#me: i need to get him to a psychologist

[fandomlobster]

That's it. I'm opening up my DSM5 to diagnose that damned shrimp from Dandy's World. I'm never going to get any work done if I don't talk about ODD with someone.

So: Oppositional Defiant Disorder is classified as a mood, impulse-control, and conduct disorder characterized by angry/irritable moods, argumentative/defiant behavior, and vindictiveness. Let's go through each category one by one with some in-game examples.

Category A

A pattern of angry/irritable mood, argumentative/defiant behavior, or vindictiveness lasting at least 6 months as evidenced by at least four symptoms of the following categories, and exhibited during interaction with at least one individual who is not a sibling:

Angry/Irritable Mood

1. Often loses temper

2. Is often touchy or easily annoyed

3. Is often angry and resentful

Argumentative/Defiant Behavior

4. Often argues with authority figures

5. Often actively defies or refuses to comply with requests from authority figures or with rules

We never see him interact with an authority figure [who even is an authority in their situation? Dandy?]. Even if he was perfectly in line with authority figures, he would be diagnosable so it doesn't really matter. But come on, do we really think this guy complies with authority?

6. Often deliberately annoys others

7. Often blames others for his or her mistakes or misbehavior

Vindictiveness

8. Has been spiteful or vindictive at least twice within the past 6 months.

While we don't have a timeline of events, I think it's safe to say this pattern of behavior has lasted at least 6 months with how the other toons expect this kind of behavior from him. The interactions I chose as my "evidence" were pretty arbitrary since all of his interactions involve Shrimpo being angry, argumentative, and vindictive.

All that to say, I think Shrimpo fulfills category A to a tee. At the most conservative reading of his interactions, he hits five symptoms [1,2,3,6 and 8]. In a more imaginative reading, he hits all eight easily. Either way, we only needed 4.

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Category B

The disturbance in behavior is associated with distress in the individual or others in his or her immediate social context (e.g., family, peer group, work colleagues) or it impacts negatively on social, educational, occupational, or other important areas of functioning,

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

This category is probably the shakiest for my argument. It's hard to say if he or any of the toons around him are necessarily "distressed" by his behavior. Toodles certainly seems distressed by this interaction, but it's also a one-off in which he purposefully scares her, so it's hard to say if she's distressed by his behavior in a broader sense.

I would definitely say that his social functioning is impacted. Social functioning defines an individual's interactions with their environment and the ability to fulfill their role within such environments as work, social activities, and relationships with partners and family. Things get tricky when we ask ourselves about the roles of the toons, and what those roles mean for a living creature. Shrimpo is a bully character in the canon cartoon, and he fulfills that social role very well.

However, he is... bad at everything else, to put it nicely. Shrimpo completely fails at any other role you could possibly assign to him, such as friend or coworker. He fails at occupational functioning as well, being useless at extracting, distracting, or surviving [believe me, I have all mastery quests on Shrimpo, I know lol]

So can we check off category B? That's reader's choice. It depends on if anyone is distressed by his behavior, and if ODD is negatively impacting his ability to function [or if he's naturally that unskilled].

Ultimately, this category is only here to say that no one should be diagnosed with a disorder if there isn't a good reason for it. If no one's bothered by it, then it can just be a character quirk instead of a disorder. But this guy is fictional, so I'm just going to decree that he should be diagnosed for the fun of it.

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Category C

The behavior does not occur exclusively during the course of a psychotic, substance use, depressive, or bipolar disorder. Also the criteria are not met for disruptive mood dysregulation disorder.

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We see no evidence that could lead us to assume that Shrimpo has a psychotic, substance use, depressive, or bipolar disorder. We also never see Shrimpo act any differently, nor do any characters mention Shrimpo acting differently, so if Shrimpo does have any of these disorders we can assume these symptoms do not occur exclusively during their course.

Disruptive Mood Dysregulation Disorder is slighty more complicated, but not really since Shrimpo is an adult. DMDD is an adolescent condition with similar symptoms of irritability, extreme temper outbursts, and trouble functioning due to irritability, but the diagnostic criteria includes "This diagnosis should not be made for the first time before age 6 years or after age 18 years." Since he is past adolescence, we are free to diagnose him with ODD.

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

So what do we do with this information?

Idk. I'm just autistic with an interest in disorders. All I want is to carve out a section in our shared sandbox for ODD Shrimpo since the guy has literally taken over my brain and he is exhibiting Symptoms.

I often diagnose characters just so I have a nice and neat guideline for how they should act in my own portrayals. It's not perfect by any means, but I think it helps keep me consistent lol

[ithacanradio]

the most gorgeous man I've ever known sent me a drunk voice message hurt that i left my job at the bar he goes to without telling him and adding that he saw me on tv speaking about palestine, which turned into me telling my ex boss to give him my number, and the sober voice message was much worse because this sweet guy just tells me that he's so proud of me and then i can feel him like talking with a constricted throat saying he understands that i left and closes with "from the river to the sea" and doesn't it just suck that some things have no hope of ever beginning and yet still end somehow

[axolotlclown]

Well, I was hoping enough time had passed, but I guess Dream is still having his episode. There doesn't really seem to be a good time. I have something to say, though.

