#i will od on sleep meds

[sarcasstic-jpmvr]

Here’s an excerpt from my latest dream

Someone insignificant: ju, why are you so socially awkward?

Me: because I’m ✨neuro-spicy✨

House: oh SNAP *turns to Wilson and drags him towards him* let’s go babe

*Wilson and House french each other vigorously, then drive off on an electric scooter together*

(I am reffering to this btw:)

[rab1darachn1d]

my sleep meds aren't working(i took them literally less than 30 minutes ago) do I give myself a lobotomy or down the entire bottle /hj

[cicidraws]

my entire esophagus from coughing/gagging so hard in my coughing fits feels like its been punched repeatedly )';

[ponyboi-69]

Ugh. I still can’t sleep

[im-a-writer-sometimes]

Thank You, Doctor (Miguel O’Hara - Part 1/4)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Epilogue

Pairing: Miguel O’Hara x fem!reader

Word Count: 3k

Description: After being snagged from your own universe and put to work in the med bay in the midst of spider society, you catch the notice of one Miguel O’Hara.

Warnings: blood, probably language, ignoring the ATSV worldbuilding for the sake of my silly little plot

A/N: Are there plot holes? Yes. Do I care? Yes, so please don’t bring them up, I might cry. There’s an occasional Spanish interjection from Miguel, but I am not at all a fluent Spanish speaker, so feel free to correct me on anything if so inclined! Translations are at the end. Also, it includes a roundabout ode to my dearest love, Oscar Isaac. If you know, you know.

🕷

Not every anomaly was kept in a cage. Some, like yourself, had made use of your idle hands, hands that for one reason or another, could never again touch your own universe. It had taken some convincing, but after Lyla had heard enough of your requests from the neon red confines of your prison and carried them to whatever faceless spider person led this operation, you’d been let out. Your cage hadn’t disappeared per se, but it had widened a little. If your return to your own reality would cause its inevitable collapse—as you had repeatedly assured it would—then this was more than you could ask.

You made use of your figuratively-shackled hands in the med bay. You’d been a medical student when you’d been stolen from your universe, and you knew enough to patch up the wounds that came through your work station with ease most of the time—sometimes, after skimming a medical textbook and winging it. So far, no one had died on your watch, and you called that a success.

But your confidence, it seemed, may have been overinflated.

When a group of spiders rushed into the med bay with a large, tattered body strung between them, you felt profoundly out of your depth for the first time. But they couldn’t know that, lest you ended up caged once again.

“Put him on the bed,” you instructed. “Stomach down.” They heaved the body onto the bed, and you could make out the navy and red lines of a shredded suit, as well as a mess of brown hair, matted with blood you were hoping wasn’t his own. “Do you know exactly where he’s wounded?” you asked, running hands over the expanses of skin you could see, trying to make out where the various bloodstains were coming from.

“He was sliced along the back,” answered a breathless spider. “Stabbed twice in the abdomen as well.”

“Help me turn him on his side,” you said, to no one in particular, but there were suddenly several sets of hands helping you turn the man over. “You,” you continued, nodding to the spider standing across from you. “Grab a towel and keep pressure on the wounds on his abdomen.”

You conducted as thorough an examination as you could with your heart fluttering like a hummingbird in your throat, so many eyes trained on your shaking hands. The man had a few other shallow cuts and bruises, but as the spider had said—the biggest concerns were the slice along his back and the two stab wounds in his stomach.

Several of the spiders lingered as you worked, offering tools and towels and anything you needed to speed up the process. And then, in a half hour that felt like a handful of seconds, your work was done. If you had been asked to recount your actions movement for movement, you’d only be able to offer up a breathless blur of adrenaline and then the sudden empty stillness in the room after you'd managed to stabilize him. 

He was laid face up on a bed, covered by a blanket since you’d had to cut portions of his suit off of him. He couldn’t quite put a pin on his age, but he was handsome. You’d done your best to wash the blood out of his hair, and it fell in half-dry curls over his forehead. The angles of his face were severe, but they were soft, even kind somehow. At least in his sleep.

And then, to your great misfortune, he woke up.

At first it was a fluttering of eyelids, and you stood sharply from your chair, trying to look busy, as if you hadn’t just been sitting there staring at him. And then it was a few quiet groans as he tried to readjust himself. 

