#it’s just so exhausting to be disabled and poor | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

dreamsteddie · 6 months ago

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Steve and Eddie who kind of flop in life and end up poor, living in a trailer in a different small town living quiet lives of no import.

The kids, Robin, Nancy, and Johnathan all seem to take the small handful of opportunities offered to them by the government in the aftermath of the Upsidedown to take off and make something of their lives. They're off writing headlines, making news, and living their lives to the best of their abilities, but Steve and Eddie find themselves stuck.

Steve stayed in Hawkins until the kids graduated and left for college. By then Nancy, Johnathan, and Robin are all in their second or third years of college. John and Nancy have their own apartment in New York together and don't reach out all that often, only seeing the rest of the Hawkins crew on Holidays and some vacations. Robin is flourishing at an all-women's college in Maine and has a partner and a cat and plans for graduate school brewing. She's always saying Steve can come out and join her whenever he's ready, but when the time comes it feels like he would just be trying to insert himself in the middle of a life he doesn't know how to fit into, so he turns to Eddie instead.

Eddie is permanently disabled in a number of ways following the events of season four. He struggles with chronic pain, has breathing issues due to the loss of part of his right lung, and lost enough muscle mass in his left leg that walking will never be easy or done without the use of a walker or arm bar crutches. The doctors said he recovered as well as he could have. The kids said he would get better with time. Wayne said it didn't matter if he never got better, he could do anything he set his mind to.

Steve is the only person who tells him the truth.

Steve tells him that it sucks. Tells him that it will probably always hurt. Doesn't give him false hope when he's trying to grieve the loss of the life he wanted to live. The goals he wanted to reach. When he falls deeper and deeper into himself, stuck in the muck of depression, Steve is the only person he lets in. The kids try their best but their lives are moving fast, and taking care of someone like Eddie is exhausting, no matter what they try to say. Eventually, everyone but Dustin gives up on reaching out, the younger boy showing up every Sunday to try and get Eddie out of the house. He always leaves disappointed.

When Steve asks him if he wants to use what's left of their partly government payouts and Steve's equally meager Family Video savings to buy a truly shitty trailer in a town an hour and a half south of Hawkins in the fall of 1990, it feels like the first boon he's been given in almost five years. He'll never be who he could have been if he had ignored Chrissy that day in 86', but he's always thought maybe he could be more than a ghost between Wayne's walls if he could just get out of this god-forsaken town full of people who know too much and too little of what's happened to him.

They get the trailer, pack what little they have, let Wayne hug them close, and leave.

Steve has already transferred to their new town's Family Video, moving up to claim the dubious honor of being the opening manager. Mostly he just unlocks the door, signs into the computer, and makes sure nothing catches fire. Eddie hoped that moving would miraculously make him fit to enter back into the world, but he spends most of his days with a blanket on the front porch, watching people pass by. He does, though, finally accept that he needs to apply for disability to help Steve keep the lights on and the water hot. That last little bit of hope that he could be what he used to be dies, but he's learning to be content with what he does have. He starts taking a walk, just ten minutes around the loop of the trailer park saying hi and trading polite nods with his fellow residents. He's not ok, but he's starting to build a new community of people not too different from himself.

The new trailer only has one bedroom. Eddie sleeps on a fold-out mattress in the living room. It had been a major argument when they first moved in with Steve insisting that Eddie needed the bed. Eddie argued that it wasn't fair for him to take the room when Steve was the one working 40 hours a week to keep them afloat. In the end, Eddie was the more stubborn of the two. It helps that Eddie has absolutely no qualms about crawling into bed with Steve on the nights when the couch bed really won't cut it for his aching body. Steve never questions it, just shuffles over a little and lets the other man in.

Steve doesn't question a lot of stuff.

He doesn't question when all their effects are shared between them with no effort to distinguish between yours and mine, Eddie's and Steve's. He doesn't question it four months in when Eddie starts to get his feet under him and decides to take up cooking, always trying his best to have everything done just as Steve walks through the door. He doesn't question when a good chunk of Eddie's first disability check goes to buying Steve a sturdy, if not very fashionable, new watch for his birthday since his old one went bust almost a year ago.

He doesn't question it when Eddie holds his hand for the first time under the stars hanging above their front porch.

He doesn't question it when Eddie introduces him to one of his new neighbor friends with a hand resting comfortably on his lower back

He doesn't question it when Eddie starts sleeping in the bedroom every night.

Or makes him box mix cupcakes for Valentine's Day.

Or kisses him for the first time on the couch that's never a bed unless they want to spend the day binge-watching bargain bin films.

Because really, isn't this how it was always going to go? Wasn't this exactly what Steve was asking for when he asked Eddie to skip town with him?

Isn't this what Eddie was hoping for when he said yes?

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no-144444 · 4 months ago

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simple, easy life- m.verstappen

summary: an accident happens and max's life changes for the worst

pairing: max verstappen x fem! reader

warnings: main character death, death, car crashes

a/n: YUKI TO RB???? I MEAN SLAY FOR HIM BUT ALSO THE RB IS SHIT, AND POOR LIAM, AND I HATE REDBULL! (not u isack, yuki, max, or liam, but fuck u helmut marko u twat)

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Realistically, cars were Max’s first love. You weren’t disillusioned to the fact that Max was a car guy in every sense of the word, and constantly made jokes that he loved his cars more than you.

He’d never drive a car again if it meant you never got hurt like this.

He had been sitting at dinner, the most regular experience, the night before the China GP, and your best mate, Hailee, called him sobbing crying.

“Max, it’s Y/n, I have no idea what’s happened, but it’s bad. She’s in emergency surgery or something, they didn’t tell me. I just- GET HERE, alright Max. Get here.”

And she hung up as his world stopped. His entire world shattered because you were hurt, you were thousands of miles away, and he had a race tomorrow.

“Are you alright mate?” GP leaned over and questioned, his voice low.

“I have to go back to Monaco,” he announced, getting up from his chair and tucking his jacket under his arm, beginning the walk out of the restaurant.

GP fumbled to follow after him, and the voices of Helmut, Jos, and Christian calling Max back echoed through the restaurant. “Mate, what’s going on?!” GP shouted after him as they reached the streets of Shanghai.

“It’s personal,” he answered. “Get Yuki to fill my seat. Have Pepe fill his. Done.”

“Max, Christian isn’t going to take ‘it’s personal’ as a response, that’s going on?” GP grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back. “What’s happened?”

“Y/n’s hurt,” he admitted, looking down. “And she needs me.”

His face fell, his jaw dropping. “My god, is she alright?”

Max shrugged, emotion catching in his throat. “I don’t know.”

He'd never seen Max like that. He’d never seen him almost cry over a girl. He’d never seen him sacrifice championship points for someone, for anyone.

“What’s going on Max?” Jos demanded, stepping out beside the two men. He placed a hand on the back of his neck, and Max tensed up.

“I have to go back to Monaco,” he answered, his voice steady. “It’s important.” “Nothing’s more important than racing-”

“Y/n is,” Max interjected. “And she’s lying in a fucking hospital bed on the other side of the world, so yes, she’s more fucking important!” he argued, slapping his father’s hand away. “We have reserve drivers for a fucking reason. Use them.”

And he walked away. Away to the airport where his jet was being stored, and he flew straight back home, catastrophizing the entire way. What if you were injured badly? What had happened? Had it been a drunk driver? Would you have serious disabilities? Would you have to take time off work? Which car were you driving, was it his? And the worst thought of all popped into his head; What if you were dead?

