#i am counting down the days before i get to cuck someone again its a problem

[loyally-unfaithful]

—; even if i am fooling myself, my feelings are true . (3)

word count: 4.1k

pairing: origami cyclone | ivan karelin / gn!reader

genre: hurt/comfort

summary: even if he was lying to you by pretending to be your lover, he told himself it was worth it. it made you happy. it helped you. he’s helping you. this ruse is only done in good faith. 

if it were to make you smile, if it were to help you brighten up, then all his lies and deceptions could be forgiven, he rationalised.

a/n: i know that ivan's peak depression and garbage self-esteem is pre-episode 8, and after that he's actually fine and coping ok thanks to the power of friendship but let's pretend that ,,, 2020 is hitting ivan hard, he keeps getting cucked by that one sekiro boss, he can’t defeat alatreon, and he's second guessing himself

he decided that he’ll tell you once you were released.

the door leading to your room opened with a marked click, announcing anytime a person entered (or exited) the room.

this time was no different. the door clicked as ivan quietly stepped inside.

he’ll have to ask you when you could be discharged, didn’t he?

though not quite taking your eyes off of your book, you shifted your head slightly to where the sound came from, notifying him that you were listening.

« hey, i’m back… sorry i couldn’t get by sooner. »

this time, you took your eyes off of the pages to answer him: « it’s really not an issue, you reassured him, don’t force yourself if you’re too busy okay? »

he blinked. the hero can’t help being unnerved: something about the way you said that made it seem as if you could see through him. for the past few weeks that he has known you, he has a nagging feeling that you know more than you let on, but frustratingly enough he still couldn’t figure out what’s between the lines.

probably just his paranoia.

he has learnt that you were, for the most part, an honest and straightforward person: if you had something to say, you’ll tell him—so the blond brushed his hypervigilance to his job as hero.

« still… i can’t help but feel bad… he smiled apologetically. – i know, i know... you conceded. »

ivan gently placed a humble bouquet of lily-of-the-valley, which he had come to learn was your favourite flower, on the table and seated himself besides you. book dog-eared and put away, you let your hand settle in his, allowing your fingers to intertwine with his. a warm smile crept on your face as you felt his thumb stroke the back of your hand.

« just, i don’t want you to worry. you turned to look to where he sat. i’d still live even if you don’t visit every few days. a soft laugh escaped you. »

you’ve changed, he noticed. you’re different.

you looked much happier. you smiled, genuinely smiled, and laughed, genuinely laughed, a lot more. your eyes were clear and focused, instead of the bleary, tear-soaked eyes he had come to associate with you.

you were much more animate than you were. animate in every sense of the word: yes, you were doing better in rehab, but you’ve started doing more outside of that. you were slowly, but surely, going through your abandoned stack of books. even though you were not that big of a fan of watching tv, he has caught you turning the fixture on a few times to serve as white noise as you read, tuning in to whatever was being broadcasted at the time. occasionally, you’ve even ventured outside your room to visit the hospital garden. you were much easier to talk to. you were more open and easy going. you’ve even started interacting with the hospital staff. he found himself being able to hold full conversations with you instead of the flat monosyllabic replies he had expected.

lively. lively was the word to describe you now.

 he recalls your first few interactions since his appearance. they were all lukewarm at best. were you always this unapproachable? this cold? what had happened to your warmth? he remembers asking himself that. the hero supposes it’s normal… he was disguised as someone who had hurt you. perhaps even humiliated you in front of all the staff present at the time, including he and dragon kid. so your behaviour was to be expected: after the relief of having your partner back, you probably remembered your own anger. the cold shoulder was to be expected. he tried his best to be patient with you, not letting your poorly hidden glare and scrutiny get to him. but even so, he would shiver at the thought of being watched. never before had he felt so much so like a prey pursued by a raptor.

the blond tried his best to coax you out of your impenetrable shell, doing his best to appear empathetic and appease you. if it would help you lighten up, then he’d willingly take the brunt of your hatred.

once in a while, he’d try to get you to speak, to no avail. you’d either ignore him, scowling, or whisper out a terse response. ivan tried not to get discouraged, he really did, but it was hard to do when the object of his affection, the person he cared for, the person he wanted to help rejected him with such disdain and pushed him away so coldly.

