#overmedication cw

[boatcats]

I was on such high doses of meds that were not really helping me and it wasn't until I got an ADHD diagnosis and got on the right med (not even a stimulant or a controlled substance) that I started feeling better.

And it amazes me that my old psych was so butthurt about my getting diagnosed by my therapist that he nearly diagnosed me with antisocial personality disorder instead.

Truly all my love and support to anyone who finds value in an ASPD diagnosis but I've only ever seen it weaponized against people and I think we can all agree it's pretty fucked that they call it that.

[whump-card]

Sunless Lives Part 26: I Will Make You Better

~1220 words

CW: Medical whump, therapist/doctor whumper, mention of past noncon, clinical discussion of suicide and self harm, panic, flashbacks, overmedication, pressured eating 

First, Previous, Next, Masterlist

~~~

DR MANDAL: You know I have to ask. Where are you right now with your relationship with Simon?

M BECK: I know. I know I keep flip flopping. But it really depends on where he’s at once he gets out of Summerwhite.

DR MANDAL: I’ve noticed something. Let me know if you think I’m wrong. In all of our discussions about whether you will maintain a relationship with Simon, and what kind of relationship it will be, you always hang your decision on his feelings. His mental health. His experience. Do you think that’s accurate?

M BECK: Yeah. I just want him to be happy.

DR MANDAL: I’d like you to try thinking more about your feelings, your health, your experience. What’s going to be the best for you?

M BECK: I want to be with him.

DR MANDAL: I understand that, and if it works out that’s wonderful. But Matthew, you are still having severe flashbacks. Additionally, you described that interacting with Simon brought on upsetting flashbacks while you were together in the clinic. Now, I see your face, I’m not saying that this would make a relationship impossible. All I want is for you to consider your own health and safety when you think about how a relationship with Simon would work.

[0:55]

M BECK: [Unintelligible]

DR MANDAL: Matthew, take deep breaths. You’re okay. You’re here with me. Breathe with me.

M BECK: [Unintelligible]

DR MANDAL: I know, Matthew. I know.

~~~

“And how would you rate your desire to harm yourself, zero being none and ten being you have a plan to kill yourself?”

“Zero.”

The gray-haired doctor, Deckard, glared at Simon over the top of his glasses.

“Lying won’t get you out of here sooner.”

“I’m not lying.” Simon did his best to keep his voice gentle, soft, non-argumentative, the way everyone liked it. It was hard with how much his stomach hurt.

“You were voluntarily a vampire’s chew toy until last week, that’s self-harm. If he showed up right now to take you away with him, would you go?”

“No.” That was a lie. The thought of Matthew - human or vampire - taking Simon away from this horrible place was almost more hopeful than he could bear.

“I’m going to ask you one more time, and if you don’t tell me the truth I’m writing you up.”

Simon winced.

“One,” he compromised, “Just one.”

“Hm.” Dr Deckard’s pen scraped across his clipboard, writing far more than a tally in a feelings chart. Simon’s knee bounced with nerves.

He was sitting across from Deckard in the doctor’s office, a massive cluttered desk between them. It could have been a bright room, but the tall arched windows were covered with cheap blinds. Fluorescent panel lights hung from the water-stained ceiling, flickering just enough to be noticeable but not enough to be fixed. Bookshelves along one wall were too neat to be used much, contrasting with the paperwork-flooded desk.

“My job,” Dr Deckard announced suddenly, “Is to make sure that you are not a threat to yourself or others. We’ve started working on the ‘yourself’ part already.” He leaned forward to look at Simon, adding the clipboard to the stacks on his desk. “Let’s start on the other. Tell me about Lara.”

Simon’s heart rate picked up instantly, his own eyes bouncing between Dr Deckard’s watery blue ones. Surely he’d misheard the doctor.

“What?”

“You became violent while under great duress before, I need to make sure it won’t happen again while you’re here.”

Christian told him.

Of course he did.

“It won’t.”

“Regardless. Walk me through the events leading up to your outburst.”

Outburst?

“I don’t…” Simon felt a lump growing in his throat. He felt stupid for crying so easily, But he was so tired, and his stomach hurt, and he’d only found one friendly face in this whole facility.

“What made you so angry with Lara?”

It wasn’t anger. It was never anger. Simon could never be angry with Lara. But he was so scared of antagonizing the doctor that he didn’t correct it.

Bowers.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Dr Deckard tried a comforting smile, but it came off more like a chimp baring its teeth.

“I need to know, it’s for the best. For everyone’s safety.”

I need to know.

Simon was back there in an instant, trapped under Matthew.

This is for your own good.

“I really don’t-” he hiccupped with a suppressed sob, “I can’t-”

I’m not going to hurt you. I just need you to tell me.

Simon pressed his hands to his face, shrinking down in the chair.

“Where are you right now, Simon? Are you with Lara?”

