'm not driving you to or picking you up from San Francisco."

Buddy. We live by a Caltrain station. That's not a problem for me. Well, Redwood City and San Francisco, that's Caltrain. Santa Cruz, that's the 17. Oakland, Lafayette, and Walnut Creek are the BART. I know how to get around. I know I'll be getting up at 6 to get there by 8:30 or 9. I know me clocking in early will likely be appreciated and that, if I work till 5, he's going to have to seethe, cope, and make sure he can pick up the small one before 6 because I won't be home till 7 or 8.

If I'm not being a team player at this point, it's because he's not, but I'm not going to let it stop me anymore. If I'm offered an interview, if I'm offered a job, I'm taking it and he can work around me since I had to work around him for a year, and before that, I was working part-time.

I think our grantor will understand if I want to go back to school for business, accounting, or law if it'll broaden my career aspects... just as long as someone else is paying for it (Calworks). Hell, that's what I should have been doing once I was medically cleared to work again. I hate to keep secrets, but if I want to put our family in a better situation without having to deal with static, I'm going to have to do things the way that's the most practical to do them, and that means either taking what I'm offered or pursuing further education.

[infiniteorbits]

and i wait.

i’ve gotten really good at writing eulogies. i think i write a new one every day, or at least once a week. “a new one” might be a bit of a stretch, they all kinda stem from the same couple of ideas. they usually start by saying how i was jealous of my dad, or that it was hard to be raised in his shadow. “in his shadow” is an unfair sentiment, and i note that these feelings are unfair of me to everyone at this funeral. i say how he lived an incredible life and while i felt hopeless because i could never be as amazing as he was, it let me be as much of a fuck-up as i wanted, because i could never be better. i say that i was always surprised that my dad was proud of me, when he went so much farther (further?) and did so much more than i ever did. he shouldn’t have been proud when i got a big part in a play, or did well on a test, or did anything, when you compare it to all he did. but maybe he was just a better person than i was, i say, and i hope people laugh. the one thing i had or did that he couldn’t do, the one leg up i have on him, was that i was raised by the best dad in the world. i got to be raised by him, and he didn’t. i probably wouldn’t say it like that though, knowing that my grandfather would be in the audience after watching his son die the same way his wife did. i’ve imagined giving this eulogy, or a eulogy, so often,

i practically have it memorized. he’s not even dead, he might not even die. yet. he will, and maybe i’ll give this speech with my own children in the audience, god i hope i give this speech with my children in the audience.

but then he starts talking about how he’s seizing the day, how he’s seeing all these places he’s always wanted to see, how he’s lucky that he knows the end could be soon, how people on 9/11 didn’t know and people who have spontaneous heart attacks didn’t know and he’s lucky. he says that all statistics are truly 50-50 because they work or they don’t but the next one is supposed to work, like actually work, but no one will tell him if he’s going to die and his therapist (his therapist!) tells him that he’s being unreasonable and they can’t tell him and gets straight with him about things like that and he likes that, he likes how she does that. and i ask my mom if my dad’s going to die and she says she doesn’t know and i keep asking and expecting her to suddenly break and tell me the answer and give a definitive answer but she can’t and she just sits next to me trying to stop tears from growing too visible in her eyes and i’m sitting at the foot of my bed and my mom looks so small and i want her to tell me that she knows what’s going to happen and that this is all almost over. but instead we sit there, and she says she’s proud i’m going back to therapy, that she’s sorry for last spring and that my dad and her were worried about me. i make some joke and we laugh and i later learn that my friend’s dad saw her a few days ago and she was barely keeping it together, that she seemed “really upset” and i feel bad for pushing her and telling her that i’m going back to therapy.

but i hate that they keep bringing it up, that they keep telling me things and i hate that i’m home and it’s not really home and i hate that they keep telling me things and it’s never things that i want to hear it’s never anything definitive except “we got the scans back” “it’s gotten worse” “we’ll keep trying.” it’s only regiments and circles and i’ve never wanted to leave so badly. the dorm isn’t my home because how could it be and now my home isn’t my home because how could it be. so now where do i go with this. i don’t know anyone here and i don’t think i know anyone there anymore. i’m supposed to hate people i used to love and love people i’ve never heard of. my sister drives me places and i sit and look out the car window and remember when we both used to sit in the back together.

i make my dad a playlist of my favorite songs. i skip the sad ones, even though those are really my favorites. i wait for people to tell me what i want to hear. i wait for home to feel like home again. i wait for conversations to feel normal again and to just feel normal again and again and again and i wait. i’ll keep waiting until i’ll find myself in a black dress one day, giving a eulogy planned out by an 18 year old me. i hope i’m left waiting a long time. i hope i’m left waiting for no time at all.

