#i was inpatient or at the worst time of my life when i was 15 1/2 so i couldnt get my pemit

[detentiontrack]

Reminder that not everyone can get their drivers license within the time frame deemed "socially acceptable". Sometimes it takes extra time for financial reasons, physical health reasons, mental health reasons, accessibility reasons, lack of support reasons, etc. It's a difficult process and it's completely acceptable to not get it on your 16th birthday, or to not get it at all. There's nothing to be ashamed of and I'm tired of people being judgemental towards adults who don't have their licenses.

[snowandsage]

⚠️⚠️TRIGGER WARNING: ED, body image, depression, mental illness ⚠️⚠️

I would never in a million years post something like this to any of my other social media accounts but I’m proud of myself and how far I’ve come and want to make a post. It’s likely that this will be taken down for the “inappropriate photos” and I sincerely doubt that many will take the time to read this, but oh well. I’m writing this for me.

The purpose of this post is to share my story and spread awareness as well as positivity.

My body image is something that I have struggled with for a very long time now. Since middle school, I was overly aware of how my body looked and I developed severe body dysmorphia. I refused to wear bathing suits, I cried in the dressing room whenever I went clothes shopping, and I constantly compared myself to those around me. I hated my body and the way that I looked. This obsession with my appearance and my weight continued to progress throughout high school and even college. I began working out frequently, I logged my weight and everything that I ate for years, I counted calories, I would use a tape measure to measure my waste. At 15 years old, I would sob quietly to myself while looking at my body in the mirror. I would force myself to throw up after meals or when I felt like I overindulged. I wholeheartedly hated myself.

It wasn’t until my adult years that things started to get really bad. From 2021 to late 2022, I was at my absolute worst. I was in a bad place mentally and I was feeling out of control. As unhealthy as it sounds, my eating disorder was one of the few things that helped me feel in control of my life. I began weighing myself 4-5 times every day, my hair started falling out in large clumps, I began passing out almost on a daily basis (at home, at work, in the shower, in public), I was freezing cold all the time, i was chronically fatigued, and my body hurt and ached at all times. I was refusing to eat more than one full meal a day, and that meal typically consisted of a bagel with butter. I would look up the calories in ibuprofen before taking it, I started drinking my coffee black to avoid the calories from cream, I was constantly lying to my friends and family about my eating, I wouldn’t even let myself drink carbonated water because it made me feel bloated. I was so so so sick. Within one year, I had lost a total of 50 pounds, gone down 2 bra sizes, and had no longer fit in any of my clothing. I am a 6’3” woman and was weighing in at 124lbs when I decided that I needed to make a change if I wanted to live.

In November of 2022, I decided to actively work on getting better. I threw away my scale and called my doctor to get a referral to an ED program. I was advised to go completely inpatient considering the severity of my problem.

It’s hard. Every single day of this healing process has been hard for me. I have not once weighed myself since November and have been eating normal meals again. I refuse to let myself see the calories of the things that I eat and I’m pushing myself to break all of the unhealthy “rules” that I had previously made for myself. It’s obvious that I have gained quite a bit of weight since starting this journey, and although I still struggle with that and frequently have negative thoughts… I’m recovering and I’m trying. And that is all the matters.

I’ve slowly been learning to love myself with this new and improved body and I’m proud of myself for making it this far. I promise myself that I will continue to grow and heal even on days where I want to relapse or when I feel worthless or uncomfortable in my own skin.

I just recently learned some information that caused me to really, truly think about this terrible illness and how deeply and negatively it has, and always will, affect my life. About 3 weeks ago I wound up in the emergency department with severe heart palpitations, tachycardia, and vertigo. After doing an EKG and further testing, I was diagnosed with a rare heart condition in which can cause sudden fainting, seizures, or even sudden death. Unfortunately, one of the few things that can cause this, are eating disorders, more specifically anorexia nervosa. I wanted to throw up when I heard this. I didn’t realize how badly my ED could have been affecting my health. All that ever ran through my head was that I wanted to be skinny. I wanted to be thin because I didn’t feel worthy if I wasn’t. Surely, nobody would love me or want to see me naked if I wasn’t thin. What absolutely bullshit that is. I’m heartbroken for myself and I am so sad that I ever let myself get that bad. It devastates me to think about how many other people (men, women, young, old, etc.) struggle with eating disorders every waking minute of their lives. It isn’t worth it.

Please, please, please reach out to somebody if you are struggling with an eating disorder. You are so worth it and you deserve a chance at a happy and healthy life. You are SO much more than a number on a scale.

The first 5 photos are pictures that I took when I was at my unhealthiest and the remaining pictures are recent.

[tallmantall]

James Donaldson on Mental Health - Native American communities have the highest suicide rates, yet interventions are scarce

By Cheryl Platzman Weinstock, KFF Health News Heart Butte, Montana, which lies on the Blackfeet Indian Reservation, is pictured in 2019.Rion Sanders/Great Falls Tribune/USA Today NetworkKFF Health News —  Editor’s Note: If you or someone you know may be experiencing a mental health crisis, contact the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline by dialing or texting “988.” To reach the Native and Strong Lifeline, call “988” and press 4. Amanda MorningStar has watched her children struggle with mental health issues, including suicidal thoughts. She often wonders why. “We���re family-oriented and we do stuff together. I had healthy pregnancies. We’re very protective of our kids,” said MorningStar, who lives in Heart Butte, Montana, a town of about 600 residents on the Blackfeet Indian Reservation. Yet despite her best efforts, MorningStar said, her family faces a grim reality that touches Native American communities nationwide. About a year ago, her 15-year-old son, Ben, was so grief-stricken over his cousin’s suicide and two classmates’ suicides that he tried to kill himself. “Their deaths made me feel like part of me was not here. I was gone. I was lost,” said Ben MorningStar. He spent more than a week in an inpatient mental health unit, but once home, he was offered sparse mental health resources. Non-Hispanic Indigenous people in the United States die by suicide at higher rates than any other racial or ethnic group, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. The suicide rate among Montana’s Native American youth is more than five times the statewide rate for the same age group, according to the Montana Budget and Policy Center. Montana ranked third-worst among states for suicide deaths in 2020, and 25% of all suicides in the state from 2017 through 2021 were among Native Americans, even though they represent only 6.5% of the state’s population. Despite decades of research into suicide prevention, suicide rates among Indigenous people have remained stubbornly high, especially among Indigenous people ages 10 to 24, according to the CDC. Experts say that’s because the national strategy for suicide prevention isn’t culturally relevant or sensitive to Native American communities’ unique values. Suicide rates have increased among other racial and ethnic minorities, too, but to lesser degrees. Systemic issues and structural inequities, including underfunded and under-resourced services from the federal Indian Health Service, also hamper suicide prevention in Indigenous communities. “I worried who was going to keep my son safe. Who could he call or reach out to? There are really no resources in Heart Butte,” said Amanda MorningStar. Ben MorningStar said he is doing better. He now knows not to isolate himself when problems occur and that “it is OK to cry, and I got friends I can go to when I have a bad day. Friends are better than anything,” he said. His twice-a-month, 15-minute virtual telehealth behavioral therapy visits from IHS were recently reduced to once a month. #James Donaldson notes:Welcome to the “next chapter” of my life… being a voice and an advocate for #mentalhealthawarenessandsuicideprevention, especially pertaining to our younger generation of students and student-athletes.Getting men to speak up and reach out for help and assistance is one of my passions. Us men need to not suffer in silence or drown our sorrows in alcohol, hang out at bars and strip joints, or get involved with drug use.Having gone through a recent bout of #depression and #suicidalthoughts myself, I realize now, that I can make a huge difference in the lives of so many by sharing my story, and by sharing various resources I come across as I work in this space.  #http://bit.ly/JamesMentalHealthArticleFind out more about the work I do on my 501c3 non-profit foundationwebsite www.yourgiftoflife.org Order your copy of James Donaldson's latest book,#CelebratingYourGiftofLife: From The Verge of Suicide to a Life of Purpose and Joy www.celebratingyourgiftoflife.com Link for 40 Habits Signupbit.ly/40HabitsofMentalHealth If you'd like to follow and receive my daily blog in to your inbox, just click on it with Follow It. Here's the link https://follow.it/james-donaldson-s-standing-above-the-crowd-s-blog-a-view-from-above-on-things-that-make-the-world-go-round?action=followPub Mary Cwik, a psychologist and senior scientist at the Center for Indigenous Health at Johns Hopkins Bloomberg School of Public Health in Baltimore, said the systemic shortcomings MorningStar has witnessed are symptoms of a national strategy that isn’t compatible with Indigenous value systems. “It is not clear that the creation of the national strategy had Indigenous voices informing the priorities,” Cwik said. The cause of high suicide rates in Indigenous communities is complex. Native Americans often live with the weight of more adverse childhood experiences than other populations — things such as emotional, physical, and sexual abuse, intimate partner violence, substance misuse, mental illness, parental separation or divorce, incarceration, and poverty. Those adverse experiences stack upon intergenerational trauma caused by racial discrimination, colonization, forced relocation, and government-sanctioned abduction to boarding schools that persisted until the 1970s. “There’s no way that communities shaped by these forces for so long will get rid of their problems fast by medical services. A lot of people in Indian Country struggle to retain hope. It’s easy to conclude that nothing can fix it,” said Joseph P. Gone, a professor of anthropology and global health and social medicine at Harvard University and member of the Gros Ventre (Aaniiih) tribal nation of Montana. Most tribal nations are interested in collaborative research, but funding for such work is hard to come by, said Gone. So is funding for additional programs and services. Stephen O’Connor, who leads the suicide prevention research program at the Division of Services and Intervention Research at the National Institute of Mental Health, said, “Given the crisis of suicide in Native American populations, we need more funding and continued sustained funding for research in this area.” Getting grants for scientific research from NIMH, which is part of the National Institutes of Health, can be challenging, especially for smaller tribes, he said. Amanda MorningStar says her family faces a grim reality that touches Native Americans nationwide. About a year ago, her son was so grief-stricken over his cousin's and two classmates' suicides that he tried to kill himself. (Amanda MorningStar)Amanda MorningStar Officials at the NIMH and the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration said that they continue to build research partnerships with tribal nations and that they recently launched new grants and multiple programs that are culturally informed and evidence-based to reduce suicide in tribal communities. NIMH researchers are even adjusting a commonly used suicide screening tool to incorporate more culturally appropriate language for Indigenous people. Teresa Brockie, an associate professor at Johns Hopkins School of Nursing, is one of a small but growing number of researchers, many of whom are Indigenous, who study suicide prevention and intervention strategies that respect Indigenous beliefs and customs. Those strategies include smudging — the practice of burning medicinal plants to cleanse and connect people with their creator. Without this understanding, research is hampered because people in tribal communities have “universal mistrust of health care and other colonized systems that have not been helpful to our people or proven to be supportive,” said Brockie, a member of Fort Belknap reservation’s Aaniiih Tribe. Brockie is leading one of the first randomized controlled trials studying Indigenous people at Fort Peck. The project aims to reduce suicide risk by helping parents and caregivers deal with their own stress and trauma and develop positive coping skills. It’s also working to strengthen children’s tribal identity, connectivity, and spirituality. In 2015, she reported on a study she led in 2011 to collect suicide data at the Fort Peck reservation in northeastern Montana. She found that adverse childhood experiences have a cumulative effect on suicide risk and also that tribal identity, strong connections with friends and family, and staying in school were protective against suicide. In Arizona, Cwik is collaborating with the White Mountain Apache Tribe to help leaders there evaluate the impact of a comprehensive suicide surveillance system they created. So far, the program has reduced the overall Apache suicide rate by 38.3 % and the rate among young people ages 15 to 24 by 23%, according to the American Public Health Association. Several tribal communities are attempting to implement a similar system in their communities, said Cwik. Still, many tribal communities rely on limited mental health resources available through the Indian Health Service. One person at IHS is tasked with addressing suicide across almost 600 tribal nations. Pamela End of Horn, a social worker and national suicide prevention consultant at IHS, said the Department of Veterans Affairs “has a suicide coordinator in every medical center across the U.S., plus case managers, and they have an entire office dedicated to suicide prevention. In Indian Health Service it is just me and that’s it.” End of Horn, a member of the Oglala Lakota Sioux Tribe of the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation in South Dakota, blames politics for the discrepancy. “Tribal leaders are pushing for more suicide prevention programs but lack political investment. The VA has strong proactive activities related to suicide and the backing of political leaders and veterans’ groups,” she said. It is also hard to get mental health professionals to work on remote reservations, while VA centers tend to be in larger cities. Even if more mental health services were available, they can be stigmatizing, re-traumatizing, and culturally incongruent for Indigenous people. Many states are using creative strategies to stop suicide. A pilot project by the Rural Behavioral Health Institute screened more than 1,000 students in 10 Montana schools from 2020 to 2022. The governor of Montana is hoping to use state money to expand mental health screening for all schools. Experts say the kinds of strategies best suited to prevent suicide among Native Americans should deliver services that reflect their diversity, traditions, and cultural and language needs. That’s what Robert Coberly, 44, was searching for when he needed help. Coberly began having suicidal thoughts at 10 years old. “I was scared to live and scared to die. I just didn’t care,” said Coberly, who is a member of the Tulalip Tribes. He suffered in private for nearly a decade until he almost died in a car crash while driving drunk. After a stay at a rehabilitation center, Coberly remained stable. Years later, though, his suicidal thoughts came rushing back when one of his children died. He sought treatment at a behavioral health center where some of the therapists were Indigenous. They blended Western methodologies with Indigenous customs, which, he said, “I was craving and what I needed.” Part of his therapy included going to a sweat lodge for ritual steam baths as a means of purification and prayer. Coberly was a counselor for the Native and Strong Lifeline, the first 988 crisis line for Indigenous people. He is now one of the crisis line tribal resource specialists connecting Indigenous people from Washington state with the resources they need. “It’s about time we had this line. To be able to connect people with resources and listen to them is something I can’t explain except that I was in a situation where I wanted someone to hear me and talk to,” said Coberly. Amanda MorningStar said she still worries about her son night and day, but he tries to reassure her. “I go to sleep and wake up the next day to keep it going,” Ben MorningStar said. “I only get one chance. I might as well make the best of it.” KFF Health News, formerly known as Kaiser Health News (KHN), is a national newsroom that produces in-depth journalism about health issues and is one of the core operating programs at KFF — the independent source for health policy research, polling, and journalism. Read the full article

[jojokillah]

10th Anniversary

Copium

When internet people joke about copium, like "you need more copium" I actually think about opium and mainly opiates which are derivatives of opium. Because I needed a lot of copium for years.

I thought I will never be free from it. Keep in mind, this is THE DRUG, the hardest drug all movies are about. Basketball Diaries, Trainspotting and such. The shit superstars shot up in the 80's. I talk about all of them. Fentanyl, Heroin, Morphine, Methadone, Oxys, Norcos, Roxys, Vicodins, Percocets, Somas, Tramadol, Doreta, Kratom. The last 3 are especially common in my country, been and still being addicted to them. The whole family. My blog turned 10 years old 2 days ago, but I was too dopesick to put anything here. This was my 4th attempt to kick opiates for good. I kicked Tramadol and Kratom not so long ago, but relapsed. A thing I thought was impossible after all that suffering I went through. Rehab, Psych ward, inpatient, being kicked out for drinking on Xanax and popping additional Klonopin 2's to ease the wds, the cold turkey home. 3 weeks of Hell. But somebody was waiting for me. Somebody who visited me in the hospital, visited me home. My ex fiancé. I got my life back, then I lost it again. I lost it for good this time. It will never come back. I kicked Alcohol and Xanax many times, being in the worst delirium a human can imagine. Literally dying, after I survived a massive Xanax overdose, then left without any, hallucinating in life threatening seizures, then hallucinating for 2 months. It sure took it's toll on me, like my first time kicking dope. Popping 10-20 Klonopin 2's, drinking a liter of whiskey daily on top of it. This shit never ends. Relapsing to opiates, then benzos follow, alongside with alcohol. Today would have been the 3rd day of another streak of an opiate cold turkey. But I couldn't take it anymore. I barely have Xans now, and I don't really think I will have a refill again. As a teen, as a massive k2 fiend and alcoholic, when I started this whole bullshit blog, never ever could foresee how deep will I sink into this hellish nightmare of addiction.

Today I broke the streak, had some dope. Much dope. The last bag I had, without a possible way to obtain more. Just to cope with all of it. The breakup, the depression, the internal damage in my receptors from all these years, the lost years, the sight of this disgusting village I got trapped in since my first draw of weed at 15. The poverty, the shame, the madness, the sadness, the anhedonia, the defeat.

Xanax was not enough to shut up the whole madness in my head. And I had a good dose of that too. I'm depressed on dope. I don't fear dopesickness anymore, because I can't escape. I just accept the additional pain and suffering. Unimaginable suffering ahead. It doesn't really worth it to be honest. Not even dope can shut my inner pain up. It is screaming in terror. Not regressing into childhood anymore, not being positive and grateful anymore. It's lost, it's dead. All I hear is the scream, before falling off a cliff.

[xtruss]

I Was Hospitalized Against My Will. I know Firsthand The Harm It Can Cause

New York City’s plan to expand involuntary hospitalization is the opposite of ‘Compassionate Care’

— Ruth Sangree | Friday 23 December 2022

For individuals living with mental illness, encounters with the police can be traumatizing and even deadly. Photograph: Malte Mueller/Getty Images/fStop

As Mayor Eric Adams recently announced a dramatic expansion of New York City’s involuntary hospitalization policy, I listened in disbelief as he promised to provide the city’s most vulnerable with “compassion and care”. I found myself overcome with both rage and grief, reliving, as I often do, a warm spring day eight years ago.