He pushed it back as far as he could, but still, it stayed. Lingering like the smell of your goddamn perfume on his jacket.

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All he could smell was antiseptic and a little bit of dread. It had been an exhausting 14 hour flight, one he couldn’t rest on. Max prided himself on being able to sleep through anything, and anywhere. That was not the case when it came to you.

“And how do you know the patient?” the nurse asked, pulling him out of his spiral once more.

“I’m her fiancé,” he answered, eyes glassy and heavy.

“She’s just down the hall in room 8. Be aware, it may be a bit of a jarring sight, she’s hooked up to a few machines, and she’s in an induced coma,” the nurse tried to put it as softly as she could, but no one could make that sound good, not even Bruce Buffer. “Do you want someone to accompany you? I can come in, just for moral support?” she offered, seeing the way Max’s body language changed at her words.

He chuckled sadly. “You’re very kind, but no. Thank you.”

She nodded and he walked on. He needed to do this on his own, mostly because he didn’t really know what he was walking into. He wasn’t sure what was going to happen, but he knew he was going to stand by you forever, if that’s how long this took. Though he hoped it wouldn’t. He hoped you’d pull through, get strong again, do all the things you wanted with your life.

Be there with him while you both grew old, have you care for him even when no one remembered his name.

Be in love. Get married. Have that small family you always wished for.

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You died at 1.33am. The universe was taunting him, clearly. He held your hand. He didn’t call the nurse. He just sat there for a few moments, trying to imagine a future without you. He fucking couldn’t. His whole life was centred around you, around you being in it. After F1 he would just stay in Monaco with you, spend his days watching his kids grow up. He would walk them to school in the mornings and bring you back a coffee from your favourite shop, maybe a cinnamon roll on a Friday, or everyday. Depends on what you’d let him do. He’d come in, coffees in hand, and bring yours to you in bed, or maybe in your office. Maybe you’d kiss him. Maybe you’d smile one of those perfect smiles of yours. Maybe it wouldn’t matter, because you both knew you had another chance the next day.

And all of that was gone. You were gone.

So what was meant to happen now?

He didn’t know. He didn’t want to know.

But he had to. He ran through all the motions, he signed the paperwork, and he picked out the casket.

But he should’ve been picking up the kids from school, holding your hand and kissing you, even if it embarrassed them.

It should’ve been a simple, easy life.

But it wasn’t.

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navigation for my blog :)

redbull & vcarb masterlist

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cripplecharacters · 1 year ago

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Disabilities that You Should Consider Representing in Your Writing More… part 1

[large text: Disabilities that You Should Consider Representing in Your Writing More… part 1]

While all disabilities are underrepresented in basically all sorts of media, it’s hard to not notice the trend in what disabilities make up the majority of representation. It’s especially visible when having a blog like this, where we can see what disabilities writers even consider including in their writing, and which ones never come up.

One in four people are disabled. With eight billion people alive it means there’s a lot of disabled people, and a lot of reasons why they are disabled in the first place - but this diversity is rarely represented, even on this blog, and anyone who has been following for a while has probably noticed that fact.

To be blunt: there are disabilities other than “amputee” and “invisibly disabled mobility aid user”. Does that mean that it’s wrong to write either of those? No, and we don’t want to imply that it is. Does it mean that either of these have a lot of good representation? Absolutely not, half of all the amputee characters out there are written by people who don't seem to be even aware they're writing a disabled character. Does it mean that when you are deciding on what to give your character, you should think beyond (or along! people can be, and often are, multiply disabled!) just those two? Absolutely. Disability is a spectrum with thousands of things in it.

This is, simply, a list of common disabilities. This is just a few of them, as this is part one of presumably many (or, at least three as of right now). By “common” we rather arbitrarily decided on “~1% or more” - so at least 1 in 100 people has the disabilities below, which is a lot. Featuring!: links that you should click, sources of the % that are mostly just medical reports and might be hard to read, and quick, very non-exhaustive explanations to give you a basic idea of what these are.

Intellectual disability (about 1.5%) Intellectual disability is a condition we have written about at length before. It’s a developmental disability that affects things such as conceptualization, language, problem-solving, or social and self-care skills. ID can exist on its own or be a part of another condition, like Down Syndrome, Congenital Iodine Deficiency, or Fetal Alcohol Spectrum Disorders. This post covers a lot of basic information that you might need. We have an intellectual disability tag that you can look through!

Cancer survivors (5.4% in the US, about 0.55% worldwide) A cancer survivor is a pretty self-explanatory term. There is a lot of types of cancer and some of them are very common while others are very rare, which makes this a very diverse category. Cancers also have different survival rates. While not every survivor will have disabling symptoms, they definitely happen. Most of the long-term side effects are related to chemotherapy, radiation, and other medication, especially if they happened in children. They can include all sorts of organ damage, osteoporosis, cognitive problems, sensory disabilities, infertility, and increased rate of other cancers. Other effects include removal of the affected area, such as an eye, a spleen, breasts, or the thyroid gland, each of which will have different outcomes. Cancer, and cancer treatments, can also result in PTSD.

Diabetes (about 8.5%, ~95% of that are type 2) Diabetes is a group of endocrine conditions that cause hyperglycemia (high blood sugar) for various reasons depending on the type. The vast majority of people have type 2 diabetes, which can cause fatigue, poor healing, or feeling thirsty or hungry. A diabetic person will use insulin when needed to help manage their blood sugar levels. There are many complications related to diabetes, from neuropathy, to retinopathy, and chronic kidney disease, and there's a lot of disabilities that coexist with diabetes in general! You might want to check out the #how to write type 1 diabetes tag by @type1diabetesinfandom!

Disabling vision loss (about 7.5%) Blindness and low vision are a spectrum, ranging from total blindness (around 10% of legally blind people) to mild visual impairment. Blindness can be caused by countless things, but cataracts, refractive errors, and glaucoma are the most common. While cataracts cause the person to have a clouded pupil (not the whole eye!) blind eyes usually look average, with strabismus or nystagmus being exceptions to that fairly often (but not always). Trauma isn't a common cause of blindness, and accidents are overrepresented in fiction. A blind person can use a white cane, a guide dog or horse, or both. Assistive solutions are important here, such as Braille, screenreaders, or magnifying glasses. We have a blindness tag that you can look through, and you might want to check out @blindbeta and @mimzy-writing-online.

Psoriasis (about 2-4%) Psoriasis is a chronic skin condition with multiple subtypes; it can cause intense itching, pain, and general discomfort, and often carries social stigma. It’s an autoimmune and non-contagious disability that affects the skin cells, resulting in raised patches of flaky skin covered with scales. It often (30%) leads to a related condition, psoriatic arthritis, which causes joint pain, tenderness, and fatigue, among other things.

Stroke survivors (0.5-1%) A stroke survivor is a person who has survived any kind of stroke (ischemic, hemorrhagic, etc.). While the specific symptoms often depend on the exact location on where the stroke happened, signs such as hemiplegia, slurred speech, vision problems, and cognitive changes are common in most survivors to some degree. When someone has a stroke as a baby, or before they are born, it can result in cerebral palsy, epilepsy, and other disabilities. We have a brain injury tag that you can look through!

Noonan Syndrome (about 0.1-1% - mild is 1%, severe 0.1%) Noonan Syndrome is a disability that is almost never mentioned in any context, but certainly not around the topic of writing disabled characters. It’s a congenital condition that can cause cardiomyopathy, chronic joint pain, hypermobility, short stature, facial differences such as ptosis, autism, and various lymphatic problems among other things. Some people with Noonan Syndrome might use mobility aids to help with their joint pain.

