#i need multiple xanax

[snapewives-supremacy]

I keep trying to compartmentalize and then randomly feeling like imma spontaneously combust with the pent up kinetic energy of my emotions zooming around the control console like Anxiety at the end of Inside Out 2

[nocentis]

x

[cockandballsnurture]

when u call ur psychiatrist and they don't answer

[scientia-rex]

I made that post about how smoking is bad—actually, no, I’ve made two relatively popular posts about how smoking is bad for you. Raises your chances of dying from multiple factors including heart disease and stroke in addition to lung (and mouth, throat, and bladder) cancer.

I am always so baffled by the responses going “well I could die from something else!” Yes. You could. Statistically speaking, you will most likely die of heart disease, stroke, or cancer, if you live in the US. Your average life expectancy is somewhere around 78 for women, 76 for men. Many people die younger than that, for a lot of reasons. Many of my patients have illnesses that will shorten their lives. I hate to split it into “fault,” as if there’s some kind of perfect way to live a blameless life. (There isn’t.) The numbers, however, are both clear and pitiless. People who smoke are more likely to die younger than they otherwise might have.

Medicine is a numbers game. My job is not to psychically predict exactly what will punch your ticket and when. It is to improve your odds. I want you to both live as long a life as possible but also as high-quality a life as possible. I want for you to live a life you enjoy.

It’s that simple; it’s not sinister. I’m not out here going “I’ll tell them not to smoke so they can have LESS FUN before getting hit by a bus at 30!”

Because smoking isn’t actually fun. What it is, is a very quick (and faster = more addictive) reduction in physical feedback systems that heighten anxiety. Withdrawal of an unpleasant stimulus is rewarding. (Technically, it’s a negative reward; the negative doesn’t refer to a moral judgment, but the addition or subtraction of a stimulus.) Something that is very rewarding very fast will be very addictive. It’s why crack cocaine is also so addictive—it is also a very fast and very potent reward. It’s also why benzodiazepines like Xanax are so addictive to so many people; it’s a slower peak blood level but the removal of severe anxiety is profoundly rewarding.

So smoking can make you feel better when you do it. But your body will try to fix any broken signals. It doesn’t just want to be able to signal to you when you need to feel stressed: it has to be able to signal you, or your long-ago ancestors would have been eaten by predators. So it ramps up the signaling. Now you’re not smoking because you feel better than baseline; you’re smoking to get back to baseline.

That’s why quitting sucks. When you quit smoking, all of the sudden your body’s signals of stress that got dialed up to 11 to overcome the nicotine are just out there at full blast, making you feel scared and jittery and irritable. It’s why when you quit benzos (or daily alcohol) cold turkey you can get life-threatening seizures. It’s why when you stop alcohol you’re likely to have sleep disruptions that can persist for weeks to months.

That’s why things that help reduce the suckage can help. Nicotine patches, lozenges, or gum. Chantix. Wellbutrin. Slowly stepping down the nicotine level on your vape. Eating more, eating things you like. (I would 1000% rather have a patient be fat than be smoking. I know other people will be shittier to you if you gain weight. Living is worth it.) Being kind to yourself helps you quit smoking. You need to recognize that “quitting smoking you” is not your baseline you. It is you with an invisible illness that will take weeks to months to get over.

And sometimes you can’t face that hump right now. But if you want to maximize your odds of the longest and healthiest possible life, knowing that any number of terrible things can happen to you at any time, making the effort—over and over again, if you need to—is the best shot you have.

There are a couple of conditions where smoking does markedly reduce symptoms. The well-known ones are schizophrenia and Crohn’s disease. If you feel not just better, but better like this is a medication for you, like you poop blood or hear things without it, talk to your primary care provider, because there are other medicines that might be safer and/or more effective for you. The landscape around pharmaceutical research has shifted dramatically over the last 30 years. We have more options than we’ve ever had before. Maybe this doesn’t have to be the expensive, dangerous medication that half-works for you. And if what you’re self-medicating is your anxiety, nicotine is a pretty crappy medication for that, because it doesn’t fix you; it changes your baseline to an even shittier place.

You have bodily autonomy. You can make your own choices. I will never go to a patient’s house and slap the cigarette out of their hand. But if what you want is the longest and healthiest possible life, smoking makes your odds worse.

The number of people who think that I, as a doctor, would be unaware of how profoundly unfair bodily health can be amazes me. It’s like the first Father Brown story, where Father Brown is explaining to the villain that someone whose main job is to hear about all of the terrible sins people have to confess cannot remain naive. My job is watching people age, or filling out their death certificates. One or the other. I prefer watching them age, but everyone will die. Someday my doctor will be filling out my death certificate. I’ve removed one potential contributing factor from that line—maybe I’ll get diabetes, maybe I’ll get cancer, maybe I’ll have a workplace accident, but “smoking” isn’t going to be on that line anymore. That’s the best I can do. I can’t psychically predict my own death, either; just play the numbers, try to do my best, and hope.

[belovedivies]

along the wind (bodyguard!peter x f!reader)

・゜・summary: Peter has made his way to the top by defying the odds his whole life; barely anything fazes him at this point. Yet when a glimpse of normalcy comes into his life in the form of a girl whose presence he initially apathizes, the crack in the Apostle’s stoicism starts to show.゜・* ・゜・tags: reader-insert, pre-canon, pre-rejuvenated peter, slice of life, fluff, slow burn, eventual romance, (my poor) attempt at humor, friends to lovers, typical-canon violence (mostly referenced cuz i suck at writing fight scenes)゜・* ・゜・notes: this work has multiple chapters! also cross-posted on my ao3 <3 title is from a song called "fly away" by jang yoon ju.゜・*

chapter 1: white strawberry and mint. ・゜・chapter content: bashing/washing, brief mention of drug. ・゜・word count: 1,268 ♡masterlist♡

“Tch, stop squirming so much will you?”

"That's easy for you to say, you took my last xanax!"

Peter, very much irritated, decides to ignore those words as he drags the washcloth down your spine. You really thought Glory's greatest asset would want to be stuck here babysitting a grown-ass woman in her early 20s, huh? You'd better fucking think again; with how bizarre this unconventional live-in assignment has been and is still going, Peter's mental gymnastics constantly blow hot and cold between wanting to protect you and wanting to strangle you. Anything to make your perpetual complaining go away, honestly. But as nice as the thought of making you shut up for good, the Cathedral's order to keep you safe is final, and he is but loyal to the organization that made him the powerful man he is today.

So the Apostle sucks it up, a sigh leaving his lips as one big hand closes a little tighter around your waist.

"You're recovering," Peter continues, the authority colors his tone even as his touch on your soaked back is undeniably gentle, "and the last thing I need is another headache of you OD'ing over off-label pills."

You let out a sound that falls somewhere between a gasp and a yelp. "I'm not an addict, ok?" That half-assed excuse almost has Peter rolling his eyes in pure frustration, his displeasure threatening to bubble over when you flounder on his lap like a fish out of water. "They're just my sleeping aid-"

“Aid or not ,” he cuts you off mid-sentence, “it doesn’t change the fact that you pop three xans per meal and barely function without them.” The last of his impatient reprimand is accompanied by foam-covered linen spreading the Olay body wash over the skin of your belly. Peter’s nose crinkles slightly at the sickening sugary scents of white strawberry and mint that assault his nostrils, but the man decides to keep his mouth shut.

