#love when i can feel myself TEETERING on the VERY EDGE of a full blown Episode and i know i'm 99% likely gonna not be able to control it &

[slightlyrebelliouswriter23]

Can you do 04 for the winter prompts x jurdan?? I'd love you forever.

so it’s been approximately 84 years since i received this ask, but it inspired me so much that it sort of spiralled out of control, and now it’s gonna be the start of a multichapter fic! thank you for your patience and for the inspiration 🖤💫

Content Warning: Cursing, mild mention of panic attack (to skip, stop reading between the ~~~~~)

Part I- Slow Burn

I, Jude Duarte, third year at Royal Greenbriar University and soon-to-be reigning Top Scholar, am in a hurry.

It’s rush hour. The pavement is slick with sleet and packed with important people in fancy suits. They brave sheets of freezing rain that lash down from the angry October skies with an unending canopy of black umbrellas.

I don’t carry my own. Umbrellas aggravate the chaos of mornings in Insmire, and I don’t need to add another to the mix.

Luckily, I am short. Manoeuvring through gaps in elbows and shoulders does not take much effort on my part. It’s the briefcases and patches of ice which make running a bit of a challenge this morning—but then, I have always enjoyed a challenge.

As I tear through the crowded streets of Insmire, I only know one thing: No amount of wind or hail or people can stop me. And if anyone gets bludgeoned with my thirty-pound backpack as I weave through the throng, well, that’s on them.

Cold air slices through me with every heave of my lungs, every pounding thud of my boots on the sidewalk. My legs are sore from yesterday’s fencing practice, but I savour the sweet ache and forge on.

I am used to this rushing, for I am always in a hurry. It sometimes feels like I’ve been in a hurry from my very first breath. As if I’m constantly trying to catch up to something just out of my grasp.

My twin sister, Taryn, and I were born in a hurry.

So excited were we to join the ranks of men, we surprised our mother half to death by wandering into the world nearly four weeks early.

As a result, we spent the next several weeks of our lives as tiny things in incubators—a little sickly and terribly jaundiced. This was how our mother always used to describe it, at least.

Ever since then, I have been invariably late to everything. Mostly, I blame it on the incubators. And the jaundice.

If I’m being honest with myself, though, being always late is a trait I can only attribute to who I am as a person. It is as much a part of me as the tip of my left ring finger is not.

I sometimes wonder if that’s exactly the crux of it; that just like my fingertip, my punctuality has somehow been taken from me, too.

I have heard of twins absorbing their siblings in the womb. I can’t see why personality traits should be any different. Especially since Taryn and I had to spread them so thinly between two of us.

And Taryn is always perfectly on time.

I risk a glance at my watch. A tiny crack runs up the glass. It’s been there for ages, but I am still nettled by the sight of it and the unbidden memory it stirs.

It’s because of this tiny crack that the watch’s face is now fogged up from the inside. I can barely make out the three little golden hands racing each other toward my tardiness.

Seven minutes past eight.

I am really very late. Or, I know I will be, at least.

Technically, if I go straight to the Silhouette Gazette now, I will be right on time for my interview.

But I can’t go straight there. Not when I haven’t had coffee.

Without my fix, I won’t be able to string together even one sentence. Much less make it through an entire interview with enough charisma to snag the internship position I so desperately need. Since I am not very charismatic to begin with, I’ll need all the help I can get.

Everything depends on my getting this internship. If I don’t, there’s no way I’ll maintain my near-perfect GPA, no way I’ll graduate summa cum laude or Valedictorian of my class.

And then I’ll have to go into something boring. Like publishing. A shudder runs through me that has nothing to do with the cold.

I shove between two men wearing long coats and flat caps. They grunt in shock and disapproval. I hardly feel the zing of pain as my shin collides with something hard.

A briefcase flies out of its owner’s grip, crashing onto the pavement a few yards away. I don’t stop to apologise.

“Bitch!” One of the flat caps shouts after me.

