#i have been experiencing severe anxiety basically all day every day for weeks now and i am so over it | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

winter-soldier-vibes · 3 years ago

Note

hi! request for one where reader struggles w depression a lot but hides it, tho it’s been getting worse recently and only bucky has noticed the small signs. then one night after no one seeing her the whole day or maybe something happened he went to check on her but she wasn’t in her room and he panics only to find her on the roof and just talks her down <3 all the love

Of course! I hope you're okay love❤❤❤. I saw another anon request something a lil similar in my ask box but I can't find it, maybe it got eaten, but I hope you like this!

Word count: 3,400 (ish)

Warnings: suicidal thoughts, depression, close to an attempt, Bucky talks about HYDRA, feelings of worthlessness.

A/N: This deals with very heavy subject matter, please do not read if you are in a dark place. I am here to talk if you want but I encourage you that if you feel this way in ANY way, no matter how severe, to reach out to someone. I also just wanted to say that the way someone talks someone down is never the same, some people may find a different approach more helpful or realistic. I wrote it this way because this is what I feel in my experience would have been helpful to hear. So please, if you don’t think it’s the way someone should talk someone down - please don’t come at me for it.

Overnight

People often don’t notice the small signs. The smiles that don’t reach the eyes, the dark circles from lack of sleep, the laughs that slowly become more forced. People don’t often pick up on those things right away. They happen slowly, as depression will often manifest. It’s rarely ever a flip of a switch shut down, happy one day and sad the net. Anxiety was like that, small things can trigger panic attacks. But with depression, it was this slow ache that grew in your chest, this dull cloud that made everything darker day by day.

These things rarely happen overnight.

You don’t know what caused this episode. You had struggled with depression and would go through some really low episodes before returning to baseline. It was never great, but it was...manageable. Most of the time. Some things could help you predict when you would go into another episode but you felt yourself slipping and you weren’t quite sure why.

You started withdrawing from the team. Subtly, not all at once. That would cause too much concern and the last thing you wanted was to be a burden. Especially with something like this, you didn’t even have an explanation.

It started slow, training on your own, missing team dinners, that sort of thing. If they were going out to celebrate or staying in for a movie you would slip away to your room where you didn’t have to worry about hiding it.

You didn’t want to be alone, you already felt so goddamn lonely. But somehow being lonely and surrounded by people who loved you hurt more.

The team chalked it up to you wanting to be alone, a bad day, being tired, etc. Whatever recycled excuse you gave them didn’t phase them. At least, not at first.

See, people who have experienced similar things will pick up in the small signs that others show. Someone who knows what anxiety is like will often be the first to pick up on nervous habits and tics. Often people notice when someone’s energy is coming from adrenaline and caffeine rather than sleep when they’ve done the same thing. Someone who knows what it’s like to feel hopeless and not want to reach out - they notice the small signs of withdrawing.

He noticed pretty early on the change in your demeanor. You had always been one to keep to yourself but this was different. You always seemed exhausted in a way that sleep couldn’t ever fix. Your laugh wasn’t quite the way it used to be, now forced and short, not the usual bubbly laugh it was.

Most people are able to just live and go about daily functions - eating, sleeping - it just came naturally to them. Surviving was natural to them. But it seemed like you had to put thought and effort into surviving.

Which, you were.

Slowly it became hard to motivate yourself to do the basic things to take care of yourself. You would do the bare minimum because you had to, but even that was starting to take more effort than it should. You were eating less because you just weren’t that hungry, but you still did because you knew if you didn’t you’d get sick eventually. You spent as much time in your bed as possible, but not much of it was sleeping.

Bucky picked up on these things and came up to talk to you about them, but you’d smile and shake your head.

“Yeah, I’m fine, just a little tired I guess.”

You weren’t lying, you were tired - emotionally more than physically.

Tired of more than what the day brought - tired of yourself, of your emotions. Tired of the way you felt so out of touch with yourself, out of control. Tired of how you wanted to get better but no matter what you did, it still came back. You were so tired of being exhausted all the time and there was nothing you could do about it.

You were tired of living this way.

You weren’t necessarily suicidal, it wasn’t that you didn’t want to live. You just didn’t want to live this life, not like this. You were so utterly exhausted day in and day out, every day was about getting to the end of it. Everything seemed pointless and you felt like you were watching life go by but you weren’t living it.

You were surviving. And you didn’t see much of a point to it anymore.

Your mask was cracking. And people were noticing.

Maybe it was when you were falling asleep during mission briefings, or nearly passing out in training because you had forgotten to eat. Maybe it was how no one saw you anywhere that wasn’t necessary. The team passed it off as a bad day or week, something you would get over because you were strong.

But apparently not the strong that you needed to be. You could fight off agents, assassins, you could run for miles. But you couldn’t stop your mind from telling you that life was pointless and you were a waste of space. But the team wrote it off as a bad week. But Bucky knew that this had been going on for much longer than a week.

These things rarely happen overnight.

Too many people were asking you if you were okay, and you weren’t, but you didn’t know how to say it. But you thought that if you had to choke out one more “I’m fine,” you would shatter. And you weren’t ready for everyone to see that.

You stopped coming out of your room unless it was for the bare necessities. You would come out at night for water and food, picking at it in your room so that no one would see you.

But that only made Bucky worry more.

The team, again, wrote it off as you needing some “Alone time” because maybe you just had a “bad day”. Of course they worried about you but they thought that if things were bad, or if there was something you needed help with, you would speak up. Because that’s what you did.

But Bucky was worried. He knew that when someone pushes people away, they may think being alone will help, but it only makes it worse. You may not want to talk to anyone, you may think being alone is what’s best. But it rarely is.

Being alone makes it harder to fight your demons. They can run rampant when given the chance. Being alone is the darkest and loneliest hell, and he knew that all too well.

He wasn’t going to leave you alone in that.

He came up to your room one night, wanting to check on you. He knocked on your door, being met with silence. He knocked again, calling your name, but was again met with silence. He tried the doorknob and found it unlocked, opening the door to an empty room.

Where the hell were you?

You weren’t anywhere else in the tower, so where were you?

Bucky stood there for a moment, confused before he remembered the AI system. “F.R.I.D.A.Y.Where's y/n?”

“I believe that they were heading up to the rooftop about a half-hour ago.”

Bucky’s eyes widened as he sprinted out the hallway and towards the stairs.

---

You looked out over the street, arms crossed over your shivering body. For now, you just looked down at the city below. You chuckled bitterly to yourself. There must have been thousands of people down there, thousands of lives, and you wondered how many people felt the way you did right now. So much hustle and bustle, things to do and places to be. You didn’t know a single person down there, it was just a blur of movement. Yet they all had their own personal stories and hells and blessings and shit that made them who they were.

You wondered how many of them pretended like they were fine.

You were standing closer to the edge than you should’ve been. You weren’t doing yourself any favors. You really shouldn’t be up here, but you didn’t know what else to do. Everything hurt all the time and it was just getting worse. You didn’t know whether or not you were gonna jump but here you were, teetering on the edge. Because no matter how much this hurt you still couldn’t bring yourself to fall forward.

You were scared.

You felt tears sting your eyes, angry, exhausted, everything - you couldn’t do anything right anymore, you felt no purpose, you were tired and scared all of the time. You felt so utterly done with everything, yet here you were with a way out and you were too scared of that too.

You were trapped in your body, trapped in your life, and while you didn’t want to die, you didn’t want it to hurt anymore. It wasn’t that you had nothing to live for. It wasn’t that you had nothing left. You knew you did, you knew the team was there for you. You had more support than you could ever need. But you didn’t know how to use them.

You didn’t even know how this happened. How did things get this bad? You remembered when you were happy, the person you used to be. The person everyone still seemed to think you were. Where did they go? What happened to them? And would you ever be able to be that person again?

Did it even matter? Would anyone even care or notice? They did a great job at ignoring what had been happening. Not that you wanted them to find out in the first place. It was so confusing, you wanted to scream for help, you wanted someone to just fucking notice or something. But didn’t you also answer every single “Are you okay?” with "Oh yeah I’m fine, just a little tired.”

So did you truly want them to know? Did you actually want them to notice or help?

You closed your eyes tightly, shaking your head a little to yourself. It was all so confusing, so frustrating. You didn’t know what to do. You felt completely trapped within yourself.

These things rarely happen overnight. And they never get better overnight either.

You took a breath as you looked down, toes slightly off of the ledge. One step or losing your balance would be all it would take. And then it would be over. Forever. It wouldn’t hurt anymore.

“Y/n?” you heard a calm, albeit nervous voice speak from behind you.

You felt your breath catch in your throat. As you squeezed your eyes shut. “No,” you whispered to yourself.

“Y/n, can you come down from there?”

“Why are you here?” you asked, voice strained with pain.

“Because I’m worried about you,” he said, voice sounding closer.

“I don’t want you to be worried about me! I never wanted anyone to worry about me!” you exclaimed.

“And where did not talking about what was bothering you get you?”

“No one would ever have to worry about me again. Not anymore.”

“No one on the team would ever be able to stop thinking about you,” Bucky started, walking closer to you. He spoke gently, worried he would scare you or you would suddenly jump off. “About how we should’ve worried about you. Everyone would blame themselves and ask themselves if they could’ve helped you if they had seen you were hurting.”

You heard his footsteps stop.

“This isn’t going to solve anything.”

You took a shaky breath. “What else am I supposed to do, huh?” you turned around, back facing the streets below as Bucky stood a few feet in front of you. “Pretend like this is gonna get better? Because it isn’t. I’m so sick and tired of pretending like one day everything’s gonna be okay again. It never stops hurting, it never turns off, and I can’t do it anymore!” you yelled, tears streaming down your face. You shook your head. “I know this won’t solve jack shit and it probably makes me weak, but I’m okay with that. Because I’m past the point of wanting to solve anything. I just want it to stop! Is that too much to ask?!”

“It is if your life is the price!” Bucky exclaimed. “We can’t lose you. You’re a part of this team - this family,” he said a little more calmly, trying to keep his own tears at bay. No one should go through feeling so hopeless, and you were one of the kindest people he knew.

But some of the most kind-hearted people are the meanest people to themselves.

“I’m not here to judge you or try to tell you what you should or shouldn’t do. I’m not gonna tell you life is all beauty and grace because it isn’t. It’s okay to be in pain but this is not the way to fix it. I just wanna help you.”

You shook your head. “No one can help me.”

“At least let me try,” he said gently.

“You don’t understand okay? It never stops hurting,” you said, voice cracking slightly. “It always hurts and it's this ache in my chest and I feel like I’m suffocating. No one told me that life was going to hurt, no one fucking told me! They say life isn’t fair, or that life may sometimes bring you down, but they never said that existing would be torture. And I don’t want to keep living if it’s going to hurt this much.”

You saw Bucky’s face fall and you shook your head. “Please just go - You weren’t supposed to see this.”

“I’m not going anywhere. I’d rather see you at your worst than not see you at all,” he said. “You don’t have to do this yourself. I know it may seem like you do but you don’t. You never had to, and you never will have to. You have me, us, the team - we’re all here for you but we can’t if you don’t let us. But I’m not leaving you. You’ve been alone for too long already.”

You felt a new lump in your throat, feeling overwhelmed. Trapped between death and your worst nightmare. You never wanted to be vulnerable, you never wanted to hurt anyone with your own pain. But hearing Bucky’s words, seeing the panic in his eyes -

You had already hurt him. And he was right - killing yourself was only going to hurt the team more.

But it just hurt so much.

You had heard it so many times - “think about the impact you’ll have on those you love”, or how “suicide is selfish” and shit - made you feel like a horrible person. Because you did care about everyone, you cared too much. And it wasn’t that you didn’t care about hurting them with your decision - it was just that the pain of staying alive began outweighing the fear of hurting those you loved.

And it was torture.

You wanted to say everything that was on your mind - scream and cry and curse the universe, you wanted to break something, you wanted to be hugged, held, and told it would be okay - you wanted to get everything out.

You didn’t want to be alone anymore.

You’ve been alone for too long already.

You let out a broken sob, knees going weak as Bucky caught you and pulled you into his chest, away from the edge.

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” you said between sobs.

“I know you don’t, I know,” Bucky said, holding you tightly as if he feared you would disappear if he let you go.

Sticks and stones can break your bones but words can never hurt me was utter bullshit. Because the next words that came out of your mouth hurt Bucky more than anything HYDRA had done to him.

“Please just let me die. Why won’t you let me die? I just wanna die, please just let this be over.”

People didn’t realize what depression could do to a person. Someone who was full of life could end up like this. You don’t know what went wrong or when it happened, but you just felt absolutely broken inside. The kind of broken that can’t be fixed.

Bucky felt his heart shatter, tears falling down his own cheeks at how hopeless you had sounded. He had never been overly close with you, but you were always kind to everyone on the team. And the team had failed you by not noticing sooner.

“I’m gonna bring you inside okay?” Bucky said. You didn’t hear him, crying so hard that you couldn’t focus on anything else. He picked you up, carrying you back into the tower. Bucky brought you back to your room, sitting down on your bed with you. He rubbed a hand up and down your back, holding you tightly as he tried to help you calm down.

Exhaustion overtook you, your body becoming worn out from all of the crying and emotions. You never let your guard down like that in front of anyone, and shame began to overtake you.

“I - I’m sorry, you shouldn’t have seen that I’m so so sorry -”

“Don’t,” he started. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“No one was supposed to know,” you whispered.

“Why not? What’s so bad about asking for help?”

You paused for a moment, unsure exactly why. “I don’t know - I just feel really weak sometimes?” you said, more of a question to yourself. “Like I know everyone needs help and shit but I didn’t have a reason to need it. It hurts but I don’t know why, I cry when I’m not sad, I just - I’m not in control of myself and I don’t know why and if I can’t explain it to myself then how am I supposed to talk to anyone about it?”

“That makes more sense than you think. All of us on the team, we all go through shit. We see so many horrible things, we’ve been through so many things. We all have something. You have this. It’s okay if you don’t know why you feel the way you do but hurting yourself isn’t going to help anything.”

“I know what it’s like, wanting a way out,” Bucky said and you immediately knew what he was talking about. “Days that I wished Pierce or Rumlolw or whoever would just finish me rather than punish me over and over. It wasn’t that I wanted to die, I just wanted it to stop.”

You looked at him. “I know. But what I didn’t know then was that it would end. I never thought it could ever end or that it would ever end, but it did. And if I had died back then I would’ve died only knowing that pain. I wouldn’t have known that it could get better or that it would. And I’m not saying everything is perfect now because it’s not. But it’s better than it was. Okay?”

You nodded, fresh tears spilling out of your eyes. You knew the torture that Bucky went through, everyone on the team did. It had taken him a long time to speak about it on his own and move through it. But he did.

“I don’t know what to do anymore,” you said.

“Talking about it, getting it out is a great start. Talking about it never hurt anyone.” When you seemed a little apprehensive, Bucky added, “I felt alone for so long. Battling these thoughts and memories in my head. They never stopped. But when I started talking about it with someone, and they helped me work through it - I don’t know. It helped me a lot. It wasn’t just me and my thoughts anymore. I wasn’t alone.”

I wasn’t alone

“You don’t have to be alone anymore. I’m not going anywhere. Whether you like it or not I’m gonna be right here with you

These things rarely get better overnight. But maybe with someone else, they could get better a little bit quicker.

You gave a small nod. “Okay.”

---

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living-with-pmd · 4 years ago

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11 Women With PMDD Share What It's Really Like

Premenstrual dysphoric disorder is the evil cousin of PMS. They share the same types of symptoms—moodiness, increased hunger, cravings, fatigue, cramps, pain, brain fog, and depression, among others—but for PMDD sufferers, those symptoms get so bad they can cripple a woman's ability to lead a normal life.

While up to 85 percent of women get PMS, according to the US Department of Health, only about 5 percent of women experience PMDD, according to the American Journal of Psychiatry.