« how are you f— he started. – why are you here? but you had brashly interrupted him. why do you keep visiting me? what are you trying to prove? you spat, venom laced in your voice. » in your ire, you clenched your blanket tightly, until your knuckles turned white.

ivan was visibly taken aback by your slew of spiteful questions, and by your seemingly irreparable distrust. he doesn’t like the darkness in your eyes. much less at the thought that it was directed at him. he hesitated to answer, afraid that the wrong word could set your already agitated self off. ‘calm down, ivan. they’re not mad at you. he told himself. they’re mad the person you’re impersonating.

he swallowed, throat dry: « i don’t… what do you mean? he tilted his head, crushed. i’m not trying to prove anything, i was just worried about you. he hoped his tone conveyed the sincerity in his words. i’m really sorry i hurt you, i… i wasn’t thinking straight and i hurt you in the process. he shook his head in repentance. if i’ve humiliated you in any way, i’m really sorry. i really am. please believe me when i say that i care about you. he pleaded. »

it seemed that his earnest response had caught you off guard, having sat up straight up. for the first time in a long while, he found that you had properly turned to face him. you had unclenched your hands, and your eyes were wide. any trace of resentment had disappeared, in its stead was genuine surprise. as if not quite believing his words, you squinted in his direction as you went over his words again.

« you’re… not lying? » came your slow and incredulous response, voice having lost every trace of anger. there was no tension in the way you said it, innocent without any signs otherwise.

were you astonished by his response… why?

what did you mean by that?

it wasn’t a question directed at him, and more like a statement. a realisation. but still he moved to answer you, to redeem himself before your eyes.

« of course not… why would— i have no reason to lie to you… »

wrong answer.

he had to stop himself from wincing as you frowned, sceptical. you retracted your gaze from him and returned to quietly gaze out of the window.

he got the memo that the conversation had ended, that you didn’t want to elaborate nor continue. so he left. feeling at a loss after your tense exchange.

but even so, he came back a few days later, to your very apparent surprise.

even if your first few days with him as “taylor” were shaky, he was glad that he never gave up: having come to look forward to spending time in your company. instead of the solemn and wary person he had been introduced to, there was a warm and approachable person in its place. instead of the suspicious and closed off person he had to deal with, you’ve shown yourself to be a frank and honest, if sometimes candid, person.

 when he returned, the door clicked as he entered, and your reaction was instantaneous: « you came back. »

was it a statement? was it a question? he couldn’t make the tone in which you said that, but you hadn’t sounded angry as you did the last time, so he considered that he was still in the clear. maybe you were stupefied that he still came back after your vitriolic interrogation. for better or for worse, neither of you spoke much that day. ivan didn’t know what to say, while you remain as silent as you always were, fiddling with your sleeve. the tension was still omnipresent, but it didn’t feel as oppressive. it didn’t feel like a single misstep would send you over the edge. neither of you tried to meet each other’s eyes, but it almost felt like your avoidance was due to your chagrin at your past actions. your eyebrows knitted in contrition and you tapped your fingers absentmindedly on the sheets.

ivan sighed. he had decided to call it a day, happy enough to see that you were still alive and doing more or less ok. the young man wondered if he always felt this tired. he had stepped off to leave when you spoke up on your own initiative: « i’m sorry. »

your voice had been small, and he probably wouldn’t have heard it if the room wasn’t so depressingly silent. but despite the meekness of your own voice, your sincerity came through.