Yes, I agree silently, hopping over the felled bag. I am very much that.

If I had the time and breath to tell the men just the same, I would. Instead, I flip them a rude gesture over my shoulder and don’t turn around.

I’m already ten paces away when a dull throbbing starts on my leg. It radiates from where I know there’ll be an unsightly bruise tomorrow. But bruises are a thing for future Jude to handle.

There is no way I will let what happened last year happen again. Second-year was a fluke. A one-time thing.

I will get this internship, take back my rightful title of Top Scholar, and keep it until I graduate—just like my mother did. I absolutely refuse to be beaten out by some preppy moneybags prick.

Or a bit of hail.

Before flying out the door of my flat this morning, I did a quick search on Google Maps, the results of which yielded the quirky little coffee shop I now see in my line of vision.

The White Rabbit sits mercifully in all its three-story glory right across the street from the newspaper’s office building. If luck is on my side, if I hurry, I should have just enough time to grab a cup to-go and make it with a minute or two to spare.

My thoughts are all jumbled as I barrel through the glass doors.

A white-haired barista stands behind the counter at the back of the shop, taking a customer’s order with an unbearable amount of cheer for a Monday morning.

The queue isn’t too bad, maybe three people long. I send up a quick thanks to whatever power of the universe might be in charge of coffee queues.

It smells miraculous in here—freshly ground coffee and something buttered and flakey. Suddenly, I am too warm.

I make a beeline for the back of the queue, shucking off my hat and gloves as I go. I’m unzipping my coat, a difficult task with hands full of knitted things, when a wall of black blurs into my periphery.

I don’t have a second to react before that wall smacks me right in the forehead. And collides everywhere else.

A scalding liquid sloshes down the front of my shirt. I stumble backwards, gasping at the pain.

There is a very loud “Fuck” followed by an equally as loud “Shit!”

I am not sure which curse fell from my lips, but I know it was one of them. All I can feel is this dreadful sting. It spreads like a wildfire across my chest.

Perhaps, I’d cursed both words. The pain certainly warrants it.

“Are you alright, dear?” a dark, silken voice asks. A pair of beringed hands steady me, grasping my shoulders with the barest of touches. As quickly as they appeared, like that they are gone. And then they are handing me a wad of brown paper napkins.

“Here,” the voice says.

I snatch the proffered napkins and look up at my assailant.

Perfect. Just perfect, I think with a scowl. Of course the person who spills their drink down my blouse has to be stupidly attractive.

The man before me is so beautiful it’s almost cruel.

A crown of crow dark curls circles his head, framing his oil slick eyes and sharp cheekbones. His is an unnecessary sort of perfection that sets my teeth grinding.

He’s clad in all black, save for his coat—a beaded brocade of black and crimson silk with quilted red lapels. From the breast pocket, a beaded scarlet brooch in the shape of a dahlia dangles in ostentatious splendour.

There is something familiar about him I can’t quite grasp.

For some inexplicable reason I amount to probable insanity, I cannot stop my gaze from flitting to his mouth.

Bad idea. Very bad idea.

His lips look like two full flower petals. I’m plagued by the inane thought that they might feel just as soft. If I can only reach out and—

I shake my head.

Concern creases the man’s brow now. To my horror, I realise I haven’t responded to his question. I’ve just stood here, dripping and sticky, for who knows how long. Staring. Like an idiot.

“I’m fine,” I grit out through barred teeth and my own mortification. I pat at the stain hastily with the wad of napkins. “I’m just great.”

It’s useless, of course.