We asked women with PMDD what it's really like living with the disorder. Here are their stories:

"I was diagnosed with PMDD last summer. Six months prior to my diagnosis, I started taking a certain birth control and soon every month I was experiencing severe PMS issues. I am a generally happy person, but during those few days I was someone entirely different. I was extremely depressed and anxious, having much more frequent panic attacks, and was super sensitive and lonely. I was even suicidal, which was terrifying. And the worst part was I was convinced that I had always been this miserable, and that I would always be this miserable, and it was never going to change. It felt as if someone had completely burned out the light in me and all happiness and joy and hope was gone. I didn't make the connection that it was related to my period but thankfully a close friend did. I have since switched birth control, which helped a lot, and increased the dosage of my anti-anxiety and anti-depressant meds. Most importantly, I am aware of the way I feel those few days so I know to expect it, and I can logically remind myself that I will stop feeling that way soon. Looking back, I realize that I've probably always had pretty bad PMS or PMDD. The birth control worsened it but it was also causing a lot of issues I wasn't aware of previously as well." —Katherine H., 22, Edmonds, WA

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"PMDD is out of control. I cry really easily for about a week. My biggest issue is that I am convinced that I am failing at everything—being a wife, a mom, work projects, fitness, my whole life! And even though it feels so real I constantly have to question if my feelings are valid or if they are amplified by my cycle. I just set an alert in my phone to remind me to consider my hormones the next time I feel that way." —Krysten B., 32, Toronto, CA

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"A week before my period, I become a complete psycho, completely unlike myself. I'm tearful, want to eat everything that's sweet or salty, have absolutely no tolerance for anything other than perfection, and prefer to be left completely alone. I already take an antidepressant but my PMDD was a complete nightmare so my doctor gave me Prozac to take for just 10 days a month. Basically, I start it when I start to get that irrational feeling and keeping taking it until my period starts. And that's just the emotional stuff. On the physical side, I have debilitating cramps, backaches, and headaches that last for days. Yep. I'm a peach." —Kristen L., 40, Knoxville, TN

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"In the past, PMDD almost made me suicidal and totally broke my spirit. Yes it wasthat bad. Every month. Eventually I got tired of being a 'crazy PMS woman' and decided I needed to fix this. Since I don't like to take pharmaceuticals, I branched out to homeopathic remedies and I discovered St. John's Wort and essential oils, especially clary sage and Doterra Calm-Its. It's a lot better now but I still have my hard days." —Amy S., 43, Zebulon, NC

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"My PMDD got so bad I had to go to a psychiatrist and be put on Prozac along with another antidepressant I was already taking. I was a mess—anxious, crying randomly over the smallest thing, and eating everything in sight. One example is someone made a YouTube mashup of the Age of Ultron trailers with Pinocchio footage and the 'I've got no strings on me' song and that wrecked me for weeks. Every time I thought about scenes from Pinocchio I would start panicking and crying at my work desk. It's been a few years and I'm better now. I'm off birth control and weening myself off the Prozac. I notice a week before my period I will sob during any sad part in a movie or book I'm reading, and a day or two before, I notice I'm more likely to be anxious." —Kate W., 36, Alaska

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"This has impacted my ability to work effectively. My pet peeve is when people say 'it must be close to your time of the month' when they simply don't like what I'm saying. I have run into that problem a lot at previous jobs and it makes it really hard to be taken seriously. It's bullshit because my feelings are valid regardless and also PMDD is not a joke. I am so lucky now to have a male boss who understands but it wasn't always that way. I have also have found a lot of relief with naturopathic and herbal remedies." —Amalia F., 28, Vancouver, Canada

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"My PMS was tolerable until my second child was born and then everything went off the rails. I'd be looking forward to plans with others, happy, and then about 10 to 14 days before my flow would start, my mood would turn on a dime. I'd be horrible—crying, screaming that ~nobody understands~, just so much emotional pain. I'd basically lock myself up in the bedroom for a full day to cry, get angry, and feel sorry for myself. It took three doctors before I finally found one who would listen to me before I was finally diagnosed with PMDD. I took Prozac for three years for it but it made me feel numb, like a zombie and not like myself. So I quit and my family just deals with me now. As I've gotten closer to menopause the PMDD is not as bad, but can be very unpredictable due to hormonal swings from perimenopause. The worst part now is I feel like my friendships have suffered. I always seem to have episodes around major holidays and events and I end up bumming everyone out if I do show up so I end up staying home a lot." —Colleen T., 50, St. Paul, MN

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"I'm overly emotional for the week before my period. Saying that makes it sound like it's not that bad but I get so distraught that my fiance has actually scheduled it in his phone as 'blood sport' to remind himself what's coming. I'm thankful that he's patient because I also feel like everyone hates me that week, too." —Kenlie T., 36, New Orleans, LA

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"All month long I'm fine and feel even and calm and then suddenly, the week before my period, I can't handle even the tiniest little thing. My irritability goes through the roof (which is not great since I have a 5-year-old) and I feel like I have no friends. It really makes me sad." —Jessica S., 28, Broomfield, CO

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"I know my period is coming because all of a sudden all of my joints hurt, especially my knees and ankles. I also get crazy gnarly cramps and once I even had a cyst that ruptured while I was on a date and the guy had to take me to the hospital! It was so embarrassing. Thankfully my husband now is very understanding when this time rolls around each month. The worst part is people who just think I make this stuff up. Some months are better than others and sometimes the pain is completely debilitating! My emotions are also a rollercoaster. Anytime I see something cute or inspiring, I burst into tears." —Ivie C., 21, Rexburg, ID

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"My PMDD manifests in both mental and physical symptoms. From the time I got my period at age 12, I've had extreme cramps and heavy bleeding. I'd leak at school through a super maxi pad every class so I'd tie sweatshirts around my waist and have to scrub my clothes when I got home. It was super humiliating. I'd have to take six to eight ibuprofen at a time to deal with cramps, and if I didn't I'd end up on the floor sweating like I had the flu. Sometimes I'd even throw up. This meant I ended up spending a lot of time sick in bathrooms and knew where every restroom was at all times. Birth control helped manage the PMDD and other issues, but as soon as I was done having kids, I had a hysterectomy. That was the best thing I've ever done." —Mandy P., 39, Mendon, UT

https://www.womenshealthmag.com/health/a19972132/premenstrual-dysphoric-disorder/

#premenstrual dysphoric disorder #PMDD #pmdd awareness #living with pmdd #actually pmdd #mental health awareness #mental health #women's health #pms #premenstrual syndrome #afab problems

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writingsbychlo · 4 years ago

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put her together again (03)

word count; 6472

summary; after you’re making steady progress, mitch takes you on a trip to jog your memory, and you have quite the reaction to it.

notes; this is a really emotionally intense chapter, so take it easy. I cried while writing it AND while proof reading it.

wrnings; mentions of gore, murder, underage drinking, child abduction, breaking and entering, abuse, criminal activity, and child abuse.

The name revelation had been a snowball, one that had continued to roll and tumble until it had become a crushing avalanche of success and progress within your mind and personality.

You were making big and little breakthroughs within yourself, sometimes it was a sudden realisation about what your favourite colour was, and sometimes it was bigger. Sometimes memories came filtering through - good and bad - and he’d come to learn the tells of what each one consisted of. You’d taken to writing them down or drawing them, your doodle pad becoming more like a journal now, and you shared more with him. On the happier days when the memories you were able to now recognise as ‘good’ came through, memories of times on assignments when you’d soak up the sun, or a butterfly would land on your arm, you would tell him all about them, describing in in vivid detail as you relived every moment with him, and made sure to give so much detail he felt like he was sitting there himself.

Sometimes, on the days when something came to the surface that now made you shiver, it would have a different effect. Those were the quieter days, the days when he’d make you a hot cup of tea and give you a tablet for something herbal to soothe your anxiety, and would choose to sit beside you on the couch instead of working in his office, reading a book as he waited for you to be ready to talk about it. Sometimes, those days took a physical toll on you, you wouldn't eat or move, and there had been multiple times when he’d had to hold your hair back as your body was racked from head to toe as you emptied your stomach into the toilet bowl while shock and horror washed over to you.

The progress you were making was incredible, but not all the emotions you were finally tapping into were something to be celebrated, it was just something that had to be done.

The cold and emotionless version of you was something that was rapidly slipping away, and he could barely even compare you to the person you’d been when he’d first taken you in so many months ago. The way your face had been permanently stoic and lifeless was something he could barely picture now, you were never without some kind of expression, a lot of which made him laugh, or made his own chest blossom with warmth when you did. It was hard not to, watching you come into yourself, your smile was contagious, enough to light up the room when you’d knock on the office door with a wide grin and another story to tell him, or a joke you’d read in a book that you wanted or share, and the way he’d have to suppress his laughter as he watched your face change when you read.

You weren’t even aware you did it, your face flicking between joy, despair, judgement, horror, shock, with every word you read, letting yourself get immersed in the words that created a new world for you, and sometimes it was enough to distract him from his own work, simply to watch you.

In the first few weeks after you’d realised what your name was, he’d caught you mumbling it to yourself as you went around, written on the back of your hand, or on every page of your notebook as you tried to familiarise yourself with it. You did your best, and he felt like his heart had both broken and been strengthened as he found the open page of your name written, scribbled and scrawled in different handwritings, colours and types of writing tool as you tried to work out how you best associated with your own name.

You spoke it on a loop and left it written everywhere you could as you began to grow more comfortable with it, but after a month had passed, you had seemed to begin to find a connection within it. He did everything he could to help, making sure to say your name to you as much as he could, to reinforce it in your mind, and he had felt himself light up like the fourth of July the first time you’d said his name too.

You had said it so simply, a false argument that two of you had been having about a book you’d read and whether or not you agreed with the choices taken, and after you’d made a valid point, he’d used his foot to nudge the book out of your hand from where he sat at the opposite end of the couch, stretched out across it. You’d chastised him by using his name, laughing under your breath as you found the item under the coffee table and flicked through it to find the page, having not marked it before losing it at his shove.

Sometimes, you still messed up, when you were particularly tired or you’d had a nightmare, you’d slipped back into accidentally referring to yourself as unit eight in the mornings, a somber feeling following you around for hours until you snapped out of it, often with his help, when you watched a movie and had a hot drink to soothe you, or listened to the music he’d begun to introduce you to.

It was a long road, one that the pair of you were struggling with together, and every day you seemed to be gaining miles, faster and faster. What had once been like a dam - tightly locked and making sure to allow only enough in and out to hold strong and survive - was now beginning to crack. Water was dripping through, little by little as the break widened and pebbles fell away, and as each little piece fell away from the barrier it was expanding more and more, gaining ground faster with each progression. One day it would burst entirely, there would be nothing left to hold you back, because the concrete would crumble away to let everything beautiful within you that was locked up so tight be allowed to roam free, instead.

Upon coming into yourself, though, had brought several troubles for him. The first of which was your curiosity, he no longer had to guide you in finding hobbies and telling you what to do, but instead, you were all but bouncing off of the walls while locked inside, desperate to get around to your weekly walks at night when there were fewer people on the streets and less of a risk to you, and so they had become more and more frequent, the two of you venturing out almost every other night, now.

With your arm linked through his as you strolled along, wrapped up in one of his coats that was too big for you and some sweats, he was certain that the two of you had walked every possible route around the neighbour over fifty times now, and that had led him to another issue. You wanted to explore, you wanted more, the searching on the laptop did no good, because you’d seen so many aspects of the world on the job, so much more than he had even, but you’d never experienced it.

You wanted to see the world, but you weren’t ready to be a part of it yet.

You were a killer, a trained mercenary, you knew more languages than he did, and you could use a spoon to kill him in more ways than he could kill someone with a gun, you knew the entire periodic chart by heart and you could do a backflip on the spot - something which the two of you had spent upwards of a week trying to teach him how to do, and failing. He couldn't contain the overwhelming sense of pity he had for you, though, because while you were such an incredible person with limitless talents and skills, you had absolutely no idea how to do basic things like set off a dishwasher or put through a load of laundry.

On a day when he’d been trying to assess your skills, you’d taken him down ten times in a row at sparring without even breaking a sweat, but he’d found you crying in the laundry room as you tried to figure out what all the buttons and symbols meant, and so his latest hobby had been teaching you the things that mother’s taught their kids from youth.

His investigation into your past hadn't ceased either, he would work with every fragment of memory you gave him and every tiny detail he could pick up from a story you told him, never wanting to push and risk upsetting you, or having you close back in on yourself.

You were becoming a seamless part of his life, taking you to the store and watching you sniff at shampoos and laundry detergents, or debate the health benefits of certain vegetables over others was something that he was too quickly becoming used to, and wandering around the library and holding your stacks of books for you while you chose a new week’s worth of reading was beginning to become the highlight of his Saturday nights.

The domesticity of it all was overwhelming, never in his life had he held this kind of life in the palm of his hands, a happy little setting that was nothing but serenity and peace when he was home. The old him used to go to pubs and bars, Katrina in a cute little dress on his arm as he wore tight skinny jeans and spent more money on drinks at clubs and hockey games than he did on rent. Half of his existence was hangovers and headaches, from booze or college textbooks, and he was looking a long and dull but successful office career in the eye, his sporting being something he’d keep up as a hobby until work hours got longer and he got that promotion that ‘everybody wanted’ and ‘it was a real honour, everyone was fighting for it’ and so he’d spend more time behind his desk instead of at home, gain a little weight, fuck his secretary when Katrina started to make eyes at the gardener instead, because he was still young and hot.

It was someone he wasn’t, he’d never seen himself before this as being the guy who was happy to read books quietly with his girl when her feet were in his lap or toes poking at his thigh like you did on a bold day, or cook recipes from a book you’d picked up as one of this week’s editions, the two of you trialing different meals from all over the world, because you couldn’t actually go there to get them.

With the more expanding into society you’d done, the more he’d invested in you, no longer being able to wrap you up in his own clothes as much, especially not with the looks the two of you received when you were in public places, and so he was left to buy you clothes. He didn’t know much, likes sizes or measurements, but he tried his best, and so with heated cheeks and a scowl, he’d pushed some bags into your hands after returning home from a midday excursion.

Leggings, sports bras, simple cotton panties, and a fair amount of pyjamas, because those were your favourites. He went for the basics, leaving you to roam around in his hoodies and shirts, but it was an improvement, to say the least, making you look a little less like you were still a project, and more like you were finding your place in a society you didn’t understand and had never been a part of. You’d managed to dig up a packet of hair elastics he’d had from his time when he had longer hair and couldn’t be bothered to cut it, and so you’d begun to style it like you read in books or saw in movies, ponytails and braids and buns.

Slowly but surely, everything about you was becoming less robotic and more unique, and he was simply along to watch you bloom like a flower in the sun, now.

“Do you want to go out somewhere today?”

“Somewhere like the library? Because we only went a few days ago, and we still have lots of food in the fridge.” You glanced up at him as he leant on the door for the kitchen, and Mitch couldn't help the grin that took over his face as you looked at him curiously, twirling a pencil between your fingers in patterns that confused him and yet you seemingly didn’t even know you were doing it, and the wondering as to whether you could do that with something like a knife flitted across his mind, but he shook it free. “Anyway, it’s only eight minutes past two, it won’t be dark for at least five hours yet.”

“I was thinking we could switch up the routine today.” You raised your brows at him, lips pursed as your eyes flicked over to the paper stuck up on the fridge, and he pushed himself up from the framing to take the seat across from you instead. “You mind that?”

You let out a dramatic sigh, pouting a little as you placed the pencil back into the case before you and zipping it up. “I suppose for you an exception could be made.”

“Wow, don’t I just feel honoured?” He grinned, watching as you giggled a little bit, before pushing your chair out, excitement taking over as you came to stand beside him, rolling on the balls of your feet a little bit.

“We’re going out now? During the day?”

“Yes we are.”

What was almost a squeal left your lips as you nodded your head, hands clenching and unclenching from fists as your gaze faded away from his. “I’m gonna’ wear the black jeans!”

You were gone from his view before he could say anything else, dashing away towards your room and clicking the door shut as you left in a whirlwind of coloured pencils and fluffy socks that you’d dug out of his drawer, and he scooped up all the papers to tidy them away, placing the glass you’d been drinking from into the sink and getting rid of them.

He had been researching, using every bit of information that he’d heard from you to build a case, trying to find out who you were to try and help you expand on the life you’d lost, everything that you’d forgotten or been forced to suppress. How many girls at about age three could go missing with your name, from a state he was certain he’d hear you mumble in your sleep, from a house that matched all the pictures you drew?

Three-hundred and twenty-two. That’s how many.

But only eighteen of them had been cases that were still open or never solved, and only one of them had the mysterious circumstances that would match you, and was exactly what he was looking for. He was confident in the decision, in his own sleuthing, and so the decision he had been pulling over for the past few days on whether or not it was actually a good decision, had taken over this morning. It was like a band-aid, it just had to be ripped off, but it was a lead on who you were supposed to be, not who they forced you to be, so he was willing to take it.

Luckily for him, and you, by some kind of blessing, it wasn’t actually that far away, only one state over, a few hours driving at the max, and so like some kind of emotional therapy or purge, you’d be able to go to the place you once lived, and find a piece of yourself. If his detective work had been accurate, that was.

It hadn't taken you long to change. You were flying out of the room excitedly while pulling up your hair to secure it back as your laces were still undone, waiting eagerly as he put on his own shoes and jacket, taking a little longer to pat down his pockets and find his keys just to tease you, as you hovered in the doorway, anticipating the journey out into broad daylight that you’d be venturing into. Everything seemed different to you in the daylight, he could tell, from the was you took anxious steps, buzzing slightly as the two of you chose to take the stairs instead, avoiding the security camera and the busy people shifting from different floors in the elevator, still trying to keep you as safe and secreted as possible.

He’d parked the car close to the building on the last journey, and so it was barely a walk to get to it, blacked out windows hiding your identity much better now that you were venturing out into the light. He had already programmed the location into the SatNav in his car, only a few hours away to be taken to, and you settled into the seat, reading the back of the latest CD he had, and mumbling about getting a burger on the way there if it was far away, before the journey was beginning, and Mitch was doing his best to push down his anxiety.

The house was still just as it had been left, a little unkempt and the garden overgrown, the cobblestones leading up to the front door had become unstable with some missing and some just out of place. The weeds had taken over, mud and grass with thistles that had overruled it all, everything trampled down by kids who had wandered over the area. One of the windows had broken and there was graffiti along the walls, the front door kicked in and there were marks around the frame where repairs had been made, new locks and wood being put on, but it had only continued to happen.

It had never been repurchased, it was a little town that the two of you had pulled up in, and you’d gone silent from all the chattering you’d done on the way over as you stared up at the building, unaware of the neighbours eyes peering on at the two of you as you sat in the large sleek vehicle. Rumours had spread quickly, he’d barely had to dig into your history before articles and news about your family were popping up, rumours about the things your parents had been involved in before tragedy had struck and the littlest member of the family had gone missing, a cold case that was never solved.

Beer cans and burnt ashes were in the garden, but there was no movement inside currently, and so releasing the lip from between his teeth from where he’d been nibbling, Mitch rounded the car, opening the door for you and giving you the most reassuring smile he could as your gaze left the house to find his, and you stepped out of the car to stand beside him. You didn’t question him, or yell at him, but you lingered by his side, your shoulder brushing his for comfort as you shoved your hands into the front pocket of your hoodie, and followed him up the pathway when he took the first step.

You paused by his side halfway up the garden, looking around anxiously, and that same blank look that he hadn't seen for months was back, and suddenly, the weight of the moment came crashing down onto him as he realised the weight of the mistake he must’ve made. The panic that he’d triggered something bad within you was crushing, that you might close back in on yourself and freak out, that this act may have been your entire undoing.

Then, he was able to process the look on your face. It was recognition. You knew where you were, you knew what it was you were looking at. The blank look wasn’t you closing in on yourself, it was you protecting yourself, and he closed the distance between you both with a few quick strides, tipping your chin up towards him before placing a comforting hand on your shoulder and squeezing, fixing you with a look of questioning and security as he waited to know whatever you were okay.

“I think I used to have a pink bicycle.” You looked over his shoulder, glancing along the broken pathway as you traced your gaze across the garden. “It had training wheels that lit up in all different colours.”