« i’m sorry. you said again, this time louder. i shouldn’t have been so crass… with you. » your expression was twisted in penitence. « i assumed the worst out of the situation when you’ve been nothing but accommodating with me. you paused. despite your good intentions, i continued to make disparaging remarks about you. i’m really sorry… »

without realising it, the blond had walked back over to your bed and started on his side of the apology, which he stuttered out: « i… it was… i deserved it, for making you upset… »

you smiled, but it didn't reach your eyes, almost like you tried to allow yourself to believe a well-intentioned lie, but couldn’t. you smiled and said nothing, moving instead to hold his hand tenderly in yours as a peace treaty. « if…. you can find it in your heart to forgive me, i would like to start over and give you a chance. you met his eyes, and he was relieved to see that they did not hold a single strand of malice. rather, you smiled. smiled so earnestly it hurt his heart. thank you so much for coming back. »

ever since, you’ve even started cracking your own jokes and no longer scrutinised his words seriously, almost as if you were trying to dissect each one of them. he happily listens to you jabber on about the new book you read, what you happened to have heard in passing while conversing with the medical staff or while being idle in the garden, and what was discussed on the news. anything. and he listened happily. because if you were talking, it meant you were happy. if you were happy, then it meant that you were hopefully getting better.

like night and day. from dispirited to lively.

he’s happy seeing you thriving.

even if he was lying to you by pretending to be your lover, he told himself it was worth it. it made you happy. it helped you. he’s helping you. this ruse is only done in good faith. if it were to make you smile, if it were to help you brighten up, then all his lies and deceptions could be forgiven, he rationalised.

« a successful rescue! as expected from the king of heroes: barnaby brooks jr! »

the announcer emphatically shouted. that train of thought halted, and ivan’s eyes flicked to the screen in the corner of the room.

‘must be a rerun from yesterday’s arrest.’ he mused, as the tv quickly changed camera, showcasing the past event in all its chaotic glory.

« he’s incredible isn’t he? your voice drew his attention back to you and he tilted his head. – barnaby? his voice wavered. »

it was an innocuous statement, but somehow the blond felt his heart crack a little. barnaby deserved to be crowned the king of heroes: he was strong, reliable, confident, everything he was not. barnaby’s power can be used to help people, unlike his. it made sense that he would be the hero everyone favoured, including you. go figure, seeing as barnaby was also very popular back at the academy. in a stroke of selfishness that made him hate himself, ivan had hoped that, somehow, he would’ve been your favourite hero. but there wasn’t any chance of that being true if he were realistic. he should’ve known better. despite his best efforts, he never really did manage to do more. to pull his weight. he blended in the background, with a passivity not befitting a hero.

unknowingly, he let out a heavy sigh. if only he were better. if only he were more like barnaby, or the other heroes. if only he were marginally as incorruptible as wild tiger, as self-assured as blue rose, as resilient as fire emblem, as steadfast as sky high, as tireless as dragon kid, as tenacious as rock bison. if only he were better. if only he were someone else, but him.

someone who could genuinely make you happier without having to disguise himself as somebody else.

he teared his eyes away from you to look elsewhere as he responded: « yeah, he’s really amazing. he hoped his voice didn’t betray how disheartened he was. the blond wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable. you tilted your head quizzically. – i admit, he and his partner are quite enjoyable to watch. was it possible for his heart to drop even lower? but they’re not who i’m referring to. you completed with a chuckle. – oh? he asked, half curious and half worried. – i was actually, um, it was your turn to be sheepish, faltering, as you meet his eyes. talking about origami cyclone… it actually took him a few moments before it registered in his head that you were talking about him, though it only filled him with more confusion when he did. – but why? he asked incredulously. – but why not? you parroted with a laugh. i think his kabuki themed costume is pretty cool… it must be super intricate! you remembered when you saw it in person, how you found yourself fawning over it and its design. not to mention, his ability is also super impressive! can you imagine? he can camouflage himself anywhere! – but he’s not much of a hero… he mumbled. what could he do with that kind of ability? besides, all he does is just stay in the background… – photobombing like a pro, as usual we can see origami cyclone lurking in the background! with oddly perfect timing, the host cuts in to announce the points origami had gathered (or lack thereof). despite revving up his ad appeal, he has not earned any points! acting as if the announcement helped ivan make his point, he resumed avoiding your eyes, focusing on the one tile that suddenly looked very interesting. »

sensing the prolonged silence, ivan gave up expecting a response from your part. he doesn’t know if that makes him feel better or worse. he’s scared of what you might say, but he’s equally as terrified of the implication of your silence.