I was flat on my back in an ambulance, strapped down, driving through towns unknown. They – whoever they were – were taking me across the state, hundreds of miles away from anyone who knew or cared about me, to the nearest inpatient facility with an open bed. I had not spoken to my family or my therapist. I was 19 years old.

Drawstrings were removed from my sweatpants, as were the laces from my shoes. I was hurriedly shuffled into the grayest room imaginable. A heavy door closed behind me, and would stay locked until they deemed me fit to leave. At the time, I had no idea when that day would come.

My inner monologue formed a loop in my head: don’t show too much emotion, or the nurses will assume you’re unstable. Don’t show too little emotion either, or the drugs must be too strong, they will have to readjust them. Smile, be polite, but not withdrawn. Hold out your arm when it’s time for the daily blood draw, even if you’re terrified of needles. Eat food that’s bland even by Massachusetts standards, and be grateful if there’s a fruit cup with dinner. Speak with the other patients enough to appear agreeable and cooperative, but not so much that you open yourself up to unwelcome comments or looks. Sit on a bed in a room that has been stripped of all warmth and feeling, a room that is designed to remind you that the people here think you are a threat to yourself.

You’ve been seeking care for almost six years already, but the doctor met with you for 15 minutes and you’re here now, so what they say about you must be true. Perform normalcy on the worst day of your life. Rinse, repeat, for as many days as you can until you are finally, hopefully, set free.

Unless you have experienced it, I don’t think you can fully comprehend what it means to lose autonomy over your own body, or to have to “earn the privilege” of 30 minutes of fresh air and sunshine.

•

All of this occurred under better-than-average circumstances. For one, I am a young, white, cisgender woman. I was not homeless – at the time, I was a student at a liberal arts college. I had private health insurance, which meant I could afford to be held at a private facility.

Most importantly, I had someone who was willing to fight for me. The minute she found out what happened, my mom dropped everything and immediately flew to the place where I was being held. She visited me every day, grounding me in a space that is unmooring by design. Most importantly, she let the facility know that there was someone on the outside who gave a shit, someone who would not let me wither away behind locked doors.

These were the “best of circumstances” – and yet it remains one of the most traumatic events of my life.

Eight years after that warm spring day, I can say with confidence that I am in a much better place than I was then. I graduated from college, moved to New York City, and got my first job advocating for criminal justice reform. I am working towards getting my law degree, and I plan to pursue a career as a public defender. But it is the memory of that week that compels me to speak today.

•

The United States has a long, sordid history of involuntary confinement. Since the 19th century, involuntary confinement has been used as a tool to remove people from society, either because they were disabled, or because they violated perceived societal norms.

The numbers are staggering – in 1955, when the US asylum system was at its height, over 558,000 people categorized as “severely mentally ill” were held in state psychiatric hospitals. Even after the deinstitutionalization movement of the 1970s, tens of thousands of people continued to be involuntarily committed, without even the limited due process protections of the criminal legal system.

Further progress was made following the passing of the Americans with Disabilities Act in 1990. In the landmark 1999 case Olmstead v LC, the supreme court found that unjustified isolation, ie denying people with disabilities the right to live in their community, is a form of unlawful discrimination. I found it notable that Adams’s announcement came just a few weeks after the passing of Lois Curtis, the lead plaintiff in the Olmstead case.

With progress also came backlash and retrenchment. In the same year that the Olmstead decision was announced, Kendra Webdale was tragically killed when a young man, who had lived with schizophrenia since his youth, pushed her into the path of an oncoming subway train.

In response, in part, to the media frenzy that followed, New York passed “Kendra’s Law”, the first involuntary commitment law in the United States. The law gives courts the authority to force people who have “a history of lack of compliance with treatment for mental illness” into “assisted outpatient treatment” (AOT). Individuals who don’t comply can face detainment by law enforcement or, in some cases, involuntary hospitalization.

In the years since, Kendra’s Law has been widely criticized both for its lack of effectiveness in treatment and for the way it disproportionately affects New Yorkers of color. Despite these clear shortcomings, Adams has been a longtime proponent of expanding its use.

Now, consider the impact of Adams’s newest policy, under which the NYPD can identify someone who they think has a mental illness and detain them if, according to the officer, the person “appears to be mentally ill and displays an inability to meet basic living needs”. This is a dramatic departure from the standard required under New York’s mental hygiene law, which allows police to take individuals into custody if that individual “is conducting himself in a manner which is likely to result in serious harm to himself or others”. The law provides specific examples of what is considered conduct likely to cause harm – notably, none of these examples include an individual’s “inability to meet basic living needs”.

New York City’s Civilian Complaint Review Board, an independent city agency that investigates reports of police misconduct and abuse, gets hundreds of complaints a year related to forcing people into psychiatric hospitals. Further expanding the NYPD’s already enormous power and surveillance capacity will probably lead to increased violence against some of our most vulnerable neighbors. Under the Adams administration, the NYPD has dramatically escalated so-called “sweeps” of unhoused encampments, which activists say “are designed to break spirits and get people out of sight”.

For individuals living with mental illness, encounters with the police can be traumatizing, violent and, at worst, deadly. That risk becomes even greater when the individual is Black. It’s also important to emphasize that, just as Black people with mental illness are at a greater risk of harm, arrest and/or incarceration by law enforcement, they are also at greater risk of racist treatment by mental health professionals.

Some alternatives do have the potential to generate positive outcomes without further traumatization. Working on guaranteeing access to safe and affordable housing, as well as providing access to quality, voluntary mental health care, could play a huge role in improving the quality of people’s lives. But that would require rejecting the mayor’s preferred “law and order” narrative in favor of something more nuanced: a vision of treatment that is more deeply rooted in personal autonomy, compassion and community care.

•

There are several reasons that I call myself an abolitionist. I believe in a society predicated on care and community rather than punishment. I believe one state-sanctioned killing is too many. I am continuously enraged at the violence and dehumanization I witness every time I step through the doors of a courtroom or prison.

But if I am being honest, I am also an abolitionist because of what happened to me. What if, one day, it happened to you? To someone you know, to someone you love? What vision of compassionate care would you hope to receive?

[chained-to-the-mirror]

Some introspective rambling about eating and weight under the cut!

I’m going to go ahead and ramble publicly about some personal things. Maybe it will help someone - maybe me, I don’t know.

If you have followed my blog for a long while, you may have come across my post with a self portrait (not the recent one, the one longer ago) that also had a ramble about my history with eating disorders. I think it was in 2019, and I was genuinely in recovery back then. Food was not really an issue for me, though I still was binging sometimes. It just didn’t come with guilt.

If you haven’t seen that post, to recap: I have a history of various eating disorders, and a few hospitalizations, all in some part related to those eating disorders. That history begins arguably when I was about 7-8 years old, and has continued for most of my life. In 2019 it had been quite a few years of relatively smooth sailing when it came to food - it had been about 6 years since I was last inpatient, and I was feeling confident that I was moving away from those things with every passing day. There was a short relapse in 2020 (I think) but it passed rather quickly. 

Recently, about two months ago, I started intermittent fasting. It has been a great decision for me in general - the 15:9 rhythm suits me perfectly, and I have only had one minor binge since I started. For the longest time I was high on routine and balance and feeling good and light. 

Then I had some blood tests done, and my usually super high HB was down by a lot. It’s still in the normal range, but I can definitely feel the difference. I’m having a follow up doctor’s appointment next week, having taken an iron supplement for a bit first. This was just inconvenient, but not really that big a deal. But anyway, I had the bright idea to track my eating for a week - to see if I really am not getting enough iron. So, I used a calorie tracking site.

A bit of history about me and calorie counting. At my very worst (2005-2007) I was literally weighing the spices I used in my food. I tracked EVERY calorie, meticulously. It was like a religion for me. I also tracked the carbs/protein/fat in everything I ate - even while in the end I was taking in 500 or less calories per day. It was a full on obsession that came with a bunch of other obsessions, and for years and years after I stopped tracking them I had the automatic calorie counter in my head. I thought I would never get rid of it, but somewhere around 2020-2021 I finally did.

But now? I tracked my eating for a week, as planned. Turned out I was not getting nearly enough iron - or protein. Or vitamin B12. No wonder I have been sort of tired all the time. So, in that sense it was good that I did the tracking. It was useful information. I have started taking a B12 supplement since then.

The bad news is that the calories were tracked too. That’s what the site is really for, let’s be honest. And I noticed I was not eating as much as I had thought. The first day of my tracking, I had 1600 calories. The next day, 1400. Then it was around 1500 on all other days of that week. I was surprised, genuinely. I was not hungry, I was not suffering from cravings. I thought all was fine. But apparently I am eating about 500-1000 cals less than I need every day. And I guess I had been eating that way since the fasting began.

Now, it must be pointed out that I am quite overweight, so it’s a good thing that I’m eating less than I burn. All this would be great, if it didn’t come with the baggage of my brain and the thoughts that spring up. Like: I must continue tracking the calories, to make sure I stay below 1500 calories per day. But not too MUCH below that. I managed to resist for like three days, and then I was back on that site. It’s a reputable site, and for a regular person it would be fine. I should not have gone there. I have managed to not weigh my foods to get the exact calories, but I’ve estimated with a LOT more thought than is necessary. I can admit that now, because I feel like I have to step in for myself. 

Today I have not counted a single calorie. I had a home cooked meal, no idea about the calories. I have had chocolate. I didn’t hold myself back from eating. I think I ate about the same as the other days, but it’s been different. More like when I started the fasting and everything just fell into place. I hope I can continue to just be intuitive with all this.

The real reason I was supposed to write this was the issue of weight. I have not stepped on a scale since 2012 I think, and even then my back was turned because I didn’t want to be told the number. I was lighter then, in my estimation, but I was very much troubled with all things eating. And I have not owned a scale in years and years, because that was another of my obsessions when I was worse. I weighed myself multiple times each day, and my mood was completely tied to the number. (Except at my rock bottom when it just didn��t matter anymore - I just had to continue my routines no matter what.) I don’t ever want to go back to that. But recently I’ve become curious. At the calorie counting site I had to enter my current weight, and goal weight. I have no frame of reference for what my current weight is, so I estimated. But what is the truth? I’ve been thinking about it for about two weeks now, and last time I saw my nurse, I brought it up. I told her that I had no idea what I would do if I actually got the real number. It could go any which way. It could be way higher than my estimate - in which case I would have a panic/self loathing attack of epic proportions. It could be right, which would make me disappointed. Or it could be lower, which would… and that’s what I don’t know. It might trigger me to cutting the calories further. This is the reason I have not attempted to diet, despite being hugely overweight for years now. Because what if.

The nurse told me that I have to make my own decision, of course - but there is always an option of getting weighed when I go to see her. And this has kept my mind running in circles since my last visit. I have been going from ”yes” to ”no” on a loop. I have asked for advice from friends. And they have all been wise and told me that I have to really consider WHY I need to know the weight now, and what are the pros and cons of knowing. Well, friends, if you are reading… I have not been able to come up with a single reason why I need to know my weight. There just isn’t one. The only reasons I can think of are unhealthy, and lead to worse outcomes and quite possibly a lot of unnecessary suffering. So, I guess I have decided that I don’t want to OR need to know. I will try to go on as I have before, because for a good while it was working for me. Why try to fix something that already works?

The conclusion of this ramble? I have been humbled to admit that I may not be as recovered as I previously thought. I’m not in any acute danger of a bad relapse, but I do feel like I just closed a door to a dark downward staircase, at the last moment. I can lean on the door, but I won’t enter. It’s not worth it, it never is.

Thank you to anyone who read this. I feel calmer after writing it. I will tag this with some basic tags, if there is another tag you want me to add, let me know. I hope this only brings light and not darkness.

[imagining-in-the-margins]

Here to Misbehave (Pt. 17 | S.R.)

Series Masterlist | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20 | Part 21 | Part 22 | Part 23 | Finale |

Summary: Spencer is concerned about Reader’s growing impulsiveness, but Reader is the one who gets a call from JJ asking if she can come get her boyfriend. Couple: Spencer/Fem!Reader 
 Category: Smut (NSFW, 18+) 
 Content Warning: Discussions of drugs, death/dying, suicide, overdose; Alcohol, addiction, oral (male receiving), handjob, fingering, Daddy Kink, fights, PTSD, hospital talk, drunk smut w/ blanket consent Word Count: 12.5k

MASTERLIST

—————————————————

When I opened the front door, I realized that I had returned to an empty home. I wasn’t sure which was weirder; the realization that the house was empty, or the fact that I was referring to her apartment as my home. It certainly had started to feel that way.

It never stopped being a shock that I would find a home in someone so quickly and with such little self-awareness. I'd certainly never suspected   that the house we’d be in would also be shared with several other people, all of whom were significantly younger than me and shared almost no similarities with me beyond our love for (y/n).

And even if it wasn’t the weirder of the two realizations, the fact that she wasn’t there was definitely the more troubling one. I tried to gather at least a little evidence before I called her; I wasn’t exactly excited about being blindsided again. Judging by the red solo cups that were scattered in the kitchen, I had an idea of how her friends had spent the night. The fact that no one was here led me to another conclusion that I desperately hoped was inaccurate.

Her phone rang four times before she picked up, which was strange in itself. When she did pick up, she sounded like I expected her to. Tired. Groggy.

“Hello?”

“Hey little girl, where are you?” I hoped she couldn’t hear the fumbling of my keys in my pocket, or any other sign of just how anxious I’d gotten in the last three minutes. “Oh. I’m sorry, Spencer, I forgot I was supposed to see you today.” She mumbled, sounding genuinely apologetic if not a little confused.

“You… forgot?” I repeated, quickly making my way over to the calendar hung on a bulletin board outside the kitchen, noting the nothingness over both the current and following week.

“Yeah, I guess I got carried away with school.”

She was lying. I couldn’t be for sure about what, but it was obvious. If she was really having that much trouble with classes, she would have told me. We’d gotten past the whole insecurity over me thinking she was stupid thing a long time ago, and she knew I would always let her learn it on her own if she didn’t want my help.

“... What are you not telling me?” I tried to make the words playful, although my hand was now nervously patting the side of my hip at an alarming rate.

“Nothing! I just got distracted. I’m... a little busy today so we should just meet up again next weekend.”

“A week?” I knew she was probably getting tired of me parroting her words, but that just seemed like a ludicrous amount of time. Usually, we went barely a day or two without seeing each other when I was in the city, cherishing the time together when I wasn't called away to attend to crimes halfway across the country.  

“What’s going on?” My voice was quickly falling into that register that warned her I was about to start profiling her, whether I wanted to or not. And unfortunately, she chose the worst possible reaction to that warning, further tipping me off to the fact that something wasn't quite right.

“Spencer, stop being weird.”

But I wasn’t. I knew that I could be weird; it’s kind of my thing. If you looked up weird in the dictionary, you wouldn’t find my name, but you’d definitely find a description that perfectly characterized my personality.

“You’re the one being weird. Turn on your camera.”

“I can’t. It’s dark in here.” She shot back her answer so quickly, I knew that she had already anticipated the request.

“Then move.” I ordered more than suggested. She understandably didn’t take kindly to my reaction, but I know she also knew why I was doing it. The excuses she was giving weren’t even well thought out.

“What is this? An interrogation?” She scoffed, “Do you think I’m cheating on you with barely dissolved stitches in my intestines?”

I took a deep breath, sitting down at the kitchen table still sticky with leftover sugary liquor and turned the phone onto speaker. “Turn it on.” This time, my voice broke with the order. As much as that didn’t make it sound authoritative, it did make her feel guilty.

As the screen lit up, it all made sense in the worst possible way. She was forcing a fake smile, her other hand resting against her face in a failed attempt to draw attention away from the the mottled skin of her left eye.

“I’m not cheating on you. Happy?” The words were sharp on her tongue, an anger in her features paired well with the understanding that I wasn’t wrong to be worried. I honestly think that was what bothered her the most – that she wanted it to be nothing, for me to be overreacting, but knew that it was a little more serious that she let on.  

“I’m definitely not happy. What happened?” I was already at the door by the time the sentence ended... She shut off her camera just as quickly, hearing the commotion from my side. “Where are you? I’m coming right now.”

She sighed, and I could see it clearly despite the fact that she wasn’t on my screen anymore. “I don’t want you to come here. Spencer, I’m fine.”

I might have believed her. I might have honestly given her the benefit of the doubt – let her lie to me a little, and just accept that a black eye wasn’t the worst thing that could have happened. Eventually, she would tell me how she got it, so I wouldn’t need to worry about it.

But it became very obvious very quickly that it was not just a black eye.

“Ms. (Y/l/n)?” A third voice announced in the background, accompanied by the distinct sound of an alarm sounding in the distance.

“... Are you in a hospital?!”

“For fucks sake. I hate dating a profiler.” She grumbled, implicitly admitting that my conclusion was right. She wouldn’t let me have another word, speedily slurring her goodbye. “I have to go, Spencer. I’ll call you later. Love you!”

—————————————————

Anyone who has spent a long time in inpatient knows that nosy nurses are both the best and worst kind of people to be assigned to your stay. They were the best because they always had the best gossip and would spend their precious little free time sharing stories about their lives that were always more entertaining than whatever poorly budgeted gameshow was on the old, staticky television.

They were the worst because one wrong move meant that you were the subject of gossip. And boy, were they good at getting it out of you.

