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songtoyou · 4 years ago

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Epiphany - Part One

Paring: Luke Crain x Female Reader

Chapter Rating: PG-13

Word Count: 2,204

Warnings: Talks of drug use and recovery, mention death of a family member.

Description: Life has never been easy for Luke Crain. After the death of Nell, Luke realizes that he needs to make some changes. He decided to stay in Massachusetts and attend rehab. He was determined to remain on his path of sobriety. When you get assigned to be Luke’s sponsor, it opens a new door of possibilities that neither you nor Luke expected.

A/N: I finally watched the Haunting of Hill House a while back. I found Luke to be very interesting. This is my take on how Luke would go on with life after Nell’s death and how his continued path to remain sober would look like.

I do not permit my work to be posted on any other site without my permission.

Updated: Cleaned up for grammar and punctuation errors.

An epiphany is when a sudden and intuitive perception of insight into reality. It can provide a great moment of revelation and present itself as symbolic insight. Some people experience it while others often search for it.

Life was not easy for Luke Crain or his siblings. After the recent events of Hill House, Luke was scared of a life without his twin sister, Nell. Despite Luke being ninety seconds older, he always felt that Nell was his big sister. She was his protector. The only person to believe in him when others constantly sowed doubt. Unfortunately, Hill House ended up taking Nell in the end, along with his father Hugh. Luke was scared. More scared than he had ever been now that Nell was gone.

However, Luke was determined to get clean. To remain clean. He had to do it, not only for Nell but for himself. Both Steve and Theo pitched in to help pay for a good rehab center for Luke to stay. At first, Luke told them, no, but it was Theo who adamantly expressed her desire to support him.

“Luke, you have made it to 90-days. I can tell you want to remain clean. We all see it. Nell still believes in you and so do we. I want to be supportive of you because you’re my little brother and I love you,” said Theo.

With the support and help of his siblings, Luke decided to stay in Massachusetts for treatment. He took up residence with Shirley in the guest house since Theo decided to move out to live on her own. Despite her worries, Shirley believed in her little brother and his determination to remain clean. One could say it was her way to make amends for the guilt she held by not allowing Luke to attend Nell’s wedding.

It was actually Shirley’s husband Kevin, who recommended Banyan Treatment Center in Wilmington, Massachusetts. “One of my sisters went there for her alcohol addiction. She responded well to the program and has continued to stay sober for two-years. Banyan has a good family counseling program, along with outpatient therapy. Pretty much will have everything you need to continue your path for sobriety,” said Kevin one night after dinner.

It did not take long for Steve and Theo to be on board with Luke deciding on Banyan. Both liked what they read of the place. The treatment center was not uber fancy, like the one Shirley paid for all those years ago but also was a tad upscale compared to the rehab center in Los Angeles Luke recently attended.

The therapists and case managers at Banyan were nice and friendly. Rob, Luke’s primary therapist, helped ease him into a routine. Even though Luke was now over 90 days sober, Rob recommended intensive outpatient therapy every day for an hour session. Luke admitted to Rob, along with his siblings, that he was worried about relapsing due to Nell and Hugh’s deaths. He did not want to fall back into old and dangerous habits.

For 30 days, Luke was committed to his intensive outpatient therapy. Talking over his childhood trauma at Hill House and the recent events helped, not only explain his phobias but also tackle his post-traumatic stress. Hill House had a long-lasting effect that damaged his entire family. So much so, that all he wanted to be was numb. To not have to deal with the images in his mind or how the loss of his mother disturbed him.

When Luke “graduated” from intensive outpatient therapy to regular outpatient therapy, Rob recommended a sponsor for him. The Center’s alumni recovery program allowed for past patients who have succeeded in their program to help mentor those currently in the early stages of detox, treatment, and recovery. Having a strong and influential network of sober peers can make all of the difference between an addict relapsing or staying strong through hard times.

That is how you came into Luke Crain’s life. Rob recommended you to Luke as a sponsor. You had just celebrated your third anniversary of recovery. It was not that you had a bad childhood as the reason you turned to drugs. You were not abused, both of your parents were still alive, nor had you experienced any other forms of childhood trauma. Similar to Luke, heroin was your choice of escapism; the way to ease the feeling of pain and suffering. Not your own, but other peoples’.

That was the downside of being an empath.

Of course, no one believed you about being an empath. Your mother had always referred to you as an overly sensitive child and that stress was not something you handled very well. When having to deal with the ability to sense what people are feeling, whether the emotions are happy, sad, scared, stressed, disturbed, or angry, can be a lot for a person to handle. There came a time when taking on the pain of others became too much. You no longer wanted that burden. You no longer wanted to feel anything.

It did not matter how many rehab facilities your parents sent you to or how many times they pleaded; you did not care. For once, you put yourself first. Heroin helped you stop feeling. Helped you feel numb and content. You were happy. Of course, when the high wore off, as it always does, you were back to reality. You hated reality.

The last hit you had made you end up in the hospital. The doctor explained how you overdosed but were able to resuscitate you in time. That was when you finally realized you needed to change. Needed to get clean once and for all. You knew it would take time and patience. That you would not magically become clean and sober overnight. It was a process. Setbacks were a possibility. However, there was always a little voice in the back of your head that helped pull you through the dark times, to motivate you to keep going.

Now here you were about to meet the new mentee that Rob assigned you to. He only gave a little backstory about Luke, but not many other details. You ended up texting Luke asking him to meet you on Sunday at your favorite coffee shop, the As Good As It Gets Café. He promptly replied that he would see you there around noon.

When Sunday finally rolled around, you headed to the café and waited. It was a quarter past twelve and Luke still had not shown up. You were starting to get nervous and wondering if he would ever appear. You were on the verge of texting him when the bell on the entry door chimed, indicating that someone was entering the café. You looked up and saw a very tall, scruffy, and attractive looking man standing by the door. The way he was looking around with a lost kind of look helped pinpoint that this was Luke. You got up from your booth and walked over to him.

“Luke?” you politely asked.

“Yes,” he said.

You introduced yourself and held your hand out for him to shake, which he took. You immediately became overwhelmed with the emotions that permeated this man. There was a lot of pain and loss underneath. But there was also a sense of hope and happiness that felt nice.

“Are you okay?” Luke asked wondering why all of a sudden you had a weird look on your face.

“Hmm? I’m sorry. I’m fine. I didn’t mean to…daze off for a second,” you laughed and pointed over to the booth you previously occupied. You walked over with Luke following.

“I’m sorry that I’m late. I was finishing up some homework and didn’t track the time properly,” Luke shared.

“Oh, where do you go to school?”

“Uh…I take a creative writing course at Bunker Hill Community College,” he replied.

“Nice. How are you liking it so far?” you asked him.

Before Luke could respond, one of the waitresses came over asking if Luke wanted anything to drink. Indicating that he just wanted coffee, the two of you were soon left alone.

“I like it. The instructor is really nice. It is the only course I am taking, so it doesn’t take up too much of my time. My older brother, Steve, actually encouraged me to enroll after I shared some of my writing with him. He’s a writer himself. I don’t know if you ever heard of him, Steven Crain? He has written a lot of books, mostly ghost stories. His most famous one is, ‘The Haunting of Hill House’. Have you read that book?”

“I have not. I tend to stay away from horror genres,” you told Luke.

There was a moment of silence between the two of you. Luke was adverting his gaze to anywhere but you. It was easy to tell that he was nervous and unsure of himself.

“Luke,” you spoke up to get his attention and said, “You don’t have to be anxious or feel uneasy. Getting here, to this step, is a big freaking deal. I get it, trust me. I absolutely get it. I never thought I’d be here. To be completely frank, I always pictured myself dead somewhere in the streets. I’m sure you pictured the same for yourself. But it didn’t. You’re here today because you wanted more for yourself. That is something to be proud of.”

Letting out a sigh, Luke sat back in the booth and crossed his arms over his chest. Sometimes he did not feel proud. He missed Nell. He missed her all of the time. She always believed in him no matter how many times he broke her heart. Nell always forgave him. She was always there when he needed someone to bail him out of trouble.

“You okay, Luke? If you would rather do this another time, that is okay. We can reschedule,” you offered. You could sense a feeling of grief underneath the surface of the man sitting before you.

“No. No, I’m sorry. I…uh…I was thinking about Nellie. My twin sister. She…she died recently. Well, not recent, two months ago. So, it’s still…very…it’s still a lot to handle.”

“I’m sorry,” you told him earnestly. “What was it like having a twin? I don’t have any siblings, so I always like to hear other people’s sibling stories.”

“Having siblings has its pros and cons,” Luke laughed, but continued, “They can be much at times, but I’m glad to have them. Especially now that Nellie is gone. They have been incredibly supportive, which makes all the difference in the world.”

“I really appreciate you sharing this with me, Luke. I know it can’t be easy. I am a stranger after all. You’re actually my second mentee from the alumni recovery program. My previous one …well her story didn’t have a happy ending,” you shared with Luke.

He could relate. When he left the clinic in Los Angeles to find Joey and bring her back to get her clean again. She was nine-months clean at the time but ended up using while being back on the streets. Luke would be lying to himself if he did not say he was rather disappointed in Joey. To him, Joey was someone who he could look up to while trying to get clean. He should have known something was off with her during what would be their last night at the clinic. Joey reminded him of Nell, so he could not stand by and do nothing. Joey helped him during his first week at the clinic. So, Luke felt that he owed it to her to return the favor.

Unfortunately, Joey did not want his help in the end. To this day, Luke still does not know what really happened to her after she swiped the drugs off him and headed towards that alley. But deep inside, Luke knew she did not make it. That her body would either be discovered or continue to rot in that alley. Theo would tell him that Joey was not his responsibility. That he had to put himself first when it came to recovery.

Luke pushed his coffee cup to the side and leaned on the table. You were so focused on your own coffee cup that you did not notice him staring at you intently. He was taking you in and assessing you. So far, he could admit that he found you attractive. You had a nice built. Your clothing was not too flashy. He could tell that you were the type to choose comfortable clothing over fashionable attire. However, it was your eyes that stood out. There was a softness and warmness to them that he found quite soothing. There were no ulterior motives behind them or any sense of malice. Luke could see that your intentions with him were good and that you really wanted to help him in his recovery by being a supportive mentor.

“Hey,” he said to get your attention. “I promised that I’ll come to talk to you if I ever feel like I might…. Or if I just feel like I need someone to talk to.”

“I appreciate that, Luke,” you told him sincerely.

#luke crain #luke crain x female reader #luke crain x reader #the haunting of hill house #oliver jackson cohen

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destroyyourbinder · 5 years ago

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Unriddling the Sphinx: Autism & the Magnetism of Gender Transition

When people note that "trans children" tend to have autistic traits and that children with an autism diagnosis (particularly natal girls, but also boys) are massively overrepresented in the population that is referred to assessment and treatment for gender dysphoria, many trans people's (and allies') response is that it is a kind of dehumanization and denial of agency to claim that autistic people cannot be transgender, do not have the right to seek gender transition, or that they may be vulnerable to being exploited by the transgender healthcare system. Most recently, this claim has come up again with regards to a recent piece by Harry Potter author J.K. Rowling, where among many other things she notes the enormous increase in child referrals to gender clinics, including a disproportionate number of autistic children, to explain her reticence to endorse the political stances of modern transgender movements.