The stain isn’t coming out, I’m late to my life-altering interview, and to make matters worse, I still haven’t had coffee. Not to mention, my chest burns in a way that makes me tempted to scrap everything in favour of a doctor’s office.

~~~~~

That’s when panic seizes hold.

A strand of pearls tightening around my throat. I am sure it means to strangle me because I cannot breathe.

My heart takes flight, battering my ribcage as if it intends to escape entirely. A trail of sweat trickles down my forehead.

I am going to be late. I am going to have this horrid stain on my shirt. I am going to fail this interview. I am going to fail this year and myself and my family.

There’s something heavy sitting on my lungs. I am both hot and cold, here and not.

Tears prick my eyes. I will them not to spill over, but of course, my body betrays me. I swipe furiously at my cheeks.

Everyone in the coffee shop plus one unfortunately attractive dude must be staring, watching as I teeter on the edge of full-blown hysterics.

“Hey,” Unfortunately Attractive Dude croons, but I don’t see him.

I try to draw even breaths. And fail. And fail again.

~~~~~

I’m barely aware of the hand that guides me to a corner of the coffee shop. It’s darker here. A bit quieter, too. I notice a large bookshelf obscuring the alcove from the main seating area. Away from prying eyes.

“Just relax,” the man says. “It’s going to be okay. Are you hurt?” He looks inclined to place his hand on my shoulder again but thinks better of it when he sees my expression.

I want to punch him in his stupid face. Maybe I should. It’s only fair, given the circumstances.

“Relax?” I scoff, hating the way my voice cracks. “Don’t tell me to relax. I’ve got an interview in ten minutes and I’m fairly certain my would-be boss won’t appreciate my being late. Or this sort of oversharing.”

I make a wild gesture at the stain on my chest, ignoring the slight tremor in my hands. I am acutely aware of the fabric’s transparency there. Today was not the day to wear a bright purple bra.

A moment passes before a smirk slips into place on Unfortunately Attractive Dude’s hateful mouth. He folds his arms across his chest, giving me a once over.

“You sure about that?” he drawls, and now I am positive I’m going to punch him. My hands curl into fists at my sides.

“You’re disgusting.”

“And you, sunshine, are no longer having a panic attack.”

Indeed, the tightening in my throat has waned. But as keen an observation as it might be, I would first run my hand through with my fencing sabre than admit he is right.

“I wasn’t having a panic attack,” I say too quickly. He produces a smug expression that is just as bewitching as it is infuriating.

He knows what I’ve said is a lie. I know it’s a lie, too. Very deep down. In some dark forgotten place inside me where things that don’t want to be admitted go.

The man grins as if I should be grateful. I am decidedly not.

“I don’t know who you think you are,” I say, taking a step toward him. “But don’t pretend to know me. Because you don’t.”

He lifts a brow—the worst kind of dare. “Don’t I?”

“No,” I say. I hope I come off more menacing than I feel with my tearstained cheeks and conspicuous underthings on display for all the world to see.

“Pity,” he says, still wearing that stupid smile. “You seem delightful.”

My face grows hot. Blood pounds heavy in my ears, and I feel like I’m running anew. I’m so angry I cannot think.

And apparently, I don’t think—because I take another step closer.

The rest of the world slides away. It’s just me and this loathsome beautiful heinous man in a secluded corner of a strange coffee shop.

He towers over me, lithe and angled, face limned in shadow. He’s unflinching and returns my gaze with equal distaste.

My heart skitters wildly, stumbling one beat over the next like it knows it’s been spotted by something with sharp claws and jagged teeth.

In the unclosed space between us, a glittery treacherous thing ripples.

I am suddenly very glad for bookshelves.

I should leave. I should go to my interview before I do something I will regret. Before I ruin everything. I should walk away.

Then, I do the opposite of that.

“I’m the farthest thing from delightful,” I tell him, shooting a dagger-filled glare from beneath the hood of my brow. “Which is why I’d strongly advise against getting in my way again. And don’t call me sunshine.”

Something smells familiar; like a forest in winter. Like cedarwood and myrrh. With a jolt, I realise it’s him and dig my nails into the meat of my palm.

He chuckles, raising his hands in defence. “Fine,” he says. “Won’t happen again. But at least come with me. I think I can help.” He juts his chin toward the back of the coffee shop, presumably towards the toilets.

I wrinkle my nose.

This can’t seriously be some kind of come-on. I don’t have time for unsolicited advances right now. I don’t even have time for solicited advances.

