#i suppose i am having a small window of 'sanity' because early fall always cheers me up

[katyspersonal]

I used to take meds back then from autumn 2018 to autumn 2019. They were helping with paranoia, hyperactivity, impulsivity, anger issues, delusions, panic attacks, etc, you get the drill. They had good effects, such as me having been rather calm (to the point people were joking about how nothing could ever anger or scare me, lol), as well as more focused on writing or drawing things more than I've ever been in my life. But also they've made me so sleepy that I basically barely finished my last uni year when dozing off at every class, and I had a hard time providing the engaged, invested, "nerdy" conversations on every other topic like I do. I just quit them because not only being sleepy ALL the time would not let me work a job normally, but I also started to worry that I've been losing myself as a person. I was just so... detached and boring in conversations while medicated? Like you guys here know me as a person who is chronically like this:

But when I was medicated, it was far not this way. I was giving like... kinda tame and normie responses and thoughts, still excited but not TOO excited, etc. I am surprised that even while being a total slug on meds, I still had it in me to start fearing of losing my "eyes on the inside" xd

But I've been just thinking about stuff recently. I still loathe it when it is being handled like "you are a dangerous harmful monster that doesn't deserve compassion and trust and should be exciled from society", obvs, but the problem itself exists. I am kinda too intense, too much, too impulsive, my mood can drastically flicker within a second and flicker back just as fast. And I am paranoid. This year I even exhausted another paranoid person with being worse at it than them :/ (it always reminds me of a dream I had once, where Mic0lash of all people told me that I was "too crazy" for him fdshfh xD) I am extremely blessed to have friends and simply familiar people who accept and love me the way I am, but I am really starting to think that maybe I should delve back into it. That maybe something was wrong with the meds or the dose I used to be taking and I should try again. It is just really strange that being healthier would be able to "ruin" my passionate, nerdy, engaged personality. I've always been 'over the top' with how I think and with my creativity, even before any mental illness showed up, so sure it is just me and not any sort of positive symptom...? Like, clearly this is just my autism, not one of those other "mental illness" guys?

Well, all this talk is just in the scenario if I get enough financial stability to be able to afford monthly repackaging of meds. I am just having second thoughts on whether it is really a choice with no good option, and that maybe that previous doctor just made a mistake with prescriptions (could happen with anyone, even a professional). Or maybe I needed to demand trying something else but didn't. And I just assumed that "meds are a diabolic device to destroy a creative, nonconforming brain" (notice how it itself sounds a bit like a paranoid delusion, so clearly those meds were not quite helping with it lol). Not gonna lie, I am still scared that being calmer will kill the "real me", but at this point pain, paranoia and anger keep chopping away from my days and from my good experiences. And I can't control it.

But maybe I just should not have expected to hit the right way instantly, some people try out different meds for years before they find something that genuinely makes life better. Like maybe I got scared of how things have changed and gave up too soon, when I should have like, bugged doctor to try something else. I just want to believe that I don't have to choose between "being nerdy and engaged" and "stopping having panic/anger attacks that quite literally make me lose my mind". At least I gather enough optimism and benefit of the doubt to consider delving into it again, so there is something..

[jeonwrit]

Mornings Without Good Coffee

originally based off this (but really i veered off course) jungkook x reader genre: fluff + not-a-morning-person/rich asshole!jeon word count: 2799 warnings: none, but the fluff thoooo, im disgusted by myself

Jungkook knows that when his marimba alarm rings in the AM, he has to get up. He can’t revel in the silk of his bed after a week of late nights that have succeeded in draining his energy to a lowly poor amount, and he most certainly can’t take his goddamn time with getting up. He’s given his personal assistant the week off (something about his father being sick) so no wake up call, no suit ready and waiting on his hangar, no hand-crushed coffee beans in his coffee. This means, not only does he have to make his own fucking coffee, he has to pick out his own goddamn suit, and his own goddamn cufflinks, and this is so goddamn stupid. Though Jungkook can’t quite remember the last time he put his cufflinks on by himself, he’s sure that it can’t be that difficult. He’s wrong. Terribly wrong. At least he managed to pack for himself. At least he knows how to drive to the airport. And if he can’t drive, then he’s sure he can get a helicopter to pick him up from the house.