And much to his surprise, so do you.

He’s relieved at your lack of resistance, or at least no more bitter remark. A huff leaves your lips, then nothing. Good, the Apostle is sure if this goes on, he’ll be scrubbing your wrinkly skin raw. Peter sets the washcloth aside and grabs the shower head, aiming the lukewarm stream of water at your body and clearing away the bubbles and remaining grime.

The water sloshes underneath your body as you draw up your legs; the tub isn’t small by any means, but Peter is aware of his size and how his large stature might be a little suffocating to you in terms of space. His grasp on your waist loosens, wanting to speed things up so you both can get out of here quicker. Yet the second the soap on your skin is washed away, the guy can't help but let his eyes linger on the scar on your lower thigh.

"What?" Peter hears you huff again, sounding uncomfortable despite your nonchalant expression. One of your hands moves down to conceal the healing wound, even if through the little cracks between your fingers, he can still make out the pinkish scar tissue.

"How are you feeling?" It's a genuine concern on his part.

"Um," your hesitation doesn't escape his notice, even palpably so when you start shifting awkwardly between his legs. Peter just wants to make sure, but he has no problem with dropping the topic if it irks you. That is what he thinks, but you finish the sentence, "better?"

So it doesn't hurt anymore, at least not as badly as it used to. The man lets out a low hum, then turns his head to hang the showerhead into its wall-mount bracket.

"No hair wash?" Are you serious right now? Peter rolls his eyes for real—an act he's very much acquainted with in the past six weeks living here—before facing you.

"No hair wash," there you go again with that annoying pout. Really makes him wonder how the hell you two are the same age, "I won't have you lazing around in here for more than 30 minutes."

Sensing an upcoming brainless argument, the raven-haired assassin stands up and walks out of the bath, taking you with him. He promptly ignores the way you yelp when one right hand grazes a ticklish spot on your nape to keep you still, instead reaching for two towels sitting on the sink. Peter wraps one of them around his waist and focuses on patting you dry with the other. There's a bored look on his face while you just stand there, grumbling under your breath about how you can do this on your own. Brat.

"Put this on." He draps the towel over your shoulders and hands you a fresh set of clothes for the night. Only when you take them does he start putting on his own; a moment of silence follows, save for the rustling of fabric. It’s oddly calming, and even though he has used to going through days without a wink of sleep, Peter feels his eyes getting droopy as he puts on his grey hoodie; the day’s exhaustion finally catching up.

You let out a yawn, putting your hand on his shoulder for support while you slip on a pair of cotton slippers. Now he just has to wait for you to finish up.

“Hey, Peter…”

“Hm?”

The guy looks over his shoulder when you call out his name. This time, you don’t meet his gaze, instead staring down on the floor as you scrawl with one foot.

”Sorry for my mini tantrum earlier.” You gulp, and was that shame he just heard? ”You were just trying to do your job…”

Peter cocks an eyebrow. He isn’t mad at you, per se—the smirk on his lips giving away his rare playfulness—more like the usual light-hearted annoyance (that makes him want to choke you due to how stubborn you are sometimes, but that’s out of the question). You’re still 97% better than most people the Apostle had encountered in his line of work, and that is to say out of the other 3% he didn’t fumble (or kill), you’re the girl who happens to fit the closest to society’s definition of normal.

Not that he cares about what people think, anyway.

“A-And I acted out like a child…” He’s half-expecting another sorry, but you keep your head down in silence. You must be waiting for his answer then, so the guy decides to give you an easy way out; the further teasing comment that is about to leave his mouth can be saved for another time.

”Aside from the occasional migraines you gave me,” Peter smiles, putting a hand on your head as he starts ruffling your hair. "you're not too bad yourself. Apology accepted."

You mirror his mirth, though only for a brief second. Schooling your expression into a mask of faux frustration, you huff and try to pry his hand off. “Right right, now stop would ya? You’re gonna mess up my hair!”

Again, sleep comes first. As fun as it is to taunt you, Peter needs to get you to bed. Tuck you in… is that what it is called? The Apostle mentally cringes at the term; Father Gabriel really did land him into babysitting his niece.

“Right… let’s go.” He settles for giving your head one last pat before motioning you to walk towards the door connected to your bedroom. The distance is short, but Peter knows you’ll be there when he turns around.

Tomorrow will just be another day.

[fatetainted]

Clearing the air here though I'm genuinely afraid for my own safety to.

I didn't block @whitexdove "for no reason" and if they had an ounce of self awareness they would know they were an abusive, manipulative person who drove me to attempt suicide because "it's been a week now" and I "need to stop being so negative all the time." If I didn't respond to their messages they would ask me if I hated them or tell me I was ignoring them or I was making their paranoia worse so I would update them that I wasn't in a headspace because I was having a breakdown or a meltdown and would look later. Because of this they accused me of making their anxiety worse and I needed to get over it because I was having a very bad week with my life falling apart. I nearly killed myself because of years of manipulative abuse and them telling me to just get over it when I was suicidal.

But they've been suicidal for years and I was meant to comfort them every time and several times now they have threatened to cut me off multiple times over the most minor, insane little things. Instead of actually communicating what was wrong and how they felt they made essentially a break up playlist blaming me entirely and told me to listen to it to see what I did wrong and the only fault they would ever take was that they didn't say anything sooner. But suddenly when everything was fine again they would ask when I would send them a gift I bought them. However they had essentially convinced me we were over to the point where I grieved the friendship and returned the gift because I had no use for it anymore.

They hide behind mental illness and autism as if that excuses them being abusive to me and the things they've said to my friends. They blame my BPD for blocking them when it's their own actions and I'm sick of your annoying pity parties.

For years they have emotionally abused me and for years my therapist has been telling me they're not a good influence on my life and she was correct. I developed a THC and xanax dependency because they caused me so much anxiety with their abuse that I could not speak to them without using both daily (and of course, if I didn't speak to them or tell them why I wasn't going to be, they would tell me how paranoid I was making them, but if I DO tell them then I'm being too negative and ignoring their boundaries)

They were ALWAYS setting unreasonable boundaries and I bent over backwards to accommodate. Blocking them is my boundary. And now they're fishing for attention and sympathy for a situation they caused themselves and to drag me back into their abusive cycle.

In addition to this they would say very shitty things about my other friends that actually treated me well and tried to manipulate them into not only making them a LOT of free art but making the character details and backstory (which is a very similar thing they got mad at another artist for!). Most of my friends didn't even like them and were being cordial because I was their friend.

They are now refusing to remove characters based on my original work and flipping out on my friends for no reason other than jealousy and pettiness. Stop plagarizing me, stop claiming you just added to my lore when you added NOTHING and nearly everything is based on my ideas, including Dreameater who is literally the twin of my oc in my original work. And Caelum who is the brother of another oc of mine in my universe. You said you "won't throw away characters you worked hard on" but you have no lore that isn't mine and barely ever spoke of these characters or developed them. You added nothing to this universe or these characters. Don't you EVER use the design I made for the alien species (that is my lore and not yours!) again. It's no longer yours and you can have back that mime design you gave me, I truly do not care. But if you don't listen to me now then by your own logic I can bring back those ocs I made in your universe and I will use them because I worked "so hard" on them.