[mcalhenwrites]

Rant...

I work so damn hard on my writing, and it's hard to get any eyes on it. It was hard to get eyes on my crochet most of the time back when I still did it that much. (I noticed things I made for myself either got less notes or only questions about "how did you do that I wanna do that tell me how you did that wahhh I wanna know" or "pattern plz") I stopped crocheting bc I wanted to focus on my writing, I was in pain... but I also wanted to quit so people would stop befriending my soley in the hopes they'd get gifts or patterns from me. So now I only post OC crochet that I've managed to finish. (And fibro and trauma from being used slow this down, and time constraints as well, but I'd rather be writing. I'm allowed my happiness.) The most successful thing I've ever posted across social media is Tempra, my OC dragon. I worked on her for months. She got approx 800 notes (a lot of the notes are my own reblogs, so probably less than 800 bc I've reblogged her like a dozen times)

Most of my work - even with crochet - usually never hits 100 interactions. Notes, reblogs, likes, retweets, etc. Most of it stays at 0-20 tops, and that's that. I work full time hours on my writing. Probably with overtime. I'm dedicated and love doing it, and I can do it with my disabilities forcing me into bed. I've typed with my fucking eyes closed just to get the bursting ideas OUT xD Anyhow, now people are sucked into AI. A thing that is trying to replace artists, therapists (which is impersonal for one, a private data invasion most of all), authors, musicians, and I'm sure even crochet images and patterns are being belched out. I haven't kept up. This stupid AI kitchen got over 79k+ notes and thousands of comments of people gasping to have one just like it. The floating trees melting into the cabinets didn't give it away? (I circled like half the obvious issues and ran out of space to keep fucking circling)

It feels like no one gives a fuck about actual people anymore unless we're tech bro demons churning out stolen uncanny valley garbage for the masses to digest. And I don't know if any of us has a chance to compete against AI. I don't feel like I can work hard enough to matter. I damn well know I'm not the only one. But I really hope anyone not paying attention wonders why the obvious-AI patterns for fiber arts don't matter, because that's less sinster than "I handed all my personal information over to an AI therapist" Artists, though? (Artists in the broad term of including music and writing and everything else btw) I'm not sure anyone is gonna bother noticing that we've been sifted out after our work was stolen to feed these generators in the first place Edit: tho I will say, I'd probably crawl into a hole and want to die if I got 79k+ notes on anything I ever posted. But like. It'd be nice if I had more engagement. I want writing to be my career, so... I feel like if I post "I published Geckos!" it'd flop just like everything else I've ever done in my pathetic life

[onejellyfishplease]

Question:

Are you taking your role as family therapist too seriously when you literally walk away from a heated interaction, make notes, then come back and talk them through an emotionally harrowing talk, during which F*CKING DIVORCE IS BROUGHT UP AND ONE OF YOUR PARENTAL UNITS CRYS MULTIPLE TIMES-

Further context, during the coronation, my dad sat us all down, me, my mom and younger siblings to watch the coronation in its entirety. Naturally my younger brother starts to fidget (ADHA solidarity I get it), loudly (our phones had been taken away in the first 5 mins) and my dad tells him to stop, he does for a bit then moves on to another loud stim. My mom then comes in and -quietly- asks him to stim quietly, he doesn’t

Note- it is unclear to me wether my brother was doing this to be a prick or note, maybe it started off genuine idk.

My dad gets increasingly pissed, and eventually my brother loose electronics (context: he has a bit of a gaming addiction) which sends him into a bit of a strop and that’s the end of that. So it seems.

Later, after the coronation, my brother wants to game on the computer, obviously my dad says no. Then my brother asks again. And again. And again.

My dad had 3 missed called from him after he left the house to run an errand.

Eventually, my dad snaps, and it devolves into yelling. I wasn’t here for this part but I know that it wasn’t fun. My mom was there but she didn’t do much, an observer.

So later, my brother is in the living room, with me, and my parents are in the next room over, arguing. Because my mom thinks that my dad was too harsh.

So after trying to calm down my brother and getting a lot of self pity and insults thrown my way, I make my way into the other room and insert myself into the conversation. It goes… alright?? Pretty badly actually.

The gist of it is that my mom thinks my dad was too tough on my brother, while my dad was saying that he felt isolated and hurt that she wasn’t backing him up. Which my mom didn’t feel like she could do because she did not approve of how he was dealing with the issue.