This is my response as an autistic woman, who was once an autistic child, who is a lesbian with experiences of gender dysphoria and who once wanted to transition to male.

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Recognizing our vulnerability to social predation and to cultural systems that we do not understand because they were not made for us is not offensive. As autistic people, it is key to claiming our autonomy as a particular kind of disabled person. We often do not recognize our limitations in reference to greater social systems not because we are "too stupid" (i.e. cognitively or intellectually limited) but because we have different value systems than neurotypical people and hierarchical institutions built for their benefit. Autism is a pervasive developmental disability, and it is a way of being. It is not merely being a "regular person" minus various clinically defined psychological capacities or skills. It is a difference across all domains of life, and as a disability that causes differences in our social and sensory perception it is also a disability that causes differences in what we want and what we care about. Both those who exhibit condescending "concern" for autistic people and those people who naively defend our right to do whatever we see fit miss this component of being autistic. It is not that we are merely vulnerable because we are missing parts of our decision-making or social skills apparatus. It is not that we are merely being unfairly denied what we want to do, and our autism is immaterial, just some excuse for the denial.

It's that we aren't recognized as having wants, only "special needs". It's that we aren't given the skills to know what it is that we want, or that it might be different from those around us. It's that we are never told how to get what we want in safe and healthy ways, or that there is even a potentially safe and healthy way to get it. It's that we are deemed automatically pathological and empty of internal experiences as autistic people. It's that we're not given any help on how to navigate our deep differences from others and how to navigate being deprived of social resources and networking in a way that doesn't tell us to just cover it up and deal with it. It's that most people who dedicate their lives to "helping" us do not care about any of these things, merely that we can be trained to act in a way that doesn't disrupt the lives of neurotypical people. Given this context, it is far more insulting to me to insist that having autonomy renders us somehow invulnerable to exploitation than to correctly perceive that we are in fact an intensely vulnerable people. By nature of our disability, we are always on the margins of social resources and social networks, and exercising our autonomy unfortunately often puts us even further outside social acceptability and social protection rather than somehow shielding us materially from the consequences of living a self-actualized autistic life. Few autistic people are prepared for this when they begin trying to make decisions "true to self" in adolescence.

I believe nearly every autistic person is traumatized from the consequences of living in this world and what others do to us. Clinicians do not usually recognize that autistic children and adults can be traumatized, that there is even anything there to traumatize. (Why else could they feel so comfortable shocking us, shackling us, or feeding us bleach?)

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I think because we are not neurotypical we often struggle to understand just why a neurotypical person would feel ok excluding us, or maybe even anyone. Many of us autistic people have little impulse to do such things, and if we do, we rarely have the social power to make someone that we've cut out of our lives unemployable, unable to access medical care, food, housing, and so on. But neurotypical institutions are set up, from top to bottom, to create hierarchies of value with extreme material difference between the top and bottom. They are set up to stratify the "worthy" people from "unworthy" people.

Autistic people are almost universally considered "unworthy" in these systems, and to the extent that we can curry favor from them we must consent to our exploitation: to entering into a transaction on neurotypical terms, where we can get some sort of worth through providing a "benefit" to this hierarchical resource system which is not made according to our value system or for us whatsoever. This is common to all marginalized people. But it is often particularly poignant to autistic people, who struggle to find community with any social group of human beings. There is no "elsewhere" for us, there is no "home". We are stuck, as they say, on the "wrong planet", and the spaceship was destroyed.

The idea that exercising our autonomy would protect us from this world rather than render us more vulnerable because we are refusing to transact correctly or refusing to provide a benefit is utterly absurd. Our autonomy is perfectly compatible with our continued social ostracization and exploitation. It usually coexists with our continued social ostracization and exploitation.

In social skills classes-- or just the wild, wild world-- you are not taught how to deal with the fact that everyone will hate you for being you. You are taught to be someone else. You are not taught about your native autonomy. You are taught about how to put your hands here or here, how to choose between actions that are condescendingly and ridiculously normal. You are not taught how to take responsibility in a way you understand, that is harmonious to your own values and others'. You are taught to hold yourself accountable for your abnormality.

So forgive me if I do not believe for one second that impersonal, well-funded medical systems that were built off of medically experimenting on intersex children and adults (the nightmares wreaked by John Money at Johns Hopkins) or psychologically experimenting on behaviorally aberrant children (UCLA, where behaviorist torturer of autistic children Ivan Lovaas tinkered with gender nonconforming children alongside conversion therapist George Rekers) have autistic people's self-defined well being in mind.

And forgive me if I do not think informed consent clinics have autistic people's self-defined well-being in mind when they're more interested in rubber stamping hormones while shielding themselves from legal liability than assisting autistic adolescents and adults, who have an intrinsically different way of understanding gendered social norms, navigate the enormous complexity of how to interface with the single most fundamental social fixation of the neurotypical world as someone who will always and automatically fail.

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I do not think most gender clinicians even have the first understanding of what it means to be autistic and what this does in and of itself to your understanding of gender and sexuality. What J.K. Rowling said in her piece-- a straightforward accounting of facts-- is far, far less insulting to me than what Diane Ehrensaft-- one of the premier "experts" in the United States on pediatric transgender cases-- published in a peer-reviewed journal on autism. In a 2018 letter to the editor reading remarkably like new-age material on Indigo Children, she writes that she likes to call autistic transgender children "Double Helix Rainbow Kids" and declares us "freed" from the restrictions of gender as "more creative" individuals. This article ends with an anecdote about an eight year old autistic female child with limited language use who begins speaking, making eye contact, and relating more appropriately with clinic staff after she is socially transitioned by her family. Ehrensaft muses, "“Could gender be an alleviator for the stressors of autism?”

She is not the only one to pontificate about the magical changes a gender transition brings on autistic children. Norman Spack (the first clinician in the US to use GnRH agonists on gender dysphoric children as puberty-suppressing drugs) claims in a coauthored, peer-reviewed 2012 paper (insults upon insults, in the Journal of Homosexuality) that in his clinical experience the symptoms of comorbid diagnoses--including "problems with social competence"-- "decrease and even disappear" with gender treatment. In the same paper, this passage appears:

Although the question of whether gender dysphoria is simply a symptom of an autism spectrum disorder has been raised by mental health clinicians in the field, we feel it is equally worth questioning the validity of an autism diagnosis among transgender youth, particularly of those diagnosed with Asperger’s disorder. Perhaps the social awkwardness and lack of peer relationships common among GID-Asperger’s patients is a result of a lifetime of feeling isolated and rejected; and maybe the unusual behavior patterns are simply a coping method for dealing with the anxiety and depression created from living in an “alien body,” as one patient described it.

Do autistic trans people-- who rightfully protest against mainstream autism organizations focusing on a "cure" for autism rather than respectful accommodations for our differences and medical needs-- know that very well-connected, very respected, and very powerful gender doctors are claiming that gender transition cures the symptoms of autism? Do autistic trans people-- who rightfully discuss the implications of denying that someone can both be autistic and hold a meaningful gender variant identity-- know that it is an active clinical debate as to whether or not their disability and all its struggles is "just" a result of somehow ending up in the "wrong body"?

If they do not, they should know that this is how doctors are perceiving the pervasive issues that the children in their care are having: not as the result of a life-long, stigmatized, but eminently livable disability, but as the result of a mystical gender failure that can be medically corrected. That essentially, the disability "goes away" so long as outsiders no longer perceive a problem with a child's conformity to gender norms. That either an autistic girl somehow is transfigured into a non-autistic child through transition, or more likely, an autistic girl's autistic behavior is unfitting for her as a girl but not for her as a boy. That the "proof" of pediatric transition's effectiveness and standard of an autistic child's happiness is how much the child wishes to participate in neurotypical society on neurotypical society's terms.

I cannot pretend that this isn't ludicrously disrespectful to autistic people, or that it isn't a total erasure of our experience as human beings. To these gender doctors, the fact that a girl might see the world in a different way and care about different things and thereby struggle in a world not made for her does not matter whatsoever, except maybe as a tokenistic "journey" she can go on alongside her wonderfully progressive and affirming doctors. What "autism" is for them is a particularly severe and inconvenient social adjustment problem which can be forcibly corrected through body modifications, should an autistic child or adult rightly note that they can't do gender right and this is causing problems for them. They are more interested-- like in a long history of abusive and even deadly "treatments" for autism-- in correcting the problem for them than for the autistic person. How convenient for neurotypical people both the gender incongruous behavior and the social noncompliance goes away once you medically modify a child to look like the other sex.

I cannot be anything but sick that "increased eye contact" is a sign an autistic child needed medical meddling in the intimate process of navigating and negotiating their sexual and gender development. I cannot trust that these doctors aren't missing enormous parts of their autistic patients' experiences, if this is what they are so gleeful to report as a positive transformation and their justification for disrupting and surveilling children's bodies. What do they think of autistic people and those who are gender non-conforming if they are so willing to believe that existing as a person with a stigmatized disability is actually just a misdiagnosis for the pseudoscientific condition of being a man in a woman's body, or vice versa?

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It takes many, many years and quite a bit of luck and support for most autistic people to fully understand and come to terms with how their autism affects them and sets them apart from both individual neurotypical people and neurotypical society at large. It takes years-- often far, far into adulthood, especially for those abused under a medical model or for those who went decades undiagnosed-- to understand the differences between social and non-social aspects of this disability.

It takes years to not resort to chalking up all of your own distress and difficulties to being a "retard".

I have not met an autistic woman yet who did not have extreme difficulty integrating her autistic differences in values with a broader sense of self that includes whatever version of herself she uses to navigate a world in which women's values are simultaneously invisible (since she has no right to determine them herself) and nitpicked to death (since it is important she complies).

In a world like this why would it not be difficult for autistic people to know when it is they are being fooled or exploited while participating in transgender communities or while seeking transgender health care? Autistic people-- especially those who are dependent on caregivers or health systems for basic care, as well as those who depend on the goodwill of their families, employers, or welfare benefit institutions to remain as independent as they can-- have to make continual compromises just to maintain enough acceptability to communicate with the outside world nonetheless do things like "make a friend", "go to the doctor", "find a job".

I do not think neurotypical people understand or care that when I speak or write it is always with a similar effort as with a second language. Language-- whether it is verbal or nonverbal, with all the extensive symbology of the neurotypical world-- does not ever get to be something other than "translation" for me. As someone with an Asperger's-profile of abilities who has studied the neurotypical world intensely for years, I have the opportunity to translate in a way that allows others to understand me at least some of the time. Many autistic people who are more affected live in the world which gives "autism" its name, where nobody cares to do the translation for us and we are left totally and utterly alone.