EDIT: I did not clarify something in this post that needs to be clarified. Dream is being irresponsible by not seeking help. However, anyone would be resistant to seek help for this because of social stigma. The notes on this post are proving my point. Every behavior has a cause. Abuse is a circle that takes effort to break. That is the point of this post. No one is "just a bad person." That mentality literally kills people.

I maintain the belief that Dream has Narcissist Personality Disorder. Beneath the cut is the diagnostic outline from the DSM-5 so that you can draw your own conclusions. To be clear, I am not yet a licensed psychologist, so this is just my opinion.

Dream seems to be declining help, or he is under the belief that he does not need help. Personality disorders can be debilitating; they affect your relationships, work ethic, and ability to cope with basic life stressors. He needs to see a cognitive-behavioral therapist so that he can begin to learn coping strategies.

Moreso, however, I wanted to talk about self-diagnosis. I do not believe that Dream has autism. I can make a separate post with the Autism Spectrum Disorder diagnosis if people are interested. (I do have a physical copy of the DSM-5 because I need it for school, but the full PDF is also available online if you're interested in looking through it.) I do not believe that Dream was professionally diagnosed. This is because psychologists no longer diagnose autism based on how much your symptoms align with the definition, but rather how much support you need in your everyday life. For example, I would never personally diagnose somebody with ASD unless they were seeking work or school accommodations.

Diagnosing yourself can be challenging if you do not have a broad understanding of other disorders. Just because you struggle to socialize with others does not mean you have autism. There are a myriad of other disorders it could be, and the correct diagnosis is crucial. This also goes for diagnoses such as depression or anxiety, as they could be symptoms of something else.

Another thing I want to point out is that Dream last saw a psychiatrist to be diagnosed with ADHD when he was about 12—if I remember correctly. However, our brains are constantly developing throughout life. Narcissistic Personality Disorder cannot be accurately diagnosed in teenagers. (Is this teenager a narcissist or are they just experiencing personal fable, something completely normal and expected at this age?) I point this out because it's important for everyone with a brain to understand that you can progressively develop a mental illness without even realizing it. You don't particularly notice that you have a personality disorder—or most disorders that aren't depression or anxiety. Bipolar Disorder on average develops around the age of 16. Schizophrenia develops on average around the ages of 18-25. (Childhood Schizophrenia does exist, however it is so rare that it has really only been observed in case studies.)

Narcissistic Personality Disorder is not a diagnosis you can medicate—or any personality disorder, at that. One would need to take several years to learn coping strategies that may involve things as simple as app timers to as complex as perspective-taking strategies. However, this is one of the more difficult personality disorders to cope with, and certainly not one you would want to manage alone. Dream sincerely needs help.

Even if Dream does get help, it is important to know that the people he has hurt have no obligation to come back into his life, nor do they have an obligation to help him when they do not have any education or training in the field. I need those you have someone in their lives who may be struggling with this diagnosis to understand that. You do not owe anyone anything. You are not responsible for anyone, because you lack the training and education to do it. I am spending 10 years of my life in college right now trying to learn how to help these people. Please understand that it is okay to step away without guilt.

Anyway, I said my piece. Please stop calling people narcissists like it's a slur. There are real people that have this disorder that are trying to cope and maintain healthy relationships. It is possible. These people are not doomed. However, it is heartbreaking to watch someone who clearly needs help and guidance but refuses to seek it.

As promised, here is the diagnostic outline for Narcissistic Personality Disorder:

[i-only-know-fandoms]

Carlos's mention in the wedding special and how they handled it was disappointing and vague and, in my opinion, leaves the door open to either fate

Context

So I took a peak at the Barnes & Noble bonus chapter of Melissa de la Cruz's Beyond the Isle of the Lost and Mal and Evie and Jay and Ben and even Doug are there but there's no mention of Carlos, and I don't know, that really upsets me. The Core Four aren't going to be in the movies anymore, (Disney, though intent on making more movie, at least hasn't sunken as low to recast Cameron, and Dove, Sofia, and Booboo won't return without him) they still exist in the universe (Mal's portrait, this bonus chapter, etc). And it just seems to me, as long as it's not on screen and they're continuing the franchise, Disney should include Carlos in any future books they might appear in

(Which I also believe they should do to continue Mal, Evie, Carlos, and Jay's story. They're intent on continuing the franchise, they've made that clear, and so tossing aside the characters that created it seems callous. Obviously there can be no more movies with them, thus, books. Also, these theoretical books could be for the YA fans of the original trilogy and thus get into the grittier details of the Isle, not the watered down happy ending that made no sense canonically in D3. As many are pointing out, Rise of Red will be for a new generation of fans)

I, personally, think that if they're set on continuing the franchise they should honor they characters should still be used (again, offscreen in books) to continue their stories and the legacies of the characters and the actors who created them, especially Cameron, as this is really his only legacy character. It also gives another way of keeping his memory alive, if they dedicate the books to him, and raise awareness for his foundation by including an page promoting it in the books.

It also seems callous to me to just toss all the work of those characters to the side, like they don't mean anything now that they can't be used in movies.