“Trouble in paradise?” She sweetly hummed as she pushed my bed down the hall.

I wanted to tell her that there was trouble, and that it was through no fault of my own. If the other people in the hospital didn’t have the audacity to be sick at the same time that I needed a CT scan, then I wouldn’t have even still been here. I could have been back at home, where… well, I guess Spencer would have figured it out either way.

“Yeah, I guess.” I sadly admitted, playing with the string of my gown. “He’s just a worrywart.”

The woman had that glimmer in her eye, the kind that came from years of seeing the same stories over and over again. Although, I had a hard time believing she’d ever been in this exact scenario, I guess they were all kind of the same after a while, semantics aside.

“Well, that makes sense considering your current state.” It was more of a reprimand than anything else, and I audibly groaned to try and get her to stop there. She didn’t, though, having spent enough time with me to know I needed to hear it. “You were very lucky, you know. If things had been even just a little bit different…”

Couldn’t you say that about everything? If things had been even just a little bit different, I never would have met Spencer in the first place. We never would have fallen in love or fought or done any of it at all.

I didn’t like thinking about that. I didn’t like even considering a life without Spencer. No matter how much pain I’d been through, or what traumatic memories were dug up, they were worth it.

That’s what she wanted me to realize, and she had succeeded. Suddenly, as we turned into the room, I was overcome with guilt at the way I’d ended my conversation with him.

The nurse knew it, too, because as she transferred me onto the scanner, she smiled. “I’m just saying, sweetheart. If he woke up next to your hospital bed last time, I understand why he’d be scared.”

Chewing on my lips, I thought about the last time I was in a hospital. I thought about how Spencer had curled his giant lanky body onto the bed and barely slept for 2 weeks. I could see the way his eyes got more sunken by the day, but never stopped shining with relief. I could hear him chewing on ice because he didn’t want to leave to grab food until after I’d woken up, and the cold would distract him from just how hungry he was.

“He must love you an awful lot to be that worried.”

I hated when they did that; when they read my mind and said exactly what I was thinking.

“Yeah, I know.” I tried to smile. It was hard with the stabbing pain in my stomach and the aching in the entire left side of my face, but I managed. It was just one of those things where if I thought of Spencer, my body had to react. It was as natural as breathing.

Which, speaking of…

“Take a deep breath in.” The technician alerted me from the speaker.

The high pitched whines of the CT scanner weren’t as obnoxious as the MRI machine. I was silently grateful that they were still too scared to use the giant magnet. I wasn’t sure if I was ready to be stuck in a confined space, listening to loud banging that sounded too much like gun shots for my comfort.

Even just the thought made me nauseous. I felt like a baby, to have such a strong reaction to something so stupid. I’d been in an MRI before. I was a in a hospital. Nothing bad was going to happen to me, and I knew that.

But even now, in a machine that made virtually no noise and barely covered half my body, I wasn’t able to hold in a breath. Each time I tried, it felt like I was choking on Spencer’s lap again. The stinging in my stomach felt so much stronger, even though I knew it was healed.

The world felt like it was closing in on me, and every second that passed felt like days. I couldn’t even trust myself to guess how long it took for them to get images that should have taken no longer than 5 minutes.

I felt like such a burden. Like I was in their way. Like I was doing it wrong. Like I was a little kid, thinking that she knew what she was doing and could do it on her own.

I wanted Spencer.

That was the only thing I could think, and although it should have been comforting, it just left me feeling empty. The thought of him wasn’t enough to stop the tears streaming down my cheeks. The hands of the nurses trying to calm me down didn’t help, either. They felt wrong. They felt cold.

I just wanted Spencer. I wanted him to be there to hold my hand and distract me from my own thoughts. I wanted him to replace them with other things, like he'd promised me. I wanted to make new memories far away from here.

But I couldn’t. I was an idiot and I’d gotten myself back in the hospital, and he wasn’t here because I told him I didn’t want him to be. Why had I told him that? There was no reason that made any sense.

Once we finally did get out of the damn radiology department, I could still only barely function. The ride back to my room was much quieter, and the nurse didn’t meddle anymore. Gossip was only fun when it didn’t hurt like this.

Again, I couldn’t trust myself to guess how long I’d been in the CT scanner, but as we crossed back into my room, an overwhelming sensation of relief washed over me when I saw his satchel in the seat beside my bed. I hated the knowledge that I’d wasted 45 minutes of the technician’s time, but I was just so fucking happy that he had actually come.

Being alone in my room wasn’t a big deal anymore, because I knew it was only temporary. So as soon as I could, I sat up and waited patiently for my favorite mop of curly brown hair to peek around the corner.

He didn’t disappoint. He rarely did.

“Hey little girl.”

All the tension melted from my muscles, my head finally resting against the pillow with a dopey smile on my face. “Spencer.” I sighed, holding my hand out to him to usher him closer.

He gladly took the invitation, taking wide steps so he could be with me sooner.

“You shouldn’t be here.” I grumbled, flicking him on the arm while I locked our hands together. “But I’m glad you are.”

It was obvious from the way he let out a deep breath that he was also relieved to see that I wasn’t angry at him for coming. However, that’s also where his relief stopped. Because he’d seen me an hour prior and knew that I hadn't been crying then. But now, on top of the black eye, he saw the red rimming my sclera.

Taking my hand into both of his, he pressed a hard kiss against the back of it. Without looking up, he muttered into the skin a sad plea.

“Talk to me.”

“About what?” I asked, pulling back on my hand so he would stop with the shameless display of romance in such an awful place.

“Whatever’s going on.” He paused, but was clearly unhappy with the open ended question, and just as quickly specified, “What happened last night?

Unfortunately, I still wasn’t in the giving mood, even when it was information, and even if the person begging me for it was the boyfriend that I’d just cried for in the CT Scanner. If anything, that almost made it worse.

I hated feeling like this. Vulnerable.

“Nothing.”

Spencer was getting fed up, but it was like I couldn’t stop myself from fighting with him. I didn’t want to. I wanted to tell him that I needed him to take care of me and ask him to hold me while I cried on his shoulder about nothing at all, but I couldn’t. He would do it in a heartbeat, but I couldn’t ask him to. I couldn’t ask him for anything.

I couldn’t need anything without feeling too horribly guilty.

“Please don’t lie to me.” He was begging again, looking up at me with those impossibly warm amber eyes. He smiled when he saw the way my lips curled at the sight of him, unable to be angry for too long.

“Am I not allowed to have any stories for myself?” I joked, reaching forward to poke his face. Instead of moving away to avoid my hand, he leaned into the touch.

“You can. I just...”

“I know. You’re worried.” I responded with an exasperated sigh, rolling my head back. I could still feel him watching me, though, with a precarious smile, happy to see my spirits relatively high while also being deeply unhappy about the circumstances.

Wanting to see that full, confident smile again, I realized I didn’t have much of a choice. I’m sure that whatever he’d come up with in his head was much more sinister than what had actually happened.

“Fine. Stop looking at me like that.” I mumbled, gesturing to the childlike pout and laughing when he sucked his lips into his mouth in an attempt to follow my direction. I was glad he was still in a joking mood, because I had a feeling it would disappear as soon as I started talking.

I took a deep breath, looking up and away before I began my explanation of the stupidest night.

“I went out for drinks with my friends–”

“Drinks?!”

It hadn’t even been five seconds and he’d already cut me off. I couldn’t blame him, but it was so freaking annoying. This was exactly why I hadn't told him. Well, that and the fact he could get in serious trouble.

“I didn’t have any! Geez. Chill out.” I yelled back, chuckling a little bit at the conflicting looks of terror and relief. Because while he obviously believed that I didn’t drink any myself, it gave ugly context to the nightmarish guesses his mind had concocted.

“And everything was fine. We were on our way home. But then some asshole started messing with my friend. And she was way too drunk and started crying.” I was groaning internally the whole time, thinking about all the different ways this whole situation could have been avoided. Honestly, I don’t know why she had decided to try and square up with a cat caller when she knew damn well that she would start crying the second he raised his voice.

Which, of course, he had.  

“So, I told the guy to fuck off. And he did not like it.”

There was a powerful rage boiling under the surface of Spencer’s skin, which was only betrayed by his clenched jaw and the sheets scrunched under his hand. “Did they arrest him?” He said, trying to calm the trembling in his voice. He wasn’t angry at me for being a victim, even if he was probably a little annoyed that I went out without telling him.

Not like he was even in the state, anyway.

“I didn’t press charges.”

He took a deep breath, clearly about to tell me that I was stupid for not holding him accountable. That I could’ve gotten hurt and he would’ve gotten away with it. That I could’ve died if he’d hurt me the wrong way.

I didn’t want to hear it.

“Stop. I didn’t want to go to court, and I’m fine. I didn’t even need invasive surgery again.”

Spencer was still angry but trying to settle himself down before he spoke. He could hardly even look at me, his hand leaving the bed to run through his hair and shake his keys in his pockets.

I wanted to tell him that the tension of silence was worse than if he’d just raised his voice at me, but I couldn’t even gather the energy to do that. My body and mind seemed resigned to their current state; they’d just given up.

“(Y/n)...” He started, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood up at the use of my name. They didn’t retreat, especially not when he dragged a chair over to my bedside, sitting down and placing a gentle hand over mine again.

“Are you okay?”

It was so sincere. So pure, so unforgivably kind. My hand that had felt paralyzed seconds earlier twitched under his. “I just told you.” I shrugged, fighting the urge to pull my arm away again. I wanted him here. I wanted him to touch me.

So why did it hurt? Why did everything hurt?

“That’s not what I’m worried about.” His voice broke, and I saw the way he was holding back tears with his tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth. He was biting back so many things he didn’t want me to know.

But again, I was too tired to fight it. So instead, I said nothing.

“It doesn’t take a profiler to see you’re hurting.” He continued, urging me to give him anything to work with. “How can I make it better?”

He just wanted to help. Why couldn’t I let him help?

“I’m fine. Nothing even happened to me.” My throat tried to reject the words, my brain screaming at me that they were fundamentally untrue. But my heart hurt, pounding louder in my chest to tell me that the logic was wrong. Because I was a big girl, and I shouldn’t be scared by things that already happened.

I’m safe, right? I don’t need to be scared, right?

Spencer could see the panic on my face because I couldn’t even have hid it if I'd wanted to. And my brain was telling me to not to. It told me that I needed to talk to him, to let him listen.

“That’s not true. You’ve been through a lot.” He bargained, trying to locate that little voice in my head with his offerings. He wanted to pull that small part of me out and force it to talk so that we might finally be able to start to move on.

“You go through worse every day.”

‘It’s common for patients suffering from PTSD to minimize their suffering or compare it to others. It’s a completely normal response, but I want you to try to resist belittling your own feelings. They’re yours, and no one else’s. Okay, sweetheart?’

The voice was so clear in my head, my body jerked in response. I looked around the room, looking for any sign of the man who’d told me them first. But he wasn’t here; he hadn’t been here for some time.

“Do you know how many profilers I’ve seen leave in my time at the bureau?” Spencer distracted me from the thought. He probably figured my flashbacks were more sinister than what they actually were. As upsetting as they had once been, hearing my dad’s voice in my head was usually oddly soothing.

“No.” I answered blankly, trying to pay all attention to the man who was still here.

“Four. And I’ve considered it myself.” There was a soft chuckle to hide the guilt in the admission.

I didn’t know why he felt bad for it; his job was so ridiculously difficult. On top of constantly having to rearrange his life on account of the various inextinguishable evils in the world, he had to face those evils every day and try to figure out their inner workings in order to thwart them. The only time I'd ever done that, I'd killed all three of them. Not the best track record.

“The first one, she... she reminds me a lot of you.” The soft twinkling in his eyes, much like emotional music in the movies, alerted me that a backstory was coming. Based on the extent of just how nostalgic he was coming, I guessed that whatever he was about to say was deeply important to him.

However, I was fragile enough as it was, and I didn’t need to add jealousy to my current emotional repertoire. “Is this another JJ origin story? Cause I don’t think I can handle it.”

He laughed, shaking his head at the frustrated pout that formed on my face. “No,” He said quietly, taking a pregnant pause to formulate the story. “Her name was Elle.”

The story he told was woven well, although I expected no less. He told it passionately and with absolute sincerity. He told me about the woman who was one of the first people he'd bonded with on the team. The playful relationship he described was painted so vividly in my imagination.

I wanted to meet her. But by the end of the story, it was obvious that it wasn’t an option. He didn’t say anything about it, but from the far off look I could guess that he hadn’t seen her since that last day.

“She was like a sister to me, and to see her fall apart and not be able to do anything to help her... it was one of the worst feelings in the world.”

And I understood then, why he was worried about me the way he was. He was projecting his previous experience on me, but things were different with me. At least, that’s what I told myself. Realistically I should have been reminding myself that she'd had the training and resources to overcome her obstacles, whereas I was basically still a stupid kid. The prospect of facing the reality was too difficult though; I just shrugged it off.

“Well, I already killed the people who did this to me.” I chuckled.

Spencer did not appreciate my humor. There was an even stronger concern that flashed over his features, worried by my flippancy over the death of three human beings.

Fuck, I should feel worse about it than I do, shouldn’t I? But if I thought about it, then it hurt so badly. If I had to pick one, I would pick apathy every time. I would choose the emptiness before the ocean of remorse.

“I’m not worried about them.”

I had drifted away from him again, and the sentence forced me to look at him.

‘I’m not worried about them. I’m worried about you.’

I’d said that before. Those were my words.

I pulled my hand back from Spencer, rubbing my forehead with both hands before wincing at the sharp pain around my eye socket. It took me a minute to focus on the sentence and dive deeper into its implications. But once I remembered why it instilled such a visceral reaction, I nearly gagged on the words.

“Wait, you think I’m going to kill myself?”

“I didn’t say that.” He quickly responded in the most defensive manner possible. If that was his attempt to calm me down, it did not work. It only pissed me off even more.

Because there was only one reason why he would think I was going to kill myself. I hadn’t given him any reason to believe that was a risk. Yeah, sure, I was being reckless and impulsive, but I was a teenager!

“Why would you think that?” I demanded an answer, and he was immediately hesitant to provide one. It was all the evidence I needed to reach my conclusion. “Don’t lie to me, Spencer Reid. You asked Hotch, didn’t you?”

He sighed, leaning back in his chair now that it was obvious, I wasn’t going to want him to touch me. “Yeah, I did.”

“You told me you wouldn’t, Spencer! You promised!” I ground the words out between my teeth, hoping he understood just how much I was holding back my volume.

He looked over at the screen monitoring my heart, noting the way the spikes appeared at an exponentially faster rate. “I know.” He whispered with an evident guilt.

“What did he tell you?” I hated the way my voice shrank with my shoulders, my body insisting that I assume to the smallest position I could. Because as much as I hated that Spencer had asked when he told me he wouldn’t, I was desperate for the information.

I’d always wanted to see the files, to hear the story as they knew it. I wanted to know what happened, and this was probably the closest I’d ever come to that, unless that whole Ouija board thing is real.

“Probably the same stuff that you already know.” He knew he was disappointing me. He shouldn’t have felt as bad about that as he did, but I’d take the implicit apology for what it was.

“Tell me anyway.”

Spencer should have been delighted to have the opportunity to talk at me for such a long time, but I also understood why he wasn’t. They weren’t the best topics of conversation, your ex-best friend and your girlfriend’s dead father. But he was a trooper and a skilled conversationalist, despite people not being able to understand that.

“He told me that there were several missions your father was a part of that ended controversially. That… he reported several violations that were never followed through on.”

The words so easily unlocked memories I had tightly and resolutely locked away, it was unsettling. I could hear my parents arguing about the philosophy of blame and responsibility. My dad always arguing that he couldn’t stand aside and let innocent people get hurt. My mom reminding him that he couldn’t save everyone.

‘We also get to see a lot of good.’ Spencer had said on our first not-a-date.

‘Yeah, but which do you see more of?’ I’d asked, and he’d avoided the question. I remembered seeing the question dance across his vision before he shut it out. He'd wondered why I was so confident in my conclusions.

“And the last mission…”

He didn’t have to wonder anymore.

“I saw the report.”

My breath was knocked from my lungs by an invisible fist to my damaged gut. I swallowed, trying to regulate my heart that was at risk of setting off the damn machine next to me. “What did it say?” I whispered, clutching onto the sheets and my gown, hoping it would be enough to keep me grounded.  

“Killed in action.”

“That’s fucking bullshit.” I barked, my brows furrowing regardless of just how badly it hurt to contort my face so badly.  “He didn’t– H-He wasn’t–“

“I know.” Spencer responded, a note of pity in his voice that made my face twitch in annoyance.

I turned to him with the same snarl, years of repressed anger resurfacing and wreaking even more havoc on my already destroyed life. “Do you? Do you know?”

“I mean, I can’t ever know for sure but… You weren’t the only one who felt that he...” He couldn’t say the word suicide, and for once, I was grateful. “It seems like all of his team had the same concerns.”

He was trying so hard to calm me down, to placate my fears and rage. He was sympathizing the best he could, but the truth was he would never be able to understand just how fucked up it was. He hadn't been there when it was happening, so the only thing he could do was try to slap a band-aid on a well-settled scar and hope that my not being able to see it made it hurt less.

“I’m sorry.” He uttered the two words cautiously, his heartbreak clear in his eyes. He had nothing to apologize for, but there he was, doing it anyway.

“For what?”

“That you’ll never have your answer.”

