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unholyobsessions · 4 years ago

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And life goes on (though not always in the right direction)

Spencer Reid AU

Description: Spencer Reid has lived a horrible life, and every time he thinks it’s getting better, it somehow gets worse.

Warnings: Bullying, Self harm, Suicide, Kidnapping/blood, Rape/Sexual assault, Depression, Death, Cussing, Drug use (if there are any others please message me and I will gladly add them. There is no warning too small.)

Word Count: 5.4k

The first time Spencer gets beat up it is his eight birthday. He doesn’t celebrate. His dad gets “stuck at work” (in reality he is out cheating on his wife with his assistant) and his mom forgets. He goes to the park with a book knowing that would be the best way to spend his birthday. A group of neighborhood kids walks up to him and asks him if he wants to hang out. He, of course, says yes.

Oh stupid and naive little boy.

They guide him to the bleachers and push him to the ground. Spencer looks up at them through teary eyes and they laugh. The first punch breaks his glasses and the second breaks his nose. The kicks against his abdomen bruise his ribs and cause him to throw up his breakfast. They all keep laughing. It isn’t until an hour later when they finally get tired and leave. Spencer curls himself into a fetal position and tries not to swallow the blood gushing from his nose.

He walks alone to the hospital. His mother doesn’t notice he’s gone until the doctor calls her and asks her to pick up her son. His dad shows up with her. Spencer thinks he looks embarrassed. He refuses to meet his eyes. At first he thinks it’s because of his now crooked nose that will certainly need surgery but he later realizes that he is embarrassed of him. He is ashamed of who his son is. That is the first time that he cries himself to sleep. He gets beat up regularly after that.

. . .

Spencer is ten when his father leaves. He tries to convince him to stay. He keeps reciting statistics about how a divorce could affect a child but all his father does is look at him with disgust and walk out the door. His mother has one of her episodes later that same night. Spencer can’t bring himself to calm her down so he locks his door and picks up his physics text book. Half way through the chapter he feels tears falling down his cheeks. He does his best to wipe them away but it’s no use. He allows himself to cry as he thinks about what his father leaving will inevitably cause. His mother is in no condition to hold down a job and he has no way of making money to pay for food and electricity. He’s glad that their medical insurance takes care of all of his mother’s medication. He eventually settles down and brings his blankets over his body, the distant sounds of his mother practicing for a lecture that will never come lulling him to sleep.

The next day he goes straight to the local newspaper station and asks if he could have a job delivering the papers to the local neighborhoods. The owner is apprehensive at first until Spencer explains his situation. The man sighs and hands him a bag filled to the brim with the day’s news. Spencer rushes out of the building and jumps on his bike. He delivers newspapers everyday at six in the morning for the next two years.

He becomes used to hunger. He can’t buy books anymore as he is barely scraping together enough money to have a decent meal everyday. He never complains though. He forces the tears away and keeps moving forward. Things will get better.

. . .

When he’s thirteen when he leaves for university. Cal-Tech. It’s the start of a new life. He enjoys his classes and regularly converses with his professors. Every time he gets the chance he takes the trip down to Las Vegas to check on his mom. She always assures him that she is perfectly fine (even though she isn’t) and he needs to stop worrying so much.

He gets a job at the library. He puts the books back in their respective shelves and his eidetic memory certainly makes it easier. It isn’t fun, not in the slightest, but it pays better than selling newspapers and he’s in desperate need of money. He stays at the library between shifts and works on his homework. He uses the library’s computer since he can’t afford his own.

He excels in all of his classes and makes extra money out of tutoring. The older students don’t take offense to a fourteen year old correcting them on their mistakes, for that he is extremely thankful. Still, it doesn’t mean he has friends. Most twenty-year-olds don’t want to spend their free time hanging it out with a know it all pre-teen.

. . .

He slides a razor blade against his arm for the first time when he is fourteen. He doesn’t know exactly what makes him do it. The stress of college at such a young age or maybe the fact that he is completely alone in California. He considers the fact that it may be from the bruise forming on his lower abdomen, courtesy of a group of Frat guys. Maybe it’s all of the above.

The only thing he knows for sure is that he relishes in the pain it gives him. It isn’t the same type of pain he feels whenever he gets beat up, no this feels better. He gives himself two cuts before hiding the blade and cleaning himself off. He wraps a bandage over his forearm and goes to class.

The next day he sits in the bathroom and debates whether he should do it again. He knows he shouldn’t. He is aware that this is not good for him. He thinks about going to the campus therapist but quickly shuts down the idea. He can’t talk about what he is going through. He has no right to feel the way he does. He is going to a prestigious college on a full ride scholarship. He is passing all of his classes, he finds them easy. But he can’t help the way he feels. He looks at himself in the mirror and feels disgusted with what he sees.

He has no one. No one to take care of him. No one to talk to. No one to ask him how his day went. He understands why his father left. He wouldn’t want to have himself as a son either.

He slides the blade three times.

Two weeks later he is up to six cuts per day. The scars are ugly but Spencer can’t bring himself to care. He avoids looking in the mirror, it only makes the desire to feel the cold blade on his skin worse. No, he isn’t suicidal, at least he doesn’t think so, but he can’t help but throw his head back as blood gushes down his arm.