“I don’t want to talk about this.” His voice strained with the effort of speaking quietly. He didn’t want to yell. He couldn’t yell. Not after the first time.

“Is Lara hurting you?”

Even now, Simon couldn’t help but defend her.

“Lara never hurt me,” he said, the words coming out in a low whine.

“Captain Isles…” Dr Deckard shuffled through the papers in front of him, and his voice grew stronger when he found what he was looking for. “Isles relayed that Lara would hit you and sexually assault you. Is that not true?”

It was. It wasn’t. Lara was different. But Simon knew Dr Deckard would believe Christian over him, so he nodded, dropping his hands to his lap and rubbing them anxiously against his thighs.

“It’s not true?”

Fuck.

Simon felt his stomach roll, and he clutched at it. He was given so many pills, and he knew they were wreaking havoc on his body. The doctors and nurses asked so many confusing questions, and made all sorts of assumptions, until it was too far beyond Simon’s ability to explain everything in the right way, in a way that would make sense to them, in a way that would make them leave him alone.

Fucking idiot.

“She did, but that’s not what - that’s not what I’m, I’m upset about, I just - please, I don’t want to talk about this, I don’t feel well!” he sobbed.

“Simon, look at me,” said Dr Deckard, quiet but firm, “You need to try. You have to want to get better.”

He wanted to get better, he really did. Matthew had told him to.

But this felt wrong.

The next tear-filled and flashback-riddled twenty minutes went nowhere. Simon was deposited back in the common room with a protein drink, red-eyed and exhausted.

“Hey sweet thing.” Chett approached him immediately. “Rough sesh?”

Simon nodded gratefully. He had wildly misjudged Chett at their first encounter - apparently Simon was unfamiliar with southern hospitality. He let Chett lead them to his usual table. It was just the two of them that day; Chett’s previous companions were long gone after their 72-hour holds. About two-thirds of Fort Summerwhite’s occupancy came and went like that. It was dizzying for Simon to almost always be surrounded by strangers, especially as he slept in a room with two others. But Chett had become a kindly constant, and he helpfully reminded Simon to keep swigging the protein drink as they played gin rummy with shaking hands.

He was underweight - if he took too long to drink it, he’d get in trouble.