“Don’t sit up,” you said at the sight of him trying to push himself into a seated position. “You’ll rip out your stitches.”

He just blinked at you. “Who are you?”

“The person who saved your life,” you said, bristled by the gruff, mumbled annoyance in his tone.

He shook his head. “I have enhanced healing, I don’t need anyone to—” He was cut off by his own sharp gasp as he tried to haul himself off the bed. He went still and then avoided your eyes as he slowly lowered himself back down onto the mattress.

“You were saying?” you said, a smile curling your lips. You turned to the counter behind you, pulling a roll of gauze and medical tape from one of the cabinets. “You had a severe laceration on your back. You’re lucky it missed your spinal cord.” You turned towards him, gauze in hand, as you sat and scooted your stool towards the edge of your bed. “And that’s not even mentioning the two stab wounds.”

“What are you doing?” he asked, scooting away at your sudden closeness. 

“Your stab wounds were still bleeding when I finished, so the gauze likely needs changed,” you said. He lifted the blanket from his torso, peeling aside what was left of his suit to find two bandaged wounds, with—as you’d predicted—red-drenched gauze. He didn’t say anything else, but he didn’t protest as you reached out and began to peel back the tape. After a minute or so of quietly working, he finally spoke again.

“You’re human,” he said.

You smiled down at his abdomen, not pausing your work. “Are enhanced deduction skills part of the wide cache of spider abilities? Because you are remarkably observant.”

You could feel his eyes on your profile, but you didn’t turn to face him, not even when he quietly finished his thought. “You’re the anomaly.”

“I was under the impression there were more than one,” you said, pressing down the last stretch of tape and pulling the blankets back over him.

“You’re the anomaly I let out,” he clarified.

“Ah,” you said, standing and walking to the sink to wash your hands. “So you must be the big man in charge. The one who ordered me to be stolen from my bed.”

“There is much more—”

“I know,” you said, turning back towards him, hands braced behind you on the counter. “It has been explained to me plenty. My father was from another dimension and never should have jumped into mine and knocked up my mom, and I never should have been born.” He watched you as you spoke, scanning your face for any sort of malice, but you merely shrugged. “Wish I could have told my mom that’s why he flaked.”

“You’re not upset?” he asked.

“And who would I be upset at besides him? You?”

The man simply blinked at you, hand mindlessly reaching to brush his abdomen, the expanse of skin you’d just bandaged. The carefully stitched wounds answered the question of any lingering resentment towards your captors.

“It would be natural to hate—your circumstances,” he said eventually.

You turned back towards the counter, quietly putting away your supplies. “You should rest until the end of the week.”

“That’s not—”

“In bed for the next two days, and no missions until the stitches come out.”

“But I have en—”

“Enhanced healing. Believe me, I’ve heard it a thousand times,” you said, finally tuning to face him. “But like it or not, you’re still just as human as I am.”

“I’m only half as human as you are,” he said, and it was the clearest he’d spoken since he’d woken up. At the slight flash of fangs with the lift of his lips, you understood why.

🕷

The next morning, you found him fast asleep where you’d left him. It was more instinct than choice, your gut churning with curiosity, that led you to slowly reach out your hand and pull up the right side of his lip, confirming you hadn’t in fact been hallucinating. He had fangs. Before you could pull away, his hand shot up and caged your wrist before his face as his eyes waned open.

“I have to ask,” you started.

“No, I’m not a vampire,” he said, keeping your wrist in his grip, his voice deadpan, as if he’d answered this question a million times before.

“What are you then?” you asked, pulling your hand from his.

“Half spider.”

You lifted your eyebrows. “A spider bite made you half spider?” you asked, but he simply stared. You could tell by the low drop of his brow that he’d already told you more than he would have liked, so you simply turned away, prepping your space for whatever spiders might come through your station that day.

It turned out to be a slow day. Only two spiders came through, both needing minimal attention, and you sent them on their way about as quickly as they’d turned up. And the whole time, you felt a set of red, half-lidded eyes watching you. You would occasionally slip over to his bed to redress his wounds, answering negative to his questions of leaving. “Bed rest until the end of the day,” you said after the second spider had left. “And then I’ll fit you with some crutches and help you to your room.”