. . .

He is sixteen when his mother dies. He has just finished his first PhD and comes home to visit and celebrate. At one point he goes out to the store and comes back to find his mother on the floor.

She isn’t breathing.

He eyes the bottle of pills on the floor and then looks to the counter to see another one.

They’re both empty.

He cries. He cries for over an hour before he gets up and starts packing his stuff. He takes all of his money as well as some clothes and other necessities. He calls the paramedics on his way out the door. He takes the first bus out of Las Vegas and never looks back.

He doesn’t return to Cal-Tech. Social Services finding him will be too easy if he does. He’s a minor and his guardian is dead. He has two options. He can either find a way to contact his dad (which social services probably does) and go live with him. He doesn’t dwell on the thought long. Option two is to allow himself to be turned over to the state and be inevitably placed in an overcrowded foster home that only takes children in for money. He dismisses the thought quickly. He ends up choosing option number three.

He runs away. He ends up in Arizona. He doesn’t remember how many buses it takes him to get there. He stays at a cheap motel and has to resist the urge to walk to the bathroom and open old scars. It’s been months, he tells himself, you have to be strong. He makes a call to the University of Oxford. They had offered him a scholarship when he had originally applied when he was thirteen. He declined their offer, obviously, and decided to stay closer to home. Closer to his mom. Who is dead now. He shakes his head and forces himself to stop thinking about it. He requests to talk to the Dean. He gives his name and he is quickly transferred to his office.

Yes, they do have a place for him in school. Of course, they would be honored to have him complete his studies there.

Spencer hangs up the phone and calls the airline. One way ticket to England please. The next day he lugs his belongings all the way to the airport, not having enough money for a cab. He boards the plane and stares out the window officially saying goodbye to his life in the states.

. . .

Maeve is dead. He is twenty years old and he is tied to a chair staring at his dead fiancée. He sees the blood pooling around her body and his throat feels raw from all the screaming. This isn’t supposed to happen. His life was finally good, stable. The first real glimpse of happiness he’s had since he was ten. Life can’t have gotten this bad.

They have both been held captive for four days. Spencer being forced to watch as the man who took them repeatedly raped the woman he is in love with. Forced to endure having the shit beat out of him. Having to endure the feeling of the needle piercing his skin and ultimately enjoying the high that came afterward.

The man smirks at him, the gun still in his hand.

“YOU SON OF A BITCH!” His voice comes out hoarse, not even he can recognize it. The man simply laughs and walks over to him. He holds the gun to his head and Spencer closes his eyes. He’s going to die. He wants to die. He craves the feeling of vast emptiness that came with death. He doesn’t think that he can deal with any more pain.

The pressure of the gun leaves his head. He looks up and the man smiles at him, but there is no sincerity in his eyes. He hears the man saying something along the lines of “death is too easy” before plunging another needle in his vain. Spencer’s eyes roll back as a feeling of ecstasy overcomes his body. He hears the man walk away before he passes out. He wakes up to see officers untying him. He sees paramedics close the black bag over Maeve’s face. He feels tears fall down his face.

“No,” he repeats over and over. He hears paramedics ask him his name. Does he remember how he got here? Can he tell them where he lives? Their questions fall on deaf ears. All Spencer can think about is how when he eventually gets out of the hospital he will have to go back to an empty apartment. He will have to pack up Maeve’s stuff. He will have to face her parents and tell them what happened. He will have to tell her dad that he will never get to walk his little girl down the aisle and her mom that she would never take her dress shopping. Spencer would never meet the eyes of the woman he loves as she reaches the altar. He will never get to say ‘I do’ and call her Mrs. Reid.

He finds a dealer as soon as he gets home.

. . .

He’s twenty two when he gets his fifth PhD. He has been clean for a little under a year and it is all thanks to his boss. He’s been living with him since he moved out of his apartment. He works at the local police station. He gives profiles on serial criminals. No one is ever going to have to go through what he went through. Not if he can help it.

He based the past two years of his schooling solely on his new career choice. He gets an internship two months after the incident.

He’s high most of the time.

He still passes all of his classes with flying colors but his new boss knows that something is up with him, even if he has only known the kid for a month. The police chief approaches him one day when Spencer is sitting on his desk going over a cold case file. He invites him to dinner at his house and Spencer is both relieved and worried. Relieved that he wouldn’t have to go back to his god forsaken apartment for a few more hours and worried because he doesn’t know how bad his craving will get. He has developed a routine. Shoot up, go to school, go to work, come home at five, shoot up again.

An hour into dinner and his boss asks him the question. Are you okay? It’s a loaded question, they’re both aware but Spencer notes that the man is genuinely concerned for his well being. He breaks down. He tells him everything. He doesn’t know why he is sobbing in front of a man who he has only known for a short while. Why he is telling him all of his problems. Why he rolls up both of his sleeves and shows him the scars that graze his inner elbow, and the ones that have healed over his forearm.

From a psychological perspective he knows why he is doing it, why he allows himself to be so vulnerable in front of the man. He longs for a father figure. For a man to comfort him and care for him. He wants what his father never gave him as a child, what he never gave him as a teenager, what he never gave him as an adult.

