#prob get too fucked up on my meds again but at least my brain isn’t braining

[care666bear]

I may be dramatic, an equal mix of co dependent & avoidant, either a chatter box or a ghost, a bit of a cunt when im frustrated & off the walls insane from the moment I wake up everyday due to a brain that is never quiet & very sick & that hates me a lot but!!!! I promise I’m loyal like a dog & I do look cute when im wrapped around your finger & I’ll always think of you when I see pretty things and the moon & i don’t even pray but I’ll pray your days are as lovely as you with every new day that starts & with every effort I can be vigilant on, you make me want to be a better person or whatever

[icyharrington]

Is It Wrong?- THE PREQUEL- Part 1 (Michael Langdon X Reader)

so basically,,,, i took my adhd meds for class this morning, and then suddenly got super inspired to write this, so i figured i couldnt waste the focus and wrote this whole ass thing in a few hours. this is the first part of a 3-part prequel series, which details the events leading up to the first part of iiw! just a whole lot more teen angst, drama, fuckboy michael, and more... there isn’t going to be any SMUT smut for obvious reasons, but in a future part there is going to be some dirty stuff ;) anyway i know this will prob flop but this is the first full length fic i’ve written in months and i had a lot of fun writing it, so ima post regardless ^__^

plot: things are turning upside for you now that the biggest fuckboy in school, michael langdon, is about to become your stepbrother. if you think shit is crazy now, wait til you find out that this is just the prequel 😏

warnings: underage drinking, talk of sexual shit, teen angst, sexual tension, taboo relationships 

wc: 4.2k 

i.

It wasn’t like you didn’t want your dad to be happy.

You did, of course you did.

You’d seen him, engulfed in his loneliness, floating from day to listless day like some kind of cheesy Victorian spectre. Too many times you’d found him alone at night, one hand cradling a glass of sewer-brown liquor, the other thumbing through worn photo albums extracted from dust-ridden shelves in the living room. You hadn’t known your mother well- she’d died back when you were still in diapers, but what you did know was that she’d been a vibrant light in your father’s world that had been unjustly snuffed out in its prime. He was a good father to you, and you knew you made him happy despite the dull ache ever-present in his heart, but it was evident that deep down he craved a companionship you could never provide.

So of course you were glad when he met Miriam. Of course you were glad when you’d seen his beaming smile, sharing the news, with the giddiness of a teenage girl in love, that he’d found somebody. He was practically glowing, that night he’d gone out for their first date. You’d known it’d been special to him, because he’d shelled out a few hundred to treat them both to a fancy dinner; he’d even gotten her a bouquet of flowers on the drive there.

You hadn’t said anything when he’d gushed to you the next day about how he’d found the one, despite having known her for only a week; sure, he was rushing into things, but at least he was happy! And that was all you wanted- for him to be happy.

That was why you were especially crushed when you finally met Miriam’s teenage son, whom your father had briefly mentioned with a passing “he goes to your high school, maybe you know him”.

There were so many boys at your school that it was impossible to guess who your potential stepbrother might be. The prospect that you might know him didn’t bother you too much, though you did think it might be a little awkward upon first meeting, but really what did it matter? A little bit of teenage shyness was a small price to pay for your father’s newfound happiness.

That is, until you met him.

So really, it wasn’t like you didn’t want your dad to be happy.

That wasn’t the case at all.

You just really, really, wished he’d fallen in love with anyone other than the mother of Michael fucking Langdon.

ii.

“Oh, you’re so pretty,” Miriam gushed over a glass of Chardonnay, which had already been defaced with aubergine lip prints around the golden rim. “Gosh, I just wish I had your hair. Mine was fried from years of coloring, so I just chopped it all off!”

You smiled sweetly, observing your father’s glimmering eyes as he hung onto every word that rolled off her tongue, menus still stacked neatly in the middle of the table as you awaited the fourth and final guest. The three of you had been there for fifteen minutes already, and still her son had not arrived.

I guess his study session is running late, she’d explained, after seeing your furrowed brows at her lack of accompaniment. It was the first time you were meeting your father’s new love interest and her son, and you were rapidly growing more and more anxious in anticipation of the big reveal.