The convo ended there, because of extended family returning with food for the family dinner. So we collectively put on our *we’re not at all emotionally devastated* faces, which were concerningly good, and went to have dinner.

After which I had written up my interpretation of the events which transpired, I will include them here. No I will not fix the spelling.

Dad is Naturally assertive

Quick to point out problems that go against presumed order

Assumes mum backs him up

Mum takes a more constructive approach, which doesn’t directly acnolage to problem at hand, often talks directly to the person, not dad

Dad feels left out of process without vocal affermation from mum

Dad feels alone as the only one vocally pointing out issues, and is usually the only one pointing out the main issue while mum is trying to fix the issue while being as nice as possible

So dad is viewed as main aggressor and feels like bad guy, so gets louder due to built up frustration

Mum doesn’t know how to insert herself into the situation which is already heated, doesn’t want to match the energy

Mum panics due to decreasing vibes

Mum doesn’t know how to deescalte

Dad doesn’t know how to deescalate

Vibes decrase

Yep. So I talk. They talk honestly it goes well, there is a little bump when my dad talks about ‘if I didn’t care about this family I would’ve left long ago’ which I get isn’t like openly talking about divorce or even remotely suggesting it as an idea. But it’s just that’s the first time one of them has ever brought it up. Ever. Sooooo

Yay

Anyway we go in circles for a bit, but I think I helped fix the miscommunication? I hope? My mum cried quite a bit which is never fun.

Basically my mom didn’t really feel comfortable voicing eing her honest opinion around my dad because he often steamrolls her ideas, and he felt alone because she never really supports his ideas and never speaks up. So the self sabotage was REAL. Like damn. (There is like so much more but this thing is already too long)

Miscommunication is never as fun as they make it seem in books.

Anyway I don’t think I had an original point, this was mostly me just ranting.

I know it’s not healthy for me to feel somewhat responsible for my parents relationship but it’s hard not to do anything when I can so clearly see the cracks and the god awful communication.

[iamcalmdammit]

By your side || [Phillip Graves x f!reader]

Note: Surprise! I said I'm writing a David Mason x reader x Graves and Soap x reader fic and that's it, but I had this idea and wrote a short little fic.

Warning: reader has ptsd.

"We need to talk about what happened out there," Phillip told you as he pulled over a chair and sat down across from you. "You froze. Again."

He was right, you did hesitate at the worst possible moment. If he hadn't jumped in to push you out of the way, you wouldn't be around now. "I'm sorry," you mumbled without looking at him.

But you saw him shake his head out of the corner of your eye before he spoke up again. "Hey, I'm just worried about you. This and the nightmares… You need help. Professional help." He leaned over to place a soft kiss on your temple. "I can get you the best therapist in the country, just let me help."

Ever since that day you had almost died on the field five months ago, you've been suffering from PTSD most likely. You would need a professional to verify it, but everything pointed in that direction. Phillip was constantly worried about your safety, just as he was now, and he usually tried to convince you to stop working until you got better.

But you believed that work was the medicine you needed so until now you always convinced him to drop the topic and believe you when you said you were okay. All of this despite the fact he spent almost every night by your side in bed and knew perfectly well how often you had those nightmares.

"Y/N, say something," he tried as he reached out to take your hand.

When you were ready to face him, you turned in his direction and licked your lips as you tried to figure out what to say now. "I can't do this alone," you said eventually, already sobbing.

"You're not alone, I'm right here with you," he said before he cupped your face with his hands and looked you in the eye. "I'll be there whenever you need me, okay? I'll always be there."

You knew Phillip wasn't lying and meant every single word he said. So you nodded, relieved to know that you were about to get the help you should've asked for a long time ago, that maybe now things would finally be okay for real. When he pulled you into a tight hug, you wrapped your arms around him and held on as if your life depended on it.

••••••••••••••

A week later the two of you were sitting in the waiting room of a PTSD specialist Phillip had found the day after your conversation. Once the mission was over, he took some time off to be by your side all the time, probably afraid you would do something stupid if you were left alone. He was holding your hand, his thumb circling on your skin to soothe you before the session.

"You're gonna be okay," he suddenly told you, his blue eyes fixed on you. "I'll be right outside if you need me. And when you're done, we'll go back to the hotel and get in bed to relax. You need to rest."

It's hard to have a good night's sleep with nightmares, you wanted to say. But you only forced a weak smile on your lips and nodded in the end. He was doing his best to help, you didn't want to make him more worried than he already was. Despite being in a relationship with him for over a year now, you still felt like you owed him a lot for being there by your side. It was strange, and he would probably be offended if he ever found out how you truly felt about this.