He could see it now, the fear in your eyes, and it was an emotion he'd never seen on you before. You were scared, but the cogs were turning in your head as the final part of you clicked into place, finding your roots and being reunited with your home, a shaky breath leaving you, before your eyes were searching to catch his own once again, and you gave him a weak smile, but he was sure it was the strongest you’d been able to muster.

“Can we go inside?”

“Are you sure you can handle that?”

You hesitated in giving him your answer, but there was determination washing over the fear, and you nodded, pursed lips and slightly trembling shoulders, but he could tell you were absolutely adamant in your decision. You were moving before he was, taking quick and steady steps up the front porch, and lingering by the front door, waiting for him to catch up, peering through the glass and past the ripped and yellowing fabric, that was covering the slip of glass, only an outline of the interior revealed to you.

A simple nudge of his foot was enough for the door to swing open, the wood creaking under the strain on its hinges as it wobbled a little, scraping the wood flooring in motions that were clearly ingrained from a lot of breaking and entering. He lingered back, letting you take the first step, and it was like walking into a piece of your history, he didn’t want to invade, so he gave you your time to observe the place.

It was a little torn up, massacred from the graffiti and break-ins, smashed glass and covered with damp and mold, peeling wallpaper that had yellowed and snapped or broken furniture. There were burns on the walls and floors from where kids had come in to smoke and set fires, broken bottles and crushed beer cans, litter and lost belongings, but it was still the place that used to be your home.

The first room was the living room, couches that were torn, flat cushions with rusted springs and missing stuffing, but the faded pattern was almost still visible. There was a clear place where a television had once been, almost everything of value having been stripped from the room, and other furniture rearranged to make places for youths to sit around and talk, but it was enough for you to be able to put the jigsaw puzzle pieces together. You wandered around, running your fingers lightly over everything, and moving onto the dining room. You’d dragged the chairs back through, arranging them around the chipping and wobbly oakwood table, and adjusting the photo frames on the walls, even though the glass had shattered.

The kitchen was a mess, broken cupboard doors and a leaky tap, the backdoor completely kicked in and the panels on the back porch broken, but you didn’t seem to care, a small smile flickering on your face as you crouched down, peering into the oven, despite the fact that you couldn't see through the glass of the door. “I think my mother used to bake cookies.”

“Yeah?”

You glanced at him, hands on your knees to push yourself up from your crouching position as you nodded your head. “Yeah. I just got the overwhelming urge to eat cookies when I walked in here.”

“Well, it won’t be the same, but when we go home, we’ll swing by the store and try and whip some up, if you’d like?” Your shoulder bumped against his as you walked through the room, before looking back, offering him a soft nod, and making your way across to the staircase, leaving him to follow you.

“I would like that.”

His offer was seemingly well accepted, and he was happy to have made a suggestion that was something positive for you. The stairs groaned and squealed under each step he took, and for a second the worry that the wood may actually give way underneath you both passed his mind as he felt each plank tremble under your weight, the disarray of the house entirely different to the upstairs.

The upper half of the house was more well-kept than the lower half. Less graffiti and broken furniture, it seemed far more well preserved, and Mitch would be willing to bet good money that kids just weren’t bold enough to try and climb stairs that screamed out in fits of protest at the first simple steps to be placed upon them. It brought a different mood, too. The downstairs was cheery for you, filled with sweet memories and happy times, thanksgivings at the dining table and christmas’ by the fireplace in the living room, but the upstairs was different. The first real room that you’d come across was that of the younger version of yourself, pink walls, pink furniture, everything must’ve once been bright and covered in glitter, and it seemed perfectly reasonable for a three-year-old girl’s room.

Children’s toys still covered the floor, a tiny bed with a little desk, colouring crayons and old teddies that had become weathered and ugly, slightly torn apart but not entirely disheveled, and Mitch held his breath once again as he waited for your own reaction. There was no smile, or look of fond memories, only that of sadness and shock, his body reaching for you as you jumped and twitched with every eerie squeak of the flooring under your feet or the wind rustling through the open windows of the upstairs.

It was dark, and unsettling, watching a grown woman relearn the room she’d been ripped from as a child, and something in the back of his throat burned at the thought as he wondered whether this was the last room you’d been in while holding your freedom, before being snatched up and cast into a life of horror and abuse. He watched as you moved around, kneeling down on the floor with an open plastic tub, picking up the toys on the carpet and tidying them away, before putting the glittery crate back where it belonged, the scratched off paint on the side revealing a part of a butterfly with purple wings and blue spots, and he had to look away from it all for a second.

He wanted to ask if you knew that you were tidying, or whether something instinctual had kicked in and taken over when you did so, but he didn’t have the heart to break what you were doing. Once you were satisfied with the straightened sheets and lines of rotten bears and plush toys along the pillow, you were kneeling down, brushing your fingers along the planks of a colourful wooden box, faded paints that had once been a rainbow, and your fingers lingered on the latch, but you didn't open it. For the first time, your lips flicked up at the corners, and you placed your hand flat on the wood, pushing it back into place but continuing to stare at it.

“Bumblebee dress.”

He cursed under his breath, listening to you mumble to yourself about your favourite costumes that lay inside, and he turned away to wipe at a droplet that had strayed from his eyes, blinking back tears on burning eyes as he tried to control himself. You were more composed than he was, but he couldn't help it. In the few months he’d known you, he had grown to care so much, you barely even knew yourself but he felt like he knew you inside and out, and he didn’t want any unhappiness for you. You were like the sun to him, warm and welcoming and loving, every day you became more and more like a star to brighten up the sky, but this was a significant dull moment in your history.

If he hadn't thought it could get any worse, he was severely mistaken.

At least your childhood bedroom was preserved in its purity, you hadn't been harmed and perhaps you’d put up a struggle - the best struggle a toddler could - but that was not the same story in your parents room, and he felt himself stiffen up beside you at the same time your entire body had turned to one of stone.

It was a mess, the walls were spattered with blood in different angles and torn up yellow tape reading ‘crime scene’ was still hanging from some places on the walls, with white tape on the floors marking stained carpet. There was more of a visible fight put up in here, gunpowder shadows on the walls and furniture that was tipped over. The drywall was littered with dents and holes, and splintered wood still covered the floor. It was haunting, nothing seemed to be disturbed, and he wasn’t surprised, because even small town kids who broke into ‘haunted houses’ for fun had enough respect not to disturb the place a person took their final breath.

“My mother must’ve died here.”

Your voice made his head snap over to you, and he hadn't even noticed that you’d taken a few steps away from him, staring down at the dark mark on the carpet, taped off to avoid it having any disturbance from the people who would have been wandering around while it was still a fresh crime scene and open investigation. He barely had time to process your words, swallowing down the lump in his throat that felt like cotton as everything in his mouth felt dry, watching as you moved away, your shaking voice extending on again;

“This was my father’s side of the bed. I think he died here.”

Everything about being here with you was making the absence of his own parents feel like a raw and fresh wound, his eyes lining with tears once again as all of that pain came rushing back to the surface in his weakened state, and he wondered how you were still holding yourself together so well as you stared down at a bloodstained bed, the covers still pushed back as though he’d simply gotten up for a second to nip downstairs or to the bathroom, before coming back to bed.

Just as he was thinking about it, your jaw dropped, head snapping up so that your sights could catch his own as your calm demeanour was washed away to be replaced with a horrified look, startled and tensing up as you came to some kind of revelation. “I’ve killed people. I’ve killed people who could have been other little girls’ parents.”

He knew where this was going, a familiar rabbit hole that he’d worked hard to pull himself out of before, his mind feeling slow despite how hard he tried to think about what to say as he watched the pain take over, and he could barely get his feet to move, feeling like he was trying to run through wet cement with every movement.

“I’m a monster. Just like the ones who killed my parents.”

He couldn't take it, shaking his head as he finally managed to click into place, pushing away his boundaries as you stared at him with tears streaming silently down your cheeks. His hands found your shoulders, smoothing down until he could hold your waist, before pulling your body into his own. It was the most affectionate touch he’d ever given you, and he wasn’t sure if it was welcome, all he knew was that you needed it right now, and so he had no hesitations in tugging you in closer to him, arms wrapped entirely around your body, and your face was pressed into his shoulder, salty tears washing over his skin as you sobbed silently into the crook of his neck.

“I don’t think you’re a monster, it was beyond your control.” He lifted a hand, feeling you shake underneath him, and weaving his fingers into your hair. He detangled the strands delicately, running his fingers through the locks and scratching at your scalp lightly as you remained wrapped up in his arms, his own eyes sliding shut as he rested his cheek against the top of your head. “I think you’re lovely. You’re incredible, sweetheart; you are.”

Your arms came up to hold him back as he spoke, mumbling into your hair to reassure you. Your hands bunched up in his shirt as your legs went weak, a loud cry in distress leaving you as you held onto him, and his knees buckled a little, before he was leaning down. Scooping you up and into his arms carefully, Mitch made the decision for you that this little excursion was over, you didn’t need anything else, you’d had everything from this house that you could possibly get. With tentative footsteps he carried you through the halls and back outside, freeing up one hand to open the car as your trembling body clung to him, seeking comfort and affection to soothe your broken soul.

Placing you down in the car seat, the whimper you let out when he pulled away was enough to break his heart, but you soon realised your location, fingers unwrapping from his jumper enough to let him round the car, and find his own seat. The drive home was silent, the radio playing softly as you tried to calm yourself down, his hand in yours at every time he could as he smoothed his thumb over your knuckles to ease your pain, and you had snoozed off for almost an hour towards the end, letting him gently wake you as you arrived back at his apartment building.

Your hand remained locked in his own as you wandered slowly up the stairs, pushing the door open as he twisted the keys, and he didn’t miss the relieved breath you let out as you stepped back into the place you were now calling home. There were no blood splatters and trauma, no bad memories that you’d have to hide from, just the warmth he’d tried to surround you with, and you shook his hand off of your own in order to take off your shoes, before you were collapsing down onto the couch, pulling a cushion to your chest and resting your chin atop it as you pulled up your legs, creating a ball out of yourself as you tried to work through fragmented thoughts.

Wandering to the office, the box that was hidden on the very top of filing cabinet was layered with dust that he brushed off, the label reading clear to him ‘another life’ scrawled in shaky handwriting that he’d completed while swiping thing sinto a box at three in the morning as a desperate bid to clear himself of the lost life.

He braved it, though, and brought it back through to you, your head twisting to look at him as he carried it out and took a seat beside you, placing it down on the coffee table before you both and taking a deep breath.

“I want to show you something.”

You didn’t move, just nodded, and he lifted off the top, a musty smell coming out as a pain burned in the back of his throat once again. The first items up before you both were his medals and certificates, sporting achievements that he showed you and explained each one to you, accolades from both college and highschool, things that had made him who he used to be. Next up was a photo album, and he was shaking a little as he held it out to you, flicking through the pages and pointing out family memoirs to you, water splashing on the plastic when his parents stopped showing up.

You had moved across the cushions a little closer to him, your arm pressing to his as you looked on with interest, and his heart felt like it was rebreaking when the pictures of a fresh-faced college kid with a beautiful blonde on his arm came into view, and the pain and longing for the simple life of who he used to be was enough to make him feel as though he couldn't breathe.

“When Katrina died, I was so overcome with rage and jealousy. I hurt a lot of people, and I was ready to just slaughter hundreds until I got my revenge, before the CIA found me. I’m a monster, too.”

He let out a weak sound, trying to clear his throat to cover it as he left the book discarded on the table, and you shook your head, letting out a disapproving noise that prompted him to look up at you. “You’re not a monster. “You saved me.”

Your arms circled around him, holding him just as tightly, mumbling the same words into his hair that he’d used to try and placate you only hours prior, to calm you own when you’d bene in his position only a few hours ago, a cracked and watery laugh leaving him when you squeezed him in tightly, letting him rest his face in your neck as he held onto you just as tightly in return. You had made a breakthrough of earthshaking sizes today, and while it make him sad, to know that he had nothing else to offer you, that he'd made you into someone who could go out into the world as a real person now, and that he'd have to report your progress to his superiors, he didn’t have to do it tonight.

He was more than willing to be selfish for the rest of the evening, shifting you to pull you to sit across him as your fingers weaved through his hair, holding one another in silence as the weight of the day threatened to crush you if you didn’t bear it together. “Do you want to watch a movie?”

“Yeah.” His breath washed over your skin and back into his face, warm and suffocating, but he liked having someone to hold so close again, to have even a snippet of emotional comfort once again, and not having to carry everything on his own, for the first time in a long, long time. “You choose us a film, and I’ll order us a whole bunch of takeout.”

#mitchtober #mitch-tober #mitch month #put her together again #PHTA #mitch rapp x reader #mitch rapp/reader #mitch rapp #dylan obrien mitch rapp #dylan obrien #dylan o'brien #dylan obrien american assassin #dylan obrien x reader #dylan obrien/reader

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sir-camelot · 3 years ago

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Late night update on life stuff. Going under the cut.

So I can’t remember how much I’ve talked about my recent goings on, I honestly have been terribly busy with one appointment after another and with two surgeries on the horizon I have been full of anxiety. Basically I’m doing my best right now to get my life together so I can get into vocational school for Cybersecurity and start making money again. What I wanted to do before vocational school is fix a few of my health issues that have been making my life harder and would make school/work hellish.

I’m getting eye surgery on both eyes next week to fix their drift (basically both eyes are lazy) and while I’m pretty good at controlling them most of the time, it makes reading and trying to focus them when tired difficult.

Speaking of being tired I also got a sleep study done, which I found out if I didn’t have insurance would’ve cost $2200 for the worst night of sleep in my life. Anyways, I learned today from the follow up appointment that I have severe sleep apnea. Mild cases will be anywhere from 5-14 apneas (the person stops breathing) an hour. Moderate are 15-30. I had 100 apneas in an hour, that’s almost two a minute. My blood oxygen level also got dangerously low at 60% where normal is 90%+. Needless to say, there’s a reason that I’ve felt tired every day for years now. I could possibly even need a specialized cpap machine it’s so bad, so I’m going back for another sleep study in the beginning of October to find out.

Beginning of November I’m getting my full hysterectomy. I actually had the Nexplanon implant removed a few months ago because I went a whole month of bleeding and cramping so bad I was in a dysphoric spiral from hell. I went back to depo and the cramping and bleeding happens *far less*. The cramping does still happen though, and it sucks every time. I’ve never been stabbed but it’s the only thing I can think it could possibly feel like. Aside from when I had the infection in my mouth so bad I couldn’t open it past an inch, it is literally some of the worst pain I’ve ever experienced. It comes out of nowhere and stays for hours. The idea of trying to concentrate on school or work while dealing with these god awful, dysphoria inducing cramps seems impossible.

I’m also setting up to see about getting wrist surgery for carpal tunnel. Cybersecurity is going to be a computer job that’s going to require me to have as much function of my hands as I can and I’d rather nip this in the bud now while I have insurance that’ll cover it, than worry about it later when I probably have some shit insurance through a job. This will be one of the easier surgeries and is something I’ll probably be able to do even while in vocational school, which I’m hoping to start at the beginning of next year.

So yeah, I’m doing my best to stay positive right now, things are rough financially and I feel incredibly guilty about all these health problems preventing me from working. I’m trying to remember that while I didn’t plant the tree 20 years ago, I’m doing it now and that’s what matters. I hope you all are doing well and staying safe and covid free.

#camelot chatters #not art #life stuff

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shinydocsberrytea · 3 years ago

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12/15/21 3:33pm - today i found a screenshot in my camera roll that was from 7th or 8th grade. it was a screenshot of a website that said “2 week diet - lose all your body fat!” & obviously young me thought that sounded amazing. i’ve tried a lot of different things since then. i did the keto diet freshmen yr, lost 15 lbs & gained it back & more. did keto sophomore yr & lost 15 lbs & gained it back & more. i started high school around 150lbs & ended around 180. but that’s really only bc i developed a binge eating disorder at the beginning of the pandemic & i wasn’t able to even admit i had a problem until 15 months later. my parents have no idea that i ever had a binge eating disorder. they don’t know i’m anorexic now. i never experienced high school at a healthy weight. it wasn’t until i graduated where i tried keto for the 3rd time. i went 4 months w/o cheating on my diet a single time & lost 45 lbs. i think it’s because that time, i wasn’t dieting bc i hated the way i look. (that’s why i did it in the past & i always ended up deciding i looked fine and quitting.) in june i started dieting bc my mom told me i couldn’t wear the shirt i had on to the beach bc i looked terrible & my fat was hanging out. i had such an intense panic attack bc i remember feeling confident that day & had thought i looked great. & my dad sitting in silence clearly meant he agreed w her. she had never been so direct before. yeah they’ve both made comments abt my weight & what i eat my entire life but never something so upfront. that’s how i knew my weight had gotten past the point of acceptable a long time ago. this was just the 1st time someone was fucking honest w me. i had been sleepwalking through my life for months. i would wake up & eating was the 1st thing i thought of. i isolated myself & hoarded food in my room. i would eat like 5-12 full meals a day & probably like 3000-5000 cals daily. i ate until it hurt. i would only hangout w my friends that ate super large portions of unhealthy food. i look back at pictures of myself from senior year & almost wish my mom had told me that earlier. yeah it’s sad that it took other people telling me how unattractive i was for me to change but that was the only thing that worked. i look & feel so much better & happier now. & i’d binge every single day bc i would always smoke weed before i ate so i could just keep eating & eating. i’ve been smoking weed since i was 15 & i basically smoke weed daily. so when i developed BED i blamed it only on the disorder itself when in actuality, i would never have been able to eat that much everyday w/o pot. part of me definitely knew that at the time. but the thought of giving up weed was so terrifying bc i have pretty severe anxiety & PTSD & probably ocd & some minor anger issues so being a normal person w/o weed sounded extremely daunting. but since early nov my binging has been out of control. this is bc in oct i had cheated on my diet for the 1st time in months & once i did that, returning to never cheating was impossible. also the dining hall at my college is basically just a buffet. u can go back however many times. & there’s always desserts. i came home for xmas break in the middle of a week long binging episode. i was addicted to all the things i was consuming so i thought to myself, i’ll just binge 4 the entirety of xmas break. there’s so much good food at my house that i don’t have to pay for. but then i had a super long talk w my gf sunday night, & i explained in my last post how that altered my perspective. sunday was the last time i smoked weed. this is my first voluntarily break from weed in yrs. i gained 15 lbs before & at the start of xmas break. but since i stopped smoking i’ve lost 10lbs. it’s fucking insane, i’ll eat healthy food when i’m hungry & stop when i’m full. i haven’t experienced normal hunger signals in yrs. it’s incredible. i’ll start smoking weed again when i go back to college, but my goal is to smoke b4 sex, car rides w loud music, playing the piano, etc. instead of getting high just to eat. food is just a small part of life.

