#i think my manic episode might be over. i am crashing so hard

[gayteddy]

hmmmmmmmm

[captaincravatthecapricious]

Is That Your Blood? Prompt Fill

Jon is missing. Martin and Tim need to get him back.

cw blood, references to nonconsensual touching canon typical of the circus, canon typical levels of Tim being self destructive

This is one I wrote last week for my bingo prompts! I have started writing the another, but please be patient with me I got very behind doing things while I was writing so much and now I am mostly caught up but the serotonin and motivation levels are low. I am still accepting bingo prompts, but again it might be slow going for a bit. Let me know if you want art or fic and which character you want! (Pro tip, I am much faster at the art).  The starred prompts are ones I already have and have outlined, the crossed out ones are already written and posted.  Card by the wonderful @celosiaa​

Jon is missing.  

Tim should have known it immediately.  He should have noticed the second he was gone.  But Jon had gone to see Georgie, and wasn’t clear if he was planning on staying with her or going back to Tim’s flat.  He should have known Jon would have come back if he could.  He had been glued to either Martin’s or Tim’s side.  

Just barely well enough to work.  Still small and weak and breakable.  Still occasionally dizzy.  Still aching headed when he worked for too long.  Hands still painful and sore.  

And he’s gone.  And Tim should have known sooner.  

And there is one smug bastard who could tell him where Jon is, but the slimy twat just gives him a placid smile saying “he doesn’t know.”  Utter bullshit.  

Which is why Martin and Tim have a whole box of statements and a lighter.   

When Elias storms out of his office, Tim gives him the most innocent of smiles, as if he isn’t actively holding a burning statement in the middle of the hall.  “Oh hey, double boss, how’s it hanging?”  

Elias looks very very angry, but also like he is trying to look nonplussed.  And failing.  “These documents are for archiving, not kindling.  There will be repercussions for these actions.”  

Tim drops his smile.  “And there are repercussions for whatever you’ve done to Jon.  I don’t care what you do to me, I’ll set the whole archives alight if you don’t tell me where he is.”  

Something dangerous and self destructive and manic must have shown on Tim’s face, because Elias grumble something about it probably being long enough anyhow and finally gives them an address, which Martin is scribbling down before Elias can even turn on his heel.  

“Well that went well!”  Says Tim brightly.  

Martim hmmmms.  “We might want to be concerned about those repercussions?  But… we can worry about that once Jon is back.”  

Tim snorts.  “What can he do?  Not like he can even fire us.  And if he does, we’re better off.”

Martin drops his burning statement in the bin, looking unreasonably disappointed about the lack of continued arson that they would be committing, (or rather wouldn’t be committing).  “But you won’t leave until we’ve stopped the Unknowing.”

Tim’s face darkens again.  He can feel it, and he doesn’t care at all.  “You’re right.”  

“Right…  You will try and come back from it… Please?”

Tim shrugs.  “Ask me once we get Jon back.”

The drive to the wax museum is tense.  Things are easier between Martin and Tim than they have been in months, but their shared concern is palpable.  Jon is missing.  Jon is kidnapped.  Jon is possibly hurt.  The circus has Jon.  The Circus.  That Circus Tim has screamed himself awake over more nights than he can count.  And he wishes that he could just set the whole thing on fire right now.  he doesn’t want to wait, now that he knows where they are.

Fuck caution.  Fuck everything.  He wants his revenge.  

But… but Jon.  

He can’t lose Jon.  

Not like he lost…..

He can’t even think their names without shattering like thin glass dropped in boiling water.  

They find Jon.  He isn't guarded.  He's tied to a chair, very naked, very bruised, and very bloody.  He's suspiciously shiny looking and smells strongly of something artificial and floral.  

He's shivering.  And Tim's blood boils.  

Jon was just starting to heal!  And Tim knows the heavy bruising might partly be due to EDS, but this is absurd.  He shouldn't be bruised at all!  

Jon is hunched over, small and shaking and barely conscious.  Hiding from the world behind his tangled and greasy hair.  

"Shit, Jon, is that all your blood?"  Martin squeaks.  

It is, clearly.  Jon isn't with it enough to even notice them, but the blood on his face and chest is clearly from a bloody nose, and the blood on his wrists and ankles look to be from where the rope is biting into him.  

Martin rushes forward.  Tim is frozen in place.  Frozen in anger and terror, just like he had been all there's years ago.  This won't happen again.  This can't happen again.  He can't survive losing someone else to this... whatever the HELL this is.  He can't do it.  Not again.  

Jon screams the moment Martin touches him.  Or tries to.  It's then that Tim notices the gag in Jon's mouth.  

That does it.  THOSE FUCKING BASTARDS THEY COULD HAVE KILLED JON.  JON HAS ATHSMA.  HE COULD HAVE FUCKING DIED.  HE COULD HAVE FUCKING DIED THEY COULD HAVE BEEN TOO LATE.  JON COULD HAVE DIED BECAUSE OF A STUPID CLOTH IN HIS MOUTH.  

While Tim is trying not to scream or punch a wall or spontaneously combust, Martin is speaking softly to Jon, probably trying to get Jon to recognize him as something real and tangible and not a threat.  Tim sees Jon timidly nod in response to Something Martin says, and Martin gently removes the gag.  Touching Jon as little as possible.  

Jon starts sobbing.  

Tim can see Martin's heart break.  

Jon had been getting so affectionate with them.  Leaning into every touch, instead of backing away.  Now... he's more skittish than ever.  Tim takes a few deep breaths before finally walking over.  

"Hey, buddy.  Do you think I could untie you?"  

Jon stares at him for a long moment.  

Tim raises his hands so Jon can see he doesn't have any weapons or anything.   

Jon slowly nods, twisting painfully in his seat so he can watch.  His movement tightening his bonds.  Making Tim's job considerably harder, but... that's fine.  Keeping Jon calm is important.  

Tim's goal has to stay saving Jon, and if he sees any member of the Circus, he is sure to lose sight of that in favor of revenge, consequences be damned.  

They get Jon free, and he immediately curls into a stiff little ball, whimpering.  Crying harder when anyone tries to touch him.  Tim goes to fetch a blanket from his car.  Jon might feel a little less afraid if he is less exposed.  Not to mention, Tim would like to keep his car not blood-soaked if he has the option.  And he wants to keep Jon warm.  That should be his top priority.  

It quickly becomes apparently that Jon can't walk.  He can barely move.  Sore from the bruises and being tied up.  

"Jon, would it be alright to pick you up?  We need to get out of here."  Martin.  God bless his gentle voice.  God bless Jon's infatuation.  Jon bites his lip hard, but nods.  He's wrapped tightly in the blanket now, face half hidden in it, flakes of dried blood starting to come loose from his face and decorating the blanket.  He flinches away from the hands lifting him, and he bites back a whimper, then a scream.  And Tim isn't sure if it's the horror of whatever he's been through, or the pain he's in, or the lingering vertigo, but he is hurting and it breaks Tim's heart.  

They make it out.  Martin spends the several hour drive in the backseat.  Trying to get some water and painkillers and dramamine into Jon.  (The last thing Jon needs s to be carsick in this state).  Jon just shivers and weeps.  Eventually trusting Martin enough to cling to him like he is the only solid thing in the world.  

By the time they reach Tim's flat, Jon is calm enough that he lets Tim and Martin guide him to the bath tub.  Jon very, very timidly consents to them helping him wash up.  (And only after he had been left alone in the tub and almost fainted trying to stand to shower and bringing all the soaps crashing down around him.)  

Tim gets to work on his hair, while Martin gently starts working the blood and grime and... is that lotion? off of Jon.  

Jon slowly relaxes.  Slowly starts to realize that he is really back with Martin and Tim.  That they won't touch anywhere that he doesn't want them to.  And he goes effectively boneless when the tub is drained, and Tim gives him a last rince with the shower, just as Tim knows Jon appreciates.  That gains him a weak smile as Tim narrates what he is doing, which also seems to calm Jon.  The only time he panicked during the process is when one of them touched him when his eyes slipped closed.  Jon had done his best to keep his eyes open after that.  But... by the end he couldn't manage it anymore.  Sinking into the touch as Tim had gotten used to him doing.  

Tim cooks that night.  Jon wrapped in blankets, dozing fitfully on Martin, as Martin carefully keeps his hands to himself and does a bit of writing.  Tim honestly can't tell if he's writing poetry or plotting his revenge upon the circus.  And Tim feels a twinge in his chest.  He has to survive this for them.  He can't leave them.  He can't leave them alone.  It scares him that Jon and Martin could die in...whatever their plan ends up being.  It scares him, and he won't let them die.  And... and if he can survive to keep protecting them, he has to.  

He makes curry.  Good and hot and filling.  Seasoned to Jon's preferences.  

He's cooked side by side with Jon before.  It's been a long time, between the baggage between them and Jon's recent illness and injuries, but he can hope Jon will cook with him again.  

Jon is slightly revived by then, and feels safe enough to let himself be held, both during the parade of Buzzfeed Unsolved supernatural episodes and beyond that, once the three of them are tucked safely in Tim's bed.  Jon in the middle.  Martin and Tim shielding him from the world.  So what if Tim sleeps with a baseball bat propped up next to his bed?  So what if Martin has resumed sleeping with a corkscrew?  They have Jon back, and they will not be losing him ever again.  

[gallavictorious]

Fic: Foreign Country

For fuck’s sake... So I got an ask in response to this comment, wherein the lovely nonnie suggested that Ian and Mickey’s reaction to the Kash and Grab would be a reverse sort of situation, with that place holding very happy memories in spite of being a site of trauma (because Kash shot Mickey there). I’m paraphrasing here, obviously... And I spent over a week trying to write the fic that this ask (unintentionally) inspired and now when I posted it Tumblr was messing with the ‘Read more’ so I, stupid and/or tired bastard that I am, deleted the thing to repost it but of course that means the ask is gone aaaaand yeah. I AM SO SORRY NONNIE! :( Hope this one finds you all the same.

Anyway, here’s my resonse:

Ah, yes. Yes! Nonnie, I applaud your dedication to sparking joy and thank you for sharing this delightful reflection! <3 And, uh, it got me thinking about the Kash and Grab and its role as the site of so much that went down with Ian and Mickey in the early years, and yeah, now there’s a ficlet. It involves a trip down memory lane, some angst, some fluff, and a rather startling number of I love you:s. It’s also the reason why it took me so damned long to get back to you… Sorry about that!

Did you ask me to write this? No. Does it stay completely true to your observation rather than carelessly running with it? Also no, but with slightly more regret.  

---

Never returning had not been a conscious choice. Neither was going back.

---

Chicago, on a Thursday afternoon in early October, and the air is unusually crisp when Ian steps out from the ambulance station. He's been working the early shift and now he pauses on the sidewalk and turns his face towards the sun, considering. No one's expecting him for another few hours, and it's a fine day: maybe he needn't rush home. Maybe he could walk for a bit.

It's an idea. He's feeling restless, though not the sort of restless that heralds the on-set of a manic episode (or so he thinks, but he makes a mental note to keep an eye out for other signs, and maybe mention it to Mickey). But yeah. He could walk for a bit, then maybe find a station for the L when he tires.

So he walks. Walks and walks and doesn’t tire, and eventually he finds himself on a familiar street and outside a familiar store and he realizes with a start that he hasn't been here in years. Hadn't even known the store was still open, but the sign on the door proudly proclaims it so, and above it the name remains the same, white letters on red: Kash and Grab.

Huh. Without making a conscious decision to, he's stopped walking and is just standing there, staring at the store. The sight of it brings a strange jumble of emotions, and the quietly jarring mingle of familiarty and distance that comes from returning to a place where once you did belong, but belong no longer.

The last time he stood here was the day before he ran off to join the Army, leaving Linda with nothing more than a short message on her phone. That’s more than what his family got, so he hopes she wasn’t too upset. He never asked; never came back; never really thought back – until now.

He hesitates for a moment, then walks up to the door and steps inside. He’s running low on smokes anyway.

It's the smell that hits him first. It hasn't changed, and brings him back to the days when it would cling to his clothes and follow him home, a not unpleasant but distinctive whiff of frozen food and sweet spices.

The interior hasn't changed much either. There’s a kid behind the counter that looks to be in his early teens, and Ian wonders if it’s one of Kash’s sons, if Linda's still running the store. He could ask, but who knows what Linda's told her kids about the teenager who fucked their closeted father before he ran off?

He glances at the boy again – and yeah, he could be Kash's, there's something about the eyes and the chin – and wonders if he ever looked that young when he manned the register. Wonders if that's what he looked like to Mickey, when he'd come into the store to just take whatever the hell he wanted, wether it was chips or, later, Ian's fucking breath away.

Ian Gallagher. You messed with the wrong girl.

And just like that, it's like no time's passed, and he's 15 and 16 and 17 again; he's doing it with Kash and he thinks he loves him; he excels at ROTC and dreams of Westpoint; his mother is alive and he doesn’t yet know that Frank isn’t his father at all – it hardly matters anyhow, because Fiona is there, as she has always been there, as he still thinks she will always be.

She got out and good for her. If she'd stayed here, she'd never been free of her role as sister-mother – never free to be Fiona. And as for him... he'd mourned the army dream when it died, but knows now that it was an uninformed dream, one he would not have cared to live even if  given the opportunity.

Glancing at the counter where he used to open his trigonomy textbook he feels no regret, though perhaps a twinge of sadness for the loss of that optimistic, determined kid, who had not had an easy life by any means, but who had yet to take any real blows, any blows that truly mattered. Those had come later (had come in this very store, some of them) and standing here, where he'd spent so much time as a child and none as a man, he feels something of that kid returning. Remembers the weight of the hundreth can put on a shelf; feels the ghost of a (too) easy smile on his lips; sees himself as he moves between the backroom and counter and fridge.

And everywhere he looks, there is Mickey. Mickey, in a dirty coat or a security west, angry and rough and funny and sometimes with the briefest flash of something softer, sweeter. He is stealing and scaring of thieving kids and restocking the shelves and plotting to murder Frank and moaning as Ian pushes into him.

He is on the floor, too, cursing Kash but otherwise strangely unaffected by having been shot. Ian thinks he might have been more scared and upset than Mickey. It strikes him now as a moment of innocence lost; your lover shot by a jealous ex, a real gun and real blood and what if Kash had had better aim? This was a thing that happened in the world, and if that could happen – anything could.

It strikes him, too, as a turning point: Mickey going away could easily have spelled the end of their intense but brief affair. For all they knew each other's bodies they hadn't really know each other back then, and while Ian had been crushing hard he had not yet loved Mickey. Perhaps they might both have moved on, found other lives and loves. Perhaps that had still been possible, then.

Or perhaps not. It was the first time they were separated and the first time they found their way back to one another, but not the last. It's a dance of coming together and coming apart and coming together, again and again, and they've traced its steps for close to a decade, never once stopping, not truly.

Because even in the absences, Mickey had been, is; there, always, in the stretches of time when he was locked up in juvie; in the eager hours of wating for him to show up at the store; in the exact distance between them at any given time.

Ian can still feel the jolt, like a punch to his gut, like electricity, of looking up from stacking oranges and finding blue eyes staring straight into his.

He remembers the last time they were in here together, when him and his siblings had been taken away by the CPS and Mickey invited him to crash at his place. He remembers his giddy delight at the question, his excitement at the realization that Mickey wanted to spend time with him. He had been so nervous, and looking back, knowing what he now knows, he thinks that Mickey might have been fucking terrified, but there'd been such ease to that evening and night; such familiarty and tenderness. And oh, the sex had been fantastic.

He tries to remember only this, not what came after with the morning light and a door suddenly slammed open –

Mickey had never returned to the store after that, and a few months later Ian had left for the army. Not really for the army, though; what he'd been moving towards had not been nearly as important as what he was moving away from.

Stings, still, that memory; but less than it once did, and as he strolls down the aisles, noting where the pickled cucumber jars have been replaced with tins of tuna and where the small bottles of cheap olive oil still remain, he is surprised to find himself... okay. For a long time, so much of his past had been a painful, tangled thing he did his best to forget, and even after he made his peace with it, he made a point of looking forward rather than back. Now he thinks that maybe, if you're happy with where you ended up, the hardships of the road which led you there are easier to bear.

Doesn't make everything that happened right; just... yeah. Easier to bear.

He buys a pack of cigarettes. The kid behind the counter is eyeing him suspiciously, but Ian thinks that has more to do with him walking around the store and staring at random things rather than with the boy recognizing him from some lurid tale of Linda's. Ian almost asks him to say hello to her from him, but nah. Let old dogs lie.

Outside, twilight is coming on, and there's a slight chill to the air now that the sun is sinking. Ian lights a cigarette and sucks the smoke deep into his lungs. This, too, is familiar, and for a moment he feels unthethered, unsure of when he is, who he is.

Without really thinking about it, he picks up his phone. Mickey's still working but can't be too busy because he answers on the second signal: “Hey.”

“Hey,” Ian says, and then he doesn't say anything else for long enough that Mickey asks him if he fucking wanted something or he's just being a creepy ass phone stalker.

It makes Ian smile. Grounds him. “I love you,” he says.

A beat. “You called me at fucking work to tell me that?” And Ian knows that the gruff disbelief is partially an attempt to cover Mickey's surprised delight at the proclamation.

“Yeah, I guess I did,” he says. Waits for a moment, but Mickey is silent. “You gonna say it back?”

“You fucking serious?”

“Kinda need to hear it.” Because he gets to say that; gets to ask for that. They're not kids not anymore and they don't need to hide. They’re fucking married.

That is real. That is now.

“Jesus Christ, Ian.” But then Mickey, as Ian knew he would, relents. “I love you,” he says, and Ian doesn't know if he's already alone or if he just doesn't care who overhears him, because he doesn't lower his voice or take the time to move somewhere more private.

A brief silence as neither of them speak, but simply rest in the warmth of the words, the truth of them.

Then: “Are you okay?” There's a trace of real worry in Mickey's voice now, and there's a part of Ian's that immediately annoyed because he hates that people worry about him so easily – but a larger part of him has made his peace with it; knows and accepts the reason for it; loves that Mickey loves him enough to worry.

So he offers a brief smile, even though Mickey cannot see it. Hopes it translates into his voice.  “Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine, I promise, it's just... I'll tell you when you get home, okay?”