« so what if he stays in the background? your resolute tone caught him off guard, and he peered at you with wide eyes. i don’t think that makes him any less of a hero than the rest. your conviction astounded him. he’s able to help and contribute in ways the other heroes can’t. sure, maybe in terms of strength he couldn’t compare to, say, wild tiger, but during a recon mission or in situations where one is required to sneak into an enemy territory he would excel above every other hero. he’s not a power type next and he can’t control the elements, so it wouldn’t be fair to compare him to what barnaby could do with his hundred power or what blue rose could do with her ice manipulation. it would be like comparing a cat’s ability to fly with those of a bird.

besides, i’m sure there’s something only origami can do!

you took a small moment to choose your words, contemplating whether you should continue or not, but after a small pause, you decided to do so. this time, however, your voice was much smaller. he would even qualify it as timid.

when, um… after our fight, he came over to visit me. i mean, i know it was probably some planned activity for the campaign, but… it still made me happy, regardless. and even after that, he kept checking up on me during the rest of the event, trying to cheer me up and make me laugh with his antics. tried to get me talking, you know? you shook your head. i guess my miserable self must’ve been very obvious… you laughed dryly. i applaud him for bearing with me for such a long time: i must’ve been such a pain to deal with during the first few days. i admit i felt a little bad taking up his time like that, but for what it’s worth he managed to lift my spirits and his visits made my day just a little brighter.

so even if it doesn’t seem like he’s doing much on herotv, i believe that he’s a kind, and loyal person—the type who wouldn’t easily abandon or give up on others. and i think that that is what makes him a real hero, not points on a tv show. »

« i’m sorry, that must’ve been very corny… you scratched the back of your neck. »

it took him a moment to fully process what you had just said, and took the blond another to fully consider your words. a part of him didn’t—couldn’t—believe you: there was no way you thought that way about a loser like him, right? but a grateful smile bloomed on his face, nonetheless.

« huh… he acknowledged. yeah… he agreed. i guess you’re right, love. even so, he allowed himself to believe your words. »

you hummed happily, pleased at winning this “argument”, and took to rest your head on his shoulder. he had gotten used to your affectionate nature, no longer finding himself flustered beyond words when you shifted closer to him and leaned into his side, nestling yourself comfortably within his arms. willingly, he wrapped his arms around your middle and carefully laced his fingers with yours. he let out a content sigh. his hand fitted perfectly around yours. you nuzzled his hair. there was no one else he’d rather be with, he belonged with you. your presence brought peace to his mind, your words always managing to reassure his turbulent thoughts and ease away his anxieties. truthfully, your presence comforted him in ways he couldn’t understand.

he wonders when you stopped needing him and he started needing you.

it’s hardly the right place to consider it, but he wished he could just capture and relive this one perfect moment—you, in his arms, humming a charming tune, stopping once in a while whenever you wanted to share an interesting trivia encountered during your reading. him, cradling you, watching over you quietly, attentively listening to what you said while he reveled in the time he got to share with you—over and over again. he wished he could stay in this one perfect, idyllic, moment and continue pretending.

close his eyes and pretend.

pretend everything was alright. pretend that this is where he belonged. pretend that he wasn’t lying to you. pretend that this was right.

but he was here to make sure of something right?

« oh, and by the way, do you know when you’ll be released? – hmm? ivan didn’t like the jarring silence that followed when you halted your humming. ...oh. your voice sounded disappointed and you seemed hesitant to tell him the truth. well, if everything went well they said i could go home tomorrow morning or afternoon. »

tomorrow?

« oh. » ivan responded, his voice tinted with a finality that concerned you.

he had decided that he’ll tell you once you were released, didn’t he?

he’d have to tell you the truth by tomorrow.