Hyperthyroidism (about 1.2%) Hyperthyroidism is a condition of the endocrine system caused by hormone overproduction that affects metabolism. It often results in irritability, weight loss, heat intolerance, tremors, mood swings, or insomnia. Undertreated hyperthyroidism has a rare, but extremely dangerous side effect associated with it called a thyroid storm, which can be fatal if untreated.

Hypothyroidism (>5%) Hypothyroidism is an endocrine condition just as hyperthyroidism is, and it causes somewhat opposite symptoms. Due to not producing enough thyroid hormones, it often causes fatigue, depression, hair loss, weight gain, and a frequent feeling of being cold. It’s often comorbid with other autoimmune disabilities, e.g. vitiligo, chronic autoimmune gastritis, and rheumatoid arthritis. Extreme hypothyroidism can also be potentially fatal because of a condition known as Myxedema coma (or “crisis”), which is also rare.

Deafblindness (about 0.2-2%) Being DeafBlind is often considered to be an extremely rare disability, but that’s not really the case. DeafBlindness on its own isn’t a diagnosis - it can be caused by a wide range of things, with CHARGE syndrome (congenital), Usher syndrome (born deaf, becomes blind later in life), congenital rubella, and age-related deafness and blindness being some of the most common reasons. DeafBlindness is a wide spectrum, the vast majority of DeafBlind people aren’t fully blind and deaf, and they can use various ways of communication. Some of these could be sign language (tactile or not), protactile, the deafblind manual, oral speech (aided by hearing aids or not), the Lorm alphabet, and more. You can learn more about assistive devices here! Despite what various media like to tell you, being DeafBlind isn’t a death sentence, and the DeafBlind community and culture are alive and thriving - especially since the start of the protactile movement. We have a DeafBlindness tag that you can look through!

It’s probably worth mentioning that we have received little to no asks in general for almost all the disabilities above, and it’s certainly not due to what mods answer for. Our best guess is that writers don’t realize how many options they have and just end up going for the same things over and over.

Only representing “cool” disabilities that are “not too much while having a particular look/aura/drama associated” isn’t what you should aim for. Disabled people just exist, and all of us deserve to be represented, including those whose disabilities aren’t your typical “cool design” or “character inspo”, and literally all of us deserve to have good, informed representation. Sometimes we are just regular people, with disabilities that are “boring” or “too much”, and don’t make for useful plot points.

mod Sasza (with huge thank you to mod Sparrow, Rot, and Virus for their contributions with research)

#mod sasza #disabled character ideas #writing guide #writing resources #writing help #writing advice #writeblr

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donjuaninhell · 7 months ago

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@strawberryswitchblader One of the problems surrounding Long Covid as a diagnosis is that it encompasses an overly broad variety of post-acute sequelae. You have people experiencing everything from scarring on the lungs, liver and kidney damage, to loss of smell. Then there are those who develop dysautonomic conditions like POTS or who are later diagnosed with ME/CFS and experience Post-Exertional Malaise. There is also a very large (perhaps even the majority) group of persons who will experience a prolonged but temporary period of post-viral fatigue; these are the people who recover gradually on their own, generally within a timeframe of six to eight months. It's not really exercise that leads to their recovery, they would have recovered on their own, and may even have recovered more quickly through a program of radical rest. My beautiful girlfriend is dealing with some post-viral fatigue right now after having gotten sick with mononucleosis this past summer. It's been a real struggle for her dealing with it, but she's also not experiencing PEM, so I'm confident she'll fully recover.

Many of the people who make claims about recovering from "chronic fatigue syndrome" through exercise therapy or some psychological treatment are in this post-viral fatigue category and mistaking correlation for causation and forgetting that the plural of anecdote is not data. The data overwhelmingly supports the notion that for patients experiencing PEM, graded exercise leads to a worsened disease state and a potentially permanently lowered baseline. Before I was diagnosed it's precisely how I inadvertently powerlifted, nightwalked and gradschooled myself into becoming housebound.

And having lived with ME at varying degrees of severity going on twenty-seven years now, I gotta say, it's very boring resting all the time. You get antsy fast. If all it took to get better was walking a bit more every day, I'd jump at the chance, but exercise doesn't really do much for chronic CD8+ T cell exhaustion, or hypofusion causing excess calcium and sodium buildup in skeletal muscles leading to mitochondrial damage. There was a paper that came out just a few months ago that published the results of analyzing blood samples from nearly 1500 ME/CFS patients and 130,000 healthy controls, and they discovered hundreds of biomarkers which indicated everything from insulin resistance to poor blood oxygenation, mitochondrial dysfunction, and systemic chronic inflammation. You can't fix any of that with exercise.

It's all a mess, there really needs to be stricter research diagnostic criteria, and better delineation between the various subtypes. It would clear up so much confusion, but that's also why there haven't been tighter criteria. Exercise and therapy makes for a very inexpensive treatment, one that insurance companies are far more willing to back than experimental anti-viral treatments or IVIg therapy, and in some countries the disability allowances for psychological conditions is less than for physical conditions. If you keep it ambiguous if Long Covid or ME/CFS or fibromyalgia or POTS are physical or psychological diseases, well you save austerity governments a few bucks there too.

#chronic illness #me/cfs #long covid #sorry for using your tags as a jumping off point for an essay. i'm glad your mom recovered.

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neil-gaiman · 1 year ago

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Hi Neil.

I know you are flooded with asks and this somehow became extremely long. Too long. “Why am I suddenly telling this poor man my life story?” too long. “I think I’d rather he work on the GO3 script than read this wild beast” too long. “He’s going to think you’re criminally dangerously insane” too long. If you never get to it, I’m good with never seeing a response from you. Maybe it’s better that way? Maybe an anon would have been nice here. But, it’s 2024, so I say “we ball.” It’s a privilege to be able to send this to you at all. You get a lot to this effect and I hope they give you good feels, so maybe what’s the harm, yeah? Because this is not an ask. This is a thank you letter.

First, thanks for reblogging my therapist post, I hope it amused you. I nearly sent you “How am i supposed to explain this to my therapist?!” But refrained. At that time.

So, therapy. What is therapy really? Well…

Things have been really rotten for as long as I can remember. Bad health, bad doctors, bad relationships, bad coping mechanisms, bad all kinds of things. (Yeah, bad is a weak and unhelpful word, my therapist reminds me, but we’re doing this.)

Well, things got even more really really rotten and BAD these last few years. Health declined further, coping mechanisms declined further and more intensely, packed up my life, applied for disability, moved back in with my parents across the country.

Then 4 years ago last week I watched my fiance die of a sudden heart attack. I was 29. Two years later my best friend died. Then last summer I sauntered vaguely into a cancer scare. Not long before an operation my cat who has been my companion through so much garbage died as well. I’m not entirely in the clear on the cancer scare front. All my attempts at going back to work, volunteering, going to grad school - they collapsed on me because I couldn’t get through this STUFF.

(Sometimes when I talk about this, when I tell people, I think “they are going to think you are a raging pathological liar.” Because I’m not sure I would believe someone if they told me all of this happened to them. In such a short time period. All before they were 35. And hell if that hasn’t been isolating. You know how it sounds? Lonely. And it is.)