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jonjordanforrealz · 3 years ago

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12 Years Is a Long Time

September 29th is my son Arron’s 11th birthday – a cause for celebrating for sure, and a time for this parent, as most parents do, to ponder aloud, “How in the hell did that go so fast?” For me, sentimental sap that I am, birthdays are always a time for reflection too.

In doing so this morning, I was, of course, reminded that September 29th is also the anniversary of my brother Michael’s passing. A year to the day before Arron came into this world, Mikey left it. 12 years ago today. That’s gone a different kind of so fast itself.

I’ve talked about my brother’s death many times over the years and it never bothers me to do so. Most of the time, it makes me happy just to talk about him at all. To be remembered is to be loved and he certainly is in both instances. But I don’t think I’ve ever really shared much publicly about his last day.

And I need to let it go.

Who knows? Maybe something like this can help somebody.

For 12 years, I’ve carried the weight of that day and never really faced it or dealt with it. And I’m tired. It’s heavy and I’m tired. And to fulfill my final promise to Mikey, actually, I need to get rid of it, once and for all.

Following a lifetime of major medical issues and severe mental and physical handicaps, and doing all he could over the course of his 25 years to beat the odds and somehow conquer and survive one and all, Michael would meet his match in the form of an internal bleeding issue that just couldn’t be solved.

A kid like Mikey, who couldn’t really communicate outside of very basic emotions, had no way of conveying to doctors what anything felt like, where it hurt, how long something had been bothering him, and so on and so forth. So oftentimes, things got worse, sometimes as bad as they possibly could get, before anyone could even get anywhere close to figuring out what the hell was going on. And in his final chapter, this reality first led to him being transported to be treated by specialists in Tampa, and then ultimately, to our family’s greatest test. That we were so conveniently able to face that final decision together thanks to his relocation to my neck of the woods was a stroke of luck that I don’t think anyone appreciated until years later.

Michael’s bleeding issue just wasn’t going away no matter what the doctors tried. Not to cheapen the matter, but I think someone likened it to plugging a hole in a hose with your finger, only to have another open shortly thereafter. At some point, you run out of fingers. And so, we were faced with two choices: An exploratory and very invasive surgery that guaranteed nothing or a nonsurgical Hail Mary that was every bit the final hope. My parents encouraged me to speak freely and honestly in that days-long conversation and as I recall, my opinion never wavered, though of course, I respected and understood their agonizing back-and-forth.

To me, this kid had already been through so much, literally since Day 1. Countless major surgeries and painful procedures that would absolutely hammer (and maybe finish) most “regular” people were the worst of the lot. Other concessions over time – simple things like eating and drinking normally – also took a toll, I’m sure, as every human needs simple joys.

Throughout his last ordeal, there had already been several procedures, and in my eyes, he didn’t need more of that. With the proposed surgery highly likely to kill him anyway, I didn’t see the justification to put him through that sort of torture again. I didn’t want that to be his way to go out. As his closest advocate, because “brothers” means something more that those who don’t have can know, I knew he didn’t want that to be his way to go out either.

Instead, I argued, that through the non-invasive course of treatment, while the odds of that working were stacked heavily against him, this put the ball in his court. This made it so that he could fight, if he wanted to. For a kid who rarely had the chance to call his shot at any time in his life, this was that. “Scrap if you want to, kid,” I thought. “If anyone can beat the odds one more time, it’s you.” And if not, I thought he had that right too. And I wanted to fight for that. This time, I wanted to fight for his right to fight. Or not.

And so, with my parents on board, we gave him his shot, and at first, true to form, the kid was responding positively. Amazed yet unsurprised, we carried on with some hope for the first time in seemingly forever … and then everything just tanked. Quickly.

I’d prepared for this my whole life. And I had thought I had been stepping into this moment already time and time before. But I wasn’t nervous. I felt a sense of urgency, after getting the call, because I wanted to be with him but I wasn’t nervous or scared. Something that always comforted me was a belief that if anyone ever deserved a peaceful end, it would be Mikey. Once we were faced with the grave news, the doctor assured that as they stopped doing whatever they had been doing to treat him, and focused on making him comfortable, that he would indeed get that peaceful transition. And I know in the medical world that nothing is ever guaranteed but I really believed it. I believed in that. It’s all I wanted, then, knowing that there was no winning this last fight.

But it didn’t go down like that. His last day wasn’t, at first, peaceful at all. It was prolonged. And there were gasps and groans. At one point, a seizure. And I was mad. I was so mad.

At the same time, I knew what it was, really. This kid’s will to fight just doesn’t go away. It’s funny because from the very beginning, one of the things he was diagnosed with was some syndrome called Failure to Thrive. Fuck that.

When the worst moments hit, and I watched my brother and my family suffering, I didn’t feel mad anymore. I just felt like I had to do something.

There’s a picture that I have of my brother and I in bed. I was maybe 10 and he, six. We shared a room at that time and when my mom or dad would come in to get us up, if I was being a bum and still laying there and we had somewhere to be, they’d plop Mikey right in my bed next to me. That always got me up. Nothing like an eye poke or swift kick from the kid who “couldn’t control his movements” to start your day – accompanied, of course, by his trademark giggle.

That little shit … It’s still my favorite picture in the world.

In those final moments, I just crawled as far into his hospital bed as I could to lay next to him, just like we did on those mornings as kids, and I whispered to him, “It’s okay. You don’t have to fight anymore. We’re going to be okay.”

You see, I’d often wondered, when I was very young, why he pulled through so many things that most people wouldn’t. After all, I’d always noticed people bitching and moaning about the stupidest things (oh, contemporary America!), wandering around aimlessly in perpetual woe-is-me mode. If anyone should have ever just said, “Screw this!” and checked out, Michael should have. But he had us. And we, him. He pretty much defined us, really, for better or worse. I felt like there was at least a little something in him that told him he needed to stick around for us. And I just wanted him to know that we would be okay if he couldn’t anymore.

Within minutes, things calmed down. His breathing slowed. The stupid machines making noise start doing so more sporadically. And then, before we knew it, it was over. That was it. The end.

I remember lots of hugs and tears and one of many goodbyes to come. And then we said thank you to some staff members – really a symbolic thank you, from me at least, to so many over the years. To people in the medical field, I look at you as I do teachers, and that is in the highest regard, having intimately known both worlds, whether I wanted to or not.

I remember going outside and nobody saying very much.

I remember sitting down at a table.

And then I remember saying, “Well, what do we do now?” I don’t think I ever quite figured out what to do. A purpose I’d always had was now gone.

Of course, in the coming days and weeks, we had plenty to do – plenty of the mind-numbing, gut-wrenching things you have to do to prepare for a loved one’s final arrangements and all that. I took on a lot more of the sort than I ever had at that time because I felt like my parents shouldn’t have to, so I was distracted by productivity. But soon after that, I don’t remember anything. Don’t remember his funeral. Don’t remember leaving my parents and coming back home. Don’t remember going back to work. Sports, friends, events … nothing.

Truly, I think I completely lost a year. I don’t remember a lot at all about the time in between Mikey’s death and Arron’s birth. And then the latter happened and it was like the pause button I’d pushed on life had been pushed again, whether I was ready or not.

And while I was obviously happy to be a dad for the second time, I was also still hurting, which I must have forgotten about too in that year prior. And again, I was mad. I was so mad.

In the years since, that anger lingered, because if you don’t hit something head-on, it doesn’t just go away. Anger leads to hurt, fear, panic, anxiety, a defensive existence, and isolation. I’ve experienced it all and I wouldn’t wish any of it on my worst enemy. I’ve distanced myself, I’ve been checked out and I’ve lashed out, retreated within and pushed people away. It has caused me problems in every element of my life at one time (or more) or another.

None of it is any excuse and it’s a lot for which to apologize over a long period of time but if my suffering has ever caused any sort of suffering for anyone reading this, I am sorry.

(Note: I’m still going to enjoy my space and my distance more than most people but, overall, I can be better!)

I feel like some of this might be a surprise to people because I don’t show it, hardly ever. I’ve gotten good at projecting this version of myself at any time, regardless of what’s really going on. I even manage to have and to be a good time, probably a bit too often influenced by some additives I’ve grown fond of over the years. But there are times when all of that is just masking a wreck. And it has to stop.

I don’t know why I’m shedding this now other than that I need to – because it can’t go on forever. I haven’t come close to being the best version of myself and I have people around me who deserve nothing less than that. What better time than now if I’m finally recognizing that, at times, I haven’t been good? And at my worst, I haven’t even been okay.

And the bottom line is that I promised my little brother, as he left us 12 years ago, that I would be.

I’ll never let go of him. He’s on my arm and in my heart and I hear his voice – especially that laugh! – every single day.

But I’m letting go of that day.

12 years is a long time.

It’s been heavy.

And I’m tired.

And I have to be okay.

#bros #family #michaeljordan

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i-will-physically-fight-you · 5 years ago

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Travelers in the Dark Chapter 4

Chapter Title: Bunker Underneath the Surface

Summary: If Virgil was told a month ago that events that transpired and led him into meeting Logan and the others, he’d laugh at the absurdity of it. Now it scared how quickly he’d grown to care for these humans. Still he has some fears over staying with them, fears that swirl in his mind when Logan asks for a quick chat between the two.

Pairings: platonic lamp

Chapter Word-Count: 3.4k

Warnings: Vampires, Fear, Panic, Implied Non-Graphic Violence, Blood Mention, Fantasy Racial Discrimination

Previous Chapter | Present | Next Chapter AO3 LINK

*dusts off this fic* It’s been a while, huh? Massive thanks to @theeternalspace for beta’ing this chapter as always!

I don’t think I mentioned this besides the ao3 tags, but the original plan behind this fic was to include villain!Janus later down the road. It won’t happen until the second half of this fic, and honestly, I’m still deciding if I’m still including that or going a different route, I just wanted to mention that it may be occurring.

If you don’t want to read content featuring him depicted that way, I understand. With the way the first half of this fic is designed, you can easily read the fic up to the point before villain!Janus might make an appearance and still enjoy it, as there’s basically two different story arcs that occur in this fic :)

Over the course of the next week, Virgil’s resolve to leave dissipated. It chipped away with Patton’s humming as he mixed together ingredients to make chocolate chip cookies. It splintered as Roman sauntered into the kitchen and swept Patton into an impromptu waltz. It fell apart as Logan tried to maintain a steady gaze on his physics book but the curve of his lips told Virgil he was amused by the others’ antics.

He’d never experienced such a warm, loving environment. He didn’t know they existed outside of fiction. If Virgil was told a month ago of the events that would transpire, he’d laugh at the absurdity of it all. Now it scared how quickly he’d grown to care for these humans.

In the stormy bleak world he’d grown up and lived in, it was every person for themselves. His foster parents took care of him simply for the money involved. His teachers could care less if he, a vampire, passed or failed. The one person he’d considered a friend only used him for their own gain in the end.

It’d been better to cease social interactions altogether. What was the point of subjecting himself to it when it always resulted in a negative outcome? After all, the definition of insanity was doing the same thing over and over again expecting different results.

Virgil was many things, but he wasn’t stupid. Or at least, he was smart enough to recognize it wasn’t worth it. Any other person might’ve gone the other extreme. They might’ve done whatever they pleased, regardless of what everyone else thought. They might’ve become what others expected them to be, because there was no other designated role in society for them.

Virgil refused. The last thing he wanted was to prove that the prejudices against vampires were valid. But again, he wasn’t stupid. He was just one person fighting an ocean of bigotry. Everyone knows you can’t fight the ocean because it does whatever its damn well pleases.

That was why he ran away from his foster family, from everything. He disappeared into the park, taking refuge in the trees. It had been safer to just give up than to play society’s game. He didn’t even finish high school. Every day became about finding his next meal, his next shelter, his next—well he didn’t need water to survive. One of the perks of being a practically immortal vampire.

When he reached eighteen, he stopped aging. Physically. Which sounded just as fun as it felt; being trapped in a perpetual state of puberty for potentially a hundred years or so. It varied from vampire to vampire, when they’d start showing signs again of physically aging. He was twenty-eight now, and still practically an adolescent by vampiric standards.

In fact, vampires at his age required more frequent feedings to put up with their young body’s fast metabolism. It meant that Virgil was hungry all day every day. It had been hard at the beginning. He’d never had to worry about meals while under the care of the state.

Quickly he understood how hard it was to resist the urges wired into his being. Once, he’d gone three weeks without a meal. Hunting down animals hadn’t been as easy as he’d thought. Even when he managed to capture the odd bird or two—it was enough for him to starve off the urges. But never enough to truly satisfy it.

Virgil blacked out at the end of those three weeks. When he regained consciousness, he stood in an unfamiliar alley over an unfamiliar body. Fresh blood dripped from his lips as he recoiled in terror—did he do this? Did he really kill someone? But then---then! The body’s chest rose, and he knew for certain the person was still alive.

Virgil should’ve called an ambulance, he should’ve turned himself in. He should’ve done something. But he didn’t.

He ran—his mind clouded with panic. He ran and ran until he reached the secluded security of the parks’ groves. There he collapsed, his body wracked with sobs.

The kids at his school had been right; they’ve been right all along, and Virgil had refused to see it. He was a monster. Maybe they were also right that he deserved to die. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

Virgil secluded himself further in the park—being more mindful than ever to stay away from human contact. It was safer this way. Both for him and for everyone else. He couldn’t trust himself not to act on his impulses again. He became better at hunting wildlife animals. Too good, in fact.

There had started to be a suspicious shortage of squirrels in the park.

For years, his only focus in life had been on survival. He’d forgotten almost anything that wasn’t vital to that goal. The days all blurred into each other, a continuous cycle of monotony. He’d liked it—routines were comforting. They were predictable, they were safe.

Despite this, even vampires needed social interaction. There was a reason why vampires preferred to live in covens rather than in isolation. He lived ignorant of that need throughout his time in the park. He didn’t realize it existed until this week spent in the apartment with Logan, Patton and Roman.

There had been a void in his heart and those three humans managed to fill it. For the first time in a long, long while Virgil felt…happy. The sensation was alarming and terrifying but also good.

Did that make him selfish if he didn’t want to give that up?

He tried his best to fight against the growing desire to stay. The last thing he wanted was to endanger the only humans who have shown him kindness. The idea of one day waking up standing over their unmoving bodies tormented him. He grew used to constant hunger, yes, but it was different in the woods. At least there he wasn’t constantly around three viable food sources. Not that he wanted to ever think of the humans in that way. They were so much more than a source of food. Vampiric urges be damned.

Several days after the garlic bread debacle with Roman, Logan sat him down.

“I have a few questions to ask you. But before I ask them, I want to let you know that you are not obligated in any way to answer them. Nor does this inquiry have anything to do with my scientific pursuits or anything of that sort.”

If he was a human, his pulse would’ve quickened from the anxiety swelling up inside of him. His thoughts pinballed into a million different directions as he tried to figure out what could possibly be on Logan’s mind. Externally he leaned back on the couch, arms crossed in a casual manner.

“Shoot.”

“Shoot? Why would I shoot—”

“It’s slang. It means ‘ask away.’” Virgil clarified.

It became apparent quickly that Logan was not adept at slang. It was a sore spot for the veterinarian—he took pride in being right. He told Virgil that he only spoke if he was certain of what he was saying was correct. Still, he found discovering new knowledge invigorating. Rather than denounce slang, he tried his best to understand it. He kept a pack of flashcards with him to help remember the correct usage of them.

“Ah! I’ll have to remember to add that later,” He murmured before clearing his throat, “moving on. My first question would be, how often do you actually need to feed?”

Virgil froze, meeting the knowing gaze of the human. He’d been careful to take the bare minimum blood from both Logan and Roman. He hadn’t fed from Patton, and frankly he was trying to avoid that. The bond between a vampire and a donor was a complex, tricky thing.

The more blood he took, the more he risked strengthening such a connection. But both Logan and Roman were stubborn humans that refused to see their vampire guest starve. He’d managed to convince Logan he survived off less than what he actually needed. It was the truth—as long he conserved his energy and slept for longer periods. But it appeared Logan became suspicious—or maybe, had always been suspicious from the start.

“Did Roman put you up to this?” Virgil demanded, his nails digging into the flesh of his arms.

“While he did mention what happened with the garlic, he did not set me up to this. I’m asking out of my own vocation and…concerns,” Logan frowned, adjusting his glasses, “I’ve refrained from asking you questions about vampires’ physiology because the last thing I want to do is make you feel uncomfortable but…I just want to make sure you are getting proper nutrition. Your health is just as important to me as the others.”

Virgil sighed. What did he have to lose? Perhaps upon learning the truth, Logan would realize Virgil wasn’t worth their time and energy. As much as that thought hurt, it was for the best.

“I don’t really know,” Virgil confessed, “I’m always hungry. Squirrels and birds are enough to get by, but they’re…not enough. Maybe once, per day?”

Virgil closed his eyes, unable to force himself to see Logan’s reaction. There a was a few beats of silences before Logan inhaled deeply and said,

“I see. How many liters do you think that is?”

“Liters?” Virgil knitted his eyebrows together as he tried to recall how measurements worked, “I…have no idea.”

“As you know, I do not know much about vampire physiology, but do you think it’s similar to vampire bats?” At Virgil’s vacant stare, he elaborated, “vampire bats consume half their body weight per feeding.”

“No, it’s not like that,” Virgil shook his head, “It’s less, I think? But it depends on the source.”

“What do you mean?” Logan asked, leaning forward in interest.

“Look I don’t know how all the scientific shit works. But like, for some reason human blood is more nutritious? We can sustain on animal blood, but it’s not the same it’s like—it’s like—”

“Eating junk food compared to healthier alternatives?” Logan suggested.