The coffee tastes horrible, he tried to crush his own coffee beans, but when they fell into a mess all over the floor, some pieces crushed like pecans and others smashed into fine dust that looked like cumin powder, he gave up.

The black BMW he drives waits for him outside, the setting moon before the dawn shining on it’s perfect surface. He looks at the immaculate paint job and smiles. At least something is going right this morning, other than his really fucking impeccable alarm. On the way to Incheon, he picks up a espresso from a fast-food restaurant. It tastes like shit also to his freshly-grounded-coffee beans taste buds.

When Jungkook walks into Incheon Airport on Monday morning (actually it’s not so much morning as it is really fucking late night, at least for Jungkook) at 3:10 AM, he expects it to be empty, at least of all those perky vacationers, who usually leave on Fridays. He expects it to be quiet, only the low hum of the conveyor belt and maybe the occasional rumble of a half-empty airplane taking off overhead. He expects it to be peaceful, only a cup of black coffee, a no sugar, no cream americano to be exact, in his hands and a black Tumi bag that he can store carry-on.

His shoes, freshly polished, scuff against the floor, and he’s missing a cuff link to his new suit. Without an assistant this morning, he’s falling apart, from the seams of his jacket to the tie that doesn’t match or suit the business meeting that he’s supposed to be attending. Jungkook scowls.

He gets in line to get his boarding pass (the electronic machines don’t make much sense, and what’s the use in that when there are people for a reason to help a person) behind a woman. She also carries a black Tumi bag, and in her black pumps and pencil skirt, she looks like she is leaving town for a business meeting.

But then she opens her mouth. “Hi, I’m going to Busan,” she says. And yes, if Jungkook were a romantic he would describe her voice as a fairy’s, not unlike his best friend Jimin’s, all tinkling bells that don’t fail to light up the air around her and lullabies that seem to reflect all the moonlight keeping the world awake at night. But Jungkook’s not a romantic, so he doesn’t think that (yes, he does), and her cheerful voice, just like every other cheerful, perky-ass voice, sets his teeth on edge. It doesn’t help that he’s going to Busan too, and it’s quite likely that he will be on the same flight as her. He mumbles an excuse me, pushing past her to get to the other kiosk, where another official dressed in blue and white airplane color awaits him.

And the girl turns, opens her mouth to say sorry, most likely, but then stops. She probably sees the expression of ultimate distress and distrust and disgust on his face because her mouth arranges itself into a scowl and she frowns. Jungkook wishes she would stop because, unfortunately for his sanity, pretty girls with frowns make up some of the parts of his brain that file away most annoying people in the world.

But instead of the probably insincere, habitual sorry that Jungkook expects, she spits, “Yes, excuse you.” Jungkook has enough to control to prevent his face from turning red, but he knows the tips of ring-clad ears are burning like hell. Her face is pretty, and he wants to reach out to touch the tips of her hair that looks too soft to be real. Her eyelashes are long and they dust across her cheekbones with every blink of eyes that Jungkook is sure belong with stars. He wishes he had enough courage to stay around and talk, but his body betrays him and he spins on his heel to talk to the noticeably male flight attendant.

After attaining his boarding pass, Jungkook walks through the long halls corridors of the airport. The intercom calls for flights 712, 713, and 256, in its staticy female voice, the epitome of computerized feeling.

His gate enters his field of vision, but he stops to get another cup of coffee that will keep away the sleep, like a ward against evil. He almost chokes on the tasteless nastiness of the black bitter coffee. Yes, Jungkook has resigned himself to this type of coffee, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it, no matter how many times he tells himself he needs it. But he doesn’t and as a night owl by nature, he’s sure coffee doesn’t help him any. He sips away, already used to the horrid taste, like a first-time smoker gets used to his cigarette.

He gives his boarding pass to the attendee who stands patiently waiting. She’s taken aback by Jungkook’s hostile expression, but Jungkook’s knows this look by now, in fact he’s intimately familiar with it.

“Sir,” she says, pointedly staring at the cup of coffee in his hands. “You’ll have to throw that away.”

“Why?” he asks her, as nice as is possible for him right now, but it still comes off as mean.

“We do not allow food or drink on domestic flights, sir,” she patiently says.