“Okay.” And maybe Mickey isn't convinced but he takes Ian's word for it. Trust. That's another thing they've been doing better with. “I'll see you in maybe an hour then? I get off at five.”

”Yeah, I'll see you then.” And, because he can, because it's true: ”I love you.”

“Yeah, yeah, you fucking said that already.” A brief pause, then quietly: “I love you, too.”

They hang up. Throwing one last look at Kash and Grab before he walks off, Ian is pleased to realize that he feels nothing but a vague sense of affection for the place. Some things withered and was left here, sure, youthful dreams and ambitions and most of his naivite – but the best thing about it he kept, and Ian will see him soon and hold him soon, and this time he will neither leave nor let him go. Their new dance will move to a different beat.

[awyeahitssam]

Ella!EnchantedAU - Stiles has the curse of obedience. 

Scott smiled, taking his hand. 

Stiles pulled him to his feet.

The next three words the floppy-haired boy says make Stiles’ faint smile falter completely.

“Be my friend.”

...

Thing is, Stiles could have chosen to hate Scott McCall. Some days, he very nearly did.

But Stiles was compelled to be Scott’s friend. If they didn’t speak for a few days, Stiles would begin to get painful hand spasms until he at least attempted to contact the other boy. By the third day -- Stiles enjoyed nothing if not knowing the limits of his curse -- Stiles’ body moved automatically, typing out messages or walking to Scott’s house without his consent.

Stiles wasn’t a very kind child, but he never turned his acidic tongue on Scott. 

After all, even to people he liked Stiles was kind of a dick.

But when Scott said ‘let’s be friends,’ it seemed like the curse defined the word by Scott’s idea of ‘friends’ rather than Stiles.

That turned out to be a rather good thing, because Stiles was fiercely loyal and protective. Scott… wasn’t. 

...

“Behave, Stiles,” the Sheriff would snap, and Stiles would.

“Just make dinner tonight, son.”

“Tell me the truth.”

...

Stiles glanced around, trying to come up with something that didn’t have him keeping the oversized manchild afloat for another hour and keep an eye on the Kanima at the same time.  

Whiskey eyes landed on his phone.

Scott.

Derek followed his gaze, scowling harder than ever. “Don’t—“

Stiles dropped him before Derek could finish the order, swimming to the phone.

In the end, Scott was no help.

...

“You’re going to tell me where Derek is.”

Stiles grit his teeth. Like hell.

“Why would I help you?”

Peter stared at him for a long moment, eyes half-lidded. The mad glint has dimmed to something pitless. Hollow. Stiles didn’t trust it. 

“Because I’m ordering you to.”

Stiles feels his heart rate pick up, his breaths quicken, his palms start to sweat. He swallows through a dry mouth. 

Peter knows.

He knows. 

But he hadn’t actually ordered yet. 

As if hearing the thought, Peter goes on. 

“Find Derek for me.” Stiles remains still, staring Peter down, eyes condemning for the first time. There’s a vicious fury rising in his chest, wild and uncontainable. The last time Peter dealt with fire, it hadn’t ended well for him.

“Find Derek Hale as quickly as you possibly can,” the man modified, gazing back at him calmly.

Specificity. Stiles’ worst enemy. He’s good at getting off on technicalities, at disobeying the spirit of an order while still completing it, but even half-mad Peter’s too smart for that. 

Stiles’ body turned on autopilot. He snatched the laptop from Peter’s hands and swiftly logged in. He pulled up the browser with a keyboard shortcut and hacked into the wifi of the building next to them in a few short keystrokes. 

He had the tracking information off Scott’s phone inside two minutes.

Peter looked at him, looked at the results, and smiled.

...

“He’s going to kill me!” She shrieks. “You can’t let him hurt me, Noah, you’ve got to protect me—“

Claudia might be having one of her good days, and then she’ll get a glimpse of her son and have an episode. Stiles notices, of course he does, and tries to stay away. But he loves his mother. He wants to be there whenever he can, whenever she’s lucid. 

She’s the only one that knows about the curse. That knows him completely, and adores him whenever she can still recognize that he isn’t plotting to kill her.

On May 19th, Claudia looks at Stiles with tired eyes and says, “Kill me.”

It all makes a sudden, horrible sort of sense.

Claudia had known, had probably decided long ago, that Stiles would be the one to end her suffering.

Frontotemporal dementia doesn’t kill.

So Stiles does it for the disease. 

...

“Team Free Will,” Dean Winchester says from the laptop speakers. 

Stiles laughs so hard he cries.

...

He asks him. 

It’s something that eats at Stiles, even after the man is dead and buried.

Peter didn’t give Scott a choice, and he could’ve easily taken away Stiles’. Instead, he asked.

And Stiles--well.

Being a werewolf changed you fundamentally. Stiles was willing to bet that even your DNA was altered. 

He counted on it being enough. 

It wasn’t. 

He flashes preternatural blue eyes at himself in the mirror, a snarl curling his lips. 

Hates just that much harder.

...

“Shut up!” Isaac shouted.

Stiles mouth clicks. Isaac looks surprised, but he smells of terror at whatever Stiles’ face is doing. Stiles bares human teeth at him and the boy’s pulse jumps. Isaac sneers, all bravado.

Stiles leaves before he wets himself. 

...

Orders can counteract each other.

Sometimes, when Stiles really don’t want to do something, he’ll manipulate somebody into telling him to do the opposite.

The first time they’re alone, after, Peter looks at Stiles and says, “You don’t have to be friends with Scott McCall.”

A knot in Stiles mind relaxes, and then releases entirely. Stiles thinks of Scott, thinks of him without the shiny order that made him remember the good more than the bad. 

He doesn’t hate Scott, though by now he had more than enough reason to. 

But Stiles finds he doesn’t like him, either.

The black and white naïveté, the self righteousness, the way he ordered everyone around nowadays and Stiles was forced to comply.

Stiles stands abruptly, heart beating too-quick in his chest. 

Stalks forward, staring intently into the preternaturally-blue eyes of Peter Hale. The man looks almost wary until Stiles leans forward, sets a hand on his shoulder, and drags it down the line of his arm.

Scent marking him.

“Thank you,” he acknowledges, and it comes out a pleased rumble, octaves lower than his usual register. 

Peter blinks at him once, then quirks an eyebrow. He smells delighted and a bit astonished.

Stiles grins, eyes glowing. 

“I’m leaving,” he says lightly, half an offer. 

“Am I to presume that’s an invitation?”

Stiles flashes his fangs. “Presume away.”

He turns on his heel.

Peter follows.

...

Stiles’ life has never been simple, and that doesn’t change with Peter as a packmate.

Once, they stop mid-hike and Stiles peers over the cliff. There’s a few minutes of peaceful silence, and Stiles is enjoying the nature in a way he never had before, eyes closed, breeze fluttering through his growing hair.

He smiles. Steps that bit closer to the edge, enjoying the feeling of lightness and freedom. 

Then hears, “Never kill yourself.” 

Stiles feels the order snap into place. It is disproportionately light in comparison to the sensation of his stomach dropping out. 

It’s the first order Peter has given him since that night in the parking garage.

Stiles digs claws into his skin hard enough that he begins bleeding freely, and slowly turns to Peter.

There’s a glimmer of apology in his eyes, but something in his scent betrays him. Maybe he’s genuinely apologetic for betraying Stiles trust, but he doesn’t regret the order.

Stiles snarls. His wolf whimpers and snaps in his mind, wanting to turn tail and bite into Peter’s neck at the same time. Stiles feels his teeth elongate to fangs and pulls his eyes from blue, staring over the cliff once again.

The view doesn’t seem half as beautiful as it had moments ago.

It wasn’t like Stiles wanted to kill himself. If he did, he would have a long time ago. But having that option--

“How dare you,” he whispers to the open air. He’s too furious to look at Peter, too hurt to address him directly or acknowledge that this level of self-righteousness in the air could give Scott a run for his money. 

“I don’t mean to hurt you,” Peter says. 

Truth.

It almost makes it worse. Stiles bares his teeth.

“I decided to trust you,” he says. “And you just spat on it. Pack doesn’t betray pack.”

Peter meets his gaze steadily. He looks wary, but he doesn’t say anything in his defense.

Stiles wants to rage at him, wants to use words to cut into that calm facade until he bleeds. ‘You and your niece are very alike,’ he almost says, but Stiles isn’t that hasty.

Isn’t that cruel, though he wants to be.

“What if hunters capture me? Torture me? What if I go mad from it? I don’t even get the option of biting off my own tongue now, Peter?” 

“I would come for you,” the man says quietly. 

Stiles roars.

Peter’s eyes widen, and he takes a short step back before standing his ground. He smells concerned and surprised, but not apologetic.

“Don’t follow me,” he snaps, shaking with the urge to destroy.

Stiles is a very angry individual.

Having no say will do that to you.

...

“Take it off,” Stiles snarled, pulling Peter’s hair harshly. 

The man met his gaze, blue eyes dazed and dilated. Then, after another long moment of staring, shook his head.

“Can’t lose you,” he rasped from between fangs. “I won’t.”

Stiles’ laugh edged on manic. “You already have, you fool.” 

When Peter woke in Deaton’s shop four days later, Stiles was long gone.

...

There have been moments.

Moments when Stiles was absolutely certain he was about to die.

Like when Jackson sneered, “Kill yourself,” and Stiles’ hands found the closest sharp object and aimed it unerringly at his carotid artery. Like when his dad—

Well. He tries not to think of his dad. 

But somehow this—emotion—is harder to manage. The level of betrayal that can only mean he trusted Peter in the first place. 

Stiles’ world crashed down on a pleasant autumn day during a walk with his packmate. 

And the ruins continue to burn for a while yet.

...

“As you can imagine, I don’t like people taking away my ability to choose,” he says, almost lightly. “When I was nine my mother made me kill her. When I was twelve my dad almost killed me by saying something careless when he was drunk. I was forced to be Scott’s friend for eleven years.”

“None of them set out to hurt me,” Stiles acknowledged. “But they all did. I trusted each one of them, and they came so close to tearing apart the fundamentals of who I am.” 

Stiles’ eyes blazed red when he turned to Peter. 

“You know that kid who never did anything he was told? That’s who I am inside. The only person I should have to answer to is myself, but that was taken away from me a very long time ago.” Stiles sighs warily. He suddenly looks far older than his twenty-two years. “You’re the first person I willingly offered my trust to in years, and you shattered it. And you weren’t sorry, not really, or at least not until later, when you realized what it cost you.” 

Peter swallowed heavily. He smelled tired, and very, very sad. “I’m sorry,” he said, voice little more than a rasp. “I am, Stiles. You can kill yourself. You can do anything you want. I’m sorry.”

Stiles huffed a laugh, not sounding very amused at all, and Peter felt a displacement in the air just as Stiles appeared in front of him, red eyes boring down into his blue.

“You think I would return before breaking the curse?” he said wonderingly. “I trust no one that much, Peter.”

Peter swallowed heavily, awaiting the inevitable blow. He bared his neck, just a bit, even knowing what was coming.

Peter jerked when a cold nose brushed against his neck, rubbing up the line of his carotid. He felt like his heart was in his throat, jumping wildly and very audibly. 

“You…”

“I,” Stiles agreed, more than a touch mockingly. He sighed at whatever look was on Peter’s face at that, and pulled him in closer. “You’re an idiot. I can do whatever I want now, Peter.”

Peter shifted as fingers combed through his hair. Peter made a strange sound, a mix between a purr and an engine revving. “I love you, though.”

Peter stared at him.

“Oh.”

Stiles huffed a laugh, leaning forward to brush their cheeks together. Scenting. 

“And here I thought I was choosing such an intelligent packmate,” he said, more fond than mocking this time. When he pulls back the smile in his voice is gone, his eyes back to their normal honeydew. “Don’t think my loving you will change anything, Peter. Betray me again and I will rip your throat out.” 

Peter whines, high and embarrassing. Stiles makes a low, rumbling noise in response and leans in, kissing his forehead lightly. 

“And I’ll rip out the throat of anybody who threatens you, of course.” 

The noise subsides, and Peter sighs, smelling content, confused, aroused. Stiles soaks in the scent without any intention of remedying the confusion for a while yet.

The arousal, however, he can do something about.

[evanbuckley-heartofgold]

I totally get it no worries! What about Bobby getting hurt in the bomber episode? (Saw you sharing the gif set haha)

Sorry this took me so long, but I really wanted to get this right! I had so much fun writing this and I hope you enjoy it!

Bobby feels like he’s in a nightmare. 

The second he realizes the bomb would be in the firehouse, he began to imagine all of the ways that this could end. He hadn’t thought of this one. 

Buck is laying in the street battered and bloody with an entire ladder truck on top of his leg. Other firefighters were thrown from the truck and are laying on the pavement. Freddie stands in the middle of it all, bomb strapped to his chest. Bobby watches as Chimney steps forward as Freddie asks for the captain, his arms raised above his head.

He knows before Freddie says it that Chimney isn’t the captain he’s looking for. He has to do what he needs to do to protect his family. 

“I love you,” Bobby whispers into Athena’s ear as he pushes past the police forming a barricade and into the intersection, ignoring their calls after him. This is his responsibility, now he has to pay up and keep Buck and the rest of his crew safe.

“Freddie,” Bobby calls, getting the boy’s attention.

He turns around and faces Bobby, a manic crazy in his eyes. “Thought you’d be on the truck.” 

“I’m here now.” Bobby cast a glance down at Buck, he’s looking worse and worse by the second. “What’s next? Is this what you wanted?

“I wanted you dead.”

“I get that, but what about them.” Bobby forces himself to focus, it doesn’t matter what happens to him, he’s got to protect his firefighters. “What about him?” Bobby nods at Buck who looks up at him in pain. “He’s got parents, a sister, a girlfriend and he never did anything to you. He wasn’t even a firefighter when your father burned down that restaurant.”

“Collateral damage.” Freddie doesn’t even look at Buck. 

“Is that how you see yourself?” Bobby takes a step forward. “An unintended victim in all this?” Another step.

“Stop!” Freddie tightens his grip on the trigger. Bobby freezes, eyes flashing to the bomb. “One more step, we all go boom.”

“Freddie, you got dealt a bad hand and I am sorry about that,” Bobby treads carefully now. The bomb is going to go off, he just needs to get it far enough away from Buck. “But what you did with it, that’s a choice. You stopped being a victim the moment you left that first bomb.”

“That lawyer she-”

“Did her job,” Bobby cuts in. “We were all doing our jobs.”

“Destroying my family,” Freddie spits. “My mom and I lost everything. She was in so much pain.”

“Wanna make it worse? You wanna make her watch you die?” Bobby sees Athena and another police officer leading Freddie’s mother into the intersection. Athena makes worried eye contact with him, but he shakes his head minutely and quickly mouths, I’m sorry.

“Mom...” 

While Freddie is distracted, Bobby grabs him from behind, trying to wrestle the trigger out of his hand. “No!” Freddie struggles with him and Bobby can feel his finger inching closer and closer to the button. 

He’s not getting out of this alive, not if it’s a choice between him and his firefighters. He holds on tight to Freddie as he uses all of his strength to propel them away from the truck. He swings a leg into Freddie’s knee, making him collapse onto the ground with Bobby still holding onto him. He hears Athena and Chimney and Buck and everyone shout as Freddie presses the trigger and the world goes black.

...

Chimney watches in horror as the bomb explodes, engulfing Freddie and Bobby. He watches his captain thrown a few feet into the air, landing on the ground with a sickening smack. Buck screams hoarsely. 

Then he’s running. He sprints towards them, Eddie and Hen on his heels. 

“Chim, you get Buck, Eddie and I’ll check on Bobby,” Hen tells him. 

He nods quickly and veers right. Buck looks up as he comes closer and it looks a lot worse up close. Chimney shakes off that thought and kneels down next to Buck. His friend groans in pain. Blood covers the left side of Buck’s face, seeming to come from somewhere on his head, but tears carved their way through it and form a puddle on the ground. 

“Bobby...” Buck breathes, clearly struggling through his pain to make words. 

“Hen and Eddie are looking after him,” Chimney tells him. “I need you to focus, okay? How are you feeling?”

“Kinda numb,” Buck tells him. He can see that Buck isn’t looking at him, but instead past him to where Hen and Eddie are. He carefully positions himself so Buck can’t see them anymore. 

Chim reaches down and feels his pulse. It’s fast and his breathing seems to be shallow. “Just hang in there, Buckaroo.” He spares a quick glance at Eddie and Hen and the other paramedics on the scene attending to Bobby and Freddie. “I need hands over here!” He shouts. Two paramedics and firefighters rush over. “Probable crush injury,” he tells them quickly. “We need to get this truck off of him. He presses on his radio, “This is Captain 118, I need all available hands to move this truck and clear a path to the nearest trauma center.”

No response. 

They’re running out of time. 

Bobby and Buck are dying in the street. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Hen running with a stretcher, Bobby on top of it. That gives him a little hope, Bobby’s not gone yet. He catches a flash of white and sees Eddie pulling a white sheet over Freddie’s body. 

“Eddie!” He shouts. “I need help over here.” 

He looks up and immediately runs over to Chim, eyes intense. “What can I do?” 

“I need you to help lift the truck so I can pull him out.” Eddie nods and quickly grabs on to the truck. 

Chimney crouches down beside Buck again. “Bobby?” Buck asks. 

“He’s on his way to the hospital. I need you to hold still, try not to move.” He looks up at Eddie and nods. 

“Lift on three!” Eddie shouts. “One, two, three!” 

The firefighters and paramedics use all their strength to push the truck up. Buck screams in agony, tears streaming down his face. But they’re not strong enough the truck slams back down the few inches it had been lifted, making Buck cry out again. 

“We need more people,” Eddie tells him hopelessly. “There’s no way we can lift this alone.”  

Chimney nods, “Dispatch, this is Captain 118, we-” 

Before he can finish, the bystanders push past the police barricades and run to them. Chimney has never been a praying man, but as everyone puts a hand on the truck and Eddie counts down, he prays that this will work and that this will free his friend. 

This night has been hard enough for them all. 