“I don’t need crutches.”

“What you don’t need is that attitude,” you said, lifting your eyes to his. “Or else I’ll send you home without a sucker.”

He tilted his head, entertaining your humor but never cracking a smile. “What’s your name?”

“Y/n. Y/l/n.”

He blinked at you as if he was familiar with the name, but all he said was, “Not Doctor Y/n Y/l/n?”

You clicked your tongue. “I was two years from being Dr. Y/l/n.”

He nodded down at his bandaged abdomen. “You seem like a doctor to me.”

“And you don’t seem half spider,” you said. “Appearances can be deceiving, Mister…”

“O’Hara. Miguel O’Hara.”

You nodded and turned back towards your station, beginning to slowly clean up for the day.

“I’m sorry,” he said, making you go still. “That you can’t be in your own universe.”

You turned back to look at him, offering a wry tilt of your lips. Not quite a smile. “That’s alright. I imagine you're similarly displaced for the sake of your noble mission. You just had the luxury of choice.”

“Would you have chosen to stay?” he asked, a sudden sharpness in his voice that made his fangs flash from behind his lips. “Knowing your universe was collapsing?”

“I didn’t say that,” you said, eyes narrowing at the sudden malice. You turned back towards your station, tucking supplies back into cabinets. “I guess I should thank you for letting me work in the med bay. I was losing my mind in that cell.”

“Don’t thank me for that,” he said. “Just makes me feel worse.”

You turned back towards him with a smile and a sucker held between your fingers. “Well, we wouldn’t want that.”

🕷

An hour or so later, when a spider with basic first aid training—a.k.a. the only kind of medic they’d had before you—came to relieve your shift, you helped Miguel out of bed and onto a set of crutches, carrying an armful of medical supplies behind him as he trudged to his room. If people stared at the sight of him limping, sucker in his mouth, they received a look from the man. You couldn’t see said look from behind him, but you could see the way it had people turning—occasionally running—away. 

Once you got to his room, he seemed annoyed at the way you slipped in behind him, but he said nothing as you laid out medical supplies on his nightstand. 

“You’ll want one of these in the morning and one with dinner for the pain,” you said, jingling the orange bottle you set down.

“Don’t need it,” he gruffed out.

“Alright, well then I imagine you don’t need help getting into bed,” you said, crossing your arms over your chest.

He leaned the crutches against the wall. “Now you’re catching on.”

You gestured to the bed beside you, stepping away so he had enough room to climb up onto it. It was slow, sliced up by the occasional grunt or half-swallowed gasp of pain, but he got up there, tugging the covers over himself.

“Bet you’re regretting that decision,” you said, and he only huffed. You took that moment of silence to look around the room. It was all black and gray angles, not a touch of personality anywhere. Not a picture frame or flower vase, no posters or art.

“You know, having some kind of general joy or cheer in your room might speed up your recovery,” you said, walking over to the window to peer out at the street below.

“Now you’re giving interior design advice?” he said, face half buried in the pillow. He was likely still groggy from the pain medicine you’d given him before.

“I’m just saying, maybe try getting a hobby or two,” you said, pulling the curtains on his window closed.

“My hobby is saving the multiverse,” he huffed out. You turned slowly from the window, eyebrows raised as you met his eyes.

“Was that—a joke?”

He huffed, turning over onto his side. “Good night.”

You started towards the door. “Oh, of course, you’re welcome, Mr. O’Hara. I was so happy to patch up your bloody wounds and gently tug you from the precipice of death. Saving such grateful spider people like yourself is truly my calling in life.”

You stopped before the door, hand lingering on the knob as you glanced back at his figure, curled away from you on the bed. He gruffed out something inaudible and you stepped closer.

“What was that?”

“Mujer implacable,¹” he cursed, before turning over just enough to meet your eyes. “Thank you, Doctor. Now get out of my room.”

You smiled and reached for the door. “Good night to you too, Miguel.”

🕷

It was midnight when Miguel woke up again. The dull buzz of the pain meds had worn off, and the sharp ache of his limbs pulled him sharply from sleep. And then, shortly after, the rumbling of his stomach had his feet hitting the floor.

