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eldrai · 3 years ago

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Spontaneous

Whumptober 2021 - Day 18 - Prompt: CPR

Characters: Hotch (I promise there is more variety coming)

Warnings: poisoning, mild needles

Words: 2.8k

Summary: “Sudden cardiac arrest,” Spencer breathes. “No history of heart problems. Public place. I don’t think it’s coincidental.”

masterlist / ao3

Spencer pushes a red pin into the fifth victim’s location and steps back. Their homes, the blue pins, are scattered across a ten block radius and more disorganised; the cluster of red are huddled closer together. Given the victims have little in common – gender, race, sexuality and religion align with the area’s demographics – it’s a fair bet their unsub isn’t stalking individual victims but choosing a common area to act upon.

On one hand, the locations he does choose create a brilliant geographical profile. On the other, it’s much harder to predict who the next victim will be. Whether or not he intended to have multiple targets or if they have just got lucky so far. He takes a step back and a long swig of coffee.

The unsub is a local man sticking to local haunts. One at a Costco. One at a public park. One at a café. One at a pub. And the latest at a grocery store. Spontaneous cardiac arrests.

“So he wants to poison people,” Morgan says. “Why not go en masse? He gets more victims, people are scared to go out anywhere, and the more victims we have means more suspects.”

“Less directed, too,” Prentiss adds. “If you kill one person it looks like you meant to kill them. If you kill five in one go, you were probably going for the number and not the person.”

“Unless he can’t,” Rossi says. “He – I don’t know – he drops something in the drink, it’s a one-time thing, he can’t get a lot of people without attracting attention.”

Morgan sits back. “Yeah, doesn’t mean he can’t do three, four drinks in a row. He’s just got to be good at it.”

“Oh, great,” Prentiss says, rolling her empty cup between her palms. “Now all we need to do is round up ‘successful date rapists’ and we’re golden.”

“Have Garcia run ViCAP on the CCTV,” Hotch says. “See if any of the people at the crime scene consistently appear at the others and look for anyone who shows particular interest.”

His coffee is gritty and cheap, ubiquitous to just about every regional police department in the country. Spencer cringes at the texture. “He’ll live locally. He’s trying to disguise it by keeping the locations far apart but they still center around town.”

Morgan hits speed dial and stands up.

“Do we know what he’s giving them?” JJ asks.

“Maybe a beta blocker,” Spencer suggests. “They lower the heart rate and blood pressure by blocking the effect of adrenaline and noradrenaline and disrupt electrical activity in the heart.”

“Fast acting?” Rossi says.

“They can be. They’re used for both chronic and acute management of hypertension and heart attacks, but for more chronic management they are usually pills. In emergency situations, they’re given intravenously.”

“No visible puncture wounds on the autopsies,” Hotch says.

“They have prescriptions?” Rossi asks.

JJ reaches for their records and flips through them. “Nope. Sandra Hansen had birth control and Sunil Devi was on Zoloft, but nothing about heart problems for any of them.”

“He drugs them,” Spencer says. “If it’s fast acting, it will have a short half-life and it might not show up on the preliminary toxicology reports. Actually, it might not show up at all.”

Morgan clips his phone to his belt and takes a seat. “Garcia’s running everything now – and we’re looking at someone in healthcare if they’re prescribed?”

“Fits the profile,” Rossi says. “Relatively intelligent, smart enough to try and hide a pattern, not smart enough to actually manage it, works alone, thirties to forties.”

“Lives and almost certainly works nearby,” Spencer says. “A hospital or pharmacy may have had unaccounted for medicine disappearing.”

Rossi pushes his chair back and tosses his cup into the trash. “Ready?”

Chairs drag on the carpet and the tables knock together as they get to their feet and gather up the documentation. Spencer puts the box of thumbtacks back beneath the corkboard and gives it one last look. He should’ve done a colour for local doctor’s offices and pharmacies—easier to see than looking for iconography up close on the map.

Hotch is the last up. Spencer catches the minute unsteadiness out of the corner of his eye, the half-second where his knuckles go pale gripping the top of the chair, an imperceptible slip to someone who doesn’t know him. But it’s over and he’s not sure if he was just imagining it so Spencer follows him out without a word.

Most of the station is rounded up in the bullpen, staring them down with unamused navy glares. This isn’t a case made easier by law enforcement co-operation, that much is very clear. He’s half convinced that’s why they put them in the room with the co-incidentally broken air conditioning. They file in and spread out at the front. Spencer can tolerate a room full of people watching him but he doubts he’ll ever come close to liking it, least of all with people veering more towards cold than welcoming.

The captain shuts the squad up.

“The unsub – unknown subject – is a white male in his thirties or forties,” Hotch begins. He doesn’t think he’d hear it if he wasn’t beside him but his breathing is strained, pausing a fraction too long between words. “He most likely works as a doctor or other position in the medical field.”

“He works alone,�� Morgan says. “He’s a solitary kind of guy – you might see him around but he won’t really talk to you, he doesn’t care for small talk. Comes off as cold.”

“And he won’t have many close relationships,” Rossi says. “Even those won’t be particularly strong. He lashes out at people, not physically, but he’s still not a nice guy to be around.”

“The geographical profile indicates he lives in the area,” Spencer interjects, “and he will work in the wider area too. The crime scenes are a certain distance apart from each other, so he may be trying to conceal this, but we’ve narrowed it down to within a few blocks.”

“He’s good at blending in,” Prentiss says. “He uses public areas—”

Hotch takes an uncertain step back and the little colour is gone from his face. He moves behind Morgan and past Spencer with a low, “Excuse me.” and his shoulder just brushing the wall.

He’s almost to the door when he collapses.

Spencer’s fingers brush against his jacket and he holds on; he staggers from the dead weight but Hotch hits the ground with his shoulder, not his head. Voices erupt around them but he doesn’t register the sound, kneeling down on the thin carpet. “Hotch? Hotch!”

Nothing. No recognition, no movement.

He tilts his head back and leans down to listen for breathing, for the soft rise and fall of his chest.

