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managedmischiefs · 4 years ago

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north//chapter ten

genre: angst

pairing: season ten spencer reid x female oc

warnings: panic attack, talk of maeve and that whole situation, death, mention of drugs and relapse

word count: 9.8k

summary: spencer gets to see another part of amelia’s ugly side and amelia gets more than she bargained for when she steps onto her balcony

also i just wanted to say that the panic attack described in this chapter is based off of my experience with panic attacks. nobody has the same experience, but this is based off mine. also part two, i don’t know how medication for panic attacks really work, what i wrote is literally based off my experience with migraine medication. so if it’s not accurate, then i apologize. i also apologize for taking so long to write this. school was a lot and my mental health sucks. but it’s here now!! enjoy

AMELIA

"Yaz, if you don't stop moving, I'm going to purposely poke your fucking eye out!"

"It's not my fault! Quinn keeps nudging me!"

"No, I'm not!"

I roll my eyes at the two girls in front of me, flicking my wrist to put the final touches on Yaz’s makeup. "You two need to shut up." I then grab Quinn’s shoulders and force her to move against the wall, right next to Yaz. They continue to quietly bicker with each other.

"So," Frankie speaks up from across my studio, lounged back in a bean bag chair, fiddling away with a camera of his own, "Lia, you're coming up on one year with your genius doctor FBI boyfriend, right?"

"Mhm," I hum, too focused on painting my friends' bodies to give a full and coherent answer.

"Do you guys have plans yet? Dinner? Movie? I don't even know what you guys do as dates. In fact, I don't really know much about this guy at all. Are we even sure he exists?" Michael teases, waving around his bottle of beer. Quinn squirms away from my grasp to take a sip of his beer and only comes back when I tug on her hand.

"No plans yet," I mumble, biting my tongue for a moment as I focus on getting the swirls of blue and yellow just right. If the painting isn’t absolutely perfect then I’ll never be happy with the way the pictures come out. And if I’m not happy with the pictures that come from today then that just means I wasted my time today. "We don't make plans in advance, really. His job doesn't allow for that."

"His job doesn't allow for that?" Dani scoffs. "Stupid excuse. Horrible excuse. Men are trash. How can you be sure that all the time he’s spending ‘at work’ and not with another girl? Or maybe another guy? I don’t know, I don’t judge. Maybe he’s-"

"Dani," I hiss, twisting my head to send her a pointed look, "he's an FBI agent. He hunts down serial killers for a living. He travels for work on a whim and it’s not a big deal. He’s not gay and it’s rude to speculate about someone’s sexuality, especially if you’ve never met them."

"But don't you want him around him more?" Frankie jumps up from his seat and throws his arm around my shoulder, effectively pulling away from my work. He thinks that grabbing me will diffuse the situation, bring some humor, keep me from getting too upset. But it actually does all the opposite and I can feel a ball of heat growing and swelling in my stomach.

I’ve been friends with this bunch since college. We all went to Carnegie Mellon together and even lived in a house together in junior and senior year, but they aren’t always the best of friends. Clearly. They can be quite judgemental and exclusive when it comes to people outside of our friend group. Jenna and I commonly find ourselves sharing looks across rooms when one of our friends says something rude or stupid. They’re not the best, but we’ve been through so much together and they are all I have.

I push Frankie away from me as best as I can. "Do you guys just not like him because he's a federal agent?" The room goes silent and that's enough of an answer for me. I scoff, moving across the room to grab some more paint and squirt it into my palette. I wind up putting too much on my palette and groan, screwing off the top of the paint tube and trying to scoop the extra paint back in. The longer I try, the less gets back inside the tube and the more my frustration starts to grow, the more tears well up in my eyes. "You're complaining about my boyfriend who you've never met just because he works for the FBI. Ridiculous. Unfair."

"We get arrested all the time and all we do is spray paint empty brick walls," Dani protests, and, again, judging by the silence of the others in the room, I know that they have no problems with what Dani is saying. "It's bullshit! We should be able to express ourselves creatively without having to do art in the middle of the night and worry about being thrown in a holding cell."

"First of all; express yourself creatively on a canvas, not on someone’s property. Second; I can promise that you’re not getting arrested by federal agents. You’re getting arrested by cops and my boyfriend is not a cop," I growl at my supposed friends. I don't get angry easily. In fact, I'm a very patient person and I've been told that by many people on many occasions. My first instinct is to never get mad. Anger doesn’t get anyone anywhere. I prefer to have conversations instead of screaming matches and to hear out the other side's argument. But this is different. This is Spencer we’re talking about. I love Spencer more than anything and since meeting him, I know I'd do anything to protect him, even if that means arguing with my friends on his behalf. It’s not fair for them to be making these judgments about him. "You get arrested by Virginia Police so if you wanna hate anyone then hate them. Don't you dare all go hating my boyfriend for no reason. Don't hate him when you've never met him."

I throw my palette onto a table, not caring about paint splatter, and grab my phone, leaving my studio and heading into the fresh air. My heart is pounding against my tightening chest as I lean against the brick wall and slide down to an incredibly uncomfortable crouching position, tucking my head between my knees. The stance almost instantly makes my back ache and my neck sting but I ignore it. Maybe I deserve the pain. My breathing quickly gets more and more shallow and my head goes light. I try to lift my head to bring sunlight into my eyes, but my head seems far too heavy to move. I reach for my phone and it slips right out of my fingers when they tremble too much for me to get a grip on the thin metal. This feeling is helpless, painful, too familiar. I can’t seem to get a grasp on myself and I’m spiraling out of control more and more by the second. Every gasp for breath turns into a sob and every attempt to move my head turns into overwhelming shame when I notice people passing by are staring at me and whispering.

It's almost perfect that my phone starts to buzz on the ground and I manage to open my eyes enough to see that Spencer is calling me. I attempt another deep breath to calm myself down but it doesn't work and it only makes my grip on reality dwindle. It's getting harder to breathe and my eyes are stinging with tears. With every pounding beat of my heart, my chest gets tighter and tighter and tighter until it feels like someone has successfully squeezed my lungs flat.

The buzzing of my phone should bring me back to reality but it just makes it worse. It’s an annoying, persistent sound that just won’t stop. It won’t stop. It just won’t stop. I want to answer, I need to answer, but I just wish the sound would stop. The way to get it to stop is to answer. Just answer. It’ll stop if you answer. You’ll feel better if you answer. I slam my hand down on the ground and grope the floor until I manage to grab my phone and bring it up to my ear.

"Hi, love," Spencer's chipper voice comes through the receiver, none the wiser to my current situation. He's been away on a case since early yesterday morning, having woken me up while getting dressed, kissing me goodbye, and leaving my apartment to get to the BAU. I would kill to have him here right now. Maybe he could talk me down and reteach me how to breathe. Maybe he could reinflate my lungs and kiss my hands until they stop trembling.

I try to answer, but nothing coherent comes out. I let out a strangled sob, my fingernails digging into my knee so hard that I worry I might draw blood. My inability to communicate is frustrating and that ball of heat in my stomach rises up to my chest. The trembling overpowers me and I almost drop my phone again.

"Amelia? What's wrong? Are you okay? Talk to me," Spencer says quickly, and it's only followed by more choked wheezes from me. "You've gotta breathe, okay? Take really deep breaths for me. In through your nose and out from your mouth.”

His instructions seem simple enough to do. Just breathe. That’s all I have to do. It’s simple. Just breathe. I open my mouth to try to speak to him, to tell him what’s happening, even though I’m pretty sure he can tell, but all that comes out is fragments of words and whimpers.

"It’s okay, you’re okay. You don’t need to speak. In through your nose, out from your mouth, remember? Can you try that for me?" I’m not sure how long I’m sitting there for, on the phone, trying to focus on my boyfriends’ voice as he tries to calm me down. It feels like I’m sitting for a few hours, but my tiny grasp on reality lets me know that it’s been ten minutes at the most. I just do what I can to focus on Spencer and what he is telling me to do and how I can calm down. I clench my fists and finally succeed in doing what he tells me to after a while, breathing heavily in through my nose, my chest burning as the heaving comes to a gradual stop. I breathe out and then repeat the process a few times. “There you go. You’re doing so well. I’m right here for you, okay? Take all the time you need.”

He continues to tell me sweet nothings and encourages me to breathe until my breathing has regulated and my head lays slack against my knees. Spencer lets just a few moments of silence go by to let me collect myself before he speaks again. “Are you feeling a little better now?” I gather enough energy, the last of it, to hum a confirmation. "Where are you right now?" Spencer asks next. Even just his voice calms me down. Maybe it's his experience with his job but he sounds so calm right now. Nobody in my life has ever been able to remain so calm during one of my panic attacks, leaving me to cry and heave and occasionally faint in private. But Spencer's voice sounds so soothing and calm and low that just him speaking helps me more than anything. More than any useless, overwhelming, smothering hug ever has.

"Studio.”

"Okay. You should get home and get some rest. "

"Mhm.”

"You shouldn't drive. I don't know if you did, but either way, please don't drive. Take the train or call someone to drive you home," Spencer pleads. "I was calling to tell you that we're on our way home. We closed the case and we're leaving in a few minutes for the airport, but don't wait for me. You need to go home and get rest. Panic attacks are really taxing and you need to re-energize. I'll come over when I get back but you need to get home."

"Amelia?" I hear Jenna's voice approaching me but I don't even bother to look up. "Are you okay?"

I've exhausted my energy on speaking just those few words to Spencer so when Jenna gets close enough to me, I just lift the phone up for her. She crouches down beside me and grabs my phone, wedging it between her shoulder and her ear as she pushes my hair out of my face. I try to lean away from her touch but I can’t get very far. "Who is this? Oh, hi, Spencer. This is Jenna. She's right next to me. I can definitely bring her home. Don't worry, I'll get her home and I'll stay with her until you come around, it's no problem. I'll take her phone and let you know when I get her home. Okay, bye."

I finally lift my head and look at Jenna, watching her tuck my phone into her pocket, giving me this stupid, pitiful smile that I’ve seen far too many times in my life. A half smile that says, it sucks that you’re going through something but I only kind of care. "Mr. Genius says I gotta bring you home and keep you safe until he comes over and I don't feel like ending up in prison, so let's go, babe." I don’t have it in me to correct her to day Doctor Genius instead of Mister Genius. Jenna holds her hands out to help me up.

I bring my shaking hands up to hers and let her pull me to my feet and lead me over to her car, feeling weak and useless as she pulls the seatbelt over my chest. I pout as she dotes over me, humming casually to herself just so she can make this situation not so tense, but it just makes it seem like she doesn’t care. "Okay," Jenna says, hand poised on the passenger side door, "I'm gonna go kick everyone out of your studio and then we'll get going. Sit tight."

///

"Hi, Spencer, I'm Jenna,"

"Hi, Jenna. Is she okay?"

"Yeah, she's sleeping on the couch. She didn't even wanna go upstairs to bed so she asked me to put on a record and she just passed out on the couch."

Everything sounds foggy as I wake up what I assume is hours later in an uncomfortable position, curled up on my couch. My head is pounding and my eyes feel puffy and I'm now regretting not forcing myself to get into bed. I would have much rathered waking up with my duvet wrapped around me and my head on Spencer’s pillow. Waking up on this stiff couch with my toes virtually frozen and my head twisted uncomfortably on the armrest isn’t how I wanted to wake up post-panic attack.

I open my eyes just in time to see Spencer setting his go-bag down beside the coffee table, sending me that same stupid, pitiful smile. "Hi," he whispers, coming to sit on the floor in front of me. He raises his hand to drag his fingertips along my cheekbone and the soft touch makes my eyes flutter closed. I’ve gotten used to being without him when he’s away on cases, and having Spencer with me makes all the separated days easier. I know that the moments like this make up for the times I lay awake at night, staring at the ceiling, because I can’t sleep if his arms around me and if I can’t hear his heartbeat. "Are you feeling okay?"