He told himself he’d simply go to the cafeteria and grab something to eat, but it proved to be easier said than done. With a few curses muttered in Spanish, he sunk against the set of crutches you’d provided, letting out a breath at the sudden lack of pressure on his wounds.

When he made it to the cafeteria, he found it not empty, as he had been hoping. A singular figure was sitting in the corner of the room, the tray before her stacked neatly with various food. Of course. Of all the people to witness his shameful hobble into the cafeteria, it had to be you.

You glanced up as he entered, eyes going wide for a moment.

“You look like someone who didn’t take their pain meds,” you said, lips curling into a smile at the grunt he offered in response. You watched him fumbling with a vending machine around the awkward angle of his crutches and stood, crossing the room to come up beside him.

You didn’t wait for him to ask for help, you simply gestured before you, silently asking what he was trying to reach. He stared at you for a moment before nodding towards a pack of flamin’ hot cheetos. You fetched it for him with ease, before carrying it away from him.

“What are you doing?” he asked, watching as you sat back down at your seat and set his cheetos at the spot across from you. You didn’t respond, you simply watched him with raised brows, waiting. Eventually, he grunted out something in Spanish and joined you, grabbing a bottle of water on the way.

“What does mujer implacable mean?” you asked.

“What?”

“That’s what you called me.”

He ripped open his cheetos and sat back in his chair, watching you as he took the first bite. “Relentless woman.”

“Hm,” you said, smiling. He watched as you stood up and grabbed a pair of chopsticks from the counter, eyes narrowing as you sat back down and offered them to him.

“What are those for?”

“They keep you from getting cheeto dust on your fingers,” you said, smile growing as his eyes widened.

“Mujer brillante,²” he breathed, taking the chopsticks and ripping them open. Something adjacent to a pleased smile overtook his features as he sat back, chopsticks in hand. And then he seemed to remember who was talking to, and his smile flattened out.

“Why are you awake?” he asked.

“Oh, I was just crushed by the weight of endless, multiversal knowledge trying to fit within a mind only equipped to handle the existence of one, pondering the meaning of my birth without a clear place in a singular universe and a purpose only carved out by my own inability to accept my multiversal irrelevance.”

He blinked.

“Also, I’m an insomniac,” you said, and he shoveled another cheeto into his mouth. 

“I don’t think anomaly equals irrelevance,” he said, and he wasn’t quite sure if he believed it. You didn’t seem irrelevant though, and he was going off of that.

“Then what does it mean?” you asked, and there was no humor in your voice. No malice either. Just a sharp curiosity.

“It means that the universe is delicately balanced, and you, mujer implacable, are a wrecking ball.”

“So I’m relevant, just not in any of the good ways.”

He shook his head. “In your old life, maybe. But you can be whatever you like here. Relevant. Irrelevant. Whatever suits you.”

“I think I’d like a healthy middle,” you said.

“Midrelevant,” he said, almost smiling.

“Exactly.”

The conversation was sparse as you both ate, but something soft opened up before you within Miguel. You’d already seen him at his weakest, so he had no reason to hide from you. And as you helped him back to his room, he couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

🕷

Part 2

(1) “Relentless woman”

(2) “Brilliant woman”

[regicide1997]

Doors at 7pm, Noise at 8pm, Bring $10:

An ode to Unpunctuality

Five weeks and one day ago, my boss reprimanded me for being unpunctual.

Five weeks ago today, unpunctuality saved my girlfriend's life, and by extension, my own.

"Doors at 7pm, Noise at 8pm, Bring $10"

Five weeks and five days ago, I stayed up all night comforting my girlfriend.

Five weeks and four days ago, I slept through all my alarms. I woke up half an hour after the mandatory department meeting had started, and I immediately ordered an Uber to get to work. By the time I got there, it was lunchtime, which was good, because I needed food to take my meds. And I had forgotten my keys at home.

"Doors at 7pm, Noise at 8pm, Bring $10"

I generally try to show up at least a little early to most things.

Five weeks and three days ago, I went to a house show with my girlfriend and my now-ex-gf. I don't want to go into the details. We all had fun, as well as traumatic flashbacks that we comforted each other for.

Showing up early to shows gives me time to prepare myself, mentally and physically, and it gives me a chance to socialize with the rest of the early crowd—to chat with friends, to meet the people in the touring bands, to be part of the reason these shows never start on time.