Edie tightens his grip on Buck’s arms. Buck cries, biting his lip, as the truck is slowly lifted off his foot. Every second Chimney has to wait pains him, but finally, there is enough space for Chimney to drag Buck out from the truck. The truck crashes to the ground and Eddie helps Chimney get Buck onto a stretcher and rushed into the ambulance. 

The last thing Chimney sees before the doors slam shut is blood on the pavements reflecting the flashing lights. 

…

Buck wakes up slowly. He feels floaty, almost like he’s not completely solid. Everything around him is warm and soft. He hears the murmur of voices, but can’t understand any words. Then he feels a soft kiss on his forehead and he sinks right back into sleep. 

When Buck wakes up again he feels more grounded. He digs his fingers into the stiff sheets underneath him and exhales as he forces his eyes open. Blinking a few times to adjust to the brightness, Buck sees someone standing above him. She has tears in her eyes as she smiles down at him. 

“Maddie?” He breathes out. “How long have I been out?” 

“A few days.” 

Buck looks down at himself and finds his left leg in a thick white cast. “The ladder truck?” Buck asks. She nods and a second later he’s holding his crying sister in his arms. His thoughts immediately go to Bobby. The bomb exploded and Bobby was right next to it. Maddie’s crying that must mean… 

Maddie sits up and wipes her tears away with her thumb, “I’m sorry. You’re the one in the hospital bed, I shouldn’t be such a mess.” 

Buck shakes his head and takes a deep breath, “Is Bobby…”

“No, oh my gosh I should have said that first. He’s stable.” Buck exhales a dramatic sigh of relief. “The doctors think he has a good chance of making a full recovery. He’s not awake yet, but they’re hopeful.” 

“How?” Buck asks. “He-He was right next to the bomb.” 

“Call it a miracle,” Maddie smiles. 

“Can I see him?” Buck asks.

“I’ll go ask the doctor,” she pats his hand. “And I need to call Chim, they all got called into work so I’ll let them know that you’re okay.” 

“Thank you,” Buck says as Maddie gets up. She smiles down at him and then kisses his forehead, just like she used to do when he was little. 

Fifteen minutes later, Maddie comes back with a nurse and a wheelchair. The nurse helps Buck out of bed and then starts pushing him towards Bobby’s room. 

Once he’s inside, Buck feels like he can’t breathe. Bobby is laying on the bed, thick gauze covering what Buck can see of his chest as well as some of his forehead. His arms are burned and red, but his chest is rising and falling evenly. That’s what Buck forces himself to focus on. 

And in the chair beside the bed is Athena she looks up at him when the door opens and gives him a sad smile, “You’re a sight for sore eyes, Buckaroo.” 

“Hi,” Buck says. “Um, can I sit with you?”

“Of course, honey,” Athena shifts her chair to give Buck room for the wheelchair to fit. “I think he’ll be glad to know you’re okay.” Buck leans his head on her shoulder and she takes his hand.  “I hope you know that once you’re both out of the hospital, neither of you are leaving my sight until you’re better again,” Athena tells him. 

Buck smiles, “You might have to fight Maddie on that one.” 

“She’ll give in,” Athena says. Buck takes a deep breath as Athena rubs her thumb over his knuckles. “How are you feeling?” 

“I’m okay.” He looks down at his leg, “It doesn’t hurt so much.” 

“I’m glad to hear that.” 

Buck sits with Athena for as long as the doctors let him. Eventually, he has to go back to his own room and get looked over again.

Come the next morning, he’s back in Bobby’s room. This time Athena isn’t there, probably because she has to get her kids to school. Buck sits quietly at Bobby’s side, lost in his thoughts. He is pulled out of them by a groan. Bobby shifts on the mattress, his eyes still closed. 

He makes a soft humming sound and then Bobby’s eyes slowly open and he looks right at Buck. “Evan?” Bobby’s voice is dry and scratchy. Buck nods, pretending not to notice Bobby calling him by his given name. “You’re okay?” 

“Yeah,” Buck smiles. “I’m okay. Not as bad as you. I’m not trying to be mean, but you look like shit, Bobby.” 

Bobby rolls his eyes, “Not even a minute after I wake up and you’re already ribbing me?” 

Buck shrugs, “It’s what I do best.” Bobby laughs gently and the two fall into silence for a moment. But something is weighing on Buck’s mind. “Why did you stay? Why didn’t you run as soon as he pushed the trigger?” 

Bobby smiles and reaches out to touch Buck’s hand, “I had to get him away from you. You didn’t deserve to get any more hurt because of my mistakes. If I hadn’t then you would have been in the blast radius. I did what I knew would keep you safe.” 

Buck bites his lip, “You have Athena and May and Harry, you-you could have died trying to protect me, you almost did.” 

“It would have been worth it,” Bobby squeezes Buck’s hand. “I wouldn’t be able to live with myself knowing that I failed another one of my kids. You’re really important to me, Buck. What kind of parent would I be if I stood by and watched you get hurt because of me?” 

His kid. Buck can’t deny that it doesn’t make his heart soar to hear that. He’s never really been anyone’s kid, his parents didn’t love him and he never had anyone who loved him that way until he met Bobby. Buck can’t stop himself from leaning forward and embracing Bobby as much as he can, crying into his neck. 

“Bobby… I...” Buck can’t get all the words he wants to say out, they’re stuck in his throat.

“I know, kid,” Bobby runs a hand over the back of his head. “We’re okay.” Bobby lets Buck stay like that for a few minutes before Buck sits up and quickly dries his tears with the back of his hand. Bobby smiles at him, “I feel like we’re going to be spending a lot of time together for the foreseeable future, so why don’t we just save the rest of the emotional talks for later, and right now just be happy that we’re both alive to tell the tale.”

Buck smiles through his tears, “Sounds good to me.”

[asexual-fandom-queen]

So Many Topics Left To Touch

I don’t know why this happened. Sometimes your brain just has an idea and who are you to stand in its way? Set in a world where John Mulaney & The Sack Lunch Bunch is a real TV show, and John Mulaney and Jake Gyllenhaal are still John Mulaney and Jake Gyllenhaal, but not the real John Mulaney and Jake Gyllenhaal. The Sack Lunch Bunch just had big show within a show energy, and I wanted to do something with that. This is in no way intended to be RPF. As far as I’m concerned, the actors are playing characters inspired by themselves in the Netflix special, they’re not actually themselves, but if it’s close enough to RPF that it still squicks you, completely understandable, you can scroll right past this post, no hard feelings. 

[tw for swearing, bipolar disorder, manic episodes, discussions of mental health stigma, and a character stopping their medication without medical advice]

John hesitates with his knuckles poised an inch above the smooth, cherry-red surface of the dressing room door. The soft sound of shuffling and gratuitous vulgarity bleeds through the thin particle board, and he sighs, unfurling his fingers to scratch at the creases that have developed in his brow.

“Jake,” John announces with three quick, staccato taps. “It’s John. I’m coming in, okay?”

John waits for a second, in case Jake wants to protest, but when he gets no response, he turns the handle and swings open the door.

Jake’s dressing room is little more than a hole in the wall, something that might once have been a janitorial closet before the studio snapped up the property to film The Sack Lunch Bunch and realized they needed more star rooms than were already available.  It’s an understated kind of chaos inside, scripts with highlighted lines plied haphazardly across the undersized vanity pushed against the right wall, a metal rod of half-empty hangers to the back, a rumpled pile of clothes balled up on the armchair to the room’s left. The speckled laminate floors scuffed black with shoe marks and concrete masonry walls painted khaki beige do as much to make the room drab as the dull, yellow incandescent light dangling from the ceiling overhead.

Jake, seated at the vanity in a rickety folding chair, doesn’t look up when John slides through the narrow gap he makes in the door frame, the loose fabric of his sweater catching and tugging on the curved edge of the brassy-gold strike plate, or when he closes it shut again with a small, sharp click. He stays with his head in his hands, tugging at the long, disheveled strands where the styling gel’s let go, leaving it limp and unpleasantly shiny.

John stands with his back pressed to the door, handle digging against his spine, the nip of pain just enough to keep him grounded.

READ MORE BELOW THE CUT, OR HERE ON AO3!

“I fucked everything up, didn’t I?” Jake asks, forcing the heels of his hands against his eyes and scrubbing hard enough that John nearly steps forward to stop him.

John shrugs, not that Jake can see. “They’ll cut something together in editing,” he replies. “You’re fine.”

Jake laughs, bitter and humorless. “This seems fine to you?”

John’s feet finally unglue from the floor. He moves to perch on the edge of the vanity, long, spindly legs stretching out in his jeans and crossing at the ankles. The table shifts on its hinges, but ultimately bears his weight. He dips his head, hoping to make eye contact, but Jake keeps his bowed. His whole body jostles as his legs bounce rapidly up and down, an ocean of chaos to John’s calm waters.

“How much sleep did you get last night?” John asks.

Jake’s grip on the hair at the front of his scalp looks ironclad, knuckles almost white with it, as he shakes his head vigorously enough that John feels the pang of sympathy pain at his own hairline. “I thought everything was gonna be so perfect. I had all these ideas, all these sounds rattling around in my head. And then once I started thinking about Mr. Music, all I could think about was the costume, and how it wasn’t good enough, and if I just tried enough stuff on I could find the piece that would blow the whole thing wide open. And then my wheels just started spinning, man. I don’t know.”

Hunched over with his head in his hands, Jake looks small, even though he’s broader than John, and nearly as tall. John uncrosses his ankles and nudges Jake’s jackrabbiting shin with his own. Jake stills abruptly, finally looks up.

“How many hours?” John asks again.

Jake sighs. “I think Friday was the last time,” he admits, fingers scratching anxiously at the back of his neck.

“Jake,” John says with a harsh exhale, like the confession’s knocked the wind out of him. He tries to land somewhere in the realm of concern with his tone, and not judgmental. He knows it’s the last thing Jake needs. “It’s Tuesday.”

Jake chews the skin under his thumb. His legs bounce again, and John feels every vibration where they’re still pressed shin to shin.

“Someone’s gonna fire me,” Jake mutters.

John laughs, a quick, harsh chuckle. “Doubtful,” he says. “Since they’d have to run it by me first, and you know I wouldn’t stand for that shit at all.”

“You should fire me,” Jake says, sitting suddenly ramrod straight and fixing John with a hard, frim look that catches him off guard. “Sack Lunch is your baby and sooner or later, I’m gonna ruin it. I can’t– I don’t think right, when I’m like this. I’m gonna do something fucking stupid and everything you made here’s gonna come crashing down.”

John takes a surreptitious deep breath and feigns as much levity as he can in his expression as he rolls his eyes and bumps Jake’s leg with the top of his foot. “Don’t be melodramatic.”

Jake doesn’t flinch. “I’m serious, John,” he says.

“So am I,” John replies. He locks eyes with Jake, and the other man’s legs still, even though the nervous energy still buzzes under his skin in a way that’s palpable, that electrifies the room. “You are Mr. Music. I don’t wanna write you off, or recast you. I don’t need anybody else. Just you.”

Jake sucks in a sharp breath through his nose. Eye to eye like this, John can see the dark circles where the foundation’s rubbed away.

“When’d you stop taking your meds?”

Jake tenses. “Who said I–”

“Don’t lie, Jake,” John interrupts, holding up a hand. He rears back as Jake springs from his seat, pacing the six-step line from one end of the room to the other. John doesn’t miss the way hobbles, just barely perceptible under the manic energy driving him forward like business as usual. He leaves a smear of blood behind him, and John sees the purpling of his ankle even from a distance.

“I’m not gonna ream you out, man,” he promises, straightening from his leaning position to give Jake more space. “So, don’t lie to me.”

Jake scratches the back of his neck. “About a week.”

John nods. “Does your doctor know?”

A flinch. “I can’t tell her,” Jake says. “All she wants to do is keep me drugged up.”

“She wants to keep you safe,” John counters, the exasperation he’s trying so desperately to keep at bay slipping into his tone. “And functioning. She wants you to be able to come to work and do your job. Or, I don’t know, go home and actually sleep at night.”

Jake shakes his head. He’s still pacing. John wants to step in front of him, make him stop, but he knows that won’t help. “I fucking hate being on lithium,” he spits.

“Well,” John says, plain and matter-of-fact. “I don’t think you like this very much, either.”

Jake stills, flicks his eyes up from the floor where he’s been watching himself pace and track blood.

“Also,” John adds. “I happen to know for a fact that’s absolutely not true. You don’t hate being on lithium, you just think you do when your dose is too low to manage your mania. Then you start feeling just the right combination of paranoid and invincible to stop taking it altogether. That’s when you hate it. When the mental illness is the one in the driver’s seat. But that’s not what you really think.”

Jake shakes his head. His whole body’s trembling. “Doesn’t matter,” he says. “This is the third time. I can’t tell her I stopped taking it again. Can’t ask her to put me back on if I’m too fucking stupid to stay on.”

John frowns. “Sure you can,” he says, loud and brassy, with a quick toss of his head. “You make an appointment, and you waltz into her office, and you say put me back on my medication, please. You can do that so many times.”

“She’s gonna be mad at me,” Jake argues.

“She’s going to caution you,” John says. “Against the health risks of stopping your medication without medical advice. That’s her job as a doctor. But she’s not going to be mad at you. And if she is, then it’s because she’s a shitty psychiatrist. It’s got nothing to do with you.”  

Jake is quiet for a breath, and eerily still. “Are you mad at me?” he asks.

John sighs. He steps forward and reaches out, clasping Jake by the forearms and holding him still, the canary yellow silk of the Mr. Music costume cool and slippery to the touch under his hands.

“You’re not just a colleague to me,” John says emphatically, holding Jake’s eyes, even as his break off every so often to dart from place to place to place around the room. “You are my friend. One of the most important people in my life. I am concerned for you. And I am frustrated that I can’t do more to help. So I might seem a little mad. But I am never, ever, mad at you. Do you know that?”

Jake hesitates a moment, then shakes his head.

John frowns. “Remember that,” he says, solid and firm, with no room to argue.

He waits until Jake nods in response, then tugs on his forearms, leading him toward the armchair. John grabs the pile of clothes in one hand and tosses it to the floor under the clothes rack. He corrals Jake into the seat, then crouches in front of him, grabbing his right leg by the shin.

“You’re walking on it too much for it to be broken,” John muses aloud, looking the purplish skin and the swelling around Jake's ankle. He pinches his fingers around the back of Jake’s Achilles tendon, the pads pressing into the inflammation. He barely sucks in a breath.

“Does that hurt?” John asks anyway.

Jake shakes his head. “Who knows,” he says. “Everything feels like it’s up here.” He raises a hand over his head to emphasize his point.

John lets out a heavy breath through his nose. His shoulders slump. “Please,” he says, tracing gentle circles against Jake’s ankle with his thumb. “Let me take you to the hospital.”

Jake shakes his head. “The glass,” he says. “They’re gonna think I did it on purpose. What if they put me on a hold?”

“Then I will be there in seventy-two hours to pick you up,” John promises.

Jake swallows. “And if the press gets wind?”

“They can fuck themselves.”

“I want Mr. Music to be bipolar.”

Jake looks at John over his plate of takeout, a fresh spring roll bisected messily in a semi-circular bite held aloft between his chopsticks. They’re sitting on the couch in John’s apartment, the nicer residence of the two. John’s the big household name, he’s got the Manhattan money.

Jake never made it quite as big. A few appearances on SNL – where they met – a few standup tours. John never understood why. He’s funny, but Jake’s hilarious, unhinged and high energy in a way that feels more engaging than John’s own deadpan, dad next door schtick. When he was looking for regular guest stars for Sack Lunch Bunch, he hadn’t even thought twice. Of course, it was Jake. It was always going to be Jake.

“Well,” Jake says with a wry, sardonic smile. “Want no more.”

John rolls his eyes. “I mean on the show,” he says.

Jake frowns. He sets his half-eaten spring roll back on his plate, then sets the plate on the coffee table.

“Obviously not without your blessing,” John hastens to add. The couch is expansive, but John’s mostly on the middle cushion, and turned like they are, their knees knock together when he shuffles a half-inch closer.

“Would the network even let you do that?” Jake asks, scrunching up his face.

“Well, they’d better,” John says. “I’m the executive producer. Half the financing comes from my money, and yeah, I make that money back and then some, but that doesn't mean people shouldn’t still have to defer to me. Hell, it’s my IP. If they don’t like it, I’ll say fuck you very much and take the show someplace else.”

Jake scoffs and rolls his eyes. He settles back against the cushion. The way his legs stretch out as he relaxes tangles their shins together, and a shiver runs up the long column of John’s spine.

“You’re such a drama queen sometimes,” Jake teases.

John frowns. “Hey,” he says. “I’m serious.”

Jake swallows. John tracks the movement of his Adam’s apple. “You don’t have to do that just for me.”

“Except it wouldn’t be just for you,” John says. “There’s something like 2.3 million Americans diagnosed with bipolar disorder. I guarantee you, kids know someone who’s bipolar. Or they know someone who has schizophrenia, or depression, or even a generalized anxiety disorder.”

John shifts forward again on the sofa. He worries for a second that he’s crowding Jake out when both their knees press flush together, but Jake doesn’t pull back. Instead, he slides his arm across the back of the couch, and though they’re not quite touching, John swears he can feel the warmth of him through the sleeve of his shirt.

“I created The Sack Lunch Bunch for a reason,” John continues. “Because I saw what was available for kids nowadays and it’s all bullshit. It either teaches them nothing, or it teaches them to be little assholes to each other. There used to be a message to kid’s programming. Be nice, be generous, understand your neighbor. Not make fun of your neighbor for being fat, or stupid, or whatever we’re still deeming acceptable to make fun of people for.

“I wanted The Sack Lunch Bunch to be different,” John says. “And when I signed on to the network, they promised it would be. At first, it was just get past the first season, John. Then, shows struggle in their sophomore year, John; better not rock the boat. But it’s been three years, and they’re still censoring my content. They cut Sasha’s Dad Does Drag from the show last month without even consulting me.”

Jake’s fingers brush against the curve of John’s shoulder. The pad of his pointer catches at the collar. John feels it against his skin. It loosens his muscles where they pull taught between his scapulas.

“I’m just tired,” John says. “I care about this show. I wanna do it in a way that does right by the audience I meant it for. Not One Million Moms, or whatever shitstains are in office, or heading the network, or running the FCC. I swear to God, I’ll make a YouTube channel and upload the whole thing as shaky cell phone footage if I have to.”

