#i got a 4.0 in nursing school last semester

[zeravera]

Merry late christmas

[dont-cry2020]

“Guess You’re a Celebrity Now, Huh?”

Harry Styles X Reader

//inspired by an idea given to me by the wonderful @peter-andthelostboys//

//What happens when there’s a new girl at an arts college? Well, she receives anonymous portraits shoved under her door, that the notorious Harry Styles may have something to do with//

//Fluff and angst//

//this definitely isn’t my best work but I haven’t been feeling super motivated lately, so thank you for your patience. i might try and rewrite this another time bc i really love the idea//

Harry loved to draw. It was his passion. 

He was quite good at it, too, so it was really no surprise to his friends and family when he got accepted to art school in Los Angeles. 

It’s a scary thing to move all the way across the world, let alone by yourself, but Harry adjusted quickly, enjoying the warm climate that was so different from the UK.

You, on the other hand, were feeling quite lost after high school. Your parents pushed you into medical program after medical program, determined that you were going to ‘make the family proud’ and ‘become rich and smart.’

For starters, you could care less about being rich, but you decided to humor your parents by going to medical school. Yeah, it was hard. 

So incredibly hard.

So hard, in fact, that you could count the panic attacks and all nighters you pulled on two hands. 

However, you found in yourself a passion for music; whether that was writing music or playing guitar or singing, it made you feel whole. Something that medicine and doctorates degrees could never. 

As Junior year began and the weather got crisper and the air constantly smelled like cinnamon and spice, you started to feel lonely on top of the stress. Sure, you had your friends, really good friends at that, but that wasn’t the problem. You longed for someone to love, someone to hold you and help you through your ups and downs and someone for you to help through their ups and downs. But, you knew that you couldn’t handle a relationship right now, for Christ’s sake you were studying to be a goddamn doctor!

You had a boyfriend freshman year. He was kind, smart, and, much to your parent’s approval, was studying to become a pediatrician. 

But you weren’t happy. 

It was always about school and homework; never parties or holidays or even intimacy. So, you ended it, and as junior year is upon you, you haven’t had a boyfriend since. 

Your girlfriends noticed that you were lonely, so they spent their time setting you up with hot college medical students to which you indulged in, and it was fun, sure, but you still weren’t happy. 

So you did the one thing that your parents never forgave you for.

You dropped out.

You dropped out of medical school and transferred to an arts college, one that you had your eye on since freshman year, and one that was about as far away from home as you could possibly go. 

You didn’t tell your mom or dad, didn’t tell them because you already knew what they were going to say. 

“You’re ruining your future!”

“You have no chance of getting a job now!” 

They hadn’t stopped since they found out from your brother, wondering why such a smart girl would become an art student. They didn’t even know you liked art. 

You were sad to leave your friends, sure, who wouldn’t be? You loved them, but you all understood that it was for the best. You had a dream, and you were going to chase it. They stood at the gates of the airport, waving and crying and hugging you as you boarded the plane from London to LAX. 

“Here we go.”

...

Art school was weird.

There were no snobby students with 4.0 GPA’s to wave in your face, no professors that thought they were better than everyone else or classes that you dreaded going to. 

It was actually fun. Who knew that college could be fun, right?

Moving into your dorm was terrifying. You didn’t know where to go or who your roommate was going to be, and despite your previous experiences, it was already half way through the first semester, and every one else had their chances to collect their bearings. Luckily for you, you got your own room because everyone else had already moved in and had roommates.

...

Rumor had spread throughout campus that a new girl had moved in. 

“Apparently she’s English,” or “she transferred from medical school” or “she’s a music major” were all things that Harry heard walking down the halls of his dorm and through the lawn and in classes.

It seems like this new student was all anyone ever talked about. 

He couldn’t say he wasn’t intrigued, for he was English too, and curious at that, but he was an art student and you were a music student, so he never saw you around, and none of his friends had ever met you either. 

As February rolled by, you had found that you adjusted quite nicely, making a few close friends and acquainting yourself with new faces. 

The weather was probably your favorite part about this school. Back home, you would never even dream of studying outside on the lawn in the middle of the winter, but here you are, sitting in a circle with a few of your friends, talking and laughing about music and strumming your guitar. 

Harry had his headphones in walking home from class. He was tired and he really just wanted a quick nap. It was Tuesday afternoon and the sun was shining, so there were tons of people on the lawn. It wasn’t a new thing for people to be playing instruments or singing when it was nice outside, so he didn’t bat an eye when he heard strumming of a familiar song. 

But his eyes widened when he heard an accented voice that matched his own. His eyes followed a group of students, most he had seen before, but he didn’t recognize the girl with the English accent. 

She must be the new girl. 

Harry convinced himself that he didn’t want to go back to his dorm to work on his art, but it was such a beautiful day that he would sit on the lawn and sketch his little heart out. 

He found himself staring at the girl, memorizing every freckle and curve of her face, quickly looking at his lap when you caught his eye, feeling like you were being watched. 

“Who’s that?” you asked your friends, pointing at the boy sitting by himself, nose buried in his sketch book.

“That,” Jack said, eyes widening, “is Harry Styles. Probably the hottest guy on campus.”

Margot rolled her eyes. “Jack’s just mad because he’s not into guys. He’s British like you, ya know.”

“He is hot,” you say, looking over at the boy with curly brown hair and tattoos littering his arms. “I should introduce myself.”

“Yes girl, get it!” Jack cheers. Rolling your eyes, you walk over to him. 

“Can I sit?” you ask, looking down at Harry. He looks up at you eyes widening, scrambling to close the sketchbook that was full of drawings of you. He couldn’t help it, you were just so gorgeous. He nods his head slowly, eyeing you up a bit. 

“‘M y/n,” you say, holding out your hand for him to shake.

“Harry,” he says, engulfing your hand in his large tattooed one. His rings catch your eye, reflecting the light and making him look that much more intimidating. “You’re English,” he remarks, not asking, but rather telling as if you didn’t already know. 

“Yeah,” you laugh nervously, his stare making you slightly uncomfortable. 

“Sorry,” he says apologetically. “Jus’ never seen you around here.”

“‘M new. Transferred last semester.”

Harry was interesting. He was funny, sweet, but a little reserved and intimidating, too. He was an art student that looked like he was the lead singer of a rock band. He dressed in dark jeans and jumpers and wore necklaces and rings. Never what you would have expected to be attracted to, being an ex-medical student and all. But, despite your doubts, you found him very appealing. 

The conversation ended when he had to get to class, so you bid him farewell and returned to your group of friends, egging you on for every detail of your previous conversation. 

...

The week finally rolled along to Friday, and you were set to go to bed early and watch netflix alone, in proper need of some me time. Your friends, however had other ideas when they barged into your dorm with a bottle of wine and the skimpiest dress they could find. 

“Come on, y/n, please!” Jack begged you, walking to your closest and rifling through your clothes in the most extra way possible. He pulls out a pair of lacy panties and a matching bra. “All of your clothes make you look like a prude, so you’re wearing this.”

“Hey!” you say, snatching the undergarments from him and shoving them back into your drawer. “I’m so spent tonight, I really don’t feel like going out.”

“But,” Margot says, pulling your makeup out from your desk, “a certain British boy will be there.”

Suddenly all parts of you that were fatigued and not wanting to go to a party change their direction and you’re snatching the dress from Jack’s hold and going to the bathroom. 

“Forgot something, sweetie,” he teases, throwing the lacy underwear at you. 

You looked hot. You weren’t gonna lie. The black velvet dress clung to all your curves and stopped right above your knees, scrunching up on the sides with little ties. Your hair was curled and eyeliner sharp, and you honestly felt a little overdressed for a little college house party. Little did you know, LA art students don’t mess around at house parties. 

To say that heads didn’t turn when you walked in the room would be a complete lie. All eyes were on the new girl, including a familiar pair of sparkling green ones.

Harry was intrigued, to say the least, watching the new girl dance around the house, nursing a drink and laughing with her friends. He wasn’t much of a party guy himself; he had a lot of friends, sure, but he preferred just to stay home or have small get togethers with them. 

He felt himself being drawn to you, sliding in between grinding bodies and swaying slightly to the music as he neared your own dancing body. 

“D’you wanna dance with me?” Hot breath fans over the back of your neck, goosebumps erupting over your skin. Spinning on your heels, you weren’t all too surprised when you were face to face with the only other Brit in the room. His gaze flickered across your face, brow furrowed and concentrated as he set his hands on your hips. You threw your own arms around his neck giggling to yourself as you saw Harry smile for the first time since you met him. His perfect white teeth had butterflies erupting in your belly.

You danced for a while longer, all the alcohol you had consumed earlier finally catching up to you. Giggling as you lose your balance, Harry catches you, holding you still before smashing his lips to yours. 

Mere seconds felt like hours as his lips touched yours. You barely knew the guy, but for some reason it felt like the best kiss of your life. Yet, somehow, you knew you wouldn’t remember it in the morning, so you focused on the present and how he made you feel. 

He made you feel good.

It felt like nothing you had ever felt before, sparks flying and hearts pounding and every other phrase used to describe something completely and utterly amazing. You got lost in his lips, memorizing every inch. 

You pulled away, not completely unaware of the lust in the curly haired man’s green eyes. 

“I’m gonna go get a drink,” you tell him over the booming music, slipping out of his arms and entering the much quieter but still noisy kitchen. 

“Y/n! Where’d you go earlier?” Margot questioned, smirking at the lipstick smudged across your face. 

“Jus’ dancing,” you slur, getting yourself another cup of whatever alcohol was on the counter.

“Mhmm,” she says, knowingly raising her eyebrows and taking your cup, replacing it with a bottle of water. “Think you’re done.” You groan, begrudgingly taking a sip out of the bottle, your body silently thanking you for ending it’s torture. 

Harry wasn’t sure how it happened, but as soon as you left him, he was being dragged onto the dance floor by some girl, he wasn’t sure who, and was being grinded on and made out with. 

“Y/n,” Jack said, tugging Margot by the arm, eyes widening “do you want to head back to your dorm now? We know parties aren’t really your thing.”

“What! I’m having so much fun!” you sway on your heels, trying not to fall down. “Why do we have to leave I-” your heart dropped in your chest.