The 20th century philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein (who, perhaps not coincidentally, was likely autistic) was fixated on questions about the meaning of communication. About whether a language of one could make any sense, about what it would mean to speak about something hidden from everyone else or perhaps even ourselves. In a famous passage debated vociferously, he wrote, "If a lion could speak, we would not be able to understand him."

Many have resolved the question posed by this statement by claiming that for fuck's sake, a lion is a lion, and has nothing to say.

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Gender transition appealed to me because it was cloaked in the farcical notion that there was some version of me and my body that could finally speak directly. I never quite understood the whole Adam and Eve story as an autistic child-- just don't eat it!-- but if there truly were a serpent's apple for autistic folks it would consist of this promise: that there was a world where the glass and the fog would dissolve, that we weren't covered in a repulsive and bumbling slime made of our own desires to understand, that instead of our words and hands glancing off the skin of everyone around us we could do that magic everyone else could and hold someone's heart in our hands. I was fooled because like many struggling autistic people, I wanted the problem to be me. Because then it was fixable. I would let them take my only body (which was such a sensory drag) to convert me into one of these blessed transponders that normal people were, receiving and sending all these messages like shooting stars blazing through the unimpeded vacuum of space. Without my femaleness and without the Difficulties That Should Not Be Named, I could send whatever message I wanted to whoever I wanted and it would be received, I could be gregarious, important, sexually compelling; my will and autonomy wouldn't be stifled by 140 pounds of dumpy, itchy flesh with an overbite and slack hands.

When I imagined myself as a man I didn't imagine myself like most of the childhood boys I managed to ingratiate myself with, who lisped, repeated themselves, and tripped over their own shoes. I imagined myself as a musician who was absolutely magnetic, I imagined myself as a writer with a legacy, I imagined myself telling other guys they were stupid shits and they could fuck off. I imagined being able to hold onto a football without dropping it, being able to smoke weed without getting a migraine, being able to talk without squeaking or letting out a little drool.

I thought I would finally be a human being with no embarrassments and nothing that could get me bullied in the bathroom between class. I thought when I would say "no", other people would listen. I would enter whatever mystical world it is that Ehrensaft names, made of messages and meanings, where every twist of word and piece of clothing said something, connected by a fine filament back to that Necronomicon filled with the runes of social symbology. And it would make sense.

I would become a lion, not a house cat. And the lion would speak. And we would understand him.

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It is a neurotypical narrative that this is what transition can do for you, because it is what someone else's transition does for neurotypical people. A gender transition is magical because it decodes the lion. It unriddles the sphinx. The autistic person must be happier now, because the neurotypical person is happier now. (And who has an empathy deficit?)

But if I have learned to be afraid of anything as an autistic person it is not my own neuroticism and fixations, but those of the so-called "normal people". Forget double helix rainbows: being an autistic person is like your DNA is a converted school bus trundling through the world in spray-painted glory and the whole world has an HOA. I understand why autistic people who see themselves as transgender see "concern" as the busybody stupidity of the neurotypical world. They aren't wrong. But it exists alongside other mundane and brutal busybody stupidities, such as grant funding, progressive saviorism, and psychiatric god-complexes.

To understand and resist what the neurotypical world communicates to us about our worth is not to protest back to them in their own language. I am an autistic woman and like many other autistic women I am tired of not only making myself more palatable but translating my existence into something intelligible to outsiders, who are both men and the non-autistic. Radical feminists miss one of these; trans activists and allies miss the other. But I am irrevocably othered from both.

When you are autistic you are taught only one symbolic structure. It is not your own, but it is the only medium you will ever have to communicate with any complexity. More sinisterly, it becomes the only medium we have to communicate to ourselves, the only medium we can use to work around the silent and jumbled parts of our bodies and minds. Am I hungry? It is not always obvious. To ask the question I find myself translating, even when alone.

My fantasy about lions and men was that whatever world a lion lived in and whatever he had to say, he did not need to translate, and especially never to himself. When a lion says something he does not stop to ask if he means what he says or who is saying it. When a lion looks into the water hole and sees his own reflection, he does not need to reconcile anything. The lion does not need to speak to understand himself. A lion is made of teeth and blood and claws and the lion just does.

I do not use the symbolism of transgenderism to explain the little gaps and incongruities that are my problems with gender, with my sexed body, with sexuality. It is not only a language born of neurotypical neuroses and regulation, but it is always and forever fundamentally a translation. As an autistic woman I have spent my whole life avoiding these dual facts, through both my time thinking of myself as trans and while trying to understand this whole thing afterwards: I am my body and I am not my body. Because I speak, but I do not understand. Because I understand, but I do not speak.

I will, unavoidably, always have to translate to speak and understand. But my autonomy requires that at bottom I must respect the native communication of my own body and mind. I refuse to use force or coercion to get it to talk, to interrupt its silence, to confabulate stories on its behalf, to speak for it using assumptions it cannot confirm or deny. I have to make peace with the fact that sometimes the blanks of my body or the redacted corners of my mind will say nothing. I have to make peace with the fact that translation is always inaccurate, that something is always beyond that constellation of symbols and words. The autistic body and the autistic mind have their own boundaries, and I refuse to believe that exercising my autonomy requires breaking them.

I do not know if J.K. Rowling knows this. I hope you do.

#writings #autism #detransition #reidentifying

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jaybe11 · 4 years ago

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he music business is full of hard-luck stories, but no Austin band rose faster and fell harder than metal band Pariah in the 1990s. Like Guns N’ Roses three years earlier, they were signed to Geffen Records by golden boy talent scout Tom Zutaut. But there were no multiplatinum records or stadium tours for the former classmates at Clark High School in San Antonio.

“We were on the label for five years and have only one album to show for it,” said singer Dave Derrick. “It was a frustrating time, to say the least.”

After relocating to Austin in 1990, Pariah regularly sold out 1,000-capacity venues, but on their final show, soon after officially being dropped by Geffen in 1995, they played to less than 300 at their home club, the Back Room.

Two weeks later, the band’s bassist and driving force, Sims Ellison, put a shotgun to his face and pulled the trigger.

But in taking his own life, Ellison, who suffered from anxiety and depression for years, eventually helped save the lives of other musicians. His suicide was the inspiration for the SIMS Foundation, which provides low-cost mental health services to uninsured musicians who, because of irregular working hours, low pay, easy access to alcohol and drugs and often-volatile intraband relationships, have a unique set of psychological needs.

“Anytime SIMS sets up anywhere in the public, we have at least one person come up to us and say they wouldn’t be there if it wasn’t for SIMS,” said Tricia Forbes, executive director of the foundation.

Ellison didn’t drink or smoke, but the band was his life. When it crumbled and his mates, including younger brother Kyle Ellison, went their separate ways after nearly 10 years of constant camaraderie, it was apparently too much for 28-year-old Sims Ellison. On top of that, his girlfriend of nearly three years, then-unknown actress Renee Zellweger, had broken up with him six months earlier.

“I miss him every day,” says Pariah singer Dave Derrick, who will play a Pariah tribute set Saturday at the Austin Music Hall as part of the 15th anniversary SIMS Foundation Benefit Bash. “It bothers me that most people only remember Sims as the guy who killed himself, if they know him at all. He was the sweetest guy you could meet, with a goofy sense of humor. He spent every waking hour working on making Pariah as successful as possible.”Pariah drummer Shandon Sahm, who currently plays with the Meat Puppets, recalls Sims Ellison as full of nervous energy. “He used to say, ‘If you ain’t stressed, it ain’t happening,’” said Sahm, the youngest son of Texas music legend Doug Sahm.

“If he was in a place where people knew him as Sims, the bass player for Pariah, he was totally cool,” said Derrick. “But if he was in any other social situation, he couldn’t cope. He’d show up at a backyard barbecue and pace for 10 minutes and leave.” Derrick said he never saw Sims Ellison finish a plate of food. “He would constantly stir his food, but not eat it.”

Derrick wondered if two middle school incidents forged Sims Ellison’s social phobia. “When he was about in eighth grade he bought a Mötley Crüe T-shirt at a concert and was robbed of it at knife-point in the bathroom. Then a few months later, a bully went up to him at the mall in front of his friends and cold-cocked Sims for no reason. Knocked him out just to show off,” Derrick said. “He knew that, as a member of Pariah, he was protected — no one was going to hurt him.”

The three years with Zellweger, when the band was signed to Geffen, were Sims Ellison’s happiest, Sahm said. Zellweger’s best friend at the time, her “Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Next Generation” co-star Lisa Newmyer, dated Kyle Ellison, younger than Sims by three years, and the four practically lived together at the Railyard Apartments downtown.

In December 1994, Zellweger split with Sims Ellison and moved to LA, where “Jerry Maguire” would make her a star less than two years later.

Derrick said Sims Ellison bought himself a shotgun for Christmas that month.

Meanwhile, Geffen Records had decided to drop Pariah and pay the band $50,000 to dissolve the two-album deal. The band, rounded out by guitarist Jared Tuten, decided to take a hiatus after one last show at the Back Room.

“Sims was really bummed about everything,” said Derrick, “and I told him he really should get a dog. His eyes lit up and he said, ‘That’s a great idea!’” That was the last time Derrick saw Sims Ellison, who got a job at Urban Outfitters on the Drag two weeks before his death.

“Some people were theorizing that he killed himself because Renee left him or because the band was being dropped, but it was deeper than that,” Derrick said. “Being on Geffen was worse than being dropped by Geffen. That wasn’t it. There was something inside him that none of us could see. You play it back in your head, like ‘I should’ve done this or done that,’ but the truth is that we were all in shock when it happened.”

David Garza, who will serve as music director for Saturday’s benefit, is one of thousands of Austin musicians helped by the assistance program inspired by the Sims Ellison tragedy. “I was having a hard time a few years ago with a personal relationship and with my label,” said Garza, who released two critically acclaimed but soft-selling albums on Atlantic in 1998 and 2001. “I was raised Mexican American Catholic. We didn’t go to therapy — that was for weirdos. If you had a problem, you went to confession.” But Garza had musician friends who’d been helped by SIMS, which provides counseling and psychiatric services and refers clients to a network of 60 therapists and treatment centers that charge greatly reduced rates. With an operating budget of $600,000 a year (about 25 percent of which comes from KGSR’s “Broadcasts” CD), SIMS helps an estimated 600 Austin musicians a year.

Obviously, such musician-aimed services weren’t available to Pariah, whose disappointing career could be summed up by the night in early ’94 when the members gathered around the TV to watch their video for “Powerless” debut on MTV’s “Headbangers Ball.” They waited and waited for almost three hours until just before 2 a.m., when their video aired, the last one of the night.

Signed after a South by Southwest showcase in 1990, Pariah had to wait almost three years until the release of “To Mock a Killing Bird” in 1993. In between, Nirvana exploded and grunge made Pariah’s brand of glam metal obsolete.