“He’s not breathing,” Spencer calls, not sure who he’s talking to, if they can even hear him. His heart races.

Morgan crouches opposite and presses two fingers to Hotch’s neck.

“Give us space, go, go,” Prentiss snaps. Boots shuffle around on the carpet as voices spill out into the echoing corridor outside.

“No pulse,” Morgan says, raises his voice to a yell. “JJ, call 911.”

Hands on the centre of his chest. Dominant hand, weaker hand, interlaced fingers. Shoulders in line. Spencer presses down, throws his upper body weight into it, stops.

One, two, three

“—male, he just collapsed. He isn’t breathing—”

Four, five, six

“Defibrillator? Hey! Where’s the fucking defibrillator?”

Seven, eight, nine

Something gives; Spencer doesn’t let himself think.

Ten, eleven, twelve

“We don’t – we don’t have one, uh, I think—”

Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen

“Why the hell not?”

Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen.

“—station on Fifth and Maple. Yes, we’ve started CPR—”

Nineteen, twenty

Bones crunch.

Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three

“Need me to do the breaths?” Morgan asks.

Twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six

“Yeah,” Spencer pants. “Nearly thirty.”

Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine.

Thirty.

“Go,” he breathes, falls back on his heels. Spencer’s arms burn and a bead of sweat rolls down his nose. Hotch still isn’t breathing. His chest rises once, twice, with Morgan’s breath.

No third time.

Spencer lurches forwards and throws himself back into the compressions; the bones are sickeningly unstable. He breathes out the count as he goes.

“Want me to do the next round?” Morgan says. “You’re doing good, but it’s tiring.”

Unable to talk, he just nods. Pushes down on the right beats. One-hundred and ten per minute.

“Go and get it then, Jesus fucking Christ!” Rossi barks. An officer races out of the room.

JJ cradles the phone between her ear and her shoulder, eyes the scene as it plays out right in front of her. She holds out a hand with her thumb down. Four minutes.

Four minutes. Eight CPR cycles. Eight. Less than eight percent of cardiac arrests patients outside of hospital survive.

“—seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty,” Spencer declares, scrambles out of the way.

With a growing dread, he kneels beside Hotch – pale and motionless – and watches Morgan breathe. Once, twice, nothing. Eight percent.

Heart attack is, statistically speaking, the second most likely cause of death for a man Hotch’s age. The first is suicide, but—heart attack can lead to cardiac arrest but a cardiac arrest isn’t the same and it doesn’t make sense.

Prentiss is beside him and Spencer leaves Hotch with her and Morgan – strong, precise compressions – because he can’t help. There’s something wrong and he can’t find the reason why.

Hotch was healthy. High blood pressure, possible. Stress, yes. Spencer paces. That isn’t enough evidence to guarantee heart attack as the cause. The only other symptom he’d seen was dizziness. It could be. Could. Could also be a random arrhythmia, an electrical impulse misfiring, a chamber contorting out of turn. Cardiomyopathy doesn’t fit. There’d be symptoms for a long time before it escalated to cardiac arrest.

Yes, some sort of electrical abnormality is most likely.

They can’t fix that here. Not without a defibrillator, without an ambulance crew. Spencer’s blood rushes in his ears. Morgan counts to thirty. Rossi’s yelling at someone, something outside.

Electrical impulses lead to a chaotic rhythm which leads to sudden cardiac arrest.

Sudden. Spontaneous.

Supposedly spontaneous cardiac arrest.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

JJ’s on the phone, Prentiss and Morgan are preoccupied and he’s not going to distract them even if he was 100% certain. Spencer rushes into the dingy hall and just catches himself before he runs into Rossi.

“Sudden cardiac arrest,” Spencer breathes. “No history of heart problems. Public place. I don’t think it’s coincidental.”

“Shit. Those blockers?” Rossi says. “You think the bastard’s here?”

“An overdose on beta-blockers,” he confirms, “and he might be, I’m not sure, I think it was in the coffee.”

“I had some,” Rossi says. “You had some. Just his?”

“I got them,” Spencer says. A cold fist clamps around his chest. “I did mine last and I had everyone else’s on the side and I was putting the sugar in and I wouldn’t have seen—”

“Nobody’s leaving if he’s here,” Rossi says. “You go. Find the cup, the pot, whatever and don’t let anyone take them.”

It’s his fault. He feels sick. Spencer presses his hands together, laces his fingers. The guilt suffocates him and he wants to climb out of his skin.

“Not your fault,” Rossi says. “Now go. You’ve got the memory, you’ll know which is which.”

Spencer goes.

He races past the clumps of officers and pushes past people with no apology, stumbles out into the break room. Heads turn as he shoves through sour sweat and floor cleaner and old food to the corner with the coffee machine, the awful gritty cheap coffee, thinking a silent prayer that nobody else has used it, nobody has touched it. Spencer grabs the pot just before a fresh-faced young woman, cold dregs of coffee and all. He feels his words in his throat. Something about an emergency. He doesn’t care what they think of him, how strange he’s acting, not this close to their unsub and Hotch and sudden cardiac arrest—

Spencer’s shoes squeak on the linoleum and this time he does crash into Rossi, more concerned for the coffee pot than himself, and thrusts it at his colleague. It occurs to him as he goes for their allocated room that he didn’t check if Rossi meant it literally but… no, he must’ve. It doesn’t matter if he hadn’t.

The room is deserted. His cardigan catches on a tack as he scours the room for their cups and Spencer yanks it free in frustration. A red tack skitters across the ground. Doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. The generic Styrofoam type, he’s not sure whose is whose but he gathers them in his arms until he’s got six. Cold coffee leaks onto his sleeve.

Five victims. DOA. Unable to be resuscitated.

Eight percent.

He has the evidence – possible evidence – and it’s useless if he can’t find what it was. If it’s anything at all. Spencer glances at the board again: crowded public places. The pattern fits.