I don’t know what I expected him to say, but his answer took me by surprise. Of all the explanations I’d heard after an unnecessary platitudinous apology, I’d never heard that. And even worse, I’d never heard it in such a broken way, sounding for all the world like he believed he'd failed tremendously.

“I’m sorry that... that I couldn’t find it for you.”

I couldn’t stand the sight, and my hand found his cheek like it did so often, returning home to find that it was just a bit more stubbly than I remembered it. “It’s not your job, Spencer. We’re not one of your cases.” I assured him, running my thumb over the rough skin and remembering that he’d only just gotten home from exactly that: a case.

He did so much for me every day, but in the past few months he’d had to do so much more. And as much as I tried not to, I took him for granted so often. It was never as obvious to me as it was in that moment, when a tear slid down his cheek at the tenderness of my touch.  He always expected anger and pain. I didn’t want him to feel that way with me.

“But thank you for trying. I appreciate you.” I tried to throw my soul into the words as they formed on my tongue, but all that came out was a pathetic whimper. “I love you very much.”

“I love you, too.” He sighed into the small embrace, leaning his weight more heavily into my hand. Still holding back, he grimaced at the words he shared. “If I’m going to be honest, I looked something else up myself. Not on any FBI database just... old school research”

I wanted to act surprised, but it was the least shocking thing I’d heard in a while. So instead I just stared at him, with the closest I could come to boredom while still being interested in what he had to say.

“Yeah? What’d you find?” Finally settling into the inevitable resignation, I moved my hand up the side of his face to tangle in his hair. It was so soft despite not having been washed for a few days. I could tell he hadn’t slept much. I wondered why he'd bothered digging into my past in the precious little free time he had.

But then he said it, reminding me of the pain of the cemetery and the events that both preceded and followed it.

“Trent Loughton.”

My fingers stopped in their exploration of his curls for a second, but eventually continued. “I see.” I hummed, trying not to push the conversation any further than he wanted to take it. As emotional as the topic was for me, it must have been harder for him. After all, he was the one who shared the nasty habit with Trent.

“I-I saw how he died... and I think I can fill in the rest myself.”

“Mrs. Loughton did give a lot of clues.” I laughed, mostly to stop myself from crying. That woman didn’t deserve any more of my tears. It was because of her that I’d spent years trying to convince myself that Trent’s death wasn’t my fault. Deep down, a part of me still believed her.

But honestly, it wasn’t my opinion that really mattered to me. It was Spencer’s. If he thought I was a failure, or that it was my fault for what happened, I wasn’t sure we’d ever be able to move past it. I wasn’t sure that I would ever be able to move past it.

“The drugs he overdosed on... they weren’t yours.”

Relief washed over me, but my mind told me not to get too comfortable, yet. “No, they weren’t.” My body had such a strange reaction to the words being said without an argument. I didn’t need to convince Spencer; he already knew. He not only believed me – he had come to the conclusion himself.  

“So why did you say they were?”

It was such an easy answer, I knew he had to know it already. His hesitance to come to conclusions on my behalf, while appreciated, wasn’t necessary in this situation. “Pretty little girl with no record and a batshit war hero dad stood a better chance in the criminal justice system. I didn’t ask my dad to protect me, but he did.”

Spencer clearly sympathized with my father more so than me in that moment, which made my heart flutter in a remarkably inappropriate manner. I just couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that those damn psychologists were right – We really do sometimes pick men that remind us of our fathers.

“It wasn’t your fault.” Spencer said under his breath, and I wondered which one he was even talking about. It honestly could have applied to my whole life. He would have meant it each time, too. Because to him I couldn’t do anything wrong. I tried to take solace in that, but it honestly caused another voice to creep into the back of my mind.

I’d never be as good as he saw me. I’d never be worthy of his love.

Shoving those anxieties away again, I nodded in solemn recognition of the years I spent working to come to that same conclusion. “I know. It just took me a while to figure it out.”

My hand finally fell away from his face, although he grabbed my wrist to stop it from going too far. There was another hesitancy in his body language. His face turned down and his leg bouncing so gently I almost missed it.

“Is he the one you were talking about? The one you loved?”

Ah, nothing like a subtle hint of jealousy to boost a girl’s ego. I chuckled at the sound, swaying a bit in place to let him suffer a millisecond longer. “No. Not exactly.”

But then I genuinely couldn’t figure out how to say it. How could I describe what we had shared, when I'd spent so long trying to forget it? Had I loved him? Probably. No, I'd definitely loved him, just not in the way Spencer was thinking. Not like I loved Spencer.

“It was like, he always liked me, and I always thought we’d end up together because that’s how it happens in the movies, right? I was supposed to fall in love with him.” I ranted, trying to move my hands that were currently wrapped up in Spencer’s. “But I didn’t, and then he was gone and...”

We both stopped, his eyes trailing after me with questions he didn’t voice yet. He wanted me to finish before he decided whether or not they were worth it. I wanted to explain to him that they weren’t. As important as Trent was to me, he was gone.

“It’s fine. I’m sure he would be glad I found someone who makes me happy.” I was confident in that, at least. Because as I stared into those big hazel eyes, forcing themselves to stay open just to listen to me talk about my life, I was glad, too. “Even if that someone snoops too much for his own good.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

There were many reasons, most of which I didn’t want to go into. But the way he was looking at me shattered my heart into a million pieces, and I knew that if I lied to him now, it would only make it harder to put those parts back together.

He just wanted to help. I knew I should let him help.

“I didn’t want to think about it.” I admitted for the first time out loud. “I didn’t want to consider all the similarities. I didn’t want you to think I was just looking for a man to replace the ones I’ve lost.”

I couldn’t tell when I started to cry, but it was even more exhausting and painful than normal. Which is why I didn’t hesitate to accept Spencer’s offer when he stood up, wrapping his arms around me just tightly enough that it wouldn’t hurt.  

“I didn’t want to lose you, too.” I whined, the comforting scent of his cologne filling my lungs and reminding me of all the beautiful moments we’d shared so far. We had so many more to go.

“You won’t lose me. I’m here to stay.” He said, reading my mind like he always did.

“I know.” I started to laugh, but this time it wasn’t held back by secrets. “You’d think a girl could lose you by getting in a bar fight an hour away and going to an unnamed hospital but nooo...”

He laughed too, although his was much more reserved. Spoilsport.

Spencer’s arms tightened around me briefly, holding me closer to him before he backed away, his hands finding home on my cheeks. I anticipated a kiss, which was usually what happened when he held me like that. But he didn’t kiss me, instead giving me a gentle instruction.

“(Y/n), look at me.”

My eyes, bruised and dry, still opened at his command.

“No jokes. No lies.” He asked, clearly enunciating each word. “Should I be worried about you?”

All I could hear was the sound of my heart and the humming of the machines. I was brought back to the CT scanner, the way it felt to be choking on air. Flashes of other men I loved were racing through my mind. I couldn’t save them, I remembered, before my eyes landed back on Spencer.

My stomach twisted at the memory of a wooden box, a check, and suddenly all I smelled was the pine of the forest.

“(Y/n)?” He asked again, although I saw he’d already received half of the answer.

“No. I’m fine.”

The most terrifying part about it was that I believed what I said, but the look on Spencer’s face told me that I was lying. And I believed that, too.

—————————————————

The thing about coming back from a gunshot wound to the stomach is that it takes a ridiculously annoying amount of time. Like, yeah, the pain is something awful, but the wait for things to return to normal was even worse.

I didn’t even know how long it’d been, my brain blocking out anything that reminded me of that day. If I ever really needed to know, Spencer could tell me. I was basically only keeping track of the days by deadlines for school and the dwindling prescriptions I had left.

My follow-up appointment was next week, and it couldn’t come soon enough. Spencer told me he would come with me, but I hadn’t really heard from him in a couple of days. He didn’t even have time to tell me about the case, although I could tell it was one of the “bad” ones – not that there were really any “good” ones.

But still, it was almost 11pm and I was about to go to sleep, but I wanted to wait a little bit longer before I called it a night. I was just hoping that I’d be able to talk to him, even if it was just to say goodnight. I missed his voice like crazy.

So when my phone lit up, I didn’t even look at the caller ID. There weren’t many people who would call me this late on a Friday – my friends were all already out for the night.

“Hello?” I sang into the receiver, already excitedly spinning around in my chair.

But the voice that responded was decidedly not Spencer.

“Hey, (y/n), right? It’s JJ.”

Her voice rang like a record scratch through my head, and I halted in my chair. “Oh, hey JJ... Why are you calling me?” Suddenly, my enthusiasm morphed into an overwhelming anxiety and darkness that threatened to crush everything in its path. “I-Is everything alright?”

But then I heard it. The sound of terrible music, loud laughter, and the general bustle of a restaurant. It was followed by an even more nervous JJ, “Uhh, yeah. Everything is fine. I was calling because Spencer might have had a few too many drinks and—“

Above the chaotic noise that I just described, I heard Spencer Reid loud and clear. Well, maybe not the clear part. His inaudible slurring sounded vaguely like a rant I’d heard before. Then again, hadn't I heard them all at this point? ?

I hadn’t put it together yet, though, and once I did, I couldn’t help but laugh. “My boyfriend is drunk? Cute.”

I was already standing, gathering my things and tossing my jacket on to head out when I asked, “Do you want me to come get him?”

“Please.” I’d never heard a more relieved woman in my life. The very thought of him driving his best friends insane with his drunken lessons was enough to combat my exhaustion. The poor thing was probably humiliating himself one sip at a time.

But for every chuckle, I was really just hiding a deeper concern. Spencer wasn’t supposed to be drinking. Spencer wasn’t allowed to drink, and he knew that. Out of the two of us, he was the one who put himself at risk more often, and I had a goddamn bullet wound.

“Sure thing. Just send me the address.”

It dawned on me somewhere along the 20 minute drive that Spencer had not only finished his case, but also come home and gone out for a drink with his team. Normally that wouldn’t bother me, but the fact that he hadn’t told me about any of it...?

I tried not to think about it, knowing that talking to him about it tonight would be a waste of time, anyway. From the way he'd sounded over the phone, he wouldn’t be in any state to talk about the deep nuances of addiction and our relationship.

So I pushed it away, trying to enjoy the fact that I’d be able to see him again. Now that we’d cleared the air about my past, things felt strangely calm. I told myself it wasn’t just the eye of the storm because I  wasn't sure I could handle much more excitement lately.

Showing up at one of the bars I used to frequent didn’t do much to convince me otherwise, either. The stench of cigarette smoke and alcohol hit me like a freight train as soon as I stepped out of my car. How did I do this every other night before?

As I approached the door, I didn’t even recognize the bouncer’s figure in the shade of the dim porch light. I recognized his voice, though, that’s for sure.

“Hey Jailbait, haven’t seen you around.”

Shit. Slower now, I hesitantly approached him with the most innocent and well-meaning look I could muster, knowing full well that another part of my life was going to be exposed tonight. At least this time, Spencer was the story and not the listener.

“Hey Tom...” I nervously laughed, drawing out the words while I came to a stop.

“Heard some pretty crazy shit went down to keep you off the scene. Must be bad if it keeps you away from me.”

It was weird to think that they talked about me. But I guess it was to be expected; we were all friends before Spencer Reid. And when someone in those friend groups goes missing suddenly, there’s usually reason to be worried. But in my situation, the worry wasn’t really necessary (aside from the whole being shot thing, I guess).

“Crazy is a good word for it.”

He leaned forward, beckoning for me to move in even closer with a wave of his hand. I complied, although I was a little confused as to why we were being so secretive.

“Hey, sorry, but... I can’t let you in tonight. You know I normally would, but the place is swarming with feds tonight.”

Then I remembered that I actually had to explain the reason for my absence, rather than just think about it in the abstract. “Oh no, I know.” I peered around him, trying to spot the man past the door. It wasn’t hard, considering how goddamn tall he was.

I pointed to him, causing Tom to turn with an amused grin before I explained, “I’m here for the drunk noodle man.”

The look on his face – hilarious, and a little insulting.

“What? Jailbait’s picking up a fed? Damn girl what’ve you been into?” He laughed, barely able to control himself. He laughed so hard, in fact, I’m surprised there weren’t tears in his eyes.

“Stop that.” I whined, but he didn’t listen.

“Does he know who he’s dating?”

The question hurt more than he could have anticipated. I didn’t want to confront those messy feelings, so I bundled them all into an annoyed exclamation. “Yes, he knows!” I huffed, crossing my arms and turning away from him as I stepped towards the door. “So can I go get him?”

He composed himself rather quickly after that, shaking his head and unhooking the rope that blocked off the door. “Please do. If I have to hear one more fact about Ancient Rome, I might quit.”

With the last obstacle gone, I happily skipped through the door, the excitement returning in a bubbling wave through my chest. “Thanks, Tom!” I chirped, barely giving him a glance as I raced through the door.

The only person more surprised to see me than Tom was Spencer. Although, to his credit, I did practically launch myself at his side. We both nearly toppled to the ground thanks to  our lack of coordination, but we were luckily stopped by the bar he was leaning against.

“Boo!” I shouted in his ear, hearing a small, surprised gasp from my boyfriend.

“(Y/n)?” He turned towards me now, stars quickly forming in his eyes as a big, goofy smile spread across his face. It took him a minute, but eventually he recognized me in the dim light.

“Hey old man.”

Hugging me back just a little too tightly, he began to gush, “Oh my gosh. What are you doing here?” Of course, before I could answer, he came to several other conclusions. “Wait! This is a bar. You can’t be here! You aren’t twenty one!”

He thought he was whispering, but he definitely, definitely was not.

“I’m here to pick you up, not party.” I actually whispered back, turning to see JJ practically hiding at the table. I’m guessing he hasn't wanted her to call me, although I was pretty sure he wouldn’t care at this point. He seemed pretty happy I was there.

“You can’t pick me up. You’re hurt.”

I didn’t even know where to start with that, so I just chuckled. “Smart as a whip, Dr. Reid.”

I ran my hands over his shoulders, smoothing out the wrinkled dress shirt he'd either had no time to iron, or had worn to bed the night before.  I didn’t like either of those options. Spencer must have noticed me analyzing the fact, because his hand came up to stop me.

Trying to quickly change the subject, I blurted out over the terrible music, “Even when I’m hurt, I can probably still pick you up. You probably weigh the same as me.”

He scoffed, looking down at his lanky body compared to mine before shaking his head. “That’s hurtful, (y/n).” He attempted a puppy dog face, which only made laughter burst from my pursed lips.

Grabbing hold of his wrists and pulling him away from the bar, I turned and waved to the few team members I could spot among the crowd before returning to my drunken idiot of a boyfriend. “Come on, love. It’s time to take you home with me.”

When the cool autumn air hit him, I felt the goosebumps ripple over his arm. He leaned a bit closer, resting too much of his body weight on me for my comfort, but I wasn’t going to tell him to stop.

“How did you find me?” He mumbled, trying to touch me more than he currently was. Pushing him away from me was supposed to serve as a gentle reminder that we were in public, but he didn’t seem to care about that at all.

“JJ called me.”

“They all like you a lot. So do I.” His fast responses were a little less impressive considering how spontaneous they seemed, but I let it slide. As long as he was saying nice things, it was fine by me.

Guiding him as gently as possible, which is to say not gently at all considering he was essentially a human giraffe, I sighed. “I’m glad to hear it, Spencer. Maybe I can actually hang out with them one of these days.”

The guilt appeared before I could stop it, but it was the least of my worries at the moment. More concerning would be getting him into his house and in bed without either of us doing something stupid. After all, he was usually the one who stopped me from being stupid. And so far tonight, he’d already done something pretty damn stupid.

As I pulled the driver side door closed, a silence filled the car. Spencer was stuck between staring at me with a lovesick smile and looking away, probably because of his pink cheeks making him look a perfect combination of embarrassed and plastered.

“So what had you drinking, Spencer?”

“A case.” He shot back with that voice he usually reserved for the bedroom. It was the voice that told me not to press, to take his answer and let it die.

Unfortunately, I couldn't really do that this time, concerning this particular topic. . “Good thing or bad thing drinking?” I asked quietly.

I think he wanted to snap at me, to tell me that it was clear he didn’t want to talk about it, but he didn’t. The way my hands and words trembled told him that I was just as scared as he was that the answer might be the wrong one.

“I don’t know,” was what he said, instead.

“Okay.” I accepted that answer, understanding that it meant we could talk about it later, when his blood went back to normal and his mind was where it should be. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

And there we were, me sitting and staring at the indicators on the car as the engine turned, and him staring at me in the little light provided. After staring back at him for a moment, I had to ask the glaringly obvious question.

“Why are you staring at me like that?”

That’s when Spencer Reid let out an honest to god giggle, his hands reaching out to massage my face that no longer showed any signs of the black eye I'd received a few weeks prior. “You’re sooo pretty.” He drawled, slumping over in his seat so he could rest his face against my shoulder.

I couldn’t help but laugh back, petting his hair for a second before returning my attention to the wheel. “Oooh, I like this.” I whispered, letting my heart skip a few beats as he nuzzled into the warmth that only I could provide him.

“I love you.” He mumbled against my shirt, letting out a deep breath before apparently trying to fill his lungs with the smell of my laundry detergent.

The sensation of his breath hot against my neck caused a familiar desire to stir in me, just barely beaten out by the even more powerful adoration I had for the puppy-like man who was already practically asleep on my shoulder.

“I love you, too, darling.”

He didn’t hear me, his soft breath indicating that he would be out for the drive. Taking my time to avoid the roads with potholes and curves, I managed to keep Spencer on me the whole way back to his apartment. Once we were there, though, I didn’t have any option but to wake him up. Unlike him, I definitely could not carry him out of the car.