"Doors at 7pm, noise at 8pm, bring $10"

Five weeks ago today, at 8:04pm, I got a text from my girlfriend.

Five weeks and one day ago, my boss reprimanded me for being unpunctual. I'd explained that I'd followed the instructions I was given to the best of my ability at the time, and I have done my best to make up for every way I've fallen short. Still, "sleeping in is not acceptable".

The World In Broken Glass, Whirly Birds, Macizo, Razorway. Healer DIY, Indianapolis. Tuesday, August 20, 2024. Doors at 7pm, noise at 8pm, bring $10. A night of screamo, death metal, "shoegaze if it was good", and pure, unabashed transgender rage.

I definitely need this show after the shit I had to put up with at work yesterday. I need some way of releasing this anger. I need some fucking catharsis.

Doors at 7pm, noise at 8pm. Bring $10.

Enjoying the pre-show conversation. Talking about various levels of band equipment Tetris involved in going on tour with tiny vehicles. Talking about our past lives in high school marching band. "Wait, so, the band is called Math, but this person unrelatedly also happened to be in your geometry class?"

Doors at 7pm, noise at 8.

Five weeks ago today. Tuesday, August 20, 2024. 8:04pm. A text message from my girlfriend.

Twenty-one thousand milligrams of acetaminophen.

Doors at 7, noise at 8.

One hour, thirteen minutes, and thirty seconds of phone call—getting the cops to fuck off so she'll be safe enough to get in the ambulance on her own accord, riding in the passenger seat of the person I had just paid $10 in exchange for a paper bracelet, ambulance sirens blaring through the phone speaker, correcting the EMTs every time they misgendered her—protecting her, because she's already had so much trauma in hospitals; protecting her, because she needs to be safe in order to heal; protecting her, because she's the best thing that's ever happened to me, and I cannot live in a world in which she is not; protecting her, because I love her, so fucking much.

Doors at 7pm, noise at 8pm, bring $10.

A text from my girlfriend at 8:04pm.

Had the noise actually started at 8pm, I wouldn't have heard the notification sound from my phone. I wouldn't have seen the text message. I wouldn't have been able to call her. To tell her I love her. That I can't live without her.

Five weeks and one day ago, my boss reprimanded me for being unpunctual.

Five weeks ago today, unpunctuality saved my girlfriend's life, and by extension, my own.

Doors at 7.

[petewentzisblack1312]

can i be honest about music to avoid my feelings and sleeping and taking my meds and showering for a second.

i am autistic and i have trouble regulating my emotions and processing sensory input. sound is a big one for me. i cant block out any noises. i found out most people do not notice the wind rushing in their ears on a normal day. i do. i cannot pick what sound i pay attention to. when i was little od find myself accidentally eavesdropping and repeating stuff i heard because there was no way for me to tune it out unless i was already completely and totally engrossed in something else. if its raining and im watching a youtube video its almost as if the volume of the youtube video goes down and the rain drowns it out. because of this, i often dedicate time to listening to new music. and ts hard to find the time. and i put it off. but i love new music. i love it so much. but too much new sound and too much enveloping sound for too long will overwhelm me, especially if its something hard fast and sloppy. coincidentally my favourite style of music is hard fast and sloppy. coincidentally i love listening to albums as a whole.

when i love something, it takes me over. i cant do anything but love it. when i hear music i love, i feel so much love for it, it scares me.

theres a lot of reasons. if you all remember the story about my dad and the fob concert, i have this deep, deep fear of loving things openly. i do not want anyone to hurt me with the things i love. it scares me.

but because of that. i think. i take a long time to listen to new music i know ill like.

[distant--shadow]

had a week streak of not having nightmares which I think is the longest I'd ever gone, but I've been back on em past couple nights. Just woke from some particularly horrible ones and back with that familiar feeling of I'm exhausted and need to sleep, woke up so sweaty and my backs aching and muscles are tweaking/spasming and I'm dehydrated but I cant drink much water caus one od the meds I'm on and I'd just like to sleep again but I also really don't wanna sleep

been a year of just being exhausted and lightheaded all the time from an amount of things and blergh. I wish sleep at least was restful

[thatonerick]

I’m going to sleep. the best i can with these idiots watching my every twitch anyways. they’re gonna force meds down my throat ughhh fuck you broh.. and thank you, id be passed out near od if it weren’t for you guys.