A soft smile tugs at the corner of Jake’s mouth.

“And yeah,” John adds, sagging against the backrest so his shoulder presses squarely against Jake’s arm. He tilts his head, and Jake’s fingers brush against the corner of his jaw. “I wanna do right by you, too. I wanna give you that platform. That space to be yourself, openly and honestly. If that’s what you want.”

Jake’s fingers twitch against his skin. “Yeah, okay,” he whispers. “I’m in.”

Things are different since taking season four independent.

For all that John was ready to pay the whole show’s budget out of pocket and suffer the consequences, a surprising amount of money came their way by donation, first from fellow actors, comedians, and general entertainment media types, then through public fundraising campaigns set up by viewers, and finally, politicians, once the consensus was finally in on the general public opinion of The Sack Lunch Bunch’s solo move.

The state of Jake’s dressing room, however, is much the same.  

“I feel like if I hit refresh one more time, I might unintentionally complete some kind of Sisyphean ritual and end up stuck on Twitter forever,” John says, staring down at the tablet in his hand. He has a flute of sparkling apple juice in the other, which Jake opts to chug from the bottle.

The first episode of season four dropped to a handful of contracted streaming services earlier in the day, and John and Jake have been in Jake’s dressing room reading over reviews for the last hour, two more celebratory bottles piled by the trash to go in recycling later.

They just wrapped the day filming their penultimate episode of thirteen, and John’s still buzzing with post-performance adrenaline. The sugar in the juice and the heat of Jake pressed up against his side as he reads over John’s shoulder does nothing to help with his jitters.  

“Just one more time,” Jake urges, and, helpless to say no to him, John hits refresh. “Poignant and emotional,” he reads, breath ghosting across sensitive skin on the side of John’s neck, just over his pulse. “John Mulaney & The Sack Lunch Bunch tackles mental health awareness with new Mr. Music storyline.”

“Reviews seem to be half-decent,” John agrees.

Jake scoffs. More warm air tickles the hair at the nape of John’s neck. “Reviews are great,” he says. Then, softer, “you’re great.”

John takes a step back. He places the tablet and his glass of juice down on the vanity and, sensing the sudden shift in mood, Jake does the same with the bottle.

“Thank you for doing this with me,” John says, warm and soft and sincere.

Jake smiles. “I should be thanking you,” he says. “Most people would have kicked me out on my ass day one.”  

“I was never gonna be able to do that, though, was I?” John replies in an atypical moment of honesty. The room is still so small. Too small for a recurring guest star. Too small for two grown men. Too small for all of John’s feelings.

Jake licks his lips, and John can’t help but track the movement with his eyes. When he snaps them back up, Jake is looking at him like he’s the only thing in the room. “Why not, exactly?” he asks.

John swallows thick. “Come on, man,” he says. He takes a small, automatic step forward. Jake doesn’t pull away. “You know why.”

“Do I?” Jake asks. He inches forward, too, like he’s on autopilot. John sees his fingers twitch from the corner of his eye, his hand reaching out, then drawing back, like he’s unsure. But how could he not know? John’s always been so sure.

He takes a step forward. They’re pressed nearly chest to chest.

“I am technically your boss,” John whispers. It comes out thick and raspy and raw. “So feel free to knee me in the balls if this is crossing a line but I really just wanna–”

He doesn’t get the rest of the sentence out. He kisses Jake on an exhale, like John’s breathing everything he has into him, giving Jake everything he is. He curls his fist in Jake’s shirt and tugs him close, and Jake opens under him like he’s in bloom. He slips his tongue into Jake’s mouth and the other man carves out space for him like he belongs there, the same way he hauls John’s body closer with hands on his waist to press them flush from knees to hips to chest. John slides his hand from Jake’s shirt and curls both around the base of his neck to cradle him like he’s precious.

“John,” Jake pants against his lips. His breath is fire-hot, and it sets the nerve endings on John’s lips alight. “I wanted– for so long. And I didn’t know–”

“I know,” he replies, pressing another slow, steady kiss to Jake’s mouth. “Me too.”

“Am I still coming over tonight?” Jake wonders. Their noses brush, like they haven’t figured out how to stop moving together yet, even with their lips apart.

Another soft, plush kiss. “Do you still want to?” John asks.

Jake nods. “If you still want me to.”

“From the second I met you,” John says, brushing a long strand of hair behind Jake’s ear where it’s fallen loose. “I have always wanted you.”

I am always going to want you.

[geminiloopholedaa]

𝐁𝐈𝐏𝐎𝐋𝐀𝐑 𝐃𝐄𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍  Lizzie battles with type two (Just because I am familiar with type two). It is rapid cycling and the way I will portray it is that she gets maybe a week or two between episodes at the least.  Regarding the whole “seeing things” and how MG + SEBASTIAN let Lizzie believe she was having an episode,  I think it is a tad bit of shitty writing but what else is new.  As far as my version of Lizzie goes,  seeing / hearing things is not apart of her manic episodes. Now, my mother has seen things and she has type two but not into trying that out in writing.  𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐂𝐇 𝐁𝐈𝐏𝐎𝐋𝐀𝐑   that comment hurt Lizzie to the core,  she HATED Hope Mikaelson for this comment without ever confronting her about it  (UNLESS PLOTTED OTHERWISE).  Those two words crushed a siphoner and she became colder,  meaner,  no longer as nice to people around her because it changes who she was to feel like everyone knows her secret,  which isn’t a bad thing to keep to herself.  NO ONE ACTUALLY KNEW that Lizzie had bipolar disorder unless they had seen a family member with the symptoms so don’t ASSUME that your character knows UNLESS your character has a family with the disorder or they are close friends with her.

𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐂 𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐃𝐄𝐒   with Lizzie is often:  No sleeping,  eating less then normal,  fast-paced talking that others notice,  her head feels as if it won’t slow down which can be seen in her jumping from one idea to the next and will be seen in her speech,  suddenly take on new plans even if she has plenty on her plate to do already.  

It feels like a good idea, like a good thing at first and she will even feel like she has a superpower.  ( LISTEN TO THIS SONG BY KAYNE WEST CALLED “YIKES” ) 

She knows when she is not manic that the mania will always end and she will feel like shit after it is gone but that doesn’t stop her wanting it more 

I REFUSE TO BELIEVE THE ONLY REASON LIZZIE WON’T TAKE MEDS OR GOES OFF IS BECAUSE SHE DOESN’T LIKE THE FEELING OF THE MEDICATION. Will she lie and say that is the reason and the only reason? FUCKING YES! But give her past (Remember, she believed Hope spread the truth that she had bipolar depression and mocked her by calling her witch bipolar” she is unlikely to tell anyone she wants the high, she wants to be able to do everything she needs to get done and do more. She wants the “Good” start of a manic episode where she is “happy” and feels “alive” but each time she chases that high, she ends up falling and it is fast and hard. She most likely has not told her mother or father this.

There is no magic fix for a manic episode and it is either getting help / starting her pills again or letting her hit a depressive episode which will come. 

Lizzie lost her virginity in a manic episode (NO IT WASN’T RAFAEL). She was in the tail end where all she wanted was her mind to just shut up and she threw herself into doing something to calm her, which it didn’t calm her and in fact, after she was done it made her feel empty and alone. She was fifteen years old and unable to go to her mother, (canon Caroline wasn’t there at that time???) and telling her father what she had done was not happening. She told Josie but it wasn’t like how when she slept with Rafael, she told that right away, no Lizzie waited two weeks and had already crashed by then. 

𝐃𝐄𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐃𝐄𝐒   are not cute or edgy. No, Lizzie wants to actually end her life. Has tried during these episodes,  for her,  this is normally when most of her cutting happens. It isn’t on her wrists,  no she cuts her thighs to try and feel something and unlike when she is manic and she cuts this is different, she is wanting a different emotion to come out.  Slow speech,  unable to move around and about without feeling exhausted,  the lack of interest in life or things that she loves to do.  

This is where she really does want that high back or to feel “normal” again. 

Has tried to end her life and no it was not just because some boy breaks her heart or anything that some might think or assume if they hear about it. 

𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐙𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍  has happened with Lizzie, twice before she is eighteen years old. Once at fifteen and, the second was when she is seventeen.  One of the times it wasn’t her choice and she hadn’t been begging to go but the second time, she was begging for someone to help her.  It isn’t a scary place and there is nothing wrong with getting help.  ( I WILL NOT RP HOSPITAL SCENES WITH PEOPLE THAT HAVE NOT BEEN THERE AS THAT IS JUST WRONG TO ME. NOT COMFORTABLE WITH IT. I HAVE BEEN THERE SO I HAVE ACTUAL KNOWLEDGE ON IT AND WILL NOT SUGAR COAT NOR MAKE IT FUCKING SCARY AS HELL JUST FOR NO REASON. THESE PLACES ARE FOR HELPING PEOPLE !!! ) 

𝐉𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐄'𝐒 𝐋𝐈𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐁𝐄𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐑𝐒   aren’t something that Lizzie just forgives or forgets. When Josie admits to Lizzie that she is the one that blurted out, made up witch bipolar that ruined Lizzie’s life and want to be friends with Hope, Lizzie isn’t just going to be all “come here, let me hug you. It is alright.”  What Josie did to Lizzie was wrong on so many levels,  she may or may not have told people about Lizzie’s mental health but the just thought that someone knew that Lizzie was bipolar break her.  Josie deserves to be hurt over Lizzie teasing her about a crush on Hope but Josie had no right to hurt Lizzie with that one. She could have told Lizzie to stop, could have said that she liked Hope or something aside from saying,  “Why would I like someone that said such horrible things about my own twin?” Also,  Josie let this go on for YEARS before Lizzie comforted Hope when the twins were sixteen, meaning Josie had plenty of time to tell Lizzie that she lied but she never did. Not to go boo-hoo Lizzie but you bet your ass, those words that Josie said at thirteen/fourteen years old sent Lizzie into a manic episode,  which doesn’t excuse Lizzie teasing Josie or anything but still.

𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆, 𝐒𝐄𝐗 & 𝐏𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐒   Hope in the season five of the Originals took Freya to the old Mill and made it clear in that scene that Josie and Lizzie both had already started drinking at like thirteen years old,  I will still be keeping that headcanon, snippet even though some might have forgotten about it.  Given the fact that Alaric drowns his sorrows in a bottle, it is likely the twins do the same thing.  Now, do I think the twins have an addiction? No, I think it could turn into one if they aren’t careful. Lizzie HAS popped pills, has had reckless unprotected sex and it is apart of having bipolar and doing reckless things that are likely to hurt you.  Her father has never really paid attention to her? I mean, she wasn’t Hope Mikaelson so she does whatever she can to get her dad to notice and when he notices,  well it doesn’t matter because any attention is good attention. Alaric is neglectful and the girls have learned to find love somewhere else and their coping skills are crappy. 

𝐒𝐎 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐌𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐁𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐑𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍.   We can do that but I need you to realize that if you have a reply (without messaging and asking if you can as I find it offensive and can make me upset) that Lizzie is crazy or going insane, I am going to drop that thread so fast, sorry not about that life and we get enough of that on the show. I am also going to need to understand that this can get touchy when it comes to myself given I suffer from this so sometimes replies might not come at lightning speed. Please note that some of this is triggering and if you have a trigger and want me to stay away from it message me and I will gladly do so. ASK ME IF YOU ARE INTERESTED IN THIngS IN THIS HEADCANON OR ThIS PART OF HER LIFE.

𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐂 𝐎𝐑 𝐃𝐄𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐃𝐄𝐒 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐁𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐒.  Lizzie doesn’t just suddenly not become someone suffering from bipolar depression when she isn’t depressive or manic,  she suffers feelings and worries about it all year long.  Lizzie has background that will go into her threads but once again, I will steer clear of triggers when I rp with you if you tell me.

I AM TIRED OF THE SHOW TREATING THIS LIKE IT IS SOME KIND OF JOKE OR SOMETHING THAT MAKES LIZZIE LESS OF A PERSON SO TAKING MATTERS INTO MY HANDS.

[alifeexamined-blog1]

At 105 days, a meditation on sobriety

I've been reflecting on 2019 thus far, and how it's been one of the hardest but one of the most important years of my adult life.

2019 has brought some new lows. I've struggled with suicidal ideation in a way that I haven't since I was a teenager in the immediate aftermath of rape and sexual abuse. And if anything, it's been worse this time, because I would keep thinking, "I’m in my 30′s. Over a decade has passed; my life should be better by now." At this point, I was supposed to have grown out of what happened to me in my youth. I wasn't supposed to be stuck with that trauma's ongoing effects, or trapped in cycles of being re-traumatized by the emotionally abusive relationships that followed. (Because even as survivors of abuse, we often gravitate to the familiar. Control and the diminishment of self by the partners who should care for us is what we know, so it’s easy to mistake that treatment for love. It’s emotional Stockholm Syndrome. And it makes any attempt at healing exponentially harder, because every new relationship like that--and I’ve been in several--opens old wounds over again.) 

I spent the early months of 2019 hysterical with anxiety. I fantasized about suicide. I planned how I'd do it. I’m a writer, so I planned what I might say in my suicide note. (I’ll admit that the part of me who used to like Linkin Park reveled a bit in the emo-ness of this exercise.) It wasn't that I wanted to die. That was the worst part: I very much wanted life. And not just life, a good life, suffused with new and exciting experiences. I had this cliche vision of the “Eat Pray Love” version of myself. Like something out of an Instagram post, this Hannah stood laughing on top of a Colorado mountain that she’d just spent all day climbing, silhouetted against blue sky in a big hat and a sports bra, water bottle in one hand, a joint in the other, glowing with self-actualization. Hannah in a state of hippie nirvana. Hannah breathing in nature, no cares or worries. Just picture-perfect privilege. A juvenile aspiration--like most Internet-inspired fantasies, all shine and little substance--but  if I visualized it long enough, I could almost feel the sunshine on my back. 

But feeling that sunshine was becoming more and more impossible. I'd lost hope. I remember crying on the phone to my mom, "I feel like I have no future." I remember I said that over and over and over again. The simple fact of *being me* was so painful that it seemed unendurable. "It hurts to exist," I also recall saying. It’s a feeling I don’t know how to describe to someone who hasn’t experienced it (and I wouldn’t wish that experience on anyone). I didn't see another way out of that pain and I felt sapped of the considerable energy required to fight it. There was little left except pangs of failure and fear and self-hatred, and the compulsion to escape by any means possible. At 31, I felt old.

All the while, I kept up appearances. If I couldn’t fool myself any more, at least maybe I could fool others into thinking that I was fine. I went to work and tried to stay engaged and personable. I attempted to maintain my social life, even my dating life (though the man I’d been sleeping with lost interest after my facade of the fun-loving, bohemian girl in the sunshine became too exhausting to maintain, and he caught a glimpse of my actual vulnerability). I posted selfies on social media, shopped for new clothes, got my hair done. All the trappings of functional suburban normalcy. But inside I was giving up on the idea that I could access real joy and relief again. When I’d try to smile at people, my face felt like rubber stretched into an unnatural shape. The muscles didn’t want to move that way any more.

And so my drinking, which had already fallen into unhealthy patterns--more and more evenings when I fell asleep fully clothed and still wearing my shoes after too many glasses of Chardonnay--escalated. And escalated some more. In a fucked-up way, it was my weapon against the inevitability of ending it all. It was a last-ditch attempt to break free from the splitting awfulness of being in my own brain. Anything to mitigate the stress before the stress took over completely. If I got enough alcohol inside me, I could feel warm and light, at least for a while. If I was lucky, I could even feel a flicker of sexiness, a fleeting chemical charisma. Late one night around this time, a stranger at a bar said she could tell I have "a beautiful soul." I cried thinking about it later, wishing that I could see myself this way. Beautiful was the opposite of how I felt. Even getting out of bed took a grim amount of effort.

It's only been 3 months and a few days since my last drink, but already what I can see is that the day I decided to quit alcohol was the day I chose life. Quitting drinking was a choice to believe that there *is* hope. That I do have a future, that I am a person worth investing in. I've wondered, too, if the incident that propelled me to stop drinking was my subconscious acting on my suicidal feelings. My "rock bottom" was that I drove home blackout drunk from a bar and crashed my car. That could have killed me. Worse, it could have killed someone else. I was lucky that neither of those things happened. (No one was hurt and my car was fine, apart from a few scrapes and scratches.) Despite the deep, deep shame I felt--and still feel--about having taken this dangerous action, it scared me into realizing that I still had fight in me after all. The thought that I could've died filled me with panic, not longing. That made me determined to piece myself back together, no matter how much more hurt I'd have to get through to do it.

And it does hurt. I've moved through the intervening days feeling like a weird exposed nerve. My emotions are heightened and all over the place. Not to mention that I feel a gnawing restlessness, stripped as I now am of the usual outlet for my self-destructive impulses. It’s hard not to feel manic when you’re struggling for peace against ongoing sensations of frustrated hedonism. The other day I was walking in the woods and first I was smiling because the landscape was beautiful and then there were tears in my eyes because I felt so privileged to be there experiencing it. Profound awe and gratitude, mingled with profound sadness and a loneliness that pervaded every part of my body. And that's probably how it's going to be for a while. 

Quitting drinking hasn't fixed everything overnight. I still often feel at war with myself. I push against the weight of constant anguish just trying to fulfill my basic responsibilities. But sobriety has reminded me that I have agency and that it isn't impossible that I will one day be able to accept myself. Not an Instagrammable, FOMO-inducing, obvious form of self-acceptance, but a quiet feeling of confidence that’s deep and unshakable. Because if I can do this hard thing and stick with it, what else can’t I do? I've been rewatching early episodes of "Game of Thrones," and there are those scenes in the first season where Arya's taking sword-fighting lessons with the Bravosi dude and he tells her, "What do we say to the god of death? Not today."

Deciding to get sober--and, shortly thereafter, seeking professional help to improve my mental health--has been my way of saying to death: "Not today."

