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berri-hopefulspouse · 4 years

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-- A Look Into The Past --

[ Reuploaded for your convenience~ Because tumblr is an ass~ ]

Fandom & Characters: Danganronpa, Ren (DR s/i, Ultimate Empath), [Mentioned/Minor roles] Celestia Ludenberg, Chihiro Fujisaki, Junko Enoshima, Sayaka Maizono, Makoto Naegi, Aoi Asahina, Kiyotaka Ishimaru, Yasuhiro Hagakure, various Future Foundation technicians and scientists

TW: Self-Harm & Suicide Mentions/Implications, violence/gore warning, emetophobia, Laboratory/Science stuff, Panic attacks, Runaway, Dissociation, Dysphoria implication, Neglect, Bullying mention, General assholery, Hella angst, Mention of bondage & restraints (mostly as jokes), Deadname drop, general PTSD stuff, Hallucinations, Alcohol mention, Homo & transphobia, NB-Phobia, Manipulation, Gaslighting

AN: Another reuploaded story from my previous account! This one was definitely the most uh. Chaotic in terms of trigger warnings, as you can see. All of these are events following THH, and not long before the events that predate DR2 occur. So keep that in mind. ALSO! At the time this is posted (10/3/2020) - this is the story that precedes the current F/O event going on, hinted at here.

Summary: After the events at Hopes Peak High, each member of the class- over time- are put into a procedure to regain the memories lost over the 2 years. It’s Ren’s turn, and being the last one for various personal reasons- they are nervous. Is it worth it to retrieve memories of the past? Or would they have been better off not knowing at all?…

Fidget. Fidget and broil in thought. Fidget and listen. Listen.

“You understand the conditions in which you'll go under, Mx?” An older man asked them, “The process will take but a few hours, with one of the devices we have on hand.” They didn't know much of this man- save for one thing. He was one of the technical scientists who worked for Future Foundation- something somewhat new to the brunette.

The weeks following their escape from Hopes Peak...from Junko...it was a bit messy. Scooped up by this organization that apparently was the revolution for hope and trying to contain the disease that was despair. Taking days to breathe and recover from the events, only to have to explain themselves alongside their classmates. So, here they were now. One by one, they were all being asked the same thing; Do they want their memories recovered? Do they want to recall the two years lost to them due to Junko’s meddling?...

“Yes, I understand.” Soren mumbles, shyly, wringing their hands into their shirt, “I am ready to proceed.”

Whether they were ready for it or not, they knew they had to know. They had to know what they missed, how they were connected to everyone...what their past was like…

Believe it or not, even their childhood felt fuzzy to them. In a way, them and Kirigiri were connected in that sense. Theirs however was...different.

‘I’m the last one who’s going through this procedure…’ They recalled to themselves as they got up, following the scientist into the laboratory...they felt nervous- and part of them wished Makoto was with them to offer some reassurance.

‘He’s been running himself ragged lately with tasks and plans though, we’ve all been working hard...I let him rest when I got called up.’

They thought back to exactly why they were one of the last people to be brought to this laboratory. Intensive therapy, trying to recover from the events of the Killing School life...sure, it affected everyone quite differently, but for them it almost seemed to bring out the worst in them. Persistent nightmares, paranoia, fainting spells… It didn’t take long for them to be brought to counselling once the others found out- although it was mostly due to Makoto outting his concern for them.

‘They figured it was PTSD, naturally. I knew that, it’s basic psychology... But still…’ From what they explained… ‘It seems like it goes far beyond just Hopes Peak. It just seemed like that whole shitshow might’ve just been a breaking point.’

Sitting down in one of the chairs in the laboratory, they looked to the various technicians who were around. All typing away at computers, ready to begin the process.

“Like I said, this will take a few hours...and given your special circumstance, definitely a bit longer than most to recover. However, we’re also not certain if all your memories will be recovered.” He explained, securing both their legs and arms to the chair with small clasps. Easy enough to break out of given an emergency were to occur, but enough to restrain any potential flailing. They lightly tugged on the restraints, feeling very little give.

“You going to explain the bondage, or am I just gonna have to deduce that on my own accord?” They joked lightly, giving a shaky smile to the older man who shook his head with a sigh, ignoring the younger adult’s antics.

“They’re just in case. We don’t know what memories might surface, and given your previous history...we just want to make sure you don’t injure yourself in any way.”

Looking away, they felt the slight phantom burns along their wrist as they recalled exactly what they all meant. Sure, the scars on their wrist were...older than they recalled...Most of which were faded deep into their skin. All except one, from a more recent relapse episode.

‘Hence the need to keep me safe, I guess,’ They thought to themselves, ‘No one at Future Foundation really treats me like the rest of the class…’

And why would they? Ren was a special case, after all, being hung with a slew of various mental disorders… As the psychologist in charge of them put it; “They walk the line of both hope and despair. They try so desperately to cling to hope, but given their potential history, succumbing to despair might simply be an inevitability.”

That anxious thought caused them to shudder, not quite listening to the scientific rambling of the technician as they secured a device to their head. Deep breaths...one after another. The static in their ears receded, until they heard the technician speak again.

“Did you hear what I said, Soren?”

“Huh? Oh. Oh yeah!” They lied through their teeth, “Let’s just get this over with, yeah…”

The technician headed out of the room, reappearing behind the glass wall that was before them. Taking one last glance around the room, it was circular. It reminded them almost of the trial grounds- but more...high-tech. It was an observation room of sorts, however, shown by the glass and the scientists working away behind it.

‘This is either going to go well…...or really, really poorly.’ They thought to themselves as they took a slow breath.

There was a slight crackle, an intercom. Their heartbeat skipped for a second but they quickly regathered themselves.

‘It’s not him. You’re not there anymore.’ They reminded themselves as a voice came on.

“Okay, we’re going to begin the procedure. Are you ready?”

They tried giving a stiff nod, but finding their head was basically fixed in place, simply hummed.

“Ready.”

“Proceeding then, in Five...Four...Three…”

‘Deep breaths, in and out.’

“Two…”

‘Everythings going to be just fine.’

“One.”

A weird sensation started, right at their temples, only mere moments after the word left the technician’s mouth. Then, a low hum, that made Ren sit a bit straighter with a nervous anxiety and itch at their mind. The hum got louder, louder, louder still…

Until they completely blacked out, altogether.

–☆–

“Ḷ̵̨̜̹̣̖̮̮́ȁ̶̧̼͖̥̰̱̆̈́͂i̴̦̗̪̯̲̻͇̫͑̾̄̆l̸̘̗͕͎̩̈́̄̃͆a̷̡̯͑̑̃̔̈̂̓.̸͓̮̓͂͛̆̏͗̈.̷̗̲̞͙̼̗̈́͗͌̈́͜͠͝.̸̡̛̺̰͓̟̼̙̙̯̀̂̌̓̅͑͜͜?̶͔͍͛̾̊̑̓̇̌̈̅̈́̚͝͝”

A voice. Disconnected. Everything felt heavy, almost familiarly so. The name- it didn’t feel like their own, and it rang with such a chord of familiarity that it felt like a dagger straight through their throat. They suddenly felt so...so sick, but they couldn’t place why...

“Laila?” A bit louder this time, taking a slow breath in and out, they- no, she- looked up.

“Huh?”

She was seated at a desk- one that...she(-they, no wait uh)...she believed was their own. However, the face that greeted her...she couldn’t even figure out who it was.

“Jeez, I can’t believe you fell asleep in class again.” The person said, a cheeky grin on his features. Jet black hair and light brown eyes greeted (him...them, fuck-) her, and she tried putting a name to a face but...she can’t seem to quite remember, “C’mon, slowass, we’ve got practice.”

“Pra...practice?”

Drama practice.

The word clicked into her mind, and almost instantly she sat up further.

“Oh shit- That’s today?!”

“No duh, it’s Tuesday, remember?! Sheesh, you’re so forgetful. Cmon-!”

Before the person- Viktor, the name clicked in her brain almost like it was always there- could finish what she was saying, the brunette had gotten up and run out of the room, into a hallway.

‘Hercules Middle School…’ She thought to herself (Himself? Why was it so difficult?), as she ran down the hallway, ‘I always grew up here...jeez, I just wanna leave from this nightmare of a school already.’

She skidded a bit as they turned, running straight into a wall with a slight thud and a yelp of pain.

“Okay, ow.” She groaned a bit, blinking. He- She had ended up on the floor, head fuzzy slightly as she pulled themselves to their feet.

“Sheesh, dude, you’re so clumsy.” Viktor talked to her, chuckling as she pulled herself to her feet, only to get smacked upside the head, “Watch where you’re walking next time!”

“Eheh...s-sorry.” She stuttered a bit, almost shy.

“Don’t apologize for everything, man, it’s gonna look pathetic on ya,” Viktor assured, causing her to blush a bit and look away.

“R-right.”

She chuckled nervously, not meeting his expression- afraid to express his- her (their?) mild hurt at what he said.

“Lets get going, we’re running late.”

“Okay…”

With that said, Viktor quickly took a hold of her hand, and the two quickly raced off through the winding corridors of the school.

Even so, as they started to step into the gym, he felt a slight buzz in her pocket. Taking out her phone- dated as it was- they checked the message she received from their- His- her childhood best friend...Kayla.

[ (Kay) 2:43 PM: Hey...dude, U should see this shit. Are you with Vik rn? ]

[ (Lai) 2:44 PM: Yea, y? ]

[ (Kay) 2:44 PM: U need to see this. ]

[ [Kayla sent IMG32452 ] ]

Looking at the image, her heart froze. It was a series of texts between her and Viktor, with the former talking about how childish she was. How much of a crybaby she was over the littlest things, sensitive to every little poke at her. How much of a copycat she was. How it was just so easy to be friends with her, to use her...And her eyes teared up. Kayla looked to be at least trying to defend her...these weren’t even from 20 minutes ago…

“Laila? You coming, dude?” His-Her thoughts were interrupted by Viktor, as their head jerked up to look at him. He-- She didn’t know what she felt. Part of her wanted to hit him, part of him wanted to scream at him, part of them wanted to ask if they did something wrong...but...

“I...Uh...I don- I don’t feel good suddenly. T-Tell t-them I’ll be in...in a minute…” She mumbled out, feet slowly staggering back as an arm laced around their stomach. That wasn’t entirely a lie, either, they felt faint…they felt sick...she felt...hurt.

Before Viktor could see them cry...she turned and ran off, tears blurring his-(her-their--) her vision as the squeak of sneakers filling the hallways and their crowded mind.

The colors around them blurred, holding their head in their hands as they trembled in place. Suddenly, they were in the bathroom- though they sensed the day was different than it was mere moments ago. But that wasn’t what was taking up their thoughts. It was staring into the mirror- at the square glasses and overly pudgy baby-face they have. Staring at someone that wasn't her- that isn’t who they are!

‘Fuck, fuck, why do I hate myself so much?!’ (They- She- he-) She asked herself, struggling to breathe. Even being in the girls’ bathroom felt suffocating, but it was all she knew. Sure, she didn’t feel “dysphoria” like Viktor did...but she felt wrong. She felt WRONG. Her arms shook, nails digging into her skin as she hugged herself tightly. She wanted to shave all her hair off- she wanted to rip off her chest- she wanted- she wanted--

‘Agh! I can’t...I can’t breathe-!’ She forced herself to look away from the mirror, thinking about all the times she was addressed as a girl...all the times she felt wrong in an environment where she should feel comfortable. She always considered herself a tomboy- someone who definitely wasn’t on the feminine side of things...but it felt deeper. Her name made her want to puke- this long hair made her want to scream. The floofy, glittery, feminine clothing made her want to cry, scream, do anything. Something. But all she could do was struggle to breathe, struggle to consider what was happening to her.

That wasn’t even going into all the bullying. How she didn’t fit in with anyone in her class- even amongst her friends. She didn’t THINK she was transgender like Viktor was, but she knew something was...wrong with her. Something different. She couldn’t be a girl, either, she couldn’t be. All the torture she went through day to day- with her family, with her friends, with her classmates, with her-fucking-self. She was in a war she felt like she was losing.

‘...Wouldn’t it be great, if I died right here?’ A voice whispered in the back of their head, causing them to freeze up, ‘Taking the razors and digging them deep into your neck-’

“Laila?”

A voice from outside the bathroom quickly shut them out of their intrusive, suicidal thoughts. She recognized that voice- it was the school nurse. She took a deep breath, in and out- but words struggled to escape their throat, save for a soft squeak of a sob.

“Is everything okay?...”

‘...I can’t keep doing this to myself...I-I need to tell her...what’s going on…’ She at least was self-aware enough to know that much. She couldn’t put herself through her own hell anymore...So whether she was ready for whatever would come or not...she rubbed her eyes a bit, slowly stepping back out into the hallway to try and finally reach out- after years of remaining silent.

...Darkness...it kept swallowing them up, almost like a tidal wave. It took a second to recall what was going on. Right. The procedure. Future Foundation. Was...was that a memory then? Were these dreams of memories of their past? How long did they feel like this?!

‘Viktor…’ The name felt bitter on their tongue, and with it a small swell of various emotions came to head. Depression, anguish, betrayal…

‘He talked shit behind my back… we went all the way back to middle school. I trusted him with everything but…’

A voice, Viktor’s, cut through the noise of their head.