No one wanted to get in trouble at Summerwhite.

~~~

First, Previous, Next, Masterlist

Taglist: @flowersarefreetherapy, @pigeonwhumps, @sunshiline-writes, @seasaltandcopper

[slowandsteddie]

Lazy Petals

AO3

Okay. This work is NOT completed. I cannot guarantee an update schedule because only the first chapter is completed. However, I DO have everything plotted out (assuming it doesn’t get a mind of its own) and the goal is to be 50k+ words.

This story is very personal to me. I’ve taken my grandparents love/live story and made it Steddie. The characters are going to be OOC. Just letting you know right off the bat in case that is something you aren’t interested in. Also, this is a No Upsidedown AU.

My grandparents were immediately obsessed with each other, but didn’t date until after they had graduated high school. Which means that while this isn’t a slow burn, it is going to be slower than the stuff I usually write.

I don’t want to give too, too much stuff away. There there is a post where I described the main highlights and asked your opinion on reading it. There is also a poll where I asked if I should start posting before it was finished, and I got a pretty definite yes.

I saved the divider that I plan on using for this series back when I first started talking about it. I have since lost my note that told me whom to give credit to. If you know who made it (or know how to find that information on mobile!!) please let me know.

I think that’s enough of a preamble. Without further ado, here be the CW’s and the first 3,489 words.

Content Warnings: Steve was hit by a car and in a full body cast for over a year - he makes a bowling joke about it, his parents are very distant, his grandparents got very distant after his injury and he doesn’t understand why, Wayne is very careful while babysitting to make sure that no one can accuse him of being inappropriate, mentions of his mom overmedicating him so he’s easier to deal with, mentions of how weak he got from being in the cast. And as always, let me know if I missed anything.

Steve didn’t remember much about that night.

His mother said that it was a blessing and refused to fill in any blanks for him under any circumstances.

His father, however, if he had drunk enough whiskey, would look at the six year old Steve as though he were a much older man and sigh before telling him anything he wanted to know.

Which meant that Steve knew that the car that hit him swerved in order to do so. (He didn’t know if the lady in the little blue car did it on purpose, or if she was a distracted driver. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to know that.) He knew that she had to have been going over forty miles per hour because the impact sent him flying at least a dozen feet before he slammed into that bus stop. He knew that the driver kept going and that at least half a dozen people ran to his aid and that one of the women had screamed because he was unconscious and she was so certain that he was dead. His little body was so broken and bloody and they couldn’t see him breathe.

He also knew that his father got to his hospital room before his mother, sweat pouring down the older male’s body as though he had showered in his clothes because he had run there from work. His mother showed up over twenty minutes later, all put together like she had taken the time to clean herself up before appearing. Something his father wasn’t sure if he could forgive her for. (This was one of the few times that his father would express just how much that he loved Steve, and he would carry that warmth with him forever.)

He knew that they had to revive him four times, that they had done twelve surgeries, that they had put him in a full body cast because nearly every bone in his body had been broken, including parts of his spine. He knew that his parents had been told that he would likely never walk again. He knew that a specialist had pulled his father aside to inform him that his brain wouldn’t develop normally after all of the trauma that it had been through after being smacked around in his skull. They’d have to be careful, and that they’d have to understand if he never progressed much past the age that he was now. That he could be in his fifties and still acting five and that there was nothing that could be done beyond what they had already done – remove a small part of bone behind his ear to help relieve the pressure and pray for the best while preparing for the worst.

And, while he couldn’t remember the absolute agony that he must have been in. He did have the descriptions that he used to tell his father. That there was lava in his veins and his bones were shards of ice cold glass threatening to tear him apart completely. His father had only told him that part once, with tears in his eyes. “There wasn’t anything I could do to help you, boy. I couldn’t take the pain away. I would have died to save you even a fraction of that.”

That was one of the few times that he could remember his dad hugging him. He had been so careful and gentle while pressing his face into his hair. He inhaled deeply and he cried. And Steve had done his best to hug him back despite the plaster that made it near-impossible to move his arms at all.

At first, Steve had thought that it was really cool to be stuck in bed all the time. He didn’t have to do anything. That got boring within a week and he still had at least a year ahead of him where he was meant to stay in bed unless he was in the bathroom or at a doctor’s appointment.

Even eating in bed, something that had once been unacceptable and even punishable before, lost its novelty pretty quickly.

He liked having his mom read him notes from the teacher and his classmates. He liked her reading him his homework assignments and writing down his answers for him so that he would still be on track. It made him feel like an important man, like his dad was going to be, with a secretary.

The thing is, though, that he really missed going outside. He missed playing in the woods outside of the trailer park where he lived. He missed going to his grandparents house with the pool and the stairs that he’d probably never be able to walk again. He could climb them, though, after the cast was removed. He was pretty sure. He might not have a lot of muscle left at that point, but that would just mean that he was lighter and had less to have to move anyway.