“Pariah had the worst timing ever,” said the band’s co-manager Wayne Nagel, who founded the SIMS Foundation in June 1995 with his Austin Rehearsal Complex partner Don Harvey and Sims’ father, Houston oil engineer Don Ellison. “If the record had come out the year after they were signed, it would’ve been a whole different story.” Instead the band was forced to wait more than two years while Geffen threw all its clout and resources into the much-delayed Guns N’ Roses “Use Your Illusion” two-album project.

“Sims was saying, ‘What are we going to do? Metal’s not cool anymore,‘” Sahm said of one of Ellison’s obsessions. “We started off as a hard rock band like Guns N’ Roses and somewhere along the line we turned into Smashing Pumpkins. Still, I think we were getting better as a band by expanding our horizons.”

Geffen didn’t see it that way, according to Nagel. “Zutaut was the king of metal,” Nagel said of the A&R man who signed Mötley Crüe and Metallica before Guns N’ Roses. “He wanted the band to keep it metal.”

Treated like kings by Geffen before “To Mock a Killing Bird” came out, the band couldn’t get phone calls returned when the album didn’t take off.

Pariah met Zutaut, who did not answer an e-mail request for comment, backstage at SXSW 1990 after a scorching set at the Back Room. “He said he didn’t have time to sign another band, but that, just by him coming backstage, we were going to get signed,” Sahm said, with a laugh.

Nagel said Pariah received eight offers from labels after that SXSW appearance. It turns out that Zutaut did sign Pariah to Geffen, but he wasn’t kidding about being too busy. “It was all about Guns N’ Roses,” said Derrick. “We weren’t the only band put on hold.”

Sahm said, looking back, the band should’ve signed with Chrysalis, who Photoshopped a group photo of the band so they looked at home inside the label’s headquarters. “They loved our song ‘Shatter Me’ and were ready to put it out to radio right away. But instead we went with the big shot. Chrysalis couldn’t give us a $100,000 advance, but Geffen did.” The label also gave Pariah a $250,000 recording budget that soared to $500,000 by the time the album was finished at Madonna’s Maverick recording studio in LA. (Sims Ellison hit it off with Madonna and appeared in her “Deeper and Deeper” video.)

“We were young and stupid,” Derrick said of signing with Geffen for the upfront money. “But we were all in it together. If there was any motto with Pariah, it was ‘The band comes first.’”

The SIMS Foundation, named after a lovable, yet troubled Austin musician, was formed for what comes next.

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deanstop13billyjoeltraxx · 4 years ago

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Superposition

a deancas college roommates AU :)

Chapter 11 is up on AO3! Chapter-by-chapter masterlist here.

Happiness Feels a Lot Like Sorrow

Present

Dean was doing his best to uphold his end of the scotch-induced bargain of Monday night. At the very least, he told himself, it would make the next week more bearable, with Cas lingering in his apartment at all hours.

He’d still been making himself busy. He spent twelve hours at the shop on both Tuesday and Wednesday, trying to catch up on the work he’d missed while he’d been out. Bobby had saddled him with the worst of the lot; Honda Odysseys and GMC Yukons that needed tire rotations or oil changes before enormous families made their Christmas treks. He’d started on Cas’s car, but hadn’t gotten much further than getting the old timing belt off.

By the end of his shift on Wednesday, he was exhausted. It felt good, though, being back in the shop, music accompanying him (at a decidedly lower volume than normal), his hands constantly occupied, mind numb from the easy work.

As he drove home from work, a sign in a shopping center caught his eye. Before he knew what he was doing, he was pulling into the parking lot of a local bookstore. He turned off the Impala’s engine and walked into the store, not entirely sure what he was looking for.

It was by impulse, really, that he picked up a copy of The Great Gatsby. It was a special edition, with extra content bound up at the end. He remembered Cas saying something about that book once. It seemed like a reasonable gift.

Dean almost put the book back on the shelf three separate times before forcing himself to the checkout counter. He paid for the book in a hurry, tossing it into the back seat when he reached the car. Stupid, he thought to himself. He wasn’t even one-hundred-percent sure that Cas still liked that book. He supposed, if he chickened out, he could just give it to Sam, instead.

When Dean arrived at the apartment, Sam announced that he was picking up Taco Bell for dinner. Dean and Cas replied “crunchwrap” at the same time when Sam asked them what they wanted. He raised his eyebrows and the synchronicity, but didn’t say anything, just made a note in his phone. Cas went bright red. Dean stared resolutely at the ground.

Cas was sitting in the armchair with a book as Dean sunk into the couch, exhausted from two long days in a row. The history channel on. Dean wrinkled his nose and punched in the numbers for the Food Network.

“You watch the history channel? By choice?” Dean asked, feigning disgust.

Cas smirked as he closed his book. “I wasn’t really watching it,” he said, “But on occasion, I do like to listen to the conspiracy theorists on Ancient Aliens.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “That’s what you and Sam do all day? Nerd out over crazy historians?”

“Mostly,” Cas said sarcastically. Dean snorted.

“You sure you don’t want Sam or I to drive you home for Christmas?” Dean said. He’d made the offer the day before, but Cas had refused.

Cas sighed. “I’m sure. I appreciate the gesture, but Christmas with my family is the last disaster I want to saddle with myself after…” He waved his hand generally.

Dean nodded. “You still talk to any of ‘em? Your family.”

“Occasionally,” Cas said. “My father called yesterday to ask your same question. I suspect he suddenly feels quite guilty about his treatment of me, considering accountants make quite a bit more than small-town preachers.”

“He’s worried about his retirement fund?”

“Most likely. I do still talk to Anna, though, on a regular basis.”

Dean felt a memory pull at his brain. “She’s the, uh, the therapist, right?”

Cas smiled to himself. “Indeed.”

“I’m assuming you’re spending Christmas at Bobby’s?” Cas asked after a beat.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean said. “The usual thing. It’s always a good time.”

A smile tugged at Cas’s lips. “I’m glad.”

Dean drummed his fingers against the side of the couch. “You know,” he started, and he was already regretting it, “Sam wants you to come. To Bobby’s. For Christmas.” He cringed. The words sounded lame, like he’d made the whole thing up.

“He does?” Cas asked suspiciously.

“Yeah, but I told him it’d probably be weird, you know,” Dean said with a shrug. “Big crowds aren’t your thing, and all.”

Cas eyed him. “Why didn’t he ask me himself?” He wondered. “We spend a lot of time together.”

Dean stared at the TV. “I dunno, that’s on him.”

Dean could still feel Cas’s eyes on him. “Is this your way of inviting me to spend Christmas with you?” He asked.

Dean nearly fell off the couch. “What? No,” he rushed out. “I mean, it’s not… Not with me. With everyone. I dunno, if you’re gonna be here anyway…” He cleared his throat. “I mean, Christmas alone is kinda shitty. Especially in this shithole,” he added as he gestured at his apartment. “You can come if you want,” he said finally. “Everyone would probably be happy to see you.”

Cas was staring at him, staring through him, like he always did. Dean turned his attention back to the cooking show playing on the television.

“What?” Dean snapped.

“Nothing,” Cas said, tilting his head. “Déjà vu.”

Dean’s chest tightened at that. “Anyway,” he said, clearing his throat. “What d’ya say?”

“Okay,” Cas said eventually. “I’ll come, unless that would make you uncomfortable.”

Dean’s head snapped up. After everything, he hadn’t really expected Cas to say yes. “Uh, no, man, like I said on Monday. New start.”

“Right,” Cas said slowly. “And you don’t think we should talk about why we need a ‘new start’, as you say?”

Dean glowered at the TV. “Nope,” he said. Did he always have to make everything difficult? It had been three years, and Dean truly wanted nothing more than to forget about all of it. He didn’t want closure, he didn’t need closure. Neither of them did, seeing as Cas would go back to his glamorous life in less than a week, anyway.

He could feel Cas’s eyes on the back of his head, but he ignored them. “If that’s what you want,” Cas said, his voice resigned.

Dean sat up, then, finally facing Cas. “Don’t you?” He asked, unsure if that was a question he was ready to hear answered.

“I suppose, in a way,” Cas said.

“What the hell does that mean?”

It was Cas, now, who looked away. “It doesn’t mean anything,” he said. “Nothing important, anyway.”

Dean wanted to pry, but knew he would be a hypocrite if he did. He got up and moved to the kitchen for a glass of water. He brought a second one to the living room for Cas, who uttered his thanks.

“You ever finish that thing you were working on in college?” Dean asked.

Cas raised an eyebrow at him. “I thought we were on a clean slate. ‘Forgetting about everything.’”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Come on, that doesn’t count.”

Cas took a sip of his water. “If you’re referring to the pages that are sitting in your bedroom at the moment —” Dean winced “— then no.”

Dean shot him a confused look. “Why not?”

“I… Lost the inspiration,” Cas said carefully.

“Oh.”

Cas regarded him thoughtfully. “You ask me a lot of questions,” he said. “Am I allowed to do the same?”

“You can do whatever you want,” Dean grumbled.

Cas gave him a sideways grin. “I mean, will you become willfully taciturn if I ask you questions about yourself?”

Dean was ruffled at being called out so bluntly. “No promises,” he muttered.

“What has your life looked like the past three years?”

Dean wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but it wasn’t that. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Not real interesting,” he said. “Working for Bobby during the days, bartending at nights. Saving up money for Sam’s college. Living here.” He shrugged. “Pretty normal, I guess.”

“Do you still bartend?” Cas asked.

“Nah, I quit that when Sam got his scholarship,” Dean replied. “I make enough at the shop to cover what that money won’t.”

Cas smiled. “That’s quite impressive.”

“I’m just a mechanic.”

“I meant paying for Sam’s college.”

Dean felt heat crawl up his neck. “Not a big deal,” he said.

“I would have thought you were on your way to settling down,” Cas said slowly, like he was choosing his words carefully. “But that doesn’t appear to be the case.”

“No,” Dean said, and this conversation was getting dangerously close to acknowledgement of their history. Dean didn’t dare look at Cas. The fact that he thought, after everything, that Dean would be anywhere close to “in a relationship” was downright comical.

Dean, too, chose his words carefully. “I could say the same about you,” he said. “Unless there’s some guy waiting for you in KC,” he added, realizing he couldn’t possibly know otherwise. “Which, if there is, he’s kind of a dick for not —”

“There’s not,” Cas interrupted.

And that was surprising.

Dean hadn’t realized it until that moment, but he had fully expected Cas to be halfway down the road to marriage by now. The fact that he wasn’t erupted feelings that Dean wasn’t entirely ready to face.

“How’s the eye?” He asked, changing the subject.

Cas put three fingers up to the bruise, which was looking less black and more like splotches of blue and green. “Better,” he said decidedly.

“Good,” Dean replied.