"Mm," I hum, but it's not much of an answer, not a satisfying one, at the least.

"It's good that you got some sleep but you gotta have something to eat too. Do you want me to order something?" I nod slowly at his suggestion that I couldn’t care less about. I just want his hands on me. "Okay, I will. Sit tight, I'll be right back."

A whine falls from my lips as I reach my hand out for his, hoping to keep him from leaving. I just need his touch and his love and his affection to feel better. I don’t need sleep or food or anything he could possibly suggest that helps a person relax after a panic attack, based on this study I read. I love his facts but I just want him to hold me and tell me that everything is going to be okay, even if it doesn’t feel like it will. The boiling hot baths I usually take after a panic attack never do the trick. Nothing does the trick like physical affection does.

"Don't go," the words could barely be considered words, especially not after I mumble them through almost closed lips.

"I’m not leaving," Spencer crouches down again and presses a kiss to my forehead, and I’m sure he realizes that a kiss was the wrong move because I just keep trying to pull him closer. “I just wanna order you something to eat, okay? Let me bring you upstairs and get you in bed and then I’ll call for something. Is that okay?”

Spencer is sitting up on his knees before I even try to answer because even though he's posed a question, he doesn't need an answer. He knows how to help me from the studies he reads and he knows what needs to be done and he's relatively stubborn. So despite how my body feels heavy and how I wish I could just melt into the couch cushions with my arms wrapped around my boyfriend, I force myself to sit up. Spencer scoops me up and carries me up the stairs, setting me down in bed and tugging the duvet all the way up to my chin.

Spencer goes a bit overboard with tucking me in, but I don’t mind, as long as his hands are on me. And he is happy with his work, he finally takes off his peacoat and sets it on the edge of the bed. "I'm just gonna go run downstairs and order something and make some tea, okay? Did you take your medication?" He turns away from me and goes towards the stairs, digging his phone out of his pocket.

"Huh?"

Spencer halts himself from walking down the stairs, turning his chin over his shoulder. "Your medication," he turns his body towards me. "You know, for your panic attack?"

I shake my head, eyebrows furrowed so much that it makes my headache worse. "No, no, I don't have any."

My fuzzy brain can't exactly decipher the look on Spencer's face, but he turns his back to me yet again and rushes down the stairs. I let out a hum at his confusing reaction, but it turns into a disappointed whine as he gets further and further away from me. So, still in my post-panic attack state, I reach for Spencer's coat for some sort of comfort.

As I tug on it, something falls out of the pocket. I blindly reach for it and have every intention of tucking it back into the pocket it came from, but the cool metal of the object heightens my senses, as if the object brings me back down to earth. I hold Spencer's jacket to my chest as I lay back down against my pillows, looking down at the metal circle in my hand. There's a triangle on the front- or maybe the back?- with a Roman numeral one on it, with the words unity, service, and recovery around the three sides. I turn it over in my hand and find a compass rose with only north labeled.

"Amelia?" My head pops up when I tune into Spencer's footsteps on the last stair, his phone in his hand and his untied converse in the other. He drops his shoes on the floor and then leans against the wall, his eyes traveling down to the floor instead of on me. I can feel his shame from all the way across the room and how his embarrassment starts to consume him. He instantly shuts himself off from me and it’s so disheartening to see how easy it is for him to do so.

"It fell out," I hold it out to him, despite our distance. "What did you order?"

Spencer doesn't move as I hold the medallion out to him, but all he does is tuck his hands in his pocket and study the patterns on his socks. "You don't wanna know what it is?"

I drop my hand against the bed and sigh, having used too much energy to keep my arm up for longer than two seconds, nuzzling my cheek against Spencer's jacket and trying to get a whiff of his cologne. If he won’t come to me then I’ll have to get a piece of him in my bed, even if it’s just the scent on his jacket. I need his comfort. "I know what it is, dove."

He takes a long breath and then walks over, taking the medallion out of my hand and shoving it in his pocket. "Pizza. I'm gonna go change and I'll be right back."

I hadn't even realized he had brought his go-bag upstairs at some point, but I only see it when he carries it into the bathroom. He doesn't shut the door all the way and I find myself wondering why. Maybe he doesn't want to completely shut himself away from me because he can tell I need him close. Or maybe because he didn’t want to rebuild his emotional walls around me, and closing the bathroom door would separate us. But I don’t have the time to come to a clear and coherent hypothesis before he has returned.

He's in a tee shirt and plaid pajama pants when he returns, dropping his bag onto the floor and letting out a heavy sigh. I watch him as he walks around the bed to grab his shoes and begins the process of shoving them into his bag, even though he doesn't need to. He knows he doesn’t need to clean his stuff up immediately. But I notice his medallion in his hand, squeezed between his pointer and middle fingers, and it makes me call out to him. His head whips over to me and I realize I have nothing to say. I need him beside me but he clearly has so much going on in his head and in all the time we've been together, I've never seen his medallion. That makes me nervous. Is this why he's acting like this? Is he thinking about getting his hands on a drug that will ruin his life?

I have nothing to say. But Spencer is staring at me, waiting for me to ask whatever question he thinks I’m needing to ask, as I clutch his jacket like my life depends on it, eyes half-closed as I start to struggle to breathe again. I open my mouth but nothing comes out and a tear drips down my cheek.

Spencer moves to kneel on the bed, pulling his jacket out of my hands and replacing the fabric with his body. "Hey, I'm right here, Lia, just breathe. Sit up for me, sweetheart," He places his hands on my waist and helps me sit up, coaxing my head between my knees. He somehow knows exactly what to do, despite not being able to see me during my previous attack. He knows just how softly I need to be touched and what volume to speak at without overwhelming me. "It's okay, it's okay, I'm right here, don't worry. I don’t want you to get worked up again." I manage to nod, and he kisses my forehead as a reward. Spencer just keeps holding me and whispering praises, tucking my head under his chin and rubbing my back with a feather light touch. “There you go. There’s my girl.”

“I’m okay,” I whisper, but it’s more for myself than for him.

“Yeah, you are,” he affirms. "Will you talk to me about these attacks and how I can help you?" His sweet voice is so buttery and smooth that I get lost in it, eyes fluttering and almost completely missing his question. I just want him to keep talking, to read me poetry or tell me random facts that I’ll probably never need to know. I just want him to talk, and talk, and talk, and break me away from the prison in my mind. I just want him to distract me.

“Um,” I lean into his touch when he brings his hand into my hair, scratching me behind my ears like a cat. But when I manage to open my eyes and look at him, he’s giving me such a serious look, one that says he means business, and I know that there’s no room for jokes or wit. “I don’t know. I’ve mostly dealt with panic attacks alone. I just let them happen and wait for them to be done.”

Spencer’s eyes widen in surprise but he quickly tries to hide his reaction, clearing his throat as a distraction, but it’s nowhere close to this distraction I had hoped for. “So you don’t know any coping mechanisms or take any medication for panic attacks?” I shake my head no. “Have you ever gone to a doctor or a therapist about this?”

Definitely not the distraction I was hoping for. I reach for the duvet and pull it over my head, deciding to ignore him. I manage to crawl out of Spencer’s lap and curl up on my pillow with my back to him, earning a defeated sigh from my boyfriend beside me. He takes a breath to speak but then the doorbell rings and I can only assume that means that dinner is here. Without a word spoken, Spencer climbs off the bed and goes to answer the door. I hear his chatting quietly with the delivery person before his sock-covered footsteps echo back up the stairs, and he returns with a pizza box.

Spencer just casually suggesting I go to a doctor or a therapist is so obnoxious and annoying and I truly can’t remember a time in our relationship when I was this mad at him. He talks as though a doctor's visit will solve all my problems and if taking a pill will turn me into the healthy, stress-free, mental illness-free girl that I want to be, but never have been, and never will be. I spent my childhood taking care of myself and my brother and I can keep doing that as an adult. I’ve gotten this far in my life, farther than I thought I would, so I’m not going to fix something that isn’t broken.

Spencer sits at the foot of the bed and sets the pizza box in the middle of the bed, not saying a word as he opens it up and separates the slices. I sit up slowly, rubbing my eyes as I tuck my legs underneath me. I reach for a piece of pizza and lean over the cardboard so I don't get the bed messy. If the bed gets messy and crumby then Spencer won’t be able to sleep tonight, knowing that there’s particles of food all over the duvet. He seems to be on the same train of thought because he refuses to move the piece of pizza in his hand away from the box. If I wasn’t so upset, I’d be telling him how cute he is and finding his cleanliness endearing and suggesting that we eat at the table downstairs instead of my bed. But the tension is so thick that I could cut it with a knife, and I don’t have the energy to ease it. But apparently, Spencer does.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Spencer asks casually, keeping his eyes down as he takes another bite of his pizza. "The way you talk,” he pauses and considers his words very carefully, “you've clearly had panic attacks before."

"It's not a big deal."

"Amelia," the stony, serious tone of his voice makes my head pop up. He looks annoyed, as if he doesn't believe what I'm saying. I haven’t yet learned that lying to a profiler is useless. "You had a panic attack on a public sidewalk and it was so bad that you went nonverbal. Panic attacks happen to a lot of people but they're serious and debilitating and you should get treatment for them."

"Don’t tell me what I should do. I don't need treatment," I answer far too quickly. "I know you have your degree in psychology or whatever but I don’t need to hear it. I’ve taken care of myself for this long and I actually happen to think I’ve done a pretty good job at it, so I don’t need medication or therapy to interfere.”

Realization flashes on Spencer's face and he puts his piece of pizza down, leaning his elbows against his knees. "Seeking out help doesn’t make you weak."

I scoff and roll my eyes into the back of my head, but maybe that's just to avoid eye contact or to repress the tears that burn at my ducts. "That's not what this is about."

"I didn’t mention anything about my degree, Amelia,” Spencer snaps. “And all I’m trying to do is help you. You can go to a therapist and discuss coping mechanisms and figure out why you even have them or go to a doctor and get medication that will regulate attacks and maybe you'll get something to take after you get attacks, it'll be so much-"

"No!" I shout, cutting him off, my hands balled into fists as I struggle to rein in all the nasty things I want so badly to say, but that I know he doesn’t deserve. "I won't! I'm not! I'm fine without it! I've gone my whole fucking life like this and I don't need to be fixed!"

I decide it's the appropriate time to throw a temper tantrum and scramble off the bed, not even bothering to grab a jacket or a blanket or shoes or anything as I stomp down the stairs and throw open the door to the balcony. It's colder than I remember it being and the air instantly seizes up my bones, but I ignore the feeling as I close the door behind me. I lean against the railing and let a few tears silently slip down my cheeks, not bothering to wipe them and instead letting them trail down my neck and dampen the neckline of my crewneck. Fresh air used to always calm me down, but now, being alone on a balcony after fighting with Spencer, the air only feels suffocating.

A few minutes pass before I head the door slide open and Spencer steps out. I expect him to speak right away, to use his profiling skills to defuse the situation, but he doesn't. He drapes a blanket over my shoulders and as frustrated as I am at him and at the world and at myself, the tiny gesture makes me feel better. I'm craving his touch yet again and I wish he would just wrap his arms around me, but yet again, he doesn't. I tug the blanket as tight as I can around my shoulders and imagine it's his arms. His arms that are so close to me but feel like they are miles away.

"I've been a hypocrite." Spencer's voice is quiet, but not in the same way as it was during my attacks. No, before he was quiet for my sake. But now he seems quiet because he can't bear to speak any louder. Like if he hears his own words, he will combust and break down. "I kept something from you too."

I turn around and find that he's sitting down in one of the armchairs, another blanket wrapped around his shoulders. I, yet again, notice that his medallion is in his hand. But he's not trying to hide it, he's staring right down at it.

"Does it have anything to do with your medallion and why it was in your pocket?"