I did the hypervigilant and sensation/experience chasing stage of PTSD. It got me in a lot of trouble in all kinds of ways. I had to do a lot of medical and psych advocating because things kept getting worse. That was exhausting. Then that peaked. I went into the thick of the “I feel absolutely nothing” stage for a long time. I didn’t feel fatigue or hunger or thirst. Not people, feelings, a reason. Not hope.

But of course, like seems be for a lot of us, I somehow found Good Omens at just the right time. I was a very “I’m so cool and intellectual I mostly consume non-fiction media” person for too long. Like, what? How is that even a real thing? And it wasn’t real. It was just part of this curated autism mask that I don’t think anyone really bought anyway.

I think I got to a point where I’d just had too much reality. I needed fantasy. I didn’t realize I always needed it. But I denied myself for too many odd and painful reasons. Maybe I thought it was an escape I didn’t deserve.

But as it turns out, it wasn’t an escape. I watched both seasons last fall, and then this light came on. I watched it again and again.

I came to tumblr because I needed more. I found this fandom. I stepped into this beautiful world of fanart and fanfiction and brain flexing meta writing and a sense of community and wonder that you and Terry created - that everyone involved in the show inflated - exploded in the right way - like fireworks if fireworks were some kind of autocatalytic reaction - a self perpetuating force.

It’s not a “saved my life” feeling. Not a “getting my life back” feeling. It’s been a “maybe it’s time for you to have the life you’ve always been denied - that you’ve denied yourself” feeling.

I’m creating. I’m not “great” yet. Not terribly “good” at all. Maybe “behind” as far as the “proper” timeline for starting. I know there isn’t one, not really, but boy does that society machine make ya feel like there is. And sure, I started and stopped a lot in the past. But the second it got hard I always gave up. I felt like if I didn’t get it “right” to begin with, then I just didn’t have it in me at all. But for once I’m really in it. I’m writing and trying to draw things that look less like fever dream five year old drawings. (Not that there’s anything wrong with those, is there? 🙃) I’m eating better. I’m sleeping better. I reach out to old friends more. I’ve made new friends who share this love of Good Omens.

My therapist has been floored by the change in me. After that first funny mini flop, he has been so encouraging about it. I saw him this week and I said “Maybe this is helping me get prepared to start living again. Maybe it’s a springboard.” And he honest to god said “But You ARE living. This is YOU LIVING. Why does it have to be a springboard? Why do you have to turn this into ‘work?’ Just let yourself have this for once in your life.”

But there were two more added elements that made it all work. And I can’t help but think this whole brainrot thing wouldn’t have happened without them. So many things just happened all at just the right time - a proper coincidence.

In all of the madness of the last few years I finally got the memo that I'm autistic. i figured I was for a while. But it finally sunk in for me and my docs and my people. So I’d been working on unpacking that. Grieving the life that could have been entirely different, shedding the mask. I let myself hyperfixate openly instead of hiding it and hating myself for “spiralling” or “obsessing” like others -!like ‘I’ always punished myself for before we knew that it was a trait and not a personality flaw.

Then over the last few months my therapist and I started trying this new exercise. One session he stopped me and said “in the last 20 minutes you have responded to what I’ve said with 9 ‘I knows.’” My response to that? “Ugh, I know.” So we started this “I know” swear jar type situation. Really, I’ve been afraid of not knowing. I couldn’t let myself “not know.” Because it meant I was “dumb.” I was just drowning for so long in guilt and self loathing for the “I knew better and screwed up anyway.” Or “I should’ve known better - I should know that by now.”

As it turns out, there’s a lot of things I don’t know. That I didn’t know. Things I will never know. And refusing to admit all of that kept me from learning a damn thing. Kept me from asking questions. Kept me from trying new things because it was scary to do something new - something unknown - and I "knew" how it would all turn out anyway. Kept me from connecting with people because it was painful or embarrassing when they knew things I didn’t and it seemed like I already should have. Kept me from getting better at making art, music, writing. Kept me from forgiving myself. Kept me from growing. And kept me from moving forward. Maybe not on. I don’t know if we ever “move on” from things. But we can move forward as we carry them. And as we do, the weight gets less. We’re able to carry it better. But only if we can admit that we don’t know how. Only if we don’t treat ourselves like this is something we do know or should know and we’re just failing because we’re less than. Not good enough. Not strong enough. Not deserving. We have to be able to say “I don’t know how to do this.” And then we can start looking for the answers. We can ask. We can learn.

I thought about the apple. Being able to tell the difference between good and evil. Aziraphale’s years and years of watching what he “knows” to be true be proven wrong. Crowley’s need to ask questions…

The simple and enormous gift of “Knowledge.” The “Knowledge” of the difference between Good and Evil. The “Knowledge” that can only be gained by realizing, accepting, admitting that there are things we don’t know. Asking the questions. Sometimes we get answers we don’t like. Sometimes the consequences of asking hurt us. And unless you want to stay in that painful place that painful knowledge got you, well, you’ve got to let yourself learn how to get out.

So all of this good? I never expected this. I never thought I deserved it. Joy and belonging and this sense that “Yeah, maybe things can get better. Maybe things can be good.” Because I said those things, not truly believing them, to the people I thought needed to hear it. But it couldn’t save them. It was hollow. The proof for us wasn’t really in our orbit or on our radar at the time. And now they’re gone.

People always say “it’s never too late.”

One of the people I lost said “it’s later than you think.”

I jokingly would respond “it’s already too late.”

It was for him in the end. For them. For some people I guess it really is. But maybe a lot of the “too late” people are there because they think “they know” that things will never be good for them. So they stop looking, they stop asking, stop finding. And eventually they just stop.

Then there came Crowley’s “It’s always too late.” The first time I heard it I thought “For sure, Crowley-cakes, I KNOW.”

But then…I just needed to rewatch the whole thing. And lines like that…familiar things…familiar themes…I was suddenly identifying with these characters. I suddenly saw myself. And the realization hit - I connected with something! Something new. And I FELT THAT. And that tiny little crack that made in the wall was just enough to start breaking it down. Yeah, when you start letting yourself feel after not feeling for so long, opening up to the good feelings means opening up to feelings and then the bad ones come out too. But when there IS good … it helps you balance. You can deal with the bad a little better because you’ve got the good thing to lean against when it gets too much. And now you’ve got feelings. You’ve got good and bad. You’ve got sticky foggy grey. You’ve got life.

Whew.

So, TLDR, thank you. From the bottom of my slowly healing heart, thank you.

And to sign off with some shits and giggles… I couldn’t find this in existence as a sticker so I had to custom order. Perhaps this will spread misery and panic among the humans of my city - or at least a malignant and creepy sense of unease.

Or maybe they’ll say “wtf” and go home and google it and they’ll fall into the Good Omens hole they never knew they needed too.

Thank you for this. I never quite know what to say to messages like this apart from I am really glad that it helps. (It becomes the weird extra piece that I worry about when writing season 3 -- hoping that it will be that thing again. Not just a story, but something that helps people feel and helps with healing and helps with love.)

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star-anise · 1 year ago

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are we talking about broke therapists yet?

I've been out of things for a couple of years now, which is why I'm willing to talk about it, and maybe the pandemic has helped things a little, but holy shit the counselling and psychotherapy field is not equipped to help its practitioners in the gig economy.

Of all my interests and talents, I pursued a degree in psychology because being a therapist is supposed to be a safe, stable, well-paid job. Every therapist I met who was registered before 2008 worked and lived under that assumption. And oh boy are all the fee structures--registration, supervision, continuing education, conferences--set up for that scenario.