When Steve brought that up to his mother, her lips would turn into a very tight, thin line and something he couldn’t name would flash in her eyes. “You are not going to go to that house any time soon, young man. It’s best to let those ideas go.”

“But I miss Grandma Marty and Grandpa Pete, and they won’t come here,” he whined.

“The Harrington’s won’t come to the trailer park and you know that.”

“We’re Harrington’s too,” he’d say defiantly.

She’d leave the room at that. Effectively ending an argument that they had had multiple times before. But what else did Steve have to talk about? He didn’t really have anyone else to talk to either, other than their neighbor that he had taken to calling Mister Wayne.

Wayne was probably a few years older than his dad and lived alone in a trailer that had always seemed so lively despite the quiet man who lived in it. He always had the tv or the radio on when he was home and Steve lived for that. Because his window was always cracked open for the breeze, which meant the sound could drift to him as well.

It was better than the quiet of his house that only seemed to get broken up with arguments and slamming doors. He was so used to it, but he still flinched every time and did his best to pull the blanket over his head as though that would muffle the sounds.

Sometimes, Wayne would come to his window and read him a book that his own nephew liked. The Hobbit. Steve fell in love with the adventure of it, and Wayne never seemed to mind reading him the same book over and over, a few pages at a time while he smoked.

More often than not, Wayne was the one who came over to babysit once he noticed that Steve had been left alone. He never once complained about it, never once gave someone else the chance despite all the ladies who would come over with food. And wine for his mom, when they could spare it.

Sometimes, Wayne would talk about his nephew. He was a scrawny kid, a few years older than Steve, named Eddie. Had a dark mop of long curly hair, and eyes that always seemed to have mischief in them. They’d like each other, Wayne was pretty sure, and he’d introduce them the next time that Eddie came to visit.

Steve would want to ask when that would be, but he never did. He had Mister Wayne and that was more than enough for him. His dad was staying later at the office, trying to prove that he deserved that promotion that would get them the hell out of the trailer park, without his parents' money. His mother was getting into yoga and book clubs, and Steve was being left alone a lot. Because, what kind of trouble could he get into when he was stuck in bed? Besides, the neighbors could hear if he shouted for anything and Wayne seemed very invested in making sure that he was okay.

Steve never knew why the older man made sure that his curtains were always wide open and that his light was on so that others could see that he was reading to him, or talking with him, from a chair that was always at least three feet away. Maybe it was so they would know he wasn’t alone? He wasn’t going to ask about it, not wanting to chance scaring away the one adult who never raised his voice at him, who never abandoned him when things got hard like his grandparents seemed to.

Months went by like this. His parents not being home, his grandparents not even calling about him, and Wayne doing his best to fill in the difference despite his own job. The other neighbors would come on occasion, but Steve was very sullen with them where he would laugh with Wayne. That didn’t deter them from coming over as he would have liked, and begrudgingly he found himself becoming friendly with a few of them.

It was the beginning of summer when Steve was finally able to get the casts removed. His father took him to the appointment, and he tried to not be disappointed that his mother wasn’t there at first. By the time he was wheeled out to the front of the office, though, his mother was sitting where his father had been.

He did his best to not look at himself. He was pale and scrawny and kind of stinky from not being able to wash himself properly because of all the plaster that had basically covered him for over a year. Most of his bones had healed great, according to the doctor. He wouldn’t know because he still hadn’t looked.

His father came back from wherever he had been, paid the bill with tight lips, and then took Steve out to the car. His mother helped him into the seat before covering him with a blanket that he was grateful for. It wasn’t that he was cold, he just didn’t want the chance to look at himself yet. He wanted to do that when he was home, where if he broke down and cried, no one else would know. Or, he wouldn’t have to see them knowing in any case. And that was enough for him.

They stopped for ice cream on the way and Steve asked for a small strawberry cone. Strawberry wasn’t his favorite, but it was what Grandma Marty had all the time, and he missed her even though she didn’t acknowledge him anymore. Wouldn’t answer his calls, wouldn’t call him back. He didn’t even know if she got the letters that Wayne had helped him write.

When they got home, Wayne wasn’t home. Not for the first time, Steve found himself deeply upset by that. He’d never voice it. Adults had responsibilities outside of him. And he knew that he only got about an hour with Wayne a day, maybe two if he was incredibly lucky.

His father came to help him out of the car, because he had more muscle if Steve should happen to fall. He clung to his father’s arm with all the strength that could muster as he walked like a baby giraffe toward their trailer. Well, he called it walking. It was more like wiggling his lower spine and hips while throwing his legs forward. After maybe five steps like that, he found himself being lifted into his father’s impatient arms as he was carried the rest of the way in and sat on the couch.

“Thank you,” Steve said instead of complaining about not being able to use his legs. He had wanted to walk, to prove that he could.

His father simply grunted in response before going to the kitchen to grab a drink. The same way he always did when he was home for the night.

His mother was inside a few minutes behind them, having stopped to talk to a neighbor briefly. She looked at Steve on the couch and tilted her head at him with a calculating look in her eyes.

“Would you like a bath?”

“Yes, please.”