[thirteenphoenixes-blog]

soul food

the mania creeps up on him like ice on a river, he thinks. slow and light and easily cracked by a good, strong dose of reality and ash and sleep, then it’s just there with a weight so sudden and heavy and thick that not even the sun can’t get through and he is no stranger to bad days, but these are beyond that and he can’t remember the last time he ate or how he actually ended up in this alley, but he’s here and he’s fairly sure that he’s dying.

or going to.

and it’s not the first time this has happened. the scrawny frame of indiana henry jones sinks back against the the brick of the building behind him, slumping to the ground with a soft wheeze. his skateboard has been snapped in half, the pieces scattered somewhere, and he mourns that if nothing else because that one had been his favorite. an old faithful kinda one that he had painted himself.  

his side outright burns, one shaking hand pressing against the deep lines that are half scratch half puncture wound, blood pooling in the gaps between his fingers and he hopes this puddle he’s lying in is water because an infection is the last thing he needs. his arms sting for reasons unrelated to the mess of glass in his side and he thinks about ash again.

she’d help.

and he knows—he fucking knows—she would because she’s ash and she’s been around him since he was tinier and more of an asshole, but this is something that he’s got to deal with on his own because minds like his are only good for driving people away when they get tired of dealing with him.

and they always get tired.

even those with the best intentions and the kindest hearts leave because they’re not built to worry like he makes them. so he doesn’t tell her. doesn’t text, doesn’t call, doesn’t see her. even though he himself and other parts of him want to pay her a visit. god, if she could see him now, she’d be so upset, so angry with him for not telling her but he—

he’s tired, sleepy for the first time in four days, afraid too.

and he hates that part.

you’re going to die in this alley, the ever-sinister voice in his head murmurs with a grin that he swears he can hear. indy tries to to trim the hysterics from his laugh, fails masterfully, and passes out.

sometimes, mason wonders, as he picks up indy’s limp frame from against the back side of some bar, whether this was how finn had felt. when they were younger and dumber and mase got into fights—especially fights alone, days when finn wasn’t there or arrived late, and could only deal with the aftermath. as much as they tried to seem like it, neither of them were infalliable and well 7 against one isn’t ever a fair no matter who’s involved.

he wonders, did finn ever get a call from his girlfriend, frantic and worried and concerned because indy hasn’t been home in four days and i don’t know where he’s gone? did finn ever have to try and calm her and assure her that he’s fine, sleeping on the couch in fact, crashed at his a couple of days ago? did finn ever load up the car at 3am to go hunting for his stupid stupid little brother? did finn’s breath ever catch in that split second moment of seeing him sitting there on the ground, bloodied and bruised? did he ever clench his teeth and swear deep in his heart that if he ever found out who’d hurt his little brother that whoever was in charge of all this judgement or whatever shit had better look away because he was going to do something absolutely awful and asking for forgiveness was more than he could hope.

he wonders the entire drive to finn’s house, amidst a not-really apology for waking his brother and charlie up. wonders as finn sets indy onto parker’s old bed and gets to work with charlie as his nurse, running supplies back and forth. wonders later, alone, in room as he sits against the wall waiting anxiously on indy to open his fucking eyes and stop sleeping already. 

then he does.

and oh. oh. mason is angry. “nice of you to finally join us, sleeping beauty.” he drawls, tone just the appropriate amount of pissed the fuck off as indy stares at him with wide wide brown-green eyes that just quickly narrow as he tries,

“m’not—”

“beautiful? yeah, i know.” he glares in the way that he knows needs to be patented someday between him and finn and tilts his head, “what the hell were you thinking, indiana? getting lost in blood alley of all fucking places?” indy winces at his full name, bunching the blankets up in his hands and refusing to meet mason’s stare and mase feels just as good as he feels bad about.

“it was accidental,” he mumbles.

mase scoffs, “accidental how?”

“accidental.” indy insists. “i didn’t mean to—it just sort of happened.” liar liar liar

is this kid fucking kidding him right now? “just sort of happened?”

a sharp nod, but he’s still refusing to look him in the eye and if there’s anything that mason j. holmes is sick of, it’s being lied to.

“i’m fine.”

“fine?”

“yes,” indy finally snaps, “i’m fine.” he stands, all 6 foot 2 inches of him and glares down at mase still sat against the wall, “last i checked i was a grown-ass man, so if this is that part where you start trying to lecture me, you can fuck right off. so what i got into a little fight, it’s not like it hasn’t happened before. i bounce back quick. i’m fine.”

mason can’t stop himself from gaping at the little idiot, “that’s not—you call that fine? you call bleeding to death in an alley fine? not telling your girlfriend where the fuck you’ve been for four goddamn days, fine?” mase’s voice rises as he does, standing to his full height then too, that inch between them feeling like years as he snaps, “finn picked a good eight pieces of glass from your side. eight, indy, and i’m supposed to believe that you’re fine?”

his brother wilts a little, “i—” his voice cracks, “look. it’s not any of your business, ok. something happened and i—”

“you what? this isn’t the first time that this has happened and you’re so fucking afraid of the hospital that i can’t even take you there.”

“i don’t wanna talk about it.”

“and ash told me that it’s not the first time you’ve up and disappeared on her either, coming back lookin’ like death warmed over.”

“i said i don’t wanna talk about it.”  

“and i did a little research while you were napping. it isn’t hard, putting in a few symptoms into a search bar.”

“i don’t want to fucking talk about it!” indy screams, his voice cracking again and then giving out all together as they glare at each other, so different yet so similar that it’s polarizing.

“then what are we supposed to fuckin’ talk about? the fact that my little brother disappears off the face of the planet for a couple of weeks every other month or so and then we find him dying off in an alley somewhere? that this is the third time ash has called me, crying, because you haven’t been seen in almost a goddamn week? that you’re marked up to hell with scars that--” mase cuts himself off, breathing hard. shit, he hadn’t mean to let that slip.

and indy pales. his face draining of color and his voice is hoarse, shot to hell, as he says, “don’t.”

and mase can’t help but. he works with computers and math is favorite subject and he notices patterns like he breathes and those dark lines marring indy’s arms remind him of the last time he lost his other brother and mase can’t lose anymore family because nat is — nat is gone and finn’s—finn’s happier now but there’s still that damn glint to his eye, that same casual insolence towards death and a need to martyr himself that keeps mase up at night and okeana— his wife, okeana’s solution to every one of their fights is to go and mason can’t help but, so he blinks like his eyes aren’t watering and says, “don’t what? worry about you hurting yourself? indy i’m just—”

“don’t,” indy snaps, “i’m not—” he takes a hiccuping little breath as it all overwhelms him for a moment, “i’m not gonna kill myself, alright? y-you don’t have to worry about some kid’s death on your conscience.”

mase would’ve laughed at the fact that indy had called himself a kid, if not for the actual feeling of disgust curling in his stomach because who the fuck had made indy think that he was just some kid staying alive to keep his death from making someone else feel bad. he shakes his head then and stares at him again, “you think that’s what i’m worried about, you absolute dumbass?”

“l-look,” indy grumbles, still looking away and rubbing his neck and leaving mase wondering how he didn’t notice the too orderly lines marring his little brother like stripes and feeling guilty because he’s never paying enough fucking attention until something happens, “i’m fine, i just kinda freak out and need a little bit to myself. it’s no big deal. you don’t have to worry about me and if, if something does happen it’s on me, not on—”

“shut up, and listen well, jones. you are my little brother. do you know what that means?”

indy opens his mouth to reply but mason’s glare is so fierce now that he only shakes his head.

“that means,” mase continues slowly, “that we stick around for each other. even when things actually go to shit. we might fight and things might be awful, but we’re stuck together and we defend each other. i’m not gonna leave you because of some weird brain shit. now, you gonna tell me? or am i gonna have to tell you what my research picked up, and how shitty your firewall actually is?”

“i’ll tell.” indy mumbled, “also my firewall isn’t shit, you’re just too good at what you do.”

“no it’s definitely shit, but i also am good at what i do.”

“i’m,” indy hesitates, so long mason thinks he might not say it, “i’m bipolar, have been since i was a kid. when i was younger, my uncle used to just, lock me in a room for weeks when i’d get manic. and then once i got put into the foster care system, my episodes used to be enough most times for them to get rid of me. then when i turned 18, ash convinced me to go to a doc and get like, officially diagnosed because i’d told her about the symptoms and whatever.”

“then, what’s the problem?”

indy deflates. “i don’t know,” he admits, “s’just like everything is fine and i take my meds like i’m supposed to and then i skip a few days and suddenly i’m all over the place and then the delusions set in and i feel like i can do anything. except you know, i can’t, but i feel like i can and it’s just really dumb. and all everyone tells me is how hard i am to take care of or how much i make them worry and i just—i just don’t wanna be a problem! people get rid of me for less and i—ow! the fuck was that for.”

mase sighs and they sit across from each other, the older man frowning, “because you’re an idiot. also stop whining, you baby, it was barely a flick.” he squints, “why didn’t you tell someone—hell, why not tell ash, you know, your girlfriend?”

“she’s got enough on her plate.”

“ok but she also loves you, numbskull.” he snorts, “also we love you too. hell if you need a daily reminder to take your fucking medication, just say so. i’ll set one up for you, hell i’ll call you. we didn’t make it this far without our own mental health shit y’kno? so we’re not gonna judge you for yours. besides, there’d be no family to begin with if we started kicking people out.”

indy sniffles, “okay,” and goddamn it he’s such a little kid sometimes that mase just can’t but sigh and pat him on the head, grunting as indy swamps him in a hug. “thank you.” the little nerd mumbles into mase’s chest, “for staying.”

“yeah yeah, you dork.” he says, wondering then if finn ever felt as stupidly fond as he does right now as he says, “what kinda big brother would i be if i ditched you when things got tough? now sleep. first thing tomorrow, you’re taking your meds and then you’re calling ash. then we’re gonna have a nice little talk about coping mechanisms.”

[whiteeducation]

13 reasons, why?

I am about o put on my whingey teenage hat so I guess it’s perfect that I have Tanya Burr and Zoella in the background on youtube (only because i imagine those types of people are their audience-no offence rude!). Also, I know that this blog was meant to be shit my white people say as I navigate my life overseas, but over the years MY white people are very much like me-so I guess the shit they say is the shit i say-so not really news or shocking!

Anyways, we finished 13 reasons why last night , and I feel the entitled need to comment and get stuff off my chest because in all honesty, I feel like it effected me-and I am not usually effected by TV shows, especially TV shows based on fiction (the story is fiction but not the premise). What shook me wasn’t the rape scene (I think media has desensitised me), or the suicide scene (because people do kill themselves), but rather the message that I personally received. I guess it didn’t come with instructions so you are meant to digest it the way you do. (disclaimer: my thoughts are my own and this is my blog)

I think leaving a note (or tapes) for loved ones is a good thing. I think suicide sometimes can come as a surprise. And I think when it does, it shatters loved ones left behind. People look for reasons, they blame themselves, they search for meaning, understanding, what they could have done differently. I think sometimes suicide is inevitable. I think sometimes, the lucky few who have stopped themselves, or were unsuccessful realise that they only thing that stopped them or would keep them going is knowing that your life is not your own. I think sometimes the religious ones have it right when they use god as a reason that you can’t take your own life, because your life belongs to god. Personally  I don’t think god owns me #indenpendetwoman but I do think my life is not all mine. I am a lucky to have a family that loves me, to have a partner whose life is so interwoven into mine, friends who look out for me and i know that makes me lucky, but I think everyone is affected by suicide. Even complete strangers like doctors or paramedics or Bob from down the street who hears about it from someone who read it somewhere. We are responsible for our own actions, and how our actions effect others. So yeah, sometimes leaving a note can help elevate the insurmountable pain loss brings.

Don’t go glorify blaming others and watching them suffer through the guilt. If leaving a note (or tapes) is done like in the show, it can cause more pain and sadness. In the show (spoilers ahead) she kills herself, but then leaves 13 tapes explaining to 13 people how they could have stopped her or worse, caused her to kill herself. Sure, one of the people she blamed (WHO BY THE WAY, DIDN’T ACTUALLY LISTEN TO HIS TAPE) should be held responsible because he raped her and that effected her. But he doesn’t know that. The show ends with him not being prosecuted, but with another one of her mates, who she does blame, killing himself. So the cycle continues for Season 2 #dollardollarbillsyo. Anyways, that brings me to my next point. Sadness. 

I think suicide is sad. Very sad. I think it is sad for those who die, and it is sad for those who left behind. Sad. And i think that is what was lost in amongst all that teenage angst and bad acting. Sadness. Not anger, not revenge, but sadness. I think as humans, we have a built in mechanism inside of us, thanks to evolution, that stops us from killing ourselves, which i think is why people say it’s really hard to bungy jump (because its hard to throw yourself off a bridge). So i think when you go against that natural instinct for self preservation, you are obviously in a really bad place.  I am not trying to say that I know why people end their lives, nor am I saying there must the only one reason, nor am I saying that people don’t end their lives out of spite or revenge,  I am simply saying that if you are going to create a TV show and you are claiming that it is suppose to help people or start a dialogue then it because your responsibility to do it right. Tell the whole story. 

There is nothing to be stoic about-there is nothing to not talk about. Don’t paint parents to be these stupid imbecilic adults that have no clue, that you don’t need to talk to because they will never understand anyway. The show claims to spark dialogue, yet like i mentioned no one talks to their parents in the show. Not until it’s too late. Not until after evidence of rape is washed away, not until after a second is person is raped, not until after your mate becomes an alcoholic, not until after your other mate becomes homeless, not until after someone is killed in a car crash.  Somehow the show makes it seem like these are all things that happen to your average teenager (played by what looked like 40 year olds) as your navigate through your highschool dodging jocks, cheerleaders, nerds and  manic pixie dreamgirls. Highschool is hard, trust me I know. But it’s not all hard, and not all at once. We should not be normalising being bullied everyday. Sure talking can be hard. But no one is going to help you if they can’t hear you scream. So maybe they should have done a “cut to” with some magic of editing and shown how things might have been different if she had spoken to her parents. By the way, they paint the parents out to be so loving and attentive and supportive, yet made it out like she could never approach them #hollywoodmagic. Although, in the show, the characters all seem to talk to this one guy. For the first half of the season, I thought they were gonna make that guy out to be dead himself, or like some sort of giant latino jiminy cricket. And jiminy kinda did nothing-which he apologises about in the last episode and admits he should have spoken to adults sooner, but it got lost in the soundtrack and credits. 

Anyways-as I said, these my thoughts and I just needed to put them out there. 

[dunntown]

SuperUnKnown - R.I.P. Chris Cornell

“I woke the same as any other day

except a voice was in my head

it said, “Seize the day, pull the trigger

Drop the blade and watch the rolling heads.”

A BiPolar perspective to Chris Cornell’s death.

Thursday, May 18th, 2017 - It was around 7:45 in the morning. I silenced the alarm on my phone, hushing the soothing sounds of Fat Mike from NoFx’s voice as he wakes me most mornings lately with the lyrics “One morning I woke up, scratched my balls and eyes..” This being the opening lines to the song “I don’t like me anymore.”, It’s sort of appropriate for a guy who struggles with bipolar disorder and depression. I decided to go about my morning routine of scrolling through and deleting the massive amounts of spam mail I seem to get while I sleep. The first thing I saw, however, was a newsletter from my local rock station. “BREAKING: Chris Cornell Dead”. I just sort of sat there for a moment, wondering what kind of dead celebrity hoax this was. Chris Cornell, the guy who was a monstrous part of my musical adventure as a teen was dead. It was so strange, he seemed so healthy. He didn’t seem to have any real drug or alcohol problems that I ever recall reading or hearing about. It was a bit jarring. 

I proceeded to flip through the various news sites, sort of exposing myself to as much input as possible into how one of my favorite songwriters had met his demise at the age of 52. It’s important to note something to those reading this who may not realize what it was like for those of us on April 8th, 1994. I was in 6th grade. My childhood friend Lonzo Jones, a guy who sadly is no longer with us, rushed up to me as I left a class and said “Dude, did you hear? Kurt Cobain is dead!” I was really confused then, and I had to wait all day to hear more when MTV delivered updates via the broadcasting of Kurt Loder. I think it’s important to explain why that moment is so memorable because I feel like May 18th will always be the day that Chris Cornell died for me. (I’m aware Joy Division’s Ian Curtis lost his battle with depression on this day 37-years ago as well). 

Chris Cornell, the powerful, dynamic singer whose band Soundgarden was one of the architects of grunge music, died on Wednesday night in Detroit hours after the band had performed there. He was 52.

The death was a suicide by hanging, the Wayne County medical examiner’s office said in a statement released on Thursday afternoon. It said a full autopsy had not yet been completed.

Mr. Cornell’s representative, Brian Bumbery, said in a statement that the death was “sudden and unexpected.”

I read this and many other write-ups like it. “Suicide” and “Sudden and Unexpected” are the two things that stand out to a guy like me the most. I haven’t been one to shy away from the fact I suffer from mental illness. (more on this in a moment.) The stories kept coming in that Chris had hung himself and almost immediately the internet was awash with more commentary and the gushing of fans. I wasn’t aware I knew so many fans of his work. It’s strange how that happens. It’s even stranger than that as I sat and went over some comic work I am trying to catch up on, the one person I kept thinking about was a friend I had in middle school named Gary Gilbert. Gary was without a doubt the biggest Soundgarden fan. We used to have weird “grunge rock wars” about who was better as I was a devout Nirvana fan and he was all Soundgarden. I almost immediately thought about “I wonder how Gary is taking it?”. This led me to do something I haven’t ever done in my life. I searched for him and sent him a friend request on facebook. So, here I am, wondering about how a guy I haven’t spoken to in 20-years at least is feeling about the death of Chris Cornell. 

I guess this history lesson wouldn’t be complete if I didn’t explain one of the things about why I loved and adored the grunge scene so much. I missed the punk scene. However, I totally would never have known about punk music if not for bands like Nirvana, Mudhoney, and Soundgarden. I didn’t learn about the Sex Pistols until I heard Kurt Cobain talk about them in an interview in 1992. Grunge was my gateway drug backward into my obsession with Punk and Hardcore. 

So, I now come to the first real part of this blog. Grief is weird. I believe a big part of the process is trying to reconcile to yourself that this is a permanent fixture in your life. You go your whole life taking advantage of these artists and actors and musicians... Then, poof!