Harry’s tongue was dancing with some random girl’s, not even five minutes after he had kissed you. Maybe it wasn’t the end of the world, maybe you shouldn’t have been so attached to a man that you had just met and just kissed once, maybe you were drunk, but you didn’t care. It felt like your world was crashing down. 

You ran as fast as your bare feet could carry you, Jack and Margot chasing you, yelling at you to slow down, but you didn’t listen. 

Harry saw you run out of the party, pushing the girl sucking his face off and palming him through his jeans away. He thought that maybe he should go after you, but he didn’t feel like it’d be welcome. He ran his hands through his hair, eventually following your lead and leaving the party to head back to his own dorm. 

Your feet carried you all the way to your room, unlocking it and throwing yourself on the bed, mascara tears staining your pillow case. 

“Hun,” Jack says, petting your hair and pulling it back into a pony tail. “Don’t worry about this prick. He’s not worth your time.”

The rest of the night was spent with Jack and Margot holding back your hair as you threw up what seemed to be everything you’ve eaten in the past two weeks, and you crying about you didn’t even remember what anymore. 

Harry tried to sleep that night, still buzzed and tired from the party and the previous week, but he couldn’t seem to rest his racing mind. He got out of bed, only clad in a pair of boxers, and went to his desk, pulling out his sketch pad and getting to work. He drew line after line and shadow after shadow, constructing a piece that he felt genuinely proud of, something he hasn’t felt in what seemed like ages. He knew that it needed to be seen. 

...

Your head was pounding. Absolutely hammering in your head. Jack and Margot were passed out on the floor, blankets and pillows and water bottles littered the bedroom and after seeing the stains on your pillow, you really didn’t want to look in the mirror. However, you eventually had to get out of bed, throwing the covers off your bare legs and sluggishly walking into the bathroom. The best part about transferring in the middle of the year, you found, was that you didn’t have a roommate to share the bathroom with, or someone that would see you like this. 

“Holy fucking shit,” you whispered, taking in the reflection looking back at you. Your cheeks were tear-stained with black streaks of mascara, your hair was matted and had chunks of something you hoped was not throw up in it. Not to mention that you were still wearing your dress from last night, except now it was bunched around your torso like a tight potato sack. 

You stripped, throwing your clothes onto the floor and getting into the shower. The hot water cascaded down your head, wetting your hair and face and washing all of the regret away. You were in the heavenly water for a good long time, fingers starting to prune up from the steam and liquid. 

Walking back into your room, you were pleasantly surprised to see that Jack and Margot had left a note on your bed, saying that they went to get breakfast and would be back soon. You thanked God that it was Saturday and you didn’t have any classes. 

You immediately got back into bed after you dried off, pulling the covers up to your chin and closing your eyes, hoping to calm the pounding in your head just a little bit. That’s why, when there was a quiet knock on the door, you didn’t get up immediately, thinking that it was just a courtesy knock from Jack and Margot before they barged in with food. But when that didn’t come and the hallway quieted, you rolled yourself off the bed, grumbling to yourself and opening the door. 

“Hello?” you say to no one in particular, seeing as there was no one on the other side of the door. You looked around, peeking your head into the deserted hallway, before finally looking down and seeing one of those big orange manila envelopes. You figured it was something from the front desk or maybe a letter from your mom telling you how you were making a mistake, but bizarrely enough, there was no address or even name. You took one more look around the hall before going back into your room and shutting the door behind you. 

Curiously, you picked open the envelope with your fingernails, carefully ripping the paper. You pulled out the paper inside the envelope. 

Shocked was an understatement to how you were feeling. A gorgeous portrait of lines and shapes that created none other than your face. It was a little chilling, knowing that someone has been examining your face and features so closely, but also because there was no name or address...not even a note. 

“What’s that?” Jack asks, barging into the door, arms full of muffins. He throws you one, sitting down on the bed next to you and examining the paper in your lap. 

“Someone left it at my door, but there’s no note or name or anything,” you say quietly, eyes scanning the picture. “That’s weird, right?” 

“Ooh,” Margot says. “Somebody’s got a secret admirer!”

“More like a stalker,” Jack remarks, tracing the paper with his fingers. “Who do you think would do this?” 

You honestly had no clue. The only visual arts student you knew was...no. 

“Harry!” Jack says. “It has to be Harry!”

“There’s no way in hell it’s Harry,” you remark, slipping the paper back into it’s envelope and placing it onto your desk, changing the subject to the events of the previous night.

...

A few weeks later, Harry found himself drawing constantly; whether it was small sketches or bigger works, they all had one common factor; they were of the same woman he couldn’t get out of his head. 

You, on the other hand, had received quite a few more drawings stuck under your door. At first, you weren’t all that phased, but you couldn’t seem to shake the feeling that you didn’t know who was doing this. 

Margot had called it a ‘secret admirer’ but you weren’t quite sure whether it was that, or a stalker. Sure, it was sweet and all the drawings were beautiful, but how did said person find out where your room was? Or how did they know when to put the drawings by your door so they could have enough time to leave? 

Jack had suggested that you sit by the door until there’s a knock, so one night, you settled by the door, rather impatiently waiting. 

Nothing.

Still nothing.

Still nothing. 

Feeling your eyes get heavy, you let yourself go, falling limp against the door and succumbing to a deep sleep, so when you were startled awake from a knock on the wooden door, you weren’t able to register what had happened fast enough.

Sure enough, when the door swung open there was another envelope, just like all the other ones you had received, except this time, something caught your eye. 

There was a date and a time scribbled in messy handwriting: 7 PM, 2/23. 

Your brow furrowed, staring at the information written on the paper, eventually pulling our your phone and sending a picture to your friends. 

what does this mean ? you wrote, referring to the information you had received.

OMG! that’s the art show tomorrow! jack responded

you have to go now! Margot sent

You were a little creeped out to tell the truth, but you wanted nothing more than to find who the mystery artist was, and why they wanted you to go to the art show. 

It was no surprise when Jack and Margot barged into your dorm the next day, rifling through your closet and styling you. 

“It’s a goddamn art show, not a party,” you said as Jack pulled out another frumpy dress that he probably made you buy. 

“Okay, and?” he asked, fluttering his lashes that were honestly far longer than you could ever get yours.

So, here you were, standing in the middle of the art hall, hair and makeup done, looking nervously around the exhibits that other students had created. They were all really beautiful, but you found yourself being drawn to one in particular . 

A large oil painting of a girl with y/e/c and y/h/c laughing with a guitar in her hands was standing at the center of the room on an easel. The sky was painted with deep purples and blues and pinks and you couldn’t help but gape at the blending of colors. Something about the painting was familiar, but you couldn’t quite put your finger on it. 

“Mr. Styles, is this the model you used for this gorgeous work?” 

“Er... Yes, actually.”

You stop in your tracks, glancing up at the painting one more time and then turning towards the voices. Harry. 

Harry painted this. And it was a painting of you. 

You opened your mouth to say something, closing it after nothing came out. 

“You-?” you whispered, still awestruck from the fact that Harry was the artist. 

“Yeah,” he says, scratching the back of his neck and giving you a shy smile.

“And the drawings?”

He nods his head. 

You stand there in awkward silence for a moment before he motions for you to come follow him. Your steps fall in place behind his as he leads you outside into the cool February air. 

“I thought I should explain...” he says, ruffling his hair but not looking at you. “Tha’ night, at the party,” he starts, pausing for a moment to gather his words. “When I kissed ya... I felt something. And I know you did too... and then tha’ girl, whashername?”

You just shrugged your shoulders, slightly amused by the crease formed in the man’s forehead. 

“Anyways,” he continues, “doesn’t matter. But when she kissed me and I saw you run out, and she kissed me,” he emphasizes the last part, widening his eyes and you just shake your head, lips curling up into a smile. “An’ I was gonna run after you but I didn’t think I’d be welcome... so I knew I needed to make it up to you... and after I met you on the lawn I couldn’t get the image of you laughing with your friends outta my head and I just knew I had to draw you and-” he continues to ramble on, but you just shush him, gripping your shirt in your fists and pressing your lips to his. 

He trips slighty but you hold him into place by the fabric of his shirt, his hands eventually sliding onto the small of your back. 

“D’ya wanna go out with me?” he asks as you pull away, his eyes glimmering in the sunset as you both catch your breaths. 

“Yes,” you say, laughing slightly. “I do.”

Harry called you a few days later, asking if you wanted to go get coffee at a shop that he went to often. You obliged, saying that you would love to, ‘forgetting’ to tell your two best friends so they would leave you be to get ready. 

You were excited; it was your first real date with Harry, and you liked him a lot. You had chemistry and it was clear as water to anyone who saw. 

Walking into the coffee shop and looking around, Harry’s arm waving at you caught your eye. He gave you a warm smile, gesturing to sit at the seat across from him. 

“Hey,” you say, greeting him. 

“Hi,” he says, pulling your chair out for you before sitting down in his own seat. “I ordered you a latte. I hope that’s okay?”

“Perfect,” you say, pulling the coffee to your lips, choking on it at the sight of a certain painting hanging on the wall. 

“Har- that’s- that’s your painting!” you tell him. He only smirks and nods his head. 

“’S on display,” he says, resting his head on his hand. “Thought everyone should have the pleasure of looking the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”

You blush, taking another sip of your latte, before a little kid comes up to you, chocolate smudged across his face. 

“Is that you?” he says, pointing a chubby finger at the picture. You chuckle. 

“Yeah, actually, it is.” you say, smiling at his mom as she apologetically takes her boy by the hand. 

“Guess you’re a celebrity now, huh?” Harry says. 

“You made me famous,” you tell him, grinning at the green eyed boy in front of you.

[sarahhlauren]

Okay. Here we go. I’m really not sure where to start so I guess I’ll start from the beginning of all this madness. It was May 18, 2019. My mom’s birthday. I headed to work in the afternoon. I always closed on Sunday nights. My favorite bartender was working. We had spent the night making stupid jokes and making each other laugh until the last customer walked out the door. I closed at work like I usually did, not trying to stay too late because it was a school night. Monday morning comes, I wake up and for the first time, my body was not mine. It was not my own skin, it was not my own legs, my own hands. I couldn’t tell you what my face looked like because it was maybe 2 weeks until I could look at myself in the mirror. But, the world did not stop. There was work to be done, right? I had my first therapy session at 9 am, because prior, I had been dealing with severe depression, a final at 11, and my last final at 2. I had to focus on doing well and finishing out the semester, putting aside the fact that I felt like a ghost in my own body and mind. For the record, I got a 4.0 that semester, for the first time ever in college.