But, I am also worried want wanting this (or even asking Disney this, though I doubt they'd pay attention) that I am also just using Cameron? I just, I miss him so much, and this would keep him alive (similar to Chadwick Boseman through T'Challa. Like, they had him die in the movies as to not recast him, but there's still all the Black Panther comics and merchandise that he lives through. Yes, it's not necessarily his iteration of the character, since it did exist before him, but he's still connected with it). But should this stay in the fandom through fanfics and fanart, and not touched by Disney? But they're continuing the universe, so feels like this is just forcing him to disappear? Idk, I did another post about this after the Wedding Special, because I don't know if I'm being insensitive by wanting this. I don't think I am, I don't mean to be, but that doesn't mean I'm not.

So I set up this poll, (and set it before my rambling since who wants to read all this, lol) to get some wider perspective. Should I keep asking Disney to try and get the Core four's stories continued in books (if you're on Instagram, yup this is me) or am I being insensitive towards as them by asking for this

(The utter hopelessness of asking Disney and if I should give up because of it isn't in question, I have nothing better to do with my life than scream into the void. But if it's morally wrong.... I trust the fandom for an honest opinion on this and tumblr is the best place. And now we have polls, so......)

[spaghett-onaplate]

bruh i swear my dad is just stupid

[flowerfoxboy]

I'm tired of being my own person (I'm literally not), I want to be a side character on my best friend's life, I want to stop existing when he isn't interacting with me and only have consciousness when he texts me or talks with me.

I want to be his co protagonist on his life, I want to exist solely for his story to continue, I don't want to be myself, being me is hard stressing and hopeless, I just want to assist him, help him grow and go with him wherever he goes, I want to be his sidekick, I want to solve his problems and have no problems of mine, I want his pain to be my pain to heal and his tears to be my tears to dry, I don't wish to have existance outside of making his life interesting, I don't think I can bear that much

[randomaj]

..

[schleen-machine]

I’m starting to realize that every special interest I’ve had for the last four years has essentially been some guy in a funny hat

[featherymainffins]

One thing about me is you can always count on me to want the character who is incomprehensible. People often say "Oh you're gonna want this one for sure" because they think I have a type. There's the secret: There is no type. The only type is confusion.

If the character you are showing to me is perfectly comprehensible and makes sense well unfortunately I will be normal about them. Horny? Perhaps. But to a normal degree.

Show me a cunt who makes no sense at all and it's over. I'm finished. KO'd. I'm done. It's over for me forever.

[chotachica]

Remember that one time in class where the topic of cluster b disorders and how we should destigmatize and stop fucking shaming ppl who has them just bc of yk HAVING THEM came up and this one girl just interrupted me mid rant to say "they will end up killing themselves anyway what's the point lmao"

[malachitezmeyka]

Why does the woman who unfortunately gave birth to me always feel the need to ruin the one good day I have in ages

[dawnwriterimagines]

The Guilty Plea

SIMON 'GHOST' RILEY x FEM!READER TASK FORCE 141 x FEM!READER

Traitors Among Us (Part 1) and Innocents Among You (Part 2)

Verdict Due (Part 4) Clear Skies (Part 5)

Summary: As you're discharged from the infirmary, under watchful eye, you head to Laswell to talk on the rest of your now ruined military career. Of course, you're forced to confront your team as it happens, the last people on earth you'd like to see.

If you liked this would you Buy me a Coffee?

---

Running your fingers along the raised, pink scar across you cheek, the feeling of it...it really looked terrible. A part of you thought it would disappear, hoped it would, but it didn't. It just became severely more noticeable. Looking at this, you knew you'd always have to think of it. You'd sport this reminder for the rest of your life.

Looking away from it, you find your own tired eyes in the mirror, you haven't been sleeping well. Or at all. You can't remember the last time you got 4 hours, let alone 8. Dark circles still surrounded them but at least the bruising and the swelling had gone down.

You couldn't recognize yourself. Not really.

This woman looked so exhausted, so frail and so goddamn angry. It was accurate, it was how you felt. All of it. So, you supposed that the mirror's reflection was the truth, this was you indeed.

"If you need another day or two, no one will ask questions."

You glance over towards your psychologist, your fucking therapist, a nice little 'gift' sent over by the bureau to check in on your mental state after your ordeal. Glaring at him through the reflection of your mirror, he sighs, putting down his pen that slaps against his notepad, "I can't help you if you don't talk to me."

"I'm going to Laswell." Ignoring his statement, you speak. "I'm ready. I'll pack up. Get back to base. Vera had me discharged from the infirmary. I can start ov--"

"Vera?"

"My nurse. You met her," you continued, annoyance spiking at the interruption. Your wrist brace squeaking quietly under the pressure of your fist tightening beneath the table.

"Right..."

"Do you listen to a word I say outside of...my 'trauma'?" You wonder, bluntly.

Your psychologist blinks, surprised, before clearing his throat, appalled. "If you feel I can be more attentive to your state of well-being throughout our process, than by all means--"

"Oh, so 'no'?" you lean back into your seat, a strained laugh leaving you. His lips press together and you continue before he can find the words. "Because whenever I mention leaving this fucking team, you either adjust our schedule for another two weeks or suggest hypnotic therapy, as if I need anyone else digging around to fuck up my mental state."

"I never meant to imply--"

"Oh, you implied it," you interrupted, gritting your teeth. "I know what I want. And I want off Task Force 141."