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” I spit, and he flinches. “First, you give me third-degree burns. What’s next? Chop me up in the alley out back?”

The corner of his mouth twitches slightly. “As appealing as that sounds,” he says. “I’m shit with knives.”

“Oh, that’s a comfort.”

“Better with fabric, though.” He gives an unbothered shrug. “I was going to offer to get that out for you.” The man nods, seemingly unfazed, at my chest. Heat rises in my cheeks again.

“You’ve done enough already,” I snap.

Maybe I’ll just wear my winter coat through the whole cursed interview. Even that would be a better solution than this conversation.

I turn on my heel to leave, but the man catches my wrist.

Bad move, I think.

I’m contemplating dragging him out of this alcove by the ear so I can punch him in front of every customer in this coffee shop when, to my surprise, he lets go.

The man rakes a hand through his dark curls, heaving a great sigh.

“Wait. Just…” he starts. “Look, I feel bad enough as is. Let me make it up to you. It’ll take five minutes. You’ll only be a little late to your interview, and you won’t have to deal with a dry cleaner’s bill.”

I snort. I haven’t been able to afford dry cleaning since I stopped living in Madoc’s house two years ago. I will likely have to throw this shirt away if I can’t get the stain out with a good old-fashioned scrubbing.

“I’ll buy you a coffee for your troubles while we wait.”

I consider him for a moment. He seems sincere enough, though attractive people always seem sincere, even when they are truly not.

Now, though, I don’t really have much left in me to care.

I want the stain out of my blouse, a vat of coffee in my system, and a teleportation device that can transport me to the sixth floor of the Silhouette immediately.

If this man is a willing rung in the ladder to get me even two-thirds of those things, I will consider it a blessing.

“Fine,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I’ll take a large cappuccino. Extra shot of espresso. And a shot of caramel. To go.”

“Wonderful.” The dazzling man smiles his dazzling smile. “Follow me.” And with that, he leads the way out of the alcove, a gleeful bound in his step.

I already regret my decision.

*****

AN: thanks for reading, my loves! hope you enjoyed. this is the first part in my multichapter Jurdan College AU called “We’re All Mad Here”.

[saferincages]

my illness and pain levels and fatigue have been so extreme and out of control for the past three-ish weeks (and really longer than that, I feel as though it’s been simmering badly under the surface for quite a while now and finally managed to break me down completely), and I’m sorry for not being here to answer messages or check my dash or anything like that recently. I basically haven’t touched my computer at all since I set up a couple of weeks’ worth of queue, looking at the screen has been too overwhelming for my headaches and sitting here is excruciating for my spine and I’ve even been having trouble typing without joint pain (not to mention my concentration/focus not being good lately). I essentially set the queue and climbed into bed, just trying to get some semblance of strength back.

I’d like to take a moment to specifically thank @sealwife, @sansasnark, @elizabethtudors, @fancykraken, @xxsparksxx, and @christinedaae for being the beautiful human beings and extraordinary friends they are - each of you ladies has reached out to me specifically and have inferred that I might not be doing well lately, and I apologize with all my heart for not being able to respond to you properly or give that attention back to you in the way you all deserve. Also to @desireearmfeldt, @someoneoffthestreet, @ohfantine, and anyone else who has left me thoughtful messages/replies/comfort. I feel as though I’ve let you down somewhat spectacularly of late, which would never be my intention - I know I haven’t been very good at friendship lately, and you’re all blessings in my life, and have been so for many years now - you give me reasons to keep being here and keep surviving, and reminders of strength and the hope of keeping one’s heart open. I love you and think of you always, even when I haven’t managed to say it often enough.

I’ve had a lot that I’ve wanted to write about for many months, and have not had the energy or inclination to do it, but I’m finally at the point where I think I can at least provide an overview.