This time, Steve did get to walk on his own two feet to the destination. He was leaning heavily on the wall, almost gripping on to it with one hand as he practically threw himself forward. He was breathless by the time that he got to the bathroom and pain seemed to radiate out through his entire body, starting at his tail bone.

“You can have some meds after your bath,” his mother said gently. “And I’ll get you your refill before dinner, okay? So you don’t have to worry about running out.”

Steve didn’t think it was time to refill his medicine yet, but he didn’t question it. His mom was on top of it. He was a kid who lost track of time a lot.

He sat on the toilet and he watched his mom prepare the bath for him, knowing that she would only let him have the water a little above room temperature. His skin was sensitive and the steam wouldn’t be good for him with the medicine that he was taking. He couldn’t even have hot food without the steam making him nauseous.

Carefully, he was pulled back to his feet and stripped of his clothes before he was helped into the tub that seemed to be more bubble than water. He sat down carefully, wincing a bit as he did so, before letting himself lean back in the water that felt warmer than it probably was because of his weakened, cool skin.

He sighed in contentment as his mother washed his body for the first time in what seemed like years. He was nearing seven years old and thinking about years in the past, it would make his dad laugh if he shared that thought with him, an idea that made him smile.

His mom washed his hair, tilting his head back and using a hand to make sure that no soap got in his eyes that he had squeezed tight. He got to play in the bubbles for a few minutes, his dad standing at the door as his mom got him some comfy clothes and a towel.

It was his dad who dried him off and helped him get into his clothes.

“Thank you, Daddy,” he said softly. He knew he was expected to thank his dad for everything he did that was above and beyond, which meant he ended up thanking him for everything.

Steve was carried back to his bed, something that he would have whined about if he wasn’t so tired and in so much pain. He was tucked in and his mom came to give him some toast and juice to take his pills with. He knew he was only meant to have one, but he took both that his mother gave him anyway. He washed it away with grape juice and half of the slice of toast she had brought him.

“Thank you, Mommy,” he murmured.

“Get some rest, love,” she replied while kissing his forehead. “You had a big day today.”

Steve nodded in agreement, wishing that it could be that easy to just let the sleep overtake him. He closed his eyes as his mom left the room.

His father checked on him once a day, his mother gave him two pills instead of one, and made sure he at least had breakfast and dinner. One of the neighbors made sure he had lunch and new puzzles to work on, new toys to play with. Steve would wander around the trailer as best as he was able, and Wayne would read to him before he went to bed.

Days turned to weeks like that.

One day, Wayne wasn’t at work and both of Steve’s parents were gone. He wandered over to his bedroom window and opened it wide.

“Mister Wayne, if I can get to the front door, can you help me out?”

His walking was still unsteady and stairs were very difficult for him.

“Are your parents okay with you being outside?” Wayne asked sympathetically.

“Uh. Dad said I could as long as I either finished my puzzle or put it up first.”

Wayne gave him a knowing look. “Okay, you little hellion. But only because I know you’d hurt yourself trying to do it anyway.”

Steve beamed and closed his window most of the way before making his way to the front door. It was a struggle to unlock the door because of the latch chain, but he managed. Wayne was waiting there for him with an unlit cigarette hanging between his lips.

“Getting outside used to be easier,” he sighed before reaching out.

“Maybe it’s the weight of knowing that you’re doing something you shouldn’t be,” Wayne teased as he picked Steve up and set him back down on the ground.

“No idea what that means, but thank you for helping me pass the stairs.” Steve grinned widely, the dirt and grass squishing slightly beneath his toes. It felt so good.

“You’re welcome, brat.”

Steve giggled before doing his version of walking. He took maybe ten steps, very much aware of how closely he was being watched. His breath came a little harder from the effort, the times between walking so close together. Shakily, he sat down as carefully as he was able. Movement caught his attention and made his head snap up to look toward Wayne’s trailer.

“You gotta ghost!” He exclaimed.

Wayne laughed at that, shaking his head. “That’s the nephew I’ve been telling you about. He’s staying with me for awhile. Treat him like a skittish cat until he’s used to ya, and I’m sure y’all would be good friends.”

“Eddie,” Steve said happily. “Can he come out so I can meet him?”

“I’ll send him out after I smoke my cigarette,” he said as he put more distance between them before lighting up.

“Thank you!”

Steve laid down flat on the grass, spreading his arms and legs out as much as he could without the pain becoming unbearable. It wasn’t very far, but he didn’t care. He got to grip the green strands in his fingers. He got to feel the light and heat of the sun soaking into his skin and settling into his bones. He was beyond convinced that the bright yellow thing in the sky was much more healing than the meds that made him feel tingly from his head to his toes.

He must have fallen asleep like that, because next thing he knew he was being awoken by a toe nudging his shoulder. His eyes flashed open and he was met by the most dark, beautiful brown eyes he had ever seen.

“Uncle Wayne said you just got released from the mummy’s curse.”

“He said that?”

“Well. He said your name was Steve and you just got a full body cast removed a few weeks ago.”

“That sounds more like him.”

“So…What happened?”

“A lady tried to go bowling with me and her car. The only pin she knocked down was me.”

Eddie snorted. “Shoulda planted your feet more firmly, she woulda gotten a strike.”

Steve’s lips tugged into the widest smile that he had ever had on his face. “My parents don’t like it when I joke about it.”

“Parents are stupid.”

“Yeah. How long are you stayin’?”

“As long as I can.”

Steve hummed in thought. “You any good at reading out loud?”

“Depends. What book?”

“The Hobbit.”