I loved Chris Cornell’s work. I personally believe out of every grunge era musician, he was probably the most well rounded of all of them. His voice is capable of giving me goosebumps and some songs will forever resonate with me. Soundgarden was the middle man of Grunge. It bridged the gap between Punk/Sludge/Noise rock from bands like The Melvins and Sonic Youth to the more commercially recognized bands of Nirvana, Alice in Chains and Pearl Jam. Soundgarden plays loud, hard, yet poetic rock. Their music was built on Led Zeppelin, Hardcore Punk, and Black Sabbath. They defied the expectation of what a “Grunge” band was and stood out among their Seattle scene as the toughest machine in town. Chris Cornell’s thunderous, multi-octave vocals pierced the souls of all of the angst-ridden and angry youth who also weren’t finding solace in the nonsensical poetries of other bands at that time. Cornell’s lyricism is some of the most well-versed poetry I’ve ever heard. Cornell spoke to kids with depression through experience, and told stories of sardonic nihilism, inner torment and defined the battles of depression as beautifully catatonic waves of torment. 

Cornell spoke to me... 

"Whatsoever I've feared has come to life. Whatsoever I've fought off became my life. Just when every day seemed to greet me with a smile sunspots have faded. And now I'm doing time 'cause I fell on black days."

When I was in high school, I thought there was something wrong with me. It was always a roller coaster ride of emotion. I’d always suppress it and I got really good at it. In 10th grade, a good friend of mine named Robert Patton killed himself. It really shook our school, and today, when I read the report about Chris Cornell’s suicide. I immediately remembered what our Principal had said to us about Robert’s death. 

“sudden and unexpected.”

Robert was a fun kid. We laughed and talked about all kinds of crap. I never saw it coming. He seemed so happy... He didn’t seem damaged or broken, not like how I felt. However, I bet you not many of my friends knew I was depressed back then either. I am bipolar and suffer from bouts of depression and mania. I also suffer from clinical anxiety and have ADHD. I’m a cocktail of neuroticism and to this day can’t believe my current and/or ex Wife/Girlfriends haven’t murdered me in my sleep. 

One of the things I decided this morning was that if the facts came out and they said he had indeed committed suicide, I’d write this version of the blog. I wanted to make sure it held a clear message about mental illness and hopefully could help someone. 

I always get asked, “What’s it like?”

So, here is the best way to explain how it all works. Mania is sort of this awesome high. You have energy and motivation, and you just don’t want to stop. Couple that up with ADHD and sometimes it creates severe problems. You’ve now lost your impulse control, so for example. I wanted to find a particular record. (Led Zeppelin 4) I decided to hit a pawn shop and a couple thrift shops. Waste a couple hours and get home for dinner. I was severely manic that day though and my ADHD coupled with it made me hit every thrift shop, pawnshop, and anywhere else I thought I might find it. I searched for 6-hours before Aly (wife) made me buy it offline. 

The best part of mania is the optimism, you could literally burn down your home and just go “We can rebuild it and make it better too!”. I’m also much more on point creatively. I get so many ideas, so many great moments of artistic expression. Sometimes being manic is like a comic creator's super power. When Mania strikes, I do as much as possible to capitalize on it. 

I feel more outgoing, charismatic, secure in who I am and what I am doing. I feel like I can do anything. I wake up with a drive and determination to get things done, and I just go and go and GO. I am way more sociable, I talk too much, I dominate conversations, I interject when I don’t need to. I can’t keep on topic cause my brain is working faster than the conversation that is happening. I sometimes depress myself thinking back on these times as well. Sometimes, you just can't recognize when you’re being “TOO MUCH” for some people.  During manic spells, I feel like Superman. I can do anything, my self-esteem is up, I can conquer the world. However, the major dread of anyone who recognizes their mania is that we know it’s only a matter of time before we crash. The thing about mania that is so appealing is that without the highs of manic episodes, I don’t think I could tolerate the lows of depression.

I've givin' everything I need. I'd give you everything I own. I'd give in if it could at least be ours alone. I've given everything I could to blow it to hell and gone. Burrow down and blow up the outside world."

The point of this is to discuss why Chris Cornell could have been suicidal, depressed, and mentally ill... and no one would have known. In the song “Fell on Black Days” he basically defines what it feels like to fall into depression from a manic episode. 

When my depression kicks in, I am just intolerable. I want to be left alone, but not too alone. I want to not exist, but I fear not being remembered. I don’t want to go anywhere, but I don’t want to be here. When people talk to me, I feel they are judging me, chastising me, making me feel like I am incapable of doing anything right. It becomes really easy to hide.  Seeing people be happy is the worst, It annoys me and makes me angry. It reminds me that I am broken and that my bipolar disorder is always there. I’ll always have instability and the most annoying part is the people who tell me “Cheer up!” as if it was that easy. The nuances of daily life also begin to start dragging my mood deeper into the void. This is where suicide becomes... endearing.  I’ve contemplated suicide pretty much during every depressive state. I have tricks, mechanisms to break my thought process. My kids. Music. Art. Comics. Writing. Sex. All of these are ways I trick my brain into walking away from the ledge. If I feel I am not able to do it alone, I’ll sometimes text, message or call a friend. This is that exposing my own personal life part. If any of my friends read this and you ever complain to yourself. “Why does Martin call me and just not have anything to say?” It’s because if I'm on the phone with you, I'm not self-harming. I am very cognitive of my mental state and I am very good at keeping it in check. Sadly, some are not. Some fight for a very long time and some give up. Robin Williams comes to mind. 

"Boiling heat, summer stench 'neath the black. The sky looks dead. Call my name through the cream. And I'll hear you. Scream again. Black hole sun won't you come and wash away the rain? Black hole sun won't you come? Won't you come?"

I sometimes imagine what it’s like for normal people. I imagine they deal with stress and anger and anxiety in a much different way. If I told you that I sometimes have gotten so angry I’ve punched myself in the face, causing damage to my teeth... Would that make sense? I have bad teeth, and some people have asked me why. Why are they chipped? Why are you missing one? They don’t look unbrushed. It’s because I used to punch myself in the face. It was reactionary and really destructive and thankfully, I’ve not done that in a very long time. Don’t get me wrong, I totally do have my “normal” days. I get to have them every so often. I think it’s why I take so much pleasure in the little things.  I think Chris Cornell gave into his depression. I think he let go of his fight because like anyone who suffers from clinical depression will tell you. Sometimes, when you look into the future, you can’t see anything but a cold, dead, blackness. 

The night before his death, Cornell performed in front of a sold-out show in front of a legion of fans. He lasted longer than his grunge brethren like Kurt Cobain, Layne Staley, Shannon Hoon, and most recently Scott Weiland. Cornell experienced almost 2x the life as some of these tragic artists. He was very much alive to all that looked upon him that night as he played them out to a cover of Led Zeppelin’s “In My Time of Dying”. His haunting words catching me in the heart were “I feel bad for the next city.”. I would have bought every album as I always did of Cornell’s work until he hung it up. His future was to be that of an aged and grizzled rock vet, strumming an acoustic guitar and telling us more stories about his inner battle with his own demons. I always envisioned Chris Cornell being my generations Jonny Cash. That, sadly, will never be the case. 

A lot of you, my fellow fans have been asking “why?”. 

You will never truly understand the answers to that question if you do not grasp the silent killer that is mental illness. Chris Conell will go down in legend as one of the best singers and songwriters of Rock & Roll. 

"I got up feeling so down. I got off being sold out. I've kept the movie rolling. But the story's getting old now. I just looked in the mirror. Things aren't looking so good. I'm looking California and feeling Minnesota. So now you know, who gets mystified. Show me the power child. I'd like to say that I'm down on my knees today. It gives me the butterflies, gives me away till I'm up on my feet again. I'm feeling outshined."

RIP

Chris Cornell

If you’re ever struggling emotionally or going through a tough time, you can always call Call 1-800-273-8255 Available 24 hours everyday! National Suicide Prevention Lifeline

- Martin Dunn

[otdderamin]

Transcript Ep84 1:11:11 Hallway drinking party + analysis of Percy’s current mental health

NOTE: Making conjectures about anyone's mental health from purely observational information is inherently flawed. I emphatically suggest you don't do so for real people. It can cause us to make incorrect assumptions about them, misinterpret their intentions, incorrectly assess their abilities, or invite bias against them. I'm also very wary of psychological assessments for fictional characters. But sometimes a character’s actions only make sense when you understand their psychology, and it is for that reason that I’m sharing my assessment of Percy.

Many people have enough direct or indirect experience with depression and anxiety to empathize with them. They may influence who a person is, but in a mostly reliable way. You expect Vax to be mostly gloomy. You expect Keyleth to over-analyze everything. It's very hard for most people to empathize with bipolar disorder precisely because it can put a person's behavior all over the map. It's harder to spot the signs of since it keeps the person in so much flux. If you start to get a read on someone, and then they do something totally opposite of what you’d expect, it’s easy to doubt that your analysis. That said, this is only a well educated guess, I believe it's a useful guess, but it could be incorrect.

In Talks Machina Ep3 0:56:56, Taliesin says death left Percy, “feeling very committed to his current manic phase that he’s going through. There will probably be a, you know, a depressive phase at the end of this." Those two sentences use psychiatric language implying bipolar disorder, which Percy’s behavior is consistent with (painfully so, at times). He started out the broadcast fairly stable, but rapidly deteriorated into a mixed state (plus PTSD) when the Briarwoods were reintroduced. Mixed affective state is the most unpredictable and dangerous; consider the worst thoughts attached to depression with an abundance of nervous energy and lack of impulse control. He started stabilizing again after Whitestone was restored. But his role in killing Vex in Ep44 sent him into depression. He bottomed out in Ep57. Looking for help from the Raven Queen at all was a sure sign of desperation from a guy that’s largely ignored the gods. But more significant is the walk home. Casting hex on himself is the only deliberate act of self half from any of the characters so far, and he did it directly after talking to death herself. His mood markedly improved after that.

Ep84 is the first time we've seen Percy depressed since Ep64, while showing Vax the Raven Queen's Temple. In those 16 days, Vax has started coming out of his gloom. But that's not what we see in Percy's behavior. In Talks Machina Ep3 (0:56:45, post-Ep76), a fan said Percy "seems in better humors", and Taliesin explicitly referred to it as Percy's "current manic phase" (0:56:56). I think Percy can feel the edges of it in Ep64, anxious distress pushing him to very earnestly ask Vax not to trust him (1:56:32). It starts really showing itself when Ripley came back into the picture (Ep66). His expression of distress, through Ep68, shows classic signs of mania (compounded with PTSD): racing thoughts, rapid talking in Ep67, agitation, trouble focusing on required tasks, and obsessive focus. The way he handles Raishan in Ep70 shows a marked increase in self-esteem and reïnforces the hyper-focus. The way he kissed Vex in Ep72 showed even more marked self-esteem, increase in goal-oriented behavior, and, given his insecurity, increased risk-taking. The most dangerous manifestation was in Ep73 when he asked if they should protect Whitestone (1:37:28), was told no, and then stabbed Raishan (1:45:44). That is squarely in the ranks of a sense of grandiosity, racing thoughts, being overly goal-oriented, and "excessive involvement in activates with a high potential for painful consequences." (DSM-5). Which is also why he came up short explaining his actions. It seemed like a good idea in the high of the moment, but it's obviously a bad idea in hindsight. The mania backed off a bit after that, but it's the restless energy that pervaded his actions under pressure up until now.

But in this scene, we see that mood starting to crash. He’s still showing manic signs. He says he’s very tired in both Ep83 and Ep84 (0:50:11), but still stays up until 3 am. He’s aware that his ideas for pranking Scanlan might be impulsive and poor judgement, so he asks Pike to check him. But we see increasingly more signs of depression. His inflated self-esteem starts crumbling back to self-recrimination. The guilt and hopelessness start crashing in again. His agitation changes from a restlessness to do things into bitterness. We see him struggling to concentrate and be articulate (1:15:24). His preoccupation with death turns back towards his personal relationship with it (rather than outward towards Ripley, Raishan, and Thordak). This is the only episode where it was stated that he drank so heavily he can’t entirely remember the night before. Which could be a worrying symptom, but could also just be the release of that night.

Mania can be exacerbated by intense pressure. The need to react quickly and decisively tends to push the mind that way and keep it there. But once that pressure is gone, one tends to crash. If you think of mood like a wave, shorter cycles and higher amplitudes are both more dangerous and positively reinforce each other. So, if this was a fast and bad cycle up, there's a good chance that his mood will crash down quickly and badly (it might not, and further pressure could influence it). It's also possible that the sheer size of the stakes they've been playing for made Percy's manic cycle look worse than it really was. Any unnecessary risk taking could so easily end in such a huge disaster for them, or pay huge dividends. I do believe Taliesin in Talks Machina Ep3 (0:57:35), when he says that Percy's healthier than he was, but also, and importantly, that he isn't healthy.

Layered on top of his fluctuating mood are important changes in his outlook: he's become more emotionally open with his friends, he's increasingly feeling like he doesn't have control of or choice in the direction of his life, and he's become increasingly mistrustful of things like magic if he can't see how they work.

He was so closed off through the Whitestone arc that his friends could barely help him, even though he was in tremendous distress. Vex was the only one who got through to him at all. In his quiet conversations with Vax (Ep32 2:42:42, Ep44 1:15:21, and Ep64 1:51:03) he held a lot back, though a lot less in Ep64. There's a marked difference in how earnest he was in Ep67 1:36:46 when he tells Vex and Vax his fears about Ripley and himself. His conversation with Vex in the woods in Ep72 is similarly open. But we've never seen him as desperately frank as he is in this hallway (that openness leading to his tirade in Ep85).

Percy has a lot of interesting control issues. He's generally fine letting things, people, or situations be. He doesn't mind things being a mess around him and he has no constant need to bring order to things. But in high-stakes situations, combat, negotiations, and other things that scare him, he "is very much about the idea of creating bubbles of control" (Talks Machina Ep8 Twitch 0:54:58, bottom of the article). Magic has had a huge influence in controlling his life lately, but he has no basis to understand how it works, his way of trusting things, and he has no way to assert control over it. So, his reaction is to push it away entirely.

Rule of Whitestone is weighing more and more heavily on him. In Ep24 (0:20:09), while telling Vox Machina about Whitestone and the coup, he says, "I had nothing in my life other than my family. I was never really going to inherit anything. I wasn't going to run anything. I was idle." Julius and Vesper handled matters of court. Everything he's said about his early history suggest he had no interest in rule and probably not much specific training. His mental disorders make him inherently unreliable. He might learn to manage that better, but he'll never be free of it. Part of Percy's ego is a constant need to prove that he's more clever and capable than other people. So, to find himself in a role he's ill-prepared for would be a tremendous source of anxiety. When Cassandra asks him to commit to helping her run Whitestone (Ep73 52:36), he deflects, and his anxiety is palpable. In Talks Machina Ep5 (Alpha 1:05:55 for Ep78), Taliesin was asked how he felt about Percy and Cassandra's relationship. He says, "[Cassandra] is a representation of everything he's been ignoring while he's been out finding himself. He has been out finding himself, and he has discovered that he really likes that person, and is horrified that he may have to go back. He does not want to go back. He will go back. Probably-Maybe. Probably. Possibly. Who knows? But he's- yeah. She is a stunning example of his guilt, and everything that he has done wrong in his life, and every time he looks at her he is painfully aware of his own weakness, and is so guilty, so guilt ridden. He's not over that at all."

He's thankful to have his home back, but it's also an external reminder of the coup that may be causing him a lot of unspoken pain because of his PTSD (Cassandra as well, and I think he knows that). We don't actually know a lot about the events of that night, so we can't be sure how much of his guilt is appropriate, disproportionate, or delusional. We do know that a component of what he's feeling is survivor's guilt, given that he says, "I just… miss an awful lot of people, that's all. And I don't understand how we get to choose." (1:16:27) Staying in Whitestone, however much he loves the place, means resigning himself to a pained life he has little temperament or experience to do well in. So, it's significant that he sits in this hallway, this night, and says, "I know my life isn't my own. My life is all of yours. My life is my sister's. My life is, this castle's. My life ended." Vox Machina has been an escape from all of this, a chance to live his life on his terms for the first time. Now he's looking down the road and seeing, intellectually, that he'll have to give up that freedom. He's resigned to it, but he hasn't accepted it in any healthy way or he wouldn't say, "My life ended." Not that he'll have to restructure or make accommodations in his life, but that his role in his life is over.

This isn't that that different from Vax first resigning himself to being in the control of the Raven Queen as her champion. Vax was placed in that position by fate rather than will. Vax has been able to learn that that he's quite competent in that mantle, however much trepidation he still holds for his future. But Percy knows enough about what will be required of him to also know that it will never come naturally to him. All he bleakly sees is another mask to put on, to live for years as someone he's not, and never could be. The pain of this resignation is largely why Percy lashes out at Scanlan in Ep85.

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 Transcript method notes: http://otdderamin.tumblr.com/post/153539301510/a-note-on-my-transcription-method

 Scene runs: 1:11:12 to 1:31:03 https://youtu.be/KiGoxBJQ_I0?t=4272

 [Everyone starts out understandably upset, through the resurrection ritual. When it succeeds, most of their moods lift with relief. Percy's doesn't. He looks more introspective. His words drag, trying to resolve the last details needed to let Scanlan rest and recover.]

0:50:11 Percy: "I am going to go back to the castle, sit down, take this off, and, I think, sleep for a long while."

0:50:20 Marisha: "Yeah, what time of day is it?"

0:50:22 Matt: "At this time… the arrival here… it's pushing past sunset, I'm pretty sure. Or if not, it's probably early night, with the hour it took for the ritual."

…

[Kerrek and Grog started drinking in the hallway outside Scanlan's room, Ker trying to press Grog for information about resurrection rituals. Pike just joined them in the hallway. Ker went to get more alcohol.]

1:11:12 Matt, indicating Taliesin: "So, you wander in."

1:11:13 Taliesin: "Yes."

1:11:14 Matt: "Kerrek wandered away."

1:11:15 Taliesin: "I'm going to wander into the room,"

Percy salutes Grog and Pike sitting in the hallway outside Scanlan's room, drinking.

1:11:16 Taliesin: "with a nod, and just sit for a moment."

1:11:20 Grog, suspiciously pointing at Percy: "Wait! Prove that you're you."

1:11:23 Percy, studies Grog, scrutinizing the idea.