It took him a surprisingly long period of time to realize that we were not, in fact, at my place. As soon as he did notice, he rubbed his eyes like it would transform the door in front of him. “Why didn’t you take me home?”

“This is your apartment, babe.” I explained, digging through his pockets to find his keys. He jumped at the contact before letting out a sound that was way too close to a moan for him to be making in the hallway.

“Yeah that’s not home.” He answered, swallowing down other noises that threatened to erupt by the time I withdrew my hand. “But home is–“ He hiccuped, patting his finger on my nose as he tried to stabilize his feet. “Home is where you are.”

“Mmm, so smooth.” I hummed, unlocking the door and shoving his drunk ass into the apartment before he could do something else that made me question whether I should just turn around and go home.

But he just looked so proud of himself, spinning around on his feet and crashing into the table beside the door. “Thank you!” He chirped, reaching forward to grab my hand and pull me closer.

When our bodies pressed together, the first thing I noticed was the fact he was clearly much more excited to be home with me than he was letting on. The thin fabric of his slacks left little to the imagination, and when my hand slid over the tent in his pants, there was nothing left to wonder.

“I brought you here... because I didn’t want to have to be quiet.” I purred, palming his erection over his clothes.

Through his broken moans, he still managed to ask the silliest question: “Why are you going to be loud?”

He was so fucking cute; so remarkably innocent in his drunken stupor, it was hard to remember that he was the same man that once finger fucked me on the metro.

“Why do you think?” I asked just as sweetly, making quick work of the buttons on his shirt.

Spencer still just stared, mesmerized by the way the buttons slipped from the fabric between my fingers. Once they were all open, I ran my hands over his chest before wrapping my arms around his neck.

He was the one to close the gap, coming down to deliver a feverish kiss against my lips. He tasted like honey and whiskey, and I wanted nothing more than to drown in him. His hands were on my lower back, sneaking under my shirt and spreading goosebumps all over my skin.

I moaned into his mouth with the utmost desperation, murmuring words against his lips. “Take me to bed, Spencer,” I begged.

The words awoke something in him, and suddenly, his hands were off of me and raised in the air.

“Wait— I can’t.” He concluded, drawing in heavy breaths.

“Why not?”

I wasn’t sure which part of this situation did him in, although I had my suspicions. As much as I wanted him, I would suppress those urges if he was really, truly uncomfortable. I almost felt bad for a second, but then he spoke again.

“I have a girlfriend.”

With a few slow blinks, I tried to figure out how the hell I was supposed to return a serious answer. Deciding that was impossible, I deadpan replied, “I am your girlfriend, you absolute idiot.”

I took his stunned silence to be permission enough to start leading him into his room. He honestly looked like I’d just told him all the answers to the universe, and he trailed after me like my hand was a leash. Still, once I sat on the bed and pulled his body against mine, he paused again.

“My girlfriend can’t— she’s hurt. She can’t have sex with me.”

I got the impression he was trying to reason with himself more so than with me, which explained the third person. But it was deeply unsettling, because I really needed to know he was here in this moment with me.

“Stop saying 'she'. It’s me, babe.” I gently reminded, and I watched it dawn on him again, his eyes lighting up in the darkness. Sliding my hand up his arm, I pulled him forward to hopefully convince him to climb into the bed with me. “And we don’t have to have sex.”

Funny enough, Spencer was the one who had enough sense to strip off most of his clothes before he stumbled onto the mattress after me. His lack of coordination was even worse with the alcohol, and it reminded me of the virginal teenager I’m certain he once was.

It was strange to consider, that if we’d met each other under different circumstances, at a different time, our roles might have been somewhat reversed. To picture him as an innocent little thing was... kind of exciting.

But he was anything but innocent now, his face hanging over mine while he helped me disrobe, trying to focus his analytical abilities on me in his haze. Finding no pain or hesitancy, he crashed his lips over mine with an energy I hadn’t seen in some time.

And it was so invigorating, to feel his skin against mine without him having to constantly worry about whether or not he was hurting me. It’d been far too long since we shared a bed together like this, and now that it was happening, I could hardly breathe.  

“God, I love her.” He whispered against my skin, before quickly correcting himself, “I love you.”

I laughed, the kind that sputters from your lips when you try to hold it back. Pushing the hair from his face, I ran my fingers over his scalp. “How drunk are you?”

“I’m not drunk, I’m stupid.” He replied with a cheeky smirk, diving back down to kiss me again. I wasn’t going to argue with the brilliant Spencer Reid, even if the point he was making was that he was, in fact, stupid.

Maybe it was stupid, the two of us tangling up in his sheets despite the fact that I hadn’t been cleared for it yet by my doctor. I knew that it was coming soon – probably at my appointment in a couple weeks, actually – so why wait? I knew that Spencer would never hurt me. Even now, his hands were gentle in their insistence, raking over my hip and stopping just short of the place where I really wanted him.  

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful.” He groaned, his hips rocking forward and pressing his erection against my leg.

“Touch me.” I ordered, louder and more forcefully than I intended. I was expecting an argument, but I didn’t get one. In fact, Spencer’s finger had already breached my folds before I even finished talking. Unwilling to let him be the only one to enjoy himself, I reached down to grab his cock.

“Shit.” He hissed, biting down on his lip while he rutted against my hand. “I just want to hold you down and fuck you until you cry.” The restraint was obvious in the fingers slowly sinking into me, his jaw clenched and his eyes barely able to stay open. “But I can’t.”

Through my heavy breaths, I panted out another request. “Tell me more about it.”

He immediately realized why I’d asked, and his fingers began to pump in and out of me faster and with more force, his lips trailing kisses over to my ear. While I tried to keep up the pace of my strokes, it became more complicated when his breath fanned over my ear.

“It’s been so long since I bent you over and had my way with you like I did that morning over your kitchen counter...” He moaned, and I could almost feel the sensations as he remembered them. Although his fingers would never be the same, just having him inside me in any capacity felt like pure bliss.

But he wasn’t done, continuing to speak his thoughts into my ear. “I just want to—fuck, I want to fill you up.” I went to respond, but I choked on a sob, instead. The lewd sounds between us only aided his descriptions.

“God, I love the way you feel. You’re always so wet for me.” He whispered, beginning to make small thrusts with his hips. The movement essentially allowed him to use my hand to stroke himself, and he let out another unsteady moan at the contact. “Think about what it feels like, little girl.”

“I-I am.” I could barely make the words come out; my body too sensitive to his touch after being starved of it for so long. And Spencer was ready to take full advantage of that.

“I still have so much planned for you. Don’t think I’ve forgotten about that little stunt you pulled when you got all riled up.” He growled, using his free hand to grab a fistful of my hair. He yanked my head further to the side, laying sloppy kisses along my jaw. “I told you I’d give you triple the marks you left on me, and I can’t wait to cover you with me.”

“Fuck. Please, Spencer.” I hoarsely begged, my hand on his shoulder tightening so that my nails dug into his skin. If his grip on my hair wasn’t so tight, I would have thrown my head back. Instead, I just squirmed underneath him, crying out, “I’m so close, Spencer, please!”

He did not disappoint, his fingers curling inside of me with each thrust, and by some grace of God, he was able to coordinate his thumb over my clit. As if that wasn’t enough, he pulled back to look me in the eyes.  

“I want to feel you come on my fingers.” It was more of a demand than a desire, as evidenced by the way his hand tugged on my hair. “Come on, little girl. Make daddy proud.”

Just like that, my body responded to his call, my muscles trembling from the tension as my orgasm hit me like a fucking freight train. It was such an overwhelming experience, to remember exactly how Spencer was capable of making me feel.

And he knew it, too. “Oh, good girl,” he cooed, continuing his kisses against my neck and murmuring the words as they came to him. “That’s my pretty little slut.”

After taking my time coming back to earth, I struggled from the overstimulation still burning between my legs. Spencer hadn’t stopped his fingers, which were diligently stroking inside of me while he continued to buck his hips against my hand.

“I want you to finish inside me.” I slurred in my delirium, withdrawing my hand from his dick while he whimpered.

“I-I can’t. I can’t fuck you.” He was asserting a necessary and understandable hard limit, and it was clear I wouldn’t be able to convince him to fuck me that night.

But that wasn’t the plan, anyway.  

“That’s not what I’m talking about.” I said between gasps, struggling against his fingers still inside me. “Come up here.” I whined, rubbing my hands on his shoulders while simultaneously trying to sit myself up.

The movement and the words made him withdraw completely. “(Y/n)...” He warned, running a hand through his hair while he sat up on his knees. “I could hurt you.”

“That’s always been a risk with us, Spencer.” My retort was both quick and persuasive, judging by the way he almost moved, but stopped himself yet again.

“Please. Please, do it. I want you to do it so fucking bad.” There was an obvious and deep desperation. I was literally begging him, to the point that I swore I almost cried. It felt stupid, but I needed him like I’d never needed anything in my life before. He’d spent months taking care of me, and I couldn’t do anything in return.

I just wanted to make him feel good, to give him something like we used to share.

Of course, I think those thoughts were also visible on my face, and they were obviously worrying him. With tender touches, Spencer’s fingers lightly trailed over the side of my face. The brief flashes of clarity alerted him of my struggle, and he let out a shaky breath at the war inside his own mind.  

“I want to feel you inside me, and this is the only way.” I concluded, trying to lead him to the simplest conclusion. It was the safest, easiest way to solve both of our current problems. And although I could see how hard the decision was for him, my pleading eventually bested him.

“Fuck.” He mumbled, leaning forward to grab the headboard, staring down at me as I shimmied further up the wood.

“Fuck!” He repeated, rolling his head back with a light groan when both of my hands reached forward to grab his hips. “Fine. You’re lucky you’re so fucking cute.”

A giggle bubbled through my throat, and my body actually bounced in excitement as he slowly positioned himself in front of me. I wasn’t even sure which I was more excited for, my own orgasm or getting to finally give him one again.

As soon as my mouth closed around the head of his dick, I got my answer. Spencer’s moan filled the room, his hands holding so firmly on the headboard that the entire bed creaked. Although I figured he’d been taking care of himself in my absence, it appeared that wasn’t entirely the case. He seemed just as starved as I was.

“Holy shit.” He groaned, dropping a hand to the top of my head. I had to remind myself that he was drunk, which explained why he seemed so much more responsive than normal, with whimpers and pants flowing steadily through his mouth. He only got louder as he began to slowly push himself further into my mouth, stopping every few inches to retreat before pressing further.

“God, I need to do this more often. No back talk, no whining.” He said in a low tone under his breath, beginning to settle on a steady rhythm.

Meanwhile, I couldn’t think of anything except how fucking good it felt to be useful again, to feel him struggling to hold himself back as he started to more aggressively fuck my mouth. My eyes could barely stay open, but I needed them to. I needed to see him in the dim light of the streetlights that peered through the window.

He looked so beautiful, so perfect, and so mine. Feeling him slide back and forth against my tongue revived memories from long before and reignited my longstanding desire to do anything to please him. In all his caretaking, I was worried he might have forgotten how to control me.

But he hadn't.  Thank god, he hadn’t.

“Come on, little girl. Earn your fill.” He whispered, burying himself in my throat and holding me against the headboard. I only lightly choked on the intrusion before my body complied, swallowing him further until my lips were pressed against the base of him.

Suddenly, Spencer withdrew, beginning a brutal, dizzying pace. Now, my eyes couldn’t stay open, rolling to the back of my head as I used my hands to steady myself against his thighs. The sobs trying to escape felt more like moans, and they shoved Spencer over the edge he’d been riding in his caution.

“That’s it. Take it.” He barked the instruction, looking down at me and smiling, “Don’t you dare spill any of it, do you hear me?”

My answer was stifled against him, just the way he wanted it to be. And with a few more rough thrusts, Spencer buried himself as deep as possible. I swore my heart synchronized with the pulsing against my tongue as his seed spilled down my throat.

I hollowed my cheeks, trying to drain every last drop from him as he finished. It had its desired effect, and Spencer grabbed my hair and forced himself deeper one more time with a growl. “Good girl.”

Once he had enough, he pulled out of me with a satisfied grunt, waiting just a second before clumsily falling onto the bed beside me. I laughed as he hit the pillows, obviously too tired to even reposition himself in the disastrous sheets.

“Thank you, daddy.” I spoke in the silence, gingerly cleaning the spit that had dripped down my chin.

“Fuck.” The curse was muffled in the pillow, but I understood it well enough. He seemed more concerned when I started to sink down into the sheets again, reaching a tentative hand out to him.

Finally rolling over, he grabbed my arm and guided me closer. “Come here.” He said with the tenderness I’d grown used to over the past few months. He turned towards me, apparently not ready for me to sleep on my side just yet.

He brushed my hair from my face, lifting the sheets to look at the now mostly healed wound. I hated it when he looked at it. It just reminded me that I’d never be the same girl he first met. Every time he saw it, he would remember that day. I didn’t want to think about it.

“Are you alright? Are you hurt?”

But even with the insecurity and anger in my gut, I wasn’t lying when I answered. “No, I’m fine.” My heart was so full, my body relaxing for the first time in so long. I was just so unbelievably happy to be together again. Even if it wasn’t like last time, it was still just as wonderful.

“I’m a little better than fine, actually.” I admitted with a bright smile.

Spencer hummed something in thought, but then winced. “Do me a favor.” He mumbled, rubbing his eyes and wiping a heavy hand over his face.

“Anything.”

“Kick my ass in the morning.”

He was caught off guard by my response, which was a full-hearted laugh that was too loud for how close the two of were. But I couldn’t help it, it was just so Spencer to still be punishing himself despite the fact that nothing bad had happened.

Once I calmed down enough to talk, I turned to him with a devilish grin. “I don’t wanna.”

Then were both laughing, and Spencer pulled me close to him until he could rest his chin on the top of my head, curling up against my side. “Spoiled brat.” He whined, running his hand through my hair and down my arm.

When I smelled the whiskey on his breath, the guilt hit me just as hard as any of the pleasure. I'd been so excited to get to experience this with him again, I almost forgot the reason he didn’t want to do it in the first place.

He just didn’t want to hurt me. He just wanted to make me happy.

“I just wanted to be with you again... I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.” I whispered, pulling the covers up so that I could hide my shame beneath them.

“I wanted to be with you, too.” He reassured me, half asleep and barely able to talk but wanting to get the words out. “I know it’s important to you, but I need you to know I would be with you even if I never got to touch you again.”

“Please never stop touching me.” I quickly replied, a genuine worry in my eyes.

But when Spencer glanced over, he just laughed, “I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.”

“No? Even when I get pregnant and have a big ol’ belly?” I playfully answered, bringing his hand to my stomach and pressing it against the side that still remained intact.

The familiar position caused a shift in Spencer’s body language, and suddenly he was even more insistent on being impossibly closer. “You’ll still be irresistible to me.” He said against my hair, running his fingers lightly over the unmarked skin of my lower stomach.

“We’ll see, I guess.” I mumbled, not realizing that I said it aloud until I heard his confused reply.

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing.” The defensiveness in my voice was terrifyingly transparent, and I hoped that if his drinking made him forget anything, it would be this conversation. “Go to sleep, drunk ass.”

“I need hugs and kisses first.” He complained, rubbing his nose against me in a way that should have been irritating instead of adorable.

“Spoiled.” I grumbled, reaching a hand up to play with his hair. I turned to kiss his cheek through the smile that was plastered over my cheeks.

Already half snoring in his sleepy state, he got out one more cringe worthy joke before he succumbed to his exhaustion. “What’s good for the goose...”  

“...is good for the gander.” I finished for him, before taking the advice and following him to sleep.

 —————————————————

| Part 18 |

[faeriesuns]

What's something really embarrassing or nasty you did?

Ok so when I was 15 when I got out of inpatient we moved towns, and none of my "friends" tried to keep a friendship with me even though I was only moving like 30 minutes away?!!!!! so that sucked and made my depression a lot worse.

I ended up at the local highschool going in from 3:30-6:30 pm every day for online classes. To be honest I was in a really bad state. I stopped showering and brushing my hair, even though my hair was one of the things I liked most about myself, it was down to my waist. It started getting matted and I just didn't want to deal with it so I just shoved it in a beanie and then wore that for like 3 or 4 months. I never took it off even at home, and I wasn't showering so it didn't get taken care of until all of my hair was just matted together on my scalp. It was super itchy too so I always scratched it but it never seemed to help so I would scratch until I bled.

It was honestly really gross and it was disgusting and I was so ashamed but I didn't want to tell anyone. I was lonely and never took my meds and around this time my mom started seeing early signs of schizophrenia. I didn't get help though I refused it and I honestly think my mom had no idea how to help.

So after a couple months I just broke down crying and stopped going to classes and showed my mom my hair, she was so repulsed and I was crying a ton. We just had to shave it off. I felt so much better but it only helped a bit.

After this happened came the worst time of my life, for the following 5 years I went practically catatonic and dissociated about the whole time. I wouldn't even leave my room most of the time and there were dirty dishes with mold and bugs in it and...yeah.

I always used to scratch my arms until I bled and then I did it on my head and then after shaving it I started doing worse self harm on my thighs.

And yeah, that got a bit long. Sorry. Tell me to tag something if I forget!

[peaceisadirtyword]

Just a dream (Ivar/Reader)

A/N: Hello💜 I’m back, finally. This should have been posted weeks ago, almost a month ago, but the writer’s block was a bitch this month, and I had to rewrite it three times. I thought I would try and fight that writer’s block with @dreamwritesimagines "Not today, Writer's Block" Writing Challenge. I chose Period prompts #9 and #15.