He taps at the leather of his notebook. "Scars heal, just remember that, Ms. (L/n). The reminders of your experience shouldn't have to haunt you."

"It's not the scars, I've had my share way before this," you admitted, rising to your feet. You exhale deeply that tells to the effort of it, the steel gear hinges along your leg braces shift with your change of position. Still getting use to them. "It's the person."

"Has she changed, you think?" the psychologist begins to write, getting somewhere.

"She doesn't exist anymore."

Finally, placing the mirror down and onto the side table, you pushed off of the table, rolling your IV pole along with you. Passing the chair your psychologist sits on, he closes his notebook with a frustrated huff, looking over his shoulder. "Session over for you already, Ms. (L/n)?" he sighs. "We've still got the hour."

"I'm done," you take the knob in your hand. Turning.

In more ways than one.

"You understand that, informing your captain on your leave is required of you. Have you spoken to any of them, in the last few weeks?" he spoke up, quickly. "I'm sure giving them a space to open up, share from their view--"

"Why should I care--"

"--will give you better understanding, better clarity of the situation they were in--

Appalled. "What the fuck?" Jamming the door closed with a loud, shuttering thud, you whip around. "IT'S NOT ABOUT THEM!" you could just rip your hair out. "Who--who says that to someone?!"

Your psychologist sits there, eyes wide in confusion. "What--"

"Christ, can you hear me? Can you--can you see me? I've got metal plates in my spine, braces holding my knees in place and nerve damage that'll never heal! Who gives a fuck about them!" your skin feels red hot, your face twisted in rage. "I gave my life! My life to this! And then I'm tortured, I'm threatened, drugged and beaten by my own team, my f--my family for eight fucking years..."

You continue with a heavy chest. "And I'm supposed to invite them for dinner to talk and listen them bitch and moan about why they thought it was necessary to beat me to death for two weeks?! Fuck you!" you spat. "I don't owe them anything!"

"That's not what I was trying to say, Ms. (L/N). I apologize, I overstepped. Come sit down--"

"Of course you meant it," you interrupted, mock humor. "Don't be a pussy, own up to it. Revel in your truth. Be tter yet--" you snatch a journal from the cabinet. Tossing it his way. "Make a note of it."

Turning the knob, you leave the room with a slam of the metal door.

---

You were officially famous. On the base, you were now a legend.

A story that would be mentioned and told at lunch for months. Probably years.

First, you were a rat. Next, you were innocent. This was the most gossip any of those in service had ever seen in their years of service.

An interesting reminder to those in service that you weren't safe off duty either.

You learned a few days ago that there was an update put into the interrogational unit, something about how to properly go about dissecting evidence and being on the lookout for enemy spies in the militia.

You guessed you had been told about it in an effort to be appeased by the thought that the head of control paid attention to anything beyond their own noses for once. But, you had little to no faith in a system that's nearly killed you on and off the field by now, so it didn't matter.

You doubted the new rules would be followed though, there was a plethora of things they'd done to you in that cell that were both illegal and unsanctioned. Most of all, that were expected towards an enemy, a prisoner of war at best, and not a fellow marine.

You arrive at the housing quarters, swiping your key card, pulling the handle and entering the wing. Immediately, you're greeted by a dozen eyes, conversations stopping short and clothes ruffling to silence, suddenly whispers fill the space and eyes turn away.

"Oh, god, it's her..." says one man in the far corner.

"Shut the fuck up, man!" came a harsh whisper back.

"I didn't know it was that bad..."

All those eyes on you, makes you pause in your step, looking around at all of your fellow soldiers, the men and women you've served with for years. Many you recognized, ate with, fought beside that turned their backs to you now. Out of respect? Out of distaste, morale, nerves, pity, it all didn't matter. It all felt the same.

The wheels attached to your IV pole suddenly sounded much too loud on the polished flooring, as you walked down the hall as fast as you were able to.

Breathing out deeply, you get to an elevator, pushing on the button, once, twice, three times, just open goddamn it.

With a ding, the metal doors open, and suddenly you're aware that people could be in the elevator, they could be in this elevator, he could be in this elevator. Your eyes flicker down to the floor, your grip on the pole of your iv tightens, your shoulders stiffen, waiting for a blow that will never come.

You stand there as the doors open up, the small space empty, the metal walls reflect only her and a streak of lighting from the ceiling.

Looking up slowly, finally taking a breath, before sliding the iv up and onto the elevator, following it as you press your floor number along the way.

The ride up is fast, a little rumble as it stops, and then the doors open. Faster than you were prepared for.

Peeking out down the hallway, luckily no one to bump into, which you were thankful for. But, it didn't make this hall any less haunting. You'd been cornered in this same hall, you could recall being hauled out of the room after the solid handle of a knife hits your temple.

You don't go down fast enough, whipping around as you stumble to take the wrist of your attacker, mostly for balance, it's Price. In shock, you're unprepared as Johnny's arm encircle your neck, locking you into position as you both stumble backwards onto the floor. He blocks your airways, hushing you harshly as you struggle, feet kicking out and your vision blurring as your team surrounds you. Your family.

That was quite the headache to wakeup with afterwards.

You hadn't quite remembered until now. Being back served as a hell of a kickstart to your memory.

Just a few more reasons to get the fuck off of 141.