“Yeah, I guess,” Virgil shrugged, slinking further into the couch, “We don’t have to drink as much human blood as we do with animal blood.”

“Fascinating,” Logan muttered, his hands twitching as if he wanted to scribble down these findings in a journal. He instead cusped his face with a hand, frowning. Virgil shifted nervously, waiting to hear the rest of Logan’s thoughts.

“I’m not sure though…if I and the others would be able to donate blood on a daily basis without severe risk to our health.”

“Wh—what?” Virgil said, his eyes widening in surprise. Logan actually sounded regretful of this fact. Whatever Virgil expected to come out of his lips, it wasn’t that.

Logan, however, seemed to take his reaction for something else entirely.

“You see, when humans donate blood for medical purposes, we are only allowed to donate every eight weeks or so to allow time for our red blood cells to replenish. Having a low red blood cell count is dangerous for humans…I am truly sorry about that, Virgil.”

“Wh—you have nothing to apologize for—I mean I wasn’t expecting you guys—” Virgil’s voice cracked, causing him to glance away in embarrassment, “you don’t have to do anything, really.”

“Virgil,” Logan said softly, “do you remember what I said when we began this discussion?”

Virgil’s eyebrows furrowed.

“Do you mean what you said about how you cared for…my health?” He asked hesitantly.

“Precisely,” Logan said, “I was stating the truth when I meant your health is important to me. After all, you are a friend.”

“You’re serious?”

“Of course,” Logan nodded, “only serious people wear neckties.”

He gestured to his necktie, and Virgil let out a chuckle.

“Y’know, you and the others are really making it hard for me to leave.” He murmured, “but I can’t stay. I—I just can’t. I can’t stay and possibly become a danger to you.”

“Virgil, you will not be a burden to us. It might be difficult, but I know the others and I would be willing to help figure out a solution for your dietary needs. Let me repay you—”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“Then at least let me do this for you as a friend.”

There was again, the f word. It was really devilish of Logan to use it against Virgil. Especially since all he had ever wanted in life was to be loved and accepted by others. It was oh so tempting to just stay and live in the solace of the apartment. Until the day he outlived the others, by his hands or by natural causes. He didn’t know which one was worse.

Virgil swallowed, throat tightening, “Are you sure of this? Are you sure you want me around? I mean, you barely know me.”

“As certain as I am of the sun rise, yes.”

“Well there is one solution.” Virgil said with a slight groan. He couldn’t believe he was doing this.

Logan perked up, looking at Virgil with childish excitement. “What is it?”

“I’ve never done this and I don’t know like the exact scientific crap behind it. But if a vampire feeds from a, uh, human consistently, um, it’s like we inject something that keeps humans’ blood healthy. So like, I guess it helps reproduce red blood cells faster.”

“Incredible,” Logan murmurs, “I can’t believe—well, unfortunately I can understand why this isn’t common knowledge. But something like this proves vampires and humans as a whole could one day live harmoniously.”

“I mean, I doubt that,” Virgil laughed bitterly, “There is some…side effects. You might become, uh, enthralled for a brief period after a feeding. Like, very agreeable to whatever I suggest. So I get it if that makes any of you uncomfortable.”

He flitted his gaze towards his ratty shoes. A hand rested on his shoulder, soft and tentative. As if fully prepared to draw back if Virgil brushed it off. He looked up at Logan. The human looked back, a determined glint in his eyes.

“Virgil, I trust you. I can’t speak for the others but I’d like to test this arrangement between you and I. If for whatever reason, it does not work—either for you or for myself, then we can always find a different solution. Alright?”

“Okay.” Virgil choked, forcing his vision to remain clear and not blurry with tears.

So, he stayed. Patton’s eyes lit up like a kid receiving a puppy for Christmas. He immediately bombarded Virgil with one of his signature hugs. Roman laughed triumphantly as he clasped Virgil’s shoulder and promised him that he wouldn’t regret this. Logan hung back, but his soft smile told Virgil all he needed to know.

Staying meant that he had to find a job. Virgil had never held a job in his entire life, never mind the fact he didn’t have a high school diploma. Yet Virgil couldn’t live in good conscious as a freeloader in the apartment. He wanted to contribute to the apartment rent. In order to do that, he needed money. He was certain that the two quarters and the one nickel he had floating in his jeans pocket wouldn’t be enough.

He searched for businesses that would hire someone like him. Not only was he dealing with a rather sparse resume, but there was of course prejudice against vampires. The humans flaunted around words like “peace among species” and “equal rights for all” but that rarely was the case. Even with the Helsing Laws in effect. He’d like to say that their prejudice was entirely unwarranted but well…

Most vampires kept to themselves. They either believed staying quiet would bring about peace or they just stewed about it away from human ears. Then there were some vampires that believed they were the superior beings and not the humans. So they really didn’t have qualms about hurting humans to bring about their agenda. Something Virgil knew about too well.

Of course, the businesses couldn’t openly discriminate. The Helsing Laws prevented that. But the laws did nothing to stop the prejudices that still clung heavily to the air. It took just one smile—one laugh for them to see a flash of pearly white fangs and freeze up. They wouldn’t say it in words. But he could tell by their tone of voice and not so subtle wording that they were afraid.

They were afraid he’d snap and become an endangerment by attacking and drinking the blood of the first human he came into contact with. Honestly, humans were perfectly capable of eating their own kind’s flesh, yet you don’t see them worrying about that possibility.

It made it all the more hard to decipher then, who would hire him and who would cuss out his existence.

“So what makes you interested in working at our establishment?” The lady conducting his seventh interview asked. It was at a local, quirky coffeeshop—the kind that regulars claimed was way better than Starbucks.

Um because I want money? Virgil thought. He didn’t say it out loud, learning from his first interview that was apparently not what they wanted to hear. After that mishap, the others helped coached him through the right things to say. It still didn’t keep his intestines from knotting up out of nervousness.

“It seems like a chill, clean environment.” He shrugged.

“Well, thank you, we like keeping it that way for our customers,” She laughed, “but we do still expect our employees to work hard and not slack off. We can get busy especially in the weekday mornings and all day on the weekends. Do you think you can handle that?”

No.

“Yes,” Virgil said, lying through his teeth, “I’m pretty good at handling stressful situations.”

“Is there a specific example you can think of?”

Virgil twisted in his seat, doing his best not to fiddle with his fingers.

Here goes.

“Well, as a—a vampire, I’ve had to deal with people who don’t…like that much. So I’m good at making sure I keep my composure. Like if there is an upset customer, I—I think I could be good at staying calm and making sure they walk away happy.”

She pressed her lips together, “I see.” And then, “What would you say are some weaknesses of yours?”

The rest of the interview continued on. She didn’t make any sort of comment about Virgil being a vampire. He didn’t know what to make of that.

“I’ll call you soon on what my decision is.” She told him, although he learned by his second interview not to trust those words.

“How was it?!” Patton asked upon his return back to the apartment. He and Roman were sitting on the couch watching TV. Logan was gone from the apartment, too early for him to be home from work. Virgil said nothing. He took a few steps before crashing into Roman’s side.

“That bad, huh?” Roman chuckled, already drawing his arms around Virgil.

“Tired,” Virgil closed his eyes, “job interviews are fricking exhausting.”

He heard Roman’s voice say something as his senses turned all muddy and muted. Someone laughed. Patton? If he wanted to, he could’ve forced his eyes open to see. He was content, however, to just lie there and steal Roman’s body heat.

It was stupid how easily Virgil taken to be at ease with these humans. Then again, it was also stupid how easily they accepted him. If either party had malicious intent, it would be almost effortless for them. Like taking candy from a baby.

Sleep was a strange thing for vampires. They needed rest, yes, but they never slept as deeply as humans could. Even in his soundest sleep, Virgil had a murky awareness of things. He could feel Roman mess with his hair, carefully untangling it with his fingers. He heard Patton’s and Roman’s heartbeats, steady and strong as ever. There was also a different sound. A buzzing, ringing sound.

“—gil! Hey Virgil! Wake up!”

Virgil jolted, alert and ready. His eyes scanned everywhere but found no threats. He looked at Roman and Patton in confusion, “Huh?”

Patton smiled, holding out his phone, “It’s for you.”

For him? But that could only mean one thing—someone actually called him back after a job interview. With a shaky hand, Virgil took the phone from Patton.

“Hello?”

“Hi Virgil, this is you, right?” The voice on the other line said. It did sound like the lady from the job interview.

“Yes.” Virgil answered, biting his lips and trying not to hiss from the pain that produced.

The voice said more words. Virgil managed to say words back. The conversation lasted scarcely a minute yet seemed like an eternity. He handed the phone back to Patton, eyes glazed over.

“Well?” Patton wiggled his eyebrows, bouncing in his seat like a rambunctious Labrador.

“Well,” Virgil began with a hesitant sliver of a smile, “I got the job.”

#thomas sanders #sanders sides #virgil sanders #logan sanders #roman sanders #patton sanders #kat writes

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gershwinn · 5 years ago

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Lili Reinhart Never Had a Backup Plan

A fan favorite on the wildly popular teen soap Riverdale, Lili Reinhart has major movie stardom in her sights. And if you ask nicely, she just might read your horoscope.

Refreshingly, Reinhart is not vegan, gluten-free, keto, or on a macrobiotic diet. She is a self-described picky eater and considers this a treat. "No one wants to go [here] with me," she says, excitedly, when we sit down. Though Reinhart is dressed unfussily, in a faded black tee, Topshop denim jacket, jeans, thin hoop earrings, and a taupe baseball cap pulled over her buttery blonde hair, she is promptly approached by a woman at the next table. There's a lot the cap isn't hiding. Off-screen, Reinhart's eyes look as wide, upturned, and full-lashed as a Disney princess's; her clear, milky complexion is dotted youthfully with freckles; and her dimples seem to take turns showing off: a slight divot in her chin, then twin creases that show up on either side of her face when she's amused.

The woman leans over and asks Reinhart if she is on TV. Reinhart's lips tighten, and a wince flickers at her eyes, but she gives a polite smile and nods slowly. The woman plows on. Her son is a big fan, she says, motioning to a grinning boy beside her. He's an aspiring actor, and they're in town from Texas to give it a try. Reinhart relaxes a bit. She asks what part of Texas they are from, sincerely congratulates the boy on his endeavors, and turns to resume our interview. Reinhart says this moment — and others like it — is more full circle than she would care to admit.

"It's funny. I went to this Cheesecake Factory with my mom when I was, like, 15," she says. "We had flown in for an audition. I was sitting at the table over there, and I remember I got the email that I didn't get the part." Also around that time, Reinhart recalls spotting Zac Efron in a doctor's-office waiting room and surreptitiously snapping a photo of the actor. "I feel so gross about it now," she says. "It is flattering, but it also makes you feel like a zoo animal. Even when I'm sitting in the cast greenroom, if [someone is] holding their phone up like this, I'm like, ‘What are you doing?' I've become very paranoid."

I ask what she thinks about that F-word: fame. She changes the subject. "Cute boots," she remarks. I am flattered and launch into a monologue about how much I love Primark, specifically the one in Madrid, before realizing what she's done and ask her once more to talk. About. Fame. "It's so weird," she says, finally. "I don't really think about it until I'm around people. I don't think about it until I see young women, because those are the people that recognize me. Then all of a sudden, I become very aware."

True to her word, I notice Reinhart physically tenses up every time a teenage girl — or worse, a group of teenage girls — nears us. But when she's not on high alert for high schoolers, Reinhart is unguarded to a degree I would not expect from any stranger, much less one whose privacy is under constant scrutiny. For starters, she texts me directly, rather than having an assistant or manager handle our communication (standard for most celebrities).

Later that night, we decide on a meeting location for the next day. "As long as we go somewhere with eggs, I'm happy," she texts, before we settle on Dialog Cafe in West Hollywood and push back the time — neither of us feels like showing up before 9 a.m. Reinhart has an ease and openness in conversation that makes talking to her feel more like a slumber party than an interview. She volunteers thoughts on cute babies (just her goddaughter, for now), romantic love (something she prefers to fall into rarely, and fiercely), taking a spouse's surname (she favors hyphenation), and being the "grandma" of her friend group.

"When I get drunk, my friends act like it's a national holiday," Reinhart says. She offers up snippets from her camera roll and Instagram direct messages: photos of the hot-air balloon ride her boyfriend, Cole Sprouse, took her on for her birthday, and a dog she wishes were up for adoption — a shaggy shelter pup with no eyes. And just when I think I couldn't feel any more like the real-life Veronica to her Betty, she asks me if I want to go shopping.

Reinhart leads us by memory through a sprawling Barnes & Noble, up to two flights of escalators, then over to the left and back toward the windows, until we end up in the self-improvement section. Reinhart used to come here with friends, back when she first moved to L.A., and spend time poring over books like The Secret Language of Your Name. She tells me the provenance of her given name: Daniel and Amy Reinhart of Cleveland fell in love, got married, and named their second daughter after the actor Lili Taylor. There wasn't any special connection. "They just liked the spelling of her name. It's the French spelling."

Reinhart drags a dictionary-thick tome from the shelf. "This is a book that I own," she says, handing it to me. It's as weighty as a textbook — it has to be, because it guarantees deep and profound knowledge about absolutely everyone, based on their date of birth. She helps me look up mine, which is hilariously titled the Day of Sensual Charisma. Hers is September 13, which the book has ordained the Day of Passionate Care. She reads the entry aloud. "Resilient determination. That sounds about right," she says. "This part is very true: ‘They may face great obstacles to their success, but not for a moment will the outcome be in doubt for them.' I always knew this is what I was going to do. I never had a plan B." It might be difficult to imagine what the aforementioned "great obstacles" have been, considering the fact that she had landed her role on Riverdale by the age of 19.

But being young and female in just about any work environment can have its dark side. Reinhart was 16 when an adult work associate attempted to force himself on her. "I felt physically pinned down to the ground while someone dry humped me, basically," she says. She has spoken publicly about the assault before — but in retrospect, she believes those statements were premature. "I think I shared my story…before I had really understood it," Reinhart says. "I kept thinking of it as something physical, but it was more so a psychological abuse...that spanned a couple of months. I went along with it and was trying to get his approval because we were working together…. I wanted my work environment to be easy."

She was also a minor at the time, being exploited by someone in a position of power. It's clearly difficult for Reinhart to recount. When trying to recall details — how long it went on, whether verbal abuse was involved — she speaks evenly, but frequently pauses and tells me that that time in her life is "blurry" or that she's "locked it away." "What makes me hopeful is people like [Supergirl and Glee actor] Melissa Benoist sharing her story of domestic abuse with the world, because I think she helped a lot of people by doing that. When people come forward about a sexual abuse experience or physical abuse or them struggling with a disorder, they're encouraging other people to not suffer in silence."

Another personal obstacle Reinhart has been vocal about is mental health. She recently read an article she can't get out of her head, about a child under the age of 10 who ended his life after being severely bullied. "Now more than ever, we need to be bringing the idea of mental health into schools and teaching it," Reinhart says. "It's about communicating clearly." She recalls experiencing crippling anxiety when she was growing up. "I felt very alone. But I was not being bullied, which made it really hard for my parents to understand," Reinhart says.

Her high school experience couldn't have been more different from that of Betty Cooper, who drifts easily between cheerleading, running the school newspaper, and solving mysteries, with a cadre of unusually attractive friends by her side. "I went through a semester when I didn't have any friends in my lunch period, and I didn't want to sit in a huge cafeteria by myself, so I would find classrooms to go sit in alone, or spend time in the bathroom, just chilling," she recalls.

By the time Reinhart began working (she supported herself as a waitress and a Pier 1 sales associate before she landed Riverdale), she was just trying to get through the week without having a panic attack.

Now that time in her life is growing distant. And she'll get to go to prom for the first time, on this season of the show. "Three and a half years ago, I had no money. I didn't have a love in my life like I do now. I didn't have any sort of confidence that I was on the right track, and now I have those things," Reinhart says. And her momentum shows no signs of stopping. The week after our interview, she filmed her first commercial for CoverGirl, which recently signed her as one of its faces. A forthcoming collection of her poetry, Swimming Lessons, will hit bookstores this May.

Pay, or equal pay, has been an issue and probably will continue to be. But Reinhart is prepared. "Cami [Mendes, who plays Veronica] and I have had to deal with that from Riverdale," Reinhart says.

"Going into projects in the future, I'm much more aware of it. So is my lawyer." She's also learned from the experiences of women like Michelle Williams and Taraji P. Henson. "I was taking notes," she says. "Taraji Henson had said something like, when she renegotiated for Empire, she knew her value to the show. She knew what that value was, and she demanded it." Reinhart pauses, choosing her words, sounding more sure of herself with each sentence: "I do know the value that I bring as someone who attracts an audience. And I'm not going to accept less than what I think I'm worth. And it's okay to fight for what I'm worth."

Source: Allure

#This is long but I don't care bc this interview is amazing!!!!#holy shit so much #in there #from the growin up stuff #dealing with fame #her mental health #knowing her WORTH #GO LILI #god the me too thing always hurts my heart #every time its brought up #her strenght tho #lr #lr allure #tldr: that love quote?#hit me right in he feels as it should #OH and hypenation?? thanks death

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dailyaudiobible · 3 years ago

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08/18/2021 DAB Transcript

Esther 1:1-3:15, 1 Corinthians 11:17-34, Ps 35:17-28, Proverbs 21:19-20

Today is the 18th day of August welcome to the Daily Audio Bible I’m Brian it is wonderful to be here with you today as we begin some new territory. So, we concluded…well…we read Ezra and then we read Nehemiah. We concluded Nehemiah yesterday and there’s so much in Ezra and Nehemiah for us and we explored that. So, we’re not really leaving stories from the exile, but this is a totally new complexion and it's so wonderful when we arrive at this place, the book of Esther.