1:11:25 Percy, slowly, wistfully: "No…"

1:11:27 Grog, nodding, satisfied, "It's you."

1:11:27 Percy, slightly relieved: "Thank you."

Percy takes a drink and sighs.

(1:11:39 Taliesin, laughing: "I love you so much.")

1:11:41 Matt: "Alright, so you sit for a bit. Ker eventually returns with a second bottle of matching alcohol. Unopened though. The same-"

1:11:48 Pat, mimicking holding up two bottles: "Two! Two! Two hands!"

1:11:51 Matt: "Oh! So you go for a third bottle as well."

1:11:54 Pat: "Yes."

1:11:54 Matt: "Two unopened bottles of the same brackish liquor."

1:12:00 Percy sighs, clearly reflecting on something.

1:12:01 Pat: "And I'll pass one to both of the people that I was not drinking with before. I'll pass them off."

1:12:11 Matt: "Okay, so, Pike and Percival, you have a fresh bottle jammed into your hand."

1:12:14 Pike, singsong: "One for me!"

1:12:17 Percy: "I'll be passing this around a bit." He takes a drink, and salutes them with the bottle. "Mmm."

1:12:24 Pike, excitedly sitting up and smiling: "Should we all sit on the bed around Scanlan like a slumber party?"

1:12:28 Grog, deliberating in a high voice: "Is that creepy?"

1:12:30 Percy, dispirited: "Honestly, I'm thinking about going through his things. So, no, I don't think it is."

Pike and Grog laugh.

1:12:33 Grog, satisfied: "Well. Okay."

1:12:36 Matt: Makes a fart noise. "Scanlan is definitely alive.

They laugh, most heartily. But Percy falls back to a low mood far before the others stop laughing.

1:12:49 Pike, warmly: "What were you guys talking about, out there? If I can be so rude to ask?"

1:12:53 Grog: "Oh, us?"

1:12:54 Ker: "Uh… The liquor… is has, uh, fabulous brackish notes."

1:12:58 Grog, in his high dishonest voice: "Yep. Notes of brack."

1:13:03 Pike, laughing, seeing through him: "Great. Great."

1:13:05 Percy, without real pride: "Thank you. We make it here."

1:13:07 Grog, excitedly to Pike: "We were, um- I was also- talking about what a great job you do. Apparently, you're really rare."

1:13:16 Pike: "What do you mean?"

1:13:17 Grog, with admiration: "Apparently, you and your resurrections, they don't always work. Which is amazing."

1:13:25 Pike, matter of fact: "They don't always work."

Percy subtly flinches.

1:13:27 Grog, impressed: "I didn't know that!"

1:13:28 Pike: "They don't. We've been very fortunate. We've been very fortunate… What did you- why do you ask, Ker?"

1:13:39 Ker: "I've never actually seen anything like that before. It was quite an experience. Am I still wearing my armor?"

1:13:50 Pat: "I might actually ask that out loud."

1:13:53 Matt: "And he is! He's still wearing his armor, unwashed. A few of you have gotten washed," Taliesin nods, indicating himself, Travis shakes his head "A few or you are still going over the events of the day. Grog is not washed."

1:14:04 Ashley: "Not yet."

1:14:05 Laura: "Grog never washes!"

1:14:06 Matt: "Yeah."

1:14:06 Travis: "Parfum du Grog."

1:14:07 Laura pretends to gag.

1:14:08 Matt: "So yeah, he is still wearing his armor."

1:14:09 Pat: "You get the marvelous spectacle of a slightly older, slightly portly man shrugging out of a full suit of chain mail. It's entertaining. And then just dumps it on the floor, and then the padding underneath."

Kerrek sighs in relief.

1:14:39 Grog: "That's a lot of shit you wear, man."

1:14:42 Ker, deadpan: "You know, what I forgot over all these years? Like, the sweat gathers in your ass."

The others laugh in agreement. Percy barely manages a laugh in contrast. His fidgeting suggests increasing agitation.

1:14:51 Grog: "Right. Yeah."

1:14:53 Pike: "Swamp ass."

1:14:54 Marisha, laughing hard: "Swamp ass."

1:14:55 Pike: "Swamp ass."

1:14:55 Marisha, laughing hard: "Butt crack. Yeah…"

1:14:56 Pike: "It's a thing."

1:14:57 Marisha: "It sucks."

1:14:57 Ker: "You'd think that I would remember, but, no. I had forgotten that."

1:15:04 Pike: "It just drips right in."

1:15:05 Percy, deadpan: "I forget, and then suddenly I remember, that I met you all in a prison cell."

1:15:15 Pike, fondly: "I remember very well.

1:15:16 Percy: laughs mirthlessly.

1:15:19 Percy, sadly, "It's not fair, is it?"

1:15:21 Grog asks, "What?"

1:15:24 Percy, increasingly downcast, struggling for words: "Well, just one day… You lose so many people, and then just one day you just stop. And at what point in your life, it just…? You decide that suddenly, for no reasons, it just… You're just not allowed to die yet. You're just- Your life isn't your own anymore. Suddenly, you've done what you were supposed to do, and now you're back, and… it's just not yours anymore, is it? And what of everybody else? It's not fair. Any of it. … I don't know." He takes another drink, and starts drinking more often.

1:16:04 Grog, puzzled and inquisitive: "What? You don't think your life is your own?"

1:16:07 Percy, emphatically, tinged with distress: "I know my life isn't my own. My life is all of yours. My life is my sister's. My life is, "he looks around like he's feeling trapped, "this castle's." He takes a long drink. "My life ended."

1:16:24 Pike, concerned: "Do you feel-"

1:16:27 Percy, with a pained smile: "I am very glad to be here." He laughs grimly, then continues sadly. "I just… miss an awful lot of people, that's all. And I don't understand how we get to choose."

1:16:42 Grog, with dawning understanding: "Oh…"

1:16:47 Pike, consolingly: "I understand."

1:16:48 Percy: "I know."

1:16:50 Grog, whispering to Pike: "I just got it, too."

1:16:52 Pike, whispering to Grog: "Yeah."

1:16:52 Percy: "I know you don't, Grog. I'm so grateful that you don't."

1:16:57 Percy sighs, staring at the bottle in thought a few moments. Then raises it in a toast.

1:17:00 Percy: "To the unyielding unfairness of the universe."

1:17:03 Grog: "Yep! Raising drinks."

They all raise their drinks.

1:17:04 Liam: "I'm not even here, and I'm raising it."

1:17:06 Marisha: "Yeah, I'll- cheers to that."

1:17:07 Liam: "Fuckin' a."

1:17:08 Ker: "I'll drink."

1:17:12 Percy, taking a long pull: "And that it decided that we get to keep this bastard." With a wry, rueful smile, "Hardly fair."

[Percy instigates pranking Scanlan, his tone one of affection.]

1:18:09 Taliesin: "I don't know if Percy is that… has that much of a lack of propriety. I'm really debating, though. How much have we had to drink?"

1:18:18 Matt: "Well, that's up to you. Other members of this room have gotten quite drunk."

…

[They prank Scanlan, dressing him in one of Pike's nightgowns and smearing pudding on him.]

1:21:48 Taliesin: "I'm going to smear some of [the pudding] on his forehead so he can read it in the mirror, backwards, it's just going to say, 'No. Never.'"

…

[Kerrek helps them tie Scanlan up.]

1:23:23 Matt: "Yeah. Alright. And with the presentation complete, your… diorama con Scanlan, the evening draws late. Now probably a good two thirty, three o'clock in the morning on completion."

1:23:40 Percy: "It is time for sleep."

…

[The next morning.]

1:30:29 Matt: "Kerrek now wanders in, very hungover."

1:30:32 Percy: "Good morning."

1:30:34 Pat: "Yeah… Very… Yeah… I look every bit as old as I am."

1:30:42 Grog: "Yeah! Swamp ass!"

1:30:46 Pike, cheerily: "Hey!"

1:30:48 Grog: "Are we not…?

1:30:52 Keyleth: "Swamp ass?"

1:30:52 Pike: "I remember!"

1:30:52 Percy, looking confused: "I don't remember, what?"

1:30:54 Pike: "He was talking about his butt getting sweaty."

1:30:57 Percy, hazily recalling it: "Oh. That got weird, didn't it?"

1:31:00 Pike: "It happens."

1:31:01 Percy grimaces like he's still trying to come to terms with the morning, and probably hung over.

 1:31:03

[prettylittlelucygoose]

F2F || Jucy (continued)

Jared: Jared didn’t know what to think. She was pregnant. They were gonna have a baby. He looked up and saw her shaky hands. Jared stood up and walked over to his wife. He wrapped his arms around her and rested his head on her shoulder. “Baby, I know you didn’t want more kids, but aren’t you even the littlest bit happy? I mean we get to have a little one who is half you and half me. It’s going to be okay, I promise.”

Lucy: She wanted to push him away but after sleeping alone the last couple nights she was enjoying the closeness and she did her best to continue making her cake. She didn’t say anything for a few minutes and when she was ready she got the pans in the oven she said, “Could you put these in for me?”

Jared: Jared wanted to jump for joy and lift her into his arms and celebrate but he didn’t dare for fear of Lucy leaving again. He released her when she asked him to put the pans in the oven. Once they were in and the timer was set Jared walked back over and turned his wife around. He gently lifted her chin so she was looking up at him. “Karen Lucille Hale Padalecki...I love you,” he told her, “And I love Belle, and my boys. And I’m going to love OUR little one just as much.” He said softly. “Please don’t run from me though. I’m here for you. Right here.”

Lucy: Lucy took a deep breath, “I dropped the Hale,” she told him. “My stage name is still Lucy Hale but legally my name is Karen Lucille Padalecki. I’m not leaving you...for you it probably felt like that but for me the last few days was a coping mechanism. I have steps I have to do and sometimes those steps have to include solitude. For the rest of my life I intend of being Karen Lucille Padalecki so chill, I’m not leaving you...but I don’t know if I want to have this baby.”

Jared: “Okay baby,” he chuckled. “Hale or no Hale...I love you.” He released her chin and looked down into her eyes. “I get that babe, but there has to be a way for you to get your solitude without walking out on me for three days. I can’t handle that again. I haven’t slept since you left. I haven’t eaten. I have spent three days pacing this house, praying that you were okay.” Her next words sent a chill down his spine and he took a step back. “What do you mean you don’t know if you want to have this baby? You’re not thinking about...?

Lucy: I take it you haven’t showered either. I’ll make you something to eat in a few minutes and you can go clean yourself up.” Her nerves were making her mood all over the place. It was days like today she felt like people would really notice how unstable she really was. “It was something I thought about, yeah.” The actress moved back to the fridge and started looking for something to cook for her husband. Anything to be a distraction from having to focus solely on the conversation at hand. “Ann talked to me and we went over all the pros and cons of being pregnant, she had me do all the cons first so when I got to the pros I was only focusing on the positive things. I’m not gonna lie and say that there was a moment when the idea didn’t totally suck but there’s a lot of factors on the con side that really concern me. 

Jared: “What? Are you saying I stick?” He asked, walking over and sitting down at the table, putting his head in his hands. “Don’t you think that’s something we should have done together? I mean I know it’s your body, but that’s my kid too. Don’t I get a say?”

Lucy: “A little,” she told him. “Of course you get a say...we’re talking about it now. I couldn’t talk to you until I figured out my feelings.” She couldn’t find anything she wanted to cook so she closed the fridge and went to the take out menu drawer. “Pizza, Chinese, or Mexican?” She asked him and sifted through the menus.

Jared: “You’ve had three days to wrap your head around this. I’m sure you’ve already made your decision.” he said, looking up at her. “Get whatever you want. I’m not hungry.” Jared stood up and ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m gonna go take a shower.”

Lucy: Lucy sighed and let him go. She didn’t want to fight and she also wanted Jared to sit with the news for a few days. The days that followed were hard for Lucy. Ann had to go back home so Elvis returned to the house and Lucy had to go to LA for work. It was Wednesday when she finally got home with Belle. She settled in the living room and let Belle play on the floor.

Jared: The last week had been a blur. Jared started back at work while Lucy was in LA. When he got home Wednesday night he found his wife and Belle in the living room. He smiled thinking about coming home to Belle and another baby everyday. The smile quickly faded though. Jared shook his head and walked into the room. “TinkerBelle!” he said cheerfully, holding his arms out for her to give him a hug. He lifted the child up and walked over, leaving down to kiss his wife in the top of the head. “How was LA?”

Lucy: The girls had been home for about an hour before Jared got home. Belle yelled in excitement and ran over to him, “LA was good,” the almost two year old snuggled against her step father. “I was gonna cook tonight but I’m not feeling well so I don’t think I’m gonna eat tonight.” She was trying to make small talk.

Jared: “That’s good. You looked gorgeous in all the photos I saw. Of course you always look beautiful to me.” he shrugged. Jared rubbed the toddlers back as she snuggled in close. “We can order in something. It might make you feel a little better.” He bounced Belle a little making her giggle. “What about you little one? What would you like for dinner?”

Lucy: “Thanks, it takes a village for me to look that good.” Lucy laid back on the couch and put her hands over her stomach. “You order something and maybe I’ll pick off yours.” Belle smiled and hid her face when Jared talked to her, “I gave her something to eat a little bit ago so she should be fine. She’s gonna go to bed soon and then I figured we could talk.”

Jared: “That’s not true and you know it. You always look beautiful to me.” Jared chuckles as Belle acted shy. “Chinese sound okay babe?” he asked as he opened an app on his phone. His heart sank when she said they could talk.

Lucy: “You can order what you want,” she told him and saw his face change expression. Lucy stood up and reached for her daughter, “I’ll go give her a bath and into her pajamas while you order your food.”

Jared: “Okay,” he said. He gave Belle a kiss on the head before Lucy took her. “Let me know when you put her down. I’ll come up and say goodnight.” he told his wife. Jared ordered himself some food and ordered a few extra appetizers that he knew Lucy liked. When he hung up the phone, he went into the kitchen and grabbed a beer out of the fridge before going into the living room and crashing on the couch.

Lucy: Upstairs Lucy gave the toddler a bath and dressed in her pajamas. When she was all done she put Belle in her room to play with the gate up. She took the baby monitor with her downstairs. Walking back into the living room she saw Jared sitting on the couch and she went over to him. The brunette got on the couch and let half her body lie across her husbands lap.

Jared: Jared didn’t move when Lucy joined him on the couch. He rested his hand on her legs that were over his lap and took a sip of his beer. After a few minutes of silence, Jared sighed and looked over at his wife. “I hate this, you know. The tension. The not knowing. Did you make your decision?”

Lucy: Lucy sighed when he spoke, “It’s not my decision to make alone. What you never let me get out last time is that I want to talk to you about my concerns so you can at least try to see where I’m coming from. If you can think of a solution to my concerns I’m willing to listen.”

Jared: Jared turned and looked at his wife. She was right. He was so angry the last time they had spoken, he never really let her explain her concerns. “Okay. I’m listening now. What are your concerns?”

Lucy: She was relieved that he was wiling to listen to her and she sat up and curled her legs under herself. “Well, first off, being pregnant I can’t smoke pot or take any bipolar medication. What if I have a manic episode? There’d be nothing I can do for it. Another concern I have is that right now when I can’t handle things Seb takes Belle, if we have a baby it’ll always be around. I don’t know if I can be a full time mom when I’ve never been able to. I struggle with the kids we already have, why bring another child into the world who’s gonna have a shitty mom?”

Jared: “Luce. We can talk to your doctor and your therapist and work out some plans for if that happens.” he said softly. Jared turned his body so he was facing his wife. “Baby, you aren’t going to be doing this on your own. I’m here too. And if you want, we can hire a part time nanny to help when you’re feeling overwhelmed.”

Lucy: Lucy was silent for a minute or two, “I’m scared,” she finally said. “I wasn’t ready to be a mom when I had Belle and I still don’t feel like I’m ready to be a mom. I just don’t want to mess up any of these kids. It’s been so hard for me...I already feel like Belle is gonna resent me for the stuff I’ve already put her through...I don’t trust myself.”

Jared: Jared reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s natural to be scared, Sprite. But you’re not in this alone. Baby, Belle loves you. So do the boys. So do I.”

Lucy: Lucy knew that this situation was different and she wouldn’t be a single mom anymore but it still was hard for her. “What if I end up being a better mother to this child...I don’t want Belle to be the first pancake.” She started to cry a little, “I smiled when I saw the test was positive. For a full two minutes I was excited and then I remembered what a shit show I still am.”

Jared: “Baby, Belle is not the first pancake. Every mother goes through this when they get pregnant enough their second. It’s normal.” He smiled when she admitted to being happy at first. Jared reached over and pulled her into his lap. “Hey, you’re MY shit show and we’re in this together.” he teased before pulling her down for a kiss.

Lucy: She let him pull her to his lap and she chuckled softly. “I don’t know what I ever did to deserve you but I’m really happy you love me for the mess I am.” she was able to tell him before he kissed her. It felt like home to be in his arms this way. While they were kissing Lucy took Jared’s hand and placed it on her stomach.

Jared: Jared smiled against her lips as he let his hand rest on her stomach. “I love you Lucy, and I’m gonna love this little one too.”

Lucy: “It feels weird to be happy about this...maybe that’s why I’m resisting it so much. I was so miserable when I was pregnant with Belle and I guess I feel a little guilty. What makes this baby different? Why do I actually want this one?”

Jared: “Baby, it’s okay to be happy. Belle is still so young, she isn’t going to remember anything from her first year. You have become a great mom to her. You have no reason to feel guilty.”

Lucy: “Her entire life I’ve pushed her away. I walked out on her when she was like a month old maybe younger and I wasn’t actively in her life for months. Sebastian had every right to hate me. Sometimes I think about giving him full custody because I think she’ll be better off...and now...I’m thinking about us doing family things with this baby and that’s why I feel guilty. I feel like I already love this baby because it’s yours and I haven’t been able to love Belle in the same way. Even now...I didn’t want to pick her up from her dad’s but I had to. I feel forced to be her mom...that’s why I feel guilty. I feel like I already love this baby because it’s yours and I haven’t been able to love Belle in the same way. Even now...I didn’t want to pick her up from her dad’s but I had to. I feel forced to be her mom...that’s why I feel guilty. 