Getting off the elevators, the metal doors sliding closed behind you, you make your way down the hall. The polished flooring creates a subtle squeak through the wheels of your iv pole, your hand absently running over the fading stitches along your side.

Passing the shadows of your tortured memory, the doorway of the office was closed, locked.

You pass Kyle's room.

Johnny's.

Finally, you rush up to the next room on the left, grabbing the handle, before beginning to twist, but then you're yanking your hand back as if the metal had burned you. Your back ramming into the back wall, catching yourself, this wasn't your room.

It was Simon's.

You'd spent hours, days, in that room. More than your own.

Why wouldn't you? You were about to get married to the man. You had more in this room than you had in yours.

Sharp breaths leave you, shivering in your effort to keep yourself together, your head goes back into the wall, swallowing down the ache in your chest.

You wait, muscles tensed and your body pressing back into the wall, hoping it'd absorb you if that door opens. Listening for every sound, any pin drop, even an exhale from beyond that doorway. Luckily, Simon seemed to be out for the day.

Hurriedly, nearly running, you steady yourself against the wall as you rush down to the corner of the hallway, finally finding your room.

Turning the handle, it's not locked, it's broken. It opens with ease.

Entering the room slowly, pushing the doorway aside, the crackle of glass beneath your boots as you step forwards, clothes and picture frames laying scattered.

The mattress flipped and ripped open, springs and cotton cut from it. Your wall of metals and certificates, from acts of bravery and mementos of valor, discarded, later you'd find them in the trash, one with a bullet lodged into the gold.

Sniffling as you leaned down, picking a specific frame off the ground, the only one that hadn't been broken. Laying along the ruined rug, with no care for the glass digging through your jeans, you stare at the still shot of your family.

The only family you had outside of Task Force 141, your father and his sister, military brats themselves, until their retirement. Your mother had passed, or just up and left, days after your 5th birthday, you weren't completely sure, the story kept changing every year. But, these two were the only family you've ever known, ever had, until you joined the military, following in their footsteps.

They'd been so proud when you arrived back after your first assignment, in truth you were heavily traumatized, but seeing them, you just had to smile. Having a family that understood the harsh toll on the line of a trooper, now a lieutenant, it was always easier to bring your troubles to them. But, they were also military nuts so "suck it up" was also a quick go to answer from your aunt, while your father was the smoother talker.

They had met Simon, loved him, his rank, his love for you, his seriousness. They trusted him completely with your heart.

So, when he called them, after the evidence leaked...

They believed him.

"What're you talking about?" You took the handle of the chair in your grip, easing you down into it as your legs do weak at what you were hearing. "I didn't...I didn't do it, Dad."

"Do you know how humiliating and disappointing--how it felt to hear him say that to me, hm?" he says, static crackles on the reciever. "My daughter...my own flesh and blood...working with terrorists--"

"I'm not working with anyone! Are you-" you huff out a breath of disbelief. "Are you even listening to me? I've never betrayed the code. How can you think that way of me?"

For a moment, he's silent. "Alright, then," he began. "Than, what'd you do? huh?"

"What--what..."

"Oh, come on, (Y/n)!" your father yells. "What did you do?! What could they possibly have had on you that made you the most likely target? You had to have had done something, been somewhere, were with somebody you weren't supposed to be with! They didn't just get that information from anywhere."

"What the fuck--" Your expression twists with frustration and misery, running your hand through your hair, pulling at it. "I've sacrificed every part of myself for this job, for this team, what do I have to gain from throwing that all away? They send me everywhere, places you've never heard of, places you'll never hear about and people you'll never have to meet, because of me! Why would you just believe Simon? Why couldn't you just wait to talk to me?!"

Hearing your father scoff at your words was painful. "What reason do I have not to believe him? He knows you, maybe even better than any of us. Besides, he was going to be my son in law--"

"I'm your daughter! Fuck Simon, what about me? You'd believe him instead?"

He sighs. "Listen, you're upsetting Cass. We didn't expect your call. I gotta make this brief..."

"You're upset?" pulling at your hair, sucking in sharply. "I'm the one who's permanently fucking altered here. What do either of you have to be upset about?!"

"Watch your fucking mouth!" he seethes. The anger in his voice isn't new, but the way he spits it at you is. "You did this to yourself, I didn't. Maybe that's what your nightmares were about, am I right? Your guilt?"

Wiping the streaks of tears that had fallen down your face, lips quivering and chest aching with sobs you frustratedly shoved down. "Why don't you believe me?"

"I don't deserve the disgrace that will come with you as my kin, I've lived my part of this war. No daughter of mine should even be in this fucking position," your father spat, disgusted into the receiver. Suddenly, he was the cruel, bitter old man your mother had always known him to be, you wished she had stayed to at least remind you of that. Maybe it wouldn't have hurt as much. "You should be ashamed of yourself, but at least you got yourself out it. The least you could do for us."

"Well--what does that mean?" you spoke, quietly.

"Don't call again..."

"Dad, no--" you break this time, a sob escaping you.

"Me and your Aunt Cass..."

"Daddy please, don't do this--"

"..We've decided to cut ties. We're not taking any heat from this, you're on your own," he finishes, clearing his throat, waiting a moment, listening to the pleads and cries of his only daughter, his once pride. "You take care of yourself. Goodbye, kid."