Studying, you’d thought, racking your brain. So maybe he’s one of the nerdy teacher’s pet types? You could certainly live with that; there were a great deal of others you could think of who would be far worse to potentially become step-siblings with.

“Thanks, Ms… Mead, did you say it was?”

You weren’t sure you knew of any boys whose last name was Mead; he definitely had to be someone you hardly knew.

“Oh, honey, call me Miriam,” she said warmly, and you nodded, unsure of what to say next.

Miriam was certainly not what you’d imagined your father’s girlfriend to be like, not that you cared either way; she sported short, dark hair with vampy makeup, clad in all black with a tasteful leather jacket to match. She was also a bit older than you’d anticipated, with fine lines adorning her rounded face, but again, none of that mattered to you at all. She seemed perfectly sweet, and you had no complaints about her thus far.

“Okay, Miriam,” you said, feeling somewhat peculiar addressing an adult by their first name, “so, remind me, how’d you guys meet again?”

“Well, it’s a funny story, really,” Miriam chuckled, plucking a dinner roll from the woven basket across from her and dropping it onto her plate. Her dark eyes shifted from you to your father, poising an impeccably groomed raven brow. “Should you tell it, or should I?”

“Oh, you should, definitely,” your father said, sipping his wine.

“Okay, okay. Well, we were in the meat section at the grocery store when we both reached for the last steak on sale. So I looked at him, and I told him- oh my, this is embarrassing- (your dad’s name), you finish!”

Your father looked like he was about to bust out into laughter, and, suppressing a snort, he blurted, “she said she’d cut off my hands if I took it!”

Immediately after the words left his lips, the two fell into boisterous hysterics that ushered forward a few disapproving glances from the stuffy rich assholes at the next table over, and you couldn’t help but laugh a little yourself. Well… she definitely was a character, but as long as your father was being kept entertained…

“Hey mom,” came a sudden, inappropriately loud male voice from behind you, so out of place that you nearly jumped from your seat. “I was helping Dan with the world war three chapter in our textbook, he sucks at geography shit.”

The voice’s owner revealed himself as a tall, blond boy, who promptly slid into the empty chair beside you, chiseled face slightly obscured by the deep shadows resulting from the dimness of the restaurant’s ambient lighting.

This was, indeed, somebody that you knew, and you blinked twice to be sure that your eyes weren’t playing tricks on you.

It took you a few seconds to register the direness of the situation at hand, but once the thought processed in your mind, you about descended into an out-of-body experience.

This couldn’t be.

No way.

No motherfucking way.

You’d never been all too much of a religious person, but in that moment, you found yourself silently begging whatever higher power was out there that this was all just some sick, cosmic prank.

The boy turned his head to give you a good, uncomfortably long look, stupidly perfect mouth twisting into an amused sideways grin, and then he spoke. “Ohh shit, (y/n)? (Y/n) (y/l/n)?”

He spoke your name like it was a punchline, tongue darting out to lick his teeth like a lizard about to gobble up some poor, helpless cricket as you sat there with your jaw unhinged. You were at a loss for words, or at least almost, managing to croak out a pathetic, puny, “Michael.”

“Oh, good! You guys know each other already!” Miriam exclaimed, seemingly oblivious to the complete and utter horror that had just about finished swallowing you whole.

Michael let out a snort, roughly translating to ‘uhh, yeah, not that well… I’d never be caught dead hanging around with someone like (y/n)’, and you grimaced. “Yeah, a little bit. You were in math class with me last year, right?”

You cleared your throat, forcing yourself to regain your composure for fear of feeding into this complete asshole’s already massive ego. Yeah, in fact, you had been in math class with him last year, and, not-so-coincidentally, that very same class had turned out to be the one you dreaded the most.

Michael Langdon was the most insufferable, mind-numbing, self-obsessed asshole that you’d ever had the displeasure of knowing; he was easily the most popular boy in the grade, and it was clear he was fully aware of his own high school bullshit prestige. He was loud, cocky and obnoxious; the type of fuckboy- yes, you knew the word fuckboy was overplayed, but in this case there was no other way to describe him- who’d loudly brag about his sexual escapades in the middle of the hallway to his flock of adoring fuckboy minions. He was an I-don’t-do-relationships type, a U-up-text-at-3am type, a Yo-dude-did-you-see-Zoe-Benson’s-tits-today type, a bro-I’m-so-fucking-baked-right-now type. Just the sound of his voice from across a crowded hallway was enough to make you physically recoil. And the worst part?