So it's late afternoon, I made it through my finals. I text my best friend, saying I need to come over and talk. As soon as I laid on her bed, I burst into tears as it took everything in me to say the words, “He raped me.” Even now, a year later, I hate that. It will never not make my stomach hurt. Within an hour, I was talking to three police officers, going over the incident in disgusting detail over, and over, and over again. Being asked questions a young woman should never have to be asked, especially by three young male officers. A few hours later, I was at the hospital. I went through the entire questioning process again from the nurse. A few moments later, I found myself standing there, naked. Being photographed, touched by a stranger, poked and prodded. I will never forget the posters of puppies with silly hats they have on the ceiling, as if that’s supposed to distract you from the flashes of the camera as you lay with your legs in the air. She forgot to mention that the hospital’s Plan B would have me in bed for 2 days. It felt like my insides were being scraped out with a rusty fork.

A few days later I eventually came home, and my mom was eager. She knew something was wrong but wanted to let me tell her on my own terms. The look in her face as tears streamed down her face fills me with so much anger I could punch something. That she had to hear those words and understand the gravity of the situation, and that I was pursuing legal action.

It was exactly one week after I saw him again. Not only did I see him, but I worked with him. Not just this one night, but for months. Because the investigation was active, I couldn’t say anything to my managers. This was the hardest part. For weeks, to act like everything was normal. To act like I wasn’t having multiple panic attacks throughout my shift. To act like I wasn’t getting alerts on my apple watch that my heart rate was pushing 120 bpm for hours. To act like I wasn’t in the presence of my rapist, as he was still approaching me. To act like I was listening to customers talk, when I was blacked out. If I didn’t act like things were normal, it could jeopardize the investigation. I am fully aware that some people may be questioning my actions. I don’t feel I have to defend myself to anyone. It was an impossible and unimaginable situation. I did the best that I could at the time, and I am so proud of myself for it. I chose to not take the easy way out. I chose to not quit my job. I chose to fight.

About early June, I was finally able to tell my GM what happened. I told them, “I do not feel comfortable working with him, ever again.” The very next shift, a few days later, my GM told me he was working that night and asked if I would “be okay.” What was I supposed to say? If I said no, I would get sent home, and in my mind at the time, that was letting him win. He took so much from me and I refused to let him take any more. So I worked with him that night, and for months. Being retraumatized over and over and over again. It wasn’t until months later that I could see how toxic that environment was for me. In the moment, I truly thought that I could just tough it out and I would be okay. I couldn’t see how much worse those months made my PTSD. Solidifying dozens of triggers, some still unknown to me until I face them.

About 5 months pass by, no news on the investigation. I had heard nothing from the investigator. These months were such a cycle of torture. My job wouldn’t do anything about him without a police report, and the police weren’t giving any updates. Nothing was moving. Meanwhile I am working with him a few days a week, retraumatizing my brain and body dozens of times over.

Trauma, anxiety and depression are really weird. Yes you have the common symptoms of lethargy, no motivation, sleep or appetite issues, but I feel like nobody talks about the blackouts and the memory loss. I have such little memory except for anything trauma related for those first few months. I can tell you every little detail about the following days, and weeks related to the incident. I can tell you what kind of car he has, his license plate, the exact parking spot that he parked his car in. I can tell you exactly what time he drove to work, which days he worked. I checked his schedule every week so I had time to mentally prepare myself to work with him on a given night. Do I remember my college visits? Not really. Do I remember anything I did that summer? No, unless I look back at photos. The memory loss is real, and it's weird.

Finally, my job transferred him to a different store. I felt a sense of freedom. Freedom to turn around at work without fear that he was looking at me. Freedom to walk to my car at night without a manager’s escort. Freedom to feel comfortable again, or at least try to.

Around mid-October, I met with the investigators again about the progress of the case. This time, it was two women investigators and I in a small room in the Sex Crimes Investigation Department in Orange County. It felt like they were on my side, or at least they were supposed to be. I didn’t anticipate being thoroughly questioned again. The same intrusive questions felt different coming from a woman, almost worse in a way. We got to the point where the investigators told me straight up, “it's your word against his, we have no proof of his guilt and without it, can’t move forward.” That was it. It was over. There was nothing I could do.

I did my best to move on, whatever the heck that means. There’s a lot I could say about my healing process, that is still very much going on and will be for a while. I’ll try to keep it limited. The most important thing I want to say about it, is that it is not linear. From May-August I thought I was fine, I was in denial. Then, someday it hit me and I understood the situation on a different level. One of the things I learned is how depression can impact memory. I have little memory of that summer, outside of events and emotions related to my assault. Each day brings something different. Similar to grief, some days are better than others. Triggers that once upset me, no longer upset me. Triggers I didn’t know existed last August, send me into a panic now. I still live in constant fear of seeing him, knowing that he is out there, living his life. Working through PTSD on top of preexisting mental health conditions was more than I ever could have imagined. It’s hard, it sucks and I wouldn’t wish it upon my worst enemy. I don’t have much else to say about that right now.

One of the most interesting concepts I read about in a book about trauma is called “learned helplessness”. I remember learning about this maybe junior or senior year in psychology class, but it never stuck until it applied to me. “Learned helplessness, in psychology, a mental state in which an organism forced to bear aversive stimuli, or stimuli that are painful or otherwise unpleasant, becomes unable or unwilling to avoid subsequent encounters with those stimuli, even if they are “escapable,” presumably because it has learned that it cannot control the situation.” Essentially, it explains why traumatized individuals tend to stay in the environments or climates that harbor the trauma. For me, it helps to explain why I stayed at work instead of quitting.

At the risk of sounding cliche, I would not be where I am today without the support system that I have. I am grateful every single day for my family and loved ones who support me unconditionally and have been with me at any point in this process.

I want to recognize how lucky I am, because I truly am. I am lucky to have been in a position where I could go to the police for help (regardless of the outcome), because many victims do not have that luxury. I am lucky to have had access to medical care. I am lucky to have continuous access to mental health professionals. I am lucky to have friends and family who believe me, who never questioned me. I am lucky that it wasn’t worse than it was. I am lucky to be alive, because not everyone is as lucky as I am.

I have a lot of reasons as to why I wanted to share my story. I want to make very clear that pity and attention are neither of my reasons. One of the main ones, is that I want to contribute the conversation about sexual assault and sexual violence. A big part of what motivated me to pursue legal action was the thought of me not being his last victim. Almost immediately I felt a sense of responsibility. Responsibility to do something about this, because again, I am lucky enough to have access to resources to do so. I hope this can spark conversations about the necessity of affirmative and continuous consent, regardless of circumstances.

Another big reason is to highlight the series of injustices throughout this process that have nothing to do with my rapist. I will not name names, however many of you will know the people that I am talking about. In no way am I attempting to slander them, I aim to simply draw attention to where I felt they failed me. I just want everyone to do better. To try harder. To do the right thing, regardless of company policy or whatever hardship it might bring them.

The first one, I believe was on behalf of the police. I understand the need to secure the privacy of the investigation, but they told me to “go back to work and act like everything is normal.” This was, and is wrong. I felt like I had to, because the police told me, and I’m supposed to trust them, right? Wrong. I feel they could have come up with a better solution, providing me more support than that.

The second one, would be by SO many people within the company that I worked for. My GM, the senior HR manager, and the 2 regional managers who were aware of the situation. All of them had the ability to not only relocate him, but fire him at the snap of their fingers, but they didn’t. I have my thoughts on why they didn’t, and all of them put my wellbeing at the bottom of the pile. The senior HR manager called me every so often to check in, and see how I was doing. It was made very clear that he didn’t give a shit about me and this was just a routine part of his job when he told me over the phone, “Thank goodness I don’t have a daughter, only sons.” This HR manager ultimately ended up telling my rapist the police were involved, which is very much illegal for a few reasons, and is ultimately responsible for ruining the investigation.

The third one was the investigator within the Special Victims Unit assigned to my case. Take this one with a grain of salt. I don’t know if I just got a subpar investigator or this is how they all are, but Olivia Benson would put them to shame. Without going into too much detail, I never felt heard. I felt like they couldn’t wait to get this case out of the way and never put in any real effort.

I would absolutely be lying if I said that I didn’t have any anger. I am so angry. I am fucking angry that this happened. I am so angry at all the ‘adults’ that I went to for help, and didn’t receive it. I am angry that I’m not the first girl that he’s done this to. I’m angry that I can’t prove it. I’m angry that in a court of law it’s his word against mine. I’m angry that he admitted he heard me say no, but it was the one time I didn’t put my phone in my pocket and take a voice recording. I am angry that a year later, I am still suffering every single day. I still have nightmares. I still have panic attacks. I still think about it every damn day. I am angry that he gets to live his life as he wishes. I am angry that I am filled with petrifying fear that it will happen again. I am angry that I’ve spent months, now a year, in therapy talking about him. I am angry that I am angry!!

20% of women will experience rape in their lifetime, and 1 out of every 10 rape victims is male. This is real and it happens. It happened to me. But it didn't have to. And it doesn’t have to keep happening. We all hold the power to make it stop. Start the conversations. Don’t laugh at jokes about sexual assault, because it’s not funny. Correct your friends, family, coworkers, bosses, and neighbors when they make jokes that contribute to rape culture. Stop supporting that behavior. If you see something, DO SOMETHING. Be the one to stop it. Be the one to step in. Be the difference. Break the cycle, do better, be better.

Again, thank you to all of those who have stuck by my side at any point in my journey. I appreciate you all more than you know and I love you all so much more than my words can possibly express.

Thank you, and you know who you are, for showing me what it’s like to be respected, to be loved. That it's possible to be comfortable in my own skin. To let your light shine through to the darkness that existed within me. To show me how strong I am, what I am capable of, and what I am worth. I am forever grateful for you and your grace.