“I’m sorry sir,” Spencer sniffles. He is being unprofessional.

“You don’t have to call me sir, you know? You can call me Roger.” Spencer nods, not having the strength to speak up again. “You’re staying the night and then tomorrow we’ll go to your apartment to pack up your stuff and you’re moving in. I’m going to help you get clean.”

Spencer is shocked but can’t bring himself to argue. He is exhausted. The next day they do just what Roger said they would do. It is a long journey. He will stay clean for about three weeks before something happens that makes him fall back to his disgusting habit. Roger will sometimes come home to see Spencer sobbing in the bathroom, a syringe lying next to him. He immediately pulls him close and assures him that it’s okay.

He beats it though. It will be a year next month since the last time he had any drug in his system. He’s proud of himself.

Roger walks over to him as he closes his phone. They are in one of their co-worker’s backyard. They all insisted that they needed to celebrate his new achievement. Spencer had rolled his eyes but accepted their kind gesture and is now sipping his drink and making conversation when Roger calls his name.

Roger takes a second to mull over the progress Spencer made. He’s proud of him. He loves the kid like his own but the future of their father-son relationship will be determined what he is about to say.

“Hey, what’s up?” Spencer asks casually, pushing a hand through his long hair.

“I just got a call from Interpol,” he pauses, Spencer freezes. “They have offered me a position.” He waits for Spencer’s reaction.

“You’re leaving.” Spencer can’t believe this is happening. Not again. He starts to wonder if life will ever allow him to have even a sliver of happiness.

“I am.” Spencer avoids looking at him. “But I want you to come with me.” That catches his attention.

“What?”

“I told them that if they want me then they will also have to offer a position to the smartest and most hard working man I know. I made it clear that I am not going to take the position unless they put you on my team. So what do you say? Want to work at Interpol with me?”

Spencer is shocked to say the least. It’s a great opportunity. Tears well up in his eyes as he looks at the man who cares for him like a son. The man who encouraged him to beat his addiction, who makes him feel like he is worth something. He nods his head and hugs him. He hears their co-workers cheering behind them and he lets out a laugh. Maybe life will allow him to be happy.

. . .

Wrong. Life always likes to give Spencer a nice kick in the ass. He has been working at Interpol with Roger for about a year and a half and at the ripe age of twenty-four he is one of their most valued members. He is seated quietly at his desk, nursing a horrible migraine when a file is dropped in front of him. He looks up at Roger and sees the sympathy in his eyes. He furrows his eyebrows in confusion before picking up the file.

His breath hitches in his throat.

Couple kidnapped and held for four days. Woman shot execution style with evidence of repeated sexual assault. Male beaten brutally with traces of narcotics in his system.

He can’t breath. He tries but he can’t seem to make his lungs work. He starts to hyperventilate. He can hear Roger saying his name but he can’t focus enough to respond. He’s back. It’s been four years and there has been no cases with even a similar M.O. He is aware that he is having a panic attack but he can’t bring himself to even try and match Roger’s breathing. His inner elbow itches.

No.

It would make things easier. No dealing with the pain.

No. No. No. I won’t do it. Not again.

It’s only once. You want to. You’re weak.

No. I’ve come so far, I will not give it up.

Then how about the blade? Just like when you were fourteen. Weak little Spencer Reid. You’re pathetic.

NO!

He doesn’t remember passing out.

He wakes up with Roger standing over him. He apologizes and Spencer reassures him that he is fine. He wants to work the case. No, not wants, needs to work the case. Roger refuses. But he knows the case better than anyone. They argue for a while. In the end Spencer wins (he always wins).

Roger informs him that a team of profilers from the FBI is coming to help solve the case. The killer wasn’t dormant, he went to the United States and continued killing there. Same M.O. Only last week did he return to the U.K.

“The FBI has worked this case and they want to continue working it,” Roger explains.

Spencer nods and walks back to his desk. He starts going over the file and victims. He realizes that his name isn’t listed. The victims start with his first kill in the U.S. He feels relief at the fact. He studies the file for a few more hours before Roger tells him to call it a night. They walk to the car together and head home.

The next day the FBI team arrives. The Behavioral Analysis Unit. Spencer has heard of them, he even studied some of their cases when he first started profiling. They walk in and go straight to Roger, completely ignoring Spencer. He’s not surprised. Strangers never seem to realize that he actually works here. He doesn’t exactly have a sign over his head that reads “I have an IQ of 187 and have five PhDs. I also have an eidetic memory and can read 20,000 words per minute.”

Roger greets them and introduces them to Spencer.

“This is Dr. Spencer Reid, he’s my lead on the case and my second in command. If I’m not available, anything he says goes.” The team all wears various expressions of shock.

A white male with dark hair, who Spencer assumes is the leader, breaks first and introduces himself and the rest of them. “I’m Agent Hotchner, these are SSAs Rossi, Morgan, Jareau, Greenaway, and Prentiss and our technical analyst Penelope Garcia.” He holds out his hand and Spencer hesitates.

“Oh uh I don’t shake hands.” Roger snorts fondly while the team all assumes the Dr. to be a pretentious asshole (he isn’t) (most of the time). They were all led to the conference room which Spencer has already set up. There are two maps on the walls, one of England and the other of the U.S. There are tacks placed at the places where all the victims were held.