It’s not my best work, but I'm quite proud of it as it helped to beat the writer’s block. I really hope y’all enjoy it, thank you for reading💖

I mention the Haustblót in here; it’s a pagan ritual celebrated in mid September/the beginning of October (during the autumn equinox) to celebrate the harvests, I read it’s dedicated especially to the Vanir, and also to Odin, but I couldn’t find much about it, so if someone knows more about it please feel free of telling us!♥️

Warnings: a bit of smut, drama, Ivar, lack of communication between characters.

Words: 5433 (too long, I'm really sorry, I hope it’s not too boring)

gif belongs to @fanfic-fanfic-everywhere

"I would love to see what she hides under that dress"

Ivar opened his eyes, narrowing them a bit as the unusual sun that shone on the sky blinded him. 

"Shut up" he clenched his jaw. He wasn't in the mood to listen to his brothers' stupid comments. 

"Come on, Ivar, you are curious too, admit it" Hvitserk chuckled "I know more than one man in Kattegat who wouldn't mind to go into a barn with her..."

"Hvitserk..." Ubbe sighed "Don't..."

"It's my friend you're talking about" Ivar hold himself back to avoid throwing his axe to Hvitserk's head.

"Well, Ivar, I'd like to fuck your friend" his older brother laughed, not taking his anger seriously. 

"Don't talk about Y/N in that way" the youngest Ragnarsson sat, looking to his brother, who was laying down between Ubbe and Sigurd, with his eyes closed and enjoying the warmth of the sunlight on his face. 

"Don't tell me you haven't realize how beautiful she is, Ivar" Hvitserk sighed with a smirk "She's hot, and she knows it, that's why she dresses like that"

Ivar frowned, looking at the beach shore, where you stood with some other girls, giggling and trying to catch some fishes for the upcoming feast that would take place in a few days. You were wearing a simple dress... Yes, it had a bit of cleavage, and it hugged your curves and the color made your eyes stand out but... 

"What do you mean? She dresses normally, like the rest of the girls"

Hvitserk and Sigurd laughed, and even Ubbe smiled softly, shaking his head. 

"Come on, leave him alone"

"Is she your friend though?" Sigurd smirked "As far as I know, she hasn't even talked to you in days"

Ivar glared at him, even though he knew he was right, he didn't understand. 

Ivar and you had been best friends since you were children, and you were the only person apart from his mother and his brothers that was always there, since you started playing with him when the other kids preferred to ignore his presence. You had been there when the pain didn't let him sleep or even rest, when his father left and when he fought his brothers and felt more lonely than ever. No one could conceive Ivar without you by his side. You were one of the most important persons in his life, though he wouldn't ever tell you that. 

So when you started avoiding him, he was confused and hurt. 

He might have said something, or done something... You had too much patience with him, but sometimes he'd get on your nerves and you'd fight, though it didn't last more than a day. 

But you had been ignoring him for a week. 

An entire week in which you didn't even step on the Hall, or went with him and his brothers to train... You even said no when he approached you to ask you to go with him to Floki and Helga's. 

And whenever you saw him, you'd turn around and leave, muttering some awful excuse that no one believed. 

And Ivar, though he was angry and wanted nothing more than scream at you, missed you more than he could imagine. 

"I don't know what's gotten into her" he muttered biting his lip and frowning again. 

"Did you have a fight?" Ubbe asked softly, knowing he was having a hard time.

"No" he shrugged "Everything was fine, and then the next day she... She just started to act weird"

Sigurd snickered, and Ivar tried his best to ignore him. 

"Maybe you should talk to her" Ubbe sighed "She might be bothered by something you said"

"Or maybe she just found someone else, someone better" Sigurd raised his eyebrow "You can't blame her, honestly"

Ivar glared at him again, while Sigurd closed his eyes again, smirking in victory. Ubbe rolled his eyes just before getting up to take Ivar's knives to prevent a tragedy. 

__________________________________________________

Ivar was used to everyone staring at him when he crawled through the mud and dirt around the town. Some looked at him with pity, others smirked and mocked him, most of them just ignored his presence. 

He didn't even pay attention to them, especially when he was too busy going after you. 

You knew he was following you, you knew he would since you stepped on the Hall for the first time in days to start preparing the upcoming feast for the Haustblót, but you decided to ignore it. You hoped he'd get bored or tired soon and leave you alone... You weren't capable of facing him just yet...

You heard him calling your name, at first angry and inpatient, but then his voice broke a bit, and he called you for the last time. It made you stop immediately. 

You couldn't see or even hear Ivar cry. Since you started befriending him, when both of you were children, your heard would break whenever he cried in pain or when any other child would make him sad by being rude to him. You still remembered the scold and the punishment you had to endure when you broke a boy's arm for laughing at Ivar and making him cry. 

Breathing deeply, you gripped the recipient with salted meat and food that you had to bring to the kitchens and turned around to look at Ivar. 

He looked surprised to see you looking at him, and he crawled faster to get to you sooner, with a relieved expression on his face. 

"Ivar, I'm busy" you muttered, biting your lip and trying your best not to blush.

"Why are you avoiding me?" He asked directly, frowning when you didn't kneel next to him to talk. You always kneeled on the floor or sat down to talk to him whenever he had to crawl, so he could look at you in the face while speaking. It was something that warmed his heart, but he wasn't going to admit that either. 

Looking around, you sighed and shook your head.

"Ivar, I need to take these to the kitchens" you smiled softly at him "I can't talk now, I'm sorry"

"You didn't answer my question" he clenched his jaw "Why are you acting so weird?" 

"I've been busy these days" you shrugged, and your heart broke a bit when he narrowed his eyes, confused and hurt "Helping your mother and Helga to prepare the feast, we didn't have a minute free"

"You're lying" he scoffed "You're a really bad liar" 

Sighing again, you rubbed your eyes with your free hand. 

"I can't talk now, Ivar, I have to give this to the slaves in the kitchens so they can prepare it for the feast, I'm busy" you pressed your lips together "We'll talk on Haustblót, okay?"

Before he could say something else, you turned around and walked quickly to the kitchens, leaving Ivar even more angry and confused. Gods, you felt the worst person in Midgard. 

____________________________________________________

The dress Aslaug gifted you as a thank you for helping her to prepare the feast was red. It was beautiful and looked really expensive, with golden embroidery at the front part. The material was soft and it hugged your body in a way that made your curves stand out. You braided your hair carefully and delineated your eyes with kohl, smiling widely when you looked at the mirror. You had never considered yourself ugly, but you never had time to treat yourself and dress up, and you felt amazing when you did it. 

It looked like everyone was there already when you left your small house and arrived at the Hall. There was people already eating and drinking, and the musicians had started to play. 

Quickly, Helga came to you to kiss your cheek and tell you how beautiful you were, and just behind her, came Floki, who raised his eyebrow when he saw you. 

"Freyja would be jealous, Y/N" he giggled "Be careful, little one"

After a wink and a hug, he let you go to your seat. You usually sat next to Ivar, but though there was a free seat next to him, your eyes were fixed on the one next to Ubbe. 

To sit next to Hvitserk when he was drinking wasn't a good idea. You two were friends, but you had noticed him looking at you with his hungry stare, as the girls in Kattegat called it, and had made a couple of comments that made you think he might be interested in you. And sitting next to Sigurd meant that he'd abandon you as soon as he was finished eating to go and play some music. 

Yeah, Ubbe is the best option. 

Ivar had been watching you since you stepped into the hall. He was waiting for you to arrive so he could confront you, but his plans were forgotten as soon as he saw you. 

Red was his favorite color, and it made you look so beautiful... He felt something tightening in his chest and gulped loudly as you smiled widely to greet Helga and Floki. He was so busy looking at you that he didn't even realized his mother was talking to him, and Ubbe had to throw a chicken bone to him so he could get out of his trance. 

"Close that mouth, little brother" Ubbe chuckled. Ivar glared at him as Sigurd and Hvitserk laughed. Aslaug hid her small smile behind her cup as she drank some mead. 

Before Ivar had the chance to throw some insults on Ubbe's way, you approached the table. 

He was waiting for you to sit down next to him and hug him with a smile, as you always did. But you didn't even look at him, sitting next to Ubbe and greeting his brothers and his mother with a smile. After you thanked Aslaug for the dress again, you turned to look at him, blushing a bit and visibly uncomfortable.

"Hello, Ivar" 

He frowned, and didn't say anything as you started eating, laughing softly at Hvitserk's jokes.

___________________________________________________

Every minute that passed, Ivar was more angry. He watched you as you talked with people, danced with some of the girls and drank until your cheeks were reddened and you giggled at everything. 

Aslaug had tried to catch Ivar's attention, and failed. Even Floki was ignored as he tried to talk to him.

You could feel Ivar's eyes on you the whole night, and even if you tried to act like you didn't realize he was watching you, you couldn't help but feel guilty. 

You really wanted to talk to him. To explain everything to him but... How could you? How could you look at his gorgeous blue eyes and tell him...? No, no, I can't.  

Sighing, you excused yourself from the conversation some of the girls were having about the last training you had done together and how you were getting better with the bow thanks to Ivar's help. 

You had to get out of that hall. 

Outside there was only some guards (already drunk) and some couples that apparently couldn't really wait until they got home to have sex. 

Anyway, it was better than being inside, surrounded by people speaking really loud and men trying to get you to dance so they could touch you without risking to lose a hand. 

"I shouldn't have drank that last cup" you muttered, feeling your head too light as you sat down on some empty wooden boxes, far enough from the feast to relieve your headache. 

"You shouldn't drink, Y/N, you know you always end up sick"

Ubbe's voice startled you. You turned around to see him coming from the hall.

"You scared me" you frowned.

"Sorry" Ubbe shrugged "Just wanted to talk"

You sighed, rubbing your eyes. You knew that avoiding Ivar and ignoring him would end up with one of his brothers (probably Ubbe) asking you nicely what was wrong with you before you suffered Ivar's rage. 

But, honestly, you weren't ready for that conversation. And especially not with that headache. 

"Talk" you rubbed your face shrugging. He was going to talk whether you liked it or not.

"Ivar is going through some bad days" he started, sitting down next to you with that sweet tone he used whenever he had to scold you "He doesn't understand why you're avoiding him"

"Directly to the point, huh?" You smiled softly. It was sweet how Ubbe cared about Ivar "I'm not avoiding him"

"Yes you are" he raised an eyebrow.

"Okay, maybe I am" you bit your lip "I have a good reason, though" 

Ubbe just stared at you. 

"I can't tell you" you groaned "I can't tell anyone" 

"Why? Ivar is your friend, isn't he? Why don't you tell him?" 

"I can't, Ubbe" you repeated, blushing. 

He frowned, with his light blue eyes shining in the moonlight and fixed on yours. 

"You wouldn't understand" you whined, groaning as you covered your face with your arms. 

If you hadn't drank that much, and if you had been paying more attention, you'd have heard someone crawling near you, hidden from your sight and trying to get as close to you as he could. 

"Maybe Ivar will understand" Ubbe raised an eyebrow "You both have a... Strange bond, don't you? You can understand each other perfectly"

"No, he won't, either" you muttered "No man could understand me, Ubbe"

"Are you pregnant?" A confused Ubbe frowned, and Ivar panicked a bit just before he heard your chuckle. 

"I'm not pregnant" you sighed once again. It was useless to try and make a man understand what was really happening. 

You were silent for a few minutes. Ivar could feel how confused, stressed and sad you were, and he hated you for not trusting him enough to tell him what was wrong and himself for not being able to help you. 

"I don't think..." You spoke again, startling Ubbe -and Ivar- "I don't think I can be friends with Ivar anymore"

Ubbe blinked a few times, and his little brother clenched his jaw, getting even more angry when he felt an ache in his throat, and hot tears burning his eyes. He should have seen that coming. 

"What?" Ubbe chuckled nervously. He couldn't let you abandon Ivar so easily, you were the one who keep him... Stabilized. He loved you with all his heart... How could you say that?

"I'm sorry" you bit your lip, trying your best to hold back the tears that threatened to fall down your cheeks "I'm so sorry, Ubbe, I care deeply for him but... I just can't"

She's ashamed of you. Of course she is, who would be proud of being friends with the cripple? You're not a man, you're not a viking, you will be alone for the rest of your life because no one will ever love you. 

"Y/N, please, just go and talk to him" Ubbe didn't want to be angry at you, as you were a free woman able to take her own decisions, but he felt the need to protect his brother. Even if it was from you "Whatever it is what's happening I'm sure he can help you, we're the sons of Ragnar, we can help you"

"No, you can't" you wanted to yell, but preferred not to draw any attention "Please, Ubbe, just... Forget about this, okay?"

You stood up and left, entering the Hall again to try and run from Ubbe. If you had looked around, maybe you'd seen someone sitting on the floor, with his eyes full of rage and some tears rolling down his face. 

_______________________________________________

To say that you felt like the worst person in the world would be an understatement. 

You couldn't find Ivar. He had disappeared from the Hall, something weird as all of his brothers and his mother were still in there. After thinking for a while and realizing you couldn't keep acting like nothing was happening and lose your best friend wasn't a good solution. No, you had to confront him, to tell him what was going on. 

But, you couldn't find him. 

Neither Floki or Helga knew where was he, and Ubbe and Hvitserk were busy with a few thralls. Sigurd had been playing his oud for the whole evening. So you had to go to Aslaug. 

She was sipping on her mead sitting on her throne, with that solemn look on her face that intimidated you. And she smiled when you approached her. 

"He's in his chambers" she spoke before you could say anything "Please, Y/N, don't break my son's heart"

Biting your lip -were you that obvious while looking for him?- you just nodded. Aslaug was, after all, a völva, and you shouldn't be surprised that she knew everything.

Usually, you never knocked at Ivar's door. You just opened the door and entered, annoying him. He used to yell at you, and he threw a shoe at you once. You always laughed at that. He was cute when he got angry at you. 

But this time you knocked, softly and partly wishing he wouldn't answer and you could leave. 

Ivar grunted something like leave me alone, and though you would love to do that, you took a deep breath and opened the door. 

He looked taken aback to see you entering his room. He was sitting on his bed, looking at the fire that crackled in the small hearth. His hands were trying to undo the binding on his legs and he had reddened eyes. 

"Hi" you smiled, looking away from him and clearing your throat.

"What are you doing here?" He spat, glaring at you. You blinked in surprise, though you expected him to be mad at you. 

"I came to talk to you..."

"I thought you were busy" he rolled his eyes. 

"I was busy" you tried to smile again, walking over to sit beside him. When you tried to touch his arm softly, he just moved away, clenching his jaw. 

"Don't lie to me, you just didn't want to be seen with the cripple anymore, huh? You made that clear"

"What?" You frowned, confused "Ivar, what are you talking about? I was helping your mother and Helga..."

"I suppose it's completely fine now that we're alone, now you can talk to me without being ashamed of the stupid cripple" 

"Ivar, stop saying that!" You scoffed "What's wrong with you?"

"What's wrong with me? What's wrong with you!?" He didn't stop glaring at you, narrowing his eyes. You were sure that if he had had his axe near him, you'd be dead by then "I heard you talking to Ubbe" his voice broke a bit and you raised your eyebrows "If you didn't want to be my friend, you could have told me that instead of avoiding me and making me look like a fool pursuing you around Kattegat" 

"Okay, first of all, that was a private conversation, Ivar" you sighed "And I didn't say I didn't want to be your friend, I just said that I can't be your friend anymore"

"Is someone threatening you?" He scoffed.

"No, but..."

"Then why? Just tell me the truth, Y/N, I'm not stupid"

"I can't tell you, Ivar!" You rubbed your eyes "I'm sorry, you wouldn't understand..."

"I can understand everything perfectly, like I can understand that you don't want to be my friend because you're ashamed of me, it's fine, you're not the only one, I'm used to it" 

"It's not that" you felt like you were going to start crying at any moment "How can you think that of me? I would never do that" 

"Then why?" He finally whined, though he was holding back the tears as much as he could.

To hear him so hurt, thinking those things about himself, broke your heart. You had heard the things people said to Ivar, how they looked at him and how they pitied him, thinking he would never have the same chances as his brothers, that he was weak and pathetic. 

To know that you were now the one who made him feel like that... That broke you completely. 

"I had a dream..." You started, mumbling as you bit your lip nervously "About you"

Ivar blinked, the anger that filled his eyes disappeared, leaving in its place pure confusion. 

"What?" He frowned "You dreamed of me? What kind of excuse is that?" 

"It's not an excuse!" You sighed. Men just didn't get it, did they? 

"You're telling me you can't be my friend because you dreamed with me! Are you hearing yourself?" He scoffed.

"I'm telling you I can't be your friend because of what happened in that dream!"

"Are you a völva?" Ivar tilted his head "What happened in that dream?"

"I'm not a völva" you rolled your eyes "What happened won't happen in real life"

"How can you be so sure?" Ivar shrugged "What happened to me? Did I die?" He asked, widening his eyes with curiosity.

"No" you looked away, blushing "You didn't"

"Then what?" He was starting to lose his patience "Why won't you tell me? Don't you trust me?" 

"I trust you, Ivar" you sighed "I'd trust you with my life, but this... This is delicate"

"Just tell me" he rolled his eyes "So we can forget about it and keep on with our lives"

Your eyes fixed on his. How could you tell him you dreamed that you had sex with him a few weeks ago, and that the dream had been repeating every night, forcing you to finally accept what you preferred to ignore; that you were in love with Ivar. 