Eddie’s entire face lit up, his huge smile showing off the chipped front tooth. “My favorite book in the entire world? Yeah, I’m pretty good at reading it out loud.”

“We should read to each other. I have troubles with some words, but I am trying.”

“I’d like having someone to read and play with.”

“Oh, uh. Playing is hard for me right now. I’m still trying to get my strength back.”

“It’s okay. We read The Hobbit, we gotta have a pretty good imagination. We can pretend to play.”

Steve blushed and looked away. He never had someone his own age willing to work around his limitations before.

“I heard about a game with dice where we can talk out stuff and the dice decide how well it goes,” Steve said suddenly.

“Dungeons and Dragons!” Eddie apparently decided that he was tired of standing because he flopped down next to him at that. He rolled around in the grass before eventually settling on his side, propping his head up on his hand. “I can find a way to make that work with just two people.”

“Oh.”

“Turn that frown upside down, friend. I like a challenge. We’ll make this work because it sounds like fun.”

Steve beamed.

Taglist (let me know if you want added or removed! I was just trying to get who I remembered to seem interested!):

@estrellami-1 @eriquin @epiclazershark @morganski-19 @ellaelsinore @y4r3luv @valinwonderland @thespaceantwhowrites @jackiemonroe5512 @spectrum-spectre @princessstevemunson @ghost--enthusiast @gothwifehotchner @kas-eddie-munson @auroraplume @salisbury-at-the-stake @currently-steddiebrainrot @finntheehumaneater @marshmellowpaint @littlewildflowerkitten @perseus-notjackson @sapphirecobalt-1 @xxfiction-is-my-realityxx @gloomysoup @anne-bennett-cosplayer

[a-whispering-echo]

Prolouge for a little something something im working on....

CW: this story is set in a really shit mental hospital, and i want to state that most mental hospitals are NOT like this at all. While some can be bad, most are there to help, and none are even NEARLY as bad as the one described here!

Also, im using mentally unwell characters, and while i myself am mental unwell, most have disorders i myself do not have - so inaccuracy's may be present - i did a bunch of research, but obviously i havent lived with them

okay, with that out of the way, tell me what you think :)

The air inside Moonlit Halls Mental Hospital hung heavy with despair. Fluorescent lights infrequently flicker, casting eerie shadows on the cracked linoleum floor.

The once sterile white walls had turned a sickly shade of yellow, stained by years of neglect and the suffering that permeated every corner. The pungent scent of antiseptic did nothing to hide the overall lingering stench of decay, scaring anyone it held within its grip.

The corridors echoed with both whispers and screams of tormented souls, inescapable, much like the building itself. Scratches littered the surface of forlorn cells - futile and desperate attempts of those trapped within to leave their mark on a world that had forsaken them.

In purgatory, time has no meaning. Day melds into the night, as the line between reality and delusion blurred. Tortured cries of the patients were almost in tune with the haunting echoes of their own minds; a composed maelstrom of madness.

The few patients who had families left had long since given up hope of seeing them again. You cannot

It was a horrible place, and it was run by even worse people.

The staff members had long lost their compassion and empathy a long time ago, leaving only cold callously and cruelty behind. Their eyes, once filled with hope and a desire to heal, now held a threatening gleam. Their smiles, twisted and devoid of warmth, were the only outward sign of the animosity that sat behind their masks of professionalism.

And the few patients who had families who cared for them left had long since given up hope of seeing them again, their queries met indifference or threats if they dare voice concerns or question the facility's practices.

After all, the doctor knows best for you.

You can forget about getting the right medication, as the staff are much more interested in maintaining control than in providing genuine care. The cycle of medication only ever worsens their state when they end up overmedicated one moment, and under-medicated the next.

Their fragile minds that once sought solace shattered by the very people who had promised to help.

Well, Killer had always hated promises anyway.

[burning-sol]

.

[charlotte-headcanons]

046 to the workaholic ones

Nice one, thank you for the ask, anon! Enjoy!

CW: descriptions of highly unhealthy habits, self-neglect, and sickness/vomitting/overmedicating

046. How do they handle getting sick?

When Katakuri gets sick, he pretends that he's alright for as long as he possibly can. He stops himself from coughing, he avoids having his body temperature checked, and most importantly, no matter how sick he is, he never lays on his back in public.

If his illness is really bad, though, and he wakes up feeling unable to get up, he will lock himself in his room and not allow anyone to enter. He's very self-conscious about being seen while vulnerable, weakened, or resting, after all.

Normally, Brulee is the first one to notice if he's acting off and the first one to guess why this is the case. Once she knows, she either gets a strong sibling (like Oven) to try to force Katakuri to at least sit down and eat soup, or she sneaks dinner and meds into Katakuri's room through the mirrors, discreetly enough to never be caught entering or watching.

Oven actually was never properly sick before. Being as hot (not only literally) as he is, it's near impossible for him to catch a cold. Still, he suffered through food poisoning before, so that's what we'll describe.

Despite being sick, Oven always acts as usual, going on with his tasks and even not being in too much of a bad mood. He'd be out acting totally normal, then all of a sudden vomit his guts out, get up, and continue being hyper. Even if this repeats multiple times throughout the day, he'll just claim he's fine, which definitely won't work to calm anyone around him down.

Mont D'Or's sickness equals overmedicating. To keep working, he'll just take painkillers, antibiotics, drink coffee right after, and isolate himself with his work (passing instructions through Galette) to not get others sick and so that others don't worsen his headache. If it gets horrible, he'll probably pass out on his desk and when he wakes up he'll just be mad at himself for wasting time, which will cause him to overwork again.