For those of you who aren’t as fortunate, I am here. I am here to listen, to confide in, to help, to advocate, to love, to protect you. I am here for you.

For those of you know someone who has experienced sexual assault or violence, believe them. Be there and listen to what they want and what they need. Love them and remind them of the good, because there is so much more good than bad in the world.

For those of you that have read this far, thank you. Thank you for taking the time to hear my story. I hope to have impacted you for the better.

-sb :)

[thegooddoctorheadcanonsarchive]

2018 year in review

Rules: answer the questions about 2018 and tag some people!

Tagged by: @merryshaire

Top 5 films you watched in 2018

Bad Match

A Quiet Place

Hereditary 

Ready Player One

Halloween

Top 5 TV shows in 2018

Deception

That one TV show that didn’t deserve to be cancelled (Deception)

90 Day Fiance, because those people are just idiots and make me feel good about my own intellect 

Take Two (Just kidding, I really just mean Deception)

Below Deck, because I’m a slut for petty drama

Top 5 songs of 2018

Two by Sleeping at Last

Anywhere by Passenger 

Shotgun by George Ezra

Dive by Coast Modern

Simple by Florida Georgia Line

Top 5 books you read in 2018

I

Only

Read

My 

Textbooks 

Five good/positive things that happened to you in 2018

I got a job as a patient care technician! 

Finished my first semester of nursing school with a 4.0!

I met @merryshaire, fell deeply in love, and have never been the same

I got to go to Cedar Point, something I’ve wanted to do for years! 

Saw Le Mis at the Fox with my best friend! 

tagging: @tequila-stat @ralseiralsei @murlendez and anyone else that wants to do it, I don’t know people c’: 

[an-out-of-closet-experience-blog]

I got rejected from nursing school.

I guess that’s when my life started to change. I was 19 years old, 2 years into college with a 4.0 GPA, volunteering with hospice patients every week, working as a diet tech in a hospital. I did everything right. Was I happy? Absofuckinglutely not. But was I on the path to becoming happy? Honestly, absofuckinglutely not.

I’m a perfectionist. You can blame my mental health, my narcissistic father, or the borderline cult-ish religion I grew up in, but I am very sensitive to inadequacy and always have been. We’ll get into my teenage rebellious phase at a later date but for now, all you need to know is that the moral of the story from my shitty home life was that in order to survive, I couldn’t draw any negative attention to myself. So I put on a facade of a smart, hard-working, put-together, obedient child.

When I read my rejection letter, I wasn’t really that surprised; my self-esteem was too low for me to expect anything otherwise. But I was sad. After all the hard work I put in, I was once again reminded that I was nothing but a failure--a disappointment. It was humiliating.

I spent the following summer and fall semesters living in my mother’s basement. There was no point in continuing college classes if I was not invited to pursue education in the area I most desired. So I quit school, and lived with my mom, and felt like shit about myself every day.

I don’t really remember what happened next; my memory is really terrible. But I must have felt really depressed because at some point over the summer I started going to therapy. I just knew everything was all wrong. I didn’t really know why, but it all felt wrong. I was very unhappy, and had been unhappy for many years. So I started seeing Troy. Troy is on the Scorpio-Sagittarius cusp. He’s evil, which is why it’s so gratifying when he actually says something sweet.

The first month (or maybe even several months) of therapy, I didn’t make much progress. I'm not the type to open up, especially to people I don’t know very well. But Troy recommended I try some new meds since the Citalopram I had been half-heartedly taking all year was actually completely fucking useless. So he referred me to a doctor. My anxiety had been growing worse and worse, so we tried Fluvoxamine to decrease my intrusive thoughts. The cool thing about Fluvoxamine was that it made me heavily dissociate. I was stuck in a dream for a month and really, really wanted to peace the fuck out of this existence. Kinda sucked. As a side note, I find it very fascinating that altering brain chemicals can cause the specific urge to jump off a cliff.

After switching to Sertraline, I gradually recovered from the shitty side effects of Luvox and slowly pieced myself back together. If Fluvoxamine was causing a perpetual dream state, Sertraline woke me up. I recall suddenly looking around my bedroom and noticing all the dirty dishes, the laundry on the floor, and the overflowing trash as if it was the first time I had seen my room. I won’t pretend Zoloft was a miracle drug that cured all my ailments, but perhaps “waking up” after spending a month in the prison of derealization gave me a new perspective.

I have done a lot of soul searching these past months.

It was hard to face rejection last April. But to think I would have been in college right now, sporadically taking useless meds, living in denial, and feeling very tired and stressed and sad, makes me grateful for the opportunity to take some time away from the pressure of being perfect and unearth my own identity.

My name is Mason.

[veryangryhedgehog]

“Cindy Miller’s Daemons, A monologue”, an Ede Valley story by Hedgehog

Cindy: You know how in kindergarten, how there’s free time and you’re playing with the cardboard blocks or whatever, and you can play with whoever you want because everyone’s friends? But then, by the start of first grade, everyone already has their groups? They’re not called “the preps”, or “the dorks”, or “the jocks” just yet, but they will be. And it’s really not fair to make someone so young choose who their going to be at such a young age. And they are choosing, because odds are, that you will be a part of that group until the end of high school. Probably longer. Because these people will change you. No, you will change yourself to please these people. Humans hate change, humans hate being alone. I didn’t want to be alone.

If the me from kindergarten met the me from fifth grade, or middle school, or high school, I don’t think she would recognize herself. In fifth grade, she begged her mom to buy her a training bra, even though she clearly didn’t need it, just because her friends were. In middle school, she laughed at other girls to make herself feel better about the fact that she no longer knew she was. In high school, she pushed herself past her limit with AP classes and track and student council and friends and parties and boys, because that’s what all of her friends were doing. She didn’t realize that she was killing herself. I didn’t realize that I was killing myself.

It all ended with chemistry. Doesn’t everything? Hopes, dreams, the essential composition of your very being. (laughs) I had insisted on taking it a year early because, say it with me now, all of the friends were. My councilor strongly advised against it, math and science had never been my forte, but did I listen? Of course not. Did I ask for help when I struggled? Of course not. Why would I? To ask for help would be to admit my own weakness.

So when the end of second semester drew near, I began panicking. A B-. I had a B-. I had never had a B- before ever. I was about to bid farewell to my 4.0. The only thing I could think of to do was suck it up and grovel to the teacher. And I did. I went back to his class after school had finished for the day and begged.

“You took this class too early,” he said. “You didn’t ask for help,” he said. “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do.”

I tried everything. Asked to retake quizzes, do extra credit. I’m ashamed to say that I even offered something that no one of my age should have. But there was simply nothing to be done.

And in that moment, I saw my future flash before my eyes. Goodbye 4.0, goodbye Harvard, goodbye Brown. In twenty years I’d be three-hundred pounds, married to a washed-up loser with five kids, and working at a gas station. But worst of all, I kept seeing the gloating faces of my friends at the inevitable class reunions, watching them with their handsome husbands, stylish clothes, and beautiful lives, and me, standing there wondering what would have happened if I hadn’t gotten that B- in chemistry. To most people it might not seem like a big deal, and looking back on it now, it really wasn’t. But to sixteen-year-old Cynthia Miller? To her, that grade was the world.

I don’t remember much about my father, my mother finally got away from him when I was five, but from what I do know, he was... a rather violent person. I sometimes wonder how much of that I inherited, because the first thing I thought of to do was to grab the bottle of miscellaneous chemicals just sitting on a vacant lab table and smash it over his head.

The bottle, apparently, contained a unique set of substances that shouldn’t have been allowed anywhere near a high school classroom. How they got there, I’ll probably never know. But in that moment I wasn’t even thinking about anything like that. All I could do was stare, frozen, as my chemistry teacher’s face melted.

Soon, he was nothing more than a heap of blood and tissue lying on the floor. Later, I’d have nightmares about that, and I’d feel so much guilt and grief that I’d just want to die. But right then I was in shock, I guess, and panicking. The only thing I could think was that someone was going to realize that I was the last person who’d seen him alive and figure out what I’d done. Forget the gas station, I’d be in jail for the rest of my natural life. I didn’t know what to do, I didn’t know where to go, and I couldn’t look away. That was when I met the daemon.

“(Whistle) That’s quite a mess you’ve made there, young lady.” He was standing in the doorway, dressed like a janitor, though I had never seen him before in my life. I almost ran, but then he explained that he was apparently a daemon named Cowell, and that he wanted to make a deal with me. “I can give you the power to make this all go away, to give you that perfect life you’ve been dreaming of, but... I need something in exchange.”

“Like what? I’ll give you anything.”

“Hmm... I want... your subjectivity.”

“My what?”

“Your point of view. The rose-tinted glasses through which you view the world.”

“Fine. Sure, whatever. Just please help me.”

I didn’t know what that meant, and at the time I didn’t care. I was a fucking idiot. I’ve utterly certain about that, because now I can’t see it any other way.

We sealed the deal, and he handed me a book. “Liberis Decipis,” the cover read. “Book of the Deceived.” I think he thought it was ironic. He told me that he would come to collect his end of the bargain when I used the book, and with that, he was just gone without a word.

I ran out the door, away from school, and somehow made it home, the book tucked under my arm. I locked myself in my room, and began to read. It was very old, very large, and written by at least a dozen different hands, some in Latin, some in English, and some in a language that I didn’t even recognize. I also quickly discovered that it was a grimoire... full of spells. And not the kind of stuff you see in Harry Potter where you wave a wand and cool CGI effects happen. That’s all bullshit. Magic is not flashy, and it’s certainly not easy. No, this was the old kind of magic where you have to do a certain thing at a certain time of month when the planets are in the exact right alignment and you have to gather a bunch of insane ingredients and stick ‘em in a pot while chanting “Hail Satan.” Okay, maybe not that last part, but you get the idea.

I stayed up all night, desperately trying to find something that could help me, and eventually, I did. And best of all, I could do it in a few hours. But it was... very costly. It’s not that easy to make the whole world forget that a person ever existed. So, what have we learned today? That you can make a deal with a daemon and erasing your victim from existence with your newfound unholy powers? But it’s not that simple, is it?