Every-fucking-body loved him.

Your complaints about him during lunch would only result in your friends cooing dreamily, as though he were some kind of sympathetic creature that needed babying: But he’s so cute, they’d say, twirling locks of their hair and fiddling with their bracelets. I’m sure he’s not that bad.

But he was that bad, and if they took off their shit-stained, teenage hormone-clouded rose tinted glasses for only a second, they’d see exactly what you saw.

It wasn’t only the students, either. He was able to get away with everything and anything he pleased, whether it be sneaking sips of vodka in a water bottle between classes or ditching class to smoke a joint behind the bleachers. There’d even been rumors that he’d fucked some senior girl in the handicap stall during the autumn pep rally while the rest of the student body was packed like sardines in the sticky-hot gymnasium, subjected to incremental barks from the football coach to scream louder and louder.

How the hell was somebody as pleasant as Miriam the mother of such an incurable douchebag? And how, in all the unholy realms of hell, did your luck get so miserably bad that she ended up with your father?

It was all so fucking unfortunate that you almost wanted to laugh. And you probably would have, if not for the chance that you might puke all over your nice new sweater if you opened your mouth.

“You smell funny, hon,” said Miriam before you could reply. “Was Dan burning incense in his room?”

Oh, god. So she was one of those oblivious parents. You rolled your eyes; it made a lot of sense when you thought about it.

“Huh? Oh. Um, yeah. Incense,” Michael said, before suddenly extending his arm across the table to your father. “Oh shit, how rude of me. I’m Michael. Nice to meet you, man.”

Your father seemed unfazed my Michael’s distinct lack of manners as he accepted the boy’s hand and shook it, and you felt yet another knot twist up in the pit of your stomach as you realized that your father, too, had somehow been cast under Michael’s spell.

“Michael, we talked about this,” Miriam said under her breath, like she was scolding a child who didn’t know any better. “Keep the potty mouth to a minimal when we’re out in public, especially while we’re in such a nice restaurant.”

“Oh, sh…oot, sorry, mom,” Michael said with a faux-sheepish smile, his eyes flickering with amusement despite his supposed remorse. “And sorry to you too, sir. Bad habits.”

“Don’t worry about it, Mike- can I call you Mike?” your father said as they released hands, moving his to rest atop Miriam’s on the cloth-sheathed table. “I remember what it was like being a boy your age.”

You scoffed, loud enough that the table fell silent for a moment, and quickly you disguised it with a cough. Your cheeks went hot as all eyes laid on you, and you frantically scanned your brain for something to fill the silence with.

“So, um,” you said, clearing your throat. “Michael’s, uh, how come Michael’s last name isn’t Mead?”

Fuck. That sounded so fucking stupid. Instinctively, you felt your eyes wander to Michael to see if he was laughing at you, which you hated yourself for; why should his stupid, pea-brained opinion mean anything to you anyway? As much as you wanted to distance yourself from that idiotic, made-up high school hierarchy, you always wound up finding yourself being sucked back in, it seemed.

“Well, my late husband’s last name was Langdon, and since he was kind of a dirtbag, I decided not to keep his name after he passed,” Miriam said slowly, as if taking very careful thought to word herself correctly. You took in a breath; this seemed like a whole new can of worms that you hadn’t meant to open up.

“Hey, c’mon, don’t talk about dad like that,” said Michael, his tone only half-playful, eyebrow cocking as he flashed his mother a knowing look.

“You try being cheated on multiple times, Michael. Then you’ll see that dirtbag is really a nice way of putting it.”

Oh, sure, you thought bitterly. As if Michael fucking Langdon is even remotely capable of understanding someone else’s pain.

You took this as your cue to stand up from your seat, mumbling something about needing to use the restroom before scurrying off in the opposite direction as fast as you could without drawing attention to yourself. If ten minutes with Michael as your psuedo-stepbrother got to you this badly, you could only imagine how awful your life was about to get.