They stopped talking, each turning their attention to the program playing on the TV. Dean had a brief moment of disassociation, watching the scene from somewhere beyond himself. It was strange, he thought, to be sitting in his living room with Castiel Novak, two twenty-somethings living vastly different versions of the same life. Inexplicably, he felt the same thing he’d felt when he was eighteen, lying in the dark, talking to Cas across the room. He felt known, he felt seen, like each and every part of him was open for voyeuristic display. It was nothing Cas had said, nothing he had done, it was just him. The way he pushed and pushed against Dean’s shoddy walls while somehow managing to meet him in the middle, every time.

Dean was grateful for the distraction of food when Sam returned. Dean was quiet during dinner, finding comfort in an observatory role. He wondered at Sam and Cas’s closeness, after only a few days spent holed up together. He rolled his eyes when the two of them began communicating in sign language, because of course Cas knew sign language. When Cas’s eyes flicked to Dean after Sam signed something, and the two of them laughed, Dean huffed and gathered the trash to take it out.

It was a frigid night, his breath visible in the low gleam of the floodlights. He tossed the bag over the side of the dumpster and paused. He dug in his pocket, and, finding both his lighter and a pack of cigarettes, lit one up and leaned against the dumpster.

Dean wasn’t sure how long he stood there, taking long drags until the end of the cigarette burned his fingers, and then just standing, staring into the parking lot.

“Dean?” A gruff voice called, and he turned to find Cas standing across from him, a tan trench coat thrown haphazardly over his black t-shirt and jeans. He cocked an eyebrow at Dean. “What are you doing?”

Dean dug the pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket in answer. “Smoke,” he said.

Cas gave a short nod and made his way over to the dumpster. He leaned against it, next to Dean, shoving his hands deep in the pockets of his coat. Dean gave him a sidelong glance, but Cas was looking straight ahead, deep in thought.

“You and Sam seem to be getting along,” Dean said, his voice gruff.

“Your brother is extraordinarily kind,” Cas said in reply, not bothering to look at Dean. “He talks about you often,” he added.

Dean snorted. “Yeah, well,” he said, but didn’t complete the thought. He hadn’t bothered to throw on a jacket, and he shivered as the wind blew straight through his thin flannel. Cas was standing close, their elbows almost touching, and Dean could have been eighteen again. He could feel it, somewhere deep in his stomach, that same bundle of nerves and excitement that had always come when Cas was just a little too close. He almost shut his eyes against the strength of it, but he willed it away, looking at Cas instead.

Cas still wore that intent expression on his face as he stared off into the distance. “Hey,” Dean said, elbowing him in the arm. “You creating world peace over there or something?”

The ghost of a smile. “No,” Cas said. “I’m just thinking.”

That was vague. Dean raised an eyebrow. “’Bout what?”

Cas side-eyed him. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

Dean rolled his eyes and made a motion with his hand that said, go on.

“It’s just strange,” Cas started, wrapping the coat tighter around himself, “That I should end up stranded here, in Lawrence, of all places.”

Dean resisted the urge to pull out another cigarette before continuing this conversation. “I guess,” he said.

“Stranger still that your shop should be the one closest to me at the time.”

Dean shrugged. “Yeah, I mean, it’s kinda weird,” he said. “I never expected… Well, that’s why I hit my head, anyway.”

Cas whipped his head around to look at Dean in confusion. “What?”

And, yeah, this was embarrassing, but Dean couldn’t exactly stop now. He rubbed the back of his neck. “When I heard you talking to Bobby,” he explained, “I just kinda… Well, I was pretty friggin’ shocked to hear you, of all people.”

Cas stared at him. “Oh,” was all he said.

“So thanks for this,” Dean said, aiming for levity as he pointed to the soon-to-be scar on his forehead. He smirked.

Cas faced forward again. “I didn’t mean to shock you,” he said. “Actually, I had no idea it was you under that truck.”

Dean furrowed his brow. “What, even after you talked to Bobby, you didn’t figure it out?”

Cas shrugged. “The life I always pictured you might be living was very different than the one you live.”

Dean immediately felt defensive. “Okay, asshole, my life is —”

“I didn’t say ‘better’,” Cas interrupted. “Just different.”

That shut Dean up. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know, but he asked anyway, “What did you picture? For me?”

Cas narrowed his eyes. “Nothing very specific. I suppose a girlfriend, a good job, doing something you like, in a place that you liked. You used to speak so fondly of Texas, I thought maybe you’d moved there. You told me, once, that you had thought about engineering. I usually pictured you like that, an office job. A stable life.”

Dean was watching Cas paint that picture. An office job, coming home to some faceless girl and planning his life around the possibility of an okay-marriage and two-and-a-half kids, waking up at forty and wondering what exact point in his life had lead him down this road. It looked wildly unsatisfying from where he stood.

He just made a grunt of understanding. “Well, you were way off, pal,” he said.

Another small smile, like it had almost been contained. “Apparently,” Cas said.

“You know,” Dean said, uncomfortable with the attention placed on him, “You didn’t turn out how I thought either.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Well after… You know, I read that thing you wrote. And it was good, Cas, it was damn good.” Something lodged itself uncomfortably in the back of his throat as he recalled the nights he spent wondering where Cas had been, what he’d been doing. He coughed. “I guess I just expected that, by now, you’d have published it. Made a shit-ton of money and bought a douchebag-sized house in, like, Ohio, or something.”

“You make it sound like it’s disappointing that that isn’t the case,” Cas said, and, though he was giving Dean a smirk, his eyes looked sad. Dean felt a pang in his chest at having caused unintentional pain.

“No, no,” he said quickly. “Not… I dunno, I guess… I thought that writing stuff made you happy. And…” And you deserve to be happy, even without me. Dean had the words, they were right there, but he couldn’t say them, couldn’t take that first step in bridging the now-unacknowledged divide between them. “Well, it’s not like I pictured you depressed or anything,” he said instead.

Cas turned to look at him. “Are you happy, Dean?”

The gravity of the question, the look in Cas’s eyes, curious and almost pleading, sucked the air right out of Dean’s lungs. And there was something screaming at the back of his brain, that no, he wasn’t, that he hadn’t been, that he could never be, because the one key ingredient to that happiness was —

“Yeah,” Dean replied in a small voice. “I guess so.”

Cas stared at him for a moment longer, still searching, before dropping his head and turning away.

“Are you?” Dean asked, almost defiantly, as if the question had been a test that now he was forcing Cas to take.

“I’m very fortunate,” Cas said carefully. “If I am unhappy, it is of my own doing.”

And that totally wasn’t an answer, but Dean let it slide. It was cold, and his back hurt, and he was tired from a long day at work. Silently, he pushed off the dumpster and began to make his way back to the apartment. Cas joined him, settling into a comfortable gait by his side. The air was languid between them, like it was too heavy to move.

Dean let both of them back inside and Cas excused himself to take a shower. Sam was watching something on TV and raised his eyebrows at Dean’s re-entrance. Dean just ignored him, settling onto the couch, thinking about fate and happiness and whether or not the two might be connected.

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

taglist! let me know if you want to be added/removed :)

@nguyenxtrang @castielsbeeslippers @fortiusnitius

#supernatural #deancas #destiel #destiel fic

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sanderssidesfanfiction · 4 years ago

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If There’s a Place I Could Be - Chapter Twelve

If There’s a Place I Could Be Tag

May 3rd, 1993

It was Emile’s birthday, but all he could do was sit on his bed and cry. His heart hurt, because one of his friends was sick, and wasn’t getting better anytime soon. And Emile was worrying himself sick worrying over her. When there was a knock at Emile’s door he went over to open it, finding his dad on the other side. “What’s wrong, Emile?” Dad asked.

“You know what’s wrong,” Emile said. “She’s not getting better. If the fever doesn’t go down, they’re gonna take her to the hospital.”

“And she’ll get the treatment she needs there,” Dad said. “Emile, you can’t worry yourself sick over every friend you have, or you’d never feel okay.”

“But—”

“No but’s,” Dad said. “You have to be your first priority, Emile. You can’t put other people’s health over your own, not when it’ll hurt both of you in the long run.”

“She’s really sick, Dad,” Emile sniffled.

“But she’ll get better,” Dad said. “And in the meantime, you have to take care of yourself. Stop obsessing over whether or not she’ll be okay. Enjoy yourself, and don’t feel guilty for it. You should always be your first priority, Emile, never forget that.”

December 14th, 2000

Emile was working on making breakfast in the kitchen when he heard Remy stumble out of his bedroom with a groan. He inwardly shook his head with a laugh. Remy was definitely not a morning person; at least not when he stayed up late. And he didn’t know how late Remy was up last night, but judging how Remy immediately gravitated towards the coffee machine, it was a late one. “How bad?” Emile asked.

Remy grunted as he leaned against the kitchen counter, observing the coffee pot.

“Wow, that bad huh?” Emile laughed, finishing spreading cream cheese on his bagel as he moved to the refrigerator to grab some milk.

Remy didn’t acknowledge anything else until the coffee pot had finished filling with Remy’s magic elixir, at which point Remy immediately poured a cup and drank half of it in one go.

“Oh. Worse than I thought,” Emile said. “You good, Rem?”

“Mm,” Remy hummed. “Couldn’t stop thinking.”

“About?” Emile prompted.

Remy sighed, turning to the coffee pot. “Need more coffee.”

“For the conversation, or to function?” Emile asked.

“Yeah,” Remy said, pouring more coffee into his cup.

“Geez, Rem, how late did you stay up?” Emile asked.

All Emile got in response to that was a finger as Remy drained his cup of coffee. He gasped when he finally came up for air. “Okay,” Remy said. “The first buzz should be hitting shortly. Once it does, we can talk.”

“You’re a disaster, Rem,” Emile said with a shake of his head. “But yeah, I’ve only got afternoon classes today, and I haven’t heard back after my interview yet.”

Remy grunted and went to their small cupboards, looking for something to eat. Emile knew that Remy hadn’t been going to as many of his classes, especially not after midterms, in order to pick up more shifts to help pay for rent. But Emile could have sworn that sometime soon, something important was supposed to happen in one of Remy’s classes. Could that be what was keeping him up late?

Emile shook his head and walked into their small shared space in the apartment, currently being occupied by cardboard boxes to serve as a table. He sat on the floor and put his breakfast and milk on the boxes. The bedrooms had come with beds, which Emile was thankful for, but he wished that the entire apartment had come furnished, sometimes, even if it would have been more expensive. Sitting on the floor all the time just wasn’t gonna cut it.

Remy collapsed on the floor next to him, stuffing a granola bar in his mouth. Emile tried to brush Remy’s hair with his fingers, but Remy had so many cowlicks it wasn’t even funny. Emile wondered how much hair gel Remy used to keep his hair in place on bad hair days like these.

When Remy swallowed the last of the granola bar, he kept his eyes trained on the table as he said, “I was up until almost four in the morning.”

“I...why?!” Emile asked. “It wasn’t for classes, was it?”

Remy shook his head. “I just...couldn’t sleep. I don’t really know what I was feeling, but it wasn’t pleasant.”