[bubblingcolaa]

Post island headcanons!!

(Tw for sa and ed mentions. Also sorry for bad quality and all. I didn't like Maurice's drawing >:(()

Ralph-

Gone non verbal. Litterally has said nothing since they got saved. Although, if he did talk, he would swear. A lot.

His hair is basically pure white because his hair sun bleached easily, and after months in the sun that's just the outcome. It's a little longer than average, but not by too much.

Rolled up sleeves, won't move if they're not (yes I stole that one)

And in ode to Simon and Piggy, he tries his best to be kinder and use his mind more

He takes the meds he was given. And he just snacks. Although he hopes he can get his old body back

Jack-

He's basically completely fine after the island. He'll talk about it, but only really about the best moments and won't go into detail. He just wants to focus on the chior

He used to wear a small rosary under his shirt, but then he wears it out in the open, like a normal rosary

He has a lot of skin care and all, considering he got hella burned during the island. Also to cleanse his skin after months of dirt and blood on it. (And he's a lot more freckled)

His hair appears to be just a little bit longer than average, but it's actually REALLY long. He could pull it back and it would be hard to tell.

He only takes the antidepressants he's given, mainly because it gives him an appetite, and Roger said he should. On the eating thing, he's the most normal eater out of all of them. I headcanon that half of the reason why Jack was skinny in the first place is because he's had a history of starving himself, and now that starvation was forced he thinks differently of it now :)

Maurice-

He's more agitated and snaps a lot at people. He doesn't go out, and basically just sleeps all day.

His hair is a mess, and uneven. He couldn't have someone brush it out and cut it, so he did it himself, so now it's uneven, and still a mess.

With eating and taking meds, he often forgets, but sometimes will.

Roger-

He's actually really talkative and will yap about almost anything and everything. He also makes dark jokes about the island.

Mainly hangs out with his dad and Jack, so sometimes he helps out with "rebuilding" the choir and school.

His hair is shorter, although he wanted to keep it long.

Not bothered at all about the island, more so worried about graduation and just becoming an adult

Parents divorced

Harms himself sometimes

He forgets to eat and take his pills. He doesn't want to, but he won't make a fuss if he's forced too.

Soo, in a summed up way.. Ralph is Simon Jack is Ralph Maurice is Roger and Roger is Jack and Maurice :)

[sherbetpoetry]

an ode to being happy

sitting in a pale blue nightgown on her dirty carpet floor, spraying hairspray into a plastic bag, her friend tells her she needs to love less

“why? why shouldn’t i give my whole heart to girls i love?”

“i want you to be happy”

“but i am!! i’m happy like this”

“you’re huffing hairspray and taking shots of vanilla extract. you’re not happy. you do this to escape”

“maybe i just do it for fun, maybe i am happy and want the world to move in pastel spirals when i look at it too long”

“you’re manic, lizzy. you’re a bipolar girl who tried to kill herself twice just because a girl didn’t like you. you need to love less”

“i don’t. my love is beautiful and i want everyone who i love to know how much they mean to me, i want to make myself happy with the amount of love i bathe others in.”

“and when you don’t get the love you give you’re hanging yourself from the wisteria trees in the backyard, with a suicide note the shape of a heart, in a frilly pink dress. you treat yourself like a child in death, yet an adult in life and love”

i am not yet an adult but no longer a child, i'm drunk and writing in a pink pajama set with strawberry shortcake on it

my canopy bed is covered in lace and under it i bleed

even when i was young i wasn't happy, i hit myself on the head with a hairbrush because my hair wasn't perfectly straight, i wanted to be a girl i wasn't, i wanted to be a woman with long black hair and a tiny waist

i have been "happy" in my life, spending money, stealing car keys, drinking a bottle of robitussin on a thursday in february, knowing i would get addicted.

but really, i have been happy.

reading under moonlight in a kansas summer, the humidity wrinkling yellowed pages, dancing in my room, completely sober on a saturday

i've been manic, ive been so depressed i tried to die, but i've been happy too

sleeping over at a friends house, on buses in france, i forgot to take my meds then and i was still happy.