You could only hope that your father would find some reason to nip things in the bud with Miriam, but right now, that appeared to be an unlikely prospect.

iii.

“Give me one good reason I shouldn’t end my shit right here and now,” you griped to your best friend, who sat crosslegged on your bed as you stood idly before your floor-length mirror, arms dangling limply at your sides in an unintentional stance of defeat. Your face was one that you hardly recognized anymore, forehead creased with worry and eyes shadowed by bruise-colored rings from a seemingly endless barrage of sleepless nights; a week ago, your father had gleefully announced his and Miriam’s engagement; you of course, as his loving daughter, had to behave as though you hadn’t just received the worst news of your life, which somehow you’d pulled off (for a second you wondered why you’d never taken up theater, seeing at how convincing your acting could be sometimes). It was like you’d been plucked from the familiarity of your boring, normal world and dropped into your own personally tailored hell without any warning at all, though you couldn’t think of a single thing you’d done bad enough to warrant you deserving this. “The worst person on the planet is about to be my fucking stepbrother and nobody else seems to think this is a big deal!”

Your best friend shook her head, letting out a snort as if any of this was even remotely funny in the slightest. “So your stepbrother is hot and cool and he pisses you off. They literally make porn about that.”

You resisted the urge to take her by the shoulders and shake her until some semblance of sense entered her head, instead shoving your hands into the pockets of your jeans with a loud huff. “Yeah, but this isn’t fucking pornhub, (best friend’s name), this is real life! And I’d rather skin myself alive than sleep with that walking STD.”

“You have a lot more self respect than I do. It’s admirable,” she said, still startlingly calm for your liking, and you were beginning to believe that she’d never understand the mental turmoil you were currently suffering with. “Personally I’d ride him into the sunset, whether he had a herpes dick or not.”

You gagged, shaking your head with adamant disgust. Was she really that fucking horny? “You’re sick, you know that?”

“Sick for diiiiick,” she sang back, batting her eyelashes playfully at you. You turned away, scrounging up every weary shred of self restraint within you not to scream.

“Look, (b/f/n). I’m being serious right now. If you fuck him, or suck his dick, or whatever, I will literally never speak to you again.” Your tone was stern, and you faced her again to see whether your seriousness had computed in the hormonal wasteland that was her brain. There was an extended pause as she blinked at you, tilting her head to one side thoughtfully as she chewed her lipgloss-slick bottom lip.

“I mean, he wouldn’t fuck me anyways,” she finally said, still infuriatingly chipper. “I’m nobody. And he’s, like, royalty.”

“Jesus fucking Christ! I don’t care whether you think you have a chance with him!” You realized too late that you were nearly shouting, so you took in a shaky gulp of oxygen and coaxed yourself to soften your tone. The last thing you needed right now was for people to think you were losing your mind, although sometimes that was exactly what you felt like was happening. “Please, just promise me you won’t? I just need one aspect of my life not to involve him. Please?”

“Okay, fine,” she said, drawing her knees to her chest and settling her chin on top. “If it really matters that much to you, I’ll just shift my thirst to Dan Mott instead. That boy is a fucking snack and a half.”

A wave of almost-relief cascaded over your body, and you closed your eyes, letting yourself become one with this momentary victory.  

One year. Just one stupid, insignificant year until I can go away to college and forget all about him.

If you could survive that much, you told yourself, you’d be able survive anything.

You just hoped that intoxicating spell of his wasn’t strong enough to bring your best friend into his web of bullshit, alongside all the other girls who’d become entangled along the way.

If she did, you’d be stranded, left to run from Michael and his ever-expanding army all on your own.

iv.

In what seemed like a blink of an eye, the dreaded date of your father’s wedding ceremony arrived; now you stood amidst a small group of distant relatives at the subdued reception party, seeking refuge from the disturbing thought that, legally, Michael Langdon was now your brother, at the open bar.

You and your best friend had decided to make something of a game out of how many drinks you could finagle from the bartender without any adults noticing, which had ultimately proved to be pointless- an hour into the reception, your father had staggered over with two overflowing dirty Shirleys, thrusting them towards the two of you with a big, sloppy grin on his face.