You were going to ruin your friendship. But you couldn't say no to him when he looked at you like that. 

"I dreamed I slept with you" you blurted before you could think twice about it. 

Then you mentally slapped yourself. 

If Ivar had been confused before, now he was completely lost. 

"Slept with me like..." He cleared his throat, hoping the dim light of the room would hide his blush "Like... That?"

"Yes" your face was so red you were afraid it would explode "Like that"

He stayed silent, his bright eyes fixed on the fire again. It was the most embarrassing moment of your life, and the rejection you felt was making you tear up a bit. 

"Why didn't you tell me from the beginning?"

Now you were the one blinking in confusion.

"Because I know you don't like me that way, and I didn't want to ruin everything"

"You don't know that" he frowned "My legs might not work, Y/N, but my eyes are completely fine, I'm not blind" he blushed, and kept talking much lower and trying to hide his blush "I can see you're a beautiful woman, like the rest of the men in Kattegat"

"Thank you" you smiled softly "But it's fine, Ivar, I know you don't like me like that, I won't cry or anything" you chuckled nervously, though you weren't sure you could hold the tears back much more.

"Shut up" he blushed even more "I'm trying to tell you that I like you in that way, but you're stupid and don't get it"

This time you turned your head to look at him, a wide smile on your lips. You didn't even care that he just called you stupid. 

"Are you serious?" 

"Yes" he shrugged, and though he kept looking away from you, you moved to hug him, closing your eyes and breathing deeply while leaning your forehead into his neck. 

"I'm sorry for not telling you before, and I'm sorry I avoided you, but I was afraid I'd ruin everything" you muttered. Ivar was still blushing and annoyed, though he put his arms around your waist and pushed you into his lap, leaning his head on yours. 

"Next time just tell me" he scoffed. 

You nodded with a smile, getting away from him so you could look at him in the face. 

He was without doubt the most beautiful man you had ever seen. His big blue eyes, his pouty lips... 

"Can I kiss you?" You asked, your voice was so low that Ivar thought he had imagined it. 

He was taken aback. Never in a million years he would've imagine you'd ask him that question. 

Ivar nodded slowly, his eyes widening and his heartbeat fastening when he realized you were getting closer.

To kiss Ivar should've felt wrong, as if you were kissing your brother. Ivar had been the closest thing to a brother you ever had, but you stopped seeing him in that way a while ago. 

It felt... Good. Amazing. Better than you could ever imagine. Much better than all those boys that had stolen kisses from you and all those lovers you had. His lips were soft and warm, and tasted like the mead he had been drinking the whole night and the honey that accompanied the meat he had eaten. 

You moaned into the kiss, as Ivar gripped your waist to drag you even closer to him. His fingertips caressed your waist and your back over the soft silk of the dress, while he bit your lower lip softly. It wasn't his first kiss, but he knew you had more experience than him. And to think about all those men that had been in his place before to give you that experience made his blood boil. 

"What did I do?" He broke the kiss, his lips still touching yours.

"What?" You mumbled, your eyelids heavy and your breathing accelerated.

"In your dream, what did I do to you?" 

Blinking, you blushed again. You wouldn't be able to tell him all of that out loud without dying in embarrassment. 

"Why do you ask?" 

"I want to do it again" he kissed you "This time in real life, but I need you to tell me what did I do, and to... Guide me" he frowned, pressing his lips together, ashamed of not being experienced enough to pleasure you by himself. 

You smiled, cupping his cheek between your hands. 

"I took my clothes off" you leaned into his ear to whisper.

Ivar groaned, and his fingers sank on the fabric of your dress.

"Do it, then" he whispered back, freeing you so you could get up and take your dress off "Take your clothes off... For me"

You could never forger Ivar's expression when the dress fell at your feet, leaving you completely naked and exposed. Just when you were going to cover yourself with your hands, he caught your wrists. 

His face was a mix of adoration and shame. His eyes were wide, taking in every single inch of your naked body at the light of the fire. 

"You're beautiful" he muttered "The Gods must have sent you to me as a gift" Ivar smiled "The most beautiful gift they could ever give me"

You kept blushing deeper and deeper, unable of looking at him. Any of the men you had been with had even made you feel like that. So beautiful and desired. Any of them had been able to make you so wet with a kiss and a few, innocent touches. 

"You have to take your clothes off too" you said softly. 

He nodded, and moved to take off his shirt without taking his eyes off your body. You gasped when you finally saw his naked torso, strong and soft at the same time. You had seen Ivar shirtless many times, but never had the chance to stare. Now you could. 

Your fingertips caressed his strong shoulders, and Ivar took that as permission to grab your waist again and push you into his lap, groaning when he felt your wetness through his trousers. 

"Not the trousers" he muttered "Not today"

You nodded with a smile. 

"When you're ready" 

Another kiss. This time he managed to turn you around. The expensive furs against your naked skin felt softer than ever, and his bed was surprisingly much more comfortable with his body over yours. Ivar's hands caressed your body while he kissed you deeply, he only broke the kiss to ask you again.

"What else did I do?" 

You blushed, biting your swollen lip while opening your eyes. 

"You kissed me"

"Where?"

"Everywhere" you muttered, ashamed "Especially..." Your eyes moved to the wet place between your legs, in which Ivar's hips rested. 

He followed your eyes, blinking nervously as he understood what you meant. He had seen Hvitserk doing that to slave girls in the forest, and in the barn, and sometimes even in the middle of the Hall. They seemed to really enjoy it. 

He wanted you to enjoy it too. 

"I need you to guide me" he muttered "I've never"

"I will" you kissed his lips again "Don't worry"

Ivar nodded, kissing your cheek lovingly before burying his face into your neck to kiss, lick and bite your soft skin. 

His lips felt like fire on your already hot body. He kissed your neck, collarbone, the valley between your breasts, your nipples and your belly. He tickled you and made you giggle and moan, moving on the bed and biting your lip in delight. 

You sensed his hesitation when he finally reached your sex, though he tried to hide it kissing your thighs softly. Your hand reached down to press down on your clit, hissing and moaning softly. 

Ivar looked at your hand intensely, his mouth widening in awe when he heard your little moans. 

"There's a spot in there" you muttered, gasping when you felt his breath so close to your dripping sex "If you press down on it... It feels really good" 

"Here?" Ivar pushed your hand away, his fingers pressed your clit too roughly, making you gasp and move your hips away from him. 

"Gently, Ivar" you chuckled "It's a sensitive zone"

"Sorry" he frowned. The blush on his cheeks and the look of concentration made him look absolutely adorable. You smiled as your fingers tangled on his soft hair, Ivar grunted and touched you again, this time pressing down softly, drawing out a moan from you. 

Ivar liked that. He moved his fingers again, rubbing your clit and with his eyes fixed on your face. 

"And I kissed you in here?" 

You nodded, not able to even speak at the sight of his head between your legs and his fingers pressing on your clit. 

You closed your eyes with a smile on your face, biting your lip a bit ashamed of your needy moans. 

Though you lost it completely when Ivar pressed his lips to your clit, making you moan loudly and tense up, your hips moving against his face as he worked his lips and tongue, learning from your reactions. He remembered something his brothers said once, and his fingers moved to caress your folds quite confidently. 

He was a fast learner. 

You moaned his name for the first time when he pressed his fingers to your entrance, pushing one of them inside you. 

"Ivar" you moaned, breathless "Gods..."

"Yes?" He stopped his actions to look at you again. 

"Please, don't stop" you whimpered. 

Ivar complied, pushing a second finger inside you and moving them slowly while his mouth worked on your clit. He couldn't get enough of your moans, and all those little sounds you made. He liked it when it sounded like his name, when you tried to call his name out but your voice drowned as he curled his fingers inside you, his sapphire eyes never leaving your face. 

You couldn't remember when was the last time a man made you cum with his fingers and his mouth; your legs were shaking around his head and your hand pulled his hair desperately as you moaned his name loudly. Ivar grunted against your sex, taking his fingers out to lick them as you recovered a bit, gasping and squirming under him. 

"I want you to do that again" he muttered.

"Yes but not now I need to..." His tongue started caressing your sex, making you gasp and instinctively moving your hips away from him... Or at least, trying to, as he used his free arm to hold your hips down 

"Ivar!" You yelped "It's too soon, I can't..." You moaned, nearly screaming when he pushed his fingers into your entrance again. 

Now you were more than sure, Ivar was the only man in your life that made you cum twice with only his fingers and mouth and made your dreams come true at the same time.

__________________________________________________

Tags:   @mblaqgi @alicedopey @lol-haha-joke @hallowed-heathen @naaladareia @tephi101 @captstefanbrandt @love-hate-love @titty-teetee @readsalot73 @moondustmemories @thevikingsheaux @therealcalicali @chimera4plums @blushingskywalker @awkwardfangirl02 @gruffle1 @justacripple @heartbeats-wildly @letsrunawaytotomorrow @inforapound  @sallydelys @hellogabysblog @trashcanx @winchesterwife27 @hecohansen31 @youbloodymadgenius @xinyourdreamsx @funmadnessandbadassvikings @dreamwritesimagines

I hope I didn’t forget anyone! Thank you for reading😘

[mx-shigaraki]

Wires - Angst

Bakugou x Kaminari (Bakukami)

Warnings : Character death! Blood! Hospitals! Cursing! Angst!

"Babe. Wait, please. I am on my way. Dont attack yet, Denki there is 8 people their and one of you. Please wait backup is on the way." Bakugou pleaded from the other side of the phone, Denki was home from Bakugous house, it was darkish and nobody was walking around the sketchy neighbourhood. But somehow Denki had found himself cornered in an alleyway, a bunch of grown nasty ass men. And when Bakugou got no reply he knew one of two things had happened, two things that could ruin his life.  His entire exsistance could end jsut like this, Kaminari was this important to him. 

"Kaminari?!" Bakugou yelled into the phone again, searching for an answer.  Anything at all from his knock off pikachu. But he recieved nothing but a quiet echoed 'whey.' Now Kaminari was defenceless, all by himself. Stuck in the alley way, cold and alone. "Babe!" He screeched loudly into the phone. But by then he managed to make it, he saw all the men on the ground and a short-circuited Denki. But it looked worse then normal, he was completely unresponsive and he had blood coming from his mouth as well as his nose and he seemed to be swaying side to side. A bunch of pros had arrived aswell as an ambulance, which Kaminari was immediately put inside of. The doctors looked terrified and that just made Katsuki more nervous than he already was. Way more nervous. He couldn't keep still but they could pry him or persuade him out of the ambulance and away from his boyfriend. So they let him stay. Not that they had much choice with Bakugou, if he wanted something, he was gonna get his own way. 

It was a race against time, trying to make it to the hospital before Kaminari passed out. Bakugou talking to his boyfriend in order to try keep him awake. Him passing out now could cause a lot of trouble, and health problems. "Come on babe, stay with me here." Bakugou sighed. Tapping his foot, whether it was inpatients or he simple was nervous. What if this was the end of Kami? What if he never got to take him to Disneyland? Wh at if he never managed to ask Denki to marry him? Why did this have to happen to Kaminari? The perfect electric boy, who has been the only one to be able to successfully capture the heart of the angry blonde. It hurt him, a lot, to see him in this state. But he was gonna have to hope that everything will turn out to be just fine in the end.

The minute they got to the hospital he was rushed to the emergency room. This time Katsuki was forced by many doctors and nurses to stay behind. Bakugou was forced to sit and wait in the silent waiting room, the horrible smell of blood and vomit mixed with gross cleaning supplies over-whelmed his senses. He was tapping his photo as he held his head in his hands. A couple tears rolling down his face. The Katsuki Bakugou was sat on an uncomfortable hospital chair, crying. What if Kaminari walked out of the hospital alive but with no memory? What if Kaminari couldn't even walk out of the hospital? Oh god... he could feel his chest tightening, more and more tears falling, "Sir?" He heard a voice call out, a sweet voice. A nurse had noticed him, something seemed off. Bakugou was shaking. What if he would never be the same? What if he forgot who Bakugou was completely? And fell for someone else! 

"P-Please leave me alone..." Bakugou whimpered, practically begging her to go. He didn't wanna speak to anyone right now. He was trying to keep himself grounded and calm. But it wasn't working, at all. He just kept thinking of all the bad outcomes of this situation. "Sir... take a deep breath, breathe with me. In and out." The nurse instructed. Unsure of what he was going through, she just knew he was having an anxiety attack. So something was really really fucking with his nerves. His brain was travelling a million miles an hour. He couldn't hear her voice, only the dull ringing in his hear and the thumping of his heart. He felt so weak and vulnerable. But could you blame him? His boyfriend is in hospital after all. And he had no clue what was going on after he was rushed into an emergency room. Just the word emergency made this so much worst for Katsuki. It was stressing him out. And you could see that. The lady kept helping him, it took around 15 minutes for him to calm down. But he managed to calm down and he got a free water out of it? So that's a good thing? Maybe. But that didn't stop him staring at the door that would lead him to Denki, Denki will walk out of that door, perfectly fine. He had confidence that his little electric hero would be just fine, right? He just needed one thought to put all of his hope onto, he need some form of reassurance that he would be ok.

Hours went past, doctors have walked in and out of that room so many times Bakugou lost count. And finally, Bakugou could hear some news, hopefully some good news. All his hoping and praying (although he isn't religious) did something. And he wouldn't be disappointed. Or heartbroken, or damaged, or lost and destroyed. "Mr Kaminari is alive, but his body systems are still not functioning well, the only ones functioning well is his drinking and his eating wasn't too bad, although everything her will eat needs to be cut up into small bits. His reactions are rather slow. He is having trouble breathing, he will be released from the hospital in a week, he needs one week of our care before he goes home. He needs to take it very easy, potentially stay in bed. He will need to take all of his medication. Which he can collect when he gets released." A doctor spoke to Bakugou in a monotone voice, yet he showed a hint of sympathy. "He will also suffer with migraines." He added. "You may see him now." That was all Bakugou need to hear.

Bakugou had entered without hesitation and saw his baby connected up to a load of machines, he was relieved yet upset at the same time,  he was relieved Kaminari was ok... then he heard it, his heart monitor going off, beeo beep beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep- Bakugou began to panic, "Baby!? Baby please, they said you were gonna be ok!" The doctors rushed back in, Bakugou was kicked out. "Denki please... please be ok... they said you were going to be ok... I was gonna take great care of you-" Bakugou soon broke down into a fit of sobs and whimpers. Broken promises sent to Kaminari. "Please say this was just a false alarm, please please please be a false alarm." Bakugou begged repeatedly over and over, he still hasn't heard no heartbeat. Only disappointed sighs from doctors. "no no no no b-baby... babe please... darling-" Bakugou groaned. Then he began to hear the faint little beeps, was he still here? 

"S-Sir? We are so sorry for your loss. Denki Kaminari fried his brain so bad he had shut down his body systems , and all his insides. Including his brain." Katsuki felt like someone had ripped his heart out and just crushed it. He couldn't really be gone? This is a dream. Its a dream. Katuski let out a loud scream...

"Babe are you ok?" 

"Y-Yeah... just go back to sleep. Dunce." 

[c-e-l-e-x-a]

Antipsychotic Drug Treatment

Hello everyone! I know I haven’t posted on this blog in a bit, but i needed to talk about how my treatment for schizophrenia has impacted my life. This is not meant to scare you or to substitute for actual medical advice, but it is meant to educate folks about an experience I am not alone in having. The rest is under a read more because it may get long.