Introduction to the book of Esther:

And what we’ll learn is that…well…the story of a Hebrew girl named Hadassah and she was orphaned in the exile, and her cousin, his name was Mordecai. He took her in and raised her as his own. He was of the tribe of Benjamin. And, so, Hadassah, she is in exile in Persia and so they can have a different language and different naming scheme. And, so, she takes on the name Esther, which means Morning Star or Star in the Hebrew tradition. So, what we will find is that the Persian king has a falling out with Vashti, his Queen. She embarrasses him, really humiliates him and rebels against him in a way, and as it turns out she is put away, which is what eventually allows Esther to come onto the scene. A search throughout the land for beautiful maidens that would qualify, like they would if chosen, become the Queen. And as it turns out Esther is beautiful, like stunningly beautiful, gorgeous. And just inside and out has a quiet temperament and is kindhearted and not arrogant or condescending, and she is chosen to be, you know, kind of in the final group where a lot of different women are being given lots of different beauty treatments and cared for and being taught the ways of the palace and how to be before the king and all of the customs of royalty. And Esther was taken into the harem as it were and began to go through all of this and she found favor everywhere that she went, but she kept the fact that she was Jewish a secret. She didn't say her ethnicity and that turned out to be pivotal. We’ll also meet someone named Haman who rose to great prominence, basically second in command in the kingdom. He was in Amalekite. He descended from King Agag. He becomes kind of the antagonist in the story because the Amalekites and the Hebrews have been enemies actually all…all the way back to Jacob and Esau. And it was Samuel, the Hebrew prophet that executed the king Agag the Amalekite. It was the Hebrew king Saul that had defeated Agag but had spared him and then…well…Samuel then didn't spare him. So, much later now Haman’s got this brewing, seething rage towards the Jewish people and he’s risen to prominence in Persia and so he plans the...the extermination of the Jewish people throughout the entire empire. So, this is a short book but it's pretty high in drama. And in the end it establishes a festival in the Hebrew culture that is lasting until today, the festival of Purim. And we’ll find…we’re gonna love Esther. It's a great read. It's a great story. It's a short story but it's a beautiful story. But as we overlay it with our lives there’s so much there. God against all odds is present. Circumstances don't always work out the for the worst or the way that we think that they might. Everybody has a role to play in the story because God brings people into things and assigns them to do things for such a time as this. And, so, let's…let’s dive in and enjoy Esther. We’re reading from the Good News Translation this week. Esther chapters 1 through 3 today.

Prayer:

Father, thank You for Your word. We thank You for this…this new territory, the book of Esther that we find ourselves in. Thank You for the story of a valiant beautiful woman who rescues Your people for such time as this. And we look in our own lives and look for these scenarios where we find ourselves in a situation and maybe we’re not the Queen and maybe we’re not gonna rescue an entire people group, but there are such times that we are the one that's in the right place to do Your service. Help us to recognize that even as we continue with the story of Esther moving forward tomorrow. Come Holy Spirit we pray into all that we've read we ask in the name of Jesus. Amen.

Announcements:

dailyaudiobible.com is home base, it’s where you find out what's going on around here. If you’re using the Daily Audio Bible app you can find out the same things using the app, there's a little Drawer icon in the upper left-hand corner of the app screen that opens up a Drawer and then you can access things like the Community section, or the Daily Audio Bible Shop.

Check out the Daily Audio Bible Shop. There are a lot of resources in there for the journey through the Bible in a year, things to read, take the journey further, things to write on, things to write with, which also takes the journey deeper as you journal your way in your own hand through a year in your life, as well as things to wear and things to listen to. And…yeah…just check out the Daily Audio Bible Shop and wear your colors proudly as we continue our journey, the adventure of a lifetime through the Bible in a year in community. So, check out the resources in the Shop.

If you want to partner with the Daily Audio Bible, thank you humbly. Thank you. If this mission to read the Bible, fresh every day and give it to anyone who will listen to it anywhere on this planet any time of day or night and to build community around that rhythm so that in life or in the Scriptures we know we’re not on a solitary endeavor, we’re not alone. We are in this together. If that brings life in your…into your life than thank you for your partnership. There is a link on the homepage at dailyaudiobible.com. If you’re using the app, you can press the Give button in the upper right-hand corner or the mailing address, if you prefer, is PO Box 1996 Spring Hill Tennessee 37174.

And, as always, if you have a prayer request or encouragement, you can hit the Hotline button in the app, which is the little red button up at the top, can’t miss it, or you can dial 877-942-4253.

And that's it for today. I'm Brian I love you and I'll be waiting for you here tomorrow.

Community Prayer and Praise:

Hey guys this is Lazarus calling. For those that have followed me over the years, this is it. Finally losing everything and it's OK. I'm extreme pain. I put off the surgery on my shoulder for two years and now it's beyond bearable. I was near suicidal earlier this week from the pain. On a new pain scale, it’s level 17. So, anybody wants to jump on board with that one come on. I'm just putting together a list of all the things that I have to sell with what I have left and try to figure out a way to make it to a surgery that I can't afford. So…and losing my company, losing everything. So, not sure how to deal with loss but Jesus is there. I can do anything with him. And I'm just trying to reconnect with His fire. So, for those of you who are in pain or loss or whatever, I feel for you. I am there with you. Just know that He's there and when it's dark…I've been dark…He gives you a flashlight and points you in the right direction. So, please keep the faith. I have no idea where I'm going to be, where I'm going to be living, if on the street or whatever, but I'm in his hands and I'm doing His will. So, I give it all up to Him. So, thank you for your prayers. Over the years and I pray I'm around to talk to you in the near future and with a praise report or any report. God bless you all I love you all. Thank you Brian, I’ve loved you for years brother.

This is Peggy in Texas and as a grandmother I ask you to pray for my 15-year-old grandson. He's suffering some from some type of trauma. The doctor has told us this. We do not know what it is at this point, nobody does. He has shut down, he's pulled in, he's evidently feeling very lonely…is…he's alone in many ways in this world and he is filled with anxiety. And, of course, all this leads to depression. Will you please ask our Lord to grant his parents and me…he's staying with me as…beginning in a few hours for now for several days and then his parents are taking a daughter to college. We ask for wisdom, ask for strength ask for peace in the mist of upheaval, please. Ask for direction, that…that we'll all be able to pull together, and the need will be met, that God will be honored. I am 87 and, of course, you can probably tell in my voice that I'm experiencing some anxiety and restlessness and just longing and for help. Anyway, I thank you for praying with me as I pray with you for your concerns. Oh man…heavenly Father, hear us and direct our paths and heal our hearts and our minds and our…our children for His honor in His glory. Thank you for hearing this request. Thank you for praying with me. Blessings. Bye- bye.

Hi Daily Audio Bible family this is Sheena from Saskatchewan Canada. I wanted to send a prayer out to Quiet Confidence in Virginia and just…just letting you know that there's no shame in anxiety and depression. And I get it. But I just wanted to let you know that when the enemy is telling you that you're backsliding or that you're going against your faith it's just…it's…it's not true. And you are strong, and you are loved, and I just hope that I can provide you some encouragement with that prayer. I called in a little while ago, so thank you to those who prayed for my situation with my boyfriend being wrongfully accused of a crime. We’re doing alright this week. We've…we have our next court date which unfortunately isn't till February. So, please continue to pray for us as we prepare for this preliminary hearing. Couple people I want to send shoutouts for, Lorenzo, you’re such a blessing to our DAB community. I pray that as you go back to school that God will grant you strength to continue in your faith and wisdom to do well at your new school. Holly Heart your commitment in praying for all of us is inspiring. Thank you, Lord for Holly and her faith and service to You and the rest of us. And Esther from Kissimmee, I pray the Lord continues to shine on you and to be gracious to you. Your passionate prayers for all of us lift my heart and restore my faith in the world and it makes me want to do better. Thanks DAB family. I'm hoping that I can make this a regular thing, calling in and praying. Have a great day. Love you. Bye.

Hi DAB family this is Jessica from California. Tonight, I'm calling in to say a prayer for Dave from Indiana. Actually, the prayers for his son Lucas who has been a rehab for 28 days because he has an alcohol problem, and he has a wife and two children, and he somehow maybe had a relapse. And I just want to say a prayer. So, here we go. Dear heavenly Father, we just come before You Lord. You know what it is that Lucas is trying to drown and what void he's trying to fill with the alcohol Lord. And I just pray that in his quiet Time Lord that You speak to him and You pour Your love and Your anointing oil all over his mind and his body Lord, that You heal him from the inside out from all that's troubling him, whatever it is that he's choosing to use alcohol as a vice for Lord, that You just…You remove that splinter from his heart Lord and You heal him up Lord. And I just pray this on his father's behalf and also his wife and his children's behalf Lord because this not only affects him it affects his children and his whole family. I just thank You Lord that You are going to do this for Lucas and because he is a praying father and…and that You love him and You have wonderful dreams for him and I just want to encourage you Dave that the Lord healed me from…in Jesus’ name I pray Amen…that the Lord healed me from a drug addiction. And he had to heal me from emotional things first. So, I just pray that he heals your son from any emotional problems that he has. And…and thanks for calling in and putting your faith in the Lord Dave. Have a nice day. Bye.

Hi, it's Tom here calling from the UK just calling to ask for prayer for my left eye. I have a condition called recurrent corneal erosions and basically what that means is that wake up in the middle of the night with really excruciating eye pain. It's red, it's streaming, and I've just got to use eye ointment and eye drops and eye wash and usually it just settles down but for the past two days it just hasn't and my eyes quite swollen and it's just very painful. I'm over in Ireland the moment and it's my godsons christening and I really want to make it for Sunday. It's Friday today but at the moment I'm contemplating going back to the UK to…to get treatment. On top of it I'm also a doctor myself. I'm a surgeon in training and I need my eyesight. And I just really would covet your prayers, that my eye would be healed and that this condition would go and I'm thanking Jesus already for the healing and I just…yeah…I would just really appreciate prayer for it, that this pain would go and that I would get 2020 vision and this condition would just go away completely. So, thank you once again. Take care.

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svpervixen · 4 years ago

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If I end up murdered/missing under mysterious circumstances, I just want it on the record that I am fully aware that cheap ass men see me as a threat and may become unhinged enough to end my life in response to the actions I take, which, in regards to my telling the truth and holding shit boys accountable for their shit behavior, knows no bounds. Since I was in middle school, I have ALWAYS spoken up against creeps and abusers, defending the abused, and acknowledging the injustices I witness. Doesnt matter who the fuck you are, if you use your time and energy to make advances towards women who are either just trying to do their fucking jobs, or are walking down the street, or just trying to fucking breathe in public, then you WILL face the consequences of such inhumane, disrespectful actions, coming from a woman who has had ENOUGH. I have ALWAYS made a stand with any asshole who stepped out of line with my own intent of protecting women, and most importantly, letting women know they’re not alone, and someone else can see the harm occurring, and that they’re not crazy for having an emotional reaction to harassment. Doesn’t matter who the fuck it is, my stance is CONSISTENT; could be a total stranger, could be a close friend, family member, I do not care. I learned very early on in my life how disheartening it is to watch so many injustices happen to you, while no one says or does anything to help the situation. I have always vowed to be the exact opposite of that kind of person. I have gotten into screaming matches with grown men who I witnessed sexually harass literal children. I have spent days of my life comforting women who have been abused by a man. And even when I tell myself, “maybe you need to back off”, or, “maybe you’re just too paranoid”, it still never stops me from taking a stand when necessary. When something is wrong, I can’t ignore it. My mind, body, and soul won’t let me. If you have a conscious, you know what notion I’m talking about.

Thursday, I stood up to some sad excuse of a “man” at work. Some 50-60 year old fuck who walks around with a v-neck and gold chain constantly, as if the sparkle of that chain could hide the massive amount of hair loss on his head. You know the type. I’ve been at my job for close to four years now, and he’s a frequent flyer here; likes to complain about a specific department if they do even the slightest thing wrong, but more significantly, spends much of his time hitting on any woman who is in my store, an employee or not, which tells me and everyone else that he has no one to go home to and gets his jimmies off, and is most likely experiencing a mid-life crisis and expects anyone in his path to comply to him, because, yknow, he’s a man, and he’s white-passing. He spent a good ten minutes the other night making useless, uncomfortable conversation with one of my coworkers. He set to leave without a “big” fuss and I ALMOST let it go. But, my convictions moved me, yet again, so I ended up approaching him. I told him to his face, right beside him (could’ve been arm and arm with the fuck) that as long as he comes in here and talks to my coworkers the way he does, that I will be watching him. I didn’t swear, I didn’t threaten him. All I did was give a voice, give words, to his gross, inappropriate, shady actions, that he would most definitely attempt to cover up as something that it’s not, as unaccountable men frequently do. So many abusive men like to paint the picture as if the victims are overreacting. The only way to fight that idea is to challenge it, and I intend to do so through and through, no matter who it is. The funniest thing to me about this situation was that the only “threat” I made was acknowledging his problematic behavior while actively refusing to back down in the face of his excuses or threats. Sound familiar?

Friday, same pathetic little “man” came into my store, but with the intent of approaching my boss, and telling her all about me and my actions. I was in the office dealing with paperwork while this piece of shit caught my boss at the very last second before she left, after working over 10 hours. Luckily, my boss is a gem of a woman who, rather brilliantly, knows how to balance work relations/personal feelings in a way that I, honestly, never could; she’s a warrior of a woman. I’ll admire her to my deathbed. She set aside any of her own feelings and dealt with the person in a way I simply can’t... simply stuck to facts, and immediately approached the issue with the intent of protecting me when it came to our higher-ups. Because, as the asshole put it, he would “make sure I was fired”.

In the same breaths, he was calling me crazy, which is nothing new for me. Suggested I needed “pills”, and that something was wrong with me. Frequently did the “point-at-head-and-rotate-finger” motion while trying to cut me with his eyes. Even started pointing at me, and shaking, while swearing at me and calling me a crazy bitch. I couldn’t help but notice the fact that my own anxieties were causing me to slowly start shaking as well, but, of course, for entirely different reasons as opposed to him, and every woman reading this knows exactly what I’m talking about. Too bad this time it wasn’t being recorded to be shown off and laughed at later, but hey, if anyone wants to see what I look like breaking down at work, check back in a while!

It’s clear to me why he reacted the way he did, as this is a lesson I’ve been learning for the past several years now; I became a vessel that acknowledged whatever the fuck this man was most insecure about, to put it simply. The fact that my perceivable form is that of a white alternative woman meant he could tap into whatever hatred he has for women while allowing his toxic masculinity to avoid any reasoning or accountability, and eventually, letting his lack of control over a women lead into intimidation and threats towards my well-being to, again, only appease his own paper ego. I could explain that kind of behavior for days, but, I’m going to save it for now; I’ll have more to say in about two weeks.

I go back to work Tuesday and I’m sure I’ll have more to hear about it, since he was soooo adamant about pushing this as high as he needed it to go in order for me to lose my job. So, basically, what a goddamn surprise; an outspoken woman, through valid fear and unwavering determination, made a stand to acknowledge an injustice, and the accused goes on whatever his ultimate defense is, simply to cater to his fragile ego. A tale as old as motherfuckin time itself.

#I’m fucking over this shit #we are not the same so quit trying

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traumatized-motherfuckers · 4 years ago

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Stress-based sickness, psychosomatic disorders, and the F word. Fibromyalgia.

Read up or listen up @t-mfrs.com (podcast available wherever you stream.)

Waking up, like I didn’t sleep for weeks. Falling asleep after five minutes on my feet. A pounding head. That sense of dread. Sticky sharp pains through in my shoulders and neck. Brain short on energy, missing a few cards from the deck. Waves of nausea and stomach cramps. Chills and sweats, depending on the body amps. Swollen lymph nodes. Muscle weakness poorly bodes. Insatiable hunger but nothing sounds edible - shit, now desire to throw up is incredible. Eyes shriveling, dry, back into my skull. The aches in my legs, pulsing and dull. Foggy thoughts. Racing heart. When will this end, why did this start?

Did I finally catch the ‘rona? Or am I just past my limit for being stressed out again? Well, I just moved, so this time I know that the answer is very likely… stressed.

So who wants to talk about getting sick? Yeah, among this group, the answer might be surprising. A lot of us do.

Why? Not because we love bitching and complaining when we feel less than ideal - spoilers, that’s every day, there’s really nothing left to say about the raging shit storms inside of us after a few years of it. We’re tired of hearing about it, too… just like we’re tired of living it, feeling it, and fearing it.

No, for us, it’s because it feels like there’s always a surprising ailment right around the corner when we least expect it. One that seemingly has no logical basis or reasonable solution. One that no one else understands. One that feels like it’s born of mental illness, somehow, while being very physically present. One that we don’t even bother bringing to doctors anymore, because no one needs to be shamed and shoved out the door again by their flippant disinterest in anything we say after the words, “Yes, I have anxiety.”

Yep. If you haven’t tried to mingle mental health with western medicine before, let me give you a quick disclaimer: unless you’re missing an arm, don’t bother. In my experience, the only thing you’ll get is an eye roll, possibly a prescription bandaid that somehow makes you feel worse, and a bored recommendation to see a psychiatrist - even if you already do.

All of this, of course, has the effect of only making you feel more upset. First, mentally, as you ruminate over the disrespect of essentially being called a liar just because the doctor doesn’t have enough training. Then, physically, as your increased stress and systemic arousal pushes your body into a new level of overdrive.

Oh, was it a mindfuck just to make the doctor appointment, get yourself there, and deal with the social anxiety of a waiting room for 30-120 minutes? I bet it felt great for someone to then invalidate your health concerns, recommend you calm down, and send you out the door without even looking you in the eye. Feeling more upset, now on a highly emotional basis? Enjoy the shame, hypertension, and lost sleep, as if you needed any more of that.

Today, I want to talk about the stress-central area of my health that hasn’t been completely figured out… and the label that I - embarrassingly - just recently learned is highly applicable to my physical condition.

But also, the outrage that I feel over said label, because, well, it explains nothing. In fact, if anything, it probably does all of us a huge disservice after we’re granted this diagnosis by pushing us into the express lane for being written off. It also separates two issues that are poorly explained, rather than combining them into one full picture that might actually yield answers. Oh, and should I mention that I think this is a larger problem of gender bias in the healthcare system? Yeah, why the fuck not. Might as well air all my grievances as a nice lead-in to another upcoming episode; is mental illness diagnosis skewed by gender?

I don’t want to let my pounding head and aching shoulders deter me too much, so let’s just get started.