After getting my Master's, I struggled like hell to get a job. It was especially bad because to get my license, I needed a supervisor to take me on. To take me on, most supervisors wanted me to already have a caseload and client base. To get a caseload and client base, I needed a job.

Friends: Every single job I heard back on wanted me to have my license before I could even land an interview.

Professors and career advisors and professional development specialists all advised me very earnestly to just keep cold-calling people on the supervision list, and it began to feel a lot like my parents' friends telling me to hit the bricks and hand out resumes. That's what worked for them, right?

I finally got a supervisor who agreed to take me on, and I'd be able to use her clinic for advertising and workspace, and we were doing the paperwork to send in with my registration, when she called me up and said, "Is this job going to be your only source of income? If you're trying to depend on getting clients and building your practice for your basic needs, this is not going to work out. This has to be something you're doing on top of a basic salary. Okay, so you're not working anywhere else right now? I'm sorry, I can't move forward with this."

Even once I landed a supervisor and a job building my own private practice, I struggled. I have ADHD and am not great at self-promotion, so trying to do all my own advertising, scheduling, bookkeeping, billing, and records management (on top of counselling) was an enormous strain. One my bosses, supervisors, and other senior professionals watched with a slightly critical eye, but consoled me about because in their early days, their clinics had had business managers, receptionists, filing clerks, and accountants, and getting used to doing everything online yourself was a bit of a learning curve, wasn't it?

I counted my pennies very carefully, because I had to pay my supervisor roughly $180 for their services every 6 hours of in-person counselling I did. This meant that to break even I had to charge my clients an average of about $30 (plus room rental and service fees) an hour--and my clients, being people with complex trauma, were frequently poor, disabled, unemployed, and had no health benefits, so even $10 or $20 a session was a lot for them.

Maybe it would have been easier if I could have taken some of those nice comfortable organization positions where they find clients and funding for you and you work 40 hours a week and get benefits and a pension, but I had to be disabled into the bargain, so working 40 hours a week just isn't possible for me. I start passing out from stress and exhaustion. Older colleagues gave me serious-faced advice about approaching my employer and asking them for some flexibility and accommodation in my schedule, and I tried to explain across the gap between us that employers simply did not hire me if I made the slightest noise about the workload. They weren't going to invest in me as a person; they were hiring 40 units of work a week, and if I wouldn't do it there were a dozen applicants after me who would.

At one point I broke down enough to email my licensing body because the Annual General Meeting/Professional Development Conference was coming up, and I wanted to attend, but I could not produce $500 to do it with. Was there some kind of way I could attend anyway? I felt ashamed to have to ask, and then absolutely mortified when the response came from the organization president, who needed to personally sign off on me being too poor to attend the single most important event in my profession's calendar year.

I honestly felt so ashamed all the time at how I was apparently failing to be a successful therapist, failing to be rich and successful, and every time I mentioned it around mentors and bosses, I could feel myself shrinking from a person to a problem to be solved. My closest therapist-friends and I have reflected on how much more difficult, poorly-paid and underworked, our various career starts have been than we were ever warned about. About the classmates and coworkers who couldn't get disability exceptions when they fell behind in their registration requirements, or burned out and left the field, or dropped their registrations and took up as life coaches, or moved their whole family somewhere exceptionally remote or rural because it was the only good job available, or worked for some godforsaken app skirting the bounds of malpractice like BetterHelp.

I like those conversations, because I feel less like an absolute fuck-up in them. There's less "Hey Lis, you were so talented in grad school, I really admired you, what are you doing now?" "Oh, I, uh... am professionally disabled, so I get government benefits, and I... sell embroidery patterns on Etsy now."

My own therapist kept asking if and when I felt like going back to being a counsellor, and I finally told him: I don't, actually. I don't want to go back and do it like I was doing it before. It was a profession I loved to the depths of my soul, and it profoundly did not love me back. I can't even imagine what would have to change, in me or it, to make it have a space in it that could fit me.

All of which I was way too scared to admit to at the time, because the more I let people know I was struggling, the more they hinted that maybe I just wasn't in a place in my life where this was a job I could do, and I needed to take a little break and wait to come back until money and disability just weren't issues for me anymore.

Eventually my cups of doubt and exhaustion did overflow, and I quit. I'm here now, living a much different life. And at the very least, all my years of helping people in bad life situations set me up perfectly for my own. I already knew what form to fill out for financial assistance, which student clinics to access for mental health support, and which government agency would, if pressed, cough out pharmacy coverage for the genuinely destitute. It gave me that much.

I hope this is just me being in extraordinary circumstances, sitting at the intersections of a few different shitty life situations that most people skip right past. Because it's on one level comforting, but another deeply infuriating, if I'm not, and I've just missed it or we've just all been too afraid to admit it to each other.

#staranise original #therapisting

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beemochi-art · 3 months ago

Note

https://www.tumblr.com/beemochi-art/780419210654400512/im-exhausted-and-my-mental-state-is-poor-looking?source=share

Can we get more of Optimus being hurt and pathetic? Headcanons mayhaps?

Optimus will get so much anxiety he’ll make himself sick. He’s pretty good at hiding it so for most part until he pukes everywhere, most of the autobots think it comes out of left field. Ratchet can always sense when something’s not right.

Primes are supposed to maintain a dignified persona and have to be perfect. Optimus is far from that and will often embarrass himself just like this. Ratchet still wanting to maintain Op’s dignity will make sure any other bot looks away.

Everyone’s really worried about him when he gets sick like that. It takes Op longer to recover due to his disability. Sometimes it’ll take hours and he’ll just lay there in a fetal position, wallowing in his own self hatred. And the whole mission is shot.

Ratchet tries to help him best he can, but he’s a doctor, not a therapist (he probably needs one himself.)

#transformers #asks #my art #transformers au #optimus prime #ratchet #scavenger #ironhide #wheeljack

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limpfisted · 2 years ago

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Something I think taken for granted for "good and heroic" characters like wyll is

How hard it is to be a hero in settings like this in gen. especially a solo hero.

And then u look at will especially at 17, especially after just losing half of your vision, and now being obligated to hunt devils for mizora, and not being able to tell people who you are or why you have magical powers

Wylls life has been extremely difficult.

Hes not "some rich boy." In fact, he tells you himself, he never really was. His father became grand Duke when he was 17. His father was a Duke before that, but his father was born to a poor blacksmith father and he was the youngest of six, so he worked his way up the ranks. Even as son of a Duke and grandduke---ulder was champion of the poorer "mythical middle class" lower city. All nobles and patriars are from the upper city. There's no way wyll wasn't looked down on by the upper city and then held to a certain untouchable standard as the flaming fist brat by the lower city/outer city people

And yet even at being some "rich boy" he excelled thru hard work and dedication, making things into a competition if nothing else, in which despite his Father's unsurpance to power, he still had PROOF he was the most charming, after all, he held the record for most sarabandes danced in a single evening, much to the exhaustion to the good lords and ladies of the courts.

But even so, with this "cushy life" (where he would get into trouble, mind you! Where his father would encourage him to get into fights, who would train him with a rapier, where he would drink in taverns in the lower city at 14 despite being "a noble rich boy" and hand deliver letters from his father to sharess's caress before he ever knew what went on with the pretty men and handsome ladies behind closed doors.)

Have you ever been camping, like experienced the holy shit, Outside of it all? I dont even like leaving the house without my phone. Wyll, 17, traveled all over the sword coast, with one eye, who knows how many supplies.