Before you pull the "I'm younger than you, how can I be manipulative?" Like you did before when you had a major fall out JUST like this (and yes! You also force shipped with me and guilt tripped just like you did with her!) Anyone of any age can manipulate someone else of any age. Just because you're younger doesn't make you the victim.

Stumpy. You are a toxic person the refuses to seek out ANY form of help and expected me to play therapist for you all the time but God forbid I need someone to listen and you expected me to accept how terribly you treated me forever. That's why I left.

You identify with and project heavily onto a character who has canonically killed her entire school and drugged her crush to get him to like her and you ship them despite the clear sexual assault and how canonically abusive and terrifying her obsession with him is. She's a genocidal white savior and that's fucking terrifying. Even more so terrifying is the way you joked about how you kill your rats and feed the dead rats to raccoons. And the fact you fetishize trans men being pregnant, it's a very clear very gross fetish you cannot let go of and forced on me constantly. The fact you seem to fetishize sexual assault and rape and ship people like that with their victims is vile. The way you talked about sleeping next to me in the same bed was disturbing as I look back on these things and I truly don't trust you to have not done things while I was unconscious. I have that little faith in you because of how you act and fetishize things.

You also told me you were going to whitewash a canon poc character and it's okay because it's you doing it. Genesis is Asian. He isn't white. You drew my Japanese character with yellow skin. You white knight in public but you're shitty to any race that isn't Korean or Native American.

For the record, I don't hate you. But I'm happier without you in my life and I don't feel anything for you anymore because of your own actions that broke our relationship irreparably. You're a toxic, vile person and completely self centered and extremely possessive.

Get help. And stop playing the fucking victim.

Allow me to return the favor. I take accountability for not saying anything sooner even though with your unreasonable boundaries and constantly telling me you're suicidal that I could never bring it up with you or any bad thing you were doing to me because you would probably kill yourself if I upset you.

Now you take accountability for your actions and deal with the consequences of abusing me.

You literally never loved me, you just miss having someone love you so much you didn't have to love them back (which you pretty much told me several times you were incapable of even with your own family).

Good riddance. Thanks for the memories even though they weren't so great. I truly will not be returning to this blog so don't bother trying to contact me here or anywhere else. I'm done.

[mrsshabana]

Patient!Gyutaro x Nurse!Reader - CHAPTER 1

Chapter 2

✦ CW: 18+ MDNI, female reader. Mentions of mental illness, suicide, and sexual abuse of a minor. This fic has many dark themes, please do not read unless you are comfortable!

✦ AN: The long awaited nurse au is finally here! Sorry it took me so long, but I wanted to make sure it was perfect. Lots of thought and research went into making this fic. There will also be art included in this chapter!

✦ WC: 2,146

This is what you should have expected from a job in the medical field that didn’t require much qualifications. Working at an asylum wasn’t ideal, but they are incredibly desperate for new nurses. As most of them are unable to handle the physical and mental toll that a place like this puts on someone. 

It’s your first day at your new job. You were excited until you entered the building. The dreary interior mixed with the groans and screams of unruly patients wasn’t the welcome that you had been hoping for.

You’re young, almost too young to be working at a place like this. The other nurses didn’t take you seriously, and they were going to make the transition for you more difficult than it needed to be. You were being assigned to a patient that is notorious for being difficult to work with. The other nurses use him to weed out the weak. Always shifting the new hires to care for him. They usually leave within the first week, so his care returns to one of the veteran nurses known for having a mind of steel. She’s cold hearted, but that helps you deal with a job like this. The complete opposite of you. A warm young woman, eager to treat and rehabilitate.

Currently you are being led to your new patient. Quickly scanning over his records as you follow the nurse through the halls of the sanatorium.

Rashomon Riverbank Asylum

Patient Record

Name: Shabana, Gyutaro

Identification Data: Sex: Male Age: 23 Height: 6’ 3” Weight: 134

Race: Asian Hair: Black Eye: Blue

Special Handling Code: Code Red; Keep medicated Special Handling Instructions: Keep away from sharp objects

Medical History: Multiple suicide attempts, Complications due to sickle cell anemia, Treated for Congenital Syphilis

Diagnoses: Sickle Cell Anemia Hutchinson’s Teeth Borderline Personality Disorder Antisocial Personality Disorder Depression Insomnia

Current Medical Treatment: Special diet for weight gain Medications given AM & PM

Medications: Wellbutrin - 100 mg twice daily Abilify - 10 mg once daily Carbamazepine - 350 mg twice daily Xanax - 2 mg twice daily Trazodone - 150 mg once daily Voxelotor - 500 mg once daily Adakveo - 5 mg IV infusion once every 4 weeks

Gyutaro Shabana, your very first patient at Rashomon Riverbank Asylum. Looking over his record, this is going to be a difficult one. You’ve learned about a majority of these diagnoses in college, so you have a good idea about the kind of treatment he will require. It’s strange though, he seems to have lost the genetic lottery. And you haven't even seen his face yet, you can only imagine what he may look like.

An asian man with sickle cell anemia is almost unheard of, roughly 0.0022%. And on top of that he was born with Congenital Syphilis. It’s quite frankly amazing that he’s lived past 20.

“Just introduce yourself, then I’ll take you to your other patients,” the other nurse says as she stops in front of his door. 

Not wanting to be impolite, you hesitantly knock on his door. There’s no response. You figured that there wouldn’t be, so you open the door anyways.

“Hello, Mr. Shabana?” you say coyly.

When you peek into the room, you are instantly frozen by his icy gaze. He’s sitting on his bed with a book in his lap. His cold blue eyes send shivers down your spine.

“I’m um… I’m your new nurse.” you choke out. He’s feet away from you but you feel as though his hands have a tight grasp around your throat.

“My name is Y/N. Um… If you ever need anything d-don’t hesitate to call for me…”

The expression on his face is unchanging, as he remains silent.

“Well I’ll see you later tonight Mr. Shabana…”

Closing the door, breaking the line of sight that he had on you, instantly you feel a surge of relief.

You go on to visit the rest of your patients, then you come back later that night to give Mr. Shabana his dinner. A high protein meal, specifically for weight gain.

Knocking on the door a few times before you push it open, “Mr. Shabana, I have your dinner.”

He’s in the same spot where you left him, sitting on his bed with a book in his lap. But this time he doesn’t even bother to look at you when you enter the room.

Stepping closer to place the food tray on his table, you inspect his appearance. 

His clothes hang off of his frame, enveloping his skeletal body. You can make out lean muscles on his arms, but his face is sunken and his pants hang low on his hips. There are large black marks scattered across his face, and you can barely see one peeking out from below his sleeve. Were these marks from his Congenital Syphilis? Dark circles sit below his eyes, he looks as though he hasn’t slept in weeks.

He’s wearing the standard issue uniform that all patients wear. A plain t-shirt and pants, made of the same material as scrubs. Though his feet are bare, slippers sitting below the edge of the bed. His hair is long and wavy. Black as midnight, unruly in the way it hangs in front of his face. The top of his hair is half haphazardly tied up.

“Got a problem…?” He rasps, drawing out each word.

The venom of his sour tongue sends a jolt of electricity through your skin. 

“Huh?” you’ve been sitting there staring at him for too long, “O-oh! I’m sorry sir! There’s no problem, please enjoy your dinner,” you quickly rush out of the room.