"Partly," he answers, and then looks up at me, pretty brown eyes already glistening with tears. If I wasn’t so upset, if Spencer wasn’t so upset, if the tension hadn’t carried outside, I would have poked his perfect nose and told him how cute he is when the tip of his nose gets red from the cold. My eyes are just focused on the medallion though, being passed between his fingers with expertise and never slipping out. "I'm clean, I promise. I wouldn't risk breaking my sobriety. I have too much to lose now. I've got you, and my job, and my team- my friends, Henry. But, um, yeah, there's something that I didn't tell you and I know that I should."

Partially born from my own selfish need for affection, coupled with Spencer's broken down state, I go and sit on his lap. He happily lets me do so, draping one hand over my thigh, holding the medallion there. I rest my head on his chest and wait for him to feel comfortable enough to start his story. I can feel his heart pounding against his chest and I stare down his hand, tap-tap-tapping on the arm of the chair. His nervousness is just as palpable as the tension.

"So, um, do you remember when we first met? You always like to point out how you're not the profiler here but did you happen to notice how nervous I was?"

"Mm," I hum, racking my brain for the memories of our first few coffee dates. I remember his strained smiles and his stuttered out words. I think back to us spending Christmas together and how, later on, he just blurted out an invitation to be his girlfriend that lacked finesse and confidence. He has always been nervous around me, but I always just thought that he was nervous with new relationships. It never crossed my mind that there was a reason other than anxiety. "Of course. The first day we met, I don't even think you took your bag off, right? I just thought dates made you nervous."

"Well, yeah, that's kinda true," Spencer sighs and when he tilts his head down, his lips brush against my temple. His warm lips bring a shiver down my spine and he holds me tighter against his cold body. "The truth is, about two years before I met you, I had a girlfriend, her name was Maeve. Our relationship wasn't really conventional. We, um,” he pauses and shifts his weight, “she was a geneticist and I saw her when I was having migraines, but then we started dating. We never met each other though."

His constant past tense is alarming. Was.

"We talked on the phone. She had a stalker from before I met her and she wanted to make sure that I didn’t get wrapped up in it. And we had to be safe so we only talked on pay phones. Only on Sunday's and never from the same phone twice. I thought I, um, I thought I loved her and then-" Spencer lets out a breath that sounds defeated, tired, helpless. He drops the medallion into my lap and his hands fly up to cover his face, another shaky breath falling from his lips. “I shouldn’t be telling you this when you're in such a fragile mental state. This is a lot of information and-”

"If you want to tell me then you can. I’m not a fragile little girl, I can take it. But if you don’t think you can then that’s okay too. I don’t need you to show me all the skeletons in your closet because you think you’ve been hypocritical.”

Spencer drops his hands, revealing his quivering lips and wet waterline. I return the medallion to the palm of his hand and close his fingers around it. "I mean,” he lets out the tiniest, saddest chuckle, “I was being hypocritical, being mad at you for keeping information a secret when I was doing the same.”

“Okay, maybe a little,” my slight teasing gets a more genuine laugh out of him, and he drops his forehead to my shoulder to hide it. “But it’s okay. I understand that there’s some things you don’t wanna share immediately.”

Spencer keeps his head down, his hand in a tight fist around his medallion and the other on my waist, keeping me close. I can practically feel his fear and anxiety and his overwhelming pain through the tips of his fingers digging into my skin, and I want so badly to take it from him. I would gladly shoulder his pain so he doesn’t have to drag it around behind him like a suitcase with a broken wheel. But as badly as I want to, I can’t help him the way I want to and so I just need to comfort him to the best of my ability.

"She got kidnapped and shot in front of me," he blurts out quickly, the memory obviously too painful to say gracefully. "I realized she was gone so the team investigated and we found Maeve and the unsub brought me inside where she was being held and had me see her for the first time ever and then killed herself and Maeve right in front of me and there was nothing I could do about it."

Sometimes I don't know what to say to Spencer. He sees the worst that society has to offer, and the worst took away the first woman that he loved. I don't always know how to comfort him. Sometimes he just wants to be held and would rather not verbalize his feelings. And although I don’t love it when he decides to not talk things out, cuddling and giving out kisses is easier than arguing with him and trying to get him to talk about things he doesn’t want to. So physical affection is easier. But right now he doesn't seem to want to be held and I don't know how to help him. He didn't want to tell me this but clearly, today hasn't gone how either of us has wanted it to go. I've been spontaneously panicking and he's now confessing that his girlfriend was killed. None of this is right.

It takes him a few minutes to start speaking again, but when he does, his voice is quiet. "I almost relapsed after that," his head finds home on my shoulder again, and his other arm wraps around my waist. He holds me tight against his chest, adjusting the blanket around me to make sure I’m always covered and warm. "When I first got clean, I brought my medallion with me everywhere I went. I couldn't leave the house without it. I brought it with me on cases, to the store, everywhere. Then time passed and I could leave without it, and I was really proud of that. But then Maeve died and suddenly it was like I was right back at square one. I couldn't go anywhere without it. I needed the reminder of all my hard work and dedication or else I would've easily relapsed."

"Is," my voice is shakier than I wanted it to be, "is there something that's making you wanna relapse now?"

"Stalking cases," he answers, and that's not at all the answer I was expecting. I’m not really sure exactly what kind of answer I was expecting, but it wasn’t stalking cases. "They're common and they're not always violent so we don't always investigate but when we do, I hate it. It’s like torture on those cases, just having to relive what happened with her. Hotch doesn't even let me take part in takedowns of stalking cases because we both know I wouldn't be stable if a hostage situation happened. So,” he tucks his head into my neck this time, and I can feel his lips on my skin, leaving light kisses to make up for the heavy topic, “yeah, that’s what I was keeping from you. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize, dove. I understand.”

I turn my head away from him and stare out at the city. The sun is setting and the sky is painted a pretty pink and purple, mixed together in a way I wish I could achieve in my work. But the people below pay no mind to it. They speed-walk to whatever their next destination is and keep their noses tucked in their phones, or to wave their hand for a cab and bark out orders and throw money at the person who spends their lives being chauffeurs to rude politicians and businessmen. Nobody cares to look up and admire the beauty around them, beauty that they won’t see some day. They don’t look up at the unnatural colors in the sky or check to see if the clouds have taken the form of a shoe or a candy wrapper. They just walk, and walk, and walk. They don’t care. Nobody ever cares.

"I'm sorry," I choke out, tears suddenly pouring down my cheeks. I reach for Spencer’s hands, intertwining our fingers but keeping his arms around my waist. I don’t want to be without his comfort and his arms and his warmth. He seems to feel the same because he pulls me even closer somehow, my body completely flush against his. "I love you, Spencer, and you-” I hiccup, “fuck, you didn't deserve any of that."

"You're all I need in this life, Amelia. I didn't think I'd ever fall in love again but now I have you and," I can feel his hands shaking in mine, and although it’s hard to tell if it’s from the cold or from anxiety. "I just love you so much. Please don’t leave me."

"I’m never gonna leave you, Spencer Reid. Ever. I'm not going anywhere," I whisper, but I can't tell who it's a reassurance for. "I love you."

///

SPENCER

///

THE NEXT MORNING

///

No amount of nights turned into mornings at Amelia’s apartment could get me used to being woken up to sun beams in my eyes.

I scrunch up my face as the sunlight flows through the windows and almost blinds me. I roll over and reach towards Amelia's side of the bed, grabbing a fistful of sheets instead of a fistful of her. I let out a disappointed sigh and force my eyes open, popping one lid open to confirm my sad realization that I'm waking up alone. Now I'm understanding how Amelia feels when I have to leave for cases.

I can feel the heat blasting and it makes it bearable for me to exist in only my pair of pajama pants, so I don't bother to put a shirt on. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and check my phone, just to make sure there isn't a spontaneous case on a Saturday, and there thankfully isn't anything yet. So I run a hand through my hair that is probably wild and climb out of bed, making the trek down the occasionally terrifying floating stairs.

I pause on the last step when I peer into the kitchen, the dumbest smile appearing on my face when I locate my girlfriend. She's sitting on the counter in the kitchen with her legs up and crossed at the ankles, dressed in only an oversized white tee shirt and pale blue wool socks. Matching, unfortunately. She's wearing her normal butterfly necklace, I can see from here, but she's missing all of her piercings- nose ring and earrings. Her natural curls are out in full force and are only contained by one of her patterned scarves, wrapped around her head like a headband. She's holding an apple in one hand and she has a book resting in her lap but I can't quite see the spine to read the title. But this is one of the moments I'm thankful for my fancy memory, as Amelia calls it, because she looks so effortlessly stunning and perfect and beautiful that I'm glad I'll remember this moment forever.

I watch her for a moment. She wiggles her toes every few seconds and then takes a loud bite from the apple, flipping the page and darting her eyes across the lines. Effortless. Remarkable. I'm often blown away by her simple beauty. I wonder how she does it without trying. How she renders me speechless. How she makes me feel like a teenager in love. How she makes me feel like a lovesick puppy, galloping around at her feet with stars in my eyes. How she makes me feel like she's completely out of my league. How she makes me feel like I'm the luckiest man in the whole world.

When I decide that I have to get my hands on her, I step off the stairs. She still doesn't notice my presence, I credit that to my bare feet on the hardwood, and she only looks up when a floorboard creaks. She lifts her chin and reveals her stunning dimples, ocean eyes wide for me. "Morning!" she quips, tucking a bookmark into the page and setting her book aside. "Wasn't sure you were ever gonna wake up."

"I don't like waking up alone," I brush my fingertips along her leg as I walk closer, eliciting a shy giggle from Amelia. No matter how many times I touch her, she still gets shy about it. I peer over her legs and my eyebrows raise. "You're reading Rossi's book? What's that about?"

Amelia giggles, picking up the book and inspecting the cover. "It's more of a courtesy, actually. I bought all three books of his the other day and I'm planning on ripping out all the pages to use for a piece of art for my next exhibit. But I figured I'd read them first before I destroy them, you know? He saved my life as a kid so the least I can do is read his books before I destroy them."

"Hmm," it's not really at all the answer I was expecting. I watch her face as she plasters on a shy smile, kicking her feet like an excited child and clutching the book to her chest. I don’t have the heart to ask her any more questions about her decision to rip up Rossi’s books because I don’t want to wipe that smile off her face. "Interesting. Breakfast?"

"Not before you give me a kiss," Amelia's delicate voice balances out the horrors Rossi illustrates in his book as she brings her lips to mine. "If you're cooking, I don't care what you make."

"Sounds like a plan,” and just as I didn’t have the heart to question her art, I don’t have it in me to go further than an inch away from her lips before she decides it’s okay. So that leads to kissing for far too long, the book tumbling out of Amelia’s hands and onto her lap, my hands holding her jaw. Her lips are different in the morning, slightly chapped and not yet bleeding from being chewed relentlessly. But, for some reason, I prefer them like this. And I definitely prefer chapped lips to glossy lips that get all over my face and takes a makeup remover wipe to get rid of. I quickly flip through the last few images of Amelia in my head and notice she hasn’t worn lip gloss in a while. Maybe that’s for the better though. She won’t have to hear me complain and watch me rub at my lips and grimace when my hand gets sticky too.

“Okay, okay,” Amelia giggles, grabbing my hands and pushing them away, “let’s not get carried away. I am hungry.”

“Then why didn’t you make breakfast yourself?” I sass, turning on my heel to start collecting breakfast ingredients and feed my hungry lady.

“Haha,” she snickers sarcastically, rolling her eyes at me. And a comfortable silence falls over us as I start cooking, occasionally glancing over to watch her thumb through the book. It etches a hopefully permanent smile onto my face.

"I do have a question, though," Amelia fiddles with the corner of a page, curling it between her finger and keeping her eyes down. I hum lazily in response, mixing pancakes batter, far too focused on making sure I get measurements correct to be able to make eye contact with her. "I don't wanna make you uncomfortable but your medallion- well, it," she sighs, obviously not able to find the words for what she wants to say.

It’s not my favorite topic of conversation so early in the morning, but I guess the sooner Amelia asks her questions and gets them out of her system, the sooner we can stop having conversations about my demons. "You can ask whatever you want to.”