“And when did you change the policies?” Jungkook inquires.

“I do not know, sir, I believe this has always been our policy.”

Jungkook doesn’t look away from the woman as he throws away the cup in the trash that stands next to her.

Jungkook walks into the plane, with his Tumi bag, and his black shoes, and his tailored jacket, in a huff.

His seat is annoying too, the pillow and the blanket that are usually customary in flights this early in the morning are both missing, and Jungkook wants to sleep. He wishes he didn’t get the coffee because he can feel the jitters buzzing through his veins, his brain struggling to find fatigue and finding none. He slumps in his seat, wishing for the business class ticket he usually gets.

He’s finally staring contentedly outside the window, when she walks towards him. She doesn’t carry anything but a small brown leather backpack, and a phone, into which she is speaking rapid-fire Korean. The Tumi bag is gone, obviously checked in. He stares at the graceful curve of her neck (it’s actually a bit like a swan’s, but, you know, without the white feather down) for a few seconds, watching the pulse flutter at the top of her collarbone, and she flushes when she catches his unrelenting staring.

The phone clicks off, and she takes out what is obviously her airplane ticket from the brown leather bag, forehead creasing. Jungkook tries not to think about the fact that she looks incredibly cute, the skin between her eyebrows furrowing, and bright eyes squinting so that he can’t see what color they are anymore.

“So,” she says, annoyed, and though Jungkook does wonder what has piqued her annoyance, he is more curious about her herself. Her eyebrow raises. “You seem to have taken my seat.”

“No.” Jungkook is bristling, because who does she think she is. He pulls out his own ticket from his wallet in his back pocket. “I do not believe I have. You see my ticket here, says 9...” Jungkook trails off.

There is silence as she waits for him to continue.

“Does it say A or B?” she inquires, that note of patient annoyance in her voice. Really Jungkook thinks it is condescension.

“B. I suppose I read it wrong,” Jungkook says, the apology in his voice noticeably missing. He gets up into the aisle, leaning into her as he does so. She steps back.

Jungkook tries to get more comfortable again (but comfort obviously doesn’t exist in economy), but he finds himself staring at her, her profile much more interesting than the small window on her right. She reads a SkyMall magazine, and Jungkook finds himself much more entranced than he would like.

The plane rumbles as it takes off, the vibrations making Jungkook sick, he’s always hated the sound and the stale air of the plane. But quickly he finds himself falling asleep with headphones in his ears and the sweet sound of Dean melting honey upon his eardrums.

When Jungkook wakes up, he smells mango and mint, a fruit cocktail in the air, and he’s swallowing hair, the strands stuck in his mouth and in his nose. It’s not bad precisely, the luscious locks smooth and silky, but there is a weight on his chest that he can’t say was there before, a weight that’s actually quite nice, Jungkook smiles. Maybe the morning never fucking happened and it was all a nightmare. Yes, nightmares tend to be actually scary, not incredibly boring, but who knows.

He opens his eyes, the blurry lines of the airplane coming into sharp awareness, and Jungkook becomes painfully aware of the vibration of the airplane, he can tell from a quick glance at the window that they are still in the air. And another quick glance tells him that it’s–

Her. She’s sleeping on his chest, little wisps of hair blowing out of her space with every breath, light snores that sound like a lullaby Jungkook could fall asleep to, her sweet face unmarred by annoyed scowls. If he thought she was pretty before, with her glares of dislike, she’s beautiful now, all peaceful and still and so, so relaxed. He can’t deny that he’s attracted to her. He lets her sleep, lets her stay lost in the land of dreams, in the land of beauty and horrors. Really though, it’s for his own benefit, he could stay here smelling the orange and green scent of her hair forever, letting it wash over him like a tidal wave, too much and altogether too little, the waves pulling him under and over; he’s unable to stop himself from falling into the chasm of her, though he knows little about her, not even able to let the sweet taste of her name grace his lips. Though only this morning he hated her and all the cheeriness she represented. He’s been pulled so deep that he lets her pull him into dreamland with her, and his breath slows and deepens.

She’s staring at him: he can tell from the prickling feeling of his face, the piercing of her eyes, noticeable even with his own eyes closed. Jungkook’s mind wants to leap to conclusions (What if they have a connection?), but he forces himself to stop.