“C’mon man, you know I never mean it. Besides, if you weren’t such a damn prick, I wouldn’t need to call you out on your shit all the time.”

“Jeez, you never had gender issues before until I started bringing up that I was trans. What are ya, a copycat?”

“What are you gonna say next, that you’re trans too? Haha! Dude, Nonbinary folk can’t be trans. Besides, you don’t have any physical dysphoria, yeah?”

For years, he manipulated them. Teased them. Backstabbed them.

‘How could I forget about him?...How could I forget about how I was treated growing up by everyone?! Well, I guess I chose to after I came to Japan…’

The sadistic smile came into their mind’s eyes. Those dark brown eyes they admired for so long...it was because of him they became an artist. That they were exposed to who they were, and yet-

A sharp pain echoed through the back of their head, causing them to physically flinch- though it was restricted.

‘That’s right, I was bound to that chair in case something unforeseen happened…’ They reminded themselves, despite still trying to thrash. If their voice would work, they’d likely be crying out in pain.

Still, after another moment, the pain ebbed a bit. They recalled something else. Why that betrayal, that anger...it was so strong…

The blog. The hate. The messages telling them to do something drastic- to kill themselves. The pressure that nearly did cost them their life, had it not been for their escape…

‘...Yet it took me until...some point later...because I know he’s definitely not in my life anymore.’ They told themselves, taking a few breaths to try and ease the picture of the blog from their mind- to stop themselves from seeing red.

They didn’t notice the shuddering they were feeling until a few moments later, but that soon calmed back down.

‘...I do wonder how Kayla is...I didn’t even remember her until now. Did she hurt me too? Did she forget about me when I ran away to Japan…? I don’t know..’ Still, they sighed as Viktor’s laugh cut through their thoughts. Despite themselves, they felt a sense of nostalgia at the sound.

‘Even if he’s a bastard...even though he hurt me in ways that could potentially never heal...I hope he’s doing okay in all of this.’ That little part of them whispered in the space of their subconscious, as memories of their friendship swirled in their mind, ‘I wouldn’t wish despair like this on anyone else…’

It was vague images, ones that felt distant enough that they couldn’t recall in full detail, but they were still there...his house- all the sleepovers. He helped them get their hair cut. He helped them with art. He introduced them to all sorts of new media that, looking back then, they realized was what made them who they were now… A small smile drew out of them. He took them in when they almost couldn’t take their home life anymore, for a short time. Laughing together with Kayla...it felt so distant, but the happiness they felt then...it was still real. It was still real to them, throughout all of that.

Still, that hum, that distinct hum from before that they realized had fallen into the background noise was suddenly at the forefront of their attention once more- growing louder and changing frequency, in a way that made it feel like they were burning. Not with any emotion, but just...burning.

Soon, their thoughts slipped away once more, and with it- the hum died back down once more.

“All readings are going according to plan.” One scientist said to another, “Though we’re picking up distress and hints of pain after turning up the frequency... Is the machine correctly calibrated?”

“It should be as such, unless…” The technician that talked to the brunette earlier pursed his lips in though, before hissing lightly in annoyance through his teeth, “...Unless the subject has an auditory processing issue. Shit- Turn the frequency down a few notches.”

“But sir, if we do so, the memories will most definitely be unable to resurface. Remember, this science isn’t quite perfect yet- we can’t make expenses for the issue.” One female technician spoke up, adjusting her glasses.

“...” The man bit his nail nervously, before sighing and nodding, “Of course. Continue the procedure.”

–☆–

“Where is that piece of shit kid?!” It was dark. There was lightning going on outside. Their heart was racing, “I’m going to rip her to shreds!”

‘It’s just a hallucination, god please just let it be a hallucination,’ They thought to themselves, closing their eyes- trying to shut out the feeling of fear- even if their head was pounding.

“I can’t believe she got another F on a math test- can you believe this?! I work with her constantly on it, and yet it's like she doesn’t even hear me!” The gruff man grumbled, the voice a distinct echo, as the brunette hid their face into their knees. The sounds of screaming, the sounds of banging… the sounds of things being thrown- it made their heart race. But they knew better. These were just their mind playing games on them from the past. Focus. They had to ground themselves, but…

‘I’m so scared, god I’m so damn scared…’ They took a few deep breaths, putting their hands to their ears. Focus.

‘I’m in my room. It’s summer. There’s rain outside and the...smell of... alcohol... is very strong in the air… M-maybe I should open the window.’ Reaching up, they fiddle with the locks in their window for a few moments before flinging it open, letting the smell of nighttime air and rain pattering to the ground slowly drown out the scent of booze that lingered. In moments, the noise in their ears ebbed, and they were able to breathe again. Thankfully. With a bit more focus, the numbness seeped in, and they felt themselves slowly relax. Numbness...it was the only reprieve from the living nightmare of their heart. Controlling it took practice, and being able to shut everything out...it was their only escape. Even if…

‘...Even if it cost someone their life before because of my neglect…’ They thought to themselves, feeling their focus wane and the anxiety starting to ebb back into their vision.

“It’s okay...it’s okay…” They whispered to themselves as they got up, “It’s...It’s not like that anymore. It’s..It’s okay.” They forced themselves to breathe again, focusing again on keeping that numbness deep in- if only to protect themselves from their own pain. They had to get up. They had things to do. They had to keep going.

Their feet felt heavy, slowly gliding across their small room and peering out into the hallway. Silence. Somber, peaceful silence- save for the sounds of the television faintly heard from downstairs. Slowly slipping downstairs, a voice greeted them.

“La- I-I mean, Soren?”

“Y-yeah?” They stuttered out, feigning a smile as they poked their head over to where their father sat on the couch- watching the television screen. He at least tried with them, but still…

“Did you take your medication?”

“I-I’m gonna…” They mumbled sheepishly, their smile flickering a bit.

“Are you okay?”

“.....Y-yeah.” They lied through their teeth- in a manner that was not at all subtle. Part of them wondered if he’d ask, or if he’d just happen to not notice again.

“...Okay.” He smiled, “Don’t forget you start class next week. Hercules High needs you!”

“R-right…”

“And don’t forget you perform for the next few weeks!”

“I-I do? B-but I thought that wasn’t until next week!” Their shock was portrayed in their tone, feeling their heart race. Summer felt like the only time they got to rest, and even then it didn’t feel like it was long enough to deal with the stress they went under.

“They’re starting volleyball season early, and you know the boss needs you.” He shrugged it off, ignoring the clear concern on their features, which fell to simple stress. A few moments of silence drawled on- to which they felt their phone go off in their pocket. They didn’t look at it for a little while, trying to not start crying at even the slightest thought of performing, before finally speaking up once more in a defeated tone.

“...O-Okay. I’ll g-go take my medication, night dad…” “Night sweetie!”

As they tiptoed away though, walking only on the balls of their feet, one thought only crossed their mind.

‘I need to get out of here. I can’t wait to escape any longer. I can’t wait. I can’t deal with the bullying anymore...I can’t take the manipulation anymore...’ A slow inhale, a slow exhale. They had been preparing it for months. Getting a passport, slowly packing things they would need- including funds to transfer from euros into yen…

‘I have to buy that ticket tonight. The last plane out for the next week.’

Their phone buzzed again, which brought them from their thoughts. Slowly, they sighed, taking out their phone.

‘If anyone can calm me down after this nightmare, it’d be my friends-’ They thought to themselves, until seeing the ID.

[ (Stepmom) 11:34 PM: Have you helped your dad out with his account yet? You have to take care of him you know, he can’t take care of himself. ]

Their blood boiled a bit, and despite themselves they quickly texted back.

[ (Ren) 11:35 PM: ...I’m 16, I shouldn’t have to take care of my own parents. Also, it depends- do you still have my binder hidden away somewhere? ]

[ (Stepmom) 11:37 PM: Your what? ]

[ (Ren) 11:37 PM: You know what it is, because I haven’t seen it since I put it in the wash a month ago. ]

For several minutes, as Ren went about the kitchen preparing their medication, they watched her type, the ‘(...)’ making them nervous as they tapped their fingers along their side. But, eventually…

[ (Stepmom) 11:41 PM: Oh, that. It’s going to hurt you if you wear it, it’s too tight. Honestly, I don’t know why you wear something that physically hurts you, so I threw it out. ]

[ (Ren) 11:41 PM: . . . You what. ]

It took everything in them to not throw their phone at the wall in anger. They saved up for months for that! They just wanted to present as themselves! It wasn’t even that tight compared to other, less safer binders! It fit fine!

[ (Stepmom) 11:43 PM: This is for your own good, darling. After all, you wouldn’t want your chest to start sagging, would you? ]

[ (Ren) 11:44 PM: I told you it fit fine. I told you not to mess with it, and how to properly wash it, and you decide to throw it out? The thing I bought with my own money? ]

[ (Stepmom) 11:45 PM: I told you, it’s for your own good. Besides, this phase of yours with being ‘transgender’ will pass in time. ]

Slow breath, in and out. Their grip on their phone tightened before turning it off altogether, taking very intentional slow breaths so they didn’t outright explode into a fit of anger in the middle of the kitchen.

‘She never fucking understands! I explained it to her so many times, I’ve told her this wasn’t just a phase, I begged her to use my name and let me just exist- but she just...can’t! And my dad never does anything! They’ll never do anything!! I just...I wanna be myself. I can’t take it anymore!’

As they gathered their medication, which rested in the kitchen, along with a bottle of water, they looked to their father’s wallet- which rested on the counter. They just needed to pay for the plane ticket... Slowly, they crept over, thinking to themselves, ‘...Am I doing this?’

Their grip shakes for a moment, trembling with anxiety- anger, sadness...every emotion at once swirling inside like a broiling soup, ready to boil over...They took a photo of the credit card- front to back, and slipped it back into his wallet.

‘...I have no choice.’

In one blink, they were upstairs. The next, purchasing the next plane ticket out of there. The next, slipping out of their room and onto the lower roof of their 2 floored house. The next, running down the street and down to the bus stop. The next, in an airport. And the next...they were gone. Over the course of the next...several hours...All of this occurred within the next day or so, even if everything felt like a blur. There was anxiety flooding through their veins, slowly breathing in and out. Looking down while seated in the plane, they noted the transfer papers in their lap. A normal, public high school. They did it. They got out. They were free of everything. Of a shitty, unsupportive home life… of friends who only used them for the money they had, and talked shit behind their back...of the work that dragged them rugged...they were free.

They were finally, finally....free.

....And slowly, just like that, the awareness came back. The feeling of their hands, their legs, and the emotions that came from those memories.

‘That’s right...I ran away from home to transfer to a normal life...I got a part time job, cut off everyone I knew in the past...and left. It wasn’t even just that my family was...abusive… Or at least at that point, But they were…. Neglectful. Emotionally and mentally neglectful... My father...he didn’t acknowledge how poorly he raised me, forced me to work on my singing abilities even when sick or mentally unwell… put so much pressure on my schoolwork that chores and life-skills took a back seat. My stepmother was transphobic, homophobic...and my mother…’

Their thoughts trailed off for a short moment...before the realization cut their heart in two.

‘I haven’t heard from her since I was 7.’

A crippling feeling of loneliness flooded their thoughts, and they swore they felt warmth trailing down their cheek. They swore they felt this before...they knew this feeling of loneliness, and it felt suffocating. It felt like only until recently...they had never known what it felt like to truly belong somewhere… Shit- they were definitely crying, they felt tears falling off their cheek with what awareness they had of their surroundings, despite their eyes being closed. They tried to reach up, to wipe it off, but they once again felt the tight leather restraints keeping them still.

“Hey, Deep breaths.” A voice cut through the pain. The technician, “How are you feeling right now?”

Their eyes fluttered a bit, and eventually...opened. Their body felt heavy. It took a moment or two to piece together how their tongue worked again, but then they eventually mumbled between nervous clicks of their tongue.

“Shitty, thanks,” They sarcastically muttered, “I’m doing as well as I can be. How long has it been?”

“4 hours.” The technician spoke up, “Do you recollect anything from Hopes Peak yet, Ren?”

“...No.” They took a second to gather their thoughts, slowly shaking their head as slightly as they could to try and clear the feeling of static and prickles that surrounded their headspace, “Just...my childhood.”

“Right. Well, we’re about halfway done. If we tried going past 8 hours...well, we don’t know what sort’ve effect it might have on you.”

The intercom spoke, as they nodded, taking another breath. They had stopped crying by now.

“How does this equipment work again?” They were a bit curious now, and it's not like they were really paying attention earlier when he probably was explaining it to them. The sigh he gave confirmed this suspicion, and while quietly smothering the instant guilt in their stomach that came with feeling like a burden for making him repeat himself, he spoke.

“It basically delivers electromagnetic waves through your ears and to your brain, and depending on the frequency we put through these waves, it will help drudge up any forgotten memories...That is to say, it is impossible to ‘steal’ memories persay- but with the right technology, repressing them very deeply into your mind is very possible. It takes very miniscule, very specific triggers to drudge them back to the surface. That’s what the humming is- the electromagnetic waves,” He explained, “However, we cannot select what you do and don’t remember...and given you have ADHD, what you do recall can vary greatly. You still might not remember as much as most of your classmates, hence why yours is taking that much longer compared to your peers.”

“ADHD...of course this is the first I’m hearing of it,” They noted, spite in their tone, “Gotta have a word with that shrink later.” Even if, thinking of it then, ADHD clicked perfectly with how they acted and their personality.