While wyll laughs off the trauma of it, losing an eye is a real ass disability that affects your motor skills. It can be difficult to do things like cut food at first, and it can take like 6 months WITH THERAPY for everything to feel "normal" again. Now imagine fending off goblins, and minotaurs, with no therapy, no physical therapy, no doctor. Having to navigate the cold of winter, cursed lands, mountains, all by yourself.

Having to learn to use you sword again, this time without your father. Remembering him every time you pick it up. Remembering the way he looked at you every time you face down a "devil." Spitting the words he would later say to you at them. They stink of avernus, they have brought ruin

Wyll dedicated his life to laboring for the people of the Sword Coast. It's not easy. He makes it look fun, because he's so proud of himself and happy to be helping people

But its actually hard and lonely. And it doesn't come easy, even to Wyll, I think. He had to train himself, it probably took him a long time to figure out what he was doing

I dont think wyll is really as inexperienced and naive as people think. Hes been to avernus, he's fought dragons and minotaurs. He's seen terrible things, he's STOPPED terrible things, and he's going to continue doing so, and choosing to do so, with the full knowledge of what that decision means, and the hard work and sacrifice it requires.

he's fully aware of who he is and what he's capable of, and he's extremely brave and strong and competent

Its good to be good for the sake of being good! And wyll does believe in fairy tales. But his dedication to the blade doesn't come because he's misinformed. Is he as experienced and powerful as he thinks he is? No, he's 24 LOL. But he's still done a lot! Has YOUR muse hunted devils thru avernus? Has ur muse even BEEN to avernus?

Wyll ravengard genuinely is improvising half the time---but more important than simply "being" good and wanting to do good----Wyll has the experience, practice and competence in serving a community to actually BETTER and protect communities.

In fandom spaces we often talk about how certain characters are "just so good" but we like. We forget about the effort it takes to actually commit to acts of doing good, the practice and perservance it takes to competently serve the community.

You can give the people the shirt off ur back but u run out of shirts eventually. Wyll has made himself an important resource on the Sword Coast for its safety. And I think we take that for granted bc its a genre staple, but like. He worked really hard. He dedicated himself to this.

He sold his soul, and he kept living and doing good anyway

#ooc #hc #in general i think fandom doesnt think about wyll as disabled #but it affected his life bro

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moonlaceletters · 1 month ago

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soft! yandere italy x reader / I

୨୧ ˖˚ nota bene - before you read ˚˖ ୨୧ these pages bleed softly; within. love turned vine and vice. curated selection of literary vignettes ❤︎

in the wobbly-tiled garden of warmest wishes, and, terribly humorously ― with one stuck wheel, heart of rome fell into ❤︎

⊱ luna is essence, meant to be you ♥︎

reader discretion is strongly advised. proceed gently — this piece is intended as psychological horror and critique of the staled relationship societal implications within nation-hood mechanic.

themes include: ⊱ disability / chronic illness / institutional ableism ⊱ fluffiest italian depictions of everyday life ─ painfully realistic & domestic reflection of everyday affairs (everyone is exhausted) ⊱ institutional violence in velvet & the rot of a love too loyal to let go ⊱ allusions to self-harm / suicidal ideation + medical trauma ⊱ power dynamics steeped in italian catholic guilt, nationalism, rococo dresses & decay

Oh, you were sent to Rome to recover — after a sickness or injury, one of the best places to be, after all. It was supposed to be safe — neutral, calm, diplomatic.

Just a whimsical, clever girl lost in Rome, too full of dreams for a place built on dead empires.

Rome had been a dream. One of those badly translated ones — blurry around the edges, a touch too bright, sold in travel pamphlets with stock photo smiles. She would wanted art, romance, something ancient pressed under her heart.

But it turned out horribly.

All the sanatorium could offer in pity-marked-parade and charade of missing documents, along with a crumbled visa — was a half-moldy hotel room (bathroom upstairs — no lift) and cheap airport biscotti, eaten cold with vending machine tea.

Spine screamed with every stone jolt of the city’s terrain — so, codeine it was. Too much in the first few days.

Girl alone in the Villa Doria Pamphilj — birds flickering between blooming leaves, sickeningly warm sunlight shining from above.

The park was sprawling, shaded by overgrown pines, full of classical echoes and sun-bleached reflections of marble.

No guide or proper map, just upside-down journal in her lap with scribbled up margins in confused English and chipped petals between her fingers. Wheelchair caught in cobblestone near the fountain, back wheels wobbling in protest; hem of way-too-flowy skirt for the occasion getting stuck and cheeks pink with stubborn pride.

Luna laughed at first, awkwardly. Then tried again — and again to no avail. Hands trembling, ache flaring down the neck. There was no one nearby.

Never-ending stream of indignacies follow — sounding like diluted poetry.

She sat — helpless, tiny, small. And quietly cried into the sleeve after the remainder of anger fizzled out.

He was not supposed to be there — as a afflicted official, was on diplomatic leave — meant to meet someone deemed important at a gallery, sipping a macchiato and pretending he still mattered in a crumbling European economy.

But, alas, something pulled. Maybe wracking anxiety in the deepest pits of the stomach or terribly humid, stuffy air.

Feli saw a poor soul from across the garden. A girl in a wheelchair, hunched and trembling, white skirt bunched like wilting petals. He ran— ran, heaving — and nearly tripped over himself kneeling at the side.

‘Signorina, Dio mio— / Good God, are you alright? Please, don’t move— can I—’

White shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, tie hanging terribly askew — curl unceremoniously floating.

‘I— I think I took the wrong path. The sign was faded, and the stones… they’re horribly old, I’m sorry–’

But Feliciano was already smoothing fabric down, inspecting the wheel for any damage; darting around for help that would never arrive. His hands were so gentle. Oh, tonality of voice, velvet.

‘Ai, Rome has never been kind to wheels. May I?’ — melodic laughter followed, bubbling up tears wiped with the corner of the palm; it was unclear whether it would be better to cry or laugh given the situation.

Prettiest Italian, saving a cripple of a girl in the middle of the city, as a prince? Hilarious.

Pathetic. Heartbreaking. Gut-wrenching guilt.

‘Good heavens, you don't have to—’

‘But I want to–…’

Freeing the frame of a wheel carefully, dusts his palms off, and walks besides like a pilgrim, pushing Luna over the softness of the grass. Tells her about Bernini’s angels, the way Italian stone always remembers footsteps.

He is not a tourist — very heart and soul Italy blossomed from — belonging to the rot of Rome. And now — he yearns her soul would belong to him, too. Just to preserve something lovingly soft in a cruel world.

Feli insisted with terribly wonky charm of his—

‘You must let me buy you a proper coffee! And have you seen the Colosseum–! Also–’

Luna agreed from the confused guilt. She should not have. Or maybe.

They went across wobbly, winded streets to a quiet cafe tucked away in Trastevere. Somewhere warm, blooming flowers draping in vivid hues. She rambled — soft, silly things — about rococo dresses and her university thesis on weird Italian bureaucracy.

And then it happened.

Luna mentioned the hotel, some forgotten name — little room. How it was… ‘not great, but I make-do’ Did not realise she mentioned it, as a passing thought. But Feliciano went quiet — as a funeral. She excused herself to the bathroom. When returned, he was pale — espresso untouched.

It was supposed to be temporary. An ‘accommodation’, they said. A rushed offer from a sanatorium that had no room for disabled foreign girls with limited means and too much fragility to be dealt with… properly.