As I walked to school the next day, I was terrified that the spell hadn’t worked, or that seeing the lump that had once been my chemistry teacher had driven me temporarily insane and I’d made the whole thing up. But I had nothing to worry about. There were no rumors, no police cars, even the door to his room had become a solid brick wall.

I spent most of the first half of the day in a daze, wondering if it had all been just a bad dream. Until lunch, that is. I had just sat down at my very full table, surrounded by friends, when I happened to look over to see a sickening familiar janitor waving and smirking over at me. I had completely forgotten about my end of the bargain. My subjectivity, he said he wanted. I barely knew the meaning of the word. Taking stock, I didn’t feel any different. I shook myself, turned back to my friends, and tried to forget about it.

Someone was talking about the new pair of shoes she had just bought, and everyone was gushing over them, but I had to struggle to pay attention. It was strange, I usually loved talking about clothes, and yet at that moment, it suddenly felt so inane and insignificant. Why did the shoes mean so much? She was just going to buy another pair in three weeks and forget all about them. And why did she need so many shoes in the first place? Three-quarters of them never got worn and most of the others hurt like hell to walk in.

And then, I looked around at the other girls, all my “friends”, and I wondered why we cared so much about what we looked like. What we thought of each other. And I realized that it didn’t even matter at all, because we were all so concerned with how we looked that we weren’t even paying attention to anyone else. So why did it matter?

All around me, I saw the exact same thing. No matter who they were, what group they belonged to, they were all so concerned about what others thought about them, that no one was really thinking about anyone else at all. They were all so petty, so... shallow. It was like I had spent my whole life with a mask over my faces—or a pair of rose-tinted glasses—and it had suddenly been lifted. My mouth dropped open as I understood what Cowell had taken from me. I could see the world as it truly was, and I couldn’t turn it off.

Distantly, someone was asking if I was feeling alright. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? Do you need to go to the nurse’s office?”

“No, I’m—”

“She can’t do that, you idiot. If she went home then she’d have to miss track.”

“I... what? No, tha-that’s not important.”

“You must really not be feeling okay. State’s in like, a week, you know?”

I couldn’t believe it. All of the sudden I couldn’t understand why I had thought that track was so important. What had I even liked about it in the first place?

“Hey,” I asked. “Why do we do track again?”

The girls blinked at me. “What do you mean ‘why’? Uh, because it’s fun.”

“But what’s so fun about it? Cuz it sure as hell ain’t the running. Can you honestly tell me that you like being sore all the time?”

“Not really. But all of our friends do it.”

“Friends? I... I don’t even like any of you.” It was another realization, but to me it was clear as day. Just a fact. None of these girls and I really had anything in common. Some part of me had always found them petty and annoying, so why had I put up with them?

The table gasped, but I kept going. “So, what is it then? Why track? If it’s not the running, is it the winning then? But that’s just a plaque with your name on it that no one gives a shit about. Is it the personal accomplishment? Maybe for some people, but all we do is complain about it. So what is it then?”

“It looks good on a college application.”

I should have shut up then, should have laughed it all off like it was a big joke, but I couldn’t. My mouth kept moving, and I was powerless to stop it. “Oh, of course, college. That’s what I’m killing myself for, isn’t it? That’s why I’m taking three AP classes, heading student council, and running track, all so that I look good on paper, like I’ve had a “well-rounded” education, so that I can get into the best college, so that I can get a boring job that I don’t like, and have some kids with a man I’ve simply “settled for” because being alone is hard, and then die in eighty years.”

I stood up from the table. I felt sick. “What’s the point? What’s the fucking point? Can anyone tell me? Or are you all just too busy staring at the next carrot dangling in front of your noses to notice? The next step to fucking death! We’re all just bits of meat and bones that think for a little while and then die. Ashes in the fucking breeze. That’s all there is, isn’t there? There’s no point to any of this! There’s no... why are you all staring at me?”

Do I really think all of those things? I did at the time. I saw things as they really were in that cafeteria and assumed that the rest of the world was just the same. But after the police liaison dragged me away and pretty much forcibly locked me up in a psych ward for two months, I had a lot of time to think. And I saw a lot of things there. By the time I had gotten good enough at lying, at appearing normal, for them to let me out, I didn’t believe that everything was meaningless anymore.

See, it’s not that life is meaningless, it’s that most people settle for a life that doesn’t make them happy, not truly happy, just enough, and that makes it meaningless. Look at me talking. I know I’m a hypocrite. I haven’t done much of anything in the past year. But I think that, for the first time in a long time, I’m starting to become happy. I’m starting to find the me from kindergarten that I lost so many years ago, the person that I really am. And now that I’ve been at the lowest of the low, things can only get better from here, right?

[bookwormbambi]

THESE ARE REAL TEARS SEND HELP

OH MY GOD GUYS. I don’t even understand how it is mathematically possible, but this really happened. I GOT A 4.0 FOR THE SEMESTER.

First off, I am literally crying right now. 

Secondly, I can’t even begin to put into words the absolute turmoil this semester, particularly the eleven straight days being bent over my desk for finals, was. This was my first attempt at a completely online semester. I had so much to prove, especially with my bad habit of procrastination, and my high-demand job. Finding balance was a challenge on its own, and I knew if I couldn’t rise to the occasion, one of three things was going to happen: I was going to flunk the semester, I was going to lose my job, or both. I said in a previous post that every aspect of the semester was on my shoulders, and I didn’t realize at the time just how true that was. If I couldn’t properly make time for school, I would never get anything done on time. If I couldn’t properly prioritize my job and all the things I have to do even when I’m not there, my coworkers, bosses, guests, and I would all suffer. It felt like the entire world was sitting on my shoulders.

In all honesty, when the semester started, I didn’t take it seriously enough. Getting dropped from my bio class was a huge wakeup call that if I didn’t get it together, it wasn’t going to end well for me. I always say you shouldn’t push yourself too hard, but you can handle a lot more than you might think, and if you don’t push yourself at all, you’ll never learn that. I definitely was too easy on myself, and the problem was that it made me a noncompetitive person. When it comes to college and literally ANY career in the medical field - whether I stuck with physical therapy or went to nursing - you HAVE to be competitive. 

Once I got dropped from my bio class, I started to tell myself that B grades were worst-case-scenario. C’s and under no longer existed. It sounds harsh, but it motivated me to actually study and spend time on my schoolwork. I also finally found a balance between work and school. My newfound drive pushed me to get things done on those two days a week I scheduled for school, and if I happened to not get scheduled a day, that would be an actual day off for me to relax and take care of myself. It ended up working so well in my favor.

When finals came around, I was honestly so worried. Finals for me were the 1st thru the 9th of December, and I requested that entire time off of work, with the 29th and 30th of November being my usual school days. This meant that I had eleven solid days to study and schedule my finals. The one I was truly worried about? Medical Terminology. I wasn’t taking these classes for fun. These classes directly impacted my future in the medical field. I HAVE to know medical terminology, and if I didn’t do well on the final exam that covered EVERYTHING, then maybe I wasn’t meant to be in the medical field at all. There was so much pressure.

I spent all eleven of those days (save for one four hour shift that they needed me to come in for and a three hour break to get tattoos with my sister) working. Not a single day went to waste, and I even ended up pushing back the medical terminology final because I didn’t feel ready. In the end, I triumphed on the exam, scoring a 92%, which beat the average on my practice tests, and feeling so proud of myself. The last day of exams was spent finalizing my term paper for finance, and barely being able to keep my eyes open because at this point, save for a couple of naps, I’d been awake for about three days straight. I barely got the paper submitted on time before falling into a triumphant, albeit brief sleep, and then went back to work for five days straight, with today being, finally, a real day off.

And about 20 minutes ago, all of my final grades were submitted to prove to me once and for all that all of that mental anguish and sleepless nights were worth it. Never in my life have I gotten a 4.0, and I honestly could not be more proud of myself.

[datingadviceonreddit]

I have only ever had one real relationship in my life which took up the majority of my 20's. Lasted about 7 years, ended as a failed marriage, she pursued me. She was an attractive, petite blonde, educated, good family, well-off. Perhaps it's my current low self-esteem, but I never understood what she saw in me.After it ended, I did take a while to get over it, but I restarted my life by moving to a different state, got a job in healthcare, started school for nursing. I am kind of messed up financially right now working a low-income job and trying to get through school with a 4.0. In the last two years though, I got braces to fix my teeth, paid off all of my debt except new student loan debt, got my first credit card and car, got counseling to help my depression (still have bad anxiety), lost about 15 pounds (I should probably start lifting weights though, I am 6'0" and 155 pounds). I think this is all a big problem, girls my age usually have established a career, or expect me to have one, expect me to have my own house and my things more together, which I do not. Although I look young, I don't seem to attract younger girls I go to classes with either.I have tried all of the dating apps, and while I do get some matches, it's just from girls that I am not attracted to. I have my preferences, but but I try to take care of my health, and obesity is not attractive to me. I have tried being direct and asking girls out for coffee, I have been direct and tried asking girls over, I have tried texting for a while and getting to know them, none of these approaches seem to work, they all lose interest.I have asked out girls to coffee from class, but I have now embarrassed myself three times, and getting rejected last semester caused me to skip the last two weeks of class (I still got an A, but I had too much anxiety to go again.)I really don't know what to do from here. I am trying to be myself, but it doesn't seem like any girl wants that. I generally get along with most people, but no girl has ever pursued me, or has seemed even vaguely interested in me.Here are some current pictures: http://ift.tt/2Ey7Lah http://ift.tt/2DXPMcg I am not great at taking pictures. via /r/dating_advice

[thestudyingkhalessi]

get to know me!

Hello! My name is Aurora and this will be my first post on my studyblr!

I have never created a studyblr before so I’m actually quite excited to see where this shall take me. Also, the fun thing I wanted to add into this account is that I am indeed a starting freshman! I wanted to document my time in high school so why not create a tumblr specifically for that? This tumblr will highlight all my four years of highschool. 

But enough of the boring stuff, what about me? I have listed facts about myself below. 

- If I could only have one thing to eat and have one drink for the rest of my life, I would eat Miso Ramen and water. 

- My favorite shows are Game Of Thrones, The Office and Parks and Rec. 