History of ailments

I’ve talked about this before, but to briefly cover how fucked up this body is… let’s take a trip back to 2013 when my system failed me out of the blue. And by “out of the blue,” I mean that I had chronically overworked myself running on anxiety, obligation, and starvation for 2 years, leading to physiological revolt.

So, looking back, “duh.”

But at the time? This was all-new. It was crisis-inducing and beyond comprehension that I went from a perfectly healthy, physically resilient, surprisingly strong and low maintenance specimen to a chronically pained, systemically ill, digestively impaired, and constantly exhausted sack of wallowing self-hated.

After a lifetime of zero health concerns, I found myself bedridden and obsessed with every weird thing my body was doing to me. Which, as you’ve probably guessed, came hand in hand with the new weird things my brain was doing to me.

You’ve probably heard the “What IS CPTSD?” episode by now, so I’m guessing you’re not a stranger to the details about the common emergence of complex trauma symptoms. Yes, that’s based on a lot of research, but it’s also a throwback to my own experience. I was a long time depression and anxiety lurker, first time complex trauma contributor around age 23, when my brain was suddenly uprooted by a series of new social and therapy-based traumas.

My depression became debilitating negative self-regard and stronger suicidal ideation. Suddenly, my social anxiety became agoraphobia. My new health issues became topics of obsessive and intrusive thoughts… you know, when I wasn’t ruminating about my role in every trauma, my worthlessness as a human, and my recently-unsettled childhood memories. My early twenties were a great time.

And with all the mental strain, came the unresolvable insomnia. Which fed right into the health problems. Which circled back to spark more mental duress. Health anxiety is not a fun way to live.

So, to call my illnesses psychosomatic is completely appropriate. But, also, completely insulting when a western medicine practitioner utters the phrase as if it was a turd slowly coming out the wrong end. And that’s exactly what happened every time I tried to seek help.

To be clear - back in the day I had some very easily detectable physical problems. I understand that doctors have a difficult job when it comes to interpreting the immeasurable inner experiences that their patients detail, but that wasn’t entirely the case here. When your body stops digesting food, well, there’s some evidence to prove that it’s a fact. When a 96oz medical grade laxative used for colonoscopy prep results in zero percent colon cleanse… uh… somebody isn’t doing their duty (pun intended). And boy, did my digestive system just decide that it was DONE doing its only job.

Everything I ate seemed to spark unpleasant physical responses, but moving materials through my guts and extracting nutrients wasn’t one of them. After months of garbage disposal failure, I was basically a walking sewer mixed with a compost pile. I found myself chronically starving, exhausted, puffy, distended, intestinally inflamed, and generally sickly. Your body doesn’t fare so well when it has no sustenance, it turns out.

At the same time, or maybe slightly predating my digestive protests, I started getting ill in weird ways. Things I had never experienced before started popping up, like chronic respiratory tract infections, sinus infections, and gum infections. I was having what seemed like allergic responses to something in my inner or outer environment. I was often covered in hives or my face and stomach were inflating like balloons for no apparent reason. I had near-constant pain in my continually-locked shoulders and neck. My actual skin, itself, hurt, as if I was being stretched to the brink of bursting. My lifelong migraines transformed into something new - disorienting tension migraines that came with horrifying loss-of-vision auras and feverish shakes.

Generally speaking, I was so tired all the time that I could barely get out of bed for more than a few moments before retreating back to my safe place to feel like garbage. My limbs felt like someone had tied weights to them and extracted several major muscle groups. I struggled even showering or washing my face, because both required holding my arms up higher than I was capable of enacting. I was so deliriously tired that I couldn’t see straight, think, or complete basic tasks.

On top of giving up my impressive life trajectory in the aftermath of the physical breakdown - because I was too fucking exhausted to consider the next steps I needed to take for grad school - this is also where I’ve previously mentioned my drive-aphobia coming into play. When you can’t count on your own faculties, you definitely don’t want to be behind the wheel. And suddenly, life gets very restricted.

I gave up my… anything life trajectory at that point. I went from a wildly social and focused student with a fantastic sense of humor about life and stronghold of self-determination to… Hiding indoors. Keeping isolated. Obsessing over my health. Googling the most embarrassing things late at night. Having no answers. Feeling like a crazy person. Hating myself. Fearing that this was the end. Assuming that my future was over. Guilting myself for fucking up my past. Replaying my tragic story of a rapid flight and a crash, after everything I had fought so hard to accomplish. Giving up.

This is riiiiight about where I pull most of my inspiration for talking about living in perpetual “trauma states” from. Being consistently triggered, out of control, and terrified. Having no answers and no one to even ask. Watching mental illness take over my world without the slightest clue of what was happening. And, oh, the perpetual torment of unpredictable physical breakdowns.

Everyday a new surprise. Every moment the opportunity for a shocking change in vitality. Every night a battle of my brain versus my chronic pains versus sleep.

And so it persisted, throughout 2013 and into several later years… despite the fact that I actually came up with an answer for myself that vastly improved a good part of the sickness struggle... but definitely didn’t fix it all.

Finding AN answer

I’m sure I’ve already mentioned this, too… but eventually I found some respite in my health struggles through no help from modern medicine. In fact, I helped myself thanks to familial clues when I decided to exclusion-diet my way into an answer. My grandpa had celiac’s disease long before it was trendy and I decided gluten was a logical place to start. And what do you know? That helped about 60% of my ailments.

So began years of obsessing over figuring out the gluten free life. Which, contrary to popular opinion, fucking sucks. I get that it became a trendy idea at exactly the wrong point in my life, but goddamnit, I hate the question, "Are you ACTUALLY gluten free, or is it by choice?" It is not a dietary walk in the park when essentially every item is contaminated with some form or another of secret sauce and your body is going to flip out at the slightest dusting.

I remember being so distraught over having these drastic dietary considerations to figure out on my own that I would spontaneously break down into tears in all sorts of places - the fridge, the grocery store, restaurants, social contexts when people kindly asked, “how about you choose where to eat this time.” I can’t choose! I can’t eat anything! I would privately bawl to myself. What a fun time that was.

But that was not nearly the end of it.

It turned out, yes, entirely cutting the glutens helped immensely. I also realized that sugar was not my friend. In fact, processed anything was not going to have a great outcome. But then… there was this other weird pattern that I started noticing in my life… sometimes I was pretty healthy and (relatively speaking) happy with the way things were going off-wheat. But sometimes I was just as sickly and digestively screwed when I definitely hadn’t consumed anything questionable. As if other tried and true components of my diet randomly became gluten analogs that upset me just as much.

Plus, there were some ailments that just never seemed to go away. The insomnia was a persistent problem that stretched back to being about 5 years old, but got more severe with time. The aches and pains in my neck and shoulders only worsened, no matter how many tennis balls I rolled on, yoga classes I attended, or muscle relaxers I popped. The exhaustion came and went with connections to my mental health and diet, but not directly related to bready food items. The brain fog didn’t clear up when I had a strictly regimented diet. The tension migraines never fully returned from where they came.

I was still finding myself bedridden and ready to give up on the whole idea of living on a semi-regular basis. Sometimes it was every two weeks, sometimes once a month, sometimes a few months apart. But I never knew why, how long it would last, or how to control the system-wide failures.

And if you want to know how western medicine helped me with any of these continued challenges… it didn’t. I tried to get answers for years before I finally gave up. Every doctor turned me away. Every specialist was critically uninterested. Even the Mayo Clinic neglected to listen to what I said or utilize applicable resources, after I was so sure they could solve the medical mystery of my life.

So. I stopped trying at a certain point. I resolved myself to being health anxious and perpetually confused by myself. I realized that I would never know what any day was going to bring, because my discomforts and continued sicknesses seemed to come and go with the tides.

Eventually, after years of this bullshit, it got a bit better. I buckled down with - you guessed it - strict routines designed to circumvent some of the challenges.

I realized that my diet needed to be incredibly tight, and by that, I mean “boring.” Beyond gluten, I cut out basically everything sugary, carby, and processed. I noticed that without a certain variety of physical exercise on a regimented basis, everything started slipping. I prioritized finding ways to get to sleep at night, even if it meant being rigid and assessed as “dramatic” by less slumber-impaired humans. I gave up any activities that caused neck and shoulder strain, and tried to be better about things like stretching. I also noticed that dealing with my emotions was a gateway to pain and discomfort relief, which was an uphill battle all it’s own. And, you know, eventually I learned about this Complex Trauma thing that explained a HUGE part of early to mid twenties, including a majority of the physical ailments.

But, although I began to live like an above-averagely healthy human again… I’ve still always had a few mysteries about my health.

Sure, over the course of many years I’ve figured out how to live with a semi-predictable body after long periods of never knowing what tomorrow would bring. But, unfortunately, there are still times when my system throws me a curveball. During those unanticipated spans of health failure, I’m left ruminating on a question or three that haven’t ever been answered consistently.

One of the most common inquiries is coming at you next.

Stress or sick?

So, even after all my life changes and careful modifications. All my sacrifices and seemingly over-the-top regimes. I’ve still had an ongoing health obsession that pops up from time to time when my shit starts to go downhill.

The incrementally-observed question that runs through my head on repeat… “Wait, am I communicably sick, or am I just fucking stressed out again?”

I realized a while back - maybe in my mid-late twenties - that holy hell, I sure felt like I was coming down with the flu more often than it was logical. The thing was, my symptoms only ever progressed to the point of feeling like I was still actively fighting off the sickness as it took hold. I would get the temperature dysregulation, the headache, the muscle pain, the foggy feeling, and oh boy, the exhaustion - that generally serve as your first signs of contagious trouble.

I would be too deliriously tired to get up and do anything. If I made myself go to work, it felt like wading through a dream. Half present, half falling asleep at my desk. My body felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. Even my head was too heavy for my neck to manage the task.

Beyond the energy void, I would genuinely start to experience pre-illness complaints, like swollen lymph nodes, congestion, and the aforementioned shivers and shakes. I would find myself incredibly hungry, as though my immune system was ramping up for a fight. I would get weak, like all my electrolytes were purged from my body. I would characterize the experience as feeling “generally under the weather” in preparation for something much larger slamming into town.

Beyond the energy void, I would genuinely start to experience pre-illness complaints, like swollen lymph nodes, congestion, and the aforementioned shivers and shakes. I would find myself incredibly hungry, as though my immune system was ramping up for a fight. I would get incredibly weak, like all my electrolytes were purged from my body. I would characterize the experience as feeling “generally under the weather” in preparation for something much larger slamming into town.

And I would respond in kind. I would retreat to bed, Nyquil and vitamin C showering over me on frequent intervals, gearing up for the systemic war of a lifetime. I would drift in and out of sleep for a day or two, fending off the weird muscle aches and sweat sessions that come with an emerging fever. Interestingly, many of my old food reactivities would rear up during this period. I would get my neti pot and vomit-bags ready for action.

And then… nothing else would happen. Assuming I chilled out and retreated to a state of forfeit when I actually treated myself with kindness and care, everything would work out. After 1-5 days of being back in my bedridden state, determined that significant contagious sickness was headed my way, it would seem to just disappear overnight. Or, clear up by about 70% overnight, to be more realistic.

It took several rounds of this pattern - I couldn’t tell you how many - before I finally realized… heyyo, my body shuts the fuck down when I’m stressed out. Every time I experienced one of these sudden falls from health, it followed (or ran in tandem with) a period of significant stress, anxiety, and/or depression. And if I let myself relax for a week, it would all be okay. If I tried to push through it because ObLiGaTiOnS, I was signing myself up for a prolonged and far more serious health failure. It happened too many times; I knew it wasn’t a coincidence. Like I had postulated earlier in my adulthood - my health seemed to be drastically affected by my mental state. Particularly, my interpretations of stress, obligations, and fears.

And I can tell you, my health anxiety quieted down for a while in the aftermath of the acceptance. Call it immersion therapy. When you’ve experienced the same event over and over again, but A never leads to B, and C-alming your shit makes condition A disappear back into the ethers... well, eventually you take it for what it is and just stop panicking so much. I think I got tired of preoccupying myself with the whole dumpster fire at some point and preferred to extinguish the flames by letting them run their course.

This is where I’ve lived for the past many years now. Realizing that if I push myself too hard mentally or physically, or if I let too many stress signals infiltrate my brain… I’m about to get fucked up. My health will slip quickly. I will be reactive to essentially every food on this planet. My body will be puffy, inflamed, and painful. Not to mention, so goddamn tired all the time. But that’s it. It won’t last forever. I’m not going to die. Telling myself the opposite makes it all last a lot longer. Don’t pile stress about your stress-induced sickness onto your existing stress, and you'll be better soon.

And yet, when it’s happening, I also never know for a fact that my stress-based illness is definitely what’s going on. The result is getting trapped in a “will I or won’t I” obsessive spiral of anticipating the worst while reassuring myself that it might be nothing at all. There’s a lot of internal and external conversation about it, as people want to know if you’re sick and you want to be able to warn them that you feel like death… but also have to throw in the caveat, “Iunno, you have to realize that this happens to me all the time and it’s usually nothing, though.”

Of course, this creates the opportunity for my brain to 1) tell me I’m probably fine, quit complaining, pussy, and 2) compare myself to everyone else on the planet, who doesn’t crumble when their brain interprets times are hard. Because, of course, I have to make myself feel mentally ridiculous for feeling physically horrible. Other people are always happy to help in this regard, too. "You sure get sick a lot. I thought you had the flu last month. Wow, it always seems like something is wrong with you." Mhm, I feel the same on all accounts.

And, Fuckers, that’s why I stopped talking about it or looking for answers a long time ago. Instead, I've just relied on the most logical answer and quit worrying. I’ve done enough research on my own, not to mention all my Animal Science schooling, to know how stress responses work. They’re significant. They have the potential to disrupt your entire body through hormonal dysregulation. And they work differently - as far as we can tell - depending on the organism.

So that’s what I’ve leaned on. Acknowledgement that stress really screws with me. It zaps my energy. It fogs up my brain. It makes me overstimulated. It causes weird pains and immune system responses. It churns up my digestive problems. It also makes me feel like I’m starving but nauseous all at once. Over long periods of time, it can lead to infections. It, obviously, ruins my sleep, which reaaaaally doesn’t help with any of it.

That’s that. Pretty complicated but simple. Try not to stress yourself out and god help you, if you do. Chill for a few days and you’ll be alright, probably. No one knows why it happens. Doctors don’t care. Just watch out for yourself, because no one else deals with this shit.

Unless… they totally do.

So, that’s fibromyalgia

I guess this is where I tell you something that a lot of folks have probably already figured out. Sorry if you’ve been yelling at me through your headphones this whole time - chill, I’m getting to it.

There definitely is a term for everything I’ve described. There are millions of other people who experience it. And, yeah, doctors often still don’t believe it’s real… but the numbers and anecdotal evidence don’t lie.

Ever heard of fibromyalgia?

Of course you have. But have you ever really looked into what it meant? Because… I hadn’t.

Annnnd then a listener and I were chatting on Instagram a few weeks ago. And she mentioned... everything I just mentioned. And her diagnosis had been? Fibromyalgia.

Via DM, your fellow Fucker started telling me about being tired all the time, mysterious aches and pains that worsen with stress, IBS symptoms, improper temperature regulation, and over-exertion that leads to required days of recovery. My jaw hit the floor.

You know I hopped online and started doing more research of my own. And all of the information was confirmed and expanded upon in a way that drove my mandible straight into the basement.

Hey, you know how fibromyalgia is synonymous with “widespread pain?” Oh shit, if you dig into it, there is a lot more to learn. Here’s a (maybe, complete?) list of the currently known associated symptoms. Keep in mind, I couldn’t find a single comprehensive resource for this information. This list is compiled of information from the the peer-reviewed article I'm going to read from later, the American College of Rheumatology, the CDC, Healthline, and Medical News Today. And if it sounds like a bit of a "catch all" pile, I think you're right.

Pain and stiffness all over the body

Fatigue and tiredness

Depression and anxiety

Sleep problems

Problems with thinking, memory, and concentration, known as “fibro-fog”

Headaches, including migraines

Tingling or numbness in hands and feet

Pain in the face or jaw

Digestive problems, such as abdominal pain, bloating, constipation, and irritable bowel syndrome

Tenderness to touch or pressure affecting muscles, sometimes joints or even the skin

Irritable or overactive bladder

Pelvic pain

Trouble focusing or paying attention

Pain or a dull ache in the lower belly

Dry eyes

Sleeping for long periods of time without feeling rested (nonrestorative sleep)

Acid reflux

Restless leg syndrome

Sensitivity to cold or heat

Problems with vision

Nausea

Weight gain

Dizziness

Cold or flu-like symptoms

Skin problems

Chest symptoms

Breathing problems

Insulin resistance

Wait, wait, wait. THAT’S what fibro is? Because, I’m sorry, I have literally never heard any of that detail before… and although it gets so ambiguous that I suspect these ailments are all the conditions that just haven't been explained before by medical science... this list just described my life. All the way down to the tiniest detail of dry eyes, as I now recall chronically dumping drops into mine for those same years in my 20s. What. The. Shit.

Prior to this research, my symptomatic knowledge of fibro was essentially - pain, of the unexplained and incurable variety. No one ever once has mentioned anything else about the condition to me, or allll the ways that it correlated with my years of health trauma. Not my peers, not my doctors, and not even my amazing, well-informed therapist.

So, maybe I’m really late to the game here, but long story short, my mind was blown when I heard that there’s actually a term for this experience which I had forfeited to processing as a “unique way that my body individually destroys me” for all these years. I thought I was just uniquely uncomfortable all the time and stopped burdening others with my experiences.

Maybe that’s why I never had anyone clue me in to the diagnosis - I honestly stopped talking about the cyclical sickness a while back, after recognizing that people didn’t respond favorably to the narrative, “I just get too stressed out to function.” Shutting my mouth and writing off my experiences may have halted my potential for hearing a realistic account of living with fibromyalgia. Oh, how the trauma shame shenanigans never stop royally fucking you.

Of course, based on my own recent education, now I’m wondering if fibromyalgia applies to far more of us in the trauma community. Because if I hadn’t found reliable information on it in all my trauma and inflammatory illness research over the years… how many other people are in the same boat?