As you continue on giving food to the rest of your patients, Mr. Shabana’s voice echoes through your skull.

Got a problem…? Got a problem…? Got a problem…?

A few hours later, you go back to retrieve the tray and whatever food may have not been eaten. Stopping yourself before you open the door. It’s ok. He’s just a patient. Then why does he make you so nervous?

*Knock knock*

“Hello Mr. Shabana, I’m just here to collect your tray,” you chime, masking your fear with a smile.

Walking back into the dimly lit room, the fluorescent lights flickering. His eyes staring into you.

His food has been untouched. The only thing that was eaten was a packaged cookie.

“Not hungry today?” your voice shakes as you try to ignore his harsh gaze.

He remains silent. Watching you as you step closer. The buzzing of the fluorescent bulbs filling the room, filling your brain with static.

“Was it not to your liking? I can have the cooks make something else for you if you’d like.”

“...”

Your eyes meet. His thin eyebrows furrow, the rest of his expression remains unchanging. The pressure of his glare makes the air around you feel heavy. Pressing down on you, compressing your spine, you feel so small when he looks at you. You’re desperate to fill the cold aura with some warmth.

“Mr. Shabana you really should eat-”

*CRASH*

He slaps the tray out of your hand, food splattering onto your uniform, dripping onto the floor. 

Silence. You’re stuck staring down at your feet. Watching the pool of meat, vegetables, and milk spread around you. It takes you a few moments to fully process what has just happened, only able to snap out of it when you feel the wetness of the food seeping through your skirt, making you feel cold.

You regret looking up at him. Regret meeting his eyes. Filled with amusement.

“You better clean that up… don’t chu think…?” He smirks. Showing his sharp canines and crooked teeth.

“I-I…” you mumble, looking back down at the mess. He’s right, you should clean it up before it gets everywhere.

Going into the hallway, you grab some towels and return to his room. Not thinking your next actions through as you get down on all fours and start picking up the mess. All you want to do is hurry and clean this up so you can leave. But Mr. Shabana has different plans.

He slowly stands up. Looming over you, looking down on you with a twisted grin. He’s so tall… he makes you feel so small as you look up at him. So pathetic. So worthless.

“You look good down there…” he steps on your hand, “On your knees like a whore…”

His words leave you speechless. Your vision begins to blur and your heart starts to race. He pushes his weight further onto your hand, until you feel a crack.

“I’d like to see you like this more often…” he chuckles, the sound rumbling in his hollow chest.

Every instinct within your body is screaming at you to run. But you feel so trapped. So paralyzed by him. Like a rabbit cornered against a wall by a vicious predator. His eyes. It’s his eyes. No, it's his touch. It’s… everything about him. 

You try to speak up, but your words escape you. Coming out in a pathetic whine that makes his grin widen and his laughter intensify. 

He’s reaching for you. His hand is coming towards your face. Your mind is telling you that if you let him get any closer you will die. He will kill you. And he won’t even care.

Your body is pumped with enough adrenaline for you to break free from the physical and psychological hold he had on you.

Pulling your hand away from under his foot, you push yourself backwards. Stumbling to stand up on your feet. You run out of the room and through the halls, not risking looking back at him. All you hear as you escape is his laughter on repeat. You can’t tell if his laughter is echoing through the halls, or if it has just been ingrained into your mind.

You keep running until you get back to the nurses quarters and to your room. 

Tears running down your cheeks, food staining your clothes, and pain throbbing in your hand. You collapse on the floor and cry.

Why would he be so cruel? You understand that he’s a patient and has a list of mental illnesses, but you were trying to help him! You can’t even remember what you were doing or why you were in his room. All you remember is him and how he made you feel. His stare. His voice. His touch. 

Fuck him and fuck this job.

Clambering over to your desk, you immediately start writing your resignation letter.

You don’t get paid enough for this shit. All you wanted to do is help people, and you get repaid with this? It’s just not worth it. Through your sobs, your tears fall onto the page as you hastily move your pen on the piece of parchment in front of you.

There. It’s done. You’re done.

You won’t have to see this place, see him, ever again once you submit this letter.

Looking around your desk, searching for an envelope. You come across a thick manilla folder. The tab on the side reads, Shabana, Gyutaro.

Something compels you to open it. You already skimmed through his information, but you never looked at everything here.

His psychiatric notes? From his psychiatrist? These shouldn’t be in here… you shouldn’t have access to this confidential information.

But if you’re leaving anyways… then there’s no harm. Right?

Shabana, Gyutaro - Dr. Hantengu

August 14

Childhood trauma starting since birth

Single mother, no father

Raised as a female. Mother would dress patient as a daughter. Would cover up his deformities with makeup. (Feelings of worthlessness, not belonging)

Sister born at age 6 (turning point in patient’s life)

Mother cast aside patient for sister. (When he learned he was actually a boy. Feeling of confusion. Child cannot comprehend)

Sexual abuse started at age 10

Mother was a prostitute, would offer children to adult clients.

 Patient record, “She would bring men into our house… and let them touch us. (long pause) They wanted my sister. They wanted to do bad things to her. So I… (patient gets upset) I would offer myself to them. I would perform sexual acts for them so they would leave Ume (sister) alone.”

Sexual abuse continued until age 15

Mother died of overdose. The children were left in the home for over a week until someone found them.

Children taken to orphanage. 

Patient held in orphanage for 8 months until incident.

Brought to Asylum at age 16

End of first session 

You are left speechless. 

Reading his records reminds you of why you wanted to be a nurse in the first place. To help people that have gone through trauma such as this. He didn’t lash out at you because of something you did. It’s not your fault. And it isn’t his either. He just needs help. 

And you will be the one to help him.

[theladyofbloodshed]

SJM Romance Week - Day 1 - First Date

@sjmromanceweek

With a fear of flying gripping her tight, Nesta just wants to be left alone to spiral in her panic - that is until a swaggering man holds her hand during take off.

The sweating had begun the second she reached the security line which was never a good sign. Nesta tried to act calm, tried not to keep glancing over her shoulders at the security agents as they scanned bags and bodies. Every damn time she made the machine bleep despite ensuring she had no metal on her, as if the machine knew she was panicking and wanted to enhance her worry. True to history, the machine went off and she stepped onto the painted feet for a guard to wave their wand over her. She didn’t know why she was so worried about the security part; Nesta wasn’t smuggling drugs.

Two hours of agony followed.

The duty-free shops didn’t hold her appeal although she’d toyed with buying alcohol to take the edge off things. She’d taken a Xanax already and mixing wouldn’t go well. A book. A new book to keep her occupied, that would do. She checked her gate, double checked it then triple checked it. Lurked near it way before it was boarding time with her new book clutched in her clammy hands. Nesta mentally catalogued her day. She’d watered the plants, Gwyn already had the spare key to water them when needed, she’d turned everything off, locked the door because she’d checked multiple times, had her travel documents on her phone and printed, had only taken hand luggage so it wouldn’t be lost. Everything would be fine. Of course it would be. She was a planner. But she couldn’t plan who was piloting the plane. Couldn’t plan the weather. Couldn’t plan if a freak bolt of lightning struck the plane and zapped them off the face of the earth. Nesta swigged down mouthfuls of sparkling water. She hated it but it made her burp and that alleviated her churning stomach.