"I love you, baby," he said with a supportive smile before raising your hand to place a kiss on it. "We'll get through this together."

"I'm sorry to interrupt, but please, come with me," a middle aged receptionist told you kindly. You nodded as you stood up and followed her all the way to the spacious office at the end of a hallway. "Dr. Hayes will see you now," she said as she ushered you inside.

The elderly man stood up when he noticed you and offered to shake your hand. You did as expected then sat down on the couch across from him, suddenly unsure if therapy was the right thing to do. But as time passed, you realized it wasn't as bad as you expected. This guy had experience with soldiers so he knew how to talk to you.

Forty-five minutes later he ended the session and walked out with you to the waiting room because apparently he wanted to talk to Phillip about something. You knew he wouldn't tell him anything you had just told him, it was probably a little tips-and-tricks conversation so he could help you more in the future.

"Did it go well?" he asked while you were driving back to the hotel you were staying in.

"Yeah, I think so. He said we could do online sessions in the future so I don't have to stay here," you added, looking out the window to watch the buildings you passed by.

He looked over at you for a moment before returning his attention to the road ahead. "That's good. Being at home will help you." You let out a quiet hum in response, unable to articulate what you had on your mind at the moment. "He told me how I can help you the most. We'll have to talk about what triggers it so I can help you avoid them. I don't want to be the reason why you suffer."

Instead of answering, you just put your hand on his, glad to feel the warmth that radiated from it. Things would be okay now. The therapist was right, it was time to let people know how you felt lately. And Phillip was there to listen. He had always been.

[erodasfishtacos]

how about when they first noticed ezra was a nervous and anxious baby ?

Seperation

prompt: the moment when h and yn decide that Ezra needs to see a therapist.

warnings: angst

if you like the fic - please reblog, like, comment, or come talk to me in my inbox!

I write for free so if you enjoy my fics please consider donating to support my writing on my kofi.

enjoy 😊

—

It’s late at night, like 3 in the morning, and Harry was down in Atlanta for three games with the Braves.

Easton and Cash had long adjusted to their father being away for short spurts of time - doesn’t mean they don’t miss him but they know he’ll come back to them.

Ezra was another story.

YN felt dread anytime he went away for a game because her youngest got so anxious and had trouble sleeping.

He was usually okay during the day (Harry was gone for practice and obligations during most mornings and afternoons).

It was at night time.

She really didn’t want to call and bother her husband because he had just played a game that went into three innings of overtime and had gotten a gnarly bruise on his thigh from a ball hitting him as he batted.

When they’d FaceTimed after the game, about eight, he had been so exhausted in his hotel room that his eyes were nearly closing as he spoke to her.

Now at three, three in the morning, Ezra still hasn’t went to bed because of how fussy and tearful he was - babbling about his father.

“Daddy, daddy, daddy,” He was whining into his mother’s neck, his hot tears rolling down his cheeks and onto her skin.

“Ezzie, baby. We have to calm down. Mama’s here and daddy is okay, he’s just working,” She murmured to him for the hundredth time that night.

YN was sat in the den with him because she didn’t want him waking up his brothers or his little sister who just begun to sleep through the night for the most part.

At one point, she did stir for a night feeding, and as YN sat on her bed - Briar latched sleepily, Ezra was nestled tightly into her other side.

When it hit three-thirty, she began to feel herself get frustrated because she couldn’t fix the situation - no matter what she did.

She knew once tears began rolling down her own cheeks that she had to call Harry.

It was never that she was worried he would be mad that she called, she just felt guilty because he had worked so hard already that day.

YN reaches for her phone, taking a deep inhale before pressing his contact for facetime.

It rings three times before it’s picked up, completely dark in his room, and he rasps out drowsily, “Wha’s going on, mama? Y’alright? The babies alright?”

“I-I can’t get him to settle,” YN takes a deep breath, the sleep deprivation making her want to just break down and sob.

“Daddy? Daddy, daddy, daddy,” Ezra just chants, eyes wide on the screen, searching for his father to just appear but all he sees is darkness.

That causes him to just start bawling his eyes out when he can’t will his father onto the phone like he wants.

“Whoa, Ezzie. Sweet boy, c’mon. Y’gotta breathe s’daddy can understand you,” Harry coos, stirring to turn on the light and illuminate his pillow-creased face.

“Daddy!” His voice is shrill, high-pitched and it makes YN’s ears ring.