To say he was in a good mood would be a severe understatement- the man was jovial, and you almost felt guilty for hating the circumstances of his marriage so much. By the raised-brow looks your best friend had been shooting at you all night, you knew she was thinking the same thing: that you were being selfish for worrying so much about yourself when this was the best thing that’d happened to your father in years. And maybe it was true; maybe you’d been so wrapped up in your own teen angst bullshit that you’d willingly blinded yourself from the truth. So, with your father’s beaming face dancing in the back of your mind, you pushed any thought about Michael back to the dredges where they belonged.

Fuck Michael Langdon. You couldn’t allow him the satisfaction of knowing that you were distraught, though you’d surely already made that pretty obvious over the past few months (he’d wasted no time in taunting you about it, seeming to relish in your death glares and eye rolls- hey, future sis! he’d crooned at you as you passed his table in the cafeteria one afternoon, nearly causing you to trip and spill your perfectly mediocre iced coffee all over yourself as his friends cackled like demented hyenas).

I’m not gonna let him bother me anymore.

I’m not gonna let him bother me anymore.

I’m not-

“SIS-TERRRRRR!”

Okay, this had to be some kind of divine test of will.

A blazer-glad arm flung itself around your shoulders and you flinched, immediately jerking away from your intoxicated stepbrother (god, it felt weird to refer to him that way) whose brash motions had sent you both stumbling.

“Getting shitfaced at your mom’s wedding… classy,” you spat, crossing your arms in front of your chest and narrowing your eyes at the blond-haired boy.

He was, admittedly, good-looking (only by conventional standards, of course); his lightly gelled blond hair had long since come undone, now soft and unkempt from hours of attention-whorish dancing, but you thought the disheveled look suited him better anyway (since his whole thing was to look like a grimy, rugged fuckboy, not because you personally found it attractive, obviously). He’d undone the top few buttons of his white top (no doubt the only formal article of clothing he owned), which was now stained beyond foreseeable repair with a colorful variety of liquids, and there was a bead of sweat traveling from his slick forehead to his model-sharp jaw. Even in disarray, he looked good, and you couldn’t help but hate him for it.

“God, you are so uptight,” he said, pale eyes flickering towards the multicolored ceiling in exaggerated annoyance as he dragged out his syllables with leisure. “You need to relax, set up a dick appointment or something. Or pussy appointment, I don’t know what you’re into.”

Your mouth fell open at this remark, too stunned by his vulgarity to even get angry with your friend, who had dissolved into a fit of giggles beside you; it wasn’t that you were some pearl-clutching grandmother- you had no issue discussing sexual matters with your friends, and in fact some would even say you had a perverted sense of humor. But this? This was different: something about the way those words had fallen from Michael’s mouth made you feel dirty.

At your lack of response, Michael flashed a pearly grin that could only be categorized as evil, and he crossed his arms to mimic your stance. “Oh, sorry. I forgot that you’re probably still a virgin.”

He glanced over to your friend, whose feeble attempts to suppress her second wave of laughter had proven unsuccessful, before averting his gaze back to you. “Aw, don’t feel bad, (y/n). There’s nothing wrong with being a late bloomer.”

Then, as if to punctuate his words, he smirked.

Your mouth pressed into a thin line, you felt something like a storm swirling inside of you, winds thick and unyielding and relentless, and you were almost positive that you’d tear him apart once the feeling aligned with the rest of your body.

It was then that the song blaring through the speakers switched to something inappropriately upbeat, each thump of the dance-friendly bass feeling like punches to the gut.

The storm inside you hadn’t been giving way to anger at all; it was sadness you were feeling in your belly, hopeless and humiliated sadness, though you couldn’t quite understand why: he’d made some stupid, generic joke to try and get a rise out of you- what else was new these days? Maybe it was the fact that your best friend was, by her passiveness and obvious amusement at your expense, encouraging his taunts when she was supposed to be there for you. Or maybe the reality had finally, finally sunken in, that this kind of interaction with Michael would now consume your life for the next year.

Either way, it didn’t make a difference, and as if on cue, the familiar sting of unshed tears arrived patiently at the back of your eyes.

All at once you were were dizzy; Michael’s perfect face was doubling and distorting before your eyes, and your friend’s pitched laughter rang like incessant, robotic television static in your ears.