- My favorite movies are IT ( 2017 ), Easy A ( 2010 ), Guardians Of The Galaxy ( both 2014 and 2017, honestly + any Marvel movie ), Dunkirk ( 2017 ). I watch a TON of movies so I most likely have more favorites to come. 

- I play volleyball, soccer and I swim ( I’m pretty athletic, bye after-school life, haha ) 

- My goal this freshman year is to have straight A’s while achieving wellness in my health 

- My favorite books are The Book Thief ( Markus Zusak ), All The Light We Cannot See ( Anthony Doer ) and the ACOTAR series ( Sarah J Maas ). I would put in the ASOIAF series but I haven’t finished reading them! I’m still on Game Of Thrones and I could already tell that this series will be my favorite series, but it wouldn’t be fair to all the true book readers who’ve actually completed the books and for me to say it is my favorite series when I haven’t even finished. 

- I’m a Hufflepuff!! #bepostive #spreadsmiles 

- Broadway junkie, lol #dearevanhansen #hamilton #misssaigon

- I don’t like people who are rude online ( especially rude fangirls/boys! )

- My pet peeves are people who talk during movies, people who are loud when it’s unnecessary to be and people who steal other people’s work!

Okay, after all those facts, I feel as though you’ve gotten to know me a little better! Now, onto more ‘school’ related stuff. 

My middle school experience was chaotic. In the sixth grade, I told one of my guy friends, let’s call him Nick, I liked him. It didn’t end well, I’ll tell you that. In the seventh grade, I told a guy, let’s call him Jake, I liked him but he didn’t feel the same ( he liked my friend ). I asked him out four times and he said “no” to all the times #heartbroken. In the beginning of eighth grade, I told Nick’s best friend that I liked him. It didn’t end well. Later in the eighth grade, one of my guy friends, let’s call him Andrew, said that he liked me and we were a ‘thing’ for three months ( we weren’t dating cause he wasn’t allowed to ). But he stopped paying attention to me a week after he told me he liked me ( like stopped talking to me in person, we still spoke over text but it’s sad that he didn’t make an effort with me ). He didn’t ask me to the dance ( he had his reasons ) but I was absolutely heartbroken that he didn’t tell me why he couldn’t ask me and I had to find it out through his friends. The last few weeks of school were all fun days for the eighth graders ( dances, picnics and such ) and he didn’t ask me to any of them. I actually cried at the dance. He explained to me, after school had ended, he didn’t want to spend the last months of school in heartbreak ( I was going to a different school, same city, but he was going to East High and I was going to West High. Those are not the actual names of the high schools, but we were basically an city apart. ) But I knew I had deserved better so the next guy that comes around ( if there will even be another guy that likes me ), I’d want him to know my worth and that I’m not going to have another Andrew again. 

School wise, in middle school, I was on Honor Roll all three years, got the reading/writing award from my English teacher, got student of the month twice, got the Vocal Upcomer award in Choir ( It was my first year and I got into the advanced choir ), got a solo in Choir, did CJSF for a year, made the Grad Club ( basically, you help with graduation. It’s prestigious and teachers pick only a few students and you have to apply ) and my poem was published. 

As of right now, I am a Freshman which makes me fourteen years old. My schedule for my first freshman semester  is ( in order ) Health, Algebra, Biology, Spanish, English Honors and Volleyball as of September 23 ( they tend to move the schedules a lot + I’m only doing health for a semester and then I’m going to do Intro To Business). 

My schedule might change for the Winter season if I make it to the soccer team and if I make it onto class council, my biology period would change and I’d have to take online health. My favorite subject is English and my least is Algebra. The clubs I’m considering to be in are American Red Cross, Key Club, Fellowship of Christian Athletes and Filipino Culture Club although, I haven’t decided which ( my maximum was four clubs but with sports, ( if I make it ) student council and maintaining my health, I think I’ll have to be in 2-3 ) 

My goal in high school is to graduate all four years with a 4.0+, be in NHS ( National Honor Society ) and go to USC ( USC is the dream! ). I don’t want to be valedictorian but I would like to be salutatorian or at least top ten in my class. I want to be in the film industry, hence going to USC, but I’m afraid to fail so I may take the safe route as a nurse. If I do like being a nurse, I may consider being a military nurse. 

And that’s basically it! Although this is a studyblr, this will most likely be me updating my high school experience to the world ( includes after school stuff too! ) 

Thank you and I can’t wait to share my journey with you!

[michellemcnamara262003]

Your time lapse life

Lately, I have been looking at my life through a time lapse lens. Instagram shots of happy memories, pasted together to resemble a series of happy memories and perfectly photographed food strung together seemlessly like an endless impression of a moody yet flawless john Mayer music video. The time lapse is deceptive, and the magic lenses of a filtered camera has failed to capture the endless endless endless disappointment. When I was an undergraduate, I had a vision for myself. Like all 18 year olds, it was a magical vision. I would be a 4.0 student, a star athlete, the object of every boys desire. Success would fall into my hands, I would be surrounded by praise and affection and I would basically, in its essence, encounter a life where my every desire is met. As most adults know in hindsight, we almost always fall short of the ambitions we set for ourselves. And reflecting back, I believe my first encounters with failure were in sports. I was a scrappy soccer player. Quick, tenacious Nita little too small and a little too undisciplined. I loved the game. I detested most of my team mates. In high school I was put on the junior varsity two years in a row. In biology class, I sat next to a girl who was a soccer legend. She played for the best club team, was on the varsity team and had somehow managed to find herself on the junior national team. I sat behind her and watched her struggle in biology. That didn't seem to matter. She had everything I ever wanted, and I would have gladly changed places with her in a heartbeat- her soccer success for my A in biology. Her athleticism for my 3.56 average grades. But the world doesn't work like that, and the harder I worked, the further I found myself behind, falling short of my ambitions and goals. I switched schools my junior year. I was never going to make the varsity team. My short comings hurt to the point that I was failing at school. My adventures in public school were lonely. I never made friends. I ate lunch alone everyday. The glimmer of popularity I wanted was squished by my soft spoken way of existing, blending in so that no one would see me. I barely spoke my senior year. In English class, I downright refused to speak. It became more of a challenge then a solution. The teacher hardly noticed and again, I blended into the background of the public school system. In December of my senior year I suffered a tremendous loss. While running during a soccer match, I twisted the wrong way. My legs spun in one direction, while my torso moved in the other. I fell, and when I got up, I felt strange. I kept running, no thinking much of it until the game was over. Then, like a bolt of electricity a skreeching, blinding pain took over my entire body. For the next six months I struggled with a hernia. Two epideral injections and an extensive back surgery and I was not in pain. However, my psyche, my sense of invincibility was crushed. I was no longer the kid who wanted to be the best, I was the young adult with a lack of belonging. This was the beginning of the end of my soccer career. I had a bit of interest from colleges, but after this, I was limited. I was bitter. I chose Texas Christian. My dad was proud. I was going to college and playing division 1 sports. However, I just wasn't that athlete anymore. The coaches threatened to cut me multiple times. At the end of the season, they held true on those threats. I was cut. I was gone. I transferred. Centenary was a new start for me. At least it was suppose to be. I was the player from the big d-1 school, come to play at the little d-1 school. But I found myself in a similar place. Too small, not fast enough and just not fitting in. The coach threatened to cut me, but decided to keep me on for a little while longer to see if I improved. I improved, and stayed on for the spring season as a last resort sub. Now if you're hearing this story, you are expecting a Rudy moment. Too bad. There isn't one. I broke my tibia that next summer, red shirted the following season and quit that spring. I was done with soccer. I was tired of the rejection. I was tired of that feeling of not being good enough, because the fact was: I was not good enough. I remember the night I told my dad I didn't want to play anymore. He was supportive, but could t understand. He couldn't get it. Even the coach, chase couldn't understand why. He even made an off handed promise that I would play in some of the games the next season. I quit. I sometimes regret quitting. But I knew it's for the best. I threw myself into school, my friendships. I did well in school. My motivation was medical school. I wanted to be a physician more than anything. I packed my schedule with honors courses and science courses. I made As. Teachers praised me. But in the end, I realize I was a mediocre student with mediocre credentials. I applied to multiple medical schools. I did not even receive a single interview. I was defeated. After college, I moved home to my childhood home. My younger brother was still at home. My childhood wasn't great,and I often get suffocated by the hovering of my dad and grandma, the lack of friends and a lack of purpose in my life. I worked a few jobs: I was a barista at Starbucks, a tutor for an independent education company and a teachers aide at my dads school. It was a lonely year, and I had no friends. I often found myself broken down in tears,wondering if I would ever find my place in things. I had to get out of my parents house. I applied to graduate school with the sole purpose of getting far away. I chose Vermont. I started a phd program having very little sense of what I was doing. I was very close to flunking out of my first year. My grades were shotty. My apartment was a rickety moldy graduate apartment I shared with a medical student who would fill the bath tub up with water and leave it there. She never once took out the trash and did not own a single piece of furniture. To top it all off, she hated me. Not just a passive hate, but a literal, palpable sense of hate. My first lab rotation was a disaster. My first mentor told me on a daily basis that I shouldn't be in graduate school, I had no friends, no social skills and was not smart enough to be in graduate school. She even talked to the director of the program in an effort to get me kicked out. This was after two weeks of being in her lab. Luckily, the director stood up for me. She told me I belonged, that I could change rotations if I wanted, and even offered a rotation I her own lab. I decided to stay, even after she berated me everyday. Every single day. It was like being in an abusive relationship. At the end of my rotation I happily moved on. I joined the next lab I rotated in, for no specific reason other than I had no where else to go. I was there for four years. In those years I was unsuccessful. I didn't publish I didn't find anything new. I barely existed. When it was time to defend, I found myself at odds with a mountain of regret. What am I doing here? What am I doing with my life? During graduate school I made friends. For the first time in my life, I felt connections with people. My first friend in graduate school was a girl named Liana. She was in my graduate school cohort. We were both athletes, and we found a friendship between us. When she decided she no longer wanted to speak to me,I felt that overwhelming sense of depression that I experienced in high school. That feeling that I am weird I. An unironic way and that no one will ever love me. Why she stopped talking to me has a lot to Do with some of things I say being awkward and uncomfortable. I made other friends. I met a guy named Ben who fell in love with my weirdness, I met a girl named sherry who cheated on me, forever changing my faith in people's fidelity and a girl named Maria who truly broke my heart. I also met a drug addict who was semi obsessed with anal sex, a few alcoholic friends and an emotionally disturbed Asian girl who's bipolar impression of me leaves people on their toes when I am in the same room. I also met my wife, mae. I adopted a dog and a cat. I bought and sold a condo. So life hasn't always been bad. It's been good too. After graduate school I moved to Oregon. I gotta job in an inpatient treatment center for kids. I was physically and emotionally abused ten to twenty times a day. Children bit me, threw objects at me, punched, kicked, spit and down right attacked me. I was physically injured multiple times, and even was taken by ambulance to the emergency department. My employment ended shortly after that. I have never recovered emotionally, and I still feel anxious from time to time when I hear children scream. After that incident I found myself finding work difficult. I was j employed for over a month. I took the first job that came my way: an adjunct professorships at university of Portland. At first, I was surprised that such fortune came my way. When I got down to doing the job, I realized how undesirable this position was. One class over 4months ways $3000. After taxes I was taking home $700 a month. Hardly enough to survive. And I couldn't find other employment as this course was taught 3x a week from 12-1pm. One of the professors kindly told me that I would never advance at this institution. I still to this day do not know if she was being brutally kind or brutally aggressive. I left after 1 semester. I didn't fit within the confines of academia. I didn't belong there. I moved to Miami. I wanted a fresh start. I decided nursing would be a good fit. I was somewhat successful at school. I did well in course work, in clinic and in other areas demanded of me. However, I never really fit into the mold they were trying to squeeze me into. I was weird and quiet and uncomfortable. One of my clinical instructors asked me why nursing. I could t give her a valid reason. I couldn't figure it out. I am back in Vermont, still trying to find myself. Still trying to pick up the pieces of my life and put them together into a coherent story. I'm looking for a job, a solid landing pad. I want to join the military. I want them to take my hands and show me that I can be what I want and need. I've babbled for over an hour now. It's time for me to go. I have never believed in god. That has been my choice. But I dwell on things, so I must assume that is a form of prayer.