Something about the standard procedure hadn’t worked as well on the victims as it should have. Medical personnel arrived in time to conceivably start their hearts again but of the five, none survived.

Beta blockers. Adrenaline and noradrenaline. The receptors blocked prevents the heart cells receiving chemical signals and therefore electrical activity.

Spencer drops the cups and flicks through the nearest file for the EMTs’ reports. He skims the paperwork and (eight percent, eight percent, eight percent) there it is: adrenaline administered.

Adrenaline doesn’t work if the body can’t use it.

(Eight percent is for regular situations and it has to be lower if they don’t know—)

The corridor is crowded. He cuts through it sideways on, pushing past disgruntled and nervous cops, and almost trips on a heavy kit bag set in front of the door.

“Clear,” the EMT calls.

Hotch jolts. The pulse spikes and falls back to a wavering green line tracing across the monitor to an bare 0.

He resumes CPR. Morgan glances up at him.

“It’s beta-blockers,” Spencer gasps, falling to his knees beside the EMT. She gives him an incredulous look.

“Sir, can you—”

“Adrenaline won’t work,” he says, pointing at the syringe she’s drawing up. “You need glucose or you won’t get a normal rhythm.”

“Are you a doctor?” she asks, looking him up and down.

“Yes,” Spencer says. “No. Not – I have a doctorate in chemistry, I know how beta-blockers function.”

He tries not to look at Hotch, pale and motionless and sprawled out just where he’d fallen. The paramedic’s gaze bores into him and Spencer forces himself to look back.

“What medication is he on?”

“He isn’t,” Spencer says. “It wasn’t intentional.”

Her attention is only on him for brief snippets as she concentrates on setting out her kit. He avoids looking past her to Hotch, wired up for the ECG, shirt unbuttoned to just above the scars he carefully doesn’t let them see.

“We’re working on a poisoning case,” Morgan says. “It’s all across the county. Sudden cardiac arrest calls and no identified cause?”

An alcohol wipe on his upper shoulder, jacket cut off. She lines up the tip of the thick needle and he winces as she drills it into the bone beneath.

“Trust me,” Spencer says. “It’s a beta blocker.”

She draws back the plunger and a dark red rushes up the tubing. The monitor beeps. Hotch isn’t breathing, his heart isn’t beating right and (eight percent) he needs them to listen.

“It’s blocking the adrenaline,” he explains. She pushes the adrenaline down the winding IV. “They bind to the beta-1 or beta-2 receptors in the heart and blood vessels and prevent them from receiving chemical signals which otherwise would lead to the electrical impulses keeping the heart beating. If you don’t treat the overdose he’ll—”

Spencer swallows past the lump in his throat.

“He knows what he’s saying,” Morgan says.

“Clear,” the man announces.

A shock; a thump. Nothing.

“Both of you, back,” she says, but she reaches for a different syringe.

Spencer stands on weak legs, finds himself backing up against a table beside JJ. Morgan watches behind the other EMT. The infusion is painstakingly slow. How long has it been? Two minutes, three? How much longer?

More adrenaline. JJ’s hand finds its way into his and he squeezes gently. He has to be right because the normal treatment isn’t working and these things aren’t supposed to happen so it has to be a mistake, a deliberate poisoning, it has to be.

Spencer doesn’t breathe. The man positions the paddles and she adjusts the voltage. The monitor whines.

Hotch jolts, head tilting to the side, back arching. JJ’s hand hurts and Spencer thinks vaguely he might be hurting her too.

The line flattens.

A heartbeat rises up, a distinct peak, and falls. The next comes complete, and the next, and the next. Too slow, but a heartbeat.

Hotch breathes.

---

A/N: I’m a biology nerd and spent arguably way too much time figuring out what drug it was (even though it was never mentioned nor planned to be in the fic) but for those of you who might be curious, metoprolol tartrate for the quick half-life.

Also I very nearly published this without a summary. Whoops.

#whumptober2021 #no.18 #cpr #criminal minds #fanfic #cm fanart #hotch #morgan #reid #hurt hotch #needles cw #whump #eldrai does whumptober

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carolineasweet-blog · 4 years ago

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Help

I need help. I’m smart enough to know this, but I’m (apparently) not smart enough to ask. No, that’s a lie. It’s not the ask that I’m struggling with, it’s the “how”. The energetic right help at the right time. Not all help is created equal.

Two weeks ago, I was low. Teetering on the lowest low I’ve ever felt. Anxiety-ridden and filled with that strange depression that accompanies it. It’s not a normal depression, but the anxiety worrying about having depression. “Oh no, will I kill myself?” instead of “I want to kill myself.” And the obsessive fixation on how any car driving by could kill me, not that I want it to.

I talked to my family. “Have you tried eating better?” my sister says. She just signed a new author who is all about the gut/brain connection. As though I wasn’t the one pitching veganism to them five years ago when my dad had an aortic dissection.

I spoke to my spiritual friends. “Have you done any breathwork?” Yes, about a million times, and meditation and yoga and shut the fuck up.

The thing is, all these methods do work and have for me in the past but when I’m at a medium low. Not a low low. I couldn’t even get out of bed to do the things I know work.

So I spoke to my therapist. “I’m not a big drug person, but maybe you just need a temporary fix to get you back on your feet.”

Yes, finally. That was it. So I did.

I made an appointment with my OBGYN, did you know they could perscribe? And four days later, I had a prescription for Zoloft. Phew.

And then, snap, I was better.

Not with the drugs, but just knowing I have access to them. Funny how that works. I am back on track and meditating, on the up, but this time with prescription in hand.

To drug or not to drug?

I know I don’t “need” it anymore, but those thoughts could always come back... maybe I’ll just try it.

And here’s the thing... when someone isn’t explicitly asking for help, maybe don’t offer it. And when someone is... read the goddam room.

I still know I need help. During my meditation today, feeling stifled by my dreams, it came to me. I’ve been asking for help all wrong. I’ve been talking about my ideas for the book I’ve optioned, my family’s experience with my dad’s health - a great movie idea, a show idea... all hoping/wishing/praying for help. Even saying, “I just need help!” It’s not that I haven’t posited the question. I haven’t posited it in the right way, to the right people.