"It's not a bad question, I don't think," she responds, and turns so her legs are swinging over the edge of the counter, facing me. "I'm just curious what the compass on the back means. It seems odd to me. I mean, the front says recovery and all but the back has a compass? I've never heard of these medallions having a compass on them."

"The designs differ," despite the relatively tame question, I busy myself by trying to create perfect circles with the batter on the hot skillet. She could've asked me about my experience with drugs and how it feels and she could have unknowingly triggered me, but no. She just wants to know about the compass. I guess that’s better than making me relive relapse or make me remember what a high feels like. "I've obviously been clean for more than a year, so the other medallions I have for other years have different designs on the back. But I always liked the one year medallion the best."

"Will you tell me why?" She presses gently, pulling her knees back up to her chest. I've seen her do this plenty of times, shut herself off from conversations, I mean, and I hate it when she does. On normal days, when she shuts herself off from conversations, I do what I can to put her at ease and get her to open back up. But if anyone should be shutting off from this conversation, it’s me. "You don't have to, if it makes you uncomfortable."

"Getting to one year is really hard," I admit quickly, keeping my eyes off her as I move the pancakes from the skillet to a plate. "So when I finally got to one year and I got the medallion, it was a huge accomplishment for me. And the compass? It’s just a thing that my program preached. North is always regarded as the right way to go, even though that’s not really true in theory, but I never pointed that out. But my program had us pick someone or something to represent north for each person. So that way, if anyone was ever going through withdrawals or cravings, we could think of that thing we chose and it would give us the motivation to get through a hard time. The thing would give us a reason to go north, the right way. Basically, the way to recovery. The way to go back home.”

“And what did you choose?”

“My job,” it’s such an unenthusiastic answer, no light or happiness in my voice. “My job was all I had at the time, but my job being my north never felt right. It was never really motivating. Maybe that’s why it was so hard to get past a year. I had nothing to look forward to.”

"One more question," Amelia speaks, softer this time. "Can you come here?"

I look up and find that Amelia is resting her chin on her knees, giving me that same cute smile from before. I nod, scooping the last pancake off the skillet and putting it on the pile before walking over, dragging my feet. Amelia drops her legs and holds out her arms, wrapping them around my shoulders the moment I get close enough. I instantly melt into her embrace and tuck my face into her neck, feeling her fingers on the back of my neck, tracing small shapes and letters.

"I know that I didn't know you back then," Amelia whispers, warm breath tickling my skin, "but I'm proud of you. I'm proud that you're strong enough to keep your head up and stay clean. And thank you for trusting me with all this information. I love you so much."

My body is filled with that familiar warmth that I only feel when Amelia is around, and I can't stop the smile that comes to my face. The tears in my eyes dry up quickly at the praise. "Thank you for loving me."

"I always will," she pulls away and slides her hands up to my face, pointer fingertips tracing my jaw and up to my cheekbones. She swipes her finger across my bottom lip and then brings it up to my nose, poking it gently and giggling under her breath. She’s deep in thought, I can tell from the look on her face. "You know,” she smooths down my eyebrows and then her fingers follow my hairline all the way down to my jaw, “I’ll be your north," she suggests. "I know you always tell me that talking to me when you're on cases helps, but I wanna help you with everything, with every aspect of your life. I wanna help you with the ugliest parts of your life, and not just the ugly parts of your job. I'll be your north. I'll be your reason to come home and I'll be- I'll be like your guiding light. I'll be your lighthouse. I'll just," her hands halt on my cheeks and her legs twist around my waist, bringing our bodies flush, "I'll be your north."

My heart is pounding as I smile at her, the tears that had just dried up coming back tenfold. She's smiling her stupidly gorgeous smile but not even making eye contact, just staring down at my lips as she lets her brain settle from all the words she just vomited and as she holds herself back from her obvious impulse to actually kiss me. So I lean forward and peck her lips, untangling our limbs. "I'll be right back," I ignore the sting in my chest at the disappointment clear on her face as I pull completely away from her hold. But I kiss her cheek for reassurance before I disappear back upstairs, grabbing my go-bag.

I return to the kitchen with last year’s Christmas present in my hands and open up to the page I'm searching for, walking up to my girl. Her back is to me, pouring more batter onto the skillet to finish up breakfast. But the moment she puts the bowl of batter back on the counter, I swing my arms over her head and bring the sketchbook in front of her to show her a journal entry.

"I didn't always use it for sketches," I explain as she grabs the book from me, "but I use it. A lot. Read that entry," Amelia goes radio silent as she reads, and I rest my chin on my shoulder to read with her.

Amelia is my north. I always thought that I'd be alone for the rest of my life and I'd never fall in love again. I thought I had been scorned too hard and I'd never recover. But Amelia gives me a reason to want to go home. She gives me a reason to not make that reckless decision that comes to my mind in the field and she gives me a reason to not go out in the middle of the night and go searching for a new dealer. She gives me a reason to live and maybe it's wrong of me to rely so heavily on another person who could leave me just as easily as everyone else in my life has, but I don't care. She gives me a purpose and she's the reason I come home every day.

It's the little things she does that make me love her. I love seeing her face pop up on Garcia's video chats and I love seeing the snacks she leaves in my desk and the notes she leaves for me and how she always makes a point to clean my apartment when she's over. I've never met someone quite like her.

I didn't think I'd ever find a person to personify "north." I always thought that "north" would remain this mysterious entity that I would blindly chase after my entire life and remain following towards a life of recovery, or a life of constant relapse and pain. Or that I would just continue lying to myself and saying that my “north” was my job. But now I know that Amelia is that "north" that will always be by my side. As long as I have her, then I'll never have to chase after a nameless, faceless goal. I'll always have my north right beside me.

Amelia sniffles as she shuts the sketchbook, setting it gently on the counter. "Okay, fuck you for making me cry."

I toss my head back laugh, grabbing her waist to turn her around, taking the job of wiping her tears. "I’m sorry, love, that wasn't my intention."

"That was really sweet, dove," Amelia disregards her tears, throwing her arms around me and pressing her face into my neck. “I’m never gonna leave you, Spence. I want you to believe that. I love you so much. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I know,” I clutch her waist in my hands as if that would keep her from leaving, “sometimes, I just feel helpless and unlovable and when I feel like that, I come to you.”

“Good. You’re not unlovable. I am so insanely in love with you and you’re never, ever getting rid of me.”

“Good,” I echo, pressing my lips to her shoulder and trailing kisses up her neck. “You’re-” Amelia’s stomach growling silences me, her cheeks turning pink as she ducks her head away. “Okay, alright, the mushy love fest is over. Eat some breakfast.”

“I’m sorry,” she giggles, turning in my arms to dish out pancakes for us, “I’m just really hungry and I wasn’t gonna make anything until you woke up. But the bottom line is that I love you and I’m always gonna be in your apartment, cleaning shit you don’t want me to and annoying the hell out of you.”

“Yeah, you definitely annoy me when you leave the curtains open and I get blinded in the morning.”

Amelia turns to me with the cutest smile, holding a plate of pancakes out for me. “At least you get to wake up next to me in the morning.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” I lean over the plate to give her what seems like the millionth kiss to the morning, “waking up next to you is pretty amazing.”

TAGLIST

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msladyrosa · 4 years ago

Text

I'm here to tell a story that my heart is screaming at me to tell.

This is me. I fucking hate myself, just as much as I fake loving me. I don't think I've ever been this contempt as I was in these photos. I'm awkward and I fake confidence by throwing sarcastic and snarky comments. My coping mechanism consists of lying and just hiding behind my fake me. I've created a confident, pretty and delusional front that isn't me, but it's just as real as the raw version. My raw is ugly and disgusting and I hate it. I hid it and for the love of the non existent God there is, I wish I didn't have the raw side. I write in my skin, because if I went back to cutting, then I would no longer have pretty skin that people can love. I love eating, but I don't do it, because of the fear of losing my 36,28,42 measurements. I'm suicidal, but heavens forgive if I make a joke about it in order to cope with my insane itch to make my skin purple. My arm hair is soft and the last time I shaved I was scared that someone might see the thin, white lines that are underneath. My body is sexy as fuck, but Heavens forgive me if I actually feel comfortable in it. Thoughts of "they'll be fine without me" or "it's better if I'm not here" are drowned by the words I told someone who was a suicidal as me, "killing yourself would not make the pain disappear, you're just passing it on to someone else". I'm such a fucking hypocrite, or is it just a twisted way of actual introspection? What is wrong with the way I walk funny because I'm dizzy for the lack of food is that people notice. Oh great deity in the sky, please allow them to notice, but forgive them is they dare to ask what's wrong. I look happy and relaxed in the photos, hell yes, but not I'm an anxious mess that's writing this in the middle of a mental breakdown. Parents are never the one's to blame, no forgive them for not validating their children's emotions and struggles. No, strict parenthood creates strong-willed, rightful and successful people that think of themselves as worthless, weak, pathetic excuses. Oh we lie, and we lie good. Ask actors if they had strict parents... You'll find none, why? Because strict parents will inforce you an internalized fear of failure outside of social norms and acting is "a waste of time" to their standards. Support doesn't come from the right sized bra, but it sure as fucking hell is welcoming to be held and somehow relived from a burden you didn't fucking asked for. I was so happy ya'll. I was in cloud nine. That day I had a date with a guy I like that I thought was way out of my league, I lied my way through his pseudo intellectual remarks and he believed it.

We know how to lie so good and so true that eventually you lose track of your actual motive to do it in the first place. Society wants you perky and pretty, fuck yeah they do. How do I get all perky and pretty when I only see disgusting, overdosed surroundings? It's easy to get worried when you finally realize somethings not right. It wasn't right to be kneeling at someone's feet screaming a nasty and raspy wail of pain. 10 years it took me to fucking do that and yet nothing really changed. Now I'm just looked at with pity and the quizzical look that can only mean "when is this one gonna blow up again?" Oh, honey, I won't, you're just worried that you're just realizing this now. It's easy to be outside and just stay that way.

I was so happy, all the time. I was forced to lie in order to move forward. You love me? Yeah, as long as you earn it. Are you proud? Sure, as long as you don't fail. Am I okay because I feel like this? Well, it's fine as long as you keep it in. It's beautiful. "As long as..." my reality had always been subjected to a condition, and clause, a fucking constant reminder that I have to earn my happiness. I have to earn my own idea of self worth that is diluted through your standards. I have to earn reassurance from the people I surround myself. I must assume the best case scenario but I can't be surprised when it's the worst outcome.

Having loved a mad human made me realize how flawed I am. I was happy. So, so happy I forgot I wasn't. I tortured myself through endless nights of doubt, starvation with a full kitchen. Sleepless nights contemplating self harm and then decided against it because I had work and the cute client at work would see how damaged I was. I tortured myself with the idea of loneliness in a see of people, only to realize I've been in that see long enough that I grew a tail and fins. I was plagued my guilt because I didn't love them, but when exactly did it go from happy to uttermost bullshit? I was so happy I forgot what sadness was.

I was so happy it started hurting. Hurting when I failed to do something. It was excruciating when I was not able to buy a car because I had noticed I had spent my money of pleasing those who swore they'd provide for me. I was in pain when I showered and instead of singing, I just blasted music loud enough so that nobody heard my hyperventilating bitch ass. I was in so much pain that I welcomed it as my way of happiness. I loved my pain, because I've had it my whole life.