"Why can't you just believe me? Why?!" you cried.

"Don't come to the house."

"No, no,--" the line goes dead. And staring down at your phone, his caller id going blank and the call disconnecting.

Your phone all of a sudden feels heavy, the device and your hand falling down to your thigh, before the phone slips out of your grip and onto the floor. You sit there silently, until your tears drop up and even after.

Staring at the photo now was haunting in its own way, it was just another painful reminder.

Using the bed frame to stand to your feet, your grip on the frame is painful as you squeeze it, the glass cracks audibly.

"Bonnie..."

Whipping around at the sound of John MacTavish's voice, you back up a few steps at the sight of him, your back hitting the edge of your desk.

He reaches out as you stumble, before his fingers curl back into his palm as you find your balance, his hands receding back to his sides. He doesn't enter the room, just lingering just beyond the doorway, his eyes flickering around the room, guiltily.

"I didn't know--we didn't know you were out," he speaks quietly, as opposed prideful personality that translated into his voice usually.

You say nothing.

In the dark, your eyes are wide and your shoulders are tensed up, he can see the glint of your leg braces, the iv pole at the side, the scar beneath your eye. You looked terrified to see him.

"We were coming back to clean up today, just got back from...from a mission..." he stutters on his words, shifting his feet.

"It's been a week."

His lips press together hearing your voice. "I know..." Johnny glances around at the room he'd let those officers destroy, it hadn't been them, but they might as well had done it. "I know...we just...didn't know it was so bad."

"Really?" your voice is mockingly sweet, drawing out the word. "You didn't know? Well look..." you hold up your family photo, the light in the hallway catching on the glass. "You missed one."

Your hand dropping, the heavy frame comes down just as fast, ramming into the ground, the glass practically exploding on impact.

Johnny flinches, the photo of your family...He looks back to you, surprised. "Bonnie..."

Snatching the next closest thing from your desk, a ceramic cup. "Oh, wow, can't believe you guys missed this one," you chuck it into the wall. It breaks on impact, the remains scatter along the flipped mattress and onto the floor. "That used to be my favorite mug by the way."

The Scotsman worriedly steps forwards, 'Lass, I'm sorry--"

"FUCK YOU!" you spat, coming into the light. You're sure you look deranged, and you didn't care. You could've wrapped your hands around his throat, killed him right on the floor and you wouldn't have blinked. "It doesn't mean anything! 'I'm sorry', 'I'm sorry', 'I'm sorry', over and over and over again! As if you shouldn't be! Your apologies mean fuck all."

"I know...I know," he breathes. "But, I've gotta say it anyway, bonnie. I should've believed you, there was no reason not to. I know that now. I just--"

"Believe me!" you cut him off with a yell. "Trust me! Fucking 'HELP ME'!" you screamed with the same fever as your days in the interrogation room, that terrible cell, the cold, the burn and pain. "I cried it all to you, to all of you, and nobody came. Nobody came for me," you breathe in sharply. "It doesn't matter what you should've done. You didn't do it!"

Johnny's eyes are red, he opens his mouth, closes it and then swallows down whatever chokes him up as he looks at you. "I should've came for you. I wish I did. I wanted to, Bonnie..." he steps forwards, and you recede back away from him, your eyes narrowed with violence. "I'll never forgive myself for not listening to you. For not coming to help you. For laying a hand on you. I'm so sorry, (Y/n). I'm sorry..."

I'll never forgive myself... "That makes two of us," you assured.

Johnny's eyes widen, before they close, his guilt ever consuming. He can't help but understand, to respect your decision, to know things can never be ok again. "(Y/n)...."

Grabbing hold of the nearest thing, a pencil cup, you hurl it at Johnny. He doesn't put his hands up, flinching as it hits him, the metal clinking against his kevlar, eyes closing then opening, he stands still. "I don't forgive. I don't accept your apology. I don't fucking care about it!" with each sentence you throw something else his way, a broken frame, the trash bin, a pillow, the CD player.

His hand has to come up for the knife you unsheathe, a memento from one of your missions, it's rusted, ancient probably. But, you hadn't given it up to a museum or to pawn, you had nearly died on this mission, saving Johnny ironically. You had to keep it.

Seeing the weapon, his defensive position is instinctive but his hands drop just as fast, he understands, you need this. You deserve this. "If you need to..." he speaks. Your eyes flicker up to him, away from the knife. "If you need to, I get it..."

And you need to. You really fucking do.

Your grip on the knife is dangerously hard, it hurts.

Looking at Johnny, he'd been your brother in more than a few ways on and off the field, he had been your comfort, your friend, your family. You had bled with him, held onto him as he carried you from the battlefield, joked, laughed, screamed and cried. You've loved him for years.

He'd had a rough few nights you could see that. He was quieter, reserved. Almost as terrified to see you, as you had been of him.

And you could kill him right now and never bat an eye.

And so, throwing that knife was so fucking easy.

Johnny's eyes close as you do just that, fists clenching and teeth biting down on his tongue to prepare for the pain.

The ancient weapon whiz's through the air, the sound is sharp and he knows it will cut through him like butter.

The thud rings in the room, and Johnny's eyes blow open wide, holding his breath as he collapses to his knees, before turning to you.