“Soren, please do not nearly break the arm of another psychologist.”

The technician’s exasperation was heard in his tone, watching the brunette’s dark eyes blink up towards where he was sitting in the window. He was holding what, they could only imagine, was yet another coffee. A small stack sat on the desk next to him.

“Nah, I won’t…” They responded, hiding a hint of a chuckle at his tone...They were about to ask another question before quickly giving the slightest shake of their head to brush it off, “Anyway, let’s keep going, yeah?”

“Right. Ready to go back under? Now, I won’t be able to speak to you again until after the procedure ends. While you’re under, you’re technically unconscious, but after each memory ends- you’re briefly brought back to a slight sense of consciousness to give your head a break. Understand?”

“Gotcha, doc.” Their tone was thick with drowsiness, the slight irish drawl slipping between pursed lips. They were sleepy already… What time was it?

“Right...Good luck, Mx.”

The hum started back up as he spoke, growing louder until his voice was drowned out altogether. One breath in...One breath out...And their head went slack once more as they fell unconscious.

–☆–

How is it someone like them got accepted here again?

They honestly had no clue. Extensive testing, sure, they were a decent learner...but their emotional capabilities were apparently one to behold. Sure, they knew they helped a student down and away from suicide, but honestly? Anyone could really do that. Either way, after further examination, they were the designated ‘Ultimate Empath’...Jeez, what the HELL were they doing here?

‘But I mean...if those rumors I heard are true, I’ll be set for life,’ They thought to themselves, shyly posted up in the main hall- watching slowly students trickle in of all ages, ‘And I don’t want to work a part-time job for the rest of my life.’

Some were talking amongst themselves, others kept to themselves but...they were amongst the latter, arms nervously crossed over their torso. Amongst orientation, they would be introduced to the classes specifically picked for each individual student, and fitted into proper ‘Hopes Peak’ uniforms….you know, the same ones no one seemed to really wear- if the appearance of some upperclassmen were any indication.

But they, personally? They didn’t want to make themselves too known within the class. After all, they knew there were missing posters for their deadname so if they weren’t careful…

‘I can’t go back home. I can’t. But also...do I really belong here?’

Looking around, the energy of everyone seemed so...so different...compared to them. So much stronger, mentally and physically. Confident. Cheerful. Perfect.

‘...Maybe I shouldn't be here.’ Their thoughts started walking away with them as they slowly started backing over towards the door…

Only to run into someone- causing both of them to start to stumble.

“Eep-!”

“Whoa!”

They felt the person behind them, though, trip, and suddenly, they were on the floor, on top of this poor unfortunate soul. A few moments of silence pass, a few classmates piping in, asking if they were both okay, before Ren slowly sat up, rubbing their head… only to realize they probably nearly crushed the person below them, and jumping up to their feet.

“Oh my gods, I'm so sorry!” Their voice came out as a shrill squeak, slightly muffled as their hands clasped over their mouth in anxious surprise.

“Ah, jeez-” The boy in question they watched as he rubbed the back of his head, “I-it’s alright, really… Should’ve watched what was in front of me.” He laughed softly, and they looked away.

They wouldn’t lie...he was pretty cute.

“D-did you just walk in? I-I mean, it’s normal not to notice me...I’m pretty short.” They asked and explained themselves, fiddling with their fingers.

“Yeah, I did...and believe me-” He got up himself, standing not much taller than the brunette in question, probably around 5’2”-5’3” or so compared to their 4’10”, “I’m...Not much better in terms of height.”

There was a bewildered silence for a few moments, before the two in question bursted into a small fit of laughter, doubled over in their fit of snickers. As a result, they relaxed a bit, calming down around this boy.

“I’m guessing you’re also in my class then?” They asked, wiping away a small tear from their eye.

“Yeah, actually. What’s your name?” Olive eyes met their own, and they tried everything in their being to keep from squeaking shyly at the eye contact.

“N-Name’s Soren. U-Ultimate Empath. And you?” They offered a hand to him, despite themselves. The boy in question chuckled, taking their hand in his own and giving a soft squeeze as he shook their hand.

“Makoto Naegi...I-I’m the Ultimate Lucky Student, apparently.” He spoke, awkwardly scratching at the back of his neck. Ren tilted their head, curious.

“Luck student? How the hell do you measure luck…?” They asked, obliviously. Makoto sighed, looking a bit downcast, and they could practically see the insecurity written in his body language and face.

“It’s a long story...But honestly, it’s...kinda ridiculous.” He mumbled, “Not sure if someone like you would wanna hear about it.”

“No, no.” They quickly shook their head, not retracting their hand and instead putting their other hand on his, leaning a bit closer with intrigue written on their features, “I wanna know… If you’re comfortable talking about it, of course. I mean…” They tilted their head, “It’s weird feeling different from the other Ultimates, huh?”

His eyes widened, caught off guard, “How did you…” They grinned a bit, a soft smile, “Empath, remember? I can sense your distress about being here...I can sense your nerves. You don’t...feel like you belong, do you?” They asked.

Makoto blinked for a few moments, eyes searching theirs for any sign of joking, before sighing and relaxing a bit. Right.

“Spot on, I guess. Alright, alright, I’ll spill. But you best not tell anyone else, okay?” Makoto put a finger to his lips, a curl of a joking smirk on their face. At that moment, they noticed the faint sprinkling of freckles across his face, the slight dimples in his features when he grinned...Their heart jumped a bit, and they laughed.

“I won’t tell a soul.”

In one blink, there they were talking to Makoto, and in the next…

“Ren?” Looking over, they found themselves in a different environment. They were seated outside, underneath a tree, with a few other girls around them. If memory serves right…

‘This is Chihiro, Celestia, and Asahina.’ Their memory clicked perfectly back together.

“Hey!” It was Hina talking, “Dude, are you okay? You were spacing out pretty hard there.”

Ren blinked a bit, before shyly chuckling and looking away, “Ah, yeah, I’m okay. That just...tends to happen.”

Hina blinks a bit before shaking her head, “Well, yeah, clearly. You should really get that checked out you know! If you can’t even focus on food, how will you be able to focus in class?! I mean, midterm exams are coming up soon you know.”

“...A Lot of studying.” They chuckled nervously, biting their nails, “Still, I just have a lot on my mind lately, I guess.”

“A- A-lot on your mind?” Chihiro spoke up, blinking and leaning a bit closer towards Ren, “D-does it have to do w-with studying?” “...No, I wouldn’t say that…” They mumbled, shyly, looking down at their food and taking a shy bite.

‘How can I tell them everything that goes on in my head? How can I tell them that it's a fight everyday to survive? How can I explain...that something’s wrong with me?’

Simply put, they couldn’t. They managed a small smile and chuckled.

“Just thinking of boys, I guess.” They quickly averted the actual subject- unknowing of them setting themselves up for disaster.

“Oooh?” Asahina got a mischievous grin on her face, “Any particular boys?”

Their face flushed...it was no secret to any of them that they, simply put, were a bit smitten.

“Noooooo….?” They lied through their teeth, even if their goofy grin gave them away.

“Not even a particular luckster?” Celeste leaned in a bit, joining in on the teasing with her own little devilish grin, giggling quietly as the brunette interrogated squeaked shyly and hid their face in their hands, the image of the Ultimate in question immediately flooding their thoughts.

“Nooo!!!” They tried to protest, shaking their head rapidly. The group of girls giggled, Chihiro wrapping an arm around the brunette’s neck in an attempt to reassure them.

“You’re going to have to ask him out eventually, you know, before Sayaka beats you to it.” Asahina said with a cheeky grin. Their smile faltered slightly.

“No, no. I shouldn’t meddle...I’d feel bad.”

“Even if he clearly has no romantic interest in her?” Celeste spoke up, red eyes widening a bit, “That is to say, I’ve only seen him so starstruck around you particularly, my dear.”

Ren’s face flushed even brighter, biting their lip shyly, “Noo, he definitely wouldn’t want someone like me…” Their self consciousness was starting to show, “I mean, I’m just a nosy empath with gender issues. Sayaka is...a literal popstar.”

“And? Popstar or no, you still have something special about you that Naegi senses! Cmon, Ren, be a bit more confident in yourself!” Hina rebutted, determination glittering in her bright blue eyes before giggling and shoving a baked treat into her mouth.

“I-I’m plenty confident in myself!” ‘I...I think.’ They left that last bit out, looking away to bite their lip in uncertainty.

The rest of the girls shared a mutual doubtful, somewhat concerned look, before shaking their heads.

“Tell us that when you manage to ask Naegi out yourself, dear.” Celeste concluded, delicately eating at some sparse vegetables she had served herself, smiling sweetly towards her.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” They huffed, blushing with a slight pout as they idly drank at the sugary drink that sat next to them. It tasted sweet, and reminded them of peaches… Peach soda. Huh.

Still, looking over to the tree next to them, they spotted Makoto amongst some of the guys- laughing alongside Ishimaru, Sayaka, Kyoko, and Yasuhiro...and found their heart sinking a bit in their chest.

‘He’d...never fall for someone like me. It’s not like I’m extraordinary or anything… I’m not like the rest of the Ultimates here.’ They thought to themselves, feeling their mood start to shift. However, the next moment, his eyes met theirs and he smiled, offering a shy wave- and they felt their heart start to race all over again.

‘...Still. I’ll...I’ll stay hopeful for it. It never hurts to dream, right?’

Slowly, the memory faded into nothing once more, and while they didn’t open their eyes again, they felt the sense of their surroundings return once again.

‘Hopes Peak Academy...I never expected I’d get in, especially while I was a runaway...but when I did, it changed my life. For the first time I had friends. I had people I cared about...but at the time, I was so wrapped up in my own trauma, in my own depression...I just didn’t notice. I thought I was alone..’ They thought to themselves, a curl of a small smile on their features, ‘...And my love for Makoto...it goes even beyond the Killing School Life...Gods, Hina isn’t going to let me live THAT down anytime soon if she remembers that.’

Still...there was something about knowing their classmates...truly KNOWING their classmates now, compared to back then...that hurt their heart even more.

‘...They all deserved so much better… None of them deserved to die. None of them deserved to be murdered...none of them deserved to suffer the way we all did. I hope they’re doing okay in the everafter…’

Still, as sweet as the memory was, they had to continue. They had to keep going down memory lane. And, it seemed everyone else agreed, as the electromagnetic humming started once again, filling their head with noise. This one felt more abrupt, more sharp, and suddenly they were groaning in pain a bit. Whatever was going on, it hurt...it actually really, really hurt-

“I-Is...is everything...okay??” They managed to open an eye slightly… Only to notice the panic in the technician’s faces. Was something going wrong??? Why did this hurt so badly and all of a sudden- it felt like their head might burst from the pain that came from the sound.

...They had little time to ask, as within the next moment the world spun back into oblivion once again.

–☆–

“Soooooreeeen~!”

A cheerful voice brought them to their senses, a thin thumb running over their cheek and wiping a tear from their eyes.

“Hey, are you listening to yourself?” Junko. One of Ren’s newer friends- though she’s been the most honest to them about everything going on.

“I-I ah….s-sorry. I guess I was rambling again, huh?” They looked over to her. They were sitting in an abandoned classroom, the blonde in question was sitting on one of the desks, looking down at them through empty, crystalline eyes.

“Yeah, you were totally out of it.” She chuckled, a smirk on her face, “I can’t believe how heartbroken you look, but honestly? It’s really cute.”

“Oh shutup-” They blushed a bit, looking away, “I-It’s...it’s nothing.”

“Oh really? Even though Makoto is going on what’s totally a date with Sayaka?” Junko leaned into their face, “It’s okay to feel that, y’know? It’s totally okay to let those feelings manifest into something quite...gorgeous. Wouldn’t you agree? It’s like you said, right?” “...There's beauty in everything. Even the worst bits of life…Even in the pain.” They repeated, another tear falling down their cheek.

“There we go… It’s really sad, how you’re literally the side character to your own life, you know? How often Asahina and the others just go off on their own without you?...Well, at least I’m here, you know?” Junko grinned a bit as they nodded, slowly.

“Yeah…”

“Junko...We do have a plan to discuss, you know…” A voice caught both of their attention, and looking towards the corner of the room, Mukuro Ikusaba. A sweet girl with dark black hair and another array of freckles. If they weren’t so bent out of shape with Makoto, honestly Mukuro was also very cute…

“Oh shutup!” Junko’s high pitch voice cut through their gay thoughts, quickly looking back to the blonde, “Anyway, let’s go over the plan I came up with! Alright?”

“Okay…” Mukuro nodded quietly, submitting to her sister’s behavior once again with a passive smile. This seemed to be quite the pattern with these two, and Ren wondered if all siblings acted like this...

“So, I heard some super super secret news about how this whole...event that happened at the school is only going to get worse,” Junko explained, “But with the rest of the outside world. We’re pretty sure that the school will lock up a bunch of us in here, and we want to make things that much more fun for everyone.”

“...Okay…?” Ren raised an eyebrow, concerned.

“We want you to be the one to get back at them.”

“Huh?”

“You know!! Beat up everyone who keeps abandoning you! Your so called ‘friends’ and your ‘crush’ who abandon you when you need them the most? The ones who clearly couldn’t care less about you? Don’t you want to get back at them?” Junko leaned in towards Ren, who bit their lip, shaking their head.