[consulting-celiac-in-the-tardis]

I Have Celiac Disease...but a Gluten Free Diet Wasn't Enough

New blog post! When you research celiac disease treatments, you'll find one answer: a cross-contamination free, gluten-free diet. And, although clinical trials are presently testing other treatments for celiac disease, a magic pill isn't hitting the market anytime soon. But what happens if you're diagnosed with celiac disease and go gluten free like your doctor orders...except this celiac treatment doesn't seem to work? It's a scary question, but one that I know all too well. Why? Because I have celiac disease - and I needed more than just a gluten free diet to heal from my celiac complications.

Here's my story of what happens when a gluten-free diet doesn't work...and my message to every celiac still struggling on the typical "celiac disease diet."

The Diagnosis

On average, it takes six to ten years for someone to receive a proper celiac diagnosis. Thanks to a dedicated doctor, I got "the call" only a few months after my symptoms (acid reflux, stomach issues and random weight loss) started popping up. When my doctor first said "celiac disease," I had no idea what she was talking about. I didn't even know "gluten" was a real word! Yet, even as another chronic illness was added to my medical chart, I couldn't help but smile. I wasn't crazy! There really was something wrong with me! And it could be fixed! Around one week later, I underwent my first endoscopy. The walls of my intestines looked as smooth as the medical bracelet around my wrist, gluten having destroyed all of my villi. It was official: I had celiac disease. One meeting with a nutritionist later, I was sent out with a "gluten-free gift basket" in one hand and a list of "gluten-free" and "not gluten-free" foods in the other. I set up a follow-up appointment with my gastroenterologist for one month later, but no one expected any issues. Adjusting to a gluten-free diet (the year of my senior prom, no less) would be challenging. But if it would make me feel better, I was 100% ready to kick gluten to the curb.

Little did I know that recovering from the damage celiac disease had already caused wouldn't be nearly that simple.

The Setbacks

I was diagnosed in May of 2013. By August, I was still losing weight. It wasn't that I didn't want to eat; I didn't feel like I could. My stomach still rebelled against most foods, even when they were certified (or naturally) gluten-free. I tried eating paleo. I tried eating healthy gluten-free foods, and I tried just shoveling in the calories. None of it was working. Two days before I moved into my college freshman dorm at Point Loma Nazarene University, I spent the morning in the hospital for my second endoscopy and first colonoscopy. Three weeks into my first college semester, I was "that girl." The girl who was losing the Freshman 15 that everyone else was gaining. The girl who panted so loudly after walking across campus that soccer practice seemed like a made-up memory.

So, when my email filled with messages from my doctor only a few days before my 18th birthday, it wasn't a surprise. My colonoscopy images were in. Healed villi. Good. Continual inflammation in the stomach. Bad. A liquid diet for three months on the doctor's orders. If I failed that? Two choices: a nose drip, or a hospital stay. Not mutually exclusive.

The Liquid Diet

I enjoyed a birthday dinner at Chick Fil A and then filled my mini fridge with the protein drinks my doctor prescribed. I lasted two days on the first variety. You start to wonder just how good a gluten-free protein shake can be for you when it permanently stains the inside of your metal thermos...not to mention keeps you constantly nauseous and in extreme stomach pain. The second brand was better: allergy-friendly juice packs and protein mixes meant for kids 14 and younger. But I still felt alone, not only among "normal" college students but also in the celiac community. I'd never heard of any others with celiac disease going on a liquid diet. However, recent research has proven that I'm not the only one who experienced continual inflammation on a gluten-free diet. The University of Chicago found that intestinal healing can take up to two years, particularly in those diagnosed later in life. Meanwhile, a 2009 study concluded that it is "exceptionally rare" for celiac adults to exhibit "normal" intestines, even after following a strict gluten-free diet for 16 months. Adolescents with celiac like myself aren't immune to these issues, either. One 2008 analysis of 45 children treated for celiac disease discovered an increased presence of T cells, one sign of inflammation.

This gluten free care package? Not enough...

What am I trying to say? Not that those with celiac disease shouldn't go on a gluten-free diet or that celiacs can't benefit from a gluten-free diet. Following a gluten-free diet is still the main celiac disease treatment, and that shouldn't change. However, not everyone heals at the same pace or by only using a gluten free diet. And, for some celiacs like me, healing may not happen until doctors take extra steps to help...or until you hit rock bottom.

The Hospitalization

I was the oldest patient admitted to the children's ward in the gastroenterologist wing of my hospital. I'd just turned 18 a few weeks before, but when I stepped on the scale - clothes on, breakfast eaten - I weighed 83 pounds at 5'3". The liquid diet didn't work. Now, it was time for the last resort.

I don't remember all the details of my hospitalization, likely because of the malnutrition and vitamin deficiencies discovered by my doctor. But I remember tearing up as a feeding tube was forced up my nose and down my throat. 

I remember the night a neonatal nurse had to be called to replace the IV in my hand.

And I remember the morning rounds when doctors and trainees would gather around my bed. They said words like "celiac disease," "failure to thrive," and "uncertain causes." My doctors used a similar vocabulary. They didn't know why I wasn't healing on a gluten-free diet like normal. They didn't know when I could return to college, which I stubbornly refused to drop out of for the semester. 

I stayed in the hospital for four days. In fact, I wrote the final research paper for my politics class in that hospital bed. And then I went home, feeding tube intact. At the time, my doctors wanted the feeding tube to remain indefinitely. Yet - like I shared in one of the most popular blog posts today - I hated the thought of returning to school not only as the skinny hospitalized chick, but also as the girl with the nose tube and feeding-machine backpack. So I didn't. The day before I went back to class, I pulled out the tube and watched as it disappeared into my bathroom trash. My doctors were giving me one shot. Could I eat - or, more precisely, could I heal - on my own? It was time to find out.

The Turning Point

Honestly, I don't know what flipped the switch for my body. But, after being hospitalized and fed who-knows-how-many nutrients each day through the feeding tube, I slowly started healing. (And by slowly...I mean months and months). I could eat (gluten-free, of course) without stomach pain. I was still thin, but I no longer looked like a skeleton. My hallmates decorated my dorm door with a "Welcome Back" sign, and, in a way, I felt like I was welcoming back the old Casey.

Besides my hospitalization, though, I took several other steps to help give my body the boost it seemed to need. I cut out dairy when I noticed how much it bothered my stomach. I eventually discovered the low fodmap diet and pinpointed several foods - like garlic, onion and mango - that turn my tummy into a time bomb. (And I slowly reintroduced other high fodmap foods, like avocado and beans, that I could and still do enjoy today). I also began exploring yoga, stretching my ability to relax and meditate as I stretched my body.

Basically? I tried to listen to my body extra closely. I avoided (even the gluten-free) foods my stomach didn't seem to tolerate at the time. I also ate to my appetite, even when my hunger was insatiable. (For over a year after my diagnosis, I remained at 88 pounds, no matter how much food I packed in. Looking back, I'm guessing all my calories were being spent on healing). Slowly, I learned to trust what my body was telling me...and, slowly, it started doing what it was supposed to do in the first place: thrive on a gluten-free diet. 

Today

I have celiac disease; today, however, my celiac disease is officially in remission. I am thin and lose too much weight when stressed, but I am healthy. And I am so grateful for the doctors who were willing to take the extra steps that my body needed to heal. 

Love this post? Show me by tweeting! Just click here: "Why a #glutenfree diet wasn't enough to heal this #celiac. #hospitalization #liquiddiet #health via @collegeceliackc http://bit.ly/2qQ3MCB"

I'm not a doctor. I don't have the answer to why some people diagnosed with celiac disease heal immediately on a gluten-free diet while others, like me, struggle. I do know, this, however: if you have celiac disease and a gluten-free diet doesn't seem to be 100% working, you aren't alone.

You aren't the only one who needs to avoid more than just gluten in order to feel better. You're not the only one who is taking (or took) a year or more to feel "normal" after a celiac diagnosis. And you're not the only one still searching for that right mix of treatments - whether it's the right diet, the right doctor or just the right amount of time - to help you feel your best with celiac disease.