“Were you happy? Sad? Angry? Confused?” Emile gently asked.

“All of those, save happy, rolled into one, I guess,” Remy said, brows knitting together, even though all the while he never looked at Emile. “I just...couldn’t stop thinking. About last night.”

“About therapy?” Emile asked. “Because if you don’t think that Kim is a good fit, we can find someone else...”

“Not about therapy,” Remy said. “I couldn’t stop thinking about...about...how you said...said that I...hurt you.”

Emile blinked. He couldn’t think of anything to say, really. He had told the truth, and he knew Remy hated it when he sugarcoated things. But clearly, this was affecting Remy differently. And judging by the way Remy couldn’t even look Emile in the eye, he was pretty sure the effect was a negative one. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Remy choked on a laugh. “I thought you didn’t want to be my therapist.”

“I don’t. But I want to be your friend. And if you trust friends enough, you can tell them your secrets. You just can’t unload everything on them and expect them to magically fix it,” Emile said. “So. I’ll ask you again. Do you want to talk about it?”

“...I cried,” Remy admitted. “I’ve been crying a lot lately, and I don’t know where it’s come from. The last time I cried like I did last night, I was in the ninth grade and someone who I thought was my best friend exposed me to the whole school for brownie points from the popular kids. I felt the same level of hurt as I did then. But...the hurt wasn’t directed at you.”

Emile frowned. “Who or what was it directed at?”

“Myself,” Remy said. “I just...I got so angry with myself, because the last thing in the world I wanted to do was...was hurt you. You’re my best friend. I hadn’t had a best friend in years, unless you count Toby, and neither of us were very touchy-feely, even then. And then I got sad, because I had done all of this, and you never spoke up about it. And what if that meant I made it feel like you couldn’t speak up about it? I’d played off hurt as a joke one too many times before, you wouldn’t know that I had realized that was wrong unless I genuinely apologized and told you I realized it was wrong. And! On top of that! I was super confused, because why should I care, right? The whole point of me pushing everyone away was that I didn’t care. But I realized last night...I do care.

“I care about you, and I care about your friends, and in order to convince myself I don’t care, I make them hate me so caring about them feels pointless. But it doesn’t work. And...and I can’t believe I’m saying this, but at least right now, I do need a therapist. Like, don’t get me wrong. I don’t like shrinks. I get uneasy when someone literally has been trained to pick your brain apart, but I need that as part of my support, and I need support beyond you and the therapist, too, because I only see her once a week, maybe, and I can’t just go to you the rest of the time, because I don’t want you to burn out, and I realized I need to have some of my own friends, even if they’re also your friends, because they could be part of a support network too, and obviously I can help them, friendship isn’t just a one way street, right? And I mean—”

Emile cut Remy off with a hand over his mouth. “Remy, slow down, I can barely understand you when you’re talking that fast. And please, end your sentences with a period once in a while, you need to breathe.”

Remy stopped mumbling into Emile’s hand and Emile let his hand drop. Remy took a deep breath. “I...I really don’t want to hurt you, Emile. And I’m super sorry that I did. And...I’m willing to do what it takes to make sure that it doesn’t happen again.”

Emile sat there in silent shock. Clearly, he had misjudged how much progress Remy had made over the past couple months. He genuinely cared about Emile. And while he might not care for others, not yet, he wanted to learn. And Emile felt a swell of affection and pride at that realization. “It won’t be easy,” Emile warned. “If you want me to call you out whenever you make a bad comment, it’ll happen frequently, possibly enough for you to get defensive. The key is to put that defensiveness aside and listen to what the other person is telling you, when they say that behavior is unacceptable.”

“Yeah...I...I figured. I’m not exactly good at reading a room, unless it’s to figure out how to make people hate me,” Remy said, scratching the back of his neck.

“And you’re willing to put in the work to change that? You genuinely want this?” Emile asked.

“I...yeah. I want to have friends again,” Remy’s voice was small, and soft, and fragile, and it broke Emile’s heart to hear it.

“Good. Then I can be your tutor,” Emile said. “We can hang out on campus if you want, or drive around town, or do whatever. But know that if you do something that I don’t think is kind, I’ll call you out. In front of whoever’s there. Not to shame you, but so you know that isn’t okay, and the people around you know you’re trying to learn.”

Remy nodded. “I don’t like the thought of that,” he admitted. “But if that’s what I need to do to get better, then I’ll do it.”

The swell of affection hadn’t dimmed in Emile’s chest any, and he smiled softly at Remy. “Thank you for being willing to try,” he said. “I know you won’t know how to do everything right off the bat, and I’m willing to go over things with you if you need or want an explanation. But the fact that you’re trying at all is a good sign. I’m proud of you for that.”

Remy’s eyes widened and they snapped up to meet Emile’s gaze. “You’re...what?” he asked softly.

“I’m proud of you,” Emile said. “Haven’t you ever had someone be proud of you before?”

“Maybe when I was really little,” Remy said. “Never once I grew past, like, seven. No one ever told me they were proud of me, unless I asked, and even then, it felt forced, or like they didn’t want me to prompt them.”

“You know, there are days where I’d love to strangle a majority of your family,” Emile said matter-of-factly.

Remy blinked. “That may be the first aggressive thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

“And what’s more, it’s true,” Emile said with a bitter smile. He stood. “I’m getting dressed, and when I’m done and you’re out of your pajamas, we can figure out what to do today, sound good?”

“Don’t you have DnD tonight?” Remy asked.

“That’s tonight,” Emile said. “I’m free until my afternoon classes. And after that, we can always have dinner together.”

Remy did a double take. “You know, you keep talking like that, people will start to think that we’re dating,” he said.

Emile shrugged. “Eh, I don’t have a problem with people knowing I’m bisexual. You don’t seem to have a problem with people knowing you’re gay. If people ask if we’re dating, we can just be honest and say no. Unless, of course, you need to get any creeps off your back, in which case I will happily play your fake boyfriend until they leave.”

“You’re too good to have me as your friend,” Remy said, waving Emile off to his room. “I don’t know why you chose me as a friend, but I’m glad you did.”

“Me too,” Emile said with a smile, going to his room and getting dressed.

As he picked out what shirt he wanted to wear, he was left wondering why Remy brought that up. Having dinner together was something friends did all the time. And it wasn’t like that phrasing was dating-exclusive. He didn’t understand why Remy felt that needed to be pointed out. Who cared if people thought they were together? So long as Emile and Remy knew the truth and no one tried to hurt them, where was the harm in it?

“One of life’s greatest mysteries,” Emile chuckled to himself. “The enigma that is Remy Picani, with his best friend Emile Thomas.”

In all seriousness, though, he did wonder. He wouldn’t ask Remy about that right away, not after Remy had opened up to him so much already this morning. It wouldn’t be fair to him. Maybe another day, he decided. He walked out of his room to find Remy wearing that same leather jacket he had gotten recently and refused to take off whenever they went out. Emile laughed. “Where to?” he asked.

#if there's a place i could be #sanders sides fanfiction #remile #emile picani #ts sleep

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wobbly-flamingo · 4 years ago

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Hello! I’ve started a new blog with more of an MS-focus.

The good, the bad and the ugly

This week I want to talk about inclusion, as it’s National Inclusion Week. Specifically, I’ll be comparing my new, very inclusive employer to my previous, very non-inclusive employer where I experienced discrimination, bullying, exclusion, sexual harassment, verbal abuse from senior colleagues, gas-lighting, unfair treatment, and a generally very toxic work environment.

To start, the good! I’ve been working in my current job for 3 months now and it’s by far the most inclusive and supportive environment I’ve worked in. By really far. I was astonished in my first few days to realise how much of an emphasis there is on wellbeing for employees and how many resources there are for us. There are multiple staff diversity networks - I am a member of the LGBT+ staff network, the disability staff network and the women in work network. There are regular “Let’s talk about...” meetings hosted by the networks and I try to attend one every couple of weeks. There’s a lot of encouragement in our department, to focus on your own wellbeing and keep yourself well. In my experience so far, there’s a very high level of engagement around wellbeing between co-workers, line managers and departmental heads. Whenever I have a catch up with my line manager the first item on the agenda is for her to ask me about my wellbeing. She regularly asks if there is anything they can do to support me, and makes really useful suggestions. For my interview, the interviewers asked me if I wanted any reasonable adjustments! I did. And they were happy to oblige. It’s the most positive and supportive professional environment I’ve worked in. Despite the fact that I am working longer hours in this job than I was previously, I am able to cope better because the resources are there and the support system is there. Plus, I love my job!

Now for the bad and ugly... I experienced so much toxicity at my previous job that I could be here for days talking about it. So I’m just going to give a couple of examples. Before my MS diagnosis, I didn’t hate my job, I thought it was alright. But I noticed very early on that they had an incredibly toxic and unhealthy work environment. I was bullied, I was verbally abused by senior colleagues, I was sexually harassed. After my diagnosis however, things got MUCH WORSE. The bullying really went up a notch, the verbal abuse by senior colleagues did not stop, neither did the sexual harassment; on top of this I started to experience a lot of unfair treatment, exclusion from work events and team activities, discrimination, and gaslighting by a very senior colleague.

I was hospitalised on my 30th birthday and spent most of the day in the MRI scanner. A few days later I was diagnosed. After getting out of hospital I was signed off sick for a couple of weeks. On reflection I wish I had stayed off work for longer. I was honest with my employer from the start, and while I was in hospital my parents had been phoning up to keep them in the loop. My employer decided to share my very personal diagnosis around the office so that everyone knew, which is completely against company policy but whatever. Anyway just a few days after getting back to work, I started getting incredibly unhelpful comments and questions such as “you need to engage your brain more” and “couldn’t you have tried harder today?”. I was criticised constantly for not working fast or hard enough, for struggling with concentration, and for making small errors. I tried countless times to explain that cognitive impairment is a very common MS symptom and that I was struggling with my cognition and fatigue, among other significant symptoms. I was on reduced hours for absolutely ages, at the advice from several medical professionals and occupational therapists.

I had people go behind my back and report to my line manager that they had caught me (after 5pm and therefore after working hours) campaigning for climate justice and that they were “concerned for my health”. Pahahahahahaha. Naturally my line manager didn’t defend me and instead pulled me into a meeting to ask me about it. I pointed out that it’s nobody’s business what I do in my spare time as long as it doesn’t conflict with company policy.

I was told I was over-reacting to situations and making THEIR lives difficult! I mean wow. I’ve just been diagnosed with a life-long, incurable, debilitating disease, and this was apparently making things difficult for them...

Despite having very obvious mobility difficulties and walking with a stick, I was being asked to take senior colleagues’ paperwork up and down stairs for them (not part of my job) and when I said that I was in too much pain to be doing this, I was told to stop being difficult and that I should be seeing this as an opportunity to expand my job role!! It does actually make me laugh now. But at the time I didn’t find it funny; in fact I had no idea how to deal with it.