“Ezra Duke,” Harry says a little more firmly, “Daddy can’t understand you when you scream, okay?”

The little boy sniffles and tries to catch his breath, leaning into where YN is rubbing soothing circles into his back.

“Miss you,” His son whimpers sadly, bringing his voice down a notch, “Come home, please.”

“I am flying’ home tomorrow, bab. Daddy will be home around noon but you have to be good for mama,” He says, voice still smooth and calm.

“Now!” Ezra screams in a way he usually never does and then continues, “Now! Now daddy! Now!”

Both parents are taking aback, Harry with wide eyes and parted lips as he watching his son through his phone and YN just squeezes her eyes shut, exhaling out of her mouth.

“Mama, breathe,” Harry directs towards her, can tell how overwhelmed she is getting from all the chaos of his screaming.

“Daddy, daddy,” Ezra blubbers, green eyes angry and anxious at the same time, “Please, home!”

YN hears noise from behind her, to see her eight year old padding into the room with his unruly curls poking every which way.

“Mama, is Ezzie okay?” Easton wonders, knuckling his eyes sleepily and then Cash follows right behind him in his dinosaur pajamas.

“Fuck, he woke up the boys,” YN informs Harry tearfully, “I just…I don’t know what to do. I can’t do anything to make him feel better.”

The older boys peek into the screen to smile at their dad and Harry gives them a tense smile, “Hi boys, I know Ez is being loud but can y’two be good f’your mama and go back to bed?”

They agree, giving their upset brother a kiss and then their mom before talking quietly to each other as they walk up the stairs.

“Daddy? Home, please! Hold me!” Ezra wails, clinging to his mother’s neck tightly enough to hurt as he tantrums.

“This is the worst it’s ever been, he’s normally stopped before I’ve had to call you,” YN groans, rocking him swiftly against her for lack of a better idea.

“Wait…” Harry sits up, scrubbing a hand over his puffy face, “Has this been happening’ every time m’away?”

“It just started two to three months ago but he’s always been able to be calmed down within an hour or so,” YN replies, shushing Ezra as he babbles over and over again daddy, daddy, daddy.

Harry’s jaw tightens and his frown settles into a deep crease, “Well why a’ve you not told me that m’baby has been cryin’ for me when I’m gone? Do y’not think that’s important?”

YN recognizes his irritation and is running on less than five hours of sleep over two days and may he’s it back with an even sharper tone.

“We can’t change that you’re gone. I’m trying to handle it, Harry.”

“Y’not doin’ a bloody good job at it!” Harry bites back in frustration, heart pounding in desperation as he hears his son cry for him.

“Daddy, daddy, come on.”

Then YN looks at him with watering, hurt eyes, “I’m doing my best. You’re not here, I can’t make you appear. I’m trying to calm him down without having to wake you up.”

And Harry shouldn’t but he’s angry and misses his babies - all of them but especially the one who needs him the most right now.

“Y’dont think I deserve to know tha’ Ezra’s been acting like this?” Harry snaps before adding, “In this situation, y’best isn’t good enough because he’s still crying and y’still haven’t been able to settle him.”

And wow, those words hit her like a ton of bricks. It was instilling all the insecurities that she had bubbling in her chest.

In this situation, y’best isn’t good enough because he’s still crying and y’still haven’t been able to settle him.

Harry automatically knows that he spoke before he thought and he let his stressed out mind say untrue hurtful things.

He part his lips about to speak before YN cuts him off.

“If you can do it so much better than me, fucking good you. Then come home and fix this because I give up,” YN laughs without humor, finger finding the red button to hang out and disconnecting.

Harry tried calling back over and over and over but YN just hangs her head, sniffling, as she watches her tired, anxious little son finally drift off to sleep.

At some point, her phone stops ringing when he’s given up and it doesn’t ring again until for another thirty minutes.

She knew he was going to keep calling until she picked up - had been that way since they first started dating.

By now, Ezra was asleep in his room and YN was sat against their headboard - having tossed the tear soaked shirt she had on off and was feeding Briar once more.

The millionth facetime request comes through and finally she swipes to answer, he’s furious right as they connect, “D’you have any idea how worried I am? Y’cant ju-“

He stops himself when he sees his baby girl pop her head from her mother’s breast with puffy lips and look at the screen, “Dadadadada.”

“Oh, hi lil’ mama,” Harry changes his tone completely, face softening - “Did I interrupt y’eatin’? S’mama being so nice and feeding you?”

Briar just smiles with a gapped baby tooth smile, a dimple pushing into her left cheek as she does so.