And here’s my next point, HARD WORK. Can we please all fucking agree to give up on this idea already? It’s not advice. “With a little hard work, you can do anything!” And “What did you do to get to this point in your career?” “I just worked really, really hard!”

BULLSHIT.

You did something, sure. You had an idea, ok. But the secret is the help along the way. It’s not just HARD WORK so stop being so ill-advised and pressuring people. Can we rephrase “hard work” with “finding the right people to work with”? If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that isolation is not the answer for anyone. Hard work ain’t it, kid. It takes a village, now that is something I can get behind. No one does anything alone, not alone alone. I’m an idea man, a big idea man, so here’s my ask:

I’ve got the goods, how can you help me? Absent of neediness, full of confidence.

And if that person offers major changes to my idea, god grant me the serenity and strength to realize they might not be the right fit.

My ask is for the right tribe. You know what that is. The clicking, knowing feeling, deep in your soul, that no matter what, that person is in your corner. That person has your back.

I have struggled and made asks without confidence, assuming the help I was seeking was inherently against me. But when you are confident in your ask, in yourself and your ideas, the assumption should be that they’re on your side.

Find the right people, that’s the hard work. Not this spinning and spinning, churning and burning. Know thyself, know your ask.

Which leaves me with my final ask. Help! I need a man. Correction: Help. I’d like a man... Someone on my team, in my corner, because this life I’ve chosen is hard enough and wouldn’t it be great to not have to go it alone? Some great sex wouldn’t hurt either. Someone grounded, mature, 33-43 years old - but not a must - tall. I’m Midwestern, sue me.

Help. My name is Caroline Sweet, and I would love some help.

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jeromebrooke1991 · 4 years ago

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mrknucklesmcchucklehead-blog · 7 years ago

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I was 35 when I discovered I'm on the autism spectrum. Here's how it changed my life. by Zack Smith on January 29, 2016