First of all, before I get into my stuff, I want to say that Angel’s doing much better! It turns out - we think - that it wasn’t her pancreatitis flaring up, but rather that she was having an awful allergic reaction. There’s a dental treat that we’ve been giving her for a long time that helps her teeth, but recently I couldn’t buy them from the same place or find them at a reasonable price anywhere online, so we had started her on a different little biscuit, and something in that upset her system. I feel horrible, I would never have knowingly given her something that made her so sick. :( Fortunately, after we figured out what the culprit must be, she was only ill and unable to keep anything down for a couple of days, and after we got her little tummy more back to normal on a simple chicken and rice diet, she went back to her regular food. She’s been her happy, peppy, sweet little self since, and she’s been right at my side trying to take good care of me while I’ve been so sick myself.

A few of you know this, but back in July, I had my first initial disability hearing. I’ve been fighting for this for years, after being denied through paperwork alone twice. Finally being able to go before a judge was terrifying, but I had hoped maybe my long battles would lead somewhere. If you don’t know anything about the process, it is byzantine and cruel and borderline absurd at times, and after having seen it from the inside...I’m amazed that anyone ever gets help at all. Anyway, I walked into court that summer day, and they give you a CD of your records, everything that you’ve given them permission to gather - which, for me, was supposed to be every file and medical record going back to our car accident in 2005, the hospital visits, the months of physical therapy, and then the dozens of doctors and tests and procedures I’ve been through since the onset of my chronic illnesses. But, surprise! I open up the file, and all of my records have been purged, without my authority and entirely unbeknownst to me. No one ever warned me this would, or even could, happen, or we would have procured my records ourselves over the years. A warning - if you EVER think you’re going to need medical records, demand your own copies, because they can destroy them without ever alerting you that they plan to do so. My entire life, the existence that I’ve been reduced to, that I irrevocably lost my twenties to, that I lost college and my future and dreams to, it was basically all documented in medical records that now do not exist, which, in all honesty, felt like a death in itself. I stared at those blank pages, at those faxes where “record/patient cannot be found” or “record has been destroyed,” and barely managed to stop myself from bursting into tears. There’s no evidence of how being ill has taken my life. I sat in front of the judge as he flipped through empty pages, perplexed, and decided to postpone my case. I didn’t have legal representation, and he wanted to send me for more court ordered medical evaluations since there was nothing for him to really look at. My mom barely got me out of that room and into the bathroom before I had a full blown panic attack, clutching the counter in front of the sink and sobbing and barely able to breathe. 

And then I followed instructions, and went to my set appointments. I can’t begin to describe how banal the ‘tests’ are that a doctor gives you in these court ordered exams - can you walk once from one end of a small room to the other? can you raise your arms over your head or lift your legs while you’re in a chair for a few seconds? can you repeat back a sentence or a few words when they’re said to you? Congratulations, those standards likely mean they’re going to think you’re not disabled. The fact that you likely wouldn’t be able to repeat these menial tasks over and over again, the fact that you’re in constant pain or have a compromised immune system or can’t stand up for long without the risk of heart palpitations/dizziness/possible fainting or can’t possibly work a job or go to school because you’re too sick and you’re entirely unreliable - none of this is taken into account. The physician has to write down that you walked across that room and spoke complete sentences of your own volition, and immediately you’re seen as able-bodied. I know. I was also sent to a neuropsychologist (likely because the judge knew I was teetering on the edge of that panic attack).

Going through this means being asked invasive, awful questions that aren’t even necessarily pertinent to one’s disability (ie: why don’t you date/have sex? ...as if that’s any measure of ability or is even a priority of any kind when you literally are unable to leave the house. what do you do for fun? and so forth), being looked at with suspicion and accused, both subtly and directly, of malingering or attention-seeking, being prodded and judged and dehumanized and demoralized, all because you want the most minimal of help to simply survive. It is a horror, a lot of it is emotional/psychological insult on top of the pre-existing injury of being chronically ill, and it has taken a severe toll on me.