“Guess I’m good for one thing, right? A fucking milk-maker,” YN scoffs at her husband’s opposite tone as she guides Briar gently back down to finish her meal.

Harry frowns, “Y’know tha’s not anything near the truth and tha’ I think you’re the best mama to our babies. M’just upset.”

“You told me my best wasn’t good enough, I can’t believe you would say something like tha’ to me,” YN begins to sniffle again.

“Sweetheart, m’sorry. I ju-“

“What did you call for, Harry? It’s nearly four-thirty in the morning and I haven’t slept for nearly two days now. I want to feed her and go to sleep,” YN’s voice is disconnected and exhausted.

“To talk, I didn’t say how I was feeling correctly-“

“When you come home tomorrow you can fix everything and I’ll let you because I’m not doing a good enough job,” His wife cuts him off again.

Harry starts to feel a ball of worry form in his throat as he hears how unemotional and distance his wife sounds with him.

He had totally said the wrong things as his wife was just trying to do her best at balancing four babies while he was away.

“Please, let me apologize-“

“I would like to go to sleep. Please don’t call back,” YN responds before ending the phone call and leaving the screen dark.

They rarely ever fought. Especially like this.

He’s man enough to admit that he cries after he tries calling back (even though she said not to) and it went straight to voicemail.

-

He tries facetiming in the morning, at around nine right before if flight takes off - surprised when it actually was picked up.

Harry only sees YN for a brief moment before she’s propping up the camera on the kitchen table so that Easton and Cash are in view eating pancakes and Briar is in her high chair with blueberries staining her chubby cheeks.

Ezra must still be in bed.

“Hi bubbies,” Harry greets with a smile as they’re curls shake as they look up with excited smiles.

“Daddy! You comin’ home?” Cash squeaks excitedly through a mouthful of food.

“Hi dad!” Easton chimes in, waving.

Briar is only half-interested, more taken by the fact that if she squishes the berries between her fingers they turn mushy, babbles out a, “Daddadaa.”

“I’ll be home in like three hours, ‘kay” Harry informs them - his heart aches to be there right now with theme

“Ezzie cried all night,” Cash let’s his father know.

“Mama cried too,” Easton whispers, like it’s a secret that he doesn’t want her to hear, “I think she is really sad.”

Harry squeezes his eyes shut for a minute, “I know. Ezzie was sad last night. Can I talk to mama?”

Easton looks to his mother off camera as she must say something to him to repeat to Harry, “Mama said that she is busy and she’ll see you when you get home.”

He clenches his fist off camera, trying to smile but he knows it’s terse as he says, “Alright, I love you all. See y’when I get home.”

-

Meanwhile, YN gets all the children settled after breakfast.

Easton, Cash, and Ezra in the backyard - the two older ones digging holes for bugs and the younger playing in the sandbox.

Briar was snoozing in the cradle of YN’s elbow as she sat on a chaise - watching the kids.

She hits the number she was looking for, waiting for it to ring, and then she hears, “Hillside Pediatrics, this is Jess.”

The office knew the family well because Harry is Harry Styles and they have four children who visit there.

YN inquires about therapeutic options for him, resources, and if they had any recommendations for where to take him.

Like the super mom she is, she manages to set up an intake appointment that evening (which was a miracle on its own), call Anne and ask to watch the other children, and then take a deep breathe.

Harry steps through the back door, dressed in his usual Yankees hoodie, Nike shorts, and trainers looking tanner than before.

“Hi bubbies!” He greets, basking in when all of his children look up and squeal excitedly at the sight of their father.

Easton and Cash are the fastest, racing to cling to each legs and nuzzle into his thigh with a tight hug.

Ezra is slower, by the time he’s arrived to his father - there was no room for him to shuffle in and he automatically lets out an earth-shattering wail.

Just like before.

“Daddy! Hold me! Daddy, hold me please!” His youngest son begs desperately, stretching up his arms, and letting hot tears stream down his cheeks.

Harry tuts, reaching for him and popping him on his hip but Ezra has other ideas - scrambling until his nose is pressed into the curve of Harry’s neck with his arms wrapped tightly around him.

“Ezzie, c’mon now,” Harry titters softly, reaching down to give both of his other boys a kiss on the head before they dart back off to play.

“Daddy, miss you,” Ezra blubbers sadly, Harry wincing when his son yanks a bit in his longer curls by the nape of his neck.

“Y��okay, daddy’s got you. Relax, breathe bubba,” His father reassured him, swaying softly back and forth until he’s just sniffing.