I had it when I was in forth grade and in order to fit in I had to go a sneak around to kiss a boy, and I didn't want to. It was there when I was accused of fighting other girls, but in reality I was trying to establish my self worth, so I was punished. In fifth grade I loved a boy so much I had written beautiful words to describe how much I loved his smile, and so he said I was stalking him and he got scared; 2 months later I was in a shrinks chair talking about it; fast-forward to last night, that same boy explained to me how much he wanted to fuck me now that he had lost weight. Middle school was terrible. Seventh grade, I was constantly degrading myself because another pretty blonde chick was only my friend when she could laugh through me. I insulted a perfectly great teacher because she noticed my self destructive behavior. Eighth grade came and I was lost with a blonde boy. He was beautiful and I was not. He was friends with the girl that swore fielty to me and he chose someone else and because he chose the pretty pale skin on someone else, I settled for the kid that wantedto finger me in the bleachers during recess. Ninth grade came and I was failing classes, parents were strict and hurtful, but they aren't to blame for my shortcomings. That's when I found myself in the arms of the pretty blonde thing I had fallen for. The pretty girl had him in public, I could only have him when we snuck around and he would hold me and kiss me like holding on to his life line. I was letting him touch me, but my self hatred didn't know no boundaries so I suck to my knees and gave my first blowjob at the top of staircase wearing only a lazy purple bra and the school uniform and the shame I'll forever wear because I did it without wanting to, but because I was expected to.

I was so happy to be out of there, that I ended up sinking deeper into my lie. I was smart, new and vulnerable. That's how I met the wholesome boy I called my first boyfriend who was nice and respectful, but he was as ugly as they come. I was a queen to him, but he was looking more like the ogre on the fairy tale and there came my vanity, my ego, my selfishness. I was brutal and I couldn't care less. High school started with a bang with the boy I played with, and when he got to close to my actual raw person, I kicked him out with a bang and he cried. I just stood there not knowing how to react, so I just went on to the next person I could lead on and play. Junior year I knew was difficult, and a black boy with a nice boy and a promising basketball future came around, I once again craved approval and degraded myself to it. That's how I ended up sneaking around 10 minutes before my parents picked me up. In the second floor, I'd found myself again on my knees, and expected to give a blowjob in exchange for attention, and like before, I was hidden, and I expected to be I had tears in my eyes, but because of my shame. Senior year came in, and the black boy with the attractive body was replaced with another, but this one only had pretty eyes and the promise of spoiling me with his family's money. Once again, I said yes when he said he wanted me to be his girlfriend, at least this time I was not hidden, but I was back in the cycle and I ditched my best friend in a movie theater so that I would be in the backseat on a Dodge, sucking my pseudo boyfriend's dick with tears on my eyes, not becauseofhis size, but becausethe disgust towards myself. Like before, I was expected to do so, and so I did.

Heavens above forgive the religion to blame women for sin and lust, but instead punish us for the boys who couldn't keep their dicks to themselves. The end of senior year came, and I was relieved, but then I fell for the guy my parents liked. Humble background, similar interests, and a promise of stability. I was ditched because for him I was a whore and his friends told him so, I accepted the insults and insinuations.

I was so happy, I forgot the rest. College was great and a religious nut job, a platonic love, a semi smart dipshit with the complex of being over everyone in experience, a quiet mature man that treated me with decency, the suicidal broken guy who needed healing #1 and the suicidal broken guy who needed healing #2, later, here I am.

I was so happy in these pictures, I had no idea was contemplating my own disappearance. I write this with migrane, blue ink from a ballpoint in my thighs, with nostalgic memories of moments where my mind wasn't this crowded. I was so happy it hurt. I guess that my logic dictates that happiness is painful and that my pain can bring me joy, but fuck I was so happy.

I had everything. I was pretty, I was smart, I was important. I'm still all those things, but right this very second, I'm happy, and painful so. Heavens above forgive for I have sinned...

I dared to fail... I sinned

I dared to fall into lust... I sinned

I dared to judge... I sinned

I fucking dared to wake up every miserable day... I had sinned.

I dared to be painfully happy... I sinned

I lied... and so that's my greatest sin of all.

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dxmedstudent · 4 years ago

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I'd really like to know a little about the logistics of hospitals adjusting to the current situation - would you be able to tell us a bit about that - how are wards being rearranged, staff being redeployed to different roles etc? It sounds like the hospitals look quite different to how they did several weeks ago if I've understood correctly. I'm glad to hear you're feeling a bit better, hope you're well soon!

Sure, I can try. Changing how we work:We receive regular updates via internal email. First, teaching and group sessions were cancelled. We were warned that some of our shifts would be adjusted - clinic sessions became clerking suspected covid patients. There are now no elective surgeries, no clinics (though some depts like mine can run phone clinics), and a lot of outpatient services are closed. We were soon told leave would probably be cancelled and we’d be likely to have our rotas changed or be redeployed. This was more than a month ago.

In my hospital (and I’m sure many others), they recently cancelled all leave for April, in case they need the staff. Bank holidays are now normal working days - presumably I won’t get time in lieu for the Bank Hols I’m working. I felt that this is risky - you need the staff capacity, but also you don’t want people to fatigue too early, or to become too demoralised. We try to socially distance as much as possible at work - not always easy given most offices are tiny and cramped, and it’s hard to run a ward round miles away from each other. We’re at risk of catching it from each other as well as patients because we’re constantly touching computers and equipment and having to get in close to talk to each other or help patients. We’ve moved where we hold handover, and we try to encourage people to leave if they don’t have to be here. Some ‘bright spark’ took out half the computers in the office to ensure people socially distance, though that just means more waiting for computers.

They’ve redeployed a lot of juniors, particularly from teams (like surgical teams, psych, GP, weird academic jobs where not much was going on) to clerking or the covid-19 wards. Between that and outpatient clinics being cancelled, there are more doctors of every grade of seniority that have been mobilised. It actually meant that when I was on take this week (seeing mostly suspected covid-19, not gonna lie), we were very well staffed. This is great, because it means we have spare capacity to deal with the peak when it comes. Plus I was still dealing with fatigue after my week off for likely covid-19 myself, and it really helped that work was unexpectedly manageable.

They’ve given us some sleep pods, and they’ve made arrangements for more staff to be able to stay over - with transport reduced, and people isolating away from families, more people are choosing to stay in hospital accommodation. We, keep getting donations of food and stuff from people, which is really nice, though I wish it’d go back to how it was before - less donations, but because people were happy. I guess it does improve morale, though. Hospital staff are motivated by food.

Reorganising the hospital:

They’ve basically split my hospital into ‘hot’ and ‘cold’ zones - places where we have patients with suspected covid-19 symptoms, and places for patients with no such symptoms. This means having two ED/A+E departments. Each hot zone has donning and doffing rooms - places to put on and take off PPE. Plenty of places where you have to wash your hands. You have to wear PPE (surgical mask, gloves, gown) even in ’cold’ places.In hot zones all patients wear a mask as a precaution and you usually have to wear more substantive PPE. I hear from friends that their hospitals operate pretty similarly - it’s standard to try to reduce contact between patients who could have covid-19, and those who don’t.

The corridors are quiet and eerie, rather like being oncall at night. Many staff wear masks between departments. Most of the admin staff are now working from home, so there are less employees in hospital than usual. The cafes are all now only take-aways, though you can still sit in the hospital canteen. Given how hard shopping is, it’s a great comfort that you can at least eat at work if the worst comes to the worst. I miss having spaces to sit - I don’t really want to eat my lunch on a covid-19 ward, and it’s important to leave your office to gain some separation from work mentally, for a short while.

They have turned some of the wards (often surgical - as there are now a lot less operations happening) into suspected covid-19 wards. Where our teams had extra capacity (i.e. weren’t at minimal staffing), people were randomly re-allocated to the covid-wards. This happened to me weeks ago. I didn’t mind it, but at the time it was still chaotic because they hadn’t quite formalised a plan for who was being re-allocated there, when. The system is now a lot more slick, at least in my hospital. This kind of thing is unprecedented - we’ve never reorganised entire hospitals or how we work, and certainly not under short notice, and it’s been evolving with the crisis. As it stands, most wards are either hot - suspected covid patients, or cold - patients which tested negative or are not suspected of aving the virus. My regular ward is one of the few cold wards, but we still test and diagnose covid pretty often. For what it’s worth, I feel my hospital have generally done the best job that they can. They have expanded ITU’s capacity extensively, and are coming up with all sorts of ways to ensure they have enough equipment and oxygen.

Almost all outpatient departments have shut, apart from dialysis. We no longer allow as many visitors in hospital - 1 visitor per day for patients who are seriously unwell or dying. Stable patients are not allowed visitors. For people with covid-19, household contacts usually can’t come because they are meant to be self-isolating at home. This means a lot of phone calls to relatives updating them on their loved ones. That’s one of the main ways this has affected us - we’re having a lot more of those “I’m sorry but your loved one is very sick” or resuscitation decision discussions on the phone, and that can be hard.

Equipment and clothes:

In my hospital, I’d say that fit-testing was departmental - it was down to individual departments to organise. And although they said they’d prioritise at risk departments and staff, with re-mobilisation that clearly wasn’t taken into consideration at first. It takes a while to fit test a ton of people - and a some people are failing fit test. I passed, but not necessarily with the kind of mask that’s available. Unfortunately, people like me were on ward cover or on the covid wards pretty early, so I had to do a lot of running around to get myself adequately tested and protected. We have PPE right now, and some clear guidance on a national level, although that doesn’t necessarily line up with PPE guidance in other places. There’s a lot of criticism of PPE policies across hospitals - people fear inadequate protection and inconsistency, and they fear exposure to a virus that can kill them, their loved ones or their patients. Guidance on what kind to use, and when, has changed over the weeks. We try to be sensible with how we use it.

They caved and gave us all scrubs to wear on the wards- 3 pairs each. Unfortunately there are no scrubs that aren’t a size large, so we are all swamped. I’ve bought some comfy but ugly clog type shoes that are easy to clean, and I plan to chuck them when this sorry episode is over. If it’s ever over. My scrubs are far, far too big (they’d be big on my 6′3′‘ dude, so on me they are like a literal tent that has to be rolled up) but I won’t get given an appropriate size when they order more. There was no other way to get scrubs - places like endoscopy or theatres refuse to help people from other departments, even if you literally tell them you’ve been deployed to a covid-19 ward. So it’s either work in tent-like pajamas or your home clothes which may not be as suitable. Dresses and skirts are fine normally, but too flappy in an infection-laden situation. I’m happy to be wearing scrubs, I just wish that they fit. But overall, I feel that we’ve been coping where I am.

#Anonymous #covid-19 journal #personal #my life

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theangrypokemaniac · 5 years ago

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@nyarthsis

If Team Rocket 'always had a heart for unpopular Pokémon', that's an admission their Alola catches aren't particular loveable creatures, so I'm not thinking anything too controversial.

You're saying they take pity on the animals no one wants, as in it's normal for me not to find them adorable.

Some Pokémon, such as Lucario, become fan favourites without the advertisement of a regular role the anime. With Wobbuffet, Bewear, Stufful, Mareanie and Mimikyu, do people like them for themselves, or because of their association with Team Rocket?

I think its the latter. I can't imagine there would be such interest in them were they to be owned by a Twerp or appear as a one-off. Really then, it's not what or who they are, it's to whom they belong that matters.

Alola has really devalued catching. Rather than be true to the source material, so battering a Pokémon into submission, as Ash did with Bulbasaur, Primeape, Muk, and many others, now you have to ask their permission!

Bewear didn't even get that. She hung around for no reason, and her 'friend' Stufful was belatedly tacked on. I see why those two were left behind, as Team Rocket had no right to take them elsewhere.

In terms of welfare, Mimikyu and Mareanie are better off staying with them, free and safe, rather than locked in the insalubrious depths of H.Q., but then it never bothered the writers sending previous Pokémon into an uncertain future, so what difference does it make now?

It can only be that, like their predecessors, there is no intention to ever bring them back, but unlike the rest, the fans can't even be allowed the vain hope of a return, not with this rather awkward disposal.

It's feasible that Jessie and James could call their base and request old monsters to join them, but it's difficult to imagine they'd fly across the world to Alola, wander through the woods, pick 'em up and go all the way back again. Why make parting so final and irreversible?

It does imply that Game Freak don't like them, so why should I?