The FBI has been here for three weeks and are no closer to catching the killer. Two other couples have been taken. Spencer never goes to the crime scene. He is barely holding it together, the itch on his arm getting stronger as he clutches his sobriety coin, he can’t bear to look at the scene that is almost identical to the one he found himself in four years ago. Of course the team doesn’t know this. They all think that he doesn’t have the guts to do the job. They often find themselves discussing the young man’s incompetence and how if he can’t handle the case then he shouldn’t work it. They always stop the conversation when he walks in though. One day however, they don’t hear his approaching footsteps as they make fun of him.

“How old is he? 15? The kid is too damn young to be working a job like this.” Morgan pops a peanut in his mouth after speaking.

“He probably fucked his way into his position,” JJ says.

“I mean the way he handles the files. He can’t even look at the pictures. He looks like a baby watching a horror movie,” Prentiss laughs.

“I still don’t understand. Who let him in here? This isn’t a daycare or a kindergarten.” All three agents laugh at JJ’s comment before a voice shuts them up.

“You don’t know me.” Their heads snap up to see the man in question standing in the doorway. “You have no right to judge me.” The glare he is giving them is scarier than Hotch’s.

“Kid we-” That draws the line.

“I’m not a kid Agent Morgan. The only people acting like children in this building are you three. You have no idea what I have been through. I’m sure you wouldn’t even be able to handle a fraction of the shit show that is my life.” His breathing is heavy and his voice is rising along with his temper.

“We’re sorry it’s just that you’re so young. We didn’t think-” Spencer cuts Prentiss off.

“Exactly. You didn’t think did you? Well let me enlighten you. I was brutally bullied since I was eight. My father left me and my paranoid schizophrenic mother when I was ten. I had to work to pay the bills and to be able to have a meal at least once a day. Then I went to college and things got better right? Not really since I still had no friends so I decided self harm was the way to go. Oh and my mother died when I was sixteen. The only person who ever gave a shit about me, killed herself. I came home one day and she was lying on the ground with an empty bottle of pills next to her. I packed up and left because I refused to go with my father or go into foster care. Do you think my life got better after that?” He waits to see if they will answer. They don’t.

“Well for a while it did. I met the love of my life and we were going to get married. And then we were kidnapped. I was tied to a chair and drugged regularly as I watched my fiancée get raped. Then the psychopath put a gun to her head and shot her in front of me. I watched as the blood pooled around her body and I kept wishing that he had killed me as well. I kept doing drugs. Believe it or not, four days of getting shot up with dilaudid made me an addict. It took me a year to be able to get clean. And when I finally thought it was over a file got dropped on my desk. He was back. The reason for my nightmares, the man my therapist keeps trying to make me forget, was back,” he paused and took a deep breath. “So I’m sorry agents if I can’t go and examine the scene. I’m sorry that I get a little jittery when looking at the case files. But don’t you ever accuse me of not being able to do my job. I’m damn well good at what I do, despite my age. Yes I am only twenty-four but you three have made it quite clear that I am much more mature and capable of doing this job than you are.” With that he turns around, only to come face to face with Roger. He nods at him, a sign that he can leave. Spencer walks out of the conference room and toward the elevator. He gets in, waits for the doors to close and bursts into tears.

Back in the conference room Morgan, Jareau, and Prentiss are faced with an angry Unit Chief and a fuming Director.

“I want you out of here,” Roger looks at the three agents before turning back to Hotch. “I will not allow you to continue working this case with us unless they leave right now. They should get suspended for the trouble they have caused. Dr. Reid is one of Interpol’s greatest assets and I will not tolerate three strangers who got here three weeks ago to stand here and insult him. So Agent Hotchner unless they are sent home, your team is no longer welcomed here. And I will make sure to report this to your Section Chief and the FBI Director.” Roger walks out of the room and goes after his son.

Hotch turns back to his team and none of them think they have ever seen him look as angry as he does that very moment. “Prentiss, Morgan, Jareau, pack your bags, you're leaving. You’re suspended two weeks without pay, effective immediately. After your suspension is over you’ll have a meeting with the director to discuss your future at the Bureau. If it were up to me the three of you would be fired, but sadly it isn’t. You have shamed and dishonored the reputation of the Bureau and frankly I wouldn’t be surprised if Interpol severed ties with us. Now I am going to apologize to Dr. Reid and Roger and I hope to see you gone by the time I come back. I do not want to hear another word out of you unless it is an apology.” Hotch leaves the room but not before sending them one last glare. Rossi, Elle, and Garcia all look at them and follow after Hotch. To say they are disgusted by their teammates’ behavior is an understatement.

Spencer is inside his car, sniffling and trying to get himself together. He doesn’t know what came over him inside the conference room but all the stress from the past three weeks took a toll on him and he found the perfect outlet to release it. A knock on his window startles him. Roger smiles before opening the door and sitting in the passenger seat. They sit in silence for a while, neither of them sure how to approach the conversation.

“You’re not in any trouble,” Roger starts. “If you hadn’t yelled at them son, I was going to and we both know how that would have ended up.” They both chuckle and fall into a comfortable silence.