« but look taylor, it’s not all bad! you sensed that the mood had shifted downwards and you tried to lift it back up. once we’re out of here you can help me pick out a cane that’ll match with my style, maybe a colour that brings out my eyes. – yeah… »

he tried to sound enthused, but he doesn’t think that he fooled you. if you weren’t, you didn’t say anything.

the conversation had died out, and neither of you were particularly keen on trying to resuscitate it, so you both simply appreciated each other’s presence in a comfortable silence. or at least tried to.

this was a much harder feat for taylor, consumed by their own thoughts.

“taylor”. that’s what you called them. but wait, no, he was ivan.

that’s right, he’s disguised as your past lover wasn’t he? so yes, he was called taylor. that was the right name to call him by.

but he wondered how his name would sound with your enchanting voice. my name is ivan. he needs to tell you the truth. please say it?

oh god he needed to tell you the truth didn’t he?

he wanted to pretend that the person you were spending so much time with and pouring your heart to was him. he wished the skin you kissed were his, the hair you’d run your fingers through were his, the person you derived so much comfort from was him, the name coming from your lips were his.

but that wasn’t the case, was it? this wasn’t him. the skin you kissed wasn't his. the hair you played with wasn't his. the person that always made you happier wasn’t him. the name you called adoringly wasn’t his. the hand yours fitted so perfectly in wasn’t his, it was taylor’s. none of this was ever his. they were all taylor’s. this was taylor’s body. this wasn’t his body.

this wasn’t his body. this wasn’t his body. it made him so viscerally aware of the fact that none of this is real. it made the shapeshifter’s skin crawl. that’s right, none of this is real. he’s not meant to be with you. it’s all a lie. he wasn’t the one who you’d choose to share these intimate moments with. he wasn’t the one you were so eager to see. he wasn’t the one you had feelings for. was your closeness always this restrictive? his breath quickened. the impostor wanted to tear his skin off. he can’t breathe. he stopped himself from gasping for air, not wanting to out himself to you. his mind raced. he didn’t want to be here. he wanted to be here, but he needed to be elsewhere. he can’t stay here. he needed to go. his pulse ran wild.

he can’t breathe.

he can’t breathe.

« taylor? »

he snapped out from whatever trance he was in and his eyes slid over to where you were. noticing the tension that had gathered in his arm, he quickly let go of your hands—unhanding you as if he were holding an intense heat which seared his hand, which was what your prolonged contact started feeling like. your touch had set his skin on fire, making it painful. he must’ve started gripping at them tighter than he meant, than what would’ve been comfortable, because you instinctively massaged your wrist as soon as he let go.

« y-yeah… i’m so sorry, i’m r-really sor— he stammered, still trying to get his breathing, and voice, under control. – you look tired. you lifted yourself off of him and he didn’t protest against the separation, letting his arm flop uselessly. i think you should get some rest… your voice was tinged with worry. »

moving much too fast and much too slow for his liking, than what was considered normal, ivan stood up.

« u-uh, yeah… i think i’ll do just that… see you tomorrow... »

his voice didn’t sound confident. you didn’t seem to buy his promise. but too drained to rectify whatever had happened, the blond found his way out of the room.

what had happened to the peace that followed spending time with you? inhale and exhale, in and out. he needs to tell you the truth, and soon. everything will be ok, everything will be ok, everything will be ok. he can’t keep going like this, and it’s not fair for you either.

ivan stops in his tracks. his reflection on the glass pane beside him seemed to mock him. he frowns. he hates the person he sees in the mirror.

a/n: feel free to decide for yourself who that person in the mirror is lmao

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[ramblingsandruminations]