‘It’s not so bad! I’ve stayed in worse! It’s just a little dusty—’

Luna was trying to make it easier; sheepish smile offered, hands flailing in bone-deep awkwardness. Alas, Feliciano did not fucking smile.

And when he saw it— smelled horribly familiar—

That dampness in the air; crackling, beige paint — tiny fan in place of AC; folded, rough towel beneath the barely-holding window — thick layer of dust scattered all across interior. The single, uneven bed.

Cracked, uneven tiles — tiniest bathroom nearby resembling one-way funeral with steep sill under — lightbulb flickering once-in-a-while.

Something inside finally, after hours of unspoken exhaustion, boiled over.

Quietly, viciously — eyebrows knitting; face painted with terrible expression.

‘You are ill— in pain. You are living like this?? This is— this is cruelty. Who let you come here alone??’

‘I’m fine’ — she mumbled, curling inwards into already tiny wheelchair, wishing to disappear.

‘You are not fine! You— your legs, your spine—this is no place for you, bella—’

And she cried, then. Ugly, truly — lungs split open, throat constricting. Not from pain or scarcity. But from the twisted guilt — from being seen first time in lifetime.

Beyond pitied stares or bureaucratic incompetency. As a suffering person with incurable illness.

‘Mi dispiace, signore, non è il nostro standard abituale— / I’m sorry, sir, it is not our usual standard—’

The clerk barely finished, stammering — before Feliciano — not the bumbling, silly Feli — taken for a fool – but the nation beneath — stepped forward.

Poor soul wished it started praying for Vatican's blessing this morning.

She wheeled beside him — terrified — gently, too gently placed — fragile bones creaking from effort, dressed in the palest pink cardigan of something once regal. Her head bows, apologetic — existence, pathetic. The clerk, twenty-something and already tired of bureaucracy, looks up; expecting usual routine of visitors—

When—

Barely finished, stammering — before Feliciano — not the bumbling, silly Feli — taken for a fool – but the nation beneath — stepped forward.

There was no mistaking the voice — dropped low — not angry in tone, per say. But in depth — came from his ribs, from centuries.

Hands slammed down, digging into the worn-down edge of the table; entire reception rattling.

Girl squeaks, terrified. ‘I-It was fine, really, the sheets are sort of clean and— Feli, please—’

‘You fucking slept here. With your spine— your lungs— your joints this stupidly bad—’

‘Chi ha firmato questo? Chi ha dato il permesso? / Who signed this? Under whose authorisation was this done?’

Clerk fumbles over his words in sheer panic.

‘Signore, normalmente non forniamo— / Sir, we don’t normally provide—’

‘Stampa. Tutti i registri. Adesso. / Print. Every record. Now’

Poor officer turned pale, unruly sweat trickling his brow; fingers scrambling across the keyboard, muddling through the records; ancient printer barely spewing out papers— this abandoned hell of the place was in the deep; money secretly laundered through back-end and if someone found out—

Made cooperation much easier.

‘I’m afraid it was the hospital— / Temo che fosse l'ospedale—’

‘Paura?? Avrebbe potuto morire in questa stanza! / Afraid?? She could have died in this room!’

A leather wallet — out comes the Italian government ID — the one they are not supposed to see; embossed with the golden seal — dangles from his fingers.

‘Voglio il nome del direttore che ha approvato l'assegnazione della stanza a questo paziente. Questo cittadino di uno Stato partner Schengen. Disabile. Con problemi di salute. Solo— / I want the name of the director who signed off on the room assignment for this patient. This citizen of a Schengen-partner state. Disabled. Medically compromised. Alone—’

Tone tears into the air — clinical, sharp, precise.

‘Dammi il timestamp, la firma di autorizzazione, la maledetta traccia di controllo / Give me the timestamp, the authorizing signature, the goddamned audit trail’

‘O me ne vado con i documenti, oppure torno con gli ispettori e tre giornalisti del Corriere della Sera / Either I leave with records, or I return with inspection officers and three reporters from Il Corriere della Sera [most read Italian newspaper]’

Someone visibly pales; stench of anxiety prominent in the already stuffy air.

‘E voglio i documenti assicurativi dell'ospedale. Adesso– / And I want the hospital’s insurance documents. Now–’

‘Signore, é riservato / that’s confidential—’

‘Allora voglio il nome del tuo supervisore. Subito– / Then I want the name of your supervisor. Right now–’

‘Non sono presenti— / They’re not in—’

‘Chiamali. Oppure chiamerò io stesso il ministero / Call them. Or I’ll call the ministry myself’

Girl, observing the breakdown of all decency & etiquette norms going down the drain in front of her; crossed herself in salvation, muttering known prayers, not comprehending a single word. Jesus Christ.

‘Feli, please—’

And he turns, jaw creaking tight, eyes blown wide with fury. Not at her— never her— but at the system that leaves souls in mildew and oppressive silence — somewhere between neglected government oversight and thin charity funds.

Two printed forms were immediately handed over with shaking hands, barely holding papers intact, snatched immediately — as indulgence offering.

‘Invia il conto al Ministero della Salute o a me— In entrambi i casi, non la rivedrai mai più / Send the bill to the Ministry of Health, or to me— Either way—you’re never seeing her again’

Door slammed shut with deafening — wham; loose hanger holding poster, clattering down to the concrete floor.

Faint rosemary floating in the air. Wood polish, scattered with dust. Every object is painfully beautiful, but cracked — a Rococo mirror with silver flaking, velvet cushions that smell faintly of mold — were replaced days later with embroidered, frilled pillows over ‘allergies’ and ‘ai, ai, you sneeze too much’

First fragile morning after —

The kettle clicks shut, placed — radiator hisses a little too loud. Pressure is off, probably. He should fix that, noting it far away in the tucked away corner of the mind.

Humming something — faint, off-key. A war lullaby from a time no one remembers.

Luna’s dress is folded on the armrest, neatly, precisely — pressed. She wears a linen nightshirt, fabric draping over. Not hers - his. The bathroom light is still on — from the excruciating bath yesterday. Wounds ache, reminding.

The evening before, she was half-asleep, slouched in a tiny car — stuck in never-ending traffic at the peak hour with too much beeping, curses — and purest exhaustion taking over — merely passing out.

Not until the body shut down, salt-damp from fever, in cleanest sheets – smelling faintly of lavender, not meant for guests.

Until—

‘I should go’ — thought passes absent.

‘I need to check in. And the hotel— my chair— where is—’

‘I already called the authorities. They didn’t clean the room — abused the rights of the civilian and such, all taken care of’

Porcelain eyelashes fluttered once. Twice. Three times over. Lips opened and closed shut.

What.

He is stirring sugar into a tiny ceramic cup — with unforeseen tenderness, as nothing happened.

‘They said they’d refund you partially. But it’s not a place someone like you — so sick — should’ve been. Mold. Rusted hinges on the window. Water stains above the bed. I—’

‘…I couldn’t leave you there, basic human decency’

Throat tightens, heavy lump forming — hand clutches the fabric at her hip, crinkling underneath.

‘You barely know me’

‘Does that matter?’ — he looks over, concern etched in.

‘You needed help. It doesn’t take a fool to see that’

The silence hums, a little too loud — Rome outside stirs awake. A siren, far out, echoes — church bells announce the beginning of the day.

‘You can’t— just— I don't know... fix? people’

‘Not trying to do that’— a little too fast; words stumbling, garbled. Unspoken shame of the actions settling in.

‘I just—’

He swallows – tries to — thoughts are slow, slurred, heavy — sticking to the back of the throat.