I keep noticing this fickle attitude. A new era starts, we're expected to fall instantaneously in love with every element, beg for more and yet more. Then, once the next region arrives, this adoration asked of us is meant to evaporate and immediately transfer to the next batch.

Well why start to like them, if eventually the makers don't care, to the extent you wouldn't even know previous Pokémon had ever been alive?

Have you heard one mention of Seviper, Yanmega, Dustox, Cacnea, Carnivine, and Mime Junior since they left?

Why were they happy to chuck Wobbuffet after Sinnoh, yet fetched for Kalos?

How could Team Rocket live without it for an entire generation but suddenly it's indispensable again? What do you imagine the rest of their Pokémon felt about that?

Have Jessie and James wondered allowed how Arbok, Weezing, Lickitung and Victreebel are doing?

What of the last two generations?

What is this nonsense where every character is so detached from the past?

Supposing I was to force myself to appreciate them: since they've gone, never to return, I'd be dissatisfied with the show, thus no better off than I am now.

My feelings don't run on a switch. I can't find myself besotted one minute then dump the object of affection without a second thought, just because Nintendo want it from me.

Even if I had a more positive opinion of the current interpretation, there's no benefit to becoming involved when it's all so fleeting.

Mareanie is ugly, with three teeth. I think he's a sea anenome, so ought to be more attractive, but it's covered in nipples instead!

It looks like a bonsai tree growing breasts, reminiscent of the hideous content lurking within an Hieronymous Bosch painting.

The idea that all Mimikyu copy Pikachu, the most famous Pokémon, when in their world it's nothing special, is too stupid for me to accept. How could that be coincidence?

It's referencing reality, acknowledging the real world's view of Pikachu as the star, so if it's breaking the fourth wall, it invites disbelief.

Wobbuffet does sod all. It's a complete dead weight and has no attacks. Yet it's the one to survive generation after generation. Where's the logic in that?

I suspect his popularity rests on being there so long he's considered part of the furniture, the sole catch in which you can invest an emotional connection whilst fairly certain he'll remain around.

By now it ought to have developed some semblance of a personality, but it's as faceless as ever. Other Pokémon that have been and gone had a bit more about them, but Wobba's so bland no one can summon the energy to write him out.

If he went, what would you miss? Breaking out of his ball and hissing 'WAAAAAHBUHFEH'? Is that so integral?

I have several objections:

What is it meant to be?

Why does its tail have eyes?

Why is that never mentioned?

Is it a sort of quadruped, or has it only one foot with four toes, arranged like the bottom of a medical walking stick?

A lot of my reactions to Pokémon are influenced by encountering them in the games. With Wobbuffet, I remember first coming across it in the cave near Blackthorn City, and just as you're winning the fight, it pulls out Destiny Bond and suddenly you're both down.

When you finally get one, it's tricky to train. You have no choice but to guess whether the opposition will launch a physical or special move, and mostly you get it wrong. He never learns anything else and doesn't evolve, so it's that forever.

Persevering with Magikarp is worthwhile, but what's to be gained from taking any time out to fight with Wobbuffet?

The anime eliminates this problem. You're aware of the nature of the approaching onslaught because you can see it coming, and the opponent said it aloud.

In this context Wobbuffet should be the most powerful Pokémon in the universe. Come on, it can deflect every attack!

Is it? No. It has a successful defence about once a generation, and still loses the battle. I can't say if it's worse to be utterly pointless, or to not fulfil one's potential.

I resent it muscling in on the motto, as if it's considers itself of equal rank to Meowth. No it's not!

When I was young, there was a tendency for magazines to refer to Team Rocket as a duo. Meowth was judged to be in the same position as Pikachu: a main character yes, and valuable enough to be accorded the privilege of liberty, but still very much owned by people.

You would see references to Jessie and James as his Trainers, though how they assumed this worked went unexplained. Even if shared, one had to have to caught him, thus be his proper owner.

Later on this developed into them being three equal members, and the term 'TRio' emerged, but now, although perhaps not officially recognised, there's an attitude of treating them as a quartet.

It's just wrong! Wobbuffet's not been around since day one. He didn't join Team Rocket voluntarily because he had nowhere else to go. It was a choice made for him by his original Trainer, so out of his hands, or rather his flippers.

If he was an independent Pokémon who just tagged along one day, that would be different, but it belongs to Jessie. Promoting one of hers means James is lesser, and no longer equal.

In each generation Team Rocket catch at least one local Pokémon, but as Wobbuffet's there, it ends up with Jessie having more on her side than James, and I dislike the imbalance. Plus the one he does get is violent.

It can't be solved by giving him another new one, as then he's captured two in the region, and she has only one, so again it's skewed.

Whilst Wobbuffet does count in numbers, he's not on the level of the rest, who fight regularly. He's both there and not simultaneously.

I'm still irked the way Lickitung was ejected to make room.

It was the best Pokémon they ever had! It took out Pikachu, Vulpix and Bulbasaur with one move! It would've won those Princess Dolls for Jessie if the writers hadn't changed the rules so that Lick only affects those of sound mind!

It was as if they realised their mistake too late, and so Lickitung was featured less and less to avoid it dominating a fight, then hurriedly traded away for something reliably feeble.

The following analogy you may not understand, but I think it fits rather aptly:

There's a game called Final Fantasy VIII. One of the side quests involves you racing through a castle under a time limit. If successful, you are rewarded with Odin as a Guardian Force, which is a deity that will provide a defence.

Unlike others, he is out of your control, but every so often, as you enter battle, he turns up and annihilates your opponents. It's very welcome.

Unfortunately this game was programmed by bunyips, who clearly didn't want the last section of the game to be accidently easier for you. Oh no. If you're progressing, it ain't gonna be through luck, or turning the console on and off until he arises.

Therefore, towards the close, you come up against ex-friend Seifer. Odin is fixed to rush to your aid, but when he does, bloody Seifer slices him in half, horse and all!

He killed Odin, the ancient King of the North! The Lord of Valhallah! The Father of the Vikings!

It's not normal fighting death, it's irreversible. He's gone for good.

After this Gilgamesh introduces himself as a replacement. He too will randomly appear and set about the enemy.

The problem is that whilst Odin destroyed monsters unfailingly, with Gilgamesh it's a rarity.

He uses four swords, and which you get is also a lottery.

One is the same as Odin's, two deal average damage, but not death, and the worst one depletes 1 HP, so it might as well not have bothered.

Not only does it arrive but a fraction of the time, but it's in a fraction of those times that it's of any assistance, which is something of a comedown.

Lickitung is Odin: didn't see it often, but it tore the place apart!

Wobbuffet is Gilgamesh: once in a blue moon it provides rescue, but it's on a lot lower percentage than it's predecessor.

It's difficult not to be disappointed.

#team rocket #wobbuffet #mareanie #mimikyu #bewear #stufful

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godfirstgodalways · 7 years ago

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How can I be passionate about life again? It's been really hard these last few years and it seems to be worse since I'm a junior in college and I just feel like I'm going through the motions and I'm not really living life.

I could say read your Bible more often, pray more often, count your blessings more often, eat healthier, exercise more, do more of the things you love….but I’ll tell you something different, something you can do now that will ultimately lead to being more passionate about that list I just made. Here’s a quick story about me first. I had a lot of struggles growing up since I can remember back when, especially throughout my teen years. This is actually my testimony you’re going to read if you don’t know about my past yet. I am a victim of abuse (physical, emotional, psychological, and verbal abuse). My own father was my abuser. I look back in life and I could say I didn’t deserve all the pain and hurt, but because I’ve come out of it a more confident, stronger, wiser, resilient, patient, and faithful Christian, I don’t regret or am ashamed all that I had to go through. It was for my own good that I’ve come to accept. It takes a lot for me to get sad over a matter or get sensitive over something that someone else might otherwise have thought was a mean or rude thing to tell me. Maybe because I’ve grown to tolerate a lot….I hope I don’t come across as someone who has just become so emotionally cold and because of it, prideful. I sincerely have changed my outlook on emotions and it’s not in any way negative, and it’s because God has transformed my mind. I am however more sensitive to the hurts and pains of others, not in an empathetic “poor you” way, but in a manner that strives to help you “understand more about yourself” way. My dad’s love was very tough and because of this ugly character he used to have, I drew myself closer and closer to God, our Heavenly Father. No matter how much pain I’ve endured, Jesus endured so much more. It’s oftentimes the poorest in spirit that find the most comfort in God because out of desperation He is their last and only hope. That’s why 2 Corinthians 12:9-11 is such good scripture to meditate on…

But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.

There are testimonies of people in all walks of life who have made drastic turnarounds by professing Christ as their Savior. They are ex-prisoners, ex-gangsters, ex-drug users, celebrities that used to work for the entertainment business, even ex-porn stars, cancer survivors, former atheists….before they gave their lives to Christ, the one thing they all had in common was that they were poor in spirit. They did not at first recognize or acknowledge how badly in shape their spirits were in, but once they did and did something about it by turning to God in desperation, He gave them a kind of strength that could only be found in Him.

In Matthew 5:3-12 it says, “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled. Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy. Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God. Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God. Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. “Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me. Rejoice and be glad, because great is your reward in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you.

I gave my life to Christ and heard of this scripture even before the abuse got worse, but it did not stick with me until years later after I had run away. I rededicated my life to Christ and years after the abuse stopped I had gotten comfortable with my old habits and it wasn’t until then when I realized I didn’t have to experience bad things happening to me to get back on track. Oftentimes it takes extremely difficult experiences for people to change their ways. They need a wake-up call. It takes fear for them to finally get motivated. It could be a breakup, a divorce, losing a job, getting thrown out of the house, a terrible car accident, losing someone they love to illness….those who are the most desperate for change are the ones that actually do something positive with the whatever situation they’re in, and those who easily lose hope and give up go into a deep depression. I’ve learned not to wait for those very difficult times and this is how I do it….I simply practice HUMILITY. I can’t emphasize this enough. SURRENDER AS OFTEN AS YOU REMEMBER IN A DAY. BEGIN WITH GOD EARLY IN THE MORNING. END WITH GOD AT NIGHT. LEARN BY RECOGNIZING WHAT AREAS IN LIFE YOUR PRIDE SHOWS UP IN. AS YOU’RE YIELDING TO CHRIST, REMEMBER WHAT HE DID FOR YOU. YOU ARE NOT YOUR OWN, YOU WERE BOUGHT AT A PRICE, YOU HAVE NOTHING AND ARE NOTHING WITHOUT GOD, CONFESS YOUR PRIDE AND OTHER SINS AND GENUINELY REPENT. PRACTICE THIS AS MANY TIMES AS YOU HAVE TO EVERYDAY AND YOUR HUMBLENESS WILL BE AS NATURAL AS BREATHING. YOU’LL EXPERIENCE MORE PEACE AND JOY BECAUSE YOU’LL ALSO BE MORE AWARE OF ALL THE GOODNESS AND BLESSINGS GOD PUTS INTO YOUR LIFE.

When I ran away from home and didn’t see my parents for a year, I could remember 6 of those months were the happiest months of my life. It wasn’t because I was away from my dad, well maybe partly…but it was mainly because I had a lot of alone time with God and that’s when I truly began to love myself by getting to know Him more. It was a streak on the mountaintop because I tried the best I could to acknowledge God everywhere I went. I didn’t know at the time that what I was actually doing was surrendering everyday. When you acknowledge God and I mean not just remember He’s present, but simply remembering He sent His Son to die for you, and accepting Jesus as that grace you don’t deserve, knowing how much He actually did for you to have your life where you get to have God as your guide should make you fall to your knees and grieve for how selfish you have been for making life about yourself. Humbling myself made me fall in love with Him more and more, which in turn made me love myself more, which made me more passionate about sharing His love simply by spreading my joy. I am not 24/7 nearly gung-ho and as excited about life as I was then, but overall I definitely appreciate life more now whether I’m in the valley or up on the mountaintop, I have joy because I still take Jesus with me everywhere I go. Some people are fine acknowledging God only once or twice a day, some need to acknowledge Him 20 times a day. Whatever it takes…know that God will be pleased with you for your efforts.