You dig into the pile of clothes that had been cast aside, a pair of sneakers and a new shirt. You don't look at him a single time as you take it all, stuffing them in a bag, and leaving the room, passing him completely, a limp in your step.

Johnny releases a pained breath, tears finally leaving him as he looks up, the knife lodged into the frame of the doorway, just barely missing him. The sleeve of his uniform ripped open.

He sits there in the quiet, destroyed room. A testimony to the relationship he's destroyed between you.

Part 4!! OUT NOW

[cocklessboy]

The biggest male privilege I have so far encountered is going to the doctor.

I lived as a woman for 35 years. I have a lifetime of chronic health issues including chronic pain, chronic fatigue, respiratory issues, and neurodivergence (autistic + ADHD). There's so much wrong with my body and brain that I have never dared to make a single list of it to show a doctor because I was so sure I would be sent directly to a psychologist specializing in hypochondria (sorry, "anxiety") without getting a single test done.

And I was right. Anytime I ever tried to bring up even one of my health issues, every doctor's initial reaction was, at best, to look at me with doubt. A raised eyebrow. A seemingly casual, offhand question about whether I'd ever been diagnosed with an anxiety disorder. Even female doctors!

We're not talking about super rare symptoms here either. Joint pain. Chronic joint pain since I was about 19 years old. Back pain. Trouble breathing. Allergy-like reactions to things that aren't typically allergens. Headaches. Brain fog. Severe insomnia. Sensitivity to cold and heat.

There's a lot more going on than that, but those were the things I thought I might be able to at least get some acknowledgement of. Some tests, at least. But 90% of the time I was told to go home, rest, take a few days off work, take some benzos (which they'd throw at me without hesitation), just chill out a bit, you'll be fine. Anxiety can cause all kinds of odd symptoms.

Anyone female-presenting reading this is surely nodding along. Yup, that's just how doctors are.

Except...

I started transitioning about 2.5 years ago. At this point I have a beard, male pattern baldness, a deep voice, and a flat chest. All of my doctors know that I'm trans because I still haven't managed to get all the paperwork legally changed, but when they look at me, even if they knew me as female at first, they see a man.

I knew men didn't face the same hurdles when it came to health care, but I had no idea it was this different.

The last time I saw my GP (a man, fairly young, 30s or so), I mentioned chronic pain, and he was concerned to see that it wasn't represented in my file. Previous doctors hadn't even bothered to write it down. He pushed his next appointment back to spend nearly an hour with me going through my entire body while I described every type of chronic pain I had, how long I'd had it, what causes I was aware of. He asked me if I had any theories as to why I had so much pain and looked at me with concerned expectation, hoping I might have a starting point for him. He immediately drew up referrals for pain specialists (a profession I didn't even know existed till that moment) and physical therapy. He said depending on how it goes, he may need to help me get on some degree of disability assistance from the government, since I obviously shouldn't be trying to work full-time under these circumstances.

Never a glimmer of doubt in his eye. Never did he so much as mention the word "anxiety".

There's also my psychiatrist. He diagnosed me with ADHD last year (meeting me as a man from the start, though he knew I was trans). He never doubted my symptoms or medical history. He also took my pain and sleep issues seriously from the start and has been trying to help me find medications to help both those things while I go through the long process of seeing other specialists. I've had bad reactions to almost everything I've tried, because that's what always happens. Sometimes it seems like I'm allergic to the whole world.

And then, just a few days ago, the most shocking thing happened. I'd been wondering for a while if I might have a mast cell condition like MCAS, having read a lot of informative posts by @thebibliosphere which sounded a little too relatable. Another friend suggested it might explain some of my problems, so I decided to mention it to the psychiatrist, fully prepared to laugh it off. Yeah, a friend thinks I might have it, I'm not convinced though.

His response? That's an interesting theory. It would be difficult to test for especially in this country, but that's no reason not to try treatments and see if they are helpful. He adjusted his medication recommendations immediately based on this suggestion. He's researching an elimination diet to diagnose my food sensitivities.

I casually mentioned MCAS, something routinely dismissed by doctors with female patients, and he instantly took the possibility seriously.

That's it. I've reached peak male privilege. There is nothing else that could happen that could be more insane than that.

I literally keep having to hold myself back from apologizing or hedging or trying to frame my theories as someone else's idea lest I be dismissed as a hypochondriac. I told the doctor I'd like to make a big list of every health issue I have, diagnosed and undiagnosed, every theory I've been given or come up with myself, and every medication I've tried and my reactions to it - something I've never done because I knew for a fact no doctor would take me seriously if they saw such a list all at once. He said it was a good idea and could be very helpful.

Female-presenting people are of course not going to be surprised by any of this, but in my experience, male-presenting people often are. When you've never had a doctor scoff at you, laugh at you, literally say "I won't consider that possibility until you've been cleared by a psychologist" for the most mundane of health problems, it might be hard to imagine just how demoralizing it is. How scary it becomes going to the doctor. How you can internalize the idea that you're just imagining things, making a big deal out of nothing.

Now that I'm visibly a man, all of my doctors are suddenly very concerned about the fact that I've been simply living like this for nearly four decades with no help. And I know how many women will have to go their whole lives never getting that help simply because of sexism in the medical field.