One of the doctors I met through these court appointments was really good, though, she was well-versed on CFS and POTS and even my GI issues, and she genuinely wanted to help me. I don’t have insurance beyond basic Medicaid, but she told me her office takes it. I was going to establish her as my GP to help with my case. Well, guess what? I called her, and suddenly was informed that her office had decided to no longer accept Medicaid patients. So, there goes that. I’ve lost track of the number of physicians that I’ve called in desperation who refuse to see me because they don’t take Medicaid. I don’t have a doctor’s help. (I could, and likely very much need to, go to an indigent clinic for basic care, where I could see an RN, but that isn’t an avenue that will help with a court case, because you’re supposed to have an established physician. I had to stop seeing my GP back when my dad dropped my insurance in late 2009, after I’d made several trips up to the hospital in Denver to have specialized blood tests and exams, so...that’s a long gap of time without a regular doctor’s care, and, again, now all of those records are gone).

Furthermore, even though you’re not required to have an attorney in these cases, it does notably help to have representation. I was given a list of lawyers to call and consult with after that preliminary hearing. Not a single lawyer would help me, because of my records having been destroyed. The first lawyer I called, in fact, told me it would not be “financially advantageous” for her to take my case. Most of them wouldn’t even call me back, but the few that did bother to respond to my messages would either tell me something along the same lines or apparently weren’t taking new clients. One told me to “start over,” which wouldn’t merely be a herculean task, it would be impossible and pointless. The entire reason I filed the case the way I did was because 1) I’VE BEEN INJURED AND SICK SINCE 2005, and starting over would be like saying I only just got ill in 2016, thus destroying my entire history and 2) because I physically could not work at an age where I was still considered under my parents’ care (it’s similar to the law that allows you to stay on a parents’ health plan?), the case was filed under their names and SSNs. I have never paid into Social Security because I haven’t worked, but they, of course, have, so the ‘loss’ of income that I then could have received (which, at most, would have been just under $700 a month, which may not sound like much, but anything would be a fortune to me considering I have absolutely NOTHING). If I started over, my case would be dead in the water immediately, because my parents’ loss would no longer be taken into account. I was left floundering and constantly crying after phone calls, after every doctor and lawyer refused to see me or help me, realizing these people who are meant to be in place to protect and assist people would do nothing for me.

My second hearing, the one that was meant to be the official proceeding, was in November. And even without a doctor or a lawyer, I went to court. I wrote an eloquent letter to the judge, which he even thanked me for, explaining my illness and what it has done to my life. We went in expecting to proceed. Another bizarre little part of this process is the ‘expert testimony’ - you see, the court calls on ‘witnesses’ to testify in your case. These witnesses generally have some basic knowledge of one of the aspects of whatever you deal with (in my case, they had called on a physical therapist and a gastroenterologist). Now, keep in mind, these are not people who have ever met you. They have never treated you. They have never seen your specific symptoms or limitations. The people they called on weren’t even in my state. I don’t understand how in the hell they expect this to help - no two patients or human beings are the same. Every illness, every symptom, affects people differently. So having general knowledge of a thing isn’t going to tell you about one specific, unique individual. I will never understand this, it will never make sense to me. But, of course, in my case, again, my records are gone! I don’t know what they were even supposed to be reviewing, other than the court mandated appointments I’ve been to over the past two years. Only, guess what? The GI specialist whose testimony was to be called first? He never even received the file that he was supposed to review and call in for my case. They telephoned his office and nobody had any information or any idea about it. So, yet again, the judge (by this point very frustrated) postponed me.

I contacted a couple more lawyers, to the same non-result. The last one I e-mailed was two weeks ago, because that’s when I got the next letter. My hearing was supposed to be today. The thing is, everything had changed. I suddenly had a new judge. The ‘witnesses’ were different. (No longer was a gastroenterologist on the case, for example, now it was an entirely different physical therapy office, but no accredited physician of any kind or any speciality, despite my many diagnosed illnesses). I sent back the paperwork, but I didn’t go in to court today. The case was dismissed out of hand.