“We have an appointment with a children’s play therapist for him later at five,” YN tells him, shushing Briar who’s squeaking from the noise.

Harry takes a deep inhale, “Okay, that sounds like a good idea. Can we talk now since y’been ignoring my calls?”

YN bristles at the attitude in his tone, “Excuse me if I’d rather not be critiqued on my skills as a mother when I am sleep-deprived and stressed out.”

He clenches his jaw, speaking lowly with firmness, “Y’bein’ absurd! I didn’t critique to you, y’blowing things out of proportion! Y’the one who didn’t tell me this was going on!”

“It didn’t get that bad until last night! I could handle it - he would just be upset for a little before bed but he’d never got that anxious before,” She justifies, returning the glare he’s giving her.

“Didn’t think y’could mentioned it to me? I have a right to know, he’s m’baby too. I could have fix this yet you were letting him suffer,” Harry bites out but know as soon as it’s out of his mouth that he wishes he could swallow the words back down.

You were letting him suffer.

YN doesn’t even argue back, just starts bawling because of how hurtful those words were and how could he even say that?

“Mama, fuck- I didn’t, I’m just-“

His wife gets up without a word, using Briar’s blanket to wipe at her wet cheeks, and vanishing through the sliding back doors.

Ezra was snoozing peacefully on him and he couldn’t leave the boys outside alone so he resorts to sitting down on one of the outdoor couches and curse internally.

He couldn’t believe he was being so cruel. He just felt so….betrayed that she hadn’t told him what had been going on and he felt like he was letting down Ezra.

It was a nasty feeling of guilt in the pit of his stomach because he was away so much from his family and it was stressful for everyone.

He wanted to cry at the idea of his son crying for him every night.

-

Harry starts to get anxious when YN isolates herself in their bedroom with Briar for the next upcoming hours.

He knocks softly, opening the door to YN turned on her side away from him, under the covers, with Briar asleep in her bassinet asleep.

“Mama? Y’awake?” Harry murmurs cautiously with a sandwich and chips since she’d disappeared and hadn’t been down once, water in the other hand.

“Are the boys okay?” YN asks quietly, not bothering to turn over to face him.

“Yes, babies are fine. They’re watchin’ Toy Story right now, eatin’ lunch,” Harry replies, eyes falling in his beautiful little daughter.

“If the boys are fine then I don’t want you in here,” YN tells him with an angry tone but low enough that it won’t disturb Briar.

Harry nearly whimpers.

“Baby, please. We need to talk-“

“If the boys are fine, I want you to leave me alone.”

Harry hesitates by the door, feeling helpless as he slips the plate onto the dresser in case she is hungry but he doubts she’ll touch it.

“Alright, I’ll leave y’be. Call me if y’need anythin’ or help with Briar,” He offers, trying to buy time in the room.

She laughs sarcastically, “Yeah, I’ll make sure you’re notified because I can’t do a good enough job myself.”

Harry sighs, running a hand through his hair, trying to conjure up the perfect words to fix this situation but it’s interrupted.

“Daddy? Daddy? Where? Hold me!” Ezra screeches as Easton stands outside the door with him, holding his hand.

“Dad, he won’t stop,” The oldest complains with annoyance as Ezra scurries to his father and up into his arms.

“Daddy daddy,” He chants into his father’s skin with relief.

“Thank y’East, Ezzie’s been sad lately. Huh?” Harry replies, thumbing at Easton’s cheek.

The oldest shrugs, “Not always. Mama cheers him up all the time with kisses and hugs.”

Harry gazes back to the lump under the blankets and feels himself getting choked up. He really really regretted his words.

He didn’t regret being upset with her. He regrets the cheap shots he took at his wife who’s just trying to be a full time mom to his babies.

“Mama?” Ezra squeaks at the word, realizing he hasn’t seen her recently and then he’s back to tantruming, “Mama, mama, mama. Where’s mama?”

“M’right here, Ez,” YN murmurs, flipping to her other side so that her youngest could see her. His face lights up and he scurries to the bed, scampering up until his mom is tucking him under the blankets with her.

Harry’s heart aches when Ezra whimpers quietly and burrows into her warm chest with happiness that he found his mother.

“Y’got him?” Harry asks, hand raking through Easton’s curls as he leans into his father’s side.

“Can we go play now, dad?” Easton asks impatiently, tugging his father out of the room and down the staircase.

-

Anne shows up and the two older ones are so excited, bouncing up and down as they tug her into the backyard to show her the holes they dug with Briar popped on her hip - gnawing on her shirt collar.