“N-No...No of course not...I-I mean, they have lives of their own, they shouldn’t have to pay all their attention to me all the time…”

“Even when they clearly forget about you all the time? When you almost killed yourself at the end of last year?” Junko’s eyes stared into Ren’s soul, and they felt...almost violated by the eye contact.

“...E-even so...I-I wouldn’t hurt them…”

“So what are you gonna do? Turn tail and run back to Ireland? Back to your family?” They still don’t know HOW Junko found out about their past- as far as everyone else knew, they were just an Ireland transfer student.

“...N-No, of course not.”

“So, you’ll stay. And play our game.” Junko smiled, “Okay?”

“I…”

“I wouldn’t want something...devastating happening to your dear Naegi, would you?” Junko’s grin turned almost sadistic as she spoke, harshly grabbing their face, “So, you’ll play our game, right?”

Their heart stopped...if Makoto was going to put in danger.......no, they’d do anything in their power to make sure that happened, even if- for the time being- they had to play along.

“...Yes...yes of course.” They mumbled, cheeks squished.

“Good! Besides, it’s not like you’re killin’ em or anything! Not unless you wanna, then of course I’ve got your back on that!” Junko chuckled a bit, letting go of their face, watching as they rubbed their cheeks.

“I-I’d...I’d never kill anyone…”

“Oh dear, we’ll see.”

Junko got up from her seat, slowly approaching Ren and cornering them in their chair.

“J-Junko?...” Their eyes widened, “What are you doing?”

“Hmm...I just want to show you something. Is that okay?” The blonde grinned, tilting their chin up, “After that, we can further discuss this prank of ours.”

“...N-Noo…?” They had a bad feeling about it, but Junko didn’t seem to listen. They quickly got up to leave, they suddenly didn’t feel safe in the room alone with her- but they felt their arm yanked back, and pinned back into the next desk.

“J-Junko-!”

The blondes bright eyes appeared in their vision next, her grin a bit sharper than it probably should be.

“Mukuro, hold them down, I want to watch how they react to this video…”

...Something happened during that day. Something that...even to their mind's eye, was fuzzy. They remembered that they started crying again at one point, they remember they felt violated- but they didn’t know why. They don’t remember what happened. They don’t remember how they felt after- or if they even felt anything...But all they could recall after was a faint whisper of a voice, menacing yet dripping with faux sweetness.

“You’ll make them all pay for what they did to you, right?”

“Yes, Junko.”

…

“Junko?”

“Ohmygod- Yeeees?”

“...Let my memory get erased too. I promise I’ll still follow up on my deal. I...I’ll still have my anger, I’ll still have that aggression. I promise. Just...wipe my memory alongside everyone else. So I don’t spill our little secret. Okay?”

“....Fine.”

–☆–

In that brief moment, they suddenly jolted upright- body trembling and a pained gasp leaving their lungs. They- they couldn’t breathe all of a sudden, and everything suddenly felt so loud-

The primary technician who ran the whole ordeal ran inside, quickly detaching the device and kneeling down in front of Ren.

“Soren?! Hey, can you hear me?!” No. No they couldn’t. All they could think about was how sick they felt, how suddenly suicidal they felt. Were they drowning? Why couldn’t they breathe?!

‘I agreed to hurt people for Junko...S-she manipulated me...she hurt me...to get me to play her game. To keep me from leaving before shit hit the fan...Fuck. Fuck, if I followed through on any of her ideas…To think I agreed to HER game- God I’m a fucking idiot!’ Their thoughts were running at a thousand miles an hour, struggling to breathe. Their hands were tugging desperately on their restraints, unsure if they wanted to hold their throat in attempts to try and breathe again, or if they wanted to claw at their arms until they bled.

They shook their head violently, and in the next moment- with little warning aside from their stomach doing a complete 180- doubled over in their chair and threw up right into their lap. The technician, alarmed, quickly rang up their psychologist who was a few floors down, to provide assistance.

Everything in their vision swam. They conspired with Junko to hurt people. They conspired with Junko...they...they enabled the Killing Game before it even started.

They puked again. They felt like they might throw up their lungs next, at this rate.

Why were they alive? Why did they have to be the one alive?! They kept making one mistake after another- and this just proved it! This just proved how fucked up they were. How dangerous they were to others.

“Ren- Ren, tell me what you saw!” The technician grabbed their shoulders, trying to get them to focus. Their trashing just got worse. “No! No- No let go of me! Let go of me! I- I can’t breathe- oh my god what did I do!?” Their voice was hoarse from the acidic bile in their throat, struggling not to get sick even more.

“What did you see?! What did you recall?!” The technician kept trying to talk to them, which only resulted in overwhelming them all the more. The last thing they can completely remember after abruptly waking up from their memory revitalization- was screaming at the top of their lungs. They just wanted to die- they didn’t deserve to live for working with Junko- for working with despair. Frankly, they wished they had died instead of recalling anything at all.

They…frankly don’t remember the next hour or so. They remember faces, eyes, voices speaking to them...a needle being put into their arm…

And soon, they calmed down a bit, feeling sluggish and heavy. Everything felt a bit fuzzy at the edges of their mind as the screaming- both physically and mentally- all but stopped.

‘Sedatives,’ The thought connected briefly, before the word escaped them altogether in the cloud of drugs. Their psychologist helped them to their feet-- when did they get onto the floor of the laboratory?-- and out of the lab.

Being barely supported under their arm, they basically dragged their feet back to their shared apartment room within their sector’s building with Makoto. Their psychologist stuck by their side until they were able to walk easier, before heading off to schedule a few more appointments in the very near tomorrow. They had a feeling they’d be busy tomorrow, if they even had the energy to get up.

They remember looking at the time...But they don’t remember what it was. Late, they figured. They stumbled inside, nearly falling on their face as they held their head, still trying to wrap their mind around everything they remembered.

The slight shifting from one of the rooms in the apartment got their attention though, and within another blink Makoto was at their side- helping them stand up a bit and trying to help them into bed. His mouth moved, and they acknowledged that he was saying something to them...but it took a few moments before anything he said actually was heard by them. When they were, they looked up a bit more at him, to which he sighed.

“What happened?” He asked them, eyebrows furrowed in concern. Their eyes watered a bit, mumbling a quiet, ‘I’m so so sorry...I’m… I failed everyone here…’

“Failed? Ren?” He sat them down, clasping their hand, “You had the memory recovery procedure today right? What happened?”

“...I-I can’t...I can’t tell you.” They mumbled, eyes squeezed shut, “You’d hate me. Everyone would...I-I can’t… I can’t take it…” They shook their head, breathing starting to go shallow again as Makoto quickly waved his hands in mild panic.

“Hey, hey, calm down, calm down! It’s going to be okay. Y-you don’t need to talk about it right now, okay? Everything’s okay.” He reassured them, concerned and slightly panicked, “I could never hate you, Ren…” “...” They wanted to scream, they wanted to explain everything to those eyes, they wanted to prove him wrong. They wanted to prove that they should be hated, especially after what they’ve done...but they just felt too tired. They felt too scared...they felt too insecure to admit to it.

“Just rest for now, okay? I’ll bring you some water, and..” He noticed how stained their clothes were, and his nervous smile faltered, “And a change of clothes, apparently, yikes… Do you need anything else?”

“...Medication…” They mumbled quietly, tossing off their shirt and pants without much mind to it, “Please…”

“...Right, okay.” He faltered a bit and quickly looked away from their frame, getting back to his feet, “You rest up for a bit, and I’ll...I’ll get what you need, okay?”

“Okay…” “I love you…” ‘You wouldn’t if you knew what I did…’

Laying down, they felt their eyes flutter as the sedatives further kicked in, feeling their consciousness start to slip…

“I love you too.”

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lokeanrampant · 5 years

Text

Anders & Mental Illness

Cause someone kinda spurred this Wall of Text.

You want unpopular opinion time? Here ya go: Anders is NOT mentally ill.

So what are the symptoms that people are seeing that make them see mental illness, which, for the purposes of this post, will be a medical diagnosis concerned with neural biochemistry that can never be cured, but can be managed with the assistance of medication to help correct the body’s own imbalance.

Anders DEFINITELY has post-traumatic stress disorder. Please note, this is not considered a mental illness by way of biochemistry. It is a learned behavior and associated response, an extreme form of Pavlov’s conditioning, that can be treated through cognitive therapy, medication, and time. Why does he have PTSD? Let’s go down the list:

Because he’s been trained to hate himself since he manifested magic. Not because he did something wrong, but because of how he was born. Yay, let’s teach people to hate themselves for being born.

Because he’s been taught he’s a walking weapon.

Because his own family went from being as much a family as any other (with good and bad points) to essentially calling him a monster and throwing him out like so much garbage.

Feelings of persecution because, well, he is taken from his family, called a monster, and then locked into a tower/prison to experience little to no privacy and under constant guard where any small movement, action, or thought could be met with abuse, torture, or death.

Solitary confinement – MULTIPLE TIMES. Please note, while there is not much in canon about the type of solitary confinement used, it is generally a small cell (60-80sq ft, or a 6-8’x10’ cell). This is where everything is done – eating, drinking, sleeping, reliving oneself. For Solitary Confinement:

There may be extreme sensory deprivation – there may or may not be light, sounds may be constant or none at all or that idle drip-drip-drip of condensation on stone. There is no actual human contact.

As if mages are dehumanized already, the combination of isolation and sensory deprivation furthers this dehumanization in that you will eventually start to question reality itself. Once you leave this sort of confinement, readjusting to the sights, sounds, and textures of the real world is a major hardship. Everything is too loud, too bright, too textured, too everything – it’s a total body sensory overload.

For someone so steadfastly opposed to being confined, who has escaped multiple times simply to be free? Solitary confinement is the WORST type of abuse. It’s throwing an arachnaphobic into a room full of spiders, or a claustrophobic in a tiny box, or an agoraphobic into an open field. It is their worst nightmare come to life. Short-term, it would excruciating, but multiple times with ever-lengthening terms? That creates a desperation that will lead to severe risk-taking, extreme levels of anxiety, a desperate need-to-please to avoid that situation again (very Stockholm Syndrome), and suicidality. But of course, the institution that does all this doesn’t care. One less mage to worry about.

From an RL-perspective, the United Nations has classified anything over 15days in solitary confinement “constitutes cruel, degrading and inhumane treatment, or torture.” For someone who is mentally ill already (again, see above), the pressures exerted on the human psyche for such extended periods of time would resolve into a complete psychological break.

Based on all of that? It’s a wonder Anders is functional at all, though we know people who have survived such things and live with PTSD and can be function. It shows a pure strength of self and major resilience. THAT we do see in Anders.

So now we’re going to look at the why so many see the shift between DAA and DA2 Anders as absolutely signs of mental illness. So DA2 was a rushed mess with a seriously unreliable narrator and essentially decided to disregard almost everything from DAA. Remarkable storytelling, there, BioWare. Good on ya. *rolls eyes*

DAA Anders. Ah, yes, the sassy, snark-driven flirt that everyone adores. It’s called OVERCOMPENSATION. Anders knows full well if this last escape attempt doesn’t work, he is, quite literally, a dead man. While he has no fucks left to give on many levels, he will fight that one tooth and nail. He would rather die than go back to solitary or be given a lobotomy. He will rail against authority, but anyone who gives him an ounce of positive reinforcement, an ounce of kindness, that is something to which he will cling with desperation and do anything to keep that positivity occurring. Especially if it can in some way prevent what he fears the most. So he flirts, is charming, is sassy, is snarky, and is HELPFUL. He may have a mouth on him, but he IS helpful. He wants to ingratiate himself. It’s also a self-defense mechanism where if he can deflect everything with wit and sass, no one will actually know what terrifies him the most and give them leverage over him. He can’t afford that vulnerability.

But he cannot hide the anger – that is there, in spades and then some. He remembers enough of his life before the Circle to know there is a better life. He is angry for everything he has felt in the Circle, for all the people who were hurt there, for how he was hurt there, for how anything resembling any sort of goodness was stripped away, beaten out, abused, or killed. They were not allowed anything truly good in their lives and he had had that, tasted it, wanted it. Knew it was there. So he is angry, furious, fighting so hard to be free and be allowed to breathe and just be him, not some monster they kept telling him he was. He didn’t feel like a monster, he didn’t want to be a monster, but he was still terrified he was one.

And so he becomes a Warden – mostly because he can and as yet another last-ditch effort (he has a lot of those) to break free from the tyranny of the Circles and his impending death sentence at the hands of the templars. The Wardens should be his escape. They are an organization beholden to NONE. Their backgrounds effectively cease to exist, for the most part. It doesn’t matter if they are rogue, warrior, thief, murderer, or mage – once they are joined, they are Wardens. And if it weren’t for the continued persecution of the templars who simply cannot stop being assholes, who knows what might have happened. He did already exhibit traits of fighting for freedom, his own if no one else’s, at this point. Justice helped him see that there were more people oppressed and made him start thinking about that.

For all the extra time he had before being taken to the Circle, Anders is still young. Though there are no canonical ages mentioned, general thought is that DAA Anders is early-20s. And the Circles are geared toward keeping mages naïve and helpless, to keep them like young children so they are, by necessity, required to rely upon their captors for survival. Anders has a bit more independence going into that environment than many, which is how he continued to fight and get himself in trouble. He’s very strong-willed with a drive for independence, but he’s still effectively in the mindset of a troubled teen.