With very last straw of self preservation you could grasp, you said nothing at all, walking away with the dazed sluggishness of a zombie on autopilot.

You considered yourself lucky; soon enough, you wouldn’t have the luxury of walking away at all.

“She’s too sensitive,” you heard your friend say, faintly, in the background of your thoughts.

You didn’t have the energy to wonder why she wasn’t coming with you, much less the energy to chastise her for being a bad friend, which was what you knew she deserved. If she cared more about getting Michael’s attention than preserving her friendship with you, you supposed there was no use in trying to stop her anymore.

He’s like a disease, you thought as you ambled your way towards the bathroom, surrounded by people but yet still so alone. He’s like a disease, infecting everyone he touches.

It was only a matter of time, you supposed, before he got to you, too.

Who knew? Maybe he already had.

tagging some people from my old iiw tag list!: (i’m sorry if i tagged anyone twice, i’m literally half asleep right now cuz i got like 2 hours of sleep in the past 24 hrs lol) @wroteclassicaly @ritualmichael @sloppy-little-witch-bitch26 @trelaney  @kissydevil @sloppy-wrist @michael-langdon-appreciation @ccodyfern @sojournmichael @starwlkers @maso-xchrist @space-princesssss @ahslangdon101 @isabellaserpentiawesson @stupidocupido @bademliimagnum @nana15774 @urlocalgothb @hexqueensupreme @gold-dragon-slayer  @langdonsboots @langdonstrash @fckinsupreme @hisgirlwonder @venusxxlangdon @obsessivenostalgicbaby @kleinegamerin @lambofcairo @kiiteiru @littledemondani @beriveri  @grossgayartist @featherpool-852 @discocalico @cryptid-coalition @nu-tt @diamcndscarred @chocolateandhorror @michaelsfrenchtoast  @sarcasticbxtch20 @ringpop-poppy  @imjustasadhoe @melodylangdon  @codycrazy @perfect-ginger-maniac @baphomet-wears-gucci @bigstudentpatrolbonk @jazzcowgirl @a-n-t-s @langdonsblood @ritualmichael @myluciferiscody @fentycoven @gracebtw @bongwaternation  @king-of-mischief-and-bitchez @hoseokchild @witchywcmans @satanicbimbo @lvngdvns​ @langdonskillerqueen​ @aradevil​ @anemia-doll​ @muralskins​ @funtomimagines​ @mrssgtjamesbuckybarnes​ @our-mrlangdon​ @lotsofhunny​ @sevenwonderwitch​ @horrorstreet​ @kpopmademedo-it​ @naughtygranger​ @codyshands​ @krazycags01​ @skullag​

[brokenhayatim]

we might be dead tomorrow

[now playing the maze by manchester orchestra]

yesterday on a call, i had a moment of real possibility in having the decompression surgery. my neurologist last week said it was what she recommended and that chiari could be the cause of it all. so once i had it, they would most likely be gone, along with my headaches, then the meds i take would no longer be needed. it all hit me hard today and im feeling many emotions at this person who barely considered doing it for months. for god sake, i was in the hospital for it, a situation i never thought i would be in. (inshallah never again) 

you know some part of me loves being told i have a high pain tolerance, a big  part of me loves being poked with needles (!!) and loves looking at my mri’s. oh story time, the day my neurologist said something was different, aka wrong, i smiled in the chair and asked if i could look at it and went “ah cool!.” she gave me the wildest look but described all the brain anatomy stuffs to me. I told my therapist of this moment and he went “.oh...you were happy?” [types some notes on his computer] and i realized, normal people don’t do that and i probably said that badly with no shame. i wasn’t particular happy, but i was nowhere near sad or scared, i was excited. i think my dissociation makes me almost see everything as not mine. those aren’t my scans so i can be exhilarated and so curious about everything. or it could be that pain just isn’t something i worry or care for anymore. months later, i laughed bc something else being wrong with me, it’s almost fate. sometimes i wish i was terrified, but i didn’t care for it. i already had bad headaches, so what?