When I told my line manager one day that I was struggling with stress and feeling overwhelmed with work, to the point that I was heading for a breakdown, I was told that “everyone is under pressure so we just need to get our heads down”. Helpful.

For the majority of the 2.5 years I was there, I was regularly verbally abused by a senior colleague. Apparently he had treated other members of staff the same way and got away with it also. Colleagues of mine had to actually leave the room when he spoke to me in that manner because it made them uncomfortable. During the height of the pandemic when most of us were home working, this abuse was just given over the phone instead. There was one particularly bad incident last Summer, where he was shouting down the phone at me and got real personal. When I mentioned this to my line manager and said I no longer wanted to converse with this person, I was told that it was literally part of my job so I had no choice but to continue our working relationship, despite how intimidated I felt. The one person who should have had my back, did not take it seriously. Worse than that, the regional director was in the same room as the bully so had overheard his side of the conversation, and I naively thought “good news, someone that overheard the conversation can back me up” but nope - instead he said that my version of what had happened was untrue and that I was over-reacting.

Unfortunately it took me about 7/8 months after this incident to find the right job, but boy am I glad to be out of there! Toxic was probably an understatement really. The sad thing is that there was a small handful of people there that I did get on with and would have liked to keep in touch with, but I have sort of cut all ties with the place, and I am much healthier and happier for it!

#inclusion #diversity #wellbeing #mental health #toxic #toxic work environment #toxic culture #supportive #positive #healthy #unhealthy

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katypickles · 4 years ago

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Those who helped me with my disordered eating, and how they did it

!CW: disordered eating behaviours!

Subject A - A close friend

This particular friend was there for me from my diagnosis to the end of my treatment, and from the end of my treatment to the end of my recovery. Recovery is a rollercoaster. There were several points at which I thought I was fully recovered, when actually I was only part way through my journey. (Luckily, the last time I had such a thought was a long while ago now and I've not been thrown any disordered eating curve balls since then, so I would hope where I am now actually is recovered - but those who have suffered with disordered eating claim that you never fully recover, only learn how to cope with the illness...I digress). This close friend was there for me through each of those times, always reminding me that there was a light at the end of the recovery tunnel. They never judged me for planning what I would eat in their company a week in advance, checking labels and online menus obsessively before we cooked or ate out together, speaking my thoughts about food and body image aloud to them freely, calling them day or night just because I couldn't be alone, cancelling on them last minute because I was having a hard time, stealing their food when I went through a period of binge eating post-dismissal from my treatment, or any other scary behaviours that must have been very difficult to witness. The judgement free space they created allowed me to explore my disordered eating in a safe way, with their rationale at hand when I needed it. They would encourage me to keep on top of my recovery and challenge me without pushing me to do something I wasn't comfortable with. The key to this relationship was trust - at a time when I didn't even trust myself this was so invaluable.

Subject B - A superior

This person probably doesn't realise how much their support was appreciated, as they did so from a distance. This person was my senior at university, and I had always looked up to them since I was a fresher. When I told them I was struggling with disordered eating, which was my third year of university, their reaction was very calm and collected. They did not smother me, nor did they pity me. When I was at my worst, it was then that I received a gift from them, just before Christmas 2015. The gift included a candle and other comforting items, and a card that I still have to this day. In the card, they reassured me that they were there to support me though this difficult time, should I need them. They encouraged me to keep going, with only one term left of my time at university, and a portfolio of work to be proud of - regardless of my diagnosis of Anorexia they let me know that I should have been proud of what I had already achieved. The focus on what I was achieving academically rather than my eating disorder, which had been the focus for 6 months at that point, created a shift in my perspective. A month later, I returned to university, ready to take on my final term - and my eating disorder!

Subject C - Family

They couldn't have known, because I'd been living away from the family home for 3 years at the point of my diagnosis, but when I broke the news to my family that I'd been struggling, they remained positive. No tears, no dwelling - just pure fight and determination that we'd get me through this horrible illness. Whenever I needed it, my mother held me like I was a child again. She was by her phone 24/7. She was just there, like she always had been, even if she didn't understand what I was going through. She and my brother made me laugh like we always did together - that will never change! My brother came to visit me in London and listened to me whilst I spoke about my feelings towards food - which must have sounded so alien to him. My mother then visited me in London and spoke to my therapist about how best to support me at the time. At the core of this relationship, nothing changed between us, other than their willingness to understand.

Subject D - A professional

It can be really difficult to find the right therapist, and unbelievably difficult to secure one free of charge as the NHS have such a demand that only the severely ill seem to receive access. I was in an extremely bad way when I was first seen to by a professional. Luckily, I clicked with my CBT therapist immediately. It happened exactly when I needed it most. Since working with her, I have struggled to find the same connection with a therapist, but I'm thankful for the time I had with her. Part way though my treatment, she fell pregnant. She admitted to hiding her pregnancy from me for a long time in order to give me adequate time to push through my most vulnerable state. When she broke the news to me that she'd be taking maternity leave, she added that she knew I was in a place much stronger than when we first started my treatment, and that she had confidence in me that I would carry on thriving with or without her. At a time when I didn't have the confidence in myself, she had confidence in me.

Subject E - A co-worker

Admitting that you're struggling with disordered eating can be daunting - especially in a professional setting. At the time, I was managed by someone who would go on to be a close friend of mine for years to come, and who I still consider one of my nearest and dearest. I was anxiously waiting for her at a central London coffee shop, knowing that the time had come to tell her about my Anorexia, as it had begun to affect my work. With the giant smile she so frequently donned, she arrived with an air of positivity. As I explained what was happening with me, she listened so intently. Once I'd said my piece, she let me know that I was in control. She said that I could do as much or as little work I felt possible. In the following months, she didn't treat me any differently. The difference was that she had let me know that at any point I could take a break or slow down my output of work. I was given permission to take the time I needed to get better.

I understand I'm very lucky, and that I'm one of the privileged few. I had, and still have, access to a wonderful support network. For those of you who might be supporting a friend or family through disordered eating, I hope that this might provide some guidance when it comes to knowing exactly how to support them. Creating a judgement free space, encouragement, a willingness to understand, confidence in recovery, and permission to do what feels needed.

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atlanticcanada · 4 years ago

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On East Coast, exhausted COVID-19 'long haulers' hope specialized clinics will emerge

On evenings when Sean Hoskin collapses into bed, heart pounding and mind foggy from his yearlong battle with COVID-19, he wonders when a clinic to treat his symptoms might emerge in Atlantic Canada.

"My fear is that I'm going to be like this forever," the 50-year-old Halifax resident said in a recent interview.

The issue of a lack of timely treatment for the so-called "long haulers" -- people who suffer symptoms such as shortness of breath and physical exhaustion months after their first bout of the illness -- has been raised across the country by support groups.

Specialized clinics have opened in Western and Central Canada, in some instances offering access to occupational therapists, nutritionists, psychologists, nurses and referrals to specialists. In the United Kingdom, the National Health Service announced the formation of a network of 60 such clinics in December.

However, on Canada's East Coast, patients say they are still searching for a similar, one-stop site to treat symptoms that range from difficulty drawing a breath to tingling pain in their limbs.

"In Atlantic Canada, we're at the mercy of how well we've done containing the virus, leading to our low numbers of infected patients," Hoskin said. "It's had an impact on what we can expect to see from the provincial government in terms of specialized clinics."

International studies currently predict about 10 per cent of COVID-19 patients develop longer term symptoms. In Atlantic Canada, where about 4,100 cases have been officially documented, this suggests long haulers may eventually number in the hundreds, rather than the thousands expected in larger provinces.

But Hoskin argues the lower infection rates shouldn't mean he and others are left to rely solely on family doctors, who may be unaware of how to treat their symptoms, while they spend months awaiting appointments with cardiologists, neurologists and other specialists.

In New Brunswick, which is fighting a second wave of infections that emerged earlier in the year, Emily Bodechon says she has largely assembled her own treatment effort.

"While it's great that our COVID-19 case count is low, it's not been great as a patient to find out nobody knows how to treat you," she said in an interview last week.

Almost a year since her infection, the 45-year-old health worker still has respiratory issues, searing headaches and "brain fog" that makes it hard to process new information.

Bodechon sought online information from a post-COVID-19 clinic in New York and took part in video calls for patient information. "I went through a six-week program on my own, and it was the most helpful thing I had," she said.

She said she hopes provincial governments in the region collaborate to set up centralized clinics that employ telemedicine, so that she can actually speak to doctors with expertise.

In Halifax, a senior physician with Nova Scotia Health says doctors with the province's health authority are turning their attention to potential pilot projects.

Dr. Christy Bussey, the medical lead for COVID-19 in-patient care in the authority's central zone, said in an interview on Thursday that in the longer term, family doctors will need training on how to care for the lingering impacts of the illness.

But in the short term, she's advocating for a post-COVID-19 clinic, potentially attached to an existing clinic in Fall River, N.S., which already treats people with conditions such as chronic fatigue syndrome.

She said she has noticed "a gap in the system for following patients who developed new or ongoing symptoms."

The physician added it's too early to know how much additional provincial or national funding is needed for an Atlantic post-COVID-19 clinic, as a formal proposal has yet to be completed, but she argues the need for added resources is evident.

"Some of these patients are nearly completely disabled by the symptoms they're having," she said.

Dr. Alexis Goth, a lead physician at the Fall River clinic, said the first long haulers are starting to trickle into her clinic. She is hopeful resources can be added to pay for a larger numbers of patients by early summer.

She said one model for COVID patients may be an adapted version of an eight-week, Zoom-based treatment the clinic uses for fibromyalgia, an illness that can cause muscle pain, fatigue and sleep issues. She said the online treatment could be combined with one-on-one therapy, making use of the occupational therapist, nurses and other experts at the clinic.

Susie Goulding, the leader of a national long-haulers support group, cautions that as new clinics and research projects emerge, they should be open to the many patients who didn't receive a formal diagnosis of COVID-19, often due to a lack of testing in the early months.

"Most people don't have a positive test," she said in a recent interview. "They should still be included."

Meanwhile, Hoskin said he's continuing to search for placement in a research study that includes treatment, finding he still feels like collapsing after a brief trip to buy groceries.

"At 50 years old, my heart rate is often at 110 (beats per minute) when I stand up, and I still can't smell and taste other than very basic odours," he said. "We really need to find out what is causing this."

This report by The Canadian Press was first published Feb. 28, 2021.

from CTV News - Atlantic https://ift.tt/3dT35Q0

#new brunswick #prince edward island #nova scotia #news #politics #canada #CTVAtlantic

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savage-rhi · 5 years ago

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💐💐💐 offers flowers in exchange for more of Higgs’ recovery/therapy sessions with John??

@faegrifted Alright honey bunches, since you and several others requested it here you go :D. Also, the flowers are fabulous!