Yet with all of that, there really isn’t any mental illness. There is the PTSD, the anxiety and paranoia, the overcompensation, all from truly legitimate and horrifying experiences that would leave multiple symptoms of lasting impact in varying extremes. Again, PTSD is a learned response to stimuli. He is reacting based on previous experiences and results. And it absolutely influences day-to-day interactions even if the experience is in the past, because the key part of PTSD is that the past is NOT the past, it is still actively influencing the present, even if those stimuli are not actively in the present.

So let’s talk DA2 Anders. This is actually my preferred Anders. Why? Because he has grown up. He’s been given the TIME to actually figure himself out to a degree outside the confines of the Circle. And do you know what he found? That is has mountains of strength and compassion to give to others. That he can say NO to some things. Do you have any idea how difficult is to say NO when you’ve been indoctrinated like that? It’s one of the hardest things in the world to do and even when you learn it and can say it, it can still be such a struggle to fight to listen to yourself and your feelings and not fall prey to that belief that it would simply be better for everyone if you said yes, no matter how horrible it may be for you to do so.

Anders in DA2 is a semi-to-mostly-functioning adult, as any adult would be after going through his life experiences, but all in all, he’s actually doing okay for himself. He’s managing. Sometimes, that is the absolute best we can manage. We find out that he merged with Justice from DAA. A lot of people will claim this, in and of itself, makes him bipolar or, at the very least, the outdated Multiple Personality Disorder (now Dissociative identity disorder), wherein there are a minimum of two distinctly separate identities that persist. On the outside? Eh, I can sorta see it…EXCEPT. Justice isn’t Anders splitting his psyche into multiple pieces. Justice is JUSTICE, a Spirit of the Fade. A personality in and of itself/himself (and this particular personification of Justice chooses to be male, so male pronouns from here on out). Justice isn’t a fragment of Anders’ personality. He is a spirit who inhabits a living form that already has a soul. YOU LITERALLY HAVE TWO SOULS IN ONE BODY. This is not a mental illness, this is spirit possession. So DID can go straight out the window on this one.

And then there’s that whole spirit/demon thing. Justice IS NOT a demon. He’s one hell of a hard ideal, in spirit form. I have an entire essay written about Fade Entities, but that’s another topic. Needless to say, Justice isn’t some cute lil cricket on Anders’ shoulder. Justice is a burning ideal in a world full of injustices. And Justice, as we can see in DAA, is actively learning about the world around him. He becomes, essentially, a very protective elder brother to Anders as you can see Justice only really breaks out and takes control in DA2 when Anders is clearly at breaking point and under severe emotional distress. Imagine Hawke going to bat for their younger sibling in times of distress and you have Justice, wielding the blue fire and lighting of the Fade. Justice allows Anders to know there is someone always looking out for him, who always has his back. He allows Anders to feel a modicum of safety and gives him that push to allow him to be who he is. He is, in a word, family. Not easy, not kind, not always loving, but he is the chosen family – the blood of the covenant, not of the womb – and that much stronger for it.

Justice gave Anders a type of companionship after years of solitary confinement that no one else could. Justice helped anchor Anders, even though he pushes him hard. Spirits can learn (Justice does, Cole does, even Wynne’s Spirit of Faith does) and they learn their environments and hosts if need be. But inhabiting the living body of someone who has experienced everything Anders has? It makes Justice very protective and very angry, but that doesn’t make him a demon. It actually makes him more human. He feels righteous fury at those who hurt his friend and continue to hurt him and others like him. He feels insulted and personally attacked whenever he is called demon because he knows Anders’ fears about himself and Justice and their merging and he would never want anything like that to hurt his friend or for he, himself, to fall to that. But he hasn’t. Justice is still Justice and still that same ideal. To warp Justice into a demon would require Justice brutalizing everything he is and warping the ideal of justice into something else entirely. And vengeance doesn’t count here – they are two sides of the same coin, which is why you often see vengeance called vigilante justice. If the order of the world dictates that those in power do not provide justice, then vigilantism is the justice they receive. I’m not even entirely sure what Justice could become if he was able to be warped enough into a demon, actually, no, I take that back, he would become Zealotry – the brute enforcement of an ideal, fanatical enforcement of an idea with no regard anything but that. And that is NOT Justice. There are much better examples of zealotry in Thedas.

Does Anders have aggressive self-defense mechanisms? Oh hell yes. He actually aggressively overacts to quite a few things to the point Hawke really should have smacked him upside the head a few times. But it goes back to that old saying where it’s not paranoia if they’re actually out to get you. And yes, they are actively and actually out to get Anders. Yet for all of this? For all that he remains hunted, for all that his very existence is hated and persecuted and reviled? He starts up a free clinic. He uses his magic to heal people without asking for anything in return, except maybe to be left alone and maybe, just maybe get a warning if the templars are too close. He has so much compassion, even after everything he has experienced. He cares enough to not want others to experience what he has experienced.

So let’s get back to mental illness. I see a lot of references to manic episodes. Now, I know that everyone who is diagnosed with BPD, I or II, experiences their own form. It’s different for everyone. I have BPD II and have only experienced medication-induced manic episodes and YIKES – I don’t know how anyone deals with those on a regular basis at all. I get the funzies of depressive episodes, sometimes so badly they will pull me under. Sometimes, so badly that yes, suicide is at the forefront of my thoughts. A lot of that has to the with the diagnosed PTSD and self-hatred that I have been trained to have. Indoctrination is a bitch. Therapy is helping, but it took years to get this shit diagnosed even after years ago, I had done enough research to kind of diagnose myself. But no one wanted to believe me when I brought it up as a possibility. People see other people functioning, to the most basic appearances, normally, and they hand-wave away the idea that there might be a problem. So that said, let’s take a look at manic episodes.

I’m going with a firm NO on this one. The closest thing I can see to manic episodes are when Anders is working almost feverishly on his manifesto. No abject risk-taking that was any more prevalent than his multiple escape attempts. The closest thing we have to that is him running a free clinic and the mage underground in Kirkwall. Hell, him breathing in Kirkwall is risk-taking. But the manifesto nights? It’s less manic and more avoidance, in my mind. I’ve done it. It’s keeping so busy that you don’t have time to think about the bad things that are constantly in your head. Keep busy, keep healing, keep writing, keep fighting and for the love of all that is good, DON’T SLEEP. Don’t let the dreams in, don’t be helpless and vulnerable. Work until you’re so exhausted and you don’t dream, then wake exhausted again and do it again. This is PTSD-anxiety at work combined with night terrors. He is terrified of going to sleep, of being vulnerable to attack, of the nightmares of not just the taint, but of dark spaces and helplessness and the Fade and memories of failures, all those he couldn’t protect. He drives himself so hard so he doesn’t have to think of those things. It’s a defense mechanism. It’s mostly utilized for anxiety and depression when dealing with PTSD or with basic extreme stress/duress and grief, and his history clearly can point to when those started.

Oh, wait, I mentioned depression up there, didn’t I? Hey, that’s a mental illness! Yes, it is. Absolutely. But you can be depressed without having the mental illness/biochemistry maladaptation. Damned genetics. ANYWAY. PTSD causes extreme reactions, stress and duress, anxiety, and yes, depression. You can’t escape the anxiety, the fear responses, the need to either work yourself to the bone or sleep away the pain. In Anders’ case, it’s working himself so he doesn’t dream. Guess what happens when you do that to yourself over and over and over again? The body isn’t designed to go without sleep and proper rest. Those of us with sleep disorders will tell you (and it’s in the medical literature if you care to research it) that that degree of sleep deprivation will cause depression. It’s not necessarily a matter of biochemistry, but that of situational body adaptations to not being able to recuperate.

So there it is in a very large nutshell – my thoughts on why Anders is NOT mentally ill. I get that some people want to see themselves in their favorite characters. I relate to Anders on many levels, but I cannot put my diagnoses on him.

#dragon age #anders #justice #daa #da2 #ptsd #ptsd vs mental illness due to biochemistry #wall of text #anders - mental health

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hcpeisms · 6 years

Text

trigger warnings: suicide, war, violence, death, strong feelings about war in general, ptsd (if you squint), horrible things. long post!

This uniform.

That is the only thought running through his head. This uniform.

He wore this uniform for five years. The insignia on the sleeve is worn from the countless battles it had seen. The fabric is torn in places, faded with time, faded from the sun and the sand whipping around it when he dove for cover, when he crawled to help his friends, when he was trying to survive.

There are patches that he had stitched together, his fingers absentmindedly caressing the spot near his wrist, the left one, close to the old scar now covered by a tattoo. ‘Give ‘em Hell’ peeks from under the sleeve and Dane pulls it further to cover up the words. This uniform.

It still holds the heat from the battlefields, somehow pulling his conscious back to his time overseas. The sand itches, paranoia gives him an image of a scorpion crawling up his leg. He brushes the thoughts off, reminding himself where he is. The light yellow of the walls , the chatter that comes from the hall behind the curtains. The curtains; sleek and pristine, polar opposite of himself and his assemble. He doesn’t feel the heaviness of his rifle in his hands, but that weight had shifted onto his shoulders a long time ago. The tattoo threatens to peek from under his clothing again and he resolves to pull it more violently. Loose threads from the stitches catch his attention and his fidgets. This uniform. It’s falling apart. Serves it right, just like it served its wearer a long time ago.

Eight years ago he had worn the fatigues with pride. In some sense, he still did. When his eyes met the camouflage in the mirror, he swore his posture straightened and the confidence that had shone from his face withered away. This uniform. It was nothing but bad memory now, the stitches, the tears, the faded texture, the stubborn bloodstains still clinging to it, the stains he tried so hard to wash away over and over and over again when he had been sent home. A bad memory. A reminder.

A loud voice snaps him back from his memories and a portly man approaches him from the small gap in the curtains. His fingers twitch to salute his superior, but he is no soldier anymore. A balled fist is what the man sees, and the disapproving glare that is sent his way could not be more obvious. “Second Lieutenant Moreno --” He begins and Dane wants to snap at him, hiss that he doesn’t use that title any longer. But his jaw is clenched shut and his lungs are burning for air as the General stares him down. Small, beady eyes. Looks like a rat, that’s what Dane knows for sure. The man with a condescending sneer, coals burning in his eyes as he tries not to talk down to the young LT.

“If your father---” The man begins and Dane growl. His brows crease and a wave of heat runs through his body, seizing up his muscles and throwing his stomach into a whirl. Bile rises to his mouth as he returns a warning glare at the superior officer, and he quiets down before making the biggest mistake of his life. A glare is held for a few moment more and Dane feels his jaw aching against the grit it is under. The General scoffs and pushes past Dane who in turn does nothing. Eyes set on the curtain. Inanimate. Pristine. His father would be disappointed in him, were he alive. The thoughts are overwhelming when they are brought up. His father. Dane shakes his head and tries to coax his muscles to relax -- pain is starting to set in and stars dance across his vision. And that fucking tattoo. Another yank at the sleeve covers it well enough.

His name is called.

“Next up, give a big welcome to Second Lieutenant Daniel Patrick Moreno, a man known for --” the woman has a shrill voice and Dane steps through the curtain before she has time to continue. He doesn’t need his platoon called out, he doesn’t need her to tell them where he has been, for how long, or why. The microphone is quickly snatched from her hands and she reels, but joins the polite applause that fill the room, the noise that bounces off the walls. The noise slowly fades off into silence and Dane puts the mic back in its slot on the podium. The lights are bright enough for him to avoid seeing the eyes boring into him, the reporters impatiently clicking on their notepads, or his old friends that might’ve showed up.

The silence lasts, lasts, longer than he realizes. Anxiety isn’t something Dane experienced before, or had trouble with in the past. Not on the battlefield, not for months after he returned home. Bouts of nightmares weren’t unusual. Neither were the panicked gasps he sometimes noticed himself take when the war was on the news.

“You heard my name. I’m not going to repeat it.”

Strong start. Murmurs erupt in the hall, irritating his ears.

“You should ll know, I have not used my rank in eight years. I am not in charge of any platoons. I am not a soldier anymore.”

More murmurs, someone asks a confused ‘what’ somewhere to his left. Confusion. Perfect.

He waits for them to quiet down. He hears his own breathing in his ears. The rush of blood.

“I was invited here because my father was ranking high in our army, and I’m the closest they could get to him. So I'm taking this opportunity to clear this mess out of my head, to clear this blood out of my lungs.” For how long had he kept quiet about those days, about the hell that he went through, what all of them went through? When it was all on his shoulders. Lieutenant... What a fucking joke.

“I need to dig holes to bury the dead.” A chuckle. Pained, silent, but it echoes in the large hall.

He thinks about Jefferson, Espinoza, Miller... Toby. He thinks of his dad. He thinks of the hundreds of faces he knows but doesn’t have a name for. He thinks of the men and women he has seen on the news. He thinks of those who returned home, and those who did not. He thinks of himself. Which one is he?

“Look at all of you here.” He straightens up. The memories are bad, simmering just beneath the surface of a man whose ego is barely intact. A man who shields, deflects with arrogance. “You haven’t seen battle.” Someone to his right murmurs about reporting from a crime scene once. He wants to scoff. Grab the murmurer by the throat and smash their head against the wall until there is nothing but a bloody mess left. No, enough blood. Enough.