After I was hospitalized, I made forever friends. I fell in love for the first time and later survived my first heartbreak. I graduated college with a 4.0, and was accepted by a fully-funded grad school program. I am doing better than I ever thought I would be as I felt that feeding tube scratch the back of my throat.

My main hope? Someday, you'll be able to share a similar story: the story of how celiac disease might have kicked your booty a time or two, but you won. And, now, you're rockin' life while gluten free. What is your celiac disease story? Did you find that going gluten free wasn't enough? Tell me in the comments below!

via Blogger http://ift.tt/2r53K4F

[youareavoiceofcourage-blog]

Story No. 137: Dr. Shannon from California

Today is Physicians for Reproductive Health’s annual benefit gala, Voices of Courage. We will be celebrating the courage and tenacity of our physician advocates. Today’s story highlights one of our incredible physicians with a story she shared at a presentation earlier this year. 

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My name is Shannon and I am a family doctor. I work for a safety net clinic that is affiliated with Planned Parenthood and sees primarily uninsured and Medi-Cal patients. It is my daily privilege to interact with and witness the lives of a delightfully diverse group of patients from all backgrounds and cultures, identities, and ways of life. We speak Spanish and Persian and Vietnamese; we are queer and straight; Catholic, Muslim, and secular; we are migrants and fourth generation Angelenos; we tackle everything from depression to diabetes; and we use whatever bathrooms we want. And my staff—I could go on for days about my staff. Let’s just say they are mission-driven and scrappy. They are cultural brokers and cupcake bakers. They are my logical family on the days that my biological family doesn’t get to see me.

The election changed a lot of things for me. More importantly, it changed things for my patients. There is so much uncertainty—for the health care coverage of my patients, for my clinic’s access to state and federal funds that allow us to provide safety net services; there is even uncertainty that my clinic will be able to keep its doors open and serve the community in the foreseeable future. For those of us who fought tooth and nail for the passage of the ACA (Affordable Care Act), believing that this was our best shot at making health care for all a reality, the shift in the political climate and government priorities feels downright traumatic. On November 9th I trudged through my clinic doors feeling overwhelmed and without the energy or the bandwidth to know where to start. My staff had questions in their eyes, and as I mumbled my way through our morning huddle, and, as I avoided their eye contact, I was acutely aware of the fact that I was going to have to pull it together. It took me a while, though. It took a patient to get my act together.

Ronnie was a sweet 26-year-old African American woman with a truly inspiring story. She came to us for the first time in 2014, uninsured and needing emergency contraception. At that visit, my nurse practitioner noted that she had not had any routine health maintenance in years, so she scheduled her for a well woman visit/pap test. When Ronnie returned for that visit, staff helped her enroll in Medicaid expansion through the ACA and for the first time in her adult life, she had health insurance. This was when I first met her. Ronnie was soft-spoken and shy, and she was struggling with depression, poor self-esteem, and the health sequelae of morbid obesity. Her childhood had included an absentee father and a mother with too many of her own issues to be there for her as a parent. Her step-father, who is now deceased, sexually abused her throughout her adolescence. Her mother had seven children, none of whose fathers were involved in their care. Ronnie was the oldest by several years. She had dropped out of school at age 16 to care for her younger brothers and sisters, because her mother was not able to. In doing so, she had extinguished her own dreams and hopes for the future. She was deeply depressed, and just barely hanging on for her siblings.

In our first few appointments, we talked a lot about what she needed in life to survive, and how she could best care for her siblings. At her fourth visit with me, she informed me her mother was pregnant again. This was a huge setback for her, because she understood it to mean another baby that she would be raising. She needed more support. We agreed to have a regularly occurring appointments, and soon we were addressing her depression and history of abuse. She got a therapist, a social worker, and proper psychiatric care. We worked on managing her weight through healthy diet and exercise. We also had a lot of conversations about what she needed to go from “surviving” to “thriving,” and how she was going to set up her siblings for success.

One day, she came in and announced that she was going back to high school, at age 24. She had just spoken with her younger sister, who had very poor attendance at school and was talking about dropping out. Ronnie had come to the conclusion on her own that the most important gift she could give her siblings was the example of her own achievement. I remember her saying, “How can I tell them to stay in school when I didn’t do that myself?”

So, back to school she went. She did show up in my office a few weeks later in tears because she felt so unprepared and so out of place. She worried that she didn’t fit in socially because she was “old” and worried that her best efforts would not be enough. She didn’t know where to sit in the school cafeteria at lunch time, and felt that she didn’t know how to make friends, and that her experience was not relatable to her peers. High school was overwhelming. But she worked very hard and stayed true to her goal of graduating. She did well. She brought me her grades every semester, which I dutifully scanned into her chart—my weird doctor version of displaying it on the refrigerator. She kept me regularly updated on her progress.

Last June, Ronnie graduated with a 4.0 GPA and won the award for “most inspiring student,” as voted by her peers. Her little sister is still in school, too. For her graduation present, her boyfriend brought her to a Beyoncé concert. As she excitedly recounted what it was like to see her favorite performer live, she said, “Beyoncé is the only strong black female role model that I had in my life growing up.” Today Ronnie is in community college, and she is studying to be a nurse. Without health care, I don’t think Ronnie would have gotten the treatment she needed to be able to tackle the enormous challenges life presented her with. Her successes are a balm for my soul as a physician, and she couldn’t possibly know that as much as she needs me as her doctor, I am grateful to her for being my patient.

At our last visit, she asked me what would happen if our clinic closed or was unable to see I her anymore. I didn’t have a good response for her. This was not a woman that I was going to lie to by telling her not to worry, that “everything is going to be alright.” So instead, I told her that I didn’t know, but I was going to work hard to make sure that we would be there for her in the future. This interaction changed my perspective. Ronnie, my patient, called me to action, and I gave my commitment to be her advocate.

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Voices of Courage is a project by Physicians for Reproductive Health

[khrissbasamovement]

New Year 2017

I haven't had really the time to write or even think about everything that has happened over the course of 2016. 

My life has had some up and downs starting at the beginning of 2015.. 

I’ve lost a lot of things too much to count. I’ve been burdened by a lot of hardships..

but i will not let this stop me from becoming great. This past vacation I got the news that I would be 2 points away from passing Chemistry. In order to move onto Clinicals for nursing you would need to be able to successfully pass it as well as have a 3.0 GPA. Sadly i did not meet the Chem requirements and will not be able to move on as planned and this would move me back a year. 

Although i wasn’t happy about it in the beginning when i first got the news I’ve learned a valuable lesson in this obstacle. 

1. Always help yourself first before you help others. In the past year i’ve noticed that i’ve helped others too much. I’ve been too kind and too supportive of everyone around me. Talking about this is a “team” we are a “team” but yet when one player gets left behind they no longer include them in the “team” People forget what you do for them when you get them where they need to be or help them.

So my resolution for this year is to mainly focus on myself in school. I will probably not be as talkative or as into the “school” as i used to be. Because in reality i like being quiet. I like locking myself in a room and studying by myself. In the end no one will ever help you get you where you need to be and if you help others it will only bite you in the ass. Life is a competition. 

2. It doesn’t matter whether you finish first or you finish last, what matters is that you finish. I was so concerned that I wouldn't be able to graduate on time or with my friends. Or that money would be such an issue but at the end of the day none of that shit matters if you still have the confidence and drive to finish what you started. 

My resolution goes along the lines with “slow and steady wins the race.” Although i will be pushed back a year. This gives me the extra drive to finish what i started and has given me the drive to get that 4.0 GPA again as next semester begins. I’m grateful to be set back now than later when it counts more. Although it will make me struggle financially this will help me embody the skills of working under pressure and handling a job as well as school all at once.

Now that school is boring lets talk about my gym life..

so this past January 7th.. marked 3 years since i started my lifestyle change to be healthier. 

Although sometimes i get off the rails and eat shitty i’m still way skinnier than i was before as well as healthier. 

One of the reasons i started this change 3 years ago was because i wasn't in the best condition actually i was pre diabetic and was borderline to becoming diabetic. i was medically unhealthy in all aspects and if i didn't make this big change i would probably have a lot of health problems going forward. 

This sparked me into not only have the drive to lose weight but also be healthy. 

One of the things i’ve learned along my fitness journey is that consistence is key and I'm glad that i lost weight but I'm even more grateful to go into the doctors and them telling me I'm in healthier condition and no longer borderline diabetic and my cholesterol is no longer as high as it used to be. I’m happy I've kept most of the weight off. Everyday it’s a struggle to be break the norms of media’s idea of what being fit looks like but in reality even though i may not have the greatest body i’m still confident in myself to know that I'm healthy in all aspects. 

When i think of health i think of yes being in shape but also being healthy in my state of mind, my relationships as well as my faith. All of these things relate to my health and how i perceive if I'm feeling okay. 

I wasn't in the best state years ago and i may not be all the well off now either but i know that i’m continuing to grow and continuing to be a better person everyday.

You always have to remember where you started and where you came from because it will always be better every single day. Although some days i have really bad days i know that i am better off now than i was yesterday and etc etc. 

Sometimes i look back on my life and cry. Only because i wish i could hug that girl that used to cry every night thinking how much my life sucked that i will be blessed with many more things as the years go by. I wish back then i could tell myself that i would be happy again one day and that to live every day with a smile. I wish  back then that i could tell myself that everything would work out for the better and that even though mom died that you will get through it and you will be better and you will make her proud. because even no matter all the shit i’ve been through i’ve had so many consistent people in my life. 

My family has done nothing but support me as well as my two bestfriends in the entire world. Chynna and Jon. Although i have many other friends i’ve met along the way these two have constantly been consistent with me and have supported me through it all. They’re probably the only people who really know me for me and have seen me grown into the person i am today. They saw me in states that i wasn't really proud of. They saw me when i couldn't recognize myself in the mirror. They’ve brought me back from the depths of hell to the person you see today. 

Most of you will claim to “know me” but you will never know me as much as they have. They’ve seen all sides of me that most people would probably get rid of me for. 

one of the biggest mottos I'm living by this year is “there’s only way from here now, and that is up”

stay up love bugs. 

I hope everyone has a blessed year.