When Suicidal Ideation is the norm

All the help in the world becomes a muddy puddle of shitty affirmations, thorned gaslighting, and useless guilt. If one more person tells me "have you tried yoga/deepbreaths/vitamin B..." Ugh. Who am i kidding? This is tumblr, where you can always find somone who says exactly what you are thinking ( #omgmetho #datme #meirl ). Weve all heard the "stop giving advice and atart taking it " speech, we're all likely to have read some post about the "evils" and " abuses" of therapy and inpatient treatment, and I'll bet a paper hat, some vending machine doodad, or some shitty-yet-adorably-hipsterly prize that within 100 reblogs someone links to some news article about "Queer Youth Completes Suicide And We Think You Will Pay Us to Feel Bad About It, Don't Forget To Like, Share, and Subscribe to Trevor Project, Your Reblog Will Save A Life (And Keep Us Relevant For Our Advertisers)." Tomorrow(well, next daylight hours) my 26-year-old depressed college freshman self is going to walk into my schools coubseling office and tell them i never recieved the location for the therapist they reffered me to (true story--Honestly not avoiding treatmwnt, even if it is useless) and request a second referral. Ill sit through some lecture about self-advocacy veiled in "concerned questions" and once again be misgendered, deadnamed, and criticized for giving a fuck (note: commenters looking to describe me with the word "cuck," i see you there, good for you, let me know how that white kkknight holier than thou red pill rage fest dopamine addiction is filling the gaping void of existential dread within you). After that, there is always a small chance they'll see just how depressed i am, and faster than you can say "looney is a word based in misogynistic beliefs of womens mental health and menstrual cycles being unhealthily and unscientifically connected to the moon," ill be fielding questions which boil down to "do you want to kill yourself" and "do you have a plan." By this time in my life, i've gotten pretty used to BSing my way around psychology. All it really takes is knowing that all they can take you on is your word, and nothing else. "Do you want to kill yourself?" they ask, and i reply "*short pause, heavy, short exhale denoting weight and truth* Well, yeah. But quite frankly, suicidal ideation is a part of my everyday life- nothing i do isn't plagued with some form of "i should wrap this mouse cord aroubd my neck and die" or " i wonder if that branch is strong enough to support my weight" or "man, my head hurts, but i bet a bottle or two of ibuprofen could make it stop." For me, its not a question of wanting to die, its a matter of what do i have to live for, and ive been through enough inpatient DBT and group therapy to help me cope, using breathing techniques and self-care tips to push me through the worst of it." This is usually if not always all they need to hear. Sure, im depressed, but anything they could tell me is something i know and am already doing-i sound to them more like a patient leaving inpatient than one entering it. Our hospitals are overfilled, understaffed, prqctucally unfunded; if im "stable" im staying out of their ledger book. Occasionally, they still worry, having one of those "consciences" their peers claim to have lost when a schizophrenic patient tried to bite their ear off, and ask a follow up "but are you sure? You seem distressed, and if you need some help, we are here for you," to which all i have to do is look at them through sad, but strong eyes and say "Thank you, but i have a great support network of friends and of course, my boyfriend. He's fantastic, and one of the most important things to have happened to me. He keeps me on this side of the dirt." A small tired chuckle, and their focus diverts towards affirmations of how good it is to have support, their therapy brains running on autopilot. Then all it needs is some "active" listening, uh-huhs, and compliant assurance that ill keep working on myself to assuage them of any guilt or corncern. Maybe, though, ill tell them the truth, and let them take me in. Three hots and a cot, after all. I'll fight through my dysphoria as they ogle every nook and cranny of my malformed body trying to see if im hiding a weapon or some drugs; I'll continue to insist on a private room and remind them calmly yet firmly that no, i will *not* room with a male, and their lack of knowledge on how to treat a transgender non-binary patient is well behind on proper treatment according to WPATH, the APA, and our state govt. When i get a room, theyll say that i should take as much time as i need to get acclimated, and not worry about what the rwat of group is qorking on, and then contradict themselves within 5 minutes and say i need to go to group, theyre waiting on me. In my fresh new scrubs, ill walk in and within seconds, ill identify how th staff monitors who came in when (usually different colored scrubs based on different halves of the week, and of course, anyone likely to leave within 48 hours wearing "normal" clothes), and see the therapist or doctor talking about emotional management techniques. When i sit down, eeyes will be on me, some with looks of angey jusgemwnt, some with awe and wonder: what could THEY be in for? The group leader will ask me my name, ill state it and my pronouns (to several uncomfortable shifts in the room), and theyll let me know what they were talking about. Ill make a good effort to participate, play along, etc. Someone in the group will be desperate to control the conversation, talking more and more as if this entire experience is just for them- another person will be too dissociated to say anyrhing, despite the doctors attebpts to get them to open up. Already, the cliques will become apparent; humans are aocial creatures, after all. When we leave for the next scheduled activity (either rec or lunch, depending on the time) the docs will be watching me- im on suicide watch, and they expe t me to jump out a window or try and slit my wrists with a paperclip or something. Im not a danger in this regard; ive been threatened with solitary and ECT if i dont comply before- i am their prisoner and i must comply. Within an hour or two of being there, ill be able to notice how well funded they are (or more likely, arent.) The quality of their reading materials; the availability of puzzles abd how well taken care of they appear. Recreation will be the most bare of kindergarden activities; coloring books, maybe a tv with basic cable. A daycare for adults, abd not the cool buzzfeed articles. Someone, probably an addict, will be trying to fanangle their attendee into giving them special treatement- a snack, or an extra smoke break. I'll be sitting in a corner, smirking- the staff arent even an eigth as dumb as this person thinks, and they've seen this type before. They might get something, but itll cost them sour looks from staff and less accommodating treatment with the doctors. After the second hour, we'll have another activity (second group, rec, or maybe "outside time" if its a particularly fancy facility; while the sun will certainly be shining, our feelings of freedom will be dampened by the high fances and walls keeping us from getting away). This is usually wheb the realization sets in that im stuck here for 72 hours plus, and ill be counting them down to stave off boredom. 15-30 minutes in to this third hour, ill be called in to meet tye psychiatrist, fisrt meeting with an attendee to fill out the generic details, then 30-45 minutes of diagnosis before im told ill be put on ab antidepressant, an anxiolytic, and tramodol, a sedative marketed as "something to help me sleep" and "another antidepressant" which makes me laugh every time. Tramodol is the auppressant, the "slow down" drug which helps keep everyobe on a nice, calm level thats safer for the orderlies. Were i violent, id concur; instead, i begin to wonder how long it will take before i no longer feel persistently asleep once i leave. A couple weeks, likely. Hopefully, the food will be good, but not likely 5 star- one place ive stayed had been cooking for us in the break room, sometimes PB&J, sometimes microwaved quesadillas. Maybe theyll have more drink options than coffee, water, and sugar-free koolaid- maybe not. Likely not. Some of us will complain; most of us will know it is a fruitless endeavor. After another group or two, it will be dinner, then wrap up group. We will discuss what progress we think we made today, and be sent to bed after meds are distributed in little paper ketchup cups. Most places wont do the "cuckoos nest" tongue check, but some will, particularly the ones with kleptos and pill ODers. Lights oyt will be around 10 pm, the beds will be plasticky and the blankets thin, and sleep will only cone rhanks to our sedatives. Day two, we'll be woken early, around 6-7, by an orderly checking our blood pressure and body temp. Well all gather in the hallway, rubbing sleep out of our eyes and head to the eating area for breakfast- which loooking back will likely be the best meal of the day, not the least be ause we have access to augar and caffiene. By now, i will likely have made a friend, probably with an older woman or two, and we will enjoy surreptitiously smirking at each other when the teoublemaker patwnt tries to get an omlette or something silly. Someone will start telling fanciful stories dreamed up in the night; talk will eventually turn to who is leaving today. The orderlies will be trying to not look too interested in what we reveal to each other instead of them. They will not succeed in this. Ths first morning they will use as a test of how i deal with frustration. An older nurse will act exasperated, as though taking care of me is a curse she was tasked with. She will try to cut theough any response i give her, and rudely discount anything i try to say, as if accuaing me of lying. Knowing it is coming doesnt help it hurt less. If it overwhelms me, ill be labeled as dramatic- if not, as detached. Sluggish from the new medications, i will be treated as though i ahould not be