And this brings me to my next point. I really hate the term fibromyalgia.

Why I hate the term

There’s actually another explanation for why I never heard about everything that fibromyalgia describes. Uh, you’re going to hate me for this, but I didn’t think it was a “real” diagnosis.

Yep. I’m telling you with moderate guilt that for the longest time, I appraised fibro in the same way that western medicine considers all psychosomatic illnesses - not valid. And I’m unhappy with myself, too. Believe me, I feel like my least favorite kind of person... a hypocrite. But this also points to the systemic issue that undermines so many of our attempts to get help, and that makes me far more unhappy.

You see, a number of years ago, as a budding counselor with a few years of experience, my therapist friend mentioned something about fibro. Specifically, that it was a common label granted to more seriously mentally affected patients… and it wasn’t believed to be a real thing. I wish I could remember more detail on the context, but the basis of the story is, someone that I trusted - someone with many trauma patients - told me that in her experience, no one took fibromyalgia seriously. People with intense mental illnesses regularly presented with unfounded complaints of pain, and this is the term they were assigned as a result.

There was no proof of their physical discomfort. The patients tended to have myriad mental and physical health issues. They tended to be more difficult clients. Professionals had doubts about how serious the complaints were. No evidence, no respect. It was just about that simple.

To give more weight to the story, here’s one quick excerpt that is actually validating to read, from an article titled, The management of fibromyalgia from a psychosomatic perspective: an overview.

“People with FM often reported dismissive attitudes from others, such as disbelief, stigmatization, lack of acceptance by their relatives, friends, coworkers, and the healthcare system, that consider them as ‘lazy’ or ‘attention seeking’ people, with their symptoms ‘all in their head’. Such dismissiveness can have a substantial negative impact on patients, who are already distressed, and also on the degree of their pain.”

So… similar to the asshole social associates described above… for years after that, I paid no attention to fibromyalgia. When people brought it up, I nodded and moved on. I didn’t disbelieve that there would be a connection between mental illness and the onset of bodily pains after my own experiences, but the term had also been shuttled to a file in my head that sidled up next to, “seeking prescription pain meds.” This was an incorrect judgement based on incorrect, oversimplified information. But unfortunately, it left an impression.

So… similar to the assholes described above… for years after that, I paid no attention to fibromyalgia. When people brought it up, I nodded and moved on. I didn’t disbelieve that there would be a connection between mental illness and the onset of bodily pains after my own experiences, but the term had also been shuttled to a file in my head that sidled up next to, “seeking prescription pain meds.” This was an incorrect judgement based on incorrect, oversimplified information. But unfortunately, it left an impression.

It took the real life account of someone with the diagnosis to show me all the ways that my previous perception was completely incorrect. I suddenly realized how reductive and insulting the false information had been. Annnd all the ways that I could have really helped myself and a few others a lot sooner if I had just investigated the term on my own, rather than lazily falling back on someone else’s casually-expressed opinion.

So, I’m saying… fuck me. 100%. That makes me really upset with myself. But it makes me even more frustrated with the medical field.

And this is why I hate the term fibromyalgia.

It doesn’t actually explain a fucking thing… and it doesn’t seem like anyone is actually trying to.

At this point, there is no known cause for the development or persistence of the disorder. Fibromyalgia has essentially become more of a label for a grouping of symptoms that we “allow” people to assume when we don’t know what the hell might be wrong with them. I say “allow” very purposely, because it feels like our medical overlords have granted us this word as a way to pacify the uncomfortable masses - not treat them.

At this point, there is no known cause or organic mechanism for the development or persistence of the disorder. Fibromyalgia has essentially become more of a label for a grouping of symptoms that we “allow” people to assume when we don’t know what the hell might be wrong with them. I say “allow” very purposely, because it feels like our medical overlords have granted us this word as a way to pacify the uncomfortable masses - not treat them.

Millions of humans have detailed the same experiences, but science hasn’t yet come up with a way to explain them, so let’s go ahead and give them a new diagnosis that boils down to “Not sure what’s going on, but they say it’s unpleasant and it sounds a little something like widespread pain. Cool, let’s call it a day. Nah, we don’t need to educate the medical community or the public - we don’t need a single list of all the known comorbidities - because we don’t get it, ourselves. Let’s make sure we put that disclaimer right in the definition, so everyone knows it’s a controversial topic."

And implicit in saying that doctors and scientists don’t understand the term, comes a negative connotation of assumed delusion or attention-seeking complaints.

Essentially, what I’m bitching about is the tendency of researchers and practitioners to shuttle things they can’t directly measure to the back of the relevancy line. Despite all of the anecdotal evidence from fibro sufferers that corroborate the same causes, symptoms, and outcomes… we can’t see what they’re talking about and we don’t have an easy explanation, so we put this in the “fake news” stack of information - AKA psychosomatic illness.

Now, it’s also worth mentioning that fibromyalgia is deeply intertwined with trauma. Something like 2/3rds of fibro patients also have confirmed PTSD symptoms, if not higher. Exact numbers depend on which study you trust. Just know, it is a prevalent, accepted, correlation between trauma and the development of fibromyalgia. And of course, no one has determined the causative or affective relationship between the two at this point in time.

Hell, we all know that a lot of mental and physical health professionals don’t even want to acknowledge trauma at this point - or, do so with a smirk and an eyebrow raise, at best. So tethering the two poorly-comprehended disorders together? Oh boy, it’s a sure-fire way to ensure that no one listens to a word you say after honestly answering their background information questions. Might as well throw down your wallet and walk yourself right out of the office at that point.

The medical field’s lack of trauma education is a big problem. Making “psychosomatic” a dirty word isn’t helping millions of folks out there. Being invalidated by the people who could possibly help you is another mental health crisis waiting to happen. And all of this is infuriating to me, following my own experiences and thinking about other people’s.

Should we take this one outrage step further? Sure.

You know that a vast majority of fibromyalgia sufferers are… women. Sorry, about to get a tad feminist. Is anyone here surprised that primarily female voices tend to be written off by medical professionals? Ha, ha, ha. No, probably not.

For all of human history, the ladies have been getting the shit end of the stick when it comes to medical care. We all know that women were given amazing explanations for their ailments, such as having “hysterics” or "the vapors" not so long ago.

Furthermore, there is research showing that doctors do not take women’s accounts of pain severity seriously, in particular. Even fellow female doctors and nurses are given different treatment by staff when they go to the ER, versus male counterparts. And if you’re a minority or socioeconomically challenged woman? The data says you might as well take two aspirin and see what happens the next morning, because the medical attention research is even worse for those demographics. Huge surprise.

So, pulling this all together: Considering that the majority of us who receive complex trauma diagnoses are women… considering that implicit in this label, comes the increased likelihood that we’re not economically well-to-do and belong to minority groups one way or another… how do you figure we’ve ever had a chance of receiving real help for our unmeasurable physical conditions?

So, pulling this all together: Considering that the majority of us who receive complex trauma diagnoses are women… considering that implicit in this label, comes the increased likelihood that we’re not economically well-to-do and belong to minority groups… how do you figure we��ve ever had a chance of receiving real help for our unmeasurable physical conditions?

Yeah, we haven’t.

We’ve been given a term - complete with a wink and a nudge - that no one wants to meaningfully research or prioritize understanding. We’ve received a new phrase that doctors will “generously grant us” when we’re drowning in unexplained symptoms and pain. We’re then labeled with a word that essentially amounts to “disregard and humor” for all our future appointments. On top of it all, we’re carrying the burden of traumatic histories, which immediately qualify us for misunderstood diagnoses that more or less equate “ghosts in their blood” - because, hell, we can’t quantify mental illness, either.

The whole ordeal makes me really upset. The fact that I was inadvertently pulled into this biased disbelief makes me more upset. It also serves as quite a demonstration of how powerful or deleterious knowledge can be after it worms its way into your head involuntarily and becomes your only “go-to” piece of data, true or false.

One seemingly-trustworthy person mentioning a negative opinion of fibromyalgia one time in my past somehow infiltrated my thoughts to the extent that I didn’t have a second thought for 5 years? And we're talking about a goddamn trauma researcher - with, what I consider - an otherwise open and connection-happy mind?

The power of assumed authority and truth in opinion is significant. If I can be swayed in this way, how could less mental health informed medical professionals stand a chance in responding differently? That’s frightening and clarifying… though immensely upsetting.

So, since biomedicine hasn’t bothered to find any great information for us, despite the rapidly increasing rate of fibromyalgia diagnoses in the past two decades - how can we make sense of the information to actually help ourselves?

Let’s talk about that next.

What we can conclude

So it kindof blows finding out that you probably qualify for a new medical term… only to find out that we don’t actually know anything about said term. I say this, because if you’re waiting for me to pop off with some sweet research on fibromyalgia… uh… I haven’t found it yet. But not for lack of trying. So far every article I’ve seen has been pretty basic and uninspired.

Does fibromyalgia correspond with trauma? It does. Does stress mediate and moderate fibromyalgia, PTSD symptoms, GI problems, and depression? It does. Does it take a long time and numerous appointments to receive medical help for fibromyalgia complaints? It does. Does the comorbidity of post-traumatic symptoms make fibro more uncomfortable and challenging to overcome? What do you know - it fucking does.

(Wow. So enlightening. Having two debilitating disorders is less fun than having one. Who’s funding these research studies, anyways?)

The first thing I can conclude is, there’s not that much to conclude. This is to say, no one - that I’ve seen, so far - has revealed anything super shocking or thought-provoking about fibromyalgia.

Really, the most interesting things I learned from my reading are that

1) insulin resistance is another associated disorder, which explains even more of my baffling life

2) sex hormones are leached from your system under stress, which, refer to point number one... explains another huge chunk of my existence, and

3) the recommendations for treating fibro long term are the same recommendations I’ve given for getting your trauma life re-ordered.

You know how I always push for people to find out what’s manageable on their own through trial and error, rather than approaching trauma recovery with preventable fires burning in every area? Hey - someone agrees.

Namely, it's recommended that in order to manage fibromyalgia you establish routines including strictly nutrition-based eating habits, non-threatening forms of consistent exercising, prioritizing tons of sleep, and controlling your environment as much as possible for stressful stimuli. Doctors can also supplement your rehab with antidepressants, because, again, fibromyalgia is related to the same underlying hormonal imbalances as depression - but the larger health issues are managed best by changing your behaviors. Just like I’ve said.

I suppose this is no surprise, since this entire time I’ve unknowingly been talking, in large part, about how I’ve controlled my own fibromyalgia symptoms. I just thought it was mandatory trauma pains I was dampening. But the word is out! There's a separate phrase for it. The doctors and I agree; stop treating yourself like a turd, and maybe you’ll stop feeling like one. Whatdoyouknow. Sometimes there are reasons for the things I notice experientially, even if they aren’t originally informed by medical lingo.

Secondly, looking at what we can conclude at this point about fibro… Well, it justifies my previous hypothesis that stress is the root of my body’s evil. There’s not much to definitively say about fibromyalgia at this point, but we know for a fact that it is agitated and potentially caused by stress.

This perfectly aligns with my observations that a terrible work week mixed with a personally challenging month on top of a physically exhausting cleaning marathon will lead to a systemic breakdown every time. And, conversely, those times when life has actually been pretty chill correspond to periods of bodily health and limited upset - the times when I wonder “was I ever really sick at all?” and start to health gaslight my damn self.

Realizing the link between stress and sickness, of course, also begins to explain the correlation to trauma, and particularly, complex trauma.

Now, let me start by saying that there’s some debate over the downstream effects of PTSD - some researchers swear that it decreases system arousal in the face of later stress, others have collected data reflecting that a nervous system hyper-sensitization takes place. From my own trauma involvement, I’ve seen and heard more cases of the latter; we’re quick to upset and easily pushed into stressed territory. I don’t know many, if any, trauma folks who are non-responsive to disturbing life events... but that sounds more like a deep, dangerous, clinical depression symptom to me.

Personally, once I’ve been chronically stressed for a few weeks or months, then I notice the loss of stress response take over. My limbic system gives up, the HPA axis stops responding, and therefore nothing can rattle me. Perhaps you’ve also had the experience of laughing when your car breaks down, because it’s already been 3 months of disaster around every turn and there’s nothing else you can do for yourself. So, sure, people can reach a point where they legitimately don’t respond to the chaos anymore, but I’m not so sure that’s a consistent norm. I think it’s more likely that you turn off your stress reactions if you’ve been adequately prepped to dissociate for the sake of sanity or your chemical balance is so wack that your danger center has powered down.

I can tell you without a doubt that before the point when my stress threshold has been raised sky-high thanks to repeat exposures and wiring disconnections... I’m a rapid-responder when anxiety comes calling. Stimulus - rapid survival reaction - no space in between being startled and shaking from head to toe. And this is the case for basically every Motherfucker I know. I’m no expert, but I think we tend to fall more into the hypervigilant camp surrounding this podcast, rather than the laxadonical one. Always on the lookout, always ready, often bowled over by our own responses.

I’m a rapid-responder when anxiety comes calling. Stimulus - rapid survival reaction - no space in between being startled and shaking from head to toe. And this is the case for every Motherfucker I know. I’m no expert, but I think we tend to fall more into the hypervigilant camp surrounding this podcast, rather than the laxadonical one. Always on the lookout, always ready, often bowled over by our own responses

This nervous system sensitization, as they call it, explains a lot of trauma symptoms. I’ve regularly discussed the hypersensitivity problem it creates, when your brain doesn’t adequately filter out or assess neutral stimuli because it considers basically everything to be a threat. This can also contribute to the ADD and ADHD diagnoses that we receive, when our heads are too busy trying to sort all that data streaming in to direct our thoughts in a steady way. Or, the ways that we’re uniquely thrown immediately into panic mode when we sense a risk. Plus, we’ve probably all had the experience of tiny, secret triggers sneakily upsetting our bodies when the stimulation wasn’t even significant enough to pass through our cognitive recognition centers. These are all caused by the same systemic over-sensitization problem.

In general: yes, we trauma folk are sensitive to our environments - inner and outer. We are easily pushed down survival pathways to fight/flight/freeze/fawn responses. We rapidly catastrophize ambiguous information, which can convince our brains and bodies that the worst has already happened. We’re hyperaware and easily overstimulated, often agitated, and regularly on edge.

I maintain, in the face of controversial evidence, that we get stressed out easily. And our bodies react dramatically.

I feel like I should also state that this is especially true, as most of us have read, when we have unresolved emotional strain floating around in our meat jackets. We can be overstimulated and aroused (in a bad way) from the inside, out. Since the majority of us are not skilled in emotional recognition or resolution, we’re often walking around with a lifetime of hard feelings stored in our guts. And there’s been roughly zero doubt in my head about emotional and environmental stress contributing to dissociation, contributing to a vagal nerve shutdown as a big part of the digestive failure that characterizes fibromyalgia, IBS, Crohns, and so many autoimmune disorders.

On top of the unresolved emotional root of stress, this pings another episode that I've previously released. The one about being overly restrictive in your diet and exercise for the sake of appearance perfectionism. If you physically exert yourself too strongly through caloric deprivation or extreme work outs, you can easily stress your body into a survival response. It can't tell the difference between starvation for bikini season and starvation for lack of food. Running your ass off for your upcoming wedding or running your ass off for your upcoming bear attack. Your danger sensing center is sensitive and it overreacts, much like myself.

Now, considering that all these examples of central nervous system sensitization and physiological survival states that go hand in hand with Complex Trauma and Fibromyalgia, so many weird health mysteries are potentially resolved. But, not exactly the pain component. Or, is it.

Again, the authors out of Italy and Brazil who penned, The management of fibromyalgia from a psychosomatic perspective: an overview, have a potential way to think about that. They state:

“Even if the causes and pathophysiology of FM are not completely known, widespread chronic pain could be explained by a vulnerability due to a perturbation in the central processing of sensory information, named ‘central sensitivity’ or ‘central sensitization’, that amplifies the response of the central nervous system to a peripheral input. Hence, people with FM and/or other central sensitivity syndromes have a lower threshold for interpreting sensory information as noxious. Several factors, such as genetic predisposition, deficiencies in neurotransmitter levels, biochemical changes in the body, endocrine dysfunction, mood states, anxiety, sociocultural environment, psychological trauma and past experiences in general, expectancy beliefs, and catastrophization have been proposed as explanatory mechanisms of patients’ subjective experience of central sensitivity. Current research indicates that abnormal sensory and pain processing is a key factor in the pathophysiology of FM. There is robust evidence that abnormalities in central pain processing, rather than damage or inflammation of peripheral structures, play an important role in the development and maintenance of chronic pain in patients with FM.”

Interesting, huh? I still think inflammatory responses are a big part of the 1000 piece stress puzzle, but I don’t disagree with the idea that our finely-tuned danger detection systems amplify pain and discomfort signals to deafening levels. Putting all the system data together, you can deduce a fairly complete picture of how strain, physical degradation, and pain are all related.

Finally, I have confirmation that being overly stimulated causes everything from my energy drain to my dietary responses, migraines, and autoimmune attacks... all the way down to my temperature sensitivity, random presentation of allergic reactions, and even that occasional sharp pain in my jaw… not to mention all my life-altering functional problems, like being unable to sleep at night, existing with debilitating pain, and living while feeling sedated?

All of my strange health complaints from the past decade have aligned with this new label. And that label corresponds perfectly with my inkling that running on cortisol and overzealous guardsmen have been the major source of my health anxiety sauce. Welp, it’s been validating research for all of my educated guesses, to say the least.

Long story short, there’s not a ton of helpful information about the reasons for developing fibromyalgia or what makes it get worse. But there’s one thing we do know for a fact; stress is the enemy. At least I think it’s comforting to conclude that stress is the root of many of our C-PTSD complaints, as well as depression, anxiety, insomnia, obsessive thoughts, and now… a whole list of common maladies, labeled fibromyalgia.

Whether or not it’s really understood, at least there is a connection between everything. At least there’s something that ties ALL the random, disjointed pieces of torture together. I’m guessing that for many of us, fibromyalgia is similar to complex trauma, again, in that regard.

And, lastly, I can conclude that… I have more questions