I had what I can only classify as an emotional breakdown. I’ve been coping with suicidal ideation for years, I live with it all the time, like a quiet drip or white noise in the back of my brain, something I’m used to, and occasionally hear, and consider, and then filter out. Anyone who lives with constant suicidal ideation will probably tell you they get used to it - it’s like an escape hatch. You’re not going to use it, but you also know it’s there. Well, between Angel being sick and me feeling like it was my fault, my mother being quite ill herself (this is a whole other topic and she doesn’t want me to discuss it, so I’m trying to respect that wish), and the crush of agony and lack of sleep and constant illness that I’ve been dealing with from my own body, I just lost it. I haven’t been what I would consider genuinely suicidal or so depressed that I couldn’t function since 2009, but this threw me back into an extremely dark, dangerous, and self-harmful place. I felt destroyed, I felt like I didn’t want and didn’t deserve to be here anymore, that after all the time I’ve spent trying to advocate for myself, trying to fight, it was all boiling down to nothing. For a couple of days, I was honestly worried that I needed to get help, but I didn’t want to have to go to a hospital, I didn’t want to put my mom through that, so I forced myself to push past it alone. I don’t think I’m in danger of doing further harm to myself right now. I’m just so tired. Which in itself is a small, pointless statement. I feel broken down. It isn’t only the severe pain, the exhaustion, the sickness, the ever-evolving grief cycles that I live with as goals and dreams and ideals pass away, fade further and further into the past. This time, I feel that something has been taken from me. I feel like I’ve suffered repeated deaths of myself, of the girl I used to be, could have been, wanted to be, but this is a new type of death. I feel as though whatever I was trying to fight for - dignity? the right to keep surviving? the right to ask for help? the right to hold on to hope? the right to expect, if not kindness or understanding, the basic acknowledgement of my humanity? - has been stripped from me. Some essential part of my light, even if it’s only a sliver of it, has been snuffed out. That quote from Gone Girl, strange as that may sound, has been on repeat in my mind so often, but rather than having a person to put it on, it’s more existential - this process has taken my pride and my dignity and my hope, has taken and taken from me until I feel as though I no longer existed. I can blame the arduous system, but mostly that guilt and blame falls on myself, even if that’s illogical or I don’t deserve it. I’ve said this many times before, but I feel like a ghost, the spectral remnant of the girl who had meaning and worth and deserved to be here.

I have always had so much love in my heart, and have striven so hard to be compassionate, to give even the smallest fragments of good that I can to others, and I have failed at that a lot lately in trying to deal with and compartmentalize the desperation of all of this. I think finally falling apart, physically and emotionally/mentally, was the only response I could have. And it hurts me, too, seeing the cloud we’re all under - there’s so much hatred, exclusion, meanness, and violence happening around us. The current events have been so ugly. The hugeness of that has been tearing at my spirit as much as my own personal struggles have been. It finally all got to be too much.

I just...it’s hard to comprehend our society, how it actively works against those in need, how it excludes the most vulnerable among us, how it shames people for needing assistance to simply keep living, how providing food or medical care is seen as a luxury rather than a basic right. I wish I had the power to comprehensively change it, to lift up everyone else who has been in my position, to expose its faults and horrors, hold them up to the light, and transform them for the better, but I can’t, because I couldn’t even affect that change for myself. It kills me that anyone else ever has to feel this helpless and powerless and worthless. It makes my heart ache that the sick and injured and impoverished and disabled are seen as subhuman. We have a right to live, to nurture and be nurtured, to love and be loved. We have a right to be seen and heard. 

I wanted to write this today since today is finally the end of this fight for me, since I never got to that proper hearing to determine that fate, since it was tossed aside. I tried for so long to get someone to hear me or legitimize me or realize I needed help, and I lost. I figured documenting it now is all I had left to do. I’m feeling adrift and voiceless because I don’t know where to go from here. I’ve been carrying on with this fight and now I have to put it down, with nothing to show for it but the battle scars.