here, and will be led aroubd more quickly than i am rady to be. I will notice that part of it is that i am beginning to realize how broken down i feel i am. Reaching out will result in canned answers and "the doctor is busy's". After all, this iant about me, and theyve seen my type before. At lunch, i will be upset by the bland meal, abd ask if they have any hot sauce, or maybethey will be out of a preferred tea, or the food will not be enough to feed me. The newcomer who arrived at morning group will share a look with the quiet patient. I will try not to notice the parallels. A therapist will ask to talk to me today. It may be a nice session, but will essebtially boil down to "let me give you ideas for solving your problems, so that your depression seems more managed." By the end of the day, they will already begin my release plan. Theyve fixed me, they are sure. I will also get my clothes back. The aurvey will be slightly different today; instead of asking on a scale of 1-10 with 1 being best abd 10 being worst how was my day, it will be the opposite: scale of 1-10 with 1 being worst and 10 being best. This way, they can track how much is me being honest, and how much is me remembering numbers to fake it. (Once, a nurse messed up so often that it was a sentence by sentence change). Later, if there is any improvement, it will be used by the hospital as signs that treatment is helping; if it gets worse, that i had a rough day and shouldnt think much of it. Bedtime will come, and i will relish it- being sedated takes a lot out of a person. When morning comes, the eggs will feel soggy and cereal with be a much better choice. A bagel will be carried into morning group and more DBT will be discussed. I will mostly be checked out; they are pulling most of their material from a 12 step program, and the leader is a student of psychology learning how to help people, but ive heard it all before, and that sense of guilt just pushes me towards suicide harder. At this point, ill feel just how desperate they are to get me out; nurses eill hint at things being the "wrong" answer with " you dont REALLY mean that, do you sweetie?" and " well, you cant keep thinking THAT way, or we'll have to keep you here longer." Boredom and longing for home will encourage me to pretend to be better, and not tell them how last night before falling asleep i stared at the vedfrane wondering if i could take it apart and form a springwire noose, or tear the blankets to make a rope. When they ask if im feeling better, it will actually mean "are you done with your timeout from reality? Have you learned how to fit in properly yet?" The meds wont really begin having a noticable effect for months- they know im lying. What they hope for is a glimmer of hope and a mountain of guilt for wanting to hurt others by hurting myself. Ill fake those, too. Still, ill be misgendered. Still, theyll blame hormones and buzzfeed rather than neurology and chemistry. After all, im well-adjusted, not at all like the Caitlyn Jenners and Wachowskis they read about on their facebooks. Its just a phase, and im just confused. I didnt try to hurt myself- nothing is *really* wrong with me. What can i do? Try and strangle myaelf, or others? That just means im lashing out, and ill get a new med regime and another 3 days, this time strapped down. Being strapped to a bed and left alone is mind-numbingly boring. If i tell them i still want to kill myaelf, theyll just nod their head and tell me it will go away soon; if i say i have a plan, rheyll keep me playing chess and reading AA papers until i apologize. Their job is not to fix me, their job is to stabilize me and make sure i dont break myself more. The fixing is my responsibility. Day four is release day. They will claim i have made improvements and have me fill out an action plan for when i feel depressed again. It will include people i can call, and ways i can push through bad feelings. It is my exit exam.when i pass, ill be set up with a therapist outside the hospital later in the week, and told how to connect with various resources. They will think i didnt know there were trans support groups. I will think that if it was just a support group i needed, i wouldnt dream of death. Neither of us will admit these things. And so, ill come back to school. Late on homework, i will have to prostrate myaelf with dictors note beggibg for forgiveness. I will get it, more due to policy than empathy, and at the end of the day, i will lay in bed, stare up at the ceiling, and contemplate which of my top three anchor spots would be the best ending to my story. Other than medical bills, nothing will have changed. Life drones on. I think i understand why death seems,so much better. In death, i can pretend there is a solution. In death, i can imagine a cure. In death, i can envision a caretaker and easier existence. It doesnt matter that death is the end of it all- i can pretend it willl be more, and my imagination can create many comforts in that void. But even death is a lie, and nothing will ever stop hurting.