over these last few months though. it’s like i’ve made room in my home for it, i’ve become familiar with it, not so much comfortable, but so familiar that it doesn’t matter in the big picture. a secret: sometimes i feel really impressed and good when i tell of my imbalance issues, (vertigo), numbness in my limbs, the tinnitus and the nausea. sometimes..i wish i had more. i feel proud of myself when people have headaches, like i know the worst of that pain, and i’ve been through it. i don’t know if it’s because i want to be validated in having it or if it’s just how i am like that. i wish i could tell my sisters and everyone a whole list of symptoms, but all of them seem so useless and mediocre. i sometimes want that attention from just collapsing; but ironically, i hate being bothered and cared for with it. i found meaning in it all, i found a whole part of me within it all. i had headaches for 6 years before i, simply, told my general physician, and since then it’s been 5 (way too long of) mri’s and an EEG (that was certainly a moment). i wished, back then, i had seizures too. we called one of my pain symptoms “brain shocks” for years with that creative name and made it into this freeze “game”, and i just mentioned that two years ago in a visit. half of my identity is just on having headaches, of being in pain around people. and i’m stupidly fucking (sorry last day of ramadan) scared of losing that. i’ve taken more medications pills than i can count, and i know their purpose pridefully well. i’ve given advice based on that pain, i’ve helped someone with that pain. i’ll never be ready to lose that. i think of it and i imagine myself more empty. full of nothing.

the reason i’m writing this though wasn’t all that. i woke up and just felt this aching shame and sobbed, still am i can barely see, in my bed (so much snot). i’m so scared, more than anyone can possibly try to understand, of it all being gone. of never having to take a pill for this anymore (i still have dat mental illness so not those), or of never needing the knowledge of different types and locations of headaches. i’ve began to feel prideful in having a neurological condition. it makes me something, i have something i can tell. this is the thought that started the spiral. i feel something with this pain. what will happen when i can’t feel this anymore? what will i turn to next? what does the loss feel like? (is that corny or shallow bc it sounds so??) my therapist asked me ‘why i didn’t want to rid it?’ and i was like ‘i genuinely don’t know’ to which he replied ‘i think you do’ and i was all sIR i legit don’t know pls tell me. i made up this random guess and stuttered through it, it felt out of body almost, leaving my lips. what if getting rid of this physical pain forces me to submerge myself in my emotional pain and deal with that? i feel like i have none pls..me?? i’m chill sans the moments like this. (he also says my tether to pain is like penance, some kind of self punishment i feel i deserve..so lettuce chill bro). but the physical pain of headaches, the imbalance, the dizziness, even the numbness in my legs, i always feel something. it’s something i can remember in my head then move past. and when i remember it later, it’s intoxicatingly satisfying and i want it to happen again. i wish i collapsed or had to crawl to my room more often. i like..want to boast about it?? i remember that moment vividly being a ‘this is it’ one too. i was home alone crawling to my room bc my legs gave out and i needed my meds for my pounding headache, and i genuinely thought i was gonna die there on the floor. that moment of me hating and scared of it though is so fleeting, only lasting the day probs. and a part of me will always hate it. that’s normal. but that’s not strong enough to overcome me. it’s bittersweet.

“it’s not the same, but it’s similar to people losing their limbs, or injured so badly they’re forced to give up their career, or an addict quitting using drugs.” sure, but you can notice, you can see all that. this is all in my head.  unless you see my mri’s you would never even guess. it was why i wished my diagnosis was something with seizures, at least that’s something noticeably neurological that i can recognize myself. (am i a bad person? baby no doubt.) my old roommate once said she didn’t even know i had headaches often because i never complained or mentioned it. i would just go to the pantry and take my pill as you would with a cookie. and i’ll never be any other way, and i never was. i grew up closing the bathroom door when i threw up, washing my face after crying and walking back in the kitchen to my mom. i grew up missing moments of laughter and joy with my sisters to just lay in a dark room in pain, being checked on at the some time in the night. even to this day, i will sit in lectures when my head is pounding and i know i’ll throw up soon. anyways, my three sisters were talking about one of the other’s qualities and how amazed they are bc ‘they would never’. one of them had actually gone to class, and i softly mentioned how i am like that too, i think i’ve missed three classes in my four years (minus calc bc the class was more confusing than teaching myself). i said i’ve sat through night classes with headaches and with no meds for three hours and they were like mmm. i almost felt jealous that she always spoke of her small and big achievements, and i speak of none. no one even knew my major till this year. why, allah, why am like this? what made me too reserved and careless of myself? my education is the only thing that makes me feel worthy in the eyes of others...so mine, and i never even share it. it’s that, perfect on paper, that’s how i want to be. (because i know i’ll never be otherwise) i get up in a week of seclusion & sobbing and head off to class, sometimes i cry in class (iconic moments truly, your glasses hide wonders). last year i was sitting in this three hour class with excruciating (and i don’t use that lightly) pain in my head to the point where i had to cradle it with my hands and nearly bang it against the table from thrashing, i was in the middle of the room so i did a 10/10 job at playing it off. i never went to the bathroom or even home early...because i had another class after..which it persisted in. i had never felt that before in my entire life. another day, i silently cried like you wouldn’t believe in the bathroom stall (after uncharacteristically leaving the room) then wiped my tears, fixed my makeup and went right back into class. anyways does that even matter? am i even strong? i want to be so badly. for real this time, not this image. and i’m not. i’m barely enough as it is. 