Jared: Jared pulled his wife in and held her next to his chest. “Baby, unless you make a huge deal about all that, Belle isn’t going to remember any of it. You love Belle, I know you do. You just can’t think of her as being Sebs kid. She’s our kid too. I love her just as much as I love my boys.”

Lucy: Lucy felt fresh tears fill in her eyes and then fall down her face. “But I don’t.” She finally said, “I don’t love her like a mother should love a daughter. I never have.” Lucy felt horrible for speaking these words but they were the truth. “I’m a bad person.”

Jared: Jared held his wife tight. “Baby, you’re not a bad person. Baby do you love Belle in any way shape or form?”

Lucy: “I love her like I love a family member but I don’t have that bond with her. I don’t look at her like she’s the best thing to ever happen to me. I never wanted to be her mom so I’ve always done the bare minimum with her.” She felt safe enough with Jared to talk about this.”

Jared: “Okay. So what would happen if you wiped the slate clean from this moment on we work on your bond with her?” It’s there Luce. It’s just buried under your fear and your anger at Seb.”

Lucy: “It has nothing to do with Seb though. I didn’t want her, Jared. When I got pregnant I wasn’t happy and when I had her I wasn’t happy. Seb did everything when she came home from the hospital while I was too busy trying to figure out what was going on with Ian and then sleeping with him. I didn’t want her.” She repeated, “In a way I guess I still don’t.:

Jared: “Does any part of you want this kid? he asked, placing his hand on her stomach again. “Lucy, I truly believe that deep down you love and want Belle. I just think you’re so focused on all the negative feelings you’ve had, that you can’t move forward. We can do this, Lucy. We’ll do this together.”

Lucy: Her eyes closed tight and more tears fell, “I already told you that I do and that’s why I feel so bad. I do want this baby because it’s yours. I want YOUR baby.” She didn’t know if he was right but she knew how she felt. “If I had to choose between them I’d choose this one.” she tried to get up but he wouldn’t let her go. 

Jared: “Hey, don’t do that. You’re not walking away again. I won’t let you.” he said pulling her back in close. “I can’t begin to understand how you’re feeling Lucy, but I’m trying here.”

Lucy: She cried on him for a minute or so before trying to calm down enough to speak, “Pretend that when Gen was pregnant with Tom that you hated the idea of having a baby. Pretend that when he was born you distanced yourself from him and was hardly a dad. You did what you had to do to meet your responsibility but only when you felt like it. You can pretend the same for Shep or for this hypothetical we can say he doesn’t exist.” She took a deep breath, “Now pretend you’ve spent Tom’s whole life keeping him at a distance and wishing he wasn’t around and then you find out I’m pregnant and you’re thrilled about it and can’t wait to meet the new baby...if you can put yourself in that mindset or understand that in some way...that’s how I feel.”

Jared: Jared listened to his wife and thought about what she was saying. He couldn’t imagine not wanting any of his kids around. “Baby, you always hear stories about fathers ignoring their kids and then years later they ended up having a great relationship after the guy had other kids. Who’s to say that can’t happen with you and Belle? You never know...maybe having another kid will make you appreciate Belle?”

Lucy: “I guess it’s possible.” Lucy relaxed against her husband and finally stopped crying. He was so supportive all the time it made her have hope that one day things would be great and they’d have this perfect life with their kids. “We should go put Belle to bed before your food comes,” she said, needing to stop the conversation. The brunette kissed him again and finally stood up to go back upstairs.

[itinerantscribe-blog]

Day 17 of 28

Wasn’t so tired last night. Went to bed at 11. Big mistake. Got up only just in time to deposit bin liners to the exterior of my home following another fitful, interrupted attempt at unbroken nightly repose. Bin liners. That’s a funny thing, don’t you think? We have certainly evolved a long way from our ancestors. I mean, waste every week. EVERY week. Can you recall any week passing without an accumulation of some measure of rubbish? It’s mostly packaging isn’t it?  Tins, cans, bags, polythene, plastic, etc.... I have a Vitamix blender. Unbelievable machine. 2 horse power engine. I might become an agent for the company, that’s the level of faith with which I endow said mechanism. You chuck everything in, tomatoes with their stalks and cores, apples too, seeds, stalks, everything. There’s no waste. None. Cavemen didn’t have blenders though. Their stuff pretty much all biodegradable. I wonder if cavemen suffered from anxiety? I don’t mean the legitimate variety, you know, the sheer terror emerging upon sight of a charging sabre toothed animal when that adrenaline flow would be spent well in pumping those leggy pistons just as hard as they could be pumped.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sap-lHLrMC0

No, I mean the anxiety that permeates much of modern day life, when the surfeit of adrenaline isn’t exhausted in justified flight, when the cause of the anxiety is unseen and without immediate cause. That kind. I wonder if cavemen were too occupied by day to day survival, too active, too engrossed in the moment to allow space for an invasive assault of the modern kind of anxiety. Is it a modern day society curse? A by product of evolution? After all, we have not only evolved in the obvious senses, we have evolved in less stated areas too. We have evolved away from most risk, at least in first world countries. There isn’t much risk in life really, is there?  We have sanitised so much of it. Yes, you could get caught up in some violent act, terrorism or street crime, you could have a car crash or air plane equivalent. But without looking at statistics which I am sure will illustrate the ridiculous odds of being party to such episodes, the risk is minimal. And yet those of us afflicted and assailed by anxiety, well we see risk in practically everything. High ceilings, enclosed spaces, wide open areas, closed open areas, trains, motorways, restaurants, cinemas, hairdressers, any chair in the middle of any room, tunnels, bridges, valleys, mountains, boats, swimming pools, clothes and on and on and on. Oh and of course, people, crowds or otherwise. It’s extraordinary really, the amount and types of things of which we are so scared. I mean, it’s life, isn’t it? I am describing life. We are scared of life! But fear not, we are scared of death too... It’s funny too though, I can’t help laughing at myself, since it is as funny as it is egregiously irritating. I mean there I am sometimes, walking along a road, rare these days but on occasion with a child or another adult. Suddenly, I’m off! Vroooom! No hanging round for me, I’m not risking whatever it is that’s threatening, no matter how invisible. My age? So fast! See, that’s funny! I don’t even mind people laughing, I laugh too!! 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KJJW7EF5aVk

Humour actually helps. Laughter being the best medicine and all that, well, there seems to be some truth in that. I don’t laugh out loud to much. The Full Monty? No idea why people were laughing, other examples of unfunny funny films abound in my archives but so what? Humour is in the eye of the beholder. The Office, UK and US, both make me laugh, the bloopers even more so.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qjuc3vqudwg

I suspect the therapeutic benefits emanate just not from the humour per se, but also as a consequence of the physical mechanics of laughter, I do mean laugh out loud laughter, which tends to dictate a particular manner of breathing. You cannot laugh out loud and panic at the same time, try it and see. The laughter is too strong, the emotion the greater of the two but it needs to be authentic I don’t know about you but I much prefer laughing to panicking. Most of us anxiety sufferers are pretty serious people when confronted with one of our perilous situations. Constantly alert, on edge, looking round wondering whence the attack might emerge, prepared at all times for its appearance. This is an amusing image. There is no threat and yet our eyes develop as incisive, bulbous vision as a cat ready to sprint away from real danger. It’s amusing. I find myself, now and then, laughing as I consider how I present as I cross a road, how absurd is this fear that places me firmly on tenterhooks. It is healthy to laugh at the image created. Laughing at the nonsense, this is one my preferred techniques. There is irony here for me. Losing parents at a very young age impacts your outlook on life in different ways I suppose. For me, well, I find it hard to take stuff seriously. You know, the same aspirations, ambitions, plans that many people incorporate into their existence, I cannot do that stuff, I struggle even to understand it. My view might be nihilistic, and limiting too, but I have yet to find someone who can justify the opposing view with adequate persuasion and sufficient cogency to tempt me to adopt it. It’s just all so funny, all of it; and yet there I am, in the midst of one of my ‘turns’ taking a road or a high ceiling or a railway station concourse more seriously than anyone probably takes life. So much for my lighthearted and devil may go approach to life....

I have no doubt most people have been indoctrinated into the relaxing merits of breathing, especially the deep version.  It is hard to breathe deeply in the middle of an attack mind you, in the midst of a phoney ‘crisis’, the shallowness of the activity absolutely pivotal and galvanising participant in whatever drama might be unfolding, high ceiling, tube train, etc... Just being told to calm down and breathe as you are struggling for ‘survival’ is like pouring a thimble of water over a raging forest conflagration hoping that you will douse the flames thus. Good luck with that.  Of course, the idea is to practice when in a relaxed state and safe environment but despite the certain long term benefits of this, it is hard to maintain as a discipline. It just seems so insubstantial in contrast to the frenetic horror of an anxiety outbreak. I am guilty of lack of persistence in this area, as well as with meditation which equally holds merit in its role as a potential all round calmer whose benefits linger long after the period of meditation has passed... Lazy? No. Just not fully convinced after so many years exposure to its contrary of manic and terror filled moments of awfulness. It seems, well, it seems so tiny a likely tool in my emergency kit bag but how dare I say this, not having allocated enough time to its harvest and cultivation. Do I want to end this blight or not? Hmmm...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_xQJ2O4b5TM

My young friend is in big trouble. She is saying things that are preparing her, and me, for a premature return to her habit. I am convinced she would have caved by now, had she been alone in her enterprise. I am using against her one of the components which speak direct to her issue. She hates to disappoint people, she will do (pretty much) anything for anyone to please them, and so I have told her, and she will read this, that she will disappoint me if she breaks our (what has now become) 28 day contract. It is unfair to employ one of her own foibles against her and if she were quick and manipulative she could say she is better and will no longer exhibit such behaviour, immediately resorting to drink to prove she no longer cares about disappointing people. It would be a booze brain ruse to bring her back into the fold. I have faith she won’t fall for it, but, but she is weak at the moment. She is looking  for reasons to drink. Her mindset is tangled up, she is forgetting the benefits, she has still not given abstinence a chance to shine and prove its worth. 

PS Bin liner day provokes a very different reaction in me during my non drinking periods. I don’t have to worry about clinks and clanks and early morning betrayals of my questionable habit. I don’t have to pray for an early morning collection to sweep away all evidence before prying neighbourly eyes devour the content. I can walk out of my front door with head held high, proud and haughty and without shame.  That’s assuming I use pink transparent bags, the apex of my ‘behaviour’ states that only the black variety will do....Clink clink.

https://pixabay.com/photos/drink-amber-beer-cans-trash-red-442578/

[itsshadowcube-blog]

Character Analysis: Bob’s Burgers; Bob and Linda Belcher

While watching the show, Bob’s Burgers for the up-teenth time, I realized in a whirl of excitement, that the majority of the characters enveloped or personified certain mental illnesses.  Now, you might say that I am grasping at straws; the show is full of laughs and relatable characters.  How could mental illness come into play?  Let me explain. Bob’s Burgers is, on the surface, a “slice of life” comedy that follows a family and their restaurant in quirky adventures and relatable hardships of lower-middle-class families.  We watch as the three Belcher children find themselves in everyday activities, at school, in social constructs and we can not help but find ourselves relating to them when we were younger.  Bob and Linda Belcher, the parents and owners of Bob’s Burgers, run their restaurant from below their small apartment and most often showcase “relationship goals” in the way that they seem to completely go together and flow effortlessly with each other. 

They support their children in all avenues of their personality and encourage them to be the best of themselves.  This is brought to light with the eldest daughter, Tina, openly writes about her erotic friend fiction. She has no problem with writing in her diary, only to have her family go behind her back (and in some cases, sit in for a reading) and look through her thoughts and feelings.  Their son, Gene, is a young lad that has a great affinity with music, food, and his own bodily functions.  This seems to get somewhat annoying to the family, but being the Belchers, they still accept their son for who he is.  Louise, the youngest of the three, is a mastermind.  She looks as if she takes enjoyment from causing havoc, relishing in the adrenalin rush that comes with it.  Often times, we can hear her talking in the background as she encourages others to act on their impulses.

From this brief synopsis of the show and it’s main characters, it seems obvious that each of the children exhibits some kind of mental illness.  But, what of the parents?  The power couple made up of Bob and Linda, are the personification of bipolar disorder. This is showcased by their interactions together and when alone.

Please note that all this information is based on my own personal experiences and small research into bipolar disorder.

Bob: The particarch of the family, has it all; a loving family, a caring wife, and his own business that he built from the ground up.  He experiences the hardships of being his own boss, as well as taking in great joy in his work; making burgers. In many episodes, we see him interact with his landlord, Mr. Fischoeder (I’m going to be doing an anylsis of Calvin and Felix at another time), telling him that the rent will either late, or short.  From a business perspective, Mr. Fischoeder could easily evict the Belcher family, but chooses not to. (Again, this will be explained in his anylasis).  Across the street, Bob works against his mortal enemy, JImmy Pesto; he running a far more successful italian resturant.

Bob has a great passion for cooking, that dispite his poor resturant sales, never fails to get him noterity from celeberty chefs and even his landlord.  During the holidays, he takes his time to prepare the best meal, breaking down cooking a turkey in a cheap oven a complex science.  While cooking burgers, or a holday feast, we can see him talking to the food and giving it a personality as he carries on a conversation with himself.  On the surface, we can see this as a thing that he does, and just like the rest of his families quirks, is accepted, and take enjoyment in it.  However, watching the 8 seasons over and over, it starts to become a sad reality, and begs me to question why he does so.

It is pointed out multiple times in the series, that Bob does not have anyone that he really considers a friend (with the exception of a single friend who is a weathly entrepreneur).  Even taking muliple seasons to accept that Teddy, a regular customer and repairman, is in fact one of his best friends.  But, why is this?  We can chalk it up to the fact that making and keeping friends, quality friends, is a hard thing to do.  Made harder by working and owning a business and being a family man. 

Or, it could be his personality.  He has a rough sense of humor that often fails to make it’s mark.  Even at times, his own family does not understand it.  Or, it could be a completely different reason altogether; he is clinically, chronically depressed.  In the show, he remarks to his children about how great it was growing up in his father’s resturant, and working there.  But, upon closer inspection and an “oh shit” moment, it becomes clear that he did not infact have the wonderful childhood he thought he had.

His depression is made apparent in how he speaks in a monotone, though part of that could be because of his voice actor, H. Jon Benjamin.  But, I do not believe that that is not the case, since Benjamin also voices many other characters, including the voice of international superspy Archer, in the show, Archer, who is has an animated personality. Everything seems to be a chore, even if cooking is his life’s passion.  He moves slowly, is not often impressed (or sees things as lack luster) or too often exciteable, and seems to constantly portray the world and a horrible place.

Linda: A wife and mother to three children, Linda is the shoulders that holds the family together.  She supports her husnband in his buisness, being the waitress, wating on the far and few between customers, outside the regulars.  She is smart, beautiful, and talented; all compontents that Bob finds vaulable.

She sings and dances, often times chorographing her own songs during business hours.  Linda is a dreamer, in the simplist sense.  She constantly projects an unearthly positivity, keeping the family Belcher up more often than down.  She encourages her children to do activities that make them happy, supporting them when they question their hobbies.

For all intents and purposes, Linda Belcher seems to be the glue that holds the family together.  We watch her as she fights along side her children and her husband when they get in trouble, being the mothely lion that we would love to see in everday society, and personally, someone who I strive to be. 

From her interactions on the phone, and when they come into Bob’s Burgers, we can see that Linda is not short on friends.  And, at times, tells theatrical stories of the racoons that live behind her apartment.  She acts on impulse, becoming uncontraollably exciteable at inappropriate times.  Not only this, but she acts financially impulsive.  This is made evident through out the show, when she sells an esppresso machine in order to put her son, Gene, into baseball camp, though he does not enjoy the sport and shows no interest in it.

With this basis, I have concluded that Linda, is the manic part of bipolar.  And, looking into her family, it is not a far off thought. Her sister, Gayle who appears to have some kind of mental illness all her own as she struggles to live in her tiny studio apartment, hold a job, or a romantic partner.  Growing up, it becomes apparent that there was some kind of contest between the two sisters, and though they love each other, part of them resents the other.

Taking both of these characters together, it seems overwhelmingly possible that they could, together, be the personification of bipolar; Bob being the depressive episodes and Linda being manic. Alone, we can see that they fully encompass these two extremes.  It would look that if the two had never met, their world and their power together would be non-existent.  In an episode when Bob begins to lose his famous mustache, which we learn, Linda loves profusely, Tina makes up a scenario where the two had not met, with some role reversal with other characters, and they are not the Bob and Linda that we have come to know and love.

But, how does this make them a power couple?  When hearing the term bipolar, most people tend to shy away, thinking that there is something incredibly wrong.  While this can be true in most instances, it is not the case in the Belchers.  I believe that these two extremes that they exhibit actually make them strong as individuals and as a couple.  In a sense, they balance each other out. Similar to the concept of Ying and Yang.

Bob is level-headed, mostly, in his business.  He takes into account all the odds and ins of running a business and in doing so, is able to lean on his wife when he needs to.  When he becomes discouraged by events that could make or break his families way of life, Linda is there beside him, bringing him from the ashes. 

Linda is a romantic free spirit, that often forgets to land.  She fails to see the forest for the trees, and this tends to crush her momentum.  When this happens, Bob is there to calm her down, which in turn, ignites her passionate flame.  When she rises once more, instead of flying alone, she takes the hand of her husband, that had just reminded her with his own positivity (which he takes from Linda).

Together, they are able to overcome many obstacles in their life.  In doing so, they laugh and learn, once more cherishing every moment they have built up to that point.  It is my theory and taking part of my own experiences, that though they are two extremes of a complete whole, they even each other out.  Much like the instances of when I become manic, I know I am going to crash.  However, in preparation for that, my depression begins to take the manic energy, to keep a slower, more methodical approach to achieving the goal.

This personal correlation, the highs, and lows working together to create an even working space are why I believe that Bob and Linda work so well together.  It can be argued that this is just a healthy relationship at work. And you would be right.  Though they have their own personalities, wants and dreams, they still continue to support each other in a loving environment.  And, they could just be that.  A realistic and optimist that have found a rhythm in which they create a beautiful world.

Next, we will be looking into the children.  What do they seem to possess?