If his siblings want to make him rest and care for him in his sickness, they will definitely need to use brute force. Mont D'or bites and scratches when forced to rest, yelling about how much shit he has to do and how he doesn't have the time for this. Fortunately, there's plenty stronger siblings in the family who can get Mont D'Or to bed eventually; once there, he will fall asleep before long, and his body will thank him for it.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Yeah no pretty much every autistic kid has a jo. My mother was a jo. My father was a jo. It was easier cuz my sister and I are both autistic, so I got to protect her, but it also made me really good at masking and have a lot of internalized ableism. I’m always kind of jealous of Chris, because he was able to go back to being happily autistic once he got to the safe house, because he knew how to before, with Ronnie. So many autistic people don’t get that :(

CW: This got long. Discussion of ableism and trauma for a neurodivergent person in here, also discussed parental death

Honestly, with the trauma and torture that Chris goes through, I really wanted Tristan to have come from a family that gave him a solid foundation of acceptance. Ronnie pretty much writes herself, I wont lie - I have made very few choices for her ahead of time. 

The story in the first piece I did from her POV - about toddler Tristan ‘playing’ with pieces of dust floating in the air and Ronnie realizing that the usual methods of discipline simply wouldn’t apply to him - is sort of a true story about my partner and his mother (my partner has ADHD, for the record, and is not autistic). I wanted to take the bones of that story and show a parent who realizes “everything the books say about children did not prepare me for this” and show that parent make a decision then and there to figure this out, come hell or high water, without hurting their child in the process.

Chris’s eventual fear of medication comes entirely from WRU/Oliver, and not a holdover from childhood - Ronnie was very very careful about his medication and therapies working together, rather than relying on one over the other - but Chris’s fear also pulls from my partner, who was overmedicated as a child and as a result struggled to feel able to start taking meds as an adult (once he did, working with a doctor who acknowledged his fears and was willing to start from the lowest possible effective dose and work up from there to perfect it, SO MUCH changed about how he was able to filter out the ‘noise’ of the world around him). 

I knew that CHris would have been subjected to a unique form of hell for him - what WRU does is hell anyway, but for someone like Tristan, who depends heavily on constant stimulation, routine/schedule, etc, it seems almost specifically designed to destroy him.

The more I wrote Chris, the more I knew I wanted his background to be one of support and care - one of the sort of side facts on Ronnie is that she goes back to work when Tristan is school-aged essentially just to help pay for his gymnastics and get health insurance to cover his therapy appointments, because who Tristan is with a caring, involved therapist who understands that autism is a function of how his brain is built and not a bug that needs removed, and with an outlet to help him get his energy out while also emphasizing structure and schedule without rote memorization or flat routine, is a totally different boy than he would have been otherwise.

Chris functions as well as he does largely because the people around him don’t push at him in ways that set off trauma responses or negative stimuli response. But, like with the little piece where Ronnie has to carry her weeping, screaming child out of Target, she was really worried for a while that he would retreat into himself and not come back out. 

In my research I did before I felt comfortable naming Chris’s neurological makeup for what it was, one thing I came across over and over and over again were autistic adults talking about how they functioned vs. reading up on these historical situations and the burgeoning Autism Speaks group when it first started and how starkly different the goals of the two groups were.

So I wanted to write Ronnie as someone who would both reflect and NOT reflect the voices of those parents - and I wanted to write Jo as someone who would reflect all the worst possible ways to react not only to a teenager who lost his parents, but also a neurodivergent child dealing with an immense amount of stress. She removes his routine, the way he expects things. The loss of his parents removes his ‘safe’ environment and thrusts him instead into a small windowless room where nothing is HIS except for one rubbermaid plastic bin and his bed. Nothing is right, nothing is the same, she doesn’t enroll him into a new school, she cuts off his access to physical outlets, she takes him off his medications and stops him going to therapy.

If Tristan seems more out of control in those drabbles with Jo, it’s because he is already undergoing trauma, with no way out. So his ‘signs’ of being autistic may seem far more obvious, because he is in distress. His head-banging and hitting himself are symptoms of his stress and trauma, even if Jo only sees them as annoying things he does.

Jo ALMOST touches the point when she thinks about how Ronnie never talked about him hitting himself or hitting his head on things. It’s not because Tristan never did that, but because Ronnie had largely figured out how to set up his life in a way that minimized or mitigated the stressors that made him resort to those attempts to self-soothe. When Jo thinks about how Ronnie talked about his gymnastics medals, she is SO CLOSE to the simple point of how to pull Tristan out of himself.

But ignores it.

Nat also has a lot of base understanding of human development and brain development after twenty years helping incredibly traumatized rescues try to rebuild their lives, which is part of why she knows what Chris is doing when he first shows up. She’s not perfect, but she is able to encourage Jake to allow Chris to self-soothe in non-harmful ways, redirecting him from self-injury to something that is soothing to his mind without causing any harm to his body.