It had been over a month since the interrogations began, and Higgs had to repeat himself several times when it came to the nature of his crimes against humanity. He was growing tired of the repetition. At times it drove him near insane, but when Die-Hardman explained it was to check on his chiral levels since he suffered heavy Chiralium Poisoning, Higgs could see the logic in it. There was a part of Higgs that feared he was losing it at times, whatever he had left up in his head. Thankfully, the treatments the UCA prescribed seemed to have flushed out most of the chiral matter that leeched into his body via the golden mask Amelie had gifted.

Because of his cooperation, Higgs had been upgraded to a cell that was more like a porter's safe house. He could move about freely, shower when needed, and had access to the network albeit very limited. Higgs attempted to take things a day at a time, but he was growing restless. Higgs valued freedom above all else, and as much as he appreciated the allowances, he didn’t want to feel like a dog trapped in a cage anymore.

“You’ve been more aggressive as of late,” Die-Hardman said to Higgs, sitting across from him while Higgs sat at the foot of his cell block bed. He furrowed his brows, grimacing a little before he scoffed.

“You just now noticed?” Higgs shot back sarcastically, getting a sigh out of Die-Hardman. The President had been presiding over most of the interrogations himself, wanting to try to understand Higgs better so the UCA could be prepared if any other terrorists like him surfaced. Not only that, but Die-Hardman became one of the very few people that could tolerate let alone talk to Higgs. Higgs wouldn’t settle for less.

“You were fine days ago. What has changed?” Die-Hardman asked, his hands resting in his lap as he watched Higgs go over it in his mind. There was a look of uncertainty in his gaze that had the President concerned. Before he could pry, Higgs cleared his throat, speaking up.

“I know I should be grateful I even get to stay in a place like this, but I feel like I’m gettin’ cabin fever. I want to be outside. I don’t want to feel trapped.” Higgs admitted. The pain in his voice was evident to Die-Hardman as he furrowed his brows, pity surfacing his gaze before he replied to Higgs.

“I don’t need to remind you of why you’re here, but I will say that if you continue to cooperate, we can allow you more access. Sure, it will probably be years before you’re able to become a full citizen of the UCA, but if you keep your attitude in check I can see about giving you another upgrade.”

“I don’t care about being a citizen,” Higgs said bitterly, finally looking Die-Hardman in the eyes for the first time during the conversation. There was a wildness in his gaze that had Die-Hardman swallow nervously. He would be lying if he wasn’t scared.

“I don’t want to be trapped like I was before.” Higgs said as Die-Hardman nodded, furrowing his brows.

“Like you were as a boy?”

Higgs nodded.

“You still have my sympathies for what happened. Nonetheless, you cannot keep acting out because of it, Monaghan.” Die-Hardman said, his tone a bit firm this time around as Higgs made a fist and hit the foot of the bed.

“I fucking know. Please. I’m not a child.” Higgs said begrudgingly.

“Let me ask you this: what do you need right now?” Die-Hardman purposed as Higgs thought his question over. He didn’t say anything for several minutes, looking lost for the most part. Higgs eventually smiled, giving a shrug and a shake of his head. Die-Hardman could see tears slowly begin to form in the corner of Higgs’s eyes, streaking down his face.

“I don’t know anymore,” Higgs said with a sniff, wiping away at his eyes. He could feel his face tint, embarrassed he was this weak in front of the President. “I thought I had so much shit figured out when Amelie offered her hand. I thought I had my life together as a porter, a businessman, but I don’t have a fucking clue now.”

Die-Hardman decided not to speak right away, letting Higgs have the floor if he needed to get things off his mind. Despite the general animosity between the two, in the beginning, Die-Hardman was more or less starting to see the humanity in Higgs.

At the start, when Die-Hardman first heard of Higgs’s capture, he wanted nothing more than to put him on death row to serve as a warning to future terrorists. He remembered being angry for days when finding out about Higgs’s mistreatment and how word spread and had become public knowledge. Already there were talks about how the UCA wasn’t about true justice given that those captured under them were treated cruelly. The PR was bad, hence why Die-Hardman reluctantly gave Higgs a free pass over the death penalty. Now, after getting to know Higgs, he could see how things got out of hand for the poor fool. How he was lead astray, much like Die-Hardman was by the person he looked up to most. They both had been pawns in the game Bridget and Amelie created, and deep down, Die-Hardman knew if he had the life Higgs had, he could easily see himself pulling the same acts of terror to have meaning in life.

“Higgs,” It was the first time Higgs heard his actual name being called out by the President and he looked up. His eyes widening slightly from shock as Die-Hardman sighed. “Would you be willing to comply with a therapist?”

Higgs made a face, much like a kid being told he had to eat his vegetables. “Sounds like pure torture. Might as well hang me by my nuts.”

Die-Hardman offered a snort, shaking his head. His words were relatable.

“Between us, I have one. Even the best of men need a lending ear.” Die-Hardman said as Higgs sighed, swallowing nervously.

“If it permits me to go outside, I’ll try anything once.” Higgs said.

**A link to my ko-fi account. If you enjoy my content and want to support me getting my monthly medication for fibromyalgia and arthritis, I would be eternally grateful. It is NOT a requirement however! All my work is free to read!**

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bluntsgarden01-blog · 5 years ago

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The Next Things To Immediately Do About Og kush

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Talking together with your medical doctor

Many sufferers locate themselves inside the scenario of wanting to study more about scientific marijuana, however experience embarrassed to bring this up with their medical doctor. This is in element due to the fact the clinical network has been, as a whole, overly dismissive of this difficulty. Doctors are now gambling seize-up and trying to maintain beforehand of their sufferers’ expertise in this trouble. Other sufferers are already the usage of medical marijuana, but don’t recognise how to inform their docs about this for fear of being chided or criticized.

My advice for sufferers is to be totally open and honest along with your physicians and to have excessive expectancies of them. Tell them which you keep in mind this to be a part of your care and which you expect them to be knowledgeable approximately it, and as a way to at the least point you in the path of the statistics you need.

My advice for docs is that whether you are seasoned, neutral, or towards clinical marijuana, patients are embracing it, and although we don’t have rigorous research and “gold general” evidence of the blessings and risks of clinical marijuana, we want to study it, be open-minded, and specially, be non-judgmental. Otherwise, our sufferers will are searching for out other, less dependable resources of data; they will maintain to use it, they just received’t inform us, and there could be that tons much less accept as true with and electricity in our medical doctor-patient relationship. I regularly listen complaints from other docs that there isn’t adequate evidence to recommend medical marijuana, but there is even much less scientific evidence for sticking our heads within the sand.

This tension, among a sizeable perception that marijuana is an effective remedy for a huge collection of illnesses and a lack of clinical information on its results, has been really exacerbated these days with the aid of a force closer to legalization.

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janiedean · 6 years ago

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I hate d&d as much as the next guy, but Kit had alcohol/substance problems *for years*, waaay before season 8 was even conceived. Sure, stress over the finale might have contributed. But there's also British drinking culture, hollywood's substance abuse problem, the stress of being a lead on the biggest show of the world and leaving your formative job of a decade. While I'm sure the finale script fucked him up, I find it shady and unnecessary to blame Kit going to rehab on D&D.

I’m not going to blame them for it completely, but... especially if he had issues with that before, that’s exactly my point, he should have never found out at the table read with everyone else. like, even if he thought it’d have been better, if they were professionals and as showrunners you should give a fuck about your actors excuse me, they should have told him long beforehand same as they should have told emilia long beforehand about what was going to happen with dany (which they didn’t) and assured that he got some psychological support on the network’s dime since they had carte blanche or something like that. if he found out at the table read, I have a feeling they did neither. and like..... as far as *I* know (and I don’t know 10% of the cast gossip stuff, like I don’t follow it, I generally don’t care and it usually makes me feel like crap soooo):

they were extremely unprofessional with stephen dillane and never even gave him a prospect about what he should be doing with his character *and* kept on writing him unevenly so the poor dude who hadn’t even read the books had to make it up as he went or to improvise or research on his own or whatever and like... he didn’t have to read the original material, they should have provided him with the necessary background, and he remembers it as a general experience so fondly that last I checked when asked what was the best thing he got out of doing the show it was *the money*, and they did treat him like shit;

emilia got *two* aneurysms post S1 and S3, kept on shooting in extremely hot locations until S6, has openly said playing that character helped her get through it..... and not only they give her that goddamned ending but since they most likely decided it post S7 they don’t even warn her and she has to see her character done dirty like that, sell it in six episodes without having been told to make sure it was hinted in the previous two seasons, and who cares? like sorry but to me that’s unprofessional af;

ncw.... well, ncw has spent years trying to ask them wtf they were doing with jaime with reasons because they were fucking it up and all he got in return was his arc destroyed in the last two episodes, they didn’t give him clues about where the next seasons would go so he acted stuff in a way and then the next season it went in the entire opposite, and on top of that he gets always shafted when it comes to awards and the likes and from what I gather they never say one decent thing about him in dvd commentaries and that’s still not as bad as emilia’s treatment;

... do we all remember that when the actors playing ros and barristan (who are lesser names than any of the above three) dared complain to them and got killed off? (and I’m 100% sure ros was supposed to be substitute jeyne poole in S1 so...... imagine COMPLETELY FUCKING UP ONE ESTABLISHED PLOTLINE BECAUSE YOU HAVE TO BE PETTY WITH AN ACTRESS FOR HAVING SAID SHE WISHED TO HAVE A PLOT INSTEAD OF BEING NAKED ALL THE TIME XDD)

I mean, those four things are already pretty damning when it comes to how unprofessional they are as showrunners, but: exactly if you’ve got an actor who got addiction issues after being on your show when it was his first job ever on tv, he got it when he was in his early twenties and fresh out of drama school and who has had to lead it and pretty much carry the plot on his back for four seasons, if you plan to fuck his character over like that at least sit him down with the both of you before, insist for it, get him a therapist on set and make sure he has some support, and sorry but from what I see they didn’t give a single fuck about that. and like... that’s not blaming them for his issues, it’s pointing out that if they knew they were a thing they could have done something about it and tried to make it easier on him and they didn’t. also, considering that kit already had the pompeii history ie that he almost developed dysmorphia with all those damned muscles he had to put on and that wasn’t good for him as well so more than the addiction history he has a history of being negatively affected by shitty treatment when it comes to his projects (that happened because he had to contractually have the extra strong turtle chest muscles not for any other reasons) then maybe they could have thought about it and given a fuck about making sure he’d take it as best as he could.

especially if they had in mind of, oh, wait, taking from his character the payoff *they* built for eight seasons and make him do whatever the hell it is that he had to do. like, he did say he was pissed at episode three. I can believe that, gdi xD like obviously they’re not directly to blame, but they’ve been unprofessional assholes to a good number of people in this cast and I don’t even want to know the rest and their behavior with him was equally bad and like... running a show means giving a fuck about your actors, especially if they aren’t seasoned professionals when you take them on. /two cents

#1 #2 #3 #4 #5 #d&d can choke #kit harington from ts #addiction cw #mental health cw #alcohol cw #Anonymous #ask post

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