“I'm so fuckin' sick of everyone's lack of honor,” The mic still catches his voice. The mumbling has stopped. No one is writing. His head swirls with everything he wants to yell at these people. The ones who put words to a paper, claiming to bring justice to the horrors their soldiers face abroad.

“I'm so sick of everyone's willingness to settle,” He knows his words are coming out choppy. Hurt. Anger mingling with fear and disbelief. They brought him here to praise the press. But they aren’t pulling him back.

“Tell me, why is no one prepared to die, for anything?” His voice rises and he hears his own words round back to him, reaching every nook and crevice in the room, the frustration dripping into his every word. Jefferson. Damn idiot, fearless and dangerous, the king of the weaponry. He could talk for hours about the guns at their disposal, spend more hours cleaning them. He died trying to shield his teammates from the bomb intended to kill all of them. He saved his squad. He was buried a hero.

“Look at yourself in the mirror and tell me what a man is without pride,” His voice trembles and he can feel his hands shaking as he places them on the edge of the podium. Espinoza. She came from a family of soldiers, the only girl in the litter of eight brothers. Told she would never become anything akin to her siblings. Bashful grin on her face as she straightened her fatigues, pointing at the name tag. ‘They said I wouldn’t make it here’. She was twenty-three when she was gunned down, the first victim in an ambush no one saw coming. It was quick, painless, but the stains her blood left on Dane’s uniform never washed away.

“Do you know what fear does? Fear eats you alive,” Dane swallows. He can’t deny he was afraid, terrified when he landed in his destination, the desert air ripping through his lungs, the heat bearing down on him. He ground beneath him felt shaky then, the sand uneven. He was greeted by his superiors. He was eager. Afraid, but eager. Miller was always scared. He wasn’t cut out to be a soldier, but he came through as a medic. Miller, meek, silent Miller. ‘Mouse’ as they called him back then, with his big eyes and nest of hair. Dane squeezes the edge of the podium, the wood digging into the scars of his palms painfully. Remind him he’s not there anymore, that he made it back. The pain grounds some, and he always thought it to be bullshit. Now, it anchors him to the hall, keeps him from seeing every bad scene he went through. Miller. God, Miller wasn’t cut out to be in the field, but neither was he to be in the war zone, patching up soldiers. Missing limbs from bombs, gunshot founds severe enough to kill, death and misery all around him. Miller shot himself five months after arriving, leaving nothing but sealed note to his mother behind.

“You forget those who give their whole lives to serve you, so you wouldn’t have to be afraid.” Toby. He doesn’t want to think about Toby, not really. Not about how he wasn’t shaken by the death, how he kept everyone in line when Dane forgot how to, when he sat on his bunk staring at the wall of the tent flapping in the winds that broke against it from the outside. A model soldier. The first time they met, they fought, two massive ego’s lashing on the field while others either egged them on or tried to pry them away from each other’s throats. A week later they found common ground. Toby had been the one. Every soldier has the one, someone they would go through fire for, someone whose life held a higher place than your own. Toby had been the one. And then he was injured, caught by a bomb rigged to blow at the lightest nudge of the door. ‘Back to America.’ That’s what they told him after a while. ‘They say he’s not gonna make it.’ was the last he heard about him.’I’m sorry kid’ they added.

“I lost everything in the war.” Friends. Trust. Innocence. He knew he didn’t come home with the affliction many acquired after seeing the bloodshed. Trauma was a part of a soldier, and that was it. Composed, even when every mistake you ever made plays like a movie behind your eyelids when you think about it too much.

“A war we waged. A war we send innocent men and women to fight while you and the big deciders here sit on your asses making decisions that affect everyone else but yourselves. When we put our life and limb on the line so you can write shit about us in the papers. We sacrifice to keep your country safe, but when we return home you cast us aside on the slightest notion that we might be unstable. You close the doors for us and wonder why no one wants to fight for you anymore. you throw us into the fire and ask us why we’re screaming when you burn away every part of us that held humanity.” He takes a breath of air. The hall is silent.

“And you smile when a soldier returns home sane, when his eyes are bright and he hugs his family. The next day the bodies are returned home, and you don’t even count them. You focus on the man who came home. You write your story about him and how his family is doing while there are hundreds of men waiting to be buried, while their mothers and fathers lay by their caskets and wail over their lost children. You glance at wives and husbands mourning their lovers, the mothers and fathers of their children. You skim over the children who are still wondering where their mommy or daddy is. And you focus on the man that sits on his porch and recites to you a story, The story, that you want to hear.”

He feels the silence surround him. No pens scraping. No mumbles, no hushed tones. Utter silence.

No one moves.

No one speaks.

And Dane smiles briefly, triumphantly, before he walks off the stage, thumb gracing over the tattoo on his wrist.

Toby grins as he revs the makeshift tattoo machine in the middle of their desert encampment. Toothy grin, scraped hands, no plan. It stings. Desert air trapped beneath his skin with the ink that settles there. Toby chuckles and claps him on the shoulder when it’s over. He pulls Dane into a choke hold, making fun, joking. Dane holds up the tattoo to see it properly. There, messy handwriting, yet somehow pleasing, all black ink.

Give ‘em Hell -T.

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gaiatheorist · 6 years

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Improvising, and unpaid labour.

Half past four in the morning, I’m working around how to make a pie and a curry at the same time, with my ‘limited capacity’. I’m also factoring in energy costs, the impact of processes on end-products, and how to maximise my use of the ‘dead’ time between stages. My disabilities have an impact on my available functional hours, the hyper-vigilance that comes with my PTSD perversely helps me to portion-out my productivity. (Thanks, Mother, you didn’t teach me how to cook, or clean, or budget, but some other things you didn’t do mean that I can.)

Oliver Burkeman in this morning’s Guardian, is using the term ‘shadow work’. Most of us have always acknowledged that we have to do our own cooking, household chores and such. The category on my PIP award that scored the highest number of ‘points’ was ‘preparing and cooking food’. In reality, I actually find some of the other descriptor-categories more difficult, dangerous, and draining, but I was able to list more adaptations to my food-processing practices. If you don’t eat, you die. (Yes, that’s dramatic, it would take weeks to starve to death. If I miss too many meals, the blood sugar dip impacts on my background fatigue. I forget to turn the heating on, or take painkillers on schedule, and there’s that foggy-fugue state, where I’ll just stare at the phone until it stops ringing. I also sleep too much, not to escape the hunger-pangs, I don’t feel those, but because my body realises I have no energy, and effectively CTRL/ALT/DEL shuts me down.)

‘Shadow work’ takes on a different meaning when there’s a disability to factor in. It’s not just the “I’ve put it in the bag, you beepy bastard!” annoyance at the self-scan checkout, or remembering dozens of passwords for online utility billing and such, it’s varying degrees of everything.

Necessity is the mother of invention. I had a short discussion with an acquaintance earlier this week, he’s damaged his ankle, and has a cast and crutches for a minimum of nine weeks. This is the first week, and he’s finding a huge number of basic tasks difficult. I’ve actually offered to go to his house and help out during this initial adjustment phase. By week four, he’ll be managing everything much more easily, and by week six, he’ll quite possibly be finding uses for the crutches that the NHS wouldn’t like endorsing. It’s what people do, we improvise and adapt. That particular chap ‘only’ has nine weeks of this, but it’s still a useful analogy. Cast-and-crutches, or one arm in a sling, or your car off the road, after the initial “Well, this is an absolute disaster.”, you start to work around things.

I’m looking at the idea of ‘shadow work’ from multiple angles. Head-on, the increase in automation of some previously-human employment will flood the labour market with the people who used to do a job that a machine does now, that’s increased competition for jobs, which will be a concern for me when I’m fit-for-work. Historically, I objected to part of my previous job becoming automated, which was at odds with my principles, and odd in that I’d streamlined another part of my job, to need as little human-input as possible. The future is computers, though, and it’s none of my business how that all-singing-all-dancing software actually works in practice.

Recently, I’ve been entangled in doing shadow work for DWP, ‘Sleeping with the enemy’ to provide information that they already have, for their fancy new system. (Pride goes before a fall, but I’m probably using it more effectively than the staff paid to use it, they could have cut a significant number of person-hours if they’d followed my initial straightforward suggestion, instead of their convoluted one. They’re making part of my payment manually while I chase the ex to change the tenancy agreement, instead of a 30-second check with HMRC. They’re also making me ill, boo-hoo, poor me.) I saw a quote, I can’t remember the source, someone within DWP stating that claimants weren’t allocated any payments during the first week of a claim, because “The claim process won’t give people time to write a CV.” Furious, me? (I’m always furious, frontal lobe brain injury.)

Despite peripheral issues in an imminent brain-scan, and providing evidence to student finance, I managed to fill in the forms, and find the additional evidence that was behind the ‘beware of the tiger’ tab. (Wasted trip to the cash-point, thanks to Kenneth on the help-line, who’d told me to take an advice-slip issued on the day, when what the system actually asked for was two months of bank statements.) Luckily for all concerned, the new work coach barely glanced at the bank statements, I was fully expecting the Spanish Inquisition on the plethora of Amazon purchases after the PIP money went into my account. Mostly disability-aids for ‘normal’ household tasks, and repairing/replacing things I hadn’t been able to do while I was living on fresh air and food bank parcels as it goes, but I’d overheard enough “You don’t NEED Sky Sports, cancel it.” interviews to know there was the potential for them to pick through the statement.

I’d filled in the forms, secured the requested evidence, and moved onto the next task on the ‘to-do’ menu, because it was there. “Oh, you already have a CV uploaded, that’s great!” and “Did you write these? They’re excellent.” I’d done my work coach’s job for her, and I’d done it very, very well. (Arya Stark “You want to watch that one.” and such. That’s not a threat, it’s a reference to the conversation my previous work coach probably thought I couldn’t hear, “She will already have done it.”) *Liam Neeson voice over* “I am a nightmare.” It’s the paranoia that keeps me three steps ahead, I know I’ll have days when I’m less functional, so I ‘bank’ tasks before they’re due, to avoid missing deadlines, I did that before the disability, to mitigate against working hours lost to migraines, and ensure I never left colleagues in the s*it if I was absent. Now, with ‘please log in today’ emails pinging to my phone all over the place, that anxiety is compounded, my work coach has confirmed that my claim won’t be ‘stopped’ if I don’t respond same-day, and noted a mitigation/reasonable adjustment that I’m less functional later in the day, but there’s still that anxiety about missing a computer-generated ‘task.’ and incurring a sanction. My phone battery is wearing down faster because I’m repeatedly logging into my email, in case one has come through while I’ve been in a signal dead-spot. Shadow-work, the coach probably ‘should’ have made me an appointment in a month to review my Claimant Commitment, and another a month after that to write a CV. It’s done, she doesn’t ‘need’ to see me again until January, except she will, because I’ll have to produce a copy of the tenancy agreement once the ex sorts it out.

That’s not the only shadow-work I’ve done for DWP. There was the pointless ‘Work Capability Assessment’, and the horrendous PIP process as well. Almost half of women taken through the WCA process have attempted suicide. I know I contemplated it once or twice, and that’s a major admission coming from me. (I don’t know why that statistic only focused on women, unless it’s because men are more likely to complete suicide, due to choosing different methods, that’s a different scenario, ending-all as opposed to reaching that point, and still having to live through it.) 70% of PIP applications that are initially declined are accepted at Tribunal. It took me 17 months, from applying for PIP this time, to having my ‘award’ granted at Tribunal, and it wasn’t 17 months of sitting on my behind just waiting for it to happen. There are agencies and individuals who can assist with WCA and PIP processes, but they’re stretched too thin to cover everyone who needs help, and I’m a bugger for prioritising the needs of others over my own. (I’m also something of a control freak, I’m very difficult to work with when I perceive others working inefficiently, my “Oh, you’re making a right mess of that, give it here!” streak is strong.) During the UC/WCA/PIP process, I was over-stretching myself, and I became very frayed as a result. I was over-stretched in part because I should have asked for help sooner, and in part because when I did ask for help, it was too stretched and fragmented to be of any use. A social prescribing case-worker, a social worker, a welfare rights advocate, and two ladies from Citizens Advice. Little old brain damaged me, sitting in the middle of this fragile web of support, asking one party not to duplicate work being done by another, to save them work-load, and trying not to bang my head on the desk and say “It would be easier if you did it *this* way.”

Shadow-work. Providing the same medical evidence to two different parts of DWP. “Rolling six benefits into one”, my arse, the ‘disability’ part is still separate from the ‘unemployment’ part, I have an award of PIP for three years, which is completely distinct from the one year notice of ‘limited capacity for work’. Both departments have exactly the same evidence on me, I know, because I photocopied the files myself. (At 10p a page, I’ll have you know.)