screaming my lungs out at a concert, my oldest friends next to me

sitting under the spring sun at a rocky beach, feeding pigeons turkish delight and cheese.

on a train, eating grocery store chocolate croissants, looking out at endlessly bright grass

i tried to die because i thought nothing could top that

nothing could top not understanding anything anyone was saying yet still feeling at home in a giant palace

but the feeling of looking out the window into bright midnight sky filtered through leaves being while an air mattress slowly deflates under you feels like home when you're in love

dying is not the solution for living without love

(im drunk sorry if this is shitty i just felt like writing about loving life and being happy even when ur like mentally fucked)

[stunt-lads]

Maybe you should kys :)

This has been sitting in my ask since I got it and while I made a jokey/lighthearted post in response before I just want to say

I've considered it.

Seriously.

For my whole adult life.

I've never had the nerve to do it but

When I was 18 my mom had to hide her medication so I didn't attempt an OD, my therapist told her about my thoughts of suicide so we talked a little and she hid her meds from me.

When I was 20 I almost walked into traffic while visiting my grandma, even made sure I had my wallet and ID so I could be identified, and told my then sister in law exactly that.

When I was 23 and my uncle committed suicide I was so angry and hateful and I wanted to do it then too, I wanted to follow his lead, I was verbally harassed by my own family for my depression during this time too.

When I was 27 I promised myself to make good on my plan of killing myself on my 30th birthday, to the point that I had 1992-2022 in my bio on almost all social media for 3 years.

And last year, I had to have my box cutter, that I use for breaking down boxes, taken and hidden from me so I didn't slit my wrists when my medication ran out for a week.

Every day is a struggle for me and just last week I stayed in bed all day, sleeping on and off until the day was over.

I've considered it, but I guess ultimately, I'm too much of a coward to do it.

[traumadumpjournal]

saw a new psych today, & the experience was actually quite positive. i’m kinda sad i won’t see them again as i’ll be transferring to another team soon (based on location). they were muslim too, & one thing we worked on was trying to alleviate the religious guilt i feel about having no contact with my family. one thing that was said that was a (much-needed) punch in the gut was: ‘if they didn’t care for you for 26 yrs, what makes you think they will start caring now?’ i mean, they were right but 🫠🫠🫠

they will also consult with the pharmacy about putting me back on medication, & what i can have. i’ve been unmedicated for just under a year now (by choice), so the decision to start taking meds again is not a light one. but i have to be v careful with what i can have, partly due to my history of stockpiling/od-ing & also how certain medications interact with my myasthenia gravis. sleep is also a big issue for me, but i can’t have medication for that as it will literally kill me 😅 i have been dealing with a lot of nightmares/unpleasant dreams, which is to be expected, but sucks big time.

they kept saying that i’ve been through a lot, a lot, a lot. it’s time to put myself first, & they are putting a lot of trust in me to be able to do that (re: reintroducing medications even though i am still having thoughts of sh/sui (passive)). i’ve also been told to not bottle things up, so here i am lol. i have to heal myself before i can think about healing family. esp if they are not ready to take accountability for their own healing. i know all of this ofc, but it’s important to be reminded.

i didn’t think i’d be divulging all my trauma today, i thought they would rely on notes from my cpn or previous psych, but i don’t feel too upset or triggered. i also asked them to pray for me.

thank you, dr k. ❤️

[mediocoreaf010899]

I have psych today to figure out my meds. I stopped taking them cuz they make me legit nod out. Then mom gets mad and yells at me for sleeping when I literally can’t help it. I’ll be at work sitting or standing and nod out. I’ll be driving and nod out. She says it’s cuz it gives her flashbacks from my ODs but it’s something I literally can’t help and it’s so unfair. So now my meds will be fucked with. And I’ll be even more unstable and anxious. I just want to feel okay. I hate having to rely on meds. This combo worked well and then I started having issues

[cianmarstoo]

fuck it friday

thank you for the tag @anewkindofme

This is inspired by a talk we had about Alex getting through med school, and as shes posted her stripper Jackson fic recently its making me wanna explore this more

so this miiiiight be a new wip im starting which is a lot more angsty and alex has gone through even more and is working as a sex worker to afford suppressants so he doesn't regress, scared hell lose his job as a surgeon

its going to be a Merder fic naturally

heres a big look at it!