“Do you think we’ll catch him?” Spencer speaks up.

“With you working the case? There is no doubt in my mind.”

They do catch him. Two weeks later Spencer is standing in an abandoned warehouse in front of the unsub with his revolver raised. The man, Tommy Montgomery, had his gun at the woman’s head, a sick smile on his lips.

“I remember you,” Montgomery exclaimed. “I killed your fiancée four years ago, didn’t I?”

Spencer could kill him right now. “Put the gun down. You don’t have to do this. We can help you if you just put the gun down.” Spencer recites the speech that he has said dozens of times to dozens of criminals.

“Help me?” the man laughed. “You don’t want to help me. You want me to rot in a cell for the rest of my life. We both know there is only one way this can end.” Montgomery raises his gun at Spencer but he isn’t fast enough.

Spencer unloads three rounds straight to his heart. He lowers his weapon and rushes over to him. He places two fingers above his collarbone--he will never admit that nothing brought him greater joy than realizing that he had no pulse. He goes to untie the male victim as paramedics rush inside. Roger walks over to Spencer once they are outside and pulls him into a hug.

“It’s over son.”

Spencer cries and clings onto him as sobs rack his body. He separates himself and takes a few calming breaths. He walks over to the BAU team, which now only consists of three members and their tech analyst. He thanks them profusely and the three of them reassure him that he has nothing to thank them for. Hotch looks at the young genius for a second before making an offer.

“You know we have three spots open on our team now. If you want to, you are always welcomed at the FBI.”

“Oh,” he doesn’t know what to think. He hasn’t gone back since he was sixteen. Was he ready? “Thank you really. I’m not sure I’m ready to go back to the states at this moment but maybe in a few months or years, if you’ll still have me, I’ll gladly join you.” Spencer holds out his hand and Hotch laughs before taking it and giving it a firm shake.

“Good luck Dr. Reid.”

“You too.”

. . .

Five months later Spencer goes back to Oxford. He’s doing better. His cravings don't come as often and when he looks in the mirror, he isn’t ashamed or disgusted at what he sees. His therapist only requests to see him once a week now and Roger doesn’t hover over him at work.

He stands in the cemetery next to the church he was going to be wed at. He walks across the wet grass, scrunching his face at the squishing noises his shoes make. He faces Maeve’s grave and a shaky breath leaves his lips. He sits down next to the tombstone and starts talking. He tells her about everything that happened in the past months and how he finally avenged her death. He tells her about his progress and how his mental health has improved so much since he last talked to her. He sits there for hours during the day and well into the night until he runs out of things to say.

“You would be so proud of me sweetheart. But now to what I actually came here to say. I came to say goodbye.” He takes a deep breath as a few tears roll down his cheeks. “I will love you forever and I will keep missing you every single day. But it is time that I move on. I need to find happiness and maybe that happiness isn’t here. I ran away when I was sixteen and I don’t want to run away anymore. So this may be the last time in a while that I come and talk to you. I love you Maeve Reid, to the moon and back.” Spencer stands up and places the ring he was going to wear for the rest of his life on top of the tombstone. He walks away as he takes out his phone and dials a number he never thought he would actually call. It rings for a few seconds before a familiar voice comes through the receiver.

“Hotchner.”

“Does the offer still stand?”

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suarezpt · 3 years ago

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How to choose las vegas physical therapy?

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amiloudenough · 6 years ago

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Nameless - Trigger Warning. This story contains sexual assault

Dear -----,

Even your name feels like a privilege you don’t deserve. Should you stay nameless, or should I out you to the world? Scream from the tallest building what you did to me? What you’ve done to so many just like me?

Apart of me wants your memory to stay tucked in the dark pocket of my brain where you live now, only seeing the light when I am triggered by a hotel room or when men buttoned tightly in business suits that resemble you linger when they look at me.

Another part of me thinks my story matters, that saying the truth out loud will make it real, tangible, throwable, crushable, flammable and maybe...healable.

I was newly 20 when we met. I thought I was an adult. My freedom was still new, my hips still narrow, my childhood trauma still unrecognizable - hidden in the basement of my chest. I wouldn’t go looking for it for years.

I would spend weekends at my friends 1920’s built studio in the beating heart of Seattle. The hallways smelt like a dusty thrift store. The dark green carpet and scuffed walls held memories of tenants for 90 years.

My friend has long red colored hair to the small of her back, she taught me to buy furniture from thrift stores and how to steal accessories from Nordstrom. We share clothes and dance at underage clubs in the city. It seems I am her only friend.

We would laugh little girl giggles listening to her neighbors fight through the wall. We would share red wine from the bottle before going out in small skirts and knee high socks. We got into bars by over lining our eyes and flirting with bartenders outside while they smoked cigarettes. Most nights, we stumble back in passed two and fall into each other on her bed.

This friend told me about you one night in the winter. I remember the holiday lights lining the streets, I remember the white sweater I wore - my mother bought it for me the previous Christmas.

We sit in the back of an old Chinese restaurant. Sharing the entire place with only two other customers. The bartenders never ask us for our IDs. They know we’re underage...they also know we’ll spend money. We drink long island ice teas, the only drink we knew how to order.