If you know a doctor, show them this story. Even if they are female. Even if they consider themselves leftists and feminists and allies. Ask them to really, truly, deep down, consider whether they really treat their male and female patients the same. Suggest that the next time they hear a valid complaint from a male patient, imagine they were a woman and consider whether you'd take it seriously. The next time they hear a frivolous-sounding complaint from a female patient, imagine they were a man and consider whether it would sound more credible.

It's hard to unlearn these biases. But it simply has to be done. I've lived both sides of this issue. And every doctor insists they treat their male and female patients the same. But some of the doctors astonished that I didn't get better care in the past are the same doctors who dismissed me before.

I'm glad I'm getting the care I need, even if it is several decades late. And I'm angry that it took so long. And I'm furious that most female-presenting people will never have this chance.

[rockman-x]

AUTISM (ALMOST OFFICIAL)

[posititties]

i was with my besties and i felt so safe today

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

Sebastian (Pressure) fluff. I need it.

"I gotta ask, do you have personal beef with those Squiddles? Because you sure like harassing them with that light of yours."

"I don't do it on purpose! If that damn Angler stopped killing the lights in every big room, maybe I could see my own hand in front of me!" You scowled up at the sea creature while standing in his humble shop.

Why was Sebastian always taunting you whenever you died to something unexpected..only to act all friendly-like in this place?

Well, you had to be grateful he was the only thing down here that wasn't trying to kill you, and that no other monsters could barge into the shop when you least expect it.

So for once, you could breathe easy..

Until he decided to remind you of those creepy squids who were somehow always in your way.

He must get a kick out of watching you perish.

"Oh of course, blame everybody except yourself." He tsked. "You have more than enough clues on how to survive each creature you encounter...but maybe they should've spoonfed all the details to you instead-"

"I don't need this from you." You huffed. "My damn hands are cramped from holding a locker shut against Pandemonium, Eyefestation gave me a killer headache, nobody bothered to tell me about the people in the walls-"

"And don't forget about those Squiddles, hehe."

Silence.

"Okay, okay. I've had my fun. I'll shut up about them now."

"Thanks. You have any medkits available?"

"Right on my tail, buddy. Hope you got enough data."

"More than enough." As your eyes surveyed the items strapped to his tail, they eventually wandered over to the desk with batteries laying out.

But it wasn't them that caught your interest, but rather the file on the table. 'How curious..is this for a monster I'm gonna meet soon?' You went over to investigate.

"Is the document for sale?"

"Wow, you might be the first to ask me about that and be able to afford it! The others before you barely had enough for a flashlight." Sebastian chuckled, clasping his hands together. "If you're interested, give me a thousand data, and I'll have it ready for you to read when you return to the surface. And don't worry, it's all there. So I won't have to kill you to to reveal any information."

You blinked, realizing what he meant by that as you read the folder's cover and why he was asking so much for it.

Sebastian's Document

Of course, you knew he'd be recognized as a specimen, too, but to be put with Pandemonium, the Anglers, and all those other monsters that tried to eat you alive?

For some reason, it made you frown a little.

"This is your file, and they let you keep it?" You turned back to him.

"...I stole it. And I'm not gonna lie...I regret reading it." He muttered, suddenly looking a bit tense..and sad, even, although he was quick to mask any signs of vulnerability when he realized you were staring. "Anyways, it's a steep price. I'm sure you'd rather spend your assets on-"

"What if I buy it and take it off your hands right now?"

For a moment, his ear fins perked up with surprise, glowing eyes widening. But he was quick to give you a suspicious gaze. "Really? You're that nosey about my lifestory? Pretty weird if you ask m-"

"It's more of a courtesy to you."

"Huh? What do you mean?"

"I mean..you look like you're carrying a heavy weight just from that folder being there. You haven't stopped looking at it since I mentioned it." You pointed out, seeing his ears twitch again. "You've always told me "out of sight, out of mind" with the Anglers. Couldn't I say the same about you and that document?"

".....using my own words against me, eh? What're you, a damn psychologist?" He teased, although his words didn't hold as much spite or sarcasm as usual. "But no, you're right. I'd rather forget about it forever. So if you want it that badly, be my guest." His third arm made a grand gesture towards the table. "Just don't get caught parading it around. And don't come crying to me when you realize you needed something else instead of-"

"I won't, trust me." You exchanged the data, taking the folder. "I'll be on my way now. I got a crystal to find."

With that, you began ducking down to renter the vent and continue your journey into the abandoned site-

"Hey."

You paused and looked back at Sebastian, tilting your head as you wondered why he seemed nervous again--wringing his hands together.

"Um..thank you, genuinely..for taking that off my hands." He cleared his throat, sweeping back his dark bangs. "I hope that whatever you find in there doesn't..get in the way of our "partnership". I'd hate to lose my number one customer."

Nodding, you gave him a reassuring smile. "You won't lose my business, Seb. That I promise."

"..now hold on we aren't THAT close to start going by nickna-" He began to snap, but you've already disappeared into the duct. "Aaaand they're gone...hmph..well..least I don't have to worry about that anymore."

Sighing, he looked around the shop, wondering what he should do now.

What you did was certainly a nice gesture.

He only hopes you'll keep your promise and not be afraid of him.