"Do you hate crowds, especially at supermarkets and restaurants?" I avoided eye contact, which I knew I wasn't supposed to do. "Yes." If Dr. P. noticed, she was too busy looking at the questionnaire to let on. "Do you tend to repeat heard words, parts of words, or TV commercials?" I immediately flashed back to middle school, randomly repeating such phrases from TV as, "I don't think so, Tim," from Home Improvement. I was tempted to respond that way this time. Instead, I just replied with another, "Yes." "Do you have trouble sustaining conversations?" "Yes." "Is your voice often louder than the situation requires?" "Yes." "Do you find yourself resistant to change?" "Yes." "Do you have restricted interests, like watching the same video over and over?" "Yes." "Did you start reading and/or memorizing books at an early age?" Eye contact suddenly became much, much easier. "Wait — isn't that a good thing?" "It is. But did you do that?" I went back to boring a hole in the carpet with my eyes. "Yes." "Have you ever picked up and smelled random objects, like toys when you were younger?" "That's a sign?" "Sometimes. Did you do that?" "...yes." I wanted to puke. After a few more questions, she did some totaling. "Well," she finally said, "it's likely you have ADHD and social anxiety disorder, and you're on the autism spectrum." I slumped back into the overstuffed chair. "Great," I said. "Triple threat." I was 35 years old. There are, according to the Autism Society of America, 3.5 million Americans with autism spectrum disorder, approximately one in every 68 births. Based on reports compiled by the Society, the prevalence of autism has increased 119.4 percent just from 2010 to 2014. Courtesy of Lydia Brown and the Autism Self-Advocacy Network We’ve called autism a disease for decades. We were wrong. The research linking autism to vaccines is even more bogus than you think The errors — and revelations — in two major new books about autism It's not that more autistic people were suddenly being born. It's that doctors knew what to look for. A Danish study published in January 2015 suggests that diagnoses of autism are more frequent because of a broadening of diagnostic criteria over the years, meaning there could be generations of people with autism spectrum disorder who were never diagnosed. I knew, on some level, that I was autistic by the time I was in fifth grade. It wasn't because of Oscar winner and box office sensation Rain Man, which I was too young for; it was, of all things, a Baby-Sitters Club book called Kristy and the Secret of Susan, where one of the babysitters tends to an autistic girl. I don't recall all the details, but I do remember reading the book and asking my mom if I was like this, if it was why I needed "curriculum assistance" classes or why I'd been pulled from preschool and sent to "Project Enlightenment," an ultra-structured children's program downtown. Mom assured me I was not like that. Susan never spoke, and that wasn't me, was it? I moved on. I was already neurotic about reading "girls' books." By the time I reached college in the late 1990s, a new term had become a buzzword: Asperger's syndrome. I wondered if that was what I had. It explained so much — the obsessive memorizing of TV show trivia, the absolute discomfort at bars, clubs, and parties, the way I'd tune out most classes or social situations. Again, I was assured by my parents and friends who knew people with autism — that wasn't me. I had empathy! And I was doing well in school, I just needed to relax a little. In retrospect, they seemed more worried about how worked up I was over this than the possibility of an actual diagnosis. There's a stigma attached to autism that leads many families to avoid a diagnosis. But in attempting to diagnose yourself, it can feel like the things that make you unique are aspects of some sort of affliction, one that is permanent and incurable. A few years later, a good friend of mine was diagnosed with Asperger's. Then he told me he thought I exhibited some symptoms as well. I freaked. I had finally started to feel "normal." I had a job, I was finally comfortable with things like driving and calling up strangers for interviews — I was just a "late bloomer!" I broke down and told him I still cared about him, that I didn't see him differently, but that I didn't have what he had! I was finally growing up, I said. I didn't have some incurable disorder that separated me from everyone else. But I worried. Friends didn't quite know what to say when I brought up the possibility, often in tears and just short of hysterics. "You're just you," they'd say. Mom and Dad were practical: "Well, what if you are? What good does it do you to put a label on yourself?" They weren't being mean. They reminded me, over and over, that I was "doing well." They'd already seen me fall into periods of depression and nonproductivity when I was out of school and out of work, and didn't want me to return to that place. I'd pulled myself out of those spirals before they became too serious. But if a doctor told me I'd never be "normal," that my strangeness was something pathological, would that be the excuse I needed to turn into a complete lump? I was just one of those people who did "better" when I was busy, when I had structure. I just needed motivation. That was all. Eight more years passed. Asperger's became a fear, a phantom, and most of all an excuse. The idea that I might have this "condition" lurked in my mind. It was why I messed up, the nuclear option. If someone got upset with me because I didn't understand something or missed some hints they were trying to give me, I had, "Uh, I might have Asperger's" ready. It broke up at least one relationship. It prevented several more from happening. I was in a strange place. By that time, I'd made good connections — even friendships — with a wide variety of creative people. But other parts of my life felt paralyzed. My creative work was stalling. Setting and keeping any kind of schedule for myself resulted in overstuffed calendars and quick burnout. There were all the times I'd walk away from an encounter with someone new with the overwhelming feeling I'd done something wrong and had no idea what it was. If someone did get mad at me, I'd obsess over it, frozen in a moment of shame and self-hatred long after the other person had let it go. If I could succeed without the pills, that was proof that I'd "won"I considered therapy. But good cognitive therapists were expensive, and it seemed wasteful to potentially drain what little money I'd saved trying to quell what I told myself were such minor neuroses. Surely I could just power through my own problems. In the past, times like these usually ended when I had enough work — school, employment, personal projects — to keep my mind busy, unable to obsess over small things and let myself get "nibbled to death by ducks," as one editor put it. Ultimately, I persuaded my doctor to prescribe me some generic Zoloft. My parents were terrified I was going to have the miscellaneous "suicidal thoughts" the prescription warned about. I didn't, but it was a mixed bag. On the one hand, I felt a bit calmer and had more luck with work and dating. On the other hand, I still faced problems with depression, falling asleep in the middle of the day, keeping an irregular schedule. I'd been dieting for the past year and change, but now I had trouble taking and keeping weight off. Worst of all was that I couldn't feel excited on almost any level — I'd sit through TV shows and movies like a stone. I rarely felt attracted to girls. When I kissed one, it was like kissing my own hand. There was no sensation, just motions. Zoloft, it seemed, could get me a second date but didn't make me a lot of fun on the third. I started skipping pills or going off my prescription for a while entirely, saving a month's refill so I could use it if I knew I had a stressful period coming up. Inside my brain, the relief at not having to face "judgment" was twisted up with self-hatred and fear, along with a perverse sense of defiance. If I could succeed without the pills, that was proof that I'd "won." When I went off the stuff, it felt like second puberty — I'd go from clean-shaven to Wolfman Jack in a week. I felt excited again. I also felt like I was on a toboggan, headed down a snowy hill, accelerating faster and faster toward a brick wall. And I couldn't get off, because I liked the feel of the rush. Cleaning out my email folder, or seeing old social media posts on Timehop, it's amazing how many times I made the same complaint over and over: I needed to get something finished, or I needed a new project. I needed to get out of the house more, to spend more time around people, to stop being so hard on myself. Something needed to change in my life, or I needed to change in some way. I said so over and over, but I didn't know how. 10 things I want to teach my autistic son before he goes to college In January 2015, I started what I knew was going to be a stressful period. I was teaching a volunteer course for retirees once a week, taking a graduate course twice a week, and taking shifts at a used toy shop other days of the week, on top of my freelance writing and creative work. It was a lot, but I knew I could handle it. It took exactly two weeks for it all to collapse. Exactly one year ago today, I showed up for a shift at the used toy shop and was promptly fired. I'd been there two years, I was told, and still had no sense of what to do when they didn't explicitly tell me. I had all these other gigs writing and teaching, they said, and this clearly wasn't a priority. Worst of all, customers had complained: They preferred not to come in when I was behind the counter, ready to chat their heads off. Fridays, when I worked, used to guarantee the company a few hundred dollars of retail at least, and now there were records of multiple Fridays with no sales at all. I was costing my boss money because people didn't want to be around me. I'd failed at what was a fairly easy job because I was me. Because I wasn't fit to be around other people. My parents were due to arrive for a visit in two hours. I went home and felt all the symptoms that had hit me in the past take over: crying jags, nausea, coughing fits. I knew I wasn't sick; these symptoms were all in my head. But I didn't know how to turn them off. When my mom and dad arrived, they were understanding. But I told them I couldn't go on like this. I needed to get therapy and get on medication again, this time prescribed by a mental health professional. Research was done. Dr. P. was recommended as a specialist in the area, good at diagnosing spectrum disorders and helping people organize their lives. A few weeks later, I was answering questions about whether I picked up and smelled toys as a child. Decades after I'd begun diagnosing myself, it was official. But somehow I didn't feel "labeled." That sense that I was "wrong," that I was somehow deficient, wasn't there anymore. Instead, I finally understood the areas where I had problems, and why I had those problems. Now I could work on them. The psychiatrist Dr. P. sent me to said that we could try Strattera, the ADD medication I'd attempted in college, in conjunction with Prozac. Tony Soprano and "Here comes the Pro-Zack" jokes flashed through my head. The insurance company rejected Strattera, but they told the psychiatrist I could do Adderall and see if it worked. "If you have a bad reaction, we can apply for Strattera again!" the psychiatrist said, cheerful. It was a lovely thing to know I was taking a medication with the expectation that I would have a bad reaction to it, but it turned out I didn't. I could listen without feeling an absolute, overwhelming need to blurt something outThe first month was rough. I'd wake up throughout the night, an odd change from wanting to sleep all day. Instead of eating whenever I got stressed or anxious, I wasn't hungry, something I wouldn't realize until early afternoon, when the dizzy spells kicked in. For the first time in who knows how long, I found myself doing things like getting up at the same time every day and eating breakfast. Weird. Other things stuck around. The nervous coughing fits I developed with my firing continued, but a friend noted that they seemed to vanish when something held my attention. When they happened again, I'd find something to focus on, like a song or a TV show or something to read. Eventually they vanished, and when I would cough nervously about something I found I could overcome it right away. Little things became easier, too. Arguments with other people didn't stay in my head months after the issue had been resolved, reminders that I could push other people away. I started dating more, and if it didn't work out, I was able to move on with some new understanding. Errands were done. Garbage got taken out. Annoying forms were filled out, instead of lingering on my desk for months. If I had a weekend with some downtime, I felt an actual compulsion to leave the house or call a friend, instead of simply sitting around. Within a few months, I realized that while I still didn't feel the excitement I could with no medication, I could still enjoy things. I could follow the plots of movies and TV more easily, and when other people spoke, I could listen without feeling an absolute, overwhelming need to blurt something out. I asked Dr. P. what this feeling was. She said I was "content." I kind of liked that. The strangest part of all this has been that being honest about my autism has left other people unfazed. It'd come up, probably because I found some excuse in the conversation to mention it ("Oh, I know what you mean about hating small talk. I'm a little on the spectrum, so..."), and there'd barely be a reaction. I'd watch people's faces. No surprise. No discomfort. And the conversation would go on. Admitting that there were things I didn't understand somehow created a new common ground. No one fully understands everyone else, or the world around them. Many people try to do what I did and "power through" this with false confidence and assertiveness. Sometimes it works. But to know you have a weakness, to acknowledge it, and to treat it as a "what the hell" thing —that's almost more powerful. For most of my life, I'd been afraid discovering I was on the spectrum meant I was cut off from being able to maintain friendships, professional contacts, a romantic connection. It was the wall I was always afraid I was headed toward. But the real wall was my fear, of facing not what I was but who I was. And my parents had been right — I was doing well before. I just needed to find a way to let myself enjoy my successes and build upon them, instead of feeling like defeat was inevitable. In the end, 2015 was perhaps the best year of my life. It wasn't the major stuff — the new job I got teaching, getting accepted full time into the graduate program — it was just that I was able to feel a sense of momentum, of moving forward. Part of me wishes I'd had this happen a decade before. But the experiences I had without therapy and medication helped prepare me for the setbacks I faced, and granted me the maturity to face them. My story isn't typical. The autism spectrum is a broad and constantly redefined place, a frontier of the mind that's still mostly wilderness. The revised definitions of it in the DSM-5just a few years ago are still controversial — it's both easier to diagnose aspects of the spectrum in people and more difficult to determine if a formal diagnosis is necessary, if it's even a "problem." In my experiences I had the benefit of privilege, and of personal choice. No one forced me to get diagnosed or to take medication. I simply reached a point in my life where I felt like I could become a better version of myself if I confronted the areas of my life that seemed to hold me back. I can't say that my life is perfect. I have a great deal I need to accomplish in terms of better dieting, regular exercise, and being more productive in my writing. Some anxieties still hijack my brain, and dating and relationships remain, as they do for most single people, confusing. But I feel like I've learned. And I'm still learning. Learning is all about realizing possibilities in the world around you, and right now those possibilities seem extraordinary. In August 2015, Dr. P explained, slowly and with caution, that she was moving out of state to join a new practice and to be closer to family, so I'd need to change therapists, and that she'd help with the transition. She was relieved when my main reaction was to tell her I understood and congratulate her on the new opportunity. She called me a "success story." "A few months ago, you might have felt ... destroyed by upheaval," she said. "Things change," I replied, and I meant it.