‘I couldn’t stand seeing you in that room. Abandoned, with bruises’

Pallid hands twitch in lap; fabric scrunched until deep wrinkles.

‘I fall, a lot. I have— this condition. I’m not heal—’

‘I know, looked it up last night’

The exact girl moment freezes into a marble statue; eyes wide as saucer plates, looking through very air itself.

The look — this exact one — on top of already melancholic exhaustion cracks something ancient in him. Something that smells of burning olive groves and sun-bleached parchment.

Of times, when gladiators saw their mothers before the blade went in.

Terror — not just of him. Of need. Of what comes next.

Voice softens; fingers pressed to the bridge of his nose, exhausted.

‘Scusa… / I’m sorry…’

‘I’m sorry if I… if I overstepped, haven’t slept properly in a week. The embassy’s behind schedule. There’s a summit in Palermo. But—…’

A pause, gentle still; petals in the balcony flutter by.

‘—I saw you. And you reminded me of—’

Does not dare to finish.

‘I’ll take you wherever you want—…’ ‘Hotel, airport — anywhere. Just say the word’

Not sure if this had any meaning inflicted behind it at all.

Luna nods slowly — does not dare to ask for the way back. After drama unveiling yesterday and shameful, shameful gratitude beyond measure.

Because she remembers, terrified: the flickering light, damp bedsheets, dismissive concierge. The way the shower sputtered, groaned, protested and gave nothing, but brown water.

Instead;

‘…May I stay one more night? Just until the refund clears’

‘Of course’ — almost too gently. ‘All the time you need’

And he turns back to the coffee. Tears simmer in the corner of glassy eyes — warm embrace, despite it all.

She stops answering after that. Her eyes flutter hazily, sleep pulls exhausted form under — soft, sweet, hopeless rest. The kind transcending into when fighting has become too heavy. When you are sick of being upright, of being dignified — of trying.

But she is his guest. And that is close enough for now.

‘Bella…’ — softest whisper, long after breathing evens out into something palpable. Feli just closes his eyes, holds scattered fragility tighter and… the city keeps breathing for the both of them.

Stillness of the morning — the kind where nothing shatters — except the will to keep existing. Pain has been a constant hum lately, louder than any possible declaration of love. Silk gowns and rococo dresses do not matter anymore, because the bones inside her skin are cracking quietly.

The cup is chipped; at the frilled edges. From all the love and use porcelain endured through many years. The coffee is cold; it has been for a while. But she holds it like it is a crucifix, fingers trembling, knuckles sickly white.

Below — the street vendors are just setting up for the day ahead, the cries echo faintly. Fresh tomatoes. Cigarettes. Cheap souvenirs. Life goes on, endless and uncaring — it always did.

She does not want to die. Not exactly, as per say.

Heart-wrenching dream, yearning of pause in suffering. To step out of the body for a good while —- stop dragging this heavy shell of pain, where each joint feels like rusted iron and the base of the cursed spine burns with every breath.

The wind tugs, bunches at the hem of ivory, embroidered robe — smells like a sickly familiar mix of basil and car exhaust.

Resting her cheek on the stone balcony rail, breath fogging faintly — fading into faintest hues of the dawn.

The city is gold — yet, the truest essence of girl is terribly, terribly grey.

Inside, Feliciano stirs, bedsheets rustling — but she does not call him.

Because she knows how it will go.

In his sweet kindness, he will crouch besides, honey in his voice, tears already forming — say he built the world around her, name like the scripture.

‘You’re my painting, mia stella / my sunlight. My miracle, ai, my saint…’

But he will not know that so-called miracle is being able to hold her bladder for another hour, or bathroom becoming best friend more often than not.

That painted sainthood is silent endurance of fire in the hips and legs that won’t lift, won’t bend, won’t obey.

Oh, how badly she wanted to study. To wear dresses without singing his name as a prayer for help. To be a person.

Now — a doll of handed pills from the pastel pink box and padded cushions. Feliciano spilled praises — of how beautiful she is when she cries. He says God gave her to him because he knows, as a son of God, how to carry broken things.

But the girl refused to be a burden to worship in the twisted fashion — to be someone real.

Sipping cooled espresso away, pallid lip cracks on the ceramic edge.

‘Maybe… I should’ve let go a long time ago…’

The wind carries the words away.

Inside, floorboards shift; properly – this time. The closet creaks.

Probably, Feli was getting dressed for work once again. At the restaurant, several winded streets away.

Another new dress hung — still with the price tag. Imported, or hand-made. Probably took half the down payment again.

But suffering does not care if it is wrapped in velvet. Shame does not lessen because someone blesses.

Poor soul is exhausted beyond measure — of being seen like a relic and martyr and porcelain saint. Tired of love that cages.

But nothing to do about it. Stay on the street or in moldy, tiniest apartment with one bare-bones window and frayed sheets, with slanted doorway, where poor wheels would get stuck every single time passing?

Everybody in the course of life plays their own role — this was merely a price to pay.

Rome is quiet at night. It always is when it rains — hues bleeding into hazy, diluted sights; heavy drops blur the amber streetlights.

Luna — at the window, lit up in that peculiarly ghostly way, pale hair pinned — slouchy cardigan over a frilled nightgown, lace spilling down over useless knees.

Reflection looks older than remembered, distorted by the downpour in a mockery.

She looks like a portrait. Like something nobody dares to hang in the foyer anymore.

Behind, Feliciano lights a cigarette with a smooth click. Does not indulge; just holds it in his fingers, letting the ash build — smoke wisping away into damp air.

Honey-sweet gaze pours over as worshipping a ruined statue from the mausoleum. Something antique — priceless.

‘You… you know people stare’ ‘I mean, when we go out. Like you’re dragging a relic behind you’

Takes unwanted drag afterwards — silence stays still.

‘And I-I am’

'Like the bloody Mary in a busted wheelchair which is too fancy either way — a pity painting—’ — gestures travelling grandiose over in all possible directions from the sheer frustration building up.

Such words should sound dramatic, reserved for the poetry plays — they do not — instead, like something said too often in practice.

Luna sharply turned; wheels squeaking slightly — his eyelid twitching up several times from the idiocracy of spilled statements.

‘Who would want me, huh? Who would love— this? She motions — sharply, jaggedly — to her legs.

‘Modern men don’t fall in love with haunted girls in braces. They want girls who can run, Feliciano. Who can dance–!’

He walks over, smoothly slow; crushing the remainder of the filter into the over-filled ash-tray.

‘They don’t deserve you — none of them—…’

‘They’re scared because they see how precious you are and they know they’d break you’

He cups her face — tenderly, too tenderly with the implication hanging stale in the air.

‘So I broke first, so you wouldn’t have to, ever again–’

Porcelain eyelashes flutter close, girl leaning into the warmth; strange of guilt swirling beneath arches of ribs.

Moments later, lips linger too long on the crown of the head — a seal, sureness, weight.

‘Do you think any of them would have learned how to bathe you? How to clean blood off all the lace you wear?’

‘Do you think, really— anyone else would wake up every time you scream in your sleep, whispering prayers until you stop? You know how much it hurts me?’

Feli kneels, gently — interlacing trembling fingers together.

‘I’m the only one who didn’t flinch when I saw what you really are, and now you want to leave…?’

Oh, that always plastered smile faltered; irritation prominent in tone.

‘You want to crawl out into the modern world where no one gives a damn if you fall into traffic? Ai, ai... spare me the details, tesoro / darling’

Riverettes of tears sink down heavily, heavily.

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