Ben, once Chris is in college, has an autistic little brother and recognizes almost immediately what Chris’s meltdown is, and so he just throws everything that works at his brother at Chris, calming him down from hitting his head on the wall and getting him together enough to come back.

Laken, once they know Chris fairly well, is good at recognizing when his words are just... gone, for a while, and they talk to him knowing he is listening but without expecting him to answer. 

Jake just lets Chris lead the way. He has no idea what he’s doing, on any level, when Chris shows up terrified of everyone, but he just lets CHris show him who he is and tries to go with that. Jake and Nat are aware of Chris’s autism, or suspect it, long before it’s confirmed and he starts receiving treatment again.

You’ll see a little of that in an upcoming Whumptober drabble when Chris gets sick.

[asettledsky]

More on my Beetlejuice AU, which I've mostly titled "Beetlejuice on the CW" in my head.

Excuse my crappy art, that's what happens when you don't actually draw anything for months.

Lydia is a chronically tired mess who is somewhat overmedicated because of past trauma and her father's worry about her tendency to see weird shit like ghosts.

Her preferred style of dress is "what takes the least effort to put on?". So she's often wearing a oversized shirt and leggings. But will rock a sundress if it's hot.

She's currently enrolled in art school for photography. This is her first year.

She's super into spirit photography and the paranormal.

[ubelyptus]

one often meets their destiny on the road they take to avoid it**

(daily crowdsource post)

howdy!!!

domestic abuse cw // medical abuse cw // fiscal ask!

people have asked where i’ve been:

i was in a place in northeast like i said. but was still “on the run from family.”

i don’t want to stress you out but i’m not in dc and haven’t been for several months. i tried to figure out the best way not to sound alarming when i texted my partner and probably didn’t succeed so i just wanna tell you all that i’m fairly safe now (first) before saying a little about what’s going on with me and why i’m sending out a fiscal ask.

my mom, older sister, and my brother (who literally carried me into the car) found me, took me out of dc, forfeited my house, and made me stay with them.

that made my depression 20 times worse bc then i couldnt sleep what with the constant prayer/supplication and my parents started gutting my stuff (my bag, aka my journal, my bowl, my clothes, my phone) while overmedicating me and gaslighting/lying to me and keeping me from sisters and having church people come over to “get rid of demons” and other wild shit.

i’ve been through dehydration, borderline kidney trouble, muscle atrophy, scars and scratches from my parents and their cultish church members and more but the pastor just died so they’re distracted these days mourning which is why i’m even using my phone now that i’m no longer nonverbal.

even tho our relationship isnt the same older sister hid my old phone and laptop for me bc my dad was trying to find where on them i could have “sold [my] soul” but now my laptop wont turn on. my parents even took my debit cards and anything with my elected name on it.

after like 9 weeks i’m back in therapy and got older sister to insist i stay with my eldest sister this week/possibly indefinitely but other than that i feel really stuck and probably won’t be cleared for admission for spring bc of this bc i also had a second manic episode that was apocalyptic in nature sooooo yea

all i can think of is escaping again and starting my life over in DC (again) but i need funds to do that.

i have already been borrowing clothes and asking for food.

uppity dignity is out the window so i’m back to digital supplications.

fiscal asks:

$850 for an apt/room security deposit and a bit towards first month’s rent payment

$100 for two weeks worth of groceries

$70 bus or train ticket to DC

only offer what is comfortable please!!

i love you already so no pressure!

cash.me | paypal | venmo

*hugs if y’all consent*

thanks in advance!!

** quote by jean de la fontaine & master oogway of kung fu panda 🐼

[alliluyevas]

in 2006 a four year old girl named Rebecca Riley died from overexposure to medications for bipolar disorder and ADHD, which was diagnosed and proscribed by a legitimate psychiatrist, that she had been taking daily since the age of two

but yeah take your fucking meds! Even if you’re a toddler who can’t medically consent! Doctors know best!

[provokingdrama]

CW: Suicidality * "Now You Know" c.2001. Acrylic on canvasboard. This came to mind when thinking about how much bad news I'd gotten in the previous year. My wonderful aunt, my mom's sister, had recently taken her own life. I had horrible depression and my over-medicated brain was exhausted. My psychiatrist at the time basically threw every possible drug at me with little thought. My (late) sister had just gotten engaged to be married and I knew I'd miss her terribly. I felt isolated and alone, especially due to my own mental illness. * OTOH, I was also experimenting with different hair colors, this is the first time I'd done red hair. Painting was/is cathartic for me, so I painted. "Now You Know" was sort of a mocking voice in my head (not an hallucination this time) for many things I hadn't experienced or understood until that year. Death, loss, mental illness, overmedication, and the horrible knowledge of a loved one's suicide, wondering "what was it that pushed her beyond what she could endure?" Having been suicidal before and a survivor of my own attempts I knew it was horrific pain. It was a knowledge I wish I'd never known, overall. I couldn't be rid of it, so I painted it. That's the most I could do. #art #photorealism #acrylicpainting #acryliconcanvas #darkart #suicide #death #loss #mentalillnessawareness #mentalanguish #nowyouknow #tears #weeping #gnashingofteeth #unwantedknowledge #darkartists #igart #instaartist #darkartists #realism #redhair #painting #copingmechanism #catharsis #crying #artistsofinstagram #artistsontumblr #artist #painter #acrylicart #icant https://www.instagram.com/p/Caiebogv__8/?utm_medium=tumblr

[gncrevan]

weeeeell, i took three pills within a couple of hours of the painkillers that you are to take 2-4 maximum per day, but my head still hurts. and now i took my sleeping medication and even though it shouldn't be kicking in for like another hour, i feel really really weird and my head is cloudy and cotton-y and words look strange.