There’s a similar issue I was presented with I think a year ago. Anon asked how they could be more passionate about reading the Bible because they felt they were just reading it without really getting into it…they needed motivation basically. I can’t remember all that I said, except the part where in order for anyone to get the most out of Bible reading, you have to approach it as if you were a pauper. I believe Bible reading gets boring because we subconsciously think either we won’t get anything much from it or understand anything, or we think we already know a lot when it comes to wisdom. What that is is actually pride but we are not aware of it. There is a fundamental order to prayer and it starts with adoration/praise, then confession, thanksgiving, supplication/prayer requests - ACTS. The first 2, adoration and confession go first because if done sincerely, it should put the one praying in a state of humility. You must be humble when approaching God before realizing He has actually given you a lot (thanks) and before asking him anything your heart desires (supplication). And as Christians we’re suppose to pray a lot throughout the day, enough that it becomes second nature, because really all it is is practicing His presence by talking to God (verbally or mindfully) as if He’s there living and breathing like a real person who’s your really good friend. So approach God with humility by surrendering and praising Him before asking Him that you want to have more passion for life or anything you desire out of life. Acknowledge that you are poor in spirit…I know you probably already know that you are in that state right now, but you should mention it to God too every time you approach Him. Expound on it, be honest with your feelings. “When I am weak, then I am strong. I can do all things through Christ who gives me strength. God is my guide. He will only give me what I can handle. With Him all things are possible.” Those are God’s promises I put on repeat in my head anytime I can tell my world is about to be shaken. So basically, HUMBLE YOURSELF BY ACKNOWLEDGING YOU ARE WEAK AND YOU NEED GOD’S STRENGTH. BE HONEST WITH YOUR WEAKNESS BUT ALSO DO THE BEST YOU CAN TO FOCUS ON GOD’S POWER OVER YOU THROUGH PRAISE. PRAISE HIM BY MAGNIFYING HIS GREATNESS INSTEAD OF YOUR WEAKNESS. REMEMBER TO THE BEST OF YOUR ABILITY TO PRAY THROUGHOUT THE DAY, AND HE WILL BLESS YOU WITH PASSION FOR LIFE, BUT MORE IMPORTANTLY, PASSION FOR GOD. That’s my whole but simple secret for true joy. Thank you for this. I will be praying for you! :)

Colossians 3:23 Whatever you do, work heartily, as for the Lord and not for men,

1 Corinthians 10:31 So, whether you eat or drink, or whatever you do, do all to the glory of God.

Luke 14:11 For all those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.”

Proverbs 11:2 When pride comes, then comes disgrace, but with humility comes wisdom.

Psalm 149:4 For the LORD takes delight in his people; He crowns the humble with victory.

Philippians Chapter 2 - Imitating Christ’s Humility

By His Grace, Sheela (Via godfirstgodalways)

#godfirstgodalwaysreply #my Christian advice #find passion for life #help for college

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punkscowardschampions · 5 years ago

Text

Rio & Nancy

Rio: If you wanna head home 'fore nan and granddad are ready, you can always have a lift back with us Nancy: Thanks Nancy: I'm in no rush though Rio: Having a good time then? Nancy: Sure Nancy: It's not a classroom, I'll take it Rio: Yeah, I bet you're buzzing Nancy: You mean you can't tell? Well, that's devastating Nancy: I reckoned on it being so obvious, like Rio: I mean, your poker face ain't all that, babe, if you wanna be real about it Nancy: More of a resting bitch, I know Nancy: The good news must not have sunk in yet Rio: Give it a few Nancy: Yeah Rio: Anyway, can't do anything about it now Rio: May as well enjoy your summer Nancy: Like I said, I already am Nancy: Aside from the prospect of going home Rio: 👍 Rio: How bad can it be Rio: he's taken one for the team Nancy: No, he's made sure exams mean more than they did before Nancy: and made me the focus since he's a less than safe convo topic Rio: Well, your family's inability to communicate is longstanding and not my fault so I'm not gonna take the blame for it, nor is my baby Rio: Sorry, like Nancy: I didn't ask Nancy: It's not my fault that his fall from grace makes me their poster child for success now either, I definitely never asked for that Rio: If you're going to feel so sorry for yourself, don't be surprised when people feel it for you in return Rio: Oddly enough our decision to have a child wasn't exactly about you Nancy: I'm only surprised the pity party isn't full already Nancy: My brother tends to take up a lot of space Rio: Please Rio: We've got no reason to be sorry, either definition Rio: we're happy, if you lot wanna be miserable then the party is all yours Nancy: Does he know that? Does he feel it? 'Cause he sounded like he wanted me to be sorry for him many times over when we last spoke Rio: Like I said, you're all crap at communicating Rio: but thanks Nancy: Yeah, and he's one of the worst Nancy: If I feel sorry for anything, it's for you, for that much, like Rio: Fuck off Rio: I don't need your pity Nancy: Don't tell me to fuck off Rio: Why not? You've seen fit to talk to me how you please Nancy: 'Cause you're judging my communication skills like its your job, for one thing Nancy: And for another, I haven't said anything like that to you, ever Rio: You said in as few words as possible that you don't think Buster really wants our baby, implying that I don't know him and we don't talk, whilst you were at it Rio: but no Rio: the f bomb in response, so much worse, Jesus Nancy: No I haven't Nancy: All I've said to him is that his timing is ridiculous and when was the last time we even spoke, me and you? Before exams probably so Rio: What does it matter to you, or your parents for that matter Rio: He's still going to Uni, he's still doing everything they want Nancy: I don't care what they want Nancy: I care about him and how hard it's gonna be Nancy: I won't be here to help either of you, not even in the same country, so excuse me for being worried Rio: When ain't life? Rio: You can't let that stop you from doing what you want Nancy: You don't need to make it harder on yourself, Jesus Rio: Well that ain't how it's going to be, or how we see it Nancy: It's easy for him to see it that way when he never admits that he needs help or that anything could possibly be a struggle in the slightest Nancy: He's just perfect and everything will be, end of story Rio: I help him Rio: and I know that, I knew that before this even started Nancy: I know you do and you know I love you, yeah? I'm not saying this to be a bitch to you Rio: I know Rio: but I don't get why you can't translate your worry into supporting him, that is literally all he needs from you Rio: instead of the constant barage of questions Nancy: because I'm scared for him and he scares me Nancy: how little he thinks about anything Nancy: He just wants and he gets and I'm the only one who cares if it'll work out or not Nancy: you know that's what he's always been like Rio: It's going to work out Rio: even if you wanna talk worst case scenarios, we have to get divorced, yeah Rio: he'll still have the kid, I'm not that bitch Nancy: I hope it does Nancy: Genuinely Nancy: You know that Rio: I think I do Rio: but you don't always show it Rio: I know it's a lot Rio: but it's hard for him when none of you seem happy for him or even say it's alright, like Rio: why do you think he can't admit he needs help, when has he got it? Nancy: Do you? 'Cause when you got together I had to re-evaluate everything I thought I knew about him and you Nancy: He says he's loved you since he was a kid, I was there, I have almost the same memories Nancy: But I don't Nancy: at all Rio: Why does it matter? We were all kids Nancy: 'Cause all this time he was so unhappy and I didn't know, okay Nancy: I didn't do anything Rio: None of us did Rio: He didn't want you to know, anyone Rio: you can't take blame for it like you wilfully ignored cries for help but he's trying now Rio: he needs you now, okay Nancy: I'm trying too Nancy: I just Nancy: I don't know him, if I ever did Nancy: How am I meant to know what to do? Rio: You did Rio: You were close then, just because you didn't know this one thing doesn't mean you weren't Rio: You wouldn't tell him about every crush you had, especially if you felt shame about being gay or there was another reason you knew he could judge you for it, you know? Rio: Just, try and be nice to each other, simple and as stupid as it sounds Rio: that's all you gotta do in this world though Nancy: You can say wanting to fuck my teacher, that's pretty shameful, babe Nancy: Lord, did you really have to do the one thing that scares me most to test me Nancy: Babies are terrifying Rio: Well you know, I assume you weren't child thirsting after your reception teacher like 👌👌👌 nice cardigan miss Rio: Nah Rio: they're just people Rio: I guess that's kinda the problem though Nancy: Hey, she was cute! And very attentive Nancy: Well, not to be dramatic and turn this into a therapy session but the last time I was properly excited for a baby to be born, he died Nancy: And now we don't talk about him Rio: That isn't going to happen again Rio: and you could talk to Buster about him Rio: he's thinking about him too Nancy: Does he talk about him to you? Rio: Yeah, a little Rio: we're going to give the baby his name as a middle Nancy: Really? Rio: I should say we don't know it's a boy yet, we just think it is Rio: but I won't say 'if not, the next one' and freak you out further, like Nancy: Go ahead, I'm just out here openly crying at the beach Rio: I'm sorry Rio: you can use my ugly dress as a hankie if you wanna Nancy: It's not that bad Rio: It's years old 'cos everything I own now would leave no need to announce this Rio: tempting but probably not Nancy: You should have come to me, my wardrobe runneth over Nancy: Literally, I need to have such a huge clear out before uni starts Rio: You planning to reinvent yourself as a minimalist? 😏 Rio: local charity shops gonna be a goldmine, like Nancy: Reinvent myself, yeah, as that, no Nancy: I get it, not tempting to come over when I'm being a bitch Nancy: I'm sorry you have to suffer that dress as a result, babe Rio: Well you know, or we could say I was giving you space and time Rio: politer Rio: I'm not even sure it was ever mine Rio: maybe it was yours, the ultimately bitchery to get it out of my system Nancy: Not to be that bitch or lesbian stereotype, okay, but what's under it? Can you not just remove it now the secret's out? Nancy: Be you again Rio: 😂 Rio: Still got it, babe Rio: I guess I can now Rio: It's weird Nancy: Do it for my brother if not me Nancy: You think I need to sort my face, look at his right now Rio: Poor boy Rio: at least I didn't straighten my hair, then he'd really be devastated Nancy: 😂 Nancy: I wish you had, I'd have taken so many pics to post and tag him in Rio: 😏 Pure evil, like Nancy: Genetically, sorry Nancy: Not saying you should watch The Omen again or anything but Rio: 😲 How rude Rio: but if I remember correctly that fucker was adopted so it would've been more cutting to come at me with Rosemary's Baby, like Rio: slacking Nancy: Oops, horror movies not really my forte Rio: You should reconsider Rio: yeah the bitch always dies, but she's usually half-naked beforehand, like Nancy: Are you gonna put your arm around me when it gets scary though? I think not Rio: You know I would you just ain't vibing 💔 Nancy: Lies! I just told you to strip Rio: True enough Rio: There's hope yet then Nancy: I'm sorry for being a bitch this whole time Nancy: I've missed you, it feels like exams lasted years Rio: I know, it was stressful and I weren't even taking them so God knows how you lot survived Rio: How do you feel about them, genuinely? Nancy: I know you love him, but how much of a prick was he during his, like 1-10? To make me feel better Nancy: I feel bad but like, I always do about that stuff so Nancy: It doesn't mean anything Rio: Oh, 11, for sure 😏 Rio: no, it was hard though, he was stressed as fuck Rio: you'll have done what you needed to do, I know Nancy: At least you could play the pregnancy card, like DO NOT STRESS ME, BOY Nancy: I basically had to shut myself away to get the same effect Rio: I feel it, Junior looks like this is his first time seeing sunlight in years, he hasn't taken his sunglasses off Rio: know they're prescription but come on Rio: as for the pregnancy card, great for getting out of arguments you've probably caused being a crazy bitch, like Nancy: I don't think he remembers who any of us are 😂 Nancy: It's not too late to have some actual fun today, is it? Nancy: You need it too, Buster said you've been pretty sick Nancy: He's dramatic, but still Rio: Of course not Rio: Someone suggested going to the pub to celebrate but as I'm the one with the baby I can make sure they choose somewhere nice with a decent cocktail list and beer garden, not a grotty old man pub, like Rio: Just morning sickness but it was pretty shitty and lonely when he was at School and so was Indie Rio: but fingers crossed I'm over that now so Nancy: We have to do something about that dress first Nancy: Come with me before we go anywhere else Nancy: I will save you Rio: 🙌 Rio: If you take me near a maternity section, we will brawl Nancy: God no Nancy: I'd burst into flames Rio: 😂 Rio: You remembered suncream today though, yeah? Nancy: Yes, mum Nancy: Maternity clothes are actually disgusting and I'm not letting it happen to you Nancy: Or my niece or nephew, how embarrassing to look back on Rio: It's just not necessary either Rio: do you know how big most clothes go these days like Nancy: Thank you! Like be more creative than that Nancy: If you wear a smock I'm disowning you Nancy: I don't care if you're having twins in a heatwave Rio: You'll be glad to know it ain't, unless one of them was hiding real stealth, but I'd be much bigger, pretty sure Nancy: Yeah, you'd need more than that dress to hide behind, right? Mum was such a ridiculous size with us, the pics are actually like something out of a scary movie Nancy: Say what you like about her, and do, but she always looked good Rio: Honestly, poor bitch Rio: Feel her small girl pain in a way you can never Rio: feeling like a human ball some days and it is just the one Nancy: Why do you think I'm not taking you to a maternity section, they'd think I was the one with a baby on board Nancy: No offense but kill me Rio: Oh bitch no Rio: like, is daddy excited or terrified, Nance? Rio: straight girl bants Nancy: I nearly threw up in my mouth Nancy: Not morning sickness, sorry lads Rio: You keep down your breakfast if you getting in my car, thank you very much Nancy: Such a mum 😏