I have been psychotic for most of my life. I remember having hallucinations as young as 5 years old but it was always brushed off as me having a good imagination. These hallucinations weren’t harmful or distressing, but that would soon change. When I was 8, I experienced some trauma that essentially made my psychosis get worse. I started to have delusions that were really distressing and I didn’t know what to do. I hid these symptoms for a long time because I was afraid. When I was 12, I had my first psychotic break. I was actively hallucinating most of the day, every day and I was convinced that what I was seeing and hearing and feeling was real. I was only in the 6th grade. I was so scared of what was happening to me that I told my parents and they were really concerned. I was sleeping on their floor every night and I had to have the lights on. This is also the age where my other mental health issues worsened. At this point, my parents wanted to get me help but I refused. I would not speak to a therapist or anyone else because I was afraid of being hospitalized. That was the worst thing that could ever happen to me in my mind at the time. The psychosis continued to ruin my life. I was cutting myself and having suicidal thoughts everyday. In 8th grade, I finally tried to kill myself. I was 13. I had told my friends what happened and they reported me to the guidance counselor, who called 211 and a crisis counselor came to the school to evaluate me. I lied about pretty much everything because I was scared, but she mandated that I seek counseling anyway. I started seeing a therapist and she recommended that I be evaluated by a psychiatrist. The psychiatrist wanted to medicate me for my depressive symptoms, but my parents did not allow it. They said I was too young to be on that type of medication. About a year later, I stopped getting counseling. But my symptoms were still present. When I was 15, I went back to counseling and this time my parents agreed that I needed to be medicated. I started off with antidepressants of all sorts- nothing helped. Actually, they often made me feel worse. Then I disclosed my psychotic symptoms and issues sleeping and I was put on Seroquel. Only 25mg at the time, but in the next few years that dose would increase to 300mg (which is still low for some people).This medication helped with the psychosis, but it didn’t ever go away. It also made me gain a significant amount of weight and as my dose increased, my cognitive abilities decreased. I was a good student but I quickly found it difficult to read and comprehend written words. I also couldn’t remember anything no matter how hard I tried. It wasn’t just school either, I was forgetting to do things at home too. I would consistently forget to do something my parents asked me to do if I waited more than 5 minutes to do it. I also couldn’t keep track of what time or day it was. Then, I had another psychotic break (even though I was taking my medication) and I ended up being hospitalized. This pattern repeated many times. In the next few years, I would be hospitalized for psychiatric reasons 6 times. When I was 20, I finally was able to come off of the Seroquel. I was inpatient at the time and I told the doctor that I could not keep taking it because it was not helping enough and I was having such severe side effects. I tried a few more antipsychotics, but the only one that worked was Vraylar. I maxed the dose on that pretty quickly but I was still experiencing psychosis daily. The cognitive symptoms that were brought on by the Seroquel never faded. I am now on ADHD medication to help with focus and memory but even that isn’t enough. I am so impaired that my grades in high school and now in college suffer. Even with accommodations, I am unable to learn in the same way my peers can learn. I cannot take my own notes in class, I can’t remember deadlines and material for exams. So far I have only had one professor that was willing to alter tests to make them more manageable for me. Multiple choice and true/false is the only format I can really do without great difficulty. Unfortunately, most of my exams are essay, short answer, or fill in the blank. I struggle to complete work because of the impact that my antipsychotic treatment has had on my brain. When my psychiatrist gives me tests to see how I am doing cognitively, I do not perform well. I can’t sort things into groups that make sense, I can’t spell words backwards (or forwards), I can’t  summarize a text. I just can’t do it without assistance. I have to use a screenreader to access reading material for school and I have totally abandoned the idea of reading for pleasure. I even have trouble writing and that is something I have loved since I was little. I am not confident that I will be able to obtain a college degree and get a job in the field I desire. My schizophrenia treatment has harmed me more than it has helped me. It has also harmed my friends and family because they had to see me suffer through these side effects for years. They had to watch me go from a super involved person to someone who isolates because I just can’t function in a neurotypical way. I have trouble getting dressed, taking a shower, feeding my dog- if I can’t do those things, how can I do anything else? And I was never once warned that these antipsychotic drugs could mess with me in such a significant and permanent way. I had to do my own research and bring it to my doctor who agreed that it was a possibility. I don’t think it is a possibility, I know it is a fact. I have suffered serious side effects that will probably never go away all because I wasn’t told it could happen to me and no one believed me when I said what was going on. Again, this isn;t to scare anyone, it is just to tell my story in hopes that you will research medication before taking it. Psychiatric medication can 100%m help and improve symptoms, but for some it comes at a cost. You have to be the one to decide if that cost is worth it for you. Be safe.

[this-mad-world]

Sometimes staying alive is worth it.

“Please… please let 2019 be better.”

As I retreated to my bed in the psych ward, I released these words into the universe while trying to ignore the hollow feeling in my chest: that 2019 wouldn’t be any different than 2013, or 2014, or years 15, 16, 17, and 18. Over half a decade of being trapped in what seemed like an endless relapse resulted in me losing my beloved job as a mental health technician, bouncing from hospital to hospital seeking the best inpatient programs, visiting the ER dozens of times for self inflicted injuries and suicide attempts, and undergoing multiple series of bilateral ECT. 

When 2018 shifted into 2019, I didn’t stay up to watch the ball drop on the Plexiglas-enclosed television in the unit dayroom. My meds knocked me out. But after dinner, I’d stood at the end of the hall and watched some fireworks through the shatterproof window. Little red pops of light had fizzled over the distant buildings, and I’d briefly wondered if it was okay to wish on fireworks instead of stars.

I rang in the new year by waking up at 7:30 to a tech taking my vital signs. The sunrise was a pale wash of orange and blue beyond the handmade Christmas cards I’d lined up on my windowsill instead of mailing to my friends. January 1st, 2019 was business as usual in the psych ward, opening with a bland breakfast, morning med pass, and community meeting. I can’t recall making any kind of profound resolutions. I just remember weakly hoping for a positive change. Nine days later, I was discharged. Eleven days after that, I relapsed and went inpatient again, at a different facility closer to home. And it changed everything.

It was so validating to learn that the doctor who had literally traumatized me during my previous visit to that hospital had a known habit of misconduct and was forced to resign as a result. Even better, I finally received the right diagnosis (bipolar disorder), and with it, the right medication. It didn’t work right away. In fact, I came so close to another admission. But I finally gained the mental clarity I needed to see that things weren’t going to improve if I stayed in the relationship I was in, so I did something completely, terrifyingly out of my comfort zone: gave up everything, left my old life behind, and moved to Miami in April. Everything literally changed in just three days.

In my new role as caregiver to a distant relative, I was essentially forced into stability. Because someone was completely dependent on me, I had to take care of myself as well. There was no other option. I used some of the downtime I had to study for the GRE, a crucial exam for graduate school that I’d been postponing for over a year because of anxiety. I dropped over 30% of my body weight in a matter of months because of the stress (I needed to lose weight, which was from Seroquel, but didn’t want to do it that way). Ultimately I survived, but was quite sick the whole time.

It quickly became apparent that my new environment was not one that would support my continued recovery. Despite re-entering therapy at the end of June (which was so scary!), I felt myself declining again. The panic was almost constant, I frequently found myself in tears, and worst of all: I was beginning to feel trapped. And when I feel trapped, I do whatever I can to escape, even if it destroys a little bit (or a lot) of myself in the process. I was determined not to let that happen again.

As I made arrangements to start moving out of my family member’s house, I was offered a volunteer position with the National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI), and soon after was hired as a patient safety technician at a major medical center in Miami Beach. NAMI has opened so many doors for me and has introduced me to wonderful, like-minded people I feel blessed to call my friends. It has also been a healthy challenge, as it involves a lot of public speaking (one of my worst fears). Although presenting still causes me to panic, I’m passionate about spreading awareness and ending the stigma of mental health conditions.

Like NAMI, my career at the hospital has massively forced me out of my comfort zone. I had every intention of working in behavioral health, but somehow ended up on the inpatient rehabilitation floor. I love it, but while caring for people who are physically in very bad shape I have learned that my heart really does belong to the mental health field. Still, I’ve bonded with my coworkers, my patients, and their loved ones over meaningful and unforgettable experiences. I watched a young woman laugh through her therapy for a stroke that nearly killed her. I was there when a man in his nineties took his first bite of food after nearly two weeks on a feeding tube. I witnessed my team work together to stabilize and ultimately save a patient who went into septic shock. It’s been so rewarding.

These past twelve months have been about establishing boundaries and putting myself first. I broke off an engagement that was toxic for me. Twice I left environments that were unhealthy for me. I turned down romantic advances from a mental health tech friend because I needed to give myself time to heal and reflect on the disaster that was the last six years. I’ve screamed and cried and seriously contemplated suicide. I’ve had painful goodbyes, relieving goodbyes, and bittersweet goodbyes (heck I’m going to miss my psychiatrist in Tampa; he was the best). I’ve made new connections and have reconnected with people I hadn’t seen in years. Everything happened because it was right for me. Staying sick kept me comfortable because it was familiar. This year, I had to be a person again, and it hurt like hell.

I’m hoping that 2020 is the year I go to graduate school so I can finally pursue my dream of becoming a therapist. I wish so much that my acceptance wasn’t so heavily dependant on factors out of my control (letters of recommendation, I’m looking at YOU) and I fear what will happen if I don’t end up going to grad school. I feel like I’m running into this new year blindfolded, and it’s scary.

But I didn’t come this far to give up now. I’m ready.

[unintentionallyweird]

today might have been the day I met the worst psychiatrist there is and now I just need to rant a little

so I was booked for a 50 minute appointment and she basically threw me out after 15 minutes claiming she didn't have time for this appointment anyway and I shouldn't have gotten it in the first place (though I was assigned her services by a Hotline ¿)

since I don't have a therapist rn and it was my first time meeting her I had prepared a list of things I wanted to talk about including questions etc

when she saw my list she immediately told me to put it away bc she didn't want me to "read anything off of a sheet" and when I told her I wanted to make sure I didn't forget about anything important (cause I sometimes block out entire parts of my life) she basically told me she didn't care, she knew better about it than me... (just being super rude generally)

so before the conversation has even started I am basically choking back tears so she goes "well you really gotta try at least *a little*, how am I supposed to understand anything otherwise" (maybe look at my list? idk)

so that was super difficult, then after a while I managed to bring up depression, anxiety and suicidal thoughts and she was basically like "you shouldn't have come here I don't have time for this anyway, how am I supposed to help"

so I asked her whether she could help me get into an inpatient-program and give me some time off from uni and my exams and she was like "I'm not your therapist, why don't you go see your therapist" (because I don't have one thank you very much)

so after those very unproductive couple of minutes she basically told me to leave if I didn't have any more questions although I was basically having a panic attack in front of her, but she just told me she wouldn't have any more appointments for me, she was going on vacation soon (although I am entitled to another 10 appointments

Also not once did she ask me about how suicidal I was feeling at that moment

in advance I had agreed to calling my boyfriend after the appointment so he basically caught me in the midst of my panic and calmed me down and helped me plan my next steps, if I hadn't had him in that moment i might have done something very impulsive and all triggered by that woman?

I'm at a loss for words

[delightfulpetals]

Even though I’ve been battling this monster since I was fifteen, I’ve never been able to speak to a wider audience. But this year I wanted to say something and I couldn’t find the words during National Eating Disorder week. This year has been the most violent and beautiful battle I’ve ever had with myself on mental, physical, and spiritual levels. So while this has been a part of me for a long time I’ve never been able to openly admit that I have an eating disorder. But I do. I have an eating disorder. My closest friends know. Mostly because they’ve been there to keep me afloat. To make me my favorite meal because they thought there was a better chance of me eating it. To remind me that my heart is the most beautiful thing about me. And to sit me down when it was time to make a decision: go to inpatient or pull myself out of this hole. I should back up a bit though.

I’ve had three major episodes in my life: ages 15, 18, and 23. The first started when I was in the locker room after P.E. and I overheard two girls whispering about how I was a “fat dyke.” (Also friendly reminder, I’m bisexual and have been openly out since 7th grade, but that’s not what this post is about). At that point I was pretty slender and short. I spent summers highly physically active doing theatre and aerial acrobatics. I was also active on stage doing performances and taking dance classes. But still at 15 years old I was terrified of that word: fat. Because fat meant ugly. And ugly meant no one was going to love me. And if no one was going to love me then I was going to spend my entire life alone. So I stopped eating. Well aside from meals that were witnessed at home I never really ate. Or I was throwing it up right after. Or obsessively working out to compensate. I wanted to look beautiful on my sweet 16 so later down the line I could look and think about how thin and beautiful I was. But honestly, I hate looking at those photos now. I can’t remember just how much fun that night was anymore. I just look and I see a sad, empty girl with sunken eyes filled with insecurity. There’s one photo where I can remember exactly what I was thinking as it was snapped, “Do I look fat?” I was 16 at the first peak of my eating disorder.

Fast foreword. I was a heading into my sophomore year and decided I wanted to join a sorority. But how was I going to do that? I had zero self confidence, spent nearly 100% of my time with the guy I was dating, and worst of all: I had gained about 25 pounds my freshman year. I was terrified. So I gradually started cutting more and more out of my diet. Soda. Fast food. Carbs. And then I found my new love: calorie counting. I counted what was in everything. I couldn’t eat past a certain number of calories. Eventually I was consuming no more then 600 calories a day and working out for two hours in the middle of the night fueled by Red Bull. This didn’t stop after rush tho. To keep the weight off I lived off of coffee and any bottle of dieting pills I could get my hands on. It continued until the summer going into my junior year. I got so good at hiding how much I was struggling. Because “I wasn’t sick, I was just getting rid of bad eating habits.”

The last big relapse I had started in February 2017. I had gotten an amazing opportunity to portray a boy on stage. A role always written for a boy, but they chose me! A girl! I never thought I’d get to play a male role that I wanted. But the one thing I kept wondering was how on earth was this curvy woman supposed to play a little boy? So I tried to straighten out some of my curves by once again cutting out fast food and other sugar drinks. Focusing on water and getting in my fruits and veggies. It wasn’t a big deal at first. But then he calorie counting started again. I ain’t only fruits, vegetables, and chicken breast. If I ate anything other than that I cried about it and felt like a failure. I worked out every day on top of being in a physically demanding show. I didn’t realize I had opened up a door I couldn’t close until it was too late. The picture on the left is from March 2017 exactly two years ago where I hit my lowest weight in years. Out the outside to most people I looked happy. But that was because I was skinny. I was happy being skinny. Instead of hanging out with my friends at a party, I spent multiple trips to the bathroom analyzing my body and praying there was a scale to make sure I hadn’t gained weight. But that face in the photo on the left was self hatred. Disappointment. That was still wishing my right hip was smoother and that there was less fat in my armpit. That was sadness.

It’s 2019. I go to therapy nearly every week. I eat healthy, but I also eat what I want for the most part. I go to the gym because I have a physically demanding job. I work hard because I want to treat my body the same way I would treat my best friend. I want to be healthy and life a long full life where I get to enjoy every moment and not worry about my weight. I’m no longer consumed with, “How many calories are in that?” Or, “I’m going to look so ugly if I keep eating this way.” I just want to enjoy living.

I took the photo on the right this morning. I can honestly say this is the happiest and healthiest (mentally AND physically) I have ever been. But the disordered thoughts never go away. That little voice that tries so hard to tell me I’m ugly or that I should go do 300 crunches for what I just ate. Oh yeah she’s there. Some moments she wins. But I continue to fight back with her because I might not be skinner, but I’m a hell of a lot stronger than I’ve ever been.

[idubtheemstp-blog]

Med student in the psych ward

From https://stethoscopepaintbrush.wordpress.com/

cw: hospital

As a med student, you learn a lot about patients as "them." It's never considered that you might be one.

In the psych ward, the first thing I noticed is that you are not special. You are not a med student, you are not different, and your identity is irrelevant. Nothing that you might cling onto in real life matters anymore. You come in, the nurses give you a piece of paper and have you fill it out at a table, and when you're done, you're just another body. Maybe I expected something different. After all, when I was reading through the document, I knew what each of the questions was screening for. I remember that it was darkly amusing to me how much of the questionnaires could be faked. But in the terror of the moment, I also didn't know if maybe, my answers on paper would be so obviously false given how scared I was and how empty I felt. I didn't fake it, and that is how I began my week, two years ago, in the inpatient psych ward.

Next, I was given a bed, in exchange for my dignity. I was asked to strip in front of a nurse and turn so I could be examined. As a med student, I understand that they're looking for signs of self-harm. As a patient, it was humiliating. The nurse said nothing to me during the exam. Just "please remove your gown" and "turn around." I was terrified. But in the psych ward, you are just a body for them to keep safe until the time comes that they can say you're not in danger.

In the psych ward, you have no agency, and there is no mental safety. Every 15 minutes, the door is opened. It doesn't matter if it's day or night, if you're sleeping or awake. As a med student, I know that this is so that they can check that you are safe, that you are sane, that you haven't injured yourself. As a patient, it was unnerving. I just wanted to feel like I wasn't on display for even one moment. And as a med student, I knew that if I cried, or if I relaxed, I wouldn't be considered ok. The patients who come into the psych ward are judged, and fairly heavily. The conversations usually don't take place in front of the patients themselves, but as a medical student, you know. They take place between attending physicians, nurses, even students. And if a patient breaks down, there is no sympathy. After all, every healthcare professional makes assumptions about their patients. As a med student, I can understand this. A diagnosis is easily conflated with a person. If someone has diabetes, a doctor will assume they should be counseled on diet. If someone is an alcoholic, any responsible provider will talk to them about managing their alcohol use. As a patient, I did not appreciate the assumptions made about how I treat myself and others. Better yet, assumptions from people who heard my story from other providers, and not from me. The interaction that stood out best was a nurse telling me I was manipulative, because my family kept calling the ward after I asked them not to. She had no background on our relationship, nor our conversations, nor even how they had gotten the number. All she knew was that they had been told I was there and kept calling, and I had added them to the list of people I didn't want told that I was there. On the surface, as a medical student, I can see how a patient refusing to speak to their persistent family members can be seen as a pain. But as a patient, it was not helpful to see the staff assume whatever they could from the situation, and treat me accordingly.

In the psych ward, the "patient first" philosophy is challenged. It's the one place in the hospital where a patient's will is subordinate to everyone else's. With that subordination comes a lack of dignity, a lack of peace, and a lack of trust.

What breaks my heart is that when I speak to my peers, my fellow health professionals, about how we treat patients, they cannot understand. To them, the mentally ill do not deserve protections from our coldness, our brusqueness as a system, nor can they truly be cured. As a medical student, I understand. I understand the fear that trusting someone in a psych ward will lead to their harm; that the bare minimum of empathy keeps psych patients from manipulating others; that distance also keeps doctors safe from burnout - and truly, the emphasis is on that last one. But as a patient, the week I spent in the hospital was the worst of my life. It connected me to resources that helped me in the end, but it also left me reeling, taking me at the lowest point I had experienced and making me further doubt my sanity, my competence, and my worth in ways that still affect me now, as a medical student two years further into my training and on the cusp of graduation. If a medical student & patient can feel this way, even after understanding why providers do what they do, how must patients feel?

This is mental health stigma. It is alive and well in medicine, and as a medical student who has seen the sides of both provider and patient, I don't know how we as a field can apologize enough to the people who come to the hospital hoping we will help, when often, we simply add to their burdens.