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privilege-archives · 8 years ago

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ALICE CHANG ➝ SECOND SIBLING

I'M YOUR BIGGEST FAN

❖ FULL NAME: Alice Margaret Chang. ❖ PRONOUNS: She/Her. ❖ AGE: 22. (September 2nd). ❖ BIRTH ORDER: Second. Twin to First Chang. ❖ GRADE: Senior. ❖ MAJOR: History, with a minor in Dance. ❖ SEXUAL ORIENTATION: Asexual. ❖ ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: Biromantic. ❖ FACECLAIM: Shuang Zheng.

I'LL FOLLOW YOU UNTIL YOU LOVE ME

[depression, self harm tw]

If there was one teaching that Alice Chang has carried with her throughout her life, it’s that nothing short of perfection should ever be accepted. With a family like hers, it was impossible for her to be anything less than the absolute best, and Alice has never desired to be. And why shouldn’t she strive for it? She saw both students and professionals alike flock to her father with praise and seeking his opinions, while hearing beautiful young ingénues talk about how, even in her retirement, her mother was still one of the most renowned ballerinas of the modern age. In her young eyes, her parents were nothing but absolute perfection, and as their daughter, it was assumed that she would be the exact same. From the time she was a child, she has always thought herself the epitome of ladylike. She would walk with her spine straight and her clothes as neat as could be, generally remaining quiet unless spoken to without a single hair out of place. Alice never wanted anything but to make her parents proud of her, which lead to her giving her all in everything from academics (always making the honor roll and scoring in the top 5% of her class) to social involvement (stockpiling her resume with plenty of volunteer work) to dance.

Following in her mother’s graceful, pointe-shoe wearing footsteps, Alice was involved in ballet for as long as she can remember and while it definitely carries a special place in her heart, Alice much more appreciates ballet for the simple fact that it allowed her to grow so close to her mother. Julia Chang is not only Alice’s role model, but one of her best friends to this day. In a family of four (which suddenly and unexpectedly became five upon the adoption of her sister when Alice was 14), it wasn’t rare for Alice to be overlooked by her father, distant as he might have been. But her mother… oh how her mother was her saving grace, her rock in a family that Alice could’ve very easily fallen to the side of. To Alice, this bond was both a blessing and a curse. In hindsight, maybe it was this close relationship that made her even more determined to be someone her parents – her mother – could be proud of.