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fuckstudy · 8 years ago

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Hey, I have a question regarding test anxiety. I'm a junior in high school right now (11th grade) and I was diagnosed with GAD in 9th grade. But I'll admit that I was a mess in 9th grade - I didn't do my work, it was always rushed, my depression was terrible, I never focused and my GPA was in the gutter. But last year, in 10th grade, I improved a lot. I improved my work habits, I focused, I did everything I possibly could. And I actually did well. I managed to pull a 3.78. Not too shabby. +

(cont) + and this year I’m continuing my work habits. I’m in the IB Diploma programme so the courses are a lot harder but I swear to god I’m trying. But my GPA dropped to a 3.6 and I promised myself I would bring it up. And I studied so goddamn hard for my exams, I swear I did, but I got a C on my business exam. And my grade dropped, and my GPA dropped. I review a lot, I swear. I had a study session with one of the smartest people in my biology class and we went over everything. She told me not +

+ but I can really see that I need the help. My thoughts are drifting toward suicide, and as much as I know that I SHOULD ask for help, I don’t WANT to. My GPA dropped to a 3.4 today. I was at a friend’s house when I found out and I just went to the toilet and cried. All my life (before 9th grade) I was a straight A student. I got awards, I was athletic, I was an all-rounder. But now? I’m stupid, I’m fat, I’m ugly. I can’t do anything right. +

+ I feel like I’m constantly cheating people? I don’t think that makes sense. By people call me smart because I understand the material and I can easily explain it to them, but they don’t know that I don’t do well on tests. And I feel like I’m cheating them and hiding who I truly am. A couple of my friends know, but they don’t really help me out. I mean, yes, they’re there for me. But it’s not directly helping with my anxiety. ++ and I’m sorry for this long message. I don’t know why I sent it on anon to you, because you can’t help me from behind a computer screen, and that’s perfectly okay. I get it. It’s okay, really. But I think I just needed to vent. I need some sort of validation that I’ll do okay in life and I won’t flunk out of high school. I’m just…I’m tired. All the trying and still failing is frustrating me so much. I’m about to just quit trying at all. Why bother? +

+ I’ve tried everything - breathing slowly, reviewing more, clenching and relaxing my muscles, everything. But nothing seems to help me and I just get more and more nervous. Anyway, I’m sorry for this rant. I just really needed to let all this out somewhere. Thank you.

Hi anon,

Thank you for yourmessage. Thank you for having the courage to share this with me and forreaching out - everyone needs a space to vent and I'm glad that I could helpyou in that regard.

My answer is noreplacement for medical advice, which I actively encourage you to seek ifnecessary. However, from the tone of your message it sounds like you want afriend, someone to listen to you as opposed to medical advice that you'vepreviously sought.

I'm no doctor, but Ican be a friend.

On working hard and not receiving the grade you want

From your academichistory it sounds like you're a very capable student. I do not doubt for asecond that you've studied hard, dedicated yourself to your studies, andstepped up to meet the challenges of the IB Diploma. Just because your academicresults do not reflect that effort, doesn't mean that it was all done in vain,or that it was a waste of time. Just because you didn't get an A, doesn't meanyou didn't try.

I was raised on thephilosophy that "if I didn't achieve the best result, obviously I didn'ttry hard enough, and therefore I need to work harder." But life doesn'twork that way. The academic system does not work that way. You can try hard and still fail. Becausethere's a thousand and one factors that are beyond your control, no matter howhard you've tried to control them, or mitigate their adverse effects. Success is not a reward that youautomatically are entitled to just because you've worked hard.

The grade youreceive will never ever be an accurate reflection of the effort or thesacrifice that you put in. It only accounts for your performance in that tinysnapshot of time - at that exam hall, in that hour, of that one day of yourlife. That's it. It doesn't tell me whether you're a good person, doesn't tellme anything about your sense of humour, what tv shows you like, what songs youlike to sing in the shower, what your favourite flavour of ice cream is. Itdoesn't tell me whether you're a morning person or a night owl.

What hurts is whenwe fail to meet our own expectations. And how we deal with them. I've writtensome posts addressing those points here and here.

On practical advice re: test anxiety

Once again, ifyou've found that seeking professional medical help has assisted in the past, Ihighly recommend that you seek it out.

Personally, when Ireceive a grade that I'm disappointed in I try to frame it this way: "Itwasn't because I didn't put in enough effort - it was because I was directingmy efforts in the wrong direction."

Its not about howmany hours you study - its about whether your studying habits are addressingthe assessment criteria.

This requires you totailor your studying habits to your curriculum and assessment style.

Don't learn thingsyou won't be assessed on. Prioritise the topics you need to learn by referenceto how much time your teacher spent on it during class, the proportion of thecourse the topic took up in your semester, and whether or not you've been assessedon the topic prior to the exam or not. Ask your teachers. Alternatively, deducewhat your exam will be like by looking at the format of past exams.

Find some time toreplicate exam conditions - for example, doing practice exam questions, workingunder time pressure. Set up familiarpatterns of behaviour you can replicate in the exam hall - for example, I wouldalways have my watch on the top right hand side of the table and place my sparepens right under, with my waterbottle on the floor. Going through the samesequence of events when I entered the exam hall helped me "get into themindset" and calm me down.

Whilst nothingreally ever compared to the 'exam' hall for me, I found that being 'familiar'with what to expect made me feel much more prepared when I sat the exam. Sure,my hands still shook when I entered the exam room, and I still felt like Iwanted to hurl, but due to conditioning, my mind adapted to working under thatkind of pressure. And whilst I wasn't performing as well as I would be had Itaken the same question home and "studied" it; at least I wasperforming in an exam environment.

And in the end, that's what it boils down to: it doesn't really matter whetheror not you're performing at 100% in the exam hall - as long as you're puttingsomething on the page, you will be ok. It wont be perfect, but you're gettingthe fuck through it.

And yes, all the"general" tips apply. However, if you're finding that they're nothelping, be brave and seek advice from elsewhere - whether that be medicalhelp, online, journaling, or having an activity outside of the hectic hell holethat is high school.

On getting help

"Knowing"and "accepting" something are two very, very different things.Knowing that you need help doesn't mean you accept that you need it. Acceptingthat you need help does not automatically mean you will get help. And that'sok. Give yourself time to assess your options. Don't feel like it's a "race" to get help - no one should beforcing you to 'get help' nor judging whether or not you do. It's yourrecovery.

But give yourself awarning flag - a threshold that, once breached, will be a sign for you tore-evaluate your options.

Friends are friends.And good intentions are just that - intentions. They don't magically translateto a cure. And its great that they're there for you. But support, whilstuseful, doesn't mean that things will automatically be ok.

Because in the end,its something for you to accomplish.

I think of it as aship. My friends are my crew - they row the boat with me, we share funnystories about what we see on the sea, we swear and curse and cry and love.They'll support me through thick and thin. But in the end I'm the captain of myship, I need to steer the ship in the right course. I still need to call theshots. So we can all get there together.

On imposter's syndrome

Anon, I feel thisall too keenly.

As someone who has'held themselves out' to be studious, or to be smart, or who completed an 'advanced degree so oh my god you must besmart', when I don't meet those supposed expectations, I feel like I am animposter. Like somehow, I've "talked to talk" but failed to"walk the walk"

I feel like I don'tdeserve my achievements.

That some day,someone is going to see me for who I am and take all those achievements awayfrom me.

But it boils down tothis: I feel like I needed to 'prove' myself to people.

But why? You don't need to be perfect, you don't needto be "the smartest person" just because you've been labelled as"smart". You're human - which means you can be a duality of things.You can be study-smart, but street stupid. You can be street smart but studystupid. You can excel in practical application but be at a loss when it comesto theoretical application.

You don't need to beperfect to be "genuine".

You're human. You'reallowed to make mistakes. You are more than this stupid arbitrary box that thepeople around you have chosen to define you by.

And you are morethan your academics. Just because your ability to explain things verbally isn'treflected in your written grades doesn't mean you're "dumb" orcheating, or hiding who you truly are. It probably attests to how you're averbal communicator. And in the end that's only one very small piece of thepuzzle. Who you are doesn't stop at that first sentence.

I'm a law graduate.I'm smart. I also procrastinate the shit out of everything and regularly pullall nighters, drink too much, stay in bed all day, cry and feel lost.

All those sentencesare accurate. Who I am doesn't stop at the first full stop.

You're not hiding who you truly are. They're just notgiving you a chance to elaborate on that picture.

On how you are going to get through this

You will get throughthis. You've picked yourself up before and pushed through. You don't need to bethat "all rounder" - you just need to be the version of you who you'dlike to be at this point, at this time. It'll come in small steps, your smallvictories of the day - but define them and celebrate them.

Remember life is not a collection of binary outcomes.Just because you didn't get an "A" does not mean that you've failed.Just because you're not "athletic" doesn't mean you're"fat". There's so many shades of grey in between. It's not one or theother; its just a work in progress.

Keep working on it.

Its easy for me tosay because I've completed high school, university, all that jazz. Hindsightand all that. But you will get through this - tooth and nail. And when you comeout on the other side, you'll be able to help others to get through too. Find somethingthat will get you through - heck it doesn't need to be some "life longpassion or dream" that every movie and studyblr talks about - it justneeds to be something small, something that will get you out of bed, somethingthat will help you be kinder to yourself.

And when its doneand dusted, I can't promise you that life will be perfect, or that you'll havethe life you're dreaming of, but I can promise you that it'll be different towhere you are now.

And sometimes, thehope of change is all we need to get through.

And finally, on how its really, really, really ok to send melong messages

I can't stress toyou how much I admire your bravery for sharing your experiences with me. I'mnot confident that this message will change anything, or fix anything. But Ihope, at the very least, its helped you feel less alone.

For a moment.

Because messageslike yours are the only reason why I continue to run this shitshow of a blog.

So thank you.

All the best anon.I'm rooting for you.

#test anxiety #studyblr #exam #study #high school #failure #fs: replies #look this is a rambly reply and I'm sorry its so late #but sometimes a conversation needs to be had #and the only way i can do so is via essay #when in reality I want to give you a huge hug #so consider this a hug of words #anonymous #because its hitting like fucking 5am here and I wrote this for you

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