When the agents called for boarding, Nesta was first in the queue. Priority boarding had been purchased so she could panic in her seat. Her legs trembled up the metal stairs to board the plane. Planes flew every day. Hundreds of them. All crisscrossing across the sky. And she’d be on the unlucky anomaly. Because of course she would. Nothing ever ran smoothly in her life.

With an eye mask on and a mindfulness podcast blaring in her ears, Nesta tried to block out the rest of the boarding. She was vaguely aware of bodies moving down the aisle or slipping into seats behind or in front of hers, the judder of chairs or slam of the overhead storage. When an elbow knocked into her to take the seat, she didn’t react, just kept listening to the soothing voice telling her to focus on her breathing.

Fingers tapped on her arm repeatedly until she peeled off her mask.

A man with dark-hair tugged into a loose bun at the nape of his neck was gesturing to her headphones. An air steward was watching, life jacket held aloft for the display. ‘Switch to airplane mode or turn off your devices for take off please.’

Nesta fumbled with her phone, hands trembling to change it. She listened to the safety warnings, terror soaking in.

‘Can we swap seats? I don’t want to look out of the window.’

‘Sorry, sweetheart, but I need to leg room in the aisle.’ The man gestured to his broad thighs and long, muscled legs.

Nesta knew well enough that if she even dreamed of closing the hatch on the window, a flight attendant would snap it back up so she could see just how high they were. Once the safety demo had finished, Nesta plugged back into her bubble. Her belt was on but what use was that against a plane crash?

As soon as she felt motion, Nesta was gripping her seat belt as if clinging onto it might save her. Her hands trembled, tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth in her fear as the plane approached the runway.

Then a hand reached for hers. Calloused fingers slid against her own.

Nesta ripped her mask and headphones away in one fell swoop.

‘What the hell are you doing?’

‘You seemed nervous. Thought you’d want a hand to hold.’

The man’s hazel eyes fell to their hands, still entwined then Nesta yanked that away too.

And then the plane was barrelling along the runway, the force pinning her to her seat so she grasped for that hand again. He gave a low chuckle and cradled hers with both of his. Nesta screwed her eyes shut, not wanting to glimpse the moment they took flight or the way the land below would become more and more distant. At Emerie’s encouragement, she’d watched take offs on YouTube, had even tried to play a flight simulator but both of them had freaked her out just as much.

‘Is it just take off or landing too?’

Her words wouldn’t come out. The whole thing was traumatic. The only reason she was flying was because her sister was due to a drop a baby boy any day and Nesta had agreed to be there for the delivery and first couple of weeks of his life. Without a maternal figure, Feyre had decided that Nesta was the closest thing – ignoring the fact neither of them had a clue about babies.

‘What does that beeping mean?’ she hissed.

The man just brushed his thumb in a circle against the back of her hand. ‘It means we can take our seat belts off, sweetheart.’

Reluctantly, she forced open her eyes. People were already releasing their belts and heading to the bathroom. She had held her own urination on every flight. Only poor planners didn’t go before take-off. It would be just her luck that a plane would meet a fiery end whilst she was sat on the toilet.

He leaned over to slide the hatch down, hiding the outside world from view then his fingers headed towards her lap. Nesta was too stunned to react even as he undid her belt.

‘And what happens if this plane starts to plummet from the sky?’

‘I’m sure you can figure out how to put your belt back on,’ he replied, an easy grin on his face. At her terse look, he added, ‘Relax. This plane has never crashed before.’

Nesta busied herself with her book despite the undercurrent of fear threatening to drown her every time she thought too deeply about how the plane remained airborne. The man next to her read the in-flight magazine then began drumming on the fold-out table.

‘Do you mind?’

‘Have you got a request?’

Nesta’s brows drew together. ‘Stop drumming. It’s irritating.’

When the trolley of beverages was a few rows away, he turned to her. ‘What are you having?’

‘Nothing. If I drink, I will need the bathroom. I am not getting up or going there and tempting fate.’

He gave a bellow of a laugh. ‘You’ve thought of everything. You know if the plane crashes, it will make no difference if you’re sat by me or on the toilet.’

Her face must have paled because he added, ‘But it will fly safely to our destination.’

A handsome, swaggering smile was offered to the air stewardess when she approached. ‘Two coffees, chips, M&Ms and whatever drink has the most sugar.’

There was a veritable feast laid out in front of him, but a coffee was placed on the little table that he unfolded at her seat. The M&M pouch was torn open and shook in front of her face.

‘Go on, treat yourself.’

‘Do you just fly around the country and trap women in airline seats so they can’t get away?’

He ran a hand against his black hair. ‘Should I have gotten the peanut ones?’

Nesta took a few and tipped them into her mouth.

‘Careful, sweetheart, you don’t want to choke while the plane is crashing.’

‘You are not funny,’ she complained.

‘When they need to identify your body, what name will go with it?’

This time, she nearly did choke on her handful of M&Ms. ‘Are you serious? Is that how you’re asking my name?’

He spread out his hands, evidently pleased with that terrible line, awaiting her answer.

‘Nesta.’

‘Cassian.’

They chatted as the plane continued on its journey, drinking their coffee and eating his snacks. They shared the can of coke, her inhabitations well and truly lowered by the Xanax if she was willing to swap saliva and drink from the same can as a stranger. At the first signs of turbulence, Cassian was there to hold her hands and murmur embarrassing stories about his friends to stop fear paralysing her.

Once the cabin crew had swept through to collect the final few items of rubbish on the short flight, Nesta was clamming up again. She knew what was to follow.

‘Cabin crew, prepare for landing.’

Clouds streamed past the window, adding to the turbulence. Nesta was too scared to even reach for her mask which had fallen on the floor.

Cassian wound his fingers into hers. ‘I’ve got you, sweetheart. It will be okay.’

Every bump had her gritting her teeth so hard, it was a wonder that one of her molars didn’t crack. Cassian just kept talking in a low voice about inane topics to try and shave the edges off of her fear. His arm wound around her shoulders, forehead touching her temple, whilst his other hand still held hers.

‘This is the nicest first date I’ve ever had.’

That snapped something in her. ‘This is not a date.’

The nose of the plane dipped and her stomach lurched from the motion.

‘We’ve had coffee and snacks. We’re holding hands. You’ve shared your deepest fears of dying in a blazing crash. To die by your side is such a heavenly way to die.’

Nesta ground out, ‘I hate the Smiths.’

‘Everybody does,’ he said.

With a bump that made her squeeze Cassian tighter, the plane landed. It sped down the runway and Nesta kept her eyes firmly shut for the entire duration until Cassian murmured that they had stopped.

‘You see, a safe flight after all.’

‘Fortune was cruel enough to put me next to you. A crash would have really tipped it over the edge.’

Cassian lifted her bag down for her, his black t-shirt rising to expose a strip of his taut muscled stomach. His own was a well-used duffle which he slung over his shoulder.

They walked together towards the airport building.

‘Do I get your number then?’

Nesta cocked a brow at his boldness. ‘Absolutely not. I’d rather be the one that got away.’

‘Every flight I’ll think of you, wondering if you’re stealing another man’s snacks.’

Nesta pressed her fingers to her lips and blew him a kiss as they parted into two different lines at security.