That amount of pressure can be dangerous, and on a young girl who already has the eyes of the media on her, it is of no surprise that it can become too much. It was in her early teenage years that she first felt the tightness in her chest some days, and the almost overwhelming sense of worthlessness more often than not, afraid that no matter what she did or how much she worked, something in her would still never be fully perfect. All Alice wanted was an escape, something to help take the edge off in-between studying, rehearsals, and the change in her father’s demeanor once Elise came into the home. What she found was an exacto blade and a sense of relief she’d never thought possible.

It started off inconspicuous enough: a little nick to her thigh if she didn’t do as well as she should have on an exam, a bruise or two on her hand if she missed a step during rehearsal. Her family had so much exposure in the public eye, it was hard to feel she had any sense of privacy. This, though… this was something that was entirely her own. A secret in a world that rarely allowed such things, and maybe her want to keep that secret made her grow careless, and dare her to go further every time until she could no longer wear shorts or a bathing suit, terrified someone would question the marks and there would be no believable explanation she could give besides the obvious. Alice can’t pinpoint when things took a turn, when she needed more and more to get the same sense of relief from hurting herself as she did before. What she does remember is the look of complete and utter disappointment on her father’s face when her parents found out, courtesy of a concerned friend who Alice promptly shut out of her life. Her 16th summer was spent in a psychiatric unit, the staff getting paid with an extra incentive to keep word of her placement there quiet. While her siblings and extended family were told she was at a leadership program, Alice spent seven weeks in an inpatient program, leaving with a diagnosis of persistent depressive disorder, a prescription for Zoloft, and the knowledge that she had brought shame to her family without most of them even knowing it.

Upon her return home, Alice became quieter than she’d been before, shuffling to and from her bedroom and leaving little time for fun. She still performed well in school and she still danced as if her life depended on it, but there was a distinct change in her. She could no longer look her parents in the eyes, and a huge part of her felt guilty that she couldn’t tell her own siblings the reason why. It wasn’t until she started university that she began to open up more, majoring in history (practical enough for her father to approve of, but interesting enough that Alice knew she wouldn’t get bored) while still maintaining her interest in dance. Being out of the home was enough for Alice, and PSU came as a breath of fresh air knowing that she was around people who were in the same light as her. Relapse isn’t unknown to her, but at least now Alice feels she has the strength to pull herself back up and move forward, slowly trying to rid herself of her own guilt over her illness.

When she first heard that her parents were divorcing, she was devastated. But when she found out via gossip columns that the reason was due to her father’s infidelity, all Alice could see was red. Watching how heartbroken the revelation left her mother made her angry enough, but to have it be so highly publicized pushed her to her limits. For the first time in her life, Alice had no trouble speaking her mind when she called her father up and let him know exactly what kind of man she thought he was. The next time she saw him (a necessary evil, as Alice still very much believes in maintaining a certain image), he was now the one who couldn’t meet her eyes. She avoids parts of campus where she might see so much as an image of him outside what she has to, and it is clear to anyone who meets her that she is still on her mother’s side after the divorce. At this point in her life, as she prepares to graduate undergrad, all Alice wants is to move forward – with her education, her past, and the people who truly mean something to her.

BABY, THERE'S NO OTHER SUPERSTAR

Alice prefers to keep her dark hair long, very rarely tying it back or doing much in the way of putting it up. She is rarely seen without at least a touch of blush and mascara, always wanting to be the picture of grace and charm. The same desire is reflected in her clothes –well fitted and stylish any time she goes out for any sort of reason, donned almost exclusively in either neutral or light shades. She has two tattoos, both small and hidden enough to hide so as to keep herself looking prim and proper. There’s a tattoo of the four cardinal directions in black ink on her left shoulder and a lotus flower on her right ankle.

YOU KNOW THAT I'LL BE YOUR PAPARAZZI

Both Chang parents are on faculty at PSU. Michael Chang, Sr. has his own medical television talk show, similarly to Dr. Oz. He’s the director in chief at Los Angeles Memorial Hospital, and heads the teaching internship program at PSU. Julia Chang is a retired prima ballerina from the Royal Ballet Academy. She now has her own dance studio, in addition to teaching classes at the college. Their divorce was highly publicized, and tabloid fodder for quite some time.

#privalice #privchang

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jaidandumphy91 · 4 years ago

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25 Mg Zoloft For Premature Ejaculation Astonishing Diy Ideas

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5 htp Supplement For Premature Ejaculation

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What Do I Do If I Have Premature Ejaculation

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#25 Mg Zoloft For Premature Ejaculation Astonishing Diy Ideas #How Can I Improve My Premature Ejaculat

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madysonxbeckett · 5 years ago

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Cases and Confessions // self para

“Case number 636, Patient: Sebastian Michael Ainsworth.” Madyson’s fingers adjusted the digital recorder, slightly wincing as she hoped the movement would not contaminate the audio. His files of each meeting so far were laying on the coffee table in front of her, but speaking the notes out loud aided in processing clients efficiently. If there is one thing she wanted, and in fact attempted to avoid with every fiber of her being, it was bringing her work home where anyone could stumble on confidential patient forms.

Yet, here Madyson Beckett was, seated on her couch recording thoughts as her daughter slept in the room down the hall. “I’ve been seeing Sebastian for the last three weeks and the sessions with him have gone well. No violent outbursts or threatening actions so far, though, it is worth noting the patient is highly prone to them due to past experience.” She clicked and unclicked her pen distractedly before jotting down a few extra words. Sebastian made good on his promise lately, mostly keeping his hands as well as his temper to himself. The man could hardly sit still in his chair which wasn’t considered a real problem until the moving caused Mady’s own jittery nature. Neither could damper their bouncing energy. “He’s become incredibly antisocial during his working hours. Expresses missing his wife dearly, calls her constantly, leading me to believe he possesses a minor case of codependency stemming from love,” A small pause, “And the loss of every stable relationship in his life.”