odd tangent: i don’t care enough or at all about the people i should and i lie to make em feel good and feel better. i know people that love me would still, with this loss of pain, but i doubt myself, and i underestimate them yeah. i say 'them’ like i care what half the people in my life think or care about, it’s just noor and rose. i love rose but i don’t bring these things up, i don’t normally update and i don’t think i’ve ever opened up about my trauma enough for it to mean more than anything superficial. we have this beautiful relationship, yet i don’t find purpose in telling her if need not be, maybe one day. it’s different with noor. i babble all the damn time about everything and feel myself have no filter with these things. i mean, i mention noor to rose too, as if she’s a mutual friend. i care for them both. i love them both in different ways, both ways that are rare for me. rose wasn’t the first person i’ve met or cared about, but she was the first person i remember loving the way i do. i wish i could describe how i feel for noor simply, but i can’t. there was a long-while where she was more important to me than my family, even my sisters (i know, i was like uhmmm). i’ve written something, poem or prose, of almost everyone that was close to me aka 4 peeps (let’s not get wild here). and yet, i’ve written nothing of noor. i’ve written for her yes, but not of her. i tried and it’s arguably the hardest thing to do and i’m quite adequate at writing, if i do say so myself. i tried once in 2017, i stared at the screen for so long just backspacing bc nothing made sense. she’s my emotional support high school sweetheart that renders me powerless with my own words. (does that help?)

back to our scheduled program:  physical pain. it’s been maybe 10 years now that i’ve made a home for it. sometimes the lights go out when it gets bad, and sometimes i decorate with flowers when it excites me and brings something new. the house is probably the ugliest thing you’ve even had to lay your eyes upon, but it’s the best i got and it’s mine to come home to. i wouldn’t give her up without a fight. and i think that’s what my mind has been doing for so many months. trying to save my home, trying to keep every symptom of pain that i have. one day i’ll have to move out or i just die in here. both are changes i just can’t seem to make. i feel like i’m running out of time to sell it and move out, to do something and get rid of the pain. and, i feel like i’m making a mistake choosing to die in here, ignoring it and having it stay or get worse. if it gets worse, i’ll need help and the day i stop feeling like a burden to people, especially my family, let me know would ya. i don’t even often know how to ask for help if i wanted it - and then there’s being cared for that’s a nope to me. i can handle every moment of my pain from all my symptoms and condition, and yet i’m the weakest person in so much. i’m not a person that fears much, most times i find it impractical honestly. i reminded myself of that on my bedroom floor last year in february, during a moment of weakness. (also yes i use a lot of home analogies in writing ok) note: i’ve been mulling through this surgery decision for maybe a year on end now.

do i wish i was scared and worried to feel an ounce of normalcy? of course. but i’m not, i wasn’t even relieved with the diagnosis that day, went out and got pizza broo. even when i thought i was going insane. because what does it matter if it doesn’t change the pain? it’s kind of strange, but when i think of all this physical pain ( is it mental too idk??), i hear this voice in my head that smoothly and confidently says “gimme all you got.” i daydream of how much more i can take, what different things my brain and body can devise before i crack. and, obviously this voice personified does this...with finger guns.