The man had to be mad, she decided as she passed through passport control. No sane man would just start holding a stranger’s hand – and she was an idiot for reciprocating that touch. But it did sting a bit that he’d accepted her refusal so easily. After how tactile and caring he’d been, she thought maybe Cassian would have pestered her again for her number or her socials. Whatever. His loss.

Her fear of flying meant that she’d sweated through her deodorant so she hurried into the bathroom to change her top, clean her arm pits with a baby wipe then slather on more deodorant to appear a little less dishevelled. Nesta spotted Cassian waiting at the baggage carousal for more belongings to come rolling around so she scurried past, avoiding his attention. Fantasy was more fun than reality. Maybe he’d be her one that got away.

After passing through anything to declare, Feyre was waiting for her. The huge belly wasn’t a surprise but it was still a shock to see her little sister so heavily pregnant.

‘Wow, look at you!’

‘I am peeing every ten minutes,’ she replied, holding up her belly.

‘Hi, Rhys.’

‘Nesta,’ he said, swooping to press a kiss on her cheek.

They’d met once. And it had been awkward as hell when Nesta realised he was eight years older than her. He wasn’t the sort of man she’d ever choose, but Feyre seemed happy. They were on “Christmas Card closeness” usually so Feyre’s call asking her to come and be close for the birth had meant a lot. Meant enough that she was willing to fly two days later.

‘Where’s the rest of your luggage?’

‘I had it sent ahead.’

Feyre patted Rhys on the arm. ‘Nesta hates flying. Everything is planned to an inch of its life. No detours, no unnecessary waiting. On the plane, off the plane.’

Even being in an airport, with its constant business, had Nesta itchy. ‘Shall we go?’

‘Do you want to head to the car, ladies? I’m worried about you standing for so long, darling.’

Feyre shook her head, golden hair cascading from the motion. ‘I’m fine. Cassian won’t take that long.’

‘Cassian?’

Nesta could practically hear the alarm bells ringing in her head.

‘My brother,’ said Rhys.

‘He works on an oil rig but he’s home for a couple of months now so you two can argue over who is the best uncle or auntie,’ teased Feyre.

There he was, striding through the doors, duffle bag slung over one shoulder while pushing a cart loaded with three more bags. His eyes snapped straight to her, a slow grin spreading over his face.

They said their greetings, Nesta and Cassian pretending that she hadn’t just been clinging to him in terror on the flight here then they fell into step together, walking slightly behind Rhysand and Feyre.

‘Fortune favours you,’ he murmured.

‘Did you know who I am?’

Cassian gave a hearty laugh that had Rhys glancing his shoulder at them. ‘Not at first. You looked familiar then you said your name and I realised you were Feyre’s sister.’

‘Lucky me,’ she grumbled.

With one hand pushing the trolley, he slung the other arm around her shoulders. ‘So, about that second date.’

[love-kurdt]

i’ve been getting a lot of people asking me why i made will byers and his family jewish in the timt series and have made it a point to bring it up multiple times.

my main question is… why do y’all have such a problem with it?

he’s a fictional character.

if u must know, i have jewish heritage and would like to express it in my writing. but y’all need a xanax

[lively-potter]

moon struck ; part four

— genre ; strangers to friends to lovers, kinda grumpy x sunshine, fluff, angst, smut, angst with a happy ending 🥹

— warnings ; body insecurities ( mentioned ), eating disorder ( mentioned ), oc deals with a severe amount of anxiety and panic attacks, violence, smut ( later ), FLUFF, love struck jungkookie 🥹

— find me on Wattpad ; LivelyPotter

— word count ; 1.3k

— intro , part one, part two, part three

— 2024 © LivelyPotter

— taglist ; @ahgasegotarmy116 @jk97bam

river's pov ; 2 pm

At precisely 2 pm, I entered the Library with a smile of relief. Sending a small shy wave to the librarian – Mrs. O'Brian – who came to be used to my presence here every single Tuesday.

My hand tightetned around the strap of my messenger bag once I walked deeper within the Library, heading in one direction in particular.

At the back of the large open spaced room, in a lonely corner, sat my arm chair. A chair that I basically claimed as my own since I had been coming here since I was seven years old.

I threw down my messenger bag and tucked my phone into my back pocket and allowed myself to grin.

After the stressful couple of days I've had, spending the rest of my day in one of my favorite places in Charleston was surely able to perk me up. Just incase, I stashed my pink stress ball – along with my new green one if my anxiety hightenes.

My posture was completly at ease as I slowly walked up and down the isles – not finding a book that interested me yet, and the books that did catch my eye are the ones that I've already read. More than once.

To satisfy myself, I grabbed the books and flipped to my favorite parts to reread.

Tucking my hair behind my ears, I knelt down to retrieve a book with an interesting title; drawn in by the pretty cover.

Just as my hand was about to grasp the book, a bigger, familiar looking had reached for the same book. Their fingers brushed against mine, and I gulped.

The hand that laid over mine was warm, and at least twice the size of my own. Accompanied by the tattoos of a purple heart, some letters, a crown, and an emoji on their hand and the rings on the fingers had me balking.

Oh dingleberries.

Of course, my luck would be worse today. It was as if Karma was out to get me ( which it was ), and I wasn't prepared for it. But would I ever really be?

I was too afraid to look at the space beside me that had been occupied by Jungkook. My throat tightened.

Man, I really wish I had my squeeze ball in my pocket. Could I bother him for a xanax? I really needed one.

"Urm...h-hey, River," Jungkook said, avoiding my eyes bashfully, tattooed hand leaving mine to rub across the back of his neck. He towered over me even while stooping down in a squat. His powerful masculine body made me feel so teeny tiny and protected, as odd as it sounded.

His sturdy thighs flexed underneath his jeans as he watched me watch him.

I felt heat enter my cheeks at being caught ogling him and looked sharply away. "Hi," I whispered back, feeling my toes twitch inside my hey dude shoes. Should I start running now?

Jungkook started to grin sheepishly, "Here," he withdrew the book and held it out to me. I licked my suddenly dry lips and eyed the book in his hands. "Take it." he spoke kindly, a finger coming up to gently push his dark hair out of his eyes.

I shook my head, "Um, i-it's okay. You keep it." I said, declining with a tight-lipped smile.

Why wasn't I running yet?

"Nah," he chuckled, "...I, uh, I just realized I already read this."

I glanced down at the book and oddly enough, arched a brow. "You've read The Sinner?" From the reviews from multiple friends of mine – it was just pure filth.

He reads those kinds of books, too?

Jungkook nervously nibbled on his pierced bottom lip. "I have?" he asked himself, cutely pouting before looking into my eyes, and his widened, "I have! Sure, it's, uh, it's a good one."

I nervously nodded and forced another smile even though my heart was racing out of my chest. I reached out and gently grabbed the book from his grasp. "Thanks," I whispered, feeling the urge to sink against his warmth.

Jungkook smiled and stood to his feet, immediately dwarfing my short frame and peering down at me, black Balenciaga boots scuffing against the carpet flooring inside the Library.

As I sent him another tiny smile and prepared to walk away, he suddenly spoke up. "Moon missed you today –" he said, making me look over at him over my shoulder.

My brows furrowed.

"She was crying up a storm when she realized you weren't there today." he explained, lips pulling up in a wide smile at the mention of his daughter.

Thinking about Moon, it was almost too easy to forget that I was talking to her dad, the very man who caused me to want to run away every chance I got.