She tells me about her new gig being a stripper. I’m entertained. I’m envious. She seems sexy and mysterious in this moment. She tells me about making $700 in one night. She tells me her stripper friends told her about this new thing called “sugaring.” “He pays me just to go to a movie! he paid me $200 just for a date!” She says. My friend explains that there is a website filled with rich men who pay young girls to do various things like have sex and go on vacations with them.

Getting attention from men had been second nature to me, I was good at it whether I wanted to be or not. I thought of my mothers friend from work being in our apartment when I walked through the door after school. I was eleven, my mother hadn't arrived home from work yet. She had asked him to look at the desktop computer. “You must have a lot of boyfriends at school…don't you?” He nods up at me from under the computer desk. I realized then that I wasn’t a child but a girl. I was something to be looked at and consumed.

“No way!” I say, shifting in the bar stool. My friends red hair matches her red lipstick. Suddenly, I felt too far from home. “I’ll show you!” She says and pulls out her phone. She texts you. She tells you she has a friend she wants you to meet. You walk into the Chinese restaurant some time later. I’m slurring my words by the time you arrive, there are four empty long island glasses melting onto the bar counter. We’re the only two in there now. You walk confidently, relaxed…Like you’ve come to meet two girls twenty five years younger than you before.

Your hair is too straight, peekaboos of grey mixed in with jet black. You have small lips and tiny teeth. Your neck has started to sag with age but your face lacks wrinkles of a man your age. You look at me as if you are looking through me, as if you are testing my boundaries, seeing if it was safe to trust your dirty little secret with me. Unfortunately, it was.

“wow he’s so normal! He’s not a creep!” I whisper to my friend while you order us a round of drinks. You hid it so well. I flip my hair at you, apply lipgloss in the bathroom, regret not wearing something sexier. Suddenly, the white sweater doesn’t seem to fit.

I want you to like me. I’m begging for your approval. Lucky me, I get it.

We meet up just the two of us after texting for a few weeks at a Cheesecake Factory. I am embarrassed being out in public with you. Do people know what we’re doing? I see an old friend from high school serving tables near us and I almost run out. “Calm down. We’ll say I’m your uncle.” You laugh, the way a dad laughs at his toddler falling trying to walk - like it’s cute how worried I am.

I applied too much makeup, I’m trying to look older. I’m wearing a fake fur vest and heels I can’t walk in. You ask me about my parents, my friends, where I live, you ask if I’m in college. I tell you the intimate details of my life, spilling out all over the booth like you slipped truth serum in my drink. I tell you about my poetry, about my mothers alcoholism, my fathers absence, about my dreams of getting a college degree. You listen with eye contact, the way a therapist does. You nod and sit still in silence, waiting to hear more. You reach across the table and touch my arm. You tell me you want to mentor me and pay for some of my college. You say that it would bring you joy to help me reach my goals. I don't touch my food. The waiter clears our plates. You slide your American Express into the leather pocket next to the bill and tell me how much money you’d give me to have sex with you.

I ride in your car after we finish eating and leave my car parked in the cheesecake factory parking lot. I watch it out the window wondering if its too late to open the door and jump out.

“You know what?!” You say pulling out of the lot. We’re driving to the nearest hotel. You already have the cash in an envelope in your glove box. I would see you reach over me and grab it when we arrive to the hotel. “What?” I ask. “I think you are my muse! I write poetry too and you have inspired me to write, you’re my muse!” I’m flattered by the compliment, how did you know I always wanted to be someone’s Edie to their Andy? I shed myself at the door of the hotel. I don’t find myself until a couple hours later when I am dressed again and have $500 cash in my purse. Once I do find myself I’m surprised at how great I feel. “It was soooo easy!” I tell my friend on the phone. “I know!” She says. We giggle on the phone my entire drive home. I ignore the smell of your sweat coming through my clothes. I have just sold my body for the first time.

You text me good morning and good night. You check up on my day every other day. I send you pictures of myself and receive compliments back of how beautiful I am. We meet late night in candle lit lounges or hotel bars for drinks and every time I shed myself at the door once the hotel key clicks. I am hundreds of dollars richer the next day and all I had to do was shed my body and watch my soul crawl away.

You set up your laptop in each hotel room and I wonder if you are video taping but I never ask. You bring a backpack full of sex toys that you use on me without asking. You put your fingers and tongue and body places I don’t want you to. You pull me into to lay on your cold clammy chest, and I rest my hands on your rubber belly. You put on Japanese porn and ask me to relieve you while you watch it. You take pictures of us together and put them into a folder titled “Tori” in your phone - incase you need proof I consented. I smile in the pictures, often my bare shoulders showing, hotel sheets behind us, while I fight a war within myself. My eyes are always blood shot because I am always drunk. I ignore the countless other files titled with other names like “Heather” and “Shelby.”

You give me psychological tests, tell me my Meyers Briggs results, ask me about my classes, tell me what you think I should major in. You like to read me your awful poetry and I cringe at the warmth on my neck as you whisper your ballads too close.