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Oh, here, tip for ya.” Alex watched as he grabbed his wallet, slipping out a $10 bill, not a massive tip, but still more money he could use. He took it from him, sending him his most charming smile as he did, “Thanks,” his eyes flickered to the towel on the bed, it was black but Alex could see the dried liquids from the night before dried on it… and the fact it was a little damp. He picked that up too, “I’ll dump this in the laundry for you.” “Damn, get the whole service from you, huh, pretty boy.” Alex didn’t say anything, the asshole’s smile made his skin crawl. He didn’t want the guy to see that he’d pissed himself in his sleep, even just a little, it’d either piss him out, or even worse, he’d be into it, what he might be able to infer from it. Like hell he was putting himself in that situation.  He grabbed his cellphone, said a quick goodbye, and ‘thank you’, then fled the room, dumping the towel in some laundry chute as he left the fancy hotel, keeping his head down, knowing that he didn’t fit in here, even in his best clothes.  

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

His cell buzzed as soon as he was in his car. Jimmy Evans. Fucker.  Demanding more money again. He was always demanding money. Jimmy, his deadbeat asshole father, had found out about his classification through Alex’s old wrestling coach, that was what he had told Alex when he got in touch when Alex moved to Seattle last year.  Littles who were surgeons weren't common, especially openly, some might have special dispensation to be them, like Jackson Avery. But Alex wasn’t some legacy, he didn’t have his own money, he didn’t have the power of a family name, and he didn’t have some rich renowned-surgeon as a caregiver and soon to be adoptive father. He was a nobody, having to fight for his chance to be a full surgeon one day, having to fuck people for money to survive, and having to pay off his biological father so he could even stand a chance to survive.  He ignored the text, the threats to out Alex at work, which would force him to be put into the system yet again, only this time he wouldn’t get to age out.  He set off driving, faster than he should, he’d reply to the text later on, he’ll send the money,  and hope that Jimmy would OD on it, or something. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Alex pounded on the door of the motel, three rooms down from his own. He hadn’t had time to even change from what he was wearing the night before, he’d have to have a shower at work, scrub his skin with the antiseptic smelling soap, it’d have to be quick: he was just glad he’d made the asshole wear protection, some of them were worse, and Alex would have had to spend a lot more time on clean up.  He pounded on the door again. “C’mon,” he growled under his breath. He raised his fist again but the door opened, revealing another smirking naked asshole. Alex was so sick of assholes, but this was yet another one he had to play nice with.  “Ali!” “Alex.” “That’s what I said. What’s up man? You’re waking us up,” he pushed the door open so Alex could see the three other people in the bed, he didn’t react, he was mostly just impressed that they’d managed to fit so many people in the shitty motel beds.  “I need more shit,” he shot him a look, he wasn’t going to say the word, not here with strangers.  “Ah, the suppressants? You’re out already, man?” “It’s been a month, I’m completely out.” The guy nodded, he was still so clearly high himself, but he stumbled back into his room, rooting around on a coke covered dresser for the right bottle among all the others.  Alex tapped his fingers against the doorway, he was going to be late, and he needed the meds. “Here.” He held up the bottle as he got back to the door. He didn’t hand it over. “$80.” Alex took in the bright green bottle, frowning as he caught sight of the name on it, written on in sharpie. “What? No, Dylan! That’s the worst shit, I got stuck on them last month too, you said you’d get the better ones, the white bottle ones.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

no pressure tag @alessiankarev @pocketspencer @bobadiin

[imnotpayingforurtherapy]

I don't want to say im a Dazai kin because his charater is often so misinterpreted as "oh he's suicidal and mentally ill" which i hate

Cause i genuinely relate to his charater so much, every single one of his books i've read I see myself in and I hate it while also loving that at least im not the only one...

ANYWAYS ALL THIS IS TO SAY IS I JUST REMEMBERED IM IMMUNE TO MY SLEEPING PILLS AND PAIN MEDS CAUSE I TRIED TO OD ON THEM ONE TIME WHEN I WAS IN MIDDLE SCHOOL AND NOW IM WRITHING IN PAIN AND CANT GO UNCONSCIOUS BECAUSE OF INSOMNIA