"I miss her," I admitted shyly, book tucked under my arm, "Tuesdays are my days off."

Jungkook nodded and ran his eyes up and down my frame, "Good to know." he mumbled too quietly to hear, "Um...you know, i-if you wanted you could always come by to see her whenever you want to, we'd love it!...I mean she would love it! – if you want to that is–" he said quickly, seeing the dumbfounded expression on my face.

I didn't know what to say.

Drop by? Drop by where? His house?

You could feel my pulse thud erratically in my neck while I fought for something to say.

With his eyes pleading with me to answer, I finally parted my lips to answer.

"...Sure," I agreed, eyes downcast, not seeing his hopeful eyes, "I'd like that."

"--Could I get your number?" he asked huskily, lips twisting to the side, "So, you know, so I can set everything up?"

Oh dingleberries.

Was he asking for my number?

I was dumbstruck.

He was.

For once in my life, I went off on a limb, and nodded.

"Oh o-okay." I agreed, curling my toes inside my shoes, feeling so small under his stare.

Jungkook's neck jerked back, perhaps from shock, and he suddenly grinned widely. "Here," he dug inside the pocket of his dark jeans and withdrew a sleek black phone. He tapped on it a couple times before handing it to me. "Just put in your number and I'll send you a text."

I wordlessly took the phone from his hand and quickly typed in my number, along with my name before handing it back.

"There you go," I licked at my dry lips and peeking up at him. He was looking deeply into my eyes with his boba-like doe ones and looking at me much kinder than I deserved.

"Thank you!"

I sent him another nervous upturn of my lip before I scurried off, book in hand.

***

third pov ; jeon jungkook

Jungkook grinned widely, heart speeding inside his chest as he watched River walk away, her steps quickening. He felt like cheering and jumping for you because not only did he talk to her more, but he also got her number!

Talk about progress, right?

Jungkook's thumbs slightly shook due to his excitement and he bit his lip, typing out a short message and sending it.

River looked downright terrified speaking with him but he also hoped he put her at ease in some way.

And fuck, he almost embarrassed himself so badly when he tried to pretend that he read the book – which he didn't – and thankfully it looked like she believed him.

He hated that he had to lie...but it gave him a chance to speak with her. When he walked in and finally spotted her after searching, he needed an excuse.

He liked to read, when he had time, but he most certainly hadn't read this one. Yet, that is. He would read that damned book as soon as he could so they could talk about it.

Jungkook left the Library with a pep in his step and grinned to himself once his phone pinged with a reply.

Things were finally progressing for the better. author's note ; ✨

Jungkook's so cute 😭😭🥹 he's such a puppy atp 💜🥹if you want to be apart of my taglist, just lemme know! thanks for reading! and please excuse any grammatical errors 😭😭

[kuruk]

I've had too much xanax past week or so augh not crazy or anything I just don't like taking more than twice a week or multiple times a day and try to avoid it unless I need it. I write every med I take+the time, even most otc pills, in my planner and in my phone to transfer to planner later if I'm too tired. but a couple times my xanax med logs didn't make sense and I couldn't tell when or how many were taken exactly help. not a big deal I take .5mg usually or 1mg if it's a really serious one. I just don't want worse anxiety -.-

[f1rewalk3r]

How did wormwife and worm ex-wife fall in love?

Picture this: I’m in college, ~10 years ago. Creative fiction class. I only need the junior level writing credit for my business degree, but I’d always had a passion for the arts. Would have pursued them if it wasn’t for family pressure.

I’m sitting towards the back of class, obviously nervous, when in walks this adorable mousy girl. She got curly brown hair, huge circular glasses, and a button nose.

I was enamored instantly. As the semester went on, though, my crush grew stronger when I heard her talk with such feverish passion about her writing. She had such lofty ambitions, plans for huge sweeping speculative fiction epics, and an eye for detail like I’d never seen.

It took me till the end of the semester to ask her out. We were married three months after graduation.

I knew her writing wouldn’t pull much money, but I was fine being the powerful business wife while she was more of a homebody. I was just happy to support her. I’d come home to find the dining table strewn with sticky notes, each one an intricate plot point with innumerable connections within the sea of other notes.

I’d always encourage her to get started, to just write, but she always refused. She wanted to do more research, first.

Days spent researching turned into weeks turned into months turned into years. Our bookshelves, once only holding space for the most venerated of classics, quickly overflowed with the latest of YA slop. So much space dedicated to so many multiple-book series, each more redundant than the last.

She was convinced, though, that eventually she’d find the end-all-be all perfect inspiration. I suppose my continued faith in her was my folly, ultimately.

The pandemic was the beginning of the end. she got obsessed with a comic about being stuck at home, or something. I guess it was fitting, with the lockdowns. To be honest, I was hardly paying attention at that point.

The first big warning sign was when I caught her in a bathtub full of sharpies. She had the perfect cosplay idea, she said. She needed my help, she said. I remember the feverish look in her eyes. The way it seemed the passion I fell in love with all those years ago had perverted itself into something twisted and unnatural.

I was able to slip a Xanax into some weird soda she was obsessed with, and she forgot all about it when she woke up.

Eventually she got over that obsession, though. As for her next? Well. You already know how that went, don’t you?

wormwife and wormdivorce concept by @wbcannibalgf. much love to them <3

[thisliminalspacedaydreams]

Hello! Tumblr feels dead this morning and I’m hypomanic and neeeeeed to be entertained and so I’ve resorted to stalking mutuals to find people to interact with (granted I should be working, I’m in my office right now not doing what I’m paid to do because… boring) and so that ask game you posted yesterday? Very curious about question 16..

Hello!

I, too, am at work 👀 and seeking entertainment, so that works out perfectly well, it's like you were reading my bored mind. But I have 32 fics so I'm only going to pick a few. I had to look up illicit substances because I'm an upstanding citizen who is mostly also a boring human with very little knowledge of things that are illicit. I picked both illicit and like...just drugs in general.

16 - Assign each of your fics (or selection of them) an illicit substance: Heartless : Weed (kinda illicit? In my country anyway). People have told me it reads like the ocean, and it's non-linear, and I feel like that works out the best. I am the moved on : Cocaine, because it causes intense highs and crashing lows, and so does this fic. The Brew : Definitely Hallucinogens, because I wrote this in 24h in a fever dream and don't remember it at all. One Thousand Wildflower Fields : LSD, because I ALSO don't remember writing this one at all, I banged it out in 4 hours and then cried. Le Mange Dieu et le Dévoreur de Mondes : Xanax, because lord knows Regulus needs a few. To you, who knew me : This one is whatever substance brings you to jump off the balcony. Peak : Fentanyl, cuz it's prescribed for chronic pain but it's addictive. Runaway Groom : Alcohol, cuz it's fun to read for a bit but it's good it's not a multiple chapter fic. Musical chairs on a sinking ship : Heroin, because it's harmful to the user (the writer, me) and to others (readers), and really addictive. I would write a full fic of this one. It was incredibly easy to just come out of me.

Side question, are you OKAY babe??

This ask game

[roostertuftart]

13(Kyle?) 20, and 27?

13. Unpopular opinion about Kyle?

GOOD QUESTION, because wow is he a spicy character to have ANY opinions on right now...