Mady gently nibbled on the tip of the pen and ruffled a few papers, “Sebastian suffers from severe nightmares, leading to occasional bouts of psychosis. He has hallucinations of his older brother vivid enough to make him believe Theon is there providing input reminiscent to his character. I concur these visions relate to possible guilt surrounding the murder, but I will carefully note he’s projected none when it came to committing the act itself. How he felt in that moment seemed to elicit such, however.” Seb waited a couple of days after the therapy began before opening up about killing Theon. He told her in extensive detail his thoughts, what he did, what he experienced, how he burned the clothes he wore. And the blood...he was rather descriptive. “Sebastian was initially against my idea of taking medication for the hallucinations. I suggested he start a mixture of Zoloft, Buspar, and Clozapine, but when he finally relented, he made the decision to forgo my prescription and find the drugs himself in less than legal ways. He told me not to ask and I knew I couldn’t stop him.” That day clearly was not their best session. “He’s still adjusting to it, so report of a minor headache and sleepiness. Nightmares are there, just not as often happening.”

Madyson skimmed through the document quickly, harboring a nagging feeling there was something she missed and it was staring at her smack in the face. “Sebastian shared his childhood extensively. He suffered breakdowns on his own, repeated tongue lashings from a parental figure that terrified him to a varying degree, and served a second helping from his older brother. Having his entire life planned out for him placed Sebastian in a depression that was bound to spiral. He fell into a mindset where he believed he could do whatever he liked without consequences.” Oh, god, this reminded her of someone. “It didn’t matter who it hurt, whether himself or anyone he cared for, he did what he thought was right. Pushing people away with his actions, with his words. And the truth Sebastian has recently learned to face is, he is drowning in loneliness.”

Madyson Beckett. This was Madyson Beckett through and through. Since when did a recorded brainstorming sit-down become less about the patient and focusing more on the psychiatrist? Mady couldn’t resist drawing similarities between her and Sebastian, but she knew deep in her heart who would have downright detested it: Derek. She destroyed that, she destroyed him.

The woman retrieved the recorder and tapped the ‘save’ button with the intention of starting a brand new file, “Derek,” Mady breathed his name softy, the speaker close to her lips, “I know I should be saying this in a letter or a text or hell, in person, but I’m aware how furious you are with me right now. You probably wouldn’t have picked up the phone or just chose to plug your ears if I tried talking to you. I’m sorry that you think I’m being stupid. I know I am. I know taking on Sebastian is a dangerous, stupid, reckless choice, but I need you to understand that you can’t protect me from everything. I live with the fact the world’s bad as much as it is good. My parents died because of it, I lost Theo because of it, I had to raise my daughter on my own because of it. Don’t you dare think I’m naive for the sole reason I clamor for the greatest joys this place can offer if one only searches hard enough.”

Mady gathered her thoughts with precision and anyone who would listen to this in the future will notice the silent blank pause. “Derek, I’m going to ask something of you. I believe we’re well far into this relationship that it is something I know I have the right to ask. Whether you are willing to face the hardship or not.” Another quiet moment ensued, this time, Madyson steadying the waver in her voice, “If anything were to happen to me, regardless if it involved Sebastian or I end up in a wrong place at the wrong time, I need you to take care of Stella for me. There isn’t a single person on this green earth that I trust her with more than you, Derek. You’re already an immaculate father to a little girl who needed someone that deeply loved her and I know you’ll give that same unconditional love to my daughter if that time ever came to pass. I’m not saying it will and I’m not saying it won’t.” Mady breathed in through her nose and released the air in a sigh, “I just ask that you help her remember me. Tell her stories, show her pictures, make sure she never forgets her father and I. And when she’s old enough, help her understand why we’re not around.”

“I know it’s a lot to ask from you, but I also know the probabilities surviving in St. Cascadia can go horribly wrong in an instant and I need to guarantee Stella’s taken care of with the right plan.” The recorder suddenly felt slippery in her hand. That moisture wasn’t from sweat, they were tears. When had she started crying? “I don’t expect you to stand by me making the decisions I have after everything you’ve lost. It’s the least I deserve walking into the unknown blindfolded. Just know I’ll stand by you with yours.” Her fingers absentmindedly traced the borders of the device, “I love you so much, Derek. In ten years or a thousand, I find comfort knowing that will never change. You’re my everything and you’ll always be my everything.”

Madyson experienced an overwhelming wave of relentless sorrow weighing down every muscle in her body. A kind of heartache that consumes everything you are and leaves nothing behind.

And then...she pressed stop.

#cases and confessions

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privilege-archives · 8 years ago

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Thank you for your audition, JEANNE. We are thrilled to welcome you into the group as the Second Chang who you have chosen to name ALICE MARGARET, with the faceclaim of Shuang Zheng, and we truly cannot wait to meet them. Please send in your account in the next 24 hours, and read over the new members checklist before sending in your link.

ALL ABOUT YOU ➝

Jeanne (she/her). 23. EST.

YOUR ACTIVITY ➝

7/10. I work part time, but I like to be on the dash as often as my schedule will allow! I like to think I’m good about giving head’s up if I feel activity will be dropping too.

ANYTHING TO ADD? ➝

Removed.

YOUR CHARACTER ➝

Alice Margaret Chang, fc: Shuang Zheng

FAMILY INFORMATION ➝

PARENT NAMES/STATUS: Michael and Julia Chang are divorced.

NUMBER OF PLAYABLE CHILDREN: 3

NUMBER OF NON-PLAYABLE CHILDREN: 0

ADDITIONAL INFORMATION: (I’m leaving this open because it applies to Elise and I don’t want to add in case Dee is changing anything, I hope that’s okay!)

REQUIREMENTS: One character must be a Harry Shum Jr faceclaim

AGE, ORDER & BIRTHDAY ➝

22. September 2nd. Second born (younger twin to the second Chang)

GRADE & MAJOR ➝

Senior. Majoring in history with a minor in dance.

SEXUAL & ROMANTIC ORIENTATION ➝

Asexual Biromantic

FAMOUS FAMILY ➝

BIOGRAPHY ➝

AESTHETIC ➝

#accepted #privalice #submission

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