YN brings Ezra down the stairs, curls tamed with a bit styling mousse and a little adias x disney outfit that was the cutest thing ever. ***

Harry reaches out to take Ezra off YN but he whines and shakes his head, clinging to his mother like it was life or death.

“No daddy! Mama!” Ezra pouts angrily, glaring at his father with protectiveness.

He puts his hands up, “Okay, okay. Y’can stay with y’mama.”

-

The car ride is silent, Harry doesn’t know what to say and YN isn’t giving him anything to work with. He feels like he’ll just say the wrong thing again.

When they pull up to the building and Harry puts it in park, he’s startled when his wife just starts bawling into her hands.

Harry freezes for a second with wide eyes before rumbling, “Mama, sweetheart. Please don’t cry, it breaks m’heart, darlin’.”

“I’m…I’m no-not a good mom,” YN cries, “I wanted to tell you but I was scared. I don’t want you to think I can’t handle raising our babies.”

Harry pries her hands away from her face, cupping her cheeks and firmly staring, full conviction in his voice, “If I didn’t think y’could handle four babies then I wouldn’t have put them in you. I wouldn’t talk about putting more in you.”

YN’s eyes are watering, letting Harry swipe the tears away with his thumbs as she inhales deeply, “I am so so sorry I didn’t tell you. I don’t want you to worry when you’re away.”

Harry leans forward, kissing her harshly before whispering against her lips, “I don’t give a fuck about baseball in comparison to you and the kids. I’d give it up this second if y’asked. I want to worry because you’re the love of m’life and I’m y’husband - I’m here to support you and support our family.”

He continues, “I am a bit frustrated with you. I want you to tell me everything I miss when I’m gone even if it stresses me out or upsets me. Okay? But I shouldn’t have said hurtful things. You’re the best mama on this planet and y’treat our babies the best.”

YN nods, willing herself to stop crying as their appointment starts in ten minutes as she takes steady breathes.

“I forgive you. I’m sorry I let my pride get in the way. I just…I feel like you do everything for us and the least I could do is manage the kids,” She sighs with self-deprecation.

“Mama, just because one of our bubs needs therapy doesn’t mean you’re not doing a perfect job. We’ve always know Ezzie was an anxious baby. This is going to be good for him and for us, right?” He encourages, nosing at her cheek before she offers up her lips once more for a short kiss.

“I love you,” YN tells him, running a thumb of a light dusting of stubble on his jawline.

“Love y’more than anything,” He replies instantly.

-

Ezra is nervous as they step into the calming, peaceful office where there are neatly organized buckets of toys and shelves of books.

Patricia was a middle-aged woman with a kind smile who welcomed them in, she observed how Ezra had himself wrapped around his dad with hesitant green eyes peeking at her.

As they sit down, Patricia says softly, “This must be Ezra?”

They all wait for a moment before the toddler turns around to look at the woman and says timidly, “m’Ezzie.”

“Hi Ezzie,” The therapist greets and he gives her a cautious smile before nuzzling back into his father’s neck.

The discuss what has been going on. How Ezra has always been very nervous, anxious, cautious in a way that none of his other siblings are.

How he struggles when one of his parents is away from him, how he can get upset if he can’t find one of his siblings, or how much he worries about things most kids his age don’t worry about.

Patricia does an excellent job in calming down the parents, assuring them that it was nothing out of the norm, and that therapy would be beneficial for him.

She states that they’ll work a lot of feelings - being able to describe and recognize them. That will be one of the most important things.

Also working on his ability to calm down and cope with stressful situations, recommending once a week which of course his parents agreed to.

By the end of the intake, Ezra had ventured to take one of the baby dolls from a bin and bring it back to his father.

“Look daddy, s’a baby,” He lisps proudly, holding it up to show him.

“Good job, bubs,” Harry laughs, leaning to kiss his forehead - watching him toddle off to find more dolls to play with.

-

That night, after all the kids go to bed, and YN is finishing her final feeding with Briar in her nursery before putting in her crib.

Harry runs a nice, steaming bath with lavender bubbles and a candle burning with the lights dimmed low.

When she finds him, he slowly undresses her with warm kisses and praises of how good of a wife and mother she is.

They lay in there together, YN between his legs with her head rested on his chest, as his hands massage at her tummy and hips lovingly.

And yeah, everything is okay after that.

They get up the next day and everything is back to normal except now Ezra goes to therapy once a week with his parents.

(Ezra ends up working with Patricia until he’s in about sixth grade.)