The PIP process, and the WCA strand not only involved a hell of a load of shadow-work in terms of admin and coordination from me, they also cast light, and, paradoxically, shadow on my improvisations. Back to the crutches/cast analogy, you look at where you are, and where you need to be, and you figure out whether you can get there. You fall over a bit, and adjust your methods to avoid falling over again. Unless you can’t get up, and the police end up breaking in when the neighbours report the flies, and the smell. There are hundreds, or thousands of things I can’t do ‘normally’ any more, so I’ve had to make my own ‘reasonable adjustments’. (Some of them are bizarre, some are profoundly maladaptive, but they get me through most days without major incident.) Those improvisations, the additional shadow-load that’s on me every single day of my life, for functions that used to be so simple they required no conscious processing are a Very Bad Thing when it comes to PIP and WCA ‘assessors.’ “You said you had difficulties with x, I have decided that you can x.” over and over again. I didn’t say I “couldn’t”, I said I have difficulties, but some bloke in an office somewhere can ‘decide that I can.’, and that’s supposed to be case-closed. At that point, I was supposed to ‘just get on with it’, to limp around my various disabilities as best I could, because a decision had been made that I wasn’t disabled enough. Physically, I can’t do that, but, more importantly in my twisted little head, emotionally, intellectually, and socially I can’t do it, without my deficits placing myself or others at risk of significant harm. If I have a bad fall, or a cognitive lapse, not only is my life at risk, but I could place others at risk when they have to fish me out of whatever mess I’ve landed myself in. I won’t do that.

Another layer of shadow-work for DWP, painfully describing my improvisations in more detail. That part alone is enough to deter some people, it’s demeaning to have to explain, yet again, how you get on and off the toilet without assistance from another person. (Also the PIP system keeps the descriptor activities the same, but alters the qualifying thresholds without telling anyone. “Can you walk 200m?” has somehow morphed into some ambivalence about being able to move that distance, regardless of how long it takes, how difficult or painful it is, or what aids or adaptations are needed. They haven’t so much ‘shifted the goalposts’ as changed the game altogether.) I knew from the outset that the ‘computer says no’ would be the outcome, that the ‘assessors’ wouldn’t see the additional adjustments I have to make every day, they’d just bounce back that I ‘can’ complete all of the descriptors. Not repeatedly, reliably, or within a reasonable time-frame, though, and only with a massive degree of improvisation, which is physically and mentally draining, compounding the fatigue-element of my condition. (Shuddering at the thought of ‘home help’ assisting me with washing, dressing, or toileting, but that’s the PTSD, and PIP claims only deal with your most-recent condition, not anything underlying that compounds it, bizarre system.)

You’re damned if you do improvise, because DWP/PIP will tick the ‘can’ box, the ‘fit for work’ box. You’re damned if you don’t, because some faceless decision-maker will decide you’re just not trying hard enough. What about the people that can’t improvise? The ones who are already stretched to the limits of their functional capacity? Have they tried just not being disabled/depressed/dependent?

“Making work pay.” is a cute tag-line, but underneath it is the reality that vulnerable and disabled people are being churned through a workhouse that doesn’t work. We’re inputting our own admin. I have some cognitive issues, but nowhere near as high a level as some people. I have some visual issues, and my left hand doesn’t work properly, reading and typing are time-intensive, and painful, but I ‘can’ do it for a narrow window, given plenty of screen-breaks, some people can’t. It’s not hyperbole at all to say that this government has blood on its hands, it does, and it will have more to come while these systems are in place. People will fall through the gaps in the system, which will suit statistics, because ‘unemployment figures are falling.’ People. People are falling, into a shadow-realm of not being counted as ‘anything’. Some people’s improvisations to deal with that will be brutal. Domestic violence will increase when the ‘dole money’ suddenly stops going into bank accounts. Street robberies and burglaries will increase when people run out of their own things to sell. Referrals to social care and food banks will continue to increase. Evictions will increase, placing additional strain on local authorities to provide emergency accommodation, and I seriously doubt that people in emergency accommodation will be able to satisfy the conditionality of checking their online account for ‘to-do’ actions. Two-for-one sanctions there, I wonder if there are bonuses for that?

This isn’t working, I genuinely don’t believe it was ever meant to, I think that the intent all along was for it to be so complex and intensive that people would just opt-out. All well and good if that opt-out is into gainful employment, some of the opt-outs will be of a more permanent nature, and the government will still have to allocate resources to deal with the very long shadows this shadow-work will create.

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therealdragonnerdagain · 7 years

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This is a retired gaming blog, blah, blah, blah. But I wanted to post this.

So I was playing Skyrim (Vilkas is a crappy follower -- Farkas is better) and for some reason, I started thinking about how I made that Loghain post about two (?) years ago and how Dragon Age fans misunderstood it.

I remember having some fans attack me, astonished and self-righteously outraged that I was "defending" a racist slaver. Meanwhile, other fans approached me in a friendly manner, shocked that I had apparently killed Loghain in the game even though I pitied him. These two groups were both under the impression that I liked Loghain, which was . . . utterly baffling to me.

It occurred to me that these fans must've been very young, because they were still thinking with a very black and white mentality. To them, pitying Loghain was equal to liking him (except it's not) and explaining why he did what he did in Origins was somehow the same as condoning his actions (again, it's not).

If I recall correctly, the purpose of my post was to recount Loghain's sins in a list where I explained why he committed each one through codexes, letters, and info I'd gathered in the game (working with Howe, Anora's schemes, etc).

Also, keep in mind that I always tended to write such posts after having taken my meds and right before going to bed, so they were often incoherent, drowsily written nonsense.

So ironic that I was accused of ableism while too out of my mind to write a decent post due to a medication for my MENTAL ILLNESS.

So ironic that I was accused of racism and condoning slavery, only to have my accuser turn around and make racist insults at me.

But whatever. Back to Loghain.

I think Alistair summed it up best when he said that people like Loghain and Anora think they're the only ones who can get anything done. Loghain thinking he was the only competent and trustworthy person in all of Feralden is half the reason Feralden nearly burned to the ground.

Yes, I pity Loghain. But, no, I don't like him. He's an asshole and I've never had a playthrough where I spared him (especially since I played elves so much).

I pity Loghain because he has PTSD and his wild paranoia was sad to watch. He truly believed Cailan was going to marry Celene when he clearly wasn't (something Inquisition and The Masked Empire only further proves -- Celene is queer, power-hungry, and in no way willing to marry a man) and if you take Loghain back to Ostagar, he rants and raves about Cailan's "betrayal" wildly. It reminds me of mentally ill people I knew personally.

So, yes. I pity Loghain because he is a broken soldier. And how could anyone have helped him? Thedas doesn't "do" mental illness well. As I mentioned on another post, Cullen is probably the first templar in (recent) history to open a rest home for broken soldiers.

What was more, Loghain had too much power. There was no one to stop him in the heights of his paranoia. Even Cailan couldn't do anything because he needed Loghain's help against the darkspawn.

Also, Anora would probably never speak to Cailan again if he sent her father away. I believe Cailan really loved Anora and was never going to marry Celene. Eamon (so high on having the king's ear) kept telling Cailan to find a new wife, and Cailan kept telling Eamon to mind his own business. So Eamon's letters, combined with the complete businesslike letters from Celene about an "alliance" both led Loghain -- in his feverish brain -- into believing his son-in-law was casting Anora aside, when nothing was farthest from the truth.

If you pay attention at Ostagar, Cailan is clearly annoyed by Loghain but can't be rid of him. I wouldn't be surprised if he suggested having Loghain retire to a chantry somewhere, only for Anora to become upset with him until he called it off. Remember, Anora practically worshiped her father.

Also, yes, I enjoy understanding the reasons why Loghain did what he did. That's because I'm a writer and I enjoy knowing the entire story. That does not mean I condone Loghain's actions.

I recall fans sneering on me for talking about gray morality and how the Gray Wardens were called GRAY WARDENS because gray morality is the entire theme of Dragon Age.

The fans were sneering on me because they thought I was using "gray morality" to excuse the elven slave trade. Only I wasn't. I never said it was right or necessary to sell the elves off to Teviner. In fact, it was completely unnecessary (when is slavery ever necessary?). And given the fact that my favorite Gray Warden was Kalian (and my second favorite was Mahariel) it was downright infuriating. (Kalian's father almost gets sold.)

Also, it wasn't Loghain that sold the elves. It was Howe, as theorized in another post of mine. Howe led a massacre against the elves after Tabris killed Vaughn, and when that wasn't enough to cow them, he used bio warfare and slavery to be rid of them. In fact, he did just about everything that has been done historically to people of color in real life -- why in FUCK would I excuse or condone this???

David Gaider stated on BSN (I believe the thread is gone now with the rest of the forums) that Loghain didn't even know what was happening in the alienage until you wave the slaver documents in his face during the landsmeet.

Loghain wasn't given a short stick by the plot. He was written wonderfully. He was written just well enough that you could pity him and hate him at the same time. And he felt very human. And very real. More real than Coryphshit, anyway.

Loghain had a full story arc with multiple outcomes. It's pretty much everything a fictional character in a video game could ask for. He wasn't given the short end of anything, in my humble opinion.

Even though Loghain wasn't directly (but was indirectly) responsible for the slave trade, he was still responsible for a lot of seedy shit. He was responsible for Uldred. He promised a man -- a slave -- his freedom, only to go back on that promise, which led to Uldred committing suicide by giving his body to a demon and wreaking havoc on the tower: the real Uldred was dead by the time the Warden arrived.

Loghain was also responsible for Redcliffe but couldn't be bothered to manipulate the Dalish into his control. No, they were already destroying themselves in a neat little plot about how the writers think white people aren't responsible for modern day oppression or whatever.

Anyway.

It's supposed to be ironic that Loghain depises the Gray Wardens and yet acts just like them, committing atrocities to do what is necessary (or what he THINKS is necessary) but not what is right. It's almost like the game was building up specifically for him to become a Gray Warden. Especially if you read the books, you can see what I mean. (The same kinda goes for Solas, though he's just a Loghain-expy anyway.)

My point is, fans of the game are too young to grasp its more mature themes, which reach beyond simple black and white ethics. Dragon Age: Origins is a world were nothing is black and white and nothing is supposed to be simple (again, not "condoning" slavery. Slavery is pretty simple: it's wrong). It's a world full of anti-heroes who do bad things to save the day.

Again, Howe wasn't doing something "necessary" in selling off elves, so I'm NOT talking about him when I speak about gray morality. I'm talking about Loghain, who firmly believed he was doing the right thing at Ostagar, even though he really wasn't. Loghain firmly believed that saving his troops and pulling them out would protect Ferelden, even if it meant sacrificing thousands of lives -- just as Solas believed sacrificing all those people on the mountain by tricking Corypheus into opening his foci was necessary to save his own people.

As a side note, it kind of pisses me off that Patrick Weekes wrote that segment for Solas where Solas talks about the battle at Ostagar being not so black and white. He tries to make it seem as if Loghain's actions could have actually been right in some way, but anyone who's paid close nerdy attention knows that Loghain was clearly WRONG. I believe this was done mostly to honor the player's interpretation but . . .

If Loghain hadn't barred the Orlesians from entering Ferelden, then pulled out his own troops, Ostagar would not have happened. Period.

During the first act of Inquisition, you can actually get in a fight with the quartermaster at Haven about Ostagar. It's another example of Patrick's Weeke's shitty writing, where he tries to get an emotional reaction from the audience by appealing to the player instead of the Inquisitor. He basically has no idea how to write for a video game and instead writes like this is a novel.

The Inquisitor has no reason to care so passionately about Loghain and Ostagar, while those of us who played Origins do. Yet the Inquisitor is so angry, they act as if they were there (because we were there) when they really shouldn't give a fuck. This is immersion breaking, also stupid, and Weekes uses this method to pull us into the story emotionally multiple times throughout the game: Morrigan's introduction where the Inquisitor is smiling at a dangerous stranger as if they know her, the popular and much loved Teagan being a jerk in order to play on our feelings (and again not the Inquisitor’s feelings), etc.

Loghain wanted desperately to keep the Orlesians out because the war against Orlais had left him paranoid and suffering PTSD. Orlesians raped his mother and killed his father. Orlesians mounted the heads of his family and friends on pikes. Orlesians made his life a living hell.

And it was so, so easy to blame everything on Cailan once he was dead, wasn't it? But I don't think Loghain was really even blaming Cailan out of power-hungry maliciousness: he actually believed Cailan was a stupid child (Calian's name even means child) and would forever see Cailan through the "father filter."

Loghain has a Fade nightmare that was cut from the game and buried in the game files. In it, he is trapped with child!Cailan in the Fade and is bogged down by guilt and anger. He will always see Cailan as a child and will hate himself for killing him, even while still hating Cailan.

Yes, Loghain hated Cailan, possibly because he was the child of Maric and Rowan, Rowan being the woman he loved. He believed Cailan was a little boy who wanted war and had miscalculated the battle, when in fact Cailan was pretending to want war to keep his troops in good spirits (Wynne confirms this). Cailan knew they were going to die at Ostagar thanks to Loghain -- this is why he sends you and Alistair to the tower. I think he might have even known Loghain was sabotaging the tower.

Again, all of this is mentioned in Return to Ostagar. Nothing about Ostagar was "morally gray" as Solas (and Patrick Weekes, who apparently doesn’t know the story) would have you believe.

And yet, while Loghain's actions were very wrong, he was also not the mad, evil, cartoony villain Alistair saw him as.

Loghain was a sick man who believed he was doing what was right: THAT is what makes this situation morally gray.

Also, Loghain's an asshole because he's racist. I recall one playthrough he called my Mahariel a wild elf, insinuating that she was worthless because she was Dalish. And even though he worked with the Dalish in the books, he and Maric never really treated them like people. The elves fought in the war to liberate Ferelden and then got all of nothing for it and went right back to being socially, religiously, economically oppressed (correct me if I'm wrong). Sounds a bit like the Revolutionary War, huh?