“I can feel your glare,” he smirks and opens his eyes. “I don’t think I’ve ever been hated so intensely by someone I don’t know.”

She blushes, the pretty pink shading her face like a painting, and Jungkook’s hand itches to touch her pink cheeks, or maybe draw it. He would do it in pastels, wine, and sunset, and rose gray.

“I’m sorry.” Then to Jungkook’s extreme disappointment, she turns and looks outside the window. But Jungkook can’t help himself from teasing her.

“So,” he drawls, “Did you sleep well?”

“Fine,” she mutters.

“Yes,” he announces, “I’m sure my chest was incredibly comfortable.”

And she blushes again, but this time his mind jumps to white sheets and long nights and her coral cheeks against his silk duvet.

“I’m sorry about that, too,” she says.

“Don’t be.” She swallows at his words and turns to look at Busan; from the air, the sea-city is beautiful, but the plane circles the city for the third time now, and Jungkook knows it can’t be that interesting. He keeps hoping for her to turn and look at him, with those eyes as deep as oceans, just as full of emotion, ever changing, ever beautiful. Maybe she’ll talk to him. And maybe she won’t. But maybe she’ll say–

“Hey.” There is an apologetic look on her face, all wide eyes and downturned puckered mouth that Jungkook wants to kiss. He wonders if tastes like the strawberries it looks like. He wonders if he will be given a chance to smooth the remorseful look that shadows her face. “I’m sorry. About earlier I mean. I just– I was really stressed, and I’m not a morning person, and I’m incredibly sorry.”

Jungkook can’t help the grin that stretches his mouth, her pout is just so cute, and so fucking adorable. He doesn’t know what has made him take a complete 360, but the girl is cute, so why the hell not forgive her.

“It’s okay. I can’t deny it, I was a bit of an ass, too.”

Her eyes of galaxies widen, “A bit?” she choruses, in a tone that tells him she thinks his assholery was much more than a bit.

“You know, a smidgen.”

“Definitely more than a smidgen.”

“You think?” he asks, and the grin has definitely been permanently etched onto his face. He doesn’t ever want to stop grinning like this, so wide it hurts. Probably a bit belatedly, he wonders if there is anything on his teeth. But that thought stays in the recesses of his mind because he realizes she is grinning just as wide at him, pearly whites stark against the natural red of her lips, the angles of her face beautiful and elegant. Jungkook can feel his heart fluttering a bit, as she leans into whisper into his ear.

“I think so, yeah,” she says, lips brushing against the cuff his ear. Maybe it’s just him that feels the electricity of their proximity. Maybe it’s the both of them, but either way Jungkook finds himself, in this two-sentence conversation that they’ve just, that he likes her.

“So,” Jungkook smiles, taking a chance here, heart in his throat, pounding and fluttering so much that he can barely hear his voice. He only stares at stars that make up her eyes, at the soft curves of her face, and then he continues, “Maybe I can make it up to you by buying you breakfast when we get to Busan?”

He can see her hesitance, just by the way her eyes close, the waves of emotion in her eyes unavailable to him.

“There’s a beautiful cafe on the beach,” he cajoles. He knows that the way his eyes widen and his bunny teeth stick out that no one can resist. He doesn’t prove to be wrong.

She blinks and smiles. “Okay,” she agrees.

“I’m Jungkook, by the way,” he remembers.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been asked on a date before I got a name.”

His mouth tries to smile, before he realizes he’s smiling as wide as he can. “Was I going to get a name?” he asks. “I don’t think I’ve ever been on a date before without getting a name first.”

“Well, unfortunately,” she is smiling too, and Jungkook wants to see that smile as they walk on the beach, wants to remember it as he sits to the droning of people at his business meetings, wants kiss it when he gets home. “I don’t think that today is the day. I’m Y/N.”

He laughs as the plane lands in Busan; the captain’s speaking, but he cares about the way that she laughs back, the way it sounds like the tinkle of bells, the sound effect that seems to come with magic. And it is magic, when she speaks to him and his heart flutter like a giddy school girl’s. And Jungkook realizes, after breakfast, after he’s attained her number, that sometimes mornings on which you have to wake up at 3 AM without any good coffee aren’t all that bad.