You tell me you love me for the first time while you cry on the phone. You’re sad your other girlfriend broke your heart. I talk you through it. I comfort and coo to you like you are a small child. You tell me through hysterics that I am the only person that makes you feel better. This makes me feel important. You call me honey, send me poetry books in the mail, send me pictures of yourself while on vacation. I ask you for money to go to Mexico, LA, to pay my rent, my tuition and my car payment. You do. So I keep coming back. I send you sweet texts and pictures of myself. I share my poetry with you and give you insider details to my daily life. You help me make up lies to tell my friends when they wonder where I am. “Real friends don’t judge you baby.” You tell me in a hotel room chair by the window.

I’m special, because you tell me I am. I’m special because you give me money. I am special because you need me.

You ask me to go to Vegas with you twice and I say yes and then no. Both times. I can’t imagine anything worse than being stuck so far away from home with you. When I am with you I feel like I am walking slowly on pins and needles. Your gaze feels violating. You don’t care that waiters stare, that women your age in the bar ask “how do you two know each other?!” through giggles.

I hate holding your hand in public. I drink swigs from a vodka bottle in my glove box before I go to meet you, to ease the nerves, to forget what I’m there for.

You take me to Victoria Secret and make me try on lingerie sets. You tell me to come out into the hallway so you can see. I’m mortified as I spin in front of you. I see the sale associate make circles on the floor with her foot. You buy me the lingerie set and I walk away while you pay at the counter. I am looking over my shoulder for any familiar faces. I am thinking of lies I can tell if I run into a family member, an old teacher, anyone who knows my other personality.

Each time I pull open my drawer and see the jeweled pink panties and matching bra, my chest tightens. I eventually throw it away because it feels as if you are touching me all over again with every time they are on my body.

When I ask you if we can use a condom after I start seeing someone regularly, you ask me why I don’t trust you. You do a puppy dog face that makes my gut drop, you say “you know I love you bareback. You know I get tested, I just wish you just trusted me...” I decide I’m wrong for not trusting you. I don't bring it up again.

You ask if you can take me on a ferry to Bainbridge island. I agree, I needed the money.

I have told you that I don’t do drugs. I have told you I don’t like being out of control, that it scares me. You nod understanding, tell me “I know, I know.” You repeat stories of you getting high on MDMA on business trips and how the sex high is “so good!” I still refuse to do them with you.

At dinner on Bainbridge island you pull out two small red colored pills with cartoon characters stamped into them. You take one while I look. “Guess I’ll be alone getting high then!” You say, swallowing the pill and grinning at me.

I think I am a consenting adult on a vacation with my much older, married, kind-of boyfriend who pays me each time I sleep with him. I think that I am in charge on all of our encounters. I’m convinced that society has this whole sex worker thing wrong - that this is a two way street, that I want you to offer me drugs ten more times after I say no the first ten times.

I think that you taking the drugs in front of me was about what you wanted, not about what you wanted me to do.

My heart races after you swallow the pill, I text my friend - ask her what the red pills do. She tells me it’s just ecstasy and it’ll be ok. I copy you, take mine with a swig of wine.

The car ride home from dinner I’m already buzzing. I turn the radio up loud and play a song by the spinners that I no longer listen to. I stick my head out of the window and sing “I’ll be arouuuuund.” When we get back to the house you rented for us you parade your bag of pills around me. I feel so good, I beg you for another. You give me one. I catch myself in a mirror and don't recognize the reflection. I can only see a fully black eye, the brown of my eye has disappeared behind my pupil.

I lose myself soon after that in a cyclone of hallucinations and electronic music you play on the stereo. I see cartoon colored objects floating around the room while you sweat on top of me. I don’t remember how we got to the bed upstairs or how my clothes came off.

I am too high to make a sound. I am too high to keep my eyes from rolling back into my head. I am too high to focus on what is happening to my body. I slip in and out of reality for hours, I’m not sure when the sex stops and when the light begins to peak through the blinds. I’m not sure I slept.

We gather our things around the house silently. I feel dirty. My limbs are still vibrating. The drugs are still pulsing through my veins, and I wish I never took any. My hair is curled in various places and my swim suit is in a wet heap near the bathroom. I vaguely remember being in the hot tub.

Finally I say, “That was crazy.” I’m hoping to get some clues about the night before. “Well, you barley talked…you were silent most of the night.” you say.

I was voiceless.

You offer me a breakfast sandwich on the ferry home and I refuse. A breakfast sandwich and the hundreds of dollars you will wire me later that day doesn't seem like payment enough for what I gave away in that twenty four hours.

It takes me longer to find myself this time. I search for days and it seems I lost apart of myself on Bainbridge island. Maybe you accidentally packed the part of me I’m missing in your suitcase, maybe you took it when you were on top of me all night, maybe I gave it to you. Maybe I won’t ever see it again.

I hide the memory of our night together to the darkest part of me that I can find. I zip it up tightly hoping it never finds it way out. It will find its way to the surface of course, as all of our time together will.

I color that night in humor, laughing with my friends about how high I was. I color it in guilt, saying I consented, I asked for it. After all, I went with you willingly. After all, we had a “relationship.” I color it in silence, I don’t talk about it, don’t think about it - hold it down in the dark space for as long as it will stay.

Do you justify what you did? Have you found a way to sleep at night? Have you found someone with a small voice and a shaky foundation who will easily let you in and stay a while? Do you ignore the way she can’t keep eye contact? The way she shakes slightly at dinner?

Have you practiced and perfected your act? You’ve got that caring way you look at someone when they share their trauma down. You’ve found a way to pull out women’s stories from their body the way Ursula pulls out Ariels voice box. Once you have them, you use them to your advantage - pushing every boundary and seeing what you could safely cross.

It’s easier to cross young girls with alcoholic mothers and absent fathers, turns out you get away with it.

Your daughter is only three years younger than I was when you met me. Does she wonder why you come home in the quietest part of the night smelling of hotel liquor and perfume? Do you wipe your hands clean of the shame on your way home? I wonder if you look at her and see the 17 year old baby sitter you raped. The one you bragged about to me. You told me you were in love with her, that society was wrong for keeping you two apart.

You must take showers and scrub off your night telling yourself it was consensual, that the twenty year old girl you left in the hotel sheets wanted it. You must tell yourself that she was closing her eyes the whole time because she liked it.

I have decided that you will stay nameless.

Your name will eventually die out and my memories will fade but my story will not. My shame will see light so that it can breathe, so that I can breathe.

I’ll bathe my story in so much sunlight that it’ll grow into something beautiful, the way ‘Lily of the Valley’ flowers grow despite losing their color for some time in the Winter. They come back even more vibrant and beautiful come Spring. They return happier and stronger.

Although, they look delicate, this tough but beautiful flower fights off predators with a poisonous sweet smell and her strong base can make it through even the harshest climates.

#spilled ink #spiled words #spilled thoughts #spilled words #writers society #new poets on tumblr #new poets society #poetry #poets on tumblr #metoo #me too movement

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advancedmanualtherapy · 2 years ago

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Visit us @ http://advancedmanualtherapy.com/physical-therapy/

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optimizepto-blog · 3 years ago

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Optimize PT

Optimize PT 4 Benefits of Sports Physical Therapy

The body of the athletes has a lot more requirements than others. They have to reach higher levels of functionality and flexibility to improve their performance. Among all this, they get prone to injuries that need quick solutions. Sports physical therapy is the best way to deal with such issues while enhancing the ability. Read about the four most impressive benefits of sports physical therapy:

Relieves Pain

Athletes can't take long breaks or a lot of medications. Hence, a professional physical therapist will help eliminate pain and avoid intense discomfort. Other than the exercises, some physical therapy methods like dry needling, taping of the targeted areas, and hot or cold packs can work like instant solutions. The therapy reduces pain, but it also makes them more functional for the comeback.

Injury Prevention

Seeking help from an expert in physical therapy Las Vegas can prevent a variety of athletic injuries. The therapist will design a personalized plan according to your needs and problems to strengthen your muscles while making you fit overall.

Improves Mobility and Balance

With the help of physical therapy, you can reduce muscle stress and pressure. As a result, you will be able to fight with any condition during the competitions. The techniques also help in strengthening ligaments, muscles, and joints. Moreover, if you frequently feel dizzy or low, an appropriate physical therapy plan can improve your balance as well.

Cardiopulmonary Effects

Physical therapy has multiple cardiopulmonary benefits for athletes. They require enhanced endurance and breathing patterns. For which, physical therapy is pretty helpful. The particular exercises in a personalized physical therapy plan play a significant role in improving overall performance, reducing fatigues, preventing injuries, and keeping the person fit.

A physical therapy expert will help you reach your athletic goals with effective exercises and workouts. Hence, sports physical therapy is highly recommended for athletes.

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mymovementpt · 3 months ago

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Tissue Manipulation Therapist Las Vegas - My Movement PT

What is a tissue manipulation?

Tissue manipulation, often referred to as soft tissue manipulation, encompasses a variety of therapeutic techniques aimed at improving the function and mobility of soft tissues in the body. This includes muscles, tendons, ligaments, and fascia. The primary goal of these techniques is to alleviate pain, enhance circulation, and promote healing in areas affected by stiffness, tension, or injury.

Techniques and Applications

Types of Manipulation:

Techniques can range from manual therapy methods, such as massage and stretching, to more specialized interventions like Instrument Assisted Soft Tissue Mobilization (IASTM), which utilizes tools to apply pressure and manipulate tissues.

Soft tissue manipulation can also involve neuromuscular techniques and muscle energy techniques, which focus on improving muscle function and relaxation.

Benefits:

These techniques are beneficial for treating conditions such as soft tissue injuries, scar tissue mobilization, and improving circulation in areas with reduced blood flow due to inactivity or tension.

While the immediate effects may include muscle relaxation and improved range of motion, some techniques can also lead to longer-term benefits in mobility and function.

Clinical Use:

Physical therapists and other healthcare professionals often employ soft tissue manipulation as part of a broader treatment strategy to address movement dysfunctions and enhance recovery from injuries.

In summary, tissue manipulation is a versatile therapeutic approach that plays a crucial role in rehabilitation and pain management, utilizing various techniques to restore function and alleviate discomfort in soft tissues.

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nabnailbar · 5 years ago

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addictionfreedom · 7 years ago

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The post Addiction Treatment Centers Struggle To Attract Workers appeared first on Freedom From Addiction II.

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