Ummm Gonna lean into something I wanted to say earlier about him when I was talking about Kyman, because I don't see this factor of his character really given attention by either kymans or styles (where the fandom is most prominently divided on Kyle, I think) and I kinda feel in between it as a big shipper of Style who's also really intrigued by the complexities of Kyle and Eric's dynamic.

And sorry if any of my language comes off anti any ships here, I just want to work off of the debate I've seen between both of them to talk about this but I'm not trying to step on any fingers here!!

I've seen it said often as an argument for Kyman that Kyle is absolutely obsessed with Eric back, and I've seen in turn Styles often like to downplay Kyle and Eric's dynamics entirely or act like it's completely insane to suggest this idea- But I kind of agree Kyle is???

Personally, what I think is that Kyle absolutely is obsessed with Eric, what he's doing, what he's up to, who he talks to, etc, but I just don't think this is due to some sort of underlying romance. I think Kyle is meant to be portrayed in the show as being incredibly invested in what Cartman is up to because

Kyle has made it his personal mission to fix Cartman/keep him in line. He often seems to believe it's his job to guide him into doing better, keep him out of trouble, keep him from hurting people, and keep him from getting hurt himself (though I think this comes out of Kyle giving into his guilt watching Cartman actively suffering, there's also been multiple times Kyle encouraged him to get himself killed)

I just think Kyle is genuinely nervous about Cartman. Now this isn't particularly obvious- It's not like we see Kyle showing any real signs of fear around Eric, but I do see signs of anxiety that are far more subtle- The important thing to remember here is that Kyle rarely show's many negative emotions beyond anger. It's how he processes many things, and when anger doesn't work, we often see him shut down emotionally (Ex. scenes in The List and Ginger Cow). This isn't to say Kyle never shows sadness/fear, he definitely does! But these tend to come out more in specific situations where as more often, he represses these emotions and keeps his vulnerabilities out of obvious reach. Idk, I'm rambling a bit here but the point is that I think a lot of Kyle's quickness to get so angry and worked up over Cartman, his need to know what he's up to and try to jump on it is a reaction done out of anxiety that I'm not even sure Kyle is aware of. I think this is especially prevalent in say, Post Covid, where we see Kyle has seemed to gotten a very good control over his anger and aggression UNTIL he has to face Eric, to which immediately he is paranoid and jumping on everything Eric says to him, refusing to believe anything he sees and positive it's some jab against him that he'll pay for the moment he give in to believing it. And I don't think this is unfair of Kyle! Of course he's distrustful! Eric has put him through a lot, fooled him many times, and Kyle just can't keep it together anymore the moment he has to speak to him. Just... The entire meltdown of this calm collected persona he's been managing along with his paranoia just comes off so much as anxiety to me. Not to mention, I do think Kyle has anxiety he's not aware of. The way he describes anxiety as normal in Buddha Box and goes into detail what is "normal" to feel like... "Everyone has anxiety! Everyone gets nervous! Everyone is afraid being around people! Everyone has feelings they'd rather stay home alone! And you know what they do? They get over it." Damn Kyle. Get therapy honey. You need a Xanax or something. None of that is normal and the fact that he has become so deluded to believe it is is pretty tragic, but kind of supports that he doesn't even recognize the feelings making him act out so aggressively as an anxiety response.

Anyway TLDR Kyle is obsessed with Eric because of paranoia and anxiety/his need to be a good person and "fix" him

20. What is the purest ship in the fandom?

k2 next question

nah but seriously, this ship has no discourse, the nicest shippers... Is just as a ship genuinely super sweet and nice and wholesome and lovely, Kenny and Kyle just feel like characters who really understand each other and function well together. I love them and I love K2 shippers.

27 is right here!

Based on this ask list :)

[golbrocklovely]

for now, i think this will be the final update i'll give on my mom, just bc i need to focus on anything else but her health problems and what has happened within the last week or so.

my mom ended up going to the hospital yesterday. i had stayed up most of the night bc of anxiety and bc i slept most of the day, so by 5 in the morning, my mom was awake. she seemed okay, but her anxiety was back. she wanted me or my brother to give her a melatonin or an advil pm, just something so she could sleep. she didn't remember sleeping prior, which we had to tell her was the case.

she end up possibly dosing off for an hour or so, but then woke back up wired and going crazy. this issue this time was me and my brother were asleep. she apparently called me multiple times on my phone, but i never woke up. she also had called an old doctor's office that she hasn't gone to in a couple months bc they discharged her bc they were the ones that originally prescribed the xanax she had been on and she just wanted some form of anxiety medication.

at this point, it was apparent that my mom needed to go to the hospital bc she was losing her mind and was under a lot of stress. my brother woke me up, telling me we were gonna take her. and then, from what we can tell, she had a seizure. which her actual primary doctor has told her that if she cold turkey-ed her anxiety medication would happen.

we called 911, and things got worse from there. i thought she stopped breathing for a moment, did some chest compressions but then my brother came up and felt her heart beating out of her chest. then she started flailing her body around, and when her eyes finally popped open, she started screaming. then she started screaming over and over again "please somebody help me, please, oh god" and things along those lines. i was doing my best to calm her down while my brother was on the phone with 911. and she was like this the whole time the emts were here. but she calmed down somewhat and they got her into the ambulance. they took her to a hospital and we informed my aunt and uncle (her sister) that she was in the hospital. they drove us there, and we found her in the er.

she was slightly calmer, but still very agitated and stressed. we got her to calm down for the most part. they ran some tests, and everything seemed fine with her. like all of her tests came out relatively in the green, which was surprising as hell to hear. they gave her a dose of her anxiety medication, which i think helped a lot. they also gave her fluids. and she ate and kept it down.

they ended up discharging her, giving her the prescription for her anxiety medication that we would have to take to a pharmacy once we got home.

we took an uber home (bc my aunt and uncle had to leave to take care of their dog) and when we got home, my mom was somewhat calmer, but direly needed her medication. both me and my brother were running on thin ice, but somewhat lucky for us bc we had a paper prescription and live not that far from a cvs, so we were able to get it.

it was also discounted too, which was great.

i got my mom up to her room, gave her some food, and once my brother came home with her medicine, she went to sleep after being home for an hour or so.

me and my brother woke her up at 11 to give her her heart medication and her anxiety medication again (bc she takes two doses of it and we now have a 30 day supply of it) and she went back to sleep.

today…. is a lot better. i legitimately thought i was gonna lose my mother yesterday so to see her now as just a bit foggy, but the most coherent and calm since last week is amazing. i shed a lot of tears last night when i woke up from my nap, and i took off all this week from work so i can be home with her. i might go in later in the week if she feels fine or is completely back to normal. but we shall see.

and in case you are wondering, we plan to sue the fake primary doctor (or the replacement one, idk what i called him in the previous posts. but not her actual one since she is not the cause for all of this).

again, i want to thank you all so much for sending well wishes to me and my family. it truly means a lot, especially since i don't really have anyone outside of them to talk to about all of this. i believe things will get better, i just gotta keep reminding myself to take it day by day.

this week is just about getting my mom back to normal, which we are already heading in the right direction. everything else will come with time.

[padawansuggest]

Xanax kicking in. Might not be able to take my daily meds tonight but I have been able to get down my meds that need to be taken multiple times daily, and one of them was over 5 hours late because of losing time today. I cannot wait for this to relax me more so I can go to bed. I ate enough that I won’t throw up. Ugh.