All those nobles at the landsmeet screaming about how Fereldens don't believe in slavery, as if oppression ends at whips and chains.That entire scene at the landsmeet was very realistic, actually. How many white people today think people of color aren't socially, economically oppressed and that oppression ended with slavery? They'v got freedom and don't even know what it is. But if it was suddenly taken away, they would know. Oh, they would know.

This grimdark crap is why I enjoy breaking the theme by playing a Warden who is not an anti-hero but a hero. Which means that Loghain always dies in my games because a hero would kill him, while a pragmatic anti-hero would make use of him.

The fact that Dragon Age: Origins is grimdark is what makes playing a shining hero so great. Dagna's line about the Gray Warden "It was a time of darkness, she was the only light" was perfect because of this.

I loved playing a hero who saved the day without resorting to pragmatism. I loved it simply because the real world doesn't work that way, and I wish desperately that it did; I wish that people could just be good for once.

I loved playing a hero and having Loghain realize my character was everything he should have been and everything he could not be. (Again, it's the same with Solas and a good, morally upstanding Inquisitor.)

That being said, I also believe a "good" Inquisitor would let Blackwall live. I believe the difference between Loghain and Blackwall is that while one has a chance to overcome his own darkness, the other does not. Loghain never goes on a killing spree again should you let him live, but he also has to live in misery the rest of his life. Frankly, I always viewed his execution as a mercy kill. And if you defeat him in combat, he pretty much asks you -- with a content smile -- to kill him.

The point I'm trying to make, what I'm getting at is this:

I suddenly understand why series with more "mature," thought-provoking themes like Dragon Age and Mass Effect have been dumbed down and watered down into childish, cartoony, bullcrap.

The fans are too young to get it.

That's not an insult. It's just the truth. We're all naive and inexperienced at least once in our lives. That's the very definition of youth.

Look at Tales of Symphonia and Tales of Symphonia: Dawn of a New World. The first game -- while still a bit ridiculous, adolescent, and cliched -- at least has more mature, thought-provoking themes, situations that leave you questioning if you did the right thing. The second game is a bunch of adolescent whining, cringey cliches, and utter nonsense.

Dragon Age: Origins went from characters with depth, meaningful choices, and interesting npcs to Inquisition, the light-hearted, bubbly, bland, cliched, MMORPG/Skyrim wannabe, where your choices don’t matter and your own followers treat you like shit long after you’ve befriended them -- but only if you’re Dalish.

Mass Effect went from the same deal (mature themes, blah, blah, blah) to watered down . . . everything. Tactics, choices, any seriousness or depth was all replaced with button-mashing combat and campy comic book drivel (yeah, I went there). Though don't get me wrong: at least the combat for Mass Effect was fun across all three games.

It's like the writers went, "Fuck it. The audience wouldn't appreciate or grasp mature themes anyway!" and gave us a bunch of cartoonish, ridiculous shit.

I wish they’d stop. If young fans don’t get it, then they don’t get it. Why change your games when the audience is still the same?

#bioware critical #origins rant #loghain critical #dalish rant

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understandingchaoss · 7 years

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The Harsh Reality of Living With Trauma

As the years have passed and diagnoses have come and gone, I have long accepted most of them. I have adjusted myself and my life to help live and better cope with them. Throughout the years, I have taken advantage of the time I have had to get to know myself. Mental illness has changed everything about me; some of those things are good, and some are bad. I like to think that I’m relatively in-tune with myself, my emotions, and the illnesses I live with so that I can continue to better myself and work my way towards no longer living with them.

Yet, here I am; struggling, hurting, and quite frankly, getting worse; or so it seems. I have made so much progress within the last four years. I don’t feel suicidal, but I think about death. I don’t want to relapse, but that seems like the only option in order to cope, because that’s all I ever knew. I know I’m better, because I used to think about suicide daily, and I used to want to relapse, and that’s no longer the case. I ask myself what my problem is at least 12 times a day. Although, I’m not really sure why, because I already know the answer. There is one little word that is constantly lingering over my head and eats me alive.

Trauma.

I haven’t dealt with post-traumatic stress disorder for as long as I’ve dealt with my depression, insomnia, or anxiety. But I feel like it’s been long enough that I should at least be a little more in-tune with it; I should at least have more of a hold on it so that it doesn’t have such a hold on me. PTSD is a disorder that some - not all - people develop following a traumatic event or witnessing a traumatic event (i.e. combat, rape, death of a loved one by suicide, a car accident, emotional or physical abuse, etc). Individuals that develop PTSD do not recover from the experience properly. The trauma can actually cause their brain to malfunction, and they fail to recover like most individuals are able to do. The amygdala, hippocampus, and ventromedial prefrontal cortex are all affected following the traumatic experience, which impacts the stress mechanism we all have. Thus, the survivor continues to discern and respond to stressors differently than someone who recovered normally from a similar experience. If you would like to read more about how the 3 areas of the brain that are affected, click here.

PTSD is the most painful, frightening, and debilitating thing I have ever experienced in my entire life. With it come panic attacks, flashbacks, intrusive thoughts, and dreadful memories I never asked to happen, let alone asked to remember.

I am not going to go in-depth about my experiences, as I am not currently in a place where I can openly talk about them with just anyone without feeling shame and humiliation. But I will say that as of right now, there are 3 specific experiences that rule my life; they vary from mental and physical abuse, sexual assault, and an indirect situation I experienced in the church. They all date back only within the last 4 years. They are still fresh and new, and I have not yet fully accepted them.

I live in a small town where you can’t really escape anyone or anything. This town is also where 2 of the experiences occurred, so daily life is exhausting. One of the most common symptoms of PTSD is the avoidance of people or places that can trigger a past event. Living in this town makes this nearly impossible to do, as much as I would love to do it. If I am driving by myself, it’s easier to avoid the places that I want. But sometimes when I’m with friends, it’s inevitable. At this point, I don’t even say anything anymore, because it’s almost as if every single place I go in this town somehow reminds me of what I don’t want to remember. So instead of making things extremely difficult, I just shut up about it and internalize how it makes me feel until the feelings, emotions, or flashbacks pass. I don’t want to burden the people I love who want to do things with me just because of an experience that occurred that I should have reacted to normally in the first place. The exact places where the 2 experiences happened in this town are places I will not go. But even places I went with these people - traumatic experiences completely unrelated - are triggering (one of these days, I will talk about why I was going places with these people, and living a normal life with them and yet still experiencing the unthinkable). Walmart, grocery stores, rivers, lakes, certain roads; just about anywhere. There are places in this town that I absolutely love, which are now permanently scarred. Just remembering that I was in a specific place with the person sets me into a frenzy of emotions that I do not want to feel. The amount of stress the avoidance of things puts on me is incredible. Sometimes, a lot of it is subconscious; in my subconscious mind, I know I have to leave my house and that I’ll most likely come across a person, place, or thing that will trigger me. Each day is exhausting knowing that no matter where I go, and no matter what I do in this town, my experiences will always be with me. And I hate that.

The traumatic experience that occurred outside of this town is somehow still triggered almost daily. Although, it’s usually triggered as a result of a word, phrase, smell, or someone coming up behind me and scaring me, whether it’s intentionally or unintentionally. It has completely warped my perception of what healthy relationships and friendships are supposed to be. I don’t want to remember certain smells, and yet, it seems like everywhere I go, I keep smelling something that reminds me of what used to be.

Flashbacks are probably what I would categorize as the worst symptom of PTSD. This is where the trauma really takes hold of me. Flashbacks debilitate me, and I completely disassociate from myself and everyone around me during one. I do not know how long my flashbacks actually last. I never know when they’re going to happen. I never know exactly what is going to trigger them. It’s almost like the onset of a panic attack, minus the panicking and physical symptoms of one. The best way I have ever been able to explain a flashback, is that my mind and eyes are a projector. Picture yourself sitting in a classroom looking at whatever is on the projector screen that the teacher has up. That’s literally what it looks like in front of me, because I am the projector. I completely freeze, my body doesn’t move, and I’m pretty sure I don’t even blink. Whatever I was doing or whoever I was with before it started, does not exist any longer. I watch myself enduring the traumatic experience across the room, right in front of me. I know I’m sitting there watching. The part of me that is enduring the experience keeps wondering why in the world the part of me who is watching isn’t doing anything. Why does she keep watching this happen and keep allowing it to happen? WHY ISN’T SHE DOING SOMETHING TO HELP ME? Sometimes I feel like my flashbacks are some twisted way for me to try to change the past. I never did anything right away to get myself out of the 3 traumatic experiences. Heck, I didn’t even know one of them was even traumatic until at least a year after. I am angry at myself for not doing anything about them. I am angry at myself for continuing to put myself in the position of it happening. I am angry at myself for not stopping it. If I could have just stopped it, my life wouldn’t be a living hell. Maybe my flashbacks are a way for me to change that; to go back and do what I should have done. But I can’t, and I don’t. I watch myself scream at the part of me who is watching. She’s screaming at me to do something, anything. But the part of me who is watching does nothing, she doesn’t even move. There is no emotion on her face, almost as if she just doesn’t care. She sits there and watches until it’s over. Just like the shaking of the head and excessive blinking Raven Simone did on That’s So Raven after she’d have a vision (my favorite show as a kid, by the way), I come back to reality. I can find myself anywhere from pulled over on the side of the road not knowing how I got there, in the store staring at the package of chicken I had in my hand, in the car with friends, in my room, in the shower, or at work. Following a flashback, I am usually exhausted for the rest of day. I need to lie down and cry it out. Most of the time, I’m not able to. I internalize what I just experienced in the flashback, and that probably begins a vicious cycle since I never deal with any of it.

Nightmares are a weekly thing. Thankfully, not every single night, but they’re enough to interrupt my sleep when I seem to need it the most. Intrusive and frightening thoughts are a daily thing the second I step out my front door. What if I see them today? What if I see someone else that reminds me of them? What if another traumatic experience happens to me today? What if I get raped or abducted? What if I get into a car accident on my way to work? It’s almost as if the traumatic experiences caused some kind of paranoia. I am constantly preparing myself for the worst. If I prepare myself for the worst, maybe it won’t affect me so badly, because I was already ready for it.

Trauma can cause memory loss. I used to think this was great. All 3 of my experiences were ongoing for an extended period of time. So I know that there were a lot of things that happened throughout each of them that I just don’t remember. I used to think, sweet; that’s one less thing I have to remember or try to deal with. Boy was I wrong. Each day, randomly, a new memory will pop into my head. A memory I had never thought about until that moment. A memory I never consciously knew happened until that moment. The brain blocks out a lot of things as way to cope. Instead of dealing with stressors like it should, it tries to block things out and it can actually cause that memory to no longer consciously exist. My psychiatrist explained it to me like a filing system. Your brain takes memories and thoughts and files them away in certain places. The brain will put some away in a file that it will always go back to; aka its conscious memory file. Other memories will be put into a file that the brain doesn’t bring out as often; aka its subconscious file. Quite often, the brain will file those memories away the second they happen. This explains why I never consciously think about them. Every now and then, that file gets opened and a memory is brought out, causing me to suddenly, consciously, remember something that I, all along, subconsciously knew happened. I hate when a new memory comes about. It seems like there’s already so much I don’t want to think about, that there couldn’t possibly be anymore out there.

Trauma has completely convinced me that I am not worthy of love. It has bound me to itself; sometimes it feels like I’m bound to it for an eternity. But then I remember that’s not rational. It has convinced me that what happened to me is my fault and that I deserved every bit of it. Trauma has warped my perception of what love is supposed to be, and convinced me that what happened to me, was love. It has convinced me that I am a victim, not a survivor. Trauma has robbed me of life. It has robbed me of the zest I used to have for life. It has robbed me of enjoyment, love, peace, joy, trust, and happiness. It has robbed me of a healthy way of dealing with things, and a normal life. It robs me of every ounce of hope I am ever able to muster up. Trauma has made me its own personal prisoner. It makes my own skin feel like my own personal prison cell; a prison cell crawling with bugs and all I want to do is claw my way out of it; except I can’t.

I hate everything about trauma. I hate everything about PTSD and all of the things that come with it. I hate all of the memories I am stuck with. Despite my faith and what I know is right, some days, I even hate the people who have traumatized me. I am slowly learning that being able to admit that is healthy, as long as I work every single day towards love and forgiveness for those who have hurt me.

The last 14 months have been nearly unbearable, but therapy has been my saving grace. I have learned so much about PTSD, my trauma, and how to conquer my demons. All of the things that trauma has convinced me of are not true, and my counselor is the one who taught me that.

I am worthy. I am SO worthy of love and gentleness. What happened to me is not my fault, and I did not deserve any of it. I am not a victim. I am a survivor. I am not what happened to me. I am not defined by the actions of those who have hurt me. I am not a reflection of the actions from others. Love is not supposed to hurt, whether it’s a relationship or a friendship. Love is not supposed to leave you traumatized. Trauma has kept me silent for so long. But it will no longer keep me down and keep me quiet.

Someday I will know why all of this had to hurt so much. Someday there will be a purpose to all of this, and I will be able to use it for good. I am not brave yet, but I’m going to be.

If you or someone you know needs support right now, call the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255